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kateschi · 7 months ago

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by god, don't leave me

synopsis: in a heart-wrenching moment of despair, katsuki races through a hospital to find you, only to confront the devastating reality.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes: have you noticed how much I love "where is my wife?" angst + major character death btw!!

katsuki’s heart pounds in his chest like it’s ready to explode. his legs push him forward, carrying him through the sterile, cold hallways of the hospital, each step echoing off the walls in a frantic, relentless rhythm.

“where is she?” his voice breaks through the silence, barely held together by a thread. “where is my wife?!”

the nurse at the counter starts to respond, her eyes filled with the kind of pity he can’t bear to see. his face contorts in desperation, and he doesn’t wait for her to explain.

he’s moving, his boots slamming against the floor, refusing to believe—refusing to even consider—that he might be too late.

another doctor, another nurse tries to intercept him, but he’s beyond hearing them. he pushes past, breaking into a sprint, his breath coming in gasps, wild and desperate.

when he reaches your room, it’s as if time stops.

there’s a stillness in the air that hits him like a punch to the gut. he stands there, gripping the doorframe, refusing to believe what he sees.

you’re lying in the bed, so quiet, so still. too still.

he stumbles to a halt, the sight of you stealing the last shred of breath he had left. you're lying there so still, too still.

the life that always seemed to burst out of you—the laughter, the warmth, the damn light—it’s all gone. all that’s left is your body, and that makes him furious, desperate, helpless.

“hey.” his voice trembles as he reaches for you, his hand hovering over your cheek before he finally touches it, cupping your face with fingers that shake uncontrollably.

the warmth he’s looking for isn’t there, the color gone from your skin. “come on,” he whispers, his voice barely a breath as his thumb traces your cheek. “come on, y/n, wake up.”

but you don’t respond.

he bites his lip hard, tasting blood, willing the agony to stop because he can’t let you go.

he’s gripping your shoulders now, his fingers sinking into you like he could hold you here, force you back to life by sheer will alone.

“you… you promised,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “you said we’d grow old together, remember? that we’d be those old, grumpy people who couldn’t stand anyone but each other.”

but there’s no answer, no gentle squeeze of his hand, no reassuring smile. just silence. he presses his lips to your forehead, his hands still cupping your face as if he can anchor you, hold you here with him just a little longer.

“you lied to me,” he murmurs, his voice trembling, harsh, as though he can will you back by sheer desperation. “you said you’d stay with me—no matter what. no matter what.”

katsuki's hands go slack, slipping from your face to the edge of the bed, where his knuckles press white into the mattress.

he stares, his mind refusing to process, searching for any sign that this is all some horrible, twisted joke.

for one unbearable, suspended moment, he almost expects you to stir, to open your eyes with that look that says he’s an idiot for worrying so much.

but there’s nothing. just the faint beep of machines, the sterile scent of antiseptic, the steady ache that presses harder and harder against his ribs, hollowing him out with each passing second.

his fingers curl against the sheets as a tremor runs through him, his breath hitching violently. memories flood in unbidden—moments he thought he’d have time to revisit someday.

how you’d laugh and shake your head when he’d scowl over some trivial thing. how you’d tuck yourself into his side on quiet mornings, your hand pressed against his chest, the sound of your breathing steady against his heartbeat.

katsuki feels his throat tighten as he leans down, forehead pressing against the coolness of your hand.

"we had a whole life planned out," he whispers, voice breaking.

“remember? we’d find that crappy house by the beach, fix it up, make it ours. you were gonna paint the walls bright colors, and I was gonna complain and pretend I hated it."

he lets out a jagged breath, eyes clenching shut as his shoulders shake, the reality tearing through him in waves.

this wasn’t supposed to be how it ended. there was supposed to be more—more days, more late nights, more everything.

“I don’t…” he struggles, voice barely more than a broken rasp, “I don’t want to do this without you.” the words slip out, hollow, stripped of all the fire he’s ever had, leaving nothing but the raw ache underneath.

he presses his face into the crook of your neck, searching for any hint of the warmth that was once there, anything to hold onto, but it’s gone.

and it hits him, like the ground crumbling from under his feet, that you’re really not coming back.

the weight of all he’s lost crashes into him. he thinks of the arguments that meant nothing now, all the times he’d leave you with a brusque goodbye, figuring he’d make it up to you later.

how you’d roll your eyes at his stubborn pride, laughing at how he’d scowl at affection in public yet draw you close the moment he thought no one was watching.

he’d do anything to take it all back, just to hold you again, to let you know he’d trade every bit of strength, every scrap of pride if it meant you’d be here, laughing at him, calling him out on his nonsense.

he doesn’t notice the tears streaking down his face as he stares at you, the silence so absolute it feels like it’s burying him.

the room feels colder now, like the world has shifted on its axis, taking you with it.

for a moment, he wonders if he can even go back to the life you both shared; if he can return to the apartment filled with pieces of you in every room, every corner.

katsuki’s shoulders sag under the crushing weight of it all, fingers curling around the edge of the bed as he takes a shuddering breath. he wants to scream, rage, curse the universe for being so damn unfair.

but all he can manage is a broken whisper. “I should have told you more… should have said it every day. you’d have laughed at me, said I was going—soft.”

he gathers you closer, pressing your body against his own as he begins to sway, rocking gently back and forth as though he can somehow soothe the emptiness inside him.

his chest shakes, the first tears slipping down silently, but then they come harder, a ragged sob tearing from his throat as he buries his face in your neck.

“I love you…” the words escape in a cracked whisper, his breath hitching as he clings to you, his grip tightening, desperate.

“I love you… I love you…” he murmurs, his voice breaking more with each word.

his tears fall faster, his breath coming in shuddering gasps, as if the weight of those words—the words he can never say to you again—is too much to bear.

“I love you,” he chokes out, each syllable fractured, his body trembling as he holds you closer, his tears soaking your shoulder.

his heart shatters all over again with every whispered confession, until he’s clutching you so tightly it hurts, his sobs growing louder, rawer, until he’s left gasping, brokenly repeating, “I love you—I love you, y/n—so much.”

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

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barnesonly · 4 days ago

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˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

word count: 6301

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

Chapter Two | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

You still sit with him. You don’t break the silence.

You can’t.

Not when it feels like the air is finally holding something fragile between you — something that could crack open if you breathe too loud.

But then… it does crack.

Not from him.

From you.

Your voice comes quiet. Almost too quiet.

“…Can I touch you?”

The words surprise even you. Not because they’re sudden — they’ve been building, trapped behind your ribs for days — but because you said them out loud. Because you let the ache slip through.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

You press on, a little shakier now. “I just—” You swallow hard. “It’s hard to explain. But when I… when I touch people, I can feel more. It’s like something opens. And with you, it’s…” You hesitate, breath catching. “It’s pulling at me. Like it wants to happen. Like it’s already happening and I just — I need it to be real.”

Still no answer. But his breathing has shifted. Slower. Deeper. Not cold. Not distant. Listening.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” you add. “I don’t want to take anything. I just… I need to feel something. I need to know I’m still me. That you’re still you. Even if it’s just for a second.”

A beat.

Two.

You think he’s going to say no. Or worse — nothing at all. But then… his metal hand shifts slightly on the chain. Just enough to give you space. Just enough to say if you want to, you can.

Your breath hitches. You inch forward, slowly — not rushing, not pushing. You lift your hand with care, like you’re holding a thread of glass.

And when your fingertips graze his palm —

The world quiets.

It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t burn.

It settles.

A warmth pulses through you, slow and deep — not from him, not from you, but something that lives between you. Something buried and broken and barely stitched together.

You close your eyes. Just for a moment. Let yourself feel it. Let yourself have it.

His hand stays still in yours. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away.

Your fingers rest lightly in his metal palm, and it’s not warm — not like human skin — but it’s solid. Real. The ridges and cool plates beneath your touch make your throat tighten.

You think you might cry.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Not here.

So instead, you just stay like that — half-curled in front of him, knees aching, bones cold, but your hand held open against his. Like an offering. Like a prayer.

He could crush you. You know that. If he wanted to, he could break every bone in your hand before you had time to gasp.

But he doesn’t. He lets you touch him. Lets you stay.

And slowly — so slowly — the edge of tension in your body starts to ease. Not vanish. But soften. Settle. The way your power settles when you stop trying to contain it — humming low, like a second heartbeat in your spine.

His head tilts. Barely. Like he’s trying to understand you better. Like he’s watching your expression for something you haven’t said yet.

“Why do you want this?” he asks. His voice is quieter now. Not just low — gentle. Unfamiliar in his own mouth, like it hasn’t been used for softness in a long, long time.

You look at him. He’s beautiful in that terrifying way — all sharp lines and bruised silence and eyes that don’t know how to lie. But under it — under all the programming, under all the control — there’s a man. A soul. Hurt, maybe, but still there.

And for some reason… he’s letting you see it.

“I don’t know,” you admit. Your voice wavers. Your fingers tighten just a little in his hand. Not possessive — grounding.

“I think I’m just… tired. Of being nothing. Of pretending this doesn’t affect me.”

A pause. Then, even softer:

“When I’m near you, it’s like I can breathe again. Like something’s pulling at me, asking me to remember who I was before all this. Before them.”

You lower your gaze, suddenly unsure if you’ve said too much. If you’ve broken something sacred by naming it out loud.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Instead — unbelievably — he moves.

His thumb shifts slightly. Just enough to press against your knuckle. Not a squeeze. Not even pressure. Just presence.

Your breath shudders. And when you look up — his eyes are already on you.

Not blank.

Not empty.

Not the soldier they sent to kill.

But something else. Someone.

“You don’t feel like them,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

He shakes his head once. A flicker of something — confusion, maybe. Vulnerability. The echo of a man trying to understand the light you carry into his darkness.

“You don’t feel like Hydra.”

Your lips part — not with a reply, but with the sharp pull of emotion in your chest. He felt that. He knows that. Somewhere deep inside, past all the noise, he knows you’re not like them.

You want to cry again. But instead — you whisper:

“Neither do you.”

A long silence stretches between you.

But this time, it’s not heavy.

It’s full.

And for the first time since you were thrown into this nightmare — you don’t feel alone.

Not completely.

Not while his hand is still in yours.

———

The lights are brighter in this room.

Not warm. Not comforting. Just clinical. Exposing.

You sit in the same chair as before, wrists folded neatly in your lap, trying not to show how badly your hands are shaking.

Agent Kern watches you across the metal table — same pristine uniform, same gloved fingers laced together, same sharp, unreadable stare. But there’s something different in him today. A tension. A stillness too exact to be casual.

He knows something.

You force yourself to keep breathing. One in. One out.

“You were with him for twenty-seven minutes,” Kern says calmly, reading off a clipboard like it’s scripture. “That’s longer than usual.”

You nod once. “He didn’t push me away.”

Kern doesn’t react. Just scribbles something. The scratch of his pen feels louder than it should.

“Did he speak?”

You hesitate. Just a second.

“Yes.”

Kern looks up at you. Not dramatically. Just a flick of his eyes — like a knife glinting in a dark hallway.

“And what did he say?”

Your throat tightens. “He asked why I touched him. I told him I needed it.”

Kern tilts his head. “Needed it?”

“Yes,” you say, a little too fast, “I can feel his emotions clearly this way. Being near him calms the noise. Makes me more stable.”

He watches you for another beat. You can almost hear the wheels turning behind his eyes.

“And what did he say to that?”

You hesitate again. Not for dramatic effect — just because you don’t know how much truth to offer before it becomes dangerous.

“He said I didn’t feel like them.”

Kern’s eyes narrow.

“That’s not an operational phrase.”

“No.”

“That’s not part of his language bank.”

You hold his gaze, heartbeat ticking hard against your ribs.

“I think it means he’s starting to… separate. Between who’s part of this and who isn’t. Between threat and non-threat.”

You expect a reaction — surprise, interest, anything… But Kern just leans back in his chair.

“Interesting,” he says finally. His voice is smooth. Too smooth. “And what do you think you are, exactly? Threat? Or tool?”

You blink. The words hit harder than you expect.

Tool. You’ve heard that one before. From the nurses. From the scientists. From your own mouth, whispering reminders to yourself in the cell when you forgot how to breathe.

Be useful. Be soft. Be what they need.

“I think,” you say quietly, “I’m the only one who sees him as a person.”

Kern’s expression doesn’t change.

But something shifts. His fingers twitch slightly — a restrained movement. A flash of something just below the surface. “You’re getting attached,” he says flatly.

“I’m doing my job.”

“Your job,” he echoes, eyes narrowing, “is to keep him stable. To soothe his aggression. Not to indulge your own need for connection.”

You flinch. Just slightly.

But it’s enough. He sees it.

“You were selected because you’re malleable,” Kern continues, voice colder now. “Not because he likes you. Not because you matter to him.”

You lower your gaze. The shame flares hot in your chest, but beneath it — quieter — there’s anger. A slow, steady ember.

You don’t answer.

He stands. “Session in two days. We’ll skip a day, let you reset.” he says. “We’ll be monitoring every heartbeat.”

You nod without looking up.

He leaves.

The door seals behind him. And once again, you’re alone. Alone with the weight of what you can’t say. With the memory of the Soldier’s hand in yours — unmoving, unreadable, but not rejecting.

You stay there for a while in the silence… And somewhere inside, beneath the shame and the exhaustion, you feel something curl in your chest and dig its claws in.

You matter.

You know you do.

Even if they don’t want you to.

Interview over.

———

They drag you back to your cell, drop you on the floor — the way they always do.

Your fingertips are digging into your palms now. Hard enough to leave half-moon shapes behind. You don’t even realize it until your vision starts to blur.

You’re not crying. Not exactly. It’s not tears. It’s… pressure. Like something behind your ribs is pressing too hard against the inside of your bones. Like if you exhale too much, you’ll break.

They want you calm.

They want you quiet.

They want you to walk back into that room in two days like nothing is wrong. Like it’s all working.

You rise stiffly and move to the sink in your corner cell. The water is cold, almost sharp, when you splash it on your face — but it doesn’t help. The shake in your hands doesn’t stop. Your reflection stares back, hollow-eyed and pale, like a ghost wearing your skin.

You shouldn’t go there.

The thought comes soft, unspoken.

You could say you’re sick. You could fake a fever, a tremor, anything. Kern wouldn’t risk losing control of his precious asset. They’d delay. They’d reschedule. You could buy yourself time.

Time to breathe.

Time to forget the weight of his hand in yours. The way his thumb moved — just slightly — like he was real. Like he was choosing to stay.

You grip the edge of the sink tighter.

Because the truth is… you’re not scared of him.

You’re scared of what you’re becoming.

You’re scared that the silence between you was the first time in months you’ve felt like a person. That the sound of his voice — low, cautious, gentle — has been playing on a loop in your mind ever since.

“Why do you want this?”

“You don’t feel like them.”

You press your fists to your chest like you can push the memory out.

You’re not supposed to feel this. You were meant to soothe him. Anchor him. Be a tether, not a mirror.

But something’s shifting now. You’re starting to see him. Not just the shell. Not just the Winter Soldier. The man underneath.

And worse — he’s starting to see you back.

You lean your forehead against the cold concrete wall, breath shallow.

Don’t go, you tell yourself. Just this once. Just rest. Tell them you’re unwell. Keep your distance. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone.

But the truth slithers through you, dark and shameful.

You want to go back.

You want him to look at you again.

You want the silence. The stillness. The impossible safety of a man who could kill you in a heartbeat choosing not to.

You want to hear his voice again — not the blank voice they gave him, but the one that shook when he said your touch felt different.

Your knees give a little. You slide down the wall slowly, curl in on yourself.

And for the first time since you were dragged into this hell — you admit it.

You want him to choose you.

Not because he was ordered to. Not because you’re useful but because something inside him — something broken and forgotten — knows you.

You bury your face in your arms.

You won’t pretend to be sick.

You’ll go back.

Because you’re not afraid of the Soldier. You’re afraid of the way your heart beats quieter when he looks at you like you’re real.

And you don’t know if it’s love.

But it’s something.

And it’s already too late to stop it.

———

You step through like always — silent, steady, trained — but your heart is doing something wild behind your ribs. Like it’s trying to throw itself forward. Toward him.

He’s sitting exactly where he was all these times before. Ankles shackled, arms loose at his sides, head tilted slightly forward.

And again his eyes lift the moment you enter.

Not slowly. Not by accident. He waited.

Again.

You freeze for a half-second. Just long enough to catch it — the flicker in his face. The smallest change. A softening at the corner of his mouth. It’s not quite a smile.

But it’s close.

It’s gone in an instant — like he didn’t mean to let it slip.

But it happened.

And your breath catches like a wire pulled tight.

He saw you.

He sees you.

You sit across from him — slower than usual — not because you’re stalling, but because your body is listening now. Waiting to feel that strange stillness again. That hum between you. The one that doesn’t belong to Hydra.

For a few seconds, he just watches you. Not hostile. Not guarded. Just… present.

You wet your lips. Your voice is a whisper when it finally comes.

“Hi.”

His brow twitches. Not a reaction, not really — but not neutral, either. His head tilts just a little. “Why didn’t you come yesterday?” he asks.

You blink. You weren’t expecting that — for him to actually care this much about your presence. Or maybe you did?

I—” Your voice falters. You swallow. “Kern said so. Said we need time to reset”

“Kern?” His brow raised slightly.

“One of the agents.”

“Ah,” he nods, lightly. He’s quiet. Then, softly — softer than anything you’ve heard him say yet:

“I was waiting for you yesterday.”

The words hit you like a wave.

He missed you.

He doesn’t know it, maybe. Doesn’t have the language for it.

But his presence — his choice to say that — it’s everything.

Your hands fidget in your lap. You don’t reach for him this time. You don’t want to scare it off.

“You remembered I wasn’t there,” you say quietly, smiling softly at him, somehow with pride or maybe just pure happiness.

His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I remember you.”

The room tilts. You exhale shakily, eyes burning. You shouldn’t feel this much. You shouldn’t let it in. But the way he says it — like it costs him something — like every word is carved from stone and still he offers it to you. You nod. Just once. Like a vow.

He shifts slightly. The chains clink. Not threatening — just… movement. Adjustment. Like he’s trying to find where to put this feeling.

“I don’t know why I want you to come back,” he murmurs, eyes lowering. “But I do.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second. The pain in your chest is unbearable. Not because it hurts — but because it doesn’t. Because for the first time, you feel safe.

Not with the guards.

Not with the cameras.

Not with Kern.

With him. With the weapon they said could never be human again.

You don’t touch him this time, you don’t have to because when he looks up again — that not-quite-smile is back. Just a flicker. Just for you.

It stays there for half a breath longer this time before his face shutters again. There’s a thrum deep in your chest. Like something waking up. Something old and afraid and starved.

For connection.

For gentleness.

For someone who looks at you like you’re not a tool, not an asset, not a ghost in someone else’s war.

Just a girl.

Just a presence.

Your throat is dry, but you ask anyway — softly:

“What do you mean? About wanting me to come back.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts — down to your hands in your lap, to the floor, to the flicker of light overhead like it’s too bright now. Like he’s remembering something he’s not supposed to.

“I… don’t know,” he admits. “It’s easier when you’re here.”

The words are so quiet they could vanish. But they don’t. They land between you like a secret. You study him, unsure how to breathe around the ache blooming in your lungs.

“Easier?” you echo.

He nods, almost imperceptibly. His jaw tightens. You can tell it costs him something — not just to say it, but to feel it.

He shifts again. The metal chain tugs softly at his wrist, and his voice drops lower. “Everything else is loud. The missions. The resets. The voices.”

Your heart cracks.

“And me?”

He looks at you.

This time, really looks — not like a soldier cataloging a target, but like a man trying to remember what peace looks like.

“You’re quiet,” he says. “Not in your voice. Just… in here.” He taps a finger to his temple.

You blink. He means your mind. The place no one else ever touches without breaking something. You blink again, and tears threaten — hot, unwelcome, dangerous. You look away fast. You don’t want him to see.

But he already has. His metal hand shifts, inching forward on instinct — not close enough to touch, but almost. “I just… I don’t like when you’re gone,” he says, and it sounds raw. Unfiltered.

It cuts straight through you. You lift your eyes again. “Neither do I.”

There’s silence. Thick, heavy silence.

But it isn’t empty.

It means something now.

You feel it — like the gravity in the room changed. Like you could fall into him if you let yourself.

His eyes are still on you.

“You should touch me again,” he says suddenly.

It knocks the wind from you. Your lips part. “What?”

“Like last time,” he says, low. “When you asked.”

Your pulse spikes. You hadn’t thought he would ask you that. Not that.

“Did you like it?” you whisper, heart pounding.

He nods once. “Didn’t hurt,” he says.

Then, softer: “Felt real.”

Your hand moves without thinking — slow, careful — like you’re reaching for a wounded animal and when your fingertips brush his metal hand this time, he doesn’t flinch.

He watches the contact. Watches you.

And then — impossibly — he turns his hand over, offering the palm.

Letting you hold it.

Like he’s ready.

Like he wants it.

You curl your fingers into his and lets out a breath.

And that smile — that flicker — returns. Still small. Still almost nothing… But it’s there for you.

His hand is heavy in yours — cool metal, impossible strength — but it doesn’t scare you.

Because he gave it to you.

Because he chose.

And now he’s watching you again — not the way he did before, sharp and assessing — but like he’s trying to understand something. Something inside you he doesn’t have words for yet. You stroke your thumb gently across the metal. He glances down at the contact.

Then — his voice, low and strange:

“Do they hurt you?”

You freeze. Your breath catches. He doesn’t look up right away, like he’s afraid of the answer. Or what it’ll do to him and you don’t answer at first. You can’t. Because something in your chest is splintering. Not from fear. Not from pain. From being seen.

You swallow hard. Try to speak. “Why are you asking me that?”

He finally lifts his gaze… And his eyes — god — there’s something new in them now. A tension. A fury, quiet and coiled. Still buried deep beneath all the conditioning, but there.

Because you didn’t say no.

Because you hesitated.

His jaw works. “I know what it’s like. To be used.”

Your lips part, you want to say something but the words don’t come because he’s still speaking. Still unfolding.

“They hurt me,” he says, voice flat. “Strap me down. Run wires through my skull. Rip out what they don’t like and fill it with noise.” His jaw clenches. “I hate them,” he says. The words are soft. Final.

Then he glances at your hand still wrapped in his — as if realizing it’s the only gentle thing in the room. “I don’t want them to do that to you.”

Your throat is too tight to answer.

He leans forward slightly. Just an inch. Just enough for you to feel it — the weight of his concern. The shield forming where no one taught him to build one.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks again, quieter this time.

And you realize: he isn’t asking to know. He’s asking so he can remember. So he can stop them. So he can keep that one piece of you safe — whatever part they haven’t already broken.

You try to smile. It trembles. “Not the way they hurt you,” you say. “But… it’s not easy.”

His eyes narrow slightly. A flicker of emotion — one that doesn’t belong to Hydra. Not discipline. Not calculation.

Something almost… feral.

You squeeze his hand gently. “They tell me I’m here to help you,” you whisper. “But it doesn’t feel like that.”

He tilts his head. “What does it feel like?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because what it feels like — right now — is this:

You, sitting across from a man who was turned into a ghost, who was stripped of everything soft — and still, somehow, he is trying to protect you.

And that makes you feel something so devastatingly human, you don’t know what to do with it. So instead, you whisper the only truth that doesn’t hurt:

“I like it better when it’s just us.”

His gaze lingers on your face.

“Me too.”

You’re still holding his hand when the door creaks open. You both flinch — not from fear. From instinct.

You don’t know how long you sat there, it didn’t feel real. You snap back to reality the moment you hear the door open.

The spell breaks.

Kern enters like he always does: clipboard in one hand, a pen tapping against his thigh. But this time, he doesn’t approach with tests or notes. He stays near the door. Watching.

You straighten slowly, tense. The soldier shifts too, eyes flicking from you to the intruder. His fingers tighten around yours.

And that’s when you know something’s wrong.

Kern’s expression is too calm. Too still. He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Let’s run a little test,” he says. “Shall we?”

You open your mouth. “Kern—”

But it’s already too late.

His voice is low. Deliberate. And Russian.

“Желание.”

Soldier jerks. His breath hitches — not a gasp, but close. Like something inside him just twitched.

You turn sharply. “Stop it—!”

Kern’s voice is louder now. Crisp. Measured. “Ржавый. Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

“No—!” You lurch to your feet, but Soldier doesn’t move. He can’t.

He’s shaking now — barely. Like his muscles are locked in a war you can’t see.

“Печь. Девять.”

His jaw clenches. The metal hand curls into a fist.

“Kern, please!” you snap.

But Kern doesn’t even blink. “Добросердечный. Возвращение на родину.”

Soldier lurches forward like he’s being pulled. His breath is ragged now — almost a growl.

You reach for him. You try, you so desperately try to stop this, whatever this is. You try to hold it together. You turn to The Soldier, you try to speak to him through it. “It’s okay. You’re okay—”

And then, softly, Kern finishes it:

“Один. Грузовой вагон.”

Silence.

He rises.

Like a shadow.

Like something unchained.

Your breath catches as you stumble backward.

He’s looking through you now. Like you’re not there. Not really. The Soldier’s breathing is fast now. His eyes dart — not to Kern. Not to you. To the floor. To the air. Like he’s somewhere else.

Kern watches like a scientist in a lab.

You know what this is — what he wants. He’s trying to break it. Break you. Wants to see if he will hurt you. Wants to prove you’re wrong to believe he’s something more than a weapon.

Your voice trembles. “Please…”

He steps forward. Slow. Measured. His eyes are wide but empty. Hollow.

“It’s me. Little Dove. You remember me.”

Nothing.

You don’t move. You don’t run. You just breathe — slow and steady — even though your body is screaming. “Please,” you whisper, “don’t let them take this from you.”

His metal arm lifts. You flinch—but don’t close your eyes.

He stops. His hand shakes. Hard. Like he’s fighting it. Like there’s something else screaming inside him, too.

And then everything snaps.

The Soldier grabs you by the throat. You don’t even have time to scream. The cold of his metal hand is the first thing you feel — the pressure second. He pins you back, not slamming but shoving, calculated and brutal. Your feet skid against the floor. Your hands claw at his wrist.

You can’t breathe.

Your vision starts to blur.

But you don’t fight him. You look at him and your lips move even without air. “Please.”

For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then — his expression cracks. His eyes widen. Blink. Blink again.

And then he sees you.

The Soldier’s grip falters.

He looks down at his hand.

At your throat.

At the bruises already forming.

And he stumbles back like he’s been shot.

He releases you so fast you hit the ground coughing, air burning in your lungs. His gaze is still fixed on his own hand.

Like he doesn’t understand how it got there.

Like it betrayed him.

He backs up. Shaking. Trembling. His mouth opens like he’s going to say something — but nothing comes out.

Kern, still standing by the door, clicks his pen.

“Interesting,” he says mildly.

You look up at him, eyes burning. “You did this,” you rasp.

But he’s not even looking at you anymore.

He’s watching the Soldier — who’s still staring at his metal arm, like it’s no longer a part of him. Like it’s a weapon that acted on its own.

And maybe it did.

Kern smiles faintly, glancing at you.

“Good to know the programming still works on you.”

You’re still gasping when the door bursts open again. Two guards sweep in like a storm — faceless, armored, efficient. You barely lift your head before they’re on you.

“Wait—” your voice is hoarse, broken. “Don’t—”

Gloved hands seize your arms.

You thrash, cough, try to hold onto the floor, something, but they’ve done this too many times. You’re yanked to your feet with such force your knees nearly buckle.

The Soldier jerks forward. Not far — the chains stop him. But his body reacts on instinct. Like he’s going to stop them.

And then he doesn’t.

He freezes.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t reach. Doesn’t fight.

He just stands there, watching.

Frozen in horror.

Like if he moves again, he’ll hurt you worse.

Like he already believes he’s a monster.

“Let me go!” you cry, struggling hard now. “He didn’t mean to—”

The guards don’t care. They drag you out anyway.

Your feet scrape against the floor. You’re coughing and pulling and twisting, but the Soldier’s eyes never leave yours — not even when you disappear through the door, not even when Kern steps into his line of sight again.

That shattered look stays. Even when you’re gone.

And Kern?

He just laughs under his breath.

“Attachment,” he says casually. “Always the most fragile weakness.”

———

The cell door slams behind you like a gunshot.

You stumble forward, landing hard on your knees. The air still won’t come right — your throat burns, every breath a jagged edge.

You’re not crying.

You won’t.

Even if your hands are shaking, even if your neck is raw and purpled, even if your chest feels like something has been torn out — you refuse to give them that.

The heavy click of boots follows. You don’t need to look to know it’s him.

Kern.

He lets the silence stretch long, lets it crawl into the corners of the room like mold.

“I warned you,” he says at last, voice calm. Too calm. “You get too close to fire — you’ll get burned, little dove.” He lets out a dark chuckle. “Such a nickname he’s got you, huh?”

You press your palms into the floor. You want to rise. You want to scream.

But you’re still trying to breathe.

“Don’t look so surprised,” he continues. “That was always going to happen. It’s what he is. What he was made to be.”

Your voice is hoarse when it scrapes out. “You did it on purpose.”

He crouches beside you, one hand on his knee, the other tapping a cigarette against a silver case he hasn’t even opened.

“I reminded him,” Kern says with mock patience. “That’s all. A few simple words. And look how fast he remembered who he belongs to.”

You look up at him now — eyes burning.

“That wasn’t him.”

Kern grins, small and smug. “No? Then who was it choking the life out of you?”

You don’t blink. “You.”

That wipes the grin clean off his face for a second. But he recovers fast — steps back with a small exhale, like you’ve amused him instead of landed a blow.

“Sentimental attachment makes you sloppy,” he says. “We needed to reset expectations.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your voice is fraying.

But your glare says enough.

Kern taps his cigarette case once against the bars before turning for the exit.

“Rest up. You’ll see him again soon. Maybe next time he’ll finish the job.”

And then he’s gone.

The door slams shut again. This time it sounds like the end of something.

But you pull yourself up slowly, hands trembling, blood singing in your ears.

Because it’s not the end.

Not even close.

———

You step into the room like always.

But nothing feels like always.

Your throat still aches — not from the pressure, but from the silence that followed. From the sound of his voice gone flat. From the feel of cold metal where warmth had started to grow.

Your skin blooms with bruises — stark against your collarbone and the fragile stem of your neck. You tried to cover them. Kern didn’t bother. Maybe he wanted them seen.

Maybe he wanted to see them.

But the Winter Soldier doesn’t look at you.

He always did. Every time before, the second you crossed the threshold, his gaze found yours — sharp, searching, strange.

Now? His head is down. Eyes low. Shackled hands limp in his lap.

And the silence is unbearable.

You swallow — wincing at the pull. You take slow, careful steps towards him and sit down on the ground next to him without a word. You try not to flinch when the chains rattle. Try not to remember the sound of them dragging as he stood and reached for your throat.

His voice, when it finally comes, is hoarse.

“I told them I didn’t want you back.”

Your heart doesn’t break.

It sinks — cold and slow, like it’s being drowned.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t know how.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says next — quiet, broken. “I told them. I told them.”

His hands flex in the cuffs. Not violently. Like he’s checking they’re still there. That he’s still bound.

“I would never—” He cuts off. Shakes his head like the words don’t belong to him.

You sit still. You have to — not out of fear, but something deeper. Something aching. You see it on him. In him.

He’s afraid.

Not of you.

Of himself.

“It wasn’t you,” you say softly.

He flinches. “I hurt you,” he mutters, barely audible. “I saw the marks. I felt it.” He glances at your bruised neck. “I still see them.”

You want to reach for him — god, you do — but you don’t because you know — even your kindness could cut him now.

“I wasn’t afraid of you,” you whisper.

His head lifts just slightly — not all the way. Like he wants to look, but can’t bear what he’ll see.

“Then what were you afraid of?” he asks, voice splintering.

You meet his eyes — because someone has to.

“Of losing you to them.”

That gets him.

His jaw tightens, eyes burning with something he doesn’t have a name for. His whole body goes still, like if he breathes wrong, he’ll shatter.

“I don’t want to be theirs anymore,” he says, and it’s a confession. A plea. “But they live in me.”

“They don’t have to win,” you say. “Not if you fight.”

“And if I lose?”

“You won’t lose me.”

He looks at you now and there’s so much pain in it — but something else, too. Something like hope.

You sit in the quiet, watching him. His face is unreadable again — the stillness of a weapon, not a man.

But you know better now. Slowly — so slowly — you lift your hand. Just an inch off your thigh. Palm open. Gentle. Not demanding. Just offering.

He sees it.

And flinches.

“Don’t.”

It’s sharp. Not loud, but final. Like he’s choking on glass.

Your hand falls. Your throat closes and then — because you can’t just leave it there — your voice cracks open.

“Please.”

He shakes his head. Not at you. At himself.

“I can’t… I don’t trust what I’ll do.”

You blink through the burn in your eyes. You don’t look away.

“I do.”

He exhales through his nose, bitter and broken.

“You shouldn’t.”

You inch closer, your fingers trembling in your lap.

“They made you do it,” you whisper. “Not you. Not the man who waited for me. Who remembered me.”

He looks at you — and it’s unbearable. His eyes are wild with guilt. With panic.

“They’ll do it again,” he rasps. “You don’t understand. They live in me.”

“I don’t care,” you say, and the truth of it rocks through you. “They can live in you. They can whisper and push and break you in every way — but they don’t get this.”

He’s frozen.

“This thing we built?” you whisper. “They don’t get it. Not unless we give it to them.”

His breath is ragged now. Like he’s drowning. Like every word you speak is pulling him toward the surface and he doesn’t know how to breathe up here anymore.

“I don’t have anyone else,” you say. “It’s you. It’s always been you.” You reach for him again. Hand open. Shaking. “Please,” you whisper. “Let me remind you.”

And this time — this time — he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move, either. Doesn’t lean in or meet your touch. He just lets it happen.

Your fingers brush the back of his hand — barely there. Just skin against metal. Warmth against cold.

His eyes close like it hurts. Not the pain of impact. The pain of trust.

You just sit there, hand resting lightly over his. He just feels human and he lets you hold what little of him is left.

You don’t mean to say it.

Not here. Not like this.

But the words have been sitting in your chest too long, and they hurt more staying quiet.

“I’m not sure what I feel toward you,” you whisper.

His head shifts slightly. Just enough to show he’s listening — but he doesn’t look at you. Not yet.

Your fingers curl against your knees. You stare at them like they might hold the rest of the sentence.

“But it’s… something.”

He still doesn’t move.

“And I know I shouldn’t feel anything at all. Not for you. Not in this place.” You let out a dry, quiet breath. “But I do.”

The silence stretches — and for a second, it feels unbearable. Like you might shatter inside it.

“I don’t know what to call it,” you murmur. “But I keep thinking about you. Not just when I’m here.”

You glance up. His jaw is tight. Shoulders locked. Like he’s holding something back with all the force he has.

“And I know it’s stupid,” you go on, voice cracking. “I know they could rip it away at any second. But what we’ve built — this thing between us — it means something.”

He flinches like it hurts to hear that.

But you keep going. Because if you don’t say it now, you never will.

“You said you remembered me.” Your throat tightens. “Even when you weren’t supposed to. Even when you probably didn’t want to.”

You lift your eyes to him again. This time, he meets them.

And the look he gives you — it wrecks you.

Because it’s not blank. It’s not cold.

It’s grief.

“I don’t want to lose that,” you say softly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

And for the first time in too long — he reaches back.

Slowly, like he’s not sure if the moment is real — like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches you wrong — he leans forward.

You barely breathe.

His metal hand rises first. Hesitates midair.

Then it cups your cheek — careful, gentle, reverent.

You don’t move. You don’t flinch.

And when he leans in — when his lips brush yours — it’s not with hunger. It’s not control.

It’s longing. It’s fear. It’s hope.

And you kiss him back like it’s the only real thing in the world.

Because maybe it is.

Next Chapter 🕊️

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luveline · 2 months ago

Note

this is very on the nose but have you done an emily prentiss fic when she “dies” and comes back and it’s just very messy with reader 😝 okay love you bye

—Emily comes home. You can’t keep it straight in your head, but she takes care of you. fem, 2k

cw depression, suicidal thoughts, disassociation

It begins with a text message.

You can barely bring yourself to look at your phone. For months after she died, you’d open your phone and look for her contact, her quick text, Won’t be home tonight or What do you want for dinner? And then you’d remember she was dead and burst into ugly, wretched tears, your chest a sizable agony.

You wish she’d come home. In the middle of the night, waking you up with one of those messy kisses that used to piss you off, and a softer one to say sorry. It would all be okay if she just came home, so when you get a text, you don’t want to look because it won’t be Emily, and she’s not on her way back from work.

You open your phone reluctantly and click the unknown number.

Hi, this is Jennifer Jareau. Do you have time to talk?

You don’t want to talk to Jennifer, ever. The last time you’d seen her had been at Emily’s funeral. She was strange. Her coworkers Penelope and Derek had been far more comforting, rubbing your back when you cried, encouraging you forward to drop your rose on her coffin when you’d turned numb with the shock of it. She was really dead. She was never coming back.

You don’t have any substantial grievance with Jennifer and you certainly wouldn’t try to define how she could grieve her friend, but something about her was off, and it’s not like you ever saw any of them again. Penelope asked you to coffee a couple of times, and Derek called, but nothing inside of you wanted to be in Emily's life without her.

You don’t really want to be in life at all.

What’s stopping me from following her? you’d think. Nothing mattered. You’d always felt like you loved Emily more than she loved you in return, not from any great sense of superiority or her lack of care, but Emily had more than you. She lived for her career, and you lived for her.

It’s about Emily.

You stare at your phone. Her text. It’s about Emily. What could she possibly have to say? Emily was killed in the line of duty by a bad man. She died before they could even try to fix her, stabbed in the chest, in agony all the way to the end. What could Jennifer have to tell you now to fix that, all your guilt, your desperation?

Nothing. You ignore her text and turn off your phone to finish getting ready for work.

Your head is clearer after your shift. You get Chinese food to take home with you on your walk and a bag of cat treats, sipping a cold drink, and you only think about Emily and her prawn cracker addiction for ten or so minutes.

Your apartment is quiet when you return, as it always is. “Sergei?” you say softly, hoping to attract your timid cat with a gentle shake of the cat treats. “Baby, come have some dinner with me. I’m home.”

Your cat mews from somewhere in the living room.

“Come on, handsome,” you say, not bothering to hide the complete lack of energy in your voice. You feel better, but not good. You miss Emily, and it doesn’t go away. You lean against the kitchen counter and screw your eyes up tightly. You swear you can smell her, but you’ve read about it now. It’s grief. Thinking you can see her in public places, smelling her after her scent has gone from the bedsheets, it’s just the mind playing tricks on you. Worst of all is the dreams, where she holds you, where she lets herself in to kiss you again, just one more time.

It hurts so badly you can’t wait it out. You sigh like you’re in pain and shift down onto your elbows. Unbidden throbbing cracks against your ribs.

“Are you alright?”

You gasp, wrenching your head around in shock. Immediately you back into the corner of the kitchen countertops, as far from the intruder as possible, scrabbling for your phone.

“It’s okay!” they say, forcing you to slam your eyes closed. Her voice is exactly like it always is, that first alright soft and measured, her okay! said with a laugh, though there’s something self-disparaging there. “I’m– sorry, it’s okay.”

It’s Emily. You know it’s her. Your grief has finally tipped into that awful, thieving ache, your head’s gone. You’re seeing her at home, because you can’t let her go.

“It’s okay,” she says again, softer now.

You shake your head without looking.

“Can I come over there?”

“No.”

“No. Okay, I won’t. I’ll stay right here.”

You shake your head. After a minute of quiet, heart unsteady where it aches in your chest, you squint through your lashes to find her still there, standing by your refrigerator. Sergei jumps on the counter and nuzzles at her arm.

“You okay?” she asks.

“I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“I’m real.”

“No, you’re not.” You suck in a painful breath.

It’s almost worse to think she’s real, because you buried her, because you’ve been hurting so much that you were gonna–

“You’re not real.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I couldn’t tell you. I was still a liability, I didn’t want to give them any reason to come back to you, I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

She’s talking so strangely, like you’re a victim of something, like she’s practiced.

You don’t feel good, then. You know you’re not gonna stand much longer, turning again to cling to the countertop, listening in apprehension as her feet pad over the floor. She’s not wearing her shoes.

“You need to sit down, huh?” she asks quietly, lovingly, like she would’ve before. “Come and sit down with me. It’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

“But you–”

“Please,” she says. “I don’t have any right to ask you to, but just trust me for a second and sit down with me.”

Her hand closes around the top of your arm and your world fades to a blurred white. The next thing you know, you’re sitting at the kitchen table with your arm held between Emily’s two hands, Sergei rubbing his dark body against her shoulder, mewing desperately for attention. But Emily’s talking to you, a repeated, slow murmur, “It’s alright, it’s gonna be okay, just stay here. I’m right here with you.”

“But you’re not,” you say hoarsely.

“I’m sorry.” She rubs your arm. “God, you’re shaking so hard, I don’t know what to do.”

“Why do you sound upset?”

The anger is a lash. You can see her accept it, despite how sudden it was. “I didn’t want to hurt you like this.”

“You didn’t want to hurt me, are you serious?”

“Doyle escaped incarceration. I had to leave to know you’d be safe, so I could be safe. I couldn’t stay, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But we got him now. He can’t hurt you now.”

“I know Doyle escaped, I’ve been here the whole time!”

“Okay,” she says, backing down as the tears in your eyes grow heavy, your vision blurring her sorry face. She rubs your arm gently, exactly like she used to, “I’m sorry.”

You quieten, sniffling as tears escape your lashes and her face goes out of focus. “Are you real?” you ask under your breath.

“Yeah.”

“Because I’ve– I’ve seen you, I see you everywhere, I hear your voice. How do I know this is real?”

“I don’t know,” she says, pulling at your arm, encouraging your hand to her chest. She holds your fingers to the skin above her beating heart. “Does that help?” She frowns in her way, delicate and too pretty. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

That’s as sorry as she’s ever going to sound, you think.

“Doyle’s gone?”

She nods.

“You’re safe?”

“We’re both safe. I said I’d take care of you, and I did.”

“I thought I’d have to die to see you again.”

Emily pulls your hand to her mouth, kissing the back of it twice, three times, too many kisses to count before she buries her face in your skin. “I’m sorry,” she says, her tone pleading. “I knew what it would do to you, but I couldn’t find another way.”

You run out of things to say. Emily keeps a tight hold on your hand as though she’s worried you’re gonna run away, but you stay.

—

You’re not supposed to forgive her. You know there’s a part of you that needs defending —the months that she’s been gone have changed you as a person. She can see that easily, as could anyone who’s ever known you.

But having her back does ease the pain you’d been in. You aren’t sure what you’re allowed to do, what’s fair to you, but you know you won’t sleep if she doesn’t come to bed with you, so you ask, and her warm eyes turn fully dark. When she’s cleaned off her makeup with a straggling pack of her wipes in the bathroom and changed out of her formal clothes, she’s every bit of the girlfriend you remember having. She pins her hair up with a clip and sits on the side of the bed, timid where she never was, her eyes following the line of you where you’re curled on your side. “I know I don’t deserve to say it, but I missed you,” she says.

“I missed you more.”

She leans down. Mischief in her eyes, a softness to her mouth, she tilts her head to one side like she might kiss you, but she doesn’t. “I’m going to make it up to, I promise. I’ll try forever, if you want.”

“I don’t really believe you’re not something my head made up.” You drop your tone to an utterance. “I’ve finally gone crazy.”

“You’re not crazy.”

“There’s just no way–”

Emily shakes her head, cupping your cheek firmly. “We can call again. Okay? Derek doesn’t mind. He’ll tell you that I’m real until you believe it.”

She has reason to worry. You’d felt disconnected from reality for hours, and while her being alive is still unbelievable, you feel settled for the first time since she left. “Can you hug me?” you ask, offering her a meagre, well-meaning smile.

She tips your face up. “Can I kiss you first?” she asks tentatively. “I get it if you don’t want me to, but I– think I missed kissing you almost as much as I missed looking at you.”

You settle back against your pillow and nod. “You can kiss me,” you say, glad when she takes the hint, holding herself over your body, and letting her stomach weigh against yours completely. You caress her cheek as she presses her lips against yours.

When you cry, she brushes your tears away, won’t kiss you again until you’re sniffling and begging her for another one. Just one more, you say. You just need one more.

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss x fem!reader #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss fluff #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss oneshot #emily prentiss scenario #emily prentiss drabble #emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds x reader

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nikovraskol · 14 days ago

Text

crack baby ; five

wc ; 3068 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ?

tw ; death, suicide, abuse, cursing, neglect, panic attacks, mentions of violence

prologue, one, two, three, four, five, tbc..

You didn’t have much as a child.

You lived in a shitty apartment on the outskirts of Crime Alley. It’s been years since you’ve stepped foot in that place, but you remember it so clearly.

The wallpaper was peeling, there was always mold crawling around the corners of the roof, and the window in the bathroom was broken – all your appliances were left over from previous tenants, so you’d have to give the oven a hard smack before cooking. Your TV was surprisingly nice, the grumpy, old man gave it to your mother before he killed himself.

His death upset you, despite what everyone thought – he was a nice man. When your mother was working or in a bad mood, he’d occasionally let you sit in his house. He’d offer you a lollipop and then go to sleep. You always got the feeling he was similar to your mother. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes?

Your bedroom – if it could be called that – was actually just a small storage room. Your mattress was old, found in a dump, so it had many holes that would cause springs to dig into your back, scratching you through restless nights, and you only had a thin blanket to keep you warm.

Compared to your mother’s sleeping arrangements, it was perfect. She let you have that box, in return she slept on the dingy, old couch next to the door. She said it was fine, but you would always hear her panicked cries whenever the gunshots got too loud.

Despite that, those days in that shitty apartment would always be worth more than your life in Bruce's care. Why?

The heating that stretched to every corner of the manor, it didn’t compare to cuddling with your mother for warmth. And the meals, prepared to suit your every tastes, didn’t compare to the take-away your mother would place before you, leftovers from her job, a grin on her pretty face that was always etched with exhaustion (that sometimes twisted into something scary).

That’s right. The cold stares would never compare to your mother. Even if she was unpredictable – hysterical, as the man next door would say. She looked at you, held you, consoled you.

And when she’d lose her mind and grab at your throat, and cry about how you’re a curse. She’d make up for it, eventually.

“My dear [Name].” Your mother called, her eyes softening as she crouched before you. She smelt of grease and cheap burgers, a rather comforting smell despite how nauseous it made you. Her hands gently, hesitantly, reached forward. Resting on your face as her thumb caressed the bruise forming on your cheek with a grimace.

You knew better than to flinch.

“How do you feel?” She asked softly, her eyes glossed with unshed tears. She was frowning. The sight made your chest ache as if someone were reaching through and prying open your ribs, leaving your heart vulnerable.

She didn’t let you answer, she never did. Instead, she pressed a soft kiss to the blooming ache on your cheek before reaching into her old bag.

“A teddy bear?” You questioned softly, your head tilting at the sight of the toy. You’d never had something so.. innocent before. Nothing so clean, all your toys were second-hand, given through preformative charities.

“Yes. A teddy bear, it’s for you.” She placed it into your hands with a gentleness that belied the dead gaze she always wore. It was soft, unblemished. New. Not once in your life had you ever had something new, something that belonged only to you.

“How much did this cost?”

“Well, that’s not for you to worry about, my dear.” Your mother smiled, her lips curving into that familiar grin. But you saw the ache in her bones, in the very way she moved. She had worked too hard, but she had done it for you.

Was it selfish that you didn’t feel bad? That you felt happy?

“I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.” The words were spilling out and you didn’t even realise it.

You were outside the hospital, looking like a lunatic. You were soaked to the bone, shivering, and muttering to yourself like a moron – right outside a mental institution. It was no wonder everyone took a detour at the sight of you, crossing the road as if you were some sort of pervert. Though you couldn’t blame them – living in Gotham, you learn it’s best to steer clear of the crazies.

Your heart was racing, your stomach was churning. You were scared. You hadn’t seen her in so long, not since– not since you were eighteen in your previous life.

And now you were sixteen, standing outside, stalling. Well, shivering in the rain was much better than being in that damn Manor, surrounded by those damn bozos…–

It was strange, why are they always hovering? Each time you’d ever try to leave, someone is there. Someone is around.

Why? It’s sickening. The thought of them perceiving you. Why did it make your skin crawl? Why did it make you feel so.. Filthy?

You’re sure, back before you died, that you would’ve jumped at this chance, at the chance to really incorporate yourself into the circle that you’ve always been pushed out of. Why was now different?

Why did you want to reach out and rip out Dick’s eyes whenever he regarded you with such a condescending gaze? Why did you feel nauseous at the very way Bruce looked at you – like a puzzle piece that’s been misplaced in the wrong set? A puzzle piece he wants to throw away. Or– Or the way Tim looks at you – Or Jason’s stupid arrogance, from the beginning he’s always thought he was better than you. And you just dread thinking about Damian.

You just want your mother.

And yet, your feet remain stuck to the floor. The rain continued to patter around you, is this a good idea? You have no idea what condition she’s in, when you last saw her (when you were 18), she was better. Stable. She smiled at you and her eyes seemed brighter.

“It’s fine, it’s either this or I go back to that abhorrent house.” You mutter bitterly, filled with sudden determination at the thought of returning to that hellhole. With a huff you shove open the doors to the sterile hospital.

The fluorescent lights hit you first, then the overwhelming smell of antiseptic, the sound of beeps and overworked nurses mumbling about evaluation reports and the latest Gotham news. It was overwhelming – but you have to push through!! For your mother!

With another sigh you begin to walk forward, and the air seemed to thicken – as if something was trying to stop you from walking forward, from facing something horrible, though that was crazy. It was probably just the lingering fear from your past, but so much has changed in this life, there’s some comfort in knowing that your mother will be waiting.

“Excuse me,” you say to the lady working as a receptionist, she looked tired – eye bags heavy under her eyes as she looked up at you with something akin to annoyance, “I’m here for (Mother’s Name).”

Immediately, the woman’s eyes softened into something soft, pity? Impossible. “Oh, I’m sorry, what were you to her?” She immediately mumbles, typing furiously on her computer that you could tell was funded by Wayne Enterprises.

“I’m– I’m her child.” You say nervously, a sickening fear crawling up your stomach into your throat, like a parasite that’s been festering through the grief you’ve felt through the years. You want to ask if something’s wrong, but the lady beats you to it.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, have you come to collect her things?”

“Her– Her things? Has she been dismissed?” Your heart is racing so fast, beating so intensely that it drowns out her words, as if protecting you.

“..She’s died.” The receptionist says, her eyes looking away as she reads something on her computers, “You didn’t know? That’s strange, all her immediate family should’ve been notified, but–”

You don’t hear the rest of her words, you hear nothing but the beating of your damn heart. It’s so loud, why won’t it just shut up!? Why can’t you reach into your chest and rip the disgusting thing out, to rid yourself of the useless organ. The parasite’s that’s kept you alive — the parasite that always tries to protect you when it’s too late.

It’s sickening, everyone is always too late.

“She can’t be dead…” You mumble, your hands are trembling. Why? “She had– She was supposed to live longer, this isn’t how it goes.”

The image of her, when you were older, flashes through your mind. You remember it clearly, her face – finally with some colour as she smiles gently at you.

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“It happened fairly recently, I’m so sorry.” The receptionist said clearly, her eyes filled with the kind of sorrow that can be held by people who’ve seen this a thousand times before. But you can’t see it, you can’t hear anything but that damned phrase.

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“How did she die?”

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“She–” The receptionist shares a wary glance with her coworker, who’s holding a stack of papers.

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“She killed herself – We’re so sorry, it’s through our neglect that she was able to–”

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“..-- Tie a noose and…–”

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

It’s only when you feel the rain trickle down your cheek that you realise you’re outside, car’s illuminating your hunched figure with headlights as the distant sound of a gunshot pierces the air. You look down, you’re holding papers.

Your mother’s will – that’s right. The receptionist gave it to you, as well as her regards, and some numbers to some people to handle things you don’t want to handle.

“Are you okay?” A soft, quiet voice pierces the air, you turn and–

Another clown has entered the circus.

The sight of Orphan, rain trickling down her suit. What is she doing here? What time is it? You swallow thickly, everything feels so fake that you can’t process anything.

“(Name)? Why are you out so late?--”

What is she saying? You can hear her but.. You can't understand a thing she’s saying. When have you ever spoken to her? Has she also come to play pretend? She’s too late. Everyone is always too late.

“Why are you talking to me?” Even you are surprised by the venom in your voice. Why are you being so mean? Cassandra’s not– bad.. She’s certainly not someone you.. She isn’t someone you know, why is she acting like she cares?

“I saw– Well, you looked upset. I just wanted to check that you’re–”

“Don’t talk to me, don’t act like we’re anything more than strangers.” Who’s speaking right now? You don’t feel like it’s you. No, your mother would feel upset hearing you so angry. “You’re all so fucking annoying, please, just leave me alone.”

You don’t see her face through her mask, nor can you decipher her body language. You just clutch the crumpled up, soaked papers, to your chest and walk home.

“It’s not safe to walk Gotham alone at night.” You hear her say, it’s the most you’ve heard her talk. Though you’ve never spoken to her, never experienced the warmth she gives to the other clowns.

“It’s fine,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm though you feel nothing but genuine emotions, “I have Batman to protect me.”

You don’t see her face, you don’t have the energy anymore - for anything.

It’s not an understatement to say you feel nothing, not as you walk Gotham – with eyes upon your back, not when you trudge through the Manor past someone who might’ve been Alfred, or Dick. But Dick’s supposed to be Nightwing, right? He shouldn’t be in Gotham. Silly you.

You feel nothing at all, until you enter your room, until you see the familiar layout, exactly as you left it. Until you see the teddy bear, worn and broken, sitting on your bed with it’s sorrowful eyes cast upon you.

Then, you feel everything.

The hardwood floor hits your knees with a deafening thud that echoes throughout the lifeless manor. Tears scorch your skin as the air suddenly thins swiftly, like someone’s trying to kill you. You clutch your hands to your chest, snaking under your shirt to dig into your disgusting chest, nails desperately clawing at your thick skin. Your heart is too loud, the floor is too hard against your legs – your hair, it sticks to your scalp, each strand tickling your skin as you pant heavily, your breath escaping before it can reach your lungs – you’re going to pass out. You’re going to die.

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

Why did this happen? She wasn’t supposed to die. There’s no way she would’ve killed herself, no.

No matter how much she gripped your throat, no matter how much she cursed you, throwing glass and plates at you, dragging porcelain across your skin then crying while patching you up. Peppering each wound with kisses that carried words of sorrow that couldn’t be conveyed through simple speech.

She would’ve never left you.

Even if you were the one to ruin your life, she’d always come back with a smile. This can’t be it. She’s supposed to be happy.

You’re supposed to be happy.

Her will remains soaked on your bedroom floor, the ink smudged through rain and tears, mingling each word and telephone number together. Though, there’s an envelope that remains unopened, the envelope that the nurse gave to you. The one belonging your mother left to you.

What an incredible woman.

With trembling hands and blurring eyes, and lungs with no air, you rip open the soaked envelope. Your hands are surprisingly gentle despite the insistent tremor, as if holding a priceless artifact.

The moment the envelope opens, money flows out. And not just pocket change, stacks and stacks of bills that no lower-class-woman could achieve alone. Afterwards, a single letter falls out.

You’re barely able to pick the paper up, barely able to comprehend the words that seem to dance together – taunting and mocking your grief. But there’s no time to grieve; you push those disgusting emotions deep into your subconscious as you calm your breathing – counting to 10 in between each gasp for air until your heart finally shuts up.

Your eyes clear, you can see again, the moment your eyes fall upon the paper you hear your door click, and your heart stops. In speed that could rival the flash himself you swipe the money under your bed before Dick walks in with a pitying smile.

“(Name)...” He says gently, his eyes flickering with something similar to surprise as his gaze falls onto your disheveled, wet, grief-stricken appearance (disgusting, you want to reach forward and smash his head against your wall), “You.. stormed out earlier, are you okay?”

“Why are you here? Don’t you have better things to do.” It’s almost scary how quickly you’ve grown accustomed to creating conflict with the very people you once sought to cradle close.

“.. I was worried, I can’t just up and leave when my precious sibling is..”

Bullshit. It’s all fucking bullshit.

“If you’ve got nothing meaningful to say, then shut up and leave.” You snap, your hand clenching around your mother’s letter, it’s slightly damp and you don’t want to smudge the ink so you release it from your hands – letting it drop to your floor slowly, it sways in the air as if it doesn’t want to leave your embrace. “I’m so sick of everyone fucking hovering, you’re so annoying.”

Your gaze moves from the paper to Dick, and–..

And you freeze.

His eyes are relentless, boring into you with such an intensity it makes you feel like a criminal he’s interrogating. No, it’d be more accurate to describe yourself as a bug he’s placed under a microscope, studying you with such a cold gaze you’re stopping yourself from apologising on instinct.

It’s genuinely terrifying, his mouth is pressed in a thin line, his brows are furrowed ever so slightly and his hands – his hands are clenching and unclenching.

Is he going to hit you?

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“My dear (Name), he’s caused you a lot of pain, hasn’t he? I’m sorry.”

“My dear (Name), they’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t they? I’m sorry.”

“(Name), I’m going to cause you a lot of pain, aren’t I?”

“(Name).”

“(Name)!” A voice breaks you out of your thoughts and you blink, oh, it’s Dick. He’s closer now, glancing at you with a sorrowful expression as he grips your shoulders with a force that makes you uncomfortable, “you seem out of it lately, are you okay? You know, you can tell me everything.” You feel a bit disoriented, what was that just now?

“I’m fine, I’m tired.” You shove his hands off with all your strength – though you suspect he let you go to appease you. Jackass. “I’m going to bed, please leave me alone.”

He frowns – clearly wanting to say more, but the blank look on your face tells him that you’re not in the mood. What a shame, and he was going to invite you to spend time with him.

Oh well, he has all the time in the world, he doesn’t want to strengthen this relationship on an uneasy foot.

“I understand, (Name), I’m always here for you.” He smiles lovingly, his hand ruffling your hair like he’s actually your brother, “I do care for you, y’know. You've been so distant recently!”

His chuckles fade in your silence as he awkwardly shuffles out of your room with one more lingering glance. So fucking annoying. Your eyes wander down and-..

He was standing on your mother’s letter.

um hey guys.. hey... uh hey,,, i feel like i owe yall an explanation but um, basically i had this all written out and then i have to move cities because i was unsafe, and i lose THE FUCKING DOCUMENT WITH THIS WHOLE CHAPTER. i was so devastated because i had expanded on literally everything so i had to rush this.. sigh.. maybe i'll rewrite this bs when exam season is over, but i feel like if i pump this chapter now i'll have more motivation to write the rest because i am so excited for the ending tee hee hee!!! anyway, thank you all for your patience. as a thank you, i will try my best to pump out all the inbox requests and, i'll try my hardest to add everyone to the taglist but it'll probably be a while..

anyway enough yapping, thank u for reading, sorry for the short chapter! and i want to thank everyone who checked in on me, yall are awesome

can you guys tell i have motherly issues or.

taglist -

@estreiiuh @beyondblissxoxo @jjsmeowthie @vanessa-boo @delias-stuff @d3nnji @wizzerreblogs @lilyalone @strawbrysapphic @regulus-things @iimichie @meepmoopbadabeepboop @buckturd @eloriis @xoxossam @verypersonaldazzel @froggy-voidd @shycreatorreview @wassupbroski55555 @eyeless-kun @anakilusmos @devotedlyshamelessdetective @peehall @bigeyedbambi @chaeugwii @lover-girl009 @lostsomewhereinthegarden @bunniotomia @bongwaterflavoredgatoraderedgatorade @d3ly-p4v @moonstonedust24 @girlithinkimgay

#yandere batfam #yandere batfamily #dc fanfiction #platonic batfam #platonic yandere batfam #batman #yandere bruce wayne #yandere batman #yandere dick grayson #platonic yandere #yandere red hood #yandere robin #yandere red robin #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #yandere damian wayne #yandere cassandra cain #yandere damian x reader

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i2sunric · 14 days ago

Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐔𝐏 (p.sh)

PAIRING: brat-tamer!sunghoon x brat!reader

SUMMARY: your boyfriend loved tying you up, ruin you with his stupidly big dick and dirty talk. so, it was only fair that you got to be on top once, wasn’t it?

WARNINGS: smut. unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), boundage (or is it bondage? lol), handcuffs, curses, pet names (baby, hoonie), dirty talk, mockery, creampie, p in v, reader is a pillow princess, sunghoon is dom, reader hums a lot idk, cowgirl, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 22nd May 2025

WC: 2.1k

TAGLIST: @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @enhamonsterghoul @star-hoon @princesstiti14

a/n: actually i don’t have anything to say like and subscribe! jokes, enjoy this inspiration i got from the photoshoot and LIKE & REBLOG pretty pls. also, lmk your thoughts on this!

The soft rustle of sheets followed the echo of your playful laugh, warm and mischievous in the dim light of your bedroom.

Moonlight crept through the slits in your curtains, brushing over the flush of your cheeks and catching the glint in your eyes as you straddled Sunghoon’s hips, letting your fingers dance along the toned planes of his naked chest.

“You’re up to something,” he said, voice low and amused, the edge of a smirk curling his lips.

“Me?” you asked innocently, trailing your nails down his ribs, slow and gentle. He twitched under your touch, a breath catching in his throat. “I’m just appreciating my very handsome boyfriend.”

Sunghoon’s arms rested lazily above his head on the pillow, his lean muscles relaxed, his dark hair splayed out like a halo.

His gaze wandered from your parted lips to the neckline of your camisole, which had slipped down one shoulder, exposing more than it covered. “You’re being suspiciously giddy.”

You leaned forward, your chest brushing against his as your lips ghosted over his. “Just lie back and enjoy it, Hoonie.” you whispered, kissing him softly, then again— deeper this time, with tongue and teeth and a little tug to his bottom lip that made him groan low in his throat.

He kissed back harder, his hands moving to grip your waist— only to pause as he felt something click around his wrist.

He pulled back, blinking up at you. “Wait… what was that?”

You tilted your head, still straddling him, your lips pursed in mock thought. “Hmm?”

He tugged at his hand again— another click. His eyes dropped to his wrist, now cuffed to the headboard with a smooth, black leather restraint. A matching one was swiftly snapped shut around his other wrist before he could fully react.

He knew those very well, they were the cuffs he usually tied you with during your freaky and hot nights.

You bit back a grin as his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “What the hell?” he said, half-laughing, half-stunned. “Are those—? Were they under the pillow?”

“Mmhmm.” You traced a finger across his chest, then down his stomach, watching the way his muscles tensed. “I thought I’d try your game tonight. You always tie me up, it was time I got a turn.”

Sunghoon blinked up at you, restrained, completely at your mercy, and clearly not hating it. A slow grin spread across his lips. “You sneaky little brat.”.

You smiled sweetly. “I learned from the best, didn’t I?”

He exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose, trying to pull at the restraints, just to test. “You’re going to regret this next time, baby.”

“Promise?” you asked with mock innocence, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth before shifting your hips against him, slowly grinding down.

He let out a low groan, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, and you felt the heat of him hardening beneath you, already eager.

You moved again, slow and teasing, just enough to build friction. “Oh? What’s that? Getting hard already? I thought you were supposed to be the one in charge.”

His jaw flexed. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I know.” You leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his jaw, then nipped just below his collarbone, where you knew he was sensitive. “But you love it.”

You started rolling your hips, dragging your damp folds along the clothed length of him, still teasing, still keeping the pace lazy. His eyes locked on yours, heavy-lidded, his breathing starting to pick up.

“You think you’re in control?” he asked, his voice husky and tight with arousal.

“Well,” you said thoughtfully, reaching between youp to lower his sweats and wrap your hand around his cock, stroking him with deliberate slowness, “you’re the one cuffed to the bed. So… yeah.”

He groaned, his hips bucking slightly into your hand. “Fuck, baby…”

You pumped him until he was throbbing in your grip, leaking pre-cum against your palm, and you rubbed the tip against your folds, teasing him with your wetness. “How does it feel?” you asked sweetly, slipping him inside you just a little, not even halfway. “Being the one who can’t touch?”

“Cruel,” he said through gritted teeth, “So fucking cruel.”

You lowered yourself onto him inch by inch, watching his face twist with pleasure as you took him all the way in.

Your thighs trembled with the effort, but the heat of the moment drowned out the burn. You sat fully on him, clenching around him deliberately, making him curse beneath his breath.

Then, riding him slow and deep, you mocked his usual tone, breathy and condescending. “What’s wrong, baby? Can’t take it? Thought you liked being used.”

His eyes snapped open, pupils blown wide. “You’re crossing a line here.”

“Mmhmm.” You leaned down, kissed him again, swallowed his groans as you started moving faster, bouncing on him, hands braced against his chest. “But right now you’re gonna lie there and take it.”

Sunghoon’s eyes rolled back as you clenched around him again, his hips bucking involuntarily into yours. “You feel so fucking good,” he gasped.

You moaned as your thighs ached, the stretch of him and the power of control making everything hotter, sharper, more intense.

Sweat slicked your skin as you moved faster, chasing the high, riding the edge. “Say it,” you panted, leaning close to his ear.

“Say what?”

“Say you like when I’m in charge.”

His breathing was ragged, jaw clenched. “No.”

“What?” you asked sweetly, stopping your movements, dragging your nail on his jaw “I didn’t quite hear you.”

He sighed, looked away and murmured “I love when you’re in charge.”

You grinned, biting his earlobe. “Damn right you do.”

You moved again, faster, deeper, the tension coiled in your stomach, and you didn’t stop, not when your thighs burned, not when he started cursing beneath you.

You chased the climax with messy desperation, your bodies slick and sticky, the headboard creaking with each thrust. When your orgasm hit, you cried out his name, clenching around him with a trembling moan.

Sunghoon followed seconds later, hips jerking up off the mattress as he spilled into you with a strangled moan, his head thrown back, wrists tugging uselessly against the restraints. You collapsed forward, lips brushing his chest, catching your breath against his skin.

A long moment passed in silence. Then he chuckled, breathless and hoarse. “Holy shit.”

You kissed his collarbone before sitting up, fumbling for the little keys on the bedside table and uncuffing one wrist, then the other. He rubbed his arms gently as you rolled off him with a groan.

“Ughhh,” you complained, flopping dramatically onto your back. “My thighs are dead. I did all the work.”

Sunghoon turned to you, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “Poor baby.”

You side-eyed him. “That was a workout, I don’t even have to go do the gym.”

He leaned in and kissed your shoulder, lazy and affectionate. “You looked hot doing it.”

“Yeah? You liked that?”

His grin widened. “Too much. But don’t think I’m not getting you back for this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

Sunghoon’s eyes darkened. “Both.”

You were sprawled beside Sunghoon, skin flushed and sticky, chest still heaving from the ride you just took him on.

Your legs felt like jelly, every muscle in your body thrumming with satisfaction, but also a tinge of regret as you muttered, “Never again. My legs are not built for that much cardio.”

Sunghoon laughed softly beside you, the sound low and sweet and lazy. He turned his head on the pillow to look at you, one arm draped over his stomach, hair mussed from your fingers and the way he’d tossed his head back.

He looked good like this— completely ruined, jaw slack, lips swollen from kissing, eyes heavy with the kind of affection that always made your heart stutter.

“Liar,” he murmured. “You’ll do it again.”

You turned your head to face him, lifting an eyebrow. “Oh? Confident, are we?”

He reached over, brushing his fingers along the curve of your waist, trailing lazy circles over your skin. “You liked being on top. You liked teasing me.” He leaned in, voice lower now, dangerous in that signature Sunghoon way. “But you’re gonna pay for it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Please, you were into it.”

“I was,” he admitted, unashamed. “Doesn’t mean I’m not going to make you beg next time.”

You shivered, not just from his tone, but from the weight of his promise. You could feel it— the way his body shifted closer to yours again, despite having just come, like he couldn’t get enough of you.

His lips brushed against your shoulder, slow, unhurried, pressing a soft kiss to your skin as if to say, you’re mine. And you were.

You turned to face him fully, slinging a leg over his hips again, gentler now, the hunger momentarily sated but not gone. His hands settled on your thighs instinctively, thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin. You winced slightly. “Okay, maybe I need a break from cowgirl for a week.”

Sunghoon smirked. “A whole week?”

You sighed dramatically, resting your forehead on his chest. “I’m not built for being on top.”

“Aw, my little pillow princess,” his fingers moved to your hips, massaging gently as he said, “Want me to rub them for you?”

“Mmm,” you hummed. “You’re trying to bribe your way back into my good graces.”

He grinned. “Is it working?”

You looked up at him, lips twitching into a smile. “I’ll let you know once I can feel my legs again.”

For a moment, the mood softened. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the pads of his fingers warm and gentle against your cheek. “You really surprised me tonight,” he murmured.

You blinked at him. “In a bad way?”

“No,” he said quickly. “God, no. You looked so good, baby., all confident and in control like that. You had me fucked up.”

You blushed, even though you tried to keep your face neutral. “You’re always acting like a freak with your ropes and cuffs. I thought maybe you’d be annoyed.”

Sunghoon shook his head slowly, eyes dragging over your face. “Never. You could tell me you want to tie me up and leave me there for hours, and I’d still say thank you.”

You snorted. “Knew you were a slut.”

He smiled and shrugged. “Only for you.”

You laid there for a bit longer, tangled together, your body resting against his, breathing in sync. His hand moved slowly over your back, dipping lower until it reached the curve of your ass, squeezing softly.

“I can’t believe you pulled that stunt,” he said after a while, laughing under his breath. “Like, how long haven you been planning this?”

“Days,” you said proudly.

Sunghoon gave you a look that made your stomach flip. “That’s so hot.”

“I had to wait until the right moment,” you explained, playing with his hair, twirling strands between your fingers. “I knew if I tried it while you were being all brat-tamer mode, you wouldn’t let me get far.”

He smirked. “Yeah, probably would’ve flipped us over in two seconds.”

“Exactly.” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “But tonight you were soft and sleepy.” you giggled “You let your guard down.”

His eyes darkened again. “You played me.”

You nodded proudly. “And you liked it.”

He rolled on top of you in a smooth, fluid motion, pinning your wrists to the mattress, and even though your muscles groaned in protest, a thrill ran down your spine.

“I did like it,” he murmured against your throat, pressing kisses along your jaw. “But that doesn’t mean I’m letting you off easy.”

You whimpered playfully. “But I’m sore…”

“Good.” His voice was pure sin, even as he kissed your neck sweetly. “You’ll be even sorer by the time I’m done next time.”

You swallowed, heart hammering in anticipation. “Is that a promise?”

His tongue flicked over your skin, teeth grazing gently. “A guarantee.”

You shifted beneath him, wrapping your arms around his neck, letting him lay between your thighs again, even if you both knew you wouldn’t go for round two right now.

Your bodies were too warm, too content, too satisfied for anything more than skin on skin and whispered threats and teasing kisses.

“I’m gonna keep the cuffs on my side of the bed now,” he said suddenly.

You lifted your head. “Why?”

“Because I don’t trust you.”

You grinned. “Smart man.”

He kissed you again, slow and deep. “You’re trouble, baby.”

You looked into his eyes, fingers curling in his hair. “You wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He stared at you for a beat, that smile of his growing. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

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theonlyonesora · 2 months ago

Text

Emergency Contact - Max Verstappen x Reader

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender hand soap—the soft, almost apologetic kind they keep in private hospitals tucked into the hills of Monaco. Outside the tall windows, the sky was still a dusky lavender-grey, the sea just beginning to glisten like a spilled secret. The city hadn’t quite stirred yet. The yachts in the harbor rocked lazily in the hush of dawn, and the streets—usually alive with the quiet luxury of another world—were still.

You weren’t sure if you were dreaming.

Your body felt like mist. Bones suspended in honey. There was a dull ache in your side and a whisper of pain behind your temple, like the aftertaste of something sharp. Machines beeped softly around you in a rhythm that felt too slow, too gentle for what had happened.

The crash. Rain-slick asphalt. Screeching tires. A flash of headlights. Then nothing.

You blinked. Once. Twice. The world wavered like a watercolor before it cleared.

And there he was.

Max was seated beside your bed, shoulders hunched forward in a way that was so unlike him it made something twist inside you. His Red Bull hoodie was wrinkled and slightly damp near the hem, like he’d stepped out into the rain and hadn’t noticed. His hair was a mess. His hand was in yours.

And his eyes—stormy and rimmed red—were locked on your face like it was the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

He didn’t speak at first. Just let out a breath so shaky it nearly broke you.

“I thought I lost you.”

The words were hoarse. Ragged. Like he’d been screaming them in his head all night. You tried to smile, but your face didn’t quite cooperate.

“I’m okay,” you managed, voice soft and a little raw. “I think.”

“You’re not okay,” he snapped, then caught himself, breathing in hard through his nose. He looked away, eyes glossing over the sterile white of the hospital walls like he could will himself back into control. “They said… it was close. You weren’t waking up. I didn’t know what the hell was going to happen.”

Your fingers tightened weakly around his.

“I put you down as my emergency contact,” you whispered. “Didn’t think you’d actually have to come rushing over in the middle of the night.”

Max laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. More like a sharp exhale of disbelief.

“I’ll always come rushing,” he said. And then quieter, like a confession to the silence: “I should’ve told you that before.”

There was a pause. Long enough to hear the ocean hum somewhere far beyond the window. Long enough for you to read it on his face before he said it.

“I love you.”

The words weren’t dramatic. They didn’t explode into the air like fireworks. They landed quietly, like snow on an already beautiful morning. But they shook something loose inside you nonetheless. Something you’d kept hidden beneath your ribs for too long.

You stared at him. The Max you knew—fierce, untouchable on the track, rarely unguarded—was gone. In his place was something softer, realer. His knuckles were pale where he gripped your hand, and his thumb kept brushing over yours like a prayer.

“I love you,” he said again, as if repeating it would make it true in both your hearts at once. “I should’ve said it sooner. I just… I didn’t want to mess this up. But when I saw them wheel you in, when they said you weren’t waking up—nothing else mattered.”

You swallowed hard. Eyes stinging.

“Say it again.”

He leaned in, forehead brushing yours, so close you could feel the words before he spoke them.

“I love you.”

And that was it. That was everything.

The world know him as the champion. The racer. The living legend. He’d wear his fireproof suit like armor and chase glory at two hundred miles an hour.

But this morning—this fragile, golden, precious morning—he was just Max. Yours. And that mattered more.

757 notes · View notes

softlypossessive · 2 months ago

Note

Oh ngl I'm so stupid for sanji it's not funny. I would love to read something for sanji and a plus size girlie that's fully the filthiest thing u can think of. I just want sanji and a female who's plus size cause I'm chubby and I need me some sanji smut... Pretty please with a cherry 🍒 on top ,🫣👏

Sanctified

♡ Characters: Sanji x Chubby!Fem!Reader ♡ Warnings: explicit smut, body worship, praise kink, oral sex (f!receiving + m!receiving), face sitting, titty sucking, titjob, kitchen sex, creampie, overstimulation, French dirty talk, nipple play, cum play/clean-up, intense devotion, light dom!Sanji, Sanji being feral for reader’s body, fluff-laced filth, reader sitting on his face like a throne, post-sex snacks and light aftercare, mildly possessive vibes ♡ WC: 5k ♡ Notes: This fic was originally requested as “just some Sanji smut where he’s down bad for a chubby reader,” and um... I may have gone a bit overboard… What was supposed to be a quick smut scene turned into a 5k+ marathon of filth, feelings, and food play. Plot? I don’t know her. Sanji is feral, worshipful, absolutely wrecked by your existence, and I didn’t have the heart to stop him. So yeah. It’s long. It’s messy. And he cries a little.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

You wake with a sleepy groan, blinking blearily in the dark as the urgent need to pee drags you from the warm cocoon of your sheets.

The Going Merry is silent, rocking gently beneath you. Everyone’s long gone to bed—soft snoring and the creak of old wood the only signs of life.

You shuffle quietly out of your room in your sleepwear—just a ribbed tank top and a pair of thin cotton shorts, worn soft from washing, riding high on your thick thighs.

After finishing in the bathroom, you start heading back, ready to collapse into bed again—when something stops you.

A scent.

Something sweet. Rich. Buttery and sticky, drifting on the air like a whisper. Caramel, maybe? Brown sugar? And underneath it, the gentle sounds of movement—muffled footsteps, the low clink of silverware, and a soft humming that makes your skin prickle with recognition.

Sanji.

Your brows furrow in confusion. Why the hell is he up at this hour? And cooking?

Curiosity pulls you toward the kitchen like a thread.

The light is warm and low, only one lamp flicked on over the counter. It casts a soft golden glow across the room, pooling around the figure moving with practiced ease near the stove.

Sanji.

He’s barefoot, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar lazily unbuttoned. His blond hair catches the light, glowing like honey, tousled and messy like he’s been running his hands through it. There’s a smudge of flour on his cheek.

And he’s humming to himself. Focused. Peaceful. Until—

“Sanji?” you whisper, still rubbing sleep from your eyes. “What… what are you doing?”

He turns to you slowly, not startled, not surprised. Just smiling. A soft, secret smile like this is exactly what he wanted.

“Ah, ma chérie…” His voice is thick with warmth. “You’re awake.”

You blink. “You were cooking? At this hour?”

He shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Couldn’t sleep. I had a craving for something sweet.” His eyes roam down your figure, lingering. “And I was hoping… maybe you would too.”

You glance at the plate in his hands—golden, steaming, syrupy. A gooey dessert he’s clearly just finished, caramel sticking to the edges.

Your stomach growls, traitorous.

He chuckles softly. “Come sit.”

You hesitate, still standing in the doorway in your tiny shorts and barely-there tank, but Sanji’s expression doesn’t change. If anything, his gaze grows more reverent, more intense—like you just walked into the room glowing.

You pad over and take a seat on the wooden stool. It creaks softly under you, and you squirm a little, pulling the hem of your shorts down in embarrassment. Sanji doesn't look away. Not even for a second.

He sets the plate down in front of you, sliding a fork beside it. Then he leans one hand on the counter, tipping forward slightly to watch you.

“Go on. Taste it.”

You glance at him once, then take a small bite.

The moment it hits your tongue, your eyes flutter shut.

It’s heaven. Sweet and buttery, still warm, melting in your mouth with just enough salt to make your toes curl. You moan softly without thinking, eyes squeezing shut as you chew.

And when you open them again—Sanji is staring.

His pupils are huge.

His breath catches audibly, throat bobbing. There’s color blooming high on his cheeks, and his jaw flexes. He shifts slightly where he stands, and you think—no, you know—his cock is getting hard.

“…Holy shit,” you whisper, fork halfway to your mouth. “This is insane.”

Sanji swallows hard. His voice is rough when he speaks.

“You’re insane. Sitting there looking like that. Making those sounds.” He steps closer. “Fuck.”

You stare at him, cheeks hot. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

He reaches out and gently brushes his thumb against the corner of your lips. You freeze.

His touch is light, almost reverent, thumb sweeping away a crumb that never even had a chance to fall. But he doesn’t pull back.

He stays there, staring at your mouth.

The silence is heavy.

Your breath catches in your throat.

His eyes flick up to meet yours, and the look in them nearly knocks the air from your lungs—hunger, yes, but also something deeper. Devotion. Adoration. Longing so thick it makes your thighs press together.

He’s drinking you in. Your curves. The softness of your belly. The stretch of your top across your chest. The faint press of your thighs where your shorts have ridden up. And he’s looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“You’re…” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “so beautiful.”

You inhale sharply.

He leans in slowly, like giving you a chance to stop him. His fingers brush your cheek.

“A goddess.”

You whisper, “Sanji…”

He doesn’t kiss you yet.

He lingers—forehead nearly brushing yours, breath hot against your lips, the scent of butter and sugar and something darker, more masculine. Your lashes flutter.

And then you close the gap.

The kiss is soft at first. Gentle. Just lips brushing lips, testing the waters. But it doesn’t stay that way.

Sanji groans quietly into your mouth, his hand sliding into your hair as he deepens the kiss. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until your body is pressed flush against his. The heat of him is overwhelming.

His tongue teases at your lips, slow and careful, and when you open for him, he kisses you like he’s starving.

You moan into it, fingers curling in the front of his shirt, nails dragging lightly down his chest.

He kisses you harder.

Your teeth clack. Your bodies bump awkwardly. It’s messy, heated, real.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, eyes half-lidded, chest heaving.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers along your jaw. “You’re not even real. You’re something else entirely. A dream.”

You’re breathless.

You can barely speak.

“A goddess like you should be worshipped.”

You swallow hard, blood rushing south.

“You should be kissed,” he murmurs, lips ghosting across your cheek, “touched, adored. Every inch of you. Every curve. Until you know how perfect you are.”

You let out a shaky laugh, heart pounding.

“So show me, then.”

His gaze snaps to yours. You see his pupils dilate further. His chest rises.

You smirk, leaning in just enough to brush your nose against his, the faint scent of tobacco and sea salt clinging to his skin.

“If you really think I’m a goddess…” your voice drops to a husky whisper, lips grazing his ear, “prove it.”

Sanji exhales sharply through his nose—half laugh, half groan, his breath hot and shaky against your cheek.

He kisses you again, hard, his tongue shoving past your lips, wet and desperate, tasting of wine and lust.

Before you can catch your breath, he hooks his arms under your thighs and lifts you off the stool in one fluid motion, his lean muscles flexing under his shirt. You squeak, arms flying around his neck, your soft, heavy curves pressing into his chest as he carries you like you’re weightless—his hands digging into the plush meat of your thighs, heat pouring off him like a goddamn furnace.

“I’ll worship you,” he rasps, voice low and ragged, his lips brushing your jaw as he stumbles toward the kitchen floor. “Starting right fucking now.”

He sets you down gently on the warm wood, the grain rough against your bare thighs, but his lips are back on your neck before you can blink—hot, sloppy kisses trailing down your pulse, his teeth scraping just enough to sting.

His breath’s a furnace, scorching your skin, and his kisses burn hotter still. You barely register him tugging your tank top up, the fabric catching on your curves until your breasts spill free—full, heavy, nipples pebbling in the warm air, dappled by the golden light flickering from the overhead lamp.

He doesn’t rush. He freezes, just staring, his cigarette dangling forgotten from his lips as ash flakes onto the floor. His eyes—dark, dilated, fucking ravenous—trail down your body, drinking in every soft roll, every plush inch, like he’s etching you into his soul.

His hands, smooth as silk but trembling with need, brush up your sides, thumbs grazing the undersides of your tits as he starts kissing—slow, open-mouthed, from your throat to your collarbone, then lower. His lips hover just above the swell of your chest, his breath shaky, fanning across your skin, making your nipples tighten even more.

You glance down, confused by the pause. He’s hovering, forehead resting lightly above the curve of your breast, sweat beading on his brow.

“Sanji?” Your voice is soft, uncertain.

His lashes flutter, and he lets out a choked exhale, the cigarette finally dropping to the floor with a faint hiss.

“I’m just…” He swallows hard, voice thick with awe, “trying to convince myself this isn’t some wet dream I’ll wake up from with my cock in my hand.”

Your heart skips, heat flooding your cheeks and pooling lower.

Before you can respond, he leans in—his mouth wrapping around your nipple, sucking hard, a guttural groan rumbling in his throat like your taste is his lifeline. His tongue flicks over the peak, wet and relentless, circling it before he sucks again, pulling it deep into his mouth. His other hand cups your free breast, kneading the soft flesh, thumb teasing the nipple in slow, deliberate circles until it’s stiff and aching under his touch. Spit drips from his lips, slicking your skin, pooling in the valley between your tits as he moans into you.

You gasp, back arching off the floor, fingers tangling in his blond hair, tugging hard.

Sanji moans louder, burying his face deeper between your breasts, his nose pressing into your sternum as he nuzzles like a man possessed. He kisses the soft, sweaty skin there, tongue darting out to lick up the salt, whimpering like he’s drunk on you.

“Magnifique,” he breathes, voice muffled against your flesh. “Tellement parfaite, putain.”

His hands slide down, reverent and slow, tracing the plush of your sides, the dip of your waist, the roundness of your belly. He kisses every inch—open-mouthed, messy, leaving wet trails across your stomach, your hips, the tender spot where your shorts dig into your skin. His thumbs skim beneath the waistband of your shorts, slow and careful, like he’s handling something precious. He doesn’t pull right away—just breathes for a moment, resting his forehead against your belly with a soft, shaky exhale.

“May I?” he asks, voice hushed, reverent. “Please.”

And when you nod, he makes a quiet sound—half gratitude, half hunger—and starts to ease the fabric down. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just devoted.

He hooks his fingers around the waistband and peels your shorts down inch by inch, kissing the skin he reveals like every soft patch is a secret he’s lucky to be let in on. He kisses your hips, your thighs, the inside of your leg where it meets the crease of your softness.

When the shorts finally hit the floor, he leans back to look at you fully, eyes wide with that wrecked kind of worship.

“You’re divine,” he whispers, breath hitching as his fingers sink into your soft hips. “Every fucking part of you. Every curve. Every goddamn inch.”

You’re panting now, trembling, your core throbbing as he unravels you with nothing but his lips, his words, his wide-eyed worship. Then—he pulls back, sprawling onto the floor, his chest heaving, shirt half-unbuttoned, cock straining against his slacks. He tugs at your hands, eyes blazing.

“Come here,” he says, breathless. “Sit on my fucking face.”

You freeze. “W-What?”

His eyes go half-lidded, hazy with lust, pupils blown wide.

“Please, mon ange.”

Heat floods your face, your thighs clenching instinctively.

“Sanji—I can’t—I mean—” You cross your arms over your stomach, shoulders curling in, voice small. “You don’t have to do that, I’m… I’m too—”

“Shhh,” he cuts you off, sitting up just enough to press a kiss to your knee, his lips lingering, soft and warm.

“Don’t hide from me, ma déesse. Don’t you fucking dare.”

His hands slide up your thighs, squeezing the thick flesh like it’s his anchor, his thumbs digging in just enough to make you shiver.

“You think I don’t want this?” His voice cracks, raw and needy, eyes burning into yours. “You think I don’t dream about you smothering me with these thighs while I drown in your pussy? That I don’t jerk off every night wishing I could suffocate between these legs and die happy?”

Your thighs twitch, heat pooling between them. You stare, speechless, as he whimpers—fucking whimpers—his hands trembling as he pulls you closer.

“Please,” he begs, voice breaking, dragging you gently forward. “Please, let me have this. Let me taste you. Let me worship you like you deserve.”

You don’t even realize you’re moving until your knees frame his head, your thick thighs trembling, heart pounding so hard you can hear it. “

“You’ll stop me if—”

“If I stop,” he cuts in, voice low and shaking, “it’s because I’ve passed out from fucking ecstasy.”

You lower yourself, hesitant, your weight settling over him. He moans before his tongue even touches you—just from the heat of your pussy hovering over his face, the scent of your arousal hitting him like a drug. His hands clamp onto your hips, fingers sinking into your soft flesh, dragging you down hard with a groan that rattles through your bones.

His mouth finds you instantly—tongue licking a long, slow, greedy stripe through your folds, parting your slick lips, tasting the wetness already dripping from you.

“Oh fuck—Sanji—!” you cry out, hips jerking as heat explodes in your core.

He feasts like a man starved—mouth wide, lips sealing around your clit, sucking hard, his tongue flicking and pressing with delirious precision. His jaw works fast, wet and sloppy, slurping your juices like they’re the finest wine he’s ever tasted. The sounds are obscene—loud, wet smacks, his muffled groans vibrating against your pussy, the squish of your thighs squeezing his head as you rock against him.

Your thighs shake, instinct screaming to lift off, overwhelmed by the intensity, but his grip tightens, bruising your hips.

“No,” he growls into your cunt, the word muffled, hot breath fanning your clit. “Stay. Fucking stay right here. Don’t you dare run from me.”

His tongue dives deeper, thrusting into your hole, fucking you with it as his nose grinds against your clit, his face drenched in your slick—shiny, messy, dripping down his chin.

You look down, and he’s smiling—eyes wet, glassy, fucking beaming like he’s in paradise with your pussy smothering him.

His hands knead your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth, and you sob, tugging his hair as your hips roll on their own. He humps the air beneath you, his cock tenting his slacks, a dark wet spot spreading as he moans louder, the vibration pushing you over the edge.

You cum hard, thighs clamping around his head, trembling as you scream his name, voice cracking. Your pussy pulses, gushing slick over his face, and he drinks it all, tongue lapping frantically, sucking your clit through the waves.

You try to lift off, panting, overstimulated, but he yanks you back down, growling like a feral animal, and goes at it again—tongue relentless, lips bruising your folds, fingers digging into your thighs with desperate devotion.

You sob through the second orgasm, hips jerking wildly, your body shaking as it rips through you, leaving you a trembling, breathless mess. When you finally slump back, he lets you go slow—his lips brushing your pussy one last time, a soft, reluctant kiss like he’s saying goodbye to a lover. You collapse beside him on the floor, legs limp, soaked with sweat and your own slick.

He’s lying there, chest heaving, face glistening—lips swollen, chin dripping, eyes glassy and fucked-out.

“I need more,” he whispers, voice hoarse, raw with want.

Sanji lifts you like you’re a sacred relic, his hands trembling as he carries you from the kitchen—your bare thighs wrapped around his waist, your slick smearing against his shirt, his breath still scorching your skin. He kicks his bedroom door open like a man possessed, the wood slamming against the wall, and lays you on his sheets—soft, rumpled, smelling of him—like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

Then he kneels. Between your legs, at your feet, his lips pressing reverent kisses to your stomach, your thick thighs, your hips—anywhere he can reach. His tongue drags slow, wet circles, tasting the sweat and arousal still clinging to you, worshipping every inch with shaky breaths. You reach for him, fingers threading into his sweat-damp hair, tugging him up until his chest brushes yours.

But you stop him, cupping his face, pushing him back gently. He freezes, brows knitting, lips parting to protest.

“Mon amour?” he whispers, chest heaving. “Is everything okay?”

You smile, soft and wicked.

“Sit,” you murmur.

He obeys instantly, settling on the edge of the bed, legs parted wide, his chest flushed red, breaths ragged.

“I’ve let you worship me,” you say, sinking to your knees between his thighs, your voice low and sultry. “Now let your goddess serve.”

His eyes widen, pupils blown.

“Mon Dieu,” he breathes, voice cracking. “You can’t just��fuck, you can’t say shit like that.”

You grin, dragging your palms up his thighs, thumbs grazing the waistband of his slacks, feeling the heat of his skin through the fabric. He groans, hips twitching.

“You okay?” you tease, voice sweet and low.

“No,” he chokes, head tipping back. “I’m gonna fucking die.”

You kiss his thigh through the fabric, lips lingering, then unbutton his pants with agonizing slowness, sliding them down, revealing his briefs—tight, soaked with pre-cum, clinging to his thick cock like a second skin.

When you peel them off, his dick springs free—flushed red, veined, the tip dripping, a fat bead of pre-cum rolling down the shaft and pooling on his balls.

Sanji groans like he’s ascending, hands fisting the sheets.

“Putain de merde—”

You wrap your fingers around the base, stroking slow, your thumb swirling through the sticky mess at the tip, smearing it down his length. His thighs tense, muscles jumping under your touch. You lean in, pressing your lips to his cock—soft, sensual kisses along the shaft, tasting the salt and musk, then a slow lick from base to tip, tongue flattening against the pulsing vein.

He gasps, hips bucking.

“Oh fuck—fuck, yes—”

His hand grips the sheets tighter, knuckles white, throat bared as his head falls back.

You take him into your mouth—slow, teasing, eyes locked on his as you hollow your cheeks and suck the tip, tongue swirling around the slit, lapping up the pre-cum leaking steadily now. His moans are loud, broken, like he’s never felt this before.

“Mon ange, your mouth—fuck, it’s made for this,” he whimpers, hips twitching, trying not to thrust too deep.

You bob your head, once, twice, drool spilling down your chin, coating his cock in wet shine. You pull off with a loud, sloppy pop, grinning as he whines.

“Not done yet,” you say, yanking your tank top off, your heavy breasts bouncing free.

You cup them, pressing them around his cock, the slick warmth enveloping him.

Sanji fucking loses it. His hands shoot to your arms, gripping tight, his whole body trembling as you slide him between your tits—soft, sweaty, slick with spit and pre-cum.

“Oh god—oh fuck, you’re unreal,” he gasps, head lolling, hips grinding up into the plush heat. “I’m gonna cum just from this—look at you, fuck, look at what you’re doing to me.”

You lean down, sucking the tip as he fucks your cleavage—sloppy, loud, the wet squelch of skin on skin filling the room. His cock throbs, veins pulsing, and he cums hard with a sob—thick, hot spurts spilling across your tits, dripping down your chin, hitting your tongue as you lick him through it. You swallow what you catch, lapping up the rest, his moans turning into prayers of your name.

“Please,” he pants, still shaking, cock twitching. “Please, let me return the favor—please.”

You crawl onto the bed, straddling his lap, your slick pussy brushing his still-hard cock. “Then fuck me, Sanji.”

He lays you back with care, like you’re fragile despite the filthy mess you’ve made of each other. He settles between your legs, kissing your inner thighs—soft, reverent—his hands shaking as he lines himself up. When he presses inside, his whole body shudders, a low groan tearing from his throat.

“Mon dieu… so warm, so tight, so fucking perfect…”

You gasp at the stretch—thick, slow, inch by inch—his cock filling you, stretching your walls until he’s buried deep, forehead resting against yours, both of you breathless. He starts moving—slow, deep, devoted thrusts, each one rocking your soft body, your breasts bouncing with the rhythm. His hands roam your thighs, your hips, your tits—fingers sinking into every plush curve like he’s branding you.

“You feel like heaven,” he groans, voice raw. “You are fucking heaven.”

He leans down, kissing you as he fucks you—deep, messy, tongues clashing between moans. His lips trail to your chest, sucking and biting your nipples, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, steady circles.

You keen, body arching, the wet squish of his cock driving into you loud and filthy. One hand presses just above your pelvis, adding pressure, making you choke on a gasp.

“Oh god—Sanji—fuck—”

Your thighs tremble, body tensing as he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your lips.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Show me how good I make you feel.”

You break with a sob, legs wrapping around him, cunt fluttering wildly as you cum—hard, messy, gushing around his cock, soaking his thighs. He moans your name, thrusts faltering as your walls milk him, squeezing tight.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I can’t—” he gasps, voice shattering.

“Cum inside,” you whisper, still pulsing around him. “I want it. Fucking give it to me.”

He chokes, tears stinging his eyes as his hips jerk forward, burying deep. He grinds against you with a helpless whimper, cock throbbing as he spills—hot, thick, flooding your pussy, leaking out around him as he keeps thrusting, smearing it into your folds.

“Merci… merci… je t’aime… oh fuck—” The words spill like a confession, his body trembling as he collapses into you.

You’re still twitching, thighs locked around his waist, your cunt spasming, milking every last drop. He’s still hard, still throbbing inside you, moaning into your neck as his hips shift, dragging against your oversensitive walls. You jolt, gasping,

“Ngh—Sanji—!”

He freezes, kissing your shoulder.

“I can’t stop—I need more, just a little more.” His voice is wrecked, pleading.

You clench around him, involuntary, and he groans, deep and broken.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight—please—”

You reach down, circling your clit, gasping as your body sparks again.

“I can take it,” you whisper.

He rocks into you—smooth, heavy thrusts, his cock dragging through your swollen, cum-slick walls. His lips stay on you—chest, jaw, collarbone—kissing everywhere he can reach. Each thrust pulls a moan from you, your body a live wire, still teetering on the edge.

“That’s it,” he whispers, fingers sliding back to your clit, rubbing fast. “One more, ma déesse. Fucking break for me.”

Your body convulses, the buildup crashing hard—you scream, cunt clamping down, gushing again, soaking him as he groans, thrusting through it, filling you with another hot, sloppy load, his cum dripping out, pooling on the sheets beneath you.

Neither of you move. You just breathe—ragged, shallow gasps filling the quiet, the air thick with the musk of sweat and sex. Sanji’s trembling against you, his lean body pressed tight to your plush curves, whispering your name like it’s a prayer he’s carving into the dark—“Mon ange, mon angel…”

His hands roam, shaky and reverent, tracing the soft dip of your waist, the heavy swell of your hips, anywhere he can touch to prove you’re real.

Eventually, your breathing slows, chest still heaving under his weight, your thighs trembling faintly—boneless, fucked-out, but sated deep in your core, a warmth that sinks past muscle into soul. You blink up at the ceiling, vision hazy, the lamp’s golden glow smearing into a soft blur. Your pussy throbs faintly, slick and tender, still leaking his cum onto the sheets.

He presses one last kiss to your cheek—soft, lingering, his lips damp with sweat—then pulls away, slow and reluctant, his cock slipping free with a wet squish that makes you wince.

“Sanji?” you murmur, voice hoarse, blinking at the sudden emptiness.

He’s already on his feet, bare and glowing in the dim light—golden hair a sweaty, tousled mess, chest flushed red, cock still half-hard and glistening with your mixed juices.

“I’ll be right back, ma belle,” he says, voice low and fond, a promise wrapped in gravel. “Stay there.” He’s gone before you can protest, the door clicking shut behind him.

You sit up, dazed, arms crossing instinctively over your sticky chest—your breasts heavy, nipples swollen and slick with spit and cum, glistening in the faint light. Your thighs stay parted, tender and aching, the cool air hitting your pussy and making it clench, a dribble of his seed leaking out, thick and warm, trailing down your inner thigh.

You wince—half from overstimulation, half from the flicker of loneliness that creeps in, sharp and sudden, like he’s taken the heat of the room with him.

But then—footsteps. The door creaks open, and he’s back. Your heart fucking melts.

Sanji’s carrying a small tray, his hands steady despite the faint tremble in his fingers. One holds a warm, damp cloth, steam curling off it, folded with his usual precision. The other balances a dish of delicate, sugar-dusted sweets—puffy little pastries, glistening with glaze—and a tall glass of pink hibiscus tea, ice clinking, the rim crusted with honey.

He kneels beside you, bare knees sinking into the mattress, his face soft but his eyes burning, locked on you like you’re the only thing in the world.

“Let me clean you, mon ange,” he murmurs, voice a husky caress.

You lie back without a word, spreading your thighs for him, and he starts—slow, gentle, the cloth warm and rough against your skin.

He drags it between your legs, wiping away the mess—your slick, his cum, the sweat pooling in the creases of your thighs. The heat soothes the ache, but his touch ignites it too, his fingers brushing your swollen folds as he cleans, parting them just enough to swipe at the sticky mess dripping from your cunt.

You hiss softly, hips twitching, and he pauses, lips brushing your inner thigh in apology—a wet, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin.

“So good,” he whispers, moving up, the cloth gliding over your tummy, tracing the soft rolls, erasing the sweat and spit.

He lingers on your breasts, wiping the cum streaked across them—thick, tacky ropes that cling to your nipples—his thumb grazing the peaks as he works, making them stiffen again under his touch. He leaves kisses behind—soft pecks on your stomach, a slow suck on the curve of your tit, his breath hot and shaky.

“So sweet. So soft. So fucking perfect.”

You hum, a pleased little moan slipping out as he brings the glass to your lips. You sip—the tea’s cool, floral, cutting through the haze, and you chase it with a pastry, sugar dusting your fingers, melting on your tongue.

He watches, rapt, as you lick the crumbs off, his cock twitching visibly between his legs, still slick and heavy. He finishes cleaning you, the cloth now cool and damp, and tosses it aside, sliding into bed behind you—pulling the covers up, tugging your back flush against his chest.

His skin’s warm, damp, reeking of sex and sweat and the faint sweetness of the treats, his arms wrapping tight around your shoulders, lips brushing your neck.

“I meant it,” he whispers, voice low and rough, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re the only goddess I’d crawl for, bleed for, fucking die for.”

His cock presses against your ass, half-hard, smearing a wet trail of pre-cum across your skin as he shifts closer.

You turn your head, smirking, one brow arched.

“So that’s how you treat every goddess?”

His answer’s instant, fierce, soft as sin.

“Only you.”

His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking your lip, pulling it down just enough to tease the wet inside of your mouth.

Your cheeks heat, pulse kicking up.

“Well, damn,” you murmur, leaning back into his chest, feeling his heartbeat thud against your spine. “Good thing I’ve got killer taste in men.”

He chuckles into your hair, a low rumble, and kisses the crown of your head, his breath stirring the strands. His hands start moving—slow, careful circles on your shoulders, knuckles brushing the curve of your arm, thumbs digging into the tense muscle of your upper back, kneading out the ache.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, voice drowsy but thick with promise, “I’m cooking you breakfast in bed.”

You grin, shifting your hips just enough to grind against his cock, making him groan low in his throat.

“Only if you serve it naked.”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s strained, his hips twitching forward, cock stiffening against your ass.

“If you keep talking like that,” he rasps, voice dropping dark and hungry, “you’re getting round three before the sun’s up.”

Your thighs clench, pussy throbbing at the thought, still slick with him. You don’t pull away, don’t let him slip out of reach—instead, you press back harder, feeling the heat of him, the sticky mess of his pre-cum smearing wider.

“Prove it,” you whisper, voice a dare, a spark.

Sanji freezes for half a second, breath catching, then he’s on you—flipping you onto your back with a growl, his hands pinning your wrists above your head, his body looming, cock fully hard now, dripping onto your stomach.

“Oh, ma déesse,” he breathes, eyes wild, lips curling into a feral grin. “You’re gonna regret that.”

Your thighs clench.

You decide not to sleep just yet.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

#op x reader #sanji x reader #one piece smut #chubby reader smut #x reader #vinsmoke sanji #one piece x reader #straw hat pirates #sanji x y/n #sanji x you #one piece imagine #sanji imagine #smut #sanji smut #softlypossessive smut #softlypossessive writing

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missarchive · 5 months ago

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ok ok ok!! what about spencer getting head from reader for the first time, and it's her first time doing it, so she's nervous and he teaches her and he has to try sooo hard not to cum immediately because he is just GONE for the innocence with which she does it/tries things out 🤭 you choose what season spence!!

Decided to do one more for tonight!! (I’m feeling generous)

thank you for the request!! im always writing munch!spencer but it's nice to write things the other way round for once

cw; +18 minors dni, inexperienced!reader, tiny bit of dom!spencer if you squint, oral (m. receiving), cum swallowing

When you first kneel before him, his breath catches in his throat, and he’s certain he might lose himself right then and there. The sight of you—so eager, so nervous—renders him utterly helpless. Your hands reach for his belt with a mixture of determination and trepidation, your cheeks flushed a rosy hue that makes you look impossibly innocent yet utterly intoxicating. His jaw slackens as he watches you, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum.

Your wide eyes flicker up to meet his, glinting with excitement and a touch of uncertainty. He’s been dreaming of this moment for what feels like forever, and now that it’s unfolding, every muscle in his body tenses, locked in an unbearable anticipation.

Your fingers fumble with his belt, the clumsy motions endearing rather than frustrating. He doesn’t mind the delay; in fact, it only heightens his awareness of you—of how genuine, how completely you this moment is. He knows this is your first time. Not just with him, but ever. You’d told him, shyly, how you’d researched, how you’d prepared for this, even asking friends for advice. Still, the vulnerability of trying it now, with him, makes his chest tighten.

His hands find their way to your hair, almost of their own volition. The silky strands slip through his fingers like water, grounding him. You haven’t protested, haven’t pulled back, and the faint smile on your lips reassures him that you’re okay with this—more than okay. You glance up at him again, brow furrowed slightly in concentration, and the sight makes his heart stutter.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly, his voice rough with emotion. He needs you to be comfortable, to know that he’ll stop the moment you ask.

You pause, your hands stilling, and you smile at him, a gentle curve of your lips that speaks volumes. “I’m okay,” you whisper.

Finally, you manage to undo his pants, your small hand brushing against his erection as you pull down the zipper. He groans at the brief contact, the sound guttural and raw. When your fingers wrap hesitantly around him, his breath hitches, and he can’t stop the way his hips shift forward, seeking more of your touch.

“God,” he murmurs, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Your touch is tentative, exploratory, and it sends jolts of pleasure straight to his core.

You look up at him, startled by the intensity of his reaction. “Is that... okay?” you ask, your voice laced with innocence and curiosity.

“It’s more than okay,” he rasps, his hands moving to your shoulders, needing something to hold onto, to anchor himself. “You’re perfect.”

Encouraged, you start to stroke him, your hand sliding up and down his shaft in slow, deliberate movements. He watches you, his gaze locked on the way your small hand moves over him. The sight alone is almost too much.

When your tongue darts out to wet your lips, he groans deeply, his head falling back for a moment as he imagines that mouth on him. The vividness of the fantasy sends a fresh wave of arousal coursing through him.

“Baby,” he says, his voice strained, “I’m not going to last much longer like this.”

Your eyes widen slightly, disbelief flickering across your features. He chuckles softly despite himself, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he confesses, his voice heavy with sincerity.

“I just... I’ve never done this before,” you admit shyly, your cheeks flushing deeper. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Baby, you’re not doing anything wrong,” he assures you, his hands moving to cradle your face. The warmth of your skin beneath his palms soothes and excites him all at once. “Can I show you?”

You nod, your expression curious, and he takes a steadying breath, his restraint hanging by a thread. Gently, he guides your hand away, needing a moment to compose himself before he completely unravels.

“Like this?” you ask, your voice so soft it’s almost a whisper. The innocent question makes his chest tighten with affection and desire.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “Just like that. Only with your mouth.”

His hand moves to the back of your head, not to push or force but to guide. He’s desperate for this but careful, wanting you to feel safe, to enjoy it as much as he knows he will.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he urges, his voice gentle but firm.

“Okay,” you reply, nodding.

When your lips part and touch the tip of his cock, he shudders violently, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. The wet heat of your mouth surrounds him, and it’s so much better than he ever imagined.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his head falling back as you take him deeper, your tongue flicking against him experimentally. His hands clutch the sheets, desperate for something to hold as his hips jerk involuntarily.

You pull back slightly, looking up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “Was that okay?”

“More than okay,” he groans, his voice thick with need. “You’re incredible.”

Bolstered by his praise, you take him in again, this time with more confidence. Your mouth moves over him slowly, tentatively, and the sensation is almost overwhelming.

“God,” he groans, his voice ragged. “I’m going to come.”

His hand returns to your hair, fingers threading through it as he fights the urge to thrust deeper into your mouth. He doesn’t want to push too far, to take too much.

When he finally lets go, the release is overwhelming, a rush of pleasure so intense it leaves him trembling. You stay with him through it, warm spurts of cum painting the back of your throat.

As you pull back, you wipe your mouth with a shy smile, and he reaches for you, pulling you into his arms. He presses a soft kiss to your cheek, his heart still racing as he holds you close.

“Was it... good?” you ask, your voice small and uncertain.

“It was amazing,” he says, his voice hoarse with emotion. “You were amazing.”

Your giggle lights up the room, and his chest swells with affection. “I thought I did it wrong at first,” you admit, laughing softly.

“You were perfect,” he assures you, kissing you again. “Better than I ever imagined.”

#missarchive #mj answers #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fic #bau x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x fem!reader

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bttrflybb · 4 months ago

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cw: sub!kakashi, femdom!reader (reader is a cloud ninja and somewhat equal to kakashi's strength), p in v, cowgirl, accidental half-creampie, implied cum eating, not proofread (probably terrible)

sub!kakashi who’s only sexual encounters consist of half-assed one night stands that leave the girl asleep and him unsatisfied- a feeling of emptiness plaguing him the entirety of the night. sub!kakashi who craves being manhandled and fucked rather than having a pretty thing beg for him to hold her down and use her. sub!kakashi who just wants to be a boytoy. sub!kakashi who's been palming himself thinking about the cloud ninja he had been sparring with- her sweet yet aloof attitude, flirty wits, and strength. sub!kakashi who's spilling thinking the look she had on her face after knocking him flat on his back. the way her pupils were blown as she straddled his waist and held the kunai to his throat.

sub!kakashi who’s caught off guard by you murmuring orders like nothing during your first time together. ‘put your arms up’ you’d say in a husky whisper, his body reacting quicker than his brain is. obeying your every command. he’s only known you for a week but he’d do anything for you so long as you asked him in that sultry voice of yours.

you lead him like a dog on a leash, stripping him and dancing your body against his. he doesn’t fight any of your advances, in fact craves more- silent impatient whines mouthed out each time you exert any sort of caution before you make another move.

“more, please.” he huffs. he’s so pretty, desperation decorating his pink-dusted face. sweat beginning to bead and his jaw going increasingly slack- tongue peeking started to spill over his bottom teeth.

such an aloof and confident man cracking beneath you. pitiful is the only word to truly describe the sight.

his body is unreasonably hot. the cold air against his full bobbing cock brings him back to reality for a moment- lost in the picturesque scene of you slipping your panties off each leg just to be dunked back into that lust-drunk state. you’re paying no mind to him, but the firm hand placed upon his chest you’re using to hold yourself up on is an order that he is to stay here, right beneath you.

each touch and word shows your intent. the intent to control- a gentle, considerate, slow control. both of your hands find his pecs as you brace yourself over him, eyes meeting his and softening upwards in a silent, sweet question. no matter how many times kakashi eagerly nodded and hummed in approval, you kept making sure this was a step he wanted to take before you tugged his figurative leash forward. that control beneath all the gentle nudges and whispered commands, that's what got him seeing stars.

“what do you want?” you hummed, tilting your head. your voice was so sweet, like your heat wasn’t inches away from the bell end of his cock. “you.” is all he can say, hands sliding up your forearms and settling back down around your wrists. “me?” your syrupy voice mixed with a savory, dark tone. “how do you want me, kakashi?” the question was stupid, one might think. you were a moment away from taking him if you just sat, but you wanted to hear him say it.

“i… want to feel you. i want…” he pondered. he wanted to fuck you- to be enveloped by your wet heat- but that’s not right.

“want you to fuck me.”

with a smile and whispered praise, your folds part around his tip and you’re swiftly settling around his cock. it’s jarring- the pace at which you take him is stark compared to how slow and teasing you were before. in just a few seconds you're bottomed out and delicately arching at how well he fills you up, and he's keening like you just sunk a knife between his ribs.

"hoh- f-fuckkkk." his hands wring around your wrists, squeezing them as he breathes through the shock like he's been dunked in cold water. the lewd squelch that echoed throughout the room spoke for itself; you were soaked and the poor man beneath you was being drowned.

"oh i'll fuck you, pretty boy."

your pace is grueling- not fast, but so fucking violent. nails rake into his pecs deeper and deeper each time you rise to the tip and let gravity pull your cunt to his pelvis. each forced drive of your g-spot to his tip has you howling, giggles mixing with loud moans. like the way he's subtly trembling and alternating between holding his breath and panting as he holds his seed back is entertainment for you. spoiler, it really is.

the metal in his stomach burns orange as you take him. arousal pulses through his veins each time your flesh meets his. he is wrecked at this point, losing his fight against the pressure building at the base of his cock. silver strands stuck to his forehead as he peers at you from below, onyx half-moons finding you through his pretty white eyelashes.

"has anyone ever told you- hahh- how pretty you are, kakashi?" you cooed between bounces. you're not sure what he's moaning out loud at- your voice, you presume- but your tongue smooths over the front of your teeth as you savor the taste of his noises with a smile. you lean forward and give his cheek a soft experimental pap after shaking his grasp loose from your wrist. "asked you a question, pretty boy."

despite it being so gentle against his skin it's inaudible, kakashi's hips are stuttering upwards and his hands are scrambling to your hips to push you off of him. "g'nna cum- fuck- m' sorry- hoohh, fuck," he mewls, legs flailing like he's trying to run from you. "g'nnacum g'nnacum 'gnnacum-"

the moan that bellows from him vibrates the air around you- so bassy and loud. he's free from your pussy with a pop, but not soon enough, half of his load is dripping out of you and the other half is being milked onto his stomach- strings of cum lining his stomach every other pump. your soft palm and thumb send him way over the line, moans breaking off into pathetic high-pitched whines as he's overstimulated by the pad of your thumb against his tip.

'"my my, kakashi. look at youuu," you teased and pulled a hiss from the man. "s-sorry- fuck- m' sorry," he panted, twitching every other pump as pleasure turned to buzzing pain. you knew not to push your luck, you’ve already got him hooked. no need to keep on toying with him. give him something to crave later.

your palm parts from his spent cock and he releases a breath he’d been holding at the overstimulation, the prickly feeling fading from his tummy. “you like that, huh kakashi?” you chastised him, giving his cheek a couple more light paps and a pinch. “f-fuck- i guess so,” he breathed a laugh, still catching his breath. “i think i’d like anything if it was you doing it.” he confessed. you can’t deny the flutter that starts from your clit and goes all the way up into your chest. “that’s a bold statement, kakashi. watch what you’re getting yourself into.”

“i’m watching, alright. i don’t wanna get out of it.” veeery suave, kakashi. you sighed a laugh and pushed yourself upright, standing on your knees. “are you sure about that?” a hand came down and spread your flaps apart and you dripped.

“oh fuck.” his breath faltered at the realization and you swear his dick twitched too. “you gotta do something about this, you know. gotta make it up to me.” you murmured, getting back on your hands and crawling forwards up the bed as he sighed a ‘uh-huh’. “gotta clean me up, kakashi.” you smirked, scooching until your pussy was hanging over his face. you’re vertical again as you get ready to plop on him, his hands beating you to it as he pulls your hips to his tongue. “yes ma’am.”

#naruto x reader #naruto imagines #naruto smut #kakashi hatake x reader #kakashi hatake smut #kakashi x reader #kakashi smut #helppp im the worst

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wchswift · 5 months ago

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ଓ All Their Fault

Pairing: worst!logan howlett x f!reader Summary: When you, Domino, Logan, Deadpool and Cable went on a chaotic mission and Cable accidentally hurt you, Logan’s protective fury comes out, escalating team tensions. Warnings: slightly violence, blood, injury, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 807 A/N: I just love worst wolverine and protective logan, so i had to write this.

mdni 𖤐 18+

The mission was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out—grab the stolen mutant teach and get out before anyone noticed. At least, that was the plan as Domino had explained it, her voice smooth and confident, as if working with the likes of Deadpool and Logan wasn’t a recipe for disaster.

You weren’t even halfway through the mission before it went to hell.

“Shit,” you gasped, clutching your ribs as the world swam around you.

You clutched your side, your fingers pressing against the deep gash left by Cable. The wound throbbed, and though you tried to breathe through the pain, every inhale felt like fire.

Logan stood in front of you, his claws dripping crimson, his body tense. Everything froze for a moment. Then Logan’s voice cut through the haze, low and dangerous. “What the hell did you just do?”

“It’s fine,” you rasped, trying to sound convincing even as blood trickled down your side. “I’m okay—”

“No, you’re not,” Logan snapped, glancing back at you over his shoulder. His eyes flicked to the blood staining your shirt, and his jaw tightened. “You’re injured, and it’s all their fault.”

With a feral snarl, he lunged at Cable, claws extended. Domino’s quick reflexes were the only thing that stopped him; she stepped between the two men, her hands raised. “Whoa, whoa! Cool it, Logan! It was an accident.”

“Accident?” Logan spat, his voice trembling with fury. “She’s bleeding because of him!”

Deadpool sauntered into view, his katanas already sheathed, his red-and-black suit splattered with evidence of his handiwork. “Yeesh, Wolvie, chill out. We all make mistakes! Even the big Cable guy here, right handsome?"

Logan ignored him, still focused on Cable. “Wade, shut up!” Domino snapped, throwing him a withering glare before turning back to Logan. “Logan, we need to finish the mission. Get her out of here. We’ll deal with this later.”

Logan hesitated, his claws still extended as he glared at Cable.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Cable said, his tone as calm as he could manage. “But if you want to waste time settling this now, go ahead. Meanwhile, reinforcements are on their way, and she’s losing blood.”

“Logan,” you started, your voice strained. "We’ve got the thing. Let’s just go." You said softly, stepping closer. “I’m okay. Really.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re bleeding all over the place. That’s not okay.”

“I’ll heal.”

“That’s not the point.” Logan turned back to you, his claws retracting with a snikt, though his hands remained clenched into fists.

He took another step forward, getting closer to the other man. “Next time, you think twice before touching her.” His voice was low and cold, a promise of violence barely held in check.

Deadpool clapped his hands together, breaking the tension with his usual flair. “Okay, great, let’s wrap this up before Wolvie loses what’s left of his brain cells. Dom, got the tech? Check. Pumpkin, still breathing? Check. Me, still incredibly handsome? Check. Let’s roll, people!”

With a final glare at Cable, he turned and knelt beside you, his movements careful as he slipped an arm around your shoulders. His hands were rough but surprisingly gentle. “Let’s get you out of here,” he muttered, his voice quieter now.

“You didn’t have to fight him,” you muttered as he helped you to your feet.

Logan didn’t respond right away. His face was set in a grim scowl. “He shouldn’t have touched you,” he said finally, his voice low and gravelly. “If he wasn’t on our side, he’d be dead already.”

You let out a weak laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “You really know how to hold a grudge, don’t you?”

“Damn right I do,” Logan said, his grip on you tightening just slightly. “Especially when it comes to you.”

Ahead of you, Deadpool turned back, walking backward with a theatrical flourish. “What did I say, huh? Logan’s basically a rabid guard dog when it comes to Pumpkin. I love this dynamic.”

Logan glared at him. “Wade, shut it before I lose my patience,” He growled.

Deadpool threw his hands up in mock surrender, but the grin under his mask was unmistakable.

By the time the team emerged into the night, the tension had started to fade, though Logan’s scowl remained firmly in place. He didn’t say much as he helped you onto the team’s getaway vehicle, but the way his hand lingered at your back told you everything you needed to know. He might’ve been rough around the edges, but in your eyes, he was exactly who you needed him to be.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

#꣖ ີ ꣓ writes.#logan howlett x reader #hugh jackman #logan howlett #logan howlett x you #the wolverine #wolverine x reader #Wolverine #logan howlett fluff #wolverine fanfiction #deadpool and wolverine #worst wolverine

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iamgonnagetyouback · 6 months ago

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YOU’RE THE PRETTIEST GIRL I’VE EVER SEEN.⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ●ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ J. POTTER

SUMMARY ৎ୭ ever since you can remember, you’ve never really believed you were pretty. but james potter keeps calling you beautiful—and the way he says it makes it really hard not to believe him

WARNINGS ಇ. insecurity, self-doubt, lots of fluff, james being ridiculously soft INSPIRED BY ಇ. these lyrics » ★ | ★ | ★ A/N ಇ. just me wishing james would say this to me

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᡣ𐭩 words.ᐟ 696

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ౨ৎㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ

The Gryffindor common room was quieter than usual, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, its light painting warm patterns on the walls. You sat curled in the corner of a worn-out armchair, legs tucked under you, pretending to read the same page of a book you hadn’t been able to focus on for the past fifteen minutes. Your gaze, however, kept drifting to James Potter.

He was sprawled on the couch, explaining Quidditch strategies to Sirius, who nodded along with only half his attention. His glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose, and the way his hands moved when he spoke made your heart stutter every single time.

You didn’t understand why you were like this—why his voice could calm the storms in your head or why his laugh felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. You’d long convinced yourself that James was unattainable, untouchable, and utterly out of your league. A boy like that didn’t look twice at someone like you.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Until tonight.

“Hey.” James’s voice jolted you out of your thoughts. He stood over you, his hands tucked into his pockets, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “You okay, angel? You’ve been staring at that book for ages.”

Angel. He always called you that. But tonight, it felt heavier, sweeter—like honey dripping from his tongue.

“Uh—yeah,” you stammered, closing the book a little too quickly. “Just... distracted, I guess.”

James chuckled, his hazel eyes sparkling as he dropped into the seat across from you. “Distracted by what? Or... who?”

Your cheeks burned, and you quickly looked away. “No one.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” he teased, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His gaze softened, a rare gentleness settling over him. “Come on, what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

Pretty.

The word landed like a spell, and you froze. Pretty. He thought you were pretty?

“Did I say something wrong?” James asked, his brows furrowing when you didn’t respond.

“N-no,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s just... I’m not—”

“Not what?”

You hesitated, staring at your hands. “I’m not pretty,” you admitted, the words spilling out like a confession. “Not really.”

The room felt suffocating quiet for a moment, and you braced yourself for his reply, for the awkwardness that would follow.

But then James laughed softly—not cruelly, but incredulously, like you’d just told him the most ridiculous joke he’d ever heard. “You’re joking, right?”

You looked up at him, confusion etched across your face.

“Angel, you’re—” He paused, his gaze sweeping over you as if trying to find the right words. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Your breath hitched.

“I mean it,” he continued, his voice earnest now. “You—everything about you—it’s like you walked out of a dream. I don’t know how you don’t see it.”

Your chest tightened, your heart hammering against your ribs. For years, you’d shrugged off compliments, dismissing them as politeness or flattery. But something about the way James said it, the way his voice trembled just slightly, like he couldn’t believe you didn’t already know—it made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth.

“James...” you began, your voice cracking.

“Hey,” he said softly, reaching out to gently tilt your chin up so you’d meet his eyes. “You don’t have to say anything. But I need you to know this—you’re beautiful. Inside and out. And if you can’t believe it yet, that’s okay. I’ll tell you every single day until you do.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring his face. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because I love you,” he said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And maybe it was.

In that moment, you felt it—the walls you’d built around yourself cracking, the weight of your insecurities lifting just slightly. When he looked at you like that, like you hung the moon and stars, it was hard not to believe him.

When he loved you, you felt like you were floating.

When he called you pretty, you felt like somebody.

And for the first time in forever, you thought—maybe you really were.

#⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ivy writes ༄.°#james fleamont potter #james potter #james potter fluff #james potter x reader #marauders #james x reader #james fluff #fluff #marauders era #james potter x you #james potter x y/n #james potter fanfiction #the marauders #james potter drabble

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withahappyrefrain · 2 years ago

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The 5 Times You Flirted With Bob + The 1 Time He Picked Up on It

Summary: You've fallen for your friend and have decided to drop some hints that you're flirting. Unfortunately, Bob doesn't realize that immediately.

Warnings: Language, no y/n, female reader, reader has a callsign (Honey)

Thank you to @dissonannce for this amazing idea. Thank you @acewritesfics for the dividers!

"Your hands are so big."

It took Bob a moment to register that you were in fact, talking to him.

"Oh! Um yeah. My ma made me do piano because she felt I was given the hands for them," Bob wiggled his fingers for extra effect, "Y'know, since they're so long."

Yes, they were quite long. It was one of the first things you noticed about Bob. Well, after you noticed his beautiful blue eyes, his endearing lopsided smile, the way he was so considerate of everyone else, so gentle, and yet there was an underlying confidence about him. He was sure of himself, but he didn't feel the need to brag.

Who could blame you for falling head over heels for him?

You flashed him a smile, hand reaching towards his.

"It's just, your hand is so much bigger than mine. See?" You propped his arm up, allowing your palm to press against his, both your fingers spread out to showcase the difference in size.

"See? My hand is so small compared to yours," You giggled. Bob looked down at your hands. Your breath hitched, your fingers twitching, dying to entwine with his.

"Yeah, there is quite a difference in size," Bob said, giving you that small smile you adored so much. That smile gave you the confidence to entwine your fingers with his.

"I think they fit pretty well together, see?" He wasn't letting go. He was still smiling as he looked down at your hand holding his.

Maybe this was finally it, he'd finally realized that you liked him and would-

"I'm gonna go get some more peanuts, can I get ya anything?"

You mustered up a smile, trying to cover up your disappointment, "I'll take a water. Thanks Robby."

As soon as he left, you shot Jake a dirty look, "Seresin, you said that shit would work!"

Jake, who had been pretending to play a game of pool with Bradley, Javy, and Mickey, put his hands up in defense, "Because it usually does! Everyone knows when a girl compares hand sizes it means she wants you!"

"Everyone but Bob apparently," Javy muttered.

"Maybe you just need to be more obvious?" Mickey suggested.

You sighed. You knew Bob. The last thing you wanted was to be so blunt it would overwhelm him. But at the same time, you two had been doing this whole 'friends but also more than that and I'm pretty sure we're flirting?' for the last month and you were getting annoyed with it how seemed to be going nowhere.

Perhaps Mickey was right. You were going to have to be a bit more obvious.

"Bee? You ready?" Bob called out from your living room. Bob's nickname of your callsign (Honey) always brought a smile to your face, as well as heat to your cheeks.

"Almost! Can I get your thoughts on this top?" You asked as you walked in.

"Yeah, I'm sure you look-oh." Bob's eyes widened as he took in the green top you were wearing.

It was tighter than the shirts you normally wore, highlighting your breasts. The fabric stopped right at the end of your rib cage, showing off your stomach and bringing attention to your high waisted jeans, which according to Jake "did wonders for your ass".

"What do you think?" You clasped your hands together, the action causing your breasts to stick out even further.

"Um the uh, the color is really great on you. B-brings out your eyes," Bob said, his eyes looking everywhere except you.

With the way his cheeks were bright red, it gave you confidence to step forward, your body now inches away from his, "I was hoping it would bring out something else besides my eyes Robby."

"I mean you you look great in everything you wear! So mission accomplished," Bob said quickly, his hands fidgeting with his car keys.

"Anything else you want to say about the outfit Robby? I really value your opinion." You stood on the tips of your toes, bringing your chest closer to Bob's face.

It was the first time since you walked in that his eyes landed on your chest. He cleared his throat, as if he was gathering up the courage to say it.

"You should grab a jacket, it's supposed to go down to the low sixties tonight," He said, turning around to head out the door.

God damn it.

You grabbed your phone, quickly texting the group.

Honey: We need to go to Plan C.

Rooster: Plan C?! You're saying the top didn't work?

Bagman: Dude, your tits were like out.

Rooster: Maybe they weren't out enough?

Coyote: If they were out any more, Honey would be getting a public indecency charge.

Phoenix: Maybe we shouldn't use clothes to express our feelings? Just a thought 🤦🏽

Fanboy: Yeah Nat, that's plan C.

Payback: Can we not blow up the group chat tonight? The finale of Insecure is on.

Your right leg bounced up and down in nervous anticipation, your eyes never leaving the entrance to the Hard Deck.

"You don't think this is too much, is it?" You asked your friends/coworkers.

"Nah, it'll be perfect!" Mickey reassured you.

"You and Bob are going to walk out of here holding hands by the end of the night, guarantee it," Jake commented as he lined up the balls for a round of pool.

It took all your strength not to jump out of your seat when you saw Bob walk in. His iridescent blue eyes scanned the room, landing on you. He always seemed to search for you, which had to be a sign that he wanted more, that he felt the same way as you did.

You greeted him with a smile, patting the empty seat next to him.

"Hey Robby! I got something for you!" You called out.

Bob just smiled as he sat down, "I see you got my signature: water and peanuts. Thanks Bee!"

You giggled, shaking your head, "Yes, but that's not just it. These are for you!"

Bob stared at the bouquet of flowers you were holding out for him.

"For me? These are for me?" He asked, eyes wide as saucers.

"Yes! I was just thinking, like why is giving guys flowers not a thing? Because it totally should be! And no one deserves these flowers more than you Robby," You explained, a hopeful smile adorning your face.

Bob gently took the bouquet, admiring each flower.

"I thought they would go well with your eyes-that's why a most of them are yellow," you explained, trying to hide how nervous you were.

"These are perfect," Bob said before leaning down to smell the flowers.

"Really? Each flower has a different meaning," you began, hoping that by fidgeting with your hands, you'd be able to conceal your nerves.

Bob simply smiled, his face the epitome of saccharine, "Oh, I already know."

Your breath hitched, "You do?"

Bob nodded, "Oh yeah! Alstroemerias symbolize support, sunflowers are for loyalty, and violets stand for intuition!"

He wasn't wrong. You couldn't tell if you were upset by that or the fact that Mickey forgot flowers can have more than one meaning.

Time for Plan D.

"Hey Robby! You ready to watch hot people make poor decisions?"

"Ready as I'll ever-that's new," Bob said softly, taking in the new loungewear you had on for your biweekly Love Island watch.

"Oh this? I think I got it last week," you said as you let Bob into your apartment, "It's super comfy and it has pockets!"

It also was cut low, showing off your cleavage, as well as the tops of your thigh.

"Yeah, the uh, color looks really good on you Bee," Bob commented. The compliment brought a smile to your face. He noticed you, noticed you were wearing something new, and seemed to be noticing your now exposed skin.

"Well, let's go see if these folks gain any common sense," you grabbed his hand, practically beaming at how your hand fit perfectly in his.

"Somehow I doubt it," Bob chuckled.

When he offered to hold the popcorn for while you two watched, you weren't disappointed. Sure, it meant you weren't able to hold his hand. But it did mean you could move closer to him, your thighs practically touching.

"I really hope he doesn't take her back," Bob muttered, his eyes glued to the screen.

"He will. They always do," you sighed, gently moving your head so it rested against one of his broad shoulders.

If your action had any effect on Bob, he didn't show it. Which was the problem.

"I would pick you in the recoupling," You revealed, hoping that would be enough, would finally be enough.

Bob smiled, placing a hand on your knee, "That's kind of you Bee. But I think friendship couples go against the nature of the show."

It took everything in you not to scream.

The rest of the night was just a typical Love Island watch night, no touching, no initiating, no declarations of love, and ending with Bob giving you a friendly hug goodbye.

With a sigh, you flopped onto your bed to check your messages.

Bagman: Bee, please tell us it worked and you're marking sweet love to baby on board

Phoenix: you're disgusting Seresin.

Rooster: why would they stop fucking just to text you Bagman?

Bagman: so we can pop some champagne to celebrate

Fanboy: Why the fuck is would we do that?

Coyote: It's a big event! Bee told Bob how she feels AND Bob's getting laid!

Payback: Can I just get one night of peace? Just one night?

You: No one's doing anything bc it didn't work!

Rooster: Not trying to be rude, but weren't you like almost naked?

Bagman: Like 52% nude.

Phoenix: JFC, we're going to plan E folks.

Coyote: Is that when we just lock them in a closet?

Bagman: No that's plan G

"Hey Bee!"

The cheerful, charming voice always brought a smile to your face.

"Hi Robby!" You greeted him with a hug, the comforting scent of rosemary filling your nostrils, "You smell really nice."

"Oh um thanks," A hand flew to the back of Bob's neck, a nervous (and also adorable) habit, "Wanted to smell nice after doing all those pushups out in the sun."

"Well it worked, you smell great," One of your hands reached up to the nape of his neck, toying with the hair that had curled at the end, "Look great too."

The tops of Bob's cheeks were now a dusty pink, "It's just a white Tshirt."

You took a step forward, placing your hands on his chest, "It's a good look Robby. Shows off your muscles. I like it on you.

Bob's lips parted, then promptly closed.

"Uh, t-thanks Bee." He had to know now that you were flirting with him. It was clear as day.

Feeling confident, your hands trailed down to his, grasping them, "We should dance!"

You didn't wait for Bob to answer, dragging him out to the middle of the floor. The sounds of Bradley covering Frankie Valli (begrudgingly, as apparently Jerry Lee Lewis was better) filled the bar.

After a few minutes, Bob's shoulders visibly relaxed, a smile spreading across his face. You threw your head back laughing as he bust out a goofy dance move.

Everyone thought Bob was shy, but that wasn't the case. He was observant, determined to get a good read on someone so he knew how to approach the situation accordingly. Once he was comfortable, his personality shined and he was a sweet, goofy man who you adored with all your heart.

The grin you had was so wide, your cheeks were beginning to hurt. But you couldn't stop, not when he was twirling you around.

"Where did you learn to dance like that?" You asked, having to say it into his ear so he could hear your voice above the music.

Bob shrugged, "I come from a big family. When you know you're going to a lot of weddings, knowing how to dance helps. That and my mom made me do cotillion."

"Well, all that practice paid off. You're a great dance partner Robby." You rested your chin against his broad chest, looking up to meet eyes bluer than the ocean.

In that moment, all you could do was focus on him. The way the corner of his eyes creased when he truly smiled, his comforting scent, his pink, thin lips that you were dying to feel on yours.

You wondered if he could hear your heart pounding, if he could feel it since your body was practically on his.

His hands found their way to your arms, gently placing themselves on your biceps. Was this it? It had to be.

So you stood on the tips of your toes, your lips now closer to his. Your eyes began to close as you leaned in to-

"I gotta go. Jake stuck his foot in his mouth again."

This wasn't a lie. But it still didn't dull your disappointment. Nor did it sedate your growing frustration at this whole situation.

Perhaps you didn't need Plan G or H Perhaps it was time to go with your original plan.

The next time you saw Bob was when Nat threw a small get together to celebrate the end of a long week.

He was wearing that damn white Tshirt again. Whenever he brought his cup of water to his mouth, the fabric stretched across his bicep.

Was he doing this on purpose? Did he know? Consciously or not, that you had fallen for him ever since you two first met at training?

Either way, you were tired of this game you had been playing for the past month.

"Are you sure about this?" Natasha asked.

You simply nodded before taking a shot of vodka. A little liquid courage was always nice.

"Nat, he's oblivious. Honestly, I don't know why we didn't do this the first time," Jake commented as he took the shot glass out of your hand.

"Because we didn't expect him to be that oblivious," Mickey countered.

"Well everyone, wish me luck." You walked out of the kitchen to find Bob still sitting on the couch, glass of water in hand.

His eyes met yours and he gave you a smile sweeter than honey. Your legs began to wobble, whether it was from that smile or your nerves, you couldn't say.

You walked over, making a beeline for him. Bob's eyes widened, his fingers gripping his cup. Your gaze was so intense.

"Hey Bee-oh!" Bob froze as you sat down in his lap, your thighs straddling his lithe hips.

"Hey Robby," your hands found his shoulders, fingers toying with the thin cotton fabric of his shirt.

"Uh Bee, there's um, there's a seat right there," Bob weakly pointed to the empty space next to him.

"I don't want that," you leaned forward, your forehead grazing his, "I want you Robby."

His eyes widened once more, as if he just saw an incoming train, "M-me?"

"Yes. Wanted you ever since that first day of training, when you offered me a mint," you told him.

"I uh, you looked sleepy and mint is known to wake you up and," Bob paused, "Did you say since the first day of training?"

You nodded, smiling at how you were able to see him process this information.

"The first day of training?" He repeated.

"Yes Bob, all you did was offer me a mint and smile to make me fall head over heels for ya," your fingers now went up to the back of his neck, twirling the curled ends of his hair, "Been trying to tell you that for the last month."

Bob opened his mouth, then promptly closed it, his brain still processing everything.

"You good Rob-" You never got to finish your sentence, as Bob decided right then was the best time to press his lips against yours.

His lips were soft and tasted faintly of vanilla, no doubt from the chapstick you watched him reapply. His touch was gentle, his thick fingers ghosting over your thighs, trailing up to your waist. Every move, no matter how small, made your heart fluttered.

Being so close to him, you could smell his aftershave, a mix of eucalyptus and sage. It was intoxicating and you wanted to be surrounded by it all the time, wanted to kiss him all the time.

When he broke away for air, you had to hold back a whimper, your lips desperate for more.

"FINALLY!"

You turned your head to find Bradley, along with Mickey, Natasha, Jake, Javy, and Reuben standing by the doorframe, in perfect view of you and Bob.

You smiled and opened your mouth, ready to make a quick remark. But Bob's fingers hooked underneath your chin, turning your head back to meet his lips again.

Unlike the first kiss, this one was bolder. His lips moved against yours with more confidence. Your whole body felt warm, as if you were floating. His hands now cupped your jawline, which is how you learned that Bob's hands practically covered your whole neck, a discovery that sent you reeling.

Your hands trailed up to his head, desperate to feel his sun kissed locks, desperate to find out if they were as soft as they looked. But just before you could, Bob broke away.

"What?" Anxiety came rushing back, dragging you away from Cloud Nine, your previous location. Did he regret it?

"Let's go."

He moved your body to the empty space on the couch, quickly getting up. You took his hands, allowing him to help you get up. You held onto one hand as he led you to the front door.

"Bob! What are you doing with my backseater?" Javy called out.

"Making up for lost time!"

Maybe you should be a little embarrassed. But how could you? You had finally kissed the man of your dreams, he kissed you back. He wanted to leave with you.

The sounds of the house party fainted, becoming soft background noise as you went outside.

Bob stopped, turning around to face you. Before you could get out a sound, his lips were on you again. His hands pulled your body to his, closing the gap in-between.

You couldn't help but moan when you felt his tongue slide against your bottom lip, immediately granting him entrance. You could hear Bob's breath hitch, his hands roaming across your body, touching your soft skin.

Abruptly, he pulled away, leaving you desperate for more.

"Why do you keep doing that?!"

"I...." His face was flushed, "I meant to ask you if if you drove yourself here. But you looked so kissable. You still do, God I just wanna kiss you again."

"I'm not stopping you Robby," you grinned, stepping towards him, "I'm not stopping you at all."

"Oh don't tell me that darlin'" his Midwestern upbringing laced his words. You always loved his accent, having found it not just unique but also comforting.

Somehow, despite his lips pressed against yours, Bob was able to walk you back to his car, your back meeting the cool metal.

His broad body draped over yours, his tongue frantically exploring your mouth. Your fingers reached up, grasping his hair. It was soft and much thicker than you expected.

What else was there about Bob you had yet to learn? What kind of toothpaste he used, if he drank tea or coffee in the morning. Did he fall asleep to rain sounds or silence? How many pillows were on his bed?

You wanted to know everything.

But right now, you just wanted to kiss Bob.

Your fingers tugged on his hair in an attempt to pull him closer to you. Despite his chest being pressed against yours, it wasn't enough. You wanted all of him.

"We should get in the car," He said, voice breathless. With the way his chest was rising, one would think he had just ran ten miles.

Bob began moving towards the driver's side of his truck, but he stopped, turning back to you.

"I want to take you home," He stated. It sounded like a confession with the way guilt laced his eyes.

"I would love that Robby."

Instead, he just shook his head, "But I shouldn't because you deserve more than that. You deserve a nice date, like that Italian restaurant we always pass when we go to Bradley's. You deserve that and flowers and a lovely dinner with candles and wine that's older than both of us-"

You cut him off by gently pecking his lips, "It's okay Bob. You could take me to that diner up the room from your place tomorrow morning and I'd be elated because I would be with you."

He shook his head, clearly torn between continuing to talk and continuing to kiss you, "But....it's the least I should do. I mean, after all the hints you were dropping. I thought you were just being friendly and-"

"What friend asks another friend to look at their chest?" You asked incredulously.

"I thought maybe we were just really close! That you were really comfortable around me, which is why I didn't think anything regarding what you wore when we watched Love Island. I mean," his face reddened, "I did think about it. Um I thought about it a lot and if you ever want to wear it again, I would not mind-"

"Bob," you stepped forward, placing your hands on his chest.

"I mean, you got me Violets! Those mean loyalty and devotion, as well as delicate love! And believe me I wanted to kiss you at the Hard Deck, but that is entirely Jake's fault-"

"As most things are."

"And looking back it was so obvious and I can't believe I didn't pick up on it," He paused, "Sorry, I I had to get that out. I can take you home or back to my place, whatever you want."

You giggled, delighted by his ramblings. You wanted to hear more of it.

"And now I just want to kiss you. Like all the time," He confessed, his lips moving closer to yours.

"Robby, get in the car," you instructed.

"Oh, um, okay," Bob unlocked his car, moving towards the driver seat.

"No Bob. Get in the back of the car," you instructed.

Bob's brows knitted together in confusion, "But then how will I drive-oh!"

Who knows if you were going to make it back to his place or yours. All you cared about was getting your lips and hands back on Bob Floyd.

#my writing #bob floyd x y/n #bob floyd x you #bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd imagine #robert bob floyd x you #robert bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd #robert bob floyd fluff #bob floyd fic #robert bob floyd fic #bob top gun #top gun bob #top gun maverick fanfiction #tgm fanfiction #robert floyd imagine #robert floyd x you #robert floyd x reader #robert floyd

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miraclewoozi · 1 year ago

Text

SPECTACLE. -j.ww

in which your new boyfriend, wonwoo, doesn't give a crap about his expensive eyewear.

pairing : wonwoo x fem!reader. content : smut. pwp. tags under the cut. MINORS DO NOT HAVE MY CONSENT TO INTERACT. w/c : 2.7k. notes : yeah i kinda. went insane over this idea. so. bon appetite to you, and also to wonwoo ? i guess.

content + smut tags : established - but new - relationship. making out. FACE SITTING. impact play? (one gentle butt slap). the shenanigans are on a couch if that matters, i don't know. reader is a little shy about doing it. PLEASE let me know if i've forgotten anything.

Wonwoo looks flushed when he pulls away from where he’s been kissing and nipping at the side of your neck, hair stuck up in every direction thanks to your tugging fingers and your gentle guidance to help him find your sweet spots. His lips are pink and a little plumped. His glasses are steaming up, sitting halfway down the bridge of his nose, and every slightly heavier breath he takes makes his broad chest rise and fall where it’s pressed wholly against yours.

You can’t help yourself from leaning forward into another kiss; he’s completely irresistible. Maybe the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. And while this isn’t really news to you, the dynamic of your relationship with him shifted a month or so ago and you’re still getting used to the privilege of seeing him this close up.

He’s still adjusting too, if the way he groans directly into your mouth, hands groping harder at the curve of your ass as you shuffle in his lap is anything to judge by. Still learning, still figuring you out. But – and this is how you know what you’re building here might be the real deal – even when it’s clumsy, and when you knock teeth while you’re kissing and burst into slightly pained giggles, or when things accidentally slip out of place while you’re getting steamy… everything Wonwoo does makes your spine tingle. Makes your stomach flip. Makes your core throb.

Even when it doesn’t always work? It makes sense, and it’s perfect, and losing yourself in the way his lips caress and worship yours is so damn easy when he murmurs your praises just for letting him do this in the first place.

“Will you do something for me?” He asks after a small forever, pulling back just far enough that he's not breathing up your nose. His hands have made their way under your – his – hoodie now and he’s grazing his fingers over your ribs, tickling enough to make you whimper, not enough for you to want to swat him away.

You think you’d give him the world if he asked for it in that deep, rough voice he adopts when things start heading in this direction. The moon too. Shit, if you could get a lasso around the sun and bring it closer to keep him warm, you’d do that as well. So, whatever his little request is now, you know you’re going to agree; resting your hands on his shoulders (finally leaving his gorgeous hair alone), you lean back from him and nod your head.

“Anything,” you say. You’re certain that you feel his cock twitch in his sweatpants where it’s pressed against the inside of your thigh, but you’re not quite sure why.

It makes you feel hot, though. More-so when he bites back a grin, lips curling in that adorable way. It feels greatly unfair that you can’t swoop down right this second to kiss him again, and again, and again; as painful as it is though, you do exercise enough grace to wait for him to come out with it.

“Get up,” he says softly, dropping his hands down your sides and squeezing at your hips once.

You do as he asks and move off his lap, sitting on the other side of the couch; he doesn’t say anything else as he stands up himself, pulls his hoodie off over his head and tosses it to one side before sinking all the way down to the floor. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t see you. He shuffles into place with his back against the edge of the seat and only once he’s comfortable does he turn to look at you over one shoulder, grinning brilliantly.

“Okay,” he says, bending his knees and planting his heels into the floor. “Come here.”

You stand up off the cushions now and look down at him for a second, wondering what on Earth is going through his mind, but you know better than to start questioning his strange ideas. Especially when he’s in this sort of a mood. You step over him, one foot either side of his hips, and start to drop down too, but he puts a hand on each of your knees and stops you before you’re in his lap once again.

“No,” Wonwoo says, shaking his head. His hands then make their way to the backs of your thighs and he pushes forwards, trying to guide you where he wants you. Your knees bend of their own accord and press against the couch on both sides of his head. “Like this.”

You don’t exactly freeze up, but it is as if you forget how to control all of your muscles for a second. The ones in your legs seem to turn to jelly and you know it’s only because the sofa is currently taking a portion of your weight that you don’t buckle completely and fall onto the top of his head. The ones in your face give you a slack-jawed, wide-eyed, unblinking expression.

Your abdominal muscles tighten and your cunt flutters at what you’re sure he’s trying to suggest, the rush of wetness you feel only worsened by the intensity in his eyes as he tips his head back and looks at you.

“Please?” He asks, all sweet but deep and rough at the same time.

“Are you s–?” You start to ask.

Wonwoo clicks his tongue at you and tries to encourage you further onto the couch to prove his point. “Yes,” he says, nodding eagerly.

And then, just so you really can’t mistake what he's asking for–

“I want you to sit on my face.”

Your entire body heats up at how bluntly he says it. You squeeze your eyes shut and bite the inside of your cheek so that you don’t accidentally laugh with the nerves already trying to burst out of your tummy.

It’s not that you don’t want to. If you had a penny for every time you’d thought about him giving himself up for your pleasure this way, you’d be rich. You do. You’re going a little crazy just imagining how good it’s going to feel.

It’s just that him being so bold about it has you feeling shy, and that’s never happened to you before. You’re at a loss. You’re totally stumped.

When you open your eyes again and look down at him, Wonwoo is just as earnest and hungry for you as he was a few seconds ago. If anything, it’s as if he wants it more. It’s without a doubt the hottest thing you’ve ever seen and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re nodding at him; his fingers start to drag up and down the backs of your thighs happily, before they hook under the waistband of your shorts and gently make that first little pull.

“If you don’t like it, we can stop,” he says to you, only pulling them all the way down when you start to help him. They get tossed over to the side to join his hoodie after you step out of them. His eyes glance to the panties you’re wearing – the last barrier, the final thing keeping him from what he’s so desperate for – before he looks back at your face and flashes you a smile. “Just tell me, okay?”

“It’s not that,” you laugh softly, taking off your own jumper and throwing it onto the pile. Wonwoo groans at the sight of you; you roll your eyes at him. “You just… took me by surprise.”

“Good,” he sighs, wrapping an arm around one of your legs and letting you settle onto your knees in position over his mouth, pressing his fingers into the top of your thigh.

The first soft press of his lips over your panties makes you gasp and you hold a little tighter onto the back cushions as you look down at him. His eyes are closed already as he breathes your heady scent in, deep enough to hopefully stain his lungs, enough that he’ll never get rid of it, that he’ll be able to carry you everywhere he goes.

But Wonwoo’s closed eyes aren’t the only thing you notice between your thighs and a soft laugh replaces the pleased sounds already spilling from your lips. One hand drops down to where he's settled and your fingers brush against his temple as they try to pinch at one side of his glasses. He looks affronted when he catches your gaze.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, gently moving your hand away.

You tilt your head at him. “Your glasses,” you prompt, moving to reach for them again. His fingers curl around your wrist and he shoves your hand into his hair instead, rubbing the tip of his nose against the inside of your thigh.

“I want to keep them on,” he tells you.

“What if they break?”

“Don’t care,” he hums, kissing his way back towards your covered pussy. “I’ll buy a new pair. I just wanna see you.”

You swallow at this and decide that you’re definitely not going to try and change his mind, instead choosing to tilt your head back and let his skilled tongue work you up through your underwear. It’s a mess of arousal and spit and they’re soaked, translucent, clinging to you by the time he’s frustrated with them; frankly, so are you, and it's a relief when he concludes that enough is enough.

“Baby,” he groans as he pulls your underwear to one side and has to crane his neck up to lick the flat of his tongue in a stripe up your slit. You whine, the cool air and his hot breaths a menacing mix of sensations, but you don’t have the sense to respond; one soft slap of his hand against your ass makes you look back down at him, though, and you’re met with dark eyes, flushed cheeks and a practically frenzied Wonwoo in the space between your hips. Your sweet, softly spoken boyfriend is nowhere to be found.

“I said, sit.”

His strong arm tugs you down and your knees slide against the cushions, bringing your pussy even closer to his face, literally forcing you to rest against his lips. He chuckles triumphantly and buries his tongue between your folds, tasting you so much more legitimately than before. The way he loves – straight from the source, the spring. You feel him prod at your hole and your walls clench around what he gives you – barely just the tip, but it’s enough to have you reeling already, and when his other arm hooks around your other thigh, when he starts to move you back and forth, you take very little convincing to start to rock your hips down against him on your own.

“Oh,” you whimper as his lips seal around your clit and he sucks at it once, giving a few experimental flicks of his tongue at the same time. The hand in his hair tightens immediately and Wonwoo groans with you still in his mouth, sending delicious vibrations through your sensitive nerves and making you gush onto his chin.

“So fucking pretty like this,” he tells you, stroking his thumb over your waist. “Might be my new favourite view.”

He keeps lapping at you teasingly, testing circles and sideways motions, precise swipes, long drags; every subtle change as he tries to find what makes you scream in this position draws a different sound from your throat. He tenses the muscle and fucks your dribbling hole with it while encouraging you to move enough forward that his nose bumps against your clit with every jerky rock of your hips. You’re grinding faster, now, pressing down against his mouth harder, caring less by the second about whether his glasses are actually going to break in two. Besides, the way he drinks you down tells you that he could do this for a week straight without getting tired; he doesn’t want you to stop, or slow down, or ease up. He wants more. And if you’re too shy to give it to him, he’ll just take, take, take.

“Just– oh, fuck,” you gasp as his tongue finds your clit again and he laps at it with so much zeal that he could rival your favourite vibrator. “Just like that–”

Both of his hands grasp you tighter, squeezing and massaging and kneading at your soft skin as you chase your high on his pretty face. His eyes are tightly closed in his own rapture, and you hope that he won’t blame you for wanting him to open them; your hand pulls harshly at his hair again, hard enough to make him cringe, enough to make him stop for just a second before he sees how wound-up you look. You try to pull off from him a little, at least enough for him to catch a couple of breaths, but Wonwoo captures your pussy between his lips before you even hear him inhale.

“You– you wanted to s—see me,” you stutter out as the fire starts to catch and you feel warmth and ecstasy start to build at your core. “Fuck– ah–”

So he does. With big, hungry eyes, Wonwoo watches as you hurtle towards oblivion, as you writhe and squirm and grind down against his ardent mouth.

He sends you crashing over the edge with a wet sob, your own eyes closing now as you see stars in the darkness and ride your high out on his still-moving tongue. There are tears on your cheeks before you can do anything about it. Your walls spasm around nothing. He barely slows, taking back enough pressure so that your pleasure doesn’t turn to pain. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t even blink until you’re out the other side of your climax, though.

When your pants start to die down and you’re twitching to get away from him, so sensitive that even his tiny kisses make you shudder, Wonwoo drops his head back down to the pillows and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. You don’t have the strength to move yet, still reeling, still too floaty to try for any level of coordination, but he doesn’t mind. Your swollen, glistening pussy right over his face is something he'd pay millions to see.

“Didn’t even break the glasses,” you laugh weakly once your voice decides to come back to you.

“Mm,” Wonwoo hums, sliding them off his nose and inspecting them. He ‘tsk’s before putting them back on. They’re steamed at the edges and a little smeary now, and he surely can’t actually see that clearly through them. He obviously doesn’t care. “That’s not good enough.”

“Huh?” you ask, moving carefully so as not to plant your knee into his jaw but still trying to bring your legs together so that you can sit to one side. He isn't having it, though, and slowly shuffles up onto his knees, turns around to face you and lays his fingers on one of your ankles, wasting no time in trying to pry your legs apart again.

“That’s. Not. Good. Enough,” he repeats, using his other hand to palm himself over the fabric of his sweatpants. The tent in them would be comical if it weren’t for the animalistic look in his eyes; there’s nothing laughable about the way he’s looking at you right now, though.

“So what are we gonna do about it?” You ask, opening back up for him and not hiding how you stare as he rips his shirt off over his head. Then, he slides his fingertips up the inside of your calf, to your knee, down your thigh… he drags them over the lips of your pussy and collects a little of your slick on them before bringing his hand to his lips and sucking it clean.

“I’ve got a few ideas,” he tells you, groaning at your sweet taste as if he wasn’t just drowning in it a minute and a half ago. He lowers himself until he's once more level with your cunt and guides both of your legs over his shoulders, smirking up at your expectant face. “Maybe try to squeeze your thighs a little more this time. See if that does the trick.”

thank you so much for reading!! i hope u enjoyed this hehe. as always, likes, reblogs, replies, feedback and asks are always super appreciated.<3

#wonwoo smut #wonwoo x reader #jeon wonwoo smut #seventeen smut #svt smut #kpop smut #*#j writes.#this is the best title i've ever given anything and if you disagree. argue with the wall #i'm fucking hilarious. anyway don't perceive me.#taking myself to horknee jail right this second

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