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aerofbreath · 5 months ago

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Actually writing something based off of this post. Y'all really seemed to like it and I got scared LOLOL

(How it will probably go (written poorly written cause it's almost 7AM and I haven't slept yet) . Also I have no idea what I'm doing. This will be rewritten better in a fic maybe.)

Jason sighed as he made his way into Gotham University's gym. It was the middle of the day and Jason was there at a Startup Event posing as a guy who was interested in what people had to offer. He had only had maybe a total of four hours of sleep since he had patrol the night before. Granted, this wouldn't have affected him as much if he was more mentally prepared to be awake. The only reason why he's out here was because Bruce had woken him up an hour ago to tell him a little last minute about what he needed to do today. Originally, the plan was to do absolutely nothing. But now he has to investigate a guy that Bruce had his eye on as of lately.

The person he's looking for is a man named Danny Nightingale. Apparently he's been in Gotham for a couple years and only recently started making a mess of things. How it went under Bruce's nose is beyond him considering how freaked out Bruce was once he did find out.

Apparently, the guy has been making life changing machines. Little mechanical bees have been flying around Gotham really just sucking up all the pollution in the air and just depositing it somewhere. According to the media, they go back to some headquarters and into a bee hive looking structure to deposit all the pollution and sludge. From the photos shown, it's actually pretty impressive. Some guy actually making a change around here.

For Bruce- no. For Batman, this is just highly suspicious. Why would some guy make these positive life changing machines? For the better? No. No genius with the power to change the world would do it for the better. There's got to be some ulterior motive behind it.

At least, that's what Batman thinks.

Jason thinks it's all interesting. Maybe there is an ulterior motive but even then, at a scale so large that it's literally affecting the city in a positive way? You've got to be literally more insane than the Joker if you wanted to plaster your face everywhere at an event like this. Everyone else at this event seemed to show promise but compared to Danny Nightingale's company? They're literally all small fry.

Surprisingly enough, however, no one else seems to be at Danny's booth. Not even Danny. Jason frowned as he approached the booth and just looked at the machines on them. The Bees are kind of just flying in place and the moment that Jason even looked at them, the Bees immediately got to work. They flew around him like a puppy with wings, nuzzling against him and bumping into him so dumbly. And honestly?

It was actually kind of cute. You would think that being on such little hours of sleep and being grumpy the whole morning would really affect the pits inside him but no. He's surprisingly calm.

"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! They don't usually act like this," a voice stuttered out. A man hastily walked towards Jason as he gently plucked the Bees out of the air and brought it close to him.

"Uh, don't worry about it. I thought it was kind of..." Jason trailed out before locking eyes with the man who spoke.

This was Danny Nightingale. He was much shorter than Jason, only standing tall at 5' 5". His hair was fully black with only a white money piece right on his bangs. And his eyes? An alluring blue with only a hint of green at the center of his eyes. Honestly, the sight of Danny just about took Jason's breath away.

There was a subtle glow to him, almost making Jason think of there being some sort of meta activity going on but looking around the people in the area, no one but him seems to notice. Danny was concerned about Jason, that much is obvious. The way his eyes burrowed in concern then into confusion. It's strange why just looking at him made Jason's heart skip a beat, even though in hindsight, Danny looks much worse off than Jason.

That man looks like he hasn't slept in 3 weeks. But even then he was...

"Cute..." Jason finally finished his sentence a little too late.

Danny blinked in confusion, tilting his head to the side. His bangs fall freely over his eyes. Just the sight of that almost made Jason blush. "My bees were cute?" Danny spoke, the tone of his voice (very tired) sounded like a sweet harmony in Jason's ears. "Oh! You're interested in Nightech? No one else seems to be interested in my stuff yet. I can tell you all about this company and how it works? I put in a lot of work and love into these little guys and I'm sure you would love them too!"

Blah blah blah. Proper name. Place name. Backstory stuff.

Nothing of what Danny is saying is registering in Jason's brain right now. Maybe some. ("I... Love... You...")

"I love you too!!" Jason blurted out.

Danny blinked before widening his eyes. "Wh-What...?" There was that look of concern again but now there's another look. Recognition...

Whatever. None of that right now. This is embarrassing!

"I-I said I love your company. Uh. Do you have a business card? I can let Bruce Wayne know about this."

Wordlessly, Danny gave an information card to Jason before that poor brick of a man just ran out of there, not once even looking back. Honestly, from the way it's playing out in Jason's head right now, he feels like a princess running away from her prince at the stroke of midnight. The earpiece crackled before a voice started to speak.

"Jason? What the hell was that?" Bruce's voice questioned.

It was only when Jason left the gymnasium that he answered, "Me digging my own grave for the second time, old man. Let me go die in peace."

"No, no," Dick's voice chimed in, "Only after we replay that very short conversation about 50,000 times. Thank you very much."

Jason only groaned in response.

Danny, back in the gymnasium, only stared at the door that Jason left from in horror. The only way for people to react that way to him like that is for them to be dead or liminal. Now he has to figure out a way to tell Bruce Wayne that this person that he seems to know is a little bit dead!

This actually is a part of whatever the fuck I'm writing. I'm still thinking of a fic name. But all of the random posts go together in some way.

#dp x dc prompt #dp x dc idea #danny phantom #dcu #batman #batfam #dead on main #dead on main ship #im honestly just trying my best #this is part of a fic im writing #in hindsight this ship might be problematic #gotta figure out a way for it not to be problematic #but its still a work in progress #it will be rewritten better #aeri posts #aeri writes

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keraawrites · 9 days ago

Text

Private lesson

Summary: It was a snobby high-class country club, and the only reason you ever stepped foot on its grounds was because of the stupidly hot upcoming young pro golfer. ۶ৎ Armin x black fem reader ۶ৎ

Context: Outdoor sex, unprotected sex, face down ass up, tongue peircing, oral (male and female), dirty talk, name calling (ma, slut, whore), hair pulling, dom Armin, picture taking

Word count — 5.2k

The thing about going to a top-tier high school was that everyone acted like they were two business calls away from running the country. Every hallway conversation was a flex-off—who landed the better internship, who had the higher GPA, who was casually being groomed to take over their family’s tech empire. Everyone was somebody, or pretending hard enough to fake it.

You didn’t have to pretend.

You weren’t just rich. You were connected. Your parents made sure of that. Old money, black excellence, and carefully cultivated prestige followed your name like a designer label.

But unlike the rest of the pill-popping trust fund babies who sniffed coke in bathroom stalls and pretended to give a damn in Model UN, you actually had the résumé to back it up.

President of three student orgs. Captain of the swim team. Debate medals. Volunteer hours. Invited to think tanks at sixteen.

And God, you were so bored.

Everything felt easy now. Predictable. College had sharpened you more than high school ever did, but even here, surrounded by social climbers and legacy students, you’d already hit the ceiling. You were graduating in a month. Off to Rome in June for a summer internship that your professors called “life-changing” and your father’s friends called “brilliant positioning.”

And still—bored.

So fucking bored you could scream.

Your eyes drifted behind your sunglasses, scanning the manicured lawns of the country club like you were searching for something interesting. Nothing but rich people playing dress-up in white and pastels, swinging overpriced clubs, and gossiping behind mimosa glasses.

“If you keep spacing out like that,” a dry voice said beside you, “I may start to think you don’t like me.”

You blinked once, slowly, turning your head toward the man sitting across from you on the club’s patio. “Uncle Levi,” you said, tone flat, “you know I like spending time with you. But I hate this country club.”

Levi Ackerman smirked behind his espresso. You weren’t blood, but he claimed you like you were. Old friend of your father’s from before the money came in—quiet, blunt, always dressed like he was mourning something. He was also the only person who never sugarcoated things with you. Which made him tolerable.

“Yeah, well,” he said, nodding toward the sprawling green in the distance, “at least the view’s decent.”

And he was right.

You took a slow sip of your iced coffee, letting the condensation roll lazily down the cup as your eyes drifted across the range. They landed—again, like muscle memory—on him.

The tall, lean figure in a black polo. Standing near the far practice green, focused and alone. His hands adjusted on the grip of his club with the kind of precision that felt… sensual. Like he thought with his fingertips. Like he trusted his body to remember what his brain wouldn’t say out loud.

Sunlight caught the sweep of his blond hair, brushing it back from his forehead as he shifted his stance. His shirt clung to the sharp lines of his back, and when he swung—fluid, effortless, perfect—you felt your stomach twist.

That was the thing about Armin Arlert.

You’d learned his name a few weeks ago—just in passing, during one of your father’s rare attempts at small talk over dinner.

“He’s the future of the sport,” he’d said. “Quiet kid. Smart. Good form. I invested in his early sponsorship.”

Your ears perked up. You didn’t usually care about what your father invested in. Startups. Political campaigns. A few underground fashion brands trying to break into Tokyo. But this? A person?

“Golf?” you’d repeated flatly, twirling your fork.

Your father nodded. “Young pro, he goes to your college—same year. Sponsored by one of the top athletic firms. He’s got the numbers. All he needs is a clean image and a few more wins. We’re grooming him to be the next golden boy.”

And then he pulled up a clip.

It was less than 90 seconds long—just Armin on a course, mid-tournament. His jaw tight. Eyes focused. Wind in his hair. He moved like the world around him didn’t exist. Like the only thing that mattered was the ball, the swing, the arc.

You'd never been so interested in one of your dad’s boring business tangents.

From that point on, Armin was everywhere. Or maybe it just felt like that. In the student newspaper. On club flyers. In the background of your econ class once or twice. Always quiet. Always composed. But so completely and utterly untouchable.

And that made him irresistible.

Because you didn’t do distant. You didn’t chase. But there was something about him—maybe the way he ignored all the noise, how his entire being was chiseled down into one, singular obsession. Golf.

You could relate.

You’d been obsessed with winning your whole life. And now, bored with everything else, your mind had settled on a new fixation.

Armin Arlert.

Not just because he was beautiful.

Not just because he was brilliant.

But because he didn’t seem to notice you at all.

And you hated that.

“Alright, we’re cutting it close. Yearbooks need to be wrapped by the end of the week. Who’s still left for portraits and legacy blurbs?”

A voice to your left piped up, half-buried in a checklist. “Most of the secret society kids want to do a joint statement. They're scheduling individual shots for later this week.”

You sighed. Of course they were.

“But,” she continued, hesitant, “um—Armin Arlert hasn’t signed up for his photo. And the deadline for that… is today.”

Your pen paused mid-air.

Armin.

The name barely had time to hang in the air before your brain locked onto it like a heat-seeking missile. You blinked once, lashes low, and tilted your head just slightly, trying not to look as interested as you suddenly felt.

“Arlert?” you repeated.

The girl nodded, flipping through the clipboard again. “Yeah. I think he’s been swamped with training or whatever. But if he doesn’t get it in by today, it won’t make print.”

You hummed under your breath, tapping the end of your pen against the table. The meeting buzzed on, voices layered in logistics and complaints—but you’d already tuned out.

You dismissed the meeting soon after, your mind already on the blonde as you unconsciously hunted for him.

You hadn’t even realised you were scanning the quad until you stepped out into the sun, hand shielding your eyes, searching.

It wasn’t stalking, not really. You just happened to remember overhearing—somewhere between class rep gossip and cafeteria noise, that Armin was training on campus today. Something about the varsity golf team getting access to the athletic green while the country club prepped for a corporate retreat.

You saw him perched under a tree, clad in jeans and a polo shirt, jumper tied around his shoulders as he chatted away with Eren Yeager.

"Ahhh, if it isn’t Miss Student Body President herself,” Eren drawled, smirking as he leaned back on his elbows. “To what do we owe the honour? Did the sun come out just for you, or are we just lucky today?”

You ignored the brunette, eyes focused on the blonde who looked up at you as you enetred his view.

“Armin,” you started, voice smooth but edged with command. “You need to take your yearbook photo. Today.”

He blinked. “What?”

You took another step closer, ignoring Eren’s smug little smirk from the side. “You know, the photo you’ve conveniently been avoiding. Legacy, remember? Don’t try to tell me you don’t have time, because clearly you have time to sit around entertaining miscreants.”

“Rude,” Eren mumbled with a laugh, not even offended.

Armin sat up straighter, clearly caught off guard. “I didn’t realise the deadline was today.”

“Well, now you do,” you replied, arms crossing lightly under your chest. “And since I personally came all the way out here to remind you, the least you can do is follow me back and make it quick.”

There was a long pause, you watched Armin shift slightly, something thoughtful in his expression. He wasn’t flustered—he didn’t seem like someone who ever got flustered—but there was a flicker of curiosity behind his calm demeanour. Like he was trying to figure you out.

"I can't today. I have practice."

You stared.

Eren let out a snort. “Damn, I think he just rejected the queen herself. History in the making.”

You ignored him again.

“Practice,” you repeated, one brow arching. “You’re on a bench under a tree, Arlert.”

His lips twitched, just slightly. “I was about to start.”

“Mhm.”

"And, I don't really care about leaving a legacy behind, and if you really need a picture, can't you just get a quick candid when I'm practising?"

Your brow twitched at the second basic 'no'. You didn't do good with the word no.

"Maybe if you get up and come take your picture I'll get daddy to talk to your sponsor about getting you those new clubs that their working on."

You tried really hard to hide your smirk as Armin's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Damn, bribery? Who’s the miscreant now?”

"Shut up, Eren,” Armin muttered, gaze still on you. “Can you actually get that to happen?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Do you think I make empty promises?”

He didn’t answer, but the look he gave you said enough.

You knew the answer was yes.

After a beat, Armin stood up, brushing off his jeans and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Fine. I’ll take the picture.”

Your grin widened.

“Great. Studios in the comms building, third floor. I’ll walk you.”

You glanced at Armin from the corner of your eye as the two of you fell into step together. He didn’t speak at first, just adjusted the strap on his bag and kept pace.

"Eren's right. Didn't peg you down for bribery. Me not taking my picture doesn't actually harm you in some way."

You scoffed slightly, heels clicking against the stone steps, smiling softly as students greeted you in pacing.

"I am the head of the committee, so it bothers me when things don't go my way Arlet." Armin felt the corner of his lips pull into a smile, you were just as he thought.

"You know that's kind of like me and golf, its precise so I have to do things exact or it'll just fuck up."

You blinked, caught off guard by the swear that left his lips, you bit your lip softly, feeling the heat go straight to your core.

You finally reached the studio, knocking softly before telling the photographer that someone was here for their picture.

You turned towards the blonde, who was already staring at you.

"What?"

"You really gonna get me them clubs?"

You hummed softly, stepping away from the door as you closed in on him.

"How about I bring them by the club in a couple days and you show me how to use them?"

Arnin chuckled softly, he knew what game you were playing but it wouldn't hurt to play along.

“You want a golf lesson?”

You nodded once. “I’m at the top of the school. I’ve done everything. Won everything. And now I’m bored out of my mind. Graduation can’t come soon enough. So yeah, Armin… I want a golf lesson. And I want you to teach me.”

He held your gaze, a spark flickering behind those thoughtful blue eyes. Then, he stepped toward the studio setup, dropping his bag and rolling his shoulders.

“I’ll send you my schedule.”

Your smile widened. “Looking forward to it, golden boy.”

The breeze teased the hem of your tennis skirt as you made your way across the sprawling green of the country club, sunlight pooling over the trimmed lawn like honey.

It had been a few days since you told Armin you’d bring the clubs.

You remembered talking to your father that night, curled up on the velvet couch in his home office, swirling a mocktail while he poured himself something older than you.

“Get those new golf clubs for Arlert,” you’d said casually, eyes flicking toward your phone screen, where a paused video of Armin’s last tournament.

Your dad had barely looked up from his glass. “Already ahead of you,” he said, voice brimming with the kind of investor excitement that usually puts you to sleep. “Kid’s a prodigy. Ball speed’s insane for his weight class. Balance like a dancer. He's gonna win me a lot of money.”

You bit your lip as your eyes settled on the blonde.

He was stretching, his polo shirt had ridden up your gaze locked in on the happy trail that vanished beneath his belt.

You inhaled, reset your composure, and started walking toward him.

"Hope you're ready for a gift," you called out, causing the blonde to halt his movements.

Armin glanced over his shoulder mid-stretch, brows lifting slightly as he straightened. "Didn’t think you’d actually show."

“You wound me,” you drawled as you stepped closer, arms crossing beneath your chest. His eyes dropped—not subtly. They scanned your whole frame before resting mid thigh, where your pleated tennis skirt teased the bare skin of your thighs.

He didn’t bother hiding the stare.

You didn’t bother hiding the smile.

Then the low hum of an engine broke your moment, a golf cart pulling up beside you. The staffer hopped off and carefully set the bag of clubs at your feet. You murmured a thank-you, dismissing him with a polite nod before nudging the bag toward Armin.

His gaze flicked from the clubs back to your face, and then back again. You saw it—the instant the excitement lit his features like a damn sunrise.

He dropped to a crouch, unzipping the bag with reverence, like it held holy relics. His fingers ghosted over the matte graphite shafts, his mouth parting just slightly.

“Fuck,” he muttered, lifting one of the irons. “These are actually the real deal.”

You giggled as he turned the club over in his hands, admiring every inch of it like it was art.

“TaylorMade’s unreleased line,” you said, letting the pride bleed into your tone. “Balanced for your tempo. Personalized grip. Straight from the R&D lab to your hands. Told you—I don’t make empty promises.”

Armin stood and took a practice swing, slow and smooth. His stance was perfect—shoulders loose, core tight, legs braced with just enough tension. His follow-through was fluid, almost hypnotic.

God, he looked good like that.

He exhaled a low breath and shook his head. “Fuck, fuck—these are fucking legendary.” He brought the club back up, eyes wide with awe. “I’ve never felt anything this smooth. They feel like they were built for me.”

You leaned a little closer, chin tilted up. “They were.”

He looked at you—really looked. Something unreadable flashed behind his expression, something that simmered just beneath the surface of admiration and gratitude.

“You’re kind of insane,” he said, tone light but edged with disbelief. “In the best way.”

You laughed. “I get that a lot.”

He grabbed a ball from his own bag, tossing it lightly into the air before catching it. “Alright, if you’re really serious about this golf lesson, you’re getting the full treatment.”

“Oh?” you asked, arching a brow.

“Grip, stance, swing, posture. No shortcuts. No half-assing.”

You smirked. “I’m not usually the one doing the assing, but okay.”

That made him laugh—really laugh. He rubbed a hand over his face, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was putting up with you.

"Okay, some people are visual learners so why don't you watch me with my stance and hit a couple balls and then you'll give it a go."

You nodded, sinking down onto the green, your skirt fanned around your thighs, as you stretched your legs out in front of you. You pushed your sunglasses up into your hair, eyes tracking every move he made.

Armin lined up, posture precise. He rolled his shoulders once, adjusted his grip on the club, then exhaled slowly through his nose. You watched the transformation happen in real time—the soft-spoken golden boy gone laser-focused and lethal.

His swing was a thing of beauty—clean, practiced, elegant. The club sliced through the air with a whisper and connected with the ball with a satisfying crack, sending it sailing in a perfect arc across the range.

You let out a low whistle. “Okay, that was actually kinda sexy.”

He looked over his shoulder at you, shaking his head, but you caught the faint pink blooming in his ears.

“Again,” you said, grinning. “Slow this time.”

Armin rolled his eyes but did as asked, resetting. “You better be paying attention.”

“Oh, I am,” you murmured, voice dropping a note lower.

He hit another. And another. Each swing was different, slightly adjusted for distance and control, but all of them were sharp, intentional, perfect.

After the fourth, he stepped back and turned to you. “Your turn.”

You stood, brushing grass off the back of your thighs with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. But if I break a nail, I’m suing.”

He chuckled, handing you one of the new clubs. “Not a chance. These were built for royalty, remember?”

You took the club, turning it over in your hands like you weren’t just admiring the curve of his back ten seconds ago. You stepped up to the ball, adjusting your grip and spacing your feet like you vaguely remembered him doing.

He walked up behind you, close—but not touching. “You’re too stiff. Relax.”

You arched your back slightly. “Is this better?”

“Nope. Worse,” he said, clearly trying not to smile. “Here—let me help.”

His hands slid onto your hips, gently nudging you into place. His fingers were warm, steady, and stayed a second longer than necessary.

“There,” he said quietly, voice close to your ear. “Now try.”

You swung.

And absolutely whiffed it.

“Shit—”

Armin laughed again, stepping back as you straightened. “We’re gonna be here a while, come on--lets go get the balls."

Armin put his sunglasses on as he helped you into the passenger side, his hand resting on your mid-back. He drove off once he settled in the drivers seat, his hand brushing against your thigh. You crossed your legs, skirt riding up a little, which caused the blonde's hands to pause before they settled on your knee.

The cart pulled to a stop, some balls littered in the distance, the area seemed more private.

Armin helped you out of the cart but before he could say anything, you already walked off and began picking up some of the balls.

You could feel his burning gaze on you as you bent over to pick up the golf balls. You could feel the slight breeze on your ass, you smirked as you heard his murmered curses.

"Okay I'm ready."

You turned to face the blonde who was still standing by the the cart his gaze soley on you.

"Armin."

The boy blinked, gaze adjusting, "Huh, yeah okay, erm okay yeah."

You giggled as Armin grabbed the clubs, he walked over to you, handing over the club before you took your stance.

His breath hit the back of your neck, warm and shallow. You held still as his hand skimmed your wrist, then ghosted along your forearm to adjust your grip. His other hand dropped lightly to your waist.

“Relax your shoulders,” he said, voice softer now. Lower. “And keep your weight even between both feet. You’re leaning into your right side too much.”

You pushed yourself back into his chest, your ass grazing the outline of his dick. You could feel the intake of his breath before his gripped tigheted agaisnt your waist.

"Okay," His breath fanned against your ear, "now take a big swing."

You hummed softly, feeling his grip on your waist tightened, his hand over yours as he gudied you to take your swing.

Your head tilted to the side as his nose brushed the edge of your ear, his hands left your arms before they tightened on your waist.

"Do you want me to fuck you on this field?"

A quiet moan slipped from your lips before you could catch it. The shift between his personality was intense.

His teeth grazed your earlobe, tugging just hard enough to send a jolt down your spine. His hands drifted lower, cupping your ass possessively over the thin fabric of your skirt.

"You think you can?"

The blonde chuckled before his lips met yours. You moaned at the feel and taste of his lips, your hands pressed firmly against his chest, his fingers trailed against your bare thigh before cupping your ass under your skirt.

You gasped as his tongue slipped past your lips, slick and demanding, a cool tap of metal catching against yours. Your fingers curled into his chest, pressing close as realisation settled in.

“Wait—” your voice hitched, “you have your tongue pierced?”

“Mmhmm,” he smirked against your jaw, his lips moving down the column of your throat, hot and unrelenting. “Didn’t think I’d use it on you this soon... but I’m not about to waste the opportunity.”

You moaned again, head tilting back as he scooped you up effortlessly, your thighs locking around his waist on instinct. He kissed you through your surprised laugh, walking both of you to the cart.

The cold leather of the golf cart seat kissed your ass as he sat you down, his lips trailed along the barness of your skin before he fully sunk down to his knees.

You barely had time to blink before his hands were parting your thighs, spreading them open wide beneath your skirt.

“You know,” he murmured, lifting the hem slowly, reverently, “I thought about this. Not like—exactly this, but something close.”

You moaned, head tilting back as you tried to hide your smile, "Yeah? Didn't think you were into me."

Armin kissed the inside of your thighs, fingers barley grazing the outline of your clit before your tugged your panties to your ankles.

"Hmm, whatever gave you that idea?"

"Maybe because—fuck Armin." You gasped, one hand flying to the back of his head when you felt his tongue swipe through your folds—piercing grazing your clit in a way that had your hips jerking up off the seat.

Armin groaned at the taste of you, his tongue welcomed your jucies as he burried his face futher into your cunt.

His hands kept your legs spread as his tongue fucked into you, switching between broad licks and tight flicks over your clit, like he was trying to figure out what made you squirm the most—and then doing exactly that on purpose.

“Taste so fucking good,” he groaned, voice muffled between your thighs. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind. You know that? You think I didn’t know how often you watched me on the field?”

You whimpered, already close, hips rocking against his mouth. He sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue swirling, then popped it with a lewd sound that made your breath hitch.

Your whole body shivered when Armin rolled his piercing over your swollen bud, your fingers tightened in his hair as his two of his fingers bullied their way into your cunt.

Your instantly clenched around them, the squelch loud and obscene as he started to fuck them into you hard and fast.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice dark and raw with lust. “Drippin’ like a damn faucet. This pussy’s so wet for me it’s embarrassing. But you like it, don’t you? Like being used out here where anyone could see.”

A scream ripped from your throat, the blonde pulling away to look at your face, his smile was feral as his fingers roughly curled against your G-spot.

“You gonna come on my tongue and fingers like a good girl?” he taunted, pressing messy, wet kisses along your inner thigh. “Wanna make a mess for me? Let everyone know who this pussy belongs to?”

You nodded, breathless, tears threatening to sting your eyes.

“Say it.”

“Y-yes! Armin—please, wanna come for you, wanna come so bad—fuck, don’t stop—!”

He growled and sealed his mouth over your cunt again, the silver ball rolling over your clit one last time as he licked you through the sharp rise of your orgasm until you were writhing, hips jerking, thighs threatening to close around his head. But he held you there, firm and inescapable, until your body trembled against the leather.

Armin finally pulled away from you, his chin wet with your slick, the blonde smiled before he leaned up to press a kiss to your lips, his tongue shoving into your mouth so you could taste yourself on him. When he pulled back, his soaked fingers slipped from between your thighs and lifted to your mouth.

“Open.”

You did as he said—eyes locked on his, you moaned around his fingers as he slid them past your lips. You sucked them in slow, tongue swirling, moaning at your own taste while his gaze darkened further.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the way your lips wrapped around his knuckles.

Armin swore he could have busted a nut right then and there.

You let Armin's fingers go with a soft pop, eyes bold and looking up at him all innocent. It drove him insanse.

The blonde quickly pulled you up, your breathing laboured as he lowered you to the ground, your knees meeting the grass as you became eye level with his crotch.

You watched Armin's fingers as they worked on the belt of his slacks, you bit your lip softly after he freed his cock from it's confinement.

Fuck, fuck there was no way that was gonna fit.

The blonde looked down at you, his lips pulling into a smirk as your eyes widened.

“You can take it,” he said low, gripping the base and dragging the tip slowly across your lips, smearing precum against them. “Open that pretty mouth for me.”

You obeyed instantly, lips parting as he eased himself past them. The first few inches filled your mouth with weight and heat, and he groaned deep—his head falling back for a second, throat tight.

“Fuuuck, there you go,” he rasped, one hand braced on your jaw while the other threaded deep in your braids. “Shit, baby, look at you—so fuckin’ eager now, huh?”

You moaned around him, the sound vibrating through your throat as your tongue curled along the underside of his cock. You could feel him twitch when your spit started to gather, dripping from the corners of your mouth.

He started to guide your movements, slow and steady as he fucked your mouth. Every time you gagged just a little, he moaned like you were a drug.

“Yeah… take it, fuck, just like that,” he growled. “Didn’t think the sweet little President had a dirty fucking mouth like this.”

You whimpered around him, fingers digging into the back of his thighs as he gently rocked his hips forward again.

When he finally pulled back, strings of spit still connected your lips to his cock. His hand gripped your chin, tilting your face up to meet his stare—eyes blown wide, mouth messy, pupils wild with lust.

“Get in the cart,” he said, voice sharp.

You didn’t even hesitate.

As you turned and climbed in, he followed close behind, hands already on your hips. You barely got one knee on the seat before he was crowding you from behind, pushing your skirt up, groaning at the sight of pussy.

“Fucking dripping, and I haven’t even put it in yet. Such a desperate little thing, huh?”

You whimpered, arching your back and wiggling your hips for him, already trembling with need.

Armin ran his tip through your folds causing you to whine, "Your so presistent you know."

He growled, pulling away slightly to stroke himself. “Fucking chasing me for one stupid yearbook photo but you're really just a needy fuckin’ slut, aren’t you? Just wanted me to fuck you.”

You gasped, embarrassment blooming right alongside your arousal. But god, it turned you on more than you'd admit. “Please… Armin, I need it,” you breathed.

“Oh, you need it now?” he sneered, grabbing a handful of your braids, yanking your head back.

You whined, eyes fluttering shut, your pussy clenching around nothing. You didn't even have time to beg him some more before he slammed into you in one deep, brutal thrust, punching the air out of your lungs.

You screamed, back arching, nails digging into the leather of the golf cart seat.

“Fuck yes,” he hissed, setting a punishing rhythm right out the gate. “This pussy’s so goddamn tight—gripping me like you were made for it.”

Your mind was a haze, you would have never had guess that the golden boy, the one who just wants to golf and graduate, had such a sinful cock and a filthy mouth.

He grunted as his hips smacked against your ass, the sound filthy and loud in the quiet of the green. His balls slapped against your clit with every thrust, making you moan uncontrollably.

“Bet you fingered yourself to me, huh?” he panted. “Touchin’ that nasty little cunt thinkin’ about me fucking you stupid. That’s why you got me those clubs, right? Wanted me to thank you just like this.”

You moaned louder, drool slipping past your lips.

He slapped your ass hard, then again, until it stung. “Look at this messy fucking cunt,” he growled, spreading your cheeks wider. “All sloppy and stretched around my dick. That’s what you wanted, huh? Wanted me to treat you like the dumb little whore you are?”

“Y-yes, god, Armin—don’t stop,” you cried, body rocking with every heavy thrust.

He reached around and rubbed your clit mercilessly, fast and tight, just to make you scream again. “Come on then. Be a good slut. Come on my cock.”

You shattered.

You screamed his name, legs shaking violently as your orgasm ripped through you, cunt clenching around his cock like a vice. You collapsed forward, arms limp, drool slipping from your lips as you sobbed through the high.

But Armin didn’t stop.

“Uh-uh. Why you running for?” he chuckled, yanking you back by your waist and slamming into you again, chasing his own release with brutal thrusts that had your body going limp in his hold.

“Fuck—gonna fill you up,” he growled, voice rough and wrecked. “Gonna come so deep, it leaks down your thighs and stains that pretty little skirt. You’ll smell like me for days.”

You weren't sure if you were making sense, you were a babbling sensitive mess as Armin continued to fuck you. Your body molding into the leather seats of the cart as your ass continued to clap against his pelvis.

It didn't take him long before he bottomed out, groaning loudly as he emptied himself inside you.

You moaned softly at the warmth, his cock twitching inside your overstimulated cunt.

He didn’t move for a moment, just gripped your hips and breathed hard, staring down at the mess he’d made of you.

Then he pulled out slow, watching his cum spill out of you and drip to the grass.

Armin chuckled softly, you barely registered the shuffle behind you until Armin helped roll you onto your back on the cart seat. You blinked up at him through hazy, fucked-out tears.

“Wh… what’re you…?” you murmured, voice raw.

"You know how you chased me down for one stupid picture. Isn't it only fair I get one in return?"

Confusion filled your eyes before you saw him bring a polaroid camera up to his face. Your eyes widened, your legs were still spread, his cum dripping out of you, face dazed and perfect.

"Say cheese baby."

𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 ©

#black fem reader #black female smut #armin arlert #armin x black reader #armin smut #armin arlet smut #aot smut #aot fanfiction #aot x black reader #aot x black y/n #aot armin #aot x reader

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plantsucc · 4 months ago

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exactly. if something sounds too good to be true on an already somewhat sketchy site, it definitely is. here's a video that demonstrates exactly how these cheap fake "2TB" USB sticks / drives overwrite and corrupt your data:

youtube

the Properties says it is 2TB, but in testing, the USB stick gets filled up before even 1GB is used up, and it overwrites the demonstration video, which starts skipping and glitching. I recommend sticking to trustworthy tech brands that have been around for years, (yeah, like SanDisk, Kingston, Samsung etc) because it's worth a bit of extra money to keep your data secure for sure. you get a warranty and actual customer service you can complain to or (usually) refund any failing products.

Hey did y'all know you can get a 2TB USB drive for only $2 on AliExpress

In case you need physical storage of digital information given the increasing enshittification of the online space 👍🏽2TB is bigger than my laptop can even handle but thank goodness for external storage

#some things you defn can and should get offbrand for cheaper like uhh not much risk in an offbrand towel ig #but these days half your entire life is digital #so I don't recommend any 'innovative' brand new tech startup or any 'SDFGHDGSF' unrecognizable brand name products #also obv do not buy from Temu or Wish #you might lose digital files that you worked on for years of your life #tech #technology #computers #data #video #I mean it's about a flash drive so it's even more obvious that it's not actually 2tb. but it's a good demo #Youtube #scam #also yeah corporations bad (lmao literally my last post) but I can't actually hand craft a hard drive so

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artstennisracket · 4 months ago

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Say Ah! ib: Say Ah by Trey Songz please listen while you read :) patrick zweig x art donaldson x fem!reader

cw: nsfw(18+), drunk sex, drug use, dirty talk, squirting, eiffel tower of sorts

girl it’s your birthday open wide i know you’re thirsty say ah

Patrick Zweig and Art Donaldson were two very notable names at your very prestigious boarding school. Art’s parents were rich but they were new money. Art’s dad had created a startup tech way before Art was born and it became super successful.

Patrick’s parents though? They were old money. Like Vanderbilt, Rockefeller, Carnegie type old money. No one even knows what his parents do but with amount of money they pay for boarding school tuition, no one really cared.

Art and Patrick were attached at the hip. It made sense though, they were roommates for years. Their families are friends now. They spend breaks and summers on trips to europe or the carribean. Between the Zweig’s chalet in Geneva, the Donaldson’s villa in the Bahamas, the Zweig’s chateau in Nice, and the Donaldson’s beachfront house in St.Kitts, they were spoiled for options.

There were rumors going around that they share girls. You weren’t 100% sure what that meant but you could use your imagination. There were other rumors that they were actually dating each other but you weren’t sure about that either.

Your paths hadn’t crossed much in the almost 6 years you guys have been here. But tonight your best friend insisted you guys go clubbing tonight for your birthday. You liked to party from time to time but you’d try not to go overboard. Emphasis on try. But you were a party girl at heart.

You put on the white shirt and a sequin mini skirt. You finish your makeup and throw on some heels.

“should we pregame?” You ask fiddling with your hair in the mirror.

“nah we won’t need to,” your friend, Liz, says as she finishes zipping up her thigh high boots.

You raise an eyebrow. You know it’s been a minute since you went out but you’re pretty sure pregaming is still the most cost effective way to get drunk.

She continues as she stand up, “we’re going to Patrick and Art’s section tonight at Ikon.”

Oh.

“oh um- i-i didn’t know, i’ve never partied with them before,” you’re unsure why you’re nervous. You’ve been clubbing a million times. And it’s just Patrick and Art, how intimidating could they be.

She shrugs, “i’ve been out with them a few times, they’re super nice. they just always order bottles so there’s no point in pregaming with cheap stuff.”

You nod and follow her out the door.

When you guys get inside the club is already pretty packed. Sweaty bodies and sticky floors. You hold onto you friend hand as she drags you through the club and upstairs. Weaving through the masses.

You’ve never been to Ikon before, you usually frequent Barcelo or Kapital more. But so far you were liking the vibes.

Once you guys get to their section, your friend steps over the velvet rope and you follow suit.

There’s a ridiculous amount of people from school here, mainly girls but a few guys as well. There were a few champagne buckets with ice on the table. In them, so many bottles. Clase Azul, Dom Perignon, Don Julio. Oh wow, Liz was not joking.

She greats them each with a side hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“lizzzzzz, lizzie, you made it i’m so happy you came,” Art says. He’s definitely a little tipsy.

“couldn’t let you host without inviting the life of the party and the birthday girl,” She says gesturing to herself and you.

Patrick smirks. He’s holding a bottle of 1942 in his hand. He takes a swig before he says, “and who is this birthday girl you’ve brought with you?”

You’re nervous again. Why are you nervous? Fuck. They’re just two rich white boys, you need to pull it together. You take a breath and say, “y/n”

Art smiles and claps his hand on Patrick’s shoulder, “have you taken a shot yet? c’mon pat give her a shot. it’s her birthday.”

Patrick is more than happy to oblige. He walks over to you, holding the neck of the bottle, “c’mon birthday girl, say ah.”

A shot is exactly what you need to loosen up. You tilt your head back, opening your mouth. You move your hand to cup right under your mouth as a safeguard for any spillage.

“there you go, uh uh no hands baby,” He says. The butterflies in your stomach going crazy after he says that. But you move your hands nonetheless. He pours some tequila into your mouth. His aim wasn’t perfect so a little does dribble down your neck. He leans down to whisper by your ear, “good girl.”

And just like that he’s gone.

The rest of the night is really fucking blurry. Art and Patrick were giving out shots like water. If you ever had an empty cup it was filled within minutes. If you were dancing so you hadn’t had a drink in a minute, Patrick of Art were there in seconds. They didn’t even have to tell you what to do anymore. You instinctively tilt your head back and open your mouth everytime they approach you with a bottle in their hand. Their excuse being “it’s your birthday, can’t let you go thirsty”

There’s a moment where you walk back to the table in the section that Patrick and Art are sitting at. They’ve got a few lines of coke on the table, Art going first. So Patrick is the first one that spots you and gestures for you to sit next to him.

“enjoying yourself birthday girl?” Patrick smirks. But before you have a chance to answer, Art is passing him the very tightly rolled $100 bill for Patrick to do his lines. So Art steps in to fill the conversation.

“hey having fun?” He smiles a big goofy smile. He’s actually kind of cute. And a decent contrast to more chill Patrick Zweig. But you haven’t really gotten to know them yet so you’ll hold back on the assumptions for now.

You nod slowly, fearful that too much head movement sitting down would make you dizzy, “so much fun, you guys are good hosts so that makes it better.”

Patrick sits back up and wipes his nose. He turns his head to look at you, “where are my manners? did you want?” He asks gesturing to the half empty tiny plastic baggy on the table.

You shake your head no laughing, “i tried it once and I just threw up all over the place so i’ll pass”

He nods in understanding. You notice he has his hand on Art’s thigh as he keeps talking to you, “good birthday so far?”

You nod smiling, “best birthday so far.”

“good i’m glad we could make that happen for you,” He says leaning into your personal space bubble. If you don’t know any better you’d think he’s trying to kiss you, there’s just one more question you want to ask first.

“you and Art seem pretty close,” You say, not creating any distance between the two of you. If anything you lean in closer. You keep eye contact with Patrick. You can see the gears turning in his head as he thinks of how he should answer that.

He smirks, he does that a lot you’ve noticed, “do you wanna see just how close we are?”

You nod biting your lip, but you’re not 100% sure if this is going where you think it’s going.

He sits back up turning his head to Art’s direction. He puts his hand on Art’s chin making Art face him, pulling Art away from whatever side conversation he was having. And he pulls him in for a kiss. It’s slow and sloppy, expected since they’re both kind of drunk at this point. Art kisses Patrick back with no hesitation, so they’ve done this before.

When Patrick pulls away from the kiss he turns back to you while Art goes back to his side conversation. A smirk plastered right back on his face, “does that answer your question?”

“so the rumors are true? you guys are together?”

Patrick laughs. He actually laughs so hard he throws his head back. When he finishes his laughing fit, he turns back to you to say, “fuck no I am not dating blondie, we just like to have fun.”

They just like to have fun. Have fun? So do they share girls? It’s another rumor you heard and it sounds like something someone who likes to have fun would do.

Before you can think on it anymore your body is spewing out the words, “so do you guys share girls?” No reference to the rumor at all, so it almost sounds like you’re asking for yourself.

Now that peaks Patrick’s interest. So maybe it is true? He leans down by your ear again to whisper, “do you want to find out?”

That’s how you end up in their dorm room at 3am.

Initially you didn’t want to leave your friend Liz behind but apparently she had already left with another which she sent you a text about an hour ago. Wow you really don’t check your phone when you’re drunk.

The three of you waste no time taking off your clothes. It’s been a minute since you’ve had sex with one person, let alone two.

You noticed they had pushed both their beds together, very interesting. Patrick and Art start making out on their bed, Patrick is lying down and Art is on top of him.

You’re not sure where you should jump in until Patrick grabs Art’s curls pushing his head down to come face to face with Patrick’s cock. Once Art starts sucking, Patrick gestures for you to straddle him.

You climb on top of him and he pulls you down for a kiss. It’s slow and sensual, like he’s trying to explore your mouth with his tongue.

Art pulls off Patrick’s dick and moves his focus to your pussy. Since it’s right in his face now, he can’t really resist. He lazily continues jerking Patrick off as he licks up the crease of your folds.

He licks up and down, making sure to go down far enough to lick at your clit too. The he comes back up to push his tongue inside of you.

“oh fuck,” You moan into Patrick’s mouth.

Patrick pulls away from the kiss biting your bottom lip, “make sure you’re getting her ready for us.” You assumed he was talking to Art and on cue Art stuck two fingers inside of you, making you gasp.

Patrick moves his hands so one is grabbing your ass while the other is cupping your breast, toying with your nipple.

You being moved into a different position but you can’t tell where Patrick body ends and Art’s body begins. You’re not sure whose hands are where but now you’re on your on your hands and knees with Art in front of your face and Patrick behind you.

You’re looking up at Art as he drags his tip against your lips, smearing his pre cum around.

“fuck, you’re really fucking pretty,” Art breathes out.

At the same time Patrick had already rolled on a condom and was teasing your entrance, “don’t get all sappy on me now donaldson. c’mon y/n say ah”

As soon as you hear the phrase you’ve gotten acquainted to over the course of the night, it’s like muscle memory and your mouth opens.

Art and Patrick pushing into you at the same time from opposite is a euphoric feeling you don’t think you’ll ever forget.

Patrick hands gripping your hips as he fucks into you. Art’s hands tangles in your hair as he thrusts into your mouth. Patrick bruising your cervix, while Art bruises the back of your throat.

There are some differences between the two of them. Art is very whiny. He whines alot as he thrusts in and out of your mouth, mumbling over and over about how good you’re making him feel. While Patrick is more of a groan-er. He groans and moans as he fucks himself in and out of you, saying how well you’re taking his cock and what a good girl you are.

They went back and forth saying stuff like:

“holy fuck, you’re so fucking tight.”

“fuck, shit, love seeing your lips wrapped around my cock”

“taking my cock so well,” They both said that in unison at the same time. Kinda freaky. But it added to that pit in your stomach that was building towards your orgasm.

All you could do was moan around Art’s cock that was shoved down your throat. Art’s shoved your face towards his pelvis almost suffocating you and you’re not sure why at first, until you hear kissing?

They’re making out above you. At least you can check eiffel tower of some sorts off of your bucket list.

You can feel both of their thrusts start to stutter, they’re close. They pull away from their kiss and you hear Art say, “fuck baby I’m gonna cum, i’m gonna—.” You feel his release shoot deep down your throat before he pulls out. And you swallow it all down.

When Art cums you feel your orgasm rip through your body but it feels different, “im cumming—“ You moan as your body contracts and there’s a rush of liquid. Patrick pulls out halfway as you squirt all over his dick. “jesus fuck,” He moans.

He was already on the edge but your tight hole squeezing around his cock mixed with the visuals of you squirting on his cock pushed him over the edge, “shit im gonna cum—“ He releases inside you before he pulls out and ties off the condom.

Art had already fallen asleep on his side of the bed but you couldn’t really blame him because he was drunk.

You’re not sure if you should leave and try to sneak back into the girls dorms or if you should stay. Patrick comes back and hands you a rag so you can clean up.

“thanks,” You say with shy smile, unsure why you’re feeling like you’re sobering up a little.

He offers a soft smile, “you know you can stay if you want, i wouldn’t kick you out.”

You gesture to the soiled bedsheets on what you assume is Patrick’s side of the bed, “sorry about the mess, i can help you clean up.”

He lets out a small laugh, “don’t apologize that was fucking hot, you do that often?”

You offer a smirk this time, “wanna find out?”

You both have to carry Art’s passed out body onto the sofa while you guys change the sheets. When Art wakes up the next morning to find new sheets on his bed, Patrick ignores all his questions about it, insisting that “it’s better if y/n just shows you what happened.”

a/n: bonus points if you recognize the club names :)

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societyfolklore · 2 months ago

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The Cost of Access

Title: The Cost of Access

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Entrepreneur!Female Reader

Summary: At a high-stakes D.C. fundraiser. You’re there to protect your start-up from political threats, not to play the donor game but Bucky surprises you. He sees past the surface, speaks your language, and for one charged night, the two of you find something raw, reckless, and unexpectedly sincere behind closed doors.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, SMUT, Unprotected sex, mirror sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), light dominance, light choking (hand on throat), champagne-fueled decisions, emotional tension, slight political themes, post-sex awkwardness

A/N: Not a Thunderbolts* fic… I will be making sure this space stays spoiler free for a few weeks since I don’t want to spoil for anyone until they get the chance.

You weren't lobbying. Not really.

You were there to make sure your startup, barely past Series B funding and already on the radar of corporate predators, didn’t get chewed up and swallowed whole under the guise of 'infrastructure reform.' D.C. had a way of wrapping its greed in clean bills and smiling handshakes. You weren’t about to watch your work get buried under a competitor’s line item, or worse, co-opted by a conglomerate that didn’t understand the first thing about what you’d built.

Your company was scrappy, efficient, and bold, everything the legacy players hated. And you had no intention of letting a single careless vote collapse the years of sweat equity and innovation you’d bled for. You didn’t want favours. You wanted protection. An understanding. Leverage, if you were lucky.

But the fundraiser was unbearable.

Everyone either talked at you like you were some high-yield asset ripe for exploitation, or worse, like a walking checkbook with tits. You’d worn a sharp dress, tailored, matte black, the neckline modest, the slit at your thigh anything but, and still you felt like a prize pig at auction, trotted out for admiration, smiled at by men who never once asked the name of your company.

You played the part. Sipped the champagne. Nodded politely. It was exhausting, watching the glittering masks slip when they thought you weren’t worth the effort. And still, you stayed. Because someone had to protect what you’d built, and tonight that someone was you.

You were just deciding how quickly you could leave without burning too many bridges when you saw him.

Congressman Barnes.

Polished shoes. Classic black tuxedo. Crisp white shirt. Bowtie slightly askew, like he wanted to appear relaxed without actually letting his guard down. His posture was clean but coiled, all quiet control and unreadable calm. He gave you a small, acknowledging nod across the room, like he recognized the same bored exhaustion on your face that he felt in his bones.

He looked about as bored as you did.

Then his campaign manager leaned in, whispered something in his ear, you saw the shift in his shoulders, the faint sigh. You felt yourself groan inwardly. Another political animal sending their candidate your way, sniffing around to see what you were willing to pay to keep yourself ahead of the pack.

You’d seen the type. Hell, you’d dated the type. They smiled like wolves, hands warm and eyes calculating.

But Barnes didn’t start with a smile. He didn’t lead with a pitch, or some tired attempt at charm. Instead:

“You run that adaptive interface platform, right? For small logistics firms?”

You blinked, thrown slightly off balance. “That’s… oddly specific. Most people just call it ‘some tech thing.’”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Genuine. Quietly pleased with himself.

““My campaign manager said I should try being more charming. I figured knowing what you actually do was a decent start.”

That earned him a raised brow and a small sip of your drink. “So this is you charming me?”

“I’m trying,” he admitted, voice low as he stepped in just enough to share your air, but not enough to crowd. “I don’t like asking for money. I’d rather earn what I get.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, the corner of your mouth tugging up. “That makes two of us. Everyone here’s just charming enough to take your money, none of them want to hear why you felt the need to offer it in the first place.”

His brow arched with quiet interest. “And why do you?”

You hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “Because I’ve watched too many people like me, too many sharp, brilliant startups, get crushed under policy written by people who’ve never actually built anything. I have money now, sure. But the world’s... complicated. One bill, one amendment, one line in the wrong place, and everything collapses.”

He nodded slowly, expression shifting from polite to something more real. “Yeah,” he said. “Feels like it’s all turning into some elaborate game lately. Everyone pointing fingers, selling favors, whoring themselves out for donations. It’s about who you shake hands with, not who you help. And that’s not what I signed up for.”

You tilted your head. “So what did you sign up for?”

Bucky looked at you then, really looked. Blue eyes steady and piercing, the kind of gaze that cut through all your practiced armour and found the person underneath. There was no sales pitch in that look, no calculation. Just something honest. Something that made your throat tighten. “Just trying to make sure life’s better for people who don’t have the time or power to fight for it themselves.”

For the first time that evening, you felt your defences slip.

You stayed put.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

It wasn’t supposed to happen. But the elevator ride had been quiet and charged, a weight of unspoken tension thick in the air between you. The kind that buzzed in the bones and made your fingers twitch with anticipation. He’d asked if you wanted to see the view from the top floor. Just the skyline, he'd said. Just five minutes. You'd known the invitation carried more than one meaning, and you'd said yes anyway.

The elevator climbed too slowly and too fast all at once. Neither of you said much, just sidelong glances, soft exhales, the space between you alive with heat. When the doors opened, he stepped aside to let you pass, hand brushing your lower back with a quiet confidence that sent a bolt of want through your spine.

The skyline passed in a blur. You vaguely remembered the glittering lights of the Capitol, the outline of the Washington Monument, but mostly, you remembered the click of his keycard, the soft whoosh of the suite door, and the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

He didn’t say a word as you stepped inside. Just followed, silent and watchful. You felt the warmth of him behind you, the weight of his gaze tracing the bare skin of your shoulders. The brush of his knuckles down your spine made you shiver, and then you turned, and he looked at you like a man starving.

Like he'd wanted to taste you since the moment he saw you across the room.

"You still want to see the view?" he murmured, voice deeper now, rougher around the edges. You didn’t answer with words. Just stepped toward him, fingers tugging the lapel of his tux with a boldness that surprised even you.

He kissed you like he meant to burn the memory into your skin. Like he was starving and you were the only thing that would satisfy. Champagne lingered on your tongue, on his lips, between the clink of teeth and the soft drag of breath.

And when he backed you toward the table, fingers already skimming the edge of your thigh, you knew, this wasn’t politics anymore. This was something reckless. Something raw. Something that had nothing to do with influence or strategy.

Just the way he needed you. And in that moment, you let yourself want him right back- recklessly, breathlessly, without second-guessing the consequences.

The taste of champagne still lingered on your tongue as his lips brushed the sensitive skin at your throat, sending a fresh shiver down your spine and pulling you back into the heat between you. The click of your heels echoing against marble as he backed you toward the suite’s glossy dining table,. Your breath hitched when he slid your dress up your thighs with practiced ease.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to soak through your panties just from a little political banter,” he murmured, crouching as he tugged your panties down your thighs, eyes flicking up with that same smirk. “You gonna let me see what all that sharp talk was hiding?”

You rolled your eyes at the line, but the breath caught in your throat when his fingers slid through your folds, spreading you open with reverent, maddening patience. The pads of his fingers were calloused, warm, utterly unhurried. They moved like he’d done this before, but never quite like this. Like you were different. Like he wanted to learn you, not just make you moan.

“Oh, fuck, ” you gasped, hips twitching at the contact, thighs trying and failing to stay still as that first spark of sensation bled into a full-body ache.

He watched intently, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, focused like you were a puzzle he already knew the solution to but wanted to work through anyway, piece by trembling piece. One finger traced your entrance, then two pressed inside you, slow and deep, curling just right. The stretch was maddening and perfect, your walls clenching around him in a greedy flutter.

You whimpered, grinding down on his hand, shameless in the way you chased his touch. The heel of your shoe slipped a little on the polished floor, but he didn’t let you go, just steadied you with his free hand, palm flat on your thigh.

“Look at you,” he murmured, half to himself. “Could ruin me on the floor of a damn hotel suite and not even break a sweat.”

He brought the slick digits to his mouth, sucked them clean with a groan that went straight to your core, his tongue slow and deliberate like he was savoring the taste.

“Sweetest thing I’ve had in weeks,” he said, voice low, lazy, wicked, before picking you up and placing you gently on the edge of the table like you belonged there. Then he sank to his knees between your legs with deliberate care, hands sliding under your thighs to spread you open wider.

He looked up once, gaze molten with hunger and reverence, then lowered his head between your legs.

His tongue flicked through your folds with slow, luxurious precision. Lips sealed around your clit like a man on a mission, like the night didn’t end until you were wrecked and trembling, laid bare for him in every way.

You gripped the table edge hard enough to bruise, head tilted back as a moan slipped from your lips, loud and unashamed. Champagne warmth buzzed through your bloodstream, lowering every inhibition, making you shameless. His mouth was hot and relentless, tongue circling your clit with infuriating expertise, teasing and coaxing until your thighs were shaking.

"Bucky, oh my god- " you gasped, voice catching when he sealed his mouth tighter around you and sucked. The sound that left you was raw, desperate, the kind of noise that filled a luxury suite and made your face flush with heat.

He moaned into you like your taste was heaven, hands tightening under your thighs as he buried his face deeper. His nose bumped your mound, tongue flattening and stroking in long, slow passes. When he shifted the angle, dragging the tip against that spot, just right- your body jolted.

"There," you breathed, grinding into his face. "Fuck, right there, don't stop."

He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down. He groaned, one hand releasing your thigh only to slip between your legs again. Two fingers pressed in, firm and slow, curling in rhythm with his tongue until your whole body was a tight coil of want.

Your legs tried to close around him, thighs locking reflexively, but he held you open with a rough, growled "Let me have it. Let go for me, sweetheart. Come on."

You shattered.

Pleasure built like a storm inside you, cresting fast and hard until it snapped, tearing through you with a raw, blistering heat that left your legs shaking and your breath stuttering. Your body locked for one suspended moment, every nerve on fire, before the aftershocks rippled through you- deep, pulsing waves that made you moan, helpless and high on the intensity. Your hips jerked, your back arched, a high whine leaving your lips as his mouth stayed on you through every pulse. You heard your name tumble from your mouth in a breathless, broken cry.

Even then, he didn’t stop. He licked you through it, gentle now, tongue tracing soft, lazy patterns until you were squirming from overstimulation, a laugh-sob catching in your throat.

He finally pulled back, lips glistening, breathing hard like he was the one who’d just come.

"Told you," he said, voice wrecked and low, kissing your inner thigh. "Sweetest thing I've had in weeks."

He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy-lidded as he looked down at you. Then he reached for your dress, the fabric bunching under his fingers as he eased it over your hips and up your body. You lifted your arms, dazed and pliant, letting him strip it away and drop it to the floor with quiet finality. He stepped back just long enough to shrug out of his shirt, fingers popping buttons open one by one before he pulled it free of his shoulders and let it fall.

You watched him, heart racing. His tie came off next. Then his belt. His slacks hit the floor with a soft rustle, and you caught your breath as he stepped out of them, bare and beautiful and hard for you.

He circled behind you, the heat of his bare chest pressing into your back. His hands slid over your waist, up your ribs, fingers splaying across your stomach. He kissed your shoulder, then your neck, slow, reverent, greedy. You tilted your head to the side, gave him space to devour the skin there. His cock nudged the curve of your ass, thick and hot and insistent.

"Come here," he rasped, walking you forward until the bed met your thighs. He turned you slightly, guiding you to the center of the mattress, facing the mirror across from it.

You leaned forward slightly, bracing yourself on your palms as he settled behind you. One hand slid between your thighs to guide himself as the other spread across your hip, grounding you. You felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance, and then, with one deep, slow thrust, he pushed into you.

Your mouth fell open, a moan tearing free as your walls stretched to accommodate him. Your eyes fluttered shut at the fullness, the thick, perfect pressure making your knees tremble. Behind you, Bucky groaned low and broken, hands tightening on your hips.

"Fuck, baby… you're so tight," he hissed through his teeth, voice strained with restraint.

You couldn’t find words. Just the burn, the ache, the pulse of pleasure radiating outward as he began to move, slow, dragging thrusts that had your eyes rolling back with every stroke. You heard the slick sound of your bodies meeting, felt the heat of his chest as he leaned in closer, his breath warm on your shoulder.

Then he pulled you upright, chest flush against your back, his hand sliding up to grip your throat with just enough pressure to hold you steady. The angle shifted, his cock spearing deeper as your spine arched and your legs widened in instinct. Your head fell back against his shoulder with a broken moan.

"Look," he rasped, turning your chin so your eyes met the mirror. "Look at me fucking you."

Your mouth parted as you watched the obscene beauty of it, his body pressed to yours, hips rolling up into you with power and purpose, your breasts moving with every thrust, that delicate chain swinging at your collarbone. His arm banded across your waist, anchoring you in place.

He rocked into you again, slow but deliberate, his breath ragged as he muttered, "God, you feel good, so fucking good."

You could only whimper in reply, eyelids fluttering, hips pushing back to meet him as slick pleasure gathered low in your belly again, tighter with every perfect stroke. Your eyes closed, breathing hard.

“Come on, open your eyes. Watch how good you look taking me,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “How perfect you look falling apart.”

You couldn’t look away.

Your gaze met your reflection, flushed skin, parted lips, the look of raw pleasure on your face as his cock filled you with slow, deliberate precision, each thrust deep and controlled, wringing gasps from your throat and arching your back with every stroke. Your fingers scrabbled behind you, finding purchase on his metal arm, nails digging into the vibranium plating as you gasped.

"Harder," you whispered, breath fogging the mirror. "Please, Bucky, "

He growled, the sound low and rough in your ear, and lost the last of his composure. Letting a go of the hold on you neck.

Bucky bent you over the bed, hand gripping your waist like he meant to leave fingerprints, thrusting rougher now, deeper. Each stroke punched a moan from your lips, loud and wrecked. The slap of skin meeting skin echoed through the suite.

Your name fell from his mouth in a strained, reverent groan as your walls clenched around him and you came with a sob, body jerking under the weight of it. The pleasure was blinding, your muscles trembling, your thighs shaking as you cried out, caught somewhere between ecstasy and surrender.

Bucky's grip tightened on your hips, a guttural noise tearing from his throat. "Fuck, fuck, doll, that's it, " he gasped, hips stuttering.

He snapped forward with one last deep, punishing thrust and came with a harsh grunt, his cock pulsing as he spilled inside you. You could feelTitle: The Cost of Access the heat of it, the fullness, and it only made your body tighten again in response. His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, breath hot and ragged against your spine.

Neither of you moved for a long, suspended moment, just the sound of breathing, the lingering echo of skin on skin, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the room. His hands softened on your hips, thumbs brushing soothingly across the skin he'd just gripped so fiercely. He leaned in, kissed the slope of your back, slow and reverent.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. The silence said everything.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

You woke before he did.

The suite was too quiet. Just the hush of morning traffic filtering up from the city streets, the hum of the minibar fridge, and the rhythmic, steady sound of his breathing. You lay still for a moment, letting the soft warmth of his body behind you linger before reality crept in through the gauzy light.

Sunlight spilled across the hotel floor in perfect rectangles. The room still carried the humid trace of last night- skin-warmed sheets, the musky whisper of sex clinging to the air, and the soft, fading note of his cologne drifting lazily through the quiet. You slid out from beneath the sheet slowly, quietly, careful not to disturb him. But before you moved too far, you glanced back over your shoulder.

His hair was a mess, dark strands falling over his forehead in soft, unruly waves. One arm was flung lazily over the pillow, the other tucked beneath it, his vibranium arm, glinting faintly in the morning light. His face was relaxed, softened in sleep in a way you hadn’t seen the night before. Vulnerable. Real.

You stared for a beat longer than you meant to, throat tight. Then you turned away and stepped lightly onto the floor.

You found your dress crumpled near the foot of the bed. Your shoes tucked half under a chair. Your phone facedown on the nightstand. No panties. You searched briefly, under the bed, beneath a cushion, and came up empty. Of course.

You didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t leave a note. Just smoothed your dress down, slipped your heels back on, and left with your hair a mess and your thighs sticky with the night before.

You didn’t want to be seen as the kind of woman who bought access with sex, who traded power and control for one night of heat and champagne-clouded recklessness. That wasn’t who you were.

And he… well, you weren’t sure if he’d think he sold it. If he’d wake and think you were just another wealthy donor slipping out before the illusion shattered.

You’d hovered for a moment near the minibar, fingertips grazing the notepad left beside the phone. You’d even picked up the pen. A part of you had thought about leaving a check, not for the good time, not for the sex, but because, for one brief, dangerous moment, you’d hoped he was the kind of man worth investing in. Someone who meant what he said, who could actually hold the line when others bent. Someone who might fight for the things that mattered.

But your hand had stilled.

What would he think if he found that? That you’d paid him for it? That he was just like the rest of them, bought and fucked and forgotten?

He wasn’t a whore. No matter what people thought of politicians.

You set the pen down.

Better to leave. You could make a donation later. Quietly. Through the proper channels. When it wouldn’t feel like an apology.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

You were halfway through your third coffee of the morning, hunched over a stack of budgets and investor notes when the intern knocked twice on your office door before pushing it open.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” she said, holding out a slim envelope. “This came by courier earlier. It didn’t look like it was office mail.”

You frowned, setting your mug down and brushing your hair back. The envelope was plain, unmarked. Heavy cardstock. Your name printed neatly in the center. No return address.

You waited until the door closed again before sliding your thumb beneath the seal.

Inside: a familiar scrap of lace. Your panties, folded neatly, still carrying the faintest trace of his cologne and something unmistakably you. Your breath hitched when your fingers brushed the fabric, your cheeks flushing hot.

And a note. Typed. Crisp cardstock. No letterhead, no signature, but the message was clear. Unmistakably him.

‘We’ll finish what we started.’

Just beneath the line, in faint pen ink, scrawled as if added last second, in a hand you didn’t quite expect to look so neat, was one more sentence:

‘Next time, stay for breakfast.’

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky #bucky fic #bucky imagine #bucky smut #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #x female reader #smut #marvel smut #bucky barnes x fem!reader #buckybarnes #james bucky barnes #Bucky Barnes x reader

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haologram · 6 months ago

Text

stairway to the stars ☆ l.jh [m]

⤷ part of 'a very seventeen christmas' secret santa event! synopsis: your husband has always been supportive of your dreams - from the sidelines. he stays to himself, he keeps his mouth shut. it's you that can't stop running yours when your co-star is all over him. genre: established relationship au, tiny bit of angst, fluff, smut? pairing: husband!lee jihoon x actress!fem!reader word count: 1.5k...it pained me to stop it here. rating: 18+. minors do not interact. warnings: mentions of jealousy, ideation of infidelity, general relationship dynamics. clit play, kissing, in the backseat...you know the vibes. what to listen to: stargirl interlude - the weeknd, lana del rey ; never lose me - flo milli ; the boy is mine - monica, brandy. author's note: hi baby @monamipencil ♡ i hope you enjoy my little segment for you! i did 1000% pull this out of thin air but please let me know if there is ever anything else i can write for you. much love from your secret santa. ♡

"Don't forget about me, sweetheart." It was one of the few phrases your husband burned in your brain when your career really started taking off. He'd only been your boyfriend then, trying his hardest to prove himself worthy of your affections and time. You promised you wouldn't, over shared bottles of heady Cabernet and stolen kisses. The following years proved most difficult – from fighting over not spending enough time together because of your jobs, to vacationing for months on end without repercussions – you were rising to the top way too fast for him to wrap his head around it.

But never once did his love, loyalty, or respect for you falter. He watched quietly from the sidelines, silently supportive of all your endeavors. He'd grimace inwardly a bit if your lipstick stained anyone else's lips on the big screen, he'd clear his throat one too many times if you shed any tears during a scene. He held your waist at events, a silent reminder that your ascend up the stairway to the stars was in good company.

When you finally got a bit of time for yourself, he made it his priority to become someone more permanent in your life. With eyes that never strayed and a heart that only beat for you, he proposed softly as the two of you took a midnight stroll for the first time in a long time. He apologized for not making it something grand, promising your wedding would be to die for and he'd pull every string possible to give you the honeymoon of your dreams – only for you to stop his rambling with a teary kiss to his lips. Telling your friends the news of the proposal was an exciting feat, until it fell on the ears of multiple of your co-stars. You hadn't ever even spoken of a boyfriend (you had, they just didn't remember), and a few of the men you'd worked with questioned the validity of your engagement, of your relationship – and it eventually got back to Jihoon. Whispers of the startup CEO dating an actress filled his office, side-eyed glances made him uneasy in his own skin and he hated it – he hated that people wouldn't mind their own business.

Needless to say, it pissed him off. He'd never been openly possessive, but a part of him knew that neither of you had an issue understanding where you stood in each other's lives. From dating, to girlfriend, to wife – you'd always been open about who Jihoon was to you and what his presence meant. You never shied away from answering his questions if any, and you proudly presented him as your significant other if he managed to attend any of your events. This alone was enough for the two of you to realize that people in your industry didn't take relationships too seriously, and enough for you to hard-launch your relationship by posting your wedding photos on social media.

The industry did not like that, but you didn't care. You and your agent continued to book role after role, your husband continuing to grow his business and make a name for himself in the world of music production…a stepping stone for him, and the first moment of blood-boiling jealousy you'd ever experienced at the side of Lee Jihoon.

Her hand was on his shoulder as they spoke music, and he swiftly moved out of her grasp, sure. The dance floor was full of couples, a dance floor you'd intended to whisk him onto after reapplying your lipstick in the washroom. Someone Like You by Van Morrison played as you stood a few feet away, your face contorted in a fit of envy as you saw your husband push her hand away, the words I'm married, please don't touch me falling from his lips. The woman grimaced – the same woman you'd starred alongside for three seasons of the very same show you were all celebrating a renewal for tonight – and she shrugged her shoulders, before the dreaded words fell from her own red lips.

"So? She doesn't have to know."

Jihoon looked taken aback, and it was almost like he was a moth drawn to a flame – his eyes landed on you, and the way your jaw was tight with anger as you made your way over.

"Soyoung, nice to see you. Did you lose something here, dearest?" You speak softly, staring at your co-star with eyes of fire. She gave you a sleazy smirk, shaking her head. "Not at all, Y/N. Enjoying the party?" "It's lovely, isn't it? Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm feeling a bit under the weather." You gave her a tight smile, your hand wrapping around Jihoon's wrist watch as you pulled him away. He'd never seen you in such a state, eager to get him out of the venue and into the backseat of the black car waiting for you. Your arms were crossed as you sat facing away from him, before he made eye contact with the driver. He raised his brow, and the driver nodded, swiftly raising the partition as Jihoon turned to face you.

"Something bothering you, sweetheart?" He saw the way your shoulders tensed under the wine red straps of your dress, your legs crossed at the knee baring the skin of your thigh under the slit of the skirt. You gave him a glance through the corner of your eye, your lip jutted out in a pout as he cooed at you, making you huff in embarrassment.

"I don't like her." You mutter, "I don't like what she said and I don't like how she was all over you. She's literally my co-star. She knows we're married." "As much as I like your little pout and think you're adorable, I don't like that you're upset. You know I'd never wrong you, especially not like that." He tilts his head at you, making you pinch the bridge of your nose. "I know, Ji. I know." He's not satisfied with your answer, his hand reaching over to graze your knee, biting back his smile at the way your shoulders lose their tension at his touch. Your jaw remains tight, shaking your head in disbelief. "We've been co-stars for three years. You'd think she'd have some fucking respect for me." You were always so calm and collected, never too outwardly expressive of your disdain for people or their actions. He feels almost guilty for the growing tightness in his pants as you click your tongue, facing him as his fingers trace circles into your skin. "You're literally my husband. That's how I introduced you. My husband, Jihoon. Not Lee Jihoon, not the CEO of Ruby Productions, my husband. She's so shameless, I almost pity her." You tongue your cheek with a humorless laugh, and he can't help but feel his cheeks heat at the visual. He's silent as you run a hand through your hair, your earrings swinging as you shake your head again, giving him a pitiful smile.

"I'm sorry, I know this is out of character." You sigh, leaning your head on his shoulder. He nods, shifting slightly as your hand splays across his thigh. You press a kiss to his cheek, stamping your lipstick on his pale skin when you notice the flush on his cheeks. He clears his throat as you stare at him, a look of disbelief glossing over your eyes as you gape at him.

"You liked it?" "In my defense, you're hot when you're mad." He scoffs embarrassedly, making you huff out a laugh. "Jihoon." "I'm sorry." He presses a kiss to your temple as you roll your eyes. "Are you?" "No." He smiles against your skin, and you feel your cheeks heat as he trails his lips down your neck. "I love you, sweetheart. Just you." "I know, Ji." You sigh, feeling a bit of heat pool in your lower belly as he nips at your shoulder with a hum. "I don't think you do. Maybe I should remind you." Your cheeks grow hot as he gently pulls your thigh over his, his teeth nipping at the shell of your ear as he snaps the waistband of your underwear against your hip. "Now you know how I feel. Everyone always has their hands all over you, like you're not spoken for." You shudder as he slips his fingers under the cotton fabric, smirking against your skin as your hand wraps around his watch. You bite down on your lip as his finger traces your clit, your nails barely digging into his wrist. "Ji, not here." Your body betrays your words, your grip on his wrist loosening as he pulls your thigh higher on his lap. "Why? Aren't you mine?" His voice is sultry as you shiver against him, slim fingers collecting your arousal while he nips at your ear.

"Yes, but-" "Oh, there's a but?" He slides a finger inside you easily, your words getting caught in your throat as you whimper. "Hoonie…" "Tell you what, pretty." He slips his hand out as the car slows to stop, the front of the hotel you're staying at coming into view. "We're going to go upstairs and you're gonna take this dress off for me, and I'll show you who the brightest star in my sky is. Go."

You nearly stumble as your husband walks out behind you, his arm wrapping around your waist as he bids the driver goodbye. You feel his teeth on your shoulder, his voice low as he speaks into your ear.

“And keep those heels on for me."

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