#im thinking about starting to write a little something something

[colouredbyd]

Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy!

cowboy!remus lupin x fem!reader

synopsis : a sunshine-soft baker moves to town, all ribbons, sweet talk, and a habit of staring a little too long at the cowboy next door. remus lupin tries to focus on his chores, but it’s hard when she keeps calling him remmy and baking him sweets. neither mean to flirt—but the heat’s been rising like bread in an oven, and something’s bound to give

warnings: NSFW, explicit sexual content, graphic language, strong sexual themes, dirty talk, sexual tension, suggestive themes, public or semi-public sexual encounters, alot of dirty thoughts, implied exhibitionism, explicit scenes of desire, lots of cum, eating out, oral sex, no penetrative sex, getting caught dry humping, spitting, fingering, eating out, panty sniffing?, making out, grinding, kinda riding? porn but with plot.

w/c: 5.8k

a/n: 100% inspired by this, all i can say is i should be ashamed for writing this...(to anyone who knows me: im sorry about the horse scene I COULDNT HELP IT)

masterlist

Remus Lupin swears he’s got self-control, the kind that’s been hammered into him by years of quiet mornings and grueling afternoons. 

He wakes with the sun, hands steady and weathered, working the land like clockwork—feeding cattle, fixing fences, cleaning stalls, the rhythm of routine keeping the ache at bay.

Black coffee steams beside him, boots lined neatly by the door, shirts buttoned up and clean, a man shaped by order and slow, simple needs. 

Not much stirs him anymore. Not since the war carved its scars deep into his bones, the kind of ache that settles like rain-soaked dust, dull and constant.

But then, you open your bakery—just two weeks ago—and suddenly, the world shifts beneath his boots.

The last thing Remus Lupin wants to do is lay blame—he’s a grown man, weathered by war and wind, with the calluses to prove it—but in a way, you’re the reason why.

The mere thought of you is enough to make this cowboy go buckwild.

It starts innocent, if only in theory.

He’s out in the field at dawn, meant to be feeding the cattle, fixing the fence, maybe even—God willing—cleaning the horse stalls. But the second your name crosses his mind, he’s gone. Useless.

He stands there with hay in his hands and a slack-jawed expression like he’s been shot in the chest with a buttercream bullet. Doesn’t even notice when the old barn cat winds around his boots or when the horses whinny for their breakfast. He just thinks about you.

And it’s always you.

You, with your little bakery nestled on the corner of Main and Maple, a bright splash of life in the dusty town.

You, wrapped in sundresses kissed by morning light, apron smudged with flour, humming soft songs as you tuck wildflowers into window boxes like secrets meant only for the breeze.

You, waving at every passerby like you’ve belonged here forever—even though you just arrived two weeks ago—and smiling at him like he’s the only thing worth pausing the world for.

It’s almost cruel, the way you’ve shattered him with nothing but kindness and sunlight.

Remus had rules once—wake before dawn, work hard, want less than a man can bear—but you slipped in with your sugar-dusted hands and your laugh like a promise, and now his quiet world is a storm. Because he can’t stop watching you.

Can’t stop craving the curve of your smile, the way flour dusts your cheek like a trace of sin, the softness in your voice when you greet him with that simple, “Morning, cowboy,” like you know exactly how those words strip him bare inside.

And what it does to him—God, it’s sinful, a temptation he’s only just learning how to fight.

You make his hands tremble, his mind stray into wicked places, and his mouth go dry with need. He’s stumbled over his own damn boots more times this week than he has in years, and every misstep is because of you.

The way you lean over that counter, offering him a piece of warm apple pie “on the house,” your scent mingling with the sweetness, setting his skin on fire.

The way you hum, soft and low, like a secret lullaby meant just to tease him. The way your dress sways around your knees, like you’ve never known a single touch that wasn’t hungry, like every inch of you is aching to be claimed.

Today, you slide a wrapped croissant into his palm—blueberry, he guesses, but all he can taste is the ghost of your fingers pressed to his skin, and he nearly drops it, heat pooling low and thick in his gut.

“Thanks,” he manages, voice rough like gravel scraped raw and worn down by too many restless nights and secret pains you can almost taste in the air between you.

You smile at him, warm and bright, like the sun itself had carved that grin just for him, a gentle blaze cutting through the cold edges of his quiet world.

“See you next Sunday?” you ask, voice soft but threaded with a promise that feels like it could burn through stone.

He tips his hat, trying to hide the way his ears bloom a shy, stubborn pink beneath the fabric, but you see it all—the way he’s unraveling just a little, like he’s been waiting for this moment more than he’d ever admit.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, voice low and steady but soaked in something fierce and fragile all at once.

And you know, with every fiber of yourself, he won’t. Even if it kills him.

Because Remus Lupin may be a man of quiet restraint, of slow mornings stretched thin with hesitation and a heart bruised and battered far beyond what any soul should carry—but for you?

For you, he’s already halfway gone, swallowed whole by the gravity of your presence, lost somewhere between the ache and the hope you stir deep inside him.

You don’t see him turn back after he walks away, but he does—just for a heartbeat, a breath stolen in the quiet chaos of his own racing heart.

Remus glances over his shoulder, jaw clenched tight, eyes sharp but soft all at once, catching one last fleeting glimpse of your silhouette framed in the window’s fading light.

You’re already moving, already weaving through the room with that effortless grace, already smiling at the next stranger who crosses your path, slipping away from him like the fragile morning light that dances through the leaves—too quick, too fleeting to hold onto.

He tells himself to stop thinking about the ghost of your fingers brushing his skin, the way your voice hums in his ears even now, a sacred hymn that refuses to fade.

He tells himself to forget it, to shove it deep beneath the weight of reason and restraint, but you linger in his blood like a whispered curse he can’t shake.

Meanwhile, miles away, before the sun even has the courage to rise, you’re waking with the world still wrapped in a lavender yawn.

The air holds that delicate chill of dawn, the kind that promises something new and untouched, and you slip on your short linen sundress, the fabric light as a sigh against your skin. A soft pink ribbon finds its way into your hair, tied just so, fluttering like a secret only you know.

You step out into the cool hush of morning, breath mingling with the mist that clings to the lake behind your cottage, where the world feels paused, sacred, and waiting.

The geese shuffle towards you, their honks soft and shy, and you coo at them with a sweetness that drips like honey from your lips—tossing cracked corn from your palm, murmuring, “You handsome little gentlemen,” and teasing, “Don’t be mean, Harold, everyone gets breakfast.”

In this stillness, this fragile quiet, you hold the whole world in your hands.

You like this moment—the solitude, the gentle promise it carries—because here, just here, you are the only girl in the world.

After the geese are fed and the lake has kissed your ankles like a shy hello, you follow the winding road into town, the sun barely half past seven but already spilling warmth across your skin, filling your chest with a sweetness that feels like it could burst.

“Morning, Miss Lily!” you call, your voice bright and light as you wave to the florist tending dahlias on her porch.

Her eyes crinkle with a smile, and she teases, “Well, don’t you look like a postcard—off to steal some hearts today?”

You laugh, adjusting the basket perched on your hip, “Just flour, I promise.”

She shoots back with a knowing grin, “Flour and trouble, more like.”

You wink and keep moving, bare feet gliding over the cobblestones like a secret only the earth knows — light, quiet, familiar.

The morning sun is already warm on your skin, and your soles are still damp from the pond, where you’d been feeding the geese just minutes earlier, ankles muddy, bread crusts tucked in your apron pocket. You’d kicked off your shoes to keep them clean and never quite bothered putting them back on.

Children dart past, chasing laughter through the square, their shrieks bright and wild.

You crouch without thinking, catching the youngest boy by the elbow before he trips on his own shoelaces. “Whoa, careful there, darling,” you murmur, fingers working fast to tie a double knot as he steadies against your shoulder.

He nods solemnly, wide-eyed, before beaming when you press a lollipop into his palm from your apron’s front pocket. “You’ll have to tell me if it’s too sour,” you tease, tapping his nose.

He scampers off with a sticky grin, and you turn just in time to see a little girl hovering near your skirts, shy fingers twisting in her dress.

You kneel again and offer her a warm smile, pulling from your apron a carefully wrapped chocolate chip cookie — tied with red ribbon, baked fresh last night, soft in the center just the way she likes.

“There you go, Hazel,” you whisper, smoothing her curls from her forehead. “It’s the last one, so guard it with your life.”

She giggles, cheeks pink, and runs to show her mother, cookie clutched in both hands like treasure.

Then it’s onward to the bakery—your pride wrapped in pink walls nestled between the apothecary and the old bookshop, ivy crawling up the windows like whispered promises.

Rose-gold lettering gleams softly above the door, lace curtains framing the scent of vanilla, sugar, and warm peaches that wraps around you like a hug.

The bell chimes as you step inside, the shelves half-full from yesterday’s labor: lemon loaves, rosewater scones, lavender honey buns waiting to be kissed by morning light.

You hum quietly, lighting candles and watering the violets on the windowsill, feeling the quiet pulse of this place you built with your hands and your heart.

And then—just like that, as if summoned straight from the reckless corners of your mind—he’s there.

Remus Lupin.

Striding through the dusty street like a dangerous fantasy you never dared dream. His boots scuffed and weathered from god knows what, the worn denim of his jeans stretched tight over hips that speak of muscle and sin, every damn curve making your blood race and your mind spiral.

His shirt hangs half-open, teasing the sharp angles of his collarbone, the warm, rough skin beneath dusted with dirt and sweat, as if he’s just come from wrestling something wild and primal.

His hat is tipped low, but when his eyes lift and catch yours through the glass, everything inside you snaps taut and wild.

You try to hide it—pretending to wipe the counter, fingers trembling and heat burning your cheeks—but it’s a poor disguise.

“Morning, sweetheart,” his voice drips with honey and something darker, low and smooth, and it hits you right in the gut like a shot of whiskey.

“Good morning, Lupin” you breathe back, syrupy sweet, though your body is humming with a different kind of hunger, the kind that curls in your stomach and drips heat between your thighs.

His ears flush pink, and you swear it makes him ten times hotter, the shy confidence battling with the raw, untamed man beneath.

He shifts the bag of apples in his hands, eyes flickering up to yours like he’s trying to read a secret only you hold.

“Brought you something,” he mutters, voice low and rough, like the words taste damn good on his tongue. “Apples. From the orchard.”

You tilt your head, smile teasing, “That’s sweet of you, Remus. What, trying to win me over with fruit now?”

He chuckles, a deep, gravelly sound that makes your skin prickle. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to come see you. You know, without looking like a damn fool just standing outside your bakery all day.”

Your breath catches. “Oh, so you’ve been watching, huh?”

He runs a hand through his hair, voice rougher now, like he’s barely holding himself together. “God, I—I don’t know how you do it, but you’ve got me—fuck, you’ve got me all tangled up.”

But all you can think about is the way those hands must grip—rough and sure—how they’d feel pressed against your skin, tracing the lines of your body as if memorizing every inch, every shiver, every desperate need.

How close he could get before the ache inside you explodes. The wild scent of earth and sweat and something raw and hungry clings to him like a second skin, and it wraps around you like a promise of sin.

Your smile is all sunshine and soft wickedness. “You keep doing this and I’m going to start thinking you like me.”

He pauses, blinking. “I—I mean”

You giggle and take the bag from his hands, fingers brushing once more.

“I’m just teasing,” you say, even though you're not, not entirely.

He nods, flustered, already backing toward the door like a man escaping a wildfire.

“Have a good day,” he manages.

“You too, handsome.”

You catch the way his shoulders stiffen, how he trips just slightly on the step.

And gods, it’s almost unfair—the effect you have.

But then again, you saw the way Miss Dervish from the tailor’s shop stared at him like she was ready to mount him like a broomstick right there on Main Street.

Remus Lupin really has all the ladies in town ovulating at the mere sight of him.

Truth is: the whole damn town is in love with Remus Lupin.

But only you get to see the way he looks at your mouth when you laugh. Only you get to make him blush like a boy.

And if he keeps showing up in those jeans, with that voice and that jaw and those hands that look like they could ruin and worship all at once—you’re going to forget how to bake entirely.

By midday, the bakery hums with warmth and chatter, full to the brim with townsfolk craving something sweet.

Your apron is dusted in flour and your lips are berry-stained from tasting jam. The sun outside is golden and bold, filtering through the windows like it’s falling in love with everything it touches—especially you.

You hum as you knead dough, hips swaying gently to the old French jazz playing on the radio.

There’s strawberry juice on your wrists and sugar under your nails. A tray of pies is cooling by the window, their scent thick and syrupy, while rows of rose-shaped butter cookies wait to be iced.

But something’s missing.

Chocolate.

And not just any chocolate—your favorite dark cocoa from the little cupboard at the Lupin farm, the one you tucked away weeks ago when Remus helped carry crates after the harvest fair. He’d told you to stop by for it anytime. So you do.

Not because of the chocolate, though. Not really.

You wipe your hands, untie your apron, and slip out the back door into the sun, your ribbon fluttering in the breeze.

The road to his farm is all wildflowers and bees, the kind of walk that makes you hum to yourself and twirl your skirt, completely unaware of what exactly you're walking into.

You spot him before he sees you.

Remus Lupin. On horseback.

And everything in you goes quiet.

He’s riding slow through the lower pasture, one hand on the reins, the other lifting his hat just enough to rake his fingers through his tousled hair before setting it back in place.

His shirt is undone even more now, clinging with sweat to the sharp slope of his chest, sleeves rolled to reveal those tanned, veined forearms that belong in sin. The muscles in his thighs flex under worn denim as he guides the horse in a slow, powerful trot, hips rising and falling with maddening ease.

You freeze, caught like a deer in the fading light.

His every move is a slow burn—the way he eases off that horse, boots landing heavy on the ground, the muscles in his arms flexing just enough to make your pulse slam against your ribs.

God, he knows exactly what he’s doing, and you’re helpless to look away, your mouth suddenly too dry to form the words you want to say.

Your thoughts spiral, filthy and urgent—how those hands might grip your waist, rough and possessive, pulling you flush against him so close you’d feel every breath, every beat of that steady heart beneath calloused skin.

You imagine the low growl in his voice if he ever lost control, thick and desperate, the kind that shreds all your carefully built walls down to nothing.

And then there’s that hat—the stupid, perfect thing perched on his head, begging to be yanked off like a silent challenge.

You want to reach out, fingers trembling, to drag it free and whisper the words you’d never dare speak aloud: fuck me, Remus.

But you don’t. You can’t. You just watch, helpless and aching.

His gaze locks on you, slow and deliberate, and your breath stutters, caught on the razor’s edge of something fierce and unspoken.

He steps closer, the scent of leather and sweat wrapping around you like a promise, shirt clinging to the lines of his back like a second skin, each movement designed to make your heart race and your mind spiral into sin.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and honeyed, amused like he’s got some wicked secret only you’re about to discover. “Didn’t see you there.”

You force a smile, too sweet, heart already stammering like a busted engine. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just came by for the cocoa.”

He nods, eyes drifting to the horse beside him, and then his hand lifts slow and sure, stroking the mare’s neck with a touch so gentle it makes your skin itch in all the wrong places.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, thick and warm, like a promise you’re not sure you want but can’t resist.

“Was out riding my favorite girl Dai.��� His palm slides along the mare’s side, fingers curling like he’s tracing a secret, a sacred line.

“Weren’t you such a good girl, huh?”

And damn, the way he says it—“good girl”—it’s filthy, all slick sin wrapped in a whisper.

The way his fingers trail over Dai’s bridle, so soft, like he’s touching something precious, something he wants to own, to protect.

You try not to squirm, but your legs suddenly wobble, knees weak like you’re caught in a heatwave you didn’t see coming, and there’s this fire burning low between your thighs that has absolutely nothing to do with flour or sugar or any damn thing you should be thinking about right now.

His eyes flicker back to you, catching the blush flaming across your cheeks, and that twitch at the corner of his mouth tells you he knows exactly the kind of mess he’s making you into—helpless, hot, aching for a touch that hasn’t even happened yet.

“You alright?” he asks, voice teasing but laced with something deeper, something that makes your breath hitch.

You nod, way too fast, words catching on a tremor you can’t hide. “Fine. Just… warm.”

“Mm,” he says. “Bet you are.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rough, like a rumble that shakes your bones. “That’s my favorite girl,” he says, patting Dai’s neck again, “and I reckon you’re my favorite baker.”

You have never in your life wished more to be a goddamn horse than right now.

Because the way he says it, the slow slide of his gaze over you—like he’s already imagining running those rough hands down your back, the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin, whispering all the things he’d do if you let him—makes your insides twist and writhe in delicious agony, caught between wanting and knowing you probably shouldn’t.

But fuck, you want it. You want him. Every filthy, sinful inch of him.

And when he turns toward the farmhouse, his voice is casual, almost teasing.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go get you that cocoa. Unless you forgot what you came for.”

You definitely did.

But you follow him anyway, biting your tongue, wondering if you can survive five more minutes with this man in his boots and half-unbuttoned shirt and sinful drawl calling anything a good girl.

He walks ahead a few paces, and even from behind, he’s maddening—long legs, golden shoulders beneath that half-undone shirt, a slow, easy swagger that feels like temptation incarnate.

You try not to watch him. You try not to think about what his hands would feel like if they weren’t holding reins or flour sacks. You try not to imagine what his voice might sound like pressed right against your ear.

You fail. Miserably.

The air is warmer inside the farmhouse, thick with the scent of pinewood and tobacco, and your eyes need a second to adjust as you step through the door behind him.

But you don’t get far.

Your toe catches on something—maybe the edge of the rug, maybe a boot left by the door—and your balance tilts out from under you in one horrible, slow-motion stumble.

“Oh—!”

But he’s there.

In an instant, large hands catch you by the waist, grounding you before you even fall.

One arm wraps behind your back, steady and sure, and suddenly you’re pressed flush against him, breath caught between your teeth and heart thundering in your ears.

“Careful there, sweetheart,” he says, voice gentle, eyes flicking down to check you over. “Would’ve hated to see you hurt yourself.”

You laugh a little too quickly, palms resting on his chest for balance. “I—I’m okay. Just clumsy.”

He doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushes your waist without thinking, and it sends a spark right through you.

Your body is burning where he’s touching you. And his eyes—soft brown, full of quiet amusement—study your face like you’re some kind of puzzle he wouldn’t mind spending a few lifetimes figuring out.

Then, slowly, he lets go.

“Chocolate, wasn’t it?” he murmurs, stepping back and guiding you with a light hand on your lower back. “Think I’ve got just the kind you like.”

You nod, heart in your throat. “Y-yeah. The one with the orange peel in it.”

He smiles. “Knew it. Sweet with a little bite.”

You try not to read into that. You really try.

He leads you to a wooden shelf near the back of the kitchen, cluttered with old jars, dried herbs hanging in bunches, tins of tea, and a few blocks of dark chocolate wrapped in paper and tied with string.

He crouches to rummage through the lower shelf, muttering softly under his breath.

Meanwhile, your gaze wanders again. The way his fingers handle everything with such care.

And—damn it—the way the back of his shirt clings to his waist, damp with sweat, tucked just loosely enough into those low-hung jeans.

You’re not sure how long you’re standing there trying not to ogle him when he straightens up and hands you two wrapped bars.

“Right here,” he says, tapping one. “One with orange, one with cinnamon. Just in case.”

You beam, holding both to your chest. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He shrugs, easy. “Wouldn’t want you runnin’ out mid-pie. That’d be a tragedy.”

You turn to leave, already backing toward the door, your heart full and fluttering.

But before you go, you glance back over your shoulder.

“Thanks, Remmy,” you say softly, voice light and sweet, ribbon swaying behind you as you walk away, leaving him standing there with a tent in his pants.

Remus Lupin is a patient man.

But you’ve gone and made a mess of all that.

He hasn’t been able to sit still since.

The moment you left, the house felt too empty. The kitchen too quiet. Only the faint scent of orange and cinnamon lingered in the air—sweet, stubborn reminders of you—and Remus couldn’t stop staring at the counter where your fingers had just been.

He drags a hand over the back of his neck, pacing slow in his kitchen, heart pounding like he’s fresh out of a goddamn rodeo.

It’s the way you said Remmy again, all soft and sweet like the syllables were something you wanted to wrap in lace.

The way your fingers brushed his when you took the chocolate.

The way you stumbled and he caught you, hands on your waist for one second too long—and how he’s still not sure if that flutter in your chest was nerves or something else.

Something hopeful.

Something dangerous.

He leans against the doorframe, staring out across the sunlit fields, pretending like the quiet out there might calm the storm in here. It doesn’t.

He can still see you standing in the road, squinting up at him on horseback like you were about to fall on your knees.

Can still hear the breath you took when he slid off Dai and murmured good girl to the horse, his hand smoothing over her mane—and how your eyes never left his mouth.

He tells himself he’s imagining it.

He tells himself it’s the heat, the dust, the soft haze of summer playing tricks.

But his hands still ache from where they steadied your fall. His chest still burns from the way you smiled, like he’d given you the whole damn world for the price of chocolate.

And his thoughts—his thoughts are filthy, honey-thick, clinging.

You’re too sweet. Too soft. Too kind for the way he wants you.

He wants to press you up against the counter of that bakery, sugar and flour in your hair.

He wants to take that sundress off slow, like he’s unwrapping something too delicate for a man like him.

He wants to kiss your throat, taste your laugh, ruin your lip gloss.

And worst of all—he wants to hold your hand after.

Remus Lupin is a patient man.

But for you, he’s starting to lose the only good sense he has left.

Which is why, only a few hours after you left, Remus Lupin found himself walking into town like a man possessed.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a visit. Just being polite.

But his boots hit the pavement harder than they should, dust kicking up behind him as he strode past Mrs. Macmillan’s garden and the old chapel, not sparing a single glance for the women who giggled behind parasols or the way someone’s daughter nearly walked into a fence watching him go by.

He didn’t notice them. Not their perfume, not their waves, not their sun-warmed stares.

His eyes were fixed ahead—on the pink-tinged little building with ivy creeping up the sides and a wooden sign that read The Wildflower Oven. On you.

The bell above the door rang softly when he stepped inside, and he nearly forgot how to breathe.

There you were.

Bent slightly over the counter, piping delicate swirls of icing onto golden vanilla muffins, ribbons tied in your hair like you were spun from sugar yourself.

You were humming something soft, something dreamy and old, and when you glanced up—when your eyes landed on him, bright as sunlight through a summer orchard—you smiled.

“Hi, Rem,” you said, warm and easy.

Rem.

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

That little nickname, all familiar and fond and sinful in the way it curled off your tongue.

His heart gave a desperate lurch in his chest, and he felt—viscerally—the tight pull of desire low in his stomach. His belt was suddenly too snug.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he managed, stepping toward the counter as you finished your muffin with a final flourish.

“Didn’t expect to see you again today,” you said, licking a bit of frosting off your finger. “What brings you here? Another chocolate craving?”

He watched your tongue flick over the tip of your finger like you didn’t even know what you were doing. Or maybe you did.

Maybe you knew exactly how you looked, sunlight on your skin and icing on your lips, a walking fever dream of every soft thing he’s ever wanted.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice thick.

You laughed, and he knew he was done for.

You moved to grab a towel, but he caught your wrist before you could, gentle but firm, eyes locked to yours.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured. “I know I shouldn’t.”

But you tilted your head, curious. “Shouldn’t what?”

“This,” he said—and then he pulled you in.

His mouth met yours like he’d waited a lifetime. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t polite.

It was needy, hot, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you flush against him as he pressed you back into the counter, scattering a few napkins and flour-dusted tins.

You gasped into the kiss, your hands gripping his shoulders, and he groaned when your hips shifted against his.

The friction nearly undid him.

You were so soft, so warm, and he wanted all of you. Every kiss, every sigh, every inch of skin under that sundress he’d memorized with his eyes.

You whimpered when he kissed down your neck, when his hand slid beneath your apron and gripped your hip hard enough to leave heat in its wake.

“Remus,” you whispered, breathless.

He pulled back for half a second, just to see you—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, eyes wide and shining.

“I’ve been thinking about this all damn day,” he confessed, his voice rough with restraint he no longer had. “You’ve been driving me wild, honey. You walk around this town looking like that and expect me to act right?”

Your fingers slid beneath the hem of his shirt, making him hiss through clenched teeth. “Maybe I don’t want you to act right.”

That was all it took.

A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat as his mouth slammed back onto yours, hips thrusting forward on pure instinct.

The counter shook beneath the weight of your desperate bodies. The kiss deepened, savage and hungry. You clung to him like you’d shatter without his touch—maybe you would.

Slowly, deliberately, you lifted a leg and wrapped it tight around his waist, lowering yourself onto his rock-hard cock.

A guttural groan spilled from his lips as his hands crushed your waist, pulling you harder against him, grinding you with agonizing slowness.

“Shit, baby, can’t do that to me,” Remus groaned, voice thick and ragged against your mouth.

“I really fucking need you.” His hands tore at your dress, breaking the kiss to rip it off, then devoured your breasts with greedy fingers and mouth. He sucked your nipples hard, tugging like he needed to mark you as his.

You peeled your legs free and steadied yourself on the counter, tossing the dress aside. Remus freed his cock, rock-hard and leaking slick precum onto his jeans. Shameless, he stroked himself slow and steady.

“Keep ‘em on.” His voice was low, rough with need as he didn’t let you slide your panties off. Instead, he wrapped his arms tight around your hips and pulled you down so your back pressed flush against his broad chest.

With an effortless lift, he hoisted you up, spreading your thighs just enough with his free hand, pressing his aching cock right between them.

“Remmy…” you breathed out, tilting your head back to kiss along his sharp jawline, soft and slow.

His cowboy hat sat slightly crooked on his head, the worn brim shadowing his dark eyes—an irresistible invitation. Your fingers reached up, bold and trembling, and slowly you pulled the hat off his head, letting it slip free like a promise.

You lifted it carefully, the faint scent of leather and sun-soaked days lingering in the fabric, and slipped it over your own hair, the brim dipping low over your eyes, hiding your flushed cheeks.

Remus’s breath hitched, his eyes darkening with need as he stared at you—his hat on your head like a secret you were daring him to unravel.

You were officially trying to kill him. Remus Lupin—death by pussy. A noble death, really.

His hands clenched your waist tighter, hips pressing harder against yours. “Gods, you in my hat…” His voice was low, rough with want, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You moaned softly, heat pooling deep and thick between your legs, your voice barely more than a whisper, “You’re so big.”

“Shit, y-you’re squeezing,” he murmured, voice ragged as he looked down. Your hips moved gently, rocking back and forth, thighs curling tenderly around his cock that throbbed hard against your thin fabric.

You both gasped sharply the moment his cock brushed against your soaked, sensitive clit.

Remus couldn’t stop touching you, not if he tried. One hand toyed with the frilly hem of your panties, teasing and pulling, while the other wrapped snug around your heaving chest, fingers kneading and claiming.

“Spit on it, baby,” he growled low, heat dripping from every word.

You leaned your head down, eyes locked on the slick glistening wetness smearing your inner thighs, and without hesitation, spit right on the tip of his cock—just like he wanted—earning a deep, guttural moan vibrating straight through you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he cursed, pressing your thighs tighter together, trapping his twitching cock between them, moving just enough to drive you wild.

When he finally came, the bite he left on your shoulder was painful and possessive, hot and rough as he spilled his release all over the front of your panties.

He dragged the tip of his cock through the slick mess, spreading it, marking you thoroughly.

“What are you doing?” you blinked down at him, breath hitching. Remus knelt on the floor, hands sliding your legs apart and resting them gently on his broad shoulders.

“Cleanin’ you up.” His lips burned against the soft skin of your inner thigh, tongue flat and warm as it licked away every trace of his mess, slick and sticky.

His dark brown eyes, shadowed beneath furrowed brows and heavy lashes glistening with moisture, lifted to meet yours just as he reached your center.

Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, heart pounding in the quiet tension.

Remus wrapped his mouth around the stained front of your panties, sucking them clean with a slow, deliberate hunger.

His fingers trembled as they slid the fabric aside, revealing slick heat slicked with his cum underneath. He swallowed hard, lips curving into a satisfied grin pressed against your stomach.

“Can I touch your pretty pussy?” His voice was rough, desperate, a shiver running down your spine.

You nodded quickly, breath catching as his cold fingertips ghosted over your swollen clit.

A thick bead of spit fell from his mouth, slick and wet, coating your slick folds before he replaced his fingers with his tongue, warm and insistent.

Your hand dove into his hair, gripping tight as you pulled him closer, needing every inch of him against your burning heat.

His low moan vibrated against your skin, lips and nose grazing your clit, and damn—he could smell you, raw and intoxicating, making him lose himself completely.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he breathed, pulling away just long enough to praise you, hand already palming that aching, swollen cock again.

The pain only made him harder, the desperate urge to touch himself uncontrollable.

With a wicked glint in his eye, he snapped the elastic against your sensitive skin drawing a startled whimper from your throat.

“Rem, I’m gonna come!” you whimpered, that tight knot in your stomach about to unravel.

If his mouth wasn’t still buried between your thighs, you’d have caught the smug smirk spreading across his face.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he hooked a finger into the waistband and pushed your panties to the side, exposing you to the cool air—and to him.

His palm pressed firmly against your lower stomach, moving in slow, possessive circles until you cried out his name, the sound raw and needy.

“Sensitive, yeah?” he murmured, lips trailing soft kisses over your clit, making you jerk and shiver.

You tried squeezing your legs shut, but Remus was relentless—elbow hooking under your thighs to pry them open wide, resting your legs on his shoulders as he dove back into your slick heat.

“Please, Rem, someone could come in!” you gasped, attempting to push him away.

“Just a little more, baby,” he slurred, tongue flicking expertly around your trembling hole.

“Gotta come,” he muttered, sharpening the tip of his tongue and plunging it deep inside you, making you gasp and tremble with pure, desperate need.

He curled his tongue inside you before pulling back and spitting wetly inside, the slick fabric pressed against your pussy.

Your eyes snapped open as his fingers slid in alongside the soaked cloth, stretching you deliciously.

“Fuck, you’re sweeter than any damn pie,” he groaned, voice thick with need as he pushed himself up.

“Gonna cum all over this cunt.”

Hovering over you, your legs wrapped instinctively around his torso, clutching him tight. His cock slapped hard against your clit before he began grinding the swollen tip back and forth, moaning deep and loud.

Breath ragged, he sighed softly as hot spurts of cum dripped slick between your folds, the bunch of fabric trapped inside catching most of the mess.

“Fuck, fuck, such a good girl f’me.”

He let his whole weight collapse onto you, hands bracing on your shoulders to pull you impossibly close.

“So fuckin’ good, baby, best damn pussy in this town.” he muttered, words thick with filthy adoration, peppered with profanity.

Sliding down, he planted soft, worshipful kisses on your collarbone, trailing lower to your chest and stomach.

You grabbed your dress off the counter and fumbled to pull it back on, fingers trembling as you tried to find the sleeves.

“Here—c’mere, baby,” Remus murmured, stepping in to help, his hands steady where yours shook. He took his hat and put it back on his head and then guided the fabric up over your shoulders, smoothing it down gently before reaching for the ribbon that had slipped loose in your hair.

“Hold still, love,” he said, voice soft, almost fond, as he tied it back into place. Then he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips—slow, sweet, grounding.

Before you could turn away, his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He caged you gently between his chest and the counter, forehead dropping to yours. “You know,” he whispered, breath warm against your lips, “you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Your smile curved wicked. “Even right now?”

“Especially right now.”

You reached down, curling your fingers through his until his hand was yours again. Slowly, deliberately, you brought it to your mouth—and licked the remaining mess from his fingers, eyes never leaving his.

Remus Lupin was, quite officially, dead and gone for—completely wiped out at the sight of you licking his own cum off his fingers, the sweet angel baker of the town now standing before him as the most gloriously obscene vision he’d ever laid eyes on.

Yeah, Remus was absolutely, undeniably done for.

But then—

CRASH.

The bakery door slammed open with the force of a thunderclap, bell jangling like an alarm.

A deep roar of an engine echoed behind it, followed by the unmistakable snarl of tires on pavement and the lingering scent of leather and smoke.

And standing in the doorway, sunglasses low on his nose, helmet under one arm and a slow smirk tugging at his mouth—

Was Sirius Black.

“Am I interrupting?” he drawled, voice like trouble and sin.

[ghostlycamil4]

YOU WRITE SO WELL !!! (,,>﹏<,,)

i have a req for bf!katsuki — yknow its late at night they’re cuddling, when reader just gets a random burst of affection so she starts yapping about how much she loves him cus ugh he’s so squeezable and reader doesn’t even realize she’s yapping until she realizes he’s staring agape,, cus he isnt exactly the best w words as we all know . SORRY IM SUCH A YAPPER WHEN I FEEL INTENSE EMOTIONS LMAO DOES THIS MAKE SENSE

thank you !

𝐵𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑔𝑜: 𝐶𝑒𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑀𝑢𝑠𝑐𝑙𝑒 𝑇𝑒𝑑𝑑𝑦

STOP this req was so cute i literally melted while writing it 😭 thank u sm for sending it in fr, it was so fun to write!! <3

You lifted your head slightly, just enough to look at him. Bakugo had his eyes closed, blonde lashes resting against his cheeks, his usually furrowed brow incredibly relaxed, and that involuntary pout forming on his lips when he was half-asleep.

Your eyes softened. Your chest tightened with tenderness. How was it possible that someone so explosive, so rough, could look so insanely adorable?

You couldn’t resist. Your fingers slid into his hair, tangling in the soft strands.

And without meaning to, you started talking.

"How can someone be this handsome even while half-drooling in their sleep…?" you murmured, a dumb little smile dancing on your lips. "Like, seriously. You’re basically a muscley teddy bear."

Your fingers traced soft circles against his temple as you spoke, and without realizing it, your voice started getting louder.

"And your arms, god… do you even know how safe I feel here? Like a bulletproof capsule but hot! And that pout, Katsuki. You're literally huggable. Unbearably adorable. You’re my weakness. I wanna crawl into your hoodie and never come out."

The body beneath you tensed just a bit, like a tic. You didn’t notice.

"Sometimes I catch myself thinking about how you act all tough and grumpy all the time, but then you go and do stuff like… grab my hand when we cross the street, or fix my helmet on the bike even when I say I know how to do it. How the hell am I not supposed to be hopelessly in love with you, dumbass? How am I not gonna wanna bite your face from loving you so damn much?"

At that moment, one of his eyebrows twitched and one of his cheeks lit up, coloring with a warm red that didn’t match the whole 'stoicism' he was trying to keep up.

"Katsuki… you awake?"

Silence.

"You’re faking it," you accused softly, laughing under your breath.

"Tsk… shut up," he growled suddenly, voice hoarse and rough with sleep, but unmistakably embarrassed.

His eyes were still squeezed shut, his whole body stiff like he could physically ward off the affection crashing down on him. His hand twitched at your waist.

"Shit… what are you even sayin’, dumbass," he mumbled, half into the pillow now. "You’re gonna give me a fuckin’ heart attack."

He finally exhaled hard through his nose, like he was trying to shake something off.

"How the fuck d’you expect me to sleep with all those cheesy-ass declarations raining down on me?"

"Sorry, I’m a yapper when I get excited," you said, covering your mouth like it could somehow erase all the love-drunk nonsense that had just spilled out of it.

Bakugo groaned under his breath, clearly flustered beyond repair. He rolled onto his side, wrapping both arms around you and burying his face into the crook of your neck.

"Can’t believe I’m in love with such a damn menace," he muttered, the words muffled but real.

Still, his heart was beating faster than normal. You felt it. So did he.

And as you hid your face in the warmth of his skin, giggling in sheer embarrassment, he opened his eyes just for a second, gaze unfocused on the shadowed ceiling.

"Fuckin’ hell… I wanna bite you too, with how goddamn much I love you."

But he didn’t say it. Not yet.

Content @ghostlycamil4 2025. Do not copy or modify.

[cvntybrat]

stand by me

you and kento aren't too far apart in age. kento being just about three years older than you, you two grew up around the same things–more or less.

something you really valued within your relationship with kento was how much of an old school lover he was. from randomly bringing you flowers when he came home from work, to wanting to make sure you were taken care of in every way, shape and form.

you two are out for some errands? he'll be carrying the bags before you could even touch them. about to walk through a door? don't worry about all the germs on the handle because kento will open it for you. at a restaurant and you're about to pull out your own seat? don't even bother. kento's already pulled the chair out, waiting for you to sit down.

he's the dictionary definition of 'gentleman'.

the point is, nanami kento, is an old school man.

when you first met him, you vividly remembered how much he loved collecting vinyls and record players. they started off as jazz and a bit of classical–soon, they became love songs. he only started collecting vinyls about love songs a few months into your relationship. down the line during the relationship, you remembered asking him a silly question,

"what if you grow old and–like die? would you be afraid?"

and you remember him telling you,

"hm, i'll have to come back to you on that one."

that was eight years ago. now the two of you were in your mid to late twenties.

the two of you had just moved into a new home. a four bedroom house, which the two of you had spent almost two weeks unpacking and you were finally getting to the final stretch of the last few boxes.

you had gotten to your childhood boxes that you haven't seen since you had moved out of your parents' home–when you had spotted something familiar. something you haven't seen in a very long, long time.

"ken, look what i found."

"yes, my love?"

you were holding a vinyl by ben e. king that kento had given you when he asked you to be his girlfriend. it was leaning against all of the other little trinkets and stuffed animals he's given you throughout your teen years. the vinyl case had your name in his writing, and at the bottom it said,

'no i won't be afraid, just as long as you stand by me.'

"would you look at that."

"you think it would play?" you ask, but before you could even get an answer, you stand up abruptly making kento sputter out worries which you, unfortunately, ignore. you place the vinyl down on the record player sitting on a shelf nearby, as kento stands behind you, his grip gentle on your hips, but steady.

eventually, 'stand by me' by ben e. king starts playing. the soft, yet scratchy sound of the music brought back so many memories to the two you. you turn around, his hands loosening, but never letting go of you.

"are you still afraid?" you teased.

"no. you're still beside me," he bends down kissing your heavily pregnant stomach. "and so will they."

notes: oh my god. this lowkey made me feel some type of way im not gonna lie. BROOOOOOOOOO MY CHEST HURTS

update: reread this and this is still gutwrenching im sobbing

⋆cvntybrat 2025. DO NOT repost, copy, translate or steal any of my works.

[unhakies]

Okay hear me out college au taesan who goes to school for music and gets partnered of with reader to make their own song. Like he’s a little shy and introverted but then sees readers passion for music that he falls for her and it like he’s continuously only able to come of with lyrics for a love song as they get to know other more. He tries to hide it but seeing someone LVOE music like him gets him down bad and there’s a huge confession from being jealous but it’s like poetic and just cutsey

Omg sorry this is so much:’)

between the lines. k. woonhak

pairing: musicmajor!taesan x musicmajor!reader

genre: oneshot, romance

wordcount: 1.705k

notes — nothing is ever too much this is so cute i hope its what you wanted🥹💗

taesan didnt do well with group projects. he liked quiet, and group work was the opposite.

so when he heard this project worth most if his mark was a group project, being mad would be an understatement.

the professor clapped his hands, gaining the attention of the students who chatted excitedly. "this final project will be a composition between you and your partner. pairing are on the screen. also, you get extra marks if you preform the song at the end of the year festival."

you blinked at the screen then looked around, han dongmin, who didn't know him? he was known for his amazing composing skills.

you walked towards him after finding him through the chaos of the class. "han dongmin right? im name." you gave a smile and a small nod.

"right, it's nice to meet you."

you met in the music room the next day. taesan brought his guitar, and you brought your mini keyboard.

"so what vibe are we thinking" you asked, glancing at him. "mh, i'm not sure. i tend to give for more mellow vibes."

"let's find a middle. we can find something together." you smiled.

we. he liked the sound of that

he strummed random strings, trying to find the right melody. "wait! play that again." you looked up with stars in your eyes. he raised an eyebrow but nevertheless played it.

you clapped like you win the lottery and write something down and then hummed a melody, whispered some lyrics, and thats when taesan knew it,

he was done for.

a few weeks later, taesan was stumped. the project was going good—great if anything. but he kept writing lines, and they started to look familiar, like they were about you.

"i met a girl with stars behind her eyes she sings like she’s chasing the sky and i can’t write a song that doesn’t sound like loving her"

he couldn’t use them. obviously.

but every time you laughed over a dumb harmony or leaned in to fix his timing, he felt another lyric bloom in his chest.

you weren’t even doing anything. you were just.. being passionate. earnest. alive with music.

and taesan was absolutely, totally down bad.

taesan wasnt the jealous type. if anything, seeing other people get stuff is motivation for him to keep pushing.

but today was different. but it started like any other;

you sprawled on the floor, notebook hovering over your face as your tongue poked out of your mouth in focus

he smiled before you even saw him.

“morning,” you chirped. “i brought snacks.”

he sat beside you, accepted a pouch of dried mango you offered, and began tuning his guitar while you rambled about tempo and bridge transitions.

you both knew the demo deadline was coming up. but still, there was no rush. you liked to linger.

until the knock.

the door swung open mid-harmony. taesan’s fingers stilled on the strings.

“hey,” said minho, leaning against the frame like he owned the building. “heard you were in here, name”

you brightened. “hey! what are you doing on this floor?”

“jazz room got booked, thought i’d come snoop. that song you played last showcase, it was sick. you working on something new?”

“actually, yeah. this duet project with taesan,” you said, nudging him gently with your shoulder.

minho glanced over, boredly, and nodded once. “cool. you guys sound good.”

taesan managed a small, polite smile.

“wanna hang sometime?” minhi added. “i've got this beat that i need help on.”

you laughed, warm and casual. “sure, i'm down. text me?”

“bet.”

and just as quick as he came, he was gone, but the air didn’t go back to normal.

not for taesan.

he strummed a few bars quietly, but his thoughts were racing ahead of his fingers.

he knew it was stupid.

he knew you weren’t his. that you could hang out with anyone. that minho wasn’t doing anything wrong.

but something about the way your smile lingered. the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you said “text me” like it was nothing.

taesan wasn’t used to jealousy. it didn’t sit neatly inside him. it scratched.

“you okay?” you asked after a few minutes, when he missed a beat for the third time.

“yeah.”

“you’re playing faster.”

he paused. “sorry.” you tilted your head. “wanna take a break?”

“no,” he said too quickly. “i’m fine.”

but you weren’t convinced. you set your laptop down, fully turned toward him.

“did i do something?”

taesan’s head snapped up. “what? no, why would you think that?”

“you’re… closed off today.” your voice was quiet. he winced. “It’s not you.” you were silent for a beat. then you said, gently, “then what is it?”

he hated how visible he must’ve looked, but he couldn’t lie, either, not when you asked like that.

"it's stupid." he shrugged it off. "dongmin, nothing is ever stupid, trust me." you spoke, putting a hand over his.

he sighed and spoke, almost too softly “sometimes i think i care more than i’m supposed to.”

You blinked. “about the project?”

“no,” he said, “i don’t know how to explain it. i hear your voice in my sleep. i see your lyrics in my head before i fall asleep. and every time you talk about music like it’s your first love, I just, I want to be part of that. not because of the project. not even because of the music.”

you were staring now. carefully, like he was a puzzle unraveling right in front of you.

taesan looked down, thumb tapping anxiously on his guitar’s body.

“i guess it messed me up a little,” he muttered, “hearing you say yes to minho. like your writing just belonged anywhere. like, it didn’t mean anything special here.”

the silence that followed was weighted, heavy with realization.

you stood up, walked over, and sat down beside him.

“i said yes because i like music,” you said. “but i never said i liked writing with him. when I write with you,” you said, “it feels like the song already knows us.”

and taesan, he didn’t say anything.

he just nodded. held your words in his chest like the ending of a song he hadn’t dared to write yet.

and this time, when he played the next chord it rang clear

"also, call me taesan, okay?" you smiled brightly and nodded at him.

the campus had never looked like this before.

string lights draped across trees. a makeshift stage stood at the far end of the lawn, speakers crackling with nervous energy.

seniors milled around in denim jackets and club hoodies, eyes lit with relief and bittersweet excitement.

you stood behind the curtain with taesan, nerves curling inside your stomach.

the two of you were up next. your original duet. final project. last performance of the year.

and somehow, your last moment to say everything that had been left unsaid.

“you okay?” you asked quietly, adjusting your mic.

taesan nodded, then stopped. “kind of.”

you smiled. “same.”

but then you noticed him looking past you.

you turned, and saw minho, standing off to the side near the sound table, chatting with some other jazz majors.

his eyes flicked briefly to you, and he sent you a casual thumbs-up.

you returned a polite smile. it wasn’t a big deal.

but when you looked back, taesan was already turning away.

you reached out before you could stop yourself, your fingers brushing his sleeve.

“hey.”

he looked at you. something in his eyes felt a little further away than usual.

you lowered your voice. “you're going quiet again."

“i'm fine.”

“that's not what I asked.”

he hesitated.

“do you think i'm forgettable?” you blinked "what?”

“in a room like this,” he continued, gesturing at the stage, the crowd, the buzz of competition, “with everyone chasing the next big thing, do you think i'd stand out to you if we hadn’t been paired up?”

you stared at him. “taesan…” but the emcee called your names. you swallowed the lump in your throat and you stepped onstage together.

the lights were warm.

the lawn had gone still.

and when the intro chords began, the ones you’d spent weeks layering, reworking, shaping like clay, taesan kept his eyes down.

you sang the first verse.

and when he joined you in harmony, it felt different.

like he wasn’t singing with you anymore. like he was singing to you.

then the bridge came.

the part that was never in the original. the part he added at the very last minute. he hadn’t shown you the new lyrics. he just said “trust me.”

and now, in front of everyone, his voice broke the quiet:

“i wrote you in metaphors and hid you in rhymes but no lyric fits right if you’re not between the lines”

you froze, but continued to play the keys.

“you were a chorus before i could name you a melody i was too scared to keep but i memorized your voice like scripture and dreamt of you in every beat.”

you turned to him, fully now.

he looked at you finally and everything that had been simmering for the past few months poured out through his eyes.

“this song was always about you.”

gasps echoed in the audience. but all you could hear was your own heartbeat.

he walked towards you, the background music playing and you stared at him.

and before either of you could overthink it, you closed the space between you and kissed him.

right there on stage. amid the applause, the lights, and the hum of your shared harmony still echoing in the air.

after the stage cleared and the festival turned to night, you and taesan sat beneath one of the trees with his guitar resting between you.

“i cant believe you really rewrote the bridge and didn’t show me,” you teased.

“i was hoping u wouldn’t chicken out,” he said. “i almost did.”

you leaned on his shoulder. “it was the best line you’ve ever written.”

“i meant every word.”

“i know.”

and in the distance, crowds chatting loudly amongst themselves, but it was just noise now.

because the noise that mattered was still playing, quiet and finished , in both your hearts.

regular customers; @sh0dor1 @c1eod1n3

bonedo regulars; @beomev @8makes1atom @prodkwh @woonhakntaesansgf @raccooninii @woonbabie @lvlyhiyyih

[wildflowersandvibranium]

A Morning Of Mending

Pairing: Endgame Bucky Barnes x Girlfriend Reader

Summary: Carrying the weight of his past and his desire to heal , Bucky visits the Starks with his girlfriend by his side to meet Tony Stark’s young daughter , Morgan. He bridges the gap between grief and hope , making ammeds.

Word Count: 2.3k ish

Warnings/Tags: ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP Fluffy but some angst , buckys past mentioned , tony starks death mentions , kissing , and some angsty anxiety and regret from bucky

If i missed anything let me know!

A/N: haiii heres a little something for you!! im writing my epilouge and editing chapters for my series rn but through this in to keep ya fed till next chapter is out June 4th! also but a btw! i dont write during weekends but do almost everyday as i am at home on summer and work from home!! enjoy and see ya later bbys 💖

my masterlist ☁️ REQUESTS AND ASKS ALWAYS OPEN 🌷

The world outside the window of Bucky's car was quiet.

The bright early morning light was just beginning to melt the cool blue of dawn into the start of the day. 

Bucky’s hand gripped the wheel , his knuckles turning white with this grip. 

Beside him , you had your head propped up on your arm as you watched the houses and fields blur by , the soft hum of the engine the only sound for most of the drive.

You could feel the nerves radiating off him and into the car. 

The way his shoulders tensed each time he shifted slightly in his seat. 

He’d barely spoken since you left your guy's apartment , but you didn’t mind. 

Words weren’t always needed. 

You reached over and placed your hand on his thigh , your thumb slowly brushing over the seam of his dark washed jeans.

His breath caught. 

He glanced at you , blue eyes flickering with something , silent gratitude, maybe. 

He took one hand off the wheel and placed it in yours , so your fingers could thread together. 

Metal and flesh , cool and warm. All together grounding

“You okay?” you murmured , your voice soft. 

He swallowed , his gaze dropping to your joined hands , as his thumb now began to run over your knuckles.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. 

His voice was rough , the way it got when he was wrestling with too many thoughts and things all at the same time. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. But… actually being here and about to do it… it’s different.”

You squeezed his hand. “You’re here and moving forward with it. Thats all that matters.”

He didn’t say anything , but his jaw softened just a little. 

You watched him take a deep breath , shoulders lifting and falling with a lengthy exhale.

Then he turned his gaze and attention fully back to the road.

The Stark house was exactly as you imagined it would be. 

There was a wooden fence , a garden full of summer flowers , a neat stone path leading to a dark oak door. 

Bucky parked the car and killed the engine , staring at the house for a long moment. Not moving from his seat in the car.

“Do you want me to come in with you?” you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. 

You could see the war behind his eyes , the part of him that wanted to do this alone and the part that was terrified of what he’d find or be met with.

Finally, he gave a small nod looking at you.

“Yeah,” he said. “I… I don’t think I can do it alone.”

You leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to his scruffy cheek. 

“Then I’m with you,” you whispered.

Bucky took another final deep breath , then reached for the small bag in the backseat. 

You’d seen him pack it that morning—careful , precise, full of a specific intention. 

A few things he’d found and a few he made himself. 

He’d been so focused , his brow furrowed in that way it did when he was trying to be sure he got something right because he had to do this right.

Now he held the brown paper bag like it was the most important thing in the world.

He opened the door , and you both stepped out into the crisp late morning air paired with a breeze.

The walk up to the door felt like it stretched forever. 

Bucky’s steps slowed as he reached the porch. 

He looked down at his hand on the doorknob , metal fingers glinting in the light.

You touched his arm gently. “It’s okay,” you said again, your voice like a balm. “She’s just a little girl. And you’re here to show her that you care.”

He nodded , though his lips were pressed into a thin line. 

Then he knocked. Firm ,  but not harsh.

A moment later , the door swung open. 

Pepper stood there , her strawberry blonde hair pulled back into a high pony , eyes bright but guarded. 

She took in Bucky’s face , then yours , and a small smile softened the lines around her mouth.

“James ,” she said. 

He nodded. “Thank you for… for letting me come , oh and this is my girlfriend.” He began to stutter then gave her your name.

She stepped back , opening the door wider. 

“Come in. She’s in the living room.”

Bucky hesitated for half a second before stepping inside. 

You followed him , your hand brushing his lower back in quiet reassurance. 

The house smelled of fresh bread and vanilla , warm and comforting. 

You could hear the faint sound of a little girl singing to herself somewhere deeper in the house.

Pepper led the way , her steps light but controlled. 

In the living room , Morgan was sitting cross-legged on a soft rug , her toys spread out around her. 

She craned her neck and looked up as you entered , her bright brown eyes curious.

“Hi,” she said shyly.

Bucky took a small step forward. His voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “Hi, Morgan.”

She tilted her head , studying him. “Who are you?”

Your heart clenched at the question.

 Bucky’s shoulders straightened a little , and he knelt down so he wasn’t towering over her. Not wanting her intimated.

“I'm Bucky,” he said quietly. “I… I knew your dad.”

Morgan’s eyes widened a little more.

Instead, she reached for one of the toys at her side a worn pink teddy bear. 

“You knew my Daddy?” she asked.

Bucky nodded. 

His hand tightened on the small paper bag he held. “I did. And… I brought you something. If that’s okay.”

Morgan’s gaze flickered to the bag then to her mom , her curiosity piqued. 

She gave a small , eager nod.

 Bucky swallowed , then carefully set the bag down and opened it. 

From it , he pulled out a small wooden deer he’d made himself, its petals smoothed and painted in soft neutral colors. 

He held it out to her, his hand shaking just a little.

“I made this,” he said. “For you.”

Morgan’s eyes went wide. 

She took the deliacte deer in both hands , turning it over , her fingers tracing the delicate shapes and lines. 

“It’s pretty,” she said , her voice bright with wonder. “Did you make it run?”

Bucky smiled , a flicker of relief in his eyes. “No, but… I can show you how to make it look like it does.” 

He reached out, his metal hand careful as he took the deer back and showed her how to gently move its legs. 

Morgan watched , fascinated.

You stood back , your heart swelling at the sight of them. 

You knew how much this meant to Bucky—how much he’d agonized over this meeting and the regret he had with Tony.

 And here he was , kneeling on the carpet, showing Tony's little girl how to make a wooden deer “run.”

Pepper watched from the doorway , her eyes soft and a little wet. 

She caught your gaze and gave you a small nod , like she knew. 

Like she understood.

She knew of Bucky's story and his past , and was more understanding than her late husband. So when Bucky called after his funeral and told her of him making amends, she had thought this was good for him and his healing.

Morgan’s giggles floated through the warm air of the living room as Bucky showed her how to move the wooden animal , its tiny legs flexing and mimicking movement.

You watched his shoulders relax more and more , the way he leaned forward and let a small , genuine smile bloom across his face. 

It was rare , that smile. 

But it was there now, just for her.

Pepper stood beside you , her arms folded loosely over her chest. 

She had that same small,  relieved smile on her lips , though her eyes still looked a little tired—like she hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in months. 

You turned and reached out , your hand brushing her elbow gently.

“Hey,” you said softly, your voice careful not to intrude. “How are you doing?”

Pepper blinked , as if the question had surprised her. 

Then she let out a quiet breath , her shoulders dropping.

“I’m… okay,” she said after a moment , her voice low. 

“It’s been a lot. There are days that feel like I'm drowning and will be forever. But Morgan and what he left behind it… she keeps me going.”

You nodded, understanding in your chest. “She’s a good kid,” you said. “Strong, like her parents.”

Pepper’s lips twitched , and she looked at you. 

“Thank you,” she murmured. “For coming with him today. I know this can’t be easy for either of you.”

You glanced over at Bucky and Morgan again. 

She was showing him one of her drawings now—bright colors swirling across the page in the clumsy , wonderful way that only a child could manage. 

Bucky listened intently , nodding and asking her questions about the rainbow , about the sun and the little scribbled stick figure in the corner.

“He’s been thinking about this for so long,” you said quietly. 

“He wanted to come alone at first , but… I think he needed to see that it’s okay to share this part of himself , his healing.”

Pepper’s eyes softened , and she reached out to squeeze your arm. 

“I’m glad he has you,” she said. “It’s even… healing, in a way for you, isn’t it? Watching him here.”

You nodded looking at your boyfriend. “Yeah it really is.”

You all fell into a comfortable silence , the kind that didn’t need to be filled with words.

 You both watched as Bucky carefully reached for another small item in the paper bag—a little music box. He wound it up and set it on the floor beside Morgan. 

A soft , tinkling tune filled the room , and Morgan’s eyes went wide with wonder.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

“I thought you might like it,” Bucky said , his voice low and almost shy. 

“It used to belong to someone I cared about. I wanted you to have it, if you’d like it.”

Morgan looked up at him , her doe eyes wide. Then she nodded and hugged the little box to her chest.

“Thank you Bucky,” she said softly. “I love it.”

Bucky’s smile wobbled a little at the edges , but he reached out to pet her hair. “I’m glad kiddo,” he murmured.

You swallowed around the tightness in your throat , feeling the weight of the moment. 

Pepper rested a hand on your shoulder , her quiet presence as steady as your own to his.

The soft melody of the music box still drifted through the living room , filling the quiet spaces between Morgan’s wonder and Bucky’s gentle tone. 

Morgan had settled into an easy rhythm with Bucky , as if they’d always known each other. 

She was now talking about her favorite colors , the tiny braids in her hair bobbing as she shifted from one foot to the other as she stood.

“Do you like red ?” she asked him , holding up a small crayon showing the color.

“I do,” Bucky said, his voice warm and a little husky. “It’s a good color. It’s brave.”

Morgan beamed at that. “I think it’s a hero color,” she said proudly.

Bucky let out a quiet laugh—low and a little unsure, but real. “I think you might be right.”

You could see the way his shoulders aren't  tight at all anymore , the way his hands were relaxed on his knees. 

He was here , truly here , in this soft , safe space with her. And you.

Pepper leaned in a little closer to you , her eyes still a bit glossy as she watched them now discuss how green is a silly color.

“She’s never been afraid of people,” she murmured. “She has this way of seeing the good in everyone. Even… even when they don’t see it in themselves.”

“She’s amazing,” you said softly, your own heart tightening.

Pepper looked at you, really looked, and nodded. “She is,” she said. “And… he’s good with her , with kids. Better than I thought he’d be when he first brought up the idea , if I’m honest.”

You smiled a little at that , watching as Morgan showed Bucky how she liked to arrange her crayons in a rainbow. 

“He needed this ,” you said. “Not just for him , but for her too. He’s carried so much… it’s time he left some of it behind and filled others with hope and joy that was stolen from him.”

Pepper’s lips twitched into a soft , understanding smile. “I think you’re good for him,” she said.

You felt a small flush in your cheeks , but you didn’t look away. “I hope so,” you murmured.

There was a pause then , and Pepper gave your arm one more gentle squeeze before stepping back a little, giving you space as you watched , she retreated to the kitchen.

You took a quiet breath and walked a few steps into the living room, stopping beside Bucky and Morgan.

He looked up at you , his eyes soft , and you reached out to tuck a piece of hair behind his ear.

Morgan noticed the small gesture and looked between the two of you with a curious expression. “Is she your friend?” she asked Bucky smiling up at you.

He blinked , a faint blush rising in his cheeks. “She’s… more than a friend,” he said carefully. “She’s someone I care about very much.”

Morgan considered that for a moment, then nodded solemnly. “She’s pretty,” she said matter-of-factly.

You laughed, your hand still resting on Bucky’s shoulder. “Thank you, Morgan,” you said warmly crouching down next to them.

Bucky’s smile was small but real , his eyes shining as he glanced up at you. “She’s right,” he murmured so only you could hear.

You squeezed his shoulder gently, your touch saying what you didn’t need to put into words. 

You're doing great. 

You’re healing.

You're moving forward. 

I'm proud of you.

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[shariasweet]

fck you better but it's jake x reader standing fuck face to face through the wall and bed👀

s.jaeyun x f.reader

i'm going to be so real with you I have no idea what this means (I'm kind of slow) so i'm just gonna write this out thought wise... rather than drabble wise sorry anon ♥︎♥︎ (edit: I JUST REREAD THIS ANS UNDERSTOOD WHAT YOU MEANT IM SORRY 🫩) warnin𝓰.ᐟ ::: free use • praise + degradation • mild toxic jake who doesn't want you talking to other guys • mating press • hard dom jake only if you squint • mutual masturbation • the slightest mention of dacryphilia and dumbification

now... if we're talking about fucking standing up then i raise you this: roommate jake and free use .ᐟ after your night together you guys start dating (optional... totally up to you) and come to this little agreement. you could be doing the most boring, mundane tasks—in this case, we'll go with something like washing dishes or cleaning up around the kitchen when he comes home and damn.

you just look so good, he physically cannot help himself. "fuckkkk, baby... 'couldn't even wait till i got my shoes off." he's behind you, arms snaking around your waist as he feels you up—hands groping at your chest or lightly squeezing your neck whilst he leaves marks trailing from beneath your ear all the way to your collarbone.

he mutters soft little curses, apologizing for being so rough (even though he doesn't mean it cause you both know that's how the two of you like it...) and he's clumsily unbuckling his belt, pants pooling around his ankles as he pulls himself out.

he's already hard. he's been thinking about this all day and you look so perfect :( you can hardly register anything before he's tugging your shorts to the side and sliding into your cunt. "yeah?" you're gasping, "'missed you s'mcuh." jake's all huffing into your ear, groaning about how you have 'the best pussy ever,' and how your 'molded for' his cock—only he can fuck you like this. "god, l-look at you… my perfect girl, t-take it sosososo good, baby." it's really obscene; the skin on skin, slapping as he drags himself out only to harshly thrust back in... burying himself to the hilt, slick lathering around the base of his cock.

on the other hand, if we're still into that typical 'fuck you better' au dynamic... then he's totally competitive .ᐟ jake can hear you touching yourself—hell, you're so loud, he'd be surprised if the neighbors couldn't hear your pornographic mewls through these thin, thin walls. he doesn't mind, of course. he's a pervert. if anything, this is just more material for his spank bank—it's when he hears foreign voices he gets curious...

because..? are you... watching porn? he really does think it's awful cute, however, you should know by now, he gets you off the best. what's the need for useless x-rated videos when you've got him just one room over? he laughs to himself—taking it as a sort of challenge.

the next time you begin touching yourself, before you can even whip out your laptop you hear it. you hear him. your phone pings...

S/JY: that video you're watching S/JY: he better not sound better than me. 10:47 PM

on the other side of you, jake's fisting his cock, tugging it sore as he waits to hear your soft little whimpers come echoing through the inch of drywall separating you... and they do, they come loud and clear. he can practically see you everytime his eyes squint in pleasure. he imagines you all worked up—flushed, with your back against the wall as you thrust two pathetic fingers into yourself with your jaw hung, slack-open.

you're basically fucking yourselves together. so in his mind, he's practically still the one making you cum—still, the one who's fucking you best, making you cry his name when he's feet away, not even touching you for real at all. and if you're feeling embarrassed the next morning? well, you will be—there are no if's.

jake's all in your face, "you couldv'e just knocked on my door, porn watching is a nasty habit." "you were thinking about me, right?" "I could hear how wet you were through the wall."

and lastly, don't let him get too riled up.

jake's easily jealous .ᐟ even if he is just your roommate, don't you know that y'all are so much more? if not, it's fine because he'll just remind you. "you really 'wanna talk to other guys? go ahead..." he's already undressing you with his eyes. "i’ll fuck them right 'out of your system, baby." he'll get you folded into a mating press, his arms strongly holding onto the headboard as he fucks into you relentlessly, using all his strength. he takes deep, hard strokes. "cry for me, sweetheart. that’s it. that’s my good girl." the whole time his hair's a mess and his glasses are all fogged up :( he's practically drooling from how good it feels.

you can feel his tip brutally assaulting your cervix and all you can do is babble incoherently because it feels too good for you to even think. which is what he wants... if your brain isn't foggy and your eyes aren't glossed over, he's not doing a good enough job. though, luckily for you he has pretty strong stroke game. I mean he's drilling into you so hard the headboard is banging against the wall and you're seeing stars.

[aventurineswife]

This is more self indulgent so you don’t have to write about but uh imagine living a shojo manga life with dan heng

Ever since I made a valentine art pierce of high school au with dan heng im like thinking of so many scenarios

Like… reader and dan heng are in the same class and reader REALLY likes dan heng ever since he started tutoring them for one of their classes and they started to hang out with him after that. However they don’t think Dan Heng is the type to be into romantic stuff so they often hide it and is just satisfied by being dan henf’s friend. What reader doesn’t know is that dan heng is as equally pining for us and whenever reader looks away he just blush so hard he crunches down behind a Linsey shelf to compose himself. I should also mention dan heng wears glasses here.

One random afternoon during lunch in an empty classroom, he confessed and they had their first kiss in that classroom (idk the moment is just… wholesome).

Now they go on study dates :3 be it at the library, empty classroom, cafe, or at one of each other’s houses.

I’m such a wimp for dan heng ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´ω`ﾟ)ﾟ｡

“You Were the Answer to Every Question I Didn't Ask”

Summary: You’ve had a crush on Dan Heng ever since he started tutoring you, but you never thought he was the type to be into romance. Satisfied with just being his friend, you keep your feelings hidden—unaware that he’s been just as smitten with you. One afternoon in an empty classroom, everything changes when Dan Heng finally confesses. From that moment on, study sessions turn into study dates, and you both slowly learn what it means to be in love.

Tags: Dan Heng x Reader, Fluff, High School AU, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, First Kiss, Study Dates, Soft!Dan Heng, Shoujo Manga Vibes, Friends to Lovers.

The first time you noticed Dan Heng, he was sitting in the corner of the library, completely absorbed in his book, adjusting his glasses every now and then as he read. He was quiet, distant even, but somehow, that only made him more intriguing.

You weren’t the best at one of your subjects—let’s just say math wasn’t exactly your strong suit—and when your teacher suggested tutoring, you hadn’t expected Dan Heng to be the one assigned to help you. At first, you thought he might find it a hassle, but he never complained. He would patiently go over problems with you, explaining concepts in a way that actually made sense, his voice always calm and steady.

That’s when it started. The crush.

It wasn’t anything dramatic—just small moments, like the way his expression softened whenever you understood something, or how he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose when he was deep in thought. Little things that made your heart beat just a bit faster.

But Dan Heng wasn’t the type to be into romantic things, was he? He was always composed, always in control. You didn’t think he was the kind of guy who cared about love confessions or cute couple things. So, you hid it. If being his friend was all you could have, then that was enough.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

One random afternoon, the two of you ended up in an empty classroom during lunch. You had been reviewing for an upcoming test, your notebook open in front of you, but honestly, you weren’t focusing. Not when Dan Heng was sitting beside you, sleeves rolled up slightly, glasses sliding down his nose as he wrote something in his own notebook.

Your mind drifted—what would it be like if he liked you back? If he looked at you the way you looked at him?

“[Name].”

You blinked, realizing he had been staring at you.

“Huh?”

His gaze flickered away for a moment before he let out a quiet sigh. “You’ve been staring at me for a while.”

You felt your face heat up instantly. “I—I was just—”

Before you could come up with a reasonable excuse, he closed his notebook and exhaled. He looked almost nervous, which was rare for him. You weren’t used to seeing him like this.

Then, in a voice quieter than usual, he said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

You tilted your head. “What is it?”

Dan Heng hesitated, pushing up his glasses as if gathering his thoughts. Then, in the next moment, he spoke, his words careful but certain.

“I like you.”

You froze.

It took a second for your brain to catch up, to process the words that had just left his mouth.

Dan Heng liked you?

Your heart skipped several beats, and your mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. Meanwhile, he looked away, his usual calm demeanor betraying just a hint of nervousness.

“…You don’t have to answer right away,” he murmured.

That’s when you realized—he thought you didn’t feel the same.

Before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand. “I—I like you too.”

His head snapped up, and for the first time, you saw his composure crack completely. A soft pink dusted his cheeks, his lips parting slightly in surprise. It was endearing—so much so that you didn’t think before leaning in.

The kiss was soft, tentative. Just a brush of lips, but enough to make your heart feel like it was going to explode.

When you pulled away, you could see the way Dan Heng’s ears had turned red. He looked down, one hand subtly gripping the edge of the desk as if grounding himself.

You let out a small laugh. “You’re blushing.”

His gaze flickered to you, then away again. “You were staring first.”

You smiled. Maybe he wasn’t as composed as he always seemed.

From that moment on, everything changed.

Your study sessions turned into study dates. Sometimes at the library, where he would let you borrow his notes (which were somehow neater than the textbooks). Other times at a café, where he would quietly push his dessert toward you, pretending he wasn’t in the mood for sweets when in reality, he just wanted to share.

Once, you even ended up at his house, where he awkwardly made you tea before pulling out his books. You couldn’t focus much that day—he looked way too cute wearing his casual glasses, sitting beside you in his hoodie, quietly reading while you tried (and failed) to actually study.

He still wasn’t the type to openly do romantic things, but he had his own way of showing affection. Like how he’d wait for you after school, even if he didn’t say much. Or how his fingers would linger just a little longer when he handed you something. Or how, whenever you looked away, he’d quietly push up his glasses, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he watched you.

And maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one who had been pining all along.

[sahrberrii]

hi!

i’m filled with so much anxiety writing this i don’t even know how to start this but i think my time on tumblr is officially done 🤏🏻

i’ve enjoyed writing till it kind of felt like a chore, and i say kind of because every piece i’ve posted here was crafted with so much love, and i hope i was able to convey that even by a little. butttt that being said, writing has not been feeling the same for me, over the last 2-3 weeks you can see that i’ve been posting way less and i feel like that was a sign, so i’m here to say i outgrew my tumblr phase and that im gonna quit.

i’ve written something like this previously and came back, but this time i don’t think i will because,,,i genuinely think i outgrew this and im aiming way higher this time so i hope one day i’ll be able to write something worthy of sitting on your bookshelves.

thank you for allowing me to write, to be part of your fandoms, to express myself and thank you for enjoying what i write. every small interaction meant the world to me so thank you so much. and in turn, i hope i made your tumblr experience better even by the slightest.

i reassure you this time that this decision has come after weeks of thinking and it wasn’t a kind of spur of the moment decision like last time. i took so much time thinking about it and i hope you understand where im coming from.

i hope i (and iwa bc saiwa) become a good memory (hey this is a bit dramatic but pls allow me to be) and i’d like to say again: thank you for everything tumblr.

with a lot of love and a lot of foreseeable yearning in the near future,

sahri

p.s. sorry for whoever i’ve been ghosting i wanted to make a decision with no bias and yeah, im happy with my decision so thank you for being patient.

[x-prettyboy-x]

Ooo could you possibly do something with Erik x male!reader, I just think this man experiencing gay panic would be delightful, possibly tattooing/piercing reader and he keeps fumbling/dropping things because he’s distracted and making a fool of himself :] - 🐺

Ty in advance <33

Distracted

Anon, I love your mind. This request is so fuckin cute and I love it. But I must admit, I feel I dropped the ball on this one, I hope you enjoy it at least a little nonetheless🫶🏻 edit: guys im working on a part 2, but its probably gonna take me a while because the idea of writing smut STRESSES me out, so bare with me

Pairing: Erik Campbell x Male!Reader

Warnings: none, just descriptions of a piercing.

Contents: Erik in down right gay panic, that's it.

Wc; 1.3k

Erik was stuck closing, again. He hadn't had a client in 2 hours, and he was about to lose his mind. He'd cleaned the tattoo chair more times than he could count, just wanting something to do with his hands. Changed his playlist at least 5 times, no song seemed to fix his boredom.

Until you walked in. Now Erik had plenty of guys walk into the shop, sure. But not like you. Most of the guys walking in here wanted some ugly ass patriotic tattoo that he hated drawing up and putting onto someone's skin forever, or guys wanting their girlfriends name that they'd come back and ask him to cover up in a few weeks. You didnt look like any of those guys.

Erik stood up from where he sat on the stool behind the counter, slamming his knee on the glass in the process. Fuck. He quickly leaned against the counter and tried to play it off, ignoring the throbbing pain in his knee as you approached the counter.

"How can I help you?"

You'd given him a smile and hummed like you came in here with no idea what you wanted, just knew you wanted something. "Im thinking of getting my tongue pierced. Been too long since I changed something."

"Hot." He'd meant to think it, not say it aloud. Now he felt like an idiot. "I mean like hot for the ladies- you know? Girls love that shit, right?" He cleared his throat and mentally cursed himself, "Anyway, let me see some ID, And I'll have you fill this out for me and we'll get started."

He slid a clipboard your way, the usual paperwork so he didnt end up getting sued by some idiot who didnt know what they were signing up for. Not that he thought you were an idiot. He thought you were the most intriguing person he'd ever seen.

You slid your ID across the counter and took the clipboard from him, smiling as you did, "Yes but no. Girls arent the ones I'm trying to impress." Oh. Oh. He had to think about something else. Anything else. Anything but the fact the most gorgeous guy he'd ever seen confirming he's into other guys.

You thanked him quietly and moved to sit in a chair and fill everything out. After looking over your ID, Erik walked over to clean the tattoo chair once again, even though he knew he didn't need to since he'd cleaned it too many times already. He just needed something to do to avoid staring like a creep.

You handed him the clipboard once you'd finished filling everything out, clearly this wasn't your first time. Judging by how quickly you'd filled it out. Now he was dying to know what other piercings you had, none he could see. Belly piercing? Nipple piercing? Or.. no. Can't think about that shit rightnow.

Erik nodded and put the clipboard aside for now, double checking he had everything set up. "Alright, sit down for me." He sighed, sitting on his stool by the tattoo chair and putting on his usual latex gloves. Unfortunately for him, he had to get up close and personal now. Great.

He watched you sit down in front of him and tried his hardest not to stare, no matter how much he wanted to. Wanted to admire the flawless being in front of him. Had to be professional. He took a deep breath and slid his stool closer, slamming one of the wheels into the tray beside him in the process, too distracted by your presence suddenly so close to him. "Fucks sake- I'm sorry, those late nights you know?"

He adjusted the tray and sighed, turning his attention back to you, freezing as he noticed the look on your face. Like you were trying your hardest not to laugh at him. He gave you a playful scoff and leaned back a bit, "I'm about to put a needle through your tongue and you're laughing at me. Wise choice". Not that he really cared, you had a nice smile. If him being an idiot is what it took to see it, then so be it.

"I'm sorry, I can't help it. You just seem so nervous, if I didn't know any better I'd think you've never done this before." Your tone was teasing, you weren't actually accusing him of anything.

"Me? Nervous? I'm never nervous, just tired. This is the third time this week my boss has called me in and failed to mention I'd be closing up." He used that usual flat, almost bored tone he used with his clients. But he wasn't bored. Far from it. "Alright, stick your tongue out for me so we can get this done for you."

As you stuck out your tongue, Erik grabbed his pen and marked the spot to make sure the piercing was centered, before grabbing the clamp and lining it up and grabbing the needle.

"Alright deep breath in, 1 2.." He put the needle through and tried to ignore the small sound that escaped you, tried to ignore how he wanted to hear it again. In his ear maybe. "3.. good boy." Again, he meant to think that. Not say it, he'd meant to say good job. Once again, he looks like an idiot. Or a creep. He'd rather be an idiot. He made a mental note to think before he speaks more often.

He ignored the embarrassment for now and moved to put the jewelry in and slide the needle out, dropping it into his jar to be disposed of later.

You closed your mouth as he finished the piercing, trying to get used to the feeling of the metal bar in your mouth. "Good boy, huh? You say that to all your clients? Or just the ones who make you nervous?" That teasing voice again.

Erik shook his head, pulling off his gloves and throwing them away. Fine, if he wants to tease, so can I.

"No. Just you."

But you didn't miss a beat, of course not. "Yeah? I like the sound of that. I like when hot guys call me good boy. Especially with a voice like yours."

Oh. Wow, okay. He wasn't expecting you to come back that strong. Erik wasn't sure why he felt this way, he'd never felt this way about a guy before. Not really anyway. He'd kissed a few guys in the past just because someone said he wouldn't. But it wasn't.. in a romantic way- it was just to be funny. But the things he wanted to do to you were far from funny.

He got up to grab your ID from the counter and handed it back to you, ignoring the fact his hands were slightly shaking. "Then you should come back and see me sometime."

You smirked, putting your ID back in your wallet and pulling your phone from your pocket, unlocking it to open your contacts and open a blank one, handing it over to him "Or you could give me your number and I can come see you after you close up and go home?"

Oh fuck. Okay, Erik you got this. This is just a hot guy asking for your number. No problem. Nothing you cant handle.

He tried to keep his cocky attitude, taking the phone from your hand and putting his number in, being extra careful as he handed it back, terrified he'd drop it. "I look forward to it."

You'd just saved the contact and smiled, putting your phone back in your pocket and finally getting up, walking over to the door to leave after putting what you owed him on the counter, "Yeah, me too."

Erik let out a scoff of disbelief as you left, "I look forward to it? Who the fuck says that? Idiot, idiot.."

He started his process of closing up shop, cleaning everything and making sure everything was in its place. Totally not checking his phone every few seconds to see if you'd texted. Not at all.

Right as he was locking up and ready to drive home, he felt his phone go off in his pocket and he practically tripped over himself to check it, almost dropping his phone in the process.

Unknown number.

"Let me know when you're home"

Erik had never driven home so fast in his life.

[fushitoru]

hi how do you get over your work not getting engagement? it’s been a little disheartening writing and not getting the engagement i see others get (not that they don’t deserve) i just feel bad

okay so i feel very strongly about this and have a lot to say on this matter, but i will first start by saying how much i relate to this.

my first work (i removed it from my masterlist bc i was embarassed abt it) didn't even break 1k notes and the only comments i got were "p2??" UGHHH. you guys dont know how happy i was when bridgerton!gojo got 2k likes i was freaking out :')

to this end, i felt like i needed to write more smut / post fics more frequently / follow a certain "trend" of writing.

and i did that! i will admit i hate everything i wrote for kinktober except for spiderman!gojo, but i wrote them bc i thought that's what would get me likes and engagement! short, porny content <3

then, i wrote a long fic (spiderman!gojo). it blew up and it wasnt something purely porn. it was somthing i agonized over, i wrote the plot mostly at 4am in my feels, and, in the end, i had a lot of fun writing it.

all this to say, i've been there. but now i think differently.

before, i think i was treating my work like fast food or fast fashion. i should write it fast and it should be trendy / in demand. writing wasn't a hobby because i didnt enjoy writing if i didnt get notes. im not saying that's what i think you are doing, but it's definitely what i was doing.

this...is not normal. it's just a phenomena i see on tumblr, and it's kind of weird. it's also the reason why i haven't been reading much jjk x reader fanfic lately.

regardless, i honestly think the only solution to gaining more engagement + enjoying writing is to write more. i didn't enjoy writing fanfic in the beginning; i struggled a lot to piece together words and struggled with characterization. over time, my skill grew and now i can characterize gojo really easily. it's that feeling of being inspired to write what you want and a story that ur excited about that beats any like count.

i never had to struggle to get people to discuss my ideas; i've joined a lot of jjk author discords, where i get to brainstorm with other people on both my and their stories. writing alone is not fun. you're just going to be stuck with looking at the likes as a measure of how much other people enjoyed your work.

comparison is really the thief of joy. another thing that helped was to remind myself that im not competing with anyone here / or getting graded. if i got stuck on how many likes i was getting vs other people, writing fanfic would be no different than work / school. it's a hobby!!! it's not serious so have fun and get validation for ur ideas <3

[tobesolnelyx]

getting backshots from natalie or fratboy nat PLSS and like she's mean, kinda mean but at the same time sweet w her gf if thats make sense PLS ILL GIVE U MY NONEXISTENT FIRSTBORN CHILD IN RETURN CUZ UR WRITING IS SO PERFECT IM IN LOVE

THANK U but i think that nonexistent firstborn might be a little violent 😭😭

NSFW - MDNI

thinking about fratboy!nat that fucks you lazily. she takes her time, her thrusts are slow and precise, stroking your g point just right. she holds your hips with one hand, smirking at the way your whole body moves. the pathetic little sounds you make, how you moan with each smash of her hips.

in the other hand she holds cig, savouring the taste on her tongue, smoking like she has plenty of time and her girlfriend isn’t a whiny mess on all fours in front of her.

the whole room smells like sex, cigs and weed. your head is spinning both from the way her dick stretches you out and few beers you had hour ago. skin slaps on skin, and you can barely keep yourself upright.

the thing is, nat is doing it on purpose. she knows you need faster, harder. she won’t cum like that either. but she likes to tease you, overstimulating you, making you beg for her and her throbbing cock. until there’s nothing but this whiny, squirming mess, crying out loud.

she buries herself to the hilt and grinds inside you, hitting spot you didn’t even know that is possible to hit. you moan loudly, and she shove you down the mattress. you whine, so she slaps your ass.

“can you be quiet for once?” she asks with low voice, it would sound harsh if it weren’t for the amusement in her voice. she rubs your hips like she’s trying to say sorry for being so rough with you. “you know what to do,” she murmurs.

“please,” you whimper like on a command. “nat, please i need…” your words are cut off by sharper thrust, your legs are trembling.

“keep going,” she says. she throws mindlessly her cig to the ashtray, now both of her hands are on your hips, keeping you up for her dick. “use your words, you’re always so mouthy,” she grins and lean to press kiss on the small of your back.

“faster,” you manage to choke out. “harder, please, nat i—“ you try to beg her even more, making yourself sound even more pathetic, but she finally, fucking finally, picks up a pace.

you cry out from relief and pleasure, gripping sheets tightly. as if it would help you to hold yourself together. “yes! god, yes…” you start babbling and she laughs, but not mockingly.

“feels good?” she sighs, feeling how tightly you start to squeezing her cock. she leans forward, and before you can register, your stomach is pressed against the sheets as she fucks you.

“so good,” you whine in the pillow, knuckles white from gripping anything you can reach. “don’t stop…fuck! please…”

she doubles her effort, smashing her dick inside you harder and faster, practically pounding you to the mattress. she kisses back of your neck, bites gently your shoulder, and you hear something that sounds like quiet: “my good girl.”

“you can cum, baby,” she says lowly into your ear, and god, you do.

[ghetto-omega]

‎‧‎❀‎✿❀Omegaverse Culture Overview❀✿❀

𑁍 warning.. I am.. African American... Never been outside the US, so I can really only speak on the culture around me. If people wanna weigh in on culture from other places please do. Actually, I'm begging, I'm rolling over, I'm listening please please please please please please please please please please volunteer your own headcanons. 𑁍

This will be a short overview of a lot of things, so it's just gonna be a lot of thoughts and not a lot of depth. However I am planning on actually making an indepth post about each one of these topics.

With that being said...

‎‧₊˚✿Food✿˚₊‧

𑁍just general food headcanons𑁍

The omega stereotype is craving carbs and sweet foods, specifically because of what they're like after heats. Most energy during heat is depleted, so in order to get their stamina back they have to eat all of carb heavy foods

The alpha stereotype is craving tough or crunchy foods, because of their ruts. With biting instincts ramped up they tend to want things that are harder to chew through. It's like the equivalent of putting a live cricket in a spider enclosure because they want the stimulation from hunting their food

Carb and protein filled foods tend to be stocked in most houses. Especially filling carbs. Families are typically very large, with multiple generations all living within walking distance or in the same house. Keeping dense foods stocked is important to keep everyone fed

Pups in particular tend to have slightly stricter diets because their stomach isn't built for handing some foods until at least their preteen years

‎‧₊˚✿Names✿˚₊‧

𑁍naming your children, as well as derogatory names𑁍

I think that people would tend to name their kids after items that smell good, their favorite foods, other family members, plants, and religion

I also think they'd be a fan of situational names as well as generational names

For example, have three kids, one being named Sunday (situational, born on a Sunday), Suzie (maybe a pack members or a family members name), and Sumiya but her nickname is sushi, and all of the names starting with "su" makes the names generational.

You could even expand on that and have all the packs kids names be something like suki, sumirah, summer, summo, ect. Giving you a quite literal generation of names. (<- my family did this ! All the girls names end in "ah" and all the boys end in "en or on")

I can also see a kid being named something like Foxglove, Cedar, Jasmine, or even something like Honey or Teatree, because that's what the parent's mate smells like

I think calling an omega a "slick dripper" or a "slick house" is uhm... Not exactly a slur but it's not something you should say.

I think that married betas and omegas are told they are "Collared". It's typically derogatory, but there are exceptions. I think the alpha equivalent would be "Bitched", which is basically always derogatory

I think some people call betas "baren" or "scentless". Once again, not a slur, but definitely something close to it lol

‎‧₊˚✿Housing✿˚₊‧

𑁍pack houses and their differences𑁍

There's two different notable styles of home. There's a regular house, and a pack house

Pack houses don't have too much of a difference, but they are larger and tend to follow similar layouts. With one floor being taken up with giant meeting rooms and similarly size kitchens, as well as at least one bathroom with either a huge tub or multiple small ones. The upstairs floor(s) tend to house all the bedrooms and a few smaller on suite bathrooms

Some pack houses are essentially just mini mansions, completely with a few different wings of the house all marked by a different meeting room

And the term "meeting room" is also a difference. They're essentially just big living rooms. Why is there a different name, isn't that a bit pretentious? You ask. Bc some guy who thought he was better than everyone else coined the term pack house and decided there needed to be a difference, for some reason

‎‧₊˚✿Families/Packs✿˚₊‧

‎𑁍general pack headcanons𑁍

Big families !!! Huge families even !! Families that take up entire neighborhoods or culdesacs !!

Conversations between kids where they ask how many mom's someone has is common !! Kids ask their parents why their friend gets to have 5 dads but they only get to have 2 !!

Not everyone's parents are romantic !! Some are just part of the same pack !!

In my personal au I use prime omegas and prime alphas, but they're just titles for the leaders of the pack. Even then, modernly they aren't doing much leading. It's more event planning, pupsitting, tie breaking lol, things like that

Your primes do not have to be mates or anything. It's just about who's the most reliable and level headed. Oftentimes, anybody who stays home for most or all of the day falls to this roll by default

‎‧₊˚✿Clothing✿˚₊‧

𑁍a few clothing headcanons𑁍

Collars aren't typically worn outside casually. Typically they have a cause. Whether it's newly weds, protests, covering scent glands, or some secret 4th thing, they typically have a purpose.

Honestly this whole section would need to be it's own post for me to do it justice tbh

Clothes that "trap scent" are pretty commonly worn. They're made of a light but thick fabric that cinches or cuffs around the scent glands and they often comes in matching sets. This is especially common in omega targeted gym wear, but there are sets made for everyone

Nuns also typically wear this type of garment

‎‧₊˚✿Other✿˚₊‧

𑁍miscellaneous headcanons𑁍

Gift giving is very important. Specifically, giving food is very important (I am biased, I am a very food orientated and motivated person). Giving someone food they don't like by accident is alright, but if you know they don't like it, and give it to them? Disrespectful.

So I'm semi familiar with the Christian Bible, I grew up going to church (<- religious trauma haver). You know how a lot of people draw Jesus as white even though he very much wasn't ?? Yeah I think people claim Jesus was an alpha, but he was a beta and there's overwhelming evidence in the Bible to show he was beta and people just ?? Ignore that bc they want to lol

Some people are born with animal features, some aren't. The place you were born in + your parents (and maybe a little plot relevant magic lol) determines what type of features you get. People who live in deserts or next to mountains are often born with horns or scales, while tropical and temperate climates tend to be born with more feathers and furry features

Heat blockers/suppressants as well as rut blockers/suppressants can only be prescribed by doctors. Giving them out or selling them can land you in prison post haste, but they're also so hard to get your hands on that the market of people buying them counterfeit grows everyday, despite the complications and risks

Blockers and suppressants can lead to fertility issues as well as immune issues, particularly in omegas, but don't count out anyone with ruts either, it's just less common. Lots of people on blockers are immunocompromised

Scent/pheromone blockers on the other hand, are much easier to come by, especially because they sell patches right over the counter. Though, if you wanted a much more discreet pill you would need to get those prescribed as well. It is particularly hard for omegas to get them prescribed, as usual

And that's it for now U⁠^⁠ｪ⁠^⁠U

This post is basically just a giant reminder for me to write about these topics in depth. Just a whole lotta surface level thoughts. I also didn't cover weddings, holidays, mating rituals, social climate, etc. so I'll have to do separate posts on those

This took a bit longer than I wanted bc I am uhm. Suicidal lol. And then there's the drake v Kendrick beef and I've been fixated on it. Like I fr don't even like K dot that much I've just always hated Drake fuck that nga !!!

If you see a spelling mistake... No you didn't...

[arsenicflame]

It's a time-honoured tradition- every time Sam comes across Izzy (and Ed) in their travels, he asks Izzy to marry him. And every time, Izzy turns him down.

At this point, Sam is asking more for the sake of it than any belief Izzy will ever say yes, a remnant of childhood dedication touched with 30 years of heartbreak and regret- though even now, a small part of him still holds out hope. Sam's promises have only got more extravagant over the years, from a job as his first mate, to a captaincy, a fleet at his command, a whole fucking island if that's what Izzy wants- but he knows it isn't though, not really. If Izzy was ever going to agree to marry him, to leave his life and go with Sam, it wouldn't be for anything Sam could offer him. Izzy never did care for flashy shows of wealth, for a ship or to be captain. The only thing that ever mattered to him was loyalty given, and loyalty shown in return. 

It all comes to a head after Stede left and came back, after Izzy lost a toe, lost his leg. Sam hasn't seen him since before things with Ed started to really slide off the rails, before stress permanently set into the lines of Izzy’s face. So, when he sees a dishevelled man with a hoof for a leg in a no-name port, he doesn't even consider the idea that he might know him. It's only when he turns towards him, and Sam catches a glance at those oh too familiar tattoos, he realises this is Izzy, his Izzy, that stands before him.

Knowing Izzy's discomfort with pity, he doesn't treat him any differently than he would in years gone by, positioning himself in Izzy's line of sight before approaching and sweeping him up into a bone crushing hug. 

“Israel-goddamn-Hands!” he exclaims, as Izzy grumbles back a begrudging “Samuel-fucking-Bellamy”, a tradition almost as old as their friendship itself. Izzy might not hug him back, but he can’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching, just for a second.

(If Sam holds Izzy a little tighter and a little longer than usual, well. That's his business)

By the time Sam lets go, most of the crew has appeared in the town square, drawn in by the commotion. They may have given Izzy his leg and welcomed him as one of them, but still there’s an underlying tension, with nobody quite ready to set aside everything that happened before the Kraken. Seeing him cosying up to an unknown man sets everyone on edge, unsure whether to come to their first mate’s aid, or to assume that they've been betrayed once again.

When Ed sees that the yelling was Sam, his hand goes tense where it's held in Stede's. He knows the routine, has seen it more times than he can count, but as he watches them part he realises that this is the first time in a long time he's unsure of what Izzy's response will be.

Knowing that something’s different, knowing that Izzy's feeling vulnerable already, Sam doesn't go for the same flashy proposal he’s been giving for years. He doesn't promise Izzy the world, he doesn't cause a scene (or, any more of a scene than he already has, anyway). He looks at the fractured man in front of him, takes his face in his hands, and says the exact same thing to him he said when they were little more than boys. “Israel, I have to ask you. I know what you'll say, but I have to try. Come with me. Marry me and sail away with me. I'll keep you safe”

And Izzy… hesitates. He glances over at Ed, at Stede, and says to Sam “...We’re staying in port for a week. Ask me again then”

That's the moment Sam knows there is something deeply, horribly, wrong. He's not just looking at an Izzy who got seriously injured in a fight and is struggling to cope, this is something so much bigger than that- and that Ed has something to do with it. Izzy wouldn't even be considering leaving if he didn't. Whether it was negligence or something more sinister, Sam doesn't yet know, but he intends to find out.

[penumbra-mayhem]

Snow, Tile, Cloth

Three times Tank bleeds out, inspired by this post.

angst/hurt/comfort // <1k words

(TW: gore, blood, violence, car crash, suicidal ideation)

——————————————

Snow

During Tank’s first Winter Solstice with the Shaw Pack, Gabe decides to rent a series of cabins up in the mountains. Tank’s never been on a pack run before, and they’ve certainly never run in the snow. Excitement overloads their brain. They don’t even realize they’ve strayed from the pack until they’re crying out to no one at the bottom of a ravine. One misstep, one patch of ice, was all it took. Tank lies in the snow for only ten minutes before someone hears them, but in their young, frenzied mind it feels like hours. They remember watching the crimson blood seep from their open leg fracture into the stark white powder and thinking, If I’m not found, will all of me eventually bleed into the snow? 

Tile

The first week Tank returns to Dahlia, they’re jumped. A vamp who’d been wronged by Quinn recognizes Tank and decides to send Quinn a message, thinking they’re still with him. The fight is brutal, both of them fueled by revenge and both underestimating the other. In the end, the vamp runs off, certain his point has been made. Tank somehow makes it back to their apartment and scrambles for supplies, of which there are none. But they can’t call anyone. Nobody knows Tank is back; they have to guarantee the pack’s safety from Quinn before telling anyone. So they settle on stanching their wounds with bath towels and old shirts, scarlet drops splattering onto the white bathroom floor. As they lie there, drifting in and out of consciousness, they wonder: If I die, will they ever be able to get the blood off these tiles?

Cloth

Tank Darlin’ is driving to Sam’s house one night when a coyote runs into their path. They swerve to avoid it and lose control of their bike, spilling out onto the asphalt. Luckily, they’re wearing a helmet, but, despite Sam’s continual pleas to wear proper gear, Darlin’ is dressed in a hoodie and cargo pants. Their body is ripped to shreds. Moving feels like agony, so they just lie on their back, gasping for the air that’s been knocked from their lungs. Eventually they hear a truck approach, it’s rumble familiar. Before they know it, Sam is scooping them into his arms. He’d been watching their location on his phone and noticed they’d stopped. As he heals the acres of road rash covering their skin, Darlin’ tries to push away. They’re staining his white shirt red. As Sam pulls them back in, crying out that he doesn’t care, that they’re more important than a damn shirt, Darlin’ thinks, I want to outlive the blood that spills from me. I want to last longer than the stains in this cloth.

——————————————

thanks for reading!! tags below <3

@lookitseddie & @breezysuffers, since yall seemed maybe interested? (pls ignore this if u weren't tho!)

[breadbartz]

some expressions!! ^_^...

[the-kipsabian]

wrestling fic writers!!

i have decided to be the change i wanna see, so lets do a nice little thing for each other, as a community full of incredible and talented writers. yes this is writer specific only, but thats cause thats where the main problem of people not interacting with creative works lies in this fandom as far as i can tell and have seen people talking about it especially in the last couple of months

if you read this, please add links to your written works. it can be just a single fic youre really proud of, your writing blog, your writing tag, your ao3 account, anything where your works can be found

and if you leave your link here, PLEASE check out someone else that has left their works, and interact with them. leave them a comment, even just a kudos, REBLOG their fic, etc. interacting is the keyword i want to emphasize here, along with building a sort of a masterpost of where to find people writing in this fandom

and if you are not a writer, youre still highly encouraged to interact with this post and share it and show love to the writers in this fandom, obviously!! i think that should go without saying, but adding it in anyways

a bit more about my vision and resources and such under the read more, but thats the gist of it. happy linking and please be kind and supportive to each other!! 💜

nobody is too big or too small to add their things on this list. if you write and post anything in this fandom whatsoever, be it fics or drabbles or headcanons, any companies or any kind of ships or reader inserts or any content whatsoever no matter how 'dead dove dont eat' or hell even if its just meta, we welcome all here and nobody can say that one thing is less valid than another. just please tag your content accordingly, especially if theres content warnings, and feel free to mention what you write, who you write, any info you wish to leave that would help people before they click on your links. but even so, that should not and hopefully will not deter people from interacting, no matter what it is. someones trash is another ones treasure, i promise you

and unless the amount gets really overwhelming, im personally going to be checking out everyone that leaves something here. unless it squeaks me out, but even then, i'll spread the word. and i just wish as many people as possible will do the same, and not just use this as a potential board to only get eyes on their stuff. ofc thats also the point, but you should give as much, if not more, than you get. we need to be kind and supportive of one another (besides, from personal experience, if you show love to someone else, they are more likely to do it back than without you taking the first step, so... pay it forward)

as for resources, heres a few links that should be helpful in leaving comments and feedback. of course everyone does their own thing and no comment is too big or too small to leave, but for those who need them. if you have anything you'd like added to this list, dont hesitate to get in touch or drop it in the post yourself!!

101 comment starters

ao3 floating comment box

kudos html

dont know how to comment? easy solutions

a quick hot guide to commenting (by yours truly)

an overall guide to appreciating fanfic writers

and just in general.. leave people comments. leave them asks about their projects. just go over and gush about their work. i know it sounds embarrassing but writers love nothing more than to hear that someone likes what they are doing. if you find a fic that hasnt been updated in forever, comment on it. it might just be the spark the author needs to continue. while kudos and likes are nice, and just as valuable to some, its definitely in the words the people leave for them that matter the most. im not saying this to put pressure on anyone, its just how it is, and i feel like unless people are writers themselves, and even then sometimes, thats just hard to grasp, especially if the writer is a smaller and less popular one who doesnt get a lot of traffic in the first place

i think thats all. just be nice and considered to everyone, reblog peoples works, this post with others add ons and so forth. and if i find anyone talking shit here or at other writers for something they share, you'll be blocked and im probably taking your kneecaps. be fucking nice. we are all struggling here and we need to stick together

happy sharing and commenting 💜💜