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dakusan · 2 days ago

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G r e y S w e a t p a n t s & M u s k

stray kids ot8 x reader | sweat-drenched worship, spit-slick ruin, and eight different ways to be fucked stupid

🖤 synopsis: You’ve always loved watching them stumble through the front door after dance practice—sweaty, breathless, loose-limbed in those damn grey sweatpants that hang just right. Usually, they shower before you can get your hands on them. Not tonight. Tonight, you ambush them. You wanted them filthy. Now you can’t stop shaking.

📌 Wipe your chin. Stretch first. Cancel your plans.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Drip Drop — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:25 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Bang Chan

The keypad beeps.

You barely breathe before your feet are moving—heart thudding, heat already curling low in your belly. You don’t wait. No time for hellos. No time for “Welcome home.”

The door creaks open and Chan moves inside—hood off, hair stuck to his forehead, black t-shirt clinging to the sweat on his chest, and those goddamn grey sweatpants slung low on his hips.

He doesn’t even see you coming.

You collide with him in the hallway—fists gripping his shirt, mouth crashing into his before he can speak.

“Wha—mmph,” he grunts, catching your waist automatically, stumbling back a step from the sheer force of your hunger. You don't give him a chance to recover.

Your tongue licks into his mouth, hands already sliding down, tugging at the loose knot in his drawstring, fingers brushing against sweat-damp abs. He shudders. You moan.

“Fuck—baby,” he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils are blown, lips already swollen. “What’s gotten into—”

You drop to your knees.

Right there in the hallway. No warning. No teasing. Just grab the waistband of those soaked sweatpants and pull them down with purpose.

Chan gasps—his cock already hard, flushed deep red at the tip, leaking. You look up, tongue running across your bottom lip, and he just breathes, “Oh, fuck me.”

His hand flies to the back of your head—but he’s not pushing. He’s holding on. Like he might fall apart if you move too fast.

“Didn’t even shower,” he mutters, voice thick, guttural. “You want me like this? All sweaty, baby?”

You hum in response—warm breath ghosting over his length, and he twitches.

“I want you filthy,” you whisper, dragging your tongue up the base—slow and teasing, tasting every bead of sweat, the salt of his skin, the heat of hours on his body. “I want to ruin you before you get clean.”

“Jesus Christ,” he chokes. “You’re—fuck—You’re gonna make me cum already.”

And then you wrap your lips around the head, hollowing your cheeks, moaning as he sinks deeper into your mouth.

Chan loses it.

His head drops back against the wall, hips jerking forward, thighs trembling. The hand in your hair tightens, the other gripping the corner where wall meets doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Good girl,” he groans. “Fucking perfect like this. Tongue—ah, shit, just like that.”

He grits his teeth, hips rolling forward slow—but the tension in his thighs betrays him. He’s trying to stay controlled, trying to savor you. But the second you moan around him again, lips glossy, eyes already glassy?

It’s over.

"Fuck it,” he mutters, voice dropping to that dangerous growl you know means trouble. “You want me filthy?”

You nod—barely—mouth still wrapped around him, your tongue licking behind your teeth, dragging along every swollen vein.

He exhales through his nose and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing against your cheek. “Then take it.”

And he starts to fuck your mouth.

Not a tease. Not gentle.

Thrusts deep, the tip hitting the back of your throat before you can breathe. The wet slap of skin on your lips echoes loud in the hallway as he ruts into your face, sweat from his abs dripping down your chin. You choke, eyes watering instantly—but you don’t pull back.

You want this. Need it. Crave it like air.

"That's it, baby," he pants, looking down at you like you're something to worship and ruin all at once. “Drooling on my cock already? Fuckin' nasty little thing.”

Your nails dig into his thighs and he groans, hips stuttering. “You’re not even fighting me. Just letting me use your throat like it’s mine.”

You try to say his name but it’s nothing but a garbled choke, spit dripping down your chin, eyes red and cheeks bulging. He pulls out with a loud, wet pop—just enough for you to inhale—before thrusting back in deeper, pushing past resistance.

“Gonna cum just like this,” he hisses, twitching on your tongue, forehead slick and eyes wild. “Not even a second in the door and you’re gagging on me like a fuckin’ heat-drunk mess.”

You whimper.

He feels it—your throat clenching, your tongue flattening, your jaw relaxing just to take more. You’ve gone slack and obedient, dripping with spit and submission.

“Ohhh fuck, good girl. Good—good fucking girl.”

And then he cums.

Hard.

Hot.

Deep.

Cock pulsing against your tongue as he moans, low and filthy, holding you flush to his pelvis. You swallow instinctively, once, twice, choking just a little—and he groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

When he finally pulls out, cock still twitching and glistening with spit, your jaw’s slack, tongue out, lips shiny, and he just watches you breathe for a moment.

“Didn’t even let me get my shoes off,” he chuckles, dark and breathless. His hand strokes your cheek, thumb smearing a bit of his own cum across your lower lip. “God, look at you.”

You blink back the tears that gathered and Chan tucks himself halfway back into his sweats, helps you up to your feet—but doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath.

His arms wrap around your thighs.

You yelp.

And just like that, he hoists you over his shoulder, your ass in the air, face pressed to his sweaty back, heartbeat thundering between your legs.

“Didn’t even let me take a fuckin’ breath,” he mutters, palming your thigh. You can feel his cum still warm on your chin. “You think you’re getting away with that?”

You squirm, giggling, breathless—but he lands a hard slap on your ass and grins when you gasp. “You’re real fuckin’ lucky I missed you today.” You try to respond, but all you can manage is a breathless whimper as he stalks down the hall, grip possessive, pace fast.

He kicks the bedroom door open. Slams it shut behind him. And tosses you on the bed like you’re the next thing he’s about to devour. Already tugging his sweats the rest of the way down, dark eyes locked on you like a promise.

You're laid out on the mattress, chest heaving and Chan’s already crawling over you. Sweats gone. Cock hard again. Eyes dark like stormclouds rolling in. You can still feel his cum smeared across your chin, tacky on your skin, and it makes your head spin.

"You look so fucked out already," he murmurs, voice thick with want. “But you’re not done yet, are you, baby?”

You shake your head, biting your lip—and he smirks like you just said something delicious.

“No,” he hums, crawling between your legs, body hot and heavy and damp with sweat. “You’re never done with me. Not until I say.”

He grabs your jaw again—thumb smearing your bottom lip, collecting his own release from your skin and pushing it into your mouth.

“Swallow it.”

You moan around his thumb, tongue curling around the taste of him, and he groans, hips twitching forward.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Such a good little mess for me.”

Then he leans in. Not to kiss. To devour.

His mouth crashes to your throat, trailing down to your chest, teeth dragging, tongue licking every inch of skin you didn’t even know was sensitive.

And when he gets between your legs? He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t talk. He just presses his cock in deep—slow and thick and overwhelming—with a groan that sounds like prayer.

You arch, crying out, hands clutching his forearms, nails sinking into sweaty skin.

“Shhh,” he coos, thrusting deep and slow. “Just let me in.”

You do. You take it. All of him. All over again. He fills you like it’s instinct—like your body was made to hold his. And once he’s buried to the hilt?

He doesn’t move.

Just holds you there, pinned underneath him, cock throbbing, your cunt fluttering from the pressure, your legs wrapped tight around his waist.

“Feel that?” he whispers, kissing your jaw. “That’s me, baby. That’s all of me.”

You whimper. Squirm. Try to roll your hips.

He chuckles—deep and dangerous.

“Nuh-uh. Not yet. You wanted me sweaty? Filthy? Unshowered and on the edge? Then you’re gonna lie here and take every fucking inch of it until I decide I’m done fucking into you.”

He grinds, slow and brutal—just once—and your eyes roll back.

"Let’s see how many loads you can hold, sweetheart.”

He then starts to move. Not fast. Not pounding. Just deep. Possessive. Each thrust a grind of heat and pressure that makes your toes curl and your back arch.

“Yeah,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot against your lips. “You’re fuckin’ perfect like this. Wrapped around me. Taking me.”

You sob—can’t help it—because it’s too much and not enough. You’re so full, so wet, his precum already starting to mix with your slick, squelching every time he rocks into you.

“God, listen to that,” he pants, his mouth at your ear. “Hear how wet you are for me? You love this. You love getting stuffed full of me before I’ve even washed the day off.”

You nod frantically, legs locked around him. “C-Chan—fuck—I’m gonna—”

His hand slides down, grabs your jaw, tilts your face up.

“You’re gonna cum baby?” he growls, eyes sharp and electric. “Already?”

You whimper—helpless, delirious—your hips rising to meet his every push.

He’s so deep. So thick. So fucking good.

"Cum on it, then," he says through gritted teeth. “Be my good fucking girl and cum.” And you do. Your orgasm hits so fucking hard and you clamp around him with a cry, thighs shaking, eyes rolling back—and he fucks you through it, grinding deeper, sweat dripping off his body and down your chest.

His cock pulses—he’s cumming again.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, baby—”

He buries himself to the hilt with a groan that sounds like pain and pleasure melted together, hands grabbing at your waist like you’re slipping away. And then—

You feel it. Hot. Heavy. Endless. He cums again. Deep inside. But he doesn’t stop.

Just grinds. Slow. Messy. Filthy. Spreading the warmth of it everywhere inside you, cock still twitching, your cunt fluttering around the overstimulation.

He leans in, panting against your mouth, your sweat and his mixing on your skin, his arms shaking from holding himself up.

“You’re still fuckin’ tight,” he moans, rubbing himself deeper with every lazy grind. “Still squeezing me like you want another load.”

You can’t even speak. Just cry out, overwhelmed, broken open and full to the brim. And that’s when he stops moving. Just stays there. Buried deep. Cock still throbbing. Still hard. And he kisses your cheek, feverish and slow, whispering: “Shh… Just keep me inside, baby. Let me stay. We’ll move again in a minute.”

Lee Minho

You hear the door click open.

Minho having returned from dance practice. All silent and composed and already toeing his shoes off, black hoodie halfway unzipped, revealing the faintest sheen of sweat down his chest.

He doesn’t see you at first. But you’re already moving.

You don’t even let him shut the door.

You grab a fistful of his hoodie, yank him inside, and press your mouth to his before he can speak. He freezes—just for a second. Shock, maybe. You don’t usually ambush him.

But then—his hands slide around your waist. And his mouth turns hungry. He kisses back slow at first—dangerously slow—like he’s thinking while tasting you, deciding exactly how he’s going to handle this.

And when your hands drop to the drawstring of his grey sweatpants?

He grabs your wrists. Tight. Controlling. Not cruel. But unmovable. “What do you think you’re doing, baby?” His voice is a low purr. Dangerous. Almost amused.

“I want you like this,” you breathe, nuzzling into his neck. You inhale—he smells like warm cotton, salt, and that irresistible Minho scent that clings to his sweat. “Don’t want you clean. Want you filthy. Want you now.”

There’s a pause. Just the sound of your breathing. His grip doesn’t loosen and before you even know it, he yanks you toward the bedroom.

You stumble as he drags you down the hall, grip bruising on your wrist, chest rising under his damp hoodie. You try to speak—say “Minho—”—but you don’t get the chance.

Because the moment the bedroom door shuts behind you?

He pushes you onto the bed. Hard. Your back bounces on the mattress, and he’s already stripping off his hoodie with one hand, the other pushing your thighs apart like it’s his fucking right.

“You want me sweaty?” he growls, tossing the hoodie to the floor, eyes flashing like warning signs. “Want the smell of my sweat on your skin while you cum?”

You can’t even speak—just nod, breath shuddering as he sinks down to his knees.

“You really are filthy.”

He doesn’t even pull your panties down. He just presses his face between your legs, inhales hard, groans—“Fuck, that’s it.” And then licks you right through the fabric, tongue slow and deliberate, letting the scent of sweat and sex bleed together into something carnal and overwhelming.

You gasp—hips jerking—but he pins you down with both arms, holding your thighs wide apart, his face already soaked from your arousal and the heat of his own body.

“Minho—oh my god—” you choke, fingers flying to his hair.

And he rips your panties to the side with a grunt, diving in fully—tongue sliding between your folds, slick, greedy, relentless.

It’s not soft. It’s not patient. It’s devastating.

He moans low in his throat, tongue flicking your clit like he’s mapping out revenge, sucking hard, filthy, his nose bumping against your cunt, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

“Does this feel good?” he mutters between strokes, not even looking up. “Getting eaten out by a man who hasn’t even showered?”

You sob something incoherent, already trembling.

And he smirks against you.

“Good. Because I’m not stopping until your thighs are shaking and my face is dripping with you.”

And then he buries himself again—tongue fucking deep, lips locking around your clit, fingers digging into your thighs like anchors—eating you like he’s starving and your cunt is the cure.

Your head rolls back.

You’re gasping now, sobbing into the sheets, legs locked around his shoulders—but he’s unrelenting. Tongue working in slow, devastating circles, lips dragging across your clit like velvet, every move so calculated it makes you cry.

And all the while, Minho doesn’t stop moaning.

Like you taste better than water. Better than sleep. Like he came home for this. Like your pussy was the destination.

“You sound so pretty when you whimper,” he mutters, pausing just long enough to breathe before licking a thick, heavy stripe up your center—tongue flat, slow, filthy. “Dripping all over my face, and I haven’t even touched your pussy with my cock yet.”

“Please,” you beg—desperate, undone. Your thighs tremble against his jaw, and your hands are in his hair, trying to anchor yourself to something.

He chuckles darkly. “You gonna cum like this? All messy and cock-starved?”

You whimper something like yes—but he doesn’t let you finish.

His mouth clamps around your clit again, sucking, tongue curling just right—and the orgasm rips through you like lightning.

You scream, back arching, thighs clamping, hips bucking into his face—and he just holds you down and keeps eating through it, licking and lapping and humming like he’s trying to drink your soul.

“Minho—fuck, please—”

You’re babbling, shaking, overstimulated beyond reason—and then he finally pulls away, his lips slick, chin wet, and eyes dark with hunger.

“Look at you,” he breathes, licking his mouth like he’s tasting your cum for a second time. “You came so fast for me.”

You reach for him. Desperate. Feral. Already empty again.

“I need—” you choke, voice shaking. “Minho—please, I need your cock. I need it—I need to feel it—I need to be full.”

His gaze sharpens. Voice lowers.

“You need to be fucked dumb, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, writhing.

He grabs your hips—flips you with one brutal pull—and kneels behind you. His sweats are already shoved down, cock flushed and leaking, and he doesn’t tease. Doesn’t pause. Doesn’t even breathe.

He lines up and slams into you in one deep, unforgiving thrust.

You moan loudly, voice cracking, because he fills you all at once—thick, hot, stretching you wide, your pussy already soaked and fluttering from the orgasm he tore out of you with his tongue.

“Fuck yes,” he growls, thrusting deep, pace fast and merciless. “This what you needed? This what that pretty pussy was crying for?”

You’re shaking under him, face buried in the mattress, hands clutching the sheets like they’ll keep you anchored to the earth.

He fucks you like he’s claiming you, hips slapping, sweat dripping from his body onto your back, his cock dragging across every nerve inside you like he knows exactly where to aim.

“Take it,” he pants, voice breaking. “Take all of it. You wanted me dirty, baby? You’re getting all of it.”

You’re choking on every thrust. Your body jolts forward with each snap of his hips, the mattress creaking beneath you, your thighs trembling, soaked and burning.

“You wanted this?” he snarls, pace brutal now, his voice wrecked, ragged. “Wanted me like this? Sweaty. Filthy. Feral—?”

Your mouth is open, drooling into the sheets, sounds spilling out with every slap of skin-on-skin. He’s so deep, fucking you like he’s trying to stay inside you forever—like your pussy is the only place he ever wanted to be.

And then—

His hand fists your hair.

He yanks your head back—sharp, mean, delicious—exposing your throat to the hot, panting air.

“Look at you,” he hisses against your ear. “Fucked stupid already. Can’t even speak.”

Your lips tremble, eyes fluttering, brain static. “M-Min—”

“No,” he cuts in. His cock drives deeper, angling just right to grind against your sweet spot with every savage thrust. “Don’t say my name. Scream it.”

And you do.

Because the drag of him inside you is overwhelming—relentless, the tip of his cock punishing your walls just right, your clit swollen and untouched, but still throbbing. You're wound so tight you could shatter from nothing but breath.

“Fuck, I feel you,” he groans, hips starting to falter—not slowing down, just getting wilder. “Your pussy’s choking me. You close? Huh?”

You sob—legs giving out—but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you fall. He grabs your hips tighter, slams in deeper, and pulls your hair harder.

"Cum on it," he grits out, teeth clenched, sweat dripping from his jaw to your skin. "Cum on my fucking cock like you were made for it."

You break.

Your whole body convulses—mouth open in a silent scream, vision white-hot as your orgasm tears through you. Your pussy clamps down around him, tight and wet and pulsing, and Minho groans like a demon.

“Shit—fuck—take it, baby, take it—”

He slams in one last time—deep and desperate—and cums hard.

So fucking hard.

His cock pulses, twitching inside you as he fills you deep, warm, thick—his hips rutting through it even as he moans, low and guttural, pouring himself into you like he’s emptying his soul.

You both collapse forward.

His body blanketing yours, cock still buried, cum dripping from between your legs, your chest heaving, your brain gone.

He doesn’t move. Just breathes. And whispers: “...Next time? Don’t you dare wait ‘til I’m clean.”

Seo Changbin

The lock beeps.

You’re already perched on the armrest of the couch like a trap. Loose tank. No bra. Nothing under the shorts. Waiting.

And when Changbin walks in, fresh from dance practice—hair sticking to his forehead, black tank soaked through, neck glistening, grey sweatpants clinging to his thighs like a sin—you move.

“Hey, baby—whoa—!”

You pounce. Full-body slam.

He grunts, catching you with both arms instantly—those arms—biceps flexing as you wrap your legs around him like a koala on a mission.

“Missed me that much?” he teases, grinning, breathless from the surprise. “Or are you just that horny for my sweat?”

Your answer? Mouth on his neck.

Tongue dragging over salt-slick skin, nose buried in the heat beneath his jaw, hands tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

“Shit,” he breathes, stumbling backward as you grind against him, your arousal already soaking through your shorts. “You’re fucking serious.”

“Don’t shower yet,” you pant. “I want it like this. I want you like this.”

He looks down at you. Sees the hunger in your eyes. Smirks. “You’re outta your mind.” Then shrugs. “Lucky for you… I’m worse.”

He hauls you up higher, grips your thighs tight, and throws you on the couch like you weigh nothing. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s on you—sweat-slick, pumped, and hard already.

And he doesn’t undress you. Doesn’t even ask. Just yanks your shorts down and growls: “Gonna fuck you like this until you’re crying.”

“Spread,” he growls, voice low, knuckles bruising your knees as he pushes your thighs open on the couch. “Now.”

You do.

Breath hitching. Heart pounding. Pussy already wet and twitching at just the sound of him. Changbin lowers his sweats alongside his briefs, freeing his cock and then spits into his hand—messy, hot, unbothered—and strokes himself once, twice.

And you see it.

Thick. Veined. Heavy.

That fat fucking cock you always forget just how much it stretches you. Until it’s right there again—pulsing in his palm, the tip flushed and leaking, already too big for your brain.

“You’re already dripping,” he mutters, leaning over you with a smirk. His tank hangs loose from one shoulder, soaked with sweat, and his hips are cocked like he’s about to ruin your entire career. “You that desperate for this cock, baby?”

You nod frantically. “Please—Binnie—need it, need to feel it—”

“Yeah?” He lines himself up. Pushes in—slow at first. Just the head.

And you sob. Because fuck, the stretch. The stretch.

Your pussy clenches helplessly, trying to take him, trying to make room—because he’s so thick and heavy, the kind of full that makes your eyes water. And he hasn’t even bottomed out yet.

“Shit,” he breathes, watching your face twist. “Still so fucking tight.”

He slides in more, and more—inch by devastating inch, sweat dripping from his chest onto your belly, his hands gripping your thighs so hard you’ll have bruises.

And when he finally bottoms out?

You’re split open. Stuffed.

“God, you’re fucking made for me,” he growls, pulling out halfway—then slamming back in. “Taking all this cock, huh? Just letting me stretch this little pussy out like it’s nothing.”

You choke on a cry, back arching, nails digging into the couch.

He picks up the pace. Fast. Brutal. Loud. The wet slap of skin against skin echoes through the room. Your body bounces with every thrust, tits shaking, throat raw with moans.

“You like that?” he pants, one hand gripping your waist, the other coming up to your throat.

Pressure. Just enough. Enough to make you go dizzy—floaty—your pussy fluttering around his cock as he ruts into you like a beast.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he snarls. “Taking it all like a little cockslut. You wanted me sweaty? Now I’m drippin’ all over you while I pound this pussy into the fuckin’ couch.”

You can’t even answer. Just sob. Shake. Clench. So full.

And when he leans in, lips brushing your cheek, voice rough and close?

“You’re gonna cum like this. On this thick cock. With my hand around your throat. Soaked in my sweat.”

You’re whimpering, barely coherent, mouth slack as his fingers tighten around your neck—just enough to make your breath shallow, your vision swim.

And his other hand? He slips it under your loose tank, shoves it up, exposing your tits to the hot air.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he sees them—bouncing with every thrust, nipples stiff, glistening with sweat. “You’re so fucking pretty like this. Messy little fucktoy.”

His hips don’t stop. Not even for a second.

Slamming into you, brutal and perfect, cock dragging along every sensitive nerve inside you like he’s trying to carve you open. You cry out, high and breathless, and he just grins.

“That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”

His palm cups your breast, rough and greedy, thumb flicking over your nipple while his cock splits you open, while your body burns under him—your pussy fluttering, stuffed so full you feel like you might break.

You gasp into his hand, and he moans low in his throat, like he can feel your reaction in his cock.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, almost sweet if his tone weren’t dripping with pure filth. “So fuckin’ close, huh? You gonna cum just from this?”

You nod, frantic, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as he releases your throat—only to drag that hand down between your legs.

“Oh my god—”

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t tease.

Just rubs your clit hard and fast, the way he knows drives you insane—his cock still hammering into you, still filling you with every deep, punishing thrust.

“S’too much—Binnie—fuck—” You’re blabbering, sobbing, legs shaking, the couch damp beneath you.

But he’s not stopping. Not when you’re this close. Not when you’re writhing. He leans down again, body pressing to yours, soaked tank clinging to your skin, and growls in your ear: “Cum for me. Ruin this couch. Show me how good your little cunt is at milking every drop out of my cock.”

And you snap.

You cum with a scream—loud, shaking, your entire body locking up, your pussy clamping down so hard around him he curses, slamming in deep one last time.

He shudders as you pulse around him, and then he cums deep inside, thick and flooding you, pushing it even deeper by the way your hips buck helplessly under him.

You’re sobbing into the cushions. Soaking the couch. And he’s still grinding.

“Don’t run from it,” he murmurs, fingers still working your clit gently as his cock twitches inside your ruined, overstimulated cunt. “Take it all, baby. All of it.”

You’re wrecked.

And he just kisses your neck, smiling against your skin, whispering—

“You’re not moving for a while. And I’m not pulling out.”

Hwang Hyunjin

You hear the door before you hear his voice—keys dropping, gym bag thudding, shoes kicked off with a tired sigh.

He’s home. And you’re already moving.

Because Hyunjin after dance practice is your favorite version of him. Sweaty. Loosened. Raw. His long hair sticking to his temples, his tank top clinging to his chest, and those goddamn grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, riding just right over tight thighs.

You meet him at the hallway.

No warning. No hello.

Just grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him in—mouth on his, tongue sliding deep, needy and wet and messy, and he freezes for half a second before he moans low, like a match being struck.

“What the fuck,” he breathes, dazed as you grind your hips against his. “You’re seriously doing this right now?”

You lick into his mouth, fingers already tugging at the knot in his waistband, and whisper, “I want you sweaty.”

He laughs—sharp and breathless. “Oh, baby. You’re in trouble.”

You don’t even make it to the bedroom.

He presses you against the wall, one hand already down your shorts, fingers dipping between your folds like he’s testing how badly you need it.

“You’re soaking,” he growls. “From a kiss? From my sweat? Fuck, that’s filthy.”

He sinks to his knees without warning, sweat-damp hair falling around his face, and rips your shorts down like he’s starving.

“Jinnie—!”

“Shut up,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “I’m eating.”

And then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Wet. Mean.

His tongue licks up your cunt like a threat, like he’s trying to carve his name into you with every flick. He grabs your thighs, spreads you open wider, and goes in.

He groans. Loud. And then he moans. Fucking moans like your pussy is the best meal he’s ever had, sloppy and noisy and unashamed, saliva dripping down his chin as he devours you like a man possessed.

"Sweet and salty," he murmurs, breath hot against your clit. "Just like I like it."

You’re shaking.

He presses his tongue flat, drags it over your clit slow—then sucks hard, lips locking around you, tongue fluttering fast, cruel, perfect.

Your hands fly to his hair. Your knees buckle. And he just grips your thighs tighter, moaning like he’s getting off on your sounds, your taste, your squirming.

“You gonna cum like this?” he pants, lips slick, chin drenched. “Gonna fucking fall apart on my face?”

You sob—already so close, already gone.

And he smirks. “Then fucking do it.”

Your vision’s gone white.

Your hips are grinding against his face, fingers clawing at his scalp, knees wobbling as the orgasm rips through you like a storm.

“F-Fuck—Hyun—!”

You cum on his tongue.

Messy. Loud. Drenched.

He groans—deep in his throat like he’s getting drunk on it—tongue flicking even harder, lips sealed tight around your clit as he sucks through your climax.

You try to pull away.

He doesn’t let you.

He grabs your ass with both hands and pulls you down onto his face harder—and now you’re riding it, practically sitting on his mouth, your thighs shaking, whimpering, overstimulated and wrecked and still so, so wet.

He comes up for air only after you’re crying.

Face soaked. Lips glistening. Chest rising and falling like he just sprinted a marathon.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looks up at you with those wild eyes, and smirks.

“Did I say I was done?”

You barely have time to blink before he’s lifting you up, arms under your thighs, carrying you to the couch like you weigh nothing.

“Jinnie—wait—!”

“No.” His voice is low. Commanding. Filthy. “You’re gonna squirt on my fingers, and then you can beg for cock.”

He drops you onto the cushions, spreads your legs open, and sinks to his knees between them.

“You look good like this,” he mutters, watching your cunt twitch, still wet, still sensitive. “Pussy all swollen. Just begging to be used.”

And then—two fingers. Right in. No warning, no warm-up, just thick, long and fast, curling upward like he’s already memorized every nerve you can’t handle.

You scream.

He starts to finger fuck you hard, sweat still rolling down his neck, muscles flexing as his wrist moves with precision—like an artist painting with your body.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans, thrusting deep, palm slapping your clit with every motion. “You’re dripping all over my hand. You want more?”

“Please—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can.” He leans in close, breath hot against your cheek. “I haven’t even drawn my name in your cum yet.”

His fingers speed up. Wrist twisting. Palm grinding.

You lose it.

Your thighs lock, your eyes roll back, your pussy gushes—

You squirt.

All over his hand. All over the couch. Soaking the cushions, his arm, your thighs, everything.

And Hyunjin just watches. Smirking. Drenched. Hard as hell. “Yeah,” he pants, licking your cum off his wrist with lazy, hungry strokes. “Now you’re ready.”

He leans over you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your stomach. “Now you’re gonna take my cock. And we’re not stopping ‘til you do that again.”

He leans over you slowly, tongue licking the corner of his mouth, his free hand already sliding down to push his sweats and briefs down just enough to free his cock—hard, flushed, dripping, slapping wetly against your mound.

You whimper.

"Shhh," he coos, breath hot against your cheek. "You're twitching already. Look at you. So fucking sensitive, and I haven’t even fucked you yet."

You try to speak—don’t even know what you’re trying to say—but your body is trembling, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted, hips rolling involuntarily toward the heat of him.

He reaches down and grabs his cock, drags the head between your folds, slow and mean, teasing your overstimulated clit with just the tip.

Your whole body jolts.

He watches the way your pussy jumps, the way your thighs clamp together, and smiles—soft and cruel.

"Still soaked from squirting on me like a needy little mess," he whispers, circling your clit again with the head of his cock. "You gonna cry when I finally fuck it in?"

You nod, desperate, broken, begging without words.

"Yeah? Then cry."

And he thrusts in. All at once. Deep. Heavy.

Your back arches off the couch with a scream, the sudden stretch too much, too fast, too fucking perfect, and Hyunjin moans as he bottoms out—his hips pressed against yours, your walls fluttering like they don’t know whether to grip or push him out.

"Oh my fuck—" he chokes, head dropping to your shoulder. "You’re tight as hell. So warm. Just sucked me right in."

He doesn’t move.

Just grinds, deep and slow, letting you feel every thick inch as your pussy clenches, so wet that the slide is almost obscene—your slick and his precum mixing, leaking down your ass and onto the couch.

"Can feel you pulsing," he whispers, voice gone hoarse. "Still coming down? Don’t care."

He leans up—grabs your hips, and starts to thrust. Hard. Deep. Bruising.

The sound of skin slapping against soaked skin fills the room. Sweat drips from his chest to yours. His hair sticks to his face. His cock pounds into you, and you sob from the overwhelming pleasure.

“Take it,” he growls, one hand sliding to grab your tit, fingers digging in as he thrusts rougher. “Take all of it.”

There's tears in your eyes. Mouth open in gasps. Pussy milking him like it’s trying to keep him in your body forever. “You’re shaking again,” he breathes, leaning close to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Bet I can make you squirt on my cock.”

You whimper—your whole body trembling, overstimulated to the point of delirium, sweat soaking your back, your thighs aching from how hard you’re clenching.

But he doesn’t stop.

He’s fucking you through it—deep, fast, brutal. Every thrust is precise, his cock dragging right over that spot inside you that makes your legs kick, makes your voice break.

“C’mon, baby,” he pants, licking the sweat from your jaw, voice breaking with you. “Give it to me. Fuckin’ give it to me.”

His hips roll faster, slapping against your soaked skin, the sound wet and obscene, your body bouncing under his weight. You claw at his back, crying out, overwhelmed beyond sense, your mind already unraveling.

“Jinnie—I can’t—too much—!”

“Yes you fucking can,” he growls, teeth dragging against your collarbone. “You're gonna squirt all over my cock, and you’re gonna take every drop when I cum inside you.”

And then he slams deep and grinds, hips rolling in a filthy rhythm, cock thick and twitching inside you—and something in you snaps.

“Fuck—!”

You scream, back arching violently as it hits you. Your pussy clenches so hard around him it makes him moan, and then—

You squirt. All over his cock, down your thighs, onto the ruined couch beneath you.

Hyunjin groans deep in your ear, his voice a raw, fucked-out growl as your cunt pulses around him like it’s trying to pull his soul in.

“Oh my fucking god—yes—fuck yes—”

And he loses it.

One final thrust, and he cums. Presses all the way in, burying himself to the hilt, and you can feel the way he twitches, the way he fills you—thick ropes of it spilling into your sore, overstimulated pussy as he pants above you, drenched in sweat, still shaking.

He doesn’t move.

Just collapses forward, still inside you, your bodies pressed together, cum leaking down your ass, both of you breathless, ruined, shaking.

And then—his hand cups your cheek.

“Look at you,” he whispers, voice warm, wrecked, in awe. “Made a fuckin’ masterpiece on my cock.”

Han Jisung

The door slams open—harder than usual—and there he is:

Han Jisung, soaked with sweat, hood halfway off his head, grey sweatpants dangerously low, curls stuck to his forehead, and lips already parted.

“Baaabyyy,” he groans before even seeing you, tossing his bag somewhere in the general direction of the floor. “Practice killed me. I’m so sweaty, I smell like I fought a demon and lost—”

You cut him off with your mouth.

One second he’s mid-ramble, the next, your tongue is in his mouth, your hands in his waistband, your body already on fire. His eyes go comically wide—and then roll back.

“W-Whoa—wait—wait—mmph—!”

You don’t wait. You don’t stop. You’re already pushing him into the wall, kissing him filthy, tugging those sweatpants down while he makes the prettiest little sounds—half-laughs, half-gasps, all desperation.

“W-What the fuck—what the fuck is happening?” he pants, dazed. “Did you—did you just get turned on by my smell—?”

You palm his cock through his briefs.

He whimpers.

“Oh my God,” he chokes, hands flying to your hips like he doesn’t know whether to push or pull. “You’re—fuck, you’re actually into this? You’re gonna suck me off while I’m still gross from rehearsal?”

You pull back, licking your lips.

“I don’t want you clean, Ji. I want you messy.”

He just melts. Full body crumbles, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open.

“...I’m gonna cum just from that alone.”

You grab his wrist and yank him toward the couch without a word.

He stumbles after you, breath hitching, cock already half-hard under his briefs. He’s still sweaty, flushed from practice, his skin warm and sticky—but you don’t care.

You want it. You want all of it. You push him down onto the cushions, and he just falls with a soft oof, legs spread slightly, looking up at you with wide, ruined eyes.

“Wait—baby, are you—fuck, are you sure? I smell like a locker room and I haven’t even—”

You shove your hand into his waistband.

He chokes on his sentence.

You grip both sweats and briefs and yank them down in one go, cock springing free, flushed red and twitching—already leaking for you.

“Fuuuck,” he whines, head falling back, chest heaving. “You’re serious. You’re really—oh my God—”

You toss his sweats aside like trash. Kneel between his legs. Grab his thighs. And sink your mouth over the head of his cock without a single warning.

“F-fuck—oh fuck oh fuck—”

He’s already moaning, legs tensing, hands scrambling into your hair like he doesn't know whether to push or just hold on for dear life.

Your tongue swirls over the slit, catching the precum, letting it mix with your spit as you take more—inch by inch, until he hits the back of your throat and your eyes start to water.

You pull back just a little, then slide back down with a slick, wet groan—gagging softly, your lips stretched, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

Jisung is losing his goddamn mind.

His hands tighten in your hair, and he’s panting like he just ran five miles.

“Shitshitshit—baby, baby, you’re gonna—fuck—if you do that again I’m gonna cum—I’m not kidding—”

You moan around him.

His hips jerk up off the couch, thrusting into your throat before he can stop himself.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, voice cracking, eyes rolling back. “I-I didn’t mean to do that—fuck, you just feel so good, your mouth is so wet, I can’t—”

You moan again around him—loud and filthy, throat tightening around his cock as your own hand slips down into your shorts, fingers diving between your legs, rubbing messy circles over your clit while he fucks your mouth like he owns it.

You’re gagging softly, drooling, spit soaking your chin, hand moving faster over your clit as he thrusts shallow and fast, hips jerking forward in helpless little snaps.

Jisung looks down.

And he loses it.

“Holy—fuck—are you—are you touching yourself right now?!”

You look up at him, eyes glassy, makeup smudged, tongue flattening under his cock, and your fingers keep moving.

You don’t break eye contact. You just moan again. On his cock.

The sound vibrates all the way through him.

“Baby,” he whines, voice cracking open like he’s about to cry. “You’re gonna fucking break me, I swear to God—”

His hands are gripping your hair, holding you down while his hips fuck into your throat, wet sounds echoing through the room, your saliva dripping everywhere—his thighs, the couch, your own chin—and your fingers don’t stop.

You’re soaked.

So turned on from the weight of him on your tongue, the taste of his precum, the sound of his needy little moans echoing above you as he loses every last thread of control.

“Y-You’re fucking gagging on me while fingering yourself—fuck, I’m so in love with you—”

That one breaks you.

You whimper hard around his cock, thighs clenching, your clit throbbing under your fingers as he holds your head still and thrusts deeper, his hips rolling forward, desperate, brutal, eyes wild and glassy.

“You’re gonna cum?” he gasps. “Oh my god, you’re gonna cum with my cock in your throat?”

You nod. Just barely. And that’s all he needs.

“Cum for me. Fucking cum while I fuck your throat—please—please—”

Your fingers move faster. Your mouth is full. Your pussy is clenching—

And you cum. Hard. Shaking. Muffled. Gagging. And Jisung, he cums with you.

One loud, broken cry as he thrusts in deep and pours into your throat, his cock twitching hard on your tongue, his entire body curling over you, sweating and sobbing and panting like he just survived a war.

And you take it all. Every drop.

You pull off him slowly, lips dragging across his length with one last, wet suck—cum dripping down your throat, your mouth glistening, your chin a mess.

And then?

You swallow. All of it. Head tilted back, throat bobbing, eyes never leaving his. Jisung is frozen. Mouth open. Hair plastered to his forehead. Cock twitching, already starting to swell again between his thighs.

“...Holy shit,” he breathes.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and then push yourself up onto your knees, climbing into his lap.

He still hasn’t recovered. But you don’t give him time. You straddle him, bare thighs spread over his, your soaked core grinding down against his softening cock—already half-hard again, twitching with every breath.

“You’re insane,” he whispers, hands flying to your hips. “You’re actually—fucking—insane.”

You just grin.

Then you kiss him.

Hard. Filthy. Desperate. Spit and heat and teeth and cum still on your tongue, moaning into his mouth as he grabs you tighter, groaning into the kiss like he’s being pulled back from the grave.

He tastes himself on you. You feel him thicken again beneath you. He breaks the kiss first—panting, eyes wild, lips swollen.

“You’re grinding on me already—?” he pants. “I just came. You swallowed all of it. I should be dead.”

“You’re hard again,” you whisper against his lips.

“Yeah, because you’re fucking sitting on me, making out with me like I’m your next meal—”

You roll your hips once—slick heat sliding over his cock.

He gasps.

And then: “Sit on it.” His hands grip your ass now, pulling you closer, voice wrecked and ragged. “Ride it. Ride me just like this. Sweat, spit, cum—I don’t care. Fucking ruin me again.”

Your hands press to his shoulders, thighs shaking, cunt throbbing as you lift your hips, grab his cock, and line him up.

You sink down, slow, stretching, aching.

And the second he slides in—fully, deeply, bottoming out—

You both moan, loud and wrecked, heads dropping forward to each other’s shoulders.

Your pussy clamps around him immediately, still tender and fluttering from cumming on his tongue, from choking on him until you shook, and now—he’s buried to the hilt, twitching inside you, and you swear you can feel it in your throat.

“Holy shit,” Jisung gasps, voice cracking. “You’re so tight, baby—fuck, you’re squeezing me like you missed me—”

You start to move.

Slow grind first, hips rolling, teasing him with every inch, the wet squelch of your cunt sliding along his cock so loud it makes his jaw clench.

His grip on your ass tightens.

And then?

SMACK.

“AH—!”

Your eyes fly open, body jolting as he slaps your ass, hard and perfect, his handprint blooming red against your skin.

“I said,” he growls, “ride me like you mean it.”

Before you can even catch your breath— SMACK. Other cheek.

You cry out, thighs shaking, cunt fluttering around him like it’s begging, and he groans at the way you squeeze him tighter with every hit.

“Fuck, I knew you liked that,” he pants. “Knew you were the type to cream on my cock while I spanked you.”

He grits his teeth and grabs your hips, starts thrusting up into you from below, meeting your hips halfway with each brutal slap of his thighs. “You’re gonna cum like this,” he growls, pulling your body down to slam against his with every movement. You’re gasping, slapping down onto him, the whole room echoing with wet, dirty sounds—skin on skin, sweat, soaked moans.

"Let me take control now baby. You had your fun." he breathes, pulling your hair back to make you look at him. His eyes are wild. Pupils blown. Mouth swollen.

“You sucked me so good,” he pants, hips snapping up. “Took me down your throat like you were starving for it.”

You whimper, back arching as he keeps fucking you from underneath, slamming into that perfect spot, his grip on your hips tightening until your skin burns beneath his fingers.

“I should be giving you a nap,” he growls, thrusting deep. “Letting you rest after swallowing all that cum—” He leans in, teeth grazing your jaw. “—but you rode me like a filthy little cockdrunk princess. So now I’m gonna break you.”

Your cunt clenches at his words—hard.

And he feels it.

“Oh, you like that,” he huffs out a laugh, sweat dripping from his neck to your chest. “You love when I take it from you, huh? When I grab your hips and fuck you like I’m claiming every fucking inch?”

He slams up into you, once—hard and deep—and you scream.

“Say it,” he pants, hand sliding from your hair to wrap around your throat lightly. Not squeezing. Just enough to hold you still.

“Yours,” you sob, eyes rolling back. “I’m yours—fuck—Jisung, I’m so close—”

“That’s right, baby,” he whispers, voice rough and proud. “My perfect little fucktoy. My good girl. My cockslut.”

His hips move faster now—precise, filthy, relentless.

“You’re gonna cum again, huh?” he groans. “On this cock you sucked dry. On the same dick that dumped down your throat and still came back hard for you.”

You’re gone. Shaking. Drooling. Falling apart.

And then he lifts his hips, grinds deep, and whispers: “Be a good girl. Cum for me. Cream on my cock while I fill you up again.”

And your orgasm rips through you.

Loud. Soaked. Violent.

You clamp down around him, pulsing so hard it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs—and Jisung groans, slamming up one final time, burying himself deep.

“Fuuuck—baby—fuck—”

He cums with a moan, high and sweet, whole body trembling as he spills inside you, hips jerking, breath catching, cum flooding your pussy in thick waves.

You both collapse—sticky, wrecked, gasping.

Jisung wraps his arms around you, kissing your temple as you collapse onto his chest.

“God, you’re insane,” he breathes. “I’m never letting you suck my dick again unless we’ve got, like, a week to recover.”

And then softer—sweeter: “Good girl. So fucking good for me.”

Lee Felix

The door opens. You don’t move.

You’re curled on the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, scrolling aimlessly—but your eyes snap up the moment you hear the keypad beep and the door click open.

Felix walks in like pure comfort. Grey sweats, damp curls, flushed from rehearsal, hoodie half off his shoulder. A sweet smile spreads across his face the second he sees you.

“Hey, baby.” Voice low. Soft. Like honey. Like he missed you so bad, even after just a few hours.

You don’t say anything. Just stare. Because he looks ridiculous. All sweaty and musky and glowing, and that smile? You’re going to hell for the things you’re about to do.

He crosses the room, leans over the back of the couch to kiss you—just a soft brush of lips, but his hand finds your cheek like always. Gentle. Warm.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. Then—reach down.

Grab his waistband. Tug. Hard.

Felix freezes. Eyes flicker. “…What’s that about?”

You smirk. “You smell too good to shower yet.”

He blinks. Once. Then again. And then—the smile shifts. Just slightly. “Oh, baby…”

He moves fast. In a blur, he’s coming around the couch, blanket yanked off, phone tossed aside, and you’re gasping as he climbs over you, caging you in.

“That little tug,” he whispers, mouth ghosting over yours, “was real fuckin’ brave.”

You grin, daring. “What if I do it again?”

He leans in. Nose to yours. Smile still soft, but his eyes?

Not sweet anymore.

“Then I guess,” he murmurs, “you want to see what happens when I stop being nice.”

You barely have time to gasp before his hand wraps around your throat—not tight, not cruel—just enough to hold you still. To make you look at him.

Felix grins.

Wide. Wicked.

Then he kisses you. Hard. Tongue greedy. Teeth catching your bottom lip. Soft hands—gone. Now they’re gripping your hips and yanking you flat beneath him, the weight of him pressing you into the couch.

"You really think I was gonna be soft forever?" he whispers between kisses, dragging his mouth to your neck. "After the way you looked at me? The way you tugged on my sweats like I’m just here to be used?"

He ruts against you—slow, heavy, his cock already straining hard beneath the fabric, grinding into your core like he’s marking the spot.

“I came home to shower,” he says, biting the shell of your ear, “but now I think I’m gonna fuck you messy and let your cum wash over me instead.”

Your breath catches—completely, violently gone—when he reaches down, yanks your shorts aside, and presses two fingers right against your soaked slit.

“Of course,” he laughs, low and smug, “you’re already wet.”

“Lix—” you gasp.

“I said you wanted this.” He kisses your cheek, sweet again for half a second—and then shoves your panties down with one hand and drags the other up to your throat. “So you’re gonna take it. All of it.”

He stands, yanks his sweats and briefs down in one motion—his cock slaps against his stomach, flushed and leaking, a fucking weapon aimed straight at you.

You stare, wide-eyed, mouth parted, thighs instinctively pulling together—

“Nope,” he grins. “Open those legs, pretty. Or I make you.”

You obey.

And then he’s kneeling on the floor, hooking your knees over his shoulders—

“I’m not gonna fuck you yet,” he purrs. “You wanted messy, right?”

He licks a long, slow stripe up your slit. You jolt. You scream. Because he doesn’t stop. Tongue fucking in, nose nudging your clit, moaning like you’re his favorite thing he’s ever tasted. Holding your thighs down while you squirm and cry and beg, humping his face, and he’s just smiling—grinding against the couch while he eats you alive.

“Good girl,” he mumbles. “Cum on my tongue. I’m not stopping till you do.”

His tongue is licking up every drop, flattening against your clit, then curling in with maddening precision. He groans like it’s divine, like you taste better than anything he's ever known, and you feel the sound vibrate through your whole body.

You arch. Grab at the cushions. Whimper his name.

And he just moans, mouth pressed so deep between your thighs it sounds like he's drunk on you.

“Felix—” you gasp, trembling.

He hums, lips never leaving your skin. Then, without warning—one finger slides in.

Perfect pressure. Curling. Filling.

Your eyes roll back.

"You’re gripping me so tight already," he pants, voice ragged now. “God, you really did wait for me, huh?”

A second finger joins the first. Slow. Stretching you. Fucking into you deep and steady while his tongue keeps flicking circles around your clit.

You cry out, back arching so high he has to hold you down.

"Stay still, angel," he murmurs against your soaked skin. "Let me take care of you. Just feel."

The lewd, wet sound of his fingers pumping into you mixes with his low groans—a symphony of filth and devotion. He licks harder. Sucks gently. And you snap.

Your thighs tremble violently. Breath stutters. Your hands fly to his hair—

“I—I'm—”

"Cum for me," he says into you, voice raw, fingers relentless. “You’ve been so good. So patient. Let go.”

You do. With a cry that shatters the room.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—rushing, rolling, full-body and dizzying. He doesn’t stop. Not even for a second. Sucking you through it, moaning like he’s the one falling apart.

And when your hips finally jerk away, overstimulated and slick and still fluttering, he kisses the inside of your thigh. Gentle. Sweet.

Then licks his lips, eyes dark.

“…That was one,” he says softly, standing up.

“And baby?” He presses the head of his cock between your soaked folds, eyes fluttering. “I’m not nearly done.”

Felix finally presses in. The stretch is filthy. Your mouth falls open. Your back arches. He lets out a low, broken sound that doesn’t even sound human.

“Fuck, baby…” he pants, sinking deeper, inch by inch. “You feel—God—you’re soaked.”

You gasp his name, nails digging into the cushions behind you as he finally bottoms out—deep and hot and thick and pulsing. For a moment, he just stays there, buried inside, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you trembling.

Then?

He moves.

Not gentle. Not slow. He fucks you like he means it.

Hips slamming against your thighs, cock dragging against that sweet spot again and again—wet slaps, broken gasps, filthy praise.

“Wanted to ruin you the second I walked in that door,” he groans, grabbing your waist to yank you into every thrust. “You looked at me like you needed it—needed me.”

You moan, breath catching as his pace turns brutal, the couch creaking beneath you.

“So take it.” He pulls out halfway, slams back in. “Take all of me.”

You can’t even form words anymore, just messy cries of his name, hands scrabbling for purchase as he leans over you, kissing your jaw, your mouth, your throat.

“You’re shaking so much,” he breathes, voice tight. “You gonna cum for me again?”

You nod frantically, tears prickling, already so close from how he devoured you before.

“Yeah?” he pants, thumb finding your clit, rubbing hard and perfect. “You'll hold it baby, yeah? You're my good angel, and you're gonna hold it for me.”

And you simply whimper at those words.

“Lift your arms for me, baby.” he suddenly said and you obey—barely—fingers shaking, vision still swimming, and he peels your shirt up slowly. Not rushed. Not frantic.

Just hungry.

It’s soaked with sweat, clinging to your back as he pulls it over your head. And then—his hands are everywhere.

Palms warm. Confident. Reverent.

He cups your breasts like he’s waited all day to touch them, brushing his thumbs over your nipples until they stiffen under his fingers. Then his head dips—lips soft and open-mouthed as he kisses between them, up your chest, until he can take one into his mouth.

Your back arches. You whimper.

“Felix—”

“Shh,” he breathes, voice like velvet and smoke, “I’ve got you.”

His tongue flicks, circles, sucks just hard enough to make you gasp. One hand kneads the other breast, lazy but firm, and the other? Slips between your thighs again, rubbing on your clit, a perfect rhythm to match his thrusts and you jerk at the feeling. “You’re close,” he breathes against your skin, lips grazing your collarbone, hips still moving in those deep, precise thrusts. “I can feel it.”

You nod frantically, eyes wide, barely holding on. Your body is taut beneath him, thighs trembling, hands gripping his arms like lifelines.

“But I said no, didn’t I?” he whispers, licking a slow stripe up your throat. “Told you not to cum. You held it for me like such a good girl.”

You whimper—desperate, wrecked. “Please… please, Lix…”

His pace falters. Just for a moment. Then his forehead presses to yours, eyes locked on yours, glowing with something tender and dangerous all at once.

“Okay,” he murmurs, breath warm and ragged. “Now.”

The permission breaks you. Instantly.

You unravel in his arms, clenching tight around him as your orgasm crashes through you—shaking, crying out, your entire body trembling.

And the second he feels it—the moment you pulse around him like that—he loses it too.

“Fuck, baby—god, you’re perfect—”

He spills inside you with a deep, broken groan, thrusting through it, chasing every last second of the high as his hands bury into your hips.

Even after—he keeps moving. Slow. Shallow. A few more messy thrusts.

Felix leans down and kisses your jaw. Your chest. Your forehead. He’s still buried in you, still warm, still full. “Shh,” he breathes, rocking into you once more. “I know. I know, baby.”

His voice goes soft again. Sunshine again.

“You're so perfect. All mine.”

Kim Seungmin

He doesn’t even blink when the door opens and you lunge at him.

Seungmin just tilts his head, one brow arched, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temple. His chest rises slow beneath the loose tee he hasn’t even had time to peel off. Grey sweats slung low. Post-practice glow radiating off him.

He drops his bag.

Crosses his arms.

“Wow,” he deadpans. “No ‘hi, baby’? No ‘how was practice’?”

You press your mouth to his jaw, already tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

He exhales. A quiet chuckle. “You really are desperate, huh?”

You nod, lips dragging down his neck, one hand already palming him through the fabric. “You smell so good,” you whisper. “So hot like this. I couldn’t wait—please, let me—”

And that’s when he grabs your wrist.

Hard. Firm. Controlling.

Eyes dark.

“You could’ve just said you needed to be put in your place.”

You blink.

He takes a step forward.

You take one back.

Until your knees hit the edge of the couch and you drop into it with a soft gasp.

“Better,” he mutters, leaning over you, hands braced on either side. “Now pick. You’re getting ruined either way.”

You swallow.

“On your knees,” he murmurs, “or on the couch. Choose.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

You’re already slipping off the couch and onto your knees—palms splayed against his thighs, mouth parted, breath coming fast. You look up at him with that desperate, pleading stare he lives for.

He hums. Smiles lazily.

“Good choice.”

Then he shoves his sweats down in one motion—boxers too—and his cock springs free, flushed, hard, dripping at the tip. Your mouth waters.

But before you can lean in—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back just a bit.

“Tch. What’s the rush?” His thumb brushes your bottom lip, eyes glinting. “You couldn’t even wait five seconds to say hi to me, and now you think you deserve my cock in your mouth?”

You whimper.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say how desperate you are. Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m—” you gasp, “I’m sorry, Seungmin. I just—fuck—I need it. I need you.”

He grins, teeth sharp.

“Then open wide,” he growls, stepping closer. “Since you’re so fucking starved.”

You do.

And the second your tongue slides against the head, he groans—low and guttural—and sinks into your mouth with a hiss of breath through his teeth. “Yeah, just like that. Filthy little mouth. Fuck.”

His grip tightens in your hair, pulling your head back, then guiding you forward again. His hips begin to move—slow thrusts, shallow at first, letting you adjust—but it doesn’t last.

Not when you moan around him. Not when your tongue flattens against the underside of his cock like you need to be ruined. Not when you look up at him again with tears already gathering.

“Oh, you like this,” he pants. “You want me to use your mouth. Want me to fuck it raw, huh?”

He’s fucking into you now. Properly. Holding your head still. Groaning when your throat spasms around him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he gasps. “Make you swallow every fucking drop. And then I’m gonna throw you on that couch—stuff you full all over again.”

Your knees ache, your throat burns, and your whole body trembles from how long he’s kept you like this—spit slicking your chin, breath catching every time he slides back in with a guttural groan. But god, it's worth it.

“You’re still hanging on?” he pants, jaw clenched as his grip in your hair tightens. “Fuck. You’re better than I thought.”

His hips roll into you with a little more weight now. Less restraint. More need.

“You wanted it this way, remember?” He leans in, breath hot against your flushed face as he holds you steady and thrusts deeper again. “Didn’t even let me sit down. Didn’t give me a second to think.”

You moan around him—pathetic, needy—and that seems to do something to him.

“Thought so.” His voice drops to a low growl. “You like being used, don’t you?”

You nod as best you can, mouth stretched wide, spit coating your lips. Your hands are fisting the fabric of his sweatpants at his thighs, desperate for something to hold onto.

He groans through gritted teeth. “You’re shaking. You gonna cum just from this?”

You almost do. Just from the look on his face. The weight of him on your tongue. The raw, breathless sound of his pleasure.

Then—his cock twitches in your mouth, and he hisses, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye.

“Don’t move,” he warns. “You want to be my pretty little toy? Then stay right there.”

His hands cup your jaw, holding your face still, and he thrusts into your mouth again—slow but brutal, breath coming faster, his muscles tensing with every motion.

You barely register his words through the haze,

but his voice cuts through it all:

“Be good. Take all of it.”

And then he groans. Deep. Guttural. Raw.

The thrusts falter. Hips jerk. And you feel it — thick, warm, undeniable — as he spills down your throat with a choked, breathless growl of your name.

His hand is still tangled in your hair, but he’s shaking too now, his abs tightening as he pants through it, every muscle strung tight as a bow.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You… fuck. You’re too good.”

You stay still, letting him empty every drop, swallowing around him as your hands clutch his thighs for support. He twitches once, twice, before finally pulling back, breath ragged, cock still flushed and glistening with the aftermath.

Your lips are shiny, your mouth wrecked.

He stares down at you like you’ve undone him completely.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, thumbing at your chin, his voice softer now. “Look at you.”

You look up, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

And that’s when his smirk returns—dangerous, slow. “What?” he breathes. “You thought we were done?” He leans in close, brushing his lips against your jaw. “Cute.”

Seungmin moves and drops back onto the couch like he owns it, which he does,

sweatpants pushed halfway down, thighs spread, cock flushed and twitching against his stomach, still glistening from the mess you made together.

He looks wrecked. And hungry.

“Take it off,” he murmurs, gaze locked on you. “All of it. Want to see you.”

Your fingers tremble as you pull your shirt over your head, and he groans when he sees the state of your chest—kiss-bitten, rising and falling with every breath. Then go your shorts. Your panties. Every inch of you exposed, aching.

You take a step forward.

“Uh-uh,” he says, voice dipped in warning. “Beg first. You want me again? Ask.”

You swallow, pulse racing.

“Please, Seungmin,” you whisper, climbing into his lap with trembling thighs. “Need to ride you. Need it so bad.”

He smirks, hands gripping your waist. “Then ride me like you mean it.”

You sink down slowly—his cock still sensitive but hardening fast—and his head falls back with a growl.

“Shit—fuck, you feel perfect.”

You gasp at the stretch, the heat. His fingers dig into your hips, dragging you down until you’re seated fully, your cunt fluttering around him as you adjust to the pressure.

And then—he slaps your ass. Once. Twice.

"Move baby." he coos, words contradicting with the way he slapped your ass, skin bright red.

You start bouncing in his lap, your hands braced on his shoulders, your moans slipping out faster than you can control—Seungmin thrusts up to meet you, teeth grit, pupils blown wide.

Your thighs are trembling. You’re barely keeping rhythm, gasping every time his cock presses against that spot that makes your vision blur.

Seungmin’s grip tightens. He watches you—devours you—with that sharp, dangerous glint in his eyes. Your tits bounce with every slap of skin, your pussy soaked, sucking him in like you’re trying to pull his soul out.

“Fuck, baby,” he growls. “You’re so fucking messy for me.”

You nod—barely coherent, chasing your high.

But then—

“No.”

Suddenly his hands slide down, grip your thighs tight, and before you can even react—

He flips you.

Your back hits the couch cushions with a gasp, legs in the air, and his cock slips out for just a second—slick and twitching, the loss of pressure making you whimper.

He leans over you, hand gripping your jaw, eyes dark.

“You think you can fuck me like that and not get ruined?” And just like that, he slams back into you—deep, and hard.

His thrusts are relentless now. Sharp and punishing. One hand holds your leg up over his shoulder, the other planted firm beside your head.

“You’re not done till I say so.”

You claw at his back. Your walls clench. Every snap of his hips makes your mind blank out. It’s all Seungmin—his sweat on your skin, his cock driving you insane, his breath in your mouth as he leans in closer—

“You gonna cum for me pretty girl?” he pants, voice wrecked. “Gonna cream all over me like a good girl?”

You sob a yes, so close—

He’s deep—too deep—and you’re clenching so tight around him it feels like you’re going to split open. He leans over you, bracing his forearm beside your head, the other hand dragging down your thigh, gripping until your skin dimples.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice gravel-thick. “Come on, pretty girl. Let go.”

You whimper. You’re close. Too close.

He dips his head, mouth brushing your cheek, breath trembling. “You know I’ll be right behind you. Just give it to me.”

Your fingers dig into his back. He’s grinding now, not thrusting—hips rolling deep, slow, cruel. His cock hits that devastating spot again and again, and your eyes blur, lips parting around a helpless moan.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “God, look at you—falling apart for me.”

You nod, unable to speak. Your whole body’s caught in that moment right before you break.

And then—he says it:

“Cum for me, baby. Right now. Let me feel you lose it.”

And you do.

It crashes into you like a wave—hot, blinding, full-body. Your back lifts from the cushions, a sob rips from your chest, and your thighs clamp around him as your climax hits—hard and all-consuming.

He groans your name like a prayer. Hips stuttering. You feel it—his release catching up with yours, the sound he makes low and wrecked, fingers gripping your face like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth as he spills his cum inside, painting your insides with it.

He stays there, buried deep inside you. Both of you breathing like you just ran through fire. And then he kisses you. Not rushed. Not filthy.

Just… real. Gentle.

"My perfect fucking girl. I think I would like to be greeted from dance practice like this."

Yang Jeongin

You barely hear the keypad beep before you bolt—socks sliding on the floor, heart pounding.

The door creaks open, and there he is.

Jeongin, sweaty and flushed from practice, black hair sticking to his forehead, grey sweatpants clinging low on his hips. He’s shrugging off his hoodie when he sees you rushing toward him.

“Wha—?”

You grab his face, kiss him hard. Open-mouthed, messy, greedy.

He staggers backward with a soft grunt, dropping his bag. His hands are up like he doesn’t know where to touch first. “W–Wait, baby, I’m—sweaty—”

“I know,” you whisper against his lips, tugging at his waistband. “Don’t care. Want you just like this.”

His breath catches.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice cracking around a moan as you sink to your knees. “Oh my God.”

He looks down at you like he’s never seen anything so filthy and perfect. His cock is already hard beneath the fabric, a damp patch blooming at the tip.

“You’re serious?” he pants, shuddering when you press your mouth over the bulge. “You—you’re gonna—fuck—here? Right now?”

You nod, tongue tracing him through the cotton. “You’re not going anywhere, Innie.”

His breath hitches as you tug his sweats down, just enough to free his cock—already flushed, leaking, twitching. And when your lips wrap around the head, he chokes on his own moan, one shaky hand flying to the back of your head.

“Fuck—baby—slow, slow, please—”

But you don’t slow down. You devour him.

Tongue licking flat underneath, hand stroking the base, spit dripping to your chin. You look up at him—eyes glassy, mouth full—and that’s what snaps the last of his control.

Jeongin’s voice drops, low and tight. “Get on the couch. Now.”

You blink, stunned by the sudden shift. He’s already pulling you up, guiding you backward, his hand curled around your jaw like he can’t stand not touching you.

You fall onto the cushions, dizzy from the way he’s looking at you now—hungry and steady and unshakable.

“Take your shorts off.”

You do, trembling. He kneels in front of the couch, spreads your legs with gentle fingers, and drags two through your wetness, his eyes going hazy.

“Messy already?” he murmurs. “From sucking me off?” He smiles, soft and wicked. “Poor baby. You really thought I was gonna let you cum that easy.”

You don’t get to respond.

His mouth is on you—hot and unrelenting—tongue pressing firm and slow, lips sucking just enough to make your hips jolt. And when you try to grind into it, he pulls back.

“Uh uh.” A soft laugh. “You stay still. Or I stop.”

You whimper, hips twitching—instinctive, desperate—but his strong arms hold your thighs apart, locked down like restraints.

“I said,” he repeats, voice low and dangerous, “stay still.”

He licks up your slit with deliberate slowness, savoring the way you tremble, how wet you are already, how you pulse around nothing.

“God, look at you. Thought you were doing me a favor, baby. But you're the one falling apart.”

You gasp when he sucks your clit—just once, just enough—and then pulls away again, mouth wet, chin glistening, flushed and still panting from dance practice.

“You taste so fucking good when you’re needy,” he groans, rubbing his slicked jaw against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prey. “But you don’t get to cum yet. Not until I say.”

His tongue returns, this time featherlight. Barely there. Every flick a tease, every stroke too soft to give you what you crave. You try to roll your hips again—just a little—and he slaps the inside of your thigh.

You gasp.

“Didn’t I just tell you to behave?”

His voice is breathless now, gravelly with want, his cock hard again from watching you lose it. He exhales through his nose like he’s trying to stay calm, but you can see it—his self-control hanging by a thread.

He drags two fingers through your slick, slow and thick, then brings them to your lips.

“Suck.”

You moan around them, tongue wrapping eagerly as he watches you with dark eyes.

“God, you’re such a good girl for me. Bet you’d let me edge you all night if I asked, huh?”

You nod, dazed. “Please, Innie, I—I need—”

“You need?” His voice goes sharp, mocking. “You need to cum?”

He slips one soaked finger in—and you cry out.

It curls just right, finding that spot instantly. But then it’s gone just as fast.

“No,” he whispers. “You want to cum. And that’s different.”

You’re sobbing now, tears welling from sheer frustration, your legs trembling against his shoulders.

His thumb circles your clit again—slow, steady, but never quite enough. Just on the edge of unbearable.

“You feel that? That pressure building?” he murmurs, licking back into you. “Don’t you dare cum. Not until I tell you.”

You clench, thighs shaking violently, pleasure coiled tight like a scream in your gut.

“Innie, please, please, I can’t—”

He growls, pulling back again, dragging your hips to the edge of the couch. His sweat drips onto your bare stomach as he leans over you, still panting, still flushed from training.

“You can. You will. You’ll take every second of it for me.”

Then—he spits on your pussy. Hot. Filthy. You cry out.

“Again,” he whispers. “Mouth open.”

You obey, lips parting—and he kisses you filthy, licking into your mouth like he owns it. You taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s jerking his cock now, slow strokes as he watches you writhe.

“When I finally let you cum…” he pants, eyes gleaming, “I want tears. I want begging. I want to ruin this couch.”

And then—he slides two fingers in, curls them just right—and stops.

“Not yet.”

You sob. He grins.

“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make you cum so hard you forget your own name. But not until you learn how to be good for me.”

Your body is trembling, sweat slick between your thighs and on the backs of your knees, chest heaving like you’ve just run a marathon. But all you’ve done is beg. And beg. And beg.

Jeongin’s knuckles are white around his cock now, stroking himself slow and steady, eyes never leaving you—your ruined expression, your swollen pussy, your trembling hands clutching the cushions.

You sob out his name. “Please—please, Innie, please—”

“You don’t even know what you’re begging for, do you?” he growls, leaning forward, gripping your jaw again. “You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, yes, I—”

“You want to cum?”

You nod frantically.

He slaps your pussy—not hard, but mean. You yelp, whole body flinching.

“Too bad.”

You scream in frustration, thighs clenching, but he shoves them apart again, rutting his cock between them—rubbing the head against your slick folds, but never pressing in.

“You don’t get to cum just because you’re messy and desperate,” he breathes into your mouth. “You cum when I say. Only when I say.”

You moan—wild, helpless—as he rubs the head of his cock right against your clit. One press. Two. Three. Each time you jolt like you’ve been shocked.

“Want my cock?” he pants. “You think you’ve earned it?”

You nod so hard your neck aches.

“Open your mouth.”

You obey immediately, lips parting, tears clinging to your lashes. And Jeongin spits into it.

“Swallow it.”

You do. Without thinking. Without shame.

“Good fucking girl.”

And that’s when he snaps. With one hand braced under your thigh, he slams into you in a single, brutal thrust.

“Fuck—you’re so tight—” he groans, already moving, fucking into you like he means it. Like it’s punishment. Like it’s relief.

Your hands claw at the cushions, legs shaking around his hips, tears spilling down your cheeks.

“Innie—Innie—I’m gonna—”

“No.”

He pulls out completely—you sob, your orgasm vanishing like smoke—then slams back in.

“You don’t fucking cum until I tell you.”

He’s soaked now, even more than before, more than dance practice made him, hair stuck to his forehead, sweat dripping onto your body, the sound of skin on skin obscene in the room. His cock drags perfectly against that sweet spot inside you, over and over—until you're right on the edge again.

“You close again?” he growls.

You nod, sobbing.

“Hold it.”

He fucks you through it anyway—deep, rough thrusts designed to undo you—but keeps you dangling just on that razor-thin edge.

And when you start to tremble, to break—he pulls out again.

You cry out, a broken noise, back arching. “Please—I’ll be good, I swear, I swear—”

He grabs your face. Kisses you hard. Spits into your mouth again.

“Not yet.”

You can’t stop crying. Not from pain, not from fear—just from need. You’re shaking, soaked, every part of your body screaming for release.

And Jeongin is still holding you right there. Just there.

Teasing thrusts. Barely in. Pulling out. Slapping the head of his cock against your pussy like he’s mocking you.

“Every time I stop,” he pants, voice shredded, “you clench so tight. Like your body’s begging even when your mouth can’t form the words.”

You whimper, unable to breathe around how full he feels—when he lets you have him. And when he doesn’t? That emptiness is worse than death.

“You want to cum that badly, baby?”

You nod, broken. “Please, Innie, I can’t—I c-can’t—”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lip. “You can.”

And then—he spits into your mouth again.

“Swallow.”

You do. Reflex, reverence. His spit tastes like sweat and salt and sin. And Jeongin loses it. He slams into you. No warning. No restraint. Just full, deep, filthy thrusts—hips smacking hard against your ass, cock dragging against that sweet spot with unrelenting precision.

Your back arches. Your scream catches in your throat. Your orgasm hits like a fucking bomb.

He doesn’t stop.

“Cumming baby?” he growls, watching you fall apart. “Didn't tell you to, but I'm going to be nice, so fucking take this cock, yeah?”

You’re cumming so hard it hurts, body locked in a seizure of pleasure, clenching down on him like a vice.

Jeongin grunts in pleasure, too much pleasure, your cunt squeezing his cock perfectly. The perfect fit. “God—fuck—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—”

But he keeps going. Fucking you through it, past it, until you're shaking so hard your legs give out. Until your tears smear across your cheeks and you’re begging—actually begging—for mercy.

“Innie, please—please—I c-can’t—”

“Yes, you fucking can.”

He pulls out just long enough to flip you—rough hands manhandling your limp form onto your stomach, ass up, face buried in the cushions.

He shoves back in. Deep. And you sob.

“You wanted this,” he pants, cock twitching inside you. “Wanted to get on your knees all pretty with spit on your chin and act like a little slut—”

He grabs your hair, tugs you up so your back arches.

“Now take it.”

You’re crying, mouth open, drooling, babbling nonsense as your second orgasm crashes down even harder.

“Good fucking girl,” he snarls into your ear. “Now stay right there while I fill you up.”

His thrusts go erratic. Desperate. He grits out your name—once, twice—then groans, deep and raw as he empties inside you, cock pulsing, hips twitching.

And he stays buried. Breathing hard. Sweaty chest pressed to your back. You’re limp. Soaked. Ruined. And then he kisses your shoulder. So soft. His hand rubs slow circles into your hip as you tremble, wrecked beyond words.

“Next time,” he murmurs, pulling out with a filthy squelch, “you’ll ask before you put my cock in your mouth. Yeah? Or maybe let me get in the shower first.”

A pause.

“Actually, we can do this in the shower next time.” Smiling, all innocent.

#skz #stray kids #stray kids x reader #skz smut #stray kids smut #bang chan x reader #lee know x reader #changbin x reader #hyunjin x reader #han jisung x reader #lee felix x reader #seungmin x reader #jeongin x reader #filthy friday #skz ot8 smut

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buckysleftbicep · 2 days ago

Text

soft hands, heavy heart 𐙚 b.b

pairing: inexperienced!new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, soft smut, praise kink (sorta), slow first time, unprotected sex, creampie, a tinge of angst if you squint, the fluff makes up for it

summary: bucky wants you, but he just doesn’t know how to let himself have you. but you’ll spend every second showing him how it feels to be wanted.

word count: 4.5k

author's note: hi my sweethearts! i'd like to think that after bucky returns, he would need a lot of reassurance and tlc, especially after all he has went through. i feel that he would love to be guided and to know he is loved. so i hope this fic encapsulates that 💌 love ya guys and stay safe out there! requests are open!

so in love with soft!bucky

It starts with his hands. Or rather, what they don’t do.

They hold yours when you’re walking down quiet halls in the compound, fingers interlocked, the brush of calloused skin a comfort more than anything else.

They linger at the small of your back when no one’s looking—firm, steady, grounding you when the world gets too loud.

They cradle your face when you’re scared, trembling, coming down from the edge of something violent. Missions gone wrong, intel turned sour, blood on your skin. In those moments, his hands are everything you ever needed. Steady and safe.

But when your lips are on his?

When your body presses into his in the quiet dark of your shared bedroom, heat blooming between the both of you like something long-restrained finally breaking free?

That’s when they stop.

Always. Just… stop.

Bucky, your boyfriend, your partner, the man who has grown to be your person. He kisses you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world, but somehow, he never touches you when it matters most.

And it’s not like you haven’t tried. You have, god you tried.

More than once, lying against his chest at night, your fingers ghosting beneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the hard lines of his abdomen. Kissing along the sharp cut of his jaw, whispering how much you want him. How much you need him.

Each time, his breath hitches, his body goes rigid. Then, slowly, carefully, almost apologetically, he pulls away from your touch.

Not with disgust, not with rejection. There’s no coldness in the way he moves. No sharp recoil.

But there is something worse that you have come to realise. Fear.

The first time it happened, you brushed it off.

He’d had a long day. The mission briefing with Val had been rough, all sharp orders, bad intel, and barely contained frustration within the team, Walker had quite literally stormed out of the meeting room.

Bucky had come back tense, shoulders tight, jaw set, that look in his eyes that meant he was still somewhere else. Still halfway in a fight.

So when you leaned in that night, pressing soft kisses under his jaw, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, and he stilled beneath you, gently shifting away with a quiet murmur of your name, you let it go.

You curled into his side instead. Told yourself he was tired. Told yourself you were tired too. You ran your fingers lightly along his arm until his breathing evened out, steady and slow.

And when sleep finally took him, you whispered a kiss to his shoulder and closed your eyes, thinking, hoping, maybe next time.

The second time, you wondered.

It was a few nights later. He wasn’t tense then, he wasn’t distracted or moody or freshly back from some dark place.. He was relaxed, even, the kind of rare, quiet ease you didn’t always get from him.

You both had laughed over dinner, some home cooked lasagna you had whipped up after finding the recipe online. You had teased him until he smiled into his fork and shook his head, muttering about how much trouble you were.

He’d watched you like he always did, like you hung the moon and the stars, like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this, to deserve you.

And when you kissed him that night, slow and lingering, your hands soft on his jaw, you felt that same warmth in him. The way he kissed you back, like he meant it.

So you tried again. Slid your hand beneath his shirt, fingers brushing the firm lines of his stomach.

He flinched. Not much. But enough.

And then, just like the first time, he shifted away. Pressed a kiss to your forehead and murmured, “Get some sleep, sweetheart.”

You froze. Pulled your hand back like you had touched something sharp.

And then you nodded, smiling just a little too quickly.

“Yeah. Okay.”

You turned onto your side, curled up with your back to him.

Tried your hardest to not let the sting behind your eyes show.

His arm came around you a few moments later, his chest pressed to your back like nothing had changed. Like everything was still okay.

You didn’t say a word.

But that night, long after you were sure he was asleep, your eyes stayed open. Staring at the shadowed wall. Wondering what it was about you that made him pull away.

The third time, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

It had been an easy day, all things considered. No missions. No debriefs. No emergencies. Just the two of you, and the rare kind of quiet that settled into the compound like a blanket.

You ate dinner in bed, greasy takeout balanced precariously on Bucky’s lap while some forgettable movie played low in the background.

You stole bites from his container; he rolled his eyes but let you. Laughed when you misquoted a line. Kissed your cheek. Brushed rice off your shirt with the softest smile.

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Because everything had felt right. Comfortable. Easy. The kind of night that warmed you from the inside out.

It was late when the movie finally dwindled into credits. You stacked the empty containers on the nightstand, slid back under the covers, and curled against his chest with a sigh. His arm came around you like it always did, instinctive, easy. Protective.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The glow of the screen lit the room in soft, flickering blue. Your legs were tangled with his. Your cheek rested against the cotton of his t-shirt. He felt steady beneath you. Safe.

So when you tilted your head up and kissed him, it wasn’t with expectation. It wasn’t about sex, or hunger, or even want.

It was soft. Familiar. The kind of kiss you gave someone when you were in love.

He kissed you back, of course he did. That part was never the problem. He always kissed you like you were the only thing in the world that could anchor him.

But the moment your hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, everything changed.

Just the pad of your fingers brushing lightly over his stomach. Just a touch.

And still, he tensed.

You felt it the way someone feels a tide turning, quiet, sure, inevitable.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t recoil. He just went still. Careful. Measured. One hand lifted to catch your wrist and gently moved it away from his skin, like it wasn’t a rejection. Like it didn’t mean something.

But it did.

He turned slightly, as if he meant to settle back into bed like nothing had happened. Like you could pretend this wasn’t the third time in a row.

But you didn’t follow.

Instead, you sat up slowly, drawing your knees to your chest, the sheet falling across your thighs. You stared at the far wall, lips pressed into a thin line, throat tight.

You heard the shift in his voice before he even finished asking.

“Hey,” he said softly, already sensing the change. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away.

The silence that followed wasn’t loud. It was thick. Still. The kind of quiet that feels like the moment before something breaks.

When you finally spoke, your voice came out low, shaky.

“Do you want me?”

He didn’t move.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. You kept your eyes on your hands, twisting your fingers in the blanket like it might keep the rest of you from unraveling.

“Because I want you,” you continued, quieter now. “And every time I try, you pull away. I know you care about me, I know you do, but I can’t help wondering if maybe I’m wrong about all of it.”

He went very, very still.

Then, “Stop.”

His voice was sharp, and the suddenness of it made you blink.

You turned, startled.

He was sitting up now, scrubbing a hand over his face. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense. Like your words had opened something he hadn’t meant to expose.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “I didn’t mean to—just. I’m sorry. Don’t say that. Ever.”

You stared at him.

“Then talk to me,” you said softly. “Because it’s getting harder not to take it personally.”

He didn’t look at you.

His gaze dropped to the sheets. His fists were clenched in his lap. The vibranium hand trembled slightly. The other, human and scarred, looked like it was holding on to something invisible.

You sat beside him again. Close, but not touching.

Your voice was quiet. Measured, ounded, but not accusatory.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” you asked. “Like you’re in love with me?”

You swallowed hard.

“Because you do. Every day.”

He still didn’t say anything.

“And then I touch you, and you freeze. Like I’ve crossed a line I didn’t know was there. Like I’ve done something wrong.”

There was something in your chest pulling tighter with every second of silence. Something raw and anxious and aching.

His hands stayed clenched.

You reached for him, carefully, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. The human one. His skin was warm. His pulse jumped beneath your touch.

“Bucky,” you whispered. “What is it? You can tell me.”

He exhaled. Rough. Uneven.

For a second, you thought he might deflect. That he might dodge this like he had before — with a soft kiss or a change of subject. But then he swallowed hard, eyes flicking to yours for just a moment before dropping again.

“I haven’t…” he started, then paused. Cleared his throat. “I haven’t done anything since before the war.”

The breath caught in your chest.

He laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was hollow. Embarrassed.

“Not just sex,” he said. “Anything. After HYDRA… after everything. I didn’t—I couldn’t.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, visibly ashamed. Smaller, somehow. Like admitting it out loud took more from him than he’d expected.

“It’s been over eighty years.”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched him.

“I know it doesn’t make sense,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “You’re here, and you’re kind, and you’ve never pushed. But I get so far and then it’s like—like my body just shuts down. Like some part of me still thinks I’m not allowed to want things.”

Your heart twisted.

Not from pity. But from the weight of it. The quiet devastation he carried like a second skin.

Then, more quietly:

“You think I don’t want you?” His voice dropped. “Fuck, sweetheart. I want you so bad it hurts. Every night I lie here hard as a fucking rock just thinking about you.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut.

“But I’m—” He shook his head. “I’m scared.”

You moved then.

Not away. But forward.

You reach for his wrist again, let your fingers slide gently down to his hand. His pulse was racing. His breath shallow.

“Scared of what?” you asked, softer now.

He looked at you. Finally. Really looked. And what you saw in his eyes made your chest ache, something wide and raw and terrified.

“That I’ll disappoint you,” he said. “That I won’t know what I’m doing. That you’ll want someone who’s not stuck in the goddamn 40s when it comes to this stuff.”

Your face softened. A small, aching smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, even through the tightness in your chest.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

You climbed into his lap carefully, like you were afraid you’d spook him. You framed his face with your hands, your thumbs brushing along the curve of his cheekbones.

“You’re already everything I want and more,” you said, steady and sure. “But I need you to believe that.”

His breath hitched.

“And if you let me,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper now, “I’ll show you everything. I’ll go slow. I’ll take care of you.”

He didn’t answer right away.

His eyes searched yours. Guarded, hopeful. Terrified. Like part of him still thought this might not be real.

But then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

And when he did, something in you finally, quietly exhaled.

You don’t rush him.

After everything he’s said, every word laced with fear and heartbreak and hope, the last thing he needs is haste. Or pressure. Or you moving too fast for him to feel safe.

So you just breathe for a moment.

You stay in his lap, arms curled gently around his neck, your forehead resting against his. And you breathe.

His chest rises beneath yours, shaky and tight. His hands are still in his lap, fists curled like he doesn’t know what to do with them, like he doesn’t quite believe this is real, like one wrong move will send the whole thing crumbling to pieces.

So you start small.

You tilt your head and kiss the corner of his mouth. Once. Then again, slower this time, letting your lips linger against his skin.

His breath stutters. His lips part.

You kiss him properly next, slow, deep, but gentle, your mouth moving against his with no urgency, no push, just quiet devotion. Like he’s something sacred.

His hands twitch in his lap. He doesn’t lift them yet, but he doesn’t pull away either.

You murmur against his mouth, “Can I touch you?”

He swallows thickly. Nods.

You kiss him one more time, a promise, before you shift in his lap, your thighs bracketing his, and reach for the hem of his shirt.

The moment your fingers graze the fabric, he tenses.

You pause. You meet his eyes.

“I’ll stop any time you need me to,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure.

He holds your gaze. His throat bobs with a hard swallow. Then he nods again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

You offer a gentle smile. “Okay.”

You lift his shirt carefully, baring him inch by inch. You don’t rush. You kiss every strip of skin you uncover, the ridges of his ribs, the warm slope of his sternum, the sharp cut of his collarbone.

You take your time with it, as if mapping him out with your mouth, like you’re memorising every inch with intention.

When the shirt is high enough, he lifts his arms, stiffly, hesitantly and lets you pull it over his head. You toss it aside and look at him.

He’s bare from the waist up. All muscle and scar tissue, strength and survival. The room’s low light catches on the vibranium, glints over old wounds, highlights the long-healed lines across his chest and side.

You let your gaze roam.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. He looks away, jaw tight, breathing shallow.

You reach out, slow, deliberate, and place your palm against his chest. Right over his heart.

He flinches. Just a little. A twitch in his shoulder. A held breath.

But he doesn’t pull away. You lean in and kiss the skin just beside your hand.

“Is this okay?”

His voice is low and rough. “Yeah. Feels nice.”

You smile against his skin, then keep going.

Your mouth trails lower, painting a path down the plane of his chest. You kiss over his heart again, then rest your cheek there for a moment.

“Still beating,” you whisper, a soft marvel.

You feel it stutter beneath your lips.

Your hands slide lower, down his abdomen, his skin warm, twitching under your fingers. You follow the faint trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband, fingertips brushing gently, not demanding. Just exploring.

He exhales shakily, stomach tensing, hips shifting just slightly.

“There’s not a single part of you I don’t want to touch,” you murmur, kissing along his ribs.

He turns his face, like he’s trying to hide, like the intimacy of your words is too much.

“Hey,” you say softly. You reach up, cupping his jaw, gently guiding his gaze back to yours. “Let me say it. Let me mean it.”

His lips part like he might argue, but he doesn’t.

You rest your forehead against his.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper. “So strong, You’ve been through hell and still came of it.”

His eyes flutter shut. His breath catches.

Your lips brush his softly, like reassurance. Then again.

And this time, when your hands slide down to the waistband of his sweats, he doesn’t flinch.

You look up at him. “Can I take these off?”

His voice is strained. “Yeah.”

You move slowly, tugging them down inch by inch, watching his face the entire time. He lifts his hips to help, barely, and you kiss the inside of his knee as you go. Then the other.

By the time you’ve got them off, he’s flushed all over, from his chest to his ears to the very tips of his fingers. And trembling.

His cock is hard and leaking, resting against his stomach. Big. Heavy. Throbbing.

He tries to close his legs out of instinct. Reflex.

But you shift forward between them and place your hands gently on the outside of his thighs.

“You’re doing so good,” you say softly. “Are you okay?”

His nod is jerky. “Just—don’t look too long.”

You blink. “Why not?”

He swallows hard. “’Cause you’ll know I don’t have a damn clue what I’m doing.”

You smile, warm, never mocking.

“Baby,” you say gently, “I already know.”

You lean in, kissing the inside of his thigh, slowly, gently..

“But it’s not a problem,” you murmur, lips brushing his skin again. “It’s a privilege.”

His head drops back, his fists clench the blanket. You trail your mouth up his thigh, closer and closer, and then wrap your fingers around the base of his cock.

He jerks under your touch, breath catching sharp in his throat.

“Fuck—” His hips twitch. His mouth opens, like he’s trying to say something and can’t find the words.

You stroke him once, slow, deliberate, and his entire body shudders.

He’s flushed dark at the tip, leaking already.

“Nobody’s ever…” he starts, but doesn’t finish.

You look up. “Ever?”

He nods, barely. “Not like this.”

You smile. “Good.”

You stroke again, firmer now, and his jaw clenches, breath ragged.

Your thumb brushes over the tip, collecting the slick, and he whines, high, desperate, like he’s trying to hold everything in and failing miserably.

You kiss just below the head and he moans, low and broken.

“Holy shit—sweetheart, I’m not gonna—fuck, I’m not gonna last—”

You press a kiss to his hip. “That’s okay. That’s why we’ll take our time.”

You climb back into his lap, hand still wrapped around him, your other resting at his cheek to keep him grounded. He looks dazed, overwhelmed, like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or fall apart in your arms.

“Can I ride you?” you whisper.

His hands shoot to your hips like a lifeline. “Please,” he breathes. “I want you to. So bad.”

You guide him to your entrance, your slick soaking him already, and ease down, slow, careful, inch by inch — until he’s fully seated inside you.

Bucky’s head drops back, a strangled moan caught in his throat.

“F-fuck, baby—” he gasps. “Too much. Feels too—”

You don’t move.

You stay still in his lap, your hands on his chest, letting him feel you. Letting his body adjust. Letting the moment settle between you like something holy.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, frantic. “Yeah. I—just give me a second.”

You wait. When his eyes open again, they’re soaked with emotion. Glassy and bare.

“You okay?” you ask.

“I think you’re killing me,” he says hoarsely. “But I don’t wanna stop.”

You smile.

Then you start to move.

Slow, gentle, rocking your hips, letting him feel everything, every squeeze, every inch, every slow drag of your walls around him.

His mouth falls open. He moans your name like a prayer.

“Feels too good,” he pants. “I’m not—fuck, I’m not gonna—”

You lean in, your forehead pressed to his.

“Then don’t,” you whisper. And he does.

With a choked cry, he spills inside you, body tensing, arms wrapping tight around you, hips bucking helplessly. His hands shake against your back as his breath catches in your hair.

He clings to you like he would fall apart without you.

And even after it’s over, even after he’s finished, breathless and wrecked, he doesn’t let go.

He just holds you. And for the first time in years, he lets himself be held, too.

He’s still trembling.

You don’t move. You don’t shift or speak right away. You just stay where you are, wrapped around him, your body cradling his, the last aftershocks of his orgasm still echoing in the taut lines of his body.

His cock is still inside you, softening slowly. The stretch of him, the heat of him, the slick, overwhelming closeness of it all—it makes your heart ache in the gentlest way.

Your fingers stroke through his hair, trailing through the sweat-damp strands at the nape of his neck. Then down his spine. Slow, comforting passes, like you’re coaxing his body back into itself.

He clutches you tighter.

His arms are around your waist, strong and firm—not bruising, not panicked. But desperate. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, this will all vanish. Like maybe none of this was real, and holding on to you is the only thing keeping him grounded.

You don’t pull away.

You let him hold you. Let him shake. Let his breath shudder against your neck while your hand keeps moving slowly down his back.

His face is buried against your throat, and when he finally speaks, it’s muffled—barely audible. Raw.

“I didn’t mean to finish so fast.”

Your heart breaks for him a little, even as your lips tilt into a soft smile.

You press a kiss to his temple—tender, grounding.

“I know.”

His voice is barely there. “I just—fuck, I couldn’t stop it. You felt so good. I couldn’t think."

You hum softly, stroking his hair again. “That’s kind of the point, baby.”

He lifts his head, just a little, pulling back enough to meet your gaze. His eyes are wide, glassy, dazed, those perfect cerulean eyes soft and unguarded, boyish, almost.

His cheeks are flushed. His hair’s a mess. His lips are kiss-swollen.

He looks completely ruined. Completely beautiful. Yours.

“But you didn’t—” he starts, then hesitates. His gaze drops. “You didn’t finish.”

You don’t stop smiling. There’s no hurt in it, no impatience, just quiet warmth.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you whisper, brushing his damp hair from his forehead. “Tonight was about you.”

His brows pull together, like he doesn’t quite know how to process that.

“That’s not fair,” he mumbles. “I want to make you feel good too.”

“You already do,” you murmur, your nose brushing his. “But if you really want to keep going…”

You pause deliberately, shifting your hips slightly.

Just enough for him to feel the movement, just enough to tease.

He gasps, high and sharp, his body jolting.

“…we can.”

His hands flex at your waist. His eyes flutter. His lips part like he’s trying to speak but can’t form a single thought.

“I’m still—,” he whispers, like it’s a warning. But there’s no hesitation in his tone. Only want.

“But I want it,” he adds. “I want you.”

You kiss him again, slow and deep, and begin to move. Barely. Just a gentle roll of your hips, enough to stir friction between your bodies again.

He moans into your mouth, soft and aching.

You rock slowly, dragging your walls against his still-sensitive cock. He twitches inside you, starting to thicken again already. It’s slow, but unmistakable.

“Okay?” you whisper.

He nods frantically, hands gripping your waist like he’s drowning in sensation. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Just—shit. I’ve never… I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

You smile against his jaw. “You wanna come again for me?”

His moan is barely a sound. His eyes flutter shut.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Fuck, yes. Please—”

You tighten your thighs and roll your hips again, drawing a sharp gasp from him.

“Such good manners,” you whisper, kissing his throat. “So sweet for me.”

Your hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. You start to circle, slow, wet, just enough pressure to build your own heat.

He watches you.

Like you’re made of stars, like he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

“Touch me,” you murmur. “Please, Bucky. I want your hands on me.”

It’s the only encouragement he needs.

His hands move slowly, softly, trembling, sliding up your sides, grazing your ribs, cupping your breasts. His thumbs brush over your nipples, and you moan, arching into his touch.

The sound makes him groan, deep and wrecked.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ perfect, baby—can’t believe I get to have you like this.”

His voice breaks on the last word.

You’re slick around him now, your arousal mixing with the mess from earlier. Every slow rock of your hips has him thickening more, twitching inside you, inch by inch.

His thighs are shaking. His jaw clenches.

“Feels so good,” he whines. “I don’t wanna stop. Don’t wanna come yet. Wanna feel you forever.”

You ride him harder now, the heat in your belly rising faster.

“You feel that?” you gasp. “How close I am?”

His hands tighten on your hips. His breath turns ragged.

“Please—please come around me, sweetheart—need to feel it—need to feel you—”

You bury your face in his neck. And let go.

Your whole body seizes around him, a white-hot wave crashing through you, stealing your breath, your balance, your thoughts. Your moan is broken, helpless, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

Your walls clamp down hard around him.

And that’s all it takes.

He thrusts up once. Then again. Deep, desperate. A cry tearing from his throat as he comes again, shaking, gasping, flooding you with warmth.

His arms wrap tight around you.

He holds you close. Close enough to feel your heartbeat thunder against his. Close enough that the tremors in your bodies blur together, indistinguishable.

This time, his grip is softer. Still strong, but different.

Not desperate. Tender.

His hand strokes up your spine. His lips press to your temple, then your hair, then your jaw. Like he can’t get close enough.

You stay there, wrapped around each other, skin to skin, breath mingled and unsteady and you don’t rush to move.

Not yet.

“Jesus,” he whispers eventually, voice raw. “What the fuck just happened?”

You laugh softly, breathless, dazed. “That was called good sex,.”

He groans into your neck. “That was more than good. That was—fuck. That was divine.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to his hair.

You collapse gently against his chest, boneless and warm, and he doesn’t let go. His arms stay around you, wrapped like a shield, like a promise.

Neither of you move for a long time. There’s nothing left to prove. Nothing to say.

Just the slow hum of your heartbeats and the safe, sacred space you’ve made between the two of you.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Bucky feels wanted.

And safe. And home.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it! if you did, drop a comment or a reblog! thank you my loves, your support means the world to me! <3333333

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punkeropercyjackson · 2 days ago

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@moonage-gaydream

Gugsam0 Spiderverse redraws

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far-from-fran · 1 day ago

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#fran edits💌#spoilers #tadc spoilers #tadc ep 5 #tadc #the amazing digital circus #tadc ragatha #ragatha #tadc jax #jax #tadc pomni #pomni #tadc meme

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rhiannonsknife · 14 hours ago

Note

wait what about Shauna already being in a relationship with tfem reader, Jackie is secretly jealous… of the both of them though. Especially when Jackie tries to relate with Shauna by talking about how lame and uneventful sleeping with your partner is like the rare times it does happen clearly expecting Shauna to chime in to agree, but Shauna gives her pitiful look and says “I can’t imagine how tough that must be”. Prompting Jackie to get defensive and ask when’s the last time Shauna’s gotten laid, “this morning? I got 3” “3 minutes doesn’t really-“ “not 3 minutes Jackie” cue Jackie ranting about not quite believing that’s what it’s normally like for her. Shauna finding the whole thing hilarious challenges Jackie “well you can always see what it’s like for yourself but don’t say I didn’t warn you”. Later that day the three of them are hanging out watching a movie, reader doesn’t get warned about it beforehand so when Shauna starts making out with her with Jackie around she tries to be respectful of their visitor and cuts it short. The Shauna says something like “you know Jackie spent the whole afternoon talking shit about you? Practically called me liar when I told her you’re actually fun to have sex with, you wouldn’t mind giving her the Shauna special to prove my point would you?” end of the night conclusion: Shauna was NOT lying and she wants a turn in the morning.

── KISS IT OFF ME ・ jackieshauna / reader

warnings: nsfw content, mdni. tfem!reader. established relationship (shauna/reader). threesome. oral (jackie/r!receiving). p in v sex (jackie/reader).

you’re sunk into the pillows, feet tucked under the blanket, hazy from the few drinks the three of you have shared. the movie drones on somewhere behind it all, forgotten; its flicker casting brief shadows over the walls of jackie’s room, over the scattered popcorn and the empty glasses crowding the bedside table.

you’ve stopped pretending to care about it somewhere between the second & third act, when shauna‘s hand settled on your thigh, squeezing the flesh every now and then. she’s been continuously tracing shapes there ever since, her index finger inching higher and higher up towards your crotch.

for a while, you thought you were overreacting; that the heat of her touch was all in your head and the tightness in your pants a you-problem.

that was until shauna leaned in to kiss you, pecking her way up the side of your neck. she started by nuzzling your throat, eyes still set on the screen, yet before long, she was sucking marks up your skin, humming against your neck until her mouth finally found yours.

what started out as a casual kiss deepens as her fingers slip under the hem of your shirt. her tongue sweeps yours, and the tv becomes background noise for good, nothing compared to the taste of her spit in your mouth. shauna drifts higher up, humming so low that the sound shoots straight down to your center.

you are about to spread your legs wider, inviting her in, when you remember jackie. jackie, who’s been sitting inches away on the bed this entire time.

“shauna,” you lean away from her, startled. “we- jackie’s right here…” you hiss, peeking over at her apologetically. jackie sits unmoving, her eyes locked on the two of you in disbelief.

shauna doesn’t even look her way. “she knows,” she says, shrugging conversationally.

“knows what?”

“about you. about this.” she brushes her thumb over your lip, still considering kissing you again, as though you’re not being watched. “she doesn’t believe me,” shauna murmurs. “how good you are. and what it’s like…really being wanted. she’s curious.”

jackie stiffens, arms crossed defensively over her chest. “i didn’t say i was curious!”

“no,” shauna says calmly. “you didn’t. you just stared at her all through dinner today and asked me three times if it was actually possible to cum that many times in one morning.”

she swallows, visibly flustered. “i didn’t mean- i thought you were exaggerating! it sounded fake.”

shauna arches her brow. “still does?”

when you look back at jackie, arms still crossed, jaw set, you see it: whatever shauna just exposed, it’s not new. jackie’s been carrying it for a while; you simply hadn’t seen it before, hadn’t known to look. now that it’s surfaced, though, there’s no missing it.

you don’t yet know just how long this has been going on. jackie never let herself want anything that might mess with the version of her she worked so hard to hold together. not until shauna stopped pretending, too.

it used to be easier when they both had the same complaint: boys are useless, sex is a chore. shauna used to laugh when jackie joked about how bad jeff was in bed (flat five-minute missionary, not an ounce of creativity) always assuming they were in the same boat.

then, a few weeks ago, she made the joke again, perched on shauna’s counter, fully expecting a laugh. instead, shauna just tilted her head and gave her a look. pitying.

“i can’t imagine how tough that must be,” she’d said.

jackie could still feel how it hit her, too late, that she’d missed the moment everything changed, when shauna had quietly stepped out of their old little world without saying a word, leaving jackie as the only one still pretending nothing had.

now, she’s looking more uncertain than you’ve ever seen her. “…can i just…watch?” she stammers,

even if you wanted to say no, you know you couldn’t.

jackie has always been beautiful. ridiculously so. you never acted on it, never even let yourself dwell on it too long. you were with shauna, and you were happy; that was more than enough. still, from the very beginning, something in you shifted every time jackie entered a room, or when shauna brought her along to yet another party, another sleepover, another dinner.

being with shauna meant being near jackie, too. she was always there; shauna’s shadow, her constant. they came as a set, indistinguishable at times, as if one couldn’t exist without the other. so perhaps falling a little bit in love with jackie was inevitable. a side effect of loving shauna for so long. shauna’s mother used to say you couldn’t ever tell where one of them ended and the other began. maybe she wasn’t so wrong.

shauna saw it before you ever said a word.

you told her once, drunk, tripping over your own guilt as you admitted how hot jackie was, how you’d noticed things you weren’t supposed to. you braced for jealousy and accusations, yet shauna just listened. smiled, even. in your haze, you started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, she felt the same way.

now jackie is sitting there, watching with her fingers curled against her ribs.

shauna kisses you again. her palm slides between your thighs, and jackie inhales sharply. she’s trying to act composed, but you can feel her squirm on the mattress, moving closer unconsciously.

shauna’s groan into your mouth snaps you back to reality. she’s rubbing over the bulge in your underwear, making a show of how little friction it takes for your hips to lift off the bed.

finally, she moves under your waistband.

your body jerks when shauna wraps her fingers around your cock, dragging through the first bead of precum and slicking it down your shaft. that alone pulls the first real moan from your throat.

“do you want her to touch you too?” she murmurs.

you glance at jackie, whose eyes are fixed on the outline of shauna’s fist, pumping under the fabric. shauna loosens her grip to ease your panties down, still working you with her free hand. “come here.”

the other girl obliges fast, scrambling to kneel at the foot of the bed. her gaze drops, first to your face, then lower, where shauna’s stroking your cock, and she gulps audibly.

“she won’t bite,” shauna says, not bothering to hide her grin. jackie shoots her a look, before turning back to you. “can i…?”

“please.”

her fingers brush along your length, more curiosity than confidence, and when she finally wraps them around you, there’s a slight tremble in her grip. where shauna is confident, jackie is careful, feeling you up inch by inch.

“oh my god,” she whispers with a single glide from base to tip. jackie repeats the motion, firmer, and you moan quietly as her thumb grazes under your head on the upstroke. looking pleased, shauna shifts next to you. “you were saying something earlier, weren’t you?” she teases. “about how sex is just…fine?”

“shut up.”

jackie adjusts her hold, testing different paces. you groan when she adds a twist at the tip, and reach out to guide her hand with yours. she follows your lead until shauna joins in too, her palm settling over jackie’s, refining each touch.

the pressure difference, the contrast of their touches, has you pulsing between them.

it’s then, with both of their palms around you, that it hits you: this is new for jackie too. not the act itself, but doing it like this. doing it while shauna watches. doing it with shauna.

jackie sits back on her knees, holding the base of your cock, and leans in to run her tongue across the head, tasting.

“fuck,” you gasp, clutching shauna’s thigh.

jackie, unfazed by this, lets her tongue drag along the underside before closing her mouth around you. she sucks gently, the sudden heat of her mouth making you moan hoarsely. shauna watches, her eyes glued to jackie, who hums as she takes more past her lips. her spit slicks your length, tongue curling around it on the way back up. you know if she keeps this up, you won’t last.

thankfully and much to your dismay shauna knows that too. she grabs a fistful of jackie’s hair, coaxing her off you with a reluctant pop. “okay,” she murmurs, “that’s enough.”

“why?” jackie pouts. “i wasn’t done!”

shauna’s eyes soften. “because,” she says. “i want this to last, and if you keep going, she’s going to lose it in, like, thirty seconds.”

jackie blushes. she doesn’t look away, but her body tenses, recognizing what’s coming. shauna leans in slowly, offering her the choice to stop this before it starts.

she doesn’t, though, only lifts her chin proudly, and waits.

when their lips meet, jackie grips shauna’s shirt, pulling her closer, and shauna lets out a startled sound, which she chases with her mouth. you can’t look away from the two of them kissing, still tasting you, while heat coils tighter in your gut.

by the time shauna pulls back, jackie looks dazed, her brows drawn together in irritation from being interrupted again. shauna’s hand is quick to make up for it, skimming down her spine in one long caress. when her fingers glide beneath jackie’s skirt and settle warm on bare skin, the tension in jackie’s expression begins to falter.

“is this okay?” she murmurs.

jackie nods, eyes closed, as shauna’s fingers find her clit, pulling a stunned sound from her throat. “you feel that?” she murmurs into her ear. “you’re already dripping.” then, turning to you: “let her ride you.”

jackie’s breath stutters. “are you sure she can-”

shauna presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “you want to know what it feels like, don’t you? feel her for yourself?”

another nod, more desperate.

her skirt bunches as she climbs into your lap, thighs sliding over yours. shauna maneuvers her, pushing the fabric up to reveal the mess between her legs.

she isn’t wearing underwear.

it doesn’t fully register, with too much is happening too fast, but the image plants itself somewhere deep: jackie taylor doesn’t wear underwear when you and shauna are over for movie nights. and she’s soaked. wetness glistens on her thighs, smearing across your skin as she settles over you.

“breathe…” shauna instructs. “we’re still good?”

even though jackie takes longer to answer, too tense with anticipation, she manages a ragged: “yeah, we’re okay.”

you reach for yourself to guide the tip through her, slick folds parting with an obscene sound that has jackie digging her fingers into shauna’s shoulder. “shit,” she whispers. “you’re- god, you’re right there-”

“it’s okay,” shauna assures. “you don’t have to do anything. she won’t move. just sit, okay?”

jackie nods, biting her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as she lowers herself onto you.

the stretch is deep, her body tight around you, gripping as she sinks down gradually. first just the head, then more, inch by inch. you feel the slick resistance of her trying to accommodate you, and it takes everything in you not to thrust up into her all at once.

“you’re doing so good,” shauna praises. “you’re okay.”

jackie lets out a broken moan and finally settles fully in your lap. “i can feel…hm, fuck- s’deep.”

her forehead rests against your shoulder, both of you vibrating with restraint. “i know,” shauna whispers from behind, giving jackie time to accommodate the stretch.

her muscles flex as she lifts up a few inches and sinks back down tentatively. you groan, unable to help yourself, the sensation of her cunt dragging along every nerve ending knocking the air straight from your lungs. you can’t tear your eyes away from where your bodies are joined, the wet mess of her pussy pulling at you on every roll of her hips.

jackie is still holding back, though, so shauna leans in, kissing her neck like she’s done with yours earlier. “do you want to make her feel good?” she asks you, fingers moving between jackie’s legs. “she’s close already. you feel that?”

you whine in agreement, and shauna responds by pressing her fingertips more firmly to jackie’s clit, the added pressure making her hips jolt.

“oh my god- what the fuck-” the surprise etched across her face makes you wonder if anyone has ever touched her quite like this, if she ever knew it could feel this good.

“god, shauna-” she chokes, clenching around you hard.

“yeah?” shauna teases. “right there, huh?”

jackie whimpers, hips rolling forward as she chases both shauna’s touch and the length of your cock. you bury your face between her breasts, groaning as her body convulses around you. when you finally thrust, harder than you meant to, she jerks in your lap. instead of pulling away, she moans, bracing herself and rocking back down.

her arms loop around your shoulders as she starts to move, her chest pressed flush to yours. jackie’s mouth finds the side of your neck, where she bites down hard enough to make your hips stutter into her.

“jesus, jackie!” you gasp.

the air in her room is thick: hot with sex & heavy with the sounds jackie makes as her thighs slap on your own. she’s chasing it now, her pace quickening.

shauna’s hand keeps working between jackie’s legs, fingers circling her clit. she leans in, guiding your face toward hers, and you meet her in a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth. jackie’s walls clench down when shauna simultaneously changes the pressure, the shift of angle enough to make her cry out.

“i- fuck, i think i’m gonna-” she gasps against your throat. you start to pull back, packing, but jackie stops you. “don’t!” she snaps. “don’t pull out. i’m on the pill, i swear, just- please. please, let me feel it.”

helplessly, your hips rock forward.

“go ahead,” shauna whispers. “come for us.”

it hits fast after that. you moan into her mouth as your orgasm tears through you, every muscle spasming. your back arches into jackie as you spill inside her, and she chokes on a shaking sound, grinding through her own climax. she comes with you, riding it out until there’s nothing left to give.

the three of you collapse in a tangled, trembling mess. jackie slumps forward, chest heaving, and shauna brushes sweat-damp hair from jackie’s neck. “you’re okay,” she murmurs to the two of you, stroking your cheek.

jackie barely lifts her head. “…that’s what it’s always like?”

“when you’re with someone who actually cares? yeah.”

you shiver, involuntarily moving your hips lightly, which draws another whimper from jackie. shauna smirks. “you think she’s done?”

#˙💌 ̟ !! ─ my works #˙🔞 ̟ !! mdni #jackieshauna #jackieshauna x reader #jackieshauna x you #jackie taylor #jackie taylor x reader #shauna shipman #shauna shipman x reader #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x you

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hrtzbeat · 3 days ago

Note

Yay fem riddle???

#she is.. so cutee #riddle rosehearts #twst #twisted wonderland #fanart #🐝; bee's art #💌

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punkeropercyjackson · 2 days ago

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@mik3stuff

“All you can do”

#tagging in #otp:our love story #t4t togachako #mochi mochi?#bloody valentine #su #t4t connverse #💌#is this you and maya too?

824 notes · View notes

writingwisterias · 2 days ago

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okay i found some twt links that i will bless you with cause who doesn’t love some leon imagery yay yippe!

👐🏻

DI leon breeding and filling your pussy up

https://x.com/sexarchiv/status/1935925179068145965?s=46

how leon fucks you after he’s been away on missions for so long he just gets so greedy with you

https://x.com/sexarchiv/status/1935760257541968145?s=46

another breeding :p yummy

https://x.com/sexarchiv/status/1935721209200574615?s=46

leon who loves eating you out he would do it all day long if he really could

https://x.com/httpdaddy18/status/1798114994212520366?s=46

sensual sex with leon

https://x.com/httpdaddy18/status/1643589490185781248?s=46

“cooking” with leon

https://x.com/httpdaddy18/status/1728497821106708729?s=46

re2 leon (maybe mommy kink?)

https://x.com/httpdaddy18/status/1560704419246792706?s=46

vendetta leon worshiping your pussy that was made just for him (or older leon just cause of the facial hair)

https://x.com/httpdaddy18/status/1529230689098379264?s=46

teasing and making re2 leon cum with just your ass

https://x.com/goonettte/status/1934913326548402656?s=46

(hopefully the links are right idk. and pray this stays up💔)

-🪑

Omgggg 🪑 coming through again!!! I've been hunting for some as well lmaoo! Thank you for these they are 🫦🫦 definitely going to use some of these as inspiration....omg

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

I think they are all correct lemme know if they aren't

#~mads rambles #~mads~mail💌#~🪑 anon #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy smut

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pxpecxdy · 2 days ago

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in an effort to help reactivate the horny thots and banish the sad ones-

the big four, emphasis on big, (abbot,robby,pope and charlie) would have to practically fist you in order to prep you to take them easily. They’re really into making you a drooling, fucked out mess before they ever even get their cocks in you.

Okay I cannot tell you how many times @oldermenfucker and I have talked about Robby being so fucking big. Even just the tip is too much. "I know, baby, it's big" cooing in your ear as he tries to ease it in. Out of all of them he's the most impatient but the most gentle.

Jack loves the foreplay as much as the actual sex. He's enjoying watching you squirm as he scissors his fingers in you. The sound of makes when he squeezes a third finger in is like music to his ears. The squelch of your hole being stuffed by his finger and knowing that this is only the beginning drives him mad.

@erwinsvow has a babysitter fic (that I can't remember the name of off the top of my head, sorry Hun!) that made me a firm believer in Pope's BDE. She mentions that his fingers are already so large and needing three of them to stretch you out, made my head fuzzy 😵‍💫 Pope is doing all of this because he has to. There is no amount of negotiation that would end with him shoving it in before splitting you open on his fist.

Charlie? He's fisting you to fisting you and fucking you to fuck you. I can see him lying to you about it, saying he just needs to stretch you a bit. You're already too fucked out to know what's really going on. At least until you feel his fingers start to curl inside of you and you realize his whole hand is in you. His pressing his other hand down on your stomach and feeling himself inside you

#ask melly 💌#pope cody #andrew cody #animal kingdom #pope cody x reader #andrew cody x reader #dr robby #michael robinavitch #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #charlie reid x reader #charlie reid #i smoked a whole fuck load while i wrote this so my apologies

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buckysleftbicep · 13 hours ago

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what home feels like 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (5 + 1 trope)

warnings: loads, like mountains of fluff, soft!bucky, some angst, bucky in an apron, team shenanigans

summary: the 5 times bucky thinks of proposing to you and the 1 time he does

word count: 6.1k (i couldn't help myself 🥹)

author's note: hi loves! i am in the middle of my vacation and i had this written during my layover, and i just couldn't wait to let you guys read it, so here it is! i hope you'll love it as much as i do! love ya and stay safe out there! 💌

The first time Bucky thought of proposing to you, you were asleep on his chest, and the world was still.

The sun filtered softly through gauzy curtains, turning the room to gold, that liminal hush between dawn and morning, when the world had yet to stir.

The compound was silent. Peaceful. A rare luxury. And in the center of it all was you, curled in the tangle of Bucky’s arms, your face pressed to his chest, your breath warm and even against the fabric of his shirt.

One of your hands was fisted there, right over his heart, like you’d been afraid he might drift away in the night and needed something to anchor you. As if your body, even in sleep, refused to let him go.

He didn’t mind. He never minded. In fact, if he had it his way, he’d never move from this moment at all. He could stay like this forever. And maybe, for once, he actually believed he deserved to.

Alpine lay nestled between your legs, a puddle of white fur with her chin resting lazily on your calf. She let out a soft mewl, stretching languidly, paws reaching toward the warm patch of sunlight spilling across the bed before curling tighter into the cradle you made for her.

Bucky watched her for a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching, and then looked back down at you, the way your lashes flickered in dreams, the way your lips parted with each slow breath, your features soft and at peace in the golden quiet.

There was a kind of stillness in the air that made everything feel sacred. Like nothing bad could touch the room you shared. Like the outside world, the violence, the ghosts, the endless fight didn’t exist here.

Just you. Just him. Just this.

And his heart ached a little with the weight of it, of how far he’d come, of how long it had taken to get here. To something this gentle. This good.

Because this life had once seemed impossible.

Germany, 2016.

The first time Bucky saw you, he had been standing at the far end of the airport carpark in Berlin, still learning how to breathe in spaces that weren’t cages.

Still unsure of who he was supposed to be outside the Soldier. Still half-listening, half-drifting.

Steve had brought you in, voice warm, saying you’d be helping with strategy and tech coordination for the joint ops.

There had been a familiarity in how he spoke to you, like you were someone he already trusted. That alone had caught Bucky’s attention.

And then… then you walked in beside him.

Wearing jeans and a simple button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, your hair pulled back in some easy style like you hadn’t even put much thought into it.

You had a notebook in one hand, and your eyes were wide, bright. Like you hadn’t yet learned to keep your guard up in this line of work. Like the job hadn’t bled the softness out of you.

And Bucky… Bucky had stared.

Not out of rudeness—not really. But because you’d laughed. Full-bodied and unfiltered.

Scott had said something dumb—some half-witted quip about old men and bluetooth—and you had tipped your head back, laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week.

The sound of it went straight through him.

It didn’t just catch his attention. It wrecked him, a little. That laugh landed somewhere behind his ribs, somewhere he hadn’t even realised was still raw. And for the first time in a long time, something in him stirred. Something slow and silent and stupidly hopeful.

Then you turned to him. Your gaze met his.

You smiled.

Held out your hand.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N),” you’d said, your voice warm, effortless and kind. The kind of voice that made people feel safe. The kind of voice that felt like a hand resting lightly on a wound.

“You must be Bucky.”

He hadn’t said a word at first. Couldn’t. His brain had short-circuited under the weight of your gaze and the gentle curl of your mouth. His pulse roared in his ears like it did in combat zones—sharp, hot, all-consuming.

But then, somehow, he managed a smile. A real one. Small. Tentative. But genuine. And when he took your hand in his, shaking it carefully, cautiously, something in his chest locked into place.

He remembered how soft your skin had felt against his calloused fingers. How you hadn’t flinched at the sight of the metal. How your touch had lingered just long enough.

You didn’t seem put off by his silence. You’d just nodded, eyes full of something unspoken, and walked off with Wanda, the two of you giggling about something he couldn’t hear. Just like that, you were gone. But the space you left behind stayed.

That’s when Sam had sidled up beside him, elbowing him just hard enough to knock him out of his daze.

“You know if you keep staring, it’s gonna get reak creepy,” he said, smirking.

Bucky had scowled at him. Sam had just grinned wider, all smug and knowing, before turning back.

But even then—Bucky knew.

Knew he was already in trouble.

Because something had shifted. A compass needle inside him, snapping north.

And from that moment on, he’d been tilting toward you.

Now, as he looked down at you all these years later—your lashes fluttering in dreams, your nose scrunching as Alpine adjusted herself—the same flutter stirred in his chest. The same ache, the same quiet kind of awe.

The kind of wonder a man feels when he realises he’s been given the one thing he never dared to ask for.

You shifted in your sleep, barely a breath of movement, but your hand remained curled tight in his shirt, right over his heart.

A reflex, even now. And Bucky let his vibranium fingers trace along your spine, the weight of them light, slow, gentle. Careful not to wake you. He wanted to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

That’s when he thought about the ring.

The one you’d pretended not to look at in the window of that little shop in town last week, red velvet box, delicate curve of diamonds catching the light.

You’d been with Yelena and Bob, arms full of coffee cups and teasing each other about something John had said.

But as you passed the display, you slowed.

He’d noticed it. The way your gaze had lingered. The way your fingers shifted slightly on the cup, like you were reaching for something you wouldn’t admit to wanting. The way your smile curved at the corners, quiet and wistful, like a secret you didn’t plan on sharing.

He saw it and tucked it away.

And now, with you asleep in his arms, your heartbeat matching his, the sun painting gold into your skin, Alpine’s fur warming your legs and that familiar weight of your hand pressed into his chest—he made the decision he’d been dancing around for weeks.

He was going to buy it.

Because this—this lazy Sunday morning with your body draped over his, your love stitched into the silence—this was it.

This was forever.

The second time Bucky thought of proposing, the kitchen had smelled like toast and sunlight.

It was late morning when he found you in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, hips swaying to the distant echo of Taylor Swift playing from a speaker;

The track was barely audible—warbled through the walls, a little staticky at the edges, but you didn’t seem to care.

You moved with it anyway, letting the music carry you from one counter to the next like it had been written for this exact moment—lazy, sun-warmed, still wrapped in the quiet of sleep.

You were wearing his shirt—that old red henley he loved and you’d stolen without apology—sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh and clinging in places where the steam from the kettle had warmed the air.

Your hair was still mussed from sleep, strands curling at your temples, and one sock was scrunched halfway down your ankle like you’d forgotten to pull it all the way on.

You held a wooden spoon in one hand like a microphone, lips parted, eyes closed, your voice rising with the chorus as you spun in a loose, lazy circle in front of the stove.

You were completely at ease. Utterly unbothered. Just lost in the song and the morning and the rhythm of your own joy.

Sunlight streamed in through the half-open blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor and lighting you up like something out of a dream.

You looked like every warm Sunday morning he’d ever wanted, the kind of morning he didn’t believe he’d ever actually get.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching the way your feet padded across the tile, how your hips swayed, how you bobbed your head to the beat like no one was watching—because you didn’t think anyone was.

And maybe he should’ve said something—greeted you, teased you, but the words stayed lodged in his throat, caught somewhere behind the knot that had formed in his chest. Because there was something about you like this that undid him.

Completely.

You were radiant in a way he didn’t think you realised. The kind of radiant that came from joy—unfiltered, unguarded. The kind that wasn’t curated or calculated or polished for the world.

The kind of beauty that only existed in the in-between spaces—in the stretch of a yawn, in a wooden spoon masquerading as a microphone, in the way your laugh cracked when you hit the high notes wrong.

And god, he thought, watching the sway of your hips, the grin playing at your lips, this is home.

You.

You were home.

He thought about the way you’d slowly, gently introduced him to pop culture like it was your personal mission to drag him into the 21st century.

The curated playlists you made, some with real titles and others labeled “Bucky’s Soft Bitch Era” just to get a rise out of him. The back-to-back movie nights where you made him swear, hand over heart, that he wouldn’t fall asleep during The Notebook.

He remembered the first time he said TokTok by accident and you’d nearly fallen off the couch laughing, giggling so hard you landed half in his lap.

He’d rolled his eyes and muttered something about the whole app being made by “brain rot,” a term you taught him. but you’d refused to correct him, smirking every time he repeated it wrong.

You’d made it all so effortless. The joy.

He hadn’t known it was happening—not at first. Not until it was already too late to stop. Until you were part of everything. His mornings, his evenings, the space between missions, the quiet between nightmares. The laughter between breaths.

You hadn’t forced him to change.

You’d just given him something worth changing for.

He smiled to himself, one hand curling loosely around the coffee mug, now half-cold in his grip.

You were singing now, his shirt shifted with every movement, slipping just slightly off one shoulder. The sight of it—your bare skin against his worn cotton, the easy claim of it—made his stomach twist.

And maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it was too soon.

But the thought still rooted deep in his chest and bloomed like something inevitable.

I want to come home to this for the rest of my life.

He could see it, so vividly it ached. This kitchen, your voice, that damn wooden spoon. The rest of your lives written in sunlight and bad karaoke, laughter and bare feet on tile. He wanted to memorise this, frame it. Carve it into stone so it would never change, never fade.

Because at that moment, it wasn’t just love.

It belonged.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Because the moment felt too perfect, too suspended in its own little pocket of magic, like one wrong word might startle it, might shatter the stillness and send it fleeing out the window with the breeze.

So he let it be.

Let it unfold in golden quiet, you twirling in his shirt, bathed in sunlight, the world narrowed down to the music and the soft clatter of silverware in the drying rack, the steam rising from your forgotten tea on the counter.

And Bucky stood there, still and quiet and entirely undone, holding a lukewarm cup of coffee and the sharp, aching certainty that one day, maybe soon, maybe not, he was going to ask you.

The third time Bucky thought about proposing to you, you were laughing in the golden light, beer in hand, surrounded by people who loved you almost as much as he did.

The sky had started to turn.

That soft stretch between afternoon and evening where the sun melted into everything it touched, bathing the world in a low, amber haze. The backyard was warm with the glow of it—fairy lights strung lazily along the rails of the compound’s rooftop.

Smoke curled up from the grill, rich and familiar, while laughter rippled across the patio like music. Somewhere in the corner, Bob’s speaker hummed with old rock music and the occasional burst of static.

It didn’t matter. Nobody seemed to mind.

You were laughing again.

That soft, breathless kind of laughter that tugged at the corners of Bucky’s mouth every damn time he heard it. Like some part of him lit up in response—quiet and instinctive, like your joy flipped a switch inside him that nothing else could.

He stood just outside the patio doors, a paper plate in hand—barely touched—but his eyes were on you.

Only you.

You were perched on the arm of John’s chair, elbow resting on his shoulder like it was second nature, beer bottle tilted carelessly in your hand. John was mid-sentence, half-defending himself from whatever teasing you were throwing at him, and you were clearly winning.

Your smile was crooked, mischievous. Familiar. The same one you always wore when you knew you were about to land a joke that would ruin someone’s ego for the rest of the week.

“You’re just mad because I’m funnier than you,” you said, clinking your bottle against his in mock sympathy, your tone soaked in smug satisfaction.

John groaned dramatically. “Please. I’m hilarious.”

Yelena snorted from the grill without even looking up. “You are a tragedy.”

Bob raised his hand like he was in a courtroom. “She’s not wrong.”

“You people have no taste,” John muttered, but there was no real bite behind it.

“You overcooked the burgers,” Bob added casually.

“Exactly,” Yelena chimed in, jabbing a fork in his direction with finality. “He’s lost all credibility.”

Over by the cooler, Alexei was deep in what could only be described as a passionate retelling of something that definitely hadn’t happened—this time about his red guardian days and a hand-to-paw brawl with some Siberian bear.

He waved his arms dramatically, chest puffed out, his voice rising with each sentence like a man delivering a one-man play.

Ava had tuned him out completely, scrolling through her phone with surgical focus and only humming in vague acknowledgment whenever he shouted the word “bear” a little too loud.

It was chaotic, the kind of mess Bucky never would’ve imagined himself a part of—let alone something he could belong to.

But he wasn’t listening to any of it.

His eyes were on you.

The way you leaned into the warmth of the moment, head tilted back in laughter, eyes crinkling at the edges like sun lines. The way you had this unspoken ease with the people around you—even the ones who hadn’t always been easy to love.

You fit into the team not like glue, but gravity—like you kept everyone tethered without even meaning to.

He shifted, let his free hand drift toward the pocket of his jeans. His fingers brushed the small velvet box tucked there.

He remembered the aftermath of what happened in New York, it had been brutal.

For everyone. But especially for John.

No one really knew what to say to him. No one quite knew how to reach him, not after it came out that Olivia had left. That the wife and baby he said was waiting back home had already left months before.

He was splintered.

You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated.

You’d found John on the compound steps the night he returned, still bloodied and shaking, the seams of his restraint barely holding—and sat beside him.

No grand entrance. No fuss. Just a quiet presence. You didn’t offer him pity or force conversation. You didn’t tell him it would be okay, you didn’t lie.

You had reached over and took his hand.

Held it, steady and solid—while the others kept their distance. It was simply, completely unremarkable on the surface.

But it worked. Somehow. Quietly. Without demand.

And Bucky had watched it unfold, breath lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Because that was the thing about you. You never tried to fix anyone, but somehow, you still managed to help them heal.

You were everyone’s lighthouse in the dark, even the ones who pretended they didn’t need one.

Especially them.

It was only a week later when the compound had gone still when Bucky had found himself at the dining table, elbows braced, shoulders tight, knuckles white around the edge of a ceramic mug he wasn’t drinking from.

He sat there for a long time, unmoving, eyes fixed on nothing, haunted by something he couldn’t name. The image of what he saw in the void still crawled under his skin—loud in the quiet, vivid behind his eyes.

He hadn’t noticed you until you spoke.

You padded in barefoot, still warm from sleep, wrapped in his shirt that hung off one shoulder. Your hair was tangled, voice soft and low like you hadn’t used it yet that day.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You didn’t need to.

You just pulled out the chair beside him, sat down, and reached for his hand. No preamble. No questions. Just your fingers curling gently around his.

“I’m here, James,” you whispered, voice so quiet he barely caught it. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

And that—that was all it took.

He hadn’t said anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight as the tears came fast and quiet and unexpected.

Your grip never loosened.

And then Bucky blinked, too, like waking from a dream.

The memory dissolved around the edges, softening into the golden blur of now.

You were still laughing with John, chin resting on your hand, your bottle now empty and forgotten.

The sky behind you had turned a dusky pink, streaked with orange and fading blue. The fairy lights blinked overhead like slow, lazy fireflies.

Bucky swallowed hard, throat thick, heart heavy with something he didn’t quite know how to hold. Something fragile and infinite.

The ring burned in his pocket.

Yelena sidled up beside him, two plates balanced in one hand, her eyes trailing the line of his gaze before she leaned in just enough to bump her shoulder against his.

“She’s good for you,” she said simply, like it was fact, like it had always been obvious.

He blinked, pulled his eyes from you long enough to glance at her. She was right.

“I know,” he said softly, mostly to himself, his fingers brushing the velvet box again, like the shape of it grounded him.

Soon.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he just stood there in the glow of fairy lights and fading sunlight, and let himself love you in silence.

The fourth time Bucky thought of proposing to you was during that one particular movie night.

The rec room buzzed, the lights were dimmed, shadows stretched across the walls in flickering shapes, and someone had dragged in extra bean bags and pillows from the training room—turning the entire floor into a makeshift nest of mismatched blankets and old couch cushions.

The screen glowed in the dark, casting soft blues and golds onto lazy limbs and half-finished bowls of popcorn.

You were curled beside Bucky on the couch, shoulder pressed into his side, legs tangled loosely beneath a shared blanket.

One of your socks had slipped off sometime during the first act. He didn’t even know when. He just knew your toes were cold when they nudged against his shin—and he hadn’t moved away.

He didn’t think he ever could.

The room smelled like buttered popcorn and worn fabric, like sleep and safety and leftover takeout from the kitchen.

Ava was stretched out across two bean bags with Alpine curled on her stomach. Bob had his head tipped back, already snoring softly, while Yelena and Alexei were still arguing in hushed voices about who cried harder during The Lion King.

It was quiet in a way that only felt possible when you were all together. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—just easy.

You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s hand beneath the blanket. And then, without thinking, you began to trace the ridges of his knuckles. Absentminded. Familiar. Like muscle memory.

Like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had.

It was your comfort habit. Your way of grounding yourself when the day had been too long or your eyes were growing heavy.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up.

Your breathing slowed and your head dropped against his chest.

Bucky watched you as your eyelids fluttered, your face softening in sleep, lips parting slightly with each slow breath. Your lashes twitched like you were dreaming already—and god, you looked peaceful. Completely undone by comfort and warmth.

You drooled a little. Right there on his chest.

And he chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head like it didn’t knock the breath out of him. Like it didn’t make his heart twist with something so fierce and tender he couldn’t look away.

Because this—this stupid little moment, your drool soaking into his shirt and your body heavy against his side—this was it.

This was love.

This was the kind of night that carved itself into your bones without even asking.

The movie ended in the background—soft fade-to-black and swelling music—but Bucky didn’t move. People started shifting. Groaning. Standing.

Bob staggered to his feet, mumbling something about a sugar crash. Alexei wandered off in search of leftovers.

Even Yelena, who usually never missed a chance to call Bucky a “domestic menace,” didn’t say anything this time. She just shot him a look, eyes soft for once, and tugged Bob toward the hallway by the sleeve.

Eventually, the room emptied.

But he stayed right where he was.

Blanket pooled over both your legs. Your body curled into his. One of your hands still loosely wrapped around his.

And Bucky leaned his head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I want every night like this,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t even a thought—just something that slipped out, something too true to hold in.

He looked down at you again, the words still blooming on his tongue, soft and certain.

He nearly asked.

Right then.

Nearly reached into his pocket for the ring that had never left his side since he’d bought it. Nearly tilted your chin up, brushed your hair out of your face, and told you he never wanted to do this life without you.

But then—

You snored.

Not loud. Not obnoxious.

Just enough to break the spell.

And Bucky laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that cracked his chest open a little. He dipped his head, pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, and breathed in the soft scent of your shampoo, your skin, the safety of you asleep against him.

“Soon, baby,” he whispered, lips against your temple. “I’ll ask you soon.”

And in that quiet, golden stillness, as the credits rolled and your breathing evened out again, Bucky knew he could wait.

Just a little longer.

The fifth time Bucky thought of proposing to you, it was in a hospital ward.

Sokovia had been burning.

The sky was thick with smoke and dust, buildings gutted by fire and shrapnel, streets vibrating beneath their feet as another explosion rocked the earth in the distance.

The air was chaos—civilians screaming, radios crackling, the stench of blood sharp against the tang of ash and diesel.

And through it all, Bucky could still hear your voice in his ear—calm, clear, steady, a tether in the madness as you moved beside him.

“There’s two trapped in the north alley,” you’d said, breathless from the sprint, dirt streaked across your cheek. “I’ve got them Buck, go cover the evac point.”

He should’ve listened.

God, he should’ve listened.

But you were always the brave one. The reckless one when it counted. The one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant pulling someone else out. And before he could stop you, before he could argue, it was already happening.

The shot came out of nowhere—a single, clean crack that split the world in half.

Then motion.

You.

Slamming into him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs — all instinct and desperation. The bullet was meant for him, but it found you instead.

The sound it made when it hit you would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Not a scream. Not even a gasp.

Just a sickening, solid thud, and the look in your eyes, just for a second, before your legs buckled and you collapsed into him like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground.

He hit his knees with you, arms tightening, hands already pressing hard against your chest, where blood was blooming fast. Too fast.

The warmth of it soaked his fingers, thick and terrifying, spilling between them like time slipping away.

His breath stuttered. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking—both of them slick and red—no line anymore between man and machine, just one desperate body trying to hold another together.

“Nonononono—baby, stay with me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Look at me. Come on, just look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered.

Barely.

You were gasping, breath catching on every inhale, body struggling against gravity and pain—but still, somehow, you found his hand. Still curled your blood-slicked fingers into his like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And then—the whisper.

Barely a breath.

“It’s okay, James.”

You tried to smile. You tried. Even as your chest heaved, even as your face paled. You were still trying to make him feel better. Even then.

And then your eyes slipped closed.

Your hand went slack in his.

“No—” His voice broke. “No, baby, please. Please—stay with me. Stay.”

He screamed for help, hell he shouted it until his throat tore open.

It wasn’t words anymore. It was a sound. Something raw and helpless, a sound he hadn’t made in years—maybe ever. The comms burst to life in his ear, voices overlapping—Alexei calling coordinates, Ava yelling his name, John barking into his comm and Yelena screaming at Bob to send a medic to your position.

But Bucky heard none of it.

Just the ringing. Just the static in his head. Just the crushing silence of your body going still in his arms.

Blood on his hands, blood on his knees, blood on your lips.

And you weren’t moving.

The hallway outside the operating room was too clean. Too bright and way too quiet.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and Bucky sat slouched against the wall, the chill of the tile seeping through his suit as he clutched a cup of coffee gone long cold. It had stopped steaming ages ago, untouched, forgotten. He didn’t even remember someone giving it to him.

His front was still damp. His knees stained, his fingers raw from scrubbing your blood off in the sink—not all of it had come out.

Yelena sat nearby, arms folded, her head bowed in a silence she never wore. Bob paced. John stood against the far wall with his arms crossed tight over his chest, unmoving. Nobody had spoken in what felt like hours.

Then the door opened.

And Bucky was on his feet before the surgeon even stepped fully into the hallway.

“She made it.”

Three words.

Three impossible, world-shifting words.

Bucky didn’t remember moving, he didn’t remember dropping the cup or pushing past the doctor or the sound of someone calling after him.

He only remembered one thing:

Your name. In his mouth, in his heart. Like prayer.

You had looked so small in the bed.

The hospital sheets were too white against your skin, the steady beep of the monitors barely loud enough to be real.

Your chest rose and fell beneath the thin blanket, each breath shallow but steady. Your face was pale, lashes resting against your cheeks, an IV threaded into the back of your hand.

But you were breathing. Alive.

Bucky stood at your bedside, his hands hovering before he let himself reach—let his fingers wrap gently around yours, careful not to jostle the wires and tubes. He brought your hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles like you were made of glass.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “God, I thought—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t shape the rest of the words around the tremble in his throat. His eyes stung, vision blurring.

He sat down slowly, legs folding under him, and leaned in until his forehead rested against yours.

And there, in the soft hum of hospital machines and the scent of antiseptic and blood and you, he whispered:

“I can’t lose you.”

And in that moment, Bucky knew with more certainty than he’d ever known anything that he didn’t want a life unless it was with you in it. That love wasn’t a question anymore.

It was you. It had always been you.

The day Bucky proposed to you, it didn’t go as he had hoped.

The plan had been simple.

Well… sort of.

Bucky had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen with Alpine circling his feet and panic setting in somewhere between how hard can it be? and why is this bread still doughy on the inside?

He had bribed Bob and Yelena with a full month of coffee runs to get you out of the compound—bought himself a few uninterrupted hours. Just enough time to pull together something romantic.

A quiet night with a dinner he made just for the both of you. Something that felt normal—something that felt like home.

You deserved that.

You deserved wine, and music, and a man who tried.

And god, was he trying.

He’d even worn the apron you got him last Christmas—Kiss the Cook (or Else)—tied it on with absolutely no protest, even though he had grumbled when he found it.

The fabric was too pink, the font was too aggressive. You had giggled when you gave it to him and well, he had never actually worn it.

Until today.

It was stupid. It was stupidly perfect.

And then everything went sideways.

The sauce burned—thick and bitter and clingy, turning the pan black and smoky before he could scrape it off."The bread didn’t rise right—not the first, second, or even the third time. Each loaf slumped in the center like it had given up halfway through baking.

Bucky had followed the recipe twice. Nothing worked. The wine bottle tipped when he reached too fast for a spoon. It spilled across the counter, down the cabinet, pooled under the fruit bowl. Then he dropped a fork into the pan of sauce, tried to fish it out and burned his hand. Swore loudly enough that Alpine hissed and darted under the kitchen table like he had somehow betrayed her on a spiritual level.

The smoke alarm nearly went off.

He hit it with a dish towel and muttered threats at it.

It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

And that was before he heard the front door creak open.

His whole body froze.

He turned slowly, eyes wide, just as your footsteps reached the edge of the hall—too light to be Bob, too quiet to be Yelena. He knew your walk by now. The soft padding of your soles. The way you always slowed down when your hands were full. The way the silence always shifted when you entered a room.

And his stomach sank.

You were home. Too early.

The clock on the oven blinked at him uselessly, and he barely had time to wipe his hands on the apron when you walked into the kitchen.

You stopped short.

Still holding your coat, still glowing faintly from the wind outside and the laughter that hadn’t quite left your face.

And then you saw it.

The smoke, the scorched pan, the puddle of wine dripping a slow trail toward the floor. The half-risen bread like a sad little crater on the counter.

And in the middle of it all—Bucky. In the pink apron. Covered in flour and tomato splatter, clutching a wooden spoon like it might just attack him.

You blinked.

“Was this all for me?”

Bucky looked like a deer caught in a trap.

Or maybe more like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar—big and awkward and helpless, covered in guilt and powdered sugar.

“I—” He swallowed. “I realised I haven’t taken you out on a real date.”

He shifted, the wooden spoon still in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“I just… I wanted to make tonight special.”

Your lips twitched.

The kitchen smelled like defeat and oregano. The oven was beeping at nothing. Smoke hung faintly in the air like an accusation. And still, your heart cracked wide open.

You stepped toward him—slowly, gently—and rose onto your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you murmured, lips brushing the curve of his jaw. “I’ve got leftover cereal.”

Your tone was teasing, warm, affectionate in the way only you could be. Forgiving. Soft. Home.

You turned, half-laughing, reaching for the cupboard above the microwave, the one that always held your comfort stash. Granola and that one sugar cereal you swore was for cheat days and ate every Sunday anyway.

You reached for the handle.

And Bucky’s heart stuttered.

He watched your hand move in slow motion, watched as your fingers curl around the cupboard door, the hinge creaking faintly.

His stomach dropped.

“Baby, wait—no—”

But it was too late.

You opened the door. Your fingers paused.

And there it was.

Tucked behind a half-finished bag of granola and an emergency box of toaster waffles sat a small red velvet box. Not fancy or flashy, but unmistakable. The kind that didn’t belong next to cereal.

The kind that meant something. The kind that meant everything.

You didn’t move.

Just stared.

And across the room, Bucky stood frozen, apron crooked, hair still damp from the steam, sauce on his cheek, and absolutely no words left in his mouth.

“I was gonna ask later,” he muttered, voice low, thick with something heavy. “There was a whole thing. Music. Dessert. A ring not hidden behind cereal.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging.

“I ruined it.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

You just looked at him—really looked at him. At the mess behind him. At the pink apron barely clinging to its dignity. At the way he stood there like he still expected the floor to swallow him whole.

And your eyes welled up.

Your smile tugged softly at the corners of your mouth, cracking you wide open like a sunrise.

“Yes,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “But… you didn’t even open it.”

You closed the cupboard gently and turned to face him. A breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh as you stepped forward.

“I don’t have to.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Bucky crossed the kitchen in three slow steps, reached for your face with both hands like you were made of something precious—fragile and entirely his.

He kissed you like he was carving the moment into memory. Like nothing else existed but the space between your lips and his heart.

Then, wordlessly, he lifted you onto the counter, settling between your legs, hands braced on your thighs like they were the only anchor he needed.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “You have no idea.”

You laughed, watery and real, arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer.

“I do,” you whispered. “Me too.”

The kitchen was still a disaster.

The bread was half-baked. The wine was staining the grout. The sauce had scorched itself into the pan so deeply it might never come out.

But none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was perfect.

And it always would be.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it!! if you did, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my love 💖

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