#just needed to get it out somehow in words but is so hard

[starryjake]

idea... reader being insecure about getting head but she has MUNCH HEE as a boyfriend and she ends up being addicted too

🫰🫰🫰🫰well yes.

“please, baby,” heeseung nearly begs.

his hands are rubbing your bare thighs, slowly making their way up and up and up.

he pushes the fabric of your skirt up as he goes, eager to get to what’s laying beneath it.

“i don’t know, hee,” you say.

you’re nervous, although you can’t deny how much just his hands rubbing your thighs are turning you on. you can feel yourself getting wet, an ache starting to from from the need to be touched.

“there’s nothing to be nervous about, i promise,” he tells you assertively. you look into his eyes and know that means it. “i just wanna make you feel good, sweetheart. that’s all i want.”

that was mostly all he wanted. of course he wanted to make you, his sweet girlfriend, feel good. but he also knew he would get a lot of pleasure out of himself.

since the day he started going out with you—hell, from the minute he met you, he wanted to taste you. he wanted to get his head between your legs and give you the head of a lifetime.

“but what if—”

heeseung cuts you off with a delicate kiss. he kisses you slowly, deeply, and it makes you realize even more so how bad you need him.

“you trust me, don’t you?” he whispers.

“yeah,” you answer, meaning it with all your heart.

“can i?” he asks, digging his finger into the waistband of your skirt.

“yes,” you finally tell him.

he practically rips your skirt and underwear off of you, beyond eager to finally get what he’s been dreaming of for months. you were worth it wait, he knew it before even getting a taste.

he lays down on his stomach, glancing up at you with his big doe eyes to ensure that you were okay. you still had that worried expression on your face, but heeseung was set on changing it to a pleasured one.

he kisses your thighs, his lips so soft and light that it tickles. you giggle a little, which in turn, makes him smile, relieved to know that you’re relaxing.

then finally, finally he leans in and licks a long, firm strip up from the bottom of your pussy to your clit. you gasp at the sensation, throwing your head back because suddenly it’s too heavy to hold up.

“oh my god,” you moan, thighs attempting to close around his head.

he pushes them back apart, tilting his head to lean on one as he focuses on eating your pussy. he licks up and down and circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, which has your legs twitching.

“heeseung,” you cry out, reaching down to entangle your fingers in his hair.

“mmm, yeah, baby,” he moans into your cunt. “you taste so good. you’re so wet for me, honey.”

“it feels…” you trail off as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks for a moment, quite literally taking your words away.

“feels what?” he asks.

you couldn’t remember what you were going to say. you couldn’t even think. he was eating you out so good it was making you dumb.

he didn’t mind. he could feel himself going dumb too, lost in how good you taste and how smooth and warm and amazing you feel against his tongue.

“my perfect girl,” he praises, slightly squeezing your thighs. “god, it’s so fucking good.”

all you could do was moan, getting confident enough to spread your legs wider and hump your hips up into his face. somehow, you needed even more, and he would give it to you.

he shifted his hands from your thighs and used his fingers to spread your pussy, then stuffed his face right back into it. the tip of his nose rubbing against your clit while his tongue thrusted in and out of your hole was enough to send you over the edge.

“hee!” you nearly scream. “i’m cumming! fuck, i’m cumming. i’m cumming, i’m—”

again, you couldn’t speak anymore. you were cumming way too hard to do anything but let it wash over you in silence. heeseung kept his head buried between your legs while you did, nursing you through your orgasm.

you yelped when you finally came down, and heeseung regretfully pulled away from your pussy. his lips, chin, and nose were glistening with your cum.

“fuck,” he growled, crawling up the bed to kiss you hard on the lips. “you’re so fucking hot, baby. can’t believe i finally got a taste of you. i don’t think i’m gonna be able to go a day without it now.”

and you had no problem with that. who were you to complain about your boyfriend starting and ending every day with his face between your legs?

[oaksgrove]

hi love! I hope you're doing alright ♡

im here to request a tiny, little angsty piece. I can picture John being so, so tired from work that he just can't stand being touched, but his beloved needs it so badly, so they go for it (holding his hand) —don't get them wrong, they always ask! but they also had a bad day. John snaps, accidentally smacking their hand away.

little angst, with John comforting withdrawn neurodivergent reader after he accidentally snaps at them, which turns into them comforting each other because "you're tired - no, you are tired", until John moves to seek their touch himself

Tired.

Pairing: John Price x Neurodivergent!Reader

Synopsis: Some days are too much. Too loud, too bright, too sharp. When the world presses in, you don’t need grand gestures. You just need John to understand.

Warning: Sensory overload, brief miscommunication/startled response, hurt/comfort, soft reconciliation

The kettle was screaming again.

High-pitched. Piercing. It had only just started, but it dragged across your nerves like nails on glass. You stood frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, jumper sleeves stretched down past your hands and gripped tight in your fists.

It was just a kettle.

But it wasn’t.

The hallway light was flickering again, same as yesterday, the bulb stuttering in the corner of your vision. The drawer next to the stove was open again—your carefully organized cutlery now out of order, one large spoon stuffed awkwardly into the teaspoon slot like a mistake you couldn’t fix. And the boots—

Thud. Thud. Thud.

John’s heavy steps across the kitchen floor, back and forth, back and forth like a pacing bear in a too-small cage. He was muttering again, voice low but rough with frustration.

“Fucking brass—changing the op schedule last minute—bloody nightmare—”

You winced.

You weren’t scared of him. Never had been. But the noise, the pressure, the weight of it all pressing down around your shoulders���it was too much today. Too loud. Too bright. Too off.

You didn’t even realize you’d whispered his name until his voice cut through the air, sharp and fast.

“What?” he snapped, turning with a furrowed brow, hand half-raised in mid-gesture.

It wasn’t loud. Not really.

But it cracked something in you.

Your whole body stiffened. Like a rubber band stretched too thin. Your shoulders drew up high and your chin tucked down, sleeves clenched in your fists, throat closing up.

John stopped.

Instantly.

His face changed—brows falling, mouth parting with regret blooming like a bruise behind his eyes.

“Shit—no, love—wait—” he stepped toward you quickly, one hand out, then hesitated, hovering like he didn’t want to crowd you. “I didn’t mean that. Christ, I’m sorry.”

You said nothing. You looked down.

And that was somehow worse.

“I was just—” he started again, then cut himself off with a frustrated sound, softer this time. “Fuck, I was bein’ a right bastard.”

You shook your head. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” he said.

You tried to breathe. The room felt too big and too tight all at once. The kettle shrieked one last time before clicking off. Still too late.

“I didn’t mean to be in your way,” you murmured. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just—everything’s loud today. I didn’t want to make it worse.”

John stared at you. His mouth twitched like he was about to argue—but then he caught himself. He crouched a little in front of you instead, like he was trying to shrink himself. His voice lowered.

“You’re not makin’ it worse. I am,” he admitted. “I know when I get like this—loud, angry—I make things heavier. And you’re carryin’ too much as it is.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away.

Just tried to unknot your fingers from your sleeves.

“I don’t always have the words,” you said finally, voice thin. “Some days I just… can’t talk properly. Or explain why everything feels so sharp.”

John’s gaze dropped to your hands, your tight shoulders, the way you were trying so hard to regulate even as your body rebelled against the room.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “Not to me.”

You looked at him. A flicker of disbelief passed across your face.

“I’m not good at being…” you trailed off. “Easy. Or quiet. Or normal.”

John’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

“I didn’t marry you because I wanted normal,” he said. “I married you because you feel like home.”

A beat of silence. The flickering light still buzzed. But it felt dimmer now—like the world had shifted, just slightly, around him.

“You’re tired,” you said softly. “You’ve been pacing since you got back.”

His mouth tugged into a wry smile. “No, you’re tired.”

You blinked. “Okay. We’re both tired.”

He huffed a warm, half-laugh. Then—very carefully—he leaned his forehead against your chest. Not heavy, just enough for you to feel the quiet weight of him.

“You always let me come back,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Even when I act like a grumpy sod.”

Your hand came up without thinking. Just resting gently in his hair. Fingers threading through the soft, short strands at his crown.

“I love you,” you said quietly. “Even when you’re a grumpy sod.”

He exhaled. His arms wrapped around your waist.

“I’m sorry for snapping,” he murmured. “Sorry for making today harder.”

“You didn’t,” you whispered. “You just startled me. That’s all.”

You held each other for a long while—standing in the middle of the kitchen, kettle off, boots stilled, lights flickering quietly above. Nothing had changed. But everything had softened.

And when John eventually pulled back to press a kiss to your forehead, he didn’t say anything more.

He just reached over, finally closed the drawer the proper way, and turned off the light.

“C’mon, love,” he said gently. “Let’s go sit down. I’ll make you tea.”

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[undyingdecay]

helloooo, this is my very first time requesting anything on tumblr, but your writing is just too good to pass up the opportunity.

i cannot, for the love of all mankind, get dark!bucky barnes out of my brain. it’s like an itch that can’t be scratched, no matter how hard i try. and i’m talking about some straight up dark shit that would potentially make me look fucking insane if i said it out loud.

(non-con) WHO SAID THAT? 👀

(tw: very heavy non-con, translation: khoroshaya devochka — good girl)

ok everyone sit down and listen, so ideally — and this is so bad it’s good — i’m thinking very freshly post-hydra!bucky. the kind of fresh where he still moves like a fucking predator without realizing it. where his hair’s still got that dry, greasy texture because he hasn’t figured out conditioner and tony’s too much of a prick to explain it to him. where his eyes are still vacant half the time, like there’s a stel trap wrapped around his head, but then — then there’s moments. quick flashes. like his gaze catches on your neck a second too long when you tilt your head or his jaw ticks when you laugh a little too loud in the kitchen because sam’s being a dick. little cracks in the armor.

and here’s the kicker, steve asked you to look after him. not like he was a rabid dog. no. steve wouldn’t call him that. steve would never say it like that. it was more in that… do-it-for-me tone, that boyish all-american pleading like he’s just shy of getting down on one knee. it wasn’t fair. you were good at saying no. you were good at keeping boundaries. but when he asked, when those big stupid hands were scrubbing sweat off his neck post-run and his biceps were gleaming under the LED lab lights?

you agreed. because you’re an idiot.

and bucky, bucky didn’t talk to you.

not much, anyway. he barely talked to anyone, truth be told, and you weren't about to make him. you’d still check in. you’d talk at him, mostly. about dumb shit — what kind of cereal was on sale, how tony’s AI fridge locked you out for putting a can of off-brand soda in it, how nat had somehow learned to crochet and was currently making sweaters for the knives she kept under her mattress. normal stuff. and maybe you wondered if he was listening but only sometimes.

you kinda forgot who he was, to be honest. like, yeah, there were moments you remembered — like the time you were standing in front of the fridge, reaching for the leftover pasta you’d been thinking about all day, and he just… picked you up. didn’t say a word. just lifted your entire body out of the way like you weighed nothing. set you down a foot to the left. opened the fridge. pulled out a bottle of water. left. no ‘excuse me’. no ‘move’. just manhandled you like a fucking doll and dipped.

but then came the night. and you swear on your life you didn’t hear him come in. you didn’t. you always did before. you could hear the way his boots dragged a little or the click of metal fingers against the wall. not this time. one second you were half asleep, the next you were on your back, bedsheets twisted around your ankles and something cold and heavy pressing your wrist down into the mattress.

you knew it was him. even in the dark, even before you opened your mouth, you knew.

“bucky—?”

his hand was in your hair, not pulling but holding, fingers twisted so deep into the roots it made your eyes sting. the words didn’t register. he was speaking, low and harsh in your ear, and you couldn’t understand a word of it but you knew it was russian because natasha would curse under her breath in that same jagged way when she was pissed off.

he was grinding against you. fully clothed. all rough denim and stiff tactical gear, and you could feel the press of him through it. the sick, hot friction of fabric on fabric like it was enough for him. like he didn’t even care about getting his cock out, just needed to rut against something warm and soft and unwilling. his breathing was so fucking loud, low grunts slipping out every time his hips jerked forward.

you were pleading. of course you were. because what else do you do when a supersoldier’s on top of you with a metal hand around your throat? you were asking him to stop, babbling out whatever you could think of — please, bucky, you don’t wanna do this, you don’t wanna hurt me, please, please— but it barely mattered. didn’t even look like it registered.

and some part of you — some deep, shriveled, awful instinct — told you to stay still. like maybe if you didn’t move, didn’t scream, didn’t make it worse, he’d finish faster. like maybe this was the least you owed him. not as a person, but as a thing. a thing that had been torn up and stitched back together wrong. like maybe this was how you repaid the debt you never owed in the first place.

and it made you sick to your stomach.

he muttered something sharp in russian again, voice rough like gravel and whiskey, and his hand moved from your hair to your neck. not squeezing — not yet — just pressing down enough to make your throat work harder.

“stupid things,” you caught, because that was in english. “never listen.”

and then quieter — almost tender, which made it worse — “zhenshchiny ne mogut plakat', yesli oni mokryye naskvoz'.”

you didn’t even understand what the fuck that meant at first. not until later. not until you found natasha at the gym and repeated it in a shaky whisper and watched her face twist, real ugly and mean.

and she told you. told you what it meant.

'women can't cry if they are soaking wet'

and you’ve never slept right since.

you should’ve known better to.

the first time it happened, you thought maybe it would be the only time. some awful, one-time, trauma-fueled mistake. a sick, violent need in him that would burn out and leave you in peace. you even tried to tell yourself he didn’t know what he was doing — the way he’d snarled in russian, the cold clamp of vibranium fingers around your throat, the sharp rut of his hips into yours like an animal. the way he kept you pinned under him, fully clothed, grinding himself into your cunt through your shorts until your body betrayed you, slick gathering no matter how much your mind screamed. you thought maybe, maybe it would end there.

it didn’t.

he stayed after. lay there beside you in your own bed, that metal hand still curled around your wrist, eyes wide open and unblinking in the dark. watching. like a predator deciding whether to finish the kill or let the wound fester. he didn’t speak. didn’t explain. didn’t leave.

the next night, you thought about locking the door. stood there with your hand on the knob, heart pounding in your throat. and then you let it go, because what was the fucking point? a lock wouldn’t stop him. nothing would. not when the winter soldier still lived in his bones, moving his hands before his brain caught up. and sure enough, sometime past midnight, boots heavy on the floor, the oppressive presence of him filling the room — and this time, there was no hesitation.

he undid his tactical pants just enough, the harsh rasp of the zipper making your stomach twist. there was no slow approach, no pretense. his hand knotted in your hair, wrenching your head back, and then your face was in the pillow, his grip like a steel trap around your neck.

“stop—” you tried, and that was the last word you managed.

he spit on your cunt first. a thick, cruel thing, then smeared it with his fingers, muttering something in russian that you didn’t need natasha to translate. the intent was clear enough. then he shoved himself inside you, one brutal thrust, tearing you open like he owned the place. no prep. no care. the stretch was merciless, thick and unrelenting, your breath ripped from you as your whole body jolted forward.

and the worst part? you felt yourself get wet.

it wasn’t want. it wasn’t arousal. it was your body’s betrayal. terror slicking your skin, nerves on fire, every cell screaming and still — still the ache built between your thighs, heat blooming where it shouldn’t. he noticed. of course he did. leaned down, breath hot and ragged against your ear.

“khoroshaya devochka,” he rasped, rough and pleased. “knew you’d stop fighting.”

he fucked you like he didn’t need to be gentle, like your body was just a place to bury himself. every thrust brutal, grinding your hips into the mattress. teeth in your shoulder hard enough to bruise, to break skin. and every time you made a sound — a sob, a plea, a ragged whisper of his name — you felt him twitch inside you. like it turned him on more.

by the time he came, it wasn’t soft. a sharp snap of his hips, a guttural snarl in your ear, his teeth sinking into the muscle of your shoulder as thick, hot ropes spilled inside you. his hand never eased up on your neck. he kept you pinned there, limp and wrecked beneath him.

and then — he didn’t leave.

he rolled you onto your back, head resting on your stomach like it was some sort of goddamn prize, one hand lazily stroking your thigh while his cum leaked from you in slow, hot pulses. he stayed until dawn, and you lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, praying for death or daylight, whichever came first.

when the sun finally broke through, you got up, made coffee. looked at yourself in the mirror. bite marks and bruises trailing your neck, fingerprints mapped across your skin like a claim. you didn’t tell anyone. not steve. not nat. not sam. what would you even say? that their broken weapon was breaking you?

he came back again the next night.

and the next.

each time worse than the last. new ways to bend you, to mark you, to drag desperate, shamed pleasure from a body that didn’t know how to stop responding. every night his cock inside you, his voice in your ear, muttering in that dead, cold russian.

you stopped begging. stopped trying to fight.

because deep down, you knew he’d decided you were his.

and stupid things never learn.

(ive officially lost it)

[smokysr]

I LIKE U - S. R

pairing: fubu!spencer reid x afab!reader

content warning: +18. mdni. 3.3k words. oral (reader receiving). soft dom spencer. angry sex. raw. cowgirl. praise.

synopsis: in which you find yourself falling for your fuck buddy.

author's note: first smut </3 posting this in honor of undressed reaching 100 reads on wattpad!! woohoo

You never believed in love—not the kind that lasts, anyway. You’ve seen the way it destroyed people. Your parents. Your friends. Even your own failed attempts. Love has brought you nothing but pain. So you convinced yourself that it wasn't worth the trouble—that you were better off alone. It was safer that way. And for a while, you’ve never been happier.

Until Spencer Reid came along.

It was just harmless fun—or so you thought. You were bored, and this guy who wouldn't stop rambling off fun facts was really cute. The way his lips parted when he talked, the glasses that rested on the tip of his nose, and not to mention his eyes—the kind you could drown in without even realizing.

Just a taste. That’s all you needed from him.

Then another. And another. And another—until it became a routine.

Spencer knocking on your door, tangling himself in your sheets at least twice a week. Always leaving something that belonged to him—may it be his watch, his book, his hoodie, sometimes, even his glasses. And it was infuriating, the way he could just sweep you off your feet with a single look, mark you like a promise, and then disappear before you even woke up.

You don't even know when it started—the way your heart raced when you were together, or how you’d wait for a message from him, only to feel that familiar pang of disappointment when the notification wasn't from him.

And then it hit you.

You were falling for him. Hard.

It wasn't supposed to happen—it shouldn't have happened—but there you were, wanting more than what you bargained for.

Fuck.

Fuck.

But just like you, Spencer had his own walls. The reason this whole thing kept going was because neither of you believed in love. That was the unspoken rule. But the sex was good—too good, even. Raw. Hungry. Intimate. But always fleeting. As if he kept one foot out the door, ready to run the second things get too real.

Your eyes fluttered open when the sunlight peeked through the curtains. You reached for him, only to be greeted by the empty space on his side of the bed. Spencer was gone—only the imprint of where he slept remained, and the faint scent of his cologne lingered.

This was your set up. You should be used to it by now, but you couldn't deny the heavy feeling that settled on your chest every time you woke up to an empty bed.

You got out of bed and made your way down to the kitchen—where your eyes landed on a book on the counter.

Spencer’s, you thought. No one else in this apartment liked to read, unless your cat somehow learned how to.

As if fate were playing tricks on you, your phone buzzed.

A notification from Spencer.

Work called, I had to leave early. I left my book there when I was in a rush. I’ll pick it up later.

Your brows furrowed as you read his message, not even bothering to type out a reply. What were you going to say, anyway? He had your address memorized—he’d show up when he could.

─────────────────────────────

The sun started to set.

Spencer stood outside of your apartment, knocking on your door. Once. Twice. When it finally swung open, his eyes met yours. You stood there, unmoved. A moment of silence hung between you two.

“Hey,” his voice was softer than usual.

You held his gaze, “hey.”

Another pause.

“Can I come in?” He gestured inside as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh right—sorry,” you moved aside, waiting for him to step in.

Spencer didn't say anything else. He just looked around as if he hadn't already memorized every detail of your place.

“You got my text?” Spencer asked, trying to sound casual. “Mhm. Your book’s on the counter,” you hummed.

Your eyes met his—just for a second—before you looked away. “Thanks,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

The air was thick with unspoken tension.

Spencer walked over to the counter and picked up the book. He stared at it for a moment before slipping it into his bag.

“That’s all you came here for, right?” you said, not meaning for it to come out so bitter—but it did.

His gaze snapped to you. “What's that supposed to mean?”

You scoffed, turning away. “Nothing, forget about it.”

“No,” he said, voice firmer now. “Say it.”

You turned back to him. “I just think it's funny. Every time you show up, you leave something behind, send a one-line text, and suddenly that's enough.”

Spencer’s brows furrowed. “I didn't realize I needed to give you a full explanation every time I leave.”

“You don’t!” you snapped. “That’s the thing. You don’t. And yet—I still fucking wait for it.”

“This was supposed to be simple,” he hissed back.

“Then stop doing things to make it not simple, Spencer!” your voice broke, sharp. “Stop leaving your stuff here, stop calling me in the middle of the night, stop looking at me like—”

“Like what?”

A pause. Too long.

“Like I mean something to you!”

“I never asked for any of that,” you continued, voice not louder than a whisper. “I didn't ask to feel like this. You did that. You made me feel something and then acted like it meant nothing.”

Spencer stepped closer, something flickering in his eyes—anger, pain, and something that's been buried for too long.

“And what about you?” he shot back. “You think I don't notice? The way you push and pull like it’s a game and I’m supposed to—”

“Because I didn't know what else to do!”

Your chests were heaving now, breathing uneven and heavy.

“I don't know how to deal with this,” you whispered. “With you, with the way I—”

“Feel?” he said, almost mocking. “Say it.”

You shot him a glare. “You first.”

His fists clenched at his sides.

“Fuck it,” he cursed.

Then suddenly—his hand closed around your wrist, and he pulled you into him. His lips crashed onto yours—hot, angry, desperate. You gasped but he swallowed the sound.

The kiss wasn't soft. It was messy, intense, hungry. Like he’d spent months biting his tongue, and now the dam had broken. His free hand tangled in your hair, fingers curling tight as he pulled you closer. You could feel the tension under his skin—like he was afraid to let go.

He kissed you like he was drowning—and you were the only thing keeping him alive.

“I love you,” he murmured in between kisses—still rough, still sloppy, like he didn't know how to stop—not like he wanted to. “I fucking love you—”

His hands gripped your waist, lifting you and setting you on the counter like he needed you closer.

“And you have no idea.” He panted, forehead resting against yours, eyes burning into you—his voice low and ragged.

You didn't respond—not with words. You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him back onto you, lips colliding with his, aggressive and unrelenting. Spencer deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting you like he’d been starving. The air was thick with desperation, the pretense falling away with every graze, every breathless moan between kisses.

His hands roamed—your thighs, your hips, your waist—as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you through his fingertips. And your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging softly, then harder when he bit your bottom lip.

His hands slipped under your shirt, trailing fire with every touch. He dragged the fabric up slowly, then pulled back just long enough to yank it over your head. His eyes roamed your body like he couldn't believe you were real.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered against your throat. His lips brushed your skin before he sucked hard enough to make you gasp, then scraped his teeth gently, making your breath hitch. “You always have.”

You tugged at his belt, fingers fumbling with urgency. “Then shut up and do something about it.”

A low growl rumbled from his chest—deep, primal—and he kissed you again, harder this time. His hands slid up your bare back, holding you like he didn't know how to let go.

He didn't bother taking off his shirt. He was too far gone. You were too much.

His hips ground into yours, and you felt him—hard, hot, and aching—through the soft fabric, the friction dizzying.

“I need you,” he rasped against your lips, each word laced with desperation. “Right now. Tell me I can.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Yes,” you whispered. “God—yes.”

Spencer crashed his lips back onto yours, chasing the taste of you like a man undone. His hands gripped your hips tighter, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go—even for a second.

Your fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt before slipping underneath, sliding the fabric over his head. You tossed it somewhere behind you, not caring where it landed.

Your touch trailed down his chest—slow, deliberate—until your hand cupped him through his slacks.

He grunted, brows furrowing, hips twitching at the contact.

You pressed your palm just enough to make him throb beneath the fabric, moving your hand in slow, torturous strokes.

“Don’t—” he gasped, voice breaking into a whimper. “Don’t tease.”

His hips bucked into your hand, seeking more.

Spencer reached down and wrapped his hand around your wrist—not rough, but firm. His eyes were dark and blown wide with need.

“Please,” he whimpered, breath ragged. “Don't make me wait anymore, baby.”

He guided your hand away, replacing it with his own touch between your thighs, fingers brushing you through your underwear. You gasped, hips bucking, and he groaned—like the sound had been punched from his chest. “God, you’re already wet,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You’ve been holding back too, haven’t you?”

You nodded, dizzy, but he shook his head gently.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Fuck—yes.”

His mouth was back on yours, slower now but just as hungry. His hands moved with purpose—tugging your underwear down, lips trailing heat down your neck as he pushed your legs apart.

“I’ve thought about this,” he confessed against your skin, voice breaking. “Every night. Every time I left.”

He looked up at you like he was on the edge of something. And then—

“Let me take care of you.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you without a word.

His hands rested on your thighs—warm, shaking slightly, but firm. He looked up at you, eyes dark and hungry, hair falling into his face.

“You okay?” he asked softly, even as he tugged your underwear down your legs. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shook your head, breath already catching. “Please don’t.”

He smiled—just barely—before leaning forward and kissing the inside of your thigh. Slow. Reverent. Like worship. His hands spread your legs wider, his breath ghosting over where you needed him most.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ve missed you.”

And then—his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Unrelenting.

His tongue licked a slow stripe up your folds before circling your clit, light at first, teasing. You gasped, one hand flying to grip the edge of the counter, the other threading into his hair.

Spencer groaned the moment you pulled on it.

“You’re so sensitive,” he whispered, voice muffled between your thighs. “So fucking sweet.”

He sucked on your clit gently, then flicked it with his tongue, fingers digging into your hips to hold you still as your body jerked in response.

“You sound so pretty like this,” he breathed, pausing just long enough to kiss you again, slower now, savoring you. “Don’t hold back. I want to hear you.”

You moaned—louder this time—and he took it as permission to go deeper. He licked into you, slow and precise, like he was trying to learn everything that made you fall apart. His nose brushed your clit with every stroke of his tongue, and the pressure built fast—your thighs shaking, your breaths ragged, the coil in your stomach winding tighter and tighter.

“Spence—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He hummed against you, sending vibrations through your core.

“Go on, baby,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

You were close—so close—the tension rising like a tidal wave, seconds away from crashing. Your hand threaded into his curls, pushing his head down, pulling him closer to your core. Your hips bucked against his mouth as the pleasure overtook you—back arching, head tilting back, breath catching in your throat.

Spencer’s name tumbled from your lips like a prayer as you fell apart on his tongue.

“Cum for me, baby,” he whispered, lifting his eyes to meet yours. “Come on. You can do it.”

You came on his tongue, and he didn’t let up—groaning like he’d been starving for it.

“Sh—shit Spence—”

You pulsed around nothing, legs trembling uncontrollably as he held you through it. Still, he kept going—lazily lapping at your clit while your body trembled from the aftershocks.

Then he slowed. Softened. Kissed the inside of your thigh with lips that lingered.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked. “Atta girl.”

“Fucking hell, Spence.” You gasped, chest heaving, reaching down to fist your hand in his hair and tug him up to face you.

And fuck—he was beautiful.

His curls were a mess, ears flushed pink, lips parted and glistening with your wetness. His eyes—dark, blown wide, starving—held nothing back. Just need. Raw and unfiltered.

You were still gasping when Spencer pulled you into another kiss—desperate like he hadn't just made your legs shake on the counter. His slender hands found their way around your waist, easily lifting you off the cold marble as legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

“Couch,” he grunted in your mouth. “I need—fuck—I need more.”

“Spence—” you started, but he was already moving.

You kissed him again to steady both of you, arms around his neck as he stumbled blindly toward the couch—shoulder bumping the wall, breath catching in your ear when he almost lost balance.

“I’ve got you,” he panted. “Promise.”

And he did—because the moment his knees hit the cushions, he dropped down with you in his lap, your bodies still tangled, your mouth still on his. You were already grinding against him, feeling him hard beneath you, and he cursed under his breath like the sound had been clawed out of his chest.

His hand found your ass, squeezing roughly as he guided your hips. Your hand tugged on the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down—just enough to free his cock, throbbing and flushed, precum already dripping at the tip.

You’d be lying if you said you weren't salivating at the sight of him all worked up. And it's all for you.

“Shit, Spence,” you breathed, running your thumb over the head, spreading the wetness just to watch him twitch.

He groaned—head thrown back, jaw clenched, hands twitching on your hips like he was holding on for dear life.

“You ready?” you whispered, already positioning yourself above him. Teasing the tip against your entrance.

He looked up at you like he was watching a goddess descend from the heavens.

“Please.”

Without saying another word, you sank down on him slowly—inch by inch—your nails digging into his shoulder as you clung to him for support.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he huffed, jaw clenched. “Keep going. You're doing so good for me.”

And god, as much as it hurt, you couldn't stop—not when he was whispering sweet praise into your skin like he meant every word.

“Sh-shit—” you gasped, breath stuttering. His eyes were locked into yours, dark and hazy with lust—watching you take all of him.

How you fit perfectly around his cock—like your sweet cunt was made just for him.

Spencer laced his fingers with yours, brought your hand to his lips, and kissed your knuckles softly.

“You okay?” he murmured—gentle, breathless.

You nodded, breathless. “I’m okay,” you whispered. “Just—don't look away.”

He didn't. He couldn't.

You started to move—slow, tentative at first. Testing the stretch. The burn. The way he filled you—thick, twitching, reaching parts of you that left your thighs trembling. Spencer’s hand slid down to your ass, squeezing gently, guiding your hips as he let you set the pace.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “You’re doing so good for me, angel.”

You moved your hips again—this time deeper, slower. The sounds of skin meeting skin echoed through the room, sticky and wet. His name left your lips in broken gasps every time your clit grazed against the base of him.

You found your rhythm—rolling your hips in tight circles that made his head fall back with a guttering groan. His hands gripped harder, jaw clenched, thighs tensing beneath you.

“F-fuck—just like that,” he panted.

You clenched around him.

He lost it.

Your nails raked up his chest, hands clutching his shoulders for balance as you bounced on his cock, chasing that sweet friction. That high he started the second he touched you on the counter.

Spencer’s lips met your throat, kisses growing messy—open-mouthed, greedy, uncoordinated. Then he sucked, hard, right beneath your jaw. You whimpered, head tilting back as the heat in your core swelled.

“Mine,” he whispered, dragging his tongue over the mark he made.

Spencer doesn’t believe in God. But he knows one thing—this must be what heaven feels like. No—this is heaven.

His eyes filled with lust, devouring you from beneath. The way your brows knit when you hit that one spot. The bounce of your tits. The broken, breathless moans spilling from your mouth like a prayer just for him.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he muttered, voice hot against your neck. “Watching you ride me like that—fuck.”

Then he started thrusting up into you—harder. Deeper. His hips snapping up in time with yours, no longer letting you set the pace.

“Spence—” you gasped, nails digging into his back.

He fucked up into you again, and again—your body jolting with every thrust. You tried to keep up, but his thrusts had you cockdrunk—blissed out and trembling under every snap of his hips.

“Go on, baby,” he groaned, forehead against yours. “Take it—fuck, take all of it.”

Your moans were incoherent now, every drag of his cock inside you pulling another cry from you. His name left your lips like a prayer.

“Feels so good ‘round me,” he grunted. “So tight—so fucking wet. And it's all for me.”

You were so close—you could feel your whole body tightening, clenching around him, thighs shaking. He felt it.

“Gonna cum for me, angel?” he panted, voice hoarse.

“Spence—I—”

“Come on, baby. I’ve got you,” he whispered in your ear, one final thrust hitting just right.

You shattered—moaning his name, thighs shaking, body jerking in his arms as your orgasm hit hard and fast. The way you clenched around him pushed him right over the edge.

“Shit—fuck—fuck, I’m—”

He came with a deep groan, hips grinding up into yours as he filled you, arms locked around your waist like you’d vanish if he let go.

Neither of you moved—forehead touching, breathing heavy, still wrapped around each other. The smell of sex and something more filled the room.

“I meant it,” Spencer held your face, eyes boring into yours. “I love you.”

His mouth crashed into yours with a gentle kiss, a contrast from his earlier roughness.

“You haven't even asked me out properly yet,” you pulled away.

Spencer let out a laugh, voice hoarse. Finding your little comment endearing.

“Then,” his voice trailed. “May I take you out on a date?”

“Only if you say please.”

He looked at you with doe eyes, “please?”

You leaned in, giving him a quick peck. “I love you,” you whispered—like it was a secret only he deserved to know.

Spencer looked stunned, “I—you—”

“You didn't give me the chance to say it earlier,” you said, melting into his arms, resting your forehead against his. “But I do. I really do.”

His lips curled into a smile. And for the first time in a long time—everything just felt right.

Like maybe, just maybe, love was worth the risk after all.

[rooksamoris]

A KNIGHT IN VIOLET UNIFORM !!

💞 — in which rook hunt rescues you from bullies during beanfest. 💞 — gender neutral reader. warnings: reader gets their ass kicked </3, bullying, cursing/vulgar language and violence. 1.8k words!! one request down, three more to go. hope you enjoy.

There was a burning in your chest, the faint taste of iron in the back of your mouth as your legs forced themselves across the grass despite the ache that was building in your calves. The crunch beneath your feet was anything but comforting when you could still hear the voices of your attackers following you. Sevens, you need to stop coming up with excuses to escape the gym with Coach Vargas.

Malicious forces were following the scent of fresh blood, and all you could do was run, inevitably to be caught. Monsters versus farmers, it felt like some elaborate scheme that the heavens orchestrated to laugh at your failure.

The skin of your face was set ablaze, hot and sweaty, with hair strands sticking to your forehead.

You had ended up separated from Grim and Cater a while ago, and now you were stuck alone, magic-less, and running. When you had heard about the concept of Beanfest from Professor Crewel, you figured it would not be so bad. It did not matter to you whether you won or lost, you just wanted to get out of this with as little workout time as possible and minimal bruises, but it seemed other plans were in store for you. 

You had been leaning against a tree to catch your breath when you caught the sight of a few students who really did not think very kindly of you. Somehow during your brief time in this world, you managed to gain plenty of enemies, and you knew exactly why. You just could not mind your own business, could you? The moment there was an injustice committed before you, something would possess you to swoop into danger as if you were some hero. 

All you were, truly, was a magic-less alien stuck in a world that did not accept you. You shut your eyes to push the thoughts away. Distractions would not do well at a time like this.

Your eyelids flew open when you felt your pants catch onto a branch, sending you falling forward. Your ankle twisted funny and you felt a pop, followed by a harsh shot of pain, “Ah, shit!” you cried out in pain. Your eyes welled up with tears as your brows knitted. There was no time to look at your foot or cry some more, so you shakily pushed yourself up, hissing in pain when you stepped on your injured limb.

And you continued on, limping your way in search of a hiding spot.

Slowed down, thanks to your injury, you were quickly found by the assailants. Before you knew it, you were surrounded by them. There were three students, all of whom you recognized. They were a group you first met when they had been poking fun at Grim. Prodding at his fur and making jokes about his size and his intelligence. Despite all the stress and heartache the beast caused you, he was your friend. Your first companion in this forsaken world of villainy and magic, so you came to his defense. 

You humiliated them, insulting them before a crowd of students who had gathered. Claiming things about how their attitudes must have been compensation for other things and calling them pathetic. Before they could enact retribution then, Professor Trein intervened.  

Since then, they started throwing things at you, sending cruel comments your way, and trying to get you alone. It was hard for them to get away with much since you tended to hang out with people most of the day. There was only so much they could do with Ace and Deuce around, and very little was possible under the protective eyes of Professor Trein and Crewel.

Unwelcome hands shoved you back down onto the ground, causing the back of your head to hit a tree stump, which pulled a yelp out of your throat. Still, you glared at them, face hot, eyes teary, body aching and dirty. 

The tallest of the group laughed, “What, no shit talking now?” he asked, pointing his weapon at you. 

There had to have been some divine reason for why these jerks all ended up being in the monster group, with you being a farmer. It was fitting. You nurtured and helped those around you grow, while they attacked others for their amusement.

“Why don’t you just fucking shoot me and get this over with?” you spat, “Does it make your dick any bigger to beat up a magic-less student?” 

That response was not appreciated. His expression darkened and he kicked you in the side for it, “Shut up. I’ll do what I want, and right now that’s getting back at you for your little stunt. You think you’re so safe because you’ve managed to trick a few guys into giving a shit about you. Well, look around? No one’s here to help you now,” he hissed. The two at his side laughed.

Those words seemed to strike a cord, and foolishly you allowed it to show in the way your expression faltered slightly. You were all alone here and you were defenseless. Your bottom lip trembled a little.

“Aww, are you gonna cry?” one of them asked, his voice dripping with condescension as he bent down to grasp your jaw in his harsh hand, tilting your face up in his direction when you tried to pull away, clawing at his arm, “You’re cuter like this, you know. When you’re not talking shit like you could back it up.”

You averted your gaze and caught the sight of some blonde hair up in one of the many trees surrounding you. His piercing green eyes were so comforting at a time like this, and he held his finger up to his lips to warn you against revealing his hiding spot. You looked back up at the student holding your face and spat right at him.

“You little—” he raised his hand to slap you but then a sharp gust passed across and a harsh crack followed it.  The student was suddenly flinching away from you, clutching his injured hand, “What the—?”

Rook whistled to bring your bullies attention to himself. There he was, holding up a two pronged stick that had a stretchy hair-tie stretched across it, grinning as he balanced on a branch. He had shot a rock right at the boy who nearly slapped you, breaking something in his hand in the process. 

They stumbled back from you, which gave you the chance to crawl away a bit.

“The fuck, dude? We’re literally on the same team!” the taller one cried.

The hunter looked offended at such a claim, eyebrows raised as he shook his head, “I do not believe we are on the same team, non.” He began to gracefully make his way down, hopping from the branches in a skillful acrobatic performance. He always did have a theatrical way of doing things.

Foolishly, the quietest of the three attackers stepped forward, “We’re all monsters! You’re in the same uniform as us.”

Once he was before them, he took a protective stance in front of you as you shakily stood up, leaning on one of the trees, “Oui, c’est vrai. We wear the same violet uniforms, but we are much different. I respect the hunt, and you three don’t,” he hummed, stepping towards them, “Was there anything else you wanted to say to mon Trickster?”

The group stepped back. Rook was the type of guy who did not seem to have a ‘bad side’, even now he was smiling, but it was clear by the tension in the air that he fully was prepared to pounce. They shook their heads and booked it.

Rook turned to face you, gently reaching out to help you sit down on a nearby tree stump, “Ah, you have found yourself in quite some trouble, Trickster,” he said, carefully cupping your calf and lifting it up a bit. He looked up at your face for permission, before helping you out of your shoe and your socks, pulling your pants up over your ankle. 

You frowned at the sight. Your skin was swollen and red, “I messed it up while running away. Fell on it funny,” you explained. 

He nodded softly before reaching into his pocket for a roll of gauze, “It is good to be prepared, oui? I have no ice, but we can compress the strain and then you must rest. I will not let you play a moment longer in this state,” he said, as he began to wrap the gauze around it. There was still some anger that simmered beneath the surface of his smile. He had known about those bullies and he had gone out of his way to be around you more often in case they tried something like this. He carefully helped you back into your sock and your shoe, before helping you up, slipping an arm around your waist and guiding your arm over his shoulder.

“I won’t fight you on that. I’m ready to rest.”

“Très bien,” he said. And so, he began to walk you back, careful to stay away from any of the traps he planted for other farmers or any conflicts happening with other classmates. He was a man on a mission, and that mission was getting you somewhere safe to rest.

Over the duration of the walk, he spoke to you about just about anything that came to mind. The trees listened to it all, engraving the time spent into their growth rings. One day, years from now, someone will cut them down and find Rook’s passionate words and your quiet replies. He did not bother you too much for information, sensing that your mood was sullen after the encounter. He decided instead to just be there for you.

“Thanks for saving me, by the way,” you muttered after a moment.

He turned his head to face you, helping you down onto a log to rest, “I could not leave you to the vultures,” he said, before pausing. He crouched down before you and took your hands. His brows knitted softly as his thumbs brushed circles into the back of your palms, “Je suis désolé. Had I come sooner, we could have avoided these wounds,” he added, looking at some of the scratches on your skin from being shoved about.

You managed a little smile and shook your head, “It’s not your fault, Rook. I shouldn’t poke the bear if I have no bullets.”

“Ah, a fantastique expression,” he grinned, “But I do admire your willingness to jump into battle for the service of good. Perhaps I will just have to teach you some self-defense for these situations.”

The prospect of having Rook over to teach you to fight was an enticing one. Him, standing behind you and guiding your arms into the proper positions… you nodded, “I would be honored, Le Chasseur d’Amour.”

©rooksamoris 2025. do not steal or translate my work!

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[alsofoundinpeas]

Not So Sweet Dreams

Summary: Perv!Spencer has a wet dream about you... while you're sharing a hotel room.

CONTENT WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI!! This is intended for adult audiences. Minor mention of smut (Dry humping my beloved). Perv!Spencer in denial that he is in fact down tremendously for reader. (That should be all but please let me know if I missed something!!)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!BAU!reader/afab!reader

A/N: This blurb is blurb #1 of my 500 followers event!! :') I hope you guys enjoy it (and that you check out my event pretty please <3). As always, if you did enjoy it please consider liking, commenting, reblogging... whatever floats your boat truly. Okay I love you all MWAH! <3 - K

Yearning would be the downfall of Spencer Reid. 

When Hotch announced they’d have to double up on rooms, he jumped at the idea of sharing a room with you, immediately volunteering to be your roommate for the case. You shrugged, agreeing to it with a small smile while he ignored the teasing elbow to his side from Morgan, instead rushing to help you carry your bags. 

Spencer knew it was a bad idea. 

It was already hard enough for him to function while you were anywhere within a 50 mile radius. Why did he ever think he’d survive you sleeping less than ten feet away? But the opportunity for one on one time with you was rare, and he was helpless to his baser urges. He was simply just a man, after all. 

Spencer thought he was doing good, too. 

He was keeping his eyes above your neckline while you spoke to him. He didn’t forget how to breathe when the scent of your shampoo wrapped around him when you leaned into him to point at the case file you two were reviewing. And he definitely didn’t stiffen in his slacks when you stood up to dig through your go bag, your already sinful skirt riding up far enough to flash a glimpse of your lace panties when you bent over. 

Or at least, those are the lies he clung to so he’d feel better. 

One thing Spencer had forgotten to take into account when volunteering to be your roommate was showering. More specifically, you showering. The thought of you, dripping wet and naked with only a wall and a door between you…

He needed to get a grip. 

And he swore he was going to—until you stepped out wrapped in only a towel, claiming to have forgotten to grab your toiletry bag. He squeaked out a pathetic “N-no worries!” when you crossed the room to get it, clearing his throat awkwardly. You simply arched a brow, chuckling at how his gaze was glued to you as you made your way back into the bathroom. 

Spencer should’ve looked away. His genius-level IQ should’ve been enough to remind him that gawking at a coworker wrapped in a towel was wildly inappropriate. But he didn’t. 

Instead, he let the image linger in his mind until he’d somehow managed to drift off. 

And now, he was paying for it. 

“Does that feel good, Spence? Hm?” You purred, grinding your slick heat over his aching cock once. “Use your words, sweetheart.” 

Spencer whimpered, fists gripping the sheets at the delicious friction. His hips bucked upwards helplessly, chasing the feeling and crying out when you repeated the motion. 

“Feels good,” he panted out, his eyes squeezing shut as his head thumped back against his pillow. 

“Yeah?” You hummed coyly, a malicious grin on your face as you kept rocking against him. “I think you can do better than that. Where’s my smart boy at?” 

Spencer was so close. Just one more thrust of his hips and—

He shot up with a sharp gasp, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. Why was he so lightheaded? And why was he on his stomach? 

The sound of the AC blowing paired with your soft breathing snapped him back to reality like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on him. A muffled curse made its way into the air as he rolled over, his hand flying to his crotch before he could stop it. A mortified groan left his lips as he made contact with the sticky fabric of his now soaked pajama pants. 

He fucking came in his pants. He had humped his bed and came in his pants while you were sleeping less than ten feet away. All because he’d seen you in a towel. 

Swallowing hard, he shuffled awkwardly out of his bed, kneeling to grab a fresh pair of pajama pants from his bag before scurrying off toward the bathroom in shame. 

As soon as the bathroom door clicked shut, your eyes opened and a satisfied smirk graced your face. You knew exactly what had happened because you’d been awake the entire time, listening to the soft moans and whimpers of your name he let out while he dreamt. 

Maybe next time you’d have to come out in less than a towel so he’d get the hint once and for all.

REMINDER: I do not give permission for my work to be re-uploaded to any other platforms (c.ai, Tiktok, ao3, etc.) under any circumstances. If you'd like to translate my work, then please just ask me before doing so. I know it sounds whiny, but I (as well as many other fanfic writers) spend so much time on these and it's genuinely not okay to take credit for work that isn't yours. It's insulting and completely unnecessary. If I do see my work uploaded anywhere without explicit permission, I WILL say something.

[lacydaydream]

My Word is God

⤷ Soldier Boy

summary: after a battle gone wrong because of your mistake, Ben is pissed. and he’s gonna take it out on you. mdni.

cw: porn with no plot. Ben is his own warning. unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it). dom!ben. swearing. degrading. spanking. doggy style. missionary. clitoral stimulation. spitting. cum tasting. slightly public. name calling [slut, doll, sweetheart, my girl, pretty girl]. power dynamic - Ben is readers boss. breeding kink. I might have missed some.

estelle yaps: this is just pure filth.

word count: 2.8k

“You can’t fuckin’ listen to rules,” Ben grunts, voice low and menacing. He sounded pissed, and his body language contended it.

He shoves you into an empty room. His palm against your back heavy, burning with the sizzling rage that was bubbling in his blood. You had disobeyed a direct order. Taken the words he’d said and disregarded them. Like his voice didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t the one in charge.

While out fighting, you had gotten in his way. And it wasn't a simple misstep. No, it was a major screw up. It cost him his window of opportunity to fight the enemy- an enemy that had been a massive thorn in the side of the U.S government for the last few months. The colossal mistake you made fucked the whole team up. All in the span of ten seconds.

Ben had told everyone exactly how they had to move out on the battlefield. He had been precise, down to the very last detail. And there you had been, prancing around like a dumb little girl. Acting as if his orders were a suggestion. Acting as if just because you slept with him you’d be exhumed from any punishments. And he knew you were a smart girl- hell, you had suggested some of the counter moves he told Crimson Countess to make. So he knew you weren’t stupid enough to make such a mistake unless you were rooting around for a punishment.

The room he shoved you in had a desk with a cup of pens that had the words ‘Best Dad’ printed on it. The chair behind the desk was swiveled, obvious that someone had once occupied it. The walls are blank but you wouldn’t have noticed, the only thing you could focus on was the building ache between your thighs.

Ben steps behind you, shoving you down onto the desk, growling as he watches your back instantly arch. “My word is fuckin’ god.” His voice booms with a precise confidence only a predator could have, laced with a danger that clouded your mind.

His hand lands a slap to your ass, rough and fast.

The sting radiates through your body, skin setting on fire. His normal demanding and dominating demeanor had somehow turned darker. Just by the way he had approached you earlier, sweaty from battle and mouth set in a snarl.

When a whimper falls from your lips, Ben only scoffs. “Can only listen when you get cock, huh, slut?” His voice was steady, controlled in a way that made your stomach flip and heart rate increase.

When his hand comes back down against your ass, he hums in satisfaction. The squeaks and whimpers he pulls from your lips erect a tent in his jeans, pressing his hips forward so you could feel the thick hardness over your pants.

“Should fuckin’ make you suffer.” He grunts, hips grinding against your ass. “Fuck up the whole mission- now I’ve got the fuckin’ governor up my ass.” Ben’s rough hands grip the chub of your bum through your suit, kneading with skill. He was already rambling, needing to let you know just how much you’d messed up. “Should hand you right over, hm, doll? Let you get a proper punishment. Maybe you’d learn your lesson.”

He groans as you push your hips back against him, panting like a pornstar. And fuck, if that hadn’t made Ben want to drop his anger and plow you against the desk for beeing so needy. His eyes narrow as he watches you turn your head to look behind you, gaze instantly catching his. Your hair was frizzy from battle, sweat, and being manhandled. God, you were a sight.

You shake your head, a small hint of fear blooming in your chest at his threat. He wouldn’t ever rat you out- he could never do something like that. But that look in your eyes? The look that always came before you were desperately begging him and saying you’d ‘do anything’? Yeah, he’d threaten it all day long. Anything for that look.

“Yer fuckin’ lucky today, sweetheart.” His voice is low, eyes piercing as he rolls his hips against you. “Need this tight pussy more than giving you a spankin’. She ready for me? Fuckin’ better be. Better be ready to earn back my fuckin’ respect.”

Soldier Boy tucks his fingers into your pants and yanks them down, tearing the fabric with the sheer force. The air against your backsides causes you to shiver, hands gripping the edge of the desk. Your fingers curled around the edge of the desk, polished wood biting into your soft skin.

His eyes flicker down to the sight in front of him. No panties. Just bare, soft skin under the stupid suit Vought had given you. His eyes light up as a growl bubbles up from his chest. His hand grips your ass cheek, skin calloused and warm. Ben bites his lip as he looks down between your legs, inner thighs slick from how turned on you were.

“Look at ya, sweetheart.” His words are mumbled, the edge melting away from his tone. He was still pissed about the earlier situation, but the sight of your dripping pussy was enough to soften his bite.

He runs his hands up and holds your hips. He brings you closer to him with a tug, smirking at the way your legs buckled. His large hands that were settled on your hips drag down to your ass. He kneads your flesh, slow and deliberate. “Bent over a desk just for me. Ready to get fucked, yeah? Cunt dripping down your legs.”

He picks up his leg and uses his boot to tap against your leg, a silent order to spread your legs. When you oblige, he grins. “That’s my girl. Doin’ exactly what I say.” He slaps your ass once once more, cooing when you whimper.

His hands leave you, working on his pants to free his cock. His cock is heavy in his hands, pulsing in his fist, tip an angry red. He had half a mind to have you suck him off- jam his cock down your throat and watch as pretty tears collected on your lashes. But the team would notice your absence. And whoevers office this was would be coming back. But moreover, he just wanted to piston into your cunt and have you whimpering his name.

“Gotta be quiet, sweetheart.” He grunts, running his tip through your slit. You’re already so wet, soaking his tip in your essence. A grumble leaves his chest, rough and almost animalistic. He plunges in without a warning.

The moan that leaves your lips is strangled and loud. If you hadn’t taken him before, you would have sworn he’d ripped your pussy right in half. But he fit- every delicious inch of him fit. He’s warm and heavy inside you, your walls clenching around him.

His hands grip your hips, a low growl leaving his lips. “Fuckin’ perfect pussy, Dollface. She’s squeazin’ me so well. Gonna take everythin’ I give you, yeah?”

When you manage to nod he wastes no time. That was enough for him. He pulls out nice and slow, every vein and ridge rubbing against your walls. He slams himself back in, hips slapping against your ass. The sounds that are created from where you’re connected are pornographic. It’s a symphony of skin slapping skin, whimpers, and moans.

His cock pistons into you, walls welcoming him in with a squelch each time he shoves himself back inside you. One of his hands is sprawled over your back, keeping you down against the desk. The wood nips into your skin. It’s a delicious mix of pleasure and pain. Every thrust propels your body forward, your hands gripping onto the surface for dear life.

You whimper at the pornographic sound of the wet plap of his cock pressing into you, the feeling absolutely perfect. There were moments like these when you forgot how much of a jerk Ben really was- just thinking about how he’d walk around like he owned the place. And he did. Ben had his own center of gravity that used a smirk to charm your panties off.

He grunts, hips rolling with precision. You’re so warm and wet. Just the most perfect cunt he’s ever had the pleasure of fucking. Hell, he had half the mind to propose. Even if you acted like a brat and messed up combat rituals. He could always count on you spreading your legs and inviting him into your cunt.

“F-fuck, Ben—!”

Your legs are shaking, panting against the desk as he drives into you. Everything felt so good. His hands were big and warm, holding onto you and keeping you grounded to the moment. His cock drags against your walls, your slick coating his length.

The asshole laughs. Laughs. “Shakin’ already.” He says it coolly, not even a strain in his voice. The man had the stamina of a god because of his altered genes and he made it your problem. If you looked over your shoulder you were confident he wasn’t even sweating. “Always so greedy for this cock, doll. Always takin’ me so well. But look at ya,” The smile is evident in his voice. “Shakin’ like a baby deer.”

Ben leans down, nose nuzzling your neck. The new angle allows him to hit deeper, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. His breathing is controlled as he grins against your neck, licking a stripe up your sensitive skin. “Feel good, Doll?”

You wither beneath him, eyes rolling back as his pace doesn’t dare let up. You nod, moaning, not trusting your voice to provide a good enough answer. Every fiber of your being felt alive and lit on fire, nerves sparking to life. The coil in your tummy was tightening, every delicious drag of his cock sending you closer to the edge.

“I need words.” Ben tuts, straightening his back to land a smack against your ass. His head tilts down to watch his cock drive into your cunt, puffy pussy welcoming him in with ease. Ben loved watching himself bury inside of you. Your slick coated his length, dribbled down your thighs, and even had his pelvis dripping with your essence. A beautiful sight. “C’mon, pretty girl.”

He slows down his thrusts, grunting under his breath at the pace change. He had to hold himself back. Slowly, he drags his cock out of you, tip barely breaking into your entrance. He pushes himself back in at a leisurely pace. Your cunt clenches around him as each inch gets swallowed, your lips parting as a long whine gets pulled from your throat.

“Tell me how good you feel- how good it is gettin’ fucked by your boss.” Ben coos at your whining, holding your hips so you couldn’t push back against him. He continues his tortuous pace. “You love sitting in meetings knowing you’re gonna get good cock after, yeah?”

“So good,” Your words are mumbled as your face drops down, forehead resting against the desk.

Ben doesn’t like that answer. He hoists you up, resting your back against his chest. His scent and warmth wraps around you, leather, cedar wood and something unmistakably him flooding your senses. The wide muscly expanse of his form swallows yours, instantly dwarfing you. Ben was huge- in more ways than one.

His cock stays buried to the hilt, stuffing you full. He pauses, hands on your hips rubbing and moving up your sides. Exploring every inch of your skin as if he’d touched you for the first time. When your head lolls against his shoulder Ben grins. His fingers run down your abdomen and dip between your folds, resting against your clit.

“So quiet, doll. Wanna hear you respondin’.” His fingers circle your clit in tight, deliberate circles. His thrusts are slow and shallow as he holds your body up against his.

“Feels so good, Ben.” You moan out, the coil in your belly about to explode. “L-love sitting in meetings… knowing I’ll get fucked.” Every word is swallowed by a pant, walls fluttering around his dick.

“You’re just a little cock slut.” He murmurs into your ear, fingers and hips working in tandem to hurtle you over the edge. Ben moans when he feels you gushing all over his cock, walls clenching as your cunt creates a creamy ring around the base of him.

His hips stay dragging his cock slowly, pressing against your cervix with each thrust. His fingers slowed to a lazy circling of your sensitive nub. He coos when he starts to feel your body convulsing, legs shaking as you rode out your orgasm. As whines and whimpers leave your lips, Ben’s hand gently wraps around your jaw to cover your mouth. “Shh, doll.”

He continues his pace until he can tell the overstimulation was too much, your thighs trying to clench. He pulls himself out, spinning you in his hold. His arms are around you and he picks you up by your thighs, setting you down onto the desk. Ben lays you onto your back, looking down at the fucked out glint in your eyes.

Ben lifts your legs, hoisting both feet over one shoulder. “Gonna be good and keep quiet?” He questions you as one hand grabs onto his leaking cock, dragging the tip through your slit. He rubs the head over your clit, circling it the way his fingers just had moments ago. He shushes you once more when a whine leaves your lips. He lines himself up, gaze shifting to yours as he sinks into your used cunt.

He smiles when you nod, watching you suck your lip between your teeth to stay quiet.

He grunts as he bottoms out, watching your face contort as every inch gets buried into your welcoming heat. “Gotta give me a few minutes, sweetheart.” His hips start to rock into you, the extra wetness from your orgasm making your pussy feel like heaven on earth. “Fuck, doll. S’the best pussy right here.”

Ben babbles some more, hips pistoning into your cunt like he owned it. Grunts fall from his lips like a prayer as his hips stutter. His thrusts were animalistic as he chased his high, cock twitching and throbbing as his tip bullied your cervix.

Every thrust felt like magic, soft whimpers leaving your lips despite your best efforts to be quiet. Your body lurched forward as his grip on your shins tightened as he thrusted inside you. Ben watches as your face twisted into pleasure, noises getting louder.

Ben growled, using his free hand to shove two of his fingers into your mouth. “Gonna get us fuckin’ caught. Balls deep in this pussy, havin’ you scream my name. You want that, doll?”

You shake your head, moaning around his fingers as they press down against your tongue. You suck on his digits, watching as his eyes darken at the sight of you. His cock twitches and he’s thrusting once more until you feel him shoot his load into your cunt.

Ben growls, hips stuttering slowly to a stop. He kisses your shin, pulling out of your cunt. Ben shifts one of your legs onto his other shoulder to watch his cum drip from your entrance. Ben’s cock twitches as he watches as white, creamy fluid dribbled out of you.

With a sigh, he gips onto his softening cock. He uses the head to collect the cum and push it back up inside you. “Don’t fuckin’ waste that.” His voice is low, thrusting shallowly to pump his seed back up into your cunt.

Ben’s gaze snaps up to you, chest rising and falling as your walls clench around him. He catches your fingers trailing back down to your clit, quickly taking his fingers from your mouth to swat your hand away. Ben grips your wrist and halts his movements. “Really, doll? Wanna come again that bad?”

A long whine leaves your lips, causing Ben to chuckle. He should leave you now, letting you wallow in your frustration after the stunt you pulled. But your pussy made him a weak man. “Alright, alright.” He chuckles once more lowly, fingers finding your clit once more.

“Stuffed full of my cum and still needing more. Naughty fuckin’ girl.” His fingers circle your clit roughly, watching your face twist in pleasure. He grins as your lips part, mouth forming an ‘o’ shape. Ben dips down, moving his fingers to dribble spit onto your puffy clit. His fingers go back to circling your clit, his spit mixing with your juices and his cum.

When your second orgasm crashes down on you, your legs shake as white hot pleasure shoots through your veins. Ben grunts as your walls flutter around his dick, pulsating as you gush around him. His gaze stays on your as he brings his fingers covered in your slick and his spit up to his mouth, sucking them clean. He growls, his eyes closing as he tastes how sweet you are.

Ben pulls out from your cunt slowly, watching you twitch as cum drips down your thighs.

“That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

[orellazalonia]

i love your blog and writing style so much! reading x reader fics is my only type of comfort (besides my cat) so you're making my days better and more bearable i'm really thankful for that! 😭🌷

soo i wanted to ask you to write a fic for me 🥺 i literally have NO ONE like no friends (i have 3 or 2 but not 'friends' friends you know?) and my family is messed up i feel like i have no one in my corner and i would love love love if you write something like reader is lonely and bucky goes in her life and etc etc i would be SO thankful if you choose to write this and if you don't, don't worry you're already making my days better while writing your fics 🤍🩶

Hello, dear! I’m glad you have enjoyed my work and that they’ve been of comfort to you! I appreciate the kind words. It was nice completing your request since I could relate to some of it and always enjoy writing some hurt/comfort. However, I do hope you find some good friends or people you can turn to someday! Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy! Happy reading!!!

Stayed Through it All

Summary: You’d spent most of your life convinced you were too quiet, too much, not enough for anyone to stay. But then Bucky Barnes started showing up in your life slowly and gradually became the first person who made you feel like you didn’t have to be anyone or anything else to be enough.

Word Count: 3.6k+

Main Masterlist

You didn’t mean to let it get this bad.

You didn’t even notice when the loneliness stopped feeling like something temporary and started becoming something permanent.

It was probably after your friend stopped texting back to hang out with their new friend. Maybe it was after your father stopped returning your calls, blaming you for being “too much” when all you’d done was cry quietly on the phone one night. Maybe it was the way your mother’s voice always sharpened when you dared to mention being tired. “You think you have it hard?”

Eventually, you stopped sharing at all. Even in the smallest ways. You nodded along to your coworkers' stories, laughed at the right times, learned to say “I’m good, you?” like a reflex.

But one day turned into a week, then a month of missed calls and unanswered messages. Not that there were many to begin with. Your friends, if you could still call them that, had slowly drifted, slipping into group chats you were no longer in. Family remained… complicated. Cold shoulders wrapped in guilt-trips and sharp words. You’d grown tired of pretending you didn’t notice when they began talking around you instead of to you, or when they only reached out to check boxes you didn’t fit in rather than check on you.

Work had been your only escape, but even that now felt fragile. Hours were cut, supervisors were vague or micro-managing, and you faced an endless stream of people who smiled right through you. It was like being invisible while still somehow feeling too much.

Too sensitive. Too strange. Too needy. You hated how easily you cried these days. How easily you cracked.

It got harder to go home after work with each passing day. The silence in your apartment was different now. It wasn’t peaceful anymore, it reminded you of every thought and thing wrong about yourself. How you must have done something wrong for people to not want you around. How you couldn’t host dinners or parties because there was no one to invite. How even living in this apartment was seen as another disappointment rather than an achievement by your family.

Maybe that’s why you started walking at night, even though you claimed it helped you sleep. Sometimes it did. Sometimes you wandered until your legs ached, until your phone’s battery blinked red. It wasn’t safe, but you didn’t care. You weren’t reckless, you just didn’t feel like you belonged anywhere long enough to be missed.

That night, you weren’t planning to go far. You’d just needed air. You hadn't even bothered with proper shoes, just slipped on your jacket and walked. The streetlamps buzzed overhead as a breeze tugged your hair across your face.

You focused on the ground as you rounded the corner of a quiet street, when you almost ran straight into him.

“Oh–sorry,” You said, stepping back instinctively, your hand pressed to your chest. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

The man raised his hands slightly in a gesture of peace. His eyes were sharper than the streetlamp above you, but not unkind. “You okay?”

You blinked. He was wearing a hoodie and gloves, but you’d seen enough photos on newsfeeds and headlines to know exactly who he was. “You’re… Bucky Barnes.”

He looked surprised for a split second, like he hadn’t expected to be recognized. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I am.”

You gave a small, breathless laugh. Not because it was funny, but because your nerves were starting to catch up. “Didn’t expect to bump into an Avenger tonight.”

“Didn’t expect to get bumped into,” He replied, something vaguely teasing in his tone. “But it’s alright.”

There was a pause. You shifted awkwardly, hugging your arms around yourself. “Sorry if I messed up some kind of mission or something.”

His brow furrowed, then smoothed. “Not exactly a mission, just walking the neighborhood. Making sure things are quiet.”

You nodded. “They usually are.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you in that quiet way that made you feel like he was seeing too much. “You’re out here a lot.”

You hesitated. “That supposed to be a warning?”

His expression softened immediately. “No–no, I didn’t mean it like that. Just… noticed. That’s all.”

You gave a small shrug, trying not to look embarrassed. “It’s quieter out here than it is at home.”

Something in his eyes changed, recognition. “Yeah,” He said quietly. “I get that.”

You looked at him then. His hood couldn’t hold the weight behind his eyes nor could he hide the way exhaustion lived in his posture. You didn’t know all the details, but the world had made sure you knew enough.

“I’m fine,” You added, mostly out of habit.

“Are you?” He asked gently.

You swallowed, glancing away. “I don’t know.”

There was another moment of silence before he took a slow step back, giving you space. “Do you want company? Just to walk. I won’t talk if you don’t want me to.”

You hesitated. Your gut said no. You didn’t let people in, couldn’t. Not anymore. But your heart, the part that had been bruised and stretched thin and aching for something steady whispered yes.

“…Sure,” You said. “Walking with someone sounds… nice.”

He nodded, falling into step beside you. “And what should I call you?”

You glanced at him and smiled softly, giving him your name. And for the first time in what felt like forever, it felt like someone might care enough to remember it.

You never said it out loud, but you started looking for him.

Not in an obvious way. Not with expectation. But your heart would lift, just a little, whenever you turned the corner and saw him there. Hands in his pockets, hood pulled low, and watching the world like it might turn on him at any second until he saw you. Then he softened.

He never greeted you loudly. Just a simple, “Hey,” or a nod, like you’d both agreed long ago that this was normal.

And somehow, it became exactly that. Normal.

It wasn’t every night of course, but it was often enough that absence felt strange. A small ache in your chest when he wasn’t on the corner. You told yourself it was fine, that he had a life, a job, a past filled with shadows. You weren’t owed anything.

But you missed him anyway.

There were other nights where you spoke in fragments.

“What do you do when you can’t stop thinking?” You’d asked once, voice barely audible.

“Walk,” He’d said. “Or hit things.”

You’d laughed, and he’d smiled, just a little.

Other nights, it was quiet. Just walking. Just being near someone who didn’t expect anything from you. Someone who didn’t need you to perform happiness or push down your grief.

Bucky never asked about your family. He never pried. But you could tell he knew something wasn’t right. He noticed the tension in your shoulders. The way your voice got flat when you mentioned home. The way you avoided talking about weekends or holidays altogether.

But he didn’t force you to explain. He just stayed.

And on one Tuesday night, you realized something.

You’d left work exhausted, your brain buzzing from a manager’s sharp words and the hollow ache of pretending to be okay all day. You weren’t thinking about much when you turned the corner that night and there he was.

Same spot. Same faint, crooked smile when he saw you.

And it hit you: he was waiting.

Not just showing up. Not just passing by. He was waiting for you.

You swallowed thickly, not trusting yourself to say much.

“Hey,” You managed.

“Hey,” He said, falling into step beside you.

Like always. Like routine. Like something steady that just kept growing.

Because the next night, he was there again. This time, with two paper cups.

“Tea,” He said simply, holding one out to you. “Figured I’d guess this time.”

You took it, your hands feeling the warmth from the cup.

“…You always this nice?” You asked softly, only half teasing.

He glanced at you. “No.”

You smiled faintly. “So why with me?”

He looked away, the way he always did when he was thinking too much. “Because you remind me of me,” He said finally. “Back when I thought no one saw me.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“…I see you,” You whispered.

He looked at you then, something softening in his expression. “I know.”

And that was the night you stopped pretending it didn’t mean anything. The night you realized you weren’t just walking anymore. You were building something. And Bucky Barnes was becoming part of it.

One afternoon, you didn’t expect to see him in the daytime.

Your connection lived in the quiet hours. After sunset, under flickering streetlamps, where shadows were long and words were soft. That was your world. The only time you felt allowed to exist without needing to explain yourself.

But then came Saturday and there he was.

You spotted him from across the street. His hands in the pockets of his jacket. He looked more like a guy running errands than a former assassin on patrol.

He saw you at the same time, gave a little lift of his chin and crossed the street with purpose. You froze halfway to the bus stop, unsure why your stomach flipped the way it did.

“Hey,” He said, a little breathless, like he’d hurried.

“Hi,” You replied, confused but smiling anyway. “Didn’t think I’d see you in daylight. Thought you were strictly nocturnal.”

Bucky actually chuckled, quiet and rare. “Yeah, well… I wasn’t sure if this would be weird.”

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was gonna grab lunch. There’s this spot a few blocks away. It’s tiny, but kind of quiet. I figured I’d ask if you wanted to come.”

You blinked. It took you a full second too long to register what he meant.

“Oh,” You said. “Like… lunch. Together?”

“Yeah,” He said, then quickly added, “Just food. I mean, not like–unless you–hell, I’m bad at this.”

You bit back a laugh. “You’re fine. I just… didn’t expect that.”

“I figured,” He said, eyes scanning your face. “If you say no, it’s okay. We can just stick with nightly walks.”

That made your heart ache in a way you didn’t expect.

Because part of you wanted to say no. Not because you didn’t want to go. But because some part of you was convinced you’d ruin it. That he’d realize you weren’t enough.

That someone like him who was kind, observant, and careful, wasn’t meant to stick around people like you. People who carried too much in their chest and didn’t know how to set it down.

But then you looked at him. Bucky Barnes who had every reason to close himself off and still offered you tea when you were shaking, and quiet when you needed space.

And he was asking to spend time with you. Not out of pity. Not out of obligation. Just… asking.

You nodded. “Okay.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You smiled. “Yeah. Lead the way.”

The place was small and tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat. It was the kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty, just calm. You sat across from each other at a little table by the window. And for the first time, you talked in full sentences. About music. Food. The ridiculous number of people who apparently still thought Bucky liked plums because of some file Steve mentioned once.

You laughed more than you had in weeks. He smiled more than you’d ever seen.

You caught him watching you a few times, like he couldn’t quite believe you were there. And every time, your heart did that quiet, painful twist that came with realizing someone actually wanted you around.

You didn’t talk about family. Or trauma. Or loneliness. But you didn’t need to. Not yet.

Because for now, you let yourself sit across from a man who kept showing up. And for once, you didn’t feel like a burden for accepting it.

When it ended, you both had exchanged numbers and you smiled the whole way home. Not a big, giddy grin. Not the kind that buzzed with new love or rose-colored excitement. Just a small, warm curl at the corner of your mouth that wouldn’t go away.

Because the lunch had been… easy. Natural.

You didn’t remember the last time you’d felt like that with someone. Just sitting across from them and not having to work so hard to be interesting, or likable, or fun. You hadn’t needed to fill the silence, because Bucky never made silence feel like failure.

And he’d even paid, grumbled a little about modern pricing, but still held the door open when you walked out.

You should’ve felt safe. Happy. But of course, that voice came back. The one that always did when something good happened.

He was just being polite. He probably felt bad for you. You talked too much. Or not enough. Or said something weird. He’s probably second-guessing it now.

You told yourself to stop, that none of it was true. But you’d lived most of your life watching people lose interest in you like clockwork. So instead of walking with that same lightness you felt at the table, you found yourself shrinking again.

Head down. Hands in your jacket pockets. Smile fading, bit by bit

And to your surprise, texted later that evening.

Just a simple:

Made it home okay?

You stared at it for a full minute.

Then typed:

Yeah, thanks. And… thanks again for lunch. I really appreciated it.

You added a second message, hesitating.

You didn’t have to do all that.

You almost deleted it. But your finger slipped, and it sent.

A minute later, he responded:

Didn’t do it because I had to.

Another pause and he sent another message.

I wanted to.

You stared at those three words for a long time.

The next night, you almost didn’t go on your walk. You weren’t sure if he’d be there. If it would be weird now. If the quiet thing you’d built would somehow be different just because you’d shared a meal like two normal people.

But you went anyway. And when you rounded that corner, heart in your throat, he was there. Same spot. Same faint smile when he saw you.

“You came,” He said.

You swallowed. “So did you.”

“Of course I did.”

And just like that, without needing to explain the ache in your chest or the thoughts still clawing at the back of your mind, he started walking beside you again. As if the doubt within you never stood a chance.

However, good things never last.

You hadn’t meant to cry.

You’d gotten good at holding things in. Good at keeping your voice even, your expression neutral, your heart locked up behind carefully stacked defenses. You knew how to keep walking. How to keep breathing through the ache.

But some days, some days it didn’t matter how strong you tried to be. And that night, everything hurt.

It wasn’t even about something new. Nothing fresh or sharp. It was the old stuff, the words that never really healed. The ones that resurfaced in this mornings phone call with your father, when he’d said it without hesitation. “You’re just too hard to love, you know that?”

It had gutted you then and it still did.

Because even if you didn’t show it, you’d started to believe it.

The way friends drifted away. The way family only called when they needed something or to criticize. The way people got tired of your quiet, your sadness, your needs. Even when you tried to shrink yourself, to not ask for anything… it was never enough.

You were always too much, and somehow not enough all at once.

So when you walked that night, when you saw Bucky waiting in his usual spot, you almost turned back.

But he saw you. And the moment he did, something in his expression shifted.

You didn’t say anything.

You just walked right up to him, stopped short, and stood there with your arms crossed tight over your chest, like if you let them drop, everything would spill out.

Bucky’s voice was soft. “You alright?”

You shook your head once, too quickly as your voice cracked when you whispered, “Why do you keep showing up?”

He blinked. “What?”

You looked at him then, eyes confused. “Why do you keep coming back? Why do you keep… being nice to me?”

He took a step closer, cautious. “Because I like being around you.”

“You shouldn’t.” The words burst out before you could stop them. “I’m not…– people don’t stay. They get tired of me. They always do.”

“Who said that to you?” He asked quietly, his voice low, steady.

You laughed bitterly. “Does it matter… Friends. Family. Pretty much everyone I ever let get too close.”

You looked away, blinking hard.

“They all said the same thing… that I’m just too hard to love.”

It was out now. Ugly, raw, and terrifying. You waited for him to flinch. To pull away. To prove them right. But he didn’t.

He stepped closer, slow and sure. He didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he reached out, one hand hovering at your shoulder until you gave the tiniest nod.

Then his palm pressed gently against your arm.

“They were wrong,” He said.

You swallowed hard. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” He said firmly. “Because I know me. And I don’t waste time on people I don’t care about.”

Your throat tightened.

He wasn’t trying to fix it. He wasn’t telling you to be positive or that it would pass. He wasn’t saying it didn’t matter.

He was just there. With you.

“You’re not hard to love,” He spoke softer now. “You were just surrounded by people who didn’t know how.”

And that broke something loose.

The first tear slid down your cheek. Then another. You tried to speak, to apologize, but your voice disappeared behind a sob that ripped straight out of your chest.

You folded into yourself, ashamed, but Bucky caught you. Without hesitation, he pulled you into his arms. Not tight. Not smothering. Just enough.

Enough to say I’m here. Enough to say You’re not too much for me. Enough to say I’m not going anywhere.

And in his arms, safe for once, you let yourself cry.

Really cry.

For the first time in a long, long time.

When the tears had finally stopped, you felt worn out like a storm fading to drizzle. You’d stood in the dark with Bucky for longer than you realized, his arms wrapped gently around you. He never rushed you. Never asked you to talk more or explain.

And when you finally stepped back, breath unsteady but lighter somehow, he didn’t say a word about the crying. Just looked at you like you were whole.

“…I’m okay now,” You’d whispered, not sure if you believed it yet.

His head tilted slightly. “You want to walk?”

You nodded.

And you walked until you were both sitting on a cracked bench outside a 24-hour café near a closed bookstore. He’d offered to buy you something, no pressure, just a question, and you said yes without thinking.

It felt… nice. Like last time. Letting someone do something for you without guilt clinging to it.

You had a small paper cup between your hands of warm chai, still steaming. He had black coffee, of course. Of course he drank it black.

Neither of you spoke for a while, but the quiet wasn’t awkward. It was gentle. Companionable. Like your sadness didn’t scare him. He wasn’t expecting you to bounce back or smile to make him feel better.

He was just there.

You took a small sip, then glanced over at him. He was watching the empty street like he was half on patrol, half at peace.

“Thanks for the tea,” You murmured.

He looked at you then, eyes soft. “Thanks for trusting me.”

You looked down at your drink. “I didn’t mean to cry like that.”

“I know,” He said. “It’s okay.”

You hesitated, then asked softly, “But why didn’t you walk away?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just leaned back on the bench, hands wrapped around his cup like it grounded him.

“Because I know what it’s like,” He said finally. “To think you’re too broken or too much. To think you’ve ruined the moment just by being yourself.”

You glanced at him, surprised at the honesty.

He kept his gaze forward. “I’ve been there. I still go there. But… I also know how much it means when someone stays anyway.”

Your heart ached in a different way now. Not from pain. From being understood.

“Thank you,” You whispered.

“Anytime.”

You sat in silence again, drinking your tea slowly, letting the warmth from the cup seep into your fingers.

The city was so quiet this late. No shouting. Barely any cars. Just wind and dim streetlights.

Eventually, you looked over and gave him a small smile. “You think next time we could get donuts or something instead?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched, his version of a grin. “You saying I’m not a good coffee date?”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile widened. “You’re passable.”

He let out a soft huff of amusement. “Alright, donuts next time. But only if they have the jelly-filled ones.”

You nudged his arm lightly. “You got a deal.”

And just like that, something fragile began to stitch itself back together inside you.

It may not have been fixed or finished. But it was held together by his love and care.

And for now, that was more than enough.

[dakusan]

📁 ASK D U M P 𓆩🩸𓆪 23 JUNE 2025

🩸 THE ALTAR IS WARM. TODAY'S ASK DUMP BEGINS.

You whispered into the void. I answered with fangs bared and hands blood-wet from dissecting your desires.

Today’s indulgence features vampire sugar highs, love-drunk delusions, ink on skin and hunger in veins, academic breakdowns, brat worship, and the kind of devotion that ruins you sweet. You asked for chaos. You’re getting kissed and killed in the same breath.

Lay back. Offer your throat. You know how this goes.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🎀 ANON LOGGED: “I took a bullet for you, idiot, now say you love me before I die.”

🎀 anon, oh baby. You cooked, set the kitchen on fire, and then fed me the ashes—and i loved it. The vision is crystal clear, but you know what? We’re not doing the cheesy “throw-myself-in-front-of-you” trope like it’s a Hallmark adaptation with fangs. This is a vampire universe. We do angst with IQ. With blood. With consequences. So allow me to rewrite this chaos into something feral, logical, and absolutely unhinged.

⸺⟡⸺

𖤐 Setting:

A clandestine black-market gala hosted by a medical-tech magnate—one of the few humans powerful enough to hold negotiations with Chan’s empire (LUXE / NOCTE LABS / ASHSUNE HOLDINGS). The location is neutral ground, secured by anti-vampire wards and surveillance scramblers. You’re there as his "human consultant" (but really because he can't go anywhere without keeping you in sensory range—not that he admits it).

𖤐 Relationship:

You and Chan? Wired wrong for each other. You argue, fight, push buttons, and yet—your blood only responds to him. And his pulse? Only spikes when you're near. He once called you a glitch in the matrix. You called him a walking extinction event in a three-piece suit. It's working, somehow.

You're pissed at him tonight—again. You argued in the car. Didn’t want to attend this gala, didn’t want to be on his leash. But he needed you close.

So you’re watching from a distance as Chan speaks to the host. Smiling with that false grin you hate. You sip your drink and freeze.

Something’s off. A movement in the corner. A glint from a cuff that isn’t regulation. The way the host’s heart rate just spiked for no reason.

You don’t think. You move. But not like a cliché heroine leaping in front of a bullet. No. You're smarter than that. You shout his name—loud enough to draw attention, hard enough to make him flinch. You throw your glass toward the target, shattering against the wall just as the gun is lifted.

That split second? That's all it takes.

The bullet meant for his brain misses. But a second one doesn’t. Because when Chan lunges toward you—thinking you’re in danger—you get clipped through the side. A high-velocity skim. But you're already falling.

Chan smells your blood before he sees it and then he erupts.

No hesitation. No negotiation. He kills the shooter mid-step. The sound of it makes the other guests scream. The smell of your blood makes Chan flicker.

His reflection glitches in the chrome. The veins in his face light up like static lightning. He is not stable.

And yet—he doesn’t bite you. He doesn’t run. He gathers you into his arms and runs to get you out.

At the hospital, it's chaos. You’re on the table. Nurses scrambling. Alarms screaming.

Chan is snarling at the surgical staff, covered in your blood. The only reason he hasn't turned the room into bone is because Felix is holding him back and Jisung is whispering “She’ll live, hyung. You have to let them work.”

They force him out.

And as soon as the door shuts—your body starts seizing from the trauma.

When you wake up, you’re intubated. Hands restrained to keep from ripping the tube out. Eyes open. Panic. You choke.

The nurse screams for a crash team. You flatline for a breath.

Felix—still in the room—calls Chan with shaking fingers. All he says is: “Hyung. She’s going. She’s—”

No more words. The line goes dead.

In that moment, the doors slam open. Chan is there in under ninety seconds. Eyes black, fangs exposed. “I told you,” he breathes as he sinks to your bedside. “You don’t get to leave me. Not like this. Not ever.”

You’re conscious just long enough to grab his shirt, eyes bleary.

“I meant it,” you whisper. “Earlier. I said it and I meant it.”

He stills. “…Said what?”

You smile—blood on your lips. “I love you. You psychotic, overprotective, arrogant son of a—”

MONITORS FLATLINE.

And he breaks. Not by screaming. Not by snarling. But by kissing your dying mouth like a man already mourning, bleeding into your mouth, knowing what that would do.

Chan turns you and you survive. Of course you do. Because this isn’t the end. It’s the beginning of something worse: a bond that’s now unstable. Fused by trauma. Heightened by rage.

You're his now. Fully. Even if you hate him for it. But oh… the sex after that? It's gonna be violent. It's gonna be obsessive. And it will never be soft again.

⸺⟡⸺

🎀 anon? You gave me the bones. I gave you a massacre. Come back again 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

❓ ANON LOGGED: “So like… are soulmates deluxe edition blood dolls or?”

OH HELLO ANON 🩸🖤. you’ve walked straight into the vortex—no map, no guide, just vibes and vampires with control issues. bless you

⸺⟡⸺

❌ Q: Is there a big difference between a Blood Doll and a Soulmate?

🩸 A: NO. LMAOOO.

But also—yes, depending on who’s asking and who’s biting.

🔥 YOU CAN BE:

Just a Blood Doll → your blood is addictive, tailored, nourishing. You’re fed from. Maybe spoiled. Maybe used. Maybe loved. Maybe not.

Just a Soulmate → your soul is the perfect match, magnetic, fate-bound. Your presence stabilizes them. No blood necessary (but lmao it helps).

A Human Soulmate → rare. precious. soul-bonded without blood. But still... breakable. And you will be obsessed over.

A Blood Doll Soulmate → good luck. you are everything. you are their only meal. their only weakness. their ruin. You say jump? They say “will it save you?” You cry? They burn the city. You bleed? They bite like it’s the last supper.

⸺⟡⸺

thank you sm for the ask, anon 🖤 your brain is deliciously curious and i love to see it. keep the questions coming, keep it messy, keep it bloody 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

💕 LILLYMOCHILOVER LOGGED: “They see the bump and immediately start planning your entire future.”

OH LILLYMOCHILOVER 🩷 you absolute sweetheart—THANK YOU!! hearing you were giggling like an idiot? good. that was the goal 😌💅 because SKZ + pregnancy fluff is the serotonin shot we all need.

this is DEFINITELY becoming a SKZ x pregnancy mini series. Thank you for the love—and buckle in 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🦈 ANON LOGGED: “Fuck you, only I get to insult my vampire.”

HELLO 🦈 ANON, CONGRATS ON BEING CLAIMED— you’re in the roster now. i see you. i love you. and you know what? YOU ATE with this ask.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 VAMPIRE!SKZ x READER — “ONLY I GET TO TALK TO THEM LIKE THAT”

Prompt: You’re out in public. Someone starts mouthing off at your vampire—talking shit, throwing attitude, maybe even dropping old war rumors or calling them a monster to their face. They roll their eyes. They’re ready to leave. They’ve heard it all before. But you? Oh, you’re not having it.

Bang Chan

He’s the don’t engage, just eliminate type. Already turned his back, hand on your lower back, guiding you out. But the second you stop walking, he senses it. “You got something else to say?” you snap, turning back.

You don’t yell—but your words are like silver-tipped bullets.

Chan watches you drag the idiot through the verbal dirt, defending him like he’s some misunderstood king, not a centuries-old apex predator who’s eaten worse.

You spin back toward him, furious. “No one gets to talk to you like that. Except me.”

He blinks. Then smirks. Then kisses you so hard it almost draws blood. “God,” he murmurs. “Marry me again.”

Lee Minho

He’s eerily calm while someone insults him—just tilts his head, eyes black, calculating how long it would take to rip their spine out. You see it. You feel the silence crackling. “Let’s go,” he says.

But you step around him.

“Sorry, what was that? You don’t know him. You fear him. There’s a difference.”

Minho goes very still. Then smiles—something sharp and terrifying. When you’re done verbally gutting them, he drapes an arm around you.

“You really are mine, huh.”

(You don’t sleep that night. Too busy being rewarded.)

Seo Changbin

The insult hits mid-conversation—some asshole whispering loud enough to be heard. “Can’t believe they let him in. Disgusting.” Changbin’s jaw clenches. He shrugs it off. But his hand tightens around yours. He’s about to walk you out when you spin.

“Say it again. I dare you.”

Bystanders freeze.

You unload a verbal firestorm, praising Changbin’s strength, loyalty, control, and honour—and then finish with: “He could kill you in half a breath. But he doesn’t. That’s restraint. What do you have?”

Changbin stares at you the whole time like you hung the moon.

Later? He picks you up like you weigh nothing and whispers, “That was so hot.”

Hwang Hyunjin

Someone gets under his skin with elegant cruelty—subtle jabs about his past, his mother, the way he “seduces” people with fake charm. Hyunjin forces a smile. “I’ve heard worse.”

He starts to walk. But you don’t. You turn and go feral in iambic pentameter.

“You think he’s false because he’s beautiful? That his softness is a lie? You couldn’t survive a single day with his soul in your chest.”

Hyunjin just watches, mesmerized.

“You’re defending me,” he says later, voice raw.

“I always will.”

He kisses your wrist like it’s sacred.

Han Jisung

Someone mutters about “rats” and “turned trash” as you walk past. Jisung stiffens, shrugs it off. “Not worth it.” But you? You reverse like a car with a vengeance.

“Who the hell do you think you are? He’s a genius. You’re a fungus. Don’t open your mouth unless you’re asking for mercy.” You drag them for everything—their weak arguments, their ignorance, their fashion.

Jisung stares like you’ve just told him he’s the sun.

“I love you,” he says later, clutching his chest. “That was better than a blood high.”

Lee Felix

He’d normally respond with grace. With calm. But you see it—you feel it—when someone says he’s “too soft to be real.” They don’t know the monster under that sunshine. But when you defend him?

“No one gets to insult the light just because they’ve never seen it. He’s kind because he chooses to be. You wouldn’t last ten seconds if he wasn’t.”

Felix’s hand tightens in yours. His pupils flicker. “I didn’t know you got mad for me.”

“I’ll get mad for you every time.”

You don’t go home. He drags you into the car and shows you what it does to him.

Kim Seungmin

He’d rather annihilate them with sarcasm. But tonight? He lets you speak. You defend his mind, his strategies, his humanity.

“He’s ten steps ahead of you and still has the restraint to let you talk. That’s mercy.”

Seungmin, dry: “Why are you better at threats than me?”

You grin. “Practice.”

He doesn’t say thank you. He just holds your hand all night like it’s law.

Yang Jeongin

They call him “puppy.” They say he’s not real vamp material. He laughs it off, embarrassed. Until you step in.

“Laugh now. You’ll be dead before he even bares his fangs.”

Everyone goes silent.

You glare. “He’s got more fire in one look than you’ve got in your whole rotten soul.”

Jeongin blushes. Blinks. Then—“Holy shit… You’re kinda scary.”

You smirk. ���And you’re mine.”

He smiles like he just won the world.

⸺⟡⸺

🦈 anon, THANK YOU for this absolutely unhinged, half-asleep stroke of brilliance. You might’ve lied about sleeping, but you did not lie about living, laughing, and loving it—because same. Your brain is officially on the VIP list. Keep screaming into the void. I’ll be here, sharpening my fangs and feeding off it 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🐈‍⬛ ANON LOGGED: “Sure, he bought it for me… but I’m paying in bites and bruises later.”

OH 🐈‍⬛ ANON. You’ve triggered something primal. You think vampire!SKZ can say no to their blood doll?

BE SERIOUS. They’re ancient apex predators, yes. But when you look at them like that? When you’re soft, pouty, glowing, theirs?

They fold. They burn.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 CAN VAMPIRE!SKZ SAY NO TO THEIR BLOOD DOLL?

Answer: No. Absolutely not. They don’t even try.

🛍️ If you’re out shopping…

You glance at a necklace? It's bought. You smile at a limited edition plushie? It’s in your arms within minutes. You sigh near a window display? He’s already on his phone arranging a private delivery and cleared stock.

“Oh? You like it?” he says casually, voice velvet. And then dead serious: “You’re getting it. All of it.”

Payment? “No need. You’re already mine.”

🕰️ If they’ve been working for 27 hours straight…

You pad in, sleepy and soft. “Can you take a break?”

They grunt. “Busy.”

So you climb into their lap. Wrap your arms around their neck. Nuzzle into their throat. “Please?”

You whisper against his skin, “I’ll be good…”

Cue chair pushed back, computer powered down. He carries you out without another word. “You win,” he mutters. “But you’re paying me back in kisses.”

He lies. He just wants to hold you while you nap.

🎬 You want a movie night?

You don’t even have to speak. You just blink up at them, tug their sleeve, and whisper, “Come relax with me.”

That’s it.

Ancient vampire warlord now horizontal on the couch, letting you play with his hair and shove popcorn in his mouth.

🥺 "But I want it..."

That line alone? Nuclear.

If you say it while tugging their sleeve or sitting in their lap? Done. Wallet open. Schedule cleared. Kingdoms burned.

🩸 TLDR:

Vampire!SKZ are lethal, ancient, dominant…

Until you ask for something.

Then they’re just: “Yes.” “Yes.” “Of course.” “What else?” “Do you want two?” “Take my credit card.” “I’ll kill for it.” “I already bought it.” “You can have my blood instead.” “You want the moon? I’ll fetch it.”

⸺⟡⸺

🐈‍⬛ anon, thank you for the gold. Keep asking things like this. I’ll keep collapsing like a Victorian woman with fangs 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🫧 ANON LOGGED: “Asking for loving reassurance from SKZ”

🫧 anon, first off—thank you for trusting me with this. I see you. I hear you. And I want you to know this: Your body is not a flaw to be fixed. It is a story. A legacy. A home. And vampire!SKZ? Oh, they worship every inch of it like it’s carved into their afterlives.

I’ll go the vampire route (because you know I’m feral for them), and we’ll keep this a soft-sensual blend—comfort with a bite, you know?Generalized to any insecurity, but carrying the tenderness you deserve.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 VAMPIRE!SKZ x INSECURE!READER — "SACRED SKIN"

🛑 TW: body insecurity, gentle reassurance, touch- and word-based comfort, soft smut implications (no explicit details)

Bang Chan — "You don't get to hide from me."

You tried to cover yourself in front of him once—shirt still clutched to your chest, head down, voice quiet.

And Chan?

He just walked over. Knelt in front of you like a knight bowing to royalty. “You don’t get to hide from me,” he whispered. “Not the person I crave. Not the body I worship. Not the skin that carries the scent I’d die for.”

He kissed your wrists. Your ribs. The small, trembling lines of yourself you thought weren’t enough. He didn’t fuck you that night. He just held you naked in candlelight and whispered, “Mine. Always.”

Lee Minho — "Tell me where it hurts."

He notices every shift—every tug at a sleeve, every way you tilt your body away from mirrors.

One night, he strips you slowly. Not to seduce, but to examine. Gently.

“Tell me where it hurts,” he murmurs.

You point. Softly.

So he kisses it. And again. And again. “Then I’ll love you there until it doesn’t.”

Minho doesn’t argue with your insecurity. He devours it until it becomes part of your beauty.

Seo Changbin — "How could you hate the body I love?"

It breaks him a little when you flinch at compliments. He pulls you into his lap and cups your face, stern and soft all at once.

“You don’t get to talk about yourself like that. Not when this body is my everything.” He traces your skin like a treasure map, lips brushing your neck. “You think I care what society wants? I’d burn society down for even thinking it could make you feel small.”

And then he fucks you with praise until you forget why you ever doubted.

Hwang Hyunjin — "Your body is art. Stop apologizing for it."

You sigh in the mirror one morning. Just a whisper of disappointment. But Hyunjin hears it like a scream.

He stands behind you. Wraps you in his arms. And starts painting. With fingers. With lips. With devotion.

“Do you think I’d sculpt a statue with anyone else’s shape?” He pulls you to the bed, lights dimmed low. “You are art. I will frame you in my memory. Again. And again. And again.”

Han Jisung — "Oh, baby. But I love you like this."

You try to brush it off. Laugh about it. Pretend it’s not real.

But Jisung knows better.

He kisses your shoulders. “You know what I see?” Your eyes fill. You don’t answer. “I see the person who makes me forget I’m a monster.”

He kisses every inch you once judged, whispering silly praise and soft promises, until your laugh is real again.

And then he tells you he’s never been harder in his life.

Lee Felix — "Your body brought me back to life."

You didn’t even say anything. Just looked at your reflection and winced. Felix saw it in your eyes. And felt it in your blood.

He cradled your face and said, “Do you know what your body does to me? It grounds me. It revives me.”

He lays you down like something sacred. Kisses your skin like scripture. And when you cry, he doesn’t flinch.

“I love you. Exactly like this. Especially like this.”

Kim Seungmin — "If you ever say that again, I’ll have to bite you out of punishment."

You joked once—half-heartedly—about not being “enough.” Seungmin didn’t laugh.

He pinned you to the wall and looked you dead in the eyes. “Don’t say that again. Not when I’m already trying to restrain myself because of how much I want you.”

He doesn’t coddle. He reclaims you. With mouth, hands, and voice. By the end, you can’t remember the insecurity. Just how he made you feel—like fire in a temple.

Yang Jeongin — "If I could be human again, I’d want to look like you."

It slips out one night. A soft confession. You tell him you don’t like your body.

He blinks. Quiet. Then says: “If I could trade immortality to look like you, I would. Because you’re perfect.”

You laugh. Think he’s teasing. He’s not.

He climbs into your lap and wraps himself around you like ivy. “I don’t love you despite your body. I love you because of it. Because it’s yours.”

⸺⟡⸺

🫧 anon, thank you for this gentle, necessary ask. You are beautiful, and I mean that. If you ever forget, I’ll write you another reminder—in blood and devotion 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

👻 ANON LOGGED: “You said no one would see? …Then why is your hand down my pants, babe?”

OHO 👻 ANON you saucy little spirit—you want to know which Stray Kids member is most likely to risk it all in public? Bathroom stalls? Back seats? Quiet corners? 👀

Alright. Ranking time. From “will fuck you behind a curtain” to “absolutely not unless we’re locked in a vault.” (No vampire powers. Just regular, horny SKZ.)

⸺⟡⸺

🔥 MOST LIKELY → LEAST LIKELY TO DO PUBLIC/SEMI-PUBLIC SEX:

Han Jisung — Zero shame. One goal: you.

“You’re looking at me like that in a public place and expect me to just sit here??”

His brain runs entirely on impulse and horny adrenaline. Back of a taxi? Movie theatre? Dressing room? He’s already hard and bargaining.

You whispered “I’m not wearing anything under this”—and he took it as a challenge.

Whispers in your ear, hand up your skirt, “No one’s looking. Be good for me.” Prays no one walks in. But also? Doesn’t care.

Ranking: Absolutely does not know what shame is. Public spot: Mall photo booth, café bathroom, stairwells. Danger kink level: 12/10 Favorite line: “Don’t be loud, or I’ll stop.”

Lee Minho — Calculated filth with zero remorse.

“It’s not risky if we don’t get caught.”

Minho won’t initiate it in public unless you start something. But the second you do? You’re done. He’ll drag you into a changing room with that sharp smirk and a hand around your throat.

Quiet dominance. Slow fucks in dangerous places.

He makes it feel forbidden and holy all at once. And if someone knocks? He covers your mouth and keeps going.

Ranking: Makes public sex a power move. Public spot: Museum alcove, private party balcony, dim stairwells. Danger kink level: 9/10 Favorite line: “You started this. Now take it.”

Yang Jeongin — Silent menace, hidden beast.

“Why are you blushing? I’m the one who just made you cum in public.”

Doesn’t need to announce it. Doesn’t need to ask permission. He’s the type to wait until you think you’re safe—then slip his hand between your thighs during a dinner party, whispering “Be still, or they’ll notice.”

He’s a menace because he looks innocent, sounds polite, but is not above bending you over a sink and covering your mouth with a kiss.

Not reckless—but not shy. He knows the game. He plays it quiet, calculated, lethal.

Ranking: Baby-faced criminal. No one suspects him—until you’re ruined. Public spot: Fancy restaurant bathrooms, elevator corners, car backseats with tinted windows. Danger kink level: 9/10 Favorite line: “They’re looking at you like they have a chance. Should I remind you who you belong to?”

Hwang Hyunjin — Poetic but deranged.

“I’d ruin you in this alley and write poetry about it.”

Gets off on the thrill of nearly getting caught. The secret. The sin. Wraps a scarf around your throat and walks you into a gallery hallway where no one’s watching.

Hands down your waistband while whispering how perfect you are. A mix of sensual praise and degrading filth. He loves knowing you’ll have to walk back out flushed and ruined.

Ranking: Feral artist energy. Doesn’t care if the floor’s cold. Public spot: Gallery back halls, rooftop bars, hotel elevators. Danger kink level: 10/10 Favorite line: “You moan like a masterpiece.”

Bang Chan — Conflicted leader, but weak for you.

“This is so irresponsible. Also… fuck, you’re driving me insane.”

He knows better. He tries to be respectful. But when you kiss his neck behind the venue curtain or crawl into his lap backstage?

He caves.

Pulls you into his dressing room. Locks the door. Bends you over the vanity. Can’t help but mutter, “Just a quick one—be quiet, baby.” Then loses control anyway.

Ranking: Fight between morals and lust. Lust usually wins. Public spot: Backstage rooms, locked studios, practice mirrors. Danger kink level: 7.5/10 Favorite line: “You’re gonna get me in trouble, sweetheart…”

Lee Felix — Sunshine with a sinful side.

“Out here? You’re naughty, huh?”

Felix is softly dangerous. The kind that’ll tease you with wandering hands in public, warm kisses behind your ear, low growls against your throat—

But will wait until you're somewhere just barely private.

A car with tinted windows. A backstage couch. A guest room at a party. He wants the risk, not the exposure.

Ranking: Flirty menace. Needs a door but not necessarily a lock. Public spot: Car rides, party hallways, music festivals. Danger kink level: 7/10 Favorite line: “I shouldn’t, but I really want to.”

Seo Changbin — Protective, but weak to whispered begging.

“Out here? Now?”

Instinct says no. He worries about you being caught, seen, embarrassed. But if you beg? And pout? And say “Please, Binnie, just for a second?”

…He’s caving.

One hand over your mouth, one hand down your pants. Will never fuck you fully in public—but you’ll definitely come on his fingers in a dark stairwell.

Ranking: Hesitant, but explodes under pressure. Public spot: Basement corridors, gym showers, venue parking lots. Danger kink level: 6.5/10 Favorite line: “Quick. Just once. Then we’re going home.”

Kim Seungmin — Morally offended but horny nonetheless.

“Absolutely not. …Okay, fine. But only if no one sees.”

Will fight you on it. “That’s reckless. That’s unsanitary. That’s—don’t look at me like that.”

You push him into a coat closet and kiss him breathless? Now he’s got your hands pinned above your head and you’re gasping quietly into his shoulder.

Pretends he hated it. Secretly replaying it in his head for weeks.

Ranking: Grumpily obsessed. Public spot: Empty rooms, coat closets, behind venue screens. Danger kink level: 5/10 Favorite line: “You’re insufferable… and I love you.”

⸺⟡⸺

👻 anon, thank you for this spicy request, come again please 🦇💋

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🌙 ANON LOGGED: “He came in for protein and left feral for your blood.”

🌙 anon… you absolute romantic menace. your emoji has been officially claimed. First of all: thank you for the love—you’re feeding me more than any blood bag ever could 😌🖤 Second: you’re not boring, babe. You're blood-type-A-bait, daydream dangerous, Channie’s ruin wrapped in an apron. And third: you said pounce or stalk…

But oh no, darling. He’ll court. Because vampire!Chan? Especially Abnormal!Chan from the Luxe empire?

He’s not some feral brute. He’s controlled obsession. Surgical restraint. The monster who will tie a silk ribbon around his need and offer it to you like a gift.

Let’s cook.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 VAMPIRE!CHAN x READER — “TYPE A”

You work the night shift at a half-dead farmstand that sells eggs, dusty candy, and weird cuts of meat. Most customers are regulars. Farmers. Truckers. People passing through.

Until he walks in.

Tall. Hood up. Movements precise. There’s something off about him, but not in a bad way—more like a smell you can't place or the feeling of being watched when you're not.

He grabs a pack of chicken breast and protein bars. Moves quietly. Says nothing. Until he steps up to your register.

And freezes.

He smells it.

You. Type A+. Exactly what he’s been craving. The rare blood that sings to him like a hymn. The kind that isn’t just nourishing—it’s euphoric.

His fangs press against his gums. His throat locks. He hasn’t fed in three weeks—not properly—and now?

You hand him a receipt and smile. “You need a bag for that?”

He doesn’t answer. Because he’s in hell. Or heaven. He’s not sure. All he knows is:

You smell like salvation wrapped in flesh, and he hasn’t felt this kind of hunger in a century.

But he doesn’t pounce. He retreats. Back to the parking lot. Gripping the steering wheel so hard it bends. Staring at the bag of raw meat like it’s plastic.

Because he wants you. Not it.

The next night, he returns. More items this time. Small talk. A smile. You don’t notice how he never blinks. Don’t catch the way he’s memorizing your voice, your pulse, the slope of your neck.

He leaves a tip. You write “thank you!” on the receipt. He tucks it into his coat like a prayer.

The third night, you joke: “You’re here a lot. Got a thing for chicken?”

He huffs a laugh. “You could say that.”

You giggle. He watches your throat move. Your vein throb. He doesn’t bite. He clenches his fists.

He starts showing up earlier. When the store’s empty. When the moon’s high. Not to scare you. To protect you from himself. He brings you tea. Says he had extra. He compliments your playlist. Asks your name. And you? You start to like him.

What you don’t know:

He’s memorized your blood rhythm. He’s taken your scent home in his lungs. He’s spent the last four nights locked in his room, fists buried in his sheets, fangs aching, refusing to touch a single drop of blood that isn’t yours.

He’ll starve before he cheats on the taste of you.

But then—

One night, you cut your finger on the register drawer. And that’s it. His eyes flash. His voice drops. “Let me help.”

He wraps your hand in his scarf. Fingers gentle. Movements too precise.

Your breath stutters. “You okay?”

And he looks up at you. Eyes dark. Voice thick. “No. Not really. But I will be—if you let me see you again. Somewhere that isn’t here.”

You blink. “Like a date?”

He smiles. “Like a blood pact. But yes. A date.”

⸺⟡⸺

🌙 anon… it wasn’t pouncing. It wasn’t stalking. It was starving romance with a silk tie and a pulse that belonged to you the second he smelled it. come again any time 🦇💋

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🌹 ANON LOGGED: "College student by day, chaos gremlin by 3 a.m."

🌹 anon, greetings to you too, beloved martyr of caffeine and chaos.

I read this and immediately saw it: You, surrounded by textbooks and Red Bull, muttering osteological prayers at 3 a.m. Your soulmate vampire watching in horrified awe, wondering how a mere mortal is somehow more self-destructive than a blood-starved predator.

Let’s go.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 VAMPIRE!SKZ x COLLEGE!READER — “DEATH BY FINALS, LOVE BY FANGS”

🧠 Existential Crises @ 3 a.m.

You: “What if none of this matters? What if I fail? What if I’m just a carbon-based joke hurtling through space?” Them: “…Baby, you’re literally my eternal soulmate.”

Bang Chan Sits beside you with juice boxes and noise-cancelling headphones. Stares at your spiralling form with pure devotion. “Even if the world ends,” he says, “I’ll still be here. Worshipping the way your brain glitches.”

Minho Throws a blanket over your head mid-spiral. “Shut up. Come cuddle before I bite your thigh out of spite.” Then does exactly that. It works. You're quiet now.

Changbin Tries to give you a pep talk but ends up crying with you while feeding you spoonfuls of peanut butter. “We’re BOTH gonna die, just at different speeds!”

Hyunjin Paints on your arm to calm you down. It starts as flowers. Ends up as “THE VOID IS A MYTH—YOU’RE EVERYTHING.” In cursive.

Jisung Hands you a coloring book and a Capri Sun like it’s a trauma response kit. “Okay, but also… what if we’re just NPCs in a vampire dating sim?”

Felix Lights candles. Puts on lo-fi. Gently rocks you in his lap like a weighted anxiety plushie. “Existence is chaos, but you’re the one constant I want.”

Seungmin Deadpan: “You’re spiraling. Take a breath or I’m calling the Vampire Board of Mental Health.” He’s already made you tea. The mug says "Unhinged But Loved."

Jeongin Silently sets a five-minute timer and holds your face in his hands while you scream into a pillow. “Okay. Time’s up. Now we rewatch cat videos.”

☕ Coffee as Religion

Them watching you chug your 5th cup in 2 hours: “That’s not blood. That’s… concerning.”

Chan buys you a $200 coffee maker and custom beans, but monitors your intake like a jealous barista.

Minho starts brewing it himself so he can lace it with nutrients. Also: “If you drink instant again I’m biting your kneecaps.”

Changbin tries to compete. Ends up jittering beside you whispering “I love you” 87 times in 3 minutes.

Hyunjin judges you—publicly—but will still take little sips from your cup and pout when you hide it.

Jisung starts using your coffee as vampire scent markers. You go to class smelling like espresso and him.

Felix drinks decaf and pretends it’s the same. It’s not. He cries.

Seungmin switches your mugs to say things like “stop.” or “this is the 6th one. i counted.”

Jeongin: “If you don't drink water I swear I’ll pin you to the floor and make you.” Pause. “...You want that, huh?”

📚 Textbooks as Gospel

You: “The ischial tuberosity is the part you sit on, babe—look, here’s the diagram.” Them: “…You talk anatomy to me one more time and I’m going to lose my mind.”

They love it. They’re obsessed with how your voice changes when you explain things. You study like it’s sacred. They want to be your study break. Or your subject.

Chan records you reciting notes and listens to them while feeding. “Your voice makes even pathophysiology sound hot.”

Minho starts quizzing you during sex. “What’s the cranial nerve responsible for taste?” “N-Number seven—fuck—Minho—"

Changbin tries to learn with you. Forgets. Brings snacks instead.

Hyunjin draws flashcards and leaves poetic messages on the back.

Jisung tries to study with you. Fails. Decides to eat you out while you study.

Felix highlights your books with affirmations. “You’re smart. You’re hot. You’re gonna pass.”

Seungmin tests you mid-kiss. You mess up. He smirks. “Try again with your hands tied.”

Jeongin memorizes your study schedule so he can interrupt it just enough to make you melt.

🍽 Horrible Eating/Sleep Habits

Them watching you fall asleep on cold rice with your laptop open to a Reddit thread called “Will I die if I drink expired milk.”

Chan carries you to bed mid-rant. Orders takeout. Force feeds you food between kisses.

Minho meal preps for the week. Slaps snacks into your hand like threats.

Changbin writes “eat” on post-its and sticks them to your forehead.

Hyunjin feeds you grapes from his lap like a decadent vampire consort.

Jisung shoves power bars into your backpack like smuggled gold.

Felix brings smoothies and says “drink this or I’ll cry.” You drink. He still cries.

Seungmin deadass bites your thigh if you skip a meal.

Jeongin shoves a spoon in your mouth and says, “Chew. Swallow. Good girl.”

⸺⟡⸺

🌹 anon, thank you for this blessed ask. Your dad wasn’t wrong—you’re speaking ancient spells. And I’ll happily keep sinning with you, fueled by Lana Del Rey and delusion.

Hydrate. Or Seungmin’s biting your thigh 🦇💋

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🍒 ANON LOGGED: "Driving me crazy, touching me softly, ruining me slowly."

🍒 HELLO AGAIN MY BELOVED. You didn't just bring a meal, you dropped a five-course course corruption dinner and handed me the keys to the kitchen. And you know I’m pulling my hair back and rolling my sleeves up for this one.

Let’s dine. 🩸

⸺⟡⸺

🍤 APPETIZER: “DRIVING ME CRAZY BUT I LOVE TO RIDE”

Who touches you while driving? Steals glances? Handles you like a gear shift?

🛞 Bang Chan – “Hand on your thigh like it’s his second steering wheel.” Firm grip. Thumb rubbing slow circles. He’s focused—but your leg is his grounding point. Occasionally glances over and smirks when you squirm. Red light kisses? Filthy. Tongue and all. Also: “Put your seatbelt on or I’ll stop this car and spank you.”

🛞 Lee Minho – “Gear shift → your thigh → back again. Routine. Ritual.” The most casual about it. Like your skin is his personal clutch. If you wear a skirt? His fingers drift just under the hem—nonchalant, like he’s bored. You try to tease him back? He slaps your hand away with a smirk and locks the doors.

🛞 Seo Changbin – “Thigh rubbing turns into edging at 80mph.” Starts innocent. Then he’s palming between your legs and daring you to keep quiet. Red light kisses? He leans over and bites your bottom lip with one hand still on the wheel. He's saying "What? I’m multitasking." You’re saying "Sir, I can't walk into the restaurant like this."

🛞 Hwang Hyunjin – “Sunlight worship + unholy thigh grazes.” Literally loses focus staring at your profile. “God, you’re unreal.” Hand draped between your legs, barely there—but so intentional. He grips harder when someone cuts him off. That’s how you end up wet before dinner.

🛞 Han Jisung – “Hand on thigh + paranoid muttering = chaos kink.” Alternates between babbling about traffic and squeezing your leg. Every time you inch your hand up his thigh, he whines. “You’re evil. I’m driving. This is illegal. Keep going.” Starts speeding just to get home faster and punish you properly.

🛞 Lee Felix – “Gentle at first. Then suddenly feral.” Brushes his fingers up and down your leg while singing softly. Until you tease him back. Then the car swerves a little, his voice drops, and he says: “Do that again and I’m pulling over.” And he will.

🛞 Kim Seungmin – “Chokehold-level thigh grip masked as casual affection.” Acts calm, but his hand is slowly creeping toward your inner thigh. You try creeping up his leg and he side-eyes you hard: “Do that again and I’ll park on the shoulder and fuck the brat out of you.” You're like “bet.” He’s like “No, seriously. Bet.”

🛞 Yang Jeongin – “One hand on the wheel. One hand claiming your thigh like rent’s due.” Smooth. Confident. He’s the one saying “You cold, baby?” just to drape his jacket over you and slide his palm under your thighs again. When you touch him back? He doesn’t flinch. Just smirks. “You sure you want to play this game on the highway?”

🍲 DINNER: “TOUCH-STARVED BRAT WHO LIKES TO PLAY WITH FIRE”

You sneak into their hotel room mid-live wearing only their hoodie. What happens?

📱 Bang Chan – Professional until you climb into his lap. He sees you in the doorway. Slight pause. Smile shifts. He knows what's underneath. But he keeps talking. Calm, cool, calculating his exit. “Guys, I gotta go—manager's calling me.” He ends the live in 5 seconds flat and has you moaning in 10.

📱 Minho – Plays it TOO cool. Doesn’t even flinch. Looks you dead in the eye and smirks. Keeps talking to Stay. But his hand disappears under the hoodie out of camera view. You're trying not to whimper. He whispers in your ear off-mic: “Let’s see if you can keep quiet.”

📱 Changbin – Can’t focus. At all. He stutters. Glances off camera. Adjusts himself. “Uh—haha—so yeah—uh concert was great!” You walk behind the laptop. Pull the hoodie up. He SLAMS the laptop shut. “Technical difficulties—gotta go!!!” You don’t make it to the bed.

📱 Hyunjin – Pretends he doesn’t see you. He sees you. Keeps the live going. Stays smiling. But his eyes flick toward you constantly. And his cheeks get pink. At one point he just says: “You know what? I need to go paint something. Urgently.” He paints you. Naked. With his cum still dripping down your thighs.

📱 Jisung – Flips the camera IMMEDIATELY. “WHOOPS wrong button bye—" Gone. Tackles you onto the bed like you started a war. “You think you’re slick?” The hoodie’s off in seconds. You don’t even remember how.

📱 Felix – Eyes go wide. Then darker. He keeps talking sweetly to Stay, but his hand is clenched in the sheets. You see him swallow hard. When he ends the live, he doesn’t say a word. He just walks over and lifts you by the thighs. “I was trying to behave,” he murmurs. “You ruined that.”

📱 Seungmin – Murderous silence. Looks at you. Blinks. “Hold on.” Turns off the live without even saying goodbye. Stares at you. “You’re lucky I like you.” Then ruins you on the hotel floor with the hoodie still on.

📱 Jeongin – Laughs. It’s over. “Guys, I gotta go—emergency wardrobe malfunction.” They think it’s his. It’s yours. The camera’s off and you’re already on your knees. He mutters, “You better be ready to take responsibility for that.”

🍦 DESSERT: “SOMETIMES WE DRESS UP JUST TO STAY HOME”

Who ruins date night the fastest because you looked too good in the mirror? Ranking from least to most patient.

🥇 Most patient → 🥵 Least patient:

Felix – Will whine. Will touch. Will WAIT. Because he wants you to feel sexy, powerful, worshipped. Until dessert. Then? Ruin.

Seungmin – Pretends he’s fine. You know he’s not. He watches you like a predator and doesn’t say a thing—until he’s pounding into you on the bathroom counter whispering, “This is your fault.”

Chan – Meant to behave. Really. But you’re in front of the mirror, lip gloss on, batting your lashes? He’s already got your panties pushed aside whispering, “Dinner can wait.”

Jeongin – Doesn’t even try to leave the house. “Why would I take you out when I can make you cry on my fingers right here?”

Minho – Only lets you put on mascara so he can watch it smudge while he rails you from behind. The dinner reservation was never real.

Hyunjin – You bent over for one second and now your dress is around your waist, his hands are on your hips, and he’s saying “Stay still, angel. You look too pretty to not fuck right now.”

Jisung – You blinked. He was already pulling the dress up. “I’d rather eat you than pasta. Get on the sink, babe.”

Changbin – You applied perfume. That’s it. That’s all it took. You’re not making it out of the house. The neighbours will hear. He does not care.

⸺⟡⸺

🍒 THANK YOU FOR THIS BUFFET OF SIN. Every course was a blessing. You are always welcome at my unholy table 🦇💋

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🍊 ANON LOGGED: "Can vampires get drunk or do we need to bring the absinthe?"

🍊 anon you juicy little delight, you just unlocked the vampire logic panel, so let’s spill.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 DO VAMPIRES GET INTOXICATED?

Short answer: Yes, but not like humans. Long answer: Let’s break it down!

🍷 ALCOHOL

YES. THEY CAN GET DRUNK. But their tolerance is insane.

You down two shots and you're dancing on the bar.

They down two bottles and might blink slower.

Chan once drank an entire case of wine and just got... affectionate.

Changbin gets louder.

Minho? Even quieter. Dangerous.

Blood is their main sustenance, so alcohol hits like a dull ache behind the eyes—not a full blackout, but definitely a buzz if they drink enough.

And yes, drunk vampire sex is a thing. Messy. Growly. Desperate. Fangs scraping skin with no filter. You will get worshipped or ruined—or both.

🪄 WITCH CONCOCTIONS

NOPE. Not unless they’re custom-made.

Vampires are biologically different. Their blood and body chemistry reject most standard potions and tonics. BUT a trained witch (especially one who knows vampire anatomy) could craft something to work:

Love potion? Rejected. But a blood-bond enhancer? Maybe.

Sleep elixir? No chance.

Truth serum? Chan would laugh in your face.

You’d need dark spellcraft + tailored blood magic to even graze their senses.

💔 EMOTIONS

Pure emotions? Can’t intoxicate them. But they can destabilize a vampire—especially Abnormals, who are already on thin ice with their feral side.

Love doesn’t intoxicate them. But soulbond ache? Rejection? Bloodlust laced with longing? Yeah. That shit’ll ruin them.

Jealousy makes them rash. Abandonment makes them volatile. Your tears? Hallucinogenic.

🍗 FOOD + DRINK

Yes, they can eat regular food. No, it doesn’t satisfy anything but social custom or nostalgia.

Jeongin still eats ramen. Out of habit. He says it keeps him “in touch.”

Felix bakes because he loves the way it smells.

Hyunjin eats fruit off your stomach just to watch you shiver.

They don’t need it. But they’ll indulge—especially if it’s with you.

⸺⟡⸺

🍊 anon, you’re officially the citrusy crown jewel of vampire questions. Come back anytime with more 🍊curious bloodfruit thoughts 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🪻 ANON LOGGED: "Seungmin is the villain, you are the sun — and he melts."

🪻 ANON… you gentle little chaos flower… you rolled in with sparkles, sunshine, and a smile that dismantled a cold-blooded vampire war tactician and you expect me to breathe normally?

LET’S GET INTO IT. Because you just gave me the ultimate polarity kink and I’m giggling and kicking MY legs now.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 VAMPIRE!SEUNGMIN x BRIGHT!READER — “SUNSTRUCK”

Seungmin has a type. Mouthy little blood dolls. Sharp-tongued. Messy. Always pushing his buttons just to get bent over a desk and corrected.

He’s not sweet. He’s efficient. Icy. The vampire other vamps send in when a doll gets unruly. He doesn’t play—he disciplines. He doesn't ask—he commands. And he always wins.

Until you.

You with your oversized jumpers. Your giggles and messy buns. Your sparkle-trap eyes and that soft little snort you try to hide when you laugh too hard.

You don’t challenge him. You excite him. You walk into a room and Seungmin forgets what century it is.

You ask him if he wants to try the strawberry cookie you baked. He stares like you offered him eternity.

He tries. He really tries. He tells himself you're too bubbly. Too soft. Too clumsy with your joy. You trip in front of him once and say, “Hehe, sorry! My shoelace betrayed me.”

He blacks out for 0.7 seconds.

You make him insane. Not sexually at first—existentially. How are you real? Why is your blood so sweet? Why does he crave not your neck, but your approval?

The downfall is subtle.

You: shyly tugging at his sleeve, “Seungminnie, can you help me reach the box on the top shelf?”

Him: 🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️🧍‍♂️

He glares. “You could’ve gotten someone else.”

You pout. “But I like it when you help me.”

He dies. Right there. In the aisle.

He starts bringing you things without being asked. Leaves notes on your lunch box. Glares at anyone who looks at you for more than 2 seconds.

You ask him to sit with you while you paint your nails. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just says, “Yeah. Of course. Obviously.”

BUT HERE’S THE KICKER: You’re not dumb. You know what he does to brats. You’ve heard the stories. He’s a legend in vampire circles.

So one night you sit in his lap, all soft and glowing, and say: “Do you wish I mouthed off to you more?”

He blinks. “No,” he says. Too fast. Then quieter: “…I’d ruin you. You’d cry. I don’t want to make you cry.”

You tilt your head. “What if I wanted to?”

He growls. Then shakes his head.

“You’re not for ruining,” he whispers. “You’re for keeping.”

⸺⟡⸺

🪻 anon, thank you for this bouquet of sunshine-fueled sin. You’re everything to me. Come back anytime 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🐹 ANON LOGGED: "Fresh ink, sensitive skin, and one starving vampire boyfriend."

🐹 anon, I LOVE YOU. YOU JUST HANDED ME A TRAY OF BLOOD-SLICKED ANGST, OBSESSION, AND DENIAL-BASED FOREPLAY. And then you bowed and said, “Here, break them.”

So I did.

⸺⟡⸺

🩸 VAMPIRE!SKZ — “TATTOOED FOR YOU”

Bang Chan — "You’re playing with fire, love."

It’s on your collarbone, the perfect place for him to mark. He sees the fresh ink, still wrapped, and his jaw locks.

“You did this for me?”

“Mhm. It’s your handwriting, too.”

Chan has never known restraint like this. Every time he kisses your neck, he stops just before the tattoo. Every time you take off your shirt, he stares.

At night, when you’re asleep, he brushes his lips just above it and whispers, “When it heals, I’m going to bite you right here. And you’ll remember who you belong to.”

You already do.

Lee Minho — "Don’t test me."

You got it on your inner thigh. His favorite hunting ground.

When he sees it? Still red. Still raw. He backs up like he’s been slapped.

He can’t touch it. Can’t bite you there. Can’t kiss the spot he’s obsessed with. And you’re sitting there in nothing but a towel, whispering: “Do you like it?”

Minho growls. “No. I hate it. Because I can’t have it. Yet.”

You tease him. You stretch. You flaunt.

He pins you down without touching the tattoo and says, “When it heals, I’m fucking you so hard on your stomach you won’t remember getting it.”

You will. Every time you see it in the mirror.

Seo Changbin — "Baby, this is mean."

Your new tattoo is inked just under your breast, hidden until your shirt rides up.

He sees it by accident. Chokes.

“You got a heart? Under there? For me??”

You nod. “It’s… tender.”

He doesn't trust himself. You’re straddling his lap. No bra. Breathing like sin. He groans and leans his forehead against your chest. “I can’t touch you there. I can’t even—God, you’re cruel.”

That night, he wraps your entire body in his arms and whispers how good you were for him.

When it heals? His tongue won’t leave it for hours.

Hwang Hyunjin — "You did that for me?"

It’s behind your ear, delicate, hidden, perfect. He brushes your hair back and sees it.

A flower. His flower. His mark.

You say softly, “I wanted to bloom for you.”

He nearly cries. But he doesn’t touch. Doesn’t press his mouth there. Just hovers and whispers, “When it’s healed, I’m going to mark you there with my fangs. Then you’ll have my art and my blood.”

You whisper back, “Please.”

Han Jisung — "You’re so evil. I love you so much."

It’s on your ribs, right where he always grabs you when he fucks you from behind.

He peels up your hoodie and freezes.

“Is that—fuck. You inked it?”

“For you.”

Now he can’t grab you there. He has to be gentle. And you know how much he hates being gentle when you’re a brat for him.

He huffs, pouty and feral. “You’re gonna pay for this. I’m gonna wait so patiently. And then? I’m gonna pin you down and make you beg for every inch of what I couldn’t give you today.”

You beg anyway. He gives in—just a little. Just enough to remind you who owns that ink.

Lee Felix — "You didn’t—oh my god."

It’s small. It’s sweet. A little sun on your hip, the same one he always kisses first.

When he sees it, his voice cracks. “You really got that? For me?”

You nod. “I wanted you to feel loved. Even when you weren’t here.”

He can’t stop tearing up. He doesn’t touch it. Not once. But when it heals? He kisses it like a vow. Then bites above it. Just a little. Just to claim.

Kim Seungmin — "You're not getting away with this."

You got a tattoo on your lower back. Just above your ass. His favorite grip spot.

When you bend over and it peeks out of your jeans, he short-circuits.

“Did you—”

You smile.

He steps back like he’s about to commit a war crime. “You got it there, knowing I can’t touch it?”

You nod.

He breathes through his nose. Then mutters, “Okay. Fine. Heal up. Then you’re mine. For a whole week. I’ll mark the other side with bruises to match.”

Yang Jeongin — "Why would you do this to me."

You got a vampire bite tattoo on your neck. Right where his fangs hover.

He stares at it. Frozen. Reverent.

“You got this… for me?”

“Of course.”

You tug your collar down. Bare your neck. Tilt your head. He moans. Then grabs your wrists and pins them gently. “No. I can’t. Not yet.”

He looks at the ink like it’s a sacred seal. “When it’s ready… you’ll feel what a real bite there feels like. I’ll show you what you signed up for.”

You’re ready. Even if it means waiting.

⸺⟡⸺

🐹 anon, THANK YOU FOR THE CONCEPT. I’d follow you into hell for this. Or into a tattoo parlor. Or a vampire’s bed 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🌘 ANON LOGGED: "Wait… can I have two soulmates or is this monogamous magic?"

Short answer: No. Not in this vampireverse, baby.

Long answer: Soulmate bonds in this universe are singular, absolute, and magically binding. There is one blood that sings to theirs. One scent that breaks them. One touch that unravels centuries of control.

You don’t get two flames. You get the flame — and if you lose it, it scorches everything behind it.

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🦄 ANON LOGGED: "Unicorn anon reporting for vampire duty."

🦄 IS NOW TAKEN — welcome to the vampire cult, my beloved unicorn anon!! 🦷💜

Thank you so much for your kind words; your message made my undead heart do cartwheels. I'm so, so glad you're enjoying the lore — there’s so much more coming (fangs, blood, courtship, chaos, and cuddles).

You’re officially part of the eternal coven now. No backsies 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🌙 ANON LOGGED: "Secret thoughts, starry eyes, and a shy heart full of sin."

AHHH 🌙 anon you are so, so welcome here — I’m beyond honoured you worked up the courage to send in your ask 🥹🖤 BUT, alas, our lovely moon has already been claimed by another child of the night…

HOWEVER, I’ve got a whole constellation of delicious alternatives for you to choose from! Here’s a lil list (but feel free to suggest your own too):

🐾 paw print

💌 love letter

🍓 strawberry

🦴 bone (rawr xD)

🔮 crystal ball

Once you pick, I’ll officially crown you and welcome you to the anon cult 🖤 Can’t wait to see what beautifully unhinged things you send next 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

🫶🏼 ANON LOGGED: "Hi, when is Vampire Changbin dropping? Asking nicely <3"

EHEHE THANK YOU BABY 🫶🏼🖤 I’m so glad you’re loving the series — it means the (undead) world to me!

And yes yes YES — Vampire!Changbin is rising from the shadows this Wreck Me Wednesday, June 25th. Get ready, he’s gonna bite, break, and build you back up.

Prepare your neck 💋🦇

· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────༺♱༻────── · ·· · ──────

If you made it to the end of this blackout banquet of fanged worship, tattoo fever dreams, vampire academia, brat-induced insanity, and thirsty psychic combustion—

🩶 congrats. your humanity’s been repossessed. 🩶 your mind? archived in crimson script. 🩶 your heartbeat? syncing to mine. 🩶 your browser history? deeply concerning.

⚡️“Phantom Flame” from the album VX is getting uploaded to YouTube as an official track coming this Sunday!! yay. ⚡️yes, I’m figuring out how the hell to bend TikTok to my will. until then, scream about me in group chats and playlists.

This is the gospel of thirst, ink, lore, and lunacy. Thank you for being terminal with me. Now go bite something 💋🦇

[shadowlord420sgf]

⟡ ݁₊ . You Always Come Back (right?)

✮⋆˙ xxXshadowl0rd420Xxx | skips x reader .⋆♱

⌗ summary: Skips can't stop wondering if you'll leave him for good. So, he pulls you close and makes you promise- over and over again- that you're his forever …

⌗ warnings!: female reader, p in v sex, unprotected sex, shameless smut with feelings, possessive and clingy skips, SLIGHT mention of stalking/mastrubation, creampie, porn with no plot basically, established relationship …

⌗ author’s note: hi guys can you tell I don’t write a lot lmao + this is crossposted on my ao3 ! (the format is better there imo)

No matter how much you tried to tell him, Skips wouldn’t believe you. He couldn’t. Not when you’d leave him every morning, and only visit him at night. It hurt him. It physically hurt so badly that he wanted you, needed you, but could never keep you with him. “Skips, it’s fine,” you tried your best to assure him. “For you it is!” He cried, “Every time you leave me I have to wonder if you’ll even come back.” It pained you to see him like this, how his brows knit together in sorrow, all at the fault of your own.

“Why do you have to go in the morning? Why…Why can’t you just be a shadow and stay with me? ” He begged, noticeably closer to you now. “Skips…” you started, running your fingers through his long black hair, to which he groaned softly. “We both know it’s not that simple.” You whispered, trying to get him to understand on any level.

Before you could say another word, he pulled you in for a kiss. Merely a peck before he stammered, “Fuck- I’m sorry. I just…you’re so—” You shut him up by pressing your lips to his, deeper. One that set off whatever was spewing inside the two of you all this time. He groans into your mouth, low and needy, like he’s been starving for this (he has). His hands hold your face ever so gently, before moving lower and lower…Down your neck, shoulders, gripping at your hips. You can feel his heart beating against your own chest. Fuck.

A string of saliva connects your mouths as you’re forced to pull away for air. By now, you and Skips are panting hard, holding onto each other like your lives fucking depend on it. “My penumbra…” Skips mutters, and you sigh. That name always did it somehow. A whine escapes your throat on its own and Skips chuckles. His lips are on yours again, tongue roughly exploring your mouth as you both rush to take off your clothes.

Once you’re left bare, Skips pupils are blown wide and you swear he swallows his drool. “Just look at you, penumbra. The most beautiful woman alive.” Oh god, you couldn’t possibly have gotten wetter at his words. Skips brings his hand down to your sex, barely ghosting a finger at your slit. Your back arched as you whimpered, “Oh fuck, Skips please . I need you.” His hips bucked ever so slightly as he choked out a, “Say it again- please, please say it again for me.” Who were you to deny his sweet begging? “Ah- I need it, Skips, I need you. Need you inside me now pleasepleaseplease,”

With that, he thrusted into you with the greatest sound you’d ever heard in your life. “You’re—mnh— so f-fucking tight.. all for me, huh?” He moans and lets out a little shaky laugh, like he’s almost in disbelief of how incredible you always feel. You gasped beneath him, grinding your hips like you’re still so desperate for more, before mewling out, “Shit… Skips, please move— c-come on,”

You didn’t need to tell him twice. He pushes into you unbelievablely deeper, relishing at the way you hissed in the amazing pain of the stretch. “Ngh— my penumbra,” he pants, thrusting in and out of you before leaning down to kiss you once again. He swears he could actually die on your lips, tasting you, feeling you like this. “You’re mine , mmf… say it.” he whispers against your lips, and you nod hard, strings of yesyes,imyours,pleasedontstop leaving your lips.

“I’ll never let you go, you’ll be my penumbra forever,” he sighs into your neck, although you’re not sure if he’s telling you or convincing himself that. That didn’t matter. The only thing that seemed to matter was how warm and wet you were inside, how intimately he made love to you, how mesmerizing it looked between where your two bodies connected. “You feel.. so good.. Like you’re just made for this, made for me .” He practically pleaded. Oh, Skips. Why, why must it be this way?

You’re knocked out of your thoughts by Skips’ hand reaching down where you united, rubbing your clit in gentle circles. You squirm and moan hotly at the sensation, hands tangling in his hair, nails dragging down his back, like you don’t know where to put them— and you don’t, because you need to touch him everywhere. Where had he learned to do something like that? Probably when he watches you, when you think you’re all alone, late at night, hand sliding under your waistband as you make the sweetest sounds— which is unimportant at the moment…

Skips thrusts become sloppier, his pace uneven. Your heart fluttered at the way he moaned your name, just a little higher. Fuck, you knew what this meant and you couldn’t wait any longer. “Penumbra— I’m gonna come, fuck , I’m gonna come inside you, where it belongs,” He tells you, “ Come with me.. please, ” As if Skips commanded it himself, you feel the knot of pleasure building up in the pit of your stomach, getting harder to hold back until—

Fuck. Skips comes in you, hard, like— he’s trying to get you pregnant or something. You cry out as your orgasm comes crashing with his, creating a gushing mess between you. He pants and desperately whines your name as he makes sure to fuck all of his seed into you. You writhe under him, absolutely fucked out, seeing stars.

All that can be heard is your panting and his ragged breathing. It's beyond intimate, how you two hold each other in the softest way. “I love you, Skips. Okay? We’re both trying our best here.” You assured him with a kiss. Skips pulls you closer to him and sighs, “I love you too.”

[yuta-nakamots]

Buck Off - B.Barnes

Pairing - TFATWS Bucky x C.I.A. Agent!Female Reader

Genre - Fluff, Action

Warnings - featuring Sharon Carter and Sam Wilson, canon typical violence, John Walker negativity, slight canon divergence (i haven’t fully watched TFATWS) 

Summary - When you follow Sharon Carter into the shadows of Madripoor, you break every rule you were trained to follow. You’re not a soldier, not a spy, but somehow you end up standing beside them anyway, navigating secrets, snark, and the slow-burn of gravity towards Bucky Barnes.

Word Count - 3.5k

Author’s Note - I can’t believe I wrote all of this just because I wanted to tell Bucky to buck off. Here's to my longest work for Bucky yet

Now Playing: Love At First Fight - LANY

You used to work in a glass building with clean desks, badge scanners, and coffee that tastes like burnt-out optimism. Now? You work in Madripoor, where the streets never sleep and the air smells like sweat, sea salt, and secrets. 

Your official title is ‘Logistics Consultant’, but unofficially, your role is to do whatever Sharon Carter needs you to do without asking too many questions. That was the unspoken rule around here. Don’t ask, don’t look, don’t get involved. 

But lately, Sharon’s been disappearing for hours, sometimes days on end, coming back looking like hell and brushing it off with lines like, “you should see the other guy.”

You try not to worry. You try to stay in your lane. But it’s hard not the notice the bruises hidden under the collar of her trench coat, or the blood she wipes off her knuckles before coming into briefings, or the way she sometimes stares off in the middle of a conversation, like she’s calculating five ways to kill someone using only the cup of coffee going cold in her hands.

It’s even harder when she won’t tell you anything. So you do what you probably shouldn’t. You snoop. Not in a spy thriller way. No hacking into mainframes or dramatic rooftop chases, just checking her badge scans, watching her body language, tracking the patterns in her absences. And when the pieces start clicking together, when you see the same coordinates pop up again and again, something shifts in your gut. Because wherever she’s going…it’s not about trade. 

You follow her one night. Just once. Just to make sure she’s safe. But that’s the night everything went sideways. There was gunfire and shouting. Meanwhile, you’re hiding behind an overturned crate, praying you don’t die because you didn’t listen to the one rule: don’t get involved. 

That’s the night you met him. James Buchanan Barnes. He doesn’t introduce himself, obviously–he’s a little busy tossing a Flag Smasher into a stack of shipping containers like he’s playing dodgeball with human beings. You only recognize him from photos and footage. The vibranium arm kind of gives him away. Also, the glaring. So much glaring.

You’re frozen behind a crate, heart pounding, too terrified to move, too stupid to run, which is exactly why one of the Flag Smashers spots you. You duck, but it’s too late. He’s sprinting toward you, and you’re trying to remember anything from that one self-defense course you were forced to take at the beginning of your time in the C.I.A., when someone grabs the back of your jacket and yanks you backwards like a sack of groceries. 

“Stay down,” a voice growls–gritty, low, and very, very pissed. 

You look up into sharp blue eyes and a scowl carved out of years of trauma. “What–”

Before you had the chance to piece words together, Bucky Barnes is already gone again, charging into the fray like a human wrecking ball. You’re left sprawled behind a wall, heart hammering in your chest, adrenaline buzzing in your fingertips. 

That was how it felt to break every rule in your career in one night.

When the dust settles, Sharon finds you. She’s bleeding from her shoulder and furious in that quiet, clipped way she gets when she’s too tired to yell but too mad not to say something. “You followed me.”

“Technically, I saved you.”

Sharon scoffs, eyes flicking over you like she’s deciding whether or not to punch you. “You saved me?”

“I distracted the guy. He almost took Bucky’s head off.”

She pauses. “You know who that was?”

You roll your eyes at the question. “I’m not an idiot. Peggy Carter, Steve Rogers, the arm, the serum. I connect dots for a living.”

Sharon crosses her arms. “You can’t tell anyone what you saw tonight.”

You cross yours right back. “I want in.”

Which is how you end up, two days later, standing awkwardly near a coffee machine in a makeshift safe house, wondering how you got roped into the most dysfunctional after-action report on Earth. Sam is talking with his hands. Sharon is pacing. Bucky is slouched in a chair in the corner, glaring into his cup like the liquid inside it personally insulted him.

You’re trying to mind your business. Really, you are. But something about Bucky Barnes’ silence is loud. It’s not just the brooding, it’s the judgment. You can feel it across the room, pointed directly at you like a sniper scope. 

Eventually, he speaks, voice flat and cold. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He finally looks up, expression unreadable but sharp around the edges. “You followed someone into an active op without backup, weapons, or training. You think that’s brave? It’s reckless…and stupid.”

His words hang in the air like smoke. Sharon sighs but doesn’t intervene. You set your coffee down. “I didn’t exactly have time to enroll in Avengers Academy before the bullets started flying.”

“You shouldn’t have been there in the first place,” he insists. 

“I was trying to help.”

Bucky scoffs, muttering, “yeah, well, next time try helping from behind a desk.”

The burn hits. Hard. It shouldn’t, but it does. Because maybe you don’t have combat experience, or a vibranium arm, or a legacy that spans over seventy years like he does, but you do have instincts. And heart. And you’re sick of people treating you like you’re fragile just because you’re not wearing tactical gear. 

So before you can stop yourself, you cross your arms and fire back. “Oh, Buck off, will you?”

The room goes still. Bucky lowers his cup slowly, his brow furrowed like he’s not sure he heard right. “Did you just–”

“Yeah,” you deadpan. “Buck. Off.”

He stares at you for a long moment, jaw working like he’s trying to decide whether to be annoyed or impressed. Then, he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and gives you a look so unamused it might be classified as a war crime against humor. “Really? That’s what we’re doing now?”

You shrug. “You walked right into it, Buck.” 

He lets out the longest, most exhausted sigh known to man, shaking his head. “I fought in a way, survived HYDRA, got blipped out of existence, and somehow, this is what I get for surviving it all.”

Sam bursts into laughter. Sharon tries to hide her smirk behind her hand. And you? You take a long, satisfied sip of your coffee. Later, when he thinks you’re not paying attention, you catch Bucky half-smiling into his cup like he’s almost forgiven you for existing. 

The shift is subtle at first. You’re still technically the outsider, no super serum, no wings, no shady government past, but after a week of close quarters and several heated strategy debates, you find your rhythm. Sam calls it chaos with purpose, Sharon calls it tolerable, Bucky doesn’t call it anything, but he stops flinching every time you walk into the room, so you’ll count that as progress. 

One morning over rationed protein bars and stale coffee, Sam nudges Bucky with his elbow and grins. “Still can’t believe you let her call you ‘Buck.’” Bucky’s chewing, slow and silent, but you don’t miss the way his eye twitches. Sam presses on. “I call you ‘Buck,’ you threaten to break my fingers. She calls you ‘Buck,’ and you smirk like she invented sarcasm.”

“I did not smirk,” Bucky says flatly. 

You raise an eyebrow. “You kinda did.” 

Sam slaps the table. “Exactly! And I’ve known this guy for years. Years!”

By the second week, you’re tagging along on recon runs. Your Madripoor connections come in handy. Grease-stained club owners, quiet couriers, shady tech dealers who trust your face more than they do a man with a metal arm. You translate coded whispers and identify subtle shifts in loyalty long before the others catch on. You’re not a soldier, but you are something else. Useful. 

Bucky pretends to be annoyed. “You’re loud,” he says one afternoon, watching you bribe a bouncer for intel. 

You cringe. “You’re broody.” He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t argue either. 

The real turning point comes during a supply drop gone wrong. Three ambushers. Close quarters. Sam is airborne, Sharon is pinned, you and Bucky are on the ground. One attacker comes up behind him. You don’t hesitate, you pull the knife from your boot that Sharon insisted you carry just in case, and bury it in the guy’s side. Bucky spins, catching the body before it hits the ground. His eyes meet yours, wide, surprised, grateful. 

“You okay?” you ask, panting.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

You barely make it back to the safe house before the arguing starts. Sam hits the ground, keeping stride with his wings still folding down as he rounds on Bucky. “You wanna explain what that was?” 

Bucky doesn’t answer. He just peels off his jacket like it’s the most important task in the world. 

“I saw the footage,” Sam continues, gesturing toward Redwing, who’s docked in a corner like a smug little drone. “You were this close–this close–to getting stabbed. And who bailed you out? Not me. Not Sharon. Her.”

You try to fade into the background. You’ve mastered this particular tactic. Blend into the walls, sip your water, pretend not to exist. It doesn’t work this time, though.

Sharon tosses her jacket on a crate and levels you with a look. “You carry that knife like you’ve done it before.”

You blink. “I mean, you said to keep it on me.” 

“Yeah, for self-defense. Not for saving the goddamn Winter Soldier.”

“She didn’t even hesitate,” Sam adds, eyes darting between the two of you. “Like she knew he wouldn’t be watching his six.”

Bucky finally speaks, voice low. “She did well.” You look at him. He’s already looking at you.

Sharon notices, of course, she does. “Oh no,” she says under her breath, grabbing a first aid kit but not breaking eye contact with you. “Absolutely not.”

You frown. “What?”

“That,” she says, pointing vaguely between you and Bucky. “Whatever that is.”

“Yeah, sure,” Sharon hums, snapping on gloves. 

Bucky sits on the edge of a crate, adjusting the bandage on his shoulder, pretending he’s above it all, but his ears are pink. 

Sam snorts. “So let me get this straight, I call him ‘Buck,’ and it’s a federal offense. She stabs a guy once, and suddenly he’s a poet about her instincts?”

“Shut up,” Bucky mutters. 

“You’re unbelievable,” Sam continues. “You grumbled for three days straight because of the one time she almost got herself killed following Sharon, but when she almost got herself killed saving your ass, you’re all ‘she did good’ like it’s a line from a war diary.”

“I bet he still has his war diary,” you quip.

“Not the point!” Sam interjects. “The point is, if you die, I have to deal with grumpy Barnes again, and no offense, but I like the current level of grumpy just fine.” You can’t help but smile. And so does Bucky, just barely, but you see it.

Later, when the teasing dies down and Sharon is disinfecting a graze on your arm, she says under her breath, “you like him.”

You sigh. “No.” She raises an eyebrow while dousing your wound with a little more disinfectant than necessary. “Okay, maybe,” you manage to get out while grimacing. 

She doesn’t say ‘I told you so.’ She just grins smugly, knowingly. And that’s worse. 

It starts with a call that cuts out mid-transmission. Sharon’s tracker goes dark fifteen minutes into a solo lead she insisted on taking. The safe house goes quiet, too quiet, as Sam scrubs Redwing’s last feed frame by frame. 

“She’s gone,” he states finally, jaw tight. “They planned this.”

You and Bucky exchange a look. You’re already moving before anyone gives the order. 

Madripoor is darker tonight. Meaner. You navigate back alleys and coded passphrases while Bucky stalks behind you like a shadow, silent but coiled. You know the look in his eyes. It’s the same one he wore the night you met, only sharper now, more brittle. 

You’re halfway through interrogating a guard when it happens. The crowd parts just enough for you to see who’s on the opposite end of the street, flanked by two other operatives and wearing that god-awful knockoff of a symbol you no longer trust. 

John Walker.

You feel Bucky freeze beside you. His breath comes out hard, his shoulders square. Every muscle in his body locks up like a loaded weapon. “Bucky,” you whisper. “Don’t.”

But it’s too late. Walker sees him and smirks. That was the match to the flame. Bucky lunges.

It takes everything you have to catch up, to push through the crowd, shouting his name, shoving yourself between his body and Walker’s like a human buffer. Walker steps back, smug and satisfied, letting the chaos erupt around him like some twisted sport. 

“Bucky!” you snap, grabbing his left arm. He shoves you off without thinking, sending you flying into a wall. His eyes are wild, frantic. You take a breath, bracing against the pain in your shoulder where you hit the wall, then step back into his space again. “Buck,” you say, louder this time. Nothing. 

So you do something rash, something stupid. You place your hand on his chest, right over his heart, and press. “Hey,” you say, firm but not unkind. “It’s me. I need you to come back to me. Now, Buck.”

He blinks a few times, and his jaw unclenches. The seconds drag, but finally his fists loosen and Bucky Barnes returns to himself, though Walker is already long gone. 

You find Sharon two hours later, bruised but alive, in a shipping container turned holding cell. She gives you a once-over when you cut the lock and heave the door open without help from the super soldier watching your six. 

“What took you so long?”

You glance back at Bucky, who’s watching you like you hung the stars. “Got a little sidetracked.”

Back at the safe house, Sam and Sharon disappear into a conversation about John Walker’s relation to the Flag Smashers, but Bucky lingers outside the doorway, like he’s debating something. You find him leaning on the wall with the kind of heaviness that doesn’t just come from battle. You join him without a word, and that’s when he speaks first. 

“I saw red.”

You nod. “I know.”

“I couldn’t stop myself,” he admits. “Not until…It was almost like…”

“Until you heard me,” you finish.

Bucky nodded, going silent for a beat. “You’re not supposed to be able to do that,” he says quietly. 

“I didn’t do anything special,” you reply. 

He turns his head, just enough to meet your eyes. “Yeah, you did.” The wind shifts. Somewhere beyond, Madripoor simmers, but here, it’s just the two of you and a truth too fragile to break. “I don’t know what I’m doing most days,” he shares. “Feels like I’m just…waiting for something to go wrong so I can blame myself for it.” Your heart aches at the honesty in his voice, at how small it sounds coming from someone who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. “But with you, it doesn’t feel like punishment. It feels like…possibility.”

You don’t say anything right away. You simply reach out, tentative yet steady, and let your fingers brush his. He doesn’t pull away. 

It didn't take long until the moment was ruined. Sam slams the door to the safehouse shut and turns on Bucky, eyes blazing. “What the hell was that?” Bucky doesn’t answer. “Don’t make me say it twice,” Sam growls. “You lost it. In public. In front of Walker. You know what that looks like?”

Your stomach knots. You try to step in. “Sam, he just–”

“I’m not talking to you,” Sam cuts in sharply, not mean but not soft either. “You’re a civilian asset. You don’t get to be a part of this conversation. That’s half the problem.” Bucky’s jaw clenches. 

Sam doesn’t let up. “You’re already skating on thin ice with the U.S. government, and now you've got footage showing you lunging at a government-assigned, albeit a knockoff, Captain America while endangering a civilian on foreign soil. You think they’re gonna look at the context?”

Bucky finally speaks. “He was baiting me.”

Sam nods. “Yeah. He was. And you bit.” There was a long pause. Sam exhales. “I’m not saying you were wrong, but this thing we’re trying to build? It only works if we’re not giving them excuses to shut us down.” He looks at you then. “And you, you’re valuable. But if something happened to you tonight, it wouldn’t just be a loss. It’d be a scandal. You get that right?” You swallow hard, guilt settling in. You do get it, all of it. 

The next day. Sharon pulls you aside. “This isn’t personal,” she starts, which is how you know it absolutely is. 

You’re still bruised, exhausted, and blood dried under your nails from the ambush. “You’re benching me?”

“I’m pulling you out of the front lines. For your sake, and ours.” Her tone is clipped. Final. “You’re being reassigned. You’ll get a new ID and a new post in D.C.”

“You’re exiling me.”

“I’m protecting you.” Her eyes soften, just slightly. “And maybe giving a certain super soldier with a staring problem some time to realize what he’s losing out on.”

You freeze. “What?” Sharon just smirks. “No. Absolutely not,” you mutter. But you’re already packing and shipping out two days later. 

D.C. is cold in a sterile kind of way. The office is quieter, the suits blander, and the coffee weaker. You file reports, write threat analyses, and review flagged footage from Madripoor like it’s someone else’s war. 

Every once in a while, you catch yourself wondering where they are. If Sam’s suit still squeaks when he moves. If Sharon finally cleaned that one knife she always uses. If Bucky…is still pretending not to brood. 

You’re in the middle of one such thought, halfway through a boring intel summary, when someone knocks on the glass wall of your office. You glance up and your jaw nearly drops. 

“Hey,” Bucky greets, hands in his pockets, smiling sheepishly while leaning against the doorframe.

“What the hell are you doing in a C.I.A. office?”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d stop by. You missed out on all the action.”

You cross your arms, leaning back in your chair. “And?”

“And…” he steps inside, voice softening. “Maybe I was wrong. About you being behind a desk. I mean, don’t get me wrong, you look good behind it. Very intimidating. But…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “Look, I’m sorry. For before. For snapping at you. For not trusting you sooner. You saved my life, and I treated you like you were just some liability. That was unfair.”

You sit forward, resting your forearms on the surface of your desk. “You feeling okay?”

Bucky chuckles, looking away from you. “Don’t make me regret this.” When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “You helped me. More than I probably deserved. So, thanks.”

You look at him for a long moment, then grin. “Are you going to cry in my office?”

“Oh, Buck off,” he mutters. You burst out laughing. “You want to get dinner?” Bucky asks, like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just blow into your little office like a hurricane and drop apologies and thanks like landmines. 

You stare him down, trying to figure out if this is some sick joke he’s playing. “Like…dinner dinner?”

He shrugs again, hands still in his pockets. “Yeah. You know, food, sitting, maybe fewer life-threatening situations this time.”

You narrow your eyes, amused. “You do realize I work for the C.I.A., right?”

“Mmhmm,” Bucky hums. 

“And you’re still technically an unstable asset who goes rogue more often than he follows protocol.”

“I’m improving,” he states. 

“Barely. You’re still on half a dozen watchlists.”

“Only the interesting ones.”

You tilt your head. “Buck.”

“What?”

“You’re a walking liability.”

His lips pull into a sly grin. “And you’re still considering it.”

You sigh, dramatically. “Maybe I’ll get dinner with you when you’re not a threat to national security and my employment.”

He leans forward, resting his palms on the edge of your desk. “So…I’m hearing I’ve got time to prep then.”

You shake your head with a laugh. “Charming.”

“I meant it,” he says. “You make things feel less like punishment.”

You study him for a long moment. “That sounds dangerously like a compliment.”

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

You roll your eyes. “Get out of my office.”

He starts backing away, pausing at the door. “Soon, though. Dinner.”

“Only if you promise not to bring Sharon or Sam.”

He smirks. “Only if you promise not to stab anyone this time.” And with that, he’s gone. Footsteps fading down the hall, tension lingering like static in the air. 

Maybe this desk job wasn’t so bad after all.

Autoplay: If you like this, you may also like [2:39pm] Bucket - B.Barnes

[over-and-over-and-over-and]

a little bit harder now ... || lottie matthews x reader

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🩻 lottie "accidentally" discovers she yearns for the drag of teeth on her neck ... your bite is to blame

🔪 MDNI - biting , fingering ( lott receiving ) , porn without a plot

( uhm. once again constructive criticism welcome and appreciated (/gen) because this is my first time writing about pussy. something which i didn't think would be so difficult considering i fucking have one. )

🎵 "A Little Bit Harder Now" - She Wants Revenge

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"they say people who bite are the worst to have sex with."

it was a sleepover at jackie's house which somehow provoked the conversation. one of those friendgroup chats you have way past midnight when everyone is delirious and their filters had effectively been shut off.

lottie doesn't remember who brought it up - just that they made a point to explain how biters are supposedly violent, rough, and all around biting during sex was a no go.

unless you were into that kinda thing

ever since the sleepover lottie was stuck thinking about what was said - not the sleepy confessions or the half awake shit talk brought about by the short lived game of truth or dare ( the unpleasant sound of vomiting which chased the dare natalie received to swallow a raw egg was enough to kill the mood for the night )

the only thought running laps around lottie's brain for the following weeks was the idea of deep bite marks littering her collar bones.

she figured she'd let it live as a fantasy. her mind would wander and inevitably end up manifesting a daydream about someone shoving her down and digging their teeth wherever they could - her neck, tits, tummy, and thighs ... it honestly didn't matter where, so long as her skin was being broken by molars somewhere where she could admire it in the mirror the next morning.

it was a dream, that was all. something for her mind to toy with when she got bored and needed something exciting to chew on while her hand played with the waistband of her panties.

problem is, lottie has always had a bad habit of thinking out loud.

the original plan was a casual hookup because you've always known how to rock lottie's world just the way she liked it. she brings you to her place, entertaining conversation over mediocre takeout before you two are softly kissing in her living room. that quickly evolves into a hasty makeout session, one which has the two of you colliding into furniture as you try to find your way into lottie's room with minimal separation, articles of clothing being left in a messy trail along the way.

it isn't long until you're on the mattress, one of your hands interlocked with lottie's with your other hand tracing her inner thigh. as your fingers ghost over her entrance, she breaks the kiss and gives you the opportunity to nuzzle into the crook of her neck.

"bite me."

to be honest, she didn't mean to say it out loud - her mind lingers on how with your current position it would've been perfect. the words have already left her lips with a bit more authority than she would've hoped, and seeing as it's too late to take it back she tries to ease the moment with a gentle,

"please?"

you do as you're told, gently nipping at her skin all the while running your fingers through her folds - she's pretty wet, something you take as a sign to push one of your fingers in. her breath hitches as you curl your finger, words attempting to form but getting lost underneath her shaky gasps.

" ... bite ... harder ... "

eventually she finds her words while you push another finger in. you bite her again, properly this time, earning a sigh which breaks into a moan as she struggles not to buck her hips.

you don't mean to bite her as hard as you do - you've always been a piss poor multitasker and as such sacrifice your focus on being delicate with her skin in favor of thrusting your fingers just right. whatever you did seemed to work as lottie quite literally whines and tosses her head back. a soft thud echoes around the room, which you don't immediately process as lottie accidentally hitting her head against the bedframe until you realized that simple action earned yet another soft gasp from her lips.

"m ... m ... more ... harder ..."

her words are dissected by a mean stutter, one that you've come to recognize as a telltale sign that she's getting close. you're not quite sure if she's requesting you work your fingers faster, or you sink your teeth into her neck once again-

as a middle ground you decide to do both.

your arm begins to ache from how hard you pump your fingers, and it almost feels nice to distract yourself when you focus on clamping your teeth onto lottie's skin. you pull back, kissing the tender spot you had been attacking and she seems to quietly whimper in the few seconds your mouth isn't pressed against her neck. as you try to work your fingers faster, you press your lips into her shoulder, kissing it softly before biting as hard as you could muster. temporarily you feel bad for intentionally hurting her, but it's quickly washed away as her moans continue to grow in volume the more you work your jaw.

you feel like a goddamn vampire, all too unsure if this is really a good idea, but before you can think about it for too long lottie's orgasm crashes into her. no more desperate pleas leave her lips as her eyes squeeze shut and the only thing she can manage are loud gasps and louder groans. you work her through it, removing your teeth from her shoulder and instead gently kissing her cheek and jawline as she cums on your hand and her thighs.

her eyelids flutter open as she shakily sighs, and you bring your hand up to lick her cum off your fingers but before you get the chance she grabs your hand and takes your fingers into her own mouth, quietly moaning as she tastes herself while rolling her tongue over your knuckles. her big brown eyes stare into your own, and you can't help but admire your handiwork as you take in the sight of her pleasantly blissed out state.

and then you notice her neck. red, bruising, and tender.

wordlessly you watch as she presses the marks on her skin, sighing as her fingers prodded the newly forming bruises.

"sorry i didn't mean to ... i just got kinda caught up in the moment -"

lottie shushes your quiet apology, grabbing your hands and pressing them against her thighs. she then taps the other side of her neck, clean skin free of bitemarks.

" ... do it again. please."

[lambiconic]

simon's finally got that date with the barista

if you havent, can i interest you in reading the first six: simon , gaz , johnny , price , the aftermath , the confrontation

(18+ you being angry at simon gets him the tiniest bit excited)

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

After cleaning up the coffee beans you’d spilled on the floor in anger, you finally felt calm enough to try to talk things out with the four men.

Unfortunately, while you’d been crashing out in the back room they had leaving behind just a test message:

“This is Simon. Talk later.”

Despite your previous anger you couldn’t help but smile, its really cute that he somehow texts exactly how he speaks. 

…

The men spent the better part of a week debating (honestly arguing) over how to even bring up the idea of… sharing you.

Though.. the longer they talked about it, the worse it sounded. Not because they didn’t want you. God, they did. So badly. 

But, well, asking the same woman they’d all but cornered in her place of work and interrogated like you’d been married for 20 years with 3 children if she’d be open to dating all of them?

“Feels a bit... predatory, yeah?” Price had said at one point, frowning as he paced with uncharacteristic nervousness. 

“We already ganged up on her once,” Gaz muttered. “Now we’re coming back to say ‘erm actually we’d like to take turns, thanks’? Bit dodgy.”

“We could ease her into it!” Johnny proposed, “One date each. Give her time to realize we’re all *cough* mostly me *cough* amazing.”

 “So your plan is emotional whiplash in four acts??”

Simon, of course, offered nothing besides something about how if you laughed them out of that café, not a single word would leave his lips for weeks on end. Still, none of them backed down.

They just had to figure out how to say “Would you consider going out with all of us?” without sounding like a cult.

Easy. Right?

They came to the conclusion that Johnny was right, they needed to take you out. Try to woo you! Hopefully, that would make up for their ambush as well.

But who would go first? 

Johnny concluded that because he was the only one who had actually asked you out on a date, he should be first!

But, no no, Price should go first! He was the most mature! You need a sexy, mature, older man to lead you into this.

Gaz didn’t care, he was convinced you’d fall for him the fastest no matter where he stood in line.

And Simon— wait where the hell is Simon?

Simon wasted no time slipping out of the room. He had somewhere to be. 

And, like clockwork, Simon showed up at noon on Tuesday. He didn’t say much, just leaned against the counter like always, watching you work in silence. But this time, you were silent too.

Not the calm, flirty kind that matched his silent he was used to. No. You were giving him the silent treatment.

And he definitely deserved it. And he kind of liked it.

Your narrowed eyes. The dramatic scoff when he handed you a full $50 bill for a tip instead of his usual $10. The way you didn’t even try to mask your irritation with your usual sweet smile.

It wasn’t your customer service charm… it was all you, properly pissed off.

And strangely? That made him feel closer to you. At least this meant he still mattered enough to you to be met with something real. 

And there was something about that slight look of disgust in your eyes that had heat pooling low in his stomach and him forced to drop a hand to his crotch in hopes no one could see his growing… problem.

“Can I…” he started quietly, just as you slid the cup across the counter. 

Unfortunately for him, you turned right back around. He cleared his throat, his eyes locked on your back. “Y/N..?”

You didn’t stop what you were doing., offering a dry little ‘hm?”

He swallowed hard. “Can I… can I take you out?”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, you glared at him over your shoulder. “Pardon?”

He blinked. Panic hit (and there was that warm feeling in his groin again). Then, like it was rehearsed, he reached behind his back and held something out.

A wildflower. Well, a weed. Obviously tugged from the sidewalk out front, roots still dirty. But somehow, in his trembling hands, it looked about as pretty as the large bouquets Johnny kept offering you.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

His voice was tight, and you noticed now how his fingers were shaking. Like he was expecting you to laugh in his face. “I… we can do whatever you’d like. If you’ll give me a chance.”

The weed was already wilting in his hand but he kept it cradled in his palm like it was worth his weight in gold. 

His head stayed bowed, jaw clenched, and the other hand curled into a fist behind his back, nails digging into his palm to keep from shaking.

After what felt like an eternity he saw your hand reaching out and carefully taking the small flower from his palm. “When are you free?”

His head shot up, eyes wide as they locked with yours. “I–I’ll have to check! I can text you. Just… I will text you.”

He continued to ramble, promising again and again that you'd hear from him as he stumbled backwards toward the door, his now-cold coffee clutched in hand.

He’d done it. He asked you out. He’s going on a date. With you.

Outside, he let out a breathless laugh and gave himself a small, victorious pat on the back, his thumb brushing over his name on the cup. His small personal treasure. A symbol of this joyous moment.

But then he paused.

Squinted.

“She spelled my name wrong..”

You may have an attitude problem.

…

Simon was a pretty blunt texter, you’d learned. He also started every single text message by stating it was him.

‘This is Simon. Would you like to go for dinner?’

‘This is Simon. I’ll send a list of restaurants. Pick what interests you.’

‘This is Simon. Don’t look at any prices. Leave your wallet at home.’

‘This is Simon. Eight sound good?’

‘This is Simon. Leaving out now. Excited to see you. Leave your wallet at home.’

‘This is Simon. At the entrance.’

You watched him for a couple seconds from your car, partially to feel out the situation and partially because you drove over in flip flops and needed to switch to heels.

Simon looked.. Nervous. A side of him you’d seen a lot of in the past few weeks but now it was at an all time high. It was like he didn’t know where to put his hands.

He tugged at his collar, checked his watch, ran his fingers through his slicked back blonde locks over and over. 

He seemed to perk up like a dog as he saw you approach, his jaw slack and his hands now suddenly folded in front of him. “Y/N.. you look—you look…you are—”

“Hi..” You interrupt as you come to a stop in front of him, “Were you out here long?”

“No! He said, quickly offering you a hand. “Been here for two minutes at the most..” 

He opened the door for you, his hand on the small of your back. “You’ll like it here..”

Once seated, Simon stared at the menu blankly, sneaking glances at you every few seconds.

“You good?” you asked, raising your eyes from your own menu. 

“Yeah.” He nodded, setting the menu down. “Just… tryin’ to figure out how to talk to you. I really like you. We all do.”

“We..?” You repeat, non committedly as you run your finger over the menu.

“Yknow.. Johnny, Gaz–suppose you call him Kyle, and uhh Price–John..” He stutters out. “We all really like you.”

You didn’t look up right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch just long enough for Simon to start shifting in his seat. His fingers tapped nervously against the edge of the table, like he was bracing for you to stand and walk out. He always seems prepared for the worst around you.

Finally, you looked up from menu. “You all talk about this together?”

He nodded slowly. “Not at first, per our.. ambush. But… yeah. Eventually. It wasn’t exactly avoidable.”

You let out a quiet breath, straightening in your chair. “So what is this, then? A group interview?”

He snorted, caught off guard, and the tension in his shoulders eased. “More like… an application process.”

“And you’re the first brave soul to show up?”

“Might not be the brave one. Might just be the most desperate.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That supposed to impress me?”

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “But I was hoping this would.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small, setting it gently in front of you on the table.

A little wildflower. This one wasn’t wilted. Still clumsy, still a little dirt clinging to the roots, but fresher. Something he clearly went out and searched for.

You stared at it for a moment before your lips stretched out into a grin so wide your cheeks started to hurt. “Oh.. you are ridiculous.”

He smiled. “Yeah. But you haven’t told me no.”

You reached out, taking the flower. “…What night are the others taking me out?”

Simon grinned. “I’ll let ‘em know you asked.”

[fisherld3]

Hard to Love You — After Hours

Prompt: Continuation of Request.

Word Count: 2,350 words

Genre List:

• Romance

• NSFW / Smut

• Emotional Intimacy

• First Time

• Flirty Banter

• Soft Dom Melissa

⸻

It surprised you how easy it felt after the first date.

Dinner turned into drinks. Drinks turned into lingering conversation on her couch. And that, somehow, had turned into the two of you sitting closer, touching more—until the tension that had been buzzing between you for months was finally too thick to ignore.

Now here you were—back at her apartment again, only this time… things had shifted.

Melissa’s fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt as you kissed her—slow, deep, insistent. You could feel the way her body leaned into yours, her usual composed control giving way to something softer, hungrier.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against her lips, “Still think I’m an idiot?”

Melissa huffed, her voice low and amused. “Oh, absolutely.”

You opened your mouth for a comeback, but she kissed you again—harder this time—and suddenly words didn’t seem important anymore.

⸻

You weren’t sure how you ended up straddling her lap on the couch, hands tangled in her hair, but you weren’t complaining.

Melissa’s hands traced up your thighs, squeezing softly before sliding under your shirt, callused palms warm against your skin. You gasped when her thumbs brushed under your bra, arching into her touch.

“You drive me crazy, y’know that?” she murmured against your neck.

“Pretty sure that’s mutual,” you managed, tugging at her shirt in return.

She grinned. “Then maybe we should do somethin’ about it.”

Her mouth trailed down your throat, slow and deliberate, while her fingers expertly unclipped your bra. You let it fall aside, breath hitching when her lips closed over one nipple, tongue flicking teasingly.

“Fuck, Mel—” You tangled your fingers in her hair, pulling her closer. The sensation sent sparks shooting through you, thighs tightening around her hips.

Melissa chuckled low in her throat. “Such a mouth on you.” She bit softly, then soothed the spot with her tongue. “I like that.”

By the time she eased you back onto the couch cushions, you were trembling with want. Her hands slid down your sides, hooking into your waistband.

“Can I?” she asked, voice rough with restraint.

“Yes,” you breathed, lifting your hips so she could peel everything away—leaving you bare beneath her.

Melissa just looked at you for a moment, eyes dark with hunger. “Christ. You’re gorgeous.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but before you could get shy about it, her mouth was on you again—kissing, tasting, dragging slow, sinful licks down your stomach until you were gasping.

When she finally slid between your thighs, you barely had time to register the wicked glint in her eyes before her mouth was on you—hot, wet, devastatingly good.

You cried out, hips bucking, but her hands gripped your thighs firmly, keeping you in place.

“That’s it,” she murmured against you. “Just let me take care of you.”

And fuck—she did. Every slow lick, every gentle suck built you higher, until your whole body was straining toward her. Melissa moved with maddening skill, reading every little gasp and shiver, her pace perfectly in tune with your need.

When her fingers joined her mouth—sliding deep, curling just right—you shattered, crying her name as you came apart beneath her.

⸻

Later, wrapped in her arms beneath the covers, you finally found your voice again.

“So,” you teased breathlessly, “still think I’m hard to love?”

Melissa pressed a kiss to your shoulder, smiling softly. “Not hard. Just… hardheaded.”

You laughed, turning to kiss her properly this time—slow, tender, everything unspoken between you.

And from the way she held you afterward, arms wrapped tight around your waist, you knew without a doubt: whatever this was between you, it was only just beginning.

[hiddenhornsclub]

nsfw/mdni At-Home-Barista bf!Taehyun

580 words

nudity, making out, brief sex scene

“Terry… I’m home!” You say excitedly as you walk in through the door of your shared apartment. Your arms stumble trying to hold a big box of a new espresso machine. There was no need for kitchenware, you did not know how to make anything with it, but you needed it.

Your boyfriend, Taehyun, watches you with admiration as you struggle to put the machine together. You took no time for breaks or inspections because you were too excited.

Finally, the silver Energy-Producer-Heart-Stopper 3000 was finished. Stepping back to look at it in awe, a quick hug from your supportive boyfriend and you’re off to make your first shot of espresso.

The heat scorched your throat but fueled the soul. A bitter yet slightly sweet flavor awakes you. Your brain goes into overdrive, ready to make specialty drinks.

Hours later, covered in burn cream and multiple half-drunk cups surrounding you, you sat at the kitchen’s bar defended. The flat white made you want to throw up. The first latte wasn’t bad in Taehyun’s opinion but you thought otherwise. The second time making it, you burned your forearm. The buzz of the caffeine was wearing off until your boyfriend came into the kitchen.

He wore an apron with rustic-looking print saying, “Kiss the barista” over his naked torso. It wasn’t unusual to see your boyfriend shirtless, you encourage it. However, what was unusual was when Taehyun turned around to get milk, his ass was on full display.

Your jaw drops to the floor watching the naked man float around the kitchen using the espresso machine. Awestruck hits when Taehyun expertly twits the locks, lowers the steam wand, and swirls the velvety milk onto the espresso.

He was hot, so goddamn good-looking it was maddening. Glasses on his nose fogged up. You watch every tendon in his hands move, fingers rough and gentle, veins branching on his bare arms. The v-line of his hips was more evident as he shifted his weight as he perfected the design of the cappuccino.

“Here you go, love,” Taehyun says placing the cup in front of you. The design of a creamy heart warmed up your own heart. Then he walks around the counter, wrapping his arms around you.

“T-thanks.” No matter how many times you’ve seen your boyfriend naked, you couldn’t stop yourself from blushing.

Taking a sip, you moan at the sweet airy goodness, Taehyun somehow managed to make. “How can I pay you, my handsome barista?”

Taehyun’s warm brown eyes flicker down to your lips. A slight smirk grazes his plush lips. “A kiss will complete the transaction.”

“I can do more than just a kiss.” You place the cappuccino down to quickly be forgotten.

Closing the space between you two, you hungrily kiss. Your hands find their way to the man’s back, untying the apron. Then lower your touch grabbing his ass, fingers digging into the firm muscle. Taehyun whimpers into your lips, not expecting your boldness. must’ve been the high consumption of caffeine The kiss deepened with soft gasps from the man, as he tasted an unmistakable trace of coffee on your tongue.

It wasn’t long after, that Taehyun picked you up taking you to the bedroom. There he lets you use all your energy, fucking yourself onto him. His glasses are still on to watch your strip show. Climbing on top and sinking onto his hard cock. Your tits bounced, and hands splayed on his abs under the barista apron.

The morning-after brew will be especially delicious. ☕

tagging @livthelobster as part of the inspiration for this thought.

[milk-is-stable]

A Beautiful Thing

Summary: Based on this post by @unbelenting; Three times that someone calls Annabelle a beautiful thing.

Word Count: 1,577

Read on AO3: HERE

AN: As soon as I saw those three quotes next to each other, I was possessed by the idea for this story until I managed to excise it from my brain, I hope you all enjoy <3

— — —

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life." 

Annabelle froze, staring down at the man on the floor in disbelief. Usually when she threatened men, they looked at her with fear, or avoided looking at her at all, which suited her just fine. There was something about the rush of holding up an entire room full of people that made her feel invincible, and the way it made men cower away from her was such a refreshing change from the moon-eyed, overly polite treatment she was used to from the boys in town. 

Sweet Miss Annabelle Parker, isn't it such a shame about her mama, but golly if she isn't the prettiest thing you ever saw! 

Annabelle was perfectly happy to leave that behind for a few hours every time she and Butch rode out together. It was the one time that men didn't care that she was small and "delicate," didn't care that she was beautiful, didn't care that she was a She at all. When she wore a mask over her face and held a pistol in her hands, men who looked at her didn't see a woman to fawn over, they saw a nefarious robber to be feared and respected.

But this man, he was different. He saw the mask and saw the gun, and yet he stared at her as though he was dying of thirst and she was an oasis in the desert. Something about his gaze made her skin crawl, and she felt what was surely an irrational urge to shoot him in the face, if it would just stop him looking at her like that. 

"Hey partner, we need to get outta here!" Butch called, her voice shaking Annabelle free from her stupor. 

"You're the girl with the gun," the man on the floor said. 

He shifted, as though to get to his feet, and Annabelle moved on instinct. She sent a kick flying towards him, and he let out a howl of pain as the heel of her boot connected with his groin. She turned and ran, stumbling a bit as somehow the man grabbed hold of her shoe, but she shook it off and kept moving, grabbing Butch's hand as the two of them fled the scene and mounted their horses. 

"What were you doing, flirting with– I mean, talking with the hostages?" Butch asked, and Annabelle shook her head. 

"I don't know! That man, he said he'd seen me before, and called me the girl with the gun."

"There they are! Stop them!" a voice shouted, and Butch dug her spurs into her horse's sides. 

"GO, GO, GO, GO, GO!" she shouted as they took off in a gallop.

"It was so weird, what he was sayin'!" Annabelle called over the wind. "It just made me freeze, alright? I'm sorry!"

"It's fine, that don't matter now!" Butch said. "Just keep goin', and don't slow down for no one!" 

They rode as hard as they could, but when Annabelle glanced behind them she saw a pair of horses off in the distance, slowly gaining on them. 

"Shit, they're still following!" she exclaimed, doing her best to spur her horse forward with only one boot on. "They'll catch us at this rate!" 

"Split up!" Butch suggested. "You head east and take the long road home to your daddy's, I'll keep heading south and try to lose them in the hills!" 

"Alright..." Annabelle agreed. "Butch, I-"

"No time to talk now, GO!" Butch shouted, and Annabelle reluctantly steered her horse away.

As she rode, she tried to focus on the feeling of the wind in her face, the rhythm of her horse's gallop beneath her, the warmth of the late afternoon sun on her neck, anything to forget the look on the man from the bank's face.

It doesn't matter, she told herself. I won't ever go back to that city, and I won't ever see him again. It's fine.

But no matter what she told herself and no matter how fast she rode, the feeling of his gaze clung to her like sweat in the August heat, and she couldn't help but shudder.

— — — 

"You are the most beautiful thing that I've ever seen in this world." 

Annabelle rolled her eyes and looked down, picking at her fingernails. 

"Oh, every daddy has to say that to his daughter, it's like the fucking law or somethin'," she said.

"That may be true," her daddy said, and he reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "That may be true. But it doesn't mean I don't mean it, sweetheart."

Annabelle looked up to see him smiling at her, his eyes soft and fond. She was struck suddenly with a memory, from nearly ten years ago now. She had tried to play with a group of boys in the schoolyard, but they'd refused to let her join unless she agreed to be a princess in a tower for them to rescue. She'd run home crying, and her daddy had swept her up in his arms and planted a kiss on her forehead, and told her that she could be anything she wanted to be and that any boy who didn't let her wasn't worth the mud on the bottom of her boots. 

Her daddy reached out and cupped her face, pulling her back to the present. 

"If Butch doesn't look at you and see how wonderful you are, if she hears your words and doesn't feel the same way? The rejection is hard...but at the end of the day, that does not have to define you. You are still my daughter, and I will always love you no matter what, but even that doesn't make you who you are. You decide that, always." 

Annabelle swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. 

"But I...I love her so much, Daddy. If she doesn't accept my feelings, then what am I supposed to do?" 

Her daddy sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. 

"I know, sweetheart, I know. When your mother left, I did not take it well at first. But eventually I realized that things change, you know? And change is okay. It's just another opportunity to find out more of who you are. But you'll never know that if you never open up to her." 

"You're right, Daddy," Annabelle said. She took a deep breath, and gave him a shaky smile. "I need to tell Butch how I feel." 

"Yes you do," her daddy said, and he raised an eyebrow. "And then you need to stop robbing banks, young lady!"

"Alright, alright!" Annabelle said, holding up her hands. "I'll go and tell her right now." 

"Good," her daddy said, and he smiled. "And remember, no matter what she says, I'll always be here for you."

"Thanks, Daddy," said Annabelle, and she couldn't help but smile back. 

— — — 

"You are the most beautiful thing in the entire world." 

Annabelle's breath caught in her throat, and a blush rose to her cheeks. 

"Butch, I-"

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to say that," Butch continued, her voice quivering slightly. "I don't know how I kept it inside for so long." 

"Me either," Annabelle whispered. "I tried to tell you how I felt so many times, but every time I just ended up saying let's rob a bank instead." 

Butch laughed, and reached down to tuck a curl behind Annabelle's ear. 

"I mean it, you know," she said, her voice softer. She stared into Annabelle's eyes, something akin to awe on her face. "You're so beautiful."

It was not the first time Annabelle had been told that she was lovely to look at. People had been saying some variation of "you're so pretty!" since she was thirteen years old, and she had learned to accept the words with a demure smile and a nod, carefully sidestepping any and all men who attempted to use the compliments as the start of something more. If she was honest with herself, she'd slowly come to dread any time someone drew attention to her appearance, even before today's horrible encounter with the deputy who'd tried to make her his...prize.  

But hearing those words come out of Butch's mouth was different. For the first time, Annabelle found herself wanting to hear them again. 

"Really?" she asked, smiling coyly. "What's so beautiful about me?"

"Everything," Butch said immediately. "Your eyes are bluer than the sky, your hair looks like it was spun from gold, your voice is like a choir of angels, when you smile it lights up the whole damn world, and every time I look at you I think I must have died and gone to heaven because I can't believe that I'm lucky enough to be alive in a world where I get to look at you whenever I want." 

Annabelle stared at Butch, her mouth open in shock, and Butch smirked at her. 

“Do ya want me to go on, darlin’?” she asked. “Like I said, I’ve wanted to say it for a long time. You are the most beautiful, most perfect woman in the world.” 

“Now hang on, that can’t be true,” Annabelle said, and Butch frowned. 

“Why not?” 

Annabelle smiled, and reached up, fiddling with the tie around Butch’s neck. 

“Because you’re the most perfect woman in the world,” she said. 

Butch’s face went bright red, and Annabelle couldn’t help but pull her down into a long, lingering kiss.