#and you have to have the first to get to the second

[meowdei]

same but different — ft. phainon

phainon is always changing. he’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. and he’s changing. but he’s still your phainon and you still love him

word count. ❤︎ 10.4k words — girl (gn) what ze hell

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; childhood friends to lovers ; modern/non canon au ; reader saves him from a bully when they’re young ; reader has a bad date (with someone else) ; very tame violence (phainon fights some assholes for her) ; love confessions ; loss of virginity ; awkward first times ; car sex/semi public sex (it’s dark) ; use of condoms (be safe!) ; finger sucking ; vaginal fingering ; slight hand jobs ; vaginal sex ; proposals (you say yes!) ; phainon is a bit of a crybaby (affectionate) ; not proof read pls tell me if there’s errors

commentary. ❤︎ THAT ART IN THE HEADER SENT ME INTO A SPIRAL BRO . so here’s the result ig

You meet Phainon when he’s twelve. 

You’re new to the neighborhood, and so is he, starting over at school at the same time and learning the halls and classrooms in the same way—he seems to take being the new kid well. The teachers like him, and he’s friendly and easy to get along with, and most other boys like having him on their teams for sports because he’s agile and decent at catching a ball. You? Well…you don’t adjust as well.

You move not far from your old home, but far enough that everything feels different. He moves from some small town that no one has ever heard of, and all in the matter of a few weeks, he worms his way into your life and doesn’t let you know a single ounce of peace. You’re still eleven at the time, but he’s only two months, one week, and four days older than you, and you’ll be the same age soon enough. 

But it doesn’t really matter that he’s older, anyway, because he cries like a god damn baby. 

The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older. 

It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”

The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”

Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air. 

You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.

This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself. 

Except…nothing happens.

The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”

And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you. 

And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea. 

“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.

“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe. 

“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”

He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind. 

“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”

“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”

“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust. 

“And I’m going home,” you say flatly. 

You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)

But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”

“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.

“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”

“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”

He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.

(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore. 

(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore. 

Still, he always does in front of you. 

Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)

It happens on a Friday night.

You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited. 

Until you’re not. 

You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do. 

It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there. 

It guts you. 

You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)

In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )

You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon. 

“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”

“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”

He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text. 

But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”

“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”

“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”

“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”

He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that. 

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”

“Then don’t,” he offers.

You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.

“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”

“Are you buying?” you perk up.

He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”

You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.

He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his. 

“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.

“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”

“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.

He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”

“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”

“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”

“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)

“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”

“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”

“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.

You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh. 

Your eyes widen as you realize. 

Oh.

Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over. 

There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.

“Yo, what the fuck—”

“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)

“Who the hell are you—”

“What’s your fucking problem man—”

“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)

Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means. 

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily. 

Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange. 

Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face. 

“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”

“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”

He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”

“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”

“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)

“You’re still a crybaby!”

“Am not!”

“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)

He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”

“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.

“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore. 

But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature. 

But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”

He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”

You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”

(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it. 

You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)

It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon. 

“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)

“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.

“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”

“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”

“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.

“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share. 

He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes. 

Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different. 

“What?” you ask.

Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”

You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.

His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his. 

“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.

You don’t ask what he means. You already know. 

It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now. 

You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him. 

“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”

It won’t.

It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.

“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”

“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.

And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on. 

He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders. 

“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”

“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.

“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly. 

“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”

You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)

“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”

“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease. 

“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”

“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)

“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”

“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”

He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”

“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.

Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever. 

His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him. 

“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”

“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”

“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.

“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”

“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”

He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”

“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”

With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give. 

He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears. 

“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.

He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”

You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”

“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”

You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound. 

It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that. 

Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.

“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.

“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you. 

He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm. 

“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.

“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”

“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”

It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of. 

“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.

“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers. 

He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”

“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you. 

“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”

“Good,” he hums. 

His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.

“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”

“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”

“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”

He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.) 

“When did they change for you?”

“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”

“On your first date that broke my heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swing things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”

“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin. 

He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.

You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”

His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe. 

“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”

And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it. 

“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”

“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”

He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp. 

He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily. 

“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it. 

He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”

You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady. 

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

“More than okay,” he says, voice strained. 

“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again. 

It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion. 

“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…” 

He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”

“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one. 

(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before. 

Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you. 

The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.) 

It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.

“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this. 

This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him. 

“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”

With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon. 

“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”

Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need. 

“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”

“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls. 

“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.

“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace. 

It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly. 

“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”

“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”

“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit. 

Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.

He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak. 

When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.

“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.

“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”

“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”

You snort. “Is that why you cried?”

He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”

“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.

“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”

“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”

“Yeah?” he beams.

“Yeah,” you grin. 

(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)

— — — — — — — — — — 

You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants. 

He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.

And then it rains. 

It rains hard.

You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it. 

You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water. 

He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.

“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”

He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder. 

This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you. 

And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life. 

“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”

“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out. 

“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.

But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.

So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching. 

You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand. 

“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks. 

You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and all he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed. 

Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you. 

Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.

It’s that simple. It always was. 

He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”

“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”

He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently. 

“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”

You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you. 

You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three. 

“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”

“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little. 

“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy. 

And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you. 

“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”

You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”

“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”

“Still you,” you snort. 

He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”

“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”

(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)

well . i don’t rly wanna talk about it so there you have it folks. do not look at me

[danysdaughter]

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 2.7k words

summary | bucky asked to learn about edging—he just didn’t expect to be blindfolded, tied to a bed, and brought to the brink twice before even getting inside you.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, edging, orgasm denial, begging, 69 position, face sitting, oral sex (receiving and giving), restraints, bondage, blindfolds, dom/sub elements, reader is a teasing little shit, accidental orgasm, post-nut confessions, friends to lovers, dirty talk

a/n | by popular demand. maybe a series. I actually have part 3 done, it's over 4k words, will post it maybe Tues or Wed

Taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ - ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

divider by @cafekitsune

His arms were stretched above him, wrists bound to the headboard with silk scarves—deep blue, smooth, soft, but knotted just tight enough to hold.

“Too tight?” you asked, fingers brushing over the delicate bindings, eyes flicking down to his face.

Bucky looked up at you, his bare chest rising slow with each breath. He tugged lightly—testing them—then gave you a crooked smirk.

“I could snap these in half if I wanted.”

Your brow lifted. “But you won’t.”

His smirk faded just slightly, replaced by something softer. More hesitant. “Are you sure about this?”

You leaned over him, your thighs straddling his hips, hair falling like a curtain between you as your voice dropped low.

“You said you wanted to know what edging was like,” you murmured, your fingers skating down the center of his chest. “I figured we’d learn in real time.”

He shifted beneath you, bound but still twitchy. “I read about it,” he muttered. “Didn’t sound very nice.”

You grinned, slow and wicked. “It’s not supposed to be nice. It’s supposed to be maddening.”

His eyes flicked to yours—nervous, excited, turned on out of his mind.

You leaned in closer, voice brushing his ear.

“It’s delayed gratification. Every time I get you close and pull away? The orgasm you finally get will be so much better.”

He exhaled hard.

Your hand slid lower.

“And if you’re good—” your mouth grazed his jaw, “I’ll let you come while your mouth is buried between my legs.”

His hips bucked instinctively, and the scarves tugged tight above him.

You smiled.

“Oh—and this,” you murmured.

Bucky tensed as you reached behind you and pulled out a strip of black fabric. Smooth. Soft. Purposeful.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, eyes narrowing just a little.

You leaned in again, lips inches from his as you began tying the blindfold behind his head. “Enhancing your senses. Or something.”

“Or something?”

“It’s very scientific,” you said seriously, even as your grin gave you away. “Like, ninety percent of your brain’s sexual response is... sensory rerouting. Or whatever.”

He huffed. “That’s not a real thing.”

“Sounds real enough,” you said, finishing the knot.

He blinked under the blindfold, adjusting against the headboard, visibly trying to breathe through this new shift. He was hard already—still—and growing more tense by the second.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?” he muttered, voice low.

You shrugged, that wicked smile creeping across your lips. “Nope. But hey—first time for everything.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, probably to suggest something logical, like a safe word, or releasing one wrist just in case—

But you didn’t give him the chance.

You leaned in and kissed him, hard and slow, your lips moving over his with purpose.

To shut him up. To distract him. To take control.

And when he moaned into your mouth, wrists tugging slightly against the scarves again?

You knew you had him.

You shifted lower, settling between his legs, the sheets rustling softly beneath your knees. Bucky lay perfectly still, jaw tight, hands flexing uselessly in their restraints. The blindfold kept his lashes fluttering, the rest of his face caught somewhere between restraint and pleading.

You reached for the waistband of his boxers.

“Gonna take these off now,” you said quietly, voice like silk. “That okay?”

His head nodded once—shaky, deliberate. “Yeah. Yeah.”

You hooked your fingers into the waistband and slowly, painfully slowly, began to peel the fabric down his hips. His breath hitched. The elastic caught momentarily on his cock, and then it sprang free—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip.

Your breath caught.

You dragged the boxers down his thighs, then all the way off, letting your eyes drink him in as you tossed them aside.

God, he was beautiful.

Strong, thick thighs spread wide beneath you, all that power gone pliant. His abs tensed as you let your fingers drift gently down his hip, over his inner thigh.

Your gaze dropped to his cock—hard and straining, flushed deep red at the tip, the vein along the underside throbbing. He was leaking freely now, precum smeared across his lower stomach, the kind of mess that made your mouth water.

You reached for him.

Wrapped your hand around the base—warm, heavy, pulsing in your palm.

He groaned, deep and broken.

Your thumb slid over the tip, gathering the slick there, and you started to stroke—slow, languid, base to tip and back again, no rush, just pressure. Measured. Precise.

He twitched in your grip.

His whole body arched slightly, restrained and helpless, breath pouring out in ragged gasps.

“You’re so hard,” you whispered, stroking him a little faster. “All from just a few little touches.”

“Jesus—” he breathed. “You’re driving me insane.”

You smirked, leaning closer, breath ghosting over the head of his cock.

“Good. That means it’s working.”

You kept stroking—slow at first, deliberately teasing, your hand sliding up and down his cock in smooth, controlled movements. The slick from his own arousal made each pass easier, messier. His breath hitched each time your grip tightened near the head, every movement wringing another helpless sound from his throat.

“Shit,” Bucky groaned, arching his back slightly, wrists pulling tight against the silk restraints. “Feels so good…”

You smiled, leaning forward, letting your lips hover just above the head of his cock, not touching—not yet.

Then you picked up the pace.

Your strokes grew faster, more purposeful. Your other hand cupped his balls, gently massaging, rolling them in your palm with just enough pressure to make him twitch.

His thighs tensed beneath you.

“Oh fuck,” he gasped, hips jerking, muscles locking tight as you worked him faster. “Don’t stop—don’t—fuck, I’m—”

You stopped.

Just like that. Your hand left him.

He cried out, an almost desperate, broken sound escaping his throat as he bucked into the empty air.

“No—” he groaned. “Fuck—why—why did you stop?”

You sat back, slowly licking your fingers, watching his cock twitch helplessly in front of you.

“Because,” you said softly, “that was the edge.”

He panted, face turned toward the ceiling, chest rising and falling like he’d just run ten miles.

“That—was cruel.”

You grinned. “That was the first lesson.”

You leaned in close again, lips brushing his jaw.

“Now we do it again.”

You watched him pant beneath you, cock flushed, pulsing against his stomach, his whole body trembling with frustration and heat.

You reached up and gently tugged the blindfold away.

His eyes blinked open—glassy, wrecked, beautiful.

“Think you can handle more?” you asked softly, brushing damp hair from his forehead.

He swallowed, throat working. “Depends what you’re planning.”

You smiled.

Then shifted—slow and deliberate—climbing over him.

Straddling his chest.

His eyes widened just slightly as you braced your knees on either side of his head, your dripping core hovering just above his mouth.

“I was thinking…” you purred, lowering yourself just enough that he could smell you, “you could eat me out while I suck your cock.”

His mouth parted, breath catching.

“Are you serious?”

You smirked. “Bucky. You begged for this. You fantasized about it.”

His hands flexed in their restraints, body tense beneath you.

“You wanna taste me?” you asked, your voice low, sultry.

“Fuck—yes,” he said, already trying to lift his head. “Please.”

You lowered yourself slowly, your pussy brushing his lips—and he groaned, hands pulling at the scarves, tongue darting out instantly to lick a firm stripe through your folds.

The moment his mouth closed around your clit, your breath hitched.

And you rewarded him.

Sliding down his body, you reached for his cock again, wrapping your hand around him, stroking slow.

Then your mouth followed.

Warm.

Wet.

Deep.

He moaned into your pussy, tongue flicking desperately against your clit as you swallowed him down, your mouth working in rhythm with the roll of your hips against his face.

The sound of his groaning against you while your mouth dragged over the length of him? Filthy.

Perfect.

You were both shaking now, caught in that beautiful tension—heat, friction, mouths and hands and bodies tangled in something raw and so fucking good.

You moaned around him as his tongue curled inside you.

And he bucked beneath you, completely gone.

You lowered yourself fully onto his face, letting him take all of you—and he did, with no hesitation.

Bucky groaned like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted in his mouth, his tongue dragging through your folds in slow, deliberate licks before latching onto your clit with reckless devotion. His lips sealed around you, his tongue flicking, swirling, pressing just right, like he was memorizing the shape of your pleasure.

You gasped around his cock.

Your mouth stretched around him again, tongue flattening beneath the head as you swallowed him deep, slow strokes that made his hips jerk beneath you. You hollowed your cheeks, moaned low around him—just to make it worse—and the sound vibrated up through his length.

He moaned into your pussy, and the vibration alone made your thighs shake.

Your hands gripped his thighs, his hips, anything—but his hands were still tied, his body helpless beneath you. His only weapon was his mouth, and god, was he using it.

Your hips rocked against him in time with your strokes, chasing your high, grinding into his face as he feasted on you like he couldn’t breathe without it.

“Just like that,” you gasped around him. “Fuck—Bucky—”

You felt it building.

The tight coil deep in your belly, his mouth never stopping, his tongue relentless.

You sucked him deeper.

Faster.

And just as he groaned again—vibrating with desperation—you came.

Hard.

Your entire body clenched, thighs trembling around his head, back arching as your orgasm crashed through you like fire. You cried out, lips parting around his cock, head tilting back as the pleasure pulsed through every nerve ending.

Bucky groaned—his tongue still lapping, still savoring every last drop of you.

And then?

You pushed up.

Lifted your hips off his face.

Pulled your mouth off his cock with a slick pop.

His hips jerked upward.

“Fuck—no—” he gasped, voice ragged, cock twitching in your hand. “I was—please—I was so fucking close—”

You smirked, breathless, licking your lips as you sat up on his thighs.

“I know.”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, glancing down at his flushed, twitching cock.

“Lesson two: just because you got me off, doesn’t mean you get yours.”

He groaned in agony, head tipping back against the pillows, chest heaving.

And still—his cock was hard.

So very hard.

Bucky was trembling beneath you.

Sweat slicked his chest, his abs tight, his cock flushed an angry red as it twitched helplessly against his stomach. His jaw was clenched, mouth parted, breath ragged like he was barely hanging on.

And he wasn’t.

His wrists flexed again in the restraints—not from frustration now, but need. Desperate, aching need.

“C’mon, baby,” he rasped, his voice low and cracked and wrecked. “Please. Please—give it to me. I need it.”

You tilted your head, your lips curling in that familiar, wicked grin.

“What do you need, Sergeant?”

His eyes locked on yours, burning with something raw. Unfiltered.

“You. Inside you. Now.”

You let the silence hang for just a second longer.

Then finally—finally—you shifted.

Your hands braced on his chest as you lifted yourself, hovered above him, your dripping core poised right over the tip of his cock.

His eyes blew wide.

He felt it—the heat of you, the way your folds barely brushed his head.

“Fuck—fuck—please—”

You lowered yourself slowly, letting the very tip of him slide inside you—just barely.

And that was all it took.

The second you sank down even an inch, his whole body locked.

His back arched, his head fell back, and he let out a deep, broken groan—like it was being ripped from his chest.

And then he came.

Hard.

Hot.

Sudden.

“Oh—fuck—” he choked, his hips jerking up once involuntarily as he spilled inside you, cock pulsing helplessly as he gasped through the high.

You froze—eyes wide—as you felt it.

The heat.

The rush.

His orgasm hitting you in one unexpected, uncontrolled, wrecking wave.

You stared down at him, lips parted in shock, your body still poised above him with only the tip inside.

He blinked up at you, dazed and red-faced, voice hoarse.

“…Shit.”

You blinked again.

Then grinned.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, barely able to hide the gleeful amusement in your voice.

You blinked once.

Then again.

“…Did you just?”

Bucky stared up at you, wide-eyed, flushed, completely wrecked.

“No,” he said immediately, too fast. Too flat.

You raised a brow.

“That is probably the worst lie ever spoken in the history of existence.”

He opened his mouth like he might argue.

But then your body shifted just slightly—and you felt it.

The warmth.

The evidence.

“Considering I can feel your cum inside me,” you said sweetly, “you wanna try that one again?”

He groaned, dragging his hands—still tied—to the sides of his head like he could disappear into the mattress.

You smiled, all smug satisfaction and teasing heat.

“Well,” you murmured, “at least we learned something tonight.”

He peeked at you through his fingers. “Yeah?”

You leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and smug.

“You’re terrible at edging.”

You reached up, your fingers gently undoing the knots around his wrists. The silk slipped free easily, falling in soft coils onto the sheets. He groaned quietly as his arms dropped to his sides, muscles loose, completely spent.

You lay down beside him, cheek resting against his shoulder, your body still warm and glowing, every nerve thrumming from everything you’d just done.

He stayed quiet, chest rising slowly beneath your hand.

Then you tilted your head, glanced up at him with a sly smile.

“So…” you said, voice low and lazy. “How was it?”

He let out a breathless laugh—half-mortified, half-stunned. “Like being emotionally mugged by my own dick.”

You snorted, burying your face in his shoulder. “That’s… definitely going in the quote book.”

Then, after a moment, you felt his fingers twitch slightly against your waist.

He cleared his throat.

You glanced up, catching the tiny flicker of hesitation in his expression.

He was thinking.

Hard.

And that alone made you smirk. “What? Got another fantasy to confess?”

But his voice was quieter this time. Not sheepish. Just… uncertain.

“I was actually wondering,” he said slowly, like he was piecing the sentence together in real time, “if you… maybe… would want to go out with me?”

Your brows lifted in surprise.

You turned your head on his shoulder, looked up at him. His cheeks were flushed—still pink from the exertion, the orgasm, the confession.

“You mean like... a date?” you asked, eyes searching his.

He gave a short, nervous huff of laughter, eyes flicking up to the ceiling.

“Yeah. I just…” He shifted a little, like the words didn’t sit quite right in his mouth yet. “I don’t want this to just be sex. Or whatever this is. I like being around you. Even when you're impossible. Especially then.”

Your teasing grin softened just a bit. He was rambling. And adorable.

“You’re asking me now?” you said, one brow arched. “While I’m literally still dripping with your cum?”

His jaw dropped slightly, horror and exasperation all mixed in. “Jesus Christ—don’t say it like that—”

You leaned up, kissed him just below the corner of his mouth, still grinning. “Relax, Sarge.”

Then you met his eyes, warm and open.

“Of course I’ll go out with you.”

His whole body relaxed under you, like a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding finally let go.

You nuzzled closer, dropping your head back on his chest, sighing dramatically.

“But you are buying dinner. Since you came before the real show even started.”

He groaned. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

You smirked.

“Not a chance.”

He turned his head toward you, eyes soft now, sleepy but focused. “You are amazing.”

You grinned. “Obviously.”

A beat passed.

Then his hand slid over your waist, pulling you a little closer.

“Redemption round tomorrow?”

You kissed his jaw, sweet and slow.

“We’ll see if you earn it, Sergeant.”

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@princeescalus @s-sh-ne @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @lilac13 @fayeatheart @Leathynn @solana-jpeg @person-005 @muchwita @Ruexj283 @jarnesbames108 @iheartfictionalmen1 @daddyslilbrat962 @bucky-baby-barnes @bonnietate26 @1lorenzo-lover1 @heymydearheart

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[p1girlfriend]

protective!f1 grid x reader

lando norris a guy touches your waist at an event and Lando sees red you blink and suddenly he’s between you two, arm firm around you

“did you not see her face? she was uncomfortable.” his tone is calm. too calm. you swear his hand doesn’t leave your lower back all night “stay close, yeah? just so I don’t have to commit a crime.”

oscar piastri someone makes a slick comment about you on social media he quotes it with a “say it again and I’ll have your name on legal paperwork :)” in real life? he holds your hand tighter in crowded places, body always angled toward you he doesn’t get loud — he gets scary quiet and later whispers,

“no one touches you. no one talks about you like that.”

charles leclerc you’re flustered during a chaotic media event he steps in front of the cameras like a shield, takes your hand and mutters in French,

“breathe. i’ve got you.” he never raises his voice, but the look in his eyes shuts everyone up if someone’s rude? he stares them down like “say it again. i dare you.” and then walks you away, brushing your hair back like “they don’t matter. you do.”

carlos sainz he hears someone say “you’re just dating him for clout” he stops in his tracks. turns.

“care to repeat that?” one hand around your waist, the other not shaking because he’s holding it together he’s got “don’t mess with what’s mine” energy and later tells you, “you never have to defend yourself. not when I’m here.”

lewis hamilton he sees you uncomfortable across the room and is by your side in three seconds flat

“you okay, love?” says it sweet — but his eyes scan the situation like a bodyguard if someone pushes a boundary, he steps in calm. firm. deadly “respect her, or leave.” and then soft again, thumb on your cheek “you come before everything.”

daniel ricciardo someone makes a crude joke about you he laughs at first — then stops the room goes quiet

“nah, mate. not her. not ever.” later he cups your face and murmurs, “no one talks about my girl like that. i’d burn the room down first.” protective but still smiling still unhinged enough to scare someone into wetting their pants

max verstappen says nothing when someone steps too close just walks up behind you, grabs your hand, and glares at the guy until he backs off deadass pulls you into his lap in front of the entire paddock if needed

“no one gets near you. not without my eyes on them.” he doesn't even realize how territorial he sounds you: “...you good?” him: “i’m perfect. you’re safe. that’s what matters.”

gabriel bortoleto soft but FIRM a man stares too long and Gabi immediately shifts in front of you

“can I help you?” he doesn’t like to cause scenes — but he will if it means protecting your comfort he holds you for a long time after “i saw your face. i know what that felt like. i’m sorry.” kisses your knuckles and mutters in Portuguese about how lucky he is you’re his

franco colapinto protective in a quiet fury kind of way someone bumps you at a party and doesn’t apologize he’s immediately grabbing your hand and pulling you away

“i’ll make sure you don’t have to deal with that again.” later: “i don’t want anyone near you who doesn’t treat you like you’re gold.” and he means it.

lance stroll he doesn’t say much he just appears, silently loops his arm around your shoulders and glares at whoever’s making you feel uncomfortable when you’re safe again, he presses a soft kiss to your temple

“if you ever feel off, you tell me. even if it’s small. especially if it’s small.” would literally throw hands in a designer suit if someone crossed a line

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[m-ayo-o]

Choso only lasts two pumps today :(

On a good day, he doesn't last long.

His first round is when he's at his weakest- pussy deprived for more than 24 hours, precum everywhere.. he gets his dick soaked in you for more than a second and he's done. He's a mess.

His second round is always longer.

"it's less sensitive now.." he mumbles and rubs himself, teasing it into you again. Now you can expect him to last as long as you want.. you can tell him exactly when you want him to come and he'll do it on command.

But today is one of his weaker days.

"baby, put it in.." you encourage him, where you're lying below him and looking up at his face.

"mm.." he rubs the head of his dick through your mess, where your legs are spread, knees pinned back to your chest.

He took over in a heated craze and put you in this position, now doesn't seem to have the guts to follow through with his plan.

He knows it's going to be tight.

"mm.." he moans, sliding just the tip of his dick inside.

Your hands are on his hips, pulling him closer, and your pussy is just sucking him in.

"all the way, Cho.."

"ugh.." he slides all the way back with a grunt, his head falling down to yours, lips and tongues connecting with shared moans.

"Choso.." your head is spinning, "it hurts.."

You bite your lip.

You know it only turns him on more.

You can feel him pulsing inside you.

"baby.." he looks at you dangerously, with those needy, deprived, dark eyes of his.

He's ready to bust already.

"please.. Choso.." you encourage him but you know what's going to happen.

"I.. I.." he drags his hips back.. "ugh.." and forth. Once.

Yeah it feels good but you need more.

"baby.. it's really tight today.. I.. I can't.."

His breath is unsteady, eyes unfocused and his head.. oh his sweet head is a mess.

He pulls back again, painfully slowly, then proceeds to babble his way through his orgasm.

Sinking himself inside you, on the second fucking pump, he drives himself all the way back, soaking your walls, making you drip, then falling down into the crook of your neck.

"I couldn't.. couldn't.. last longer.. baby.. I.." he still sounds all shaky from coming, "I wanted.. to.. but....."

"shh.." you tell him and pull him closer, revelling in the warmth of his body.

[rawme-price]

So, food aggressive ghost, but this time its reader having a bad day. (Cw explicit ED discussion)

Sure, you've gotten pretty good at regulating ur emotions, but sometimes something sets it off and u feel like ur back in sophomore year. Simon notices instantly, despite how well you hide it. He's enamored with you, constantly staring, so even the smallest change sets off his alarm bells.

The issue is that hes not sure what to do with the information. His upbringing wasnt exactly mental health positive, and he doesnt have that instinct for comfort that his teammates seem to. So he tries to help how you help him. By being a calming presence.

When you show up for lunch and pass him a portion significantly bigger than your own, he doesnt point it out. Doesnt ostracize you. People always tried to 'save' you whenever they noticed, and it just ended up with you embarrassed and ashamed and them upset that you weren't happy for their 'help'. But simon doesnt do that.

Its a fine line, between gentle acceptance and mean indifference. but you can tell from the way simon is tense that its not lack of care keeping him quiet. He hates when people comment on his eating habits, why would he comment on urs?

But the bad day turns into a bad week, and by halfway through the second when you forego splitting the usual package of fruit gummies simon decides something needs to he done. He spends hours in his kitchen that night, recreating the food you once mentioned was ur favourite but too time consuming to make all the time.

"You dont have to eat it." Is the first thing he says when u sit down at lunch, making you pause. He brings out a container of food, slides it over to u while u slide ur whole lunch box at him, not having packed urself lunch. You cant help it, your tears get wet when you see what he made.

"Simon? I- i thought you couldn't cook? When did you...?" You question, knowing for a fact simon hadn't even known how to make rice just last week. At this, ghost looks away, and without his mask u can see him flush a bit. "Last night. I uh- learned last night."

Your eyes widen, you've never had someone deliberately learn a skill just for you. When u take the first bite, you actually do cry. It tastes amazing, fucking perfect. There's no way he would have made this first try. He probably went through five different batches before this one. Feeding you, making sure you weren't hungry, It was important enough he spent hours last night learning how to cook. Just for you. "...thank you." You mutter.

Simon just nods, eats the food you gave him, and when ur both finished you split the fruit gummy package, just like always. He doesn't say it, not in the way others do, but he cares about you. From then on, ghost brings his own cooked food for you, sharing even as his fingers twitch at giving away food. He's willing to push down the voice that screams to hoard food if it means ur fed.

[mggslover]

MR. HOTCHNER — aaron hotchner

In which being a nanny for the Hotchners doesn’t only mean taking care of Jack, but also pleasing your boss

genre smut (18+) cw free use arrangement, nanny!reader, age gap (r is in 20s), post haley, mentions of jack, lowkey toxic relationship, soft to hard cock, thigh biting, some brat taming, praise, shower sex: oral (f receiving), p in v, use of showerhead, body painting wc 5k a/n i have been feeling #insecure about writing, but it's the same as when you haven't driven in a while and you're like "fuck i need to go on a ride otherwise i'll be too anxious to ever do it again", so here is me ignoring my inner demons yelling at me and posting anyway. oh and this is also my formal job application to be hotch’s free use nanny!!

You are a feminist, obviously. But beliefs tend to change in certain situations. To be precise, around certain people. The certain people in question being Aaron Hotchner.

You’d been babysitting throughout your entire college career—a job not only you, but all of your friends did. It’s no one’s plan to continue their college side job after getting a degree, but sometimes there isn’t much of a choice. You didn’t know what to do with your life after graduating, not sure how to navigate the struggles in your twenties while it seemed like everyone else had their shit together. A stable factor in your life was what you needed, and with capitalism taking over the world, the money was welcome too.

Nannying for the Hotchners was better than the families you babysat for in college. The term says it already; you were a nanny now, a live-in nanny at that. You had a home, a stable income, and took care of a shy but very sweet kid who grew more comfortable around you every day. If you closed your eyes, you could almost picture this being your life: the apartment you clean and cook warm meals in being yours, the mothers at Jack’s school seeing you as their equal and not just as “the nanny of”... And if you squint hard enough, you could imagine Aaron being your partner, the one who brought in the money so you could be a stay-at-home wife.

It’s not as delusional as it sounds, promise. Even though you and Aaron weren’t actually dating, at this point you might as well be. Because, honestly, can there really be any love involved with a man who always prioritizes his job? You lived in his house, took care of his kid, and besides that, there was only one more thing needed for the label of having a relationship: sex. And sex there was. Lots of it.

Okay, again, it might not be like the sex you’d see in a traditional relationship, but you lived in the 21st century, for Christ’s sake. It counted as something. At least to you. 

It had been a couple of months since you started working for Mr. Hotchner when you had made the mutual decision to add an extra addition to your contract: a free use policy.

The decision didn’t come out of nowhere. The second you had met up with Aaron over coffee to see if you were suitable for the job, there was a tension that neither of you could deny. An undeniable attraction that lingered in the air when your eyes first met across the café. A spark that coursed through both of your veins when he held out his hand and cupped your smaller one in his. The way your heart did a jump when he pulled out a chair for you and how his body had the same reaction at seeing your dress ride up when you sat down, revealing the slightest sliver of skin. 

This arrangement was destined to work. Aaron was stressed out and on the verge of breaking down if he didn’t get the relief of tension he so desperately needed after a long day of work. You needed to feel useful and worthy. Wanted by someone that in your eyes had it all. 

One and one make two.

It sounded simple enough to you: being each other’s sex buddy, satisfying each other’s needs without overcomplicating it. But it wouldn’t be your life if the execution of this plan went that smoothly. 

During a late night on the couch, several glasses of wine in, you tried making a move on Aaron. Your legs were intertwined, bundled up beneath a warm blanket. His fingers had found the bare skin of your calves, drawing slow circles as he listened to you recalling your day with Jack. His lips would curl ever so slightly when you mentioned Jack getting a compliment from his teacher or when you laughed as you repeated the pun you had learned from his son.

Still, the tiredness in his eyes remained, just like the dark circles beneath them that never seemed to fade.

You just wanted to help, make him feel comforted in a way you knew would work. He didn’t object when you scooted closer, turning your upper body to his to rest your head on his shoulder. He didn’t react when you used the tip of your nose to lightly graze his neck—apathetic to the small shiver of his shoulders and the trail of goosebumps that followed with your movement. He did not even flinch at the first couple of kisses that you pressed to his skin.

It was only when your hot breath fanned over the shell of his ear that he had stopped you. 

“We need to set boundaries. This isn’t professional.”

You swallowed down your sigh, chirping out a high-pitched sure. Deep down you could’ve predicted this. Aaron was the type of man disciplined enough to print out another copy of your contract, all the while ignoring the hard-on that was uncomfortably pressing against the zipper of his pants. 

It was admirable how he took the time to explain this “free use” arrangement to you. Despite you working with kids, you weren’t as patient. You were getting sex. That was all you needed to know. So you politely nodded along to his words as he scribbled down new information on the contract. 

“I need you to sign here,” Aaron murmured, glancing up at your position on the couch.

With an inaudible huff, you stood and walked up to the wooden table he was bent over. Aaron took a step back, giving you the space to prop yourself in between the table and his frame to take a better look at the paper.

Your eyes flit over the rules:

No kissing

Minimal talking during the act (sounds of pleasure and code word allowed)

No talking about the act outside of the act

And most importantly, since he is the boss, he makes the calls on when you’ll be having sex. No arguments.

The second you had scribbled down your signature on the new document, Aaron had pressed his body to yours. Large arms wrapped around your waist, his palms finding a home on your lower stomach. The erection you had spotted earlier wasn’t gone, as it now poked against the soft curve of your ass.

A breathless sound escaped your mouth, quickly turning louder when Aaron’s short, dark hair brushed against your ear, placing open-mouthed, wet kisses on the place where your neck met your jaw.

You remembered how his hand slid into your jeans next, his fingers expertly slipping between the puffy folds of your pussy. His breathing heaved with every curl of his finger, and so did his movements as he rocked his hips into your back. He was visibly enjoying making you feel good. That much you could tell, but still you had thought that this was just a warm-up to get you ready for him. But when you came—with a loud cry he had to muffle with his other palm—he had simply left the room.

It had been like this for the next couple of times: Aaron worshipping your body with his mouth or hands but never asking for anything in return. Maybe it was a boundary he wasn’t ready to cross yet, or maybe watching you come undone was enough to satiate his needs and take away his stress. No matter his initial reasons, eventually he wasn’t able to hold back anymore, your endeavors more often turning into you sucking him off while he’s on a tense phone call or having a quickie in the kitchen before the workday would start. Yes, specifically in the kitchen. Or any location other than the bedroom, for that matter. Because although not on the list, having sex in bed was an unspoken form of intimacy you agreed on not having.

But all sexual acts aside, at the end of the day you were a nanny. One who had a job to do. 

With a long stretch of your arms and a loud groan, you climbed out of bed this morning. The weekend—two days filled with cheering Jack on during his soccer matches and baking chocolate chip cookies—unfortunately has come to an end. 

Your feet moved on autopilot, still in a dazed state from your sleep, until you found yourself in Aaron’s bedroom. It was only to enter the connected master’s bathroom. It was probably against the “rules”, but no one could deny that his bathroom was superior to the guest one: it had a large shower cabin made out of glass, a window where the perfect amount of sunlight beamed through in the mornings, and there were discreet spotlights hidden in the ceiling that illuminated the room in a romantic setting during late night showers.

You never showered here when Aaron was at home. But he had been on a case this entire weekend, giving you the opportunity to fully enjoy the luxuries of his apartment. You did suspect that he was aware of your sneaky endeavors. One day he had come out of the shower smelling exactly like the vanilla scent of your shampoo—the shampoo you had forgotten to take back to your room with you.

Turning on the shower made you realize why waking up early was worth it. Warm drops of water fell down your skin, the fog that came free wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. You had exactly one hour until Jack would wake up, one hour to abuse Mr. Hotchner’s water bill and carry out your sacred full-body routine.

You were in the middle of rinsing the shampoo out of your hair when the creaking of the bathroom door sounded. 

“Fuck,” you curse under your breath, blindly reaching for a towel to dry your eyes from the prickling foam that’s running down your face. 

“Jack, what did I tell you about knocking when—“

Standing in front of you, barricaded only by the fogged shower doors, stood a man that—considering someone couldn’t grow twenty inches overnight—was not Jack. 

The dark, short-cut hair and the black blazer that was thrown over the figure’s form gave him away. It was none other than your boss standing in front of you.

“Jack’s still asleep,” Aaron said matter of factly as he tugged the blazer off his arm before dropping it into the laundry basket.

A tinge of worry filled your chest, your mind running in a million different directions as it tried to come up with the most natural and fast explanation for you being here. “I didn’t want to wake him. Your room is at the other side of the apartment, and you weren’t home, so—“

He waves you off with a motion of his hand. “Good call, he needs his sleep.”

The fogged glass hides the deep breath of relief you're letting out at hearing his approval. 

With the anxiety slipping away, you carefully reach out to wash the rest of your hair. You should turn around, face your back to him, and get the job done as fast as possible, but your boss had this essence that was too captivating to look away from. Squinting your eyes, you could make out the exhausted expression that lingered on Aaron’s face as he was busy untying his tie. 

“Rough weekend?”

He gave a short snort. “As always.”

You nodded in understanding, although he couldn’t see. Another silence followed, causing you to finally look away. It didn’t take long for your curiosity to be piqued again, when the sound of a belt buckle unclasping and the soft thud of a shirt falling to the ground interrupted the steady stream of spilling water. 

Turning your head, you could make out a vague tanned beige color where you previously saw the white of his dress shirt. The skin… the belt… Fuck, was this man getting naked?

“What are you doing?” You gulp when a strong hand reaches out for the shower’s doors. 

“Joining you.”

Such a deadpan tone, like your boss joining you in your morning shower is the most normal thing to happen on earth. But this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? To feel like it was a mundane thing. For it to feel like you had an actual, healthy relationship with Aaron, that you weren’t essentially getting paid for your services.

“Okay,” you respond back with a newfound confidence.

You weren’t sure whether Aaron had waited on your confirmation, but the second the approval left your mouth, the doors were being opened. 

There was no need to hide your body; it wasn’t anything he hadn't seen before. The way he looked, however, was different. You’d only seen Aaron in a state where he was turned on, where he’d either been fantasizing about you all day at work—walking around with a painful boner all day—or where you’d been teasing him before you had greedily pulled his pants down. Now, however, he was still soft.

It wasn’t a sight you’ve often seen in your life, most men that you’d encountered feeling ashamed of the flaccid state; being a grower, or not thinking it looks sexy. So the fact that Aaron didn’t think twice of walking in showed a sense of trust and intimacy that made your stomach flutter. Besides, he had no reason to worry about his looks, because he looked good in this state. His balls were tight and roundly shaped, his length looked a bit shorter when soft but hung thick and heavy over said balls, and what drove you even wilder was the way his full tip twitched when his eyes had landed on you.

“Can I help you with that?” He asked, nodding down to the pink loofah in your hand.

You answered by taking a step back, giving him the space to fully enter the shower and close the doors behind him. He reached out his hand, and you had to blink a couple of times to make sure that this was really happening before handing him over the sponge.

Aaron accepts it. His other arm extends, almost brushing against yours. You inhale a deep breath, only to find out he was reaching for the shower gel behind you. With the use of his thumb, he clicks open the cap and squeezes a generous amount of liquid onto the loofah. 

Aaron’s eyes flick over your body, as if deciding where to start first. It was difficult for him to imagine that he had you right where he wanted. That you were standing right in the spot where he had fisted himself for months to the thought of you. The way you looked, with your curves bare on display as drops of water fell down the side of your body, was beyond any visualization his own mind could’ve ever come up with. 

Your nipples harden under the weight of his long, dark gaze, and it seems like the decision is made for him. Gently, he places the sponge on your collarbone, then moves it down in a slow stroke, following the curve of your breast. Your eyes close shut when the rough material catches onto your nipple, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

With curious eyes he takes in your reaction, then repeats the movement, moving the sponge back up. Your breast sways along, causing Aaron to swallow back a groan. In circular motions he moves on to your other breast. You hum in pleasure as he repeatedly caresses the pebbled bud while covering you in little bubbles of soap. 

“Don’t fall asleep on me now,” he teases. “Is it that relaxing?”

The corners of your lips lift up, it’s not often that he breaks his own rules by talking to you. When you open your eyes, you notice a mischievous glimmer behind the stoic facade. It’s not just that that you notice: the proximity is undeniable. In the few seconds your eyes were shut, Aaron had moved closer. So close that his forehead was nearly touching yours. So close that you could almost count the curly hairs on his chest that have deepened in color because of the streaming water. 

It was a mistake to look down.

Just an inch away from your stomach, heaved Aaron’s rock hard cock—that’s how fast the transformation can go. The large vein that you could dream at this point had made its appearance, and his bulbous head was shining in pre-cum. A thick drop hypnotizingly coating the slit.

“That’s what you do to me,” Aaron breathes out, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours.

Your heart was beating a million miles an hour. He could kiss you right now, his lips impossibly close to yours as he wet them with his tongue. Instead, his mouth moved: “Up.”

Before you were able to squint your eyebrows in confusion, Aaron had his arms wrapped around your thighs, giving you a firm tug up, allowing you to jump like he’d asked you. 

In a smooth—way too smooth—motion, you were thrown against the cold tiled wall, legs wrapped around his waist. Then he said it again. Up. 

Like a toddler being lifted by their parents, Aaron had managed to climb you up so that your thighs were seated against each side of his face, legs dangling over his shoulders and the back of your calves planted firmly against his lower back.

“How the fuck…” you gasp out in belated shock.

“Don’t waste your words asking questions,” he murmured, his hot breath fanning over your spread pussy. Not like you’d be able to in the state he’s got you in. “Just enjoy yourself.”

With his hands pinning you against the wall, he used the sole power of his neck to dive in. No time was wasted as his wet tongue split open the folds of your pussy, immediately latching onto your swollen pearl—completely magnetized by it.

Your thighs clenched around his head, a sound in between a moan and a gasp escaping you as you threw your head back.

“Shit,” you hiss, the back of your head making contact with the cold surface. 

Aaron groaned. You knew him well enough to know that it was a sound of disapproval, one of his dad-like “I told you to be careful” huffs. It didn’t have its designated effect, though; his muffled sound vibrates through your body, causing a wave of tingles to ignite your skin, your clit twitching against his tongue. 

When you looked down, he was rolling his eyes at you. “Are you serious?” his face spoke. A giggle left your chest, you couldn’t take the stern attitude seriously. 

Apparently, he did take it seriously. Aaron leaned back just enough to turn his head, and you missed the warmth of his mouth on you already. The light stubble that covered his jaw from being away on a case all weekend grazed along your inner thigh. 

“More,” you whimpered, lifting your hips from the wall and driving your cunt into his face.

His eyes flick to yours for a split second. It was easy to miss the moment, but something behind his eyes shifted, reaching the max of dealing with this daring disobedience of yours. Your breath gets caught before it happens: his teeth sink into your thigh.

You sputter in his grasp, legs locking tighter around his waist. He didn’t bite hard enough to cut skin, but he was definitely leaving a mark. You were sure of that when, after the use of teeth, he wrapped his lips around the aching spot, sucking and not stopping despite your sharp nails digging into his back.

“Are you going to be good for me now?”

“Yes! Yes, I promise!”

Wrong answer. Another bite.

This time you just nod, not speaking any excessive words. 

His teeth are replaced by his lips. He leaves two featherlight kisses on the bruised spot and moves back to your needy hole.

“Haven’t touched you in a minute, and you’re already dripping.”

Apparently the rule of not speaking doesn’t apply to Aaron Hotchner today. Not that you minded.

He licked the sweetness off your pussy, getting back into rhythm. Aaron’s lips sealed around your labia, gently suckling until the only sounds leaving your mouth were passionate moans. 

At this point it was impossible to decipher whether the wet, sloppy noises came from your pussy or from the water that dripped out of the shower's head, warming the sides of your bodies. 

You dug your nails lightly into his shoulders, grounding yourself from the accumulating heat that was starting to form low in your stomach.

With every up and down of his chin, Aaron’s nose would bump against your clit, making it twitch in desperation.

“Mmph,” you whine in response to his actions. I’m close! Aaron, please! Is what you wish you could scream out to him right now. Wishing you could beg for a fast release as the obscene sounds grew louder around you. But you couldn’t, not if you wanted to have any release at all. Forced to endure his sweet torture.

Aaron lifted his head, his mouth inches away from where you needed him most. 

“Are you close?”

You obediently nod up and down, making sure he gets the memo. 

“Will you cum if I touch her?” 

You vehemently nod, tears burning in the corners of your eyes. Please, touch my clit, Aaron. 

His hot breath ghosted over the swollen bud. “Hold on tight.”

You moved your fingers to wrap tightly in his locks, right on time as Aaron wraps your throbbing clit in between his lips. It was a combination of his satisfied moans and the slurping of his tongue that tipped you over the edge.

By the time Aaron had placed you back on the ground, you were wobbling on your legs, and your throat felt sore from the cries that had tumbled from your lips. 

There wasn’t much time to recover, Aaron’s hands finding your waist, warm palms burning your skin as he turned you around. Your chest heaved from your orgasm, and your heart rate only sped up when his fingers made contact with the back of your arms. He guided his hands up until your fingers locked. 

The bathroom tiles weren’t as cold as you expected them to be when you placed your palms against them, still heated by Aaron’s hands that were pressed against the same spot only a minute ago.

“Arch your back for me, sweetheart,” he instructed. 

The nickname had your legs close to giving out. You clawed against the wall as you arched your back, ass raised high in the air, your cunt making contact with his poking cock as it pulsed from the sight of you. 

An arm cups around your frame, holding you steady against him. With the other, he brushes the skin of your curves, mapping out his favorite spots.

Aaron’s thick fingers grip around the cheek of your ass, spreading you open and watching you in a mix of lust and adoration. “Fucking beautiful,” he murmured under his breath, as if he’d just witnessed the opening of an exotic flower.

You felt the weight of his solid chest against your back, dew drops falling from his skin and melting onto yours. Aaron bent slightly through his knees, enough to line himself up with your hole. Then he pushed in.

“That’s it, you can take it,” he encouraged as his throbbing length entered you inch by inch. “Almost there. You’re doing so good, taking all of me.”

“Feels good,” you whisper softly, not able to help the words from spilling out.

“I know, honey. Going to make you feel even better.”

With that, he started pumping himself in and out of you, creating a mark in your cervix that he kissed with every thrust of his hips. It was hot. So fucking hot. The steam that has built up in the shower cabin, the warm press of Aaron’s body, the fullness of him inside of you, the heaving of his breath in your ear… Too hot.

It’s like he heard you, because in the next moment he had you pushed up against the cool expanse of tile. A shiver ran through your body, a pleasant one, as your nipples peaked against it, stimulated by the continuous rubbing against the surface as Aaron moved your body up and down his cock. 

A groan tore from his throat, the sound lightning through your body. “I missed this. Missed having you wrapped around me.”

The words were dirty, definitely, but it was the most affectionate thing he’s ever said to you. You could do this for the rest of your life: have him use you, be the reason he feels good, because there truly was nothing that made you feel more whole than to be praised by him. 

You fluttered your pussy around him, enticing another deep groan from him. 

“I’m getting close,” he hisses, and you nod. Give it to me, please. 

Instead of speeding up the slapping of skin, he halts his movements, pulling a whiny no out of you. 

With your back facing him, you don’t catch on to how he’s taking the shower head from its bar. Not even noticing the change of there being no more water falling down your body. 

What you do take in, is him hungrily cupping your mound. And you are definitely aware when he uses two of his fingers to spread your lips. You swear you can feel his grin against your neck when the shower head magically appears in his hand, turned to a setting where a strong current of water spurts out, which he places directly above your clit.

A high-pitched cry leaves your mouth, making you wiggle in his grasp. If he didn’t have you pinned against his body, you would’ve fallen to the ground, your legs feeling like complete jelly.

“Hold yourself open for me.”

Regret followed later, when you realized that Aaron would pick up his pace again, all the while your clit was being overstimulated by the flow of water.

Your mouth was agape, moans and gasps and cries tumbling out—sometimes loud, sometimes utterly breathless. The last sound that left you was a scream of Aaron’s name as you came around his cock. 

Your hand had left your pussy, reaching back to grip Aaron’s ass—the most accessible, and convenient place to hold—as your orgasm stuttered through you. You held him tightly, forcing a few more deep thrusts out of him before he pulled himself out.

“Knees. Now.”

The next moment passed in a blur. You fell to your knees, your legs squeaking against the cold, wet floor. You didn’t have the time to decide where to settle your eye: on his thick length that he held tightly in his fist, on his soft stomach and chest that heaved in anticipation of his orgasm, or on his face that was barely visible with the way he had his head thrown back, lip caught in between his teeth. 

His hips twitched, and his muscled thighs clenched as a white-hot fountain erupted on you. His release fell down your body, covering you from your breasts to your stomach to your legs. He even made a mess of himself, his hand covered in his essence, spread all over his cock by the jerking of his hand.

“Jesus,” Aaron curses, using his clean hand to push his hair out of his face. 

When his eyes fell back on you, he caught sight of you obediently sitting in front of him, using your thumb to flick a white stain off your breast before swirling your tongue around the digit.

He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his face. “You’ll be the death of me.”

You pick up the shower head that was thrown beside you on the ground, then place your hand around his thigh for leverage, wanting to clean him up.

Aaron sharply inhaled, body tensing when the stream hit his sensitive cock. “Don’t do that!”

“I’m sorry!” You quickly apologize in a stutter, then burst out in small laughter.

He shakes his head, opening his palm. “Hand it over to me.”

For a second you’re afraid he’s planning his revenge, but he turns the handle so that a gentle and even stream flows out of the head, then holds it above your body. Your personal waterfall.

With a hum, you wash yourself clean, almost sad to see the proof of his loving vanish from your body. 

“Come here,” he whispers when you’re done and helps pull you up by your arm.

Surprisingly, he wraps a strong arm around you, the back of his fingers running across your cheek to put the wet strands of your hair back in place. 

“I can bring Jack to school today.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Are you sure? You haven’t slept all night. I don’t mind—“

“Me neither,” he assures. “I know the work here is tiring too.”

It was. You knew nannying wasn’t an easy job, but nothing had prepared you for the days and nights spent alone while Aaron was catching killers in different states. It wasn’t easy being the main responsibility of a child in his most formative years, no matter how much gratification the work gives you.

“Okay,” you hum. “Thank you.”

“I have some free time when I get back.” His eyes search for yours as he speaks the words, awaiting your reply to the invitation. His eyes soften when they catch your small smile.

“Sounds good.”

He nods. “Good.”

[vynlrecord]

♡ is the light sleeper in the room with us?

At first when you’d asked Simon to move in with you, he seemed excited or well, as excited as Simon allowed himself to show. Yet as it got closer and closer, you weren't so sure.

“You probably won’t ever get a good night’s sleep again. I'll constantly be disrupting it.”

"I have nightmares and night terrors, I’ll probably scare you-"

“I’m such a light sleeper, everything wakes me up and puts me in a panic."

It was almost like he was trying to dissuade you from sticking to your decision, giving you an out in case he was too difficult for you, you knew exactly how his brain worked.

But you loved him, and nothing he was saying was making you change your mind, not even close to it.

You prepared anyway, looked up everything you could with how to handle certain night terrors, best things to say or not say, whether you should wake him up if he’s having a nightmare, everything.

Then the first night came, and you were ready to be woken up at 3am, maybe to Simon shouting or crying or something and you pictured all the things you’d do to calm him down, grab him some tea, maybe gentle reassurances as you wiped his tears, whatever it took. 

But none of that happened.

The first night, he slept the whole way through, completely undisturbed and you would know because ironically you were the one who didn’t sleep the first night. You'd stayed awake, worrying, wanting to make sure he was okay, checking for even a slight twitch or a face of anguish but, nothing.

And then a few days later, on an early Sunday morning, your neighbour had decided to mow the grass. It was unbearably loud and you'd sat up, internally screaming because who chooses 7am to cut grass on a Sunday?

And Simon? Well he was completely out.

You looked at him, wondering if he was pretending for a moment, giving him a little nudge. He'd shuffled a little in his sleep before letting out a few soft snores, it was like he was on another planet completely.

And it kept happening. He'd sleep through alarms, and not just one or two but enough in a row that you had to turn them off yourself and tell him to wake up. Phone calls too, slept through every call, no matter the ringtone, no matter how loud. Your cat's 4am zoomies? Not even a flinch.

You were so confused, he'd worried constantly before moving in about ruining your sleep and now it was like sleeping was second nature to him, which you wouldn't have questioned if not for the repeated warnings of how light of a sleeper he was.

It made no sense, Simon couldn't understand it either, but you were quite happy with it of course, and so was he. Whenever you thought about it for too long, it actually made you smile, there was something sweet about it to you.

Perhaps it was your apartment, the fact that the space was yours, maybe your presence was helping him, you'd even joke it was your cat's soothing company. Or maybe it was the soft sheets, in a bedroom that felt cosy. A proper homely space, one that Simon wasn't quite used to in his old place, all bare walls and no decoration, not even a comfortable mattress. He'd never bothered with anything except the bare minimum, a vast difference to now.

Whatever it was, he was actually sleeping, peacefully for once, he couldn't remember the last time he was able to say that.

But what Simon did know, was that he felt completely safe with you and seeing him like this was the most beautiful thing to you.

[gay-dorito-dust]

How would the Saja boys react to Nonchalant Manager! Reader going on a date with someone for the night?

The second the words 'I've got a date tonight' left your lips when Romance had asked why you were getting all dressed up for, wondering if they had missed an important date, made the air leave their lungs as a plethora of emotions was brought to the surface.

Mystery wanted more then anything then to hunt this person down, not liking the idea of having to be forced to share your attention with anyone that was outside the group, growling and just showing hostility at this secret date that you were going on.

He would cling to you like glue, not letting you leave his sight for a single second as you got yourself ready, even going so far to make whiny noises from the back of his throat the closer it got to you leaving for your date. He's pratically beggin you to stay with him and ditch your date, filled with this idea that you shouldn't be anywhere but with him and the group.

He might as well be waiting at the door for you at this point, he's loyal to a fault.

Baby acts like he's not listening or showing any interest- head down in his notebook- but he's listening and he's not liking what he's hearing in the slightest, the lollipop half hanging out of his mouth didn't taste as sweet anymore upon hearing this news. Not that you didn't deserve to go on a date, just not with random off of the street that you might've bumped into by pure accident and felt obligated to go on a date with.

He would want to make up excuses that he nedded a secondary opinions on his verse within the song they were working on, needing you to go over pages upon pages of lyrics he had written off of the top of his head to keep on theme with the rest of the song. He would do anything to withhold you from going on that date, but all attempts were siwftly brushed aside as if you could see through them all.

It left Baby feeling a little stroppy as he's forced to wait for you to come back from your date as a unsettiling feeling developed within his stomach, not liking the overall feel of your date in the first place and waiting to be proven right.

Romance never felt as though he had to force a smile towards you, never becuase each and every smile he gave you was genuine. Yet the idea that you were going on a date with this mysterious person didn't sit right with him, and knew it didn't sit right with the others either from what he could tell by quickly glancing at them.

He'd at first try to be happy for you and your dare, but that would be lying to himself, and soon enough he'd drop the act and will try to make you see reason. He didn't like the idea of you on a date with someone else when your perfect partner was standing right infront of you; Him!

He would then try to entice you into staying with him in the apartment, where he could make you things or have an inpromptu movie night with a blanket fort and fairy lights gallore, anything he could think of that would have you second guessing whether going out on the date was necessary. He's determined to see you not go on the date and will keep you occupied by any means necessary.

Abby is not amused. He'd might say some shit like 'can they bench more then me?'

Abby hated not being seen by you, he hated the idea that some random person managed to score a date with you quicker then he could, and he had been trying for a long while since you became their manager. So he's not exactly all that happy and would wander what it was about this random person that had cuaght your eye, could they be more ripped then him? probably not, were they a good singer like him? probably not or else he would've heard about them by now.

So needless to say he's left baffled by what would compel you to look elswhere when you should be looking at him and only him. Abby would try to show why he was the better candidate, showing off his mucles and whatnot, all in hopes that you would see reason and not leave him behind to persue someone else.

Jinu is concerned about this person your going on a date with, espeically if they knew that you had connections to them, so what's stopping this person from trying to get to them through you and potentially hurting you in the process; Worse case scenario what if they were a demon hunter?

This was him trying to justify the ache within his chest when he heard you talk about this date and soon enough he wants every ounce of infomation that he can get out of you about this 'date.' Who they are, what they looked like, where were they taking you and so on to the point it felt like an interogation on his end.

He would secretly get Derpy and the bird to follow after you in secret and give him constant updates on how you are or have himself and the group follow you instead, wearing incredibly ridiculous outfits as to go undetected by you and the fans that would be having a night out themselves, watching your date from afar as they pathetically use the menus given to them to shield them if you were to look over at them.

Jinu will anxiously wait up for you when you get back from your date, demons don't need much sleep after all, but he was determined to not let someone else get to you and take you away from them. Hasn't he lost enough already? wasn't he allowed to be a little selfish with you even if he hated to be viewed as such?

[lnfours]

heaven | ln4

summary: loving you was easy to him, like second nature, like breathing. and it’s finally time for you to know.

warnings: nothing but heart clenching, feet kicking, and giggling into your pillow fluff. this is kind of short (i apologize 🥲) but nonetheless the lando brainrot has been back in full swing!

💌 - message from jordan: hi guys! long time no see :,) this came to me while watching the race yesterday morning, and beings im a sucker for a toothache-inducing-sweet romance, i figured this would be the perfect comeback fic. nothing too crazy with this one, but i still hope you enjoy, nonetheless <3 i’ve missed you all v much and i can’t wait to post some more of the things ive been working on while i was away! sending you all my love, always. talk soon! 🤍

masterlist | inbox

the filtered sunlight from the curtains in the hotel room casted shadows that illuminated the sleeping boy’s face next to you. his face was squished against the pillow, an arm lazily thrown across your stomach. he was always finding a way to be touching you, even when he was unconscious.

you watched as he slept peacefully next to you, tan skin a contrast against the bright white sheets. he had finally reached a break in his busy schedule, two weeks of having him all to yourself. he had even gone the extra mile and decided to take you on a little getaway, somewhere where it was just the two of you. alone. making up for the time he had spent away from you.

his curls were messy on the top of his head, you couldn’t help yourself from reaching out and brushing them from his forehead. however, you slightly started to regret it when you felt him move next to you, a soft sigh leaving his lips. not out of annoyance, but out of comfort at the feeling of having your nails scratch his scalp.

“like what you see?”

his morning voice was raspy and sleep coated and hot. you couldn’t help the smile growing on your face as he blinked his eyes open, squinting at you in the bright room as he tried to get his eyes to adjust.

you nodded, your fingers now trailing down the side of his face and resting on his cheek, your thumb tracing over one of your favorite moles that littered his skin, “always.”

he leaned into your touch, smiling sleepily at you before pressing a kiss to the palm of your hand, humming as his eyes searched yours, “missed this,”

you smiled back as he pulled you closer towards him, giggling as you nuzzled your head into his neck, his chin resting on the top of your head, “me too.”

lando pressed a soft kiss to the top of your hair as you took in the smell of his leftover cologne that clung to his skin. you two laid like that for a while, basking in the feeling of having each other close after the weeks he had been all over the world. you knew what you were signing up for when he asked you on your first date a few months back, but you were certain that each time he left, it was only harder and harder to let him go.

you adjust your body so you could look up at him, his eyes meeting yours again. you smiled, thinking back to the very first date you had ever went on. how he had asked your friends what your favorite flower was so he could bring them to dinner. how he always managed to make you feel like the only person in the room. always gentle, even after a bad day. he made you feel valuable. seen, heard, loved.

he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, smiling softly down at you, “what’s going on in that pretty little head?”

you sucked in a breath, “just thinking about you, about us,”

a hint of worry flashed through his eyes and you immediately clarified, “not in a bad way! i swear,”

he raised his eyebrow, playing with some strands of your hair slightly, “what is it then?”

you sucked in a breath, a feeling in your chest rising that you couldn’t quite describe, “i love you, lan.”

his eyes traveled back to yours immediately, the three words neither of you said before now ringing in his ears. he had known for a while now that you were the one for him. he had never felt this way about anyone before, never felt the need to settle like he does with you. with you, he pictures the white picket fence dream. the house, the kids, and hell, even the dog he had always talked about getting when the time was right.

you made him feel like he had found the missing piece to the puzzle that was his soul. and he was yours, too.

he leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours. the usual witty, jokester brit now all of sudden feeling a sense of realism. this was his future, the woman laying in front of him. the one he got to call his own. the woman he loved.

“i love you,” hearing him say it back made your heart clench in your throat, “more than anything in the world.”

you reached up, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to your lips, kissing him with as much love and passion you could shove in it. he kissed you back, sweetly and slowly. just like he always had, but this time it felt different. it felt like page turning to a new chapter of his life. the chapter he desperately wanted to share with you.

you giggled into his mouth when his hands found your hips, pulling you on top of him. the material of his shirt from the night before meeting his bare chest, legs tangled under the covers. you had pulled away to catch a breath, running your hands through his hair, nothing but love filled gazes staring right back at each other.

his own little slice of heaven.

[tojisteddy]

dadbf john price and ditzy reader are sooo cute he’s so nice :((( i love it

i would love to see how they would fall into that dynamic, would john already know he likes taking on the role of being a dadbf or would it develop on its own? or maybe would reader slip up by calling him “dad” at some point?

ditzy!reader is very into themselves is what I think.

Like you’re just so used to having a lot of questions and not exactly understanding that first or second time but people ask “are you dumb?” Or “how did you not get it?” So in most situations, when you don’t understand you just smile and nod (lol) and try to figure it out on your own.

There have been a lot of late nights studying by yourself or with a tutor from middle school to college. And it doesn’t help your family doesn’t really think much of you because they hated having to repeat themselves when you were younger.

John on the other hand thinks your quiet inquisitive, you like asking the ins and outs of things even though you may not fully understand it or may forget the answer later on. John never minds answering your questions even if it’s three times over, he loves the sound of your voice, the face you make when your concentrating, pursed lips and all, and that you’re genuinely trying to understand.

The older man knows you have a hard time, so he tends to baby you (not too much, but just enough), let you lean on him only when he’s certain you need it.

I think it probably all came together when he helped you with something, maybe opening an old antique jewelry box that you thought was glued shut but John magically pried open. You’re fully astonished, giving him nothing but praises and questions about how he opened it. How you could open things like that even if you were alone.

He hums, a smile on his lips, arms folded over his chest and leaning against the kitchen counter, perfect alignment to draw you in, “Wouldn’t have to worry about the love. I’m a call away, or a walk, Dad’ll always help you.”

You don’t even question his wording, don’t pause, just nod your head, heart beating a little faster— it’s a trust fall into Price’s warm embrace. Let him treat you sweetly, lovingly, let him guide you ever so gently. And you accept that.

And as a reward, he bends you over that kitchen counter, till your eyes are blurry, drool dripping down to your chin with every deep thrust into you oozing cunt. He wraps his hand around the front of your throat and gives you a squeeze, you can’t help your walls tightening around his length, eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

“F-feels so good Pa, feels so gooood.” You keen.

“I knooooow honey,” he purrs, hes got you right where he wants you. And he’ll cherish that for as long as you’ll have him.

“Doing so good for Daddy, just like you always do.”

most recent masterlist.

[buckysleftbicep]

how do you think bucky would react to shy reader asking to turn the lights off during sex because they’re insecure ??

i think bucky would want to desperately show you just how perfect you are.

hell, if he could spend the rest of his life proving it to you, he probably will.

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni

Bucky’s the kind of man who’d notice right away.

The way your eyes flick toward the lamp. The hesitation in your voice. The way your hands fidget just slightly when you reach for the hem of your shirt.

You don’t even have to say it—not at first. He knows. Feels it in the tremble of your breath and the way you pull the sheets higher, like they can protect you from his gaze.

But when you do finally whisper it—“Can we… can we turn the lights off?”—he doesn’t tease. He doesn’t mock, doesn’t even hesitate.

He just pauses. Quiet. Still.

And then he reaches for your hand.

His thumb brushes your knuckles, soft and slow. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice like silk and gravel all at once, “I’ll do anything you need. Lights off, slow down, or stop altogether. You just say the word.”

But then he leans in—closer, lower, until his mouth is at your ear.

“But I need you to know something. I need you to hear me when I say it.” His hand lifts, not to grope or grab, but to cup your face. To hold you steady. Like you’re fragile, like you’re precious.

“You’re the most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen. You don’t ever have to hide from me. Not your body. Not your sounds. Not the way you fall apart when I touch you.”

Because Bucky doesn’t just want to fuck you. He wants to worship you. Every inch of you, every soft curve, every scar, every place you’ve ever second-guessed. To him, your insecurities are sacred ground—the parts of you no one else has been trusted with.

And if you let him? He’ll prove it.

He kisses your stomach first. Then lower. Trails his mouth down your body with the kind of reverence most men reserve for altars.

Fingers dragging up your thighs, thumbs spreading you open, slow and unhurried. He’s not in a rush. He wants to look. Wants you to feel seen. Revered.

He’ll murmur against your skin, voice hoarse and thick with hunger—“Gonna show you how fucking perfect you are. Gonna make you feel it, baby.”

And when his mouth finds your pussy, he doesn’t hold back.

He devours you like a man possessed—deep, messy, loud. His nose presses into your clit, tongue working in long, wet strokes that have your hips jolting before you can stop them.

He moans into you, like your taste alone gets him off, like your pleasure is the thing that keeps his heart beating.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he groans, licking a fat stripe up your center before sucking your clit into his mouth. “Look at this pretty pussy, princess. Don’t hide from me. Let me see how you fall apart.”

If you close your eyes, he’ll pull back. “Uh-uh, sweetheart. Eyes on me."

He grabs the mirror.

Drags it over so it’s angled just right. So you can see the way your thighs shake. The way his tongue glistens with your slick. The raw desperation in his eyes as he buries his face between your legs like it’s the only place he belongs.

“You watch yourself fall apart for me,” he rasps. “You watch what you do to me.”

And when he finally fucks you?

It’s slow at first. Deep. Intentional.

He holds your thighs open with a bruising grip, fucks into you like you’re something to be savored—like the tight heat of your cunt is a reward for being good.

He leans over you, body caging yours in, and presses kisses to your jaw, your collarbone, your tits, every breath ragged with restraint.

“Feel that?” he groans, cock dragging deep and slow inside you. “That’s how tight you are, baby. How fucking perfect. God, you’re squeezing me like you were made for this.”

And maybe you were. Because when Bucky’s inside you, when his voice is thick with need and his thrusts grow rougher, deeper, more frantic—you feel worshipped.

Not just wanted. Not just fucked. Worshipped.

He’ll have you gasping, nails digging into his back, your body singing with pleasure and heat and the kind of dizzy, stretched-out fullness that leaves you crying out his name. And he’ll still beg for more.

“Give me another, sweetheart. Come on, that’s it. Cum on my cock—let me feel it.”

And when you do? When your body clamps down and your voice breaks and you cum hard and loud despite your shy little request to keep the lights off?

He glows.

He fucks you through it, jaw clenched, sweat beading on his brow, lips at your ear as he mutters praise like a prayer—“So beautiful, baby. So good for me. I’d spend forever right here, just making you cum. Over and over. Don’t you get it? I need this. Need you.”

And afterward, when your thighs are shaking and your chest is rising too fast, he’ll wrap you in his arms like you’re breakable again. Kisses your shoulder, your cheek, your hair.

Lights off? Sure. If that’s what makes you feel safe.

But Bucky will still touch you like he’s memorizing a masterpiece in the dark.

Because to him? You are.

a/n: wrote this piece on the train and gosh, i can definitely see bucky being into body worship, especially because he wants you to feel wanted and loved by him.

[traveler-at-heart]

A redhead a day (makes the doctor act gay)

Request by @natromilf - Surgeon!R, who is known for her precision, but acts all clumsy around Natasha.

Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Everyone makes mistakes.

Though some people can’t afford them. Like  you, and your line of work. One wrong move can lead to a deadly result.

It almost mirrors the life of the agents you operate on. Bad intel, a wrong turn, an ambush and the whole world can go to shit.

Which is why you take your job so seriously.

If their mission goes wrong, you’ll be there to pick up the pieces and put them back together.

That’s what you trained your whole life for and you were proud to serve SHIELD and the Avengers

Too bad med school didn’t teach you how to keep from acting like a fool when a pair of beautiful green eyes set on you.

The first time you see Natasha, you barely have time to process it was her. The Black Widow, who seems to be visiting someone, instead of looking for medical attention.

Still, you are intrigued by her presence (it was known she’d rather deal with any injuries alone). So much so, that you keep looking at her until you crash against the elevator doors.

“Shit” you mutter, your face burning up with embarrassment.

One of the interns rushes to your side, but her movements only draw further attention to you, and you sigh.

“All good, Elena” you say, hoping the next elevator comes soon.

Still, when you finally get inside and press the button to the second floor, your eyes meet Natasha’s once again.

When she winks at you while sporting a teasing smile, you wonder if she can read your very flustered thoughts.

—

That first impression was bad. You were hoping that if you ever saw Agent Romanoff again, that could be corrected.

Unfortunately for you, that is not the case.

It’s another day, between urgent calls and an extraction mission gone wrong. Three injured SHIELD agents under your care are enough to make the first twelve hours of your shift fly.

By the time you have a minute to sit down and rest, it’s close to midnight, your eyes heavy with exhaustion and missed sleep. But you still have to review charts and follow up with post ops, so going to the cafeteria will have to do.

“What a fucking night” your friend Daphne says, standing next to you as you pour some coffee in a disposable cup. This and the vending machines are your only choices in the middle of the night.

“Tell me about it” you sigh, adding sugar. That won’t make the dark beverage any better, but you gotta try. As you look up, you see Captain America walking down the hallway, face full of soot and suit torn in some places.

Right behind him, Natasha walks with purpose, frowning and reviewing a file. She looks busy enough, so you think you’re free to admire her without the woman noticing. But of course, she’s a trained spy. As soon as she feels someone staring, she turns to look at you.

“Damn, the Avengers are here, this must have been real bad” Daphne says next to you. You don’t listen.

Not when those green eyes are fixed on you, frown softening and the corner of those full, enticing lips turning into a playful smirk.

“Oh, careful. The coffee is super hot…”

It’s obvious you miss that part too, taking a large gulp to hide your blush.

“Fuck” you spit it out. “Oh, God, I have third degree burns, Daphne, help” you say like an idiot, tongue hanging out.

“I TOLD YOU TO BE CAREFUL” she barks, making some people stare.

Gosh, you just know Natasha was looking and must think you are a total idiot. Or maybe not, because when you finally recover from the burning sensation, she’s not standing next to Captain America.

Oh, maybe she didn’t see me.

“Hi, there”

You’ve never heard her voice before. And yet, you know it’s her.

You slowly turn to look at Natasha. She’s even more perfect than you imagined.

“Hot” you blurt out.

“Pardon?” she says, her voice dropping an octave.

“Coffe is hot. Uh, just keeping anyone from burning” you mumble, blushing madly.

“Oh, I’m not here for the coffee. I was told you were in charge of the injured agents. Could I get an update on them?”

“Right, of course. Come with me”

You walk next to Natasha, hiding your hands in the pockets of your labcoat.

“Agent Lusaque needed a liver resection. He’ll recover with no issues. Agents Palmer and Bryant, on the other hand…” you sigh, pulling out their charts from the nurse’s station. “Palmer is in the ICU, and Bryant will need a second surgery for that broken leg. But we need her BP to stabilize”

“Did you see anything significant in their injuries? Anything that stood out?”

“I’d say they are consistent with an IED, Agent”

“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of. Old man wanted to wait for intelligence but sometimes you just know” Natasha sighs. You resist the urge to reach out and squeeze her shoulder. Her expression shifts to something neutral, and you know the moment of vulnerability is gone. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your hot coffee”

“Of course. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know”

“Will do. Bye, Doctor Y/L/N”

And with that, she’s gone.

—

For once, it’s a slow day. You discharged the agents that were involved in last week’s mission and are about to take a break, when you hear some cursing in one of the examination rooms.

“Everything ok?”

You’re expecting to see an intern struggling with an IV, but instead you’re greeted with the sight of Natasha trying to stitch herself. She looks from the gash in her leg to you, smiling.

“Yeah, all good”

“No! You’re not even wearing gloves!” you protest, looking horrified at how badly she’s doing. Before she can open her mouth to answer, you push her down the hospital bed, glaring. “Do not move”

“It’s just a small cut. And I don’t need anesthesia”

“Hush, Romanoff. Or I will place you on medical leave” you say, glaring at her.

You expect Natasha to apologize or at the very least look ashamed. But instead, she’s still smiling.

This is a nice change for her. She’s only seen you flustered, being a complete mess when she’s around. Now, though, your movements are calculated as you prepare the sutures and glove up.

“How did you do this?” you ask, your tone even. This must be routine for you.

“That’s classified” Natasha jokes with a little smile. You clear your throat, adjusting the light to focus on the gash.

“Doesn’t stop other agents from telling me”

“Who?” Natasha says, and you can’t help but laugh at her tone. She seems ready to kick their asses for sharing classified information.

“I’m kidding. They tell me family stuff, small things, really. It’s to keep them talking, if only to distract them from the pain. Sometimes I get good gossip, too”

Natasha watches you work in silence for a few moments. Even if she tries to act though, the needle piercing her skin always sends a shiver down her spine.

“I have a cat” she blurts out. For the first time since you started working, you look up. It’s Natasha’s turn to feel like a blubbering mess, admiring your beautiful eyes.

“That sounds nice”

“Do you like cats?” she winces at how lame she sounds, but you mistake it with pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m almost done. Yes. My father is a veterinarian and we had a family farm, so there were all types of animals around” in spite of yourself, you smile.

Now, you live in an all white world of sterile hallways and OR lights. But your days were once spent in the middle of feeding chickens, walking around the muddy fields and checking horses and cows.

“So, why not be a veterinarian?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I remember this one time where a worker fell and hurt his head. It took a while for help to get to us and my father left me alone with him while they found a doctor. But I wasn’t scared. I knew I could keep my cool around blood, unlike my sisters”

“That’s definitely helpful”

“Yeah, except when my Dad figured out I was the only one who’d be able to help so I’d work during school break” you laugh, remembering everything with a new light. You used to hate it back then, because it was early mornings and lots of work. But now it’s a fond memory.

“The rumors are true. Your work is impeccable” Natasha comments when you remove your gloves. “Where were you when that bullet went through my side?”

“That’s classified” you say, and feel a small surge of pride when she actually laughs. You stand up and look around for antibiotics.

“Is that really necessary?” Natasha grumbles, and you roll your eyes.

“An infection in the 21st centhury is the dumbest way to go. Take these for five days. And rest”

“Yes, Doctor”

“If you have any questions, page me” you say. Now that your hands and mind are not focused on the task of stitching her up, you’re aware of the fact you’re alone with Natasha in a room. If you stay here any longer, you’ll probably stab yourself with a needle or something even more idiotic.

“What if you’re not working?” Natasha calls when you walk to the door.

“Well, I’m sure someone else could…” you begin to say, completely oblivious about what she’s really asking.

“Or…”

“Yes?”

“I could get your phone number? For a consult, of course” she adds, smiling as you blush.

“Of course” you echo her words, pulling out a card and scribbling your number. “My personal number”

“Thanks, Doc” she says, lingering in the door for a second too long, and somehow getting out before you, who had been standing next to it for some time now.

Naturally, the second she’s out of sight, you pull the door to exit and it bounces against your foot, hitting your forehead.

“That’s more like it” you mumble, rubbing the spot.

At least she didn’t see it this time.

—

Your name is at the top of a list, but it doesn’t bring you any benefits, or enjoyment.

It means that when an Avenger gets hurt, you’re the first person they’ll page for surgery.

Two days ago, the code appeared suddenly in your pager and your heart dropped. You couldn’t help but think of Natasha, and guilt and shame invaded you in equal parts when you prayed it wasn’t her. The shame hit once you found out it was Barton, and you couldn’t help but feel relieved.

He had a bullet wound that went through and through, but you still decided to operate and clear your schedule to follow up every hour of his recovery. Clint had trusted you enough to introduce you to his family, to the point where you had been their doctor during the birth of Lila and Nathaniel.

Laura knew what happened, and was happy to hear you were overseeing his recovery. Barton was in good spirits, always welcoming any excuse to take leave and be at his farm.

So, as you both waited for his lab results, he began to throw cereal at you, saying he could aim exactly at your mouth even if you moved.

And he proves to be right, most of the time.

Because when Natasha walks in the room, you move your head to look at her and a piece of cereal hits you square in the eye.

“Barton!” you say, covering with one hand. “Oh, my God! I can’t go blind. I won’t operate again”

“You moved!” Clint protests.

“You said I could move!”

“Hey, it’s ok” Natasha says, kneeling in front of you. When you remove your hand and blink several times, you can tell she’s trying to hold back laughter. Glaring, you decide to swat her hand away, but then she’s craddling your face, smiling softly.

“I guess I’ll ask Fury for an eyepatch” you say after looking at her lips for a second too long.

Natasha rolls her eyes, and then turns to look at her friend.

“Maybe you should retire”

“I do more work at the farm than here, Tasha. I’m fine. Tell him, Doc?”

“Through and through, no shattered bones. But he still needs to rest” you say, standing up to take his results. You begin to go through everything, not paying attention to what Natasha and Clint are talking about.

Until…

“The mission can wait” he insists.

“You know I can’t”

“I’d feel better if you had someone with you. Take Steve, Wilson. Even Maximoff could be…”

“I’ll think about it” Natasha interrupts him. But her tone is clear; she’s not changing her mind.

Your stomach twists at the idea of Natasha being in a dangerous situation, which is stupid. For one, that’s her literal job and also, you’re just a doctor from SHIELD. She doesn’t care about you, and your own interest shouldn’t go beyond a professional capacity.

“You’re ready for discharge, Agent Barton” you say, trying to pretend you didn’t hear the exchange. “I’ll get the paperwork ready”

“Thank you, Doc”

You nod, leaving them to their conversation. You hope Clint can convince Natasha to postpone whatever mission she needs to go on, but you can’t say you’re optimistic about his chances.

While you review the paperwork, your mind goes back to the few text messages you’ve exchanged with Natasha ever since she asked for your number. Of course, it started out as a consultation over her stitches. You, checking up on her. Then, some random texts throughout the day. Still, nothing  that indicated she was thinking about asking you out.

Once you’re done with paperwork and run into her, you decide to take your chances.

“Hey, about what Clint said…”

“About working more when he’s home? He’s just being a baby, Laura…”

“No. The mission”

“That’s class…”

“Classified, I know. I just… promise to be careful. Please?” you fidget with your hands, looking at your feet.

“What? You don’t want to see me around?” she jokes.

“Not as a patient” you say, blushing at the way it comes across.

“So, maybe, when I’m back from that mission…” she says, smiling as she inches closer to you. Your breath hitches, but you don’t back down, or look away when her green eyes meet yours. “We can go out for dinner?”

“I’d like that”

Natasha nods, her hand reaching for yours as she leaves the hospital.

All you want is for her to come back, safe and sound.

—

We can’t always get what we want.

When you get paged, and see the code, you know it’s Natasha.

Daphne rushes right behind you, straight to the Medbay where Natasha’s getting evaluated.

Steve, Sam and Wanda are already there, but there’s another woman. She has blonde hair, and is wearing a suit you don’t recognise as something SHIELD agents use.

“Doctor…” Steve rushes to your side, but you shake your head.

“Tell me what happened. Now!”

Nurses and doctors step aside as you look at the X-rays, vitals and injuries. There’s a lot of blood, and Natasha is slipping in and out of consciousness.

“There was an explosion. Please, you have to help her” the blonde finally says. “Help my sister”

Those words make you falter for a second, but then BP’s crashing and you don’t have time to think about the fact that Natasha has a sister.

“We can’t wait. She has flail chest and her lung is collapsed. Page Lane, we’re moving to the OR now”

Everything becomes a blur, with people moving and prepping for surgery. The staff is trained for this and you have everything ready in under 5 minutes.

“Do you need anything else?” the head nurse says as you prepare to start.

“Silence. And focus. All of you. We’re gonna be here a long time”

7 hours, two units of blood and a lot of stitches later, Natasha is transferred to the ICU.

“I should have gone with her” Barton mumbles when you give the team an update. But he’s still wearing an armsling, and there’s no point in thinking about this now.

“Can I see her?” the woman who called Natasha her sister says, eyes red from crying.

“Later. Only staff can be at the ICU. I’ll stay with her, you go shower, eat something. Natasha needs to recover, she’ll be out of it for at least another day”

No one seems pleased with the idea of leaving the hospital, but Steve insists and they follow him, as usual. The blonde girl stays behind, and in that moment you realise she doesn’t even know Natasha’s friends.

To your surprise, she turns around and hugs you.

“Thank you. For saving her”

You wrap your arms around her shoulders, because it sucks that her sister is hurt and you can’t do more for her right now.

—-

For over 22 hours, you’ve been by Natasha’s  side. As soon as she’s out of the ICU, you call Yelena.

You give her an update on her status and what to expect. She listens, only showing emotion when she sees Natasha connected to all those machines.

“Is she… does it hurt her? Is she going to be ok?”

“Her body needs time to recover. But she’ll be fine. Natasha’s strong” you say, pushing back a strand of that fiery hair from her forehead. It’s silly, how much you miss her cheeky smile when you’re doing something stupid because she looks your way.

“So, you must be the girl she likes” Yelena says, making you look up.

“What?”

“While we were hiding, I asked her if she was seeing anyone. She told me she had a date with this cute doctor so we’d better hurry”

“Oh” you say, blushing. “Yeah, we were… going to dinner. When she came back”

“I’m sorry. It’s my fault”

“No, it isn’t. Natasha wouldn’t want you to think that. Come here, sit. You can stay for as long as you want” you lead her to the couch, sitting right next to her.

“I hadn’t seen her in so long” she whispers, a tear rolling down her cheek.

“It’s ok, Yelena. You’ll have plenty of time with your sister. She’s gonna be out of missions for at least a month. But she’ll probably be grumpy about it” you joke, and the blonde laughs.

Exhaustion finally catches up with both of you, and without realising, Yelena ends up asleep on your shoulder. With a sigh, you close your eyes, convincing yourself it will only be for a couple of minutes.

By the time you open your eyes, a raspy chuckle makes you look up.

“I knew Yelena would like you”

“You’re up” you say, letting the blonde rest against the couch and standing up to check Natasha. You go over her blood pressure, the IV and pupils, but are interrupted by her hands holding on to your wrists.

“Hi” she says, smiling up at you.

“Hello, Agent. Can I please finish my examination?”

“What do I get in return?”

“Getting discharged”

“Trying to get rid of me?” she taunts and you have to roll your eyes. It’s been almost two days since she almost died and here she is, being a smartass.

“You’re the one who went through all the trouble just to get out of our date” you joke. Natasha doesn’t get to protest, because Yelena wakes up, rushing to her side.

“Sestra! Are you ok?”

Yelena switches to Russian, talking so fast even Natasha has trouble keeping up with her.

“Let’s just calm down, ok? I’ll give you guys a minute” you say, smiling at Natasha as Yelena drags a chair to sit next to her sister. You have a feeling that there are some things they have to talk about.

—

Time goes by quickly, and before you know it, it’s been three weeks since Natasha’s surgery. You’ve been texting more frequently, but you’re not expecting to see her anytime soon. Between reconnecting with Yelena and recovery, she has more than enough on her plate.

Work is distracting, but not enough. During small breaks you do end up thinking about her, and missing her.

You think nothing of it when you get paged to do a follow up, as it is a slow day and you’re short staffed.

But when you open the door, Natasha is smiling at you, in that way that makes you act like a fool. The shock lasts a second, and then you worry.

“Hey. Are you feeling ok? Why are you here? Are you hurt? I told you not to train for another week” you spiral, getting ready to order X-rays and a CT scan immediately.

Natasha calls your name, once and then louder, when you don’t look up from her file.

“I just wanted to see you” she says, making you blush. “But there’s this thing too. Thought I should get it checked”

“Ok, what is it?”

“Well, in spite of all the rumors, I do have a heart. And it has been beating faster, and I get this feeling in my stomach…” she begins to say. You nod, pulling out your stethoscope.

Natasha watches with a smile as you listen to her heartbeat, thinking how adorable you look when you’re all focused. Without realising, your other hand goes to rest on her knee, and she can’t help but let out a sigh, wishing you could be even closer.

“Ok, I hear it. It’s beating a little bit faster” you say, still oblivious. “Is there anything specific triggering this…?”

“I have an idea” she says, her hands resting on your waist. You finally look up, eyes lingering on her lips. Natasha sees realisation in your features, and takes it as a sign to inch closer, her lips brushing against yours.

It’s quick and tender, but it still makes your knees weak.

Well, this is going to be a problem. No way you can go back to work now that this happened. You’ll be so distracted that you’ll end up running over someone with a wheelchair or something.

“Let’s check again. Just wanna make sure your heart is ok” you say, leaning forward. You feel Natasha smile into the kiss, hands pulling you against her.

“What did the doctor say? Ah, gross!” Yelena walks in a moment later. “I didn’t think you meant this kind of physical exam, Natasha”

“Get out!” Natasha shouts, and you have to laugh.

“Gladly” Yelena huffs, slamming the door. She adds a second later. “And I’m telling everyone at the Compound!”

“So annoying” Natasha mumbles, but turns to look at you with a smile. “Is it anything serious? Will I be ok, Doc?”

“Yeah, you just need to kiss me more so your body gets used to the feeling” you say, meeting her lips in another kiss.

“I can definitely do that”

[itzariafiles]

who fell first v.s. who fell harder

— preference | fluff | gn!reader

— ft. k.bakugo, i.midoriya, s.todoroki, t.iida, h.shinsou, e.kirishima

— author’s note : first post, please be kind world!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

⭑ Katsuki Bakugo

You fell first.

Second week at U.A. and you were already head over heels for him. No one really understood why—it was Bakugo Katsuki, after all. Always yelling, always scowling, always furious at the world. He barely looked your way. Mina and Denki joked that you must have a death wish whenever you brought him up.

But then… things changed. Quietly.

For some reason, he never yelled at you. Not even once. Not even when you threw yourself in front of Tsuyu during a practice mission and ended up needing to be carried out of the building.

He just muttered, “Dumbass” twice, while lifting you up and walking you to Recovery Girl.

After that came the water bottles. Every time training ended, he’d toss you one and mumble, “Stay hydrated. I’m not carrying you again.”

Liar.

Kirishima was the only one who noticed he always kept an extra bottle, just in case.

The real turning point, though?

That poor boy from Class B who dared to ask you on a date.

Bakugo nearly exploded. Kirishima had to physically hold him back to stop him from lunging at the guy.

And before you could even respond, Bakugo grabbed your wrist and started walking.

You were stunned.

“Bakugo—what are you doing?”

“Me and you,” he said gruffly, eyes locked straight ahead.

“Date. Now.”

That night changed everything.

No one dared to tease him after that. Not when he made it so clear you were his. And he didn’t care what anyone thought.

He loved you loudly, fiercely, intentionally—until the whole damn school stopped questioning why you had fallen so hard for him.

And by then, he had already fallen harder.

⭑ Izuku Midoriya

He fell first.

He knew he liked you—really liked you—the moment you used your quirk to throw the ball so far that everyone realized: if someone was getting expelled that day, it definitely wasn’t you.

Admiration wasn’t the reason he noticed his feelings.

Most of your classmates were impressed by your control, your power, the precision with which you handled something so seemingly simple.

But Izuku? He didn’t reach for his notebook. He didn’t ramble about your technique or potential. He just… watched. No notes. No muttering. Just silence.

He saw the way your shoulders relaxed when it was over. The way you laughed at something Mina said, and how you smiled when Bakugo threw in one of his backhanded compliments. He noticed everything.

He never admitted it, but when he broke his finger to launch that ball across the field, it wasn’t just to prove himself.

Yes, he wanted to stay at U.A. Yes, he wanted to make All Might proud.

But truthfully?

He just wanted to stay long enough to see you again.

Even if that meant going through Aizawa’s “one of you will be expelled” threat every week.

(He was so relieved when no one actually was.)

But you—sweet, clueless you—you fell harder.

Everyone knew how smitten Deku was with you. And deep down, so did you. But when you called your mom late one night, asking for the recipe of a pastry you knew he loved, something shifted.

You spent hours in the kitchen baking batch after batch, trying to get it just right. You barely slept, but the next morning you showed up, cheeks red, handing him the best one you had.

You both blushed your way through breakfast that day, and when he smiled—really smiled—you knew you were done for.

Eventually, you started dating.

Yes, he is your biggest supporter. He loves you loudly and earnestly.

But you?

You’re his biggest fan—collecting every merch, magazine, and article with his name on it.

And he tries to act like it doesn’t get to him.

But it does.

And it makes him happier than he’ll ever admit.

⭑ Shoto Todoroki

You fell first.

You had already fallen for him years before he even looked at you that way.

It all started when your parents arranged for both of you to train when you were 8, to make out of you enemies who would eventually compete to be the #1 pro hero.

Both of you would fight each other, week after week. You, technically, weren’t allowed to exchange pleasantries—after all, you were there to compete. But you would always find a way to talk to him, about anything really. Once you started to talk about how much you missed eating candies, he didn’t answer, but a timid smile formed on his face.

As the years passed, you started to develop feelings for him. He would catch you staring for too long, you made it seem as if you were analyzing him or just zoned out, but deep down, both of you knew.

As both of you made it into U.A., your friendship finally had a chance to grow. To have actual, not rushed conversations. But you never pressured him, never talked about your obvious feelings, you knew he needed time to heal, as much as you did.

But, eventually, he fell harder.

Much harder.

Maybe it was during that night patrol in second year, when he almost got hit by debris and you shielded him without hesitation—burning the edge of your hero costume in the process. He didn’t say much that night. Just looked at you with those stormy eyes and asked, quietly, “Are you okay?”

Or maybe it was the moment he realized you had memorized his favorite tea, the exact way he liked it. That day, you passed him a cup without saying a word, and he froze, fingers lingering on the ceramic longer than they should have. You always noticed the small things—especially when he didn’t say them out loud.

It was never loud, the way he loved you.

But it was there—in how he always sat next to you during strategy meetings, how he started calling you after rough patrols, how he waited for you after every exam. You never asked him to. He just always did.

Eventually, one evening after training, when the sun was sinking low behind the U.A. dorms, he looked at you and said,

“You were the first person who treated me like I wasn’t broken.”

You looked at him, startled by the confession.

And then, softly: “You never were.”

He didn’t say anything back.

But that was the moment he knew he was yours—fully, irreversibly.

And that he had fallen far too deep to ever come back up.

⭑ Tenya Iida

You fell first.

Maybe it was the way he apologized with his whole soul after accidentally bumping into you in the hallway.

Or the way he always remembered to pull a chair for you before meetings.

Or how he waited outside your dorm when he knew you’d had a hard day—without saying a word, just… being there.

Maybe it was how fiercely protective he was of the people he loved. The way he fought for his brother’s name, for what he believed in, even when it left him bruised.

Or maybe it was after that mission, when you were gravely injured, and he carried you all the way to the nurse’s office, gripping you tightly, whispering your name, running faster than even he thought possible.

You didn’t remember it well—you were slipping in and out of consciousness—but he did. Every second.

And the next day, he came back.

With pastries.

And the neatest notes he had ever taken—if that was even possible, just so you could study.

And hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

He was kind. Loving. Unintentionally funny. A gentleman through and through.

Of course you fell first.

But poor Iida…

he fell harder.

He tried. Honestly, he did. You were both studying, you were both young—he told himself that again and again. But he never got past those two excuses. Not really.

He stayed up until 3 a.m. with Sato trying to recreate that chocolate cake you always praised, just to cheer you up after your injury.

He spent the entire night debating whether to visit you before classes.

He didn’t.

But he left the tray outside your door anyway, carefully arranged. And still came back later, awkward but devoted, with more pastries and a hundred unspoken words.

Somewhere between all the long hours, the careful notes, the conversations under low dorm lighting—

He fell. Harder than he’d ever thought possible.

For him, it wasn’t just affection.

You were a promise. A reminder that he could build something good in this world—with you in it.

And when he saw you cry once, quietly, under the staircase after another grueling day, something broke in him.

He sat beside you. Took off his gloves. Held your hand.

It was the first time he’d touched you, skin to skin.

And his hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

From then on, he never tried to hide it again.

He memorized your schedule.

He read your favorite books.

He learned to brew your favorite tea, even though he didn’t like tea.

You noticed. Of course you did.

But you didn’t say anything.

Not until he showed up at your door one night, fists clenched, eyes wide, tie slightly crooked, and said:

“I know this may be reckless and horribly timed, but I am—truly, entirely—in love with you.”

You smiled.

Because by then, he didn’t need to say it.

You’d fallen first, but he made it impossible not to fall harder, too.

⭑ Hitoshi Shinsou

He fell first.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obvious.

And at first, he told himself it was just curiosity.

When he joined the Hero Course and became part of Class 1-A, you were the first to look at him—not like the guy with the “villain-ish” quirk, not like a threat to be watched, or a weapon to be handled carefully.

You didn’t treat him with stiff politeness or cautious distance.

You treated him like a classmate. Like a potential friend.

You laughed at his jokes, tossed back your own sharp comments.

You noticed when he pulled away from the group.

You called him out when he got too closed-off—but you always gave him space when he needed it. Just… quietly shared it with him.

The moment he realized something had shifted was probably stupid.

You complimented his eyes.

You had the audacity to step a little too close, stare straight at him like you were trying to see through all the walls he’d spent years building.

He had no idea what to say.

You just laughed—soft and satisfied—

and walked away.

He thought about it for days.

He didn’t understand what he was feeling.

But then he started bringing you extra snacks after training.

He slowed his pace just enough to walk beside you.

He stood just a little too close during sparring.

It wasn’t intentional. Not at first.

But for him, you were stronger than gravity.

He fell.

And he fell quietly.

But you?

You fell harder.

You knew it the night he texted you out of nowhere:

Toshi:

Hey. Don’t come to training tomorrow. You looked tired today. Take a break.

You stared at the message for ten minutes, rereading it.

He’d noticed. He noticed you.

And he was looking out for you, in his strange, quiet, Shinsou way.

You didn’t listen, of course.

You showed up to training anyway—just to see him roll his eyes when you winked at him.

After that, it was over.

You memorized the rhythm of his voice.

You learned the little signs—when he was overwhelmed, when he needed silence, when he needed you.

You started recognizing how he fidgeted with the capture weapon Aizawa was teaching him to use—especially when he was nervous about a mission.

You could always tell.

And somehow, that made you fall even harder.

He fell first.

But you fell deeper.

And now, he doesn’t know what to do with the way your hand lingers on his sleeve.

Or how his pulse stutters when you whisper his name.

He hasn’t said it out loud yet.

But you think…

He’s almost ready.

⭑ Eijirou Kirishima

You fell first.

When you heard him say he didn’t think he was “manly enough” to be a hero, you just wanted to hug him—wrap him up in every reassurance you had, tell him that of course he was manly enough to do anything he dreamed of.

You suspected your feelings then, but shoved them under the couch, hoping no one would notice.

Mina noticed. She always did.

When he laughed too hard at one of Denki’s terrible jokes and immediately looked embarrassed, you blushed.

Sero noticed.

You blamed the heat.

But when he stepped in front of a child during a villain ambush and said,

“Don’t worry. I’m unbreakable.”

that was it. You were done for.

But Kirishima?

He fell harder.

It didn’t show all at once.

It crept in slowly.

In the way he trained just enough to always be paired with you during sparring.

In how he memorized your favorite techniques so he could practice them with you.

In how his quirk—his actual, physical walls—cracked a little when you hugged him after a hard day, and how he turned bright red trying to play it cool.

The breaking point?

Someone else confessed to you.

And he just… walked out. Silent. Stiff.

He came back hours later.

Hands shaking.

Eyes soft.

“I know I’m not smooth like Todoroki, or cool like Bakugo… but I think I’m strong enough to protect your heart.”

Boom.

Done.

Unbreakable?

Not anymore.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

steal this and katsuki bakugo will personally find you.

© itzariafiles 2025 ✧ do not copy, translate or feed to AI.

[dykebehaviour]

can i try something?

scissoring with loser lesbian!ellie for the first time

cw: smut, scissoring, dirty talk, established relationship, top!ellie, bottom!reader, messy, awkward, playful.

the night settles around you like a warm blanket, dim lamps casting golden light over the cluttered comfort of your shared apartment, the low hum of a half-finished playlist still echoing from the speaker in the kitchen. thai takeout boxes are abandoned on the coffee table, the scent of lemongrass and fried rice lingering faintly in the air. you’re both still glowing from the date, cheeks warm from wine, limbs loose from laughing too much in the booth, her hand never leaving yours the whole walk home.

ellie’s sitting close beside you on the couch, one leg bent up between yours, her arm lazily draped across the back of the cushions. her fingers have been toying with the ends of your hair, brushing over the nape of your neck like she’s not fully aware she’s doing it. but her eyes - god, those eyes - they keep flicking down to your mouth, then away again, like she’s working something up in her head and doesn’t know how to say it.

you catch her. “babe. what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

she jolts slightly, as if pulled from deep thought, then offers a guilty, crooked smile. “nothing. just thinking.”

“about?”

she hesitates, then rubs the back of her neck, that telltale loser ellie nervous tic you’ve come to adore. “promise you won’t laugh?”

“cross my heart.”

she swallows. “okay. so like… i’ve been thinking about something. something we haven’t done before.” her voice drops, almost conspiratorial. “and i don’t know if it’s dumb or whatever. but i kinda… wanna try it.”

you sit up straighter, curiosity piqued. “ellie. you literally have your face between my thighs like every other night. what could possibly embarrass you at this point?”

she groans, face flushed. “fuck. okay. i wanna try… scissoring.”

your eyebrows lift slightly. “you do?”

she nods quickly. “j just-i know it’s, like, in porn a lot and maybe it’s not even that good in real life, but i think about it sometimes, and i get all fucking… worked up. imagining you under me. our thighs all tangled, and your pussy right up against mine and-“ she cuts herself off, eyes wide. “wow. saying it out loud is actually ten times worse.”

you’re smiling, already reaching out to cup her burning face. “that’s really fucking hot.”

ellie visibly exhales, shoulders relaxing. “wait…seriously?”

you nod, thumbing over the curve of her cheek. “you wanna try it?”

“…yeah. i mean. only if you do. we don’t have to, if it’s weird-“

“ellie,” you interrupt, already shifting to straddle her lap, arms wrapped around her neck. “i want to. i want you.”

she’s kissing you before you finish the sentence; eager, messy, her hands sliding under your thighs to lift you. the kiss is hungry but reverent, like she’s pouring every ounce of nervous anticipation into it. your bodies press together, clothed but already heating fast, and when she finally pulls back, her pupils are blown and her voice is hoarse.

“bedroom?” she whispers.

you nod, heart pounding. “now.”

by the time you reach the bed, the air between you is thick with tension - that sweet, electric kind where everything is giggles and gasps and the rustle of clothes being peeled off too fast. ellie’s usually clumsy in the bedroom - a little bashful, always second-guessing where to put her hands - but tonight, there’s a different kind of buzz in her movements. still shy, still flustered, but driven by something deeper. a need to make this good. to make it yours.

she kisses down your neck with trembling lips, kneeling between your legs on the mattress, pressing slow kisses to your chest as she unhooks your bra with shaking fingers. her eyes flicker up when you moan, a flush of pride spreading across her freckled cheeks.

“you good?” she murmurs, voice low, reverent.

you nod breathlessly, already wet. “ellie. please.”

she pulls off her boxers and settles between your thighs, both of you completely bare now, skin hot and sticky with anticipation. her hair falls into her eyes as she lowers herself, pressing your bodies together, and you both gasp in unison as your slick folds meet for the first time.

“oh my god,” she breathes, completely frozen.

your hips twitch. “holy fuck.”

ellie’s eyes flutter shut. “you’re so warm. fuck-baby, this already feels so good.”

she moves cautiously at first, her thigh flexed between yours, your legs tangled, one of her hands bracing on the pillow beside your head. the other holds your waist as she grinds her hips slowly down against yours, a slick, gliding rhythm building between your wet centers.

it’s clumsy. slippery. a little too high, then too low. your hips bump hard and you both yelp.

“shit-sorry! my angle’s off…fuck-“

“no, it’s okay…wait, try-here.” you lift your hips and guide her slightly lower, using your thigh to pull her tighter against you.

the moment you slot together again - just right - ellie moans so loudly it echoes off the walls. her head drops to your neck and she ruts against you, slow and deep.

“ohhh, that’s-fuck, that’s it. baby, your pussy feels so fucking good,” she mumbles into your skin.

you’re panting now, nails digging into her shoulders, riding every thrust of her hips. the friction of her clit against yours is messy and wet, each grind slick with arousal, the pleasure sharp and bright, blooming outward like wildfire in your stomach.

“don’t stop,” you whimper, and ellie’s rhythm stutters at the sound of your voice.

she growls softly, hips moving harder now, more desperate, her breath coming out in broken pants. “shit-shit-i’m gonna-fuck, i’m so close, i’m gonna come just from this, just from rubbing my pussy on yours, baby-“

her voice breaks and so do you.

your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, thighs clenching around her, your whole body shaking, moaning her name over and over as pleasure splits you open, raw and real. ellie’s right behind you, crying out as she presses her clit harder into yours, grinding deep, her hips stuttering wildly through her own release.

she collapses against you, both of you breathless, soaked, trembling.

for a long moment, neither of you move. you just hold her, your fingers tangling in the damp strands of her hair, her mouth pressed to your collarbone.

ellie finally exhales a soft, shaky laugh. “so… uh. that was…”

you smile, still catching your breath. “incredible. weird. hot. kind of hilarious.”

she grins against your skin. “i almost asked you to marry me halfway through.”

you laugh, swatting her shoulder. “loser.”

her voice turns quiet. “yeah, but i’m your loser.”

you pull her closer. “lucky me.”

she hums, lazy and content, still nestled between your legs. “wanna try again in the morning?”

you tilt your hips, teasing. “only if you do that thing with your hips again.”

ellie groans. “god. say less.”

perm taglist: @yasmilks , @natsheretic , @lovemiraamira , @ellies-real-wife , @wewerewildandfluorescent , @jullsii , @eyesttokill , @dmenby3100 , @bunchogravie , @oneinameliann , @intheshadowofthestars , @pariiissssssss , @vanpalmertruther , @madsxh1022 , @rbnvrnxoxo , @firefly-ace , @alyaserrax , @silly-pigeon69 , @glassofgreenteapls , @pearlsiie , @aj0elap0l0gist , @sincerelyherz , @imsiriuslycool , @0phantom0 , @ggutpunch , @leeidk87 , @mikellie , @celiacallsitcasual <3

[edensrose]

˖ 𑣲 𝓜 y girl

˚₊‧꒰ა satoru gojo ﾉ sweetheart.ᐟ reader ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ as a special grade, the higher-ups expect you to be early to meetings. alas, you have a certain white-haired guard dog that keeps them from questioning you too much. especially when he's all over you ꒰ ᡣ𐭩 ꒱ whipped toru ˖ fluff ˖ protective toru ˖ 0.6k

sweetheart host ᝰ.ᐟ✧ squealed writing all of this ⌇ requested

Dimmed lights, bowed heads, stiff silence and . . .

Pink, charmed nails?

"You are late, Second."

The sneer around your title barely earned your flinch. The entrance parted and light swept in. From the outside world or from you? To a certain sorcerer stood comfortably in his meeting position, it seemed like the latter.

Satoru's grin finally returned. A little brighter, all the more sharper as you trotted on in with heels longer than half the dicks in this room and wearing a smile like a cursed technique.

"Still got here, didn't I?" Sunglasses pushed into your hair, a designer purse on your arm. With you came a floral scent into this dingy meeting room the higher-ups swore up and down on.

Oh you weren't trotting. You strutted. As if the world owed you something and rolled your eyes like whatever it gave wasn't enough. Gracefully making your way towards him. A storm wrapped in a pretty pink chiffon dress and dolled from the head down. Your hair? Not a strand out of place. Your make-up? That eyeliner could cut through every sheen these old geezers hid behind.

"And where," one in particular grunted. "Pray tell, have you been? You were informed of this meeting's gravity."

"I had a nail appointment."

The room fell silent. Their fifth special grade. Regarded as the Second Strongest, bested by only Gojo Satoru whom you nestled beside easily. The woman who clawed her way to the top in a feat they'd never seen before. . .

Was late because those same nails she clawed with needed prettying?

"You have no urgency!" Another snapped. Then came several. To your ears it was nothing but fodder. The same bullshit day-in and day-out. You rather occupied yourself with the sorcerer stood beside you.

"Late cause of your pretty nails, sweetheart?" Satoru crooned, barely paying mind to the higher-ups throwing a fit. He stood with a lazy air and arms folded.

"Mhhm." Five fingers splayed before you and nudged to him. Decorative charms shimmered in the dim light. Each nail finely kept, shaped and painted in a style so testament to the rest of you. Elegant, beautiful. "What do you think?"

Delicate is what your hand looked compared to his. Cupped below yours and raising it a bit higher to his vision. Even with his shades, you knew his eyes scanned intensely. White brows raised and grin settling into a tease of a smirk.

"Well, lookie there."

"Do you have any idea of your position!" Another screech that neither of you paid attention to. The higher-ups could threaten and argue all they wanted.

What would they do? They couldn't fight you. And the only one that could?

"Told you blue would look good on you."

. . . was currently kissing over your fingers.

Satoru barely batted an eye, too preoccupied with the azure hue you styled at the tips of your nails. Every voice fell silent as he laid kisses over each of your knuckles like they were the secret to infinity.

You crooked your head to one of the shoji, where the first apprehending official sat. Still as every other breath in the room. And despite your eyes smouldering hot coals,

You smiled.

"Now, can we continue this meeting?"

A voice readied to shame you for your audacity and attitude. But all stilled at once when icy blue peered over a dark rim. Pale lips still flushed to your knuckle. They needn't coil into the frown his glare shone.

"I . . . whatever."

Satoru hummed and released your hand in favour of a strong arm looped around your waist. You're pulled into his side with his watchful gaze still ahead.

"Then let's get on with it, yeah?" He squeezed your hip. Shot you a little smile. Stole one more kiss.

© 𝒆𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒆 . no copying, translation or plagiarism authorised

[lassiie]

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON (Headcon for upcoming fic)

MDNI ! NSFW ! Dancer reader x Truly Obsessive, psychosexual, dark vibes step bro Sunghoon who's manipulative and have dacryphilia. “You needed someone. I became everything. You cried for me, now I crave every soft, broken sound you make. I'll make you cross the line...”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who first saw you crying for him—soft tears of pure compassion—and knew he’d never let you go.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who tells himself he’s protecting you by watching—making sure no one goes too far—but all he really wants is to go too far himself. To pull you off stage and ruin you.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who watches your spine curve in a bend like it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen—every rib counting down to where he wants to leave his mouth, his hands, and marks.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who touches you with feather-light fingers when no one’s looking, caresing your bare back and tightening your dress, getting off your every reaction.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who helps you dry off after practice, hand lingering a second too long, voice rough as he warns, “Don’t make me lose control, or I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who lets you straddle his lap, watching you mindlesly start moving against him, whispering apologies between gasps. His fingers dig into your waist, voice low and rough: “Don’t stop. I’ll take care of everything you need.” And you both get lost in that secret, forbidden pleasure only you share.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who starts bickering with you in the bathroom but can’t hold back—his hands grab your hips, and you both grind hard against each other until you hear someone and yank from each other, soaked and desperate.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who says, “I’ll use anyone to remind you how badly you need me—because you belong to me, no matter what.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who won’t let anyone else hold you but him, making sure he's starving you of affection until you cross every line and come begging into his arms.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who watches the slow roll of your hips in contemporary choreography and thinks, “That’s how she’d ride me. That’s exactly how she’d move if I told her she could cum.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who doesn’t storm out or make a scene at the club he found you dance for side money. He just book the VIP booth, and pays off the manager under the table to make sure no one touches you

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who takes that pretty, flirty dancer to dinner the same night you go out on date. He makes sure you see them, laughing, her hand on his thigh, his thumb grazing her lip, kissing her while looking at you.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who fucks that same girl poolside at 2AM, right beneath your balcony, her moans echoing through the estate. And when he glances up mid-thrust, he sees your bedroom curtains flickers, a smile his lips.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who fucks her the day she's dressed at your stan-in. Hand choking her lightly, hips snapping rough, hair pulled—not because he wants her, but because he wants you wrecked.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who sucks bruises into your inner thighs in the backseat of his Benz, until you're shaking and leaking onto the leather, only to zip up his slacks, wipe his mouth before walking into his family’s matchmaking dinner like he isn’t still hard for you.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who slips his fingers into you under the table at his own matchmaking dinner, face blank but hand trembling in your soaked heat—breath hitching as he leans in and whispers, “They want me to pick a wife, but I already belong to you. You know that, right?”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who shuts the door to his secret apartment, strips you bare with fierce hands, and bites into your skin while his fingers pry you open. His voice is rough, desperate: “I don’t care about their rules. I only want you—body and soul.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who ghosts on a futur in-law meeting to press your thighs around his face in his appartment—eating you out and loving you so violently he misses the in-law brunch entirely.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who takes his soon to be fiancée to a gala but spends the whole night texting you under the table—until she notices his fingers twitching and jaw clenching right when you appear in a dress he told you not to wear.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who wraps your own satin ribbon around your throat during that night jealous fuck, pulling. His mind full of : “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who leaves your bite marks on his collarbone before a family dinner with soon to be fiancée—and when she reaches to fix his shirt, she sees it. She sees it.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who drives you home after representation one night, lets you fall asleep in his lap in the backseat—and misses his date completely. Doesn’t even answer her calls after.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who ends up fucking you right there in the private studio he booked for you, on the Marley floor, because the way your body moved tonight was too much, and just couldn’t resist it.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who fucks you hard against the mirror in your ballerina robe, hand over your mouth, breath in your ear: “Say you’ll leave again and I’ll make sure the only stage you dance on is my lap.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who grabs your packed suitcase with shaking hands and throws it across the room—then kneels in front of you, hair falling into his eyes, whispering, “Don’t go. I’ll give you anything. Just don’t go.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who leans into your skin, hands gripping your waist so tight your breath hitches, “You’re my only escape. Run all you want—but you’ll always come back to me.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who gets breathless and rough when you finally give yourself to him, voice cracking, “I’m gonna mark you... Fuck... Make sure everyone knows you’re mine." Then embrace you, "But I’m never gonna hurt you, babe.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who moves slow and careful, but every touch and sigh is charged with possessiveness, murmuring against your skin, “No one’s allowed to have you but me. Not like this.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who makes you beg for his touch after the other guy leaves, his fingers slipping between your thighs, rough and demanding, “You think you want him? I’m the only one who can make you scream like this.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who kisses you like he’s drowning, hands desperate and rough, but the way he whimpers into your mouth when you touch him back? That’s the sound of someone starved for love and losing control.

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who fucks into you slow and deep, voice trembling with rage and want, saying, “He wants to control me, but you’re the only thing I’ll ever obey. I’d give up everything just to stay inside you.”

CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who lets you see him fall apart, lets you hold him while he’s still inside you, chest heaving, voice shaking, “I don’t care if it’s wrong. You’re home to me.”

Coming very soon...

Here’s a peek at the next stepbro AU—this one’s all about Hoon, and I have a feeling it’s going to sneak into your thoughts and stay there a while.

It’s a little dark, a lot twisted, and full of that possessiveness that makes your heart race just a bit too fast.

Feel free to reblog, gush, or whisper your thoughts my way.

And if there’s something you’re dying to see, don’t be shy!!!

I’d love to hear what you’re craving. 🖤

xoxo

Lassiie