#door handle functionality

[interiorergonomics]

Selecting Door Handles and Locks for Your Interior

Interior door handles and hardware are a unique way of emphasizing finishing touches. In fact, they're essential components which shape the way we interact with our spaces every day. From opening a bedroom door to securing a private study or adding a stylish accent to a hallway. So, a right selection of interior door handles and locks must focus on enhancing both functionality and aesthetics.

An Interior design company in Dubai explains everything in detail most especially on which hardware contributes to comfort, safety, and the overall design narrative of your home or office. Whether you lean toward sleek modern levers, classic round knobs, or high-tech smart locks, each decision reflects your lifestyle and interior theme.

This guide helps you navigate the wide world of door handles and locks and finishes. Then empower you to choose with confidence and create spaces that truly feel complete.

[simplyghosting]

Keep telling my brother he needs to call his mechanic because his car is overdue to be serviced and he’s like “there’s nothing wrong with it” my brother in Christ your oil needs to be changed and every time you incline your wheel it sounds like a Geiger counter freaking out

[fluxweeed]

hey. hope this message doesn't bother you. I love you. I love your work. you are one of my favorite fic authors, I am absolutely obsessed with everything you write. reread everything ten times over, drarry or not, fluffy or angsty - even when it absolutely shatters my heart (e.g. for lack of wanting, SUCH a great fic btw i'm so obsessed with it). the four doors? life changing. two to lie and one to listen? engraved into my brain for eternity. what's mine is yours? what a ride holy shit, im VERY normal about it. wrapped? my comfort read. and so it goes.

if I could aggressively smother you with kudos and love I WOULD!!!

awhile ago you said that there's no such thing as "big deals" in fandom and I 100% agree but at the same time you are a big deal TO ME!!! not in the sense of any kind of hierarchy but purely based on the fact that I think you are such a cool person and your writing is amazing and poignant and your presence in fandom makes it so much better. it's been a pleasure following you here on tumblr and just reading your tags and posts.

idk I just think you rule. that's it. thank you for hanging with us. MWAH 💛

ahhhh anon sorry for leaving this message sitting in my inbox for a couple of days but !! i have zero idea how to react to this!! you're so kind!! thank you!! please discard any and all inclinations u have that i am a cool person bc i can assure you i am NOT!!

[sauntering-vaguely-downwardss]

I went to MCM London today!! AND I MET STEW AGAIN WOO!! - I now have a signed Dion print finally!!

Forgive me for this random assortment of pics but I literally took like 3 pics at con today?? Half of them are of my silly mini javert I gave to stew ✨✨

[falling-hand-in-unlovable-hand]

my entire family goes to bed at 9:30 because i live with fucking old people (im joking. somewhat.) and from then on i have to move around the house quietly. this wouldn't be a problem except that my door is incredibly and uniquely fucked up and nigh impossible to open even remotely quietly

[coloursofaparadox]

listen. okay. i know my car is held together with sheer force of will and gusto. but it is perfectly functional!!! yes, i have part of the panel on the trunk permanently removed so i can reach inside and manually pull the mechanism to latch it. and yeah, the drivers door handle only works because of some creative industrial strength zip ties. out of 4 doors i think two have the correct corresponding interior handles. half of them work. 2 out of 4 windows do not roll down, and 1 is on its last legs but still functioning due to a barbeque brush and silicone lube (and i have to push it down with my hands). and okay MAYBE it becomes undrivable when we go long stretches without rain because the front wiper fluid just sadly trickles down the hood and i have to use the whims of the weather to clean my windshield of grime. at least both wipers stay attached while driving and definitely 100% for sure always have (it was fine no one got hurt).

listen. she is doing her best. when i bought her the transmission fluid was brown. you know what colour its supposed to be? pale pink. sometimes oil just. leaves. doesn't leak! doesnt seem to be getting through a seal into the enginel! just. it goes. the amp and two 12 inch subwoofers in the back scream in audible pain when i rev the engine. the parking brake light comes on at random when it gets cold outside. im not sure what its trying to tell me and i dont care to find out. the clock only works when u hit it. im also like 80% sure that putting the gearshift in park doesn't actually work and the emergency brake is the only thing keeping it from rolling downhill, but also one time i drove with the parking brake on and didn't even notice the difference, so ?

anyways. uh. i forgot my point. she is driveable and functional and i love her.

[aza-trash-can]

I am going to lose my fucking mind

[unisoninteriors]

How to Safeguard Your Home Interiors During Flood Situations?

Floods can wreak havoc on homes, especially when it comes to interiors. Furniture, cabinets, and fixtures are often the first casualties, leading to significant damage and costly repairs. However, with thoughtful planning and the right materials, you can design interiors that are resilient to water damage. Here are expert recommendations to protect and rescue your home interiors in flood-prone areas.

1. Use 0.8 Density Boards for Inner Cabinet Sections

The inner portions of cabinets are often the most susceptible to water damage due to their porous nature. Opting for boards with a density of 0.8 ensures better resistance against swelling and warping. These boards are less likely to absorb water, maintaining their structural integrity even during prolonged exposure to moisture.

2. Protect Doors and Exposed Sides with 3-Layer WPC Color Boards

Doors and exposed cabinet sides are frequently in contact with water during floods. Using 3-layer WPC (Wood Plastic Composite) color boards offers excellent water resistance. These boards are not only durable but also aesthetically pleasing, ensuring that your interiors remain stylish and functional even in challenging conditions.

3. Opt for Stainless Steel 304-Grade Hardware and Accessories

Floodwater can cause regular metal fittings and accessories to corrode or rust. Investing in stainless steel hardware of 304-grade ensures long-term durability and resistance to rust, even in high-moisture environments. This type of hardware is ideal for hinges, handles, and drawer slides, offering reliability and longevity.

4. Fully Factory-Built Interiors for Precision and Sealing

Factory-built interiors are crafted under controlled conditions, ensuring precision and tight seals that can withstand water exposure. Unlike on-site installations, factory-made products are less prone to gaps and inconsistencies, providing better protection against water ingress.

5. Focus on Resilience Over Cosmetic Flaws

In flood-prone areas, it’s important to prioritize resilience over minor cosmetic imperfections like scratches or external strokes. By choosing materials and finishes designed to endure harsh conditions, you can safeguard up to 80% of your home interiors, minimizing losses during floods.

6. Use Elevated Furniture Designs

Opt for furniture with elevated designs that keep the base off the floor. Raised legs made of waterproof materials like metal or treated wood can protect your furniture from direct contact with water during floods.

7. Seal Wall and Floor Joints

Water often seeps through joints between walls and floors. Properly sealing these joints with waterproof sealants can reduce the risk of water ingress and damage to interiors.

8. Choose Water-Resistant Flooring Materials

Opt for flooring materials such as vitrified tiles, natural stone, or treated hardwood, which are more resistant to water damage. Avoid carpets or untreated wooden floors in flood-prone areas as they can absorb moisture and deteriorate quickly.

9. Install Water-Resistant Wall Cladding

Using water-resistant cladding materials like PVC panels or treated wood can protect your walls from moisture damage. These materials are easy to clean and maintain, even after exposure to floodwaters.

10. Incorporate Modular Furniture

Modular furniture, crafted with water-resistant materials, can be easily moved or lifted during flooding. These designs are not only practical but also add flexibility to your interior layout.

11. Use Waterproof Paints and Finishes

Applying waterproof paints and finishes to walls and furniture can create an additional layer of protection against water damage. These coatings can help prevent swelling, peeling, and discoloration caused by prolonged exposure to moisture.

12. Invest in Floating Shelves and Wall-Mounted Units

Floating shelves and wall-mounted cabinets keep valuables and essentials above potential flood levels. These features ensure that important items remain safe and accessible during flood situations.

13. Reinforce Baseboards and Skirting with Waterproof Materials

Floodwater often damages baseboards and skirting, leading to costly repairs. Reinforcing these areas with waterproof materials like PVC or treated wood can significantly reduce the impact of water exposure.

14. Choose Compact and Minimalist Designs

Compact and minimalist furniture designs are easier to move and protect during floods. This approach also reduces the number of items susceptible to damage, making cleanup and recovery quicker and more efficient.

15. Install Built-In Storage with Raised Bases

Built-in storage solutions, such as wardrobes and cabinets with raised bases, keep contents above flood levels. Elevated designs provide added security for stored items, minimizing damage to valuables.

Final Thoughts

Flood-resistant interiors are not just about damage control; they’re about peace of mind. By incorporating these strategies and materials into your home design, you can significantly reduce the impact of floods on your living space. Preparing for the unexpected is the key to ensuring your home remains a sanctuary, no matter the weather.

For more expert advice and solutions tailored to your needs, reach out to professional interior designers who specialize in resilient home designs

[kiyoomiee]

part one. part two. part three. part four.

boxer!sukuna who’s been in the training room for hours now. Sweat trickled all over his body as his arms never stopped swinging.

“Sukuna, you’ve been here for more than an hour now. That punching bag will break any moment.” Toji voiced out as he walked in.

“What’s wrong with you?” He tried to ask Sukuna.

“She’s mad at me. Been ignoring me for two days now.” Sukuna dropped his arms and sulked. Fucking hell, he misses you so much.

“Ah that pretty doll? Couldn’t imagine her staying mad that long with your annoying ass.”

“She’s my pretty doll. Don’t call her that.” Sukuna grumbled at Toji but the man ignored him.

“What’d you do?”

“Her medical director was being a misogynistic ass, so I punched him on her behalf.” Sukuna smirked, remembering how gratifying it was to punch the bastard in the face.

“Heh, would’ve done the same if I was there. But didn’t it occur to you that she might not want you to fight her battles for her?”

“Why wouldn’t she? I could send that man in a hospital without even breaking a sweat.”

“That’s exactly why asshole. Besides, you’ve seen how she handles herself in her own field. So go apologize instead of breaking our goddamn equipment.”

boxer!sukuna who corners you in your office so you can’t avoid him anymore. Locking the door close and closing the blinds so nobody could interfere. He went looking for you right after finishing his shower.

“We need to talk.”

“Not here Sukuna, I’m working. And I don’t want to talk to you right now.” You can see where this was going, tears already threatened to fall in the corners of your eyes.

“No. We need to talk right now, or else I’ll go crazy-“

“You’re going crazy? You haven’t talked to me in two days Sukuna. Now you’ll stroll in here and break up with me?”

“Break up?“ What the hell?

“Can’t handle the emotional part of the relationship? I should’ve known since you’re-“

“Since I’m what?” His voice was loud and angry. It was the first time he got mad at you.

“How could I even dare to break up with you when you’re constantly in my mind? When I’m trying my best just so you could notice me? When I’d surrender at your feet if you’d only say the word? I’ve pursued you for months and waited for you to see me. Even with countless rejections, I would’ve continued to wait for the rest of my life as long as there’s no ring on your finger yet. God, my infatuation even turned into obsession.” He sounds dejected as he chuckled to himself in pity.

“Now you’re saying I’m here to break up with you? No baby, I’m here to get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness. Because I’ll lose my goddamn mind if I don’t have your attention on me even in a split second. Why can’t you see it? I’m so fucking in love with you that the thought of leaving wouldn’t even cross my mind.” He continued on and sighed in agony.

“Y-You’re what?” You were stunned. It was the first time he said that three lettered word.

“I love you so fucking much. So please, I’m sorry for what I’ve done. I shouldn’t have interfered because I know you could stand up for yourself. But I can’t say I regret punching that motherfucker in the face.”

“I know you won’t, ‘kuna.”

“Fuck, don’t cry baby. I’m sorry I was an asshole.” He got on his knees and wiped the tears that fell from your eyes. You leaned into the warmth of his touch.

“Yeah but thanks to your little stunt, that man was fired and I won’t have to deal with his misogynistic comments anymore.” You just finished talking to the higher ups and the HR a while ago, they assured you that they’ll handle the case and that your medical director will be terminated immediately.

“I’m sorry too Sukuna, for avoiding and ignoring you. I should’ve reached out to you sooner.”

“No, it was my fault. I should’ve reached out. It won’t happen again baby, I promise.”

“Ryo.” You called him and caressed his face.

“Hmm?”

“I love you too.” His brain stopped functioning when he heard you say that.

“A-Are you sure? I’m not pressuring you just because I said it earlier-“ Ears turning red, he was now flustered and asked just to make sure he heard it correctly.

“I love you Ryomen Sukuna, I’m very sure.” You expressed lovingly, together with a quick peck on his lips.

“You sure know how to make me crazy for you, sweetheart.”

[thalwri]

STICKY N' WET

synopsis: your agitating ex tries to disrupt your peace again, but he doesn't realise sylus is around. and neither of you realise that your working together to finally get rid of your ex would bring you much closer.

warnings: heavy smut, dry humping, strip tease, riding, creampies, shower sex, couch sex, petnames (kitten, sweetie, sweetheart), squirting, messy and very wet

wc: 5,6k

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

“where are you off to, kitten?”

you turned on your heel, seconds away from fuming. “i told you to stop calling me that.” 

there had been incessant knocking torturing your door to your apartment. somehow you’ve been letting sylus stay in your place for weeks on end while he occasionally disappeared to the n109 zone for his usual business.

between your tether to him being more intense than usual, and the recent events you’d been going through, you couldn’t tell whether you were grateful for his presence or felt more at peace when he wasn’t around for a brief time.

it had been five minutes. you wouldn’t really think that the knocking was bad but realistically if someone knocked at your door without a break and did it very loudly even without a response, then that would be concerning.

sylus found it irritating in the least, but had the tolerance to ignore it until the relentless fool disappeared on their own. he watched you walk to the door and look into the peep hole. your breath hitched as you stumbled back, covering your mouth with both hands before quickly dropping them to your sides.

“what is it?”

“my ex.” your voice dropped to a monotone line, your body still on the door in front of you. sylus groaned, pinching his brows but he had to admit he wasn’t surprised.

your break up wasn’t revolutionary and chaotic so to speak, but it wasn’t peaceful either. he had been there for you through the process, he didn’t even have to calm you down so he had thought you’d breeze through it and give him more of your attention.

until you started crying.

apparently, the fool had gotten with another woman just weeks after your split and that broke you. so two months following that, sylus had spent his hours of quality time with you helping you recover and move on all while plotting all the crude and illegal things he could do to that insect to avenge you. 

he had thought to impale the guy with a fork, or peel off his skin with a carrot peeler, and make a stew out of him so that if anyone investigated, they’d eat the evidence. hannibal style. if he ever told you that, you would most likely be disgusted.

sylus rose to his feet in solemn silence and gently moved you away from the door. “i’ll handle it, kitten.”

“sylus–“

“i’ll handle it.” the depth his voice had lowered to was an instant indication that you could no longer try to interfere. whatever he was about to do, you could only pray it wasn’t going to get him arrested.

you turned away, pinching the corners of your eyes as the door opened for sylus to be greeted by yelling.

“what took you so long to answer– who are you?”

“the owner of this apartment. who in this bereft city are you?” well, being the owner, so to speak, was a lie. technically you owned it– but sylus began to actually live and function there more than you had in the last few months.

just looking at the bastard in person began to irk him. sylus wholeheartedly believed you could do far better than you had but he knew better than to lose his chances of being especially close to you by questioning your judgement. he was not interested in fighting you for your attention for he knew that you truly were drawn to him.

how could you not be attracted to each other especially after all you’ve gone through together?

sylus looked your ex up and down in disgust and scoffed out a laugh. “what are you doing here? this is the last time i’ll ask.”

“where is my girlfriend?” your ex grumbled, attempting to look over sylus’ body by standing on the tips of his toes. you intuitively stepped back before you stopped. would you really let this happen over and over again? being tormented like this?

not again.

“she’s not–“ sylus began to ball his hands into fists as he spoke before you held him to calm him down.

“it’s okay,” you gave him a grateful smile, patting his chest for him to step back. “i told you to stop calling and coming to my apartment.”

“i just wanted to talk–“ 

“you lost your chance, so do me a favour and screw yourself to another planet before i feed you to the fucking wanderers. we’re over. for a reason. and here’s no turning back from that. so leave.”

“but–“

“out.”

“no, i–“

the sound of a gun– your gun– cocked, you felt a tall figure looming over you oozing murderous energy. sylus aimed the gun directly at your ex’s head.

“you heard my woman,” he snarled, trying his best to hide his prideful smirk. you felt your ears warm. look at you, standing on your own feet against vermin-like that ex of yours. “get out.”

“who do you think you are?” your ex scoffed, sorely attempting to push out his chest to seem confident. 

“he is my boyfriend,” you stepped forward, pushing your ex back by pointing your finger at him with each statement you make until he’s out of the doorway. “he is my man, he is what matters to me now, and you are nothing to me. so get out and stay out of my life before i kill you with my bare hands.”

and with that, you slam the door shut, locking the door quickly. you leaned against the door, catching empty air while your heart rate slowed down from the nerves. you heard sylus chuckle and put your gun down.

“that was impressive, sweetie.” you groaned in your hands, intentionally avoiding his gaze. you called him your boyfriend. your man. and he called you his woman. you’d be lying if you said you didn’t find that nice to say, but still!

“look at me,” his voice, both soothing and arousing compelled you to listen to him. you removed your hands from your eyes and looked sylus in the eye.

“i suppose you’re satisfied.” you sighed in exhaustion, you felt so drained from talking to that ex of yours. a snack would be doing wonders at this time.

“i’m proud of you,” he smiled– a rarity from sylus but fully appreciated nonetheless. “standing your ground, defending your privacy, referring to me as your man–“

“you’re terrible,” you choked out a laugh, slapping his abdomen. 

“i’m divine, kitten, and you know it.”

you weren’t going to deny that. especially after being trapped in his homestead, after getting to know him, along with seeing a great many parts of him. he was an attractive man, that was undeniable. 

his wit, intelligence, and sense of control during missions and operations within onychinus and how he spends time with you are all things you’d grown to admire about him. you adored him and felt rather enamoured by the things he does. the things he does to you.

within the last month, you’d seen him in ways that you should have deemed inappropriate. watching exit the shower, water dripping down the lines of his abdomen and disappearing within the towel wrapped around his waist. with his grey lashes holding small droplets above his deliciously terrifying crimson eyes of his.

how his chest always looked larger every time you saw him, or how you’d intentionally bend down with your ass in the air when he was within your proximity. something at the time you thought as harmless. but now you’re standing before him and you felt a new wave of need.

whether it was from what he said or the fact that he was ready to kill for you, you didn’t know. but now you were feeling restless.

“sylus,”

he breathed out your name in response, almost as though he was holding in some pent in energy. you could feel energy swirling in your heart as you watched his eye twitch. the same eye that held his part of the aether core. were you resonating without touching each other?

“thank you,” you began, struggling to find your words. “for earlier.”

“anything for you, sweetie.” he stepped closer to you, making you tilt your neck slightly to meet his gaze. “including covering for your pretty ass whenever your missions went sideways because of that creature of an ex.”

you stifled a laugh through the noise of your aether tethered heart rapidly beating. watching his lips curve, purse, and move as he spoke, watching his eyes kind of lighten just from speaking with you… you just couldn’t take your eyes off him.

“you just can’t seem to take your eyes off me or stop thinking about me, can you kitten?” he smirked, placing his hand beneath your chin. “it would only be fair for me to admit i have had the same sentiment, but for much longer than i’d like to admit.”

“then do something about it,” you brashly whispered, feeling your patience wear thin. this was the closest chance you had at doing something with him without fear. “you’ve got your chance, so use it.”

“oh?” that irritating yet attractive chuckle filled the room other than whatever was playing on the tv. you could just feel your clit tingle from it. “is kitten baring her claws again?”

you gripped the collar of his dress shirt, harshly pulling him close to you– his lips less than a breath away from yours. “this kitten is baring her teeth, and telling sylus she wants him.”

that seemed to be the perfect buzzword. before you knew it, his lips had crashed into yours, his arms wrapped around your torso, and if you weren’t mistaken a short moan had escaped his lips. there was barely a moment for you to absorb the kiss, as you had already begun to peel each other’s clothing off from the jackets to the shirts and eventually the pants. 

you pushed sylus onto the couch and straddled him, his hands held the back of your thighs pushing you up more towards him as your lips danced and tugged away in both passion and desire. he dropped you onto his lap, subtly introducing you to the growing bulge beneath you. it felt so big. you gasped as he began to grind against your clothed pussy, his hands reaching for your ass and tits to fondle and squeeze.

“i want you,” sylus whispered, momentarily stopping to lock his crimson eyes on yours in seriousness. “and i have you. do you want us to continue. we’ll stop if you aren’t ready.”

you smiled in gratitude for his concern for you. “i’m ready, sylus. i’m ready for you–” before you could finish your sentence, your lips are locked in a chaste kiss, your groins meeting each other through relentless grinds and your heavy sighs and soft whines competing with the television’s noise.

you wanted to truly show sylus how much you appreciated all that he has done for you in the past month so you slowly pulled yourself away, gently pushing him back when his lips followed and rose to your feet. 

“stand up,” sylus rose without question, hiding his curiosity with a ‘hmph’. “take off your underwear.”

he raised an eyebrow, his ruby eyes glistened with excitement. “and what about you, kitten? don’t you think this is a little bit unfair?”

“i want to give you a show,” you tug at the hem of his black briefs, which had a wet spot marked around his erection. the more you looked at the shape of his cock, the more you realised just how big he was. you could feel both your mouth and pussy water at that sight alone.

“i think i’m the one entertaining you right now,” in a swift move, he pulled down his briefs and kicked them aside. his cock bounced free and stood so tall and proud, his tip was reddened and shining with leaky precum leaving a mess on his lower abdomen. 

“don’t be shy,” he smirked, taking your hand in his and placing it on his cock. it was so warm and so hard, you couldn’t help yourself from stroking it. sylus closed his eyes, letting out a shaky sigh as you pumped his cock from the base to the tip stopping to circle your finger lightly over his slit.

“h-ha, kitten, that’s- oh,” you dragged your precum glistened finger down a large vein that travelled to the base then removed your hand. still in a slight daze from your touch, sylus didn’t hear what you said.

“i’m gonna give you a little show,” you boldly repeated, grabbing his face with a hand to give him a chaste kiss, swiping your tongue briefly across his lips before he could react. you stepped back to create some distance between the two of you to give him a bit of a sight to see. 

sylus laughed and plopped himself back onto the couch, spreading his legs to give you constant access to his throbbing, twitching, leaky cock. his hand was wrapped around the shaft, slowly stroking it as translucent drops leaked from his tip. seeing him in his nude, blatant glory brought a flood of heat rush over your body and settle in your clit– which was rudely rubbing against the fabric of your underwear.

“don’t get cold feet now, sweetie,” sylus breathed, his chest beginning to heave and sweat. you’d barely gotten to do what you wanted. 

“best you be patient.” you scoffed, unclasping your bra, slowly peeling the straps down each shoulder. you turned making your back face him and peeled off your bra and tossed it towards him. 

sylus’ hands were long gone from his hard, throbbing cock to catch your bra. he set it on his thigh, resting on the couch arms spread wide intrigued to see what else you had in store for him. “continue, kitten. my patience is wearing thin.”

you slowly turned to face him again, saving your final reveal for much later. you swayed your way back to him and sat on his lap, carefully pressing his cock against his abdomen with your body. his breath hitched at the friction from your underwear rubbing against his sensitive flesh. his warm precum began to soak your panties, but not as much as your pussy was.

you held his cock against you and adjusted your positioning so that you could ride the length of him. going back and forth against him, the raw friction of fabric against sensitive skin sent sylus into a frenzy, gripping the sides of the couch as he watched you basically dry hump him when he should be deep inside you.

“kitten,” he gritted, holding back a guttural groan. you responded with a lascivious moan, almost vibrating from the stimulation from just dry riding his cock. sylus’ hands flew to your hips and lifted you up with just a fraction of his strength. his cock flew back and hit his abs with a soft plap! 

“i’m growing impatient,” he lowly whispered, his eyes slowly darkening with desire and arousal. he was in no position to play along with you anymore. he was ready to fuck you good. “so i’m going to ask you again. are you ready for us to continue?”

you ferociously nodded, holding his face in your hands engulfing him in another kiss. you invited his tongue into your mouth to explore and savour you, occasionally greeting it with your own. as you felt yourself sinking into the kiss, you felt your pantie get moved aside before a long finger slid into you. you gasped momentarily before sylus caught your lips again, swallowing your eventual moan as his finger curled inside you.

“answer the question.”

“yes, sylus, i’m ready for you,” you panted. “i’m ready.”

and with that, sylus did not hold back further. his finger pumped into your wet pussy in slow rhythm before pushing a second in. your body trembled at the feeling, tensing as his fingers pumped deeper into you whilst curling to find that special area of yours.

“so wet,” he commented, pecking kisses along your neck. “soaking through your pretty underwear just for me. imagine how much harder i’m getting just from watching you.”

you didn’t even think it was possible for that to happen. a third finger slid in right as you were about to respond, pulling a deep moan out of you. being stretched out like this was not new, but with sylus it gave a more delicious sting.

“don’t squirm, sweetie,” he purred, curving all three digits in you again. “this is necessary if you want my cock to fit in well without hurting you.”

you couldn’t say much other than nod. getting so mindless over his fingers was worrying. what would his cock feel like? 

sylus slowly removed his fingers, watching how your slick nectar connected to each one before slowly licking it off one of his fingers whilst locking his eyes on you. such an erotic tease. he rubbed his other– still slick– fingers on your lips, painting them in your wetness. you slowly opened your mouth and leaned your head forward to take his fingers in.

“fuck,” he whispered, feeling his cock twitch at the sight. he pushed his fingers in and out of your mouth, watching your tongue clean him up slipping and swirling around him. he just imagined what it would be like to fuck your pretty mouth until you were drooling with his cum.

“me,”

“what?”

“fuck me, sylus.” you gave him a look of determination and need. that was all he had to hear. a loud rriiiiiip snapped you out of your daze, and a light draft fanned at your ass. 

“sylus!”

“hmm?” he smiled, pulling off your now shredded underwear from your body.

“that was my favourite set!” you pouted, even though you were heavily attracted to that move from him.

“you know i’ll get you new ones,” sylus scoffed, moving your hips to align your pussy with the tip of his cock. he knew you were on the pill. how? he accompanied you to get them and pestered you whenever you forgot. he adored you but he also cared immensely for your wellbeing.

“i love that you wore that set today,” he grinned looking up at you and pecked your nipples before gently suckling them for a few seconds. “love the red.” he paused, wanting to ask you once more for confirmation.

you nodded before he could ask. “i’m good and ready when you are– o-oh,”

his tip prodded at your entrance and was welcomed with slick warmth sucking him into you. he stopped half way in, slowly breathing to be accustomed to the feeling of your pussy clamping on his cockhead so tightly he almost came on the spot. you had let out a gasp at the feeling, clutching his shoulders with your nails.

“are you alright?” he asked. beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. you nodded. “let’s continue.”

slowly, you sank down onto him swallowing his cock, intentionally squeezing him to watch him squirm and moan from your tightness. you gently laughed, giving away your teasing which sylus quickly caught onto. he scoffed out a laugh and bucked his hips up to yours, ramming the rest of his cock into you with just a bit still outside. 

you moaned from the instantaneous move, barely recovering from it when that evil grey haired man began to thrust into you, pulling his cock in and out gradually increasing his pace. your arms wrapped around his shoulders as you tried to follow his pace, riding him to meet his hips whenever he thrusted up into you.

“oh fuck, kitten your pussy is so tight,” he moaned, pushing deeper and harder into you. your eyes crossed feeling like he reached a spot you didn’t realise existed. “must have hit your g-spot, hm? oh, baby you feel so good around me”

you could barely respond, overwhelmed by the new wave of pleasure you were receiving. hearing his sexy noises while fucking his cock into you was bringing you faster to your climax than your vibrator ever had. and all so quickly too. but it seemed he was also drawing near to cumming too.

“just– ah, fuck– so tight!” he could barely swallow his whines as your hips meet faster and harder. “that tight pussy’s about to make me cum, kitten. g-gosh fuck me– you see what you do to me?”

rendered speechless, you could only nod. and it only took a few more thorough thrusts before you spasmed all over his cock, throwing your head back as you climaxed. just seconds after, a gush of hot, cum flowed into your pussy, making you so weak in the knees you couldn’t move. sylus fuck his cum into you, moaning your name. 

despite that brief finish, you both knew you wanted more.

“again,” his voice rumbled in demand. you rasped your agreement, about to move when an idea came to your mind. 

“sylus,”

“mm.”

“let’s go to the shower.”

he looked up at you with a raised brow. “you feel dirty already? kitten, we’ve barely started.”

“no, you crow,” you smacked his large chest in irritation. “i mean, let’s continue in the shower.”

sylus momentarily paused, blankly staring at you. you always wondered what went through his mind when he did that. in that instance, he rose to his feet carrying you while his cock was still lodged in your pussy. not only that, he was still alarmingly hard despite cumming already, 

“you didn’t think i’d be done after such a small round, did you?” he grinned. “we’re just getting started.” you didn’t know whether to be afraid or dangerously aroused more than before.

you went through your bedroom to your bathroom, where sylus eventually set you to your feet. his cum began to slowly ooze out of you, travelling down your legs and painting them in the evidence of the mess that would have been made on your couch.

the bathroom began to steam slightly as the water ran. a large hand was held out for you– sylus offering it for you to join him. as you entered, your lips were immediately occupied with his, tied in a dance of need and insatiable greed that only the two of you could soothe for each other.

“you’re so perfect, sylus,” you sighed on his lips. “you’ve always been so great, such an amazing person in my life.” you kissed him again. “just want to show you how grateful i am for you.”

“you already have,” he pecked your cheeks. “just by being in my life.”

your kisses, gradually intensified as you touched each other, stimulating your needs before sylus gently moved you against the glass wall of the shower and picked you up hooking your legs over his shoulders and pressing your weight on the glass to keep you in place.

he gently lowered you back into him, instantly filling you up with his cock again. each time felt like it had gotten thicker. sylus regained proper footing on the wet tiles, slowly thrusting up into you before his pace quickened, going faster and harder until your pretty tits bounced from the sheer force of being fucked against the glass shower wall. 

and that wasn’t near how fast he planned to plough your sweet pussy. he had so much more in store for you. so much he’d been waiting to do. control was no longer a word in his vocabulary.

“ooh, just– fuck– just– just like that sy– so good!” you hiccuped, gripping onto his hair with one hand and scratching his nape with the other. 

through the fog, you could see your reflection, his back muscles flexing and shining in sweat along with the heat, his light grey hair flattened and drenched sticking to his flushed skin, his lips so tantalisingly close to your ear, huffing out praises and moans all while nibbling at your flesh.

“how are you still so tight, kitten?” he purred, pounding into you like his life depended on it. his hands tightly gripped your thighs indenting marks onto them, another sign of him marking his territory. “gonna fuck you so deep ‘n paint you with my cum.”

thrust after thrust his cock travelled deeper and deeper into you than it had earlier, pounding your weeping cunt so much that the squelches from a mixture your slick wetness and his cum became louder than the sound of your shower. sylus slowly pulled his cock back until his cockhead peeked out then slammed himself back up into you, finding that carnal spot of yours again. your eyes instantly crossed upon the impact, ripping a raw cry from deep within your throat.

“you sound like music,” he groaned, you could feel him smiling against your neck as he licked and suckled multiple rude, disrespectful bruises onto your skin. marking you as his and his alone for all of linkon and the n109 to see. “beautiful melody for just me to hear, sweetie.” he drew back and pulled out of you slowly and thrust clean into you once more before setting you down to the floor. 

you wasted no time grabbing his shoulders and pulled him into a lustful, needy kiss, engulfing him in your adoration and enticement. he occasionally nipped your lower lip, groaning at the feeling of your hand creeping down his abdomen to stroke his neglected, twitching cock. it was drenched and leaking with precum again, as if there would never be an end to how much he could stuff you and cover you with it. the warm water pelted your skin, making you hotter and more breathless as the seconds went by. 

“i’m going to give you everything you could ever want in this life,” he struggled to say whilst attempting to hold back the noises boiling deep in his chest. “my life, my heart, and my soul is yours, sweetheart.”

within an instant, you found your front pressed against the glass with your hands held behind your back. his lips grazed you ear, whispering his need for you as his warm cock circled your entrance, sliding up and down from the curve of your ass to his tip poking your aching clit.

“sylus,” you shivered, leaning back to rest on him before you lost balance– or even consciousness. you couldn’t tell how long you had been going on for anymore, and frankly you couldn’t care less. the tether between the two of you had wrapped so strongly that you couldn’t spend a second not being on each other.

“yes?” his hand gently tapped your chin so you could turn your face to him. he pecked the corner of your lip and rammed himself back into you without warning, forcing out a loud moan through your lips. those rough, and crude thrusts pounded through your tight, needy cunt, which was squeezing around his girth as much as possible. body pressed against the glass, the reflection of your fucked out face with sylus dazed and so drunk in your pussy made you clench harder.

“fuck, my– fuck,” his hips began to stutter and his cock throbbed in warning. the shower wall began to shake from the continuous impact of your bodies slamming together, clapping and squelching as if you just couldn’t be any closer. “if you squeeze again– oh, kitten, i’m going to fill you to the brim.”

he sunk his teeth deep into your flesh sending jolts of new pleasure down your spine, making you both moaning messes. his hands travelled around your body until his dominant hand settled on your abandoned clit to rub and swirl, and the other attacking your nipples– fondling and pinching them with greed to force out your most animalistic nature. your back arched helping you buck yourself into his hips, wanting to feel so much more of him, even though he had already abused your g-spot so much.

you sobbed and whined, singing praises to sylus for what he was doing to get you so horny for him. “keep fucking me like that, sy- fuck, please!” your arms wrapped around his neck, trying to hold onto him to stop yourself from collapsing. if it wasn’t his cock poking your cervix at this point, it was a sign that you were reaching your limit. “give me– can’t think– give it to me!”

neither of you could think that much, really. with you being so hypnotised and enamoured by his huge cock while he drowned and was drunk in your pussy, there wasn’t much to question. you both had a synonymous goal.

“gonna give it to you, kitten,” sylus seethed while licking your skin in ferocious lust, all he wanted and needed was to feel and taste you so he would do just that.

he felt so good inside your delectable pussy, loved how you tightened around him. he wanted to just cum on the spot, over and over and fuck you in every nook and cranny of your apartment then in each and every one of the properties he owned. he didn’t want to stop until every room you two entered was left smelling of cum and sex. who would he be to not desire such pleasure with someone as beautiful, powerful, and sexy as you?

“look at us, sweetie,” he huffed, momentarily stopping to push his cock as deeply into you as possible, completely bottoming out inside of you until all that would be seen was his balls flush against your pussy. he took long, deep, malicious strokes into you, the glass wall threatening to topple over. “look at yourself while i fuck you good, while i stuff my cock right into you.”

your eyes landed on your reflection but you couldn’t help yourself from watching him reduce you to slutty putty. making you feel like such a needy slut for his cock and his hot, thick cum.

“so pretty,” he moaned, throwing his head back. he could feel his orgasm nearing, his body was beginning to falter. “so definitely mine.” 

the perverted reflection of you fucking yourself on his cock while he simultaneously bucked into you had taken you over the edge. your eyes rolled back and your jaws loosened as your body stilled. you let out a hoarse cry as you unfolded, tightly gripping onto him as you became undone, cumming around his cock, your walls squeezing and fluttering around him causing a wave of cum to fill you alongside his thrusts. 

you were so full already that his cum leaked out your pussy in spurts, dripping down your legs and hitting the walls. another wave washed over you, and you could feel so much spurting out of you, spraying the wall and dripping down your bodies. you paused, still feeling sylus rutting his cum into you from behind. 

you squirted. and he had quickly realised it too, from how his pace quickened again. you had felt his cock grow much harder even though he already came.

“fuck, you made such a mess kitten, wanna make you do it again,” he panted, pinching his eyes shut. “gonna fuck you so good, you squirt over and over.”

you still couldn’t understand how he got so hard so quickly but your pussy wasn’t done being fucked just yet. he quickly pulled himself out, his cock slapping against his abdomen still spurting out thick globs of cum. he raised one of your legs over his shoulder and bottomed out deep into you again, with a whole new angle. you both groaned at the feeling, your pussy being stretched by the curve of his depth, creaming and fluttering on it before he could thoroughly fuck you again.

he didn’t waste another second viciously stimulating your clit with his fingers while his cock aggressively drove into you, slapping your skin against his in a quickened rhythm. it didn’t take much before your poor, soaked cunt squeezed you into another orgasm, creaming a white ring around his base. you screamed, feeling a rush of pleasure force out an intense round of your nectar going everywhere onto your abdomen and his, ultimately making you squirt for the second time tonight. 

you felt another gush of cum stuff your pussy as a whimper left sylus’ lips. you couldn’t help but love the fact that he got off just from you squirting. and that got you so much hornier, so needy to do more. but you doubted if your body was capable of handling that. you felt his cock slowly soften as you came down from your highs. he muttered something about wanting to stay inside you a bit longer, and you allowed it, also not wanting to be separated from him being in you just yet. maybe it was the aether cores keeping you attached.

moments passed as you both recovered from your orgasms, resting on each other, whispering praises, and kissed each other in dazed exhaustion. the running water rinsed away most of the cum and slick from your bodies, leaving the rest to be cleaned off once you were both ready.

“that was beautiful,” you murmured as you pulled away from his lips. sylus rested his forehead on yours, still trying to regain his breath. he reached to make the water slightly colder.

“you did so well,” he smiled. “i’m glad i was patient.”

as you began to clean each other up, as exhausted as you were, you felt satisfied. and at peace. sylus was a good ally and companion of yours but from the way things are looking now, you’re more than happy to take things much further.

a/n: I literally started playing lads a few days ago and OMG LIKE WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK ITS SOO GOOD

[postmortemnivis]

you don't remember when your neighbour mr riley became simon, but it was probably somewhere between the doors he held open for you when you first moved into the building and the hushed kisses in the elevator.

you were so shy at first, simon knew he tended to have that effect on people, intimidate them with just a glare of his cold, stone set eyes, but when you finally found the buried kindness in them, he became less scary. his tattoos weren't threatening anymore, and you could make out soft shapes in the blurred ink. some birthdates, dog tags with the names of his fallen friends, a cherub and lilies started standing out from the bellic flames, skulls, guns and helmets, giving you an insight of his softer side.

the way he was scared to touch you at first, worried the years of war had made his hands too rough to handle you without breaking you. you'd always reassure him he was doing good, he could touch you if he wanted to, but he asked for permission every time he was about to lift you up in his arms, without fail.

the first time you'd seen him—dressed up in his uniform, tired and jet lagged, some eyeblack smeared down his cheek—you’d sprinted to your door on the other side of the hallway, too scared to look back, and double checked your locked door before settling into a restless sleep.

simon knew he wasn’t the usual great-looking, charming, easygoing man but to let you in, to reassure you he was approachable for you? he would’ve done anything.

he became simon the first night you’d officially invited him over too your flat, without the excuse of a (perfectly functioning) leaky sink, a doorknob that needed some oiling or a hole in the wall that needed covering. it took you time, you ignored all the previous times he’d reassured you that you could call him by his name—he wasn't that much older than you anyway—you still felt compelled to call him mr riley, yes sir, thank you sir, would you like some water mr riley?

the first time he sat down on your couch to watch a movie he felt as if the room started spinning, his eyes glued to the tv screen as your perfume hung heavy in the air.

“what’s the name again?” he spoke to break the unbearable silence, fingers twitching on his thigh.

“blue velvet- you’ve really never seen it?”

he had. “never even heard of it.”

he cursed himself as the night ended and he got up, walking to the door, already having said his goodnights.

you followed him to the door, hesitant.

“night simon.” you chirped up as he walked out of your apartment.

he stood there for a second, looking down at your expectant expression, lips parted as if you were about to speak again.

before he could gather up the courage to part with a kiss on the cheek or a hug, you’d stretched up to your tiptoes and pressed your lips to his.

“night love-” he finally said, breathless.

“you free tomorrow for brunch?” you asked as you leaned against the doorframe, still close to him. “i’m making cinnamon rolls and frittata. do you like frittata?”

“i- uhm,” simon almost had to shake his head to regain his focus. stay frosty soldier, for fucks sake. “can’t say i’ve ever tried it.”

“what- never had frittata?” your eyes widened like cherry pies. “oh, you have to try mine-!”

“eleven?” he suddenly interrupted you. “if… that’s alright with you.”

you nodded. “eleven sounds nice.”

he grabbed the back of your neck and brought you close, kissing the top of your head. “goodnight.”

you watched as he immediately left, cheeks, ears and neck a livid shade of embarrassment. he quickly unlocked his door and shut it a tad too harshly, but his heart was beating like a schoooboy’s and he couldn’t help but replay in his head the way you softly said his name all night.

you knew too that simon was about to become so much more.

[luveline]

𝐭𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐳, 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐫𝐮𝐛𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

Eddie has a staring problem that you barely notice, though you share an aching, awful crush. One of you has to bend first, and it’s not who you’d expect. fem, 5k 

ditzy-ish reader, pining eddie, mutual pining, confessions, first kisses, fluff and hugging, idiots in love, mild states of undress

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

It’s a day fit for a funeral in Hawkins. Rain hammers his bedroom window like hailstones, plinking against the frame, condensation running down the panes in thick rivulets he soaks up with an old t-shirt. 

It’s supposed to be spring time. Green grass, flowers, a gentle humming sun to warm the back of his neck while he sits out on the couch on the porch, a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers, the tip shimmering with heat. 

But the rain pours. He’s cleaned his room for the first time in a month, at least, and his back aches in the best way as he lays down amongst fresh sheets. His room feels strange when it’s organised, but he doesn’t mind. He pictures the state of it through a second pair of eyes. This is a boy who cares about things, who takes care of them, who could take care of me, too. 

Rain again rackets on the metal roof above. He and Wayne keep a couple hundred bucks stashed for the day the roof flies straight off —they take turns hiding it, because cars break down and groceries get more expensive every year, but god will they need it, and so they safeguard it well. 

He syphoned a little of the money recently with Wayne’s support. It was for a good cause. 

“Jesus,” Eddie murmurs to himself, not tired but feeling dull as the clouds outside eat the remaining sun. 

It’s depressing to be poor, and to lose a day trying to hide the evidence of an entire life in a small room. He could sleep a hundred years. 

He’s just finished pulling the sheets over his shoulder when somebody knocks on the front door. Wayne opens it three rooms away, the sound of the rain doubled. 

He gives a startling shout, “Ed! Your girl!” 

Eddie topples out of bed. Doesn’t mean to, foot caught in the bottom of the sheets and stuck as he scrambles to slide out of the mess. He’s begged Wayne not to call you that when you’re within earshot, but Wayne’s a mean (kind) old bastard (middle aged dad) who wants Eddie dead (happy, and in love). 

“Come on in, girl. You’re soaking.” 

“It’s raining.” 

“It’s pouring down. Did you walk here?” 

“Took my bike. Thought I’d get struck by lightning in the car.” 

“How’d you figure?” 

Eddie goes to grab the door handle and spins on his heel, staggering onto his bed and up against the wall, where a mirrored tray once used by Dio himself for rolling hangs from the wall. He checks his face in the polished surface, his warped mouth and nose, too small eyes, and swears to himself that one day he’ll get a real mirror with a fully-functioning reflective surface. 

Then he hops down off of the bed, causing a reverberation he knows traverses the entirety of the trailer floor. Eddie snatches a rare clean towel from his laundry chair and speeds down the hall. 

“Hello,” he says, more casual than he feels to find you unexpectedly in his house. “You’re soaked.” 

You give a sweet smile. “It’s raining out, did you not know?” 

Your hair is dripping, water racing down the curves of your face to collect at your chin. Eddie can see the smudges of your makeup where it’s washing off as he wraps a towel around you, kohl on your cheeks, eyelashes turned to half-diamonds and sticky-looking. You grin at being covered, taking the towel from his fingers before he can dab you dry. 

“Why didn’t you just call me?”’

“I can never remember if your phone number ends in three or four.” 

“Seven. I wrote it down for you a hundred times.” 

You rub your eyes and spread all manner of glitter and shadow over your skin. You wipe your neck and the glitter spreads like an alien rash. 

When you talk next, you shiver, “I lost it a hundred times, sorry. Is it okay that I'm here?” 

Wayne, who’s been watching with a distinct sense of amusement from the couch, lets out a chesty laugh. “Honey, it’s always okay that you’re here on my account. And it’s my house.” 

“It’s fine.” Eddie turns your shoulder so he can mouth over it without being caught. Asshole. 

Another laugh follows. Eddie would cut each of his fingers from his hand and then his hand from his wrist if it were something Wayne needed him to do, but that doesn’t make him any less of an opportunistic asshole. If there’s a way to fuck with Eddie, he tends to try it. He loves Eddie with all the tenacity of a father who loves his son, but Wayne got infected with little bitch disease or something and Eddie can’t cure it. 

“Can I please wash my face? I didn’t expect to get soaked.” 

“Didn’t you?” He regrets his flippancy quickly, leading you down the hall. “You could take a shower. What do you think?” 

You’ve never showered here, but Eddie’s trying to, you know, date you. Romance you, get to cherish you, however anyone wants to say it. And it’s not a war of attrition, just a natural escalation of sharing, or a minimising of boundaries. 

No, that’s pervy, isn’t it? 

“I mean–” He starts to correct himself. 

You interrupt with your answer, “Yes, please, do you think I could? But I don’t have anything to wear.”

“I have your purple hoodie in my room, and there’s gotta be a pair of sweatpants here that fit you,” he says. 

They’ve got a whole bunch of clothes here that floated in from somewhere else, Eddie’s other friends or stuff they’ve bought by mistake. He’s sure he can find something.

“You have my hoodie?” you ask, black kohl spreading across the towel as you wipe your cheek. 

Eddie only smelled it one time. When he’d realised you left it in his van he brought it in and folded it, waiting for the next time he’d see you to give it back, but that night he’d been getting out of the shower wondering if he could call you or if that was too soon, and your hoodie had been right there. So he stood there in his pyjama pants with his wet hair and he didn’t think about picking your hoodie up, he just did, and when he pressed it to his face it still smelled of your perfume. 

He put it back and felt like a loser for days.

“It’s in my closet, you left it in the van Monday,” he explains quickly, nudging you through the doorway of the bathroom. 

The Munson bathroom is teeny tiny but not unnavigable. There’s a shower pressed to the far wall that could squeeze in two people, their toilet to the right, a sink basin opposite that with a medicine cabinet and just enough room for a dirty laundry box that’s always, always full. 

Eddie opens the shower and turns it on. “It takes a while to get really hot but then it’s not hot for long, sorry. There’s my shampoo if you want it, and soap, and body wash. Sorry, none of it is super girly.” 

“Sorry sorry,” you say, pretending to hit him in the stomach. “What’s with all the sorries, handsome? I can’t wait to smell like a boy.” 

The way you say it. Eddie doesn’t know what it is, but it’s why he’s crazy about you. 

Probably shouldn’t tell you that as you're taking off your jacket, though. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says. 

Eddie heads out of the bathroom to their skinny linen cabinet hidden in the hallway. He grabs the last two towels from the middle shelf and takes pause, fabric starchy in his hands. Just be normal, he thinks, a pep talk from Eddie to Eddie. She hangs out with you all the time for a reason. She held your hand at the movies. 

Eddie’s in better spirits when he remembers that. Your hand in his, your ring pushing his ring further down his finger, your cheek touching his shoulder as you’d leaned in and asked if he wanted some of your popcorn. 

He opens the door without thinking, shower pattering against the perspex wall, your legs crossing tightly as he enters, turning yourself away from him.

“Woah!” you say, laughing.

“Holy crap.” The image of your red underwear immediately stamps itself into his mind as he pulls the door shut between you. They were really cute, red and white gingham, showcasing just the slightest curve of your– “I told you I was coming back!” 

“I thought you’d knock!” you laugh. “Sorry I flashed you. At least I had my shirt on.” 

At least, he thinks wryly, shoving his arm through the gap in the door, heavy towels pulling at his fingers. His head’s about to snap off, it's turned so far away from the door’s opening. “Here.” 

“If you wanna see me naked so bad you can just ask,” you tease. 

“Take the towels, loser.” 

You take the towels and he closes the door, preventing any more accidental creeping, and giving himself a reprieve. Gingham underwear. Wavy lettuce edgings kissing your skin. 

Holy fuck. Being a person is so lame, Eddie thinks. He wants to have a crush on you purely, and yet seeing the way you’d crossed your legs to hide from him, smiling, he can’t not think about kissing you —touching you. If he doesn’t get you laid out in his bed soon for some slow kissing he’s not gonna make it.

Eddie opens the strip vent above his window and prays it doesn’t flood his whole room. Clean, it doesn’t look half bad, he could bring you in here respectfully, you could stay the night without fearing for your life. 

You take a quick shower. He’s barely gotten over his nerves when you’re walking into his room, a towel around you, not a hint of shyness about you. 

“You didn’t bring me anything to wear,” you explain. 

Eddie just stares at you. 

“Eddie?” You wrap the towel tighter. “Come on, you’re staring at me.”

“Sorry.” His mouth is bone dry. 

“You have my hoodie, right? Just need some pants.” You cross your arm tightly across your chest. “I don’t usually notice when people are staring at me.”

“You aren’t usually naked in my room,” he says, genuinely and embarrassingly apologetic. 

“I’m not naked. Come on, please? Do I have to wait outside the door?” you ask with a laugh. 

Eddie stands up. Shakes his head hard, almost trips over himself trying to get to his dresser. He decides honesty will be best at this point, lest you think he has only one thing on his mind, “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m just in my head about something and I wasn’t expecting you to come out like that. It’s not right. You’re just… you’re really pretty.” 

“Thank you.” He can’t see you, sorting quickly through his middle drawer and all his miscellaneous pants for a pair he’s sure would fit, if he could just remember where it was. “What are you in your head about?” 

“What?” 

“Eddie, are you okay?” 

“No, no,” he moans, rubbing his face with his hand, ring scratching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not okay, princess, I’m overheating or something, Jesus Christ.” He finally lays eyes on the sweatpants he’d been thinking of, grabs your hoodie from the top shelf and drops them both at the end of the bed. “I’ll give you some privacy.” 

“I don’t have any underwear.” 

“And that’s something I can’t fix,” he says, leaving the room in a hurry. 

Eddie gets to the living room and keels over. His hair falls in his face, his shirt slides down his back. What the fuck is wrong with him? 

Wayne, sliding his shoes on in the recliner, gives a start. “What’s wrong?”

Eddie lifts his head, yanking hair from his face, the skin of his under eyes pulled down harshly. “Oh my god.”

Wayne wrinkles his nose. 

“No ones ever been such a pathetic excuse for a man before,” Eddie says. 

“Your dad’s in jail,” Wayne points out. “And not for the impressive stuff.”

“I’m pathetic.” 

“You’re fine. You’re not supposed to be not pathetic, you’re twenty.” 

“I’m twenty one.” 

“The extra year doesn’t mean much. I know you think you’re all grown up, but you’re still an idiot.” 

Wayne stands and shrugs on the jacket laying over the armrest. 

“Wait, where are you going?” 

“I thought you were definitely gonna ask her?” Wayne asks knowingly. That’s what Eddie told him, after all. “Next time I see her, Wayne, I’m asking her to go steady.” 

Eddie shakes his head. “You can’t leave.” 

“Eddie.” Wayne gestures for Eddie to stop slouching like some fiend from a bad horror. “Listen. I get that you’ve always been sort of… behind everyone, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do it. She likes you. She biked here in a hurricane.”

“What if she says no?” he asks. 

Truthfully, Eddie’s more scared of you saying yes. 

Wayne shrugs. “Girl like that’ll still be your friend after. It’ll be fine, okay? Do you need a hug before I go?” 

“No.” Eddie rubs his eyes some more, sore now from being touched. “Maybe.” 

Wayne crosses the room to give his shoulder a squeeze. “It will be fine. You’re great with rejection, Eds, but I have a good feeling about this one.” 

Eddie felt better about it, before he embarrassed himself staring at you. But Wayne’s right, even if Eddie’s read things wrong between you, he’s sure you’ll still want to be his friend. You and Eddie are the same kind of weird, though he’s more angry where you’re carefree. If everything goes wrong, you’ll probably just give an unnecessary apology and offer to braid his hair. Which will be torture, but Eddie’ll still say yes.

Wayne calls goodbye, and you shout, “Bye, Mr. Munson!” to which Wayne wiggles his eyebrows. 

“Get lost,” Eddie says. 

“Go make her a drink. I’ll see you later.” 

That’s not a bad idea. Eddie makes you a mix of orange and grapefruit juice with a couple of ice cubes and a plastic straw, your reaction predicted and then proved. 

“It’s a cocktail,” you say, pleased, sitting on the side of his bed. 

“It’s not a cocktail, just juice.” 

“Can I have some socks, please, Eddie?” 

Eddie passes you your drink, fingertips brushing. “Yeah. Anything else?” He pretends to be exhausted as he trudges back over to his dresser. 

You laugh and sip your drink. “No, I think you’re treating me quite well.” 

Eddie grabs a random pair and finally gets to sit down beside you, the dresser drawer left out, a spare sock fallen to the floor. You shuffle back into his pillows, propping your juice on his side table, and holding your hands out for the socks. Again, your fingertips touch his as he passes them to you. You seem to enjoy it, a smile lighting your face as you pull your knees up to put the socks on. 

“Thank you for waiting on me,” you say quietly. Not shyly, just quiet. 

“You’re welcome. Came all this way to see me, didn’t you?” He gives you a shove. You shuffle back further. “In the pouring rain.” 

“It felt important at the time.” 

“Yeah?” 

You get the socks on and don’t care about them once they're past your heels. Eddie does the honour of smoothing out the bands so that the elastic won’t dig into your skin, and when he’s done he can feel you looking at him heavily. You’re not one for continued eye contact, but you smile like you were waiting for it all day, like it’s a relief to see him. 

“Bad weather,” you say, slouching down. “I think I’m still wet on the inside.” 

“Gross,” Eddie says, pushing you over bodily to sit beside you. This isn’t new, he doesn’t need any nerves, and he’s grateful when they don’t come. “Here, I’ll pull the blanket over you.” 

“Can’t move,” you say, leaning back against the pillows.

Eddie stretches his legs out. You keep yours up, but you turn to his side, and before he can really make any sense of you, you’re dropping your face into his shoulder. 

“Are you still cold?” he asks, searching for the truth in your strange comment. 

You nod into his shoulder. “I’m freezing. The shower didn’t get very hot.” 

“Sorry,” he says, letting his cheek rest on your head. 

You lift your chin as he does it, his lashes pressed to your forehead, the two of you stuck together like two warped jigsaw pieces. You probably weren’t made to be together, but you make a nice picture, and you fit snugly now. That’s what Eddie thinks. 

This is the sort of moment that makes Eddie wanna ask you out. Maybe you’re just the best friend he’s ever had, but something about this closeness feels different. You wrap your arm around his stomach in a hug and he knows this is different. 

“It’s okay,” you say finally, sighing as you shift downward into his side, getting comfortable. 

“Please don’t bike here in the rain. It’s, like, torrential. You could actually get sick.” 

You feel warm where your body presses against his, but Eddie doubts that’ll make a difference if the cold already made you sick. The bike ride from your place to his isn't short. He covers your arm with his and tries to be your space heater, cheek sliding over your forehead. 

“Eddie…” You hug him with tenderness. Eddie’s reluctant to say cuddle, but it’s close. “This might be a surprise to you, but I think it’s worth the rain and the cold to see you. Especially when you do this.” 

“What am I doing?” 

��You’re rubbing my arm.” 

He hadn’t noticed his hand caressing up and down your arm where it rests on his stomach. 

“You make me feel amazing,” you say, dropping your face into his chest. 

That’s his last straw. Eddie gets both arms around you and cuddles you (it’s a cuddle, okay! he’s a loser!) to him, arms tight but not cruel. All this fuss and you’re finally laying on top of him. He decides he won’t ask you after all. He’s not that brave, and he doesn’t want this to end. 

Your legs fall onto him. You relax completely. Even after you shower he can smell your perfume. 

“You smell nice,” he murmurs. 

“It’s on my hoodie,” you murmur back. 

Right. Eddie should remember. 

“You make everything smell like you.” Even his van keeps your scent most days. 

“Too much?” 

“The right amount,” he says firmly. 

You lay on his chest for a while, just breathing. Eddie rubs your back, tells himself he will ask, actually, because he can’t imagine not getting to do this again. You might even stay over. He could live hours of this. He didn’t know having you lay on him could make him feel like this. 

He can’t believe you’ve never done it before. 

Rain pounds the window. Condensation drips down onto the sill. You let your legs stretch out flat and then manoeuvre to be laying half atop him, hoodie riding up your back. 

“Any warmer now?” he asks.

“Yeah, you’re warming me up.” You lavish in his arms for a moment, and then lift your face. “Oh, this is a bad angle.” 

“For me or you?” 

“For me, duh.” 

Eddie doesn’t think you could have a bad angle. He rubs at your upper arm as you start to shift. “You know, your bike has just as big a chance of getting hit by lightning as your car does. More, probably.” 

“You think so?” 

“It’s physics. So, please don’t do it again.” 

You hum. “Hm, should I risk getting struck by lightning, or spend the evening without you?” you murmur, your arm moving, moving slowly, your hand resting gently on the column of his neck. There’s something ironic in your voice, wry, but your eyes are warm. He’s paralysed. No one has ever spoken to him like you. “I think I’d rather get struck by lightning.” 

You stare at one another. He laughs. You join in, your thumb a pressure at his neck, and when you move up his chest to lean in, he isn’t expecting it. 

“We’re very close together,” you whisper. 

“Super close,” he whispers back. 

“…Eddie, can I ask you something?” Your eyes slip shut, your lips so close that something in him aches, just enough wit about him to cup your shoulders in his forearm. 

“Yeah.” 

He doesn’t sound half as calm as you do. 

“Would you… Do you think we could be official? Would you want that?” You tilt your head to the side. “Is that stupid?” 

“Official?” he asks, panicked, his eyes squeezed shut hard enough for a moment that they ache.

“Like, you’d be my boyfriend. I’d be your girlfriend. We’d be close like this all the time.” 

Eddie panics so hard he just says the first thing that comes into his head, “Like, we’d kiss?” 

“I hope so,” you say, your nose pressing against his, the tip to the side of his, and then against his nostril. The heat of your breath is hard to ignore. “What do you think?” 

What does Eddie think about it? 

He catches your lips in a slow kiss. Achingly slow, not even sure it’s a kiss until you reciprocate, and your fingers dig behind his neck to tease his hair. Your lips part against his, the heat of your tongue sudden and undeniable —Eddie didn’t know you had it in you. He squeezes you to him, attempting to crane his neck downward, reliant on your enthusiasm as you move up, as you use his neck to pull yourself closer. 

Your noses crush together, and it actually hurts. “Sorry,” he says, easing you back, “you okay?” 

“‘Nother kiss,” you say hopefully, distractedly. 

He can’t not give it to you. 

Your hand spreads flat against his chest and you kiss, you kiss, long and slow movements against him before turning your head to take it again. Eddie doesn’t always know what to do with himself, but he knows kissing, no matter what anybody might think about him, and he takes the lead. 

His hand screws into a fist against your hoodie, the slip of your back further exposed as you shiver into his mouth, a sound you shouldn’t make sweet on his tongue. 

You pull away, breath on his lips. “Wanted you to kiss me for so long,” you murmur. 

Eddie knows you’re not saying it to flirt, and that makes it worse. 

“I should’ve kissed you a long time ago,” he says roughly. 

“You wanted to?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, so much, I’m a loser about you–”

“I’m always a loser,” you interrupt, “but especially about you.” 

You scratch your fingers through his hair, encouraging his head down for another kiss. This one rougher but not rough, his arm slips finally behind your head where he’d needed it to be, hooking you in his elbow to keep you in one place. To kiss you soundly, without interruption. Your almost feverish ebbing inward is a dream, your nose rubbing up against his is a fantasy. 

His heart hammers and hammers at his ribs. 

You pull away to let him breathe. “You’re very excited,” you tease lightly. 

Eddie kisses you, breathless. He kisses you so much he’s surprised you allow it, but your thumb rubs his cheek, and he knows he’d been right all along. You want him like he wants you, with startling, mildly pathetic urgency. 

He feels like a fucking prince. Girl of his dreams in his lap, everything he wants, and he didn’t even have to ask. 

—

Eddie spends a week in bliss. You’re suddenly everywhere, all the time, attached to his hip or some other part of him, and he forgets for seven whole days that he bought you a ring. 

The rain dries up, the Munson emergency fund lives to die another day, and he remembers the ring only minutes before you’re knocking at his door. 

He trips over himself trying to answer it before Wayne, who’s taken to being as painfully embarrassing as is possible for one human being, can get it for him. 

“One day you’re gonna eat shit and break your nose,” Wayne says. 

Eddie yanks open the door. “Yeah, thanks. Hey, beautiful, what’s with the sunglasses?” 

You slide them down your nose. You’re a vision on his front step, not that you’d ever notice your own intrigue. “The sunglasses?” you ask, tucking them away. “What do you think they’re for? Three guesses.” 

He grabs your waist, leaning down out of the doorway so as to save Wayne the agony. “That’s smart,” he says, kissing you quickly in hello. “You’re funny. Need anything before we go?” 

“No, I’m okay. Hi, Mr. Munson!” you add.

“Hey, honey! How are you?” Wayne calls.

You look up into Eddie’s face with an obvious delight. “I’ve never been better.” 

Eddie grins back. 

He waves a quick goodbye to Wayne and then he’s out the door. You grab his wrist and practically dance him to the car, where you offer your keys, and he deigns to drive. From there it’s smooth sailing, familiarity with a better twist, Eddie driving with the windows down and your hands twined on your thigh. Things haven’t changed much since you asked him to go steady, there’s just a whole lot more of this. Touching, kissing, no weird guilt about staring. 

As it turns out, you’re as eager to be laid out in his bed as he is to lay you out. He’s never wanted to kiss you more, and now he’s allowed. 

“Eyes on the road.” 

He leans over to kiss your cheek. The sun has warmed your skin, and his kiss makes you smile. You look pretty no matter the weather. 

“Before we get there, I have something to give you.” He takes his hand from yours to slide the box from his pocket. He holds it up. “But you can only have it if you swear you’ll call me tonight before bed. No excuses. You know exactly what number to call.” 

“Ends with a three,” you say, nodding. 

He sighs. “No, it does not.” 

“I’m kidding! Two one nine seven, I have now committed it to memory.” 

Eddie pays attention to the road, though it’s clear and long heading out of the trailer park and into town. “That deserves a gift.” 

You’re back in your glitters today, a skirt to enjoy the fine weather, a button shirt with a cute triangle collar, you’re lovely as ever, if a tad much for some. Not Eddie. He loves the dark clothes, the tinkling bracelets, the fun way you smile like everything he says is a secret between him and you. People stare wherever you and Eddie go, but as long your arm is sewn through his he couldn’t care less. 

“A gift,” you say, smiling in your way, and taking the box politely. “I don’t think I deserve it for just remembering your number.” 

“You deserved it for less. It’s not much. You can pay me back in three or four amazing kisses. Right here.” He points to the tight juncture beneath his jaw. 

You attempt to lean over and kiss him immediately. He pushes you back, laughing, worsened by your own breathless laughter as you steal one exactly where he’d tapped. 

You settle back down, Eddie’s hand dropping kindly to your knee. “I wonder what it is,” you say. 

“Then open it.” 

“I am!” You pop the box open, it’s springing hinge snapping into place. “Oh, woah. Woah. Where did you get this?” 

It’s a slim ring, with a weirdly shaped band of quality metal around some cheaper but not totally worthless gemstones, of which there are three different colours: a topaz orange, a lime green, and a pinky-red ruby colour centre stage. They have nice cuts. It’s strange as you are, and he knew when he saw it you’d have to have it. 

“If I put it on my marriage finger, are we engaged?” you tease. 

“That one would be way heavier,” he says, giving you a squeeze. 

You slide it onto your middle finger and hold your hand up in the sunshine. It fits in with your other ring nicely, though it is, to Eddie’s pride, far prettier. 

He has half a mind to pull over and kiss each knuckle, but he’s trying to be less dramatic about you. It’s not working. 

“Thank you, Eddie. I love it.” 

“Best boyfriend ever?” he asks hopefully. 

To his mild fear but better pleasure, you climb up onto the console to press three quick kisses to his cheek and jaw, your hand under his ear holding him in tender place. “Best boyfriend ever. Even if you stare too much.” 

“How am I supposed to not?” he asks, with more weight than he’s intended. 

You speak matter of factly for the first time in your life. “I am going to cause an accident,” you promise, attempting to kiss his nose. “A bad one.” 

“Sit down, please.” He lets you kiss his nose, and then jabs you in the side. “Sit down, oh my god! That’s not funny, you’re so pretty I will total your car.” 

“Now who’s not funny?” 

You both laugh at the same time, the unfiltered, un-cute cackling of two idiots with the same sense of humour, and the same wealth of ridiculous honeymoon love. 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thank you so much for reading!! I hope you enjoyed. if you did, please consider reblogging or commenting!! thanks very much <3

[vunblr]

Behind Closed Doors.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: Established relationship. Light Angst. Regression Episodes. Emotional Dependency. Comfort. Pet names.

Warnings: 18+ only. PTSD. Regressive!Bucky. Mommy Kink. Praise Kink. Self-Soothing (Nursing). Comfort Sex. Past Self-Harm Mention.

Summary: Most days, Bucky is a functional, dependable, and even deadly man. Others, when the noise in his head gets too loud, behind closed doors, he becomes Jamie.

Word Count: About 5.5k.

notes: For the @avengers-assemble-bingo event, Kinky Bingo. The Prompt is Mommy Kink. Card number KB-014.

The door banged open hard enough to rattle the frame. Sam strode in first, glancing over his shoulder. "I told you to handle it like a grown-ass man."

Bucky followed, with a duffel slung over his shoulder and a deep scowl carved into his face. "It was handled," he muttered.

She stepped out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, smiling without thinking, until she caught the flicker in Bucky’s eyes, the slight drop of his shoulders, the tension so tight under his skin it was a wonder he could move at all.

Still, he crossed the room like nothing was wrong, dropped the duffel with a heavy thud, and bent to kiss her in a short press. His lips were dry, and his hand felt cold against her hip through her pajama shirt. "Missed you," he said, like he meant to say more but swallowed it back down.

Sam snorted behind them. "Real touching, man. Now gimme the damn briefcase, lover boy." 

She laughed under her breath; Bucky flipped him off without looking.

The briefcase was waiting by the couch, matte black, secure enough to survive a plane crash. Bucky kicked it closer with the toe of his boot.

"You know," Sam said, hefting it. "This wouldn’t even be necessary if a certain someone didn’t hulk out on Redwing."

Bucky shrugged, deadpan. "It was an accident."

"Bullshit," Sam barked, half-laughing. "You aimed at him!"

"He was in the way."

"He was flying surveillance, you jackass!"

Bucky shrugged again, more theatrical this time, and a sly twist tugging at his mouth. "Collateral damage."

Sam muttered something vile, but the edge was missing, worn down by exhaustion and familiarity. They circled each other like two old dogs too stubborn to admit they were friends.

"You owe me," Sam called over his shoulder, stepping through the door.

Bucky didn’t answer, just kicked the door shut behind him with a solid, decisive slam.

Three long strides, and he was in her space. He bent his head, digging his forehead into the curve where her neck met her shoulder, banding his arms around her like he could fold himself into her skin if he just held tight enough.

He shuddered once -just once- and then he went still, breathing her in like she was air after drowning.

Already feeling the shift in his mind -the slow melt of tension into something heavier, darker- she cupped the back of his head and murmured, "What's wrong, Jamie?"

His voice was a rasp against her throat. "Don't wanna talk about it, Mommy."

There it was. The tremor under the words. The old damage rising from the depths, thick as smoke, inescapable.

It was going to be one of those weeks.

Bucky was gone. Not dead, not disappeared. Just… buried.

His mind, fractured and fragile, bore scars deeper than any bullet wound. Years of physical torture, mind control, chemical sedation, and that damned chair had left behind something that could never be stitched whole again, only nurtured, only loved in all its brokenness.

"Alright," she whispered, smoothing her palm along the nape of his neck, tangling her fingers lightly in his hair. "You don't have to, sweetie."

Bucky clung harder and shifted his weight, nudging her backwards, steering her without words. The backs of her knees bumped the armrest of the couch, catching her off guard- and then he was pressing, urging, laying her down like something loved but urgent, needing her pliant and beneath him.

She let herself fall back, and her body sank into the cushions.

Bucky climbed after her, sprawling his massive frame above her, caging her in, shuddering like the weight of the world was slipping down his spine.

He buried his face against her chest, moving his mouth blindly, mouthing her through the thin cotton of her pajama top. Desperate, clumsy, a low whine slipping from his throat when the fabric denied him skin.

Frustrated, he nosed under the hem, catching it with his teeth, tugging upward -an animal trying to shed the barrier himself- and she lifted her arms in silent permission, helping him strip the top away.

"There you go, baby," she cooed, cradling the back of his head, guiding him.

Bucky latched greedily onto her breast the second he could. His tongue flicked rough and desperate, the suction was almost bruising, pulling at her with the kind of force that spoke of starvation, not hunger.

She cradled him close, slightly rocking them as soft, wet sounds filled the quiet room. The metal plates of his hand pressed cold against her waist as he shifted his hold, needing the contact. He suckled hard -harder than he usually allowed himself- losing himself in the mindless rhythm of the process, soothed only by her scent, her heartbeat, the feel of her skin in his mouth.

She only held him tighter, whispering into the crown of his head, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

But it wasn't enough. She felt it, the restless grind of his hips against her leg, the low, helpless groan deep in his chest.

The tremors in his body grew worse. He needed more. More skin, more warmth, more of her wrapped around every broken part of him he didn’t know how to fix.

He whimpered around her nipple, the sound was pitiful, hungry, broken. His hips jerked forward in clumsy, desperate thrusts, rubbing his heavy cock against her leg, the friction too little, too clothed, too maddening.

One of his hands fumbled down between them, pawing clumsily at her waistband, frustrated when the fabric of her pajama shorts didn’t yield. She lifted her hips, helping, soothing, letting him peel the barrier away.

The second her shorts were gone, he was there, grinding harder, the rough denim of his fatigues rasping against the tender, slick heat between her legs. His mouth never stopped, suckling greedily and wet at her breast, the noises were animalistic, wet, and obscene. Her thighs fell open to give him more, to give him everything he was silently begging for.

"That's it, baby," she murmured against his temple, her voice thick with love and aching need. "Take it, Jamie. Take what you need."

He shuddered at her words, and with a low growl, he fumbled at his belt, nearly tearing it open in his frantic need. The sound of the zipper rasped loud in the thick, humid air between them, and then he was pushing his pants and boxers just far enough down to free himself, his cock flushed dark and leaking, throbbing with every erratic beat of his heart.

He didn't even line himself up properly at first, just thrusting blindly, rutting against her belly, her hip, lost in pure instinct. She reached down, gentle but firm, guiding him lower, dragging the head of his cock through her slick folds, and he gasped, a desperate, wounded noise, like she'd just torn open his chest and touched his heart.

He pushed forward in a single, shaking thrust, sinking inside her inch by inch, whimpering her name, clinging to her body.

"Mommy... Mommy, please..." he sobbed into her skin, fucking desperately into her, like he couldn't get deep enough, close enough, like he needed to crawl inside her and never come out.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him tighter, whispering praises and love into his hair, rocking her hips up to meet each frantic thrust, giving him everything, everything he needed.

Bucky's rhythm faltered almost immediately, embarrassingly fast, his whole body went rigid, and a broken cry tore from his throat as he came hard, pulsing deep and warm inside her.

Her fingers never stopped stroking his scalp, the curve of his neck, the tense line of his back where sweat glued his shirt to his skin. He whimpered low in his chest, a sound that made her thighs clench around his waist instinctively, holding him there, inside her, where he belonged.

"You did so good for me." she murmured again, threading the words right into his marrow, "filled me up so good, sweetheart."

His hips gave a weak jerk, as if his body was trying to answer even while spent. He nosed deeper into the crook of her neck, and his hands roamed frantically on her hips like he didn’t know whether to stay still or start again. A needy little whimper bled out of him, wet and desperate.

"Shh, you're perfect," she soothed, rocking her hips just the slightest bit, enough to make him groan, low and wrecked.

But Bucky needed more. Shame and hunger twisted together in his mind, his need to please her, to earn the sweetness of her praise. His hand scrabbled down her body, pushing his shaking fingers between them, seeking out where they were still joined, sticky and wet.

"I can-" he mumbled into her neck, his voice hoarse and cracked, "I can make you come, Mommy... lemme... please, lemme-"

She caught his wrist, soft but firm, guiding him, showing him without words. Her own fingers slipped down, spreading herself open for him, letting him feel the slick heat, her throbbing clit, how ready she was, how close she'd been even from his desperate rutting.

"Alright," she breathed, her voice breaking into a moan when his thumb brushed clumsily over her clit. "Let Mommy remember you how."

He chased every stuttered gasp, every little roll of her hips, with awkward but hungry movements, so eager to please that he trembled. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, and nuzzled helplessly against her, feeding off every moan, "Tell me, Mommy... wanna make you feel good... please..."

"You're doing so good, baby," she cooed, rolling her hips into the clumsy circles he traced against her swollen clit, feeling sparks skittering up her spine. "My big strong boy... that's it, sweetie, just like that."

His breath hitched sharply. She felt him throb inside her, half-hard but growing, so easily aroused by her praise.

"M- more," she whispered into his hair, guiding his hand with gentle, insistent pressure. "Mommy needs more, Jamie... you can give it to me, can't you, baby?"

A shattered little sound broke out of his throat. He latched onto her neck, sucking greedily, slipping his fingers faster, finding the rhythm she loved without even realizing it, simply because she wanted it, because she told him he could.

"Yes... yes, I can-" he gasped, nearly crying it, driving his hand harder against her, frantic, devoted.

She moaned shamelessly, grinding softly against his hand, feeling the wet slide of his cock thickening again between her slick folds. She angled her hips to grind against him, smearing herself all over him, and he nearly sobbed.

"Such a good boy," she panted, dragging her fingers across his scalp, tugging his hair just enough to make him moan. "Making me feel so good... my perfect boy..."

Bucky's whole body shuddered. He humped against her without rhythm, desperate, straining toward the heaven of her approval.

She was so close, the pleasure was burning tight and high, and when he whined brokenly, "Need you to cum Mommy, need it so bad," she ground against him harder, her and breath hitched. The tension snapped through her body as she came around his already hard cock, writhing, crying his name, clamping her thighs tightly around his waist.

His hips moved before thought could catch them, pure instinct, pure need. She gasped sharply, her body so sensitive, still riding her orgasm, and he let out a strangled moan, pressing his forehead hard against hers, as his arms shook where they caged her in.

"Jamie," she whimpered, reflexively wrapping her legs tighter around him, holding him there, where he belonged.

He groaned, trying to last, trying to hold back -but the heat of her body and the clutch of her inner muscles around him milked another low, broken cry from his throat.

"Can't-" he choked out, as his hips twitched. "Mommy, I- fuck-, I can't-"

"You don't have to, baby," she whispered against his lips, "Just let go."

The second the words left her mouth, Bucky shattered. His rhythm was frantic and short-lived, sloppy little thrusts, his whole body spasming, jerking helplessly. His face twisted into a tortured, beautiful grimace, mouth open in a silent cry as he came again, flooding her, so raw, so painfully intense it stripped the breath from his lungs.

She held him through it, both hands threaded in his hair, pulling his weight down onto her so he could sob against her throat, every breath a broken thing.

"Good boy," she murmured, cradling him, rocking him gently even as he trembled and gasped, as if the orgasm had unraveled something too dark inside him.

"My sweet, perfect Jamie..."

He clung to her, gasping, as the aftershocks racked his body. His cock throbbed weakly inside her, spent but refusing to soften, desperate to stay part of her, to never be alone again.

"Love you," he rasped, barely louder than a breath. "I love you so much..."

She kissed his temple, his wet lashes, the corner of his mouth. "I love you too, sweetheart."

He whimpered again, softer this time, more at peace, and his breathing began to slow down as she stroked his spine. It was a mindless comfort, just the warmth of her body, her scent, the surety of being wanted exactly as he was, no masks, no shame.

She felt him trembling against her, as small broken hitches of breath ghosted hot over her collarbone, and she knew he wasn’t done needing her yet. Gently, she threaded her fingers through his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp until he made a soft, choked sound, half-whine, half-moan.

"Jamie, baby," she whispered, kissing his ear, feeling the damp strands of hair clinging to his temple. "I need you to sit up for me, alright? Just for a minute. Let Mommy take care of you."

He whined again, burrowing his face harder against her skin, refusing. His cock twitched uselessly inside her, spent but stubborn, like his body was terrified of losing contact.

She cupped his jaw, brushing her thumb along the sharp plane of his cheekbone. "Sweetheart, please. Just a little shift, then you can cuddle all you want. Promise."

That promise cracked through the fog in his mind. Bucky lifted his head, blinking slowly and heavy with glazed blue eyes, and his lip caught in his teeth in a desperate little bite. Wordless, he obeyed, pushing himself up on shaking arms and pulling out of her with a reluctant, shuddering moan.

She winced a little at the loss but sat up quickly, nudging his hips to guide him back onto the couch cushions. His tactical pants were still around his thighs, boots still muddy and scuffed from the mission, whole body a mess of tension and need.

She kissed his knee through the fabric, soothing him. "Good boy. Stay still for me, alright?"

He nodded, but his hands twitched like he didn’t know what to grab onto, finally fisting the fabric of her discarded pajama top like a lifeline.

With quick hands, she unlaced and yanked off his boots, tossing them without care. His socks followed, peeled off with a little tug. Then she shimmied the ruined pants down his thighs, down past his knees, ankles, freeing him completely.

Bucky whined low in his throat, and his thighs trembed where they spread for her, his cock flushed dark, twitching weakly against his belly, glistening with the mess of what they’ve made.

"There we go, baby," she murmured, stroking his trembling thighs, letting him feel her loving hands on him. "I got you."

He looked like he wanted to fold in on himself, humiliated and desperate, as his chest heaved.

She pressed a soft kiss to his navel, another just above his hipbone. "You did so well for me, Jamie. Gave Mommy everything she needed.”

He tensed beneath her mouth, breath hitching like he wanted to protest. “That’s not true, I couldn’t-”

She kissed the top of his thigh, firmer this time. “Shhh. No, baby. No more of that.” Her hand smoothed over his stomach. “You did. You gave me what you could. That’s everything.”

Her kiss, her words, seemed to reach him. She felt the tension in his grip easing, not gone, but yielding enough for her to slip from his hold.

“I’ll be right back, baby,” she murmured, brushing one last kiss to his thigh before pulling away slowly.

He gave a faint whimper but let her go, slumping back into the couch, with his legs still spread, and arms loose and heavy at his sides. Vulnerable. Waiting.

She moved quickly, finding a clean cloth and dampening it with warm water, squeezing it out until it streamed between her fingers. When she returned, he hadn’t moved, and his eyes were glassy, staring somewhere past the ceiling, lost somewhere she couldn’t follow, breathing slowly but not relaxed.

She knelt between his thighs and began wiping him with slow, tender strokes, the warm cloth gliding over his softening cock and the skin of his inner thighs. He let her do, as always.

Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost a breath, he said, "There was a chair."

Her hands froze for just a second before she moved again, softer now, like she was tending a wound she couldn’t see. He didn’t have to explain. That phrase -the chair- floated between them, thick and poisonous.

She kissed tenderly the inside of his knee and crawled up to straddle his lap without hesitation, wrapping him up in her arms. His flesh hand immediately latched onto her waist, the metal one curling over her back like he could mold her into himself.

"It was supposed to be another kind of mission," she said tentatively.

"The growing organization... Sam said... they were forming from scraps. Vestiges. Hydra info." His breathing hitched. "We thought... we thought there would be intel to scrap. Maybe... maybe a serum, old samples. Destroy it before it can spread. But they had it. They had the chair."

He choked the last word out like it tasted like blood.

She cradled his face between her hands. “They can’t hurt you anymore, sweetie. You’re free, remember? Remember how they made it all better in Wakanda?” he only nodded, hiding his face on one of her palms.

She threaded her fingers slowly through his hair, feeling the tension beneath his scalp like a live wire still sparking. “Are you hungry, Jamie?” she whispered against the shell of his ear.

There was a small, reluctant pause before he nodded against her chest. "Yeah. But... I can't-" he clutched her tighter, as if her body might dissolve if he let go.

"I know," she soothed. "Come with me, then. We'll stick together."

She coaxed him to stand, his heavy steps were sluggish, clumsy, almost childlike in his exhaustion. He shadowed her across the room, never more than an inch away, his hand curled tight at her waist. While she pulled things from the fridge and stacked a couple of fast sandwiches, Bucky wrapped around her from behind, big and unyielding, pinning her gently against the counter with his weight.

He buried his face in her neck, breathing her scent.

"I'm sorry I'm like this," he mumbled, with a raw, scratchy voice against her skin. "I’m sorry my head's so messed up."

She stilled her hands, the sandwich forgotten half-built, and cupped his forearm where it pressed across her middle, squeezing him hard.

"No," she said firmly, tipping her head back against his shoulder to make sure he heard every word. "You survived what would have killed anybody else. You’re not messed up. You're my Jamie. That's all that matters."

Bucky let out a low, broken sound, something between a sob and a sigh, and hug her tighter like he might fuse himself into her bones if he could.

"Now eat a little, sweetheart," she whispered. "Then I'll tuck you into bed, yeah?"

He nodded mutely against her neck, still clinging, letting her finish fixing the sandwiches one-handed while he melted against her.

"Need me to cut them small for you, or are you good to grab the knife?" she asked gently, tilting her head to catch his expression.

Bucky hesitated, and his eyes flickered uncertainly to the counter, then back to her. "I'll eat them whole," he said finally. "With my hands."

"That's so good, baby," she praised, brushing her fingers over his knuckles. "Wanna eat them on the bed?"

He only nodded, letting her gather the plate and then reach for his hand, guiding him through the hallway like leading a wounded animal.

"Alright. Shirt off, sweetheart," she murmured when they reached the bedroom, giving a little tug at the hem of his tactical top. "Don’t want that messy thing on the sheets."

"Sorry," he mumbled, brow crumpling. His fingers fumbled at the fabric, uncertain. "Should I shower too?"

"Do you want to?" she asked.

"The sheets-"

"Bucky," she cut him off. Not Jamie this time, but Bucky, to wise him up. His breath caught in his chest.

"Do you want to?" she repeated, slower, softer.

"...not right now," he confessed.

"Then get in the bed and eat the sandwiches," she ordered gently, brushing her palm over his stomach in passing.

He obeyed without argument, pulling the shirt clumsily over his head and leaving it crumpled on the floor. His body was flushed and tight with leftover adrenaline, his scars standing out against his skin. He climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged like a great, awkward boy, with the plate balanced in his lap.

She settled beside him, smoothing her hand up and down his back in slow, rhythmic strokes as he tore into the first sandwich with trembling fingers, chewing dutifully.

Every time he took a bite, she murmured something soft near his ear: "That's it, baby." "You're doing so good." "My sweet boy."

Bucky shivered every time, eating faster, desperate for her approval, for the tone of her voice wrapped around him.

When he finished, he wiped his hands clumsily on the sheet. She would’ve scolded him, but when he turned toward her, his eyes were huge and glassy, and desperate, his mouth trembling like he might cry if she said even one word wrong, she couldn’t.

Instead, she only smiled, lifting the plate from his lap and setting it aside.

"C'mere," she whispered, opening her arms.

She eased them down into the mattress, coaxing him to lie with his head against her chest. His hair -brushing past his jawline in dark, tangled waves- spilled over her skin. She threaded her fingers through it without urgency, combing gently through the snarls, almost worshipfully.

Bucky let out a low, shaky exhale against her skin, the sound was so raw it made her chest ache. Each slow stroke of her fingers through his hair unspooled knots buried far deeper than the ones at his scalp, memories of fists twisting in his hair to punish, to control, to bend him to grotesque, degenerate wills. Those hands had ripped at him like he was a mindless beast, but hers... hers just held, adored, cherished.

She waited, giving him time to soften under her touch, before she murmured, her voice barely a ghost against the crown of his head.

"Do you have to go tomorrow?" Her fingers combed slowly, untangling another small knot. "You just got here. Can't Clint count on someone else?"

He shook his head against her chest, dragging his hair across her skin in a silky brush. "They need me," he rasped, his voice hollowed out by guilt. "My strength. My hands. Can't just leave 'em hanging."

She kissed the top of his head, brushing her lips in the softest spot where his hair parted. "Rest then, handsome," she breathed into him. "I'll guard your sleep."

----

She woke slowly, feeling him before she even turned her head down. Bucky was draped half over her, his chest pressed to her side, with one heavy arm hooked around her waist. His face was nuzzled into her breast, his wet, warm mouth suckling in soft, absent pulses around her nipple. Not truly awake. Not truly dreaming. Just clinging. Needing.

Nuzzled in like a child too big to be held, too broken not to need it anyway.

She said nothing. Would never say anything. Just slid her hand through his long hair, slow and tenderly, letting him have whatever peace he could steal from her body.

Later, after he finally stirred with a grumble and a heavy, embarrassed sigh, she helped him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. She washed his hair carefully, then his body. Dressed him piece by piece in a fresh set of tactical clothing with a lover’s hands.

They sat side by side at the kitchen table, with their knees bumping occasionally, plates between them. Bucky picked at his toast, sluggish but obedient, while she fussed with a napkin, sweeping a streak of jam from the stubble along his jaw. He tilted his head toward her touch like a sleepy cat, eyes half-lidded, savoring every second. Then-

The doorbell rang, sharp and sudden.

Bucky stiffened immediately. His fork clattered onto the plate as he straightened, with a frown etching deep between his brows.

"Early," he muttered. "Wasn’t supposed to be here 'til later."

"I’ll get the door. Finish your breakfast," she said, squeezing his hand before rising.

As she crossed the living room, she could already hear Clint's muffled voice behind the door, some cheery nonsense about coffee and ‘no rest for the wicked.’ She shook her head fondly and reached for the handle, casting one last glance back at Bucky, still sitting hunched at the table, tense, his eyes dark with the weight of parting.

Clint stepped inside with a gust of morning air, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair. He sniffed exaggeratedly, with a wide grin breaking over his face.

"Smells delicious in here. You mind if I munch on something? Didn’t have time at home, kids were playing tug-of-war with my socks."

Bucky froze for a breath mid-bite. Then, without missing another beat, the switch flipped, and he slipped the mask into place. His scowl was automatic, familiar, almost rehearsed.

"Comin’ early and stealing my food," he muttered, jerking his chin toward the table in a rough invitation.

Clint chuckled, taking it for what it was and flopping into the nearest chair.

She hid her little sigh behind a smile, moving to pour Clint some coffee and pulling extra toast and eggs from the warming plate on the stove. As she set them down in front of him, she cast a glance at Bucky.

The mask wasn’t how he lived day to day. Most of the time, he was a functional, competent, and reliable partner. Not the trembling boy who'd wept against her chest, mourning a harsh treatment he hadn’t had in years but still felt in his bones.

When something triggered the trauma, he regressed for days. And those days were… well, manageable inside the house. But when the outside world needed something of him, when he couldn’t just pass those days at peace, the mask appeared. He wore it every time he left home. To go on missions, to stand across from bureaucrats and therapists, to smile awkwardly when a stranger said "thank you for your service," but looking at him like he was a monster.

Now he lounged in his seat, with an elbow propped on the table, coffee in hand, boots crossed at the ankles, looking confident.

Clint wolfed down half a piece of toast, talking around it. "So, mission details got updated late last night," he said, crumbs flying. "Turns out the warehouse’s not just full of spare parts and wannabe Zemo cosplay rejects. They’ve got a shipment of experimental tech stashed in a sublevel. Pressure sensors on every door, that kind of shit. Trip one, and the whole place locks down."

Bucky barely lifted his brows. Sipped his coffee like Clint was telling him the damn weather. "I'll handle that alone," he said flatly. "You just focus on fucking up their electric system."

Clint grinned around his coffee mug. "Pfft. It's like you don’t even need me there."

Bucky gave him a slow, unimpressed look that said exactly that.

Clint clutched his chest theatrically. "Rude."

They bickered, sharp-edged and kind of amicably, but beneath the noise, Bucky’s left hand slid across the seat instinctively until his fingers found hers under the table.

He squeezed her, firm and self-soothingly. She squeezed back, not even glancing down, not making a big thing of it.

----

By the time Clint was asking for seconds, Bucky had drunk all his coffee and finished wiping his plate clean with a torn piece of toast.

"You should see what Lila pulled on Laura last week," Clint said between mouthfuls. "Whole laundry room filled with packing peanuts. Packing peanuts. I swear, that kid’s got a future in psychological warfare."

Bucky huffed -the closest thing he gave to a laugh most days- and leaned back in his chair.  His hand didn’t leave hers under the table. Not once.  When he stood, he tugged gently, silently asking her to follow.

"Be right back," she said casually to Clint, who just waved her off, too busy scraping jam onto another slice of toast.

In the hallway, Bucky didn’t speak. He just brushed his arm against hers, subtly, before nudging open the door to the gear room.

Everything was already half-packed, and she moved to help without him asking. Slid ammo clips into pouches, folded the spare jacket, and zipped compartments closed. Behind her, Bucky stripped off the sweatshirt he'd thrown on for breakfast, revealing the tight black compression shirt beneath it.

"Are you good on suppressors?" she asked, checking the side pouches.

"Yeah." His voice was rough, but controlled. "Packed two."

She smoothed her hand over the thick strap of his tac belt as she adjusted it on the table, brushing her thumb over a scuff mark near the buckle.

His body brushed hers again, slow and heavy, with a silent gratitude he never put into words.

From down the hallway, Clint's voice floated: "-and then she glued all my arrows together. Like some evil arts and crafts project-"

Bucky huffed another low sound, a little closer to amusement this time.

His arm bumped hers again.

He just kept finding ways to stay in her space, pressing close like something small burrowing under a blanket, chasing the comfort only she could give him.

She worked around him like a second skin, slipping the knives into their sheaths behind his waist, across his thighs, securing the flashbangs to the front clips.

He stood still for her, obedient, letting her dress him for war, like he couldn't do it himself.

Not today.

His hands twitched at his sides when she brushed too close to his belt, reaching for the magazine pouches. When she fastened the vest across his chest, his fingers tangled briefly in the hem of her shirt, clutching, small, desperate. She pressed a kiss just below his collarbone in answer, right over the faint scar where a bullet had once shattered bone. He exhaled roughly. Still trembling. Still pretending otherwise, because Clint was just down the hallway.

She buckled the side straps and slotted the heavier grenades at his hip. Checked the sidearm holsters, one after the other. He didn't even try anymore, just let her do it. Let her carry the ritual when he couldn't. It broke her heart every time, how he still wanted to be the strong asset everyone expected him to be, even when the man inside it had been splintered into pieces.

She knelt to strap his boots tighter, double-knotting the laces with a tug. When she stood up, Bucky was already sinking to his knees in front of her. He pressed his face against her belly, wrapping his arms around her waist in a crushing grip.

She just threaded her fingers through his hair, those longer, wild locks he never let the stylists touch, combing slow, soothing strokes from root to tip.

He breathed against her. Ragged. Needy.

A few years ago, when she'd found him curled in a corner after a nightmare so bad he couldn't even speak, she'd dared to ask him, "How did you deal with it… before?"

It had taken him three tries to answer. Finally, he'd muttered: "I... hurt myself. Until I could function again." Like it was normal. Like it was the best strategy. Damage the body to break the mind out of a loop.

Pain instead of panic.

She cradled him closer, stroking the nape of his neck with her thumb.

Never again. Not under her watch.

She motioned for him to stand up. "You’re geared up, Jamie," she murmured against his temple when he pressed his body against her again. He nodded but didn't move. Just hold her closer, breathing the scent of her skin, sensing the fabric of her shirt, the pulse of life he always chased in her when the world tried to smother him.

Only when she whispered, "Come on, handsome. Let’s not keep Clint waiting," did he finally push himself up with a soft grunt, rubbing his face against her like he could take a piece of her with him.

He took a deep breath, still trembling faintly, but standing straighter now.

Still fractured, but held together by her hands, her patience, and her love.

And that was enough.

It was always enough.

Permanent Taglist: @civilbucky @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[forlix]

𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞・b.c.

— incurable playboy turned doting boyfriend was a character development arc nobody saw coming for christopher bang, including (especially) his frat brothers.

words・2.8k pairing・frat president!chris x gn!reader genres・fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, college!au, fuckboy!chris, boys being boys, kissing, implied sex so mdni warnings・substance use, talk of past heartbreak

a/n・here is "nobody believes you're dating" w/chan, requested by none other than my @rachalixie for my 2k event !! anny, i hope u love this fic as much as i love u; thank you for allowing me to write something so self-indulgent <3

In the deafening throes of one of Phi Mu Alpha’s spring kickbacks, Minho finds Jeongin and Seungmin standing in motionless silence by the kitchen counter. Both boys are gaping at something with an intensity that dips egregiously into the realm of creepy. He moves to pour himself a shot.

“What the fuck are you people looking at?”

Seungmin prods a pointer finger in the relevant direction. It takes a few seconds of scanning the scene for Minho to find what he’s referring to. He digs a knuckle into his eye, instantly confused by what he’s seeing. Maybe the gaping is justified.

The windows and doors have all been thrown open to invite the balmy April weather into the foyer of the frathouse. There’s a large crowd of people huddled around a long, foldable table stationed before the stairs; Jaehyun clutches a ping-pong ball between his fingers, singular eye squinted shut as he takes aim. The number of remaining solo cups dwindles rapidly, as does the players’ sobriety.

Something—someone—is missing.

Not to say “beer pong virtuoso” was one of the reasons Chris was elected frat president, but you’d think the guy had a career path in basketball with how he’s given the entire Greek life community alcohol poisoning by courtesy of two or three plastic balls alone. Minho has never known him to miss a shot, let alone miss out on a game.

Today, however, the reigning champion is only spectating, seated above the ongoing match on one of the steps of the main staircase.

A beautiful stranger is sitting beside him, cheek pressed to his shoulder as you peer at the match through the bannister.

You say something inaudible. The laugh it earns from Chris is bright enough to pick up from a few streets down. He leans in to murmur something in return, and you slide your hand over his nape to pull his mouth onto yours, light blush crawling up and over your ears. The way Chris melts into you can only be described as familiar, his eyes slowly fluttering shut, finger hooking delicately beneath your chin, grin going lopsided as your lips part—

“That’s enough,” Minho hisses, tearing his eyes away with considerable effort. “Aren’t you ashamed? Just fucking ogling.”

Jeongin shakes his head, grinning. “It’s dinner and a show. We’d be idiots not to.”

By dinner, he must mean the gallon of chocolate milk he’s been drinking from for the last hour. He now holds out said gallon with the intent to cheers. Seungmin picks up the entire handle and does the same.

Minho sighs, clinks his glass against theirs, and they throw back their respective refreshments in unison.

“Anywho.” Jeongin swipes the back of his hand over his mouth before going on. “You guys know who that is?”

Minho resurfaces with a wince, relishing in the bitter aftermath, then motions for Seungmin to give the bottle back straightaway. He arrived to the function late and he’s not nearly as drunk as he’d like to be.

Seungmin obliges Minho only after another heady swig. “No clue. Probably just another fling, no?”

“Mmm,” Jeongin hums in assent. “It’s Chris we’re talking about, after all.”

"Agreed. Case closed.”

There’s an air of finality in Seungmin’s voice—but Minho isn’t so sure.

Perhaps because he has never noticed that Chris had dimples until now; or because you fold so naturally into Chris' side after your kiss ends, head nuzzling against the crook of his neck and hand seeking out his to hold in your lap; or, most likely, because Chris' eyes seem to return to you when he looks at you, as if his gaze drifting anywhere else is but a momentary departure from where it really belongs. As if he comes home every time you come into his line of vision.

Whatever the reason, the idea coalesces in Minho’s mind, even as inebriation begins to fall over his cognitive faculties like a curtain, that the boys have got it wrong.

Jeongin utters his name, jolting him out of his trance. There’s another shot lifted halfway to Minho’s lips that hasn’t budged in minutes. “Whatcha thinking about?”

Minho looks at Jeongin first, Seungmin next, then back at Chris and his stunning companion. He’s not inclined to answer the question in full, but he can in truth. A coy smile crosses his face.

“Threesome?”

Jeongin laughs hard enough to collapse onto the kitchen island. Seungmin drags a hand down his face. “Come on, man.”

In the corner of his eye, you’ve gone back to kissing again, slow and sweet and secretive. Chris' gentle hold on your jaw shields you from view but fails to hide his lovesick smile. Dimly, Minho thinks that maybe his friend has met his match.

Then, he takes four shots in rapid succession—and stops thinking altogether.

Christopher Bang’s love life is like a horror movie and romcom spliced together: a fiasco of a film to which his housemates have front row seats.

The frat’s upperclassmen live in sets of four-bed, two-bath suites comprising a small common space with a kitchen and a sitting area, sandwiched by bedrooms on either side. It is in that common space that Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jisung often see or hear Chris stumbling home after a night out, entangled with a different attractive stranger every time—so often, in fact, that they’ve come to believe that he’s deathly allergic to anything bigger than a one-and-done hookup.

They can’t judge. In part because they’d be throwing stones from glass houses, but also because the man’s penchant for empty physicality is far from unfounded. His past self gave pieces of his heart to the wrong people, contracted first-degree burns from the guileless warmth he sought out. Now, his version of “intimacy” is less a connotation of closeness than it is a self-contradiction, for it should be impossible for so much distance to remain between two people in a single bed.

Chris hasn’t vocalized any of this. Nor have his housemates discussed it with each other. The knowledge simply exists in the air between the four of them like something akin to taboo, dipping in and out of acknowledgement depending on the circumstance.

This might be the circumstance of all time.

At around 11:40 A.M. on a Saturday, three doors in the suite open at once. Hyunjin and Changbin aren’t coincidence—the latter is coercing the former to go to the gym again—but they lift their eyes to the opposite side of the living room, and the slice of milk bread dangling from Hyunjin’s lips very nearly takes a fatal fall. Changbin manages to snatch it up with an extended hand.

Chris has just emerged from his room as well. Your silhouette follows close behind, your mouth stretching into a yawn as you massage the sleep from your eyes. You’re sporting a mesh green sweater identical to one Chris owns. They find Chris' accessories more interesting than his clothes, though: two hickeys peeking out from beneath his jaw and the base of his neck.

Chris sees Hyunjin and Changbin right away, and his expression goes utterly blank, not unlike their faces as they watch you close his door meticulously. You turn around and gasp.

The four of you stare at each other for what feels like multiple business days. At least, Hyunjin, Changbin, and Chris stare at each other; your eyes dart between the men on the other side of the room and the man next to you, silently pleading for him to say something. He does not for a long while.

Then, he lunges for one of the throw pillows on the couch and flings it at Hyunjin like a shot put. It ricochets off his chest and lands on the floor rather anticlimactically.

“Distraction!” Chris yells anyways, grabbing your hand and tearing towards the exit, wild grin on his face. “Go, go, go!”

Your raucous laughter lingers even after you’ve been hauled away, accompanied by an unintelligible, breathless shout of something along the lines of my toothbrush—and then the front door clicks shut, and there are two.

Changbin and Hyunjin lock eyes, struggling to process what just happened. Hyunjin is the first to move, wandering hesitantly into the bathroom that Chris and Jisung share. Nothing about the place looks out of the ordinary.

“Well, shit,” Hyunjin says out loud.

That is, aside from the two toothbrushes slotted in the holder on Chris' side of the counter.

Something moves in the bathroom window, catching his attention. Hyunjin looks over just in time to spot you and Chris dart out onto the lawn two floors below. Chris has his arm draped over your shoulders, yours wrapped around his waist. Your smile is discernible all the way from here, and Hyunjin sees a perfect mirror of it on his friend’s face when Chris glances at the frathouse over his shoulder. 

Has he always had dimples?

Moments later, Changbin joins him in peering out the window. A high-pitched cackle erupts from the older boy’s lips. “Look at that idiot.”

Standing off to the left is a tiny, astonished Han Jisung, his arms full of groceries, jaw sitting squarely the grass and whites of his eyes on full display as he watches you and Chris stroll away.

Hyunjin laughs with his whole fucking body. Changbin whips out his phone and takes a picture.

When you finally breach the topic, it’s because you don’t think you can physically study for another minute—but also because, after multiple long months of fruitless sparring, your curiosity finally wins.

Your boyfriend is seated in your desk chair, feet kicked up onto your mattress with his laptop propped up on his thighs. His features have rearranged themselves into an expression of intense focus as he pores over his production homework. You can hear music blaring through his headphones from all the way here.

You uncross your legs from below you, scootch across your bed, and lift your hands to cradle his cheeks. He startles as if coming out of a trance, then begins to smile when he reads the words hi, Channie off your lips.

His headphones fall around his neck. He sets his laptop down onto your desk with a dull thunk. The next thing to drop is you when Chris seizes you by the waist and tackles you into the mattress. The somber atmosphere of your study session is shattered by your muted laughter and Chris pressing his lips to every inch of your exposed skin he can. He saves your mouth for last.

“Hey, beautiful,” he answers, but only after kissing the living daylights out of you, the syllables soft and silky with adoration. “Missed me?”

You drag your eyes from his brown irises with blown pupils to his sloping nose, from his disheveled dark locks to his cordate lips, so plush and warm against your own that you swear you still feel them there. You brush a hand over the back of his neck, your head now spinning so badly that you barely remember what you wanted to ask him.

“Always,” you say. “I was starting to feel jealous of your homework.”

He chuckles. “Shit, I’ll drop out of college right now, baby. Just say the word.”

“You’re perfect,” you hum.

“Says you,” he murmurs, nudging the tip of his nose against yours.

Your lips find each other’s again—needless to say, your study sessions aren’t known for their productivity. Some time passes before you come up for air. Even afterwards, Chris doesn’t let you go far, pulling you into his chest by the curve of your waist, nuzzling his cheek into your hairline. You only need to whisper for him to hear your question.

“Can I ask you something?”

“'Course,” he returns, and you’re close enough to sense him tighten with apprehension. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, don’t worry.” You print a kiss to the side of his neck for extra reassurance. “It’s just…I’ve been meaning to ask how your friends feel about me.”

He tightens with something else now: surprise, you’re guessing; you’re hoping. You hadn’t seriously considered that the answer could be negative, but it’s dawning on you now that the possibility of that isn’t zero.

“Where’s this coming from?” Chris inquires, his tone opaque.

You hesitate, mentally reviewing your interactions with your boyfriend’s social circle. Hyunjin and Jisung can’t make eye contact with you when they speak to you. Minho does nothing but make eye contact with you whether he’s speaking to you or not. Jeongin and Seungmin can maintain small talk for about ten seconds before they start looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. Changbin is the only one you’ve held a conversation with, and only because you were going up the same stairs at the same time and the alternative would have been mind-numbing silence.

What is the best way for you to say this?

“Well,” you begin, “I can’t help but notice that they act a little—when I’m around, they’re a bit, uh—”

“—crazy,” Chris offers. “Completely fucking bat-shit crazy.”

“Yes. Exactly that.”

Chris threads a hand through your hair, the comforting gesture doing nothing to assuage your worry. It seems there’s some truth behind your impressions. Your next words are tinged with a quiet sadness.

“I’m not imagining things, then?”

“No, angel,” he sighs. “But not for the reasons you think.”

A beat passes. Chris perceives your silence as a chance to backtrack, to opt out of this conversation if it’s one he’s not ready for. He would’ve leapt at the opportunity once.

But he realizes in that moment, with your voice gentle against his ears and your touch so doting upon his skin, how much has changed since he met you: from the color of the sky to the word home and everything in between, including his cynicism towards love and all the iterations of forever it holds. 

With that epiphany comes another, then another: he wants you to know why his friends are acting insane, wants you to know about him and his past and all the wounds of his you never know you healed, wants you to spend the rest of this forever with him.

His pointer finger dusts beneath your chin, a wordless request for you to look at him, and he nearly liquifies when you do and he finds entire constellations in your eyes. 

“It’s a lot,” he mumbles, though he suspects you know that already; he suspects you know about the other stuff, too. 

You bring your hand to the side of his face, bring your forehead to rest upon his. Your closeness washes over him like a low summer tide lapping over sandy shores, a soothing balm spreading over scorched flesh. 

“It’s you,” you breathe. “I will love it just the same.”

Chris' held breath comes out in shudders.

So this is warmth.

Minho and Felix are watching anime on the couch when a knock comes at their door, unfortunately during a pivotal moment of a pivotal episode. 

Minho hits pause with a ghastly groan. Felix laughs and rises to his feet, dashing into his room to grab the two silver necklaces he’ll be loaning out for the evening. “Coming!”

Outside, Chris is standing alone, hips and thighs accentuated by a pair of tight-fitting dress pants, sculpted chest and collarbones framed by a thin, cream-colored shirt with the top three buttons undone. Most of his hair has been pushed off his forehead, leaving a few locks free to fall over his right eyebrow. He’s rolling up his sleeves when Felix opens the door, veined forearms flexing as a result of the effort.

“Well?” He asks. Minho cranes his neck to look past Felix.

Both boys start to holler and whistle like excited macaques.

“What in the Calvin Klein is this?” Felix shouts, spinning Chris around by the shoulders. “You look insane, bro. Holy fuck.”

“What’s the occasion, young man?” Minho inadvertently sounds like a gruff uncle. “Where are you going dressed like that, huh?”

Chris' laugh comes easier nowadays. What’s more, it comes in a way that reaches the rest of him, that ends in a tiny, high squeak that you really have to look for in order to hear.

Felix and Minho can't help but replicate his smile. Those clothes look good on him, yes—but happiness looks better.

“You guys are silly,” Chris giggles. Dimples indent his cheeks as he accepts the necklaces from Felix. “Thanks, man. I’ll give ‘em back tomorrow.”

“No rush,” Felix replies, grinning. “Have fun, yeah?”

“We will.” Chris starts to retreat down the hallway, hands moving to clasp the jewelry around his neck, but not before he blows the both of them a kiss.

“Be back before ten!” Minho hollers; Chris laughs again, turns a corner, and disappears.

Felix closes the door. His smile falters fast. Minho has brought his face mere centimeters away, his expression thoroughly humorless.

“Tell me only the truth, Lee Yongbok,” he deadpans.

“O-okay—”

“Is Chris in a relationship?”

“—oh.” Felix frowns. “Well, yeah.”

Minho blanches. “How—how long?”

“One year, give or take? Anniversary’s today.”

Minho is stunned. Felix is stunned that Minho is stunned.

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[spookysanta]

Lessons in Chivalry. (MBJ)

Summary: Michael has to train you to let him spoil you. No doors, no checks, no 50/50.

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: romantic hand pops

the first of many ideas on my list!! been working on this all last week - it's been so fun to read everyone's feedback on the upcoming fics i have planned. thank y'all for your support! don't forget to send me asks if you have a request or fic idea.

He’s the gentle kind of sweet that made you roll your eyes, even though your stomach flipped like it was your first date all over again. The first time he did that thing, you didn’t think much of it. You reached for the handle of the restaurant door, and his hand appeared out of nowhere, gently smacking yours away like it had personally offended him. “Hey,” he murmured, one brow raised, lips twitching with amusement. “What I tell you about doors?”

You blinked, surprised, your hand suspended midair. “That I’m capable of opening them?”

Michael let out a soft laugh, stepped around you, and pulled the door open wide. “You are. But that’s not the point.”

“The point is…?”

He leaned down as you passed through, his breath warm against your skin, carrying the faint scent of mint and cedar from the cologne you loved. The heat of his chest hovered just inches from your back, and the rasp of his voice climbed up your spine. Your skin prickled, breath catching before you could stop it, the intimacy of the moment stealing your thoughts for a beat. “That if I’m with you, you don’t lift a finger. Not for doors. Not for checks. Not for anything.”

You scoffed. “Chivalry is alive and dramatic, I see.”

“Damn right,” he said proudly. “Get used to it.”

But you didn’t. Not immediately.

Because about a week later, at a boutique checkout counter, your card was already halfway to the reader before you realized he was watching you like you’d just betrayed everything he stood for. He didn’t even speak, just slid his hand over yours, plucked the card from your fingers like it was something fragile, and handed his own over with infuriating calm.

When the receipt printed, he passed your card back like a teacher returning a test. “You trying to get in trouble?” he asked, voice low and playful, head tilted like he already knew the answer. His fingers lingered on yours just a second longer, eyes scanning your face like he was daring you to try it again. “Because you know what happens when you don’t listen.”

“You weren’t even—”

“Doesn’t matter.” His eyes met yours, soft but firm. “Don’t reach first. Ever.”

It became a little game after that. You’d try to sneak your hand past his, get there first, test the boundaries. And every time, he’d catch you. He was very committed to the bit.

By the time you were walking into a hotel downtown, he caught your wrist mid-air before your fingers could even graze the glass of the hotel’s front door. “What did I say?”

“Michael, I was just—”

He stepped in close, mock-serious now. “What did I say?”

You tried not to smile and failed. “That I don’t open doors or pay for anything when you’re around.”

“And am I around?”

You pouted a little, but nodded.

“Then relax.” He kissed your temple. “Be the beautiful, spoiled woman I insist you are.”

“I’m gonna forget how to function.”

“Nah,” he said as he pushed the door open. “You’re just gonna remember what it feels like to be treated how you deserve.”

So you did. For two days. Maybe three. Then, as always, your instincts kicked in. A door handle. A brunch bill. A quick swipe of your card before you thought he could stop you.

But of course, he always beat you to it.

Before, it was gentle. A soft tap. A warm palm curling around your wrist. A low, “Nah, I got it, babe,” as he handled the moment with ease. He kissed your cheek after, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t actively retraining the way you understood care.

Then came the test. It was a Saturday morning. You were downtown, still wrapped in his hoodie, half-awake but smiling as you reached for the boutique door. He was a few steps behind. Before you could touch the handle, his hand landed on yours. Not hard, just firm. A definitive pop! that made you whip around. “Michael.”

His eyes widened with fake innocence. “What?”

“You popped me.”

“You reached for the door.”

“I thought I had rights.”

“You do,” he replied, stepping ahead of you, holding the door open with a slight bow. “You’ve got the right to be cherished, pampered, and treated like royalty when I’m around.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. Inside, you browsed, danced a little when your song came on. And when it came time to pay, you reached for your card … just to see what he’d do.

He was across the store, deep in conversation with the stylist. But he saw you move. His head turned fast. Five quick steps, and he was there, hand slipping around yours, gently guiding it down. “Don’t.” His voice was calm. Certain.

You swallowed. “I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were.” He brushed his thumb over your knuckles, then kissed them. “If I’m here, you don’t do anything. Got that yet?”

And the thing is, it wasn’t about money. It wasn’t about doors. It was about what it meant. The quiet, steady promise stitched into every small act.

That same night, it happened again at the hotel. You were laughing, caught in the rhythm of his jokes, when your hand reached for the gold handle of the revolving door. He caught your wrist. “Aye.”

You turned, surprised. “What?”

“What did I say?”

Your breath caught, immediately knowing the answer to the question but choosing to remain silent like a scolded toddler.

“Am I around?” He asked after a brief moment.

“Clearly.”

“Then act like it.” He opened the door, his hand resting at the small of your back as you stepped inside. And once you were through, he leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I’m not doing this because you need me to. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you deserve to move through this world like somebody’s got you. Like you can finally exhale. Let me be that.”

You noticed everything after that.

The way he carried your work bags without asking. Checked you into hotels and trips without needing a word. Watched you like you were wild and delicate all at once; worthy of care, not control. Reverence, not rescue.

“No doors. No checks. No questions,” he murmured, kissing your temple as the elevator doors closed. “You’re mine. Let me act like it.”

It didn’t stop at dates. Or hotels. Or dinners where you weren’t allowed to even glance at the check. When Michael said, You don’t lift a finger when I’m with you, he meant it. Especially when you traveled.

From the second the trip began, you weren’t your own responsibility anymore. You were his. Not in a controlling way, but in that careful, deliberate, I got you so completely it’s second nature kind of way.

The trip, for him, started at home, when he told you to sit down and sip your coffee while he brought your suitcase downstairs. You offered to help once, halfheartedly, because you already knew the look he’d give you, and sure enough, he paused mid-stairwell with a sharp eyebrow and a smirk. “You tryna get popped again?”

You held up your palms in surrender, laughing. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“I don’t need help. I need you to relax. Matter fact,” he set the bags down, crossed to you, and kissed your forehead. “that’s your only job for the next four days.”

At the curb, it continued. He opened the Uber door before you could reach for it, helped you in with a hand on your lower back, then rounded the car to load both of your suitcases into the trunk by himself. You tried again, leaning out to ask if he needed anything, but he didn’t even look up. “Get comfortable,” he said. “Turn your heated seat on. I’m almost done.”

By the time you got to the airport, you’d already been relieved of your travel documents. He held your passport, boarding pass, and ID in his back pocket, patting it every so often just to reassure you.

“I can carry something, you know,” you teased.

He looked at you like you’d cursed in public. “You do not carry,” he said, hoisting your carry-on with one hand and taking yours with the other. “You glide.”

At TSA, he had it down to a science. He pulled the bins before you even spotted the stack, laid out your coat, shoes, and electronics with quiet efficiency. As you stepped up, he tilted his head and held out his hand. “Bracelet, too, baby. You know they gon’ make you take it off.”

You slid it into his palm, biting a smile and rolling your eyes, and watched him place it gently into your bin like it was fine china. When it was time to walk through the scanner, he waited on the other side, arms open for you to walk into as soon as you cleared it.

“Easy,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Just like that.”

At the gate, he had your favorite snacks ready, somehow remembered from a trip the two of you took three months ago. He’d already scanned the seating chart to make sure you had the window like you liked, and when boarding started, he carried your bag and his, scanned both passes, and guided you down the jet bridge with that steady hand on the small of your back.

You barely touched a thing. And when you tried to joke about it, a little overwhelmed by how seamless he made it all feel, he just shrugged and looked at you like the answer was obvious.

“You do so much, baby. Every day. For everybody.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping just for you. “So if I can give you a couple hours where you don’t gotta think, where you don’t gotta lift, or plan, or worry about a single thing. Just let me take care of it. Let me show you what it feels like to be taken care of right.”

The rest was gradual. There were little shifts, little gestures that you didn’t think much of until one day you realized: you hadn’t driven yourself anywhere in weeks.

It started with him grabbing the keys before you did. At first, it was just casual: “Nah, I got it, come on.” But it became a pattern. 

Before you could blink, Michael was always behind the wheel, adjusting the seats, curating a playlist you didn’t even know he’d noticed you loved. Making sure the A/C hits your legs just right. He’d swing open the passenger door with a smooth, practiced grace and tap the roof before helping you in like you were stepping into a chauffeured town car instead of your own vehicle.

“You good?” he’d ask, one hand still lingering on your thigh before he circled around to drive.

You’d nod, half-melted, every time.

Because who would want to drive when the man next to you makes you feel like royalty on a cross-country tour just to go to brunch?

And it didn’t stop there.

You’d be in the middle of your day when a casual text would come through: Taking your car to get detailed. Left the Range for you in case you NEED it. I’ll be back in an hour.

Or, Oil change done. Full tank. Tires checked. You’re welcome. :)

And the most you could do was send back a heart emoji or a voice note calling him annoying, because any attempt at gratitude would get deflected with an “Aight, relax. That’s what I’m here for.”

But the gas station? Oh, the gas station is where the line got drawn in thick, permanent ink.

Because one afternoon, he pulled into the Shell station after a long day, parked, and hopped out while you unbuckled your seatbelt.

Just as your fingers wrapped around the door handle, you heard it.

“Don’t.”

You froze. “What?”

Michael whipped around the pump with a look so disbelieving, you’d think you just tried to fight him. “You thought you were about to get outta this car and pump gas. With me right here.”

“I was just trying to help—”

“No, see,” he said, pointing, “this is why I have to retrain you. Every time you do something like this, it’s like you forget I exist.”

“It’s gas, Michael.”

“It’s my job,” he corrected. “Sit there and be cute. Matter fact…” He leaned into the window. “Try it again, and I’ll block your card from working at gas stations. Don’t play with me.”

You laughed. He didn’t. Not until he got back in, slid a hand over your thigh, and kissed your cheek. “Now change the playlist. I’m feeling something old school.”

Not when he took your car before you could even notice it needed to be touched. Not when he reached for your keys with a look that said don’t make me embarrass both of us. And definitely not when he stopped you from pulling open the car door with that same firm, gentle hand on yours and a single question, low and amused: “You tryna get popped, baby?”

No. No you were not.

You were the passenger princess. And he made sure you wore that crown daily.

And it was always funny… until it wasn’t. You’d mentioned it casually the first time, over cocktails with your girls, legs tucked up on the patio seat as the sun started dipping behind the skyline. “I swear he’s training me, y’all,” you muttered, laughing into your glass.

Tati nearly snorted her mojito. “Training you to do what, exactly? Sit pretty and let him open doors?”

“Pretty much,” you shrugged.

“Oh, come on,” Kris groaned. “Ain’t no man out here walking around with a syllabus and a PowerPoint for how to love you.”

Nas grinned, skeptical. “So what? You don’t open your own doors now?”

“I can’t,” you said, deadpan. “I tried at the hotel last week and he smacked my hand like I touched something hot.”

Lex was already cracking up. “Oh my God.”

“He takes my keys. Pumps my gas. Carries all the bags. I haven’t paid for anything myself in months.”

They thought it was cute. A little fantasy. A joke with real rich-boy flavor. Until they realized you were serious. And what got them to make the connection: your phone lit up with his name and the ringtone he picked out himself.

You answered with a soft, “Hey baby,” already knowing what was coming.

“You still at the rooftop spot on Grace?” Michael asked, voice smooth as ever.

“Mmhmm.”

“You on the side with the valet entrance or the front?”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Front.”

“Aight. Be there in five. Don’t move.”

“Kay.” You hung up and turned back to find four pairs of suspicious eyes locked on you like they’d just witnessed a twist ending in a thriller.

“He’s picking you up?” Kris asked slowly.

“He just calls like that?” Nas added, mouth open.

You nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. “We share our locations. I don’t even try to beat him to the pickup spot anymore. It’s a waste of energy.”

Lex pointed at your drink. “You’re not paying for that either, are you?”

You just slid the heavy black card across the table like a mic drop. The one with your name under his. The one that buzzed your phones every time you used it because he insisted on keeping the notifications on. Just in case.

“You’re joking,” Tati breathed, lifting it with reverence like it might dissolve if she stared too long. “He let you on his account?”

“Didn’t ask,” you said with a laugh. “He just handed it to me one morning and said, ‘Use this. Stop touching your own money. I mean it.’”

“Okay, but like… why?” Nas blinked.

“Because it’s easier,” you admitted, sighing dramatically. “Do you know how exhausting it is to hear a whole damn lecture because I paid for a $12 salad with my own debit card?”

Kris gasped, already laughing. “No he doesn’t—”

“Oh, he absolutely does,” you cut in. “I was just going to lunch with my coworkers last week. I thought it didn’t count. He called me mid-chew to ask why he didn’t get a notification.”

Tati was wheezing now. “He knows when you use your own money?”

“He doesn’t track my spending but I swear it’s like he can feel it,” you said, dead serious. “I have receipts. He acts like I’ve personally disrespected him and his ancestors.”

Lex wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “Okay, I'll take it back. This man has a training regimen. You’re not being dramatic.”

“I told you,” you grinned, sliding the card back into your purse. “I’m not allowed to lift a finger. If I try? It’s a whole thing. A ride-home lecture thing.”

Sure enough, five minutes later, a blacked-out SUV pulled to the curb, and there he was: leaned against the hood, phone in one hand, other hand already lifting in a beckoning wave like let’s go, baby.

He opened the door before you even said goodbye, hand outstretched for yours.

And as you walked away, you heard Kris whisper behind you, “…Nah, he really is training her.”

You waited until the car doors were shut and the engine hummed beneath you, the soft R&B playing low in the background. His hand had already found your thigh, like it always did, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles just above your knee as he pulled away from the curb.

You watched him for a minute. How relaxed he was. The way his jaw shifted when he checked the mirrors. The tiny crease between his brows as he merged into traffic with one hand.

Then you turned to him, lips curled into a smirk. “You know the girls think it’s hilarious that you’re ‘training me.’”

Michael didn’t even look over at first. He just let out a quiet, knowing sound, deep in his chest. “Do they now?”

“They’re like, ‘Is he building a custom housewife? Teaching you not to open doors or touch money?’” You laughed softly, head falling back against the seat. “I think Kris said you must have printed out a whole syllabus.”

That made him chuckle. Finally, he glanced your way, a smug little tilt at the corner of his mouth. “Didn’t need a syllabus. You were already perfect. Just needed a little… refinement.”

You gave him a look, lips parted like you couldn’t believe him. “Refinement?”

He shrugged, completely unfazed. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with learning how to be treated right. You’re too used to doing everything yourself. I’m just reminding you that you don’t have to.”

“I know that,” you muttered, but there was no heat behind it.

He gave your thigh a squeeze. “Do you, though? Or do you still feel guilty when you don’t split a bill or carry your own shit?”

You were quiet for a beat. “…A little.”

“Exactly.” He shook his head with a tsk. “You've been holding it down so long you think that’s normal. But not with me. Not ever with me. If I’m here, I’m handling it. All of it.”

You glanced over at him again, your chest pulling tight in that stupid, swoony way he had mastered. “Still,” you said, biting back a grin, “the girls think it’s giving 1950s husband with a modern credit limit.”

Michael laughed out loud at that. Deep, warm, proud. “Good,” he said. “Tell Jamal and them I said they should take notes. I got mine trained and spoiled.”

You shoved his arm playfully, cheeks burning. “I am not trained—”

“Really?” he said, buzzing into the front gate of your home, pulling slowly into the driveway. “Whose card did you use at lunch?”

You groaned.

“Exactly.” He cut the engine and looked over at you fully now, expression softening. “You don’t have to prove nothin’ to me. Not your independence. Not your strength. I already know who you are.” He leaned in, brushing a kiss against your temple. “So let me show you who I am. Again. And again. Until you stop fighting it.”

“…So you’re just gonna keep lecturing me every time I use my own money?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, dead serious. “I will nag you to death, baby. You will pray for peace and find none.”

You laughed, fully exasperated and fully, hopelessly in love. “Ugh. Fine.” 

“Good girl,” he whispered, slipping out to open your door. He circled around the car with that confident stride, opened it smoothly, and held out his hand like he always did: palm up, fingers slightly curled. You took it, stepping out as his other hand slid to your waist, steadying you. His eyes didn’t leave yours for a second, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leaned in just enough to make your breath catch. “You know I got you, right?” he murmured.

You nodded, heart thudding, and he closed the door behind you, hand never straying far from the small of your back as you walked inside together.

Because yeah… he was training you.

But you had to admit: you kinda liked it.

-

Tags: @blackisy2k @hamzahsf4vg1rl @siasoup@heyyimmisunderstood @mirathebookworm @iluvv.angel @blondfortheweekend @Plan3tCh1ld @remcycles@browngirldominion @smokestackenrgy @marvel-dork98@chaneajoyyy @jackierose902109 @Secretisme4 @marley1773@wrldfantasy @remcycles @bxrbie1 @pinkprincessluminary@honestlyurslol @bxrbie1 @uhhh-nunyabidniz-heaux @nybearsworld@eclecticblkgirl @corvusmorte @yallsuck-00 @glambyk @Siqeth @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful @xoxo-lai @perfectlyimperfectme@Mea-bby @kianaleani @prettiest1ittleliar @Mejustme06 @kpop-servant @kneelarhmstrung @rossie-things @thatssonani@esachicaa @ajenae @adornn4jadaa @Kindofaintrovert @bigpumpum18 @famousphilosopherwombat@Transparentphantomface @omg-mymelaninisbeautiful@theesmartblonde @-harmonytbh @jiminsjams123 @li-da-savage@Fckwritersblock @christinabae @Tianna-blanche @queenofklonnie22 @marley1773 @Secret89sblog @secretisme4@nybearsworld @jackierose902109 @spideyxakmighty2 @rossie-things @Sharpaysbestfriend @chrome-edition @Mulanii9 @blackgurlkillinit @soniaangels @pinkprincessluminary @bxunyx @venusesworld  @flipsidefever @dangerouslylunarwind @writingsbytee @sheabutterbabes @c-grace56 @turbulentvoids @Stankface @mimellowdi @vintigepimpzinio @bedstarz @thesmutconnoisseur @iceyyycapsicle @theesexyyaquariuss @lovey-3 @sowhatariyana @ariiaellbtheedonn @melinatedlifeline @Nyifly22 @Jayyybird221 @pinkpantheris @naenae479 @Keaenzie @melinatedlifeline @Smokestackenergy @tyneshaaa @fanfictiononly4 @Jayyybird211 @melinatedlifeline @Stankface @beedici @Chynah-doll @Hollyleelee99 @prettygirlwrld @bbykel @secretisme4 @Yeaiamme2 @kristings7 @solitudedanii @singularepiphany 

if you’d like to sign up for my tag list, click here.

[littlegochu]

my ride │ jjk 18+

"Don’t forget who you belong to."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: mafia male lead, empowered female lead, established kinda (downbad but cold jungkook)

rating: 18+, smut (sluuuuuuutyyyyyy sex, dirty talk, doggy, tied up, marking up, all that good stuff)

synopsis: He's not the kind of man you fall for. He's the kind you survive.

Jeon Jungkook doesn't love gently. He loves like fire-hot, wild, and uncontrollable. The first time Y/N meets him, it's supposed to be a one-night mistake. A beautiful stranger with inked arms, a wicked mouth, and eyes that burn right through her.

But one night turns into obsession, and obsession turns into a cage disguised as protection. He doesn't ask to be in her life. He decides. Every move she makes, he watches. Every man who looks at her, he remembers. And every time she thinks about walking away, Jungkook reminds her exactly why she never will. He's toxic. Possessive. Wrong in every way. And he's the only thing that's ever felt right. Because the truth is-Y/N doesn't want soft. She wants ruin. And Jungkook? He was built to destroy.

-

Y/N didn't think he'd come back. Not after that night. Not after the way she touched him like she didn't care and left like she wouldn't look back. But Jeon Jungkook isn't the type of man you forget — and definitely not the type to let you go first.

Since then, it's been unspoken — they're something. She doesn't call it exclusive. Doesn't call it anything. But he shows up after every shift. Every night. Waiting in the dark just to drive her home.

Until tonight.

She took a cab. Alone. Without telling him.

And Jungkook? He's livid. Not because she left — but because she didn't wait. Because ever since that night, Y/N's been his — even if she won't say it out loud.

She's fire, and she thinks she can walk away. But Jungkook's never been good at letting things he wants slip through his fingers.

And tonight, he plans to remind her exactly who she belongs to.

-

I'm still staring at the screen when I hear the knock — just once. Firm. Final. The kind of knock that doesn't ask if you're home, it tells you to open the door.

I do.

My heart skips. Jumps. Collides with my ribs like it's trying to escape.

Because there he is.

Not in a suit. Not in one of those soul-stealing, mafia-drenched outfits that scream, I own the night and everything in it.

No.

He's in gray sweatpants and a fitted black long sleeve. Simple. Understated. Dangerous. It's unfair how good he looks doing absolutely nothing. Like he could've stayed in, but decided ruining me in loungewear sounded more fun.

His shirt clings to his chest like it's scared to let go. Sleeves shoved up, revealing the ink wrapping around his forearms like sins he wears proudly. His hair's a mess — that hot, chaotic kind of mess that says I've been thinking about you all night and not in a tender way.

And the way he's looking at me?

Like I betrayed him.

Like I didn't just get in a cab — I stabbed him in the back on the way out. Like I'm the sin he regrets loving, but still wouldn't give up if you held a gun to his head.

'Yes?' I say, because apparently sarcasm is my only functioning defense mechanism.

His jaw ticks once. 'You left.'

Oh. Great. He's leading with that.

I cross my arms. 'Nice to see you too.'

He steps inside without asking — because of course he does — and shuts the door behind him with a quiet click. Not a slam. Not a bang. Just... quiet. Controlled. Scary. The kind of quiet that feels louder than shouting. The kind of quiet that makes your spine straighten instinctively.

'You were busy,' I blurt, already regretting it.

He's walking toward me now — slow, steady, and terrifyingly calm. Like a storm that's already decided where it's going to land.

'I told you I'd come get you.'

'And I told you I can handle myself.'

His jaw tightens again. Just slightly. But I feel it. That tension radiating off him like heat from a fuse that's burning too close to the powder.

I hate how attractive he is when he's mad. Actually, no — I hate how attractive he is all the time. It's exhausting.

His voice dips, low and lethal. 'Baby, you call me — I come get you. It's that simple.'

I blink. 'You act like I abandoned you on the side of the road. I got in a cab, Jungkook. A licensed one. With an old man who offered me gum.'

He doesn't smile. Doesn't blink. Just stands there and smirks.

"You don't leave without me. You just don't."

My brain queues up with a comeback — something about not realizing I'd been claimed like a mafia — but it dies a fast death the second he steps in close.

He smells like soap, skin, and something darker. Something sharp that makes your blood heat and your knees question their own integrity.

He halts just inches away, so close I can feel the low, controlled fury humming beneath his skin. He raises a hand — slow, deliberate — and places it on my jaw. Not rough. Not sweet either. Firm. Commanding. The kind of touch that doesn't ask for permission because it already knows it has it.

He tilts my face toward his. His thumb brushes lightly along my cheek, but I can feel the pressure behind it. The tension in his fingers like he's holding back a thousand things he's not allowed to say.

His eyes drop to my lips, slow and possessive. But he doesn't kiss me. Not yet. No, he's savoring the moment before the ruin.

"You think I wait outside your bar every night just for fun, hm?"

My breath catches. I can't even pretend to be annoyed. Not when his other hand slides up the back of my neck and settles there, fingers curving over the base of my skull like he's grounding himself. Or claiming territory. Maybe both.

"You walked away from me like you don't know what that does to me," he says, and the sound of it — low and cracked just slightly — makes my stomach twist. "Like I wouldn't burn this fucking city down if someone else tried to touch what's mine."

The air between us feels charged — like if I speak too loudly, it'll all ignite.

"Next time," he breathes against my ear, "You wait for me. Yes, baby?"

I nod. Because thinking is no longer an option.

But he doesn't move.

His hand tightens just a little. "Words."

"Yes," I whisper. "I get it."

And that's all he needs.

When Jungkook finally kisses me, it's not gentle. It's claiming. It's not I missed you.

It's Don't forget who you belong to.

His lips crush into mine like he's been holding it back all night — like punishing me with silence didn't work, so he's resorting to punishment by pleasure instead. I feel his mouth — hot, consuming, feeling the smirk he makes when he finally gets what he wants.

I don't even realize he's backing me into the wall until my shoulders hit it. 

I know exactly what this is.

This is Jungkook teaching me the true meaning of dominance.

He hikes up my skirt, exposing the back of my thighs to his narrowed gaze, "Was this on purpose? Your pussy's dripping." he presses four of his finger flat against my cunt, roughly sliding them against the soaked cotton.

"Jungkook-" a whine leaves my lips, biting into my swollen lower lip as his hand reaches my skin, hooking his fingers into the lace, before spanking between my thighs again, twice more. 

He scoffs, "This pussy's all mine" grabbing my ass with his calloused palms, the slick between my thighs catching his attention. Jungkook stretches and kneads the flesh, cementing himself. 

"Greedy." his words slip through his gritted teeth. He grabs both my arms behind my back, my wrists feeling small in his hand.

"Bossy." I bite back, clenching because the idea of dirty sex with Jungkook is so arousing.

Far, far past the final punched hole, my sharp stilettos plunge between his black leather belt, tightly wrapped around the flesh.

He knots it twice, ensuring that it doesn't move. The guilt of his acts and the twisted pleasure of my masochistic tendencies combine, releasing a moan as the smooth cloth restrains. He pulls once, making my shoulder blade flex and my nipples scrape against the bed as my back curve is dragged into him.

Jungkook lets out a cocky laugh, rubbing his digits along my exposed cunt, "Slut." I let out a whimper as he waits for a response while pumping his stiff, oozing cock directly behind my dripping entrance. Wishing I could see how attractive he looks with his length in his palm. 

"Are you gonna fuck me or n-"

Just as the last syllable leaves my mouth, he shoves his entire girth in, wasting no time by pulling me back into him by the belt, forcing me to meet the loud slaps of his pelvis connecting to my ass. 

Jungkook isn't oblivious to my manipulative undertone, he loves to hear the words I'm yours. He had to show it again, plunge it into my system with the presence of an overwhelming orgasm.

With a deep thrust, he brutally buries himself in my tightness as the warmth recklessly overwhelms his senses. He's hungry, wanting to take in every inch of my body and watch his soaked cock vanish into my stretched hole. 

He uses my hair to make me watch him. His eyes are focused on my spine, waist, and bound wrists scraping the leather. He looks obsessed with every inch, his eyes are narrowed and roll back in an instant. "Mine, mine, mine," he repeats.

"Fuck—" The word slips out before I can stop it, traitorous and desperate. I already know that smug, possessive part of him hears it like a goddamn trophy.

It stirred something raw in him—just like that night at work, when my coworker Sean let his hand rest a little too low on my back as I passed by. Friendly, harmless... but not to Jungkook. I didn't even have to say anything. I felt his eyes on me before I turned. One look from across the room — sharp, cutting — and I knew. No warnings. No second chances. That was the line, and I'd let someone cross it.

The sex was good that night.

"Harder," I gasp. The burn's already spreading — starting in my shoulders, raw and overstretched, then trailing down over my chest, where my nipples drag against the sheets with every movement. The friction's almost too much, too sharp, but it doesn't stop. It slides lower, crawling down my ribs, flooding me from the inside out. It reaches the throb of my untouched clit. Jungkook's cock dips, bottoming his fat tip out before pushing all the way back in- meeting my g-spot with vigour, pushes and pushes. The room fills with restless moans, pooling out alongside my spit, decorating the corner of my mouth.

"Let another man touch you- drive you, help you, but he could never make you feel like this." The heat of his anger crashes into me the moment he leans in, pressing the rigid lines of his body against my restrained arms. It hits like a wave—sharp, unrelenting—and I drown in it willingly. I can't breathe, don't want to, not with the way his teeth sink into my shoulder, hard enough to leave proof.

"Say it," he growls against my skin. "You're mine. Every inch."

I whimper, shaking under the weight of his voice as he marks me again, dragging fresh color into my skin like he's branding me with every bruise.

His hand wraps around my throat, firm but controlled, tilting my face up until my mouth parts on instinct—like I need to say it.

"You... yours, baby," I choke out, the words tumbling out messy and raw, strung tight with everything I'm feeling and trying not to feel.

He groans at the sound, like my submission winds something deeper inside him, something dangerous. Then his teeth sink into my shoulder again—harder this time—before he pulls back and slams into me all over again. His grip flies to my hips, grounding himself in the way I shudder beneath him, and the sharp sting of his palm slapping my ass echoes through the air.

I feel his frustration pouring off him — not just in the way he moves, but in every breath, every curse under his breath, like this is the only way he knows how to say mine.

I can't see the bruises he's painting into my skin, but I can feel them — the slow burn sinking deep, the tremble in my thighs as they threaten to give out. The bite he leaves on my shoulder pulses like a seal, like he's finishing a sentence written in teeth and heat.

My hands are bound behind me, but it's more than that. I'm tied to him — to the weight of his presence, the way he takes up space in my lungs, in my head, in everything.

"Hold it. Not yet." I drop my head against the bed, my arms trembling, the tension in my body stretching too tight to hold. It crawls down my spine, hot and overwhelming—but I don't get a break.

Jungkook's hand tangles in my hair, rough and certain, and yanks me back into him until my spine arches and my body fits into his like it was made for it. "Shiiiiit, baby..." he growls, voice thick and wrecked. "You're so fuckin' good for me."

I don't mean to whimper — it just slips out. A soft, helpless sniffle between the broken sounds of his name that keep tumbling from my mouth.

But he hears it.

Of course he does.

And it only makes him go harder — his hips driving into me with punishing precision, like every thrust is a warning, a claim, a promise I'm too far gone to deny. His tight balls slap against my swollen clit-more, deeper- he throbs and throbs, my walls sucking him in.

Jungkook's hands move to the belt, fingers quick but careful as he loosens it from around my wrists. The moment the tension releases, his arms slide around me — strong, warm, pulling me back into his chest like he can hold me together.

His lips find the curve of my neck, brushing slow kisses over the bruises he left behind — like he's trying to erase them with apology. His hand rests on my stomach, thumb tracing soft circles over the tender skin, grounding me, claiming me gently now — in the aftermath of everything he unleashed.

The room is quiet now — heavy with the kind of silence that follows ruin. My breath stumbles in and out of my chest, skin flushed and burning, body molded to his. I don't speak. I don't move. I just exist in his hold, pulled apart and put back together in the span of a few heartbeats.

Jungkook lowers his gaze, eyes dark but softer now — that rare calm he only shows me. His fingertips trace down my spine, then lower, slow enough to make my body twitch in response.

He hums — low and satisfied, softly grazing the purple skin with his knuckles.

"Looks good,"

authors note: i had this on wattpad and decided i love it soo much i had to post it here too (it had different names tho so lmk if u see a slip up hehe..) pls comment i love hearing ur opinions, also my requests are open anonymously!