#it would’ve been faster to walk

[suswous]

I love it when you wait half an hour for a bus, which you will then ride for 4 minutes

[luveline]

𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

Spencer calls you drunk and in need of rescue. You confess a few secrets to him while he won’t remember them (or so you think). 3k, fem

cw drunk!spencer, mentioned past drug use, confident/bombshell!reader, flirting, spencer getting some well deserved comfort, a handful of his drunken compliments, insecurity, intense mutual pining

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You’re blissfully sleeping in the arms of a REM cycle when your phone rings. It pulls you by the chest, a punch of shock and expectancy at once. It’ll be someone calling you into work, Hotch himself if you’re lucky. 

You search blindly for your phone. If you’re even luckier, it’ll be a wrong number. Your fingers curl around the little body of your phone and you bring it to your ear without checking the number, frazzled. “Hello?” you ask hoarsely. 

Total quiet. 

“Hello?” You pull the screen away. The caller reads: SPENCER. You pull it back rather than hang up. “Hey, Spencer. Are you there?” 

“Hello.” He laughs. “Hello, are you there?” 

“I’m here, Spencer, where are you?” 

“That’s an interesting question, actually, and I’m sure there’s a great answer, but…” 

“But what?” You sit up quickly, your throat aching with sleep. Your room is black as coal pitch. “Spencer, what time is it, my love?” 

“You shouldn’t call me stuff like that.” 

“Stop being weird and tell me where you are.” 

He laughs like a hyena. You can see it in your mind, his smile and all his pearly perfect teeth. You love it when he smiles like that and he rarely ever does. “I’m somewhere and I need your help getting home!” he says with another funny laugh. 

“Are you alright? You sound…” He sounds inebriated. 

Spencer struggled with his drug problem for so long before you found out. You just hadn’t been around enough, and when you were he’d gotten good at hiding it. You can still remember how furious you’d been with everyone, including him, because you could’ve helped, would’ve done anything to support him through it. If he’s hurting now and hasn’t told you, you love him, but you’ll be insanely angry. 

“Spencer?” you ask quietly. 

“I went for drinks with a girl but she didn’t like me and I may have drowned my sorrows too much,” he admits. “Um. Did you know gin is very strong?” 

“Aw, baby. You’re cheating on me?” 

“I’m afraid so,” he says, and hiccups. 

“Where are you?” 

After some hassle wherein you persuade Spencer to give the phone to someone else in the bar for a slightly less drunk interrogation, you dress and gather your bearings for the drive. You zip a hoodie up over your pyjamas, stuff your feet into some old converse, and set out into the dark to find him. 

He calls you again as you’re parking. “Hello,” he says as soon as you answered. “I need you to come and get me.” 

Spencer called you twice to save him. Even if he doesn’t remember, he’s called you to come and get him when he knows he needs help, and that realisation is hard to ignore. “Spencer, I’m two minutes away, I’m parking. You’re still where you were?” 

“Where was I?” 

“At the bar, sweetheart. Are you still there?” It’s scarily dark out and you didn’t grab any sort of defensive measure before you came, which you regret now, climbing out of your car to walk the dimly lit road. The bar glows like a beacon to be followed. 

“Still where?” 

“Did you hit your head?” 

“Not to my knowledge. Though I’m not sure I have much right now. I feel like I’m forgetting everything I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot. You know I can read about eighty average length novels in one hour on an e-reader? The buttons make it faster.” 

“You haven’t told me that before.” You shiver against the nighttime winds, footsteps heavy on the grey sidewalk. 

“I’m trying to be more conversational. Emily says it’s not working.” 

“You’re conversational. Isn’t the only condition of being conversational to prompt a conversation? We’re always talking.” 

“…What?” 

You laugh like crazy. “Spencer, you don’t need to change the way you talk.” 

“I annoy people.” 

“You don’t annoy me.” 

You approach the door of the bar, a ramshackle sheet of plywood over what looks to be a glass door. The bar building seems in similar dessaray, with modern features wrecked by scratches and smashed panes. It’s a real dive. Spencer couldn’t have meant to come here. 

You war with both hands to open the door and find yourself faced with a long and empty corridor leading to another door. Worried you’re going to get kidnapped, you bring the phone back to your ear, Spencer’s chatting an immediate greeting. “…telling me I’m doing something wrong without telling me what it is, it’s impossible.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, can you come to the door?” 

“I don’t think I have control of my legs,” he says without inflection. 

“It’s definitely the building with the smashed door?” 

“Yesssss. Are you here?” he asks excitedly. 

“I better not get murdered, Spencer Reid.” 

“Am I in trouble?” 

“How are you even keeping the phone to your ear right now?” 

“I’m on speaker phone. Milly showed me how to do it. Say hi, Milly.” 

“Hi Milly,” a new voice says. 

You rub your eyes with one hand and square your shoulders, prepared to defend yourself if the creepy door leads to a creepier room. 

Spencer is immediately visible from the get go. You open the door on to a rather cosy looking bar, which you’re thinking might be the whole point; wretched exterior, secret attraction. Warm orange light ebbs into the space from sconces and a faux fireplace, while a wrestling match playing from the small TV behind the bar casts brighter light down onto Spencer’s shoulders. He looks out of place, dressed in a white oxford shirt and a suit jacket, his tie loosened and hanging from either side of his neck, compared to the lingering patrons who sit dotted around the room in booths and on barstools. One such patron sits in a plaid shirt and a trucker hat, her hair to her back, thick and dark. 

You hang up the call and put your phone in your pocket. Spencer gasps like he’s been smacked and picks his own phone up from the bar, clicking at buttons with clumsy fingers. “No,” he hums sadly. 

“Spencer,” you say, not wanting to disturb the people spending their sorry-looking night here. “Spencer. Hey, Spence!” 

His phone tips between his fingers. The woman you assume to be Milly catches it and offers it back without looking too far from her beer. 

“Hey,” you say gently, crossing a wide empty space to meet him. The room itself is shaped like a horseshoe, the bar taking up a surprising amount in the centre, and booths and tables placed around it. Spencer’s off of his barstool as you approach, eyes like puppy dog’s, arms extended. “You okay?” you ask. 

You can feel eyes on you both from every angle, but it doesn’t matter, not when Spencer’s falling into your arms (or on to them —he’s surprisingly tall when you aren’t wearing heels). “You alright?” you ask again. 

“You don’t have to be worried, I’m fine.” 

He’s less coordinated in real life than he’d sounded over the phone, his slurring unmissable, his hands like jumping fish as he tries to hug you. It’s weird and straining to take his weight but you do it without complaint. He smells the same, at least, only his cedary cologne is sharpened by the tang of gin on his breath. 

“Thank god you’re here,” he whispers. 

“Why?” you ask, pulling away to check for danger. 

“I missed you.” 

“I missed you too, handsome,” you say, genuine but laying it on thick simultaneously as you ease his head back to cup his cheek. You can’t help yourself. He’s the prettiest man you’ve ever met, and it gets worse every year. 

He frowns at you deeply. “I don’t like first dates.” 

“Then don’t go on them,” you suggest, “you don’t need to until you’re ready.” 

“I’m ready for love,” he says. You pull your lips into a flattened line, unsure of what to say, how to explain that it’s waiting for him, but his chin dips towards his neck and his eyes lock onto your face. “You’re not wearing makeup. God, you’re so pretty.” 

You flinch away from him. “Fuck, Spencer.”

“I’m sorry! It’s not that you don’t look pretty with makeup, but I never see you without it!” 

You’d forgotten you weren’t wearing any. Makeup isn’t a shield, exactly, but you like putting your best foot forward, so to speak. You’ve no clue what you look like tonight, hadn’t managed to look in the mirror, you’d been focused on getting to Spencer before he got lost. You can imagine the puffiness.

Spencer touches your cheek. You let him turn you mostly because he’s surprised you, his eyes roving up and down your face with a fawning curiosity. 

“You’re beautiful. You know that already, but people don’t tell you enough,” he says, his hand falling from your cheek. 

“Spencer,” you say softly, “let’s get you home.” 

You thank Milly for her help and grab Spencer’s bag from the floor to hang on your shoulder. You’d make a joke about how heavy it was if you didn’t think he’d take it from you, and, considering how drunk he is, topple over from the imbalance it provides. His shirt is clammy where you push your hand through his arm to link them, his footsteps wobbly. 

“I didn’t want to go on a date,” he says. 

“Then why did you go?” you ask, helping him over the door jam into the long hallway. 

“I don’t want to be alone forever.” 

“Spencer, you won’t be.” It doesn’t feel like the best time to bring up how much you like him. You’re sure he thinks you’re kidding, doesn’t everybody? Don’t torture him, they say. Don’t toy with him. Every time you flirt with him the team acts like you can’t mean it, and for a while it worked for you; you weren’t in love with Spencer. You weren’t playing with his feelings, but you didn’t love him, and then you joined the team and got to know him, watched him fluster at every comment you made or under any soft looking and realised you could love him. It was easy to fall for him. You liked doing it. But now he’s determined to write your affection off as a joke and going on dates? 

In the morning, when he’s sober, you’ll have to tell him how you feel. Or you could let him find someone more like him… ugh. It’s such a mess. 

You grapple with the size of your feelings for him as he hums and laughs his way down the hall to the glass door. On the street, he squints and straightens his back, fighting to regain his arm from your hold to cover your shoulder instead. “It’s cold,” he says in surprise. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine, I got my jacket. It’s a short walk, come on.”

His arm stops acting as protection and starts to use you for support. “I didn’t mean to drink so much.” 

“Drowning your sorrows is always a terrible idea because it tends to work,” you lament, less scared of the dark with him at your hip, though what protection he might offer is negated by the alcohol. 

“She kind of looked like you.” 

You squeeze your eyes together quickly. “Oh.” 

“I didn’t know she was going to. But she didn’t– she didn’t– it’s hard to talk. She didn’t listen like you do,” he says, lightly slurring, “she just stared at me like everyone used to in high school. Like she could tell there’s something wrong with me.” 

“Spencer, there’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I know,” he says. 

“Do you?” 

“Yes.” He frowns. “No, I don’t know. I don’t feel like there’s something wrong with me,” —his voice turns to a nearly indistinguishable mumble— “but everyone else always does.” 

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.” 

“Is that why you make all your jokes?” 

“What jokes, babe?” 

“Like that! Like babe. It’s funny ‘cos you’d never date me.” 

You’d slow if he weren’t already walking at a snail's pace. “That’s not true. Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?” 

“I won’t remember to ask you in the morning.” 

“Spencer, you remember everything.” 

He drags his feet. “I wish I wasn’t so weird,” he whines. It’s playful at the forefront but desperate otherwise, and it gives you pause. “I wish I was normal, and you could like me normal.” 

You look down at your hands, panicking, a flash of Is this a good idea? like an alarm in your head as you turn on the sidewalk to face him. He’s looking at you like he’s begging you to disagree with him. 

You’re happy to. 

“Spencer, I like you like this,” you insist loudly. His eyes and all his sweet lashes track the movement of your hand as you touch your chest, and your neck. “You’re not normal, I’m not normal. Do you know how many times I’ve been rejected? Just for being me? I’m too bossy, too outspoken, too– too high maintenance. I've had friends with good intentions tell me I need to lower my standards, need to relax, because otherwise I’m going to end up alone for the rest of my life. I feel alone all the time.”

“But you’re perfect,” he says, puzzled. 

“To you. And you’re perfect to me.” Your hand crawls to the base of your throat. “So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. You think I’d come and get anybody else in the middle of the night dressed like this?” you ask him, gesturing to your ratty pyjamas and your dingy converse. 

“You look so cute,” he says mournfully. 

You roll your eyes. He’s too wasted for this conversation. “Come on, sweetheart. You can think about this too much in the morning. Let’s just get home in one piece.” Physically and emotionally. 

“Can I come home with you?” he asks. 

That had always been the plan. “Ask me nicely and I’ll consider it on the way.” 

— — 

Spencer shuts his eyes, hands itching to clap over his ears as you scratch the head of a spatula across your frying pan. “Is three eggs too many? People usually have two but that’s never enough for me.” 

“I think…” Oh my god the metal screeching is so loud. “You should have as many as you want. You know your body. There’s this study on intuitive eating…” I'm too hungover for this. “Three eggs is better than two.” 

“So you want three?” 

He cannot eat right now. “Yes. Please.” 

Spencer’s half sick with dehydration and half grief. He stayed at your house last night and he was too drunk to be nosy. He slept in your bed. He slept in your bed. He woke up to you at your vanity doing your hair, the nutty smell of hair oil mixed with the heat of the hair tool on high and realised with a start that he’d missed something he thought about all the time. 

You’d tipped your head back to smile at him. “There’s my boy. Sweet dreams?” 

He didn’t dream, but if he had, it would’ve been another agonising wish where you were his girlfriend, or his wife, or just there looking at him with love. He wakes up feeling sick because it isn’t true. And now you’re making him breakfast, humming a tune under your breath, sourdough sizzling under the grill and a shoddily blended avocado sitting in the bowl in front of him. 

You asked him for one thing. He picks up the fork and starts to mash the avocado again. He can’t fight the foreignness of sitting in your kitchen, a gap in his memory. 

He knows he told you about his date, how she looked like you, how she didn’t seem to like him much, but he’s struggling to collect the finer details. Why had you picked him up? He must’ve called you, but you could’ve said no. He remembers thinking you looked beautiful, but he always thinks that. 

The avocado is making him feel sick. 

“Here,” you say, sliding a plate of toast in front of him. “Do you want butter?” 

“I think I'm gonna throw up.” 

“You’re okay.”

“I can’t believe how I acted,” he says, pressing his palms to the hollows of his eyes. 

You turn off the hob. Fat bubbles and pops until it’s cooled. The clock on the wall by the refrigerator ticks incessantly. His slept-in shirt feels too tight despite the undone button. 

“Hey…” You round the island but don’t touch him, your voice gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He drags his hands down his face. “I can barely remember what I said.” 

“You were really nice to me… told me I looked pretty without my makeup, n’ that I was perfect. You were really nice.” 

Your tone is off. No flirtatiousness, no endless confidence, you sound wistful, like you’re glad he said it. You take the bowl of avocado he’s made a mess with and put it aside with the toast, resting your arm on the counter, and leaning into his space. “Spencer, last night? You didn’t do anything to be embarrassed of. You were nice, and kind. You tried to open the car door for me and you almost lost your eye, but you were fine. You don’t have anything to be worried about, really.”

“But it’s you.” 

“Gonna touch your hair,” you say, giving him enough time to move away as you reach out and rake back his fringe. His heart leaps into his mouth. “You said something last night like that, you know? Do you remember that? You said if you were normal.” You grace the skin beside his eye with the tip of your thumb, your perfume floating his way as you move. “And I said–”

“I’m not normal,” he says, remembering now. 

You’re not normal, I’m not normal, you’d said.

But you’re perfect, he’d said. 

To you. And you’re perfect to me.

“Right. We’re not normal, Spencer Reid, so forget that girl. She didn’t deserve you anyways,” you say. 

You draw a short, silken line down his cheek with the side of your pinky. To be touched so lightly has his stomach in knots —he’s not shocked by the swiftness with which your affection can make a bad situation good again. 

You turn away. “Now we should eat before everything goes cold.” 

He watches your shoulders move, and he remembers one last detail. So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. 

The way you’d said it… you couldn’t really mean…

“How’s your appetite? Still feeling sick?” you ask. 

Spencer smiles to himself, the ghost of your touch glowing warm on his cheek. “I’m feeling a lot better, actually.” 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!!! please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate anything and it always inspires me to write more<3!! my requests are pretty much always open for bombshell!reader (even though this one strays a bit from their usual story haha) so if you wanna see more let me know❤️

[em1989ts]

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟

robert "bob" reynolds x reader smut

word count: 1.9k - masterlist

summary: bob had been helping you out by occasionally doing your laundry, but when you come back early from a mission, you find out he might've had some selfish motives

contents: panty thief bob, kinda perv! bob, m! masturbation, caught in the act, handjob

author's note: i'm so glad i have time to write again, i have so many wips just sitting in my google docs (dw one is survival of the fittest p3), and hopefully i will get them finished soon. i've been completely captivated by bob/lewis pullman for the last month but five hargreeves still has my heart dw

proofread, enjoy!

Years ago, you’d always imagined what it would be like for the Avengers to return to their glorious tower in the middle of Manhattan after a mission. Landing on the side of the sparkling skyscraper in a quinjet seemed like such an inaccessible fantasy when you were just starting out as a lowlife vigilante. 

You never would’ve imagined that years later, you would live that very life you’d dreamed of. 

The mission had gone rather smoothly, so smoothly in fact that instead of returning to the tower by late afternoon, you, Walker, and Ava made your way off the jet about twelve hours earlier than expected. 

Since the task had been completed without casualties and was rather inconsequential, Walker decided that the three of you should wait until breakfast for a mission report with the other avengers. 

“Now you can get back to your boyfriend that much faster, you’re welcome,” he had said smugly to you on the way to your quarters. 

You knew exactly who he was talking about. 

While you were still warming up to living with your new somewhat reclusive and impolite roommates, Bob was different. Yes, he was shy, but he did seem to be the most respectful of the bunch. He had his flaws but that didn’t stop him from trying to be a good person, for his new teammates and for himself. 

Out of everyone, he was the one you turned to the most, the one you felt most comfortable with. You could tell he had grown accustomed to you as well, often finding him spending time reading or napping in your room. Of course, you didn’t mind. 

Knowing how tempted he was to rot in his room, you were glad he could find comfort in your space. Occasionally, he gained the motivation to do the dishes or a couple loads of laundry, anything that would give him a sense of accomplishment, and possibly some praise from you. 

“He’s not my boyfriend, Walker,” you said, exhaustedly rolling your eyes before bidding Ava goodnight as she disappeared into her room. 

“Right, he just does chores for you and follows you around like a lost puppy because he’s just a loyal teammate,” Walker sarcastically retorted as he opened his bedroom door, giving you a smirk before he disappeared for the night. 

You ignored his comment as you made your way to your bedroom, stationed farther down the hallway. Passing by Bob’s room, you noticed the door was slightly ajar, the darkness from the room seeping into the dimly lit hallway.

You stopped in your tracks as you tried to peek in the small opening to the room before walking closer, slowly creaking the door wider to see inside. With a quick flick of the lightswitch on the wall next to the door frame, the room illuminated before you to reveal Bob’s empty bed, sheets messy and pillows scattered.

If he wasn’t here, there was only one place he could be. 

You flicked the lightswitch, darkening the room once again before gently pulling the door closed and continuing your way towards your room. 

Bob had slept in your room many times before, but he had never stayed the night. He would nap during the day while you were downstairs training in the gym or in a conference with the team, since he wasn’t quite ready yet to participate.

Occasionally, you would lie next to him as he flipped through a novel, sometimes asleep from the exhaustion of your work as an avenger, other times awake and admiring his concentrated face as he consumed each page with a deep enthusiasm. 

You approached your bedroom door with caution. The door was completely shut, the darkness and utter silence seeped under the door. An image of Bob flashed across your mind — him laying in your bed, his book still open in his hand, his thumb holding his place between the pages, mouth slightly open as his head lay peacefully on your cotton pillowcase.

Half of you wanted to just let him be and just sleep on one of the many couches in the living room, where several pillows and blankets had accumulated from the team’s movie nights.

The other half of you however was so exhausted from your mission and ached to retreat to your own bed that you didn’t mind sharing it, especially with Bob. 

As quiet and gentle as you could be, you twisted the silver door knob and pushed your bedroom room open. The dim hallway light created a small path of sight in front of you, before it was outmatched by the darkness. You quickly tip-toed into the room and closed the door behind you, the faint click barely audible as the door shut completely. 

The rooms in the compound were quite large – with their own personal bathrooms and a good amount of floor space. 

It took you a while to get used to the new layout, but after some time you memorized it enough to navigate your way to your bed in the darkness. There was a small hallway when you first walked in, and as you calmly walked through, you expected to turn and faintly see Bob, illuminated by the faint moonlight shining through your window, completely oblivious to the world as he lay asleep.

But what you actually found when you turned the corner, well, you definitely could not have expected it. 

Splayed across your bed, wearing a black shirt that lay high on his abdomen, exposing his toned abs, and a pair of grey sweatpants that were tugged down almost to his knees. His eyes were shut tight. Not with sleep, but with devoted concentration. 

You froze in place for a moment, before quietly moving to hide behind the corner of the wall, peeking out of the darkness to witness the scene before you. 

His lip was bitten between his teeth, head thrown back as he worked his hand, stroking himself. You noticed something in his hand as you stared, a familiar pair of underwear you hadn’t realized had been missing till now. 

Now that you thought about it, you had been missing quite a few pairs since Bob had started helping you out with your laundry. 

The soft cotton of your white panties wrapped around Bob’s cock was a sight unexpected, but not unwelcome. 

As he lay in your bed, whines slipping through his teeth, bucking into his fist, you stood quietly across the room.

Your thighs squeezed slightly as you watched him, so needy in your own bed, completely unaware you had come back early to catch him so vulnerable. 

His curls had fallen over the beads of sweat on his forehead, and his pace was growing more reckless. He brought his hand that had been grabbing at your comforter to his face, covering his mouth as his moans became harder to stifle. 

You would’ve loved to watch as he made himself come undone in your bed, but where would that leave you? 

Leaving your hiding spot, you stealthily made your way over to your bed. His eyes were still closed tightly, so he didn’t notice your presence until you spoke. 

“So, that’s where those went.” 

His eyes flew open, looking up to see you looking down at him, and he froze. One hand stayed put around his cock, and the other moved to cover as much of his face as possible, hiding his utter embarrassment. 

“Oh– I’m sorry – I-” 

Bob had no idea how to explain himself. 

Yes, he had been sleeping in your room while you were away on missions. His room was just too lonely and your bed smelt like you. He just felt so much more comfortable surrounded by everything that reminded him of your presence even when you weren’t there. 

Yes, he had taken a few pairs of your underwear from your laundry. He didn’t want to seem weird, he was so afraid of scaring you off. He just wanted . . . some material, and surely you wouldn’t notice just a couple items going missing, right? 

And yes, he had been . . . relieving himself in your room. Again, it smelt so much like you. He had already spent a majority of his time there. He was just too nervous to tell you how he really felt about you, how much he really needed you, craved you even.  He made sure his visits were completely undetectable afterwards, and he always locked the door. Almost always, anyway.  

He was mortified. The one time he realized he forgot to lock the door, there you were, staring down at him in his most vulnerable moment. 

Your hand threaded through his brown locks as you looked down at him. He peeked between his fingers to watch your face – you didn’t seem that upset. 

Your pupils were dilated as your eyes scanned over him, stopping to watch his still hand around himself, before looking back up to meet his eyes. 

“Can I help with that?” 

His eyes grew wide as he groaned, his shoulders dropping their tense stance as his hand dragged down his face, “Please.” 

You motioned for him to scoot over, as he quickly scrambled to give you room. He watched with wide, anticipating eyes as you climbed onto the bed with him, laying directly to the side of him.

With one hand, you turned his chin towards yours, and encapsulated him in a kiss. 

The kiss was smooth, soft, yet he almost embarrassingly whined into your mouth. He finally had a taste of you, and it would be impossible for him to let go. 

His free hand pulled you closer from the back of your neck, as you reached down blindly and replaced his other hand with yours. 

As your thumb carefully brushed over his tip, he moaned through your lips. You kept moving your thumb in slow circles, and he had completely fallen apart. His head dropped into the crook of your neck, attempting to hide his flushed face and you kept working your hand so perfectly around him, especially with your own panties now in your grasp. 

You felt his breathy moans against the skin of your neck as he tried to bury himself into you, tugging you as close as possible as he moved his arm around your waist, bucking into your hand. 

His moans turned into whines as he grew more sensitive by the second, and it wasn’t long before he gently bit into your neck, and spilled all over your fist. He could’ve melted into you as he came, having never felt so blissful in his life. His hips kept shaking until he stilled, no longer able to handle the overstimulation. 

Reaching over to your bedside table, you pulled a couple tissues from their box and gently cleaned him up, as well as your hands, before tossing your panties across the room into your laundry basket.

You admired his face for a moment, eyes closed and mouth left slightly open, as his head lay back against your pillow, before carefully tugging up his boxers as his sweats. 

You thought he had already fallen asleep, as his chest was steadily falling and rising with every breath, however when you went to rest by his side, his arms wrapped around you and pulled you close, resting his chin on the top of your head as you smiled into his chest, a bit more thankful that he’d been doing your laundry.

~~~

[minkieater]

when another member walks in on you ateez ot8 x fem!reader

silly little thing i wrote between clients today

smut below the cut! mdni ↓ dom/sub dynamics, exhibitionism, oral sex, p in v lol, lmk if i missed anything !!

hongjoong ☄️

“shut up slut, they’ll hear you. i bet you want that, don’t you?” he had your face buried in your mattress, drool slipping from your mouth, your ass up in the air where he was relentlessly drilling  into you. 

you moaned, you had stopped caring about your volume long ago, they would hear hongjoong’s thrusts before your moans anyhow. you clenched around him, only making him hiss out and reach over to push your head impossibly farther into the mattress. 

you pissed him off— you got a little too close to wooyoung, talked for a little too long and hongjoong was livid. 

“you want him to hear you, don’t you? want him to hear all the pretty sounds you make? showing off, huh? attention whore,” his words were venom, his lips inches from your ear with how he bent over you, foot planted on the mattress beside your shoulder. 

“are you guys oka— oh shit, i’m so sorry,” hongjoong lets go of your head only for the two of you to snap your faces up to the intruder, hongjoong stilling inside of you.

“what the fuck?” was all hongjoong could get out, a stunned wooyoung in the doorway, his jaw on the floor at the sight in front of him. “wooyoung! get out!” 

“it didn’t sound like you were fucking! i got scared,” you heard wooyoung yell as he closed the door behind him, leaving hongjoong to pick right back up where he left off. 

“don’t think i missed how you clenched around me, whore.”

seonghwa 🫧

seonghwa had you on your knees while he sat on the bed, leaned back on one arm with the other around your ponytail, guiding you up and down his length. 

in a black tank top and gray sweatpants he looked so fucking sexy in the living room, you couldn’t help but pull him into his bedroom for a minute alone — you needed to taste him, show him how much he affected you. 

“fuck, you’re so good at that,” his words were quiet, a low rasp to his voice as he tugged on your hair a little harder. your mouth slipped off of him with a pop, batting your eyelashes up at him with a knowingly coy smile.

he groaned, a little louder this time, his head falling back. “don’t look at me like that or your throat’s getting fucked.” 

you giggled, mouth attaching to him again, bobbing your head up and down a little faster now. he bucked his hips up little by little, using more force with each stroke and you took him proudly, small gags and noises of nasty wetness leaving your lips.

the door opened without either of you noticing, only catching a head of brown hair leaving seonghwa’s bedroom with a shriek of surprise. this wasn’t the first time yeosang had walked in on you, but it still made you laugh every damn time.

you looked up to seonghwa with a giggle on your lips after popping off him again, seonghwa wearing a smile himself.

“how many times do you think we’ll scar him before he stops coming in here?” seonghwa asks, letting go of your ponytail.

“if he was going to catch on, he would’ve by now,” you readjusted yourself on your knees during the pause, shaking your head before bringing your focus back on his delicious length before you. “you said something about fucking my throat right?”

yunho 🧍🏻‍♂️

you and yunho had been waiting for a day alone for weeks. for too long had you been silenced in the hours from one to three, his fingers clamped over your lips or stuffed between them in an attempt to keep you quiet. comeback season was busy, and when there was time off everyone lazed around the dorms and didn’t fucking leave. 

now, on your third consecutive day off, the dorms were empty and yunho took advantage. he had your hands pinned under your back with a belt he had just taken off, hips snapping into you so hard the sound was sure to be heard outside. 

“sloppy little cunt sucking me right the fuck in,” he hissed, hips cracking into your thighs, his fingers keeping you still.

you were wailing at this point, tears streaming down your face, begging for reprieve while also thinking if he stopped you’d die. 

“don’t stop,” you repeated, a mantra on your tongue, from your hips being slanted upward his cock was hitting that spongy spot in your walls that drove you fucking insane. 

you were so close, mere thrusts away from hitting your peak, and the door busted open, an out of breath mingi stood at the door.

“the rest of the guys are walking in right behind me,” mingi’s words were panicked in a warning, but yunho didn’t stop. he ignored his friend, knowing you were so close, wanting your high to crash over you so he could follow. 

you screamed — mingi couldn’t move. yunho fucked you through it, thrusts only quickening to meet his own end, until he doubled on top of you with two large hands landing right beside your head. 

yunho turned to look at mingi, a smirk playing on his lips with heaving breaths, “enjoyed the show?” 

yeosang 👥

everyday yeosang woke you up the same way: his fingers or his head between your thighs until you were creaming around him, then he replaced it with his cock. it wasn’t a good morning until you had at least one, if not two orgasms. 

this morning he was greedy— it seemed he didn’t want to let you go. you came on his face once, his fingers a second time, and he was working you up to a third on his lap. if yeosang could do anything it was last, his stamina was like no other, he could go for hours if you let him. 

you had your knees planted on the mattress beside his hips, his cock hitting your cervix continuously as you grind your hips back and forth against him, your nails clawing at his shoulders. his head was leaning against the headboard, leaving his throat open to you, where you licked and sucked pretty little bruises across the base of his neck, little whines leaving his throat.

“yes, baby, ‘m so close,” he croaked out, his voice raspy and deep, his abs clenching with every grind of your hips. 

“cum for me then yeo, fill me up,” your hand moved from his shoulder to wrap your fingers around his neck, pulling him towards you to connect your chest to his.

your mornings weren’t usually so filthy, never downright nasty, bringing your skin to touch his brought a sense of intimacy back to your morning. 

his head fell onto your shoulder with a groan, filling you up just as you told him to, thighs twitching beneath you. you moaned at the feeling, letting your head rest atop his, bringing your hands to tangle in his hair. 

“you guys awake yet?” seonghwa popped into your room, making you twist your body around to look at him, eyes wide.

“definitely awake,” he pulled his lips into a line, bidding you a singular nod before closing the door again. a huff of amusement left your lips as you looked back down to the boy laying on your shoulder, patting his head, giving him a moment to come back before you’d take your morning shower together.

san 🚪

san couldn’t wait. you were at your favorite club, both tipsy and horny, dancing to the beat of the song before san’s fingers dipped below your dress. you looked up to him with wide eyes, met with a filthy smirk and a pair of dimples that ushered you towards the men’s bathroom. 

“san, anyone could walk in,” you were uneasy, san was never so impatient that he needed you then and there. he’d never portrayed signs of exhibitionism before today, your sex life had always been private — you liked it that way, yet the hunger in his eyes and the spark left in the wake of his fingers on your skin made you excited. 

“let them see how good i fuck you then,” he hummed, fingers flipping up your dress, plunging into your core that was so wet he slipped in. the squelch of his fingers was deafening, you thanked god the bathroom was empty. 

he stuffed you into a stall, fingers still curling into you before he slipped your panties to the side, replacing his fingers with his cock. the pace he set was brutal, your hands bracing the wall above the toilet as he fucked into you from behind, hips slapping into your ass. 

you fought to keep your moans inside, pointless as the sound of skin slapping would overpower them anyway. san groaned, “knew you’d be wet, naughty girl. you were basically begging me to fuck you on the dance floor for everyone to see.” 

a whine escaped you, nails clawing against the tile of the wall. he slipped a hand around your hips, coming between your legs, rubbing your clit at a pace he knew would have you coming in seconds 

“fuck, san, harder please,” you breathed out, head dipping below your arms, hanging between them. 

he listened, quickening his pace, fucking you somehow harder than he was before. his fingers worked in a quick rhythm, making the pit in your stomach grow until you were overflowing on his dick.

“yeah, that’s it, baby. cum all over my cock,” he was drunk off your pussy, words slurring together, keeping his pace on your clit to ride you through it. 

when you were twitching from overstimulation he emptied himself inside you, head falling to the center of your spine. there was nothing but the sound of heavy breaths in the public restroom, you and san catching your breath and your sanity before he flipped your dress back down and zippered himself back up.

when you left the stall, jongho was washing his hands at the sink, barely giving you a glance as you stepped into view. 

“how long have you been in here?” san asked, a pink rising to his cheeks, looking like a completely different person than he had moments ago.

“unfortunately, long enough. broke the seal so i had no choice,” jongho shrugs as he grabs paper towels, drying off his palms. “make sure you two wash your hands.” 

mingi 🫶

the say my name stage always fucked you up, it never failed. being on stage period always fucked mingi up, that never failed either. it was safe to say that your post-show routine was always fucking backstage, it happened every stop, every show, you lost count of how many dressing rooms in foreign countries you’ve been fucked within an inch of your life in.

what was abnormal was mingi not waiting until the show was over. always professional, mingi waited until everyone was no longer sprinting around backstage with mini-fans and makeup brushes to touch up the eight boys before they had to head back out onstage. 

as he came off the stage, his walk was fast paced, precise. it would’ve scared you if you didn’t know what it meant. his fingers hooked around your arm, dragged you further backstage, and had you in a random closet in a stadium completely foreign to you. 

he was quick to split you open, granted say my name was within their first set so you were already dripping by the time he made it between your legs. 

“always so ready for me,” he mumbled out, zeroed in on your center but eyes still not fully clear. in his post performance haze he was always rougher, selfish, not a care in the world for you. it was your favorite. 

“put it in,” you barked out, hips bucking toward him and he was sheathed within seconds. giving you no time to get used to the stretch you wheezed, head lolling onto his shoulder, and he let loose. 

he fucked you stupid, you joined him in whatever haze his brain was under as he pounded into you, hips clapping into the silence of the dark storage room. you heard footsteps outside but mingi made no moves to halt his thrusts, only focused on one thing, getting the two of you off before he had to go back onstage. 

“are you fucking?” yunho’s voice wasn’t clear until he had the door open, light cascading into the storage room, yours and mingi’s necks snapping to look at the intruder.

he was smirking — he knew what he was walking into yet he did it anyway. you and mingi both smiled cheshire grins as yunho stepped inside the storage room, quickly slamming the door shut behind him. 

“why didn’t you invite me?”

wooyoung 🐈‍⬛

wooyoung had you splayed out on the bed, legs bent up with his head between them. eating you out was adjacent to your meditation time, as he calls it, it's his favorite way to wind down. after a long day, after a short day, during his day, it didn’t matter when. wooyoung was always down to eat you out, eager even — he is a man not above begging. 

your chin was shot back, eyes screwed tight, wooyoung had made you cum on his tongue twice so far and he was nowhere near finished. 

after eating you through your second orgasm his licks had slowed down, easing up his pressure, making his tongue soft and pliable instead of hard and pointed. 

soft moans left your lips, he knew by now how to work you through overstimulation, lazily licking at your clit until your moans turned to whines once more.

“taste so fucking good, could eat this pussy all night,” his eyes were fully closed, he was in a dream. between your legs was his happy place, he’d die there a happy man, he’d admitted it more than once. more than ten times, at least. 

when he noticed your breaths getting shorter and your moans shifting to a higher pitch he was sharp with his movements, picking up his pace, licking up your folds and sucking on your clit with swollen lips. 

hongjoong bounced through the door, “hey wooyo, you- jesus fucking christ!” 

your legs snapped shut, closing over wooyoung’s head and he pried himself out of your cage with painted fingertips, jumping up to face hongjoong at the door.

“what?” wooyoung asked, palm swiping at his chin.

“i’m scarred,” hongjoong muttered, voice horrified with hands covering his eyes. your hands fled for the blankets, pulling them over your body with a speed you weren’t expecting to have to use. 

“what do you want, joong?” wooyoung asked, rushed yet still casual, sitting on his knees. his abdomen was clenched, muscles on display as he twisted backward, you didn’t even care that hongjoong was in the room. 

“i was going to ask if you had a spare pair of headphones,” his voice was barely above a squeak, hands still covering his eyes.

“oh, yeah i do, here, they’re my sony 1000MX—”

“i don’t give a fuck wooyoung, give them to me so i can leave.”

jongho 🧸

you were hanging out with jongho in the dance practice room as he practiced the same routine again, the fifth time tonight.

he groaned in frustration after missing a step again, the same step he’s missed the past four times he’s gone through the routine. his hands cover his face, dragging down his cheeks.

you get up from your spot on the floor, making your way in front of him, grabbing his hands to hold in yours.

“why don’t you stop for the night?” you tilt your head, nothing but warmth in your eyes as you stare into his, cold and irritated. 

“i need to get this fucking right,” his lips are pursed, his eyebrows are knit together as he barks, “i need to clear my head.” 

within minutes he had you on your hands and knees atop the hardwood floor, bodies facing the mirror that spread across the wall, forcing you to watch yourself as he fucked you stupid. 

“see that?” he smirked at you through the mirror, fingers tight on your hips, “nothing but a cocksleeve whenever i want it, so willing for me.” 

his words were cool and calm, almost a threat on his lips as he abused your core. your eyebrows were tangled and your mouth hung open, knees and palms burning from the pressure against the harsh wood. 

“yes, just for you,” you manage to choke out between thrusts, body jolting forward with each thrust. 

“that’s right baby,” he nods, his smile turning villainous, only fucking into you harder as he spits, “such a fucking whore, letting me fuck you in public like this.” 

you nod, eyes screwed shut, “d-don’t fucking stop.” 

his chuckle is deep, his thrusts losing their rhythm, “you want it? want me to fill this filthy pussy up?” 

the door to the practice room opens, san strolls inside with a smile on his face before he sees the two of you — he shrieked. “what the fuck!?” 

jongho stilled, laying himself atop your body, trying to cover you as best he could. his words come out nervous, “get the fuck out!”

san slips back out of the door, then peeks his head back in, “wait, when are you gonna be done? i want to practice.” 

“san!” 

masterlist

[rafesangelita]

♡ when frat!rafe is embarrassed to ask bitchy!kook!reader to choke him, but she does it for him anyways..

warnings: sub!rafe, choking, degradation, unprotected sex, asphyxiation, handjob, overstimulation, slight humor

“why do you keep putting my hand around your neck?” you laughed, your hips coming to a stop as rafe gazed up at you with pleading eyes. you were currently seated on top of him, his cock buried balls deep inside your cunt as you rode him like he didn’t have icky friends who could hear everything in the next room. you watched rafe’s cheeks turn red, his jaw ticking as he continued pressing your hand to his throat. arching a brow, you gave his throat a squeeze, a look of relief washing over his face as you tightened your grip. you could’ve sworn you felt him twitch inside of you, a teasing smile gracing your lips as you shook your head.

“oh, so this is what you wanted?” you scoffed, “who would’ve thought that the misogynistic, cocky frat boy liked to be choked? i’d be embarrassed too if i were you..” rafe groaned, your degrading words only turning him on even more. leaning all your weight on the hand you had propped up on his chest, you started bouncing on him once again, this time making sure your nails dug into his skin as he let out a string of curses.

“you’re so fucking pathetic,” you half moaned, “i bet you feel like a real tough guy, huh? you go around bullying your new pledges and making them feel like they’re beneath you, but really you’re the lowest of them all. i wonder what they’d think of you then if they saw you like this, just being used for your cock. that’s all you’re really good for, anyways.” rafe gripped your hips, his eyes screwing shut as he took the blows of your insults to his ego. he had never been talked down on like this, and as sick and embarrassing as it was, you were becoming his newest obsession with every word you spoke against him.

“ah, fuck— please! please let me cum inside you!” he blurted out, his vision growing fuzzy as you pressed down on his windpipe. sliding off of him, rafe hissed as you scooted down and kneeled between his legs, his eyebrows knitting together as he propped himself up on his elbows to watch you. “sorry, i don’t let losers cum inside me.” rafe let out a shaky breath when you took him in your fist, a protest sitting on the tip of his tongue as you started stroking him. “no, please, i’m begging you.” he whimpered, his bangs sticking to his forehead as he started feeling the pounding thumps in his head from the lack of oxygen.

“shut the fuck up,” you stroked him faster, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as his hips bucked, “you should be grateful i’m letting you cum at all.” rafe felt like he was on the verge of passing out, his chest caving in as he felt the coil deep in stomach snap, a groan leaving his lips as you finally let go of his neck. rafe was convinced he wasn’t here anymore, his body convulsing as the force of his high wracked through his limbs, his cum decorating his torso as you made no effort to slow down your movements. “f-fuck! wait—” he gasped, black dots spotting his vision as he shook under your touch, “i can’t no more!” he shouted through gritted teeth, his abs constricting as overstimulation set in.

letting go, you left him to go through the aftershocks of his orgasm as you got dressed, slipping your heels back on before throwing your purse over your shoulder and checking your hair in the mirror. rafe turned around, his eyebrows raising as he watched you walk towards his bedroom door. “wait where are you going?!” he shot up, nearly tripping over his own feet as he scrambled to put some shorts on, “you didn’t— you know.. finish..” he whispered the last part, his face just centimeters away from your own. pecking his cheek, you opened the door halfway, “yikes, i must not be the first girl you’ve said that to.”

thank you nonnie for celebrating with me ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

[gojodickbig]

tattoo artist!suguru x f!reader.

conts: smut!!!!

wc: 2,4k.

divider from @uzmacchiato !!

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI!!!

“look at you,” suguru growled, his tone low and dripping with lust. his hips slammed into you, each thrust forcing a gasp from your lips as he bent you over the workstation in the back of his studio. “already so fucking wet for me, squeezing me like you don’t want me to stop.”

“i don’t,” you whimpered, your voice breaking into a moan as he drove deeper, harder, every inch of him stretching you in ways that left your mind spinning.

“yeah?” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as one hand gripped your hip, holding you steady, while the other slid between your thighs. his fingers were rough but skilled, sliding over your slick folds before circling your clit with deliberate pressure. “say it, baby. tell me how much you love the way i’m fucking you.”

“god, suguru,” you cried, your nails clawing at the surface of the table, trying to keep yourself grounded. “you feel so good—so fucking good, i can’t—”

“you can,” he cut you off, his voice a dangerous growl. “and you will. you’re gonna take every inch of me, aren’t you, princess?”

“yes,” you gasped, your thighs trembling as he thrust harder, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. “yes, I’ll take it. fuck, i’ll take all of it—”

“good fucking girl,” he groaned, his grip tightening as he angled your hips higher, the motion driving him deeper. “been waiting to do this since you walked in here weeks ago.”

his words sliced through the fog of pleasure in your mind.

“that first day,” he continued, his voice rough and low, “you came in here all innocent, sitting in my chair, letting me touch you so deliberately while i worked on your tattoo.” he thrust hard for emphasis, making you cry out, the sound echoing through the small studio. “all i could think about was bending you over this table and fucking you until you couldn’t walk straight. i couldn’t get the image out of my fucking head.” his voice lowered, becoming more husky, the memory turning him on even more. “bet you would’ve let me fuck you right then, huh?”

his confession made your walls clench tight around him, and he groaned, his voice low and thick with approval.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he rasped, his hips slamming into you at a punishing pace. “so tight. like you were made for me.” his hand slid up your back, pressing you harder into the table as he kept talking, the filth in his voice making your head spin.

“this is what i wanted,” he growled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “to spread you out on my workstation and fuck you until you’re screaming for me. until you’re dripping down my cock and begging me for more.”

“oh my god, suguru,” you gasped, your words tumbling out between desperate cries. “more! i need more, please!”

“more, huh?” he chuckled darkly, pulling out and slamming back in, his cock thrusting deep and deliberate. “you want more of me? want me to fuck you harder?”

“yes! yes, please!” your words were barely coherent as his pace quickened. “you feel s—so good inside me!”

“that’s it,” he said, his tone dripping with satisfaction. “let everyone fucking hear you then. let them know how good i’m making you feel.”

the sound of your moans echoed through the room, mixing with the sharp slap of his hips against yours. his fingers found your clit again, circling it faster, more deliberately, as his cock dragged over every sensitive spot inside you.

“you’re fucking perfect, baby,” he groaned. “so fucking wet, so tight. i could stay buried in you all night.”

“feel — feel you everywhere, sugu,” your voice trembling as the pressure in your core built higher and higher. “s —agh! so deep! don’t stop! it fee—ah! feels so fucking gooood!” you moaned, your back arching as you instinctively pushed back against him.

“don’t worry, pretty girl,” he murmured darkly. “i’m not stopping until i make you come all over my cock.”

his thumb pressed even more harder against your clit, his pace relentless as his other hand tightened its grip on your hip. you were trembling now, your body arching into his as you teetered on the edge of release.

“you’re close, aren’t you?” he growled, his voice rough. “i can feel it. your pretty pussy’s so tight around me—so fucking desperate to let go. come on, baby, give it to me. show me how good I’m making you feel.”

“i’m—fuck, i’m gonna—”

“do it,” he commanded, his voice sharp and thick with need. “cum for me, princess. let. me. feel. you.”

you shattered beneath him, your body shaking as waves of pleasure crashed over you. your cry filled the room, your walls clenching around him so tightly it dragged a guttural groan from his chest.

“good fucking girl,” he breathed, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own high. with a low, raw moan, he thrust deep one last time, spilling into you, the heat of him making you shudder again.

for a long moment, the room was silent except for the sound of your ragged breaths and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. geto pulled back slightly, his hands still resting on your hips as he pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

“you look good like this,” he murmured, his tone smug as his fingers traced the design of the tattoo still visible on your hip. “might have to ink you up again, just so i have an excuse to keep you coming back.”

you let out a breathless laugh, too dazed to muster a retort. but as his lips curled into a wicked grin against your skin, you realized you didn’t mind the idea one bit.

© gojodickbig on tumblr. all rights reserved. do not cross-post, translate, copy in any way, etc.

[sturnlia]

gaming

my first fic! i hope you guys like it, im sorry if its bad :3 fluff and making out!

you’re sitting on chris’s couch behind his gaming chair, one leg tucked under the other, scrolling through your phone while he’s gaming. the sound of gunfire and explosions fills the room, but you’ve learned to tune it out by now.

“you gonna sit there like a loser all night or actually talk to me?” you tease, tossing a throw pillow at his head.

it hits the back of his chair, to which he turns around, giving you a look. “first of all, rude. second, you’ve been on your phone for the past thirty minutes. who’s the loser now?”

“still you.” you lean back, stretching your arms over your head with a dramatic sigh. “i was hoping for some entertainment, but apparently, you’re more into playing with random dudes online than hanging out with me.”

“oh, you want entertainment?” he finally pauses the game and turns to you, one brow raised. “what, you wanna arm wrestle? see who can shotgun a pepsi faster? oh wait—i forgot, you suck at both.”

you narrow your eyes. “bold words for someone who cried over a jump scare last week.”

chris glares, pointing at you. “fuck you, that was a well-timed scare. any normal person would’ve jumped.”

you grin, triumphant. “but did they scream like a little bitch?”

he launches the pillow back at you, and you barely dodge it. “you are so annoying.”

“you love it." you say, sticking out your tongue.

he doesn’t respond right away, just stares at you with that cocky half-smile that always makes your stomach flip. his eyes flick down to your lips for a second—so quick you almost miss it.

“you know what’s actually annoying?” he finally says, leaving the game and walking over and sitting next to you. “how you always act like you don’t want me, when we both know you do.”

your breath catches, but you force yourself to scoff. “oh my god, your ego is out of control.”

he hums, tilting his head. “am i wrong, though?”

you open your mouth to argue, but he’s already shifting closer, resting his arm on the back of the couch behind you. the air between you changes—like someone turned the dial up on the tension.

“c’mon, baby, just admit it,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “you wanna kiss me so bad.”

your heart is hammering against your ribs, but you roll your eyes. “in your dreams.”

his smirk widens. “oh, you have no idea.”

and then he moves. slow and testing. he tilts his head and brings his lips so close that you can feel his breath against your mouth.

you don’t pull away.

he takes that as a green light and finally, finally closes the distance, kissing you like he’s been dying to do it for ages.

your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer instinctively. his lips are soft, but the way he kisses you? it's desperate, like he’s been waiting too long for this moment. his hands find your waist, warm and firm as he tugs you onto his lap.

“fuck,” he mutters against your lips, voice a little rough. “knew you’d taste good.”

you’re already breathless, but you muster a retort. “jesus, chris, that’s so corny.”

he chuckles, biting your bottom lip just hard enough to make you gasp. “yeah? didn’t hear you complaining.”

you don’t have a comeback because he’s right. instead, you grind down just a little, testing the waters, and his reaction is instant—a sharp inhale, fingers gripping your hips tighter.

“oh, we’re doing that now?” his voice is deeper, rougher, like he’s barely keeping it together.

you shrug, but the teasing is weaker now, your own body betraying you. “guess so.”

he doesn’t waste time. one hand slides under your shirt, fingers dragging over your skin in a way that makes you shiver. the other is tangled in your hair, keeping you close as he kisses you like he wants to ruin you.

and the look in his eyes and the way he touches you, seems like he does.

[luvyeni]

[ req? yes / no ]

𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗘 ──── plumber! anton coming over to fix your drain …

( 対 ) lee chanyoung + fem. reader wc. 0.7k genre smut · contains! kitchen sex , oral ( f ) , unprotected sex mature content. / back to library

you were pissed , the damn plumber had been taking so long and the sink had been damn near overflowing — and the plumber? nowhere in sight. that was until you knocked on the door , you stomped over opening the door. “you’re late.” the tall boy stood in front of you. “you aren’t the normal person.” you said confused.

“he retired last week and they hired a new one.” he said. “me.” you nodded , damn he was cute. “are you gonna let me in?” he questioned , looking down at you. “oh yeah , come in.” you opened the door wider , letting him in. “it’s been stopped up for a few days , it won’t even go down.” you said , guiding him to the kitchen where the problem was. he was listening, but his eyes were also trained on your ass. “can you tell me what’s wrong with it?”

“hm?” he said, quickly remembering why he was here. “oh yeah , it’s probably food stuck in the drain , just let me have a look.” he said, putting his toolbox down , getting down on the floor to open the cabinet. normally with the other guy you would’ve let him be , but you decided to stick around a bit , and you were glad you did , watching his muscles flex as he moved around in the small space, sweat dripping down his forehead — he looked good.

“yeah there was a ton of food stuck in there , you need a garbage disposal,” he said. “they’re easy to install , i’ll have to call it in.” he said , grunting as he stood up , hovering over you , your lustful glare not going unnoticed by him. “it’s gonna take about two weeks to get here.” he said , you were not about to wait two weeks to see this man again , especially when he was standing so damn close to you right at that moment — and it seemed like he was feeling the same way. “but from the way you’re staring at me i don’t think you have it in you to wait that long for me to return.” he was now getting closer , backing you against the counter. “fuck.” he said under his breath upon feeling you pressed against him.

his hands were on your waist fast; but his lips were on yours even quicker. his hands traveling down to below your ass , lifting you up on the counter. “you’ve been eyeing me since i walked through your door.” he grabbed the waistband of your shorts , pulling them down , getting down on his knees. “such a pretty pussy.” kissing the inside of your thighs , his nose brushing against your clit. “oh fuck.” your hands tangled up into his hair as he licked your folds , it felt like he was eating like a starved man. “shit , you feel so good.”

your feet were perched on his shoulders , his big hands holding your legs open. “fuck i’m gonna cum.” he pulled away , his thumb moving to your clit , rubbing circles. “cum for me.” curling his fingers up inside you as he stood up , your legs shaking as you came around his fingers. “that’s it , good girl , cum for me.” you gasped, grabbing his wrist to stop him from moving , he smirked. “i want you to cum again.” he said. “fuck you look good , cum on my fingers again.” watching with hunger in his eyes as your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you came for the second time. “shit i need to fuck you.”

his cock stood hard; his tip red and leaking with precum. “touch it.” your hand stroking him, he hissed. “fuck.” his forehead was pressed against yours as he guided himself inside of you. “fuck you’re so tight.” he groaned as he stretched you out. “sw-swallowing my cock like this.” he moved his hips , softly pushing you down fully on the counter , lifting your shirt up. “such pretty titties.” holding your waist as he began to pound into you , watch your boobs bounce. “fuck !” you screamed , already feeling the overstimulation. “i’m gonna cum!”

“fu-fuck hold it.” he grunted , moving much faster , desperately trying to reach his release. “fuck i’m cumming , fuckin gonna cum.” both of you a moaning mess as your reached your peaks. “fuck!” he pulled out , finishing on your stomach. “fuck i’m sorry.” he apologized. “i got too carried away.” he said outta breath. “fuck i want you to do that again.” pulling at his tank top. “please fuck me again.” he took the tank top off , throwing it on the kitchen floor. “fuck you’re driving me crazy.”

you were gonna get your fill , this time and next time too.

©️LUVYENI

[tikitakatia]

No Credentials — A. Putellas x Reader

"Everyone Wants a Piece"

WC: 1.7k

Summary: You´re the one the team turns to when the cracks start showing, Alexia´s not quite sure how she feels about that.

It starts small, barely anything. A loose touch. A pass that’s just off. A look she gives herself, like she’s already grading every move.

You see it like always.

Patri’s moving like someone who doesn’t trust her own body yet. Coming back from injury will do that to a person. Every sprint and every turn feels like she’s bracing for something to go wrong. And it’s not that anyone’s said anything. Nobody’s riding her. But that’s the problem, she’s filling in the silence with her own panic.

Another mistake. She curses under her breath, but it’s the sharp kind. Like she’s angry at herself for not being perfect yet. Then someone shouts too loudly. Maybe Pere, maybe another coach. It wasn't even meant for her, but that’s all it takes.

She rips off her bib, mutters “I’m fine,” and walks off the pitch, fast.

You don’t even think at this point, you just move.

Matcha: sacrificed to the grass. Hoodie: pulled over your shoulder. Steps: automatic.

You catch the stare on your back before you reach the tunnel. Alexia with her arms folded, watching you go. You don’t turn around.

You find her exactly where you knew she’d be, on the far end of the bench, hunched over, elbows on knees, head down.

She doesn’t flinch when you sit next to her, but she doesn’t look up either.

“I’m such a joke,” she mutters after a beat.

You keep your voice low. Calm. “You’re not.”

“I can’t even string together two passes. I’m a fucking liability out there.”

You glance at her. “You’re recovering.”

She lets out a humorless laugh. “Everyone keeps saying that like it makes it okay.”

“It is okay.”

Patri shakes her head. “Not here it’s not. Not at this club. You know how it is. You fall behind, and there’s already someone faster, sharper, ready to take your spot. They don’t mean to, but they do.”

You let the words settle. Let her say it, even if none of it’s true.

“Nobody’s replacing you,” you say softly. “You’re still part of this team.”

“Yeah, until I’m not.”

You nudge your hoodie sleeve into her hand. She doesn’t take it, but she holds onto the edge. 

“You’re putting pressure on yourself no one else is asking for.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one trying to prove you’re still worth it.”

You don’t argue. Instead: “I’ve seen what you look like when you’re confident. You’ll get back there. But rushing isn't strength, it’s just well disguised panic.”

She exhales, shaky. “I just want to feel like myself again.”

“You will.”

“I don’t know how to believe that.”

You bump your shoulder gently into hers. “Then believe me until you can.”

Finally, she leans her head against your arm. Quiet. Not okay, but not spiraling either.

You stay there with her. No rush. No big speech. Just a quiet presence.

You return alone. Hoodie on. Empty hands.

No one says anything. Patri’s still inside. You told her to take her time.

As you sit back down, you feel it again, Alexia’s eyes tracking you from across the pitch. She doesn’t say anything either.

But her jaw’s clenched and her stare’s sharp.

You meet her eyes, just for a second.

She doesn’t look away.

You don’t either.

It starts with a joke.

Mapi says something sharp, a little too loud, a little too Mapi. Maybe on a different day, Ingrid would’ve laughed it off. But today isn’t that day.

You’re standing by the espresso machine when you hear it. Something about tactics, or being too passive, or not pulling weight in the last match. You turn your head just in time to catch Ingrid’s face go still. Like she’s been slapped in the chest but doesn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction of reacting.

A few beats of silence follow. Then Ingrid snaps back.

It’s not even yelling. It’s that tight, cutting tone people save for when they’re really hurt. “If you’re going to throw teammates under the bus, at least do it to their face next time.”

Everyone freezes. Mapi opens her mouth, ready to throw more gasoline on the fire, but you move first.

“Ingrid,” you say gently, already stepping between them.

“Come on.”

She doesn’t look at you right away. Her eyes are locked on Mapi’s, jaw tight. But when you say her name again, quieter this time, she shifts. Walks out of the room fast, hands shaking.

You don’t hesitate. You follow her.

Alexia watches. Fork in hand, food untouched. Her eyes narrow as she tracks your exit, and her knee starts bouncing under the table.

You find Ingrid slumped on the bottom step, elbows on her knees, face in her hands. She doesn’t look up as you sit beside her.

“I hate when she does that,” she says, voice muffled.

“Always making a joke out of it when it’s not funny. Like my minutes don’t mean anything.”

“She shouldn’t have said that. You’re allowed to be upset.”

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “She thinks I’m weak.”

“She’s loud. That doesn’t make her right.”

Ingrid lifts her head, and her eyes are glassy. “It’s not just about today. It’s everything. I work my ass off, but I always feel like I have to prove I belong here.”

You nod slowly. You get it.

“It’s exhausting,” she adds.

“Pretending I’m fine just so I don’t get called too sensitive.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

She swallows hard, presses the back of her hand against her eyes.

“Why are you always the one who notices?”

“Because I’ve been the one hiding before.”

She doesn’t speak, but her breathing evens out.

After a while, you say, “You’re not weak, Ingrid. You’re human. That’s allowed, even here.”

She lets out a slow breath. “Thanks.”

You smile softly. “Always.

You return to your seat, now with a second coffee in hand. One for you, one you dropped off with Ingrid before she went to cool down.

The table’s still buzzing with leftover tension and awkward silence.

No one knows what to say.

Except Alexia, who doesn’t say a word, but gives you a look.

You catch it. It’s not subtle. It says something like:

Oh. So you’re everyone’s emotional support now?

You raise a brow like, What?

She looks away.

But her jaw’s tight. Again. And her grip on her fork looks like she’s trying not to stab something with it.

You sip your coffee and don’t say a word.

But you feel the shift.

You’re sitting cross-legged in the grass, a resistance band looped loosely around your wrist, surrounded by the usual suspects. Cooldown was supposed to be five minutes. It’s been twenty.

Ona’s lying on her back, arm flung over her eyes.

“I just… I don’t know,” she says softly. “I miss her.”

You nod. No surprise there, Lucy’s still in London. Long-distance is a bitch when your life revolves around overlapping game schedules and flights that never line up.

“She sent me a selfie yesterday. I almost cried.”

You offer her a water bottle and a squeeze of her shoulder.

“Almost?”

She groans. “Okay. I cried. Shut up.”

Aitana chuckles from beside her. “She cried in the locker room. I found her sniffing and cuddling Lucy´s England jersey.”

Ona flings a foot at her. “Traitor.”

“I’m just giving context!”

You grin, adjusting the angle of the massage ball under Aitana’s calf as she winces and tries not to kick you in the face.

“This knot is a mess, by the way. How long’s it been hurting?”

“Two weeks,” Aitana mutters. “But I didn’t want to say anything.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Of course you didn’t.”

Patri snorts from behind you.

This is comfortable. They’re flopped in a half-circle around you like cats in a sunbeam, trading stories about their partners, weird dreams and that one terrifying drill with balls from this morning. Aitana shifts closer and drapes her arm across your knee like it’s second nature.

You start gently pressing into the knot in her calf, and she winces again, but lets you.

“Breathe through it,” you murmur.

“I’ll ease up in a second.”

It’s routine. Thoughtful. The kind of touch that’s all professional but feels personal when it’s you.

And someone notices.

Across the grass, Alexia is sitting on a bench, sipping protein water like it’s poison. Mapi’s beside her, scrolling through something on her phone.

“Why is she touching her like that?!” Alexia growls.

“She’s literally just helping with cooldown,” Mapi says, not even looking up.

“It’s her job.”

“She’s caressing her.”

“She’s massaging a muscle knot.” Mapi sighs.

“She’s smiling at her.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Mapi finally looks up.

Alexia doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching.

You lean in closer, saying something that makes Aitana snort, then ease her head back with a groan. Ona curls up closer to the group, resting her head on Patri’s thigh. 

Alexia frowns into her water bottle like it said something rude.

“She used to only laugh with me like that.”

Mapi snorts. “Maybe because you’re not talking to her.”

“I am talking to her.”

“You told her ‘good session’ and walked away.”

“That’s talking!”

Mapi gives her a look. “Wow. No wonder she’s hanging out with literally everyone else.”

Alexia mutters something in Catalan under her breath and looks away.

“Okay,” you say eventually. “Cooldown’s over. Go hydrate or I’m telling Pere you’ve been lounging.”

No one moves.

You sigh. “Shoo.”

More blinking. Zero movement.

Ona sits up instead. “Coffee?”

“Yes,” Aitana says immediately. “That new place by the plaza?”

You hesitate. “I have stuff to-”

“You have us,” Patri interrupts. “Venga. One hour.”

They’re already getting up like you’ve agreed.

You don’t fight it.

You grab your hoodie, sling your bag over one shoulder, and follow your little trail of ducklings across the grass. As you round the corner by the exit gate, you spot Alexia and Mapi, sitting on a bench. Alexia’s leaning forward, elbows on her knees. She straightens when she sees you.

You hesitate for half a second, then smile.

“Coffee?” you ask, a hopeful tilt to your voice.

“We’re heading out now.”

Mapi glances at Alexia.

Alexia stands too fast. “No, sorry. I have plans.”

Your smile falters. Just slightly. You nod.

“Alright. Another time.”

She says nothing.

You keep walking.

The girls are chatting ahead of you already, making plans about pastries and whose turn it is to pay. You tuck your hands into your hoodie and catch Mapi glancing back.

Once Alexia sits again, Mapi smacks her lightly on the arm.

“You’re fucking stupid.”

Alexia doesn’t argue with that.

[lucy-literates]

Well, Lewis would be possessive of his girl 🤭

Next idea is again with a younger reader (28 years old) and she is Roscoes nanny and they fall in love :)

Greetings :)

A/N: I'm glad you enjoyed it! Hopefully, you enjoy this one too! Ibox is open :)

The Heart He Didn't See Coming

You were hired to take care of Roscoe. That was it.

Just a temporary gig—two months, max—while Lewis figured out travel schedules and recovered from back-to-back races. You’d been recommended by a friend of his physio, and your background in animal behavior and gentle energy made the decision easy.

Still, Lewis hadn’t expected you.

He hadn’t expected the way Roscoe took to you almost immediately, curling at your feet within twenty minutes of meeting you, snorting contentedly as you scratched the perfect spot behind his ear like you'd known him for years.

And he definitely hadn’t expected the sound of your laughter in his kitchen to feel like something he’d been missing.

“You sure you’re not feeding him treats under the table?” Lewis asked one morning, as Roscoe followed you around with that adoring, bulldog loyalty that had taken even him months to earn.

“I only give him carrots,” you replied, turning to him with a grin. “You’re the one sneaking him bites of your toast, champion.”

His smirk deepened. “Can’t help it. He looks at me like I hung the moon.”

You tilted your head. “So do you, sometimes.”

Lewis blinked. You didn’t even realize what you’d said—or maybe you did, because you turned away quickly to refill Roscoe’s water bowl, humming like it hadn’t just made his chest go tight.

That was the beginning of the ache.

It wasn’t supposed to be romantic.

He was older. Busier. Constantly surrounded by people and noise and cameras. You were quieter. Sunshine and calm. Someone who moved through life like it didn’t owe you anything, and still, you chose joy.

But when you walked Roscoe through the paddock at Silverstone—laughing as he tried to chase a golf cart—and handed Lewis a little cloth-wrapped lunch you’d packed for him, just in case the catering was late, he’d stood there for a moment too long, something warm rising in his throat.

“You’re ridiculous,” he’d said softly.

“Is that your way of saying thank you?”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

After that, things got blurry around the edges.

One evening in Monaco, the sky cracked open unexpectedly.

You and Roscoe had gone for your usual walk along the waterfront, but the rain hit faster than forecast. By the time you got home, soaked and laughing, Roscoe was a damp loaf of contentment at your side.

Lewis opened the door before you even knocked.

“Jesus, you’re drenched—get in, quick.” He grabbed a towel and gently rubbed Roscoe down while you toed off your wet sneakers.

You were dripping in the hallway, mascara smudged slightly, Lewis’s hoodie shoved into your arms without him thinking twice.

It was warm. Soft. Smelled like cedarwood and whatever expensive cologne he wore sparingly but perfectly.

“Go change,” he said, “you’ll catch a cold.”

You returned a few minutes later, barefoot and wearing the hoodie over your leggings. Roscoe was curled in his usual spot by the couch, and Lewis looked up at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“You should’ve called me,” he said. “I would’ve picked you up.”

You blinked. “You were busy. Besides, it’s just rain.”

He shook his head, then patted the spot next to him on the couch. “Come sit. You’re always running around after my wellbeing. Let me return the favour for once.”

You hesitated—but then sat.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. Not really. But the hoodie was warm and Roscoe was snoring and Lewis’s hand moved gently over your shoulder while you listened to him talk about his next race strategy in that low, rhythmic tone.

When you woke up, your head was on his chest.

And his arm was around you.

Things changed after that.

Not drastically. Just... quietly.

Lingering glances. Soft touches. A new depth to your late-night conversations. He started asking you questions that had nothing to do with Roscoe: What did you want from life? Had you ever been in love? What scared you?

You didn’t ask him the same things out loud. You didn’t need to. You watched the way he talked to his team, how gently he moved around people, how he stood on the edge of the ocean sometimes like he was still searching for something.

One night, as you handed him a mug of peppermint tea, he said it—so softly you nearly missed it:

“You make this place feel like home.”

Your breath caught.

“It’s because you finally stopped running,” you whispered.

There was a pause. Then his hand found yours.

“No,” he said. “It’s because I found something worth staying for.”

You kissed him a few seconds later.

It wasn’t rushed. It was the kind of kiss that built over weeks. Careful. Reverent. Your fingers slipped into his curls, and he hummed softly against your mouth like the moment had been waiting for you both.

Roscoe snorted in his sleep. You both laughed.

The next few weeks were a blur of quiet touches and shared mornings.

He kissed your shoulder while you prepped Roscoe’s meals. You slid handwritten notes into his travel bags. You didn’t go public—not right away—but his team knew. And they all smiled when you were around, like you were exactly what he needed.

But then the press found out.

Photos. Speculation. Headlines: “Roscoe’s Nanny, Hamilton’s New Flame?”

It wasn’t cruel—but it was invasive. You panicked. You didn’t want to be seen as a trophy, or someone temporary.

“I never wanted to be a scandal,” you said one night, eyes shiny. “I didn’t want to be a story someone clicks on.”

Lewis shook his head and crossed the room to hold you.

“You’re not a scandal,” he said firmly. “You’re not a story. You’re the person who brings Roscoe his toy at bedtime and sings along to my awful shower playlists. You’re the one thing in my life that feels real.”

You blinked. He tucked a hand beneath your chin.

“And if the world can’t see that… then I’ll show them.”

Three days later, he posted a photo.

No caption. Just you, Roscoe, and him on a balcony, wrapped in blankets, sipping tea. Your head on his shoulder. Roscoe snoozing across both your laps.

It went viral in seconds.

But the response shocked you.

“This is the softest thing I’ve ever seen.” “I want what they have.” “Protect this trio at all costs.”

Your inbox flooded with kindness. People saw you. And more importantly—they saw the love.

A few months later, Lewis took you to a beach on your day off. It was quiet. Peaceful. Roscoe ran in wide circles, barking happily at the waves.

You sat on a blanket, his arm around you, sun low in the sky.

Then he called Roscoe over.

There was a velvet box tied to Roscoe’s collar.

Your heart skipped.

“It’s not a ring,” Lewis said quickly. “Not yet. I just... wanted to ask if we can keep doing this. You. Me. Roscoe. All of it.”

You opened the box. Inside was a small gold charm: a tiny dog paw next to a heart.

“Yes,” you said, instantly.

He kissed you again, deeper this time.

Roscoe barked once. Loudly. Offended at being ignored.

You both laughed against each other’s mouths.

And maybe love hadn’t come in the way you expected. But it arrived exactly when it was meant to.

With muddy pawprints, fresh tea, and the softest man you’d ever known.

[1999hiru]

୨୧ cw. stalker! ellie, kidnapping, drugging, dubcon, dacryphilia

♡ very dark content, be cautious .ᐟ.ᐟ take care of yourself ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ ♡

─────────────────────────

ellie who's been stalking you since you served her at your town's local diner. she grew obsessed with the way you smiled, the sweetness in your voice, how pretty your hands looked when you handed her the bill. she was insanely jealous of how your coworkers got to speak to you so casually, her slender fingers tightly gripping the poor coffee cup when one of them got too touchy. she spent a lot of time visiting you, making sure she could see you at least once a day. she has your schedule memorized by now. ellie had become one of your beloved regulars, she was charming, kind, always tipping you more than she needed to. you had no complaints, anything would help since you had to pay rent all on your own!

ellie who sits in her car for hours, waiting till your shift was over like she often did. you must’ve had a busy day, you’re running later than usual. her eyes were heavy with exhaustion before she saw you closing up, locking the door and making your way to your car. she’s waiting till you pull out of the small parking lot before she turns on her own engine, following you out. tonight was going to be special, she was going to make you hers. ellie made sure she was a few cars behind you, she didn’t want to scare you—raise any suspicions of a car following you, she had to be meticulous. she couldn’t mess this up.

ellie who ends up at your apartment complex, parking on the other side of the lot and waiting patiently till you gathered your things. she sees you leaving in her mirror after a while, slow steps to the front door. ellie adjusts the hat on her head, the mask over her mouth, before she leaves too. she’s walking a little faster to get behind you, entering with you into the dimly lit lobby. you’re swiping your keycard over the sensor and opening the door for the stranger behind you, a kind smile on your face. ellie gives you a small nod, the both of you waiting for the elevator to come down. eventually, it does. your fingers hover over the many buttons, "what floor?" you ask, that same syrupy tone in your voice. ellie doesn't reply, only stares at you. all of a sudden, there's a cloth over your nose and a voice in your ear. your vision goes black.

ellie who stands at the foot of the mattress you're laying on, the one she covered in the comfiest blankets she could find—set with two big fluffy pillows, she was waiting for you to wake up. her hands are clammy and her brain is running with a million thoughts at once, eyes taking in the sight in front of her. you’re still in your work uniform, your wrists cuffed together and your belongings stashed somewhere in ellie’s bedroom. your eyes are still closed, your chest rising and falling with every unconscious breath you took. ellie’s nervous, but you’re the only thing she’s ever needed. she thinks you look perfect with her. she would’ve done it all over again. you belong with her.

ellie who watches you stir from your sleep, a small moment of peace when you haven’t figured out that something was wrong yet—but it’s quick, the quietness of ellie’s basement has turned into shrill screams bouncing off the walls, your feet kicking away at the blankets and your back pressed up against the cold wall in seconds. your eyes are big and panicked, thrashing around in the metal restraints. it’s no use. “i know.. i know you’re scared. but i’m not going to hurt you, i just want you to see how good i’ll treat you. i promise.” you’re shaking your head no, like it’ll do something, but it’s far too late. you’re in a dark room. there isn’t any windows and the walls looked thick. no one would hear you. the realization shakes your limbs and makes you dizzy, your head is pounding now, but you notice that the woman in front of you looks so familiar…

ellie who winces at your cruel words, “you fucking creep! you’re a stalker!” who didn’t expect your sugary voice to sound so mean, but it makes her smile. she’s learning new things about you everyday. you feel a chill run down your spine when she smiles at you, genuinely, instead of killing you, or drugging you again. you probably shouldn’t piss her off—but you were doing the opposite. it was scarier that she smiled, you didn’t know what to make of it. so you play nice. “you’re that customer right? please, i won’t tell anyone—just let me go, please...” you beg, tears pooling in your eyes. your heart might give out if it beats any faster.

ellie who feels a pang in her chest at your desperation—she never wanted to hear you like that, so she tries explaining, a sincerity in her tone that makes your skin crawl. “i can’t do that, i’m sorry. i did all of this for you.” she gestures to the rest of the room, decorations and details you failed to see. you haven’t really looked at much of the room until now. there’s a desk with your favorite snacks, only a few of them, a nice vase with fresh flowers. “how do you—those are my favorite..”you’re exasperated, your head spinning. “i like to observe.” the woman simply replies. you look at the rest, fairy lights are strung across the room, they’re dim, but it was warm. cozy even. you would’ve felt relaxed if not for the situation. you were kidnapped, you were somewhere else, and no one knew where you were. your chances of being found were slim. a new wave of anxiety bubbled in your stomach, tears dripping down your face. “what do you want? i’ll give you my wallet, my car, anything—just please i can’t, no..”

ellie who shushes you, holding your face in her hands while she smoothes your messy hair over. she presses a kiss to your forehead, an icky feeling settling in your stomach. “i don’t need any of those things, i just need you.” your world seems to collapse at her words. in every movie you’ve seen, most people just want what you have—your money, your car, something materialistic. it was the most probable reason. the most realistic. but she wanted you? needed you? you had no idea what that meant. but if you couldn’t offer up your belongings, there was no way out.

ellie who introduces herself to you, gives you her full name and what she did for a living—how she got to know you, the first day she ever saw you. you’re unresponsive the entire time, only giving your name in return. (which of course, she already knew what your name was) you feared she would hit you, or drug you again if you hadn’t. your body is weak from the lack of water and food, achy and cold, you’ve been denying every offer that ellie had given you. she wanted to feed you, make sure you were hydrated, but for the past week you’ve only kept yourself facing the grey cement, curled up in a pile of blankets. ellie knew you would come around eventually. she left a plate of food and a cup of water for you, right next to the mattress, sometimes you could feel her just sitting there. you never looked.

ellie who’s more than happy when you start eating by week two. your bites are small, chewing slowly, but you’re eating. she can tell you’re still panicked. your shaky hands make it hard for you to hold a spoon with soup in it, and so she gives you a pill—something to calm your nerves. you take it, hesitantly, but what choice did you even have? you swallow it down with a big gulp of water and lay against the wall. it takes a while for you to feel something, but it feels like you’re even slower. your head is fuzzy, and ellie’s voice are distant echoes. the cuffs are still tight around your wrist.

ellie who’s suddenly right next to you, her lips pressed against yours. you try fighting her off, but you can’t. you can’t move your hands, can’t get up with your jelly limbs. she’s kissing you slowly and you feel her tongue slide against yours, her saliva pushing it’s way into your mouth. you swallow, hearing a quiet moan from her—your heart should be pounding, but it’s awfully quiet inside of you. you think you’ll die soon, it felt like it. you feel something wet all over your cheeks, are you crying?

ellie who licks up your tears, stickiness growing in her underwear. “you look even prettier when you cry, m’ so glad to have you..” she mumbles in your ear, she sounds so far away. she’s roughly shoving her hand down your pants, you whimper, your body feels alarmingly light, she drags her fingers up and down your cunt—ellie’s groans and warm breaths against your ear. “no.. no, ellie please,” you’re whispering, she shushes you again, comforting and soothing, taking you for herself. she’s thrusting into you gently, a kiss to your forehead, pushing in and out while you cry in her arms. this was all she ever wanted.

ellie who finishes just from how you sound when you cry, a loud moan of your name and her fingers jamming right against that spot inside of you so harshly it makes you shudder. she doesn’t bother making you finish, she knows she has all the time in the world for that. so she cleans herself up in the bathroom she set up for you, coming back with a set of pyjamas and a cup of juice. you change, take a tiny sip, your body still feeling limp and numb, and you curl back into a ball on the worn out mattress. you can slowly feel your heart beating in your chest, tingling in your fingertips. and you drift off to sleep. ellie will take her time. you’ll come around one day.

part 2 here ♡

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@morticeras @whisperingcherub @hyperbabes

[rauspberries]

HIGH EXPECTATIONS!

summary: you get yourself hurt in the field. aaron covers up his worry with frustration. pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader. tags: afab reader, pre-established built-up tension, mentions of violence & murder, r gets the shit kicked out of them, aaron doesn't know how to use his words like a big boy, r hates that he can't just give her some emotion, mentions of r having daddy issues [self-insert] word count: 3.1k notes: this oneshot went through eighty different prompts & eighty different rewrites before i got even slightly happy enough to post it. based off of a request for #15 of the excuse prompts. enjoy!

This case had been killer, pun unintended. At first, it had just been a consult. A police station in Omaha, Nebraska asking for assistance in locating a serial killer that had been murdering young, brunette women after he had left a few notes for them at crime scenes. Then, you had to fly out in the early morning on Monday once he had struck again, to get a feel for the crime scene and to get a better grip on victimology.��

By the time you had located the unsub, two more dead bodies and six nights of little to no sleep later, you had been absolutely exhausted. A self-diagnosed chronic overachiever, your last week had consisted of nights filled with bad coffee, staring at photos of dead bodies and scribbling unintelligible notes on more sticky notes than was good for the environment. All you prayed for was to catch the bad guy, wrap up the case and take a nice long nap on the two-and-a-half hour long plane ride back home.

The worst part about it was that your exhaustion was noticeable. As you had been putting on your vest, Hotch had walked up to you, fingertips brushing against your elbow to catch your attention. One glance at his face told you everything you needed to know. The wrinkles forming between his eyebrows, the barely noticeable squint of his eyes, the white line on his lips from pressing them together - he was worried.

He’d tried to convince you not to go. That paperwork needed to be done, that he and the rest of the team could handle it, that he needed someone to stay there. In the end, you had won the tense stand-off, steely brow and all. Admittedly, he’d always been too soft on you, too quick to back down when you argued back. Never able to actually say no.

Looking back on it all, he probably should’ve tried harder.

You remembered the night in flashes. Foot getting caught on something hidden in the untamed grass as you separated from the team, sending you sprawling on the dew-soaked ground, mud seeping into your clothes. The clacking sound of a boot kicking away your weapon. The burst of pain in your torso as the unsub sent multiple steel-toed kicks into your ribs and face, followed by a cry - your own, although it sounded like it came from a mile away. A thud you later recognized as the unsub getting tackled to the ground and the clicking of handcuffs.

Hotch had slid into the grass next to you moments after. He would’ve gotten to you faster if it wasn’t for the distance or the ache in his back he hadn’t been able to shake since he was thirty. His fingertips had brushed against the blooming bruise on your cheekbone, nerves sparking with a reminder that you were still alive.

Now, a few days of monitoring later, you sit on the edge of your bed in a hospital room. Luckily for you, the unsub hadn’t been able to do too much damage to you in the bit of time he had been kicking you around. An ugly bruise on your cheek, bruised ribs, a grade 2 concussion and a small pneumothroax when you had first arrived at the hospital.

Could’ve been worse. You could be dead, if he had been smart enough to go for your gun instead. Fool.

You’re standing up to tie the strings on your sweatpants [and struggling to do so] when there’s a knock at the door. Glancing over your shoulder, you’re met with the sight of Hotch, dressed in a maroon polo and jeans. It’s almost startling, seeing him in something other than a tailored suit, but it's not unwelcome. The shirt stretches at the broadness of his chest and shoulders, hugging the toned muscle of his biceps and chest. The way he looks is sinful, especially compared to your raggedty t-shirt and old sweatpants.

He’s your boss, he’s your boss, he’s your boss…

“Are you decent?” He rumbles, shutting the door slowly behind him. Despite the question, his eyes brush over you quickly, lingering on the bruise on your cheek with a guarded look. He loved making it impossible for you to read him, even with the whole being-a-profiler thing and all.

With a soft scoff of amusement, you quirk a brow at him. “Don’t think it matters, since you’re already looking at me.” It’s a gentle tease, an attempt to break the tension that has settled over the room, although you note the slight grimace that takes over his face and the way his eyes immediately divert from your face, like he was caught red-handed. What he doesn’t know is that you’d do anything to keep his focus on you, even if it meant getting pummelled in the face and ribs again.

It was no secret that there was something going on between you and Hotch. Unspoken, not acted upon, inappropriate, but there. It wasn’t named, or mentioned, just known. Like really flirting with a friend you’d never date, or a gift left on a kitchen counter and never spoken about. It’d become its own entity, hovering around you and growing more irritating by the milisecond, covered by stale jokes from you and a feigned indifference from him.

It lingers in the furrow of his brow whenever the cops at the local precincts looked at you too long, at the hand brushing your back when you stepped into or out of the SUVs, at the quiet murmuring of a nickname when he had joined you in the back of the ambulance. And now it hovers in this hospital room like a thick fog, watching you with a tough facade that covers up the relief of seeing you up and alive, of being at a hospital with you in Nebraska when he should be spending it at home with his son in Virginia. 

Clearing your throat, you pull your focus away from that damned maroon polo, grabbing the newly-purchased stuff you had scattered across all of the tables and chairs in your room to shove them into the bag Emily had brought for you as soon as you had been told you needed to be kept for observation. “Can I help you, sir?”

With your back to him, you don’t notice the way he tenses at the formality, the raise of his shoulders and his fingers curling. Immediately after saying it, you had regretted letting it leave your mouth, wanting to crawl into your skin. It’s like you were begging him to bend you over the hospital bed. Pitiful.

His voice is tense as he speaks. “I’m here to drive you home.” A gentleman through and through, you shouldn’t be surprised, especially with the way he keeps letting his eyes roam over you, testing for any sight of pain or discomfort. 

It seemed to be a habit of his, checking on your comfort levels. You haven’t been able to forget the time he’d grabbed you by the shoulder turning a case briefing, turning you around just long enough to silently rip off the tag of your shirt after noticing that it had been irritating the back of your neck all meeting. Stupid profiling. A dumb skill to have, even if it kept you employed.

His words grasp your full attention, face contorting in confusion as you whip around to look at him. “Why? I could’ve gotten someone else to drive me. I’m sure you have things to do. You know, clean the house, organize your button-ups by color. Black, white, slightly off-white.”

Unlucky for your inability to not crack a joke when things got serious, Hotch’s face is back to its guarded look, arms crossed over your chest like he was just praying for you to stare at his arms. “I don’t see anyone else here, do you?” The question is pointed with a raise of his brow, carrying a smugness that he won’t let seep through the armor he’s built around himself. 

“Attitude,” you hiss back, like a mother scolding their child for rolling their eyes. “I said I could've, not that I did. I was hoping to book it down the street before anyone even noticed I was gone.” A lie. You hadn’t even thought about how you were going to get home, too distracted by the fact that you were finally allowed to leave this god-forsaken place. You missed your apartment, where you could throw things on the floor and no one would come in, wrinkle their nose and pick it up for you. 

Making a mess was your love language. They were silencing you here.

It’s incredibly annoying, the way Hotch continues to stand like a statue, face still in the same bored look he had painted on moments before. It’s times like these where you wonder if the unspoken connection was all in your head, a delusion that you had created due to the absence of both a romantic partner and/or a father figure in your life. Definitely plausible.

He lets out a sigh that’s bordering on sounding irritated as he lets his arms drop to his sides, gesturing to the bag you had just finished zipping up. “Hand me your bag.”

“No.” Your response is immediate, lifting it over your shoulder and immediately suffering the consequences of your actions by the pain that shoots throughout your ribs. “Fuck me,” you hiss in both shock and agony.

Again, he doesn’t respond with any sort of emotion, making you wonder if you should put a heart monitor on and hold your breath just to see something. Instead, he takes a few steps forward, the bergamot cologne on his wrist wafting through your nose as he uses one hand to pull the bag off of your arm, the other one lowering it slowly. “Don’t be stubborn,” he scolds, although it doesn’t sound much different than the bored, low tone he often sported.

Rolling your eyes, you hold your hand over your rib like you’d been punched again. “Be nice. I’m hurt.”

“You wouldn’t have gotten hurt if you wouldn’t have been stubborn and had listened to me about staying at the station.” His response is immediate, as if he had been holding onto the words until you had given him a reason to use them. For a singular good-humored moment, you contemplate if Hotch was the type of guy to have an argument with someone in his head. As a former lawyer, that had to be the case, right? 

The smile that has slowly started to seep into your lips at the thought immediately dissipates when he speaks your name, head raising and lips parting. “Huh?”

There it is, the tilt of his head downward, forming what he thinks is a scowl. “I said, can we please go?”

Another roll of your eyes. “Well, since you asked so politely,” you sarcastically respond. Slipping on the cheap slippers that Emily had bought for you at the local Walmart, you follow behind Hotch like a lost puppy, gaze taking in everything around you like you hadn’t been outside in years.

As he leads you out of the entrance and into the parking lot, the thick silence stretching around you starts to make you nervous. You’ve been hurt in the field before – it usually came with the job – but he had never been quiet after the fact. It was also something. 

So and so weeks until you come back.

Are you feeling okay?

Is there anything we can do for you? But there was nothing coming from him. You’re forced to stare at his back as he walks two steps ahead of you, arms swinging beside him as he scans the parking lot like someone was going to jump out and finish the job on you. Tense shoulders, gritted jaw. He was giving you the silent treatment, like a petulant child. 

The thought eats at you until you finally get to the SUV, his hand grabbing the door handle on the passenger side to open it for you. Even in his obvious brooding, he is ever the gentleman, not allowing you to make any move by yourself. Chivalry is ingrained into his being, and it just pisses you off more.

You pounce as soon as he settles in the driver seat. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Hotch’s brow raises so high you swear it dips into his hairline. “I’m sorry?”

With a wince and a soft grunt, you turn yourself to face him, stubbornly crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re ignoring me. I got the shit kicked out of me and you haven’t asked me if I’m okay once, yet you look at me like I’m going to fall apart. What is happening? Why are you mad at me?”

There it was, the slight widening of his eyes, the soft tell of him trying to pretend nothing was wrong. It was the same thing that happened every time someone asked him if he was okay. A widen of his dark eyes to smoothen out the permanent crease on his forehead, the loosening of his lips that took out the tension in his jaw. “I’m not mad at you.” Liar. 

Displeasure pools deep in your gut, heart thudding against your ribcage in the anxiety that takes over you. Suddenly you’re a child again, begging for your friends to stop lifting their chin up at you and just tell you what you had done wrong. “Hotch, please talk to me.” It comes out as a plea, making your agitation bubble up into your throat, burning. Why did you have to beg for an answer when he was the one ignoring you? He’s quiet as he turns the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life and the silence filled with the soft thrum. You don’t back down, staring at him intently as he places a hand on the back of your headrest, reversing out of your parking space and pulling off. 

You sear your gaze into the side of his face until he lets out a soft sigh, hardening around the corners as he prepares to pull out his best bout of professionalism. “What you did was unprofessional. You should’ve never gone into the field with the lack of sleep you had, nor should you have split up from everyone else.” For a split moment, he lets his focus move off of the road in front of him, fixing you with a hard look before glancing away. 

A scoff leaves you, eyes rolling dramatically. “Please. Everyone on this team has put themselves in harm's way at some point or another, whether on purpose or out of some innate need to do something stupid. If this were anyone else, you wouldn’t be riding them half as hard and you know it.”  The accusation comes out a bit snappier than you want it to, especially since he is your superior, but red is clouding your vision and your heart is leading the way you speak and act. 

“They are not you.” He responds with gritted teeth. He doesn’t raise his voice, because he never does, pretending like he’s keeping calm in the face of everything that happens. What he doesn’t tend to notice is that the longer he continues trying to guard himself, the easier it gets to notice all of his telltale signs. Either that, or you’re so far gone in thoughts about him that you’ve noticed all of them. 

At his words, your frustration dissolves slowly until it's completely moot, leaving you staring at him with a lax brow and slightly agape mouth. “What does that mean?” No anger, no distaste, just pure curiosity.

There’s that ghost again, floating in the cab of the SUV, hanging out on the center console between you. Thick and heavy, hovering, taunting. It’s the type of feeling that makes you want to reach over, grab him by the collar of that stupid fucking polo and smack a fat one on his lips. You couldn’t complain about him not speaking to you when he was busy shoving his tongue down your throat, could you?

You don’t answer that question. You’d probably still find a way to argue. He’s infuriating. Insufferable sometimes.

Hotch’s tongue runs along the line of his bottom lip as he debates on what to say. “I shouldn’t have let you go. I could tell how exhausted you were. That, mixed with your damn stubbornness.” He shakes his head, glancing out the side window as he pulls into the private side of the airport.

Something grips at your chest, cold fingers around your heart giving it a soft squeeze. For the first time since this ubiquitous feeling had settled over the both of you, he was finally giving you something. A little peek into the shield he had fortified over the years, a soft spot for only you to see. A glimpse into a future where everything isn’t just in your head.

“Hotch, it’s not your fault,” you murmur, voice suddenly feeling too loud in the small space of the car. “You tried to tell me not to go, but I didn’t listen. That makes it my stupid fault.” Your nose wrinkles, pulling a wince from you at the ache in your cheekbone.

His arm flexes as he puts the SVU into park, bracing his elbow on the center console to turn and look at you. There’s a soft silence as he fights his own mental battle, but you let him. There was no use in arguing with someone who had spent most of his life doing everything on his own. That included self-soothing at times. 

Finally, he reaches out, brushing his knuckles against the splotchy bruise on your cheekbone. A gentle touch that sends a shiver all the way down to your toes, sparking and tingling. “You’re okay?” He asks, the question loaded with a lot more than just wondering how you feel physically.

Tilting your head enough to lean into his touch, you nod. “I’m okay.” To punctuate your point, you even give him a small smile, blinking slowly, like he’d disappear if you blinked too fast. 

It’s obvious that he doesn’t believe you, however he nods back anyways, pulling his hand away from you. Without a word, he opens his door, stepping out of the car and coming around to open your door just as you reached for it. 

You don’t speak the entire time you grab your luggage, handing it off to the ramp agents, and make your way onto the jet. There, you settle into seats from across each other. 

The feeling will always be a ghost, haunting the both of you. But for now, it’s comfortable.

[fanficgirl429]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Prompt: Y/N and Bucky are always arguing but underneath the arguing there is something more.

---

The safehouse was quiet, save for the scratch of Y/N’s boot across the floor as she paced in tight, agitated circles. Sam sat on the worn couch, nursing a coffee, watching her with an amused expression.

“You’re gonna wear a trench in the tile,” he said.

Y/N didn’t look up. “Then maybe someone will finally fix the plumbing while they’re at it.”

Before Sam could respond, the door opened with a low creak.

Heavy boots. A leather jacket. A glint of metal. Blue eyes. 

Y/N stopped pacing but her heart began to beat faster. 

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered.

“Good to see you too,” Bucky Barnes said flatly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. 

Y/N’s eyes swept over him before she could stop herself.

His hair was shorter than the last time she’d seen him, the scruffy length replaced by something neater, sharper—but it didn’t make him look any less like trouble. If anything, it made the angles of his face more striking, the steel in his eyes harder to ignore.

He wore a pair of dark blue jeans that fit him a little too well, paired with a simple gray t-shirt that stretched just enough across his chest to be distracting. Over it, the familiar dark leather jacket—worn at the edges, like it had seen more than its share of nights just like this one.

Still him. Still Bucky. A little more tired. A little more unreadable. Still ridiculously, unfairly good-looking.

Sam groaned, standing on the opposite side of the room, already knowing what was about to take place. “Here we go…”

Y/N crossed her arms, eyes narrowing like she’d just been handed a punishment rather than a mission. “I thought you were off brooding in Brooklyn or whatever it is you do when you’re not starting bar fights.”

“I got a call,” Bucky replied, jaw already tight like it physically pained him to be in the same room. “Didn’t realize you’d be here, or else I would’ve said no.”

Y/N blinked slowly, unamused. “Aw, and here I thought you missed glowering at me across the room.”

Sam raised both hands, already regretting life. “Okay. Ground rules—no stabbing, no sniping, no snide comments, no killing each other.”

Y/N and Bucky immediately replied, deadpan and in perfect sync: “Then they have to leave.”

Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, I miss Steve.”

Bucky smirked. “He wouldn’t have let her talk to me like that.”

“Oh, please,” Y/N shot back. “Steve was team me the second I showed him how to do a proper disarm.”

“You cheated” Bucky gritted. “You used pepper spray.”

“It was tactical.”

“It was petty.”

“It worked.”

Sam muttered under his breath, “I swear I’m too old for this.”

Y/N turned to him, innocent. “What? We’re just catching up.”

“Yeah,” Bucky added dryly. “You know, bonding.”

“If by bonding you mean barely tolerating each other’s existence,” Sam mumbled. “Sure. Great. Love that for us.”

Y/N smirked. “Oh, c’mon, Barnes. Don’t pretend you didn’t miss me.”

He shot her a look. “Like a rash.”

“Like an itch you can’t quite reach?” she teased, stepping just a little closer.

“Like a headache that talks back.”

Y/N clutched her chest dramatically. “You do care.”

“I’m praying for an excuse to leave.”

Sam muttered something about regretting all his life choices and walked into the kitchen, leaving Y/N and Bucky staring at each other, the tension in the room thick.

---

Later that day, the three of them were staking out a suspected Flag Smasher hideout—Bucky in the alley, Y/N on the rooftop, Sam above them both in the drone.

“Your comms are off again,” Y/N said through gritted teeth.

Bucky’s voice crackled back. “Maybe I just wanted some peace and quiet.”

She huffed. “God forbid someone try to help you.”

“I don’t need help.”

“You keep saying that. I keep not believing it.”

He sighed heavily. “Look, I’ve been doing this long before you started playing sidekick to Sam—”

“Excuse me?” she snapped.

“You heard me.”

There was a tense silence over the line before Y/N muttered, “You’re impossible.”

“And you never shut up.”

“You never smile.”

“You never stop talking long enough to make me want to,” Bucky snapped. 

Sam’s voice crackled in: “I swear to God, if you two don’t start flirting with less hostility, I’m going to crash this drone.”

---

There were moments—small, unspoken ones—that carried more weight than any argument ever could. Something neither Y/N nor Bucky dare speak of out loud. 

Like when Y/N stumbled during a chase, her footing lost for just a split second—and Bucky was already there. His hand on the small of her back like it belonged there, steady and sure. She stiffened, spine straightening as she glanced at him with a flicker of defiance. “I’m fine,” she said, brushing it off like it didn’t matter but in reality her heart was pounding. Not from almost falling but from the placement of his hand- afraid to admit she liked it. 

He didn’t move, not right away. His hand lingered—just long enough to say everything he didn’t. “I know,” he murmured, low and steady.

Or the night she’d fallen asleep at the table, exhaustion pulling her under while intel files lay all around her. Bucky had watched her for a moment, then eased the tablet from her fingers with more care than most people gave breakable things. He draped his jacket over her shoulders—soft, worn, and carrying the faint scent of him—without a word.

Then there was the time she caught him staring. She’d felt it first, like warmth on the back of her neck, and when she turned, there he was—blue eyes locked on her like she was something worth memorizing. He looked away too quickly, but it was too late.

She’d seen it and had already begun to feel the same way.

---

The tension between them finally snapped, unraveling in the aftermath of a mission gone sideways.

The safehouse was dim, still humming with adrenaline and silence too loud to ignore. The echo of gunfire clung to Y/N’s skin like smoke, and Bucky’s jacket was still spattered with dirt and blood that wasn’t his.

“You almost got yourself killed!” she exploded, her voice sharp as she began pacing, hands clenched at her sides. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I had it under control,” Bucky growled back, arms folded tightly across his chest. 

“No, you didn’t! You jumped in front of that guy like—like your life doesn’t matter!”

He stood slowly, deliberately, tension rippling through his shoulders. “And what? You care now?”

Y/N stopped mid-step. Her breath hitched.

“I see how you look at me,” he said, quieter now. “Like I’m a grenade that hasn’t gone off yet.”

She laughed, bitter and breathless. “You think that’s it? You think I argue with you because I’m scared of you?” Her voice cracked as she stepped closer to him. “You don’t scare me, Bucky. You never have.”

He froze, surprised—caught off guard by the softness buried beneath her anger.

“I argue with you,” she continued, more gently now, “because you make me insane. Because you throw yourself into danger like you’ve got nothing to lose. Because you act like you’re not allowed to matter to anyone.”

His jaw twitched. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“So what?” he asked finally, voice low, unsteady. “You’re saying you care about me now?”

“Yes!” she shouted, exasperated. “You stubborn, reckless idiot.”

Bucky just stared at her, stunned into silence.

She broke eye contact, running a hand through her hair with a shaky breath. “God, I didn’t want to feel anything for you. I told myself you were a headache, a pain in the ass, someone I had to put up with. But somewhere between the death glares and the brooding... I started to see you.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And I realized I care. And I don’t know what the hell to do with that.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Bucky stepped forward, slow and cautious. 

“You don’t have to do anything with it,” he murmured. “Just… don’t take it back.”

Y/N met his eyes again. For once, she didn’t have a comeback. Just silence, and the distance between them—closing inch by inch.

Then, softly, Bucky said, “I care about you too.”

Y/N turned to him.

“I just... don’t always know how to show it,” he added.

She stepped closer. “Try.”

And he did.

---

The kiss wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t all heat and urgency or cinematic sparks.

It was something quieter—gentler. A moment that didn’t demand attention but deserved it, soft and grounding in all the ways neither of them expected.

His metal hand hovered just above her hip, uncertain, trembling with the weight of hesitation and history. Like he was afraid to touch something too good, too real.

But his other hand—his human one—was surer. It cradled her cheek with aching tenderness, calloused thumb brushing her skin.

She leaned into the touch before she could think better of it, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. 

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N smirked faintly. “That wasn’t terrible.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward. “You never shut up, do you?”

“Not unless you kiss me again.”

He did.

[loserlvrss]

𝐍𝐎 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ⟡ Mark Lee

( 六月 ). ─────you got my heartbeat to play to your time.

one thing about your boyfriend is that he would always take care of you 🫐📨 엔시티이민형 &fem!rea. ｡ ｡warn. ment. of being drunk, kiss 1THOU one shot, fluff, 𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝓁𝒶.

노트 my bf btw click4more

It’s a good thing the elevator in your apartment hadn’t gone out yet, otherwise the man on your arm would’ve been upset—though he’d never let you know that.

He just loved you too much for that. And, you kept telling him about how much of a good night it was for you. Seeing old friends and getting drinks. He’d never dream of ruining that.

“Baby,” He stated quietly, pulling your arm around his waist higher, as it kept slipping. “Hold on, just a little longer…why’d you have to live on the 10th floor? Thank God the elevator isn’t out. Is the view really worth it though?” He watched the numbers climb, illuminated electronically above the door.

Your eyebrows furrowed, and though you were hunched against him, you willed your head up.

Deadpanning, you replied, “duh.” To which he just laughed at, “You just don’t get it, Mark! Have you seen it? It’s beautiful! Not more than you but, you know.”

“Many times—actually, I helped you move in, baby.”

You giggled, head falling into his side, “Y-yeah, you did…do you remember haechan falling up the stairs? He wasn’t even carrying anything heavy! Oh my god, it was so funny, I swear I peed my pants!”

Mark thought that, for a drunk girl, you were very good at not sounding slurred with your words. However, standing or walking in a straight line were two very different tasks for you to accomplish in this state. But, he thought it was cute that you thought of him to pick you up and make sure you got home safely. He loved that you loved him so much; shared so many memories with him and were still willing to make them.

And truthfully, he loved you more.

The elevator dinged, the voice telling you that the doors were now opening. Mark braced his arm around you tighter, hiking you up to be, at least a little, straighter.

You trudged along, holding back his attempts to keep a steady pace. You knew it was difficult to move on your own accord in your current state but, honestly you could’ve just fallen asleep on the floor if you fell.

“Work—with—me—here, y/n. Please,” He gritted, practically dragging your giggling figure, “Do you even want to sleep in your own bed?”

Your eyes narrowed soberly, “Are you staying?”

“Will that make you walk faster?”

As if possessed, the thought alone was enough to make you straighten your back and begin willing your legs to move—clumsily, of course, but you knew your boyfriend was still a crutch to make sure you didn’t hit the floor.

He laughed in disbelief, then relief once you two finally had made it to your numbered door. Mark put in the passcode and it chimed with satisfaction.

“You scare me sometimes, baby.”

You hopped in place, the door swinging open with the length of his arm. You slumped against the wall, unhooking the strap of your heels and kicking them off.

“Let’s go to bed!” And when you were about take off down the hall, a hand grabbed yours and stopped you—your feet comically still stomping in place. Your eyebrows furrowed, and you looked over your shoulder in confusion.

“First,” he started, leading you down the hall; for a moment you thought he just didn’t want you to run but, he turned off into your bathroom. Mark hit the switch and illuminated the room, your eyes shutting instinctively. “Your makeup.”

As if it was a daunting statement, you whined, trying to get out of his grip. “No.”

“You’ll kill me in the morning, babe,” He grabbed your waist, hoisting you onto the counter and trapping you with his body, “It won’t take long.”

Your pinky swung from the porcelain and into his view, “Promise.” You weren’t asking, and that made him laugh.

His pinky connected with yours, “Promise.” He replied adamantly, mimicking your movement and kissing the end of his balled fist.

He got to work, grabbing the remover and a couple cotton rounds. He gently swiped your skin, and you swear your head kept drifting to the side with tiredness. You couldn’t help that your boyfriend was the sole reason you could get a good-nights sleep.

Instead of trying to keep you up, he grabbed it, huffing out another laugh at your antics but, letting you fully fall asleep in his hand.

Mark admired you as he tried his best to get the mascara off, smudging it and making you look a little foolish. He thought you were cute; the way your lips were parted, small snores leaving them. The slight crease of your brows as he put your moisturizer and serums on. He swears he could feel his heart swell, knowing you were just that comfortable around him—so adamant to have him by your side—to have him love you.

And, he did.

He loved you so fucking much. His future was you. If he was your world, you were his sun. You were his lifeline. You were the one person he knew he could rely on without contest. If he was a producer, you were his muse. Everything revolved around you. Even if his thoughts weren’t originally for you, they’d eventually make their way back to you. He was excited to talk to you about anything and everything. He was blindsided by a love as strong as this mutual one.

He’d die for you, and that’s why he lives.

Honestly, he was so embarrassingly emotional right now for you, he could practically feel the tears welling up.

Mark swallowed the lump in his throat, grabbing the other side of your head and watching as you blinked yourself conscious.

You smiled sleepily, “When’d you get here, baby?”

He could feel your arms climb to be around his neck, pulling him and simultaneously pushing yourself to get body-to-body. You always craved the warmth (even subconscious) like you were cold-blooded.

“I’m always here.” He kissed the side of your mouth, whispering against your lips, “Now, let’s go to bed?”

© loserlvrss 2024 / 25. 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱. reblogs & feedback appreciated networks : @kstrucknet @neocity-net

[writtendaydreamm]

The On-Call Room

Summary: Y/n and Langdon try to get some rest in the same on-call room but get a little distracted.

Warnings: 18+ NSFW, Smut if you squint

Author's Note: Based on this request. Sort of a prequel to The Hospital Gossip Mill. Let me know your thoughts and feedback!!

Two loud knocks was all it took and Langdon was wide awake. 

Already in a shitty mood having to pull a double today, all he wanted was some peace and quiet. Was that too much to ask? To get just a little bit of sleep in before having to go through another eight hours in the pit. 

Looking down at his watch, he groaned. By now he would’ve been at home, probably getting ready for dinner plans with Y/n. But instead, he was here. At the hospital. Where he has been since 8AM. All because of that nasty bug going around. Already short-staffed, it was one sick call after the next this past week. From doctors, to nurses, to admins - everyone was catching it. One of the few left standing, Langdon took one for the team, staying back to cover Dr. Ellis on the night shift. 

Throwing his legs over the stiff, sorry excuse for a bed the hospital furnished the on-call rooms with, Langdon walked up to the door grumbling to himself. This better be an emergency otherwise someone was about to get ripped a new one. He wrote it clearly on the whiteboard outside: 

DON'T KNOCK, CALL IF URGENT 

Can people not read? Brows furrowed tightly, Langdon yanked the door open wide, raring and ready to unleash the string of profanities on the tip of his tongue until he saw who was in front of him. Y/n.

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” she teased, walking straight past him before he could even get a word out. 

Sticking his head out scanning the halls, he was relieved to see they were empty. No one at work had a clue they were dating and they intended to keep it that way.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be home by now?” he asked trying not to sound too annoyed as he locked the door behind him. 

Yeah, she should have been. The last surgery on her schedule today was a simple hernia repair. It wouldn’t have taken more than an hour. But the patient’s stubborn mother decided to ignore the explicit directions not to feed her 24-year-old man-child any food while he waited for an OR to open up. Now the 20 minute wait for an OR turned into a 6 hour wait for the casserole to digest. 

“I don’t know how she snuck that Tupperware past the nurses,” Y/n snorted, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Looks like we’re both in for a long night.”

Leaning into her touch despite himself, Langdon’s eyes closed instinctively. The feeling of her thumb agaisnt that sensitive spot on the nape of his neck transported him back to the night before. How her fingers brushed against that exact spot, how they worked down his back, the welcomed burn of her nails as they scratched against his skin, the sound of her gasps in his ear as he-

Snap out of it, he told himself. Now was not the time for dirty thoughts about what they did last night. What he needed was to go lay down, not get worked up. Clearing his throat and his mind, he focused on the present.

“The on-call rooms full up there?” 

She nodded. They always were. About to slum it on one of the sofas in the surgical staff lounge, she remembered one of the last texts he sent her:

ED lounge is empty and lonely. 

Wish you were here 

Well, here she was. Wish granted. Sure, it was risky sneaking onto the ED floor. If someone saw her that would’ve been the start of a new rumor for sure. It would’ve spread around the hospital faster than that bug everyone was sick with. But he said it himself, no one was around. And with their dinner plans obviously canceled, this way they can squeeze in more time together. Even if it was spent just napping. 

“You don’t mind, right?” she pouted, looking up at him, willing him to forgive her for waking him up like she had. Batting her lashes, her thumb brushing that spot on his neck that had him like putty in her hands. 

He rolled his eyes. It wasn’t that he minded. It was that he was concerned about getting some actual sleep. He wanted to get at least an hour in before having to go back onto the floor. But two of them, confined in a tiny room with basically nothing but a bed, getting sleep was low on the list of things they could get up to in here. 

What was he supposed to do? Kick her out? Tell her no? He couldn’t. Even when he really wanted to, even when it was the right thing to do, even when she got on his damn nerves - like just now, blatantly ignoring the sign he wrote on the door - he could never say no to her. 

They managed to fit on the small bed slotting into one another like puzzle pieces. It was a tight fit considering these beds were made for one, but neither of them minded. The sheets were scratchy and the pillow paper thin, but with her back against him, his arm draped over her, it was actually kind of cozy. 

After promising no funny business, the room was silent save for the AC burring and their steady breaths. 

Finally dozing off, Langdon suddenly tensed, feeling Y/n shuffle in his arms. Her hips backed into him. It was only slightly but it was right against the one part of his body he had no control over. Assuming it was a one-off, he shuffled himself back a little to create some needed distance between them. But she did it again, just moments after.

Here we go, he groaned to himself. Just what he was afraid of. They were supposed to be sleeping with each other. Not sleeping with each other. 

He wasn’t going to react. Nope. He wasn’t going to give her the pleasure of a reaction, of knowing the effect she had on him. 

Summoning his will power, he fought against his body’s natural, primal response to her body moving against his. It wasn’t easy. Not only did she consume his physical senses, but she consumed his mind as well. Every thought was of her. Memories of her pretty face contorted in pleasure, her bare skin meeting his, her smart mouth stuffed full of him, all glued to the forefront of his mind.

He forced himself to think about that gross bleeder he cauterized this morning and that biker in South 2 with his leg bent out of shape waiting for Ortho, but it did nothing. How could it when with each passing second her movements became more brazen and shameless. Each roll of her hips grating on his self control.

“Y/n, stop,” he warned.

“Stop what?” she mumbled, playing innocent. But there was nothing innocent about what she was doing, the way she grinned her ass into him. It was deliberate and debilitating. 

“You promised,” he scolded. But there was no conviction in his voice. Or in the way he gripped her hips, a vain attempt to stop her before they went too far, before he couldn’t hold himself back. 

“I can’t help myself,” she whispered in a whine. Her hand moved behind her, palming him over his scrubs. Pleased at how hard he had gotten already, she chuckled. “Seems like neither can you.”

Whatever was left of his fragile resolve crumbled under her touch. His body had betrayed him totally. Fuck it, he thought. He was only human after all. Once again unable to say no, he surrendered to her whim for the second time that night. Placing feather light kisses on her neck, he indulged himself in the feeling of her hand stroking him slowly, sensually. Up and down, up and down. It was just enough pressure to offer relief but not enough to satisfy.

“Y/n,” he said again. This time less like a warning and more like a plea. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Good thing I’m a doctor,” she smirked.

“Smartass,” he murmured against her skin. 

No longer fighting his own need for her, his fingers dipped under her scrub pants. Her gasp was quiet and small, but unmistakable as his warm fingers pressed against the growing damp spot on her lacy panties. Feeling just how wet she was already, he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck whispering against her skin. 

“This what you wanted, huh?” 

Reveling in the sensation of his five o’clock shadow grazing against her skin, of his fingers sliding her panties to the side and slipping between her slick folds, she could only hum in agreement. 

That wasn’t good enough. No, he wanted to hear her say it. 

“Use your words, baby,” he demanded, his middle finger teasing her entrance.

Oh, she loved it when he got like this. All controlling and assertive. The tension in her core tightened. She pulsed against his finger in anticipation. About to speak up, to tell him this was exactly what she wanted, a loud beeping and buzzing beat her to it. 

“Son of a bitch,” he exclaimed louder than he should have. Throwing his head back on the pillow in exasperation, he couldn’t believe his luck. Of course his phone would be going off at this exact moment. 

The sound of Y/n’s laughter filled the room as he answered it. A finger held up to his lips, urgently gesturing her to quiet down. Not just because they could pick it up on the other end, but the way she was laughing they could probably hear her through the walls out in the hallway. Hand taped over her mouth she muffled her laughter as best she could, but this was just too good. A call right as they’re about to really get things started, right when he finally gave in? It wasn’t fair at all, but it was damn funny. 

Langdon was not nearly as amused by all this as she was. Not amused at all actually. The look he gave her as pointed as a knife’s tip. She knew just how to dull that sharpness though. Running a soothing hand up his back, fingers gently massaging the back of his neck, ensuring to touch that sensitive spot again.

The only thing Langdon found more upsetting than getting called back down to the floor early was how easily he folded for her. He was wrapped around her finger, and even worse, she knew it. Dragging a hand over his face, hoping to wipe away his fatigue and frustrations, he let out a deep sigh rising from the bed. They needed an extra set of hands down there, and as shitty as he felt, the patients down there felt a whole lot shittier. 

In the middle of adjusting his scrub pants, trying to conceal the hard-on that hadn’t gone down yet, he paused, confused as to why Y/n was getting out of the bed too. It wasn’t common practice to use other departments’ on-call rooms, but there weren’t any rules forbidding it. “You can stay y’know.”

“I know, but I should go back up anyway. Make sure my patient’s mom isn’t feeding him any more casserole,” she said, only-half joking. “Besides, I’m all strung up after that. No way I’m falling asleep now.” 

He shook his head, a smile creeping on his face as he watched her fix her own clothes. She was nothing but trouble, but she was all his trouble. As she turned towards the door, he grabbed her arm whipping her back around and into him. Face to face, chest to chest, he leaned in taking her by surprise for a change. The kiss was hot and hurried, leaving them both wanting for more. 

“Meet you back here after that hernia repair?” he suggested breathlessly.

Y/n nodded excitedly, “Definitely.”

High off each other, the pair stepped out into the hallway without so much as a second thought. In hindsight they should’ve checked to make sure no one was around, or maybe not walked out at the exact same time. For two people trying to keep their relationship a secret, it was a quite careless thing to do. But it was what they did. And now they had to convince Perlah, who was out in the hallway brows raised in surprise, that there was a totally normal explanation to what she just saw.

“I was just looking for an empty on-call room,” Y/n said, beginning to explain the situation to Perlah. The way she worded it made sense. The on-call rooms up in surgery were full, so she ended up here only to find Langdon already inside the room.

But Perlah did the math in her head and it wasn’t adding up. If Y/n came down to crash in an open room, and Langdon was using the room but is heading back to the ER now, why wasn’t Y/n staying in the room then?

“If he’s leaving, why are you leaving?” she questioned Y/n skeptically.

“Well I just got a call to check on my patient,” y/n answered back smoothly. Not a total lie but definitely not the whole truth. 

“Yeah she got the call exactly the same time I got called back,” Langdon added trying to really sell the idea this was all just some big coincidence and nothing more.

Perlah eyed them both suspiciously, not completely sold on the BS they were throwing at her. But like Langdon, she was working a double too, and didn’t have any extra energy to waste. So, she ignored her inner tsismosa urging her to keep digging for details, and let it slide this time. She left them in the hall, heading into the storage closet across the on-call room, grabbing whatever it was she came down here for in the first place.

Langdon and Y/n exchanged uneasy looks. Worry settling in the pit of their stomachs. Was this it? Had they been caught?

“Do you think she bought it,” Langdon mouthed, barely above a whisper.

Y/n could only shrug and pray that she did.  “Let’s hope so.”

[slytherinshua]

꒱　BRUISE YOU BLACK AND BLUE　( 서준태 )

genre hurt/comfort , juntae x fem!reader   cw spoilers for weak hero class 2 ep 8 (takes place during ep 8 events) , bruises , fighting , crying   wc 977   request no   note juntae broke the writers block let us all rejoice, i'll always come out of hibernation for my cinnamon roll boys. i've been listening to the weak hero osts since i finished watching last night this morning and i've never been so destroyed   net @kstrucknet

Your heart always faltered whenever it took more than two rings for Juntae to pick up. For someone as organized and smart as him, it never meant that he simply forgot to charge his phone. Something must have happened. Whenever he didn’t pick up, you knew he wasn’t okay.

You worried about him more than he would’ve liked you to. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust him or his friends, or thought he couldn’t handle himself or that he was weak. He was stronger mentally than you could ever be and his quick thinking was admirable by anyone. But physically, he was always bested. He didn’t have Humin’s strong punch or Hyuntak’s agility. When combat arose and the options were fight or flight, his body picked freeze. 

Today was the day Eunjang would fight against the Union. There was fear, anticipation, and something akin to excitement in the students’ minds. They had the chance to end it once and for all. It was now or never. 

You had Juntae’s location on your phone. When he didn’t pick up the first time, you tried texting him. When he didn’t pick up the second time, alarms were ringing louder than ever in your head. He wasn’t with the rest of the boys. Why the hell was his location showing the bowling alley?

You swore you had never ran faster in your life. Your legs carried you on adrenaline while your shaky hands dialled your boyfriend’s number every 5 minutes. You remembered weeks ago how Juntae had made you swear to not get involved, how Hyuntak warned you that the risk was too high for you to get entangled in it. You were breaking those promises now, feet aching in your sneakers as you ran faster, the alley soon coming into view. 

You’d have to ask for Juntae’s forgiveness later. 

The building was quiet when you walked in. Bowling balls were scattered on the floor and one of the Union guys was knocked unconscious in the middle of the room. Your eyes locked onto Juntae’s tattered shoes sticking out from behind a shelf of balls. You heard his shaky breaths, his soft grunts of pain. You saw the uncomfortable shift of his legs, trembling and weak. You didn’t take anymore time to rush to his side. 

“Juntae, are you okay? What happened?” Your voice quivered. Hands instinctively reaching to hold him, your touch gentle and held back. It was different. You would always run into his arms, throwing yourself onto him with full force, knowing he would catch you and hold you tightly, laughter escaping both your lips. But right now, you were scared to hurt him, scared to cause anymore stress or concern. You were scared that he wouldn’t want you there. 

“Why are you here? You should leave. You’ll get hurt.” He sounded exhausted— murmurs coming out amidst pained gasps. Tears filled both your eyes, yours escaping to slowly fall down your cheek while Juntae held his back. 

“I’m not leaving. Not without you,” you said firmly. 

Juntae knew you better than to think you would change your mind, even if he begged you. He gave a solemn nod, accepting it without further discussion. You let out a sigh of relief. 

“How badly are you hurt? Can you stand on your own?” 

He shook his head, “Everything hurts. I can’t walk well.” 

“Shit, it’s gonna be alright. We’re gonna get out of here, okay?”

He could only muster a few nods, holding back laboured breaths and stinging gasps. You got him to his feet, managing to hold him steady although he couldn’t support himself. You gripped his waist tightly and guided his feet up the stairs. You caught every stumble, hushed every whimper, held him tight as if he would disappear if you didn’t. You reached the bus stop on the sidewalk after a few stumbling minutes, and gently lowered him onto the bench. He wouldn’t let go of your hand. 

“W-we should meet the others. It’s not too far from here,” he gasped, still clutching his side. 

“Not until you can walk on your own,” you uttered. “Hold still.” 

You slipped his jacket off his left arm and lifted his shirt over the area he held in pain. The entire side of his stomach trailing up to his ribs was covered in fresh bruises, his skin agitated and reddish purple. You winced at the sight, imagining how violently he must’ve been thrown across the room to form them.

“Wait here. I’ll be right back,” you said, meeting his tearful eyes. Juntae watched you rush down the street, disappearing into the convenience store. Time seemed to slow as soon as you were out of his sight. He was alone with his thoughts to picture all the possibilities that scared him so much. Would the plan really work? 

You came back with a cup of ice in your hands and a box of pain medication— the same kind Juntae had insisted you take the last time you had a cold. He was worried sick about you back then, even though you swore you were fine. It was your turn to do the same for him. 

“Here, take this. It’s good to ice bruises as quickly as possible.” 

“Thank you,” he whispered. You pressed the ice to his side as he swallowed one of the pills. His head fell to your shoulder and you spoke in soft murmurs. 

“Do you think they’ll really beat Baekjin and the Union?” 

“We have to. It’s our only chance,” he said softly. “Baku will do it. I know he will.” 

“I’m proud of you, Juntae. You’re stronger than you think.”

“Really?” 

You looked down, noticing the small smile on his face, one that you simply adored. 

“Really. I’ve seen it for weeks now,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his forehead. “It’ll all be over soon.”

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