#Drop Pin Anchor

[oopsiedaisydeer]

lay all your love on me

fluff, suggestive, smut, fingering, friends to lovers,, edging, friends with benefits?, sexual content, heavy tension, slow burn, slight angst, teasing, unresolved sexual tension

word count - 2.1k

Chris stumbles into the room, breath ragged, his steps heavy against the floorboards. She’s already grinning, the familiar sight of him putting her at ease.

“What’s wrong with you, big baby?” she teases, arching an eyebrow.

“Bad day. Bad, bad day.” His voice is hoarse, and his eyes avoid hers as he drops his bags with a thud and kicks off his shoes. There’s a restlessness in the way he moves, something unspoken in the way his brow furrows.

He collapses onto the mattress beside her, face down and groaning. She watches him for a moment, the tension still lingering in his shoulders.

Then, without thinking too hard about it, she reaches over and ruffles his hair.

“You wanna watch a movie?” she asks after observing him for a minute, his back rising and falling rhythmically.

He turns his head to face her, still touching the mattress. He grins sleepily, and then mumbles, “I’ve got a better idea.”

“A better idea?” She barely finishes the sentence before Chris’s weight is on top of her, his chest pressing against her, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

Her breath catches. She stiffens, the sudden proximity unnerving but comforting at the same time. “What are you doing, Christopher?” she asks, trying for annoyance, but her voice betrays her.

Chris doesn’t respond, just nestles further into her chest.

She sighs, exasperated. “You really are a big baby, you know that?”

Chris doesn’t respond, just nestles further into her chest. His weight is warm, grounding. She should probably shove him off - he’s heavy, and she’ll regret letting him use her as a pillow in about ten minutes.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she feels it. His weight anchoring her in a way she never thought she’d crave.

Her body reacts before her mind can catch up. She shifts slightly, instinctively pressing closer, trying to match the warmth between them, the unspoken pull that tugs at her from the inside. It’s too close, too much, but it feels like the only place she’s meant to be.

“Chris…” she breathes, unsure if she’s trying to pull him closer or push him away.

He doesn’t answer, just exhales, his breath warm against her skin. It sends a shiver down her spine.

When he still doesn’t reply, she pokes him. “Hey, Chris,” she whispers, and his blue eyes flicker open, scaring her slightly. “...hey what do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking a nap.” he responds simply, shutting his eyes again contentedly.

“On me?”

“Mhm” he mumbles, shifting so that his shoulders and hips are square with her, his face sitting in the crook of her neck.

She winces as he moves, and he immediately shoots his head towards hers, giving her a silent look of worry.

“I’m okay, Chris.” Relieved, he lies back down, breathing down her neck as he slowly dozes off.

He exhales slowly, and she feels it - warm and steady against her neck. It sends an involuntary shiver down her spine, and she hopes he doesn’t notice.

She places one hand on his back, acclimatising to the position she found herself in. She used her other hand to scroll on her phone, but her efforts were half-hearted.

She shook each of her legs out from under him, but as soon as she moved, Chris groaned in protest, somehow managing to sink into her even more.

As he shifts slightly, adjusting his position, suddenly she’s aware of everything. The press of his chest against hers, the slow, cadenced rise and fall of his breathing, the way his lips are just barely grazing her collarbone.

She should tell him to move. She really should.

But he’s warm. And comfortable. And she kind of likes the way his weight pins her down.

Oh god. Why does she like it?

She tentatively places a second hand on his back, intending to shove him off, but instead, her fingers curl slightly, pressing into the fabric of his hoodie. He hums contentedly, nuzzling into her neck.

She swallows hard. What the hell is he doing?

“Chris. You’re too heavy,” she complains, poking his side.

He groans but lifts his head slightly, propping himself up just enough to look at her. His blue eyes flicker between hers, slow and unreadable.

For a second, neither of them speaks. She should say something. She should move. She should push him away.

But then his gaze drops. To her lips. Just for a moment. 

She forgets how to breathe.

And soon enough he’s nestling back into her. She just accepts it. How her best friend is clinging onto her.

That’s when she feels it. Ever so slightly, a hardness poking her inner thigh.

She gasps. Not in pleasure. Just in shock.

Because that definitely wasn’t there before.

She stiffens, suddenly hyper aware of every inch of contact between them. Maybe if she doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, this moment won’t exist. Maybe she imagined it.

But then Chris shifts again, just slightly, and… oh.

Heat floods her cheeks, a mix of mortification and something else entirely.

Her mind races, and she tries to move, avoiding, avoiding her best friend’s dick. Chris groans again though and she feels it harder this time.

This is bad. This is so bad.

She should shove him off, laugh it off, make a joke about how he needs to get his situation under control.

But her body doesn’t get the memo. Instead, she shifts, just slightly, and the friction makes her head spin.

She can’t help it. A tiny whimper escapes her mouth.

Chris doesn’t say anything, but she senses the way his muscles tense at her reaction. 

As it continues to press into her, she lets out a low mewl, grasping at the material of Christopher’s hoodie.

She feels Chris smile against her skin, even before he speaks.

"You okay, baby?" His voice is lazy, amused. Like he already knows the answer.

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. She’s not sure what she was going to say.

She doesn’t respond. All of her senses are on fire and completely overwhelmed. She subconsciously rolls her hips before Chris stops her, with a single hand on her waist.

“Easy,” Chris murmurs, fingers tightening just enough to keep her still. His voice is lower now, his breath warm against her neck.

She goes still, pulse hammering in her throat.

Chris hums, like he’s thinking. Like he knows. “You’re squirmy tonight,” he muses. “Trying to tell me something?”

She swallows hard, but she has no answer.

Chris’s grip on her waist doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens. His fingers flex slightly, his palm pressing against the soft fabric of her shirt like he’s testing something. Testing her.

She should pull away. Say something. But she’s frozen beneath him, her pulse drumming in her ears.

Chris exhales slowly, and she feels it against her skin, warm and steady, but there’s a tightness to it, like he’s holding back. His fingers move…not far, just a slight drag along her side, barely there, but enough to make her stomach clench.

She shudders. It’s small, but he notices. Of course, he does.

His lips, still barely grazing her collarbone, twitch into something like a smirk.

“You okay, baby?” He repeats, voice low, almost amused, but there’s something else in it. Something rougher.

She swallows, nodding before she can think better of it.

Chris hums, his fingers sliding along the waistband of her pants, slow and deliberate, teasing without even meaning to. Or maybe he does mean to.

Either way, he doesn’t stop.

She stretches beneath him, trying anything to dull the ache inside. And it’s just her luck - her shirt rides up, and Christopher Sturniolo’s hand touches her skin.

He pauses but then continues to run his fingers along her waist.

His lips ghost over her collarbone, and his voice comes out quiet, almost lazy.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

He exhales sharply, like he’s trying to get a grip on himself, but his fingers don’t stop moving, tracing slow circles at her waist.

“Tell me I can.” His voice is quiet, but there’s a rough edge to it. “Please.”

“Please, Christopher”, she begs in return.

Chris wastes no time in slipping his hand under her waistband. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even try to shift off her. His weight stays heavy on top of her, anchoring her to the mattress like he’s reluctant to give up the feeling of being pressed against her. It’s almost suffocating, but in the best way… he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to lose the closeness.

His hand slips further down, fingers lightly grazing her underwear. He doesn’t undress her, doesn’t try to get any further than that. No, he’s content… more than content, keeping her exactly like this, all his weight on top of her, with just his hands moving, dragging and teasing, as if he never wants to stop touching her.

She’s not content, though. She moans, urging Chris on by tightening her legs around him, drawing him in closer.

His mouth opens, hot breath fanning her skin as he plants a delicate kiss below her neck. His lips remain there, resting on her skin.

Then, with renewed vigor, he strokes her. Slow, deliberate. She mewls. Chris does it again. And again.

He enjoys every little sound that escapes her mouth. He’s sad he can’t watch her but he won’t compromise the position they are in. Her whimpers and whines. Her breathless moans, her sharp intakes of breath. Chris drinks it all in, his ear practically pressed against her voicebox.

And when he finally hears it, the soft, drawn out “please” that falls from her lips, he commits. Pulling her underwear to the side, he feels her wetness coat his index finger, and he lets the digit sit within the mess for a second.

Her gratified but still hungry noises urge him on further, slowly dragging the finger through her heat. Somehow, she’s never felt more intimate with someone. Maybe it’s the closeness, maybe it’s her desperation, or the fact that her best friend is touching her where she never even imagined he would.

Her self-resolve crumbles with each dying second. “Chris, please.” she begs him softly.

He hums curiously, finally pressing down on her clit. She clenches involuntarily, whimpering.

Chris’s finger moves with purpose, dragging along her sensitive skin, coaxing a mix of gasps and shaky breaths from her. His weight is still firmly pressing into her, not allowing her to escape or shift away from the growing tension. Every breath he takes feels like it's drawing him closer to her, as though he’s anchoring her to this moment, unwilling to let it slip away.

His eyes are closed, but the pressure of his hand, the way it moves so deliberately, feels like a silent conversation between them. No words are necessary. The silence is enough. His movements grow more insistent as her soft pleas reach his ears, each word breaking her resolve just a little more.

She’s trembling beneath him, every inch of her body hyper-aware of his touch. Her fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie, gripping it as if she can hold on to the moment. But she knows, deep down, that she’s losing herself in it. Losing herself in him.

“Chris…” She breathes his name like a plea, but it’s less a question and more of an invitation, a soft surrender to whatever this is turning into.

His lips are at her ear now, breath warm and steady against her skin, just enough to make her shiver. “You’re so beautiful when you beg,” he murmurs, the words low and rough, like he’s testing the waters, feeling her reactions.

His fingers don’t stop. They keep moving, dragging and teasing in a way that makes her head spin. She can’t focus, can barely breathe with the way his weight presses into her, every little shift heightening the tension between them.

She feels the world narrowing to just him. Just this moment. Just the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, the rising heat in her chest, the undeniable pull between them. Her body contorting, her hips twitching.

She’s close. Too close.

And yet, there’s a part of her that wants to pull away, to pretend none of this is happening. But another part, one that’s equally as desperate, wants more. She needs more.

She grips him harder, her chest rising and falling beneath him, and her voice cracks, “Chris, I-”

But whatever she’s about to say gets lost in a breathless gasp when his finger presses deeper, the slow rhythm making her tremble uncontrollably beneath him.

His response is to press a kiss to the soft skin of her neck. “I got you,” he murmurs, his tone both teasing and comforting, like he knows exactly what she needs and he’s not going anywhere.

“Let me love you, baby.”

creds to @bernardsbendystraws for the divider! 🫶🏻

a/n: once again this was meant to be a blurb. lmk ur thoughts!

taglist: @blushsturns @sturnslutz @snoopychris @sturnshood @sturns-mermaid @chrissweetheart comment to be added/removed to my main (non-au) taglist !

till next time <3

[carnalcrows]

tight spaces

genre: smut

pairing: triangle guard x m!reader

CW: bottom reader, top guard, blowjobs, dacryphillia, dubcon, y/n is not used, the guard is MEAN, reader gets off to his dick being stepped on, facefucking, choking, hair pulling.

word count: 0.9k

A/N: pretend the guard did NOT walk into reader, inho and gihun doing the deed, but he is aware that it happened.

The Triangle Guard's grip on your arm was firm as he guided you through the dimly lit corridor, the oppressive silence heightening the tension that hung in the air. The recent encounter with Gi-hun and In-ho still burned in your memory, a distraction you couldn't afford right now.

The guard stopped without warning.

Before you could utter a word of confusion, he whirled and pushed you into a dark alcove. The rough coolness of the wall bit into your back as he crowded in after, his hard body blocking any route of retreat. The closeness was suffocating, yet strangely intoxicating, the heat radiating from him an extreme contrast to the antiseptic chill of the corridor.

"What were you doing, back there?" he asked in that low voice filled with equal quantities of curiosity and accusation, so much more threatening with the mechanical distortion in his mask.

"Cleaning up," you said, trying to keep your voice level, though your heart was racing.

"Cleaning up," he repeated in obvious disbelief, leaning a little closer. The mask was nearly touching your face, and his body was pressed onto yours enough so that every inhale and exhale sounded tenfold. "That's what you're calling it?"

"Does it matter?" you shot back, forcing a smirk despite the coiling tension.

"It does," he whispered, his voice dropping to a near growl. A gloved hand rose to brush against your neck, as if to settle your collar, but his touch tarried. His fingers traced along your jawline with deliberation, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Breaking rules," he muttered, almost to himself, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Or looking for trouble?"

"Maybe both," you said back, quieter, yet still daring.

The charged air between you seemed to condense, causing the world to fade away beyond that shadowy alcove. His hand fell onto your shoulder, clenching tight as he leaned into you. His breathing, combined with yours, sounded distorted and filled that small space.

Then, he moved. One of his hands slid to the back of your neck, cupping it as his masked face leaned slightly, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss. The mask was cold and rigid against your skin, but the mouth beneath it was warm, demanding, and unrelenting.

It was a hard, almost punishing kiss, as if he wished to make certain of the control at that very moment. You gasped against him, and he took full advantage, plunging into the depths with a hunger that allowed for no demur.

The edges of his mask pressed lightly into your skin as he pushed closer, his body pinning you against the wall. Your hands clutched his uniform, desperate for some anchor amidst the whirlwind of sensation. His grip tightened, tugging you closer than was possible, his heat searing through the layers of clothes between you. When he finally pulled back, his breathing was as uneven as yours. His mask tilted, as if studying your reaction.

Wordlessly, he pushed you down to your knees, and unbuckled his belt. Before you could say anything, his erection sprang out, hitting your cheek lightly.

“Suck.” He demanded, to which you shook your head in protest. Your throat was still sore from your previous… escapade.

“Do what is told of you, dumb whore. I’ll fuck your corpse if I have to”, the guard uttered, his hand going back to grip a fistfull of your hair. A gasp left your mouth from the sting, and he takes it as an opportunity to slide his cock into your warm mouth.

You choke at the sudden intrusion, your hands grabbing at his thighs. He didn’t wait for you to get accustomed to his length, fucking into your mouth like it was the last day on Earth.

The guards foot slowly inched towards your crotch, rubbing over it slowly, giving you wanton relief as he was using your mouth.

Him hitting the back of your throat with every thrust had led to your gag reflex turning on. Tears kept pooling around your eyes, and when you tried to close them, he yanked your hair to look right at him. “Don’t even think about looking away baby, you know the consequences”, the same hand went from your face to the holster at his hip, indicating that he could still use the gun on you if he wished.

You whined and stared up at his mask, the white triangle seeming to illuminate the dark alcove. Without warning, the guard’s thrusts started to become erratic, and you knew what was coming. He on the other hand, didn't let you pull back, and pushed your head all the way to his hilt, the musky scent of his balls hitting you. Your hands gripped on his thighs while he forced you to swallow every. single. drop.

After a moment or two, he finally slid out of your mouth, with you taking a long, shaky breath. His hand slid down from your hair to your shoulders, slowly hoisting you up.

While getting up, you noticed that your thighs felt sticky. It turned out that you had come undone in your pants as he was using your face.

He seemed to notice this too, as he took a rag from the nearby shelf in the small alcove and used it to wipe you down.

His gloved hands gently cupped your face, a sharp contrast to what he was doing to you earlier

"Nobody hears about this," he said, his voice thick with lust. His thumb smoothed over your swelling bottom lip and teased on without moving any farther, long enough to have you wanting more. A far-away echo of footsteps broke the spell.

He stepped back abruptly as the commanding mask of professionalism snapped firmly back into place. Wordlessly, he took your arm and steered you out into the main corridor.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time and and I take genuine effort to do them.

[grymghoul]

GALE was the vocal one during sex. He was helpless and mewing half the time. His hands pawing and clawing at your hips with his head thrown back. He tried to watch you ask much as he could, but his eyes would slip shut. Especially when you anchored your hands on his chest to give yourself a better angle, to have more leverage. He was a mess of moans and panting out your name like a prayer. Every few rolls and snaps of your hips he'd groan and whine, a soft noise, quiet, deep from his chest.

"That's it- God's, that's lovely. You're wonderful at this, are you- ah-" A sharp moan left him, his hands gripping the meat of your ass. He kneaded it, using it to help you fuck him just the way he liked. "I worry I might not survive this.." He swallowed hard, choking back a pathetic whine. "My love.. You're a delight-"

He couldn't help it. You sounded like an animal, your keening moans and open mouth cries. You had made his dick creamy, like a crown at the base. His pubes sticky, navel tacky. You'd come once or twice on his cock. He loved that. He loved feeling those pillowy walls clench around him, trying to milk him for everything he had and more.

"I can't last- not like this-" His hands shook. He was tempted to pull you off of him, so he could have a breather. He was no stranger to edging, you found this wildly hot. How he'd force himself to pull out, panting against your neck in between mouth mouthed kisses on your neck.

Instead, he rolled you over, your legs hooked around his waist from the position change. He pressed your thighs to your chest, angling them apart. He pistoned into with abandon, the wet slaps mixed with your combined moans was a symphony of sin. His forehead pressed to yours, his eyes barely open.

"Look at me. Please." He was barely able to get the words out. His chest tight from the gasps for air, it was like your hot cunt squeezed the air from his lungs. You couldn't deny your wizard what he wanted, such a simple request. When your eyes met, one hand left your thigh to hold your cheek. "Hello, my love.." His words soft and sweet. So sweet. It went straight to your pussy. She was battered by all the attention he'd given her. It was all too much, he was pounding all rationality from you. The waves of another orgasm threatened to crash over you and sweep you away. Gale knew this. From the beginning he was so in tune with what your body was doing.

He used his shoulders to keep your legs pinned, his now free hand dropping down to circle your clit with precision. He felt the grip on his hair tighten, nails raking his back. "That's it, my sweet. Absolutely divine. Like you're a gift from the gods themselves.."

His hips stuttered, eyes fluttering as your cunt clenched him. "Gods above and below.." He buried himself one last time, staying in place as he spilled himself deep inside. His legs trembled as his seed coated your walls. he didn't pull out right away, his face resting into your neck, breath wavering.

His cum oozed out in thick gobs with every twitch and flutter from both of you, ruining the sheets.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞. ❞

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.8K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, (mdni), porn without plot, established relationship, lots of dirty talk, breast play, making out, biting, john walker’s praise kink, prone bone, unprotected p in v sex, creampie. sweet ending.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: yeah I’m not even sorry for being debauched anymore !! this is filth with a soft ending. this lowk got me biting my knuckles during the writing process so ,,, I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Inky black paints the skies above the Watchtower, New York cityscape a canvas for thousands of stars. It’s a quiet night, a rarity that doesn’t seem to come very often, but you accept them whenever time allows.

Water trickles from the faucet in John’s bathroom, accompanied by the rhythmic noises of a toothbrush being scraped over teeth.

If it weren’t for trying to keep your relationship private for the sake of the team, you would’ve already relocated to his room. However, there’s still some thrill you get in sneaking over once it’s dark like a teenager.

Pinned beneath his sheets, you’re perfectly content to observe from your perch, gaze tracing over raw, sinewy muscle, over yellowing bruises.

He isn’t chiseled or godlike in the way that Bob is, but he’s real, physique attained from years of hard work, of pushing himself to the brink. Broad shoulders are smattered with light freckles, biceps flexing; you don’t stop staring.

John stopped wearing a shirt to bed, clad in a pair of plaid boxers that kissed the center of his thighs. He’s leaning over the sink, spitting a wad of arctic mint into the basin, washing it out with a swig of water.

The sight of this, of him bare and vulnerable, is inherently domestic, a life that you never envisioned for yourself. Something stirs within your belly, mere embers preparing to rage into flames.

His shirt hangs loose over your frame, still alive with his scent, a heady mixture of now-stale cologne and something husky.

When he turns, he catches your gaze with a lopsided smirk, cocking an eyebrow as you sheepishly turn away. You’ve been together for months, and you’re still acting a little bashful — he thinks it’s cute.

He used to convince himself that roughness was the only path forward — that being sharp, uneven like tilled earth, was how he needed to be. You’d convinced him otherwise, and he was grateful.

“You’re not subtle,” John echoes, switching off the bathroom lights before coming to join you in bed. He doesn’t crawl beneath the sheets, hands seizing your hips. “C’mere.”

“John!” You gasp through a mouthful of giggles, flesh crawling with heat as he drags you to him, pinning you against his chest. Face-to-face, he plants a kiss against your jaw, gaze softening.

Tangled in an amalgamation of limbs, you perch against him, letting your weight sink down as you trace circles over his collarbone. “God,” He murmurs, reverent. “You’re gorgeous.”

Behind closed doors, the swagger and temperamental smugness dissipate, leaving just John; he’s significantly softer in private. Whatever facade he wore before seems to drop, and it’s just the two of you — no bravado.

With a lackadaisical smile, you preen beneath his words, lashes kissing the skin beneath your eyes. His hand cups your hips, digits skimming over slivers of exposed flesh.

John stares at you; you’re grounding, an anchor that he never imagined needing. Irises glisten with affection, with a tenderness he still feels undeserving of, but he’s let that go.

He exhales when your hand cups his jaw, thumb tracing over the scruff of his beard, digits mapping his visage as if he’s a constellation. “You’re so perfect.” As the words rush from your mouth, he shifts beneath you.

He doesn’t feel perfect; he’s never felt remotely close to anything other than a fraud, a shell of a man, but you’ve helped him pick up those pieces.

John doesn’t define himself by past actions and merit anymore — he can’t. Inadequacy is the biggest chip on his shoulder, and he’s still learning to let that go. If it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t have changed.

A light huff escapes him, brows drawing together as he squeezes your hip. “Should be telling you that.” He sighs, lips twitching into a threadbare smile.

“Nothing’s stopping you, Walker.” Cheeky, you happen to wriggle closer, bridging the gap between mouths. Lips connect in a soft kiss, something tender; it makes his head spin, brain filled with static.

Through his mouth, his smile remains, a faint upturn that you feel between kisses. You’re still partially on top of him, slotted against his thigh, feeling his hands become emboldened through touch alone.

John’s chest blossoms with a stinging sigh, sharp, attempting to rein in the myriad of crass thoughts that float through his head. It’s difficult with your body against his, touching him as if he’s the only thing worth your while.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart.” He challenges, though it’s exceedingly weak. To your delight, you’re prepared to follow through, lips stilling against his.

Sitting upright, your expression is one of incredulity, a smile finding its way to your mouth. “You started it,” A flimsy excuse, at best. “You started it as soon as you pulled me in.”

He lifts a hand in faux defense, blonde brows pinching together, chest erupting with a huff of laughter. “Not guilty.” John retorts, albeit playfully before watching you crawl away, laying beside him with a cheshire grin.

“You’re ridiculous.” You’re breathtaking when you smile; and John knows that it’s all for him. He covets that, a sacred look shared between lovers, knowing you’ve got him pinned.

In the still silence that falls between, John’s countenance glows with a beam, chest shaking with a huff of laughter. “Right — ridiculous.” He lulls, drawing out each syllable, grunting as he shifts to move on top of you.

His weight ghosts above, a warm pressure that sends butterflies surging through your belly. Bullying your legs apart, he’s perched on his forearms, staring down at you through a half-lidded glower.

The intensity of his gaze pierces through you, sharp and poignant, heat beginning to slither over your limbs. Wordlessly, he bends to kiss you, scruffy mouth claiming yours.

Something charged lingers within his lips, something hungry, as if he’s telling you what he wants without verbalizing it.

When your palms snake to settle over his biceps, caressing him as if he’s something precious, it all feels so raw. He doesn’t bristle at the softness like he used to — he embraces it.

Kissing him stitches your heart together in ways you never thought possible, mending years of a self-inflicted isolation.

He kisses you hoarse, hot and messy, like dry kindling catching fire. Arousal creeps between your thighs, damp and incessant, causing you to shift beneath him.

“John,” You sigh, shivering as teeth languidly scrape over your bottom lip, tempting you. The growing swell of his cock presses through the linen of his boxers, firmly slotted over your clothed core. “Please don’t tease me.”

Much to his embarrassment, it never takes much for him to get riled up, erection rutting against your groin, friction spreading like wildfire.

Through an open-mouthed kiss, his tongue wets your bottom lip, foreheads nestled together, his heart singing in his ears.

One hand shifts to snare within the hem of your shirt, dragging it toward your ribs, fingers tracing up until he gropes your breast. He’s kissing you as if he’s trying to win, ripping air from your lungs.

Your hips urge forward, and as if to torment him further, you’re grinding into his cock, pulling a husky groan from his chest. Hands rake to the nape of his neck, fisting into blonde tresses.

The rough pad of his thumb circles your nipple, gooseflesh erupting beneath his touch. It only furthers the ache that screams between your thighs, slick with a familiar heat.

Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your throat. Passion overrides everything else, ardor replacing logic.

“Christ, you’re drivin’ me crazy.” He pants into your mouth like a dog in-heat, and it all seems to escalate with a fervent intensity. His Georgian drawl slithers in when he’s wound up tight.

“John, shit — do something about it.” It shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did, your wanton remark — but it did, and he’s reaching to tug at your panties.

Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins with a renewed fervor, and instead of sliding them down your legs as he’s done many times before, he grips, grips tightly. “Hope you aren’t attached to these.” He growls into your ear.

His guttural snarl makes you want to press your thighs together, stopped by his musculature, and your eyes go doe-eyed, wide. Digits flex into the cotton material and pull, stitches ripping as he tears the fabric right from you.

A gasp rips through your diaphragm, coupled with shock and awe as he kneads into your breast, rolling your nipple between thumb and forefinger. “J—John!” You moan, feeling his lips wrap around your chest.

“Gonna fuck you until you’re hoarse.” John gruffs against your flesh, and you’re squirming, body buzzing with a teeming him. You’ve never heard him talk like that, but he’s thoroughly and utterly razed.

Needy lips harshly suck at your unattended breast, edged with the graze of teeth. You shiver, back arched, flesh crawling with heat, eyes half-lidded as you scrape your fingers over his scalp.

The floral scent that permeates your skin sends him into a near-frenzy, a smell he’s grown accustomed to. He gropes at your tits, kisses, bites — tension coils in his shoulders, and he wants a release.

“Turn over.”

He isn’t asking you, either.

Dizzy, your muscles feel molten, as if you’re going to melt right through the mattress. Eyelids twitch, your jaw unhinged, pushing a sharp gasp through your diaphragm.

As if to accentuate his command, his lips nip at your sternum, pinching at your nipple with enough stimulation to make you whimper.

He’s grabbing a pillow somewhere from the left side of the bed, relinquishing his weight from you, allowing you to roll over onto your stomach. John kindly manhandles you into place, shoving the pillow beneath your hips.

His name cascades from your mouth like a prayer, anticipation crawling through your spine. He walks a fine line between domineering and passionate, as if he’s solely in control, but you know how easy he falls apart, too.

Fabric shuffles behind you as he discards his boxers, reddened tip of his cock prodding against your slick cunt. It makes you shiver, his breath hot beside your ear.

Weight bears down on you again, more similar to a warm blanket, chest flush as he presses into your back. He’s so much larger, face just behind your own, hands locking in over yours.

The sensation of fingers intertwining sends another spike of liquid heat through your belly, cunt aching for him with desperation. “So wet for me,” He pants, teeth nicking the shell of your ear. “Jesus, you’re so pretty like this.” The grit in his cadence makes you throb.

John’s got a mouth, sure, but he’s never used it like this, torturing you with dirty praise that makes you writhe. As if to tempt him, you push yourself against him, cunt grinding into his cock.

“J—John, please …” He’s got you broken, thoughts scrambled, liquefied in the wake of crass murmurs. You’re undeniably soaked, flesh tingling, body craving him as if he’s air.

The tip of his cock rubs along your pussy, and you’re debauched, nails curling into the sheets, flexing against his fingers. Prone beneath him, he huffs, forehead nudging into the back of your neck.

With a forward motion, he pushes his hips into yours, cock meeting mild resistance. His actions are disarmingly sluggish — you expected something feral and rough, but he does the opposite.

He’s groaning into your skin, planting kisses there when he isn’t making noise. A moan shakes your chest, drawn-out and wanton, a sound that’s sure to be embedded into his mind for days to come.

The position forces you to feel every inch of him, and he’s infuriatingly well-endowed. His cock kisses your walls, cunt clenching pathetically around him the further he goes, bodies now entangled.

“F—Fuck, John,” Slurred, you’re drunk on your own desire, brain fuzzy with static, mouth slack to make room for throaty moans. “God, you fe—feel so good, please!”

John’s voice tapers off into a husky moan, the praise driving him crazy, and it’s almost enough to get him under control. “Jesus, takin’ me so well.” He roughs, kissing just beneath your ear.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, teeth grazing over your jaw. He’s growling, panting, his sounds mirroring that of a feral dog instead of a man.

As he fully hilts inside of you, cock bottoming out, he squeezes at your hands, mouth flush to the nape of your neck. There’s a second to adjust, the both of you lost within the haze of ecstasy.

Drawing his hips back, cock halfway gone, he pushes back in — deep, sensual. There’s a significant lack of roughness, but he doesn’t do anything in half-measures.

“Feel s’good, perfect,” Through a string of needy whines, you try to push your hips back against him, but the prone position makes it difficult. The pressure of his body is grounding, dizzying. “You feel so good.”

It’s an incoherent mess of babbles that leave you, singing his praises, and he buckles. That validation and praise he craves from you brings him to heel, brows pinched together.

“Keep talking, honey.” John groans, kissing a messy, wet string of kisses over your shoulder, finding a rhythm that makes your head spin.

Each thrust of his hips sends him deep, cock nearly kissing your cervix. Each ripple of your cunt makes him shudder, the sensations nearly overwhelming — all-encompassing, consuming.

“You — Shit, you fuck me so well,” The words feel foreign in your mouth, but it barely registers, emerging as heated whines. It makes him growl into your shoulder, teeth gently biting at sensitive flesh. “John, please, please.”

John’s reply was another snap of his hips, cock pounding away at your aching cunt. Each thrust is passionate — he wants you to feel everything, feel what you do to him.

He’s fucking you as if it’s the last thing he’ll do, grunts resonating beside your ear, breath hot as it tickles the nape of your neck.

As good as it feels, you wish you were looking at him — the image is drenched in sin, the one you conjure up. Each moan that keens from your lips is answered with a roll of his hips, cock working you open, kissing your cunt.

Scarlet clings to John’s features, handsome and pink, jaw strained as if something might shatter. He’s grunting, warm baritone slipping off into a half-moan when your thighs clench together.

Each slap of his cock lewdly urges against your slick cunt, arousal thick and honeyed around him, making everything easier.

The pillow pushed beneath your hips lets you take the brunt of his thrusts, his groin grinding near your ass, bodies sticky with perspiration. He exudes heat like a furnace, making you sweat.

Ecstasy builds, twined around his muscles, constricting him in some blinding haze. “You’re mine,” The snarl he lets out sends shockwaves through your cunt. “My girl.”

John is naturally possessive, and when he lets his claim fly between messy kisses to your shoulder, it sends you into overdrive.

“M’yours,” Receptive, you feel him fuck into you again, pace still bordering between sensual and vigorous, cock hitting new depths. “Fuck, John — so good at this.”

Your wanton praise goes straight to his head, fueling that subservient side to him that hungers for your attention. It’s more than enough to inflate his pride, and he releases one of your hands.

Beside your head, one hand remains interlocked with his, the gesture disarmingly tender between lewd clashes of bodies. His palm slides over your shoulder, slow, caressing until he finds your waist.

His thumb traces circles into the silky skin there, ministrations never slowing — his pace remains unwavering.

John shudders at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of his hips. Pleasure mounts within him like a white-hot coil, burning through his belly.

You sob from the pleasure, ecstasy shooting through your body as if you’ve been struck by lightning, arousal seeping from your cunt.

It’s all flesh against flesh, accompanied by a cacophony of groans and whimpering, and you’re rutting into the pillow pushed beneath your hips.

The friction is stinging, lungs burning with each breath you take. “Keep going, please.” You sigh, delirious with desire, any shred of coherency surrendered to him.

John’s a good soldier — obedient, and he’s certainly not one to defy your command when he’s deep in your cunt. He’s rutting into you, passionate and needy, pleasure surging through his veins.

Muscles coil around you, and he’s caging you in between his body and the mattress, grunting when your cunt clenched around him.

His palm drags over your ribs, calloused flesh meeting your silky skin, and he’s head over heels. He can’t think straight anymore, logic thrown out the window, abandoned — you’re all he wants, all he sees as he thrusts again.

It’s a blissful rhythm, the best you’ve had, a constant rut of urging hips and a mouth that wanders over the juncture between throat and shoulder.

He bites softly, pulling a moan from your lips. “Christ, you’re perfect like this.” John gruffs, beard scratching ragged over your flesh, leaving you tingling all over.

He’s getting close, feeling the occasional spasm of your hips as you grind into the pillow, pushing against him as best as you can. You moan his name, again and again.

The pace of his thrusts seems to increase, jackhammering at your cunt when he’s pushed closer to the edge. You clench around him as if you’re sucking him in, and he’s enraptured.

It’s everything — it’s his mouth, teeth, body blanketing yours, hands intertwined, cock fucking you deep — you’re not going to last much longer like this.

“Close, m’close.” Panting, your diaphragm burns with labored breaths, muscles like jelly, body succumbing to his vigorous, sensual thrusts. Bliss festers within your belly, screaming.

Daring to lift your head, you decide to look — the sight is nothing short of mesmerizing, sinful.

Wisps of blonde hair stick to his temples, brow glittering with sweat, countenance contorted into an expression of sheer bliss. His jaw is locked, eyelids nearly shut, looking as if he’s just glimpsed the holy ghost.

Part of you wished you’d been treated to the picture of him all along, flushed and pink, handsome without a drop of effort. He’s even prettier when he’s fucking you hoarse, exertion poured into pounding away at your cunt.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” John rasps, throat thick with desire, coarse as he feels himself slipping over the edge. “Fuck, I can’t — Goddamn …” There isn’t any warning, but you don’t care in the slightest.

Every thrust is sharp, precise — he’s gritty, perspiration glittering along his neck, muscles pulled taut. John sucks a hickey into whatever flesh he can reach beside your jaw.

His cock pulses, throbbing incessantly inside of you as he snaps forward again, groaning beside your ear when he hits his peak.

It sets off a chain reaction — white-hot bliss, a buzz shaking your nerves, brain humming with static. Any coherent thought is promptly scrambled, tossed aside.

John’s forehead rests just behind your ear, hot breath curling over your throat, still hilted inside of you when he cums.

There’s something messy about it — reckless, incendiary, rapturous. He doesn’t pull out, fucking you full with his cum. Warmth floods your insides, crescendoing into your own release.

With another light grind against the pillow, friction grating right to your core, you moan, clutching onto his hand like a vice. Bitten by ecstasy, you feel like you’re floating, the coil within your stomach unfurling.

It’s as if you’ve been washed in fire, flesh feverish, the heat so intense you nearly collapse. He ruts through your shared release with sensual, sluggish rolls of his hips.

Ripples of bliss shoot through your veins even still, seeing stars through closed eyes, thighs quivering like leaves. John’s chest breaths ragged with each sigh, as if he’s exhaling fire, brows still furrowed together.

Entangled moans finally simmer down, tapering off into stinging huffs, exhales pushed through his nose. He presses a string of kisses over the back of your neck, to the top of your spine.

In the afterglow, it’s hushed — you’re catching your breath and so is he, feeling him stay inside of you for a few moments longer.

“You okay?” John murmurs, wondering if he’d pushed it too far. Roughened fingertips trace over your side, coming to affectionately squeeze your hip. “I didn’t take it too far, did I?” He asks, concerned.

Smiling to yourself, you’re flustered, feeling his cum and yours cool over your cunt, the ache diminishing into a dull pulsation. “No, no,” You soothe, feeling his mouth on your throat. “I’m really good.”

John nods, planting another kiss to your jaw before he reluctantly pulls out, leaving behind a mess of fluids that paint your inner thighs. The sensation is sticky, exceedingly wet.

He grunts, moving off of the bed to get you a towel — and new panties. The remnants of your undergarments are in scraps somewhere on the floor, you realize.

You lay there, razed, limbs feeling molten, as if the bone has turned to liquid. A pleasant buzz hums through your veins, breathing beginning to steady as you roll onto your side.

Framed by the golden glow emanating from the light above his headboard, he’s stunning — shadows accentuating raw muscle, body a canvas for yellowing bruises and fading scars.

Even afterwards, he’s exceptionally sweet, a natural caretaker as he brings you a towel and a pair of underwear you’d left in his room prior.

“Thanks.” You smile, awkwardly shuffling to clean yourself up a little bit, sliding on a dark, spandex pair of panties. Readjusting your shirt, you toss the towel into a dirty basket.

“You’re so beautiful.” John murmurs, retrieving his boxers, tugging them back on as he joins you in bed again, looping you into his side. His arm wraps around your hips, pressing a kiss to your jaw.

Smitten, you crawl closer, head nestling against his shoulder as your fingers trace over his chest. Hands intertwine somewhere over his heart, dog-tags hanging beside his collar.

“You’re cute like this,” You hum, and he scoffs instantaneously. “You are, John. You’re really sweet when you want to be.” He takes the compliment to-heart nonetheless.

Lips mold together, the kiss wonderfully tender, enough to make him melt beneath you. John savors it all, letting it linger, hand tracing the soft curve of your hip. “Cute, huh?” He utters, husky.

“Very.” Soft, your cadence quiets, leg hitched over his hips, anchored to his side, oozing with warmth. You keep the sheets off for now, letting him cradle you, hold you tight.

He laughs; a flash of pearlescent teeth, bleeding with a charm that makes your stomach erupt with butterflies. “Don’t tell the rest of the team about this.” John grouses, feeling your lips smooth over his cheek.

“They already know, John.” You hum, feeling his body jostle with a huff as he caresses beneath your shirt, palm dragging along the small of your back.

John doesn’t seem perturbed; if anything, he’s happy — content, even. “Your fault.”

[doiecito]

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ messy eater!haechan

he’s always been like this: messy. greedy. the kind of man who can’t eat slowly, who gets sauce on his lips and never wipes it off, who licks his fingers instead of using a napkin. you should have known it would translate to this.

because now, with your thighs trembling around his shoulders and his mouth buried between them. the taste of you is something he’s been craving for weeks and now that he’s had a drop, he can’t stop. his hands are firm on your hips, anchoring you to the edge of the bed, afraid you’ll slip away. and maybe you would, if you had the strength. if your body weren’t already unraveling under his mouth.

haechan moans into you, sharp and breathy as it’s him being touched. he whines when you twitch, when your breath catches, when your hand tangles in his hair. his mouth works without rhythm and hesitation, sometimes slow and indulgent, then suddenly fast, desperate, because he just can’t decide whether to savor you or devour you whole.

you look at him, and fuck… he’s gorgeous, even like this. maybe especially like this.

his lips are flushed, glistening, swollen from how long he’s been down there. his hair clings to his forehead, damp with sweat. brows drawn tight with a tension thick with focus and hunger. his jawline, usually so soft and clean, is now slick wet with your arousal and his spit, smeared across his chin, catching the light at the corners of his mouth. you see it trailing down his throat, glinting in the hollow there.

his tongue slides lower. a thick, wet stroke right into your cunt, and your whole body jolts. your spine arches off the bed, hands flying to the sheets, to his hair, to anything that might tether you to yourself. he groans against you, the sound reverberating through your skin like a low hum. it’s filthy. perfect.

his nose bumps your clit, teasing, nudging with a kind of casual precision that feels anything but accidental. the pressure is soft, rhythmic. warm from his breath. he pushes deeper, tongue fucking into you, not just a flick, or a taste, but deep, wet thrusts that make your hips grind into his face before you even realize. he drags back up, licks through your folds, flattens his tongue under your clit only to dip back inside, messier this time. and the slick sound of it, of you, fills the air, so obscene it borders on holy.

he shifts. nose pressing to your clit again, this time with purpose, this time harder, while his tongue stays buried inside your hole. your thighs tighten around his head. you try to push him away, quivering hands on his head, thighs clamping shut, too sensitive, too much, you whisper. but he only groans and his grip hardens, prying you open again, like he’s offended you’d even try to leave. 

he presses his tongue back in, slow this time, dragging it up through your slick, flicking over your clit with obscene ease. he licks like he’s cleaning a plate, unwilling to leave a single drop behind. one hand slips beneath your thigh to tilt your hips, the other splays over your stomach, pinning you there, holding you down as he already knows what’s coming. and when he adds his fingers, two of them, you cry out. he curls them inside you, unerringly, hitting that spot inside you that makes your legs jerk. without pause, he sucks your clit into his mouth and doesn’t let go, not until it’s pulsing against his tongue. 

his pace doesn’t slow, not when your thighs quake, not when your hands claw at the sheets, not when your body arches off the bed in one long, trembling line. he stays, mouth open, tongue heavy, lips smeared with everything you’ve given him. 

when he finally pulls back, after making you come three times in a row, he’s panting. his face is wrecked, cheeks flushed, chin wet, eyes glazed. totally drunk on you. a line of spit still connects his mouth to your cunt, and when he wipes it with the back of his hand, it only smears across his cheek.

you look at him, legs still shaking, breath shallow, and he just smiles.

a crooked, fucked-out smile, like he’s proud of the wreckage he’s made. but he doesn’t look satisfied. no. not even close. he watches you as if you owe him more, and he’s ready to dive back in just to feel you dripping down his chin again.

[robo-writing]

Kinktober Day Seven: Origins! Logan - Breeding Kink

| Kinktober Masterlist |

You know your husband can be in touch with his animal side, but never like this. 

You think it has something to do with the guys at his job, how they were pulling his tail when you brought him lunch today—how they were staring at you when you kissed him in greeting.

A whistle, and then: “Sure wish I had a girl like you to keep me fed.”

You ignore it, this particular guy always had something to say about you and Logan, but it seems he managed to hit a nerve today. You feel Logan’s arm around the small of your back get tighter while the other guys tell him to quit it, to which he says: 

“What? I’m just saying if I had a girl as sweet as her, I’d never let her leave the house. Hell, I’d give her a baby by now. What’s the wait?”

“You seem to be awfully interested in our lives,” you bite back, looking back at Logan who is uncharacteristically silent, taking your lunch with a tight-lipped smile in return. Odd, you thought to yourself, but maybe for the best. You’d rather not pay anyone’s hospital bills today.

Little did you know that when Logan returned from work he’d take those words to heart. He didn’t say a word, just dropped his work bag at the foot of the door and made a beeline towards you, ignoring the dinner still cooking on the stove. You even had to beg him for a second, just barely managing to turn the burners off before the whole house burned down—honestly, you’re not even sure he’d stop even if it was. 

You didn’t know the true extent of your husbands animal side, not until he bent you over the kitchen counter and fucked you like one.

It’s his heat against your back, his teeth scraping against the side of your neck, his hands anchored onto your hips as he pistons into your aching cunt. It’s his voice in your ear like the devil, whispering both satisfaction and sin, enough to make you submit—to indulge in the forbidden fruit.

“Lemme fuck a baby in you sweetheart, lemme make you mine.”

It’s all he can say, all he could think about since you left work. You carrying his babies, the swell of your stomach, your protruding tits—

“I know you wanna, come on baby,” he moans, begging like a dog for a bone, tongue damn near licking at your face like one. “Lemme breed you honey, you’d look so good with my babies.”

His hand pulls below you, past where you’re connected and right against your stomach, rubbing it as you cry out in pleasure. “Right here, nice and full. Just think about it baby—“

You feel yourself clench at the thought, some kind of animal instinct begging to keep him as far inside of you as possible, to ensure he keeps good on his promise—to make certain he doesn’t dream about pulling out.

“Ah, pussy’s just throbbing thinkin’ about it,” he gasps, a quick slap to your clit making you see stars. Your legs buckle under the intensity of his thrusts, drool leaking from your lips as Logan fucks any and all sense out of you. You’re off in space, so far away you can’t register a word he says but you cry out yes, yes, yes anyway.

Your permission is all he needs. 

He’s elation, bliss incarnate, even when exhaustion threatens to take him he pushes further, harder, faster, cum dripping down your shaky thighs. So full, so warm.

Even when you beg him for a reprieve he doesn’t stop, his strong back keeping you pinned against the granite as he fucks you stupid. 

“Gonna make you a mother sweetheart,” he grunts, his words punctuated by the warmth of his cum filling up your battered and bruised pussy. “Then everyone’ll know who you belong to.”

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

*Brusts in* I’m on a John Walker high right now!! May I request a fic with him where they’re dating and reader gets badly hurt on a mission and the whole team is freaking out, especially John, man is going BRUTAL on the people who hurt reader. They get her back to the med bay and she ends up fine in the end, and John is so relived and grabs her face, kissing her all passionately and messily. Please and thank you!!

yw!

And You Came Back to Me | Pairing: John Walker x Reader

You don’t answer on comms.

Not for thirty full seconds. Not after the explosion. Not after the static crackles and goes dead.

“[Y/N],” John says sharply, tapping his earpiece like that’ll fix anything. “Come in. Come in, now.”

Nothing.

“Where is she?” he barks at Yelena, who’s ducked behind a busted concrete column.

“She was on the north side—warehouse perimeter—right before the blast—”

John’s already moving. Not thinking. Not strategizing.

Just moving.

Gunshots crack overhead. Debris rains. Someone calls his name, but it’s muffled, unimportant. The second he kicks the steel door open and sees the blood on the concrete — your blood — his chest cracks open.

You’re not there. Just the trail. Like they dragged you.

His eyes go white-hot.

“They took her,” he growls. “They fucking took her.”

Ten minutes later, the warehouse is a bloodbath.

John’s fists are stained to the elbows. One guy’s nose is caved in; another’s on the ground screaming, clutching what used to be his kneecaps. The one who actually took you? He’s pinned against a wall with a rebar spike through his shoulder and John snarling inches from his face.

“Where is she.”

“I—I don’t know, I just followed orders, I—”

“Wrong answer.”

He shoves the metal deeper and the guy shrieks.

Blood. Fire. Smoke.

And finally—finally—a voice in his earpiece: “Got eyes on her! Med bay’s prepped, evac in one minute—”

They pull you from a locked chamber, unconscious, limp in Bucky’s arms. There’s blood everywhere—your shirt soaked, your skin pale, lips slack.

“Vitals faint,” someone says. “Pulse thready.”

John’s already kneeling beside the stretcher.

“Let me—get off—let me fucking see her!”

They try to hold him back, but he won’t be stopped. He pushes past, drops to his knees, and grabs your hand — bloodied, scraped — pressing it to his chest like it’ll anchor you.

“Hey, hey, come on,” he murmurs, voice shaking now. “You’re okay. You’re alright. We’ve got you.”

Your lashes twitch. It’s barely a flicker, but it’s enough.

Back at base, med team works fast. Bullet grazed your ribs. Broken wrist. Mild concussion. A lot of blood loss, but nothing fatal. The second they stabilize you, John doesn’t wait for clearance. He’s in the room, peeling gloves off with shaking hands, sitting beside the cot like a man who’s been drowning for hours.

You stir. “...John?”

He exhales like he’s just come back to life. Leans forward, touches your cheek with his shaking fingers. You blink up at him, dazed and soft and alive. And that’s when he breaks.

His hands cup your face. His mouth crashes against yours — hot, desperate, wet with tears and blood and relief. He kisses you like you’re air and fire and salvation all at once. His lips part yours and he groans, forehead pressed against yours when he finally pulls away.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he says, voice cracking. “Don’t you ever leave me like that.”

“I didn’t plan on it,” you croak weakly, smiling a little.

He lets out a broken laugh. Kisses you again, gentler this time, thumb brushing the dried blood from your temple.

“I thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed. “You found me.”

He kisses your forehead. “I always will.”

[melodyofmbaku]

Touch of a Woman (Elijah "Smoke" Moore x Annie)

Preview: “Annie, laughing at another man’s touch... And just the thought alone made Smoke sick to his stomach."

Warning ⚠️: sorry in advance

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N Wheeewww. I haven't done something like this in a while. Hope you like it. I really appreciate your comments/reblogs, it's what keeps me writing. Can't wait to hear what ya'll think! 😘 My Masterlist __

The invitation came in a stiff white envelope with gold trim and Smoke’s full name printed on the front like he was somebody important.

Elijah Moore.

An old acquaintance from Chicago — one of those slick-talking men who still called him “Big E” — was throwing a formal dinner and ball just outside town.

Society folk. Wine glasses so thin they looked like they’d shatter from a hard look. Smoke hadn’t planned on going. But the man insisted. Said he wanted both of them there.

That’s when the fight started.

It wasn’t loud at first — just a look from Annie when the name was mentioned. A tightness in her mouth when she asked, “So… this friend of yours. He the same one you used to run with your Chicago crowd?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away. And that silence was all she needed.

“I ain’t never hear you mention this man before.”

“Annie, we was boys,” Smoke said, shrugging off his shirt. “Ain’t seen him in years.”

“But clearly ya’ll close enough for you to get an invitation. Funny.”

Smoke exhaled. “What’s funny?”

“That every time I turn around, there’s some part of your past I ain’t never heard about. And now I’m expected to smile pretty and shake hands with folk who think I don’t belong in the same room?”

He turned to her. “Ain’t nobody said that.”

“They don’t gotta say it. It’s in how they look at me.”

Smoke stepped forward, voice low. “You think I’d bring you somewhere you didn’t belong?”

“That’s not the point,” she snapped. “ I know I belong. It’s just exhausting havin’ to prove it.”

Smoke’s jaw worked. “Annie—”

“I seen the way you talk when you’re with them. Straighter posture. Less drawl. Like you gotta prove something.”

He swallowed. “That ain’t fair.”

“No, you a man who had a life before me. And that life’s gonna be there in that ballroom. That’s fine. I can handle it. But don’t expect me to smile while I’m bein’ measured.”

He didn’t have an answer. So he didn’t speak. He just watched her gather herself. The tension swelling in the room.

“We don’t have to go.”

“I’ll go,” she said finally, looking at her shoes. “I’ll play nice. I’ll wear the dress and I’ll eat the food and I’ll do the dance.”

Her voice dropped then — more vulnerable than she meant it to be.

“But don’t you dare act like I’m crazy for feelin’ what I feel.”

And Smoke didn’t respond. Just shut down.

They got dressed in silence. Shared a ride in silence. And now here they were — walking into the ballroom, with smiles that didn’t reach their eyes.

___

The room sparkled in soft golds and low voices, the kind of place where everything smelled like money. Annie looked like she belonged — radiant in a deep plum dress, hair pinned to perfection, chin lifted with that sharp, self-made grace.

But her stomach was tight. The heat hadn’t left her all evening, and the champagne did little to cool it.

The two had parted a bit earlier after doing their rounds. Annie with a few ladies she met near the restroom and Smoke to the man who called out to him obnoxiously across the room “I know that ain’t who I think that is!”

It had been some time and she was looking for her anchor. 

She turned her head — her eyes searching the room — and stopped cold.

There he was. Smoke. Near the far end of the room, framed by marble pillars and candlelight.

And across from him, smiling like memory never faded, stood Delilah.

Green satin. Long lashes. Too-close posture.

Annie couldn’t hear a word, but she didn’t need to. Delilah’s hand touched his coat sleeve, light and deliberate. Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t push her away. Just stood there.

Just fuckin’ stood there.

Annie’s throat went dry. Her grip tightened around the stem of her glass.

From across the room, it looked like something private. Something kept.

She didn’t watch long enough to see what came next. Didn’t give him the chance.

She turned.

Walked away.

And the rest of the night passed like the taste of something bitter — stuck in the back of her throat no matter how many times she swallowed.

__

As they entered the house, Annie set down her purse and slipped off her shoes.

“Well, she was real pretty. Real refined. Bet it brought back memories.”

“I didn’t know she’d be there.” Smoke said.

They’d reserved their argument for when they got home. Wanted to spare the cab driver's ears.

He had 40 minutes in the car to formulate an explanation as to why he was talking to his ex girlfriend at the party and that's what he came up with? He was cooked.

“We ain’t even made up from earlier. You barely said ten words to me. And then here she comes — all soft smiles and shared history. Ya’ll get a quickie in the broom closet too?”

Smoke shot her a look.

“Don’t start. You had an attitude before we even got there. This ain’t got nothing to do with Delilah and you know it.”

“Bet you were happy to see her. Your favourite city girl.” She scoffed. 

Smoke noticed it under all that anger, there was a thread of insecurity. 

He sighed deep. 

“Annie. I can’t help that I had a life — a woman —before you.”

“I’m sorry that people got to experience a different version of me, I can’t do nothing about that.” 

She spun on her heel quickly. Heat in her eyes. 

“I ain't talking about people. I’m talking about her.”

Smoke still stood his ground and refused to fight fire with fire. 

“Ain’t no her. I ain’t seen the woman in 7 years Annie and the fact that we talking about this in our home right now is insane.” 

He started towards her. Fingers flexing lightly. He wanted to hold her. Tell her she hadn’t a thing to worry about. 

She stopped him before he got close with a hand. “You stay right there.”

Smoke nodded to himself, once but kept his distance.  A shift passed over him — the soft gave way to something sharper. His mouth pressed into a line, and when he spoke again, the edge was back.

“No woman can hold a candle to you. You ain’t weak. You got nothing to be jealous about. I’m yours. I’m right here!” he beat his chest.

She looked at him almost shocked. 

“Wow.”She laughed bitterly. “That’s what you think this is? Cheap jealousy?”

She shook her head softly before responding. 

“Elijah I’m not mad because you ran into her, I’m mad because…”

She paused before she said the words that broke Smoke's heart into pieces. 

“You let her touch you like she still had a right to.” Her hands shook as she gripped the vanity behind her. 

“Like you ain’t belong to another. You ain’t see anything wrong with that?” She asked.

Now this? This — Smoke could understand. 

He reached out to her once more and she snatched her hand away from him.  

“She touched you.”

Her voice broke. 

“And you’re mine.”

The room went still.

He swallowed. The hurt in her voice hit him in his chest. It wasn’t just about Delilah — it was about him.

“I want you to put yourself in my shoes Elijah.” She started. 

“Another man, with his hands on me. You’d sleep well after that?” She pointed a finger at him. 

She was getting heated again. 

“That image won’t flash behind your eyes everytime you close them? It won’t sow a seed of uncertainty in you?”

Smoke didn’t answer right away.

But the truth crept in — heavy and hot. The picture she painted etched itself behind his eyes: Annie, laughing at another man’s touch, her hand on his chest, her eyes soft.

And just the thought alone made Smoke sick to his stomach.

She saw it land.

“So yeah, maybe it's me. Maybe I’m weak, but if being strong like you means I let people mess with what's mine and I gotta be cool with it? Then I don’t wanna be like you at all.”

He took a step closer, real slow.

“You think I belong to anybody but you?” he asked, voice rough, worn.

Annie didn’t answer. She just looked away.

He exhaled hard, pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You ain’t gotta fight for me,” he said, softer now. “You already won." He sought out her eyes. "Baby, I'm right here."

“She touched you,” she said, voice cracking and eyes watering. “And you let her. You didn’t move. You didn’t even look uncomfortable.”

“I didn’t even notice,” he said honestly. “I swear to you, baby. I didn’t notice. I’m sorry.”

Annie swallowed, her voice low and cutting.

“Right. Just muscle memory then.”

Smoke stood there, fists clenched at his sides. He had been keeping himself at bay. Swallowing his anger. Trying. Apologizing. And she’d have none of it. 

Smoke exhaled sharply and stepped back.

Then, without a word, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped parcel. Set it gently on the table between them.

“Here,” he said. “This is what she gave me.”

Annie blinked, not moving. She looked up at him accusatory manner.

"Whats this?" she snarked.

“Open it.”

With shaky hands, she untied the twine and peeled back the cloth. Inside, nestled in paper, was a small muslin pouch — familiar, fragrant.

Sweet balm.

The note underneath read:

“For your lady. Knew she’d need it. You’re lucky, E. Don’t mess this up. —Langston”

Annie stared at it, blinking slowly. Her lips parted, the words not quite coming.

“That’s what she handed me,” Smoke said, voice flat. “That’s what you saw.”

She didn’t move.

Smoke spoke low. “Langston was supposed to bring it from Chicago. I asked him to get it. For you. He got shot last week. Couldn't travel. Sent it down with her.”

Her fingers hovered over the pouch.

“I didn’t even ask her directly,” he said. “She just handed it off. Told me to give you her best.”

Annie’s breath stuttered. The guilt landed heavy.

And that’s when Smoke’s voice changed — quieter, rawer.

She started towards him but it was his turn to keep her away. He shook his head no and took a step back. 

He nodded, more to himself than her.

Smoke stepped back once more and pointed at her.  “You think I’d let another woman put her hands on me — for no reason?”

Annie’s throat bobbed, her fingers twitching on the twine.

Her eyes stayed on the note even as something sharp — shame or sorrow — pulled at her ribs.

“You said you liked that balm from Miss Halloway’s shop. The one you used to buy before from upstate. You been rationin’ it. Thought it might make you feel good to have it again.”

Her arms fell to her sides.

And Smoke saw it—that flicker of realization. The regret. The dawning ache in her eyes as her gaze landed on the envelope with her name on it.

He waited, watching her crumble. But he didn’t soften.

“You wanna know what I find funny?” His voice stayed level, but there was heat beneath it. 

“You stay making all this noise about the person I used to be. About how filthy my lifestyle was to you. And I ain’t say nothing. I took it.”

“But the man I was in Chicago? That’s the same Smoke I am now. Maybe a little softer. But the same damn man. That life — that work, those people — it shaped me. It gave me the spine to stand up for you now.”

“And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you don’t want that version of me.”

He shook his head slowly. 

“I love this life we built. The domestic shit. I really do. I ain’t never been this happy.”

He looked down before looking her in the eyes. “But that don’t mean I don’t carry everything I used to be in my back pocket.”

“I ain’t never dragged up your past like this. I ain’t never ask you to explain that broken engagement. I ain’t never made you pick apart the pieces of who you used to be. I took you. Whole. Mine.” He beat his chest once more.

Annie’s stare didn’t break, but something in her posture shifted. She didn’t stand so straight anymore. Her arms slowly dropped to her sides. The righteous indignation went right with it.

He looked at her, eyes tired. “I know I gotta be strong. I’m a man. My back ain’t supposed to bend, or break. I get it...”

His voice dropped, thick now. “But this? What you doing right now?” He gestured between them.

“You tearing us apart.”

“I knew I’d have to protect myself from bullets, cuffs, and the mother fuckin’ KKK but I ain't never think I’d have to protect myself from you too.”

Annie’s lips parted — but nothing came out.

“And for what?” he asked, nearly whispering. “A trophy for who the most holy?”

His laugh came bitter, breathless “I don’t wanna play anymore. You got it.”

The room felt too small for the two of them. Too tight to hold all that pain.

Smoke nodded to himself, like he’d said what he came to say. He turned, ready to put distance between them.

“You stay here,” he said softly. Always softly with his Annie. “I got the couch.”

As he walked past, Annie reached out — just two fingers brushing his sleeve.

“Elijah…”

He pulled away gently. Didn’t look at her. Just kept going.

The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Annie stood alone, the silence pressing in.

She looked down at the sweet balm on the table. The note with her name on it. The care he’d shown — even when she’d doubted him.

Her chest rose, then fell.

The tears came slow. No sound, just heat.

She sat down, elbows on her knees, and stared at her trembling hands.

And in that quiet, she saw it clear:

Her grip on his past was standing in the way of their future.

Annie dropped her head into her hands.

And sobbed. __

A/N Ya’ll know me for the love stories but I’m actually an angst monster. ✨Surprise ✨ 😂 

With all this focus on the trio I thought I’d bring it back to give some attention to the OG lovers. 

I am still working on the fic with Annie soft-domming Smoke. Alot of ya’ll asked to be on the taglist for it. It’s there, I’ve got about 3 variations I’m working through. Will likely post it next weekend.

Your thoughts and encouragement keep me writing. Can't wait to hear what ya'll think 🥰

____

Interested in my future works? Let me know if you'd like me to add you to my tag list. My other works can be found in My Masterlist. Thanks for reading!

___

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[frombookstoretobookstore]

Call Sign Half Caff: Part Two

(Ok so y'all really liked that and I'm freaking flattered. I'll keep writing if you'd like. I do want to add maybe a small amount of spice later in the series.)

TW: Blood, punctured lungs, medical inaccuracies, broken ribs. Reader was attacked.

Part 1 : Part 3 : Masterlist

Jack’s right leg already throbs. He curses as he and Robby descend the last set of stairs and reenter the ED. They both need to stop starting and ending their shifts on the roof.

“Myrna’s back as well. She’s in a particularly bad mood so steer clear of her.” Robby says as they approach the main desk of the ED.

“Go. I’ll hold down the fort. Just don’t be late tomorrow morning.” Jack laughs as he nudges Robby towards the door. Before he can reassure Robby again, one of the newer med students, Dr. King, bolts past them towards one of the trauma rooms. She pushes aside the curtain, and the panic-stricken face Jack sees sends his stomach dropping.

GiGi, the owner of his favorite coffee shop, sends him a pleading look. Before he can even think, he’s running towards the trauma room, Robby following closely at his heels.

He freezes as he takes in the cursing and battered woman before him. He all but pushes Dr. Shen out of the way as he dodges the flying hands of y/n.

“Half Caff the fuck happened?” He growls as he tilts her head up to inspect her swelling and bruised eye. She coughs slightly and he notices the blood filling her mouth. He’s barking orders even as Robby asks him to stand down.

“Gunnery Sergeant I am fine!” She smacks his hands away, another cough makes her chest feel like it’s full of broken glass. “It’s just a black eye.” He grabs her wrists and pins them to her sides as Robby starts using his pen light to test her pupil reactivity. She squints and turns from the light.

“Female, late 20s, attacked in an alley. Suspected concussion, broken ribs, displaced nose...” Dr. Shen’s voice fades out as Jack doesn’t even see red, he sees the harm covering y/n’s body. He’s trying to swallow his panic and fear. With the damage done to her torso, she shouldn’t even be able to sit up, let alone fight him.

“I found her in the alley, and she fucking asked me to take her home. Said it was just a concussion.” GiGi says, as Jack forces y/n to lay down, her rattling breaths growing more forced.

“Abbot, stop, I’m fine.” She wheezes; her eyes panicked. 

His heart sinks. She never uses his last name. Always Jack or some form of army rank. Never Abbot. He doesn’t even need to pull his stethoscope from around his neck to know that one of her lungs is punctured.

She’s gulping for air as she tries to keep her comedy going. He knows as soon as she starts acting serious over her condition, she’ll break and panic.

“Hey, hey!” Abbot says sternly as he lets Robby take over. He’s got her hand clenched between both of his; he tries not to panic as he notices the blood on his gloves. Her blood literally on his hands.

“You’ve got quite a bit of damage there Half Caff.” She smiles weakly at her nickname. “You’ve got way more than a fractured nose.” He pauses as Robby shoots him a look after inspecting her ribs. He shakes his head no, not broken.

“It’s not that big of a deal I’ll be fine I just need to go home…” He’s shushing her as she starts to panic.

“You are not going home right now. In a bit, but not right now.” He tries to keep himself and her sanity anchored as he pulls her attention back to him as she glances around the room.

“You’re Robby.” She coughs out noting Robby’s badge, a sad laugh rattles her lungs. “You should be going home. Sorry to barge in.”

Robby smiles softly, still listening to her lungs battle for oxygen. “We’ll have some proper introductions later, stop talking you’re just going to make your lungs worse.”

Abbot glances up as Dr. King pushes morphine through y/n’s IV, her eyes becoming glassy as the pain med kicks in.

“Private here has told me a bit about you.” She spits the blood out of her mouth into the metal tray Abbot’s placed by her head.

“Still talking.” Robby raises his eyebrows at Abbot. “Someone’s a fighter.”

“Almost fought someone at the meeting today. Another person angry they missed all the action.” Jack says as he listens to Dr. Shen order a round of scans. “Add a CBC and an MRI.” Shen shoots him a look. 

“I got beat up, you aren’t looking for POTS, cancel the CBC.” Y/n mumbles, wrinkling her nose as the nasal cannula is placed, supplementing her oxygen. Jack scoffs as she uses her one piece of medical trivia against his orders.

“Respiratory rate is down with a higher oxygen percentage, pulse normal.” Dr. King calls, Jack feels a small amount of relief cool his body and mind. 

“Don’t.” He says sternly as he notices y/n about to open her mouth again. “Cut the comedy you’re fine.” She rolls her eyes and raises an eyebrow at him. He’s still got her hand clasped.

“Course of treatment for a punctured lung Dr. King.” Robby asks.

“Of course I’m a fucking teaching case. Don’t go into the abbey kids.” He squeezes her hand to silence her.

“If the CT scans show a small puncture, aspirate with a 14-gauge needle, provide pain medication, oxygen therapy if necessary, and ensure the patient rests.” Dr. King recites, her hands clasped in front of her.

“She’s stable, let’s get her to CT.” Robby says as he starts to remove his gloves, Dr. Shen and King begin wheeling y/n out.

“See you in a bit.” Jack says, finally releasing her hand. She gives him a watery smile, clearly feeling the full effects of the morphine.

He rubs the back of his neck as Robby looks at him and GiGi. He doesn’t think he’s showed this much emotion in the ED, or ever.

“What the hell happened?” Robby asks, the question pointed at GiGi.

“I don’t know! I was right behind her but by the time I was out with the recycling she was already on the ground. She wouldn’t let me call an ambulance; said we were only a block away.” 

“You have cameras pointed at the back door?” Jack asks, already noting in his head how he wants to police to handle this.

“I already handed the footage over to the sheriff posted outside. Once she’s back he’ll take a statement.” GiGi says, motioning back towards the ambulance bay they’d come in.

Jack’s normal nonchalance and composed demeanor is gone. He runs his hands through his gray curls as his mind starts reeling. Thinking only of Ben at the meeting earlier in the night. He tries to remember if he saw him leave before him.

He doesn’t realize he’s zoned out until Robby’s snapping his fingers in his face.

“You going to be able to work this shift? Or should I call someone else in.” He’s got his hands on his hips as he assesses Jack.

“I’ll be fine.” Jack nods.

“Are you sure?” Robby’s tone is stern. “Because I’ve never seen you come that close to breaking before. I’m not sure you can let this go and be competent enough for the next eleven hours of your shift.”

Jack fixes him with his signature neutral face. “She’ll kill me if I don’t.” He may not know all of y/n’s life story, but he knows her well enough to know she’ll be pissed at him if he tries to stick with her while she’s still here. Guilty even if he pulls himself off the shift and she learns he wasn’t out helping people.

Jack clears his throat, “I’ll be fine. After the CT and with the meds they’ll give her, she’ll sleep the rest of the night as she stays for observation. I’ll have someone take over for Dr. King. You both should have left long ago.” He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow, daring Robby to call his bluff.

Robby rubs his hands over his face, digging his fingers into his eyes. “If I hear otherwise, I’ll rip you a new one. GiGi, go the hell home. It’s Thursday and you’re always there for bedtime with your nieces.” She nods, hesitant to leave her friend in the ER alone.

“Go, and tell your brother to pull his shit together, we need his expertise back as soon as we can get it.” Jack says. “Get out of here Gertrude.”

She smiles softly and points a finger at him, “I swear our parents picked the worst names. Frank and Gertrude. Last I heard he’s doing good and in outpatient. Either of you call me by my full name again, I’ll show you how I got my little brother to do my liking when we were kids”

As the elder Langdon leaves, Robby claps Jack’s shoulder. “She’ll be fine. That friend of yours is tough, she shouldn’t have been so talkative with the bruising to her ribs. My guess is the pneumothorax is small enough it’ll heal on its own. She’ll be in pain and probably has a concussion. I know we’ve seen worse.”

“She’s a friend though.” Jack only needs to mutter to make his point. Any other patient they’d have been in and out without a second thought. Now all he can think about is what she must have looked like, what she must have felt laying on the ground alone and scared. He knows it’s stupid, but he should have been there. Should have been there to protect her.

--

He keeps his promise. Sort of. He keeps his head in the game and deals with all the curve balls the night shift sends him. However, there’s that one part of his brain that keeps his worry for her active. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t check on her every so often. He trusts Dr. Ellis’s care, but this case is different. He doesn’t check on y/n because he doubts her care, he checks on her because he cares. And deeply at that.

“She’s awake and I guarantee she’ll kill you if you poke your head in. I saw you counting her breathing reps.” Lena, the night shift charge nurse, looks at him over her glasses. He grunts in response and sits down to chart. His nervousness given away by his left leg repeatedly bouncing.

“Heard she’s a tough one.” He turns to find Lena smiling.

“Don’t start.” He warns. He can smell the gossip and the potential of a new betting board.

“If she’s fighting against care and claiming she’s fine with six bruised ribs and a partially punctured lung, I think she can handle her few more hours of observation.”

“She’s getting discharged?” Jack asks, quickly scouring the board for her file number to glance through.

“Once her ride is here.” Lena’s got a smirk on her face. The news of how he reacted to y/n’s injuries (and the emotion he showed) will be the talk of the nurses’ station tomorrow.

He grumbles again as he tries to make himself look busy while pretending to chart. Once Lena walks away to tend to a patient, he’s up and pulling the curtain aside to check in on y/n.

“Get out of here Sergeant major.” She groans from the hospital bed, a hand raised to shield her eyes (eye) from the light. He closes the door and curtain behind him. He’s logging into the computer to look at her scans again while she continues grumbling at him.

“You were attacked, so sorry for caring short stack.” He smiles as she scoffs at him.

“Jack Abbot I will somehow manage to reach my feet and peel these grippy socks off to throw at you. I swear if you don’t get out there and do something other than watch me, I’ll make sure you never get coffee from GiGi’s café again.”

He only hums in response, his words failing him as he takes in her bruised form. Her eye has fully swollen shut and will probably still be once she’s discharged.

“Sheriff come in?” He asks as he peeks at her meds, fiddling with the saline bag to keep his hands busy.

“You’ve already asked me that. I’m concussed, not stupid.” She goes to cross her arms in defiance, a low whine makes it past her lips before she aborts the movement.

“Your ribs will hurt for the next few weeks. The puncture in your lung should heal on its own. Even though your concussion is minor you need…” She cuts him off her voice low but stern.

“To not sleep for too long and should have someone monitor me for the next few days. You know I was listening when Ellis was talking. I also happen to be able to read so I can peruse the discharge paperwork.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and shifts his weight to his left foot.

“Your leg is bothering you. Go eat something and take some meds. Also get the hell out of my face.” She has a soft smile on her face as she turns the concern back to him. His heart flips as she manages to turn the situation back to him while she lays there injured.

“I’ll try my best to check on you before you’re discharged.” He smiles, his pulse picking up as she winks at him.

“Don’t. Go do your job. Also stick with Half Caff. You call me a stack of short again and I’ll be sure to throw your leg at you at the next meeting.” He snorts at her attitude.

He reaches the door but stops and turns. His pulse thrumming in his ears.

“If you give me your fucking phone number to ‘call you with any questions’, I’m going to throw up.” She wheezes out a laugh as he launches a pen at her.

“I hope you have weird dreams you menace.” He says as he finally leaves the room, a stupid smirk plastered to his face.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I'll try to set up my asks if anyone wants me to write some blurbs. Thanks y'all!

[multi-fandom-imagine]

【𝗠𝗶𝘇𝘂'𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗙𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂】

A/n: I love her.

Mizu is not a woman built for softness—but she gives it to you anyway, in her own way. Sharp hands. Quiet praise. Brutal honesty. You’re the only one allowed behind the mask, beneath the blade. And when she takes you? It’s never casual. It’s control. It’s reverence. It’s hers.

1. The Sword Polishing Room—On Her Lap, Wet and Waiting

It’s the quiet after training. The room smells of oil and steel. Mizu sits cross-legged, shirt undone, your thighs straddling hers. She doesn’t even undress you—just pushes your robes aside and pulls your panties to the side like an afterthought. One hand keeps working the cloth over her blade. The other is between your legs, working slow, calculated circles. She fucks you with her fingers so steady you’re trembling in her lap, and when you beg? She doesn’t look up. “Focus. Come for me like you’re learning something.”

2. In the Springs—Her Fingers Under the Water, Her Mouth on Your Neck

She never lets her guard down. Not in public. Not around strangers. But the springs are different. The steam wraps around the two of you like a secret, and Mizu pulls you into her lap beneath the surface. Her fingers are already inside you before you can fully relax. “Keep your voice low,” she warns, licking along your neck. “Or I’ll make you come harder.” She makes good on that promise. You almost drown on a gasp.

3. Against the Wall of an Enemy’s Home—Right After a Kill

Her blade is still wet. Her eyes are wild. And you? You’re the only thing anchoring her. She pushes you against the wall the moment the target drops, pressing her thigh between your legs and grinding until you moan. “You wait for me like this?” she asks, tone dangerous. “Dripping wet while I kill for us?” Then she drops to her knees, licks up your thigh, and makes you come with her mouth still tasting of violence. She fucks like she needs to burn the rage out of her, and you let her.

4. Under the Floorboards of a Tea House—While People Walk Above You

It’s supposed to be a hiding place. It is—but not for long. The second the trapdoor shuts, Mizu has you on your back, hands sliding up your thighs with practiced ease. “No one knows we’re here,” she whispers, voice like smoke. “So why are you shaking like they’ll hear you come?” She fucks you slow, deliberate, while the sound of footsteps above only makes your pulse race. You break when she says your name like a threat and a vow in the same breath.

5. On the Tatami Mat—With a Wooden Sword Between Your Legs

It starts as training. She teaches you grip, form, control. But when she stands behind you, correcting your stance, her hands linger. She slides the bokken between your legs, hips grinding the length into your soaked folds, and suddenly you’re begging. “Say please,” she demands. You do. She rocks it against your clit while her hand covers your mouth, breathing against your neck. When you come, she holds you upright, whispering, “Next time, I’ll use the real blade.”

6. On Her Back, Letting You Take Control—Just Once

Mizu doesn’t give up control easily—but sometimes she wants to be undone. So she lays back, arms folded behind her head, watching you climb onto her lap with a dark, unreadable gaze. “Show me what you want,” she says. You ride her face, her fingers, her thigh—whatever she gives. But she doesn’t break eye contact. Not once. And when you finally break, gasping her name, she flips you effortlessly and pins you down with a smirk. “My turn.”

7. Bound in Silk Rope, Legs Spread, Eyes Locked on Hers

Mizu doesn’t rush the tying. She treats it like an art—each knot perfectly placed, every wrap of silk as calculated as her swordplay. You’re spread on the floor, wrists bound above your head, legs pulled open and secured in a way that leaves you trembling. She doesn’t say much—just watches you, fingers teasing the edge of your folds until you’re begging. “You’re so easy to ruin like this,” she murmurs, slipping two fingers inside. “But I always put you back together, don’t I?” You nod. She makes you come again before undoing a single knot.

8. In the Woods, Strap-On Buckled Tight Under Her Robes

She takes you for a walk where no one will follow. The air is cool, your hand in hers, her thumb brushing your palm with deceptive tenderness. But the second she finds a secluded clearing, Mizu pushes you against a tree, robes falling open just enough to reveal the leather harness strapped low on her hips. “Turn around,” she orders. She fucks you from behind, one hand on your throat, the other covering your mouth as her hips snap hard and fast. You’re crying into her hand, stuffed full and breathless. She doesn’t stop until your knees give out.

9. Rare Submission—When You Pin Her Down

It’s late. Her guard is lowered. You’re straddling her hips, wrists held down, watching her fight the urge to flip you and take back control. But she doesn’t. Not tonight. “You’re testing me,” she says, voice flat—but her pupils are blown wide, chest rising fast. You ride her slowly, taking your time, teasing her just like she does you. She bites her lip until it bleeds. When she comes, it’s with a quiet gasp and her fingers clutching the sheets. You lean down and whisper, “You’re mine too, you know.” She doesn’t argue.

10. In a Crowded Temple, Fingers Hidden Beneath Your Robes

Mizu prays in silence—but today, her hand slips under your robe mid-ceremony, fingers curling up inside you while others kneel just feet away. Her expression never changes. She keeps her eyes ahead, her posture perfect. You, however, are shaking beside her, trying not to let your knees buckle. “Don’t disgrace yourself,” she murmurs, lips unmoving. “Hold it in.” You come with a silent scream, robes clutched tightly in your fists. She keeps her hand there, deep and still. “We’ll atone later,” she says. But she doesn’t remove her fingers until the ceremony ends.

11. Over the Sheathed Blade, Grinding Until You Break

The sword is laid between your thighs, sheathed but firm, cold metal against your heated skin. Mizu sits back, watching—eyes hungry but hands behind her back. “Show me how desperate you are,” she says. You ride it slow at first, hips grinding along the length of her blade, gasping at the pressure. When you speed up, she still doesn’t move. “Use it,” she commands. You come hard, shaking above her sword, whispering her name like a prayer. That’s when she finally gets up. “Now,” she says, undoing her robes, “I’ll give you something sharper to come on.”

12. After Battle, Covered in Blood, With Her Face Between Your Thighs

She’s not clean yet. The blood’s still drying on her chest, the sweat still clinging to her neck—but the second she sees you waiting by the fire, she drops to her knees. She spreads your thighs apart and eats you like she hasn’t tasted peace in months. Her tongue is sharp, her grip even sharper, fingers bruising your thighs as she keeps you still. “You keep me alive,” she murmurs between licks, “so I’ll worship you properly.” You don’t argue—not with your legs over her shoulders and her mouth making you scream into the night.

13. In the Dojo, On Her Knees, Hands Behind Her Back.

You’d never expect Mizu to kneel for anyone—but tonight, she does. She strips her own kimono, folds her hands behind her, and bows her head before you. “Command me,” she says. And you do. You ride her face slowly, pulling her hair, grinding on her mouth until she moans into you. It’s intoxicating—seeing her so undone for you. But when you come, she licks you clean and stands with a gleam in her eye. “Now,” she says, cracking her knuckles, “my turn.”

[fanaticsnail]

Dreaming of You

Series Masterlist

Word Count: total 2,600+

Synopsis: They couldn't help it. You looked so heavenly in their dreams. The way they had you wrapped around their body as a marionette in their minds, dancing for them as they awoke to sticky blankets when they jolted upright. Their thoughts got the better of them, and they are wracked with guilt. NSFW, mdni, 18+

Themes: Red Hair Pirates, gn!afab!reader, wet dreams, same reader different ending, Shanks, Beckman, Hongo, mdni, NSFW, smut, 18+

Notes: Happy birthday @loganwritesprobably! I wanted to give you some Beckman for your birthday, but he's always got his crew with him. I hope you enjoy this edition for the series!

“Ah, ah, ah,” his voice rasped out, slowly drawing his hand to hold the base of your neck, coaxing your head further down his shaft as your lips formed a perfect ring around him, “All the way. There you go.” He felt his mushroomed tip press at the back of your throat, head lulling back as he gave over to the pleasure you invoked by swallowing around him.

Bobbing your head up and down, he peeked out of the corner of his eye the position he had you in. Laying over his lap, completely bare as you knelt by his right thigh, forearms pinned beneath his legs and lips wrapped around his cock. He had effectively had you trapped in position, cunt leaking while he coaxed you down to make a mess of his cock with your mouth.

As he felt you come up for a reprive if air, he stroked along your spine towards your ass. Back arched in a perfect bow as you swirled your tongue over his tip, he drew down his hand in a firm clap against your left ass cheek. Yelping out, you again began bobbing your head up and down to pump his shaft with your lips. Pressing your thighs together, your hands twitched beneath his thighs as you rocked against the hand on your ass in a bid to get him to touch you.

“Oh,” he chuckled, leaning down and taking a glimpse of your cunt pulsing around nothing, “Oh, you want me to touch you, huh?” He drew his hand over the round of your ass, soothing the skin before raising it and striking it down once more. “Show me how much you want my touch.”

Immediately, you coughed and spluttered around his cock as you messily slurped at a rapid pace. Tears began to sting in your eyes from your gag reflex reacting, whining and vibrating your throat around his shaft while you held onto the underside of his thigh to anchor yourself further against him. Loud, messy, and sloppy motions against his cock had groans rolling freely from his lips. He thrust up in time with your motions, dipping his hand between your folds and gathering the slick at your entrance.

“That's good,” he praised you, slowly sinking in his middle finger past the first notch of his knuckle, “Doing such a good job for me.” He sunk his finger past the second notch, turning it within you gently while groaning out at the heat. Easily sliding in a second finger beside it, he spread your pussy apart with his index finger and pinky, pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit each time you bobbed down on his cock.

You whined around his shaft, gulping around his cock and eagerly continuing your rapid pace. He could feel the flutters of your cunt sucking him in, causing his own release to teeter on the edge. The slick sounds of your silky pussy sucking in his hand harmonized alongside the crude squelching of your mouth meeting his pubic hair on every down stroke. Each motion caused him to feel more at the precipice of euphoria.

His balls sucked up into his guts, feeling his stomach bind in a harsh knot. He increased the amount of pressure to your clit, tapping and swirling it in a harsh rapidity as your flutters got more frantic.

“You better not waste a drop,” he warned you, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as his cock began to dribble beads of sticky precum into your throat, “Swallow it. Ngghm, fuck-!”

As his eyes opened, he was met with the sight of his cabin roof. Laying flat on his back, no sight of you to behold. A dream, a facade, an illusion of your body causing him the pleasure in fantasy as his body reacted in reality.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-!” he immediately flung his blankets off his lap and gathered the closest discarded shirt or scrap of material he could. His cock began twitching, his untouched eruption coming into full fruition as he exploded in ecstasy. Hot spurts of cum shot into the air before he managed to catch it in a piece of material, sticking to his stomach and dripping down his shaft to pool beneath him.

His cock danced in rhythmic bursts, still clinging onto the falsified memory within his mind as each viscous rope shot out from the smaller slit. Slumping back on his pillow, he scrunched his eyes tightly shut, uttering a single word.

“Fuck.”

Red Haired Shanks

Glancing down at his shaft bobbing and twitching, the final spurts of his release bubbling past the tip and catching on his crotch, he couldn't help but laugh at himself.

A wet dream? Something as juvenile as a wet dream? And about you, of all the people he could've dominated: you. The thoughts swirl on in his mind, replaying his favorite moments in his head on a loop while his cock twitches in interest.

His spirits were as high as they had ever been while laughing at his own mess. Drawing up his shirt from the floor he desperately reached for earlier, he mopped himself up and discarded the shirt beside him in his wicker hamper. Laying on his back, he fixed his eyes on the roof of the red force while he grinned to himself.

A spectral visit from the Red Force’s chronicler: charged for keeping the crew on their routine, and exceptionally good at doing as such, was granted to him this night. The dance you played for him was a perfect reflection to how he would have you if given the opportunity. You were someone he had his good and bad eye on for some time, and now his mind had began to play tricks on him in his desperation for you.

Rolling over in his bed, he considered his options from this point on. He could simply walk up to you at the breakfast table and give you a play by play about it, sparing no detail and watching if your eyes go wide and sparkle with interest. He could keep the image to himself, using it when he needed a little bit of focus to tip over the edge without a playmate in his quarters, singing sweet praises of your name into his shoulder while he cums. Or he could put the image out of his mind entirely, forget it ever happened and attempt to move on.

“Sh-Shanks-!” your muffled voice echoed alongside the sloppy noises of your head bobbing up and down his shaft, “Shanks I'm gonna-!”

The red haired pirate immediately rolled onto his back, closing his eyes and furrowing his brow as his hand began to snake down his happy trail to his already hardening cock. The flushed tip still dribbled with the memory of his overnight visitor: you in your glory with your lips muffling out incomprehensible babbles while greedily slurping on his cock. Picturing this new one with your cheek flush with his, hot breath on his neck, whining and keening through your bliss while your pussy pulses with the rhythmic contractions of your ecstasy-.

“-Oh, stars,” Shanks whispered out in a breathy exhale as a smaller release erupted over his palm and trickled down his fingertips. Pleasure shot through his abdomen and twitching his cock as he pumped himself through the waves of euphoria rising throughout his body. Panting and rolling over onto his side, he reached for a towel and drew it down to the mess currently spreading to pool beneath him.

Shanks let out a small chuckle before sighed remorsefully. With a deep furrow in his brows, he began to immediately chastise himself for using you as the masterpiece within his mind's eye. He began cleaning over his shaft and down to his balls with the towel, all the while swearing a solemn promise in every motion.

“I'll make it up to you,” he whispered, gently speaking your name while he cleaned, “I'll make it up to you. I swear.”

Benn Beckman

Immediately, Beckman flung himself from his bed feeling violated by his thoughts. A cruel shudder rang through his body with those final moments ricocheting over his every pore. Sweat beaded at his temple as he looked at his bed as if it was made from flame and stinging needles as opposed to his cabin quarters.

“No,” he shook his head at the intrusive thoughts and fought them off, “No. Not you. Not like this.” He fought with his inner turmoil at the thought before strengthening his resolve and moving towards the door.

Scurrying with his sleep trousers flooding down his leg, a fresh pair flung over his shoulder with a towel, and a deepening grimace over his face, he made haste towards the crew bathroom and flung open the door. A trio of stalls for privacy between crewmates with wooden doors latching was on the leftmost corner, and to the rear was a large ovular bath able to comfortably seat five at once. The Red Force was a comfortable ship made for sailing at long lengths between ports, and the bathroom was one such luxury.

As Benn Beckman stepped into a booth, the shower beside his switched on and began to flood the room with steam. A small hum fled the lips of his shower-mate, immediately causing crescent shaped welts to form in Beckman’s palms by how hard his grip was forming.

“Chronicler,” Beckman gently rasped out with a small amount of laziness found in his tone. Your hum halted while you cheerily chirped out your greeting to him in return.

“First-Mate,” you retorted in the same manner, “And here I thought I'd have the bathroom to myself for once at this hour.” Beckman chuckled at your small aire of disappointment, only succeeding in raising a laugh of your own beside him.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

That question halted his reach for his pants as he dragged the hem over his hips and down his Adonis belt. With stuttering fingers, he hastily freed himself of the cotton material before kicking them to the edge of the booth and stepping beneath the warming water. Quickly dampening his face with the rapid flurry of water, Beckman rinsed his cotton-mouth from slumber and replied back.

“You could say that, yeah,” his voice crooned with the languid drawl of the morning, “Just not been sleepin’ as good as the rest.”

“I get it,” you admit as a few pumps and squirts from the bottle beside you fell into your hands, “We've been at sea for a while. All the faces, the same. The sea, the same. The food, unfortunately, the same. Roux tries his best to keep it interesting, but ‘brown stew’ can only be eaten so many times before my brain starts to fry.” The scent of orange peel and licorice wafted from the stand beside him, immediately swelling the mind of Benn Beckman.

He found his mind falling back into the fantasy his mind concocted of you eagerly sucking on his cock while he teased and spanked your ass, fingers slipping into your pussy and drawing out those choked sputters while he had you at his mercy. The feeling of your lips on his skin, the caress of your plush heat in his hand, the warmth of your throat taking him in-.

-He peered down at his hand, moving against his will and pumping along his cock while the other caressed his broad chest to pinch at his nipples. Shaking his head frantically, he removed his hands as if his body had burnt him and immediately stepped beneath the water. Rinsing his hair, his face, his ears, his body, he couldn't hear what you said clearly from the stall beside him.

“Sorry, head was under,” Beckman apologized with honesty, “Mind repeatin’ that?”

“I said, Benn Beckman, and please don't tell the others this,” you pleaded with a small chuckle, “I think we've all got cabin fever. I had the weirdest dream that I was fucking some crew members, and we all know that I absolutely wouldn't do that.” Beckman's hands halted their wash as you continued, “I think my mind has run away with me, using what's around me to create some kind of plot to keep it interesting. Just a bit crap that I'm left high and dry in the morning, is all.”

Taking a few moments pause to contemplate exactly what you were informing him, he inhaled before releasing an exhale with a groan hinted on his breath.

“It’s not my place to judge anyone on what shapes their dreams take,” Beckman nodded honestly while leaning against the adjoining wall where you were beside him, “And I get it. It's all the same at the moment. Next port is in a couple more weeks, we just gotta keep strong until then.”

“Aye, sir,” you uttered softly. The tap creaked off in the shower beside him at the same time Beckman did the same. As you both stepped out into the tiled hall, you both looked at the bath before looking at each other. In the silence, Beckman shook his head before looking at his toes sheepishly. Raising his head, he met your eyes with his own while both reaching the same conclusion.

“Do you want to have a bath together-?”

“-Just to keep things interesting?”

Both of you burst out into laughter before moving to the large bath. Removing your towels and stepping into the water, you and Beckman enjoyed swapping stories to break the routine of the norm, dreams but a whisper in the fictitious wind fleeing in every moment spent beside one another.

Hongo

All through his routine, his face did not change from a deep scowl mixing with complete and utter confusion. Waking himself fully up, in the shower room, at the breakfast table, in his office, back to the mess hall, taking the watch shift in the crows nest: the scowl never left his face as all thoughts eclipsed him of the night prior.

“A wet dream?” He asked himself, offended while looking down at his waistband, “I had a fucking wet dream?” He spat in disdain as his verbalised recollection fled through his mind.

Imagery began to roll from his body of the motions your spectral form made against his, halting as soon as he heard your tangible laugh below by the ropes. The smile he fictitiously fucked with his throat in his mind's eye was gracing the presence of Building Snake as he joked with you. Glancing over his glasses, Building Snake gave you a gentle shove and took the ropes from your hands in a bid to remove you if your duties for the day. Just as Hongo tried to glance away, you caught his eye from your position down below.

“Oi, doctor! Need a hand on watch?” You yelled with your hand cupping the left-hand side of your mouth, “Building Snake’s taking over deck duty, so I'm free.” Hongo shook his head as he found his smile slowly creeping up his cheek.

“You're free because you're overworked, chronicler,” Hongo mirrored your sentiment with his own hand curving around the edge of his lips, “Go to bed, read a book or something.” When he met your eyes once more, he saw that fire that meant for nothing but trouble as you took ahold of the ropes margining the top mast. Slowly beginning your climb, he scooched aside to make room beside him as your head popped through the latch.

“Shove,” you nodded your head towards the doctor, “I'm just-.”

“-Trying to do anything except go to sleep, I know the feeling,” Hongo closed his eyes and shook his head. Turning his chin onto the horizon, he reopened his eyes and looked out onto the open sea, “I know the feeling, intimately.” Now drawn beside him, you both took an elongated inhale and released a heavy exhale in unison.

“Rough night?” Your voice drew him away from his thoughts and to your side. Hazel eyes found your form, trying as they might to not see the position they placed you in last night in lieu of you before them. Hongo shook his head and upticked his forlorn smile.

“Just hanging on ‘til we get to port, is all. It's been… it's just been…”

Moving closer to him, you nudge his shoulder with your own and draw into a more familial and comfortable position. As you braced his body with your own, he leaned back into your touch and sighed out while watching the sea in its repetitive stasis. Friendship and comradery was the foremost rapport between you and the crew. Hongo was no different, and simply dwelling beside the doctor and offering him support in the ways you know how came naturally to offer him that friendship you had together.

“Next port, doc,” you nodded beside him, “First round is on me. I feel like we just need it after the time we've spent at sea.”

“The one thereafter is mine,” Hongo continued to train his steely eyes on the ocean, picturing the way he held you on his lap in his mind's eye and how natural it truly felt to hold you by his side like this, and nodded with a more genuine smile drawing to his features. “We'll need it, I think. Lots of electrolytes and water through the night, but absolutely a drink or two.”

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @mermaniaa @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @ane5e

[aventurineswife]

“Drop your reqs yeah 🧍‍♀️plz”

Your wish is my command.

Category: Fluff |

Characters: Sunday, Dan Heng, Aventurine |

Scenario: One night you couldn’t rest, requesting to accompany them if they’re comfortable. You both ultimately share a bed, and they learn you’re extremely clingy during your sleep. Hands slipping beneath their shirts, leg thrown over them, cuddling them like a Koala to a tree. Y’know the deal. |

Could be mutual pinning or already established. anything you wish to write!

“Cling to Me, Dreamer”

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Dan Heng x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Fluff, Soft moments, Comfort, Co-sleeping, Vulnerability, Gentle intimacy, Quiet affection, Sleepy moments, Relationship development.

A/N: you never disappoint, do you, sweetheart? 🤭💖

Sunday was always awake at odd hours, often seated near the window of his cabin aboard the Astral Express, staring out at the void of stars. When you approached him one sleepless night, your shy request to join him brought a small, amused smile to his lips.

“If it brings you peace,” he murmured, gesturing toward the bed. His voice, soft and airy, was a balm in the stillness.

You hadn’t intended to fall asleep so easily, but exhaustion claimed you once you settled beside him. Sunday remained seated on the edge of the bed, gazing out at the cosmos, until he felt a weight press against his back. Your arms had looped around his waist, and in your sleep, you clung to him as though he were the only anchor in a vast, uncertain world.

Sunday froze, his breath catching. Your touch was warm, grounding in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Carefully, he shifted so he could lie beside you. But even then, you didn’t let go, nuzzling closer with your hands wandering up beneath his tailcoat. Your legs tangled with his, locking him in place.

Sunday’s wings fluttered slightly, his halo tilting as his emotions stirred. Vulnerability wasn’t something he indulged in often, but as he looked at your peaceful face and felt the rhythmic rise and fall of your breath, he allowed himself to relax. His arm draped over you, hesitant at first, before settling securely.

“You’re relentless, even in dreams,” he whispered, a faint smile playing on his lips.

For the first time in a long while, Sunday felt a quiet warmth, and with it, the courage to close his eyes and rest.

Dan Heng valued his solitude, often retreating to the archive room for quiet reflection. When you knocked on his door that sleepless night, he seemed taken aback by your request.

“If you’re sure…” he said softly, stepping aside to let you in. His calm demeanor belied the slight tension in his shoulders.

You assured him it was fine, settling on the corner of his bed while he returned to his reading. But as the hours stretched on, your exhaustion won out. Dan Heng noticed when your breathing evened out, a soft sigh escaping you as you shifted closer in your sleep.

When he tried to move away slightly, your arms instinctively latched onto him. One hand slipped beneath his shirt, your fingers brushing against his skin as if seeking warmth. A leg hooked over his, effectively pinning him in place.

Dan Heng’s face turned crimson, his usual stoicism faltering. He shifted awkwardly, unsure if he should wake you or simply endure. But as the moments passed, he found himself relaxing into your embrace. The warmth of your body and the quiet comfort of your presence began to ease the tension he hadn’t realized he carried.

“You’re troublesome, even when you sleep,” he muttered under his breath, though his tone was fond.

Carefully, he adjusted his position, resting his head against yours. For the first time in what felt like forever, Dan Heng let his guard down, lulled to sleep by your steady breathing and the comforting weight of your embrace.

The house you and Aventurine shared was as extravagant as the man himself, with sleek furnishings and a view of a shimmering cityscape through the tall glass windows. That night, you found him lounging on the oversized sofa in the living room, a glass of wine in hand. He raised a brow when you approached, your sheepish expression catching his attention.

“Couldn’t sleep, huh?” he asked, his voice light, teasing. “And you came to me for company? I’m flattered.”

You rolled your eyes at his dramatics but nodded, mumbling something about how his presence always seemed to ease your nerves. His smirk softened into something gentler.

“Well, the couch is cozy, but I think we both know the bed’s more inviting.” He set down his glass and offered you his hand, guiding you to the bedroom with a theatrical bow. “Just don’t blame me if you end up tangled in the sheets—I’ve been told I’m irresistible.”

You scoffed but followed him, finding solace in his playful banter. Aventurine stretched out on the bed, folding his arms behind his head as he watched you settle beside him. He seemed content to simply observe you for a while, his eyes glinting in the low light.

Sleep came easily for you, but for Aventurine, it didn’t take long to realize you were a clingy sleeper. At first, he chuckled under his breath, the sound low and amused, as your arms wrapped around him. Then your hands slipped beneath his shirt, your touch warm against his skin, and a leg threw itself over his.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” he murmured, his smile twitching at the corners.

Despite his usual bravado, Aventurine found himself oddly affected by your closeness. His smirk faded into something softer as he adjusted himself to accommodate your weight, his hand coming to rest lightly on your back. For all his confidence, moments like this felt rare, and he wasn’t about to ruin it with his usual quips.

“Sleep tight, darling,” he whispered, his voice unusually tender. “Though I think you’re holding onto me tighter than necessary. Not that I’m complaining.”

As the night stretched on, Aventurine lay awake for a while, marveling at the quiet intimacy of the moment. He didn’t mind being your anchor, not tonight. With a soft sigh, he let his eyes close, a sense of peace washing over him that felt as rare and precious as the stars outside.

[ordinary-barbie]

scary dog privileges.

summary: Nobody's messing with you as long as Rafe Cameron is around.

pairing: rafe x sweet!pogue!reader

word count: 1.7k

tags: fem!reader, swearing, a guy acts like a creep towards reader, fingering, cunnilingus, p in v sex (protected), mutual orgasms

note: dipping my toes into obx fanfic after hyperfixating/crushing on Drew Starkey and reading a ton of Rafe stories, haha. I have not seen the show but I'm shooting my shot here anyway!

~~~~

They say that opposites attract, which couldn't be more accurate regarding your relationship with Rafe Cameron.

Rafe was the Kook king of Kildare Island, someone who oozed cockiness and arrogance. Meanwhile, you were a soft-spoken Pogue. When people spotted the two of you together, they couldn't wrap their heads around it, and frankly, neither could you. Rafe had his pick of any girl on the island - especially the Kooks - but somehow he only had eyes for you, which warmed your heart.

It all started last year, with a party at Tannyhill to celebrate your class graduating from high school. You were content to stay under your covers, binging Love Island Australia on Hulu, but your friend Olivia had begged you to come with her. Eventually, you relented, your curiosity about one of Rafe Cameron's famous parties getting the better of you.

Within five minutes, you'd ran into Rafe—literally. You'd been swaying to the music and accidentally bumped into him, spilling your drink all over his shirt. You'd been mortified, apologizing profusely and insisting on helping him clean up.

Rafe was a goner ever since.

Now it was time for another Tannyhill bash to celebrate the start of summer, and you were squarely by Rafe's side. In the year you'd been together, you'd discovered how protective your boyfriend was. He held onto you like an anchor, always having an arm wrapped around your waist or shoulders, no matter if he was talking to Topper and Kelce or kicking some rando's ass at beer pong. You appreciated it; parties often made you feel like a nervous baby deer, and it was nice to have someone to hold on to.

Unfortunately, you couldn't always be joined at the hip. "I'm gonna piss but I'll be right back, baby," Rafe promised, giving your ass a light squeeze on the way to the bathroom. As soon as your boyfriend was out of sight, your smile dropped. While you'd made an effort to get to know Rafe's friends, you were still incredibly nervous in a house full of Kooks.

To kill some time, you scrolled through Instagram, giggling at Olivia's latest story. She'd posted herself having a "friendly pizza sesh" with a guy, but you knew she'd had a huge crush on him since high school.

Suddenly, a shadow passed over you. "What's got you laughing like that, pretty girl?" You jumped, startled by the unfamiliar male voice.

A smirking guy with short, curly dark brown hair and glinting hazel eyes sauntered up to you. "Hey, I'm Aidan. I'm new in town—but maybe a cute thing like you could show me around?" he lazily drawled.

Your skin prickled with discomfort. You suddenly wanted to shrink into yourself, but you forced yourself to smile anyway. "Sorry, I'm not interested."

Aidan laughed, undeterred, and leaned into you. "Playing hard to get, huh? That's kinda hot," he whispered into your ear, making your stomach churn.

"I said no thanks," you responded, laughing nervously. You should run. You needed to get out of there. But for some reason, you found yourself rooted to the spot, trapped with Aidan and the pungent stench of his cologne.

Aidan pouted, using his arms to pin you against the wall. "C'mon babe, just give me a chance. I don't bite."

"How many times is she gonna tell you to fuck off before you get the point?" Relief flooded your chest at the sound of your boyfriend's voice.

Aidan rolled his eyes. "Why don't you fuck off, dude? We were having a moment."

Rafe glared at Aidan, his eyes blazing with rage, and grabbed the other boy by the collar of his Lacoste polo. "That's my girlfriend, you jackass. And you're gonna step the fuck away from her. Now."

You suddenly felt a zinging sensation in your core, turned on by Rafe's behavior. He was so sweet and silly and kind but could turn into a snarling dog in an instant — definitely not someone to fuck around with.

Rafe released Aidan's collar and the brunette gulped, suddenly trembling with fear.

"I - I'm sorry man. I had no idea," Aidan stammered. "I'll leave her alone."

Rafe wrapped a protective arm around your waist, scowling at Aidan. "Get the fuck out of my house."

Aidan meekly nodded, scurrying out of Tannyhill. The party filled with laughter, with people cheering Rafe on. But Rafe ignored the commotion, only focused on you.

"I'm so sorry baby. I should've been there to protect you from that—that asshat," Rafe apologetically said, tenderly stroking your cheek. You leaned into his touch, instantly comforted by the warmth radiating from his body.

"It's okay, Rafe," you assured him. "It's not like you could take me into the bathroom with you."

Rafe frowned, kissing the top of your head. "Maybe I should. Can't have these fuckin creeps tryna mess with my girl."

You laughed, shaking your head at your well-meaning boyfriend. "I adore you, but I'm not gonna stand there and watch you pee."

Rafe flashed you a lopsided grin. "Why not? We've done way worse things in there. That poor sink has seen some shit."

You playfully shoved Rafe's shoulder. "Rafe Alexander Cameron! I can't believe my knight in shining armor is so crass."

"Don't act like you don't love it, baby," he casually replied, kissing your neck. You let out a soft moan, tilting upward so Rafe could have more access.

The two of you were interrupted by the sound of Topper fake retching. "Begging y'all to please get a room," he pleaded. You couldn't help but snicker at Topper's dramatics.

Rafe lazily flipped off his friend before whisking you off to his bedroom and locking the door. "Get on the bed for me, pretty girl," Rafe said huskily, brushing his lips against your ear. Damn, that nickname sounded so much sexier from Rafe's lips than that douche from earlier. (Aaron? Andrew?)

You kicked off your sandals and laid down on top of Rafe's king-sized bed, pulling off your dress and underwear. Rafe quickly shed himself of his clothes and laid on top of you, kissing down every inch of your body.

"So I'm your knight in shining armor, huh? Well let me give my princess the treatment she deserves," Rafe drawled, relishing in the way your body reacted to his touch.

He plunged two fingers inside you, pumping them in and curling them right against your sweet spot. You gasped, loving the way he stretched you out. Rafe had been the only guy you'd ever slept with and at this point, you couldn't imagine yourself with anyone else; how could you, when you've only experienced the best?

You began to crave more than just his fingers, however. "Rafey," you whined, fully overcome with lust.

Rafe chuckled, lazily rubbing at your clit. "Use your words, princess. Tell me how to make you feel good."

You gulped, still feeling a little timid when it came to expressing your desires in the bedroom. "I need—I need your mouth, Rafey. Please."

Rafe knitted his eyebrows in mock confusion. "Where, baby? Your lips? Your cheek? Your forehead?"

"Rafe Cameron. Eat my pussy before I explode," you begged, your horniness taking over.

Rafe smirked, pulling his fingers out of you before slowly running his tongue across your folds. “Fuck, I love it when you talk dirty. Almost as much as I love this sweet little pussy. She's already so wet for me, holy shit."

You whimpered, arching your back in ecstasy as Rafe continued to pleasure you, kissing and sucking at your clit. You felt that familiar fire in your stomach, a sure sign that your climax was fast approaching.

"Oh, Rafe—'m gonna cum," you moaned, your legs shaking. Rafe sped up his movements, rubbing your clit with his thumb and index finger while pumping his tongue in and out of your hole. Eventually the dam burst and you felt your orgasm wash over you as your legs clamped down on either side of Rafe's head.

You took a minute to come down from your high, admiring the sight of your boyfriend with mussed-up hair and your glistening slick decorating his face. Even while looking totally disheveled, Rafe was a work of art.

Rafe wiped his face with the back of his hand, savoring the rest of your juices on his fingers. "Always my favorite meal baby," he purred. "But now I need to be inside you. Turn around for me, princess."

You shifted your position on the bed so you were lying on your stomach while Rafe rummaged in his bedside drawer for a condom. You heard him unwrapping the foil packet and rolling the condom on before feeling the head of Rafe's cock teasing your hole. You let out a breathy moan, loving and loathing the teasing simultaneously.

Rafe held on to your hips as he pushed into you, thrusting in and out at a steady pace. "Can't get enough of this pussy," he grunted. "So warm and tight f'me."

The din of the party going on downstairs faded away, and you could only focus on the sounds of sex occurring in the room: the duet of moans between Rafe and you, the creak of the bed, the sound of skin slapping against skin. A year ago, you couldn't imagine coming out of your shell like this. But now? Well—

"Gonna cum again, Rafey," you breathily blurted out, feeling your pussy clench down on Rafe's cock.

"Fuck yeah, princess, just come all over my cock," Rafe groaned.

Almost as if on cue, you felt your climax wash over you, and Rafe helped you ride out your orgasm before spilling his load into the condom. You had a fleeting thought about Rafe shooting his cum inside you instead, but you weren't quite ready for that yet.

You and Rafe took a minute to catch your breaths before he took off the condom and tied it up, tossing it into the wastebasket next to his bed. He rolled over on his side, enveloping you in his arms and burying his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

"Baby, you're incredible," Rafe murmured, kissing your shoulder.

You smiled, feeling light and airy inside. "Rafe, you're incredible. Thanks for being my scary dog earlier."

"I'm sorry, 'scary dog?'" Rafe repeated with a laugh.

"Scary dog privilege. It's something I saw on TikTok," you explained. "Basically it means that if you're with an intimidating-looking person, people will leave you alone because they don't want to mess with a scary dog. And seeing you be protective like that? It was pretty hot."

Rafe fondly gazed at you, stroking your hip. "Well shit, I'll be your scary dog anytime then, baby."

[ohwowimlonley]

your abt to tell me sirius hasn’t used sex pollen in his tea.. i mean i see him as a total tea addict and the thought of him doing it without you knowing is just🥴🥴

Look i dont know who has been poisoning your mind and telling u that wont happen, but i am here to make corrections.

Lets get this straight, Sirius doses himself ‘accidentally’ all the time, just to pin you down and lament that he “can’t help it, dovie,” and “you’re like it, i know you do, fuuck you’re squeezin’ so tight,”. It’s kind of liberating for him, actually, to not have to think about what he’s doing, but to just do it. Plus, there’s the added bonus that the effects of the pollen can last for hours, which means he gets to have you nonstop for so long without having to take a break.

So, one day maybe he decides to try it on you. Not much, mind you, because you’d never felt the effects before, and he had no idea how much it would do to you. He’d make tea for the both of you, with his untainted (just for the first time, he needed to make sure you’re okay), and watch as you drain every last drop.

Fifteen minutes later and you’re completely incoherent, grinding relentlessly against his denim-clad thigh and babbling something along the lines of ‘please’ and ‘needit’. You grow frustrated very quickly with the button to his jeans, resorting to just tugging on the waistband as you make yourself cum on his leg for the second time in as many minutes.

Sirius would eventually take pity on you and pull his cock out of his jeans and present it to you. You grin so widely Sirius is sure you’re going to split your lip, but you don’t pay him any mindas you shove your pyjama shorts to the side and sink down onto him. The second your hips meet, your pussy convulses around him creating a ring of creamy release around the base of his cock.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetness, you’re even tighter than you always are,” his calloused fingers dig into your plush hips and anchoring you to his body. You struggle against his hold, adamant to start grinding against him, trying desperately to get the friction you need, causing Sirius to hiss at the stimulation, “Jesus, just slow down a little, honey, I don’t wanna cum just yet,”

That did nothing to dissuade you. In reality, the second he mentioned him cumming, you let out a very uncharacteristic growl as you push him flat to the worn sofa cushions and raising and dropping your hips with a desperation he’d never seen from you before.

[mattsfavoritestar]

( inbox request that i somehow lost )

you were used to your boyfriend being sweet and gentle with you during sex. but for some reason he flipped into the complete opposite. you thought that you were a soft and slow vanilla type of person but your mind quickly changes after chris makes you cry for the first time.

warnings: mean!chris, rough sex, dacryphilia, degradation, spanking, afab

@bernardsbendystraws for the dividers <3

a sinister smile plastered on his face as he watches you tremendously fail at containing your emotions. one of your arms were pinned down on your back by chris’s hand from previous attempts of pushing him away while your other wrapped around a pillow as some type of anchor.

your lower half burned with pain and desire as chris roughly snaps his pelvis to yours. “s-slow down! too much— chris!” you mewl as you squirmed. small bruises on your waist from his tight grip grew darker as they contrasted to your skin. chris lets out a breathy laugh, “s’the matter? thought— fuck— thought you wanted this, huh?” he panted.

your tits jolted with each thrust as your vision grew more and more blurry. “fucking slut begging f’me to fuck you,” he mutters. you whined as you felt salty fat tears roll down your warm cheeks. all you wanted was for chris to give you a little bit of attention since you haven’t seen him all day. you heard him laugh then felt a tear being kissed off your face.

“awe, don’t tell me your crying cause i called you a slut,” he mocked. you felt chris somehow go even deeper inside you, kissing your cervix with each thrust. your body burned more than ever at the pleasurable pain. your fingers curled even tighter around the pillow. “fucking crybaby i’ll give you something to really cry for” he spat.

chris flips you over onto your stomach followed by a slap to your ass. he slams back into with no warning causing a strangled moan to fall from your lips. a puddle of your salty tears and drool was formed under your head as your face pressed further in the mattress. your body felt weak, the pillow you previously held now discarded.

“that’s it, fuck— baby” chris groans. his pace never faltered yet he let his head drops back like it always does when he’s at the brink of release. another harsh slap across your reddened ass, but instead of pulling away, you leaned more into him. he laughs, “thought you said s’too much?” he mocks your words from earlier.

[crimsonbubble]

Missionary Impossible

cw. nsfw, afab!reader, fwb2l au, praise, nipple play, marking, hair pulling, manhandling, creampie *not proofread, just pure horny*

[special fic for my koya <33 @koyagifs]

taglist (dm to be tagged); @sidusvenari @sugarnspice630 @ravenempress101 @autieofthevalley @linearities @wisejudgedragonhairdo @madiexuberant @mifuelarts @straytiny127 @yun-fangz @huen1ngk41 @juyeonshour @uniq-tastic @hongjng8 @miyaluvvsyou @everyonewooeverywhere @hongjoongtime117 @oddracha @kingbloopter @jay-0n3s @ane1o2 @jelly1117 @aftertherain-atr @k-zuzulibrary @lxnnrobin @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @lezleegerguson-120 @moonlitarcade

masterlist <3

Friends don’t do this. So why are you doing it? And why does it feel so right?

“Fuck—look at you,” The way his hands grip your thighs as you bounce on his lap, the way his lips feel when they press against yours to keep you from getting a noise complaint, the way he moans into your kisses, the way he aches for you, in ways that you never knew until now. “All fucked out and pretty on my cock.”

His hands get more restless by the second, pressing your chest to his as he guides your shaky hips. Jongho threw caution to the wind and his restraints out the window as he held you, marking and nipping at your neck till roses bloomed across your skin.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your throat, the sound vibrating through your entire body. Every touch feels electric, like you’re teetering on the edge of something dangerous and delicious. The air between you is thick with tension, with want, with the unspoken truth that this—whatever this is—crossed the line of friendship long ago. But at this moment, neither of you cares.

His name slips from your lips like a prayer and a curse, breathy and desperate, as if saying it aloud might anchor you in reality—or pull you further from it. Jongho's grip tightens, not possessive, but grounding, like he needs to make sure you’re both still here, still wrapped in this secret, stolen moment. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and blown wide, searching yours for any sign of hesitation. But there is none—only fire. Only want—only the quiet, dangerous promise of what happens next.

The kiss that followed was a pure need, longing for one another as if you were sealing the deal on what is now your new relationship. You shamelessly fucked yourself on his cock, your arousal evident as it gushes out of you. Jongho felt you slow down, his hands pressing under the curve of your ass as he fucked you on him himself.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, your moans coming out in hiccups. Your body felt weak in his arms, letting him take over as he lifted and dropped you on his cock. Jongho’s cock is hitting all the right spots, leaving you as putty on his lap as he moved you. His cock feels bigger than before, stretching your walls past anything you’ve taken before. Your arms wrap around him, your face in the crook of his neck as you whine.

“Fuck, I can’t take this anymore-” Jongho grunted as he laid you down on the couch. The position change left you breathless, your impatience disguising itself in needy moans and winded whimpers. Jongho pressed himself between your legs, bottoming out quickly. His hands found yours, pinning them to the plush couch that is soaking up the heinous collection of your juices. 

“Jongho-” Your breathing is staggered, rugged as you try to keep up with his pace. He’s pressing so deep, pushing all the air from your lungs. He’s bottoming out with each thrust, filling you with everything he has to offer and then some. You can hear his moans even clearer than before, the sounds going straight to your swollen clit. His eyes lock with yours, swimming with lust and love as he fucks you within an inch of your life.

His lips found yours again, molding together as he pushed you further and further. He removed a hand from yours, sliding between your bodies and finding your clit. Your eyes roll back as stars shoot across your vision, your body pulling taut as Jongho fucked up through your release. His own wasn't too far behind. His hand found yours again, tangling together tightly as he let himself go. His body shook as the orgasm hit him in waves.

Jongho's body stilled as the sensitivity made its appearance. He stayed tangled with you on the couch, basking in the warmth and bliss surrounding you. Your eyes, no longer hazy, looked into his, a soft smile spreading across your face before you even realized it. Jongho mirrored yours as he kissed you again, soft and soothing.

The night was quiet as you lay with him. No words had to be said to understand the new feelings that arose. Besides, this is a matter for the morning.”So,” you started, a coy smile tugging at your lips. “What are we?” Jongho rolled his eyes, laughing as he peeled himself away from you.

Jongho rolled his eyes, laughing as he peeled himself away from you. “You always do this,” he said, shaking his head. You grinned. “Do what?” “Ask questions you already know the answer to.” He leaned down, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “We’re us. That’s enough, isn’t it?”

And somehow, it was.