#I once thought things would never be this good

[woantohae]

In my arms || (Bob Reynolds x reader)

Summary: The Thunderbolts are constantly on missions, busy trying to do good and save whoever they can. One of them was Bob Reynolds, the defenseless yet powerful man who is part of this team and family. However, he doesn't participate in these missions so he can continue practicing controlling his powers.

Despite telling them he's capable, the team prefers to give him more time to get used to them, until one mission, when a member of the team is injured. And all Bob can think about is the fury he feels when he hears Y/N being hurt. And how much he wants revenge on whoever did it.

content warnings: angst, he fell first and he fell harder, "avengers" tower, fluff, thunderbolts being a family, violence, curse words, SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS*, Yelena and Bob being like brother and sister, "touch her and you die" trope.

Author's note: I WATCHED THUNDERBOLTS*!!!! And let me tell you, it was better than i imagined. Honestly, it became one of my favorites and it can easily be in my top 3 of Marvel movies. I just can't describe the experience with enough words, but the waiting was totally worth it ✨️ AND THE POST CREDIT SCENE 👀 MARVEL ATE WITH THAT ONE.

With that being said, i'm excited to tell you that i'm gonna write more of Bob Reynolds 👉🏻👈🏻 So here you go, a one shot with him, wich contains a few spoilers of the movie. At this point our reader will be polaris lol.

Hope you like it and comment what do you think of this one 💌

Bob was getting used to the place.

What had once been Avengers Tower had now become his new "home." He had an incredible view of New York City, several rooms to hang out in, thousands of dishes and meals he'd never been able to prepare in his life, and the pleasant company he shared every day.

The team had made him feel comfortable and part of something worthwhile, despite what they'd gone through to get to this moment.

Bob still felt guilty about what happened when Void took control of him and darkened everything in its path, even when Yelena reminded him it wasn't his fault and that he wasn't alone. The blonde had become a trusted person for him and was always there when he needed her. He told her his secrets and how he felt, and the Russian always gave him advice or a word of encouragement. Even with the trust he had in her, he confided in her something he never thought would happen to him. Or rather, something he thought was impossible to happen in such a short time.

He was attracted to Y/N.

The girl whom his other self had caused to see horrible things from her past, the one who could move metal objects with a simple flick of her fingers, and the one who made his heart race and his cheeks blush. It was a feeling that consumed him every time he was near her or even thought about her.

And Yelena, being the good spy she was and good at reading people, knew how Bob felt about Y/N. She always encouraged him to get closer and talk to her more, but Bob simply couldn't do it. It was not that easy.

"It sounds easy," John says, after hearing the plan for carrying out the mission.

Bob shakes his head to return to reality and ignore such thoughts.

"Wait until we get there and they welcome us with open arms," ​​Bucky says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"We still made it last time, and look at us here," Y/N replies, shrugging her shoulders.

Ava laughs and shakes her head.

"We'd better get moving," she says.

Bob looks at the group with hope in his eyes, but feels unsure about what he's gonna say.

"Can I come with you, guys?" he asks.

All heads turn to look at him with a mixture of surprise and sympathy for his question. They know he wants to help however he can, but after Void was under control and hadn't appeared for quite some time, they weren't so sure it was a good idea to expose him like that again.

"Bob..." Yelena begins to say.

Bob hurries to explain himself.

"I know what you're gonna say. But I think I'm ready, I know I can control it" Bob says with determination in his voice "I've been practicing and trying to talk to him, so maybe I can do it, today"

"We know, Bobby," says John, "But we must complete the mission without any mistakes or problems along the way."

The brunette looks down and clears his throat, nodding. He raises his gaze to smile and meet Y/N's gaze, who smiles back.

"No, no, I understand," he says dejectedly. "When the time is right, I can come with you."

Bucky pats his shoulder and Alexei gives him a thumbs-up. Despite their attempt to lift his spirits, he can't help but feel useless and without any reason to be in the group, other than washing dishes, tidying the place, or reading books he finds lying around.

He hates the feeling.

But it is what it is, right now. And he has to face it.

After the meeting to organize the plan, the group dispersed to look for the weapons and prepare the car in which they would go to the location. Bob watched from afar as the rest of them prepared, while playing with his fingers. He shifted his gaze to the large window overlooking the city and didn't feel Y/N's presence approaching him.

"Hey," she said in a soft tone.

Bob turned his head to look at her and smiled delightedly.

"Hey," she asked.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He nods and laughs softly, pretending to be okay and swallowing the feeling that bothered him.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine"

The girl mimics his smile and stares at him, while Bob feels the heat spread to his cheeks.

"Hey, how about we watch a movie when I get back?" she offers, patting his arm to get his attention.

Bob smiles.

"I was actually thinking it could be a movie night with just us. If you like that idea," Y/N says, crossing her arms and shrugging her shoulders with a smile on her face.

"A movie would be nice. I think it would be fun to have a movie night with the rest of the team," he says awkwardly "We haven't had one of those in a while, so..."

She lets out a soft laugh, thinking how cute he looks all flustered.

"Oh..." he remains silent to calm his nerves until he speaks again so as not to make a fool of himself. "Oh! Yeah, just the two of us. Of course. It could be fun. Count me in!"

Y/N smiles and laughs softly, wich sounds angelical to Bob's ears.

"Great. It's a date" she says.

Bucky calls her to let her know they're about to leave, so she starts walking away from Bob.

"See you, Bob."

"See you. Good luck," Bob says with a dazed smile on his face, remembering the girl's words.

It's a date.

Bob walks to his room with an excited smile, feeling happiness in his chest, but when he remembers the last thing Y/N said, his eyes widen.

"Oh shit! It is a date!"

He needs to prepare for it.

----------

Bob listened and watched from the communications room to see how the team was doing on the mission.

It wasn't going so easy as they planed back in the tower a few hours ago, as they had run into a group of mercenaries who weren't going to give up so easily. The brunette just hoped everyone was okay and managed to complete the mission—and he really hoped Y/N was okay and didn't get hurt.

A feeling of anguish and anxiety was causing Bob's chest to tighten. His leg kept moving as he played with the Rubik's Cube in his hands, unable to complete a color.

The sound of bullets filled his ears, and his jaw clenched as he heard and saw Yelena or Bucky being hit. Alexei grumbled as he tried to pull a man off John to help him, and Ava took care of a few. Y/N tried to stop the bullets as best she could, but there were some hidden snipers she couldn't sense with her powers so easily.

"There's to many of them!" John complains through the earpiece in Bob's ear.

"Fuck! If we don't stop the ones from the roof we cannot go back to the car!" Ava exclaims in an almost exhaustive voice.

"Shit. C'mon guys" Bob whispers while frowning his eyebrows at the scene.

"Bob, can you see how many are on the roof?" Yelena asks from the communicator in her ear.

"Uh, yeah, yeah" he says inmediatly "There's five on the roof. Three of them has guns and two of them are programming something on the computer. Seems like.... oh no"

"What Bob?" Bucky asks.

"It's a bomb! You need to get out of there" Bob says quickly.

"Shit," Yelena curses.

"I can try to stop them. But I need you to cover my back," Y/N says in a confident, hurried tone.

Bob watches as the girl begins to head toward the other side to attack the group of men with guns at the entrance. The others try to stop anyone from attacking her, and she moves stealthily between the bodies to reach the entrance. Bob focuses his attention on the cameras in the building that shows Y/N, his heart aching at what's happening in the footage. Or what could happen.

"Please, be careful," Bob whispers.

Y/N stops the guards' bullets at the entrance with precision in her movements and attacks some who plan to hit her. Bob's eyes glance at the rest of the team as they manage to escape thanks to the distraction caused by the girl with green sparkles flashing from her fingers. However, he doesn't stop for more than five seconds just to check on the girl again. He wants to make sure she's okay, even if it's from behind the computer. Far away from the place where she is right now —just the thought of it makes his inner self freak out.

Something it's beginning to awake inside of him. Something he thought he had buried for his own good.

Or rather someone.

"Y/N, all done. Let's head to the car. I'll try to get to you right away," Bucky orders.

"No. It's okay, I got this," she chimes in stubbornly.

Bob shakes his head.

But before she can do so, a stray bullet hits her shoulder, destabilizing the girl.

"Fuck!" she complains, touching her shoulder.

"Y/N?" Bucky asks worriedly.

"Y/N!" Bob yells, watching as one of the guards hits her with her gun on the back of her head, causing the girl to fall unconscious to the ground.

That's it.

Bob rushes out of the tower's communications room and runs to the balcony, where he takes to the air with determination. He doesn't stop for a second, because time is precious, especially after seeing Y/N getting attacked. The only thing that keeps repeating in his mind is the visual image of the girl being injured, so he moves quickly through the air until he reaches the others. He had seen the coordinates and the area where they were, so it was easy for him to arrive in time.

Bob tries to find the place that the camera allowed him to watched the area in wich the girl was back at the tower, and when he finds it, he is surprised to find that one of the men responsible of attacking Y/N is carrying her unconscious body in his arms. Fury courses through his veins at the sight, and he rushes to stop the bastard. It's as if he's being consumed by darkness, a sensation he knows all too well.

As soon as he's in front of the guy, he stops him and without a second thought, tries to attack him, careful not to hit Y/N. The man looks at him in horror and carefully places the girl's body on the ground, then raises his hands in surrender.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know..." he stumbles, but all Bob sees is red.

He growls and begins to mercilessly beat the man's body, making him bleed, and doesn't stop until he's unconscious. Blow after blow, unleashing all the anger he felt at seeing how the bastard hurt the girl. He can still see her grimace of pain and how her body fell unconscious to the ground, helpless, and who knows what they might have done to her if he hadn't arrived in time.

"Please...." the man begs almost unconscious.

Bob doesn't hear him. He doesn't want to.

And Void doesn't want to too.

The rest of the team arrives at Y/N's location, only to see her lying on the ground with a scarlet stain forming on the shoulder of her suit, while Bob kills the man. Ava approaches the girl's body and makes sure she has a steady pulse, while John makes sure that no one appears and attacks them by surprise.

"Bob," Yelena warns and tries to approach him to make him see reason.

"No! He hurt her. No one can touch her, or hurt her!" he exclaims in a mixture of anger and darkness. "No one! You heard me? Fucking no one!"

The others stare at the scene and notice how Y/N wakes up and observes the state Bob is in. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder, she rushes over to him and wraps her arms around him from behind, resting her face on his.

"Bob, hey. It's okay," she murmurs in his ear, feeling the man begin to slow down the blows, so she tightens her grip on his body. "I'm okay. Everything will be okay."

Bob calms down and brings his now covered in blood hands to Y/N's arms, then turns his body and hugs her with all his strength, trying to cover her body to protect her just in case, and also feel her in his arms and make sure nothing happens to her anymore.

"You are hurt" he whispers in her ear.

"It's just a scratch. I'll be fine" Y/N says with a small smile on her lips.

"He hurt you. I couln't allow him to do it" he says in a broken voice.

Y/N looks at the rest of the team and smiles at them, letting them know she's okay. Kinda. Bucky sighs and shakes his head at the girl in that state, knowing she must be screaming from the pain of the bullet, while Alexei smiles sideways and tries to encourage her from a distance. The blonde russian girl mouths to her that she will get the car ready to go, to wich Y/N nods and indicates her to do so.

"We still have our date," she tells him, still standing with the brunette, glancing at the man's lifeless body.

Bob lets out a sigh and nods his head against Y/N's chest, agreeing with her.

"Our date," he says in a soft tone, relaxing at the touch of her fingers in his hair. Although he can't help but feel anger again when he smells the metallic scent coming from the girl's wound.

"Yeah. Are we still up to that?"

"Definitely" Bob answers and lets out a small laugh.

She smiles and then pulls away from him to look him in the eye. Those blue orbits who watch her with a spark on his eyes.

"So let's go home and have our date, okay?" Bob nods and then lowers his gaze to the girl's wound.

"First, we need to treat your wound," he says, pointing to the red stain on her suit.

"Would you help me with that?"

"You don't have to ask me twice."

They both stare at each other with a small smile on their faces, understanding how much they care for each other and would do anything to keep them safe and viceversa.

Especially Bob.

And as long as Y/N is in his arms, he'll be okay.

[halfmoonaria]

the cost of hate

pairing: tara carpenter & gp!fem!reader

summary: tara always knew you drove her crazy — she just never expected it to go this far

warnings: smut 18+ / NSFW content (explicit sexual content), angry sex, alcohol intoxication.

author’s note: this was a request and turned out extremely long so buckle up.

Tara wasn't sure when exactly you became her nemesis.

It could've been the time you called her "Tinkerbell with anger issues" in front of the whole group — completely unprovoked, by the way.

Or maybe it was the fact that you always showed up to group hangouts exactly eight minutes late. Not seven. Not ten. Eight. Like you were trying to be casually inconvenient on purpose.

And somehow, you always had an iced coffee in hand and sunglasses on, even if it was dark outside, looking like you were arriving for an interview you didn't need to prepare for.

Whatever the origin story was, all Tara knew was that you were insufferable. Loud, cocky, always smirking like you were the punchline to a joke only you found funny.

And worse? You flirted with everyone. Constantly. Half the time you weren't even saying anything particularly charming — just leaning too close, dragging out compliments, tilting your head like you were always three seconds from kissing someone just because you could.

And people loved you for it. Chad thought you were the funniest person alive. Mindy treated you like some chaotic little science experiment she'd adopted. Anika had actually said the words "I think she 's kinda iconic" once, and Tara had nearly choked on her drink.

She didn't get it. She didn't want to get it.

You were the kind of person who made her blood boil and her eye twitch. She'd convinced herself that every time you opened your mouth, it shaved at least a day off her lifespan. You always had to have the last word. You always pushed the exact button you knew would get a reaction.

And worst of all, you did it with that face — that smug, slow-smiling, resting-brat expression that made Tara want to throw something heavy at you. Preferably a chair.

She'd tried ignoring you. She really had. But you made it impossible. You talked too much, laughed too loud, spread out across the couch like you paid rent there, and had the nerve to act like she was the uptight one whenever she snapped at you. You acted like everything she said was just part of some game you were both playing — like you didn't even take her seriously.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because sometimes, late at night, Tara would catch herself replaying your dumb little one-liners, thinking of all the better insults she could've said. And sometimes, she'd spend way too long trying to decide whether you actually meant it when you told her she looked "surprisingly good" that one night in her new jeans.

She told herself it didn't matter.

Because you were not funny. You were not charming.

And if anyone thought otherwise, they were probably just under the influence of your freakish ability to spin basic, mediocre nonsense into something that sounded clever. It wasn't wit. It was volume control and eyebrow raises. That was your whole personality — speaking like you were narrating a scene and reacting like you knew you had an audience.

Tara hated that you always acted like you had the upper hand. Even when she was clearly, objectively winning an argument, you'd throw out some offhand line like "You're cute when you're wrong" and somehow — somehow — everyone would laugh like you were the second coming of George Carlin. It made her want to scream. Or hit you. Or both.

You always took up space without asking. You sat on counters like chairs didn't exist. You interrupted people with questions no one asked and nicknamed her things like "Captain Cranky" or "Tiny Terror," depending on your mood. There was never a day you didn't have some quip ready, like your entire goal in life was to make her feel just annoyed enough to snap in front of other people.

And the worst part was how good you were at pretending it was all harmless. Like she was the only one taking it seriously. You'd look at her with that stupid half-lidded stare, eyebrows lifted, head tilted like you were trying to figure her out. Like she was the one being weird.

God, it was infuriating. You were infuriating.

And yet, somehow, her brain had decided you deserved this much mental real estate. Which wasn't fair. Because she didn't like you. She wasn't even curious about you. She just... needed to understand why you bothered her so much.

Yeah. That was it. She was just trying to understand you.

Which is totally normal.

Totally sane.

Totally not bordering on a hyperfixation.

Tara blinked, the sun catching the edge of her vision as the sharp buzz of lunch chatter brought her back into the moment. She was sitting on one of those uncomfortable benches in the quad, elbow resting on the table, a half-eaten sandwich in front of her that she'd mostly forgotten about. The group was scattered around her — Mindy sprawled with her laptop open even though no one believed she was doing homework, Chad snacking on something loud, Anika sipping from a thermos and pretending she wasn't eavesdropping on everyone at once.

And you — of course — were across from her, leaned back like the bench was a recliner, sunglasses pushed up into your hair. Your mouth was moving, which meant Tara was already irritated.

"...I'm just saying," you were saying, mid-rant about something that had nothing to do with anything, "if I wanted to scam someone, it'd be super easy. Like, I could sell people fake concert tickets and just vanish. New name, new identity, new city. Easy."

Chad looked genuinely impressed. "Wait, you've thought about this?"

"I have a backup plan for my backup plan," you said, proud.

Tara didn't look up from her phone as she muttered, "Yeah, the plan is called 'being an idiot with too much confidence.'"

Anika pressed her lips together like she was trying not to laugh. Mindy glanced up, half-interested, just in time to see your face twist into that annoying little smirk you always pulled when Tara spoke.

You leaned forward slightly, tapping the table with your fingers. "Aw, don't be mad just 'cause your only backup plan is murder."

Tara looked up at that — slow and unamused. "If I ever do commit murder, guess who's at the top of the list?"

"Oh, I hope it's me," you said without missing a beat. "You thinking about me in your darkest hours is kind of hot."

Mindy muttered a faint Jesus Christ into her drink. Chad quietly asked Anika what the hell was happening.

Tara rolled her eyes and went back to her phone, but her ears were hot. And unfortunately, she knew you noticed that. Because you were watching her. Still.

Always.

Tara told herself she wasn't going to engage again. She had already given you one line — that was one too many. But you were still there, grinning like you'd just won something, like her irritation was a gift, and it was taking everything in her not to throw her sandwich directly at your stupid face.

God, she hated you.

She hated the way you always found a way to make the conversation about yourself — like you were the main character and everyone else was lucky to exist in your orbit. She hated your fake-deep takes on random topics, your smug little shrugs, and how you somehow got away with doing absolutely zero schoolwork but still passed everything. She hated how you never used a phone case. She hated your handwriting. She hated that you had a fanbase in school like this was a Netflix original.

And most of all, she hated that you always sat across from her.

"Okay, but if you had to pick someone in this group to survive the apocalypse with," Anika was saying, gesturing dramatically with a carrot stick, "who would it be? And you can't say me, because obviously I'd carry all of you."

Mindy snorted. "You? You panic when the WiFi goes out."

"I have emotional strength," Anika shot back.

"Emotional strength doesn't reload a crossbow," Mindy said.

"Wait, wait—" you leaned forward like you were about to say something important, which already annoyed Tara, "—do we mean zombie apocalypse or, like, nuclear winter? Because that changes everything."

Tara didn't even look up. "Why do you sound like you've practiced for both?"

You didn't miss a beat. "Why do you sound jealous?" That earned a soft laugh from Chad. Tara glared at him.

Mindy was already shaking her head. "This is why you two can't sit next to each other. It's like watching a romcom written by sociopaths."

"Excuse you," you said, hand on your chest. "I bring levity to this group. I'm the charming one."

"You're the delusional one," Tara muttered.

Chad leaned back. "Speaking of delusion — is everyone still going to that party Friday night?”

Tara finally looked up again. "You mean the one at that junior's house? Josh-something?"

"Josh Valera," Mindy supplied. "He was in that weird film class last semester. Wears too much cologne. Thinks Letterboxd is a personality."

"That's the one," Chad said. "Apparently he's got a pool and like five kegs."

Anika perked up. "Five?"

"Two of them are root beer, but still," Chad added.

You shrugged. "I'm going. I like chaos.”

Tara rolled her eyes. "Of course you do. You are chaos."

You grinned at her again. "Flirting already? Slow down, Carpenter. Buy me a drink first."

Tara didn't respond. She just reached over and stole a grape off your tray.

You blinked. "Hey."

"Shut up," she said, chewing slowly.

You didn't argue. You just gave her that look — the one that made her want to throw you into traffic. Or maybe into a wall. Hard to say.

Tara turned back to the group, pretending like the grape theft had ended the interaction, but her thoughts didn't exactly follow. Her fingers tapped absently against the table as Mindy and Chad started debating whether keg root beer was a crime or a revelation, voices blending into background noise.

She wasn't even sure she wanted to go to this party.

It wasn't her scene. Too loud, too messy, too many people trying to be seen. She'd already told herself she might flake. She had a paper she could use as an excuse. A headache she could fake. A completely made-up allergy to chlorine if anyone asked about the pool.

But now you were going — and somehow that made her want to not go even more, and also want to go twice as hard just to make sure you didn't say something so dumb no one could recover from it.

That was the thing about you. You made her feel like she had to be there. To monitor the chaos. To fact-check your nonsense in real time. And sure, yeah, maybe parties were a little more fun when you were around — but only because watching you try to dance and hit on people like a malfunctioning dating sim was basically free entertainment.

She wasn't going because of you.

Obviously not.

She was going because she was invited. Because all her friends were going. Because maybe she deserved a night out after surviving another week of your voice echoing through every goddamn group hangout like a mosquito that wouldn't die.

Totally normal reasons.

Mindy was saying something again, something about outfit coordination or theme or whatever, but Tara barely caught it. Her eyes flicked back across the table where you'd gone back to talking with Anika — animated, leaning in, saying something Tara couldn't hear but that made Anika snort.

You looked relaxed. Stupidly relaxed. Sunglasses still pushed up on your head, like you hadn't even noticed the sun or the way it bounced off your smile or how annoying it was that you smiled that much.

God, Tara hated people like you. The kind who didn't try and still got attention. The kind who didn't care and still got invited to everything. The kind who never shut up — ever — but somehow never got told to.

And now you were going to be at the party too.

Great.

Because of course you were. Of course you'd show up, talk too loud, drink too much, and somehow still end the night with everyone thinking you were fun. And Tara would have to deal with it. Like always.

Totally fine.

She could survive one night. As long as you didn't say anything too stupid.

Or try to talk to her.

Or exist within her peripheral vision.

___

Tara didn't even know why she was standing in front of her closet like that. Like she was frozen. Like any of this actually mattered.

It wasn't her first party. Wasn't even the first one this month. She knew exactly what to expect — same drinks, same music, same people. She wasn't nervous. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. She wasn't standing there for any reason at all, really.

Still, she'd been flipping through the same six hangers for almost ten minutes.

She wasn't overthinking it. She just didn't feel like hearing some dumb comment about how she wore the same shirt every time. Not that she cared what Mindy said — Mindy had zero taste and even less room to talk — but still. It wasn't about the top. It was just... the principle.

She grabbed a black crop top. Put it on. Looked at herself. Took it off.

Not because she didn't like it. She just didn't feel like dealing with it right now.

Tried something else. Looked fine. Took it off again.

God.

She tugged her hair into a loose ponytail, held it there for a second, then let it fall. Stared at herself in the mirror. Walked away. Came back. Tried on the black again. Threw it on the bed.

Her phone buzzed. Again.

The group chat was full-blown chaos now — Mindy sending voice notes nobody asked for, Chad trying to be funny and failing, Anika suggesting shots before they even left the dorm. Tara rolled her eyes. She opened the chat, typed something halfway, deleted it, then checked her lockscreen out of habit.

And of course, your name was sitting right there. With another voice note. Two, actually.

She played the first one, not because she wanted to hear it, but because it auto-played when she tapped it. That's what she told herself anyway. Not like she was listening. Not like she replayed it when it cut off halfway through because she didn't have her volume up.

She didn't even laugh. Not really. Just that weird half-smirk thing she did when she was trying not to give anyone credit for being funny.

Whatever.

She tossed her phone across the bed and sat down next to it with a dramatic flop she'd never admit was on purpose. Let her head fall back. Closed her eyes.

This wasn't her being weird. It was just her getting in the right headspace. That's all. Normal pre-party stuff. Not dread. Not anything serious. Just the kind of minor, manageable irritation that came with the territory.

People were going to be annoying. The room was going to be too hot. Someone was going to spill beer on her shoes again. And yeah, maybe you'd be there, being loud and smug and pretending like you didn't love hearing your own voice. But so what? Tara could handle that.

She always handled that.

And if she didn't, it wasn't like anyone noticed.

She'd gotten good at that — at faking it. At keeping it light. Whatever the opposite of spiraling was, that's what she did in public. Kept things casual. Played it off. Made the right faces. Said the right things. The trick was not to stop moving. Not to let people look for too long. Not to give anyone time to ask questions.

And if something slipped — if her voice cracked, if her hands shook — well, that's what alcohol was for.

It made things easier. Smoother. People didn't ask why you were acting weird if you were drinking. They just laughed and passed the bottle and told you to take another one. And Tara? Tara could always take another one.

She never had to explain anything if she was drunk.

It was a cover. A convenient excuse. And sometimes, yeah, it worked a little too well — like when she woke up still in her jeans or couldn't remember who had walked her home. But that was part of the deal. Part of the plan. She'd rather feel nothing at all than have it spill.

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and rubbed her hands over her face.

Tonight wouldn't be different. It wasn't going to be some dramatic thing. Just another night where she drank enough to not think too hard. Just enough to laugh too loud and say something kind of mean and not care if you looked at her like you wanted to say something back.

Just another night. Same as always.

That's what she told herself as she pulled on her jacket and stepped out into the dark. She didn't rush. Didn't think too hard about it. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a second, she just stood there, her hands buried in her pockets, the quiet pressing in from all sides. Not a calm kind of quiet — not peaceful — more like the kind that made her feel too aware of everything. Her breath. Her pulse. The buzz in her ears that hadn't gone away since last week.

She started walking.

The streets were mostly empty. A few cars passed. Somewhere in the distance, someone was laughing way too loud, maybe already drunk. She didn't look. Just kept moving. It was muscle memory at this point — her feet knew where to go, even if her mind wasn't really in it yet.

She used to put music on for walks like this. Something loud, something fast. Something to drown things out. But now she didn't bother. Now she liked the silence better. Or maybe she just didn't want to give herself the chance to start assigning meaning to lyrics again. She hated when she did that. It made everything feel too obvious.

So she walked in silence. Past the same corner store, the same flickering streetlamp, the same crooked fence that probably still hadn't been fixed. Her fingers itched for a cigarette even though she didn't smoke. She was just used to the image — used to pretending she was the kind of person who'd do that. Careless. Detached. In control.

By the time she turned onto the right block, she could already hear the music. Not loud enough to be annoying yet. Just enough to feel like a warning. Like a reminder of what came next.

She didn't slow down.

The house wasn't far. Just a few blocks down — she could already hear the thump of music by the time she reached the corner. That same playlist they always used. That same vibrating bassline that never quite matched the beat. Someone had left the front door cracked open, and warm air hit her in the face the second she stepped inside, carrying with it a wave of voices, sweat, perfume, and cheap alcohol.

Same as always.

She didn't stop at the entrance. Didn't hesitate. She shoved her hands in her pockets and headed straight for the back — toward the kitchen, toward the glass sliding door with the broken lock, toward the corner that had somehow, over time, become theirs.

Mindy spotted her first.

"Tara!" she shouted, like they hadn't spoken that morning, already tipsy and holding a Solo cup with something suspiciously pink inside. She lunged in for a hug Tara barely returned, then immediately started talking about something she didn't really understand. Chad followed, grinning wide and already pulling her into one of those awkward side-hugs he gave everyone, like he was too big to fully aim.

And then there was you.

You leaned back against the counter like you owned it, one eyebrow raised, drink in hand. You didn't even say hi at first. Just let your gaze drag up and down her outfit — slow, deliberately unimpressed — before you spoke.

"Wow," you said. "She changed out of the hoodie. What's the occasion? You get drafted?"

Tara blinked once. "Wow," she repeated, tone deadpan. "That was almost funny. You've been practicing, huh?"

Mindy laughed. You grinned. Chad muttered something about not starting again.

But it was too late. The ritual had begun.

Tara took the drink Mindy offered, clinked it lightly against yours in some mock toast, and took a long sip without breaking eye contact. It tasted like something toxic, but she didn't flinch.

The circle closed around her again, just like it always did — warm, messy, loud, familiar. Anika slid in beside her and started complaining about the DJ. Mindy was yelling about rules for flip cup that no one asked for. Chad had already disappeared, probably looking for food. And you... you stayed exactly where you were, always within arm's reach, always with something to say.

It felt normal.

Same as every other night. Same drink in her hand. Same laughter around her. Same practiced smile on her face, tight but believable. And if she stayed moving, stayed distracted, stayed loud enough or quiet enough or just enough of something — then no one noticed anything at all. Not even you. Who noticed everything.

Anika was halfway through telling the story — apparently Chad had knocked over a whole drink onto the stereo setup earlier, and they all thought the music was going to short out and ruin the night. Mindy kept cutting in to dramatize it, claiming Chad had "shrieked like a toddler," and Chad, who was now camped out by the snacks, shouted back through a mouthful of chips that it wasn't that loud.

You half-listened, swirling the last of your drink around in the cup. Your focus kept drifting back to Tara, who had slouched into the armchair next to you without much enthusiasm, tapping the bottom of her cup against her knee like she was counting down the minutes until she could leave.

"Yeah, you missed it," you said finally, tossing it casually in her direction. "You took so long getting here we were about to send out a search party."

Tara didn't answer right away. She shifted a little in her seat, tapping her cup once more, before muttering, "Sorry people have other shit to do besides drink themselves stupid."

You smirked at the sharpness in her tone. That was the thing about Tara — she always bit back, even when it only made it worse for her.

"And here I thought you were just busy picking out an outfit," you said, resting your elbow lazily against the back of the couch. "Took you forever and you're still the worst dressed one here."

Mindy barely looked up from her phone. "Okay, but to be fair, Y/N would say that no matter what she wore."

You clicked your tongue like you were hurt, but Tara beat you to it, lifting her cup and aiming a lazy smile at Mindy.

"At least someone around here has taste," she said, clinking her drink lightly in Mindy's direction.

You eyed Tara's outfit again — black jeans, black top, black jacket. Somehow three different shades.

"Taste?" you echoed, eyebrows lifting. "You're wearing two different blacks right now. You look like a printer error."

Tara exhaled through her nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. "Right, because I should take fashion advice from someone who thinks jean shorts are business casual."

The reaction from the group was instant — a few low laughs, Mindy muttering something under her breath you didn't catch. Tara just shook her head like she was so done, but you could see the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth, like she was holding back a smile she didn't want to give you.

Still, she couldn't leave it alone. She never could.

"You know what?" you said, straightening up like you'd just remembered something crucial. "At least I show up on time. Not everyone's gotta wait around pretending to enjoy freshmen karaoke because someone can't figure out how to use Google Maps."

That one hit — a few more chuckles around the room. Tara narrowed her eyes, shifting forward in her seat.

"It's a five-minute walk," she said, her voice dripping with disbelief. "Even you could find your way here, and you still get lost inside a Target."

You gasped like it was an outrage, slapping a hand to your chest. "Oh my god. I got lost one time."

"Three times," Anika corrected, not even looking up from the cup she was fiddling with.

You turned your betrayal onto her with a dramatic glare. "That's because Target is a maze. They do it on purpose. Like a trap.”

Tara was already leaning back, tipping her head against the wall like she was exhausted by your stupidity. "You're just dumb," she said sweetly, smiling over the rim of her cup.

You smiled wider, teeth and all, like you had been waiting for it.

"Yeah?" you said. "You got an F in Health class, Tara. You're basically a public hazard."

It was immediate — a loud snort from Mindy, Anika covering her mouth in a poor attempt to hide her laugh. Tara, for once, didn't have anything fast enough to say back. She just gave you a look — all narrowed eyes and simmering annoyance — and took a long, deliberate sip of her drink instead.

You leaned back into the couch, pleased, letting the laughter fade around you. Tara was still glaring at you from behind her cup, and you shot her a wink just to twist the knife a little deeper.

Like always — you got the last word. And like always — she hated you for it. God, she hated you.

She hated the way you acted like you didn't care, like nothing ever touched you. She hated the way you could tear her apart without even raising your voice, how you never got rattled no matter how hard she tried to knock you off balance. How you smiled at her like you liked seeing her lose.

She hated your mouth — sharp and quick and always moving — and the way you dressed, like you didn't even try but still somehow won. Tight black tube top stretched over your chest, low-slung jeans clinging just right, a little messy, a little dangerous, a lot hotter than she could stand to admit.

Tara let her gaze slide sideways, just for a second. You were leaning back against the kitchen counter now, a red solo cup dangling carelessly from your fingers, grinning lazily, legs crossed at the ankle like you couldn't have been more at home. The hem of your jeans was frayed, the belt slung low across your hips, the sharp lines of your body slouching there like it wasn't killing her.

You looked like every bad decision she had ever barely survived. And you knew it.

Tara took another long sip of her drink, swallowing down the burn. She told herself she was just annoyed — just irritated by you — that the flush creeping up the back of her neck was from the alcohol, not from the way you kept laughing, easy and bright, with everyone except her.

Not because you looked good.

Not because you made her want something she was supposed to hate.

She tapped her cup against the edge of the counter again, harder this time, trying to shake it off.

Trying to ignore the way you shifted your weight, the way the band of your belt caught the low light, the sharp gleam in your eye every time you caught her looking.

God, she hated you. And if she didn't, she was going to have to start lying a whole lot harder.

Tara cracked an eye open at the sound, her gaze dragging over you — slow, irritated, and just a little too heavy. She could already feel the alcohol blooming hot under her skin, prickling at the back of her neck, tightening in her chest like it wanted to crawl out. Definitely more than she usually drank. Way more.

But what was she supposed to do? Stand here stone-cold sober while you — in all your smug, infuriating glory — kept shooting her that half-smile like you knew you were winning just by existing?

No chance.

She shifted her weight, letting her shoulder knock loosely against the cabinet behind her, and took another sip even though she didn't want it. The liquor was starting to taste stale. Bitter. And it still wasn't working. Still wasn't shutting off the sharp, gnawing awareness of you — standing there way too close, belt catching the light, black tube top doing absolutely nothing to not make her night worse.

She blamed the red in your eyes on the alcohol too. Had to. Because the alternative — that you were already three steps ahead of her, soft and glassy and loose-limbed and still managing to make her look like the idiot — was something she wasn't about to deal with tonight.

You caught her looking again. Of course you did. You tilted your head just slightly, a silent challenge, your fingers toying lazily with the rim of your cup.

"Just you and me then, princess," you said, smirking around the rim of your cup.

Tara scoffed, hard, eyes narrowing. "Don't call me that."

You blinked innocently. "No? What about...Pissy Missy?"

She made a face like she just swallowed something sour. "Worse."

You grinned wider, pushing off the counter to face her more fully. "Snappy?"

She shot you a look that could've cut glass. "Try again and I'm breaking your nose."

You lifted your free hand, pretending to think it over, pretending to take it seriously. "Mmm... Crankzilla?"

"Jesus Christ," she muttered under her breath, rubbing her temples like the very sound of your voice was giving her a migraine.

You pushed yourself up onto the counter with a little hop, drink sloshing slightly in your hand but somehow you didn't spill a drop. You perched there like you owned the whole damn room, legs swinging loosely, head tilted just enough to seem amused, still grinning, refusing to let up. "Tantrum Tot?"

Tara let out a short, humorless laugh. "You are the last person who's allowed to call me that."

Your smile turned sly. You leaned in just a little — enough to make it annoying, enough to make it clear you were doing it on purpose. "Mean Bean?"

Tara actually recoiled like you'd slapped her. "I will literally throw you out the window."

You laughed under your breath, couldn't help it. "So that's a no?"

She shook her head, looking half-ready to murder you, half-ready to laugh. She wasn't sure if it was the alcohol making everything feel looser around the edges — the thrum in her veins, the heat crawling up her neck — or just you being a stubborn, smug little shit, the way you always were.

You looked at her, feigning disappointment. "Guess I'll just stick to 'princess.' You seemed to like that one the best."

She let out a sharp, disbelieving breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan — and nudged your knee with her hand as she stepped past you to grab another drink. "God, you're insufferable."

But her mouth twitched at the corner when she said it. Just barely.

And you caught it.

Of course you did.

Your eyebrows lifted, slow and smug, and you tipped your cup toward her like a lazy kind of toast before taking a sip — dragging it out just enough to make sure she noticed.

Tara rolled her eyes, whipping her head to the side like she could physically shake you out of her sight. But it was too late — you'd already seen it.

The tiny, reluctant pull of a smile at the corner of her mouth. Like she hated you, God, she hated you — but sometimes you were just... so stupid, it scraped a laugh out of her before she could stop it.

Not a full laugh — just a quick breath through her nose, a barely-there twist of her mouth — but enough to make you catch it.

And enough to make your smirk deepen.

You leaned back against the counter a little more comfortably, soaking it in, almost like you were proud of yourself for chipping away at her.

Which, of course, you were.

The room around you buzzed louder — people laughing, shot glasses clinking together somewhere across the kitchen. You turned your head lazily toward the noise, watching as a group gathered by the kitchen island, shouting numbers and already spilling cheap liquor across the counters.

Your gaze shifted back to Tara, a lazy spark lighting behind your eyes.

"Let's take a shot," you said, voice low and smooth, like you were suggesting something way worse.

Tara blinked at you, like she genuinely thought she had misheard. "What?"

You shrugged one shoulder, your smirk never dropping.

"Scared you can't keep up?"

This time, the laugh actually escaped her — a short, incredulous sound, almost more like a scoff.

"You wish," she said, shooting you a look so sharp it could've taken your head off if you were standing any closer.

You pushed off the counter, setting your drink down without a second thought, already moving toward the mess of bottles and half-filled glasses at the island.

You didn't even have to look back — you could feel her eyes burning into your back, feel the weight of her decision hanging thick in the air.

For a second, you thought maybe she was going to be stubborn — dig her heels in and refuse, just to spite you. But when you slowed up near the table, pretending like you hadn't even noticed she hadn't followed yet, you heard her exhale sharply.

You didn't have to look to know she was giving in.

You grabbed two shot glasses from the cluttered island, ignoring how sticky the counter had gotten, and poured quickly — a lazy, messy hand on the bottle.

You very obviously tipped a little more into hers, the clear liquid sloshing closer to the rim, before sliding it across the counter toward her spot without a word.

Tara caught it, narrowing her eyes immediately — but she didn't say anything. She just adjusted her grip like she was already planning how to get you back later.

You grinned, picking up your own glass, and tilted it toward her expectantly.

"C'mon," you said, nudging the rim of yours toward hers. "Don't be rude."

She rolled her eyes but lifted hers too, clearly ready to just get this over with — but you didn't let it stay casual.

You smacked the two glasses together a little harder than you should have, enough that a splash of alcohol flew up and splattered across her hand and wrist.

"Asshole," she laughed — real this time, but quick and rough like she didn't mean to let it out — wiping her hand absently on the side of her skirt.

You shrugged, pretending like it hadn't been on purpose at all, and tipped your glass up.

Tara followed a beat later.

The tequila hit her tongue hot — too hot.

Not the smooth burn she was used to — the kind that melted into your chest and stayed there — but something sharper, harsher, like her whole mouth dried up at once and she was still somehow drowning.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she swallowed it, scrunching her nose instinctively after.

She'd taken shots a hundred times before. But right now, it felt... different.

Maybe it was the amount she'd already had tonight — more than she usually would've touched.

Or maybe it was the way the room spun a little when she tipped her head back down, how everything felt just slightly off-balance, like the floor under her feet was shifting.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that you were standing there, cocky and stupid and smirking at her like you knew she was going to keep saying yes to every little thing you dared her to do.

Maybe it was that.

Either way — she wasn't about to let you win again.

You were already reaching for the bottle again, tipping it over both your glasses without even asking.

You didn't even look at her — just poured like it was obvious she was going to stay.

Tara moved automatically at first, grabbing her glass to pull it away — but she hesitated halfway through. Her fingers tightened around the rim instead, her mouth tightening too, like she couldn't believe she was actually doing this.

She was shotting with you. Standing next to you — just you — out of her own free will.

Nobody forcing her, nobody dragging her by the wrist, nobody making a joke or daring her into it.

She could have walked away fifteen minutes ago. Hell, she could have never said yes in the first place. But here she was.

And the worst part — the part that made her want to throw the shot straight in your face — was that it didn't even feel completely insufferable.

It should have. God, it should have.

Instead, there was a lightness to it. A weird, easy kind of tension that didn't make her want to throw a punch — not really. Just... knock your stupid smirk off your face a little.

You caught her staring, of course — because you always caught everything — and shot her a look like you were already laughing at her inside your head.

You smirked wider, raised your glass, and clinked it against hers again.

"Cheers, princess," you said, all slow and mocking.

Tara narrowed her eyes — but when you both tipped your heads back and took the second shot, she was smiling.

She hated it.

But she smiled anyway.

The first shot was already starting to hum under her skin — or maybe it was the second, she didn't know. She told herself that was why she was still standing there with you. Why she hadn't already shoved past you and disappeared into the crowd.

It wasn't because it felt good — leaning there, beside you, the air crackling faintly between your arms whenever you shifted too close. It wasn't because of the way you kept glancing at her, like you were waiting for her to crack first.

It wasn't because the tiny part of her — the tiny, traitorous part — kind of liked it.

No.

It was just the alcohol.

That's what she decided as she placed her empty shot glass back down, a little too hard.

That's what she decided when her head swayed slightly, and the room tipped for a second too long before steadying.

When the blurry edges of the world made it easier not to think too hard about anything.

You were leaning your hip lazily against the edge of the folding table now, one foot hooked behind the other, like you didn't have a single worry in the world. One hand still cradling your drink, the other tapping a slow, easy rhythm against your thigh.

You were too relaxed.

Too comfortable.

Like standing next to her wasn't supposed to be the most aggravating part of your night.

It made her jaw clench — and at the same time, her stomach twist in a way she didn't really want to name.

She didn't realize she was staring until you turned your head, catching her again — always catching her — and cocked your eyebrow slightly, like you could read every thought she hadn't even figured out herself yet.

You didn't say anything for a second — just kept leaning there, easy and casual, like you didn't notice the way she was barely keeping herself upright. But then your smirk deepened a little, sharp and taunting.

"Want to dance?"you said, tipping your head toward the living room, where the music was still loud and heavy.

Tara almost laughed in your face.

Almost.

But the alcohol made the floor feel softer under her sneakers.

It made the flicker of lights around the room seem farther away, easier to ignore. And it made the idea of saying no — of staying here while you went off and smiled at someone else — feel unbearable.

So she rolled her eyes, muttered something under her breath that sounded a lot like "fuck you," and shoved off the table to follow.

The bass was pounding when you reached the middle of the room, people already packed tight enough that there wasn't really much space to move properly.

You didn't seem to care. You just spun around to face her, stepping backward into the crowd and waiting, daring her, with a tilt of your head.

Tara hesitated — but only for half a second.

Because fuck it. It was just dancing.

And it was definitely just the alcohol making her heart trip when your hand brushed lightly against her wrist.

You didn't grab her. You didn't even really touch her again.

You just started moving, lazy and easy, like you knew she was going to fall in step with you eventually.

And the worst part — the part that made Tara want to rip the stupid black tube top off your body — was that she did.

The music was loud enough to drown everything else out.

The lights blurred. The people around you blurred. And suddenly it was just you.

The way you moved. The way your jeans clung low on your hips. The flash of your belt buckle when you twisted just right. The way your shirt stretched tight across your stomach, showing off every sharp line of you.

Tara's mouth went dry. And just like that, the anger was back.

Because of course this was happening. Of course the second she let her guard down for half a second, you had to go and be hot.

She blamed the alcohol. She blamed the shitty lighting. She blamed the way the air felt sticky and electric. She blamed everything — except herself.

Because there was no fucking way she was actually starting to want you.

Tara moved half a beat off from you, just enough to look casual — just enough to hide the way her eyes kept flickering up, catching on you every other second.

The lights kept shifting overhead, blurring everything in flashes of purple and red, but somehow you stayed sharp.

The slope of your neck when you tossed your head back, laughing at something someone said behind you.

The way your shirt bunched and stretched with every shift of your hips.

The way your fingers hooked lazily through your belt loops, casual, cocky, like you owned the whole fucking room.

It all felt like slow motion.

Too vivid. Too loud inside her own head.

Tara gritted her teeth and forced herself to move, let the music drag her along so she didn't freeze up completely.

Because she could not let you catch her staring. She could not give you that satisfaction.

But even as she danced — even as she made herself sway to the pounding bass — her hands curled into fists at her sides.

She wanted to slap herself across the face. Or better — slap you.

Because you weren't even doing anything. You were just existing — just breathing and smiling and moving like you didn't have a single thought in your stupid, pretty head — and it was wrecking her.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fucking fair that you could get under her skin like this without even trying.

And it made her furious.

Furious that she couldn't look away.

Furious that you looked so good under the lights, all effortless and smug and just a little wild.

Furious that her pulse stuttered every time you shifted closer.

Furious that a tiny, traitorous part of her — deep, deep down — almost didn't hate it.

Of course this was happening. Of course it was.

It wasn't like she hadn't seen it coming — not really. Not with the way you hovered around the edges of her life now, like a bad habit she couldn't kick. Not with the way the bickering had started sounding less like hatred and more like a language only the two of you spoke.

But this — this heat licking up her spine every time you so much as shifted in her direction —

This wasn't supposed to happen.

It couldn't happen.

Not when she hated you.

Not when she'd spent months convincing herself you were a mistake — a fluke — an accident she was smarter than to repeat.

You were cocky. You were smug.

You were a walking disaster, and you didn't even try to hide it.

You made her want to scream into her pillow and punch holes through walls and maybe — maybe —pull you closer by your stupid shirt and kiss you until she forgot how much she hated you.

And that was exactly the problem.

Because if there was even the smallest chance she could want you — even for a second —even with the alcohol burning through her bloodstream and the lights spinning overhead —then everything she thought she knew about you — about herself —was a lie.

And Tara Carpenter didn't lose.

She didn't fold.

She didn't want things she wasn't supposed to want.

Especially not you.

Her head buzzed — heavy and slow — like she was moving a few beats behind everything else. Every noise — every shout, every laugh, every thud of bass — felt a little too loud, rattling inside her skull like a marble in a glass jar. She blinked hard, trying to clear the static clouding her brain, but it only made the lights streak across her vision worse.

She caught herself swaying a little where she stood, the floor tilting under her feet, and scowled hard at nothing.

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides — like maybe she could squeeze the dizziness out of herself if she tried hard enough.

Great.

Exactly what she needed.

As if this wasn't already a fucking disaster.

The music thumped louder, vibrating up through the soles of her shoes, knocking against her ribs like a second heartbeat. Someone bumped into her shoulder, laughing, a drink sloshing over their hand, and Tara barely managed not to stumble sideways.

She realized she wasn't even really dancing anymore — just standing there, stuck, her pulse pounding too close to the surface, her breath coming quicker than she wanted.

Everything felt too hot. Too close. Too slow and too fast all at once. She needed to move.

She needed to get away from you — your stupid mouth and your stupid smirk and your stupid eyes.

Without thinking, she spun on her heel and pushed away from the crowd, her boots scraping hard against the sticky floor.

The bodies around her blurred together, all sweat-slick skin and flashing lights. She shoved her way through without caring, elbowing past groups hunched over drinks, sidestepping half-hearted apologies she barely heard.

The smell of cheap liquor and something burnt clung to the air, thick enough to choke on. Every step felt heavier than the last, like her boots were sinking into the floor, dragging her down.

She squinted through the chaos, trying to find somewhere — anywhere — less suffocating, her hands flexing uselessly at her sides.

Her eyes caught on a worn-out couch shoved against the wall, sagging in the middle, a mess of abandoned jackets and empty cups piled onto one side. It was barely any quieter over there — the music still thudding through the walls — but it was better than standing around like an idiot.

She stumbled her way toward it, weaving through the crowd, her shoulder clipping someone's arm without so much as a sorry. By the time she dropped onto the couch, the seat gave a tired creak under her weight, and she let herself slump back — her legs sprawling.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing the dizziness to settle, the roaring in her ears to die down.

The world kept tilting anyway.

She hated this.

Hated the way the night felt like it was slipping out of her hands.

Hated the heat clinging to her skin.

Hated you for making it worse without even trying.

She didn't even hear you approach — not at first.

But she felt it — the shift in the air, the invisible pull of you stepping closer.

That same stupid electricity sparking just from you being near.

Tara gritted her teeth, dropping her hands back onto her knees like she hadn't noticed anything at all. Like you weren't already there, lingering behind her, all smug and cocky and impossible to ignore.

She barely had time to slump back before you caught up, dropping down onto the couch beside her like you belonged there.

Your voice was low and stupidly smug in her ear.

"What's wrong? Can't keep up?"

Tara flipped you off over her shoulder without even bothering to look at you.

The motion was sloppy — her middle finger wobbling a little in the air — and she hated how you immediately laughed under your breath like you thought it was cute.

She scowled harder at the wall in front of her.

God. She hated this.

You didn't let up, of course.

You just shifted lazily closer, sprawling back like you had all the time in the world, your knee knocking against hers.

"What," you teased, voice low and impossible to ignore, "not used to anything outside of Beethoven?"

Tara whipped her head toward you — or tried to — but the whole room lurched sideways and she had to slam a hand down on the seat cushion to steady herself.

You laughed — actually laughed — and it was so stupid and smug that Tara couldn't help it.

A tiny, treacherous snort escaped out of her before she could stop it.

She immediately clamped her lips together, furious at herself — but it was too late.

You'd definitely heard it.

And worse, you were already grinning like you'd just won some invisible game she didn't even realize she was playing.

Tara cracked her eyes open again — a mistake — and immediately caught you staring right back at her.

Her chest tightened, too hot under her skin, and she tried to look away — but it was already too late.

Your eyes locked.

The air between you stretched tight — tight enough to snap — and Tara felt her own gaze flicker down, stupid and uncontrollable.

Straight to your mouth.

God, your lips were glossy — pink and wet under the shitty lights — and she hated that she noticed.

Hated the way the thought hit her like a punch:

That she could just lean over and kiss you.

That she could wipe that stupid fucking smirk right off your face with her mouth.

The thought should have mortified her.

Instead, it just burned — angry and wild, crackling in her chest like static.

She didn't chase the thought away. She didn't even try. She just sat there, letting it ruin her, letting it make her crazy.

Because it wasn't like you could hear what was happening in her head.

It wasn't like you knew.

But then you spoke — low, lazy, almost bored — and she realized you absolutely knew.

"Wanna make out?" you said.

The words weren't even really a question — more like a taunt — sliding off your tongue slow and smooth, like you already knew the answer.

Tara's whole body locked up at once.

Her fists clenched hard against her thighs.

Her heart slammed against her ribs like it was trying to break out.

She stared at you, open-mouthed, furious —

Furious at you, at herself, at the alcohol humming thick under her skin.

And the worst part — the absolute worst fucking part —was that her first instinct wasn't to say no.

It was to say yes.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

Because it wasn't just the alcohol talking.

Not just the warmth in her chest or the slow spin of the room.

It was the way the air felt heavy around her, the way your knee brushed against hers on the couch and she didn't pull away. The way her eyes kept dragging to your mouth and how she couldn't, for the life of her, seem to stop.

Her thoughts were sticky and slow, crawling through her head like syrup.

Everything around her — the voices, the music, the clatter of cups and laughter from the next room — had started to melt together, one indistinct blur of sound.

But you?

You were sharp. Clear. The only thing not spinning. And that pissed her off.

Because you weren't supposed to look like that — not here, not now.

You weren't supposed to be this version of yourself.

Not flushed and grinning and leaning back on someone else's couch like it belonged to you.

Not with those fucking glossy lips and the heat in your eyes and that low, teasing voice that kept sliding under her skin like it knew how to get there.

You looked good.

Too good.

Not in the annoying, arrogant way she was used to seeing you at school — mouthing off in class, flashing smug looks from across the cafeteria like you knew everything.

Now, in this lighting — under the soft yellow bulbs and the flicker of whatever movie someone had left playing in the background — you looked warm.

Inviting.

Your shirt slightly rumpled from dancing, your lashes casting shadows on your cheeks when you blinked.

And your mouth.

God, your mouth.

Tara's eyes flicked to your lips before she could stop them, catching the faint sheen of gloss that hadn't completely worn off yet.

She wanted to blame the shot.

Both of them.

The burn still lingering in her throat, the warmth still spreading in her chest.

She felt high.

Not drunk — high.

The kind of high that made her limbs feel light and disconnected, her fingers slightly numb where they fidgeted in her lap.

She felt like if she moved too fast, her body would tip right off the edge of the world.

And you had the audacity to say it like it meant nothing — like you hadn't just thrown a live wire into her already scrambled brain.

Like it was funny.

Like it wasn't about to ruin everything.

She froze — only for a second — but it felt longer than that.

Long enough for her brain to scramble for something.

Some reason, some excuse, any explanation that didn't end with her admitting what she was actually thinking.

None of it will matter tomorrow.

You're drunk. She's drunk.

This isn't real.

You wouldn't even say something like that if you were sober.

So she didn't have to take it seriously.

She didn't have to mean it.

She let her head fall back against the couch — the real kind of surrender — and turned it lazily to the side so she could look at you without making it obvious.

You were already watching her.

Her gaze dropped again, and this time, she didn't pretend it was an accident.

Your lips looked soft.

Mocking.

Like they were daring her.

And for just a second, she imagined what it'd be like to shut you up with a kiss.

Hard.

Fast.

Just to wipe that look off your face.

The thought made her stomach flip.

It made her angry, how easily her mind went there.

But you weren't going to hear those thoughts.

So what did it matter?

Her lips curled before she could stop them — a slow, crooked smirk — and she finally gave in.

"Sure," she said, her voice low and dry.

Your eyebrows ticked up, just slightly.

And then you leaned in, already smiling like you knew.

Tara barely had a second to breathe.

Your face was suddenly so close — the heat of you, the smell of your skin, some mix of alcohol and mint gum and whatever lotion you used.

Too close.

And then your mouth touched hers.

It was hesitant at first. Just a press. A test.

But it was warm — soft — and her breath caught in her throat.

You tilted your head just slightly, and her lips followed without thinking.

They parted for yours like they knew how.

The kiss deepened.

Slower than she expected.

Sloppy, yes — but controlled.

You kissed like you were making sure she felt it.

Every inch of it.

Tara's lips moved with yours, instinct kicking in where reason had checked out.

She shifted her weight, angling closer, and felt your hand graze her knee before sliding up to her hip, anchoring her there.

You adjusted, one elbow slipping up along the back of the couch — the actual term she was too drunk to think of — your fingers brushing her shoulder as you leaned in further.

It made your bodies press together in a way that sent sparks shooting down her spine.

She kissed you harder.

Or maybe you kissed her harder.

She didn't know anymore.

All she could feel was the warmth of your mouth — wet, slow, maddeningly soft — moving against hers.

It wasn't clean or careful.

It was messy.

Unsteady.

Like neither of you really knew where the rhythm started or ended, just that you didn't want to stop.

Your lips parted again, and she followed.

Breath hitched.

Tongues touched.

Tara's fingers dug into the edge of the couch cushion, her balance swaying between you and the seat, and she didn't care.

Your lips tasted like cheap liquor and something sweeter underneath.

Your teeth grazed her bottom lip and she inhaled sharp through her nose — just enough for you to notice — before kissing you again.

It was chaotic.

Uncoordinated.

Hot.

Her heart was hammering.

You kept kissing her like it was easy. Like you weren't even thinking about it.

And she couldn't stand how badly she wanted to keep going.

How her body leaned into yours like it needed to.

Every second of it was wrong.

Every second of it felt too good.

But Tara didn't pull away.

Not yet.

Your hand was still resting at her hip, light but grounding, and her fingers curled unconsciously against your leg, needing something solid to hold onto. Her lips moved against yours again — slower this time, deeper. Like she couldn't help it. Like the heat simmering in her chest had nowhere else to go.

She didn't even try to think anymore.

Didn't care.

Her thoughts were loud — messy, tangled, barely strung together.

She shouldn't be doing this.

She shouldn't want this.

But she did.

God, she did.

She kissed you harder, angling her head to the side, and you met her without hesitation — like you'd been waiting for that exact pressure, that exact urgency.

Her legs shifted against the couch, thighs tightening involuntarily as your hand brushed up her side — not even high, not even skin — and still it sent a jolt right through her.

She was drunk.

That had to be it.

It had to be.

Because she could feel it now.

Low in her stomach. Between her legs.

A slow, pulsing heat — the kind that wouldn't go away. That never just went away.

It was ridiculous.

So fucking ridiculous.

But you tasted good.

You felt good.

And when your lips dragged slightly down to the corner of her mouth — just enough to make her breath hitch — Tara realized she didn't just want to kiss you.

She wanted more.

Her mind raced.

Images flashing too fast to stop — her hands gripping your shirt, your mouth lower, your body under hers — and she wanted to shake herself.

Yell.

Do something.

But all she did was kiss you again. Again and again and again.

She could barely think, barely breathe, could feel herself pooling between her legs — warm, aching, needy in a way that made her want to scream.

It was humiliating. It was infuriating.

And it wasn't stopping.

You shifted slightly, pulling her closer without even trying — and Tara let you.

Let you kiss her like you owned her.

Let your tongue slide against hers with that same cocky rhythm.

She wanted to push you back.

Push you down. Pull your hair. Something. Anything.

Because she needed more.

Even if she couldn't say it.

Even if it killed her.

The thought alone made her dizzy.

Not the alcohol. Not the heat.

Just you.

You, sitting there like you hadn't just lit her whole body on fire.

You, staring at her with those eyes like you knew exactly what she wanted and how badly she wanted it.

And fuck — she hated that she couldn't hide it anymore.

Not with her lips swollen from yours, not with her chest rising too fast, not with that hungry, throbbing pull between her legs that wouldn't stop gnawing at her.

Her mind twisted in circles — a thousand reasons why she should stop, why she had to stop.

This wasn't her.

She didn't do this.

She didn't want this.

But that voice was buried now — drowned under the heat, the rush, the way her thighs squeezed together like they had a mind of their own.

The only thing louder than her thoughts was the ache.

She wanted to lean back in.

Wanted to taste your lip gloss again, to bite your bottom lip and hear you gasp.

Wanted to see just how far you'd let her take it.

Instead, her body moved on instinct.

Sharp. Sudden.

She pulled away — barely — lips parting from yours with a sound too soft for how hard her heart was beating.

She sat there for a second, just breathing.

Just staring.

Your eyes locked with hers, confused but already glinting with that same smugness you always had.

And still — she couldn't look away.

Her hand twitched. Fingers curled.

"Come on," she muttered — voice low, tight, like the words cost her something.

Then she grabbed your wrist.

Not rough. Not gentle.

Just determined.

You didn't say a word.

Didn't ask where you were going.

You just followed.

She pulled you through the crowd, heat and bass and sweat pressing in from every side.

Bodies crushed together — laughing, moving, swaying — and Tara didn't look at a single one of them.

She didn't care.

Didn't slow down.

Her grip on your hand tightened as she shoved through, weaving past shoulders and spilled drinks and sticky floors.

The music was louder now, the air thicker, and she could barely breathe — but she didn't stop.

Because you were still behind her. And your hand was still in hers. And she needed more.

Wherever this was going —

Whatever happened next —

She needed more.

And oh, did she get it.

She barely registered the room as she dragged you inside — the faint whir of a ceiling fan, the messy tangle of an unmade bed in the corner, a dresser with half-open drawers.

It didn't matter. None of it did.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, Tara's hands were on you again — shoving you back against it hard enough to rattle the frame.

You let out a breathy laugh — smirking — and Tara wanted to punch it off your face.

Or kiss it.

Apparently her body decided for her.

Because the next thing she knew, her mouth was on yours again, hot and rough and starving.

She felt you grin against her lips — cocky and pleased — and it made something furious and electric twist deep inside her.

She kissed you harder.

Sloppier.

Your bodies crashed together, uncoordinated and messy.

It was all teeth and heat, lips sliding and tugging, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto.

Tara barely remembered how to breathe.

Her hands fisted in the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer, feeling the way your body molded into hers.

You were warm — too warm — and the heady smell of you, your perfume and sweat and beer, filled her lungs until she was drunk off it.

Drunker than she already was.

You tilted your head, deepening the kiss, and Tara almost whimpered — feeling it all the way down to her knees.

The way your tongue brushed against hers, teasing, coaxing.

The way you bit down gently on her bottom lip, pulling it between your teeth for just a second before letting go.

Fuck.

She pressed her whole body against you, chasing the feeling, desperate to steal more.

And all she could think — all she could fucking think — was:

More.

More.

More.

Her hands moved before her brain could catch up — yanking at the hem of your shirt, dragging it upward in one rough pull.

You didn't resist — you even raised your arms to make it easier — and Tara barely tossed it somewhere across the room before her eyes dropped automatically, hungrily.

You were wearing a black bandeau bra — simple, tight, strapless. It hugged your chest perfectly, the curve of your breasts pressed up and together — smooth and effortless and unfairly fucking hot.

Tara stared for a second longer than she meant to, heat punching through her chest so sharp it almost hurt.

And then she was on you again.

Her hands framed your face, grabbing you roughly, and she crashed her mouth back onto yours like she could erase the thoughts racing through her head if she just kissed you hard enough.

You made a low sound in the back of your throat — something between a laugh and a moan — and suddenly, you started walking forward, guiding her with you.

Tara stumbled a step back, caught off-guard, but didn't think, didn't care — she just followed, letting herself be pulled wherever you wanted her.

It was messy, chaotic, bumping into furniture, nearly tripping over shoes left on the floor. The floor kept tilting under her feet, the alcohol swirling through her blood like fire.

But none of it mattered.

You didn't give her time to overthink.

Before she could fully process it, the back of her legs hit the edge of the bed —

And your fingers were already at the hem of her shirt, bunching it up and over her ribs.

Tara didn't move at first.

Didn't breathe.

She just let you.

Arms raising slightly, letting you peel the fabric up and off — another piece of herself surrendered without even a second thought.

Her head spun so violently it almost made her laugh.

And then your eyes flickered down — blatantly — lingering at her chest. Tara didn't even have time to brace for it.

She was wearing a black lace bra — something strappy, barely-there, a little too much push-up if she was being honest.

The way your gaze darkened made heat lick straight down her spine. You smirked, slow and lazy, like you had all the time in the world.

"Fancy, Carpenter," you murmured, voice low and teasing.

Tara opened her mouth — maybe to tell you to shut the fuck up — but then you tilted your head, grinning even wider.

"Did you pick this out just for me?"

Your hands slid up without warning — fingers tracing lightly over her ribs before cupping her breasts through the lace.

It wasn't even that rough, but it didn't have to be.

Tara almost moaned.

Almost.

Her knees went a little weak, her body flaring hot all over — and god, it pissed her off how easily you could get to her.

Instead of giving you the satisfaction of hearing her fall apart, she grabbed your face again — rough, desperate — and pulled you back into her.

"Don't remind me that you're you,” she growled into your mouth.

And then she kissed you — hard, messy, almost feral — her hands fisting tight in your hair like she needed something to hold onto just to keep herself grounded.

Tara kissed you like she was trying to knock the smugness right off your face — open-mouthed and clumsy and a little too desperate.

Your hands stayed right where she hated them — cupping, teasing — your thumbs brushing over the lace in a way that made her hips stutter forward without meaning to.

And somewhere in the swirling, drunken haze of it all, Tara had the fleeting, stupid thought that maybe she regretted what she said. Because doing this — this — with you didn't make her hate you more.

It made it hotter.

Made her want to crawl out of her own skin.

Before she could sink too deep into that terrifying realization, your hands slid down to her waist — gripping tight — and without warning, you pushed.

Tara stumbled backward with a sharp gasp, the backs of her knees hitting the bed.

She let herself fall — dropping onto the mattress with a bounce — glaring up at you like she wanted to murder you and kiss you at the same time.

You just smirked down at her, maddeningly calm, stepping in even closer. Your knees bumped against the edge of the bed, and for half a second, neither of you moved — the air thick between you, your breathing ragged and shallow.

And then — slowly, lazily — Tara spread her legs apart, leaving just enough space for you to step between.

She tilted her head back against the bed, looking up at you with dark, furious eyes — like she was daring you to fucking do something about it. Tara could already feel herself slipping.

Her thighs tensed where they framed your hips, her chest heaving with every shallow breath.

She didn't know what it was — the alcohol, the heat, you — but she needed something.

Needed you to move, to touch her, to do something.

If that meant bending her over and fucking her until she forgot her own name, then so be it.

She didn't care. She just needed it.

Her whole body ached with it — restless, buzzing, desperate — and she barely lasted ten seconds under the weight of your stare before her patience snapped clean in half.

"Are you just going to stand there fucking stare," she snarled, her voice low and wrecked, "or are you going to fuck me?"

Tara propped herself up on her elbows like it might make her look tougher —like it might somehow hide how desperate she was underneath all the glaring.

Your mouth fell open slightly at her words, caught somewhere between a smirk and actual shock —like you hadn't expected her to say it out loud.

You let your gaze rake down her body, slow and lazy, and when you looked back up at her, your smile was downright cruel.

"Wow," you said, voice dripping with mock-sweetness. "Someone's needy, huh?"

You leaned in, one hand bracing on the bed beside her hip, your mouth just barely brushing her ear.

"Poor little princess," you whispered. "Should I help you out?"

Tara muttered a "fuck you"under her breath — something sharp and furious— but her hands were already moving.

Shaky, rushed, desperate.

She grabbed at your belt first, fumbling with the buckle like it personally offended her, her fingers clumsy with alcohol and want. She yanked it loose hard enough to make the metal clatter, then popped open the button of your jeans, dragging the zipper down in one rough pull.

And fuck, there it was — hard and heavy against the fabric, clear as fucking day.

The sight made her head spin worse, made something low and tight pull deep in her stomach, but she didn't let herself stop to think about it — not even for a second. She shoved at your jeans until you stepped out of them, until they hit the floor with a messy thud.

Her heart thundered, wild and wrecked against her ribs, but she didn't move away — not yet.

Her hands hovered there for half a second, like she was caught between hating herself and wanting you more than she'd ever wanted anything.

Tara's mouth actually watered — hot and heavy and shameful — and she clenched her jaw tight like that could somehow make it stop.

Before she could even think about it, you were already moving again — your hands sliding down her sides, gripping tight at her hips. And then you were tugging at her skirt, so much easier than the fight she'd had with your jeans.

All it took was a little lift of her hips, and the fabric slid right off, pooling somewhere forgotten at the edge of the bed.

And fuck — she was wet.

She knew it.

You probably knew it too.

The thin black lace of her panties — delicate and stretched tight over her — left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Tiny little bows sat at each hip, the material riding low enough to make her look even more wrecked than she already was.

Your eyes dragged down her body slowly, like you were memorizing every goddamn inch.

And Tara, stubborn as ever, tilted her chin up — like she wasn't seconds away from begging you to touch her already. You didn't even hesitate.

Your fingers hooked into the delicate black lace at her hips and tugged, slow and deliberate, dragging the soaked fabric down her thighs. Tara didn't move at first — didn't even breathe — but the second they were off, she let her head fall back against the bed, her elbows still propping her up, gaze tilting up toward the ceiling.

The room spun around her, thick and heavy and slow, but she didn't care.

Not when she could hear the faint shuffle of you undressing too, stripping off that last piece of clothing between you.

She didn't even have to look to know you were naked now.

She felt it — the heat rolling off your body, the slow, deliberate weight of your gaze dragging across every inch of her.

Her chest rose and fell fast, uneven.

Her thighs pressed together for just a second — instinctive — but then she forced herself to relax them again, stubborn even now.

Waiting for you to make your move.

You still weren't doing anything.

You were just standing there, hovering over her, like you had all the time in the world — and it made her insane.

Tara threw her head up from the bed, snapping in a wrecked, furious voice, "God, could you be any slower?"

But she barely had the words out before you finally pushed into her.

Her breath punched out in a strangled, desperate moan, her head falling back again, slamming lightly against the mattress.

Her bare legs immediately wrapped themselves around your waist, locking you in place, like she couldn't stand the thought of you pulling away even for a second.

"Fuck," she gasped, low and broken, her voice raspy from how much she needed this — from how much she hated how good you felt inside her.

Without thinking, she tried to grind up into you, desperate for more, desperate to chase the dizzying pleasure curling in her stomach —but your hands clamped down on her hips, hard enough to bruise, forcing her to stop.

You didn't let her set the pace. You didn't even let her move.

You held her exactly where you wanted her — then shoved her hips deeper against yours, guiding her exactly how you wanted it: hard, rough, relentless.

Pushing her into you, dragging her back, pushing her forward again — over and over, like you were using her body to fuck yourself, like she wasn't even given a choice.

And God, it was good.

Every drag, every thrust was blinding —

Tara could feel you everywhere, splitting her open, filling her until her thighs were trembling from the force of it.

She bit down on a moan, fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets beside her, barely able to breathe through how fucking good it felt —how good you felt —how much she hated it and loved it and needed more anyway.

The rhythm was brutal.

Your hips crashed into hers again and again, rough and relentless, dragging these helpless, wrecked sounds out of her throat with every thrust. The bed squeaked under the force of it, your bodies slamming together, slick and messy and perfect.

It felt fucking fantastic.

Tara couldn't stop herself — couldn't even try to stop — moaning over and over again, broken, desperate sounds ripping free of her lungs like she had no control over them anymore.

It was euphoric. It was almost too good.

Her mind was spinning so violently she swore she might black out, the pleasure building under her skin like fire.

Fuck, you were so good at this. FUCK

So fucking good it made her angry.

She squeezed her eyes shut tight, tried to ground herself — but when she opened them again, when she saw the way you were looking down at her —so cocky, so goddamn smug, so fucking hot — she had to throw her head back again, moaning even louder, because fuck, she couldn't take it.

Her body betrayed her, gave her away completely, hips bucking up to meet yours every time you snapped forward into her.

And even if her brain was screaming at her not to say it —not to admit it —every single wrecked, desperate sound coming out of her mouth was saying it for her.

You were making noises too — low, heavy grunts punched out from your chest — but Tara barely even noticed. She was too far gone, too consumed by the feeling of your cock stretching her open again and again, your body pinning her down so perfectly she never wanted you to stop.

And then, of course — you just had to fucking smirk.

"Geez, Tara," you said between rough breaths, that infuriating grin tugging at your mouth, "if I knew this would shut you up, I would've done it ages ago."

You shifted your hips with a brutal snap, driving yourself harder into her just as she opened her mouth to fire back — and the only thing that came out was a wrecked, desperate moan.

"Yeah, well— maybe you should've—" Her voice cracked, the words collapsing into a breathless whimper when you slammed deeper, grinding mercilessly against that perfect, aching spot inside her.

Tara's head fell back against the mattress, her whole body jolting with every sharp, perfect thrust. She tried to scramble for the sheets again, tried to cling to anything to ground herself, but her hands were useless, clutching nothing but air.

Every time you moved, it was overwhelming — relentless and raw and fucking perfect — and it made her legs tighten around your waist like she was scared you might pull away.

Her breath was stuttering now, spilling out in broken little gasps that only made you smirk harder. And when you pushed in again, harder, rougher, she whimpered so loudly it almost sounded like a sob.

Fuck, she hated how good it felt.

Fuck, she hated how fucking good you felt.

Her hands scrambled uselessly against the bed — grabbing fistfuls of the messy sheets, tangling in her own hair, clawing at her flushed face — but nothing grounded her, nothing eased the brutal, overwhelming way you were slamming into her.

She felt like she was going to snap.

She wanted to snap.

The bed creaked under the force of it all, the air thick with rough breaths and low grunts. Tara's entire body burned — from rage, from need, from how fucking good you felt ruining her.

And you just kept going. Kept fucking talking.

"You sound so pretty when you're desperate," you panted against her ear, smirking because you knew what you were doing to her.

Tara's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Her whole body tensed under you — furious and humiliated and desperate all at once.

"God," she snarled, her voice low and wrecked, "shut the fuck up.”

You just chuckled darkly under your breath — and pushed even deeper, harder, like you were punishing her for even thinking she had the right to tell you what to do.

Tara threw her head back against the bed, a choked moan breaking out of her throat — furious at herself for how fucking good it felt, furious that she was the one begging now, without even needing to say a word.

And it only got worse.

Rougher.

Harder.

Better.

The slap of your bodies hitting echoed in the room, each thrust forcing little desperate sounds out of her no matter how tightly she bit her lip to hold them back. Her thighs shook where they were wrapped tight around your waist, the sheets she clawed at were useless under her hands, and fuck —that heat in her lower stomach was starting to grow.

A dangerous, simmering pit that started as a little thrum — a warning — and then kept building, sharp and dizzy and huge, way bigger than anything she was used to feeling.

She knew what it was.

She knew she was about to come — fuck, she was about to come — and it scared her how fast and hard it was coming.

It was like her whole body had turned traitor. It was like she couldn't stop it even if she wanted to.

And you must have felt it too — the way her body started tightening around you, the way her nails dug harder into the sheets — because you only fucked her rougher, dirtier, faster.

And Tara couldn't hold back anymore.

She gasped out something — something wrecked and half-broken — her head pressing back harder into the bed, her mouth falling open on a silent cry.

You were right there with her, dragging her closer and closer to the edge, like you wanted to watch her fall apart. Like you fucking needed it.

And Tara didn't stand a fucking chance.

One more thrust — brutal, rough, deep — and she was gone.

Her whole body tensed hard, legs locking tighter around your waist, her back arching sharply off the bed as a broken moan ripped straight from her chest.

It slammed into her all at once — fast, wrecking, almost violent — like something had snapped inside her. Her vision went white around the edges, her fingers clawing helplessly at the sheets, at her own hair, at anything she could grab.

Her hips bucked without her even meaning to, grinding desperately against you like she still needed more even as her orgasm ripped through her.

And you —fuck, you lost it too.

The second her body clamped down around you, tight and soaking wet and shaking, you cursed low under your breath and slammed into her one final time, burying yourself as deep as you could go.

You spilled inside her with a wrecked grunt, your hips grinding into hers, trying to ride it out as your body shuddered with the force of it.

It wasn't clean. It wasn't soft.

It was messy and hot and frantic — both of you coming so hard it almost hurt, both of you falling apart into each other like you didn't care if it fucking killed you.

Tara barely even realized she was whining until it was already out of her — high and wrecked and fucking needy, her whole body trembling as you finally, finally stilled.

And for a second, neither of you could breathe.

The only sounds were the wet, sticky slap of skin, the broken, panting breaths you both tried to catch, and the furious hammering of Tara's heart in her ears.

You pulled out of her slowly, dragging a low whimper from Tara's throat that she tried — and failed — to swallow down.

The second you were gone, she let herself collapse fully onto the bed, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick with sweat.

You hovered above her for a moment, both of you panting, just staring at each other. Tara glared up at you — or at least, she tried to.

But her anger didn't land the way it usually did; she was too fucking tired, too wrecked, too spent for her eyes to sharpen into proper daggers.

It was more of a seething, half-lidded glare now. One that didn't scare you at all.

And that was when it hit her —what had just happened.

What she'd just fucking done.

It felt like the alcohol evaporated out of her bloodstream in one horrifying instant.

Her heart hammered in a completely different way now — heavy and sick. For a second, she thought she might be sick.

What the fuck had she done?

The shame hit her first — hot and brutal — almost strong enough to drown her.

She hated herself for it. Hated you for it.

Hated how fucking good it had felt.

And that was what saved her —the memory of how good it felt. The sharp edge of her panic dulled, just a little.

The anger simmered lower, curling into something she could almost stomach.

Still — she had to get the fuck out of there. Now.

Tara shot upright so fast it made her dizzy, scrambling across the bed, snatching up her underwear and yanking it up her shaky legs.

Her skirt came next — wrinkled and inside out, but she didn't give a shit — she just needed it on.

As she struggled to tug it back into place, she looked up at you —still half-naked, still smirking like the smug piece of shit you were.

"Not a word about this to anyone," she snapped, her voice low and wrecked and shaky, "Okay?"

And you — of course — just smirked wider.

___

At first, Tara didn't think much of it.

She figured she was just still hungover — the party had been brutal, after all. She hadn't exactly treated her body well that night.

Half a bottle of vodka, God knew how many shots after, plus whatever the hell she'd eaten off some random guy's plate at three in the morning... it made sense she still felt like shit days later.

That was all it was. Hangover.

Or maybe she ate something bad.

Maybe that sketchy half-burnt pizza from the gas station.

Maybe some stomach bug going around campus.

Or maybe — worst case scenario — she was just getting sick. Some late-winter flu. Something that would pass in a few days if she just drank enough Gatorade and slept it off.

Because seriously, what else could it possibly be?

She shoved the thought away. Refused to let herself even consider anything bigger than that.

But then the days passed.

And the nausea didn't go away. It just got worse.

Creeping up on her in the middle of class — making her have to fake-cough into her sleeve just so she wouldn't gag in front of everyone.

Gnawing at her stomach late at night when she tried to sleep, making her curl tighter under the blankets, teeth clenched, trying to will the feeling away.

It felt like her body was rejecting something. Like it wasn't even hers anymore.

By day five, even the smell of coffee — something that usually got her through her worst mornings — made her stomach flip.

By day six, brushing her teeth made her gag so hard she had to sit down on the bathroom floor for ten minutes after.

Still, she told herself it was nothing.

Stress, she thought, scrubbing her face at the bathroom mirror with angry hands. College. Lack of sleep. Nerves.

Maybe her immune system was just wrecked.

Maybe it was her period coming and being a bitch about it.

It had to be something like that.

It had to be.

She kept telling herself that —over and over, louder and louder —right up until she opened her calendar app one morning and her whole body went cold.

Because she was late.

Really fucking late.

Her stomach twisted.

Not from nausea this time — from panic.

She counted again.

And again.

Counting on her fingers like a dumbass because her brain couldn't make the math make sense.

No matter how she spun it, it had been almost two months.

Tara had sat back against her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying not to hyperventilate.

Trying to tell herself she was wrong.

That it was still stress, still nerves, still something normal.

It's not that, she told herself, breathing through her nose, gripping the blanket so tightly her knuckles turned white. It's not that. It's not that. It's not that.

But deep down —deep, deep down —she already knew exactly what it was.

She could keep lying to herself.

She really could.

And maybe she would've kept lying, would've shoved it down and ignored it and pretended it wasn't real,

if it hadn't been for that night.

The night she ended up hunched over the toilet, sweating and shaking, the taste of acid clawing up her throat.

No warning. No time to pretend it was something else.

It hit her halfway through brushing her teeth — one second she was fine, the next she was dropping her toothbrush into the sink and bolting for the bathroom like she was being hunted.

And as she wiped her mouth, breathing hard, hands clutching uselessly at the cold tile floor —it sank in.

Cold.

Sick.

Unavoidable.

No more excuses.

She didn't remember making the decision.

Not really.

One minute she was pacing her room, hands trembling, heart crawling up her throat —

and the next, she was standing in some grimy drugstore aisle, blinking under the too-bright fluorescent lights, staring at a wall of small pink boxes like they were a firing squad.

She grabbed the first one she saw.

Didn't read the label.

Didn't check the price.

Just threw it into her basket, keeping her head down, as if someone — anyone — might see her.

Might know.

The walk to the register was a blur.

The cashier barely looked up.

She paid in cash.

She didn't even wait to get home.

She just —well.

The bathroom at the back of the store was disgusting.

The kind of disgusting that made her hover awkwardly over the toilet, chewing on her thumbnail, breathing through her mouth because the smell was so bad.

She didn't care.

She couldn't care.

The box was torn open with shaky fingers.

The instructions were left crumpled on the floor.

She didn't need to read them anyway.

Everyone knew how these things worked.

It was over before she even realized she had started.

A few minutes that felt like years.

She sat there — cold, half-numb — perched on the closed toilet lid, arms wrapped tight around herself like it could somehow keep everything from slipping out of her control.

She didn't look at it at first.

She couldn't.

Just sat there, staring at the wall, feeling the seconds bleed out slow and awful, until every heartbeat felt like it could crack her ribs wide open.

And when she finally forced herself to glance down —just a glance, nothing more —it was there.

Blunt.

Undeniable.

Positive.

Tara didn't even have time to think.

Her stomach lurched viciously, and she was barely able to twist around and yank the toilet lid up before she was gagging into the bowl, retching hard enough that her whole body trembled.

It wasn't the same kind of nausea as before.

This was something worse — something heavier.

Shock.

Terror.

Grief.

When she finished, she just stayed there — bent over, forehead resting against her forearm, the test lying on the counter behind her like some cruel, stupid joke she couldn't wake up from.

She didn't know how long she stayed there.

Five minutes? Ten? An hour?

Time didn't feel real anymore.

Eventually, she forced herself up, stumbling to her feet on shaky legs.

She paced the small bathroom, bare feet slapping against the tile, hands buried deep in her hair like she could physically tear the panic out of herself if she just pulled hard enough.

Muttering under her breath.

Cursing herself.

Cursing you.

"What the fuck," she whispered hoarsely, dragging her hands down her face. "What the fuck."

She couldn't breathe right.

Her chest felt too tight.

Her mind kept spinning in wild, useless circles.

Who the fuck was she supposed to tell?

Sam?

Absolutely not — Sam would kill her. Not even just yell — actually kill her.

Mindy?

No way. Mindy would ask a million questions. She'd want to know who. When. How.

Anika?

Same thing. Just softer. And worse.

Chad?

Tara almost laughed — a sharp, broken noise that didn't sound right at all.

Chad wouldn't even listen for more than ten seconds.

He'd probably just high-five her over the sex and completely miss the part where her whole fucking life was falling apart.

Which left you.

The last option.

The last person she wanted to talk to.

Because this?

This was your fault.

Maybe partly hers, sure — she wasn't stupid — but mostly yours.

And the thought of calling you made her stomach churn all over again.

She didn't even remember saving your number.

She didn't even remember getting it.

But there it was — staring back at her from the cracked screen of her phone, mocking her.

Her thumb hovered over the call button.

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.

And then, before she could think better of it, she pressed it.

She pressed call.

And every second that the phone rang, her panic grew louder, shrieking inside her chest.

One ring.

Two.

Three —

You answered, your voice so casual it made her want to scream.

"Well, well," you drawled, smug and slow, like you were grinning already. "Couldn't get enough, huh? Already calling me back?"

Tara swallowed.

Hard.

The words sat like a rock in her throat.

She opened her mouth — nothing came out.

Because saying it out loud would make it real.

Saying it out loud would shatter whatever thin, desperate hope she still had that this was some sick mistake.

You didn't say anything either.

The teasing dropped into silence — just the faint crackle of the line between you, waiting.

And then you said, more cautious this time, "...Hello?"

Tara squeezed her eyes shut.

Felt her hands start to shake.

And before she could stop herself — before she could take it back — she forced it out in a broken whisper:

"I'm pregnant."

[likeumeanit9497]

something bad | c.s. |

chris sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: after months of built up frustration, chris is dying for relief - and y/n is willing to help.

warnings: SMUT; established friendship; unprotected p in v; oral (f and m receiving); handjob; teasing; dirty talk; mentions of jorking it; biting; cream pie; 18+

notes: teehee im ovulating and my roster is weak rn so my only solution is to read smutty books and write even smuttier one shots. this one actually had me giggling and kicking my feet as i was writing it bc i tried to include some of chris's POV (holy shit i am SO down bad for him rn) so i hope y'all enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it ;) LOVE U ALL SO MUCH <3

ᵕᵕᵕᵕ୨♡︎୧ᵕᵕᵕᵕ

He hadn’t meant to end up in this situation. Not strung out, touch starved, and half-hard just from the soft brush of his pyjama pants against his front as he slipped them on. But that’s exactly where he was. Walking back into his bedroom after getting changed in his washroom while you, his best friend, curled up in his bed wearing an oversized t-shirt that kept riding up your thighs. Your soft legs were bare, and even in the shadowed room he could see the silhouette of your pebbled nipples beneath your shirt — a clear indicator that you weren’t wearing a bra.

The past few months had been brutal for Chris. He hadn’t touched a woman, hadn’t been touched by a woman since his last situationship ended in a fiery wreck. It had been months of sexual frustration with no outlet besides nights spent alone with his fist clenched desperately around himself, thinking about things he shouldn’t. Something he could barely admit to himself was that sometimes those thoughts involved you. A lot of times, actually. Especially after nights just like this one, where you laid innocently just inches from him.

This night had been especially trying, because his eyes kept catching on parts of you he should never notice. The plush curve of your ass when you bent over to retrieve a fallen blanket. The sliver of your lower stomach, the soft cotton material of your pink boy shorts as you stretched. Even the feminine silhouette of your collarbone as it protruded from the stretched collar of your t-shirt made his head spin. Each time he noticed these things, he dragged his eyes away and cursed himself. He would never act on these thoughts. He couldn’t. You two were best friends, and crossing that line would lead to risking everything.

Yet somehow, each time his eyes were inevitably pulled back to you, that line kept blurring.

With a soft sigh, he slipped into his side of the bed, forcing his eyes to focus on the television screen as you flipped through movies on Netflix. Still focused on the screen, you subconsciously slid closer to him for warmth, your thigh pressing lightly against his. Casual, he reminded himself as his mouth dried. Except, every inch of your soft skin burned against his like a red-hot brand. His cock twitched in his pants, and with another sigh he shifted slightly, trying to adjust himself without being obvious.

“I swear to god, if you sigh one more time,” Your voice made him jump, “I’m just gonna have to assume you’re dying.” He shot a quick glance your way, trying to determine whether your body language showed you knew what was wrong with him. It didn’t seem to give anything away, however, as you hadn’t even looked away from the TV. Satisfied and slightly relieved, he huffed out a soft laugh, rubbing a trembling hand across his face. “Not dying,” He replied with a strained chuckle, “Just, suffering.” Your eyes darted to him quickly, before returning to the screen. “Oh good,” You deadpanned, “That’s not vague at all.”

He shot you another sideways glance, except this time it was caught by you. There was a small fire burning behind his blue eyes, a fire that you weren’t used to seeing. “Am I supposed to beg you to explain or…” The tone of your voice made his cock leap once again, this time followed by an anxious flip of his stomach. He knew you were relentless when you wanted to get information from him — particularly information about any issues he may be going through, as he had a tendency to try to keep them bottled up — but could he really have this conversation with you right now, with his cock pressing against his thigh; its length so hard he could cry out in pain?

You had turned all of your attention to him now, and he felt as though your gaze was piercing through his inner-most being. There was no way you were going to back down now, so with a deep breath, he decided to share at least part of the truth as nonchalant as he possibly could. “You ever go so long without sex that you start having actual withdrawal symptoms?” Once the words left his mouth, he felt his heart rate spike as your brows lifted, the small smirk pulling at the corner your plush lips showing your amusement. “Are you seriously asking me that right now?”

He rolled his eyes. “I wish I wasn’t serious,” He leaned back against the headboard, letting all the air out of his lungs as he gave in to the humiliation of this conversation. “It’s been months, Y/n. Like, actual calendar months.” You let out a soft giggle, causing him to groan. “You seriously haven’t gotten laid since…” You let your sentence trail off, knowing that he didn’t need the reminder. “Don’t do that,” He groaned, scrubbing his eyes awkwardly, “You’ll make it worse.”

Another laugh fell from your lips as you took in his embarrassment. Enjoying this moment maybe too much, you continued poking fun at him. “Well yeah. That’s kinda what happens when you’re as emotionally unavailable as you are.” He pinched one eye open to glare at you. “Thanks,” He muttered dryly, “That makes me feel a lot better.” With another laugh, you nudged him softly with your knee, “I’m sorry Chris, you’re the one who brought it up.”

He let out a short, bitter chuckle. “I know, it’s just…” He paused, and you sat in silence as you waited for him to continue, “I don’t know. I just feel like a horny teenager lately, like I’m crawling out of my skin. Like I need something bad, just to take the edge off.” Another silence passed between you, and very slowly, you felt the mood begin to shift in the room. “Why didn’t you say anything?” You finally asked, your voice softer than before. He replied in the form of a shrug. “What was I supposed to say to you? ‘Hey, I’m so horny that jerking off three times a night isn’t even cutting it’? We’re best friends, Y/n, but we don’t exactly make it a habit to talk to each other about our sexual frustration.”

Your throat had dried up, and all you could reply with was a simple hum in acknowledgement. The mood had shifted even more as you watched Chris’s bare chest rise and fall on the bed beside you. It was the kind of shift you feel more than you see. You adjusted slightly, straightening yourself and chewing on your bottom lip in contemplation. After clearing your throat, you spoke in a thin voice. “You know, I could help you with that.”

He scoffed, but he hoped you couldn’t see his length jump under the covers. “Don’t joke like that.” You rolled your eyes, already feeling your body react in anticipation. “Who’s joking?” You replied, your serious expression unchanging. He pulled his hands away from his face and looked at you — really looked at you — and for a second, all of the playful banter between you two faded into silence. He recognized a soft look of playfulness in your eyes, but there was something else laced within them, too. Something much more daring. Much more dangerous.

“You’re serious.” It was an honest question, but it came out like a statement. You shrugged, tilting your head to the side slightly. “You’re my best friend, and you’re obviously going through it.” His breath hitched, and he released a nervous chuckle. “That’s not exactly a casual offer, Y/n.” His eyes dropped to your lips for just a moment, but you kept your gaze on him. “I didn’t make it casually.”

He watched in awe as you shifted closer to him just a little, your bent knees brushing gently against his leg. “You’re telling me you haven’t thought about it before?” You added, your voice a low and tempting whisper. He didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked down from your mouth to your chest, to the curve of your bare thighs folded gingerly beneath you, back up to your steady gaze.

“I’ve thought about it,” He replied after an agonizing pause, his voice rough, “Too many times.” He watched as your lips turned up in a tempting smile from his confession, and with a pounding chest he waited, wild eyed, for you to reply. “Maybe I’ve thought about it too.” You replied, slow and honest. That made him pause. Really pause. He looked at you again, drank you in. The dim light from the television cut delicate shadows across your exposed skin, and the loose collar of your shirt had slipped slightly off of one shoulder. You were his best friend, he saw the familiarity in all of your features, but the air between you both had grown so charged that he felt as though he was in the presence of a goddess, and that realization sucked the air right out of his chest.

“You have?” He finally managed to croak out. You nodded, a sheepish smile on your face. “Sure I have. You’re pretty easy on the eyes, Chris.” He choked out a laugh, before letting out a low groan from the tempting proposition. “Oh Jesus,” He dragged a hand down his face. “What if it makes everything weird?” He asked, though he already knew he had traveled too close to the sun, and there was no way he was going to be able to back down. “What if it makes things better?” You countered, voice soft.

For just a moment, you two just stared at each other, gauging just how far you were going to take this. And then slowly — so, so slowly — you leaned forward, just a little. Not enough to touch, just enough to let him feel the warmth of your body. His breath quickened as he watched your eyes flick to his lips, then back to his eyes.

Still, you didn’t close the gap.

You were leaving it up to him.

His fingers curled into the sheets, each digit needy for the feeling of your skin under them. “Fuck,” He whispered, his eyes fluttering shut for just a moment, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” He heard your breath catch from the hunger in his tone, felt the smallest shift in your posture as you struggled to keep him at arms length. You were hovering above him now, your lips so close to his own that he felt them curl into a smirk. “I think I do.”

His dilated eyes searched yours — and something unspoken passed between you. He reached up and tucked a piece of loose hair behind your ear, letting his fingers slowly brush against your cheek. You allowed yourself to lean into his touch, eyes fluttering shut, before asking in an almost-whisper, “What are you waiting for?”

His breath hitched in his throat. For another second, he hesitated. Not out of doubt, but rather to savour the look of needy anticipation across your face, just centimetres from his own. He wanted that image of your flushed cheeks and knit brows burned into his memory forever. So when he finally leaned in, it was slow — deliberate. No matter how badly he wanted you, needed you, he felt the need to give you the chance to change your mind.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you met him halfway.

His lips brushed against yours — just a test. The kiss was soft, hesitant, and foreign. He was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that it was your lips that he held against his own, your taste against his tongue. And it scared him. Not because it felt wrong. Not at all. It scared him because it felt right. So when you pressed in, he responded as if he’d been holding his breath for months. One of his hands knit into your hair, and the other cupped your jaw as he pulled you down on him fully.

In the blink of an eye, the kiss deepened. No more caution. No more nerves. It quickly turned into the kind of kiss that spoke louder than words ever could. You released a soft moan into his mouth, satisfied by how much pleasure he was giving you. He groaned low in response, his thumb brushing against your cheek softly as he shifted closer; his body pressing harshly against yours. You parted your lips and he took full advantage, slipping his tongue into your mouth and swallowing your soft whines of approval.

He allowed his hands to explore your trembling body as his mouth, hot and hungry, consumed you. You melted into his touch, letting your body relax against his and releasing another soft moan at the feeling of his strained hardness pressing against your core. Your breath hitched as his hand slid along the curve of your spine, reaching your plush ass and pressing it down against his front — his moan as your ass slid against his length fuelled you.

He broke the kiss first, gasping for air as you rolled your hips gently against him. When he looked at you, he released a strained laugh at your messy hair; mussed from where his fingers had slid into it. “You look crazy.” His voice was shaky, the arousal pumping through his veins at full force. You snorted, dropping your forehead against his as you continued to slowly rock your hips; his hands subconsciously guiding your movements. “Great, you bully me after pulling me into your lap.” He arched a brow at you before peppering soft kisses against your jaw, down your neck. “Did I pull, or did you climb?”

Soft moans floated from your mouth as his lips danced across your skin. “I think it was mutual.” You replied breathlessly, losing yourself in the pleasure. His lips trapped yours once more. He couldn’t get enough of the feeling of your swollen lips meshed with his. But you knew he needed more. Needed your lips to make him feel good elsewhere. So you lowered your mouth to his sharp jaw, taking your time as you dragged your tongue along his body until you reached his protruding hip bones.

He stayed as still as he possibly could, terrified that one wrong movement would put a stop to everything, as you gripped the waistband of his pyjamas and tugged. He lifted his hips without saying a word, eyes locked hungrily on yours, and let you strip him. Once you removed his boxers, his cock sprang free — thick, leaking, and pressed taut against his stomach. You paused to look at him, really look at him, and bit your lip at the sight.

“Jesus, Chris, you’ve been holding out on me here.”

He laughed breathlessly, feeling a wave of pride at the sheer lust hidden behind your comment. “I would have shown you it anytime, if you asked sooner.” Your smile was slow and wicked as he watched you sit on your knees in between his legs. “Well if I had known what you were working with down here I just might have,” You wrapped your hand around his thick length, making him hiss in relief, “Should’ve told me.” You added in a low whisper.

“I didn’t think I could have you.” He replied honestly, watching with a slacked jaw as you slowly worked his length. “You still don’t,” You replied with a teasing glance up at his flushed face, “I’m letting you borrow me.” He was about to roll his eyes and fire back something cocky when you wrapped your warm mouth around the head of his cock — killing the words before they could pass his lips.

“Fuck,” He groaned softly, his hips immediately jerking upwards. You took him slowly at first, tongue circling his tip while one hand stayed wrapped against his base where it pumped in time with your mouth. Your free hand rested against his thigh, grounding him as you relaxed your throat to allow him to reach deeper into you, inch by inch. The sight of you, mouth filled with his cock, was almost too much for him to handle. With a deep groan, his head dropped back against the pillow while his hands rested limply in your gathered hair.

Coming up for air, you looked up at his angular features with a smirk. You ran your lips against the underside of his shaft, stifling a groan from the feeling of its velvety skin. “Is it everything you dreamed of?” You asked, cracking a sarcastic joke to hide your own desires. He looked down at you and laughed — shaky — stunned by the pleasure and your mockery all at once. “You’re evil.” He groaned, dying for the warmth of your mouth. You giggled softly. “Shut up, I’m generous.”

Before he could reply, you took him deep again, humming around him, making his head spin. His hands involuntarily tightened in your hair, and you took it as a sign to go faster. Hollowed cheeks, you began bobbing your head with intent. He watched as your eyes flicked up and locked with his own, and the glint of danger within them nearly undid him.

“Fuck, I — I’m close,” He gasped, feeling his cock swell in your mouth. As soon as he spoke, you pulled off of him with a wet pop, wiping your mouth quickly before climbing back onto his lap before he could react. “Not yet.” You replied, voice gritty with lust. His hands fell to your thighs as you quickly peeled off your shirt, revealing to him parts of you that he had never seen before. His eyes dragged down your body — every new inch somehow familiar and new all at once — and attached his mouth to your hardened nipple as you rolled your warm heat against him in slow, taunting circles.

His hands moved to the back of your thighs, lifting you slightly off of him so that he could run two digits across your clothed centre. “You’re soaked,” He muttered against your tit, voice wrecked, as he felt the slippery fluid that had soaked through your boy shorts. You gasped as he bit down against the sensitive bud before allowing him to slip your underwear off. “I told you,” You panted, the cool air against your heat sending a shiver down your spine, “You weren’t the only one who wanted this.”

And then, in one fluid movement, you sank down onto him.

You both moaned — yours high and breathy, his deep and guttural — as you took him all the way in, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt inside of you. You were paralyzed for a moment, unable to move as your eyes fluttered shut. “Fuck, Chris. You f-feel —” Your words were caught in your throat as he gripped tightly onto your hips, struggling to stay still as he let your tight walls adjust to his size.

After a moment, you finally began to move — slow, grinding rolls of your hips drew gasps from his parted mouth. Your hands were planted against his chest, nails biting into his skin caused his pleasure to intensify as you rode him. With each rhythmic bounce, a gruff curse fell from his lips. Your heart raced at the sight of Chris so unraveled beneath you, so willing to allow the pleasure you were giving him to show through his knit brows, glazed eyes, and deep moans.

You began riding him in earnest — hips snapping, thighs flexed around his waist. His eyes traveled to your breasts as they bounced in front of him with every movement, and his hands — buried in the plush of your ass — reached up to grab onto them. You leaned forward, allowing him to wrap his mouth around one hungrily, as your pleasure built in your lower stomach. Your moans turned sharper, pleasure breaking through your determination. The sounds you made went straight to his cock as it slipped in and out of your spongey cunt at a pace that pulled him closer and closer to his orgasm.

His hands moved back to your ass, where his fingers dug into your flesh in desperation — to keep you right there, to get you to slow down, he had no idea. “Fuck, Y/n, I’m —” You didn’t even let him finish his strained sentence before slowing your pace back to a slow grind. His eyes shot open, wild and desperate, looking up into your much darker pair. “You’re not gonna cum, are you?” You tilted your head menacingly as you spoke, and the power you had over him in that moment almost scared him. Not because he didn’t trust you. But because he didn’t trust himself.

A groan that came deep from within him spilled from his lips as you continued to barely move on top of him. His cock throbbed inside of you, begging for a release. His hands traveled along your naked body, taking their time on your hips where they attempted to press you harder against him. Looking up at you, he noticed a different look in your eye. The arrogance was still there, but brewing underneath that seemed to be a hint of desperation. Of raw need. Just as he realized that you were torturing yourself just as much as him, that your teasing wasn’t intended to be a tactic of control, your walls seemed to slip for a moment and he saw the silent plea in your eyes.

As if to confirm it further, your hand slid between your thighs, fingers working your clit as he watched you writhe. “D-don’t you dare c-cum.” Your demand came out strained and breathless as you tried to hold onto the control, and although the sight of you struggling made his head spin, he decided to do everything in his power to play along with your little game. “So what,” He began, each word coming out with a struggle, “You wanna cum all over my cock, make a mess while your tight pussy wraps around me? Huh?” His filthy words were a shock to your system, yet your response was nothing more than a sharp moan as they drove you closer to the edge.

Your reaction pulled him even closer, but still you weren’t granting him the release his aching cock needed. Each time he thought he was going to reach that rush of his orgasm, you lifted yourself off of him to keep your own at bay, drawing out the pleasure for both of you to the point of near-pain. This torture continued for what felt like hours until, after one particularly close call, you lifted yourself completely off of his length, trembling in the air where your slick heat was just inches from his face. His eyes locked into the glistening, pink bead, and without a thought he attached his mouth to your swollen clit to keep himself from begging — unwilling to give you the satisfaction.

As his tongue swirled in hungry circles against your bundle of nerves, a sharp cry fell from your lips. Hands raked through his hair, your body detached from your mind as you rolled your hips against his face. Releasing a moan that vibrated against your core, Chris grabbed onto your ass and pulled you up so that you were now straddling his face. Your juices melted against his tastebuds, and he devoured you like he could never get enough. One hand digging into the head board, the other laced through his wavy hair, your legs trembled on either side of him as the threat of your orgasm loomed closer and closer.

Chris felt it in the way your clit swelled against his tongue. Heard it in the way your moans turned animalistic. Saw it in the way your limbs went slack. And just as you were about to give in to the need to come undone, he removed his mouth from your clit and spoke, “Don’t you dare cum.” You looked down at him, shock written all over your face from his use of your words against you as you took in his taunting expression. Your cunt throbbed from the lack of contact, but the look in his eyes that told you he knew exactly what you had been doing caused your stomach to do an excited flip. You had been taunting him, pushing him to his breaking point, so that he could destroy you.

And just like that, once you both locked eyes, he did exactly that.

In a single, fluid motion, he flipped you onto your back, pinning you beneath him. “Oh fuck,” Was the last thing that left your lips before he drove his cock into you, hard and deep, drawing a shocked cry from your throat. His strong hands gripped your wrists, pinning them above your head as he slammed relentlessly into you — done with the teasing, done with the games. He dropped his mouth to your ear, nibbling the lobe before speaking gruffly, “You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my turn.”

You released a sharp moan upon each of his thrusts, and practically screamed out once he dug his knees into the mattress, adjusting his angle to make sure that you felt every inch of him. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” He groaned against your damp skin, already feeling like he could fall apart from the way your walls enveloped him so perfectly. Your back arched at his words, and when he lifted his head to look at you he noticed that the smirk that was previously plastered on your face had been replaced by an overwhelmingly desperate, hungry expression.

Your body was no longer your own. You fell into the trance you had been craving since you first slipped him inside of you. The feeling of being pinned down by him, of allowing him to use you the way he wanted, was intoxicating. And he knew it. As if reading your mind, his mouth dropped to your ear once more. “You wanted this, didn’t you?” He licked a stripe from your ear down your neck as you nodded greedily. His hips snapped into you harshly, causing you to release a sharp squeak.

“Tell me how bad.” His voice had dropped an octave since flipping you onto your back, and the sound of it made the hair raise on the back of your neck. A long-winded moan fell from your lips as pressure continued to build in your lower stomach, his cock traveling up inside of you, hitting that spot again and again. “S-so fucking bad.” You replied, each word coming out strained and punctuated by his thrusts. He sucked your neck hungrily, releasing a grunt from your honest admission. His own orgasm was threatening to run through him at any moment, yet he refused to slow down his pace.

“Shit,” He moaned, his voice dragged out in lust. You felt his cock swell inside of you just as he felt your cunt flex around him. His fingers found your clit, where he rubbed tight, frantic circles that made you buck beneath him. “I need you to cum for me. Now.” His words were clipped, his movements wavering slightly though he managed to keep the same speed. The demand, so raw and guttural, was all that you needed to get over the edge. Your eyes snapped open — meeting with his — and your legs tightened around his waist as you cried out; your body jerking beneath him as your orgasm tore through your restrained body.

As you tensed around him, milking his cock so perfectly, he refused to stop. Instead, the sight of you writhing beneath him was enough to grant him the energy to fuck you harder; pushing you through it until you melted into a puddle. He felt his balls tighten as he watched your powerless fingers claw into the head board — imagining them tugging at the roots of his hair or burying themselves into his back. He felt his cock stiffen as his eyes trailed down to your full chest — watching as your tits danced to the rhythm of his thrusts. And then, as you rode the waves of your orgasm, the delicate sound of his name on your lips pushed him over the edge.

He groaned, finally losing all control. “Where do you want me?” His voice was nothing more than a whisper. He was unable to manage anything more than that. But still, through your high, you heard him. Looking into his eyes, you slurred, “Inside me, please.” At your words, he pulled back to slam into you one last time, filling you completely before his throbbing cock painted your trembling walls white. His body jerked with the force of his release, and his harsh thrusts shifted to soft rolls of his hips as he let his orgasm overtake him.

He moaned out your name in broken whispers as he tightened his grip on you, finally reaching the release he had been craving for months, buried deep inside the warm pussy that he had spent many nights fantasizing about. The satisfaction within that realization sent one final wave of pleasure through him, before he finally let his body collapse on top of yours.

You both lay there, sticky bodies tangled together as your heaving chests and spiralling brains slowed down into a gentle lull. Your eyes fluttered shut as you savoured the feeling of Chris’s release as it slowly dripped from you, and, if you really focused, you could still feel him pulsing inside of you. Eventually, he pulled himself off of you and kissed you on your forehead. A soft, lingering touch that contrasted with everything that had just happened between you both.

He flopped beside you on the bed before immediately pulling you closer. You both laid in the quiet room, the air around you like a warm blanket. Your head rested on his chest, one hand tracing circles along his stomach. You felt the comfort of his breathing as he let out a long, slow breath, his hand running up and down the curve of your hip in lazy strokes. You lifted your head eventually, looking down at his face with a smile.

“You okay? You’re being suspiciously quiet.” You teased. He glanced up at you, his lips curving into a smile. “I’m having a moment.” He replied, sparkly blue eyes dancing across your face. “Oh, sorry,” You replied, mock-solemnly, “Didn’t mean to interrupt your existential crisis.” He let out a soft laugh, smacking your ass playfully. “No no, I’m good. Just…trying to catch up with the fact that that just happened.” You dropped your head onto him again, chin propped against his chest. “You’re feeling better.” You remarked, noticing his once tense muscles had seemed to relax into the comforter beneath you both. He stayed quiet for a beat, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, then said, “Yeah, I am.”

The words hung there a moment, heavier than they sounded. Uncertainty seemed to cross over you both simultaneously, before you spoke up again softly. “So…no identity crisis? Should I be expecting any panicked texts by tomorrow?” He met your eyes, raising a brow with a smirk. “Only if you start acting weird.” He replied, to which you scoffed. “Me? Never.” He chuckled and ran a gentle hand through your hair, soaking in the sight of you before him in this way. The room fell into comfortable silence once again, before Chris took another deep breath, this one slightly more charged.

“So…this was a one-time thing, right?” You lifted your head from his chest, letting out a small laugh. “Is this your attempt at letting me down softly?” He snorted, rolling his eyes in mock-annoyance. “Actually, I was hoping the opposite.” You nodded, chewing on your bottom lip. “Ah, I see,” You propped yourself on your elbow, “Already trying to schedule round two, hm?” He turned to look at you, noticing the pleased expression across your face and admiring the way that you seemed to glow post-sex. “Just wondering if the offer could ever extend beyond emergency treatment for soul crushing sexual build-up.”

You squinted your eyes at him playfully, running your hand along his stomach. “So, what I’m hearing is you want to do this again, no sexual crisis required?” He grabbed his bottom lip between his teeth, shrugging. “I’m just wondering if I’m allowed to hope, or if I need to go back to rubbing one out to you every night.” Your eyes widened from his choice of words, but after gently poking his ribs you crawled back onto him; wrapping your arms around him and letting yourself feel his skin against yours. After another beat of silence, you spoke softly against his neck. “You’re allowed to hope.”

ᵕᵕᵕᵕ୨♡︎୧ᵕᵕᵕᵕ

[fallenprophets]

told you I'll be waiting, hiding from the rainfall

robert "bob" reynolds x reader

can be read as a prequel to I will never let you go

summary: he left you in Malaysia, volunteering for a study he promised would make him "better". You've almost come to terms with the fact that he's gone, when you see him again. no use of y/n, gender neutral reader as always. listened to cigarettes after sex while writing this.

warnings: swearing, mentions of drug abuse, slight thunderbolts* spoilers, notttt proofread like at all

a/n: alright gang, i actually genuinely don't know if this is good or not. might delete and rewrite in the morning? i just had to get something out because thunderbolts* had me feeling a certain typa way.

I thought I had lost him. 

I was so sure. I knew, from the moment I lost sight of him as he stepped into that shady fuckin’ tent in Malaysia. Knew that something was wrong, that he was in some kind of danger. I should’ve tried harder to stop him- not let go of his hand, convinced him that he was already special. 

But that hope in his eyes- hope that he’d be made better, that they’d fix whatever was wrong with him- that’s what stopped me. That’s what made me hug him one last time, kiss the spot under his ear, run my fingers through his hair. Turn away once he was gone, walk away. 

Of course, he didn’t leave that tent- as I’d expected. I tried the Malaysian authorities, but no one cares when a meth addict tourist goes missing- same when I went back home, talked to the police. 

And things were bad, for a little while. I was alone again, and I felt it. Walked that line between life and death, constantly keeping myself high, or drunk. Thought that was it for me. 

I don’t know what happened. It was his birthday- he’d been gone for a while, and in a fit of insanity, I checked myself into rehab. Got better, made some friends. Even got a job, with the help of a few people. I’m considering going to college; got enough saved for something like that. 

I’ve not moved on, not in the slightest. But my life has continued; didn’t freeze when he disappeared, despite the fact that I felt it did. 

And then, New York happened. Or whatever the fuck that was- everyone disappearing into that void, myself included. And I found myself reliving my worst memories- including losing him. 

I woke up exactly where I was standing before, hands pressed over my ears. My heart is thudding in my chest, my breathing heavy and staggered. People around me are just as confused, running to grab onto loved ones, falling into each other’s arms. 

The tears are quick to come, and not unexpected. Reliving that moment- the last goodbye, watching him walk away- it’s too much, all at once. I curl my arms in, tuck them close to my chest as if protecting myself from something. And I start to walk, trying to ignore the people all around me, hugging, crying out relieved words to each other. 

The loneliness- a feeling I haven’t acknowledged for a long time- is almost crushing in its suddenness. It’s as if I lost him yesterday. 

I’m consumed by it, leaning heavily on the wall of this alleyway clutching at my stomach like a wounded dog. Gasping, sucking in deep breaths to calm myself down. I don’t notice the press gathering, the podium being set up with all its microphones. I don’t even notice the director of the CIA of all people announcing a new team of heroes. 

He catches my eye when I look up, though. 

I stop breathing for a moment as my gaze locks on someone; someone so achingly familiar I almost drop to my knees. It’s like someone has knocked the wind out of me; punched me in the throat, kicked me in the ribs. I can’t breathe- doesn’t even feel like my heart is beating- as I take in the man standing a few feet behind the woman at the podium, dressed in a blue sweater and brown trousers and scuffed trainers. His hair is a little longer, his face sharper, but it’s him. I’d recognise him anywhere, by touch alone, in the dark. 

I open my mouth to say his name, and nothing comes. 

I don’t think he’s seen me yet. He looks bewildered, maybe a bit scared. I push myself out of the alleyway and stumble over, shoving journalists out of the way. 

Finally, finally, his eyes meet mine. And everything around me fades to a dull buzzing sound. 

His lips move. He must be saying my name, I think dumbly to myself as I stop right at the edge of the stage. Someone- a woman with shorter blond hair, dressed in black gear- seems to notice the way Bob’s eyes have locked onto me, and expertly draws the CIA director’s attention away. He’s able to duck out of the way, slowly stepping towards me. 

My heart thunders, louder and louder as he gets closer. I say his name, and he says mine. His expression has shifted to one of pure, almost painful relief, and he half-jumps off the makeshift stage. 

I say his name one last time, and he crashes into me. 

It’s instinctual, the way his arms wind around my shoulders; the way I find the crook of his neck, bury my face in it and breathe him in for what feels like the first time in centuries. His hand cradles the back of my head, the thumb of the other automatically tracing circles on my shoulder. I press my palms flat to his back, pull him as close as I possibly can. 

“Oh my god,” I choke out against his skin. He’s shaking slightly; I can almost feel his heartbeat thumping against mine as he hugs me. Cameras flash and shutters clack, and I know photos are being taken of us. 

I pull away, cup his face in my hands. I realise I’m crying, the tears coming hot and heavy and blurring my vision as I try to take him in fully. He says my name again, so soft, and I press an almost frantic kiss to the corner of his mouth. His hands don’t leave my waist, grip tightening sporadically as if he’s checking that I’m really here. 

It’s over all too quickly. Some kind of medical team arrives, and he has to let go of me. I don’t leave his side, though; sit close by through every test they run on him. We exchange very few words, but I think he understands; I am never letting him walk away from me again. 

Eventually, they let him hold my hand; and he doesn’t let go. 

It’s four in the morning when they finally let Bob go; and it takes a lot of persuasion from the people he’s with- the Thunderbolts, as they’re being referred to (against their will, it seems). I forget their names as soon as they’re introduced to me, my primary focus on getting out of here, on being alone with him. 

And finally, the others go, promising to see him again tomorrow. And I get to walk tucked against his side, show him up to my apartment. 

He’s quiet, and I don’t mind it. I give him my favourite grey sweater and some old pajama trousers to change into, show him the bathroom. He showers while I busy myself making tea- something I got more into after rehab, ‘cause my new neighbour took it upon herself to show me how. I burn my hand on the kettle twice, still shaking slightly from the shock of seeing Bob again. Maybe not well, but alive, and that’s enough for me- more than enough. 

He comes out of the bathroom, and I almost drop my cup of tea again. Carefully, slowly, I set it aside on the kitchen counter. Fiddle with the hem of my shirt, clear my throat. We’re staring at each other; almost hungrily, I take him in, standing here in my home, wearing my clothes. My heart hasn’t stopped thundering violently in my chest, and I feel a little lightheaded from just watching him. 

“I…” I trail off, words already failing me. I cough, nervously shuffle my feet. Try again. “I missed you.” 

My voice breaks, and I put a hand over my mouth. My vision blurs, and I realise the tears are back. 

I reach my other hand out, and stumble towards him. He catches my halfway, arms winding around my waist to hold me up- but we both end up on our knees anyway, clinging onto each other for dear life. I allow myself to sob into his shoulder, and I think he cries too, his grip so tight; as if he’s scared of losing me. 

Eventually, I pull away, wipe my face with my sleeve. Take his face in my hands again, brush my thumbs over his cheekbones. Confirming that he’s alive, that he’s here with me. He looks destabilised; his eyes are maybe a little glassy, both from crying and whatever it is he’s been through over the time we’ve been apart. 

“I missed you,” I repeat softly. “So, so much. Thought you were dead.”

His gaze flits over my face, like he doesn’t quite know where to look. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, so I stand, pulling him up with me; keep one hand firmly on his wrist, ‘cause I don’t want to let go just yet. 

“Do you want to sleep in the bed?” I ask softly. 

“Where will you sleep?” He asks, in the same quiet, somewhat shaky tone. 

“I can take the couch.” I want nothing more than to sleep right next to him, but if he needs space, I’ll be more than happy to provide. 

“Can you… stay?” He’s quieter as he says it, his eyes twitching ever so slightly. I’m quick to nod, squeezing his hand. 

“Of course,” I murmur. He nods, and I think I catch a hint of a nervous smile. 

We’ve shared a bed before- when neither of us could afford our own place, ‘cause we were spending all our money on drugs. But that was a dingy mattress on the floor, and we were both high out of our minds most of the time- I can hardly remember it. 

This is a real bed. One of the first things I bought for this apartment, in hopes that it would help me sleep better, so I didn’t spend nights staring at the ceiling, itching for something to either lull me into unconsciousness or keep me awake and buzzed enough to silence the loneliness crawling under my skin. 

I lead him into the bedroom, still clinging onto his hand. Only let go to climb in, instantly huddling against the wall to make as much room as possible. But as soon as he’s under the covers, his hand finds my waist, and he pulls; so I shuffle forwards, ‘till he’s tucked against my chest, my chin resting on his head. He has an arm around my waist, hand resting flat between my shoulder blades. I let my fingers run through his hair, still a little damp from the shower. 

He shifts again, lifting his head so our foreheads press together. His nose bumps mine, like a silent question. I answer by nudging closer, until I’m breathing his air and he’s breathing mine. So intimate, as his hand finds my neck, thumb once again brushing my cheekbone. 

One of us- I’m not sure who- breaks the small gap. And suddenly, his mouth is on mine, or my mouth is on his. And it’s warm, and soft, and so, so gentle. I think it’s the first time we’ve kissed and my stomach erupts with the thought- the knowledge that somehow, this is a final gap we’ve bridged. One I’ve regretted not bridging sooner ever since he went missing. 

He kisses hungrily, but not in a bruising way. It’s almost mournful, the way his mouth moves against mine, the way he breaths me in as his fingers dig ever so slightly into the back of my neck. Not painful, but sad, like he’s scared of losing me- losing me again, I suppose. 

He pulls away, and I kiss his forehead as he curls into me. 

Our ankles cross, and I watch him shut his eyes, listen to his breathing slow. I don’t sleep, but I think he does. 

[withahappyrefrain]

Bobby, who's only had sex a handful of times, has his dick sucked maybe once, not realizing how fucking big his dick is. It's not comically large, but definitely larger than average. Him thinking you're pretending when you're gagging on his dick, even going as far as to roll his eyes because why are you being so dramatic

"Tryna take it all, Bobby, you're so big," and something about your cock drunk whine snaps something in him

I see this for Bob Reynolds! He's definitely on the inexperienced side. It's not from disinterest, he just hasn't been in the most stable mindset. During the moments he was clean, he was always told not to get into a relationship, otherwise doing so would put his sobriety at risk. Plus, that man has low self esteem, he's not downloading Tinder.

So when he's in a relationship with you, it's all very new- dating, emotional intimacy, and the physical intimacy.

When you ask to go down on him, he's a little shocked. Does it matter that much? Poor guy is so used to downplaying his needs 😭

"Uh, sure? If you want to!" He quickly adds, not wanting to put pressure on you.

Bob never thought a blowjob could be life changing.

"You're so pretty Robby." He doesn't know what's making him blush harder; your special nickname or the way your fingers are tracing the veins along his hard shaft.

"R-really?" His hips jerk when he feels your breath on his cock, "I mean, it's....fine. I don't think, I mean, it's nothing special, just-"

Trying to get Bob to take a compliment is something you're still working on. So instead, you shut him up by closing your lips over the head of his cock. The action causes Bob to throw his head back, biting his lower lip to keep that moan in.

The last thing he needs is another 'sex talk' with Alexi. Not even Yelena can save him from that.

Thoughts of his roommates quickly fly out the door. All he can do is watch you try to take him. There's a quarter of his shaft you're not reaching, using your hand instead.

Now, Bob is trying not to judge. He's truly grateful someone as amazing as you wants to be with someone like him. But truly, he can't be that big? No one in the past has ever made those sounds when they were with him. And Bob has watched porn. He knows it's possible to gag on it, but he also knows those are actors who are playing it up. So why are you?

"Are you....good?" He asks. It's blunt but the nicest way he can think to phrase it.

The whine that escapes your mouth vibrates against him, nearly sending Bob into a tailspin.

"You're just so big Robby. Tryin' to take all of you." Desperation laces your voice, amplified by the fact you dive back to taking his cock into your mouth, throat constricting as you tried to take more. His large hands grip your shoulders, his lithe hips now jerking forward.

"You're-fuck- you feel r-really good," His voice is strained. Now that doubt isn't clouding his mind, he can actually let go and feel. Your mouth is so warm and soft. He loves how you have one hand kneading the soft flesh of his thigh, the other stroking up and down his shaft.

"C'mon Robby. Wanna taste ya."

Turns out, Bob Reynolds does indeed enjoy blowjobs.

[heartyluv]

would you ever consider writing sleepy, soft, clingy zayne? baby is completely wrapped around you and won’t let go, even if you have to get up and go to the bathroom 🥺🥺🥺

Note: Fluffy Zayne is always the cutest because you just know he only lets himself be that way in front of you. I listened to Comfortable by H.E.R while I wrote this and it’s just soooooo ADORBS. I hope you love this!

No Warnings! :)

Clingy!Zayne/Reader

I’m outside. Please open the door for me, love.

When you read that notification, your heart starts to flutter like crazy in your chest. You can’t stop smiling, even past your shock as you quickly stand up from the couch to throw on some pants. Even if he’s your boyfriend, you don’t tend to answer the door in your panties.

Quickly, you run to your apartment door and pull it open to find your boyfriend standing there with a tired expression on his handsome face. But he smiles softly, looking at you with so much love.

He’s dressed appropriately for the cold weather in all black with his long peacoat, slacks, and button up shirt with his classic Oxfords. He presses his rectangle wire framed glasses up on his nose, opening his arms when he sees you ready to run into them.

His unique scent and expensive cologne fills your nostrils, bringing you comfort. You missed him so much.

“Babe, why didn’t you tell me you were coming back today? I thought I wouldn’t see you for another week,” you mumble against his neck as he braces one solid arm around your waist to hold you close. He deeply inhales your scent as well.

Home, is all that fills his mind.

“I was able to finish everything quicker than anticipated. I wanted to come back to you,” he answers truthfully as he places one gentle kiss below your ear.

Zayne had been sent across the country for a series of serious research meetings that included things he couldn’t exactly discuss right now, but they were doing big things. Good things. He was gone for a whole month and you never thought it was possible to miss another human being as much as you missed him. Seeing as he was able to miraculously get a week’s worth of anticipated work done within two days, the feeling was mutual.

When you two hesitantly pull apart, you don’t pry him with questions or anything. You’ll save that for when he’s well rested. You can hear how tired he is. You know he’d be more than willing to sit up and talk to you, but you could never do that to him.

“Hungry?” you ask him as he rests his suitcase beside your shoe rack before shutting the door.

He shakes his head, pulling off his coat, but hesitating as he answers. “I ate on the plane. Are you? I can head back out and get you something.”

You smile at his thoughtfulness and shake your head, helping him pull it off completely. “I’m okay, bub. Let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

He accepts your help. “Is it okay if I shower first?”

“Of course,” you nod. “ You know I have some of your clothes here, too. And I can get your laundry started and in the dryer to finish overnight. Just take your time.”

“You’re too good to me,” he says genuinely, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. But that’s not enough, so he presses three more to your soft mouth before actually pulling away this time to get cleaned up.

You do just what you said you’d do, going inside his suitcase and washing the simple garments, making a note to bring his work clothes to the cleaners.

Zayne’s finished and back to you within thirty minutes, just as you start his clothes in the dryer. His face is free of his glasses, but not his exhaustion. He’s shirtless, only wearing a simple pair of gray sweatpants.

“Your apartment is warm,” he answers when you can’t help but stare at his muscular chest. That makes you laugh, pressing a kiss to one of his pecs when you walk up to him.

“Need me to turn it down?”

“No need,” he answers. “Are you ready for bed?”

You tell him yes, shutting off all your lights and climbing into your bed once in your room. Your poor baby is so tired, so you don’t small talk as you let him rest his head on your chest, wrapping his arms around you to finally get some good sleep—something he hasn’t had since he left you.

“Goodnight, love,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I’m not as talkative right now. But I will be in the morning. Thank you for everything.”

You run your hand through his partially damp hair, admiring the softness of his dark strands. “It’s okay, I understand completely. I’m just glad you’re here. I’d do anything for you.” He snuggles into you deeper at that, making your heart swell. “Sleep well, okay? We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

When the sun rises, you blink away the sleepiness as you wake up and admire the golden glow of the light streaming in through your windows. You and Zayne are in the same position that you were last night. This time though, his leg has both of yours trapped. He’s wrapped around you entirely and he did it all in his sleep. You look down as he rests on your chest so peacefully, admiring the gentle curve of his nose.

You just take the time to admire him in his entirety. You think of how lucky you are to have such a man like him as yours and in your life. You couldn’t want for anything when your everything is right here.

You look ahead at your clock that’s on your dresser, seeing 9:27 AM. It’s early for you, but this is sleeping in for your hard working man. You want him to get more of that, but you want to have some food ready for him as well as get his laundry folded.

And you have to pee.

You start to slide away, at least you try to. But Zayne’s grip on you is surprisingly stronger than you expected. You chuckle at his bicep, watching the muscle that refuses to release you, flex so effortlessly.

“Stay,” he mumbles sleepily, nuzzling into you more and huffing out a breath through his nose.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you frown. “I gotta get up though, babe.”

“You don’t have work.”

Of course he knows that’s. Even if it’s a Thursday, he knows your schedule just as well as he’s mesmerized his own.

“I want to take care of some things for you, is all.” Your rake fingers down his scalp, smiling at how he shudders. One of his weak spots. Bonus for you that his hair is extra fluffy after air drying over night. You relish in this because he’s not going to let it stay that way when he gets up, but you just love how extra soft it is when it’s like this.

“We’ll go out for breakfast, so you don’t need to cook. Don’t leave me. I’ve been without you long enough,” he speaks, but the tiredness in his voice makes you feel awful. You really didn’t want to bother your sweet baby.

“Can I pee, at least?” you shake with a laugh and you see the corner of his mouth tilt up in amusement. Even if he’s so hesitant, he cares about your health. He wouldn’t be your Dr. Zayne if he didn’t.

“Two minutes,” he commands. And you listen, rushing up and using the bathroom quickly. After taking care of your business and washing your hands, he’s on his back on the left side of your bed.

You climb back in, and he gets on top of you immediately, placing himself in between your legs and putting his face right on your boobs. He hums, wrapping his arms around you tightly as you start to rub his scalp again while he uses the silk of your nightgown and your pillowy breasts like a pillow.

The bed is long enough so that his feet isn’t hanging off of it, and he uses this to his advantage to be sandwiched close to you.

“I missed you so much,” he says with closed eyes, making yours water at how loving his tone is. You’d do anything for this man. He’s your universe.

“I missed you too,” you admit, kissing the top of his head and rubbing down his strong back.

“Is it alright if I stay for a few days? I don’t have work until Monday. Being with you is all I’d like to do.”

“You don’t even have to ask. You can stay as long as you’d like. Forever is an option, as well.”

He kisses your breast, placing his cheek right back on top and getting comfortable.

It’s silent for a moment between you two for a moment—comfortable.

“I love you,” he squeezes you even tighter.

The butterflies in your stomach are holding hands and spinning in circles while singing the cheesiest love songs at his affection. “I love you most.”

You eventually fall back asleep, resting for the whole morning and into the afternoon as Zayne stays glued to you. He’s like that for the rest of the day as well as each one after that during the days you spend together.

Being able to have a safe space like you is all he’s ever wanted and being lucky enough to have it is all he’ll ever need.

[aellesira]

彡 the years pass, but i will never stop loving you.

pairings, mydei x reader. ᯓ ᯓ' summary, mydeimos can recall the first time you met, even up to this stage of his life; every memory that had ever counted had you in them.

content, [0.6k word count], pretty similar to canon lore for mydei, otherwise royal au. fem!reader, you and mydei are married with kids. very simple but oh well.

Mydeimos doesn't know when he started loving you.

When you were both children, he could distinctly remember a pretty young girl around his age hiding behind her mother's legs, shy to meet the prince of Kremnos. He could remember your mother's gentle nudges to come out and meet the Queen and his son, and when you finally did, he thought you were so pretty.

Your hair was made up in a neat hairstyle, braids tied to the middle of long, flowy hair. A lovely dress that must've been made of the most finest silks and fabrics, perhaps just for this occasion. He reached a hand out to you, hoping to lift the nervous look off your face, but to no avail.

How could he have known that you'd be in his life forever? His mother, Gorgo, had asked him to see a noble lady and her daughter, you, with the intention of betrothal.

The intention of an arranged marriage remained, from the moment the topic sparked up in conversation up to then, your wedding day. But, being children, neither of you thought anything of it.

Or perhaps Mydei knew, in a way. Both that you would be his wife one day, and that you would be there forever. Being his wife...

That day you met him, your mother asked you both to go play outside in the gardens while she and his mother catch up. It was weird at first — you refused to speak out of your own timidity, but Mydei didn't want you to fear him. A soft greeting here, a white rose plucked from his garden there, and you felt you could open up — he wasn't like the other boys in the kingdom you hated.

After that, a tight, unbreakable bond was created between the two of you. You were his friend, his dear best friend who he had nothing but unbound love for. Spending days and nights together, doing whatever...

You felt loved whenever you were with your best friend, whether that love was as your friend or as something more. Even when he left to Okhema for a good few years, your longing for him helped you have patience, waiting and waiting. The two of you got married when things got better in Kremnos.

You could remember how as teenagers, the two of you would jokingly grimace whenever the topic of marriage came up, although you really did want to spend the rest of your life with him... and he did too.

Even now, as your children play in the same garden you and Mydei first played on all those years ago, your heart is filled with love at the sight of your children.

And your husband next to you, now the King of Kremnos, can see the affection swimming in your eyes. He pulls you closer to him, before kissing you softly, wrapping his arms around your waist, which then come up to the sides of your face once you've pulled away. And he looks at you.

Not a simple look, he gazes adoringly at you. His fingertips trace the faint wrinkles on your face that have started to form, but even then, he still thinks of you as the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, just as he did the day he met you.

When you were kids, hiding behind your mother and shyly looking away from him.

[sqgeism]

Hi! I hope you're doing well!

I have a bit of a specific Anaxa request: we all know this guy is prickly like a cactus, and probably wouldnt show any kind of physical affection/be overly affectionate whatsoever. maybe the reader can be lightly airing all their frustrations to an unsuspecting dromas/chimera they stumbled upon, and anaxa happens to walk right by when they say "I don't know why he feels he needs to keep me at an arm's length, in the end, all i want is to be loved; and i wish the same for him."

I just feel like that sentence would make anaxa flabberghasted and make him rethink some things.

ty for reading!!

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 | anaxagoras x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; as tipsy as a boat on unforgiving seas, you rant your heartaches to a cute, clueless chimera. (that weirdly looks like your boyfriend) not knowing that the very man stands behind you, listening to you pour out every feeling he'd never want to subject you to.

love mail — say yes to me. i haven't done an event in a while, would people be interested in that (*ﾟーﾟ)? sigh finally anaxagoras solo post without the other two added LMAO this guy is so popular on my account its kind of insane. thank u anaxa... for reviving sqgeism in the big 25.. i thought this was long but it's acc kind if short forgive me anonnie LMAO

for all the good moments in your relationship with anaxagoras, there were still bad. and the bad.. could get really awful very quickly.

even if he was growing to be careful, changing, being better, he still had his 'demise'— as he called it. he was set on a mission long before you, and you've accepted that. it didn't mean that it didn't hurt when you knew he was trying to keep you away, though he says it's to keep you safe, you knew it was for another reason.

anaxagoras wasn't—for all his genius as a scholar and a teacher—very good at things that involved vulnerability. it was something he'd ripped out of his cold, dead heart, leaving it whatever remaining feelings he had left to rot. clearly not enough, he'd remark, if he could still feel it beat every time you came close. fingers brushing over his own, lips getting too close for comfort, despite being together—he was still afraid. very.. very afraid.

but you weren't angry at him for being so, how could you? for all the hurt he's faced, the terrors that follow him like his shadow, you just can't. but you feel neglected, left to freeze in an unforgiving winter. you craved warmth, but no flame could thaw your loneliness.

and so when anaxagoras, once again, locks himself in his lab for aeon's know how long.. you're off. you had the control to at least leave a note where you're going; a bar close by to let loose. but you clumsily throw it on the nearest table and walk out. the tears were becoming overwhelming, and you just needed to cry. it felt cruel to be mad, but your heart knew what it wanted. it wanted someone badly, drawn to a rose with far too sharp of thorns. but you didn't care. you knew it was a part of him, and you chose him regardless. you wonder if he knows that he's loved, and how much he truly is.

and he does. in a way that overwhelms him, that makes him be the way he is. he knows you care, and that's why when he leaves his study hours earlier, the note unseen by his sharp gaze, he panics. you're not in bed, nor the living room, you're not home. thunder claps break him out of his thoughts, and he realizes you could be out there, in the rain, for who knows how long.

he runs out without hesitation.

doesn't care if he's soaking wet, or his students that may see their half-gone professor running through amphoreus in the rain, he's afraid. for once, his cowardice it isn't of the idea of you, but losing you. he's beginning to realize that there will be something worse than his fears destroying him.

it's having you slip away from his grasp.

he's afraid of affection because he might lose you. he's afraid of everything about loving you because he might lose you. he's lost so much, it scarred him. that the closest thing to paradise surely should have been an illusion, that it was all just a ploy to put him back together and break him apart all over again. he thought it was stupid, the obvious plan set by the 'gods'.

but he was just in love, so very in love. and it could never be stupid if the center of his affection was you.

and there you are, thank goodness. you're laying against an elevated tile as you're on the floor, arms on the said tile, and underneath the bars cover as a chimera sits by your head. you're clearly drunk, cause even if his heels splashed against the puddles towards you, failing to notice. gaze fixed on the little creature as he hears you speak.

"i just don't.. understand." you slurred, your face pressed against your arms as the chimera chirps. i don't know.. why" hic "he feels he needs to keep me at an arm's length.. in the end, all i want is to be loved; and i wish the same for him."

you don't even know what those words do to him. a man of many words, brought to silence. you look like a fae in the moonlight, ethereal and breathtaking. and anaxa's sopping wet in the rain, refusing to be under the bars covers as he feels he doesn't deserve it. the harsh weather prickles his skin, but he feels nothing. nothing but the cruel twist of a dagger through his heart.

he falls to his knees, the water around him makes a large splash as you turn your head. in your dazed state, your eyes don't recognize him, but your heart does. and you move without even realizing. "anaxagoras, my love?" he feels something cover his head, and he looks up to see you fussing and using your jacket to shield him from the rain. even if you were frustrated, venting about him, you still had the heart to worry. you still tried to help him, and he's such a fool to only appreciate that now. "what did i tell you about calling me that? to you, i'm anaxa. stop.. stop forgetting."

he doesn't know what to say, and he's thankful for the conditions so you don't see the way he starts to cry. his lips are trembling as his hand slowly stops yours, guiding it to his cheek and leaning into your palm. it isn't flowery words, he's bad at anything that isn't statistical or academic, but it's a gesture of something more. "i.. i'm so sorry." he muttered sorrowfully. "i've been taking you for granted. i didn't mean to, but i did. and that's unforgiveable. you don't deserve this life, and i—"

you cut him off by pulling him in, away from the world, under the shelter and into your arms. you two probably look silly, two influential figures in your own ways in amphoreus, snuggling up outside a bar in the rain. but anaxa has long discarded the idea of caring of others opinions, all he can focus on is how your heart begins to race. like you're as startled as he is. that he isn't alone in taking this leap. and for once, he's okay with that. having someone.. to truly take care of.

you wake up in bed the next morning, your head painful and your throat dry, but you're warm. and that's when you notice anaxa behind you, arms wrapped around you securely and his head partially buried in your hair. he's.. fast asleep. which is a first, you can't remember the last time he chose the bed rather than his office chair.

but you don't complain, aeon's, how could you?

you choose to fall back into the gentle hands of slumber, looking forward to waking up next to anaxa.

[giuliannna]

DEALER ! HAMZAH HC’S

— nsfw below the cut

dealer!hamzah who.. always smells a little like weed no matter how much cologne he sprays. it’s permanently baked into his clothes at this point.

dealer!hamzah who.. gets high off his own supply way more than he should, but somehow still manages to run his operation half-decently throughout your town. everyone you know will tell you that ‘he’s the best,’ when he’s really just the only trustworthy dealer around your area.

dealer!hamzah who.. tends to stay away from edibles. he once tried to ‘eyeball’ an dosage and ended up staring at his ceiling for four hours, completely out of it, whispering ‘oh my god’ to himself.

dealer!hamzah who.. writes down what you buy in this tiny notebook with doodles littering the margins. he’ll deny it, but he sort of remembers your favorite strains and tries to save you the good stuff when he gets a batch he knows you’ll like.

dealer!hamzah who.. gets all awkward when you specifically hand him any amount of money - like it’s weirdly intimate to him, even if you’re just paying for a bag. (it’s because you’re so sweet to him & so different from all his other regulars, so accepting your payment feels a little wrong in his eyes.)

dealer!hamzah who.. charges fair prices, even though he could definitely rinse people’s pockets if he wanted to. he still manages to eventually start giving you little discounts without fully acknowledging it. ‘i rounded down,’ he’d mumble. ‘it’s just, like.. math.’

dealer!hamzah who.. always smokes outside on the roof of his building or out of an open window. never keeps drugs in the same room as his cats. he knows the risk & would never forgive himself if he ever did any damage to red or blue because of his drug possession.

dealer!hamzah who.. thinks about you constantly once you fuck the first time. ever since then, his nights consist of stroking himself, whining your name into his pillow, and cumming all over his hand because he can’t stop replaying images of you in his head.

dealer!hamzah who.. sometimes smokes with you before sex if you ever want to - he swears it makes everything feel insane and it absolutely does. weed also makes him lose his filter, and before you know it he’s whispering the filthiest shit into your ear while he pushes inside of you.

dealer!hamzah who.. fucks slow when he’s high. lazy, deep thrusts that have you gasping and asking for more. he drags it out for hours on end, wanting to get the most out of it.

dealer!hamzah who.. is lowkey a sub most of the time without realizing it. he likes being told what to do, where to put his hands, how to touch you. it turns him on way more than he’d ever admit.

dealer!hamzah who.. secretly loves when you’re rough with him. pull his hair, scratch his back, pin him down - it all gets him fucked out so fast he’ll hardly be able to form a coherent thought.

dealer!hamzah who.. gets a little obsessed with fingering you because it’s the one thing that completely shatters his usual nervously stoned aura. the moment his fingers slip between your legs and he gets to see your face contort with pleasure, he gets almost cocky in a way you’ve hardly seen before.

dealer!hamzah who.. can’t get enough of the mess. whether it’s the way you soak his fingers, or when he paints your skin with his cum, he’s all for it - and always promises to clean you up after.

a/n: yes he’s a loser nerd idiot. yes you’re gonna deal with it.

xoxo giulia

dealer ! hamzah masterlist

[iloveaustinelvisandmannymore]

Don't save me.

Pairing: Geum Seongje x reader.

Summary: People told you that he was dangerous. A wild card. Not to be trusted. The redist red flag but didn't they know you're colorblind for him?

Warning: Toxic relationship, Bullying, Violence, Cheating?Arguing, Verbal abuse, Choking, Cream pie, P in v, Dirty talk, Plot with Smut?

You can't recall the last time you felt truly and undeniably happy. It has been so long since you laughed so hard that your stomach ached or smiled so broadly that your cheeks hurt. It's been a while since you experienced that exhilarating feeling of euphoria.

Middle school, you think.

Faint memories of laughter and jokes circulating, untouched lunches, and that once warm sensation. High school. Little you thought how cool and wonderful it would be.

What a load of bullshit.

A pained grunt escaped your clenched teeth as a strong kick to your stomach sent your body crashing against the steel gray lockers. Your head struck hard against the metal, and your body crumpled to the floor.

"Are you going to open that smart-ass mouth again, or should I just keep going?" Ha-yoon's makeup-caked face sneered. You didn't know why you snorted back a chuckle nor why a small, sarcastic smile had crept onto your lips.

"You think this is funny?" she screeched, her hand rearing back.

"Ha-yoon, cut it out," Eun-kyung's angelic voice said as her dark eyes finally glanced up from her manicured nails. She pushed off the wall, and Ha-yoon backed away immediately.

'Just like a loyal puppy. Obeying her Mistress's order'

Eun-Kyung sighed through her nose like she was tired of wasting her time. She squatted down, allowing her silky raven hair, which was pulled into a ponytail, to fall over her shoulder. With her elbows resting against her thighs and her cheek resting on the ball of her fist, she gazed at you with a look of boredom and disinterest.

"You're fucking pathetic when you run that mouth. It almost seems you like pissing me off." Rage flicked through her irises as she quickly grabbed your hair and slammed your head against the lockers. "Unless cunt!" She yelled and slammed your head again, harder.

Your vision blurred and your ears rang. Black surrounded the edge of your vision before you passed out. Cruel laughter and fading footsteps were the last thing you heard.

When you came too and began to walk to your small apartment, your head ached and throbbed. Despite that, it was manageable if you took some pain medicine.

You were going out with Seongje, your long-time boyfriend, at a new club with some guys from the Union and you won't let a headache and a few stupid bruises stop you from seeing him. Being with him made you feel so alive; with him, you were respected by the gang. You were Seongje's girl. And nobody was foolish enough to mess with you unless they wanted to be beaten to half to death.

Dating him wasn’t always a smooth ride. Arguments were common, and so were screaming matches. Things were thrown, and surfaces were punched, but he never hit you, nor did he aim at you. You understood he wasn’t a good person, yet he loved you in his own flawed way.

The dark club pulsed with music, and you could feel the rhythm with every step you took as Seongje led you, his arm draped casually over your shoulders. Flashing lights danced wildly around the room. Bodies moved, jumping and grinding against each other.

The group chose a round table to sit at, and soon it was cluttered with cigarette ash and empty bottles.

Sang-Ook, Dae-Ho, and Du-Ho were boys who attended the same school as Seongje and played together at Internet cafes. The twins were already drunk, laughing to themselves, and talking to Sang-Ook about which woman he was going to try to fuck and making crude jokes. Normal gross boy talk.

Seongje didn't say much; instead, he stared blankly while listening to the other boys, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close. You weren't interested in their conversation, so you simply snuggled into his side. You didn't know why he wanted to be there, but you followed him wherever he went unless it was related to gang activities.

Your eyebrows furrowed; the sudden pressure on your bladder was becoming too strong to ignore.

"Seongje," you whispered in his ear. He responded with a low hum of curiosity, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly with the sound. After a moment of hesitation, you shyly admitted that you needed to use the bathroom. Seongje chuckled, pulled out his favorite pack of cigs from his tiger-printed windbreaker, and lifted one to his lips, "Go," he ordered, nodding toward the direction of the bathroom.

"I'll be right back." You quickly got out of the booth. "Better. I don't like waiting." He lit the end of the cigarette and inhaled the gray smoke into his lungs.

You sighed in relief as you exited the stall and turned on the sink water. As you washed your hands, you remained unfazed by the sounds of the bathroom door opening and the clicking of two pairs of heels on the tiled floor. The two women giggled among themselves, and you could feel their intense stares directed at the side of your face. While drying your hands, you glanced at the wide mirrors above the sink.

A sickening dread dropped into the pit of your stomach as you caught sight of the familiar coral dye and blue highlights. Ha-yoon and Seo-Yeon.

'How were they here? Did they know you were going to be here? If they were here, doesn't that mean..'

You dared to meet Ha-yoon's gaze in the mirror. A mischievous cruelty sparkled back; she knew something, and if you didn't feel dread before, you certainly did now. Your breath quicked as you rushed out of the woman's bathroom.

You need to grab Seongje and go.

You stopped a few feet from the booth. This had to be a dream, a messed-up nightmare, but the painful shattering of your heart told you this was all happening.

Eun-kyung's honeyed giggles cut through the roaring music. Her black hair flowed over her shoulders like a river, her skimmy pastel dress fit her like a second skin and her soft pink lips curled into a flirty smile that beamed brighter than the lights that painted her and Seongje in rosy red as she idly played with his sliver chain—the chain you got him.

He simply sat there, his arm resting on the top of the booth above Eun-Kyung, his eyes intensely focused on her. His expression was unreadable, and when her beautiful eyes met his, you couldn't bear it any longer. You choked back tears as you pushed and squeezed past the people having the time of their lives.

You sniffed, your legs aching from the many rounds of walking you did in the nearby park for almost an hour. You didn't want to go home immediately; too much of him was there, from the many nights he stayed over.

You wiped the fading tears from your cheeks as you bent slightly to take off your shoes, throwing them down carelessly. Dragging your feet toward the couch, you paused and squinted your eyes. A figure was sitting there, a small red dote appeared from the darkness and the following smoke floated out in the illumination of the kitchen light. You inhale sharply and switch the living room light on.

Seongje stared at the blank TV screen for what felt like several seconds before adjusting his glasses. Slowly, he turned his head toward you, and his eyes fixed on your face. To anyone else, he appeared cool and unbothered, but you knew him better than that.

He was enraged.

"Where were you?" He leaned forward to put out his cigarette. "Why does it matter? You clearly were very busy when I came back from the bathroom." you shot back, your words sharp. He paused at your pointed response before finally extinguishing his cigarette in the wolf-shaped ashtray. "You let her..you let her touch you..and you didn't tell her to back off. Did you enjoy her company that much?" you asked, your voice breaking at the thought of the two of them together.

"You think I'd cheat on you? I may be a lot of things but a fucking cheater Isn't one of them." He spoke in a faux calm tone as he backed you into the hallway and into your bedroom.

"S-Seongje.." You warned.

"I thought My girl wasn't a dumbass." He ridiculed, a cruel smile stretching on his lips as he backed you more and more towards your bed

"Don't call me dumb! I'm not stupid! You jackass!" you snapped before letting out a surprised noise as you fell onto your bed, trying to escape from him. "Oh no, baby," he cooed mockingly. "I work with incompetent, useless punks. You're stupid if you think I would cheat on you with some one-and-million whore. Don't worry, though. I'll show you who I really belong to." Seongje shrugged off his windbreaker, letting it fall to the floor, and crept onto the bed after kicking off his pants and underwear.

You should be mad, pissed at him, shouldn't feel your treacherous cunt heat up, and gush slick but watching as he took off his shirt and threw it to the side, bare except his glasses and his chain. He was lean, and muscular in ways that counted, and his cock. His dick twitched as if sensing your admiring gaze.

He was above average length, so thick it struggled to stand up completely, and veiny. The glans was a darker shade than the rest of his skin; the slit oozed a pearl of pre-cum. And a trimmed bush around the base of his dick. His member was just as fine as him.

You happily helped him take off your clothes until you were both as naked as the day you were born. Seongje smirked smugly, the bedroom look you gave him made him want to take you right there but the urge to tease you won over. Seongje wrapped his arms around your spread legs and pulled your ass on top of his thighs. His dick slid between your folds, coating himself in your wetness, and the tip rested on your bud; he drew back and snapped forward, giving himself a pussy job.

"Just fuck me!" You cried as he continued to fuck your lips and clitoris. "I don't know. Should I?" He questioned. You cried, frustrated, and bucked your hips to try and fail to trick him inside, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry I accused you of cheating. Now fuck my brains out!" You screamed; Seongje simply hummed a 'good enough,' drew back until his cock head caught on your entrance, and he rolled his hips.

You both let a groan as he pushed into your tight, wet, gummy depths. The action alone was close enough to make you cum. His cock, lay heavy on your walls, and his veins brushed against those spots until he bottomed out. You grabbed his hands that gripped your hips and threw your head back, moaning loudly as he pulled out and slammed into you, "Can't believe, you think I'd give up this pussy," He grunted, thrusting harshly, the bed banging against the back wall "this is my fucking pussy. Mine." He growled pushing his hair away from his face before grabbing your neck, his fingers squeezing the side of your throat.

You gasped and moaned as you held his wrist, your eyes rolled back, "Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry-" you blabbed, drooling. Seongje laughed meanly, his eyes shined amused "Look at this. Did I already fucked my girl cockdrunk?" He released your throat and lifted your hips up more, making him reach deeper; the loud clapping of skin, the moans, groans, and cures along the embarrassing squelching of your cunted filled the room. Seongje's glasses slid down the bridge of his nose and his chain smacked against his sweat, glistening chest. Frustrated, he tore the glasses off his face, tossed them beside your head, and leaned down, his body covering yours. His large groped and knead your ass as he kissed you passionately. You wailed into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck as you cummed.

Seongje pulled back, grunted as his eyes flutter shut, his hips slamming into your hips, his fast pace because sloppy as his dick twitched. He grunted one more time as his hot cum spilled into your pulsing pussy, painting you white from the inside.

"You were meant to be mine.." Seongje spoke up after you both cleaned up and laid together. Your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat lull you to sleep, "We were meant to be" he whispered into your ear, your eyes finally closing. If this was a dream from your otherwise miserable life you didn't want to wake up.

[ruinix]

can dark quinn fuck reader while she's asleep?

Lovely, hey there. So. Um.. dark!quinn...just a lil thot, okay? 😶‍🌫️🫣 First, lil confession, I wanna be claimed just like that y'know. Yes, I am a whore. Anyway...this is more of a ramble. My head is a mess. Also...don't ask if it's gotten too long. This did not happen.

Don't come for me. This is truly dark. You've been warned.

Whore thoughts. Dark. Deranged behavior. Somnophilia. Non-con. Drugging. Manipulation. This is dark, y'all. Dark. Dark!!! ⬇️⬇️⬇️

You were always a heavy sleeper. Sure, you had trouble sleeping, but once you were out, you were out. Quinn knew that. He would be a bad boyfriend if he didn't.

Afterall, he was the one who always woke up first for his early practice, the one who tried to pry your vice-like grip every time, the one who tried banging the cabinets during the morning to make sure, to constantly test your sleep. The one who touched your pussy through your panties until your arousal slicked it, until soft moans escaped your lips.

Then came the problem. You would rouse, stirring then slowly wake up, before he could make you come, before he could further his debauchery. Fucking always.

You would be so confused, too sleep-drunk, too innocent that you would just assume Quinn's cuddling you.

Even for so long, you never put two and two together. Not a clue with his touches. With his lack of care that he never asked for your consent through these acts. Well, why would he need such a thing when he owned you? Every single fiber of your being was his.

Your body that could no longer reach the heights of an orgasm without his touch. The number of times you came running towards him with tears of frustration in your eyes because no matter what you do--no matter what toy or technique--you couldn't come. The number of times you called him whining while he was on a road trip because you got so horny, yet you couldn't do a single fucking thing to help yourself.

Your mind that couldn't choose anything for yourself. Always seeking his opinion. Before, you would just go out with your friends whenever you like. Now, you preferred staying home just because Quinn planted seeds of doubt about your friends not being good for you, about them only using you because of how sweet you were, which were all not false. They were using you to get to him. You were so naive to see through their elaborate trap, so Quinn easily manipulated the circumstances that you had to break off the friendships. You didn't need them anyway. Not when you have him.

Not all of your friends were using you though. Some were good. Too good, too fucking nosy, trying to get you to see how twisted he was. Quinn can't have that, so he got rid of them too. Threats. Blackmail. He did it all, making you think they just dropped you, which made you more needy for his company.

Your soul that sang with his. So bright and innocent when you stared at hum like he hung the moon. So adorable when he fucked you so hard that he left you sore for days with bruises painting your neck, your hips, your thighs, and everywhere else. Still, you looked at him with heart-shaped eyes.

You've been such a perfect girl to love, fuck, and manipulate. So perfect, really. Except you kept waking up when it was about to be more interesting. When he was about to consume you in a different fucking level. When all he wanted was for you to come around him while you were still in dream-fucking-land. Was that too much of an ask?

So, Quinn moved.

He took his time researching things that would keep you asleep. He acted like a damned insomniac, going to a shrink and telling him he needed something to help him sleep, expertly twisting the truth, emphasizing he needed something to get him to sleep throughout the night. It was so easy. One trip to the pharmacy, he got his prescription along with bottles of melatonin and magnesium.

Getting you to drink the supplements was simple. Your eyes were twinkling as you take it as him being concerned with you. You happily take them. No questions. Not a single doubt or concern. You just take and take. Everything he gave you.

Quinn was always patient. Always bidding his time. He won't use his supposed prescription yet. Touching and testing if the supplements were enough. They were not. Therefore, he used them, telling you he saw a better additional supplement.

He waited and waited for your protest, even a question on what the fuck it is because one would normally ask, but alas, you said:

"Okay."

Then you grinned at him with such innocence that Quinn wondered how on earth did you survived this cruel world. No matter. He was here to keep you safe from anything else but him. He loved the pureness you offer. So pure that he must corrupt.

He watched. Within minutes, you were out like a light. Your body was in a supine position under the blankets, your chest moving with your every breath. Like a princess. His very own sleeping beauty.

One tug, the sheets were off. He could see the goosebumps on your skin, your nipples hardening under your silk night gown. He ran his hands over your thighs, spreading them, pushing the fabric up and up and up, exposing your lace panties. Slowly, he touches your clothed pussy, feeling along your folds, teasing your clit down to your entrance and back up.

Soft. You were so soft and getting so drenched. The need to smell you overtook him, not giving a shit anymore if the drug would actually keep you asleep. He just hooked one thigh over his shoulder, pressing his nose on your pussy and smelled your feminine musk. So divine as he started to lick over the lace.

Just one taste and he lost it. Like a feral beast who had not eaten for days, he licked and sucked and nipped, almost laughing as he heard your little whines, preening at how your hips jerked so slightly. Then he stared right at your face, waiting for you to wake but you didn't. Fuck yes.

He could barely think straight anymore. He tore your panties, slapping his cock against your quivering pussy, rubbing himself on you until he was coated by your arousal as his pre-cum dripped down his length. The way your thighs twitched, your eyebrows frowning, your barely there 'hmmm'. Everything etched in his brain. As he slowly sank his cock into your pulsing heat.

He fucked you slowly. Every thrust was full and deep. Your tits moved, bouncing, luring him in for a taste, so he indulged. Using his teeth to tug the neckline of your nightgown then he sucked your pebbled peak. One by one. he could feel your walls spasming for a mini orgasm. So adorable.

Your troubled moans filled his brain. He could basically feel your body trying to wake up, could feel the dream your mind was showing you. He was also fucking you in your dream, wasn't he? How hard was he going? Were the pathetic sounds coming out of you supposed to be your pleas to fuck you harder?

He supposed they were. What else could they be? You were always such a slut. It must be maddening for you not to get what you wanted.

"I know, my love. I know," he whispered in your ear, groaning when your pussy squeezed so tight around him that he almost came. "Let's take our time, okay? Fuck. We got the whole night."

It didn't matter to Quinn if he had to wake up for a morning skate. He would take his fucking time. He was already so fucking confident that his team would win. They always seemed to win whenever he touched you during your sleep. Now that he was fucking you, maybe it could be an easy victory. Fuck, he hoped it would be. Even if they lose, there was no way he wouldn't do this again.

Languidly, he rolled his hips as his hands gripped your hips wider, opening you up.

Then he started to get rougher. His hips bucking into you to claim you brutally. He wanted you to be so confused about why you're so sore in the morning, wanted you to feel so horrified about the new kiss marks he was leaving all over your chest, your collarbone, your neck. He wanted to see you panic when you see the handprint bruises on your thighs.

Those images of you all rattled and horrified filled his mind. He couldn't stop smiling as he pressed down your lower abdomen, his thumb softly rubbing circles around your clit until you come so hard, your lips parting, yet you didn't wake up. He kept whispering praises into your ear, chuckling at the little sniffles coming out of you because he wouldn't stop his thrusts, wouldn't stop playing with your sensitive clit.

"Give me another one, my Love. Just one. Then we'll stop," he teased into your lips, kissing you without care even if you didn't kiss back. It was exactly how he wanted. Just you in the palm of his hands. Just you being fucked by him because he could. Just like his very own sex toy. "I promise."

He lied and lied and lied.

He wouldn't stop.

Why would he?

He could only grip your skin, short nails digging into your tender flesh. When you came again, he did too, spurting deep into your pussy, kissing and licking your neck, praising you over and over again. He took his time to recover. Then he would do it again and again. The same fucking lie would escape his lips.

His sweat would drip down your sweaty body. His cum would be pooling under your ass. Your pussy would be red and raw from overuse. Your skin would be marked by bruises already darkening, reddening. He would be so greedy at the sight of you not waking up. Totally under his mercy. The night wouldn't be over, yet he was already planning the next time to do this.

He tried to stop at least. He was getting too exhausted after a couple of hours of partaking you. Hell, he almost fainted after he came so hard, but he couldn't. He needed more and more. He could only turn you both sideways, lazily fucking into you. His cum would already become too watery, too diluted, too spent.

He would only stop when he could no longer give you anything. Still, he couldn't be satiated. He would crawl down your body to start cleaning you with his tongue. Tasting the mix of your cum and his. Smelling what he has done. It was all so divine.

He did his best with the clean-up. He replaced your nightgown and panties, wiped away the sweat. Even managed to change the fucking sheets with his shaky legs.

After tucking you in with his arms around you, he passed out. Only to wake up the next fucking hour. It was time to fucking work.

Work he did, grinning and laughing to himself when you called midday, sobbing because your body fucking ached.

Sorry. This is nothing but a figment of your imagination, i fear. I didn't write this. The parasites in my head did. They were having a protest because I was reading an extremely wholesome romance fantasy book. They needed something dark so they took over my keyboard. 🤧😔

-> more thoughts? List.

[celuere]

„You will apologize to her. Now.“

„Yes, father…“

„Making your mother worry in her current condition by taking on- stealing a mission way above your experiences. I don’t even know where to begin with your punishments in the first place.“

„Yes father…“

It was a stupid idea, really. Secretly snagging a paper off of their father‘s desk and trying to handle the task on their own. A task that had good reason to be classified as „Extremely dangerous! Do not assign any Harbinger below number five“. 

But they got lucky. Besides a few bruises and a concussion, the three of them got away relatively well- thanks to their father arriving at the scene in time. Infiltrating a secret stronghold of the cartel, you could almost mistake them for suicidal.

Originally Lyney wanted to show the head of the Hearth that he truly is capable enough of taking over her position in the orphanage. To show her that he isn’t the weak boy she once took under her wing and prove himself worthy of his role as the Knave‘s successor. But Lyney failed. Failed and dragged his two siblings with him into this misery and the worst things of all- something he didn’t even take into account- is that he would burden his beloved mother with their sudden disappearance. The boy knew that Arlecchino would be beyond angered with them, yet he failed to remind himself of his father‘s counterpart and her current condition.

And Lyney never felt worse in his entire life. 

The walk to your shared bedroom was a dreadful one. Each step seemed heavier than the last one as he could feel his heart pounding in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten in almost two days but the thought of the confrontation alone made him want to puke over the polished floors of their manor.

Before she opened the door to their private space, Arlecchino looked back at them over her shoulder. Crimson eyes screaming nothing but pure disappointment and something else. Something that the trio didn’t want to pinpoint. „You will not cry. You will not be hysterical. You will be quiet. The last thing your mother needs is more stress right now. Did I make myself clear?“, the sharpness which she sprinkled over her words didn’t fail to send a shiver down each of their spines. She wasn’t talking to them like a Father, but a cold-blooded diplomat right now.

„Yes, father…“, only then she slowly turned around the doorknob in her hand before pushing the wood open, the large bedroom spreading before them and revealing an exhausted figure surrounded by pillows, blankets and what not. 

But no amount of layers could hide the visible baby belly sticking out underneath them.

„Children…!“, as if you were awaiting them, your arms spread open for a warm embrace, tears immediately clouding your vision at the sight of your kids still being in one piece. Being just one week away from giving birth was heavier on the nerves than one might think and the sudden disappearance of the three idiots got you so worked up it knocked you out twice. Two times where Arlecchino had to watch her wife grow sick with worry while heavily pregnant. It almost took her out herself if we are being honest.

The first one to break the „no-crying“ rule was Freminet. The blonde young man wordlessly hugging you with his whole heart, apologizing for his wrongdoings and worst of all: Making his poor Mother worry. The only reason Arlecchino didn’t intervene in his outburst of emotions was because of the shake of your head, gesturing her to tend to her own problems and letting you handle the situation. 

Her discipline isn‘t needed right now.

„Oh, archons above you had me so worried…“, after some hesitation, Lynette added herself into your arms- careful not to put pressure on the bump as a few silent tears prickled up in the corners of her eyes at your display of worry and relief. Your gentle hand ran through their messy hair strands, letting your nails scratch over the scalp every now and then as whispers of how worried they had you and how happy you were that they came back safely fell into their ears. 

But one person was still missing in your embrace.

„Lyney…?“

His only answer was a mere shake of his head as he strictly stared down at the floor. The hat he usually wore so proudly clasped in his hand as he did everything in his power to avoid eye contact. The sight of your child so incredibly beaten down and angry with himself did nothing but contribute to the heavy blanket on your heart.

„…Would you mind leaving me alone with your brother for now…?“

The room grew silent after Arlecchino shut the door behind her. She wasn‘t allowed to be a part of this conversation. You took a whiff of the fresh camomile tea in your hands before taking a cautious sip, testing out the temperature. It was still a little too hot on the tongue.

„Lyney-”

„I don‘t deserve it. Your forgiveness.“, his voice was shaking. Just like his shoulders. The words coming out trembling as he still refuses to lift his head. „That… may be true… you mingled with your Father‘s affairs, you put yourself in immense danger, you dragged your siblings with you into this mess and you had me worried for three of my children’s lives for the duration of three whole days.“

„-and all while you’re pregnant I’m-”

„I do not define myself through my pregnancy. I am not ill, I’m merely heavily pregnant for just another week. Don‘t let your father‘s protectiveness cloud your judgement on me. Yes, my state is reason enough to worry but I’m fine, the baby is fine. My pregnancy is not an important factor in this conversation here.“, he admired you for that. For always standing your ground no matter against who or when. You truly are the Knave‘s wife and people have reasons enough to avoid you for that fact alone. Yet, he couldn’t stop it when the first tears started to fall.

„Come here, my child… And I don’t want any more excuses now.“, you sounded so gentle. So incredibly soothing. It reminded him of all the times you soothed him back to sleep after he first got taken in by your husband. He suffered terrible nightmares back then, often waking up screaming for his twin sister, cold sweat coating his scolding hot skin before he felt a cool hand wipe his forehead clean while soft words murmuring about that he‘s save here- that you wouldn’t allow them to ever feel this helpless again.

That same cool hand was now wiping the tears off of his cheeks. Handling him as if he were still a small teenager while you held your own emotions back what felt like a heavy blanket covering your chest. 

„There, there… but keep in mind that what you did was still wrong and your father has every right to take appropriate measures for that. Goodness… do you have any idea how worried you had her…? Right down terrified…“, your words hit him deeper than any blade ever could. His father was worried for them. For their safety. 

You could only notice the sobbing getting heavier in response.

„She knows she can’t always protect you kids. But she is trying, so hard. She is doing her best to ensure you live a halfway normal life despite our affiliations with the Fatui… Your father has buried many of her children over the years. And at no point has it ever gotten easier for her, so imagine what was going through her head when she noticed that missing paper on her desk…“, you will never forget the raw terror carved into her face in that very moment. How her hand grabbed after the edge of her desk for support. How quiet she suddenly got at the realization. 

She long ago accepted the fact that she can’t always shield her children from the enemy called „Death“ but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t do everything in her power to try to prevent having to choose between gravestones and caskets again. 

After all, it‘s her first time living, too.

[gay-dorito-dust]

‘What’s going on I can’t see!’

‘Shut up you’ll wake them both up with your squawking!’

‘Well tell John to move his fat head!’

‘Hey!’

Yelena, Ava, Alexei and John -while highly trained combatants- seemed to lack all sense of that training when it came to trying to claw their ways in looking over one another to see you and Bob cuddled up on the sofa.

Why?

Yelena and Ava knew you had a thing for Bob seemingly the moment he flashed that awkward but cute smile, where are John and Alexei were trying to get Bob to understand what it was that he felt towards you, but neither of them were that good of advisors for poor Bob in anything but bad advice and stuff that would only confuse the powerful but meek and good hearted man. Needless to say all four of your teammates were just wanting you two to cut the bullshit and the longing stares across the room, protective nature during missions, and the puppy dog pining and yearning and just be together.

That and Yelena and Ava made a bet with John and Alexei on who’d get you both together first and neither team was content with loosing to the other.

So when Ava phased into Yelena’s room to tell her that she saw you and Bob cuddling in the sofa in the living area of the Watchtower, Alexei and John coincidentally were walking past at the same time and happened to overhear Bob’s name and joined in on the conversation. ‘What about Bob?’ John asked.

Ava looked over to them both. ‘I saw him and (name) cuddling on the sofa,’ she repeats before looking at Yelena. ‘I told you that if we left them alone they’d get together eventually, both of them just needed time to be on their side and here we are.’

Alexei howls in laughter as he claps John on the shoulder with more force than he should as John tried to conceal his wince. ‘So the golden guardian finally makes his move, we are really good advisors Walker!’ He says as Ava and Yelena started to voice their thoughts and opinions on the matter of who actually won in getting you and Bob together.

‘Hey! No! Me and Ava were the ones that got them together not you!’ Yelena exclaims as she stands up from her bed with Ava following closely behind. ‘Besides what advice could you have possibly given Bob that would’ve helped in any situation?’ She asks as John and Alexei shared a look before looking back at Yelena.

‘Just go for it.’ John shrugged.

‘Show off your dominance in front of them and they shall fall at your feet!’ Alexei added.

Yelena and Ava looked to one another as though to ask the other how it was possible to be teammates with these two idiots who couldn’t organise a picnic never less a parade, they both felt bad for Bob as they could tell that he was given contradicting advice from both men that wouldn’t have helped him either way. So they assumed that either Bob did what felt right to him and made a move on you, or you made the first move and told him or secrete option number three; you just coincidentally fell asleep against one another and they all were making nothing into something that it’s not.

‘And you think that works?’ Ava asked, raising her brow.

‘Yep.’ Alexei said.

‘Kinda but it’s a 50/50 thing.’ John said once again shrugging his shoulders.

‘Yeah and I’m pretty sure women are thankful for you for that.’ Yelena waved him off as she moved past both men and into the hallway and strides towards the living area with Ava, John and Alexei following afterwards like a bunch of ducklings that didn’t want to get separated from one another, personally tripping one another up as they tried to not seem so eager in seeing you and Bob do something as innocent as cuddling on a sofa. Which had lead up to where they were now.

‘What’s going on I can’t see!’

‘Shut up you’ll wake them both up with your squawking!’

‘Well tell John to move his fat head!’

‘Hey!’

‘Yeah it’s not John’s fault his head is so fat!’

‘Alexei what the fuck?’

Their squabbling did nothing but ruin your moment of peace as you wake to being fulling cuddled in Bob’s arms as his head rested atop of your own, his hands at your waist tightened briefly before relaxing again. This would’ve been heaven to you had you not been rudely awoken to the sound of whom you could tell was Yelena, Alexei, Ava and John acting like children fighting over the last cookie in the cookie jar.

You had liked Bob for a while and Yelena and Ava were quick to notice this and tried to help you in growing the confidence in telling him your feelings, which you were thankful for but knew it wasn’t needed and yet too kind to say anything to them, only just sitting awkwardly on Yelena’s bed as she and Ava gave you what looked and felt like a million of options in how you could confess to Bob and not a single one of them felt right.

But as for how you managed to end up cuddling Bob, you couldn’t recall as it was late at night but it was a memory you wouldn’t forget about in a million lifetimes. It started out simply enough with the pair of you being unable to sleep for whatever reason, the peace between you both was comforting as you and Bob caught one another stealing glances at one another, smiling and looking away before doing it all again before you suggested watching a movie to take your mind off of things.

Bob agreed and before you knew it, the movie was halfway over and you were already pressed into Bob’s side, head buried into his shoulder as his hand traced patterns into your waist. It felt natural and unique you, there was no grand gestures of love but more or less a mutual understanding that what you felt for one another was beyond platonic, beyond anything either of you felt before and no words were exchanged that night; nothing else but forehead kisses and knowing smiles were all either of you needed to know that from this point forward things were going to be different from here on out and both of you were just happy to be within close proximity of one another.

Yet the sweetest moment of your life had to be ruined by the chaos of the morning after thanks to your team mates arguing in the doorway that you could just see from the corner of your eye. You didn’t dare move in fear of walking Bob, but you knew if you didn’t do anything he’d wake up rudely all the same, and you didn’t want that when it seemed as though he hadn’t had a good nights rest in a long, long time.

‘Guys.’ You hissed, causing Yelena, Ava, John and Alexei to shut up. ‘Can you all fuck off for five minutes? Bob couldn’t sleep last night and what he needs now is all of you shouting.’

‘Only if you answer one question.’ John replied.

‘Make it quick.’ You snapped.

‘Who confessed to who?’ Yelena asked.

‘And how did you do it.’ Alexei added.

You sighed. ‘We both did and we just kind of agreed that we liked each other, it just came naturally to us both.’ You told them as a silence fell over the room, one that lasted long enough for you to truly believed that they all had left, only for that silence to be broken as all four of your teammates collectively groaned. You couldn’t help but smile at this because while they got on your nerves for your feelings for Bob, they were still your teammates that never failed to make everyday an adventure of chaotic proportions.

‘No grand gestures? No kissing? No dominance of power?’ Alexei says in disbelief.

‘So…no one won?’ Ava followed as you laughed.

‘Nope, sorry to break it to you all.’ You replied as they all groaned again and left the living room to their respective rooms, blaming each other for their losses as four doors closed in unison. It wasn’t until after their departure did you feel Bob move, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as he held you close to his chest, sighing deeply as though a huge weight had been taken off of him and your hand instinctively reached for his arm and began to trace patterns into it to calm him.

‘Are they gone?’ He asks you in a gruff voice, not wanting to wake just yet but not wanting to fall back to sleep without you.

‘Yes they’re gone baby.’ You tell him as you kissed his jaw, burrowing yourself into his chest as the feeling of sleep creeps back in, urging you to rejoin your golden guardian in the realm of dreams, and stay there indefinitely until you were both rudely awakened by your teammates who will still be sour at their losses. ‘They’re gone.’ You echoed in a softer tone as the fight to keep your eyes open was a loosing one.

‘Good, now come back to sleep, I miss you.’ He says cutely and you couldn’t help but smile as warmth spread through your chest. ‘But I’m right here in your arms, how can you miss me?’ You asked him in amusement as you felt him tighten his grip on you and hide his face into your head before continuing. ‘You may be in my arms but you’re not in my dreams with me, out of my reach, so come back to me so I can cuddle you in my dreams too.’ Bob was too precious for you as you eagerly rejoined him in the realm of dreams, where you were cuddled in his arms also, sat on a field within a countrywide somewhere tucked underneath a weeping willow as flowers bloomed before you both.

Your nightmares were no longer existent when your dreams were as beautiful as this and the man you were now lucky enough to call your own as he peppered kisses to your neck and shoulders.

[specialgradefckr]

Tiger in the Alleyway

tw: homelessness, implied mistreatment/assault, suggestive content. sukuna/reader. hybrid!sukuna, hybrid!reader. sukuna is not like, canon sukuna, but he's not really much better

It doesn't really surprised him that it's ending like this.

The thought occurs to Sukuna as he stumbles into the alley, tail swaying weakly behind him. Even injured as he is, a low growl - a tiger's warning - is enough to clear the stupid mutts out of his way.

He lived his life cursing others. Biting, tearing, eating. Taking whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it. It was a life full of enemies, and that had to take its toll eventually.

At least he lived well. A good life. Free, on his own terms, by his own merits. He closes his eyes with a heavy breath.

There's a patter of rain - ugh. One final annoyance to accompany him into the afterlife. He supposes it might wash some of the blood and filth off him.

Louder, louder - this sound isn't rain at all. One bright red eye flashes open, glaring at the intruder - you.

A tiny, shivering housecat hybrid, crawling carefully up to his side.

Sukuna snorts. Of all the witnesses to his death, it had to be you.

You're nothing to him, of course. And nothing in general, really. A house pet, thrown out of your home - the worst fate for a domesticated creature like you.

A wild thing born and bred for companionship, to be a toy for humans - the only thing you deserved was pity and scorn.

That's all he'd ever looked at you with. He'd crossed you once or twice in alleyway scraps - never fought, oh no. You're a pathetic creature and you know it. Always surrendering, running from every fight.

Whenever you scrounged up any food for yourself, you had to hide or eat it right away. A good spot to sleep? You'd get bullied out of it. Anything nice, or soft, to comfort or amuse yourself with? Stolen from you within days.

You knew your place, and it was on the very bottom of the food chain. He supposes that your self-awareness was commendable, if nothing else.

He scorns you equally, now, if not more than ever. A worm like you, outliving him? How pathetic.

But his warning growl doesn't scare you off. For you, of all people, not to fear him -

What's that smell?

He smells it before he sees it. You carried it in your mouth, sitting carefully next to him and taking it into your hands. Offering it up.

It's a single, lonely sardine, probably the last from that little tin he'd seen you squirrelling away after he put down some mutt in an alleyway.

Fucking disgusting animals. Barking and pissing and shitting everywhere.

It comes together to him, then. Your pathetic, hopeful, wide eyes as you raise up your offering. You think he helped you. On purpose.

Eugh. For fuck's sake! A wave of revulsion shifts through his body, so strong he nearly hurls.

"It's okay to eat," You say with a painful kindness, "I had some! Take it!"

Putting up to his lips - he nearly pukes. Then again, he is pretty badly hurt.

"Stupid," He manages, it a low growl, but that only has his mouth open enough for you to stick it in.

Reluctantly, he chews, swallows. If only because spitting it out would do nothing at this point.

It seems dying wasn't a fit enough punishment for living a life like he did. Apparently, he had to live with the indignity of getting help from a waste of skin like you.

The rain is falling, harder now. He feels a tug on his sleeve and an involuntary groan of pain escapes him.

A small noise, like a whimper of disappointment, bubbles up next to him.

He hears you patter away - fucking finally - only to hear a scrape and scramble in the distance, along with a slow drag of something against the pavement.

There's a shift as you push him away from sitting against the wall - he hisses viciously at that - and then there's a cardboard set against it. With his weight back on it, it's held against the wall, hanging over his head and protecting him from the rain.

Sukuna sneers, "Stupid cat. You think you'll get something from me if you do this?"

His words are low, mocking, "You think I'll reward your kindness? You'll be lucky if I don't break your fingers for laying a hand on me."

Everything about his tone conveys exactly what he thinks of that idea. He's never needed help before and he doesn't want any now.

Especially not from some pathetic, weak creature like you.

"...could you do it on my right hand, please?"

A beat. "What?"

"Just... break the ones on my right hand. I can't really use it anyways, so... that should be fine..."

He remembers, then, how he'd seen you clutching one arm to your chest always. Probably an old injury that never healed right.

Just his luck. Choosing the most ineffectual threat possible for someone who had so little to lose.

The cold is just about to set in, bone-deep, when he feels the warmth against him. Stiffening, hissing in warning.

"...if... if you're so mad," your trembling voice says, "Th-then just push me off! Otherwise, I'm cold, so I'm gonna borrow your heat!"

He stops. Pauses. Calculates, thinks about it - but the numbers feel so far away from his tired mind.

The numbness feels like a solid, frozen mass inside him... but your form curls into his. Your tiny little housecat tail settling over his lap. It's thin, frayed, with notches and cuts in it, but your chest is warm pressed into his side.

And he can't push you away, can't muster the strength. He supposes death will soon spare him this indignity -

A painful breath batters his ribs as he hisses again. It stings!

His eyes flick down to see you. Neck carefully stretched, reaching over his form so you can lap at a cut by his throat.

This time, your eyes hesitantly meet his, but you still lick carefully, sterilizing it, watching him wince from the contact. It doesn't stop you from a moment.

Clearly, you have no fear for your own life. Are you enjoying his humiliation? The fact that a powerful tiger like him is weak enough to succumb to the whims of a tame little kitten like you?

One of your legs brushes forward, between his, and -

The moan that comes out of Sukuna's mouth is purely from pain. It has nothing to do with the rough, wet strokes of your tongue over his enflamed wounds. The heat of your body against him. The weight of you on his exhausted body.

His chest heaves, from exertion, labored breaths. A low, warning rumble is the best deterrent he can make.

Your eyes flicker closed as you tuck your head into his neck, nuzzling closer. "So warm..."

At this point, you've half-climbed into his lap. Arms around him, legs twined with his. He's got a little feeling back in his limbs with the cold staved off - just enough to feel them ache and throb.

Sukuna tilts his head back with a weary sigh, letting it hit the wall behind him. His arms have found their way around your body. If you're offering your warmth, after all, he'd be a fool not to take it.

But you're a fool, too, if you think this will get you anything. He doesn't need help from an abandoned stray like you.

There's a small, barely-there tremor against his chest. It's low, and gentle, and before he can complain about it, it's lulled him to sleep.

[iamthatonefangirl]

not sure if u fw..but mommy kink submissive bucky

control - nsfw bucky barnes

I have never written subby Bucky before but let's give it a shot anon

~~~

"doing well, baby," you cooed at him, looking up at his face from where you were positioned between his thighs, spread out so nicely for you. you ran your fingertips up and down the soft expanse of his skin, his legs trembling under your touch.

he nods vehemently, one hand gripping the sheets so hard they might rip, the other gripping his own hair, trying to keep his shit together.

you admire his resolve, the strong sense of self-control he has in this moment, all for you.

"doing so well. it's gonna be worth it," you reassure him, bringing your lips back down to wrap around his beautiful cock. he's coated in your saliva all the way down to his abdomen, all the while he can't stop leaking uncontrollably as you work him up over and over again.

giving up this level of control is not something he would do for just anyone, only you.

he's shocked at the realization that he likes it. every part of him is yours, and in this moment, he's willing to give it all up to you. only you.

"I love you," he whines, and you can't help but pull back and smile at him. you bring a hand to tease him as you respond, "I love you too, baby."

he moans when he feels your tongue on him again. he forces himself to stay in place, trying to ignore the fact that he's whining like crazy as his body shakes with need. he's not supposed to move, not supposed to touch you, not yet...

you can't help but tease him this shamelessly. you know he's going to conk out so quickly once you let him finish, you're gonna make this worth your while.

you taste every inch of him all over again until the point he's begging.

"please. I can't, not anymore. please," he begs, pleading with you to have mercy on him.

he sounds so desperate, and he's been too good for you to deny him any longer.

"go ahead, baby," you instruct him, and his hands are in your hair in a second, rutting his hips against your face, burying himself in the depths of your throat.

"yes..." he groans, wrapping every part of himself around you as he uses your mouth the way he's been dying to for the past hour.

you let him, gladly. you never thought he would trust you so much with something like this before. you're going to reward him big time.

"please, please," he's whispering, and you give his leg a little squeeze. in a second, he's cumming down your throat, repeating your name over and over along with a soft little "thank you..."

once he finally lets up, limbs falling to the sheets as his mind goes blank, you crawl over him to press a kiss to his lips.

"what do you say?" you whisper, looking down at his content expression, petting his hair and pushing it back out of his face.

"thank you, mommy..."

and then he's out like a light.

~~~

(lmk if you'd like to choose an emoji, I'd love to hear more from you 🤍)

I don't think I'm gonna write sub bucky again sorry 😭 it's just not me

masterlist

join my tag list

bucky tag list:

@clavedelune @starfly-nicole @avengersfan25 @thewiselionessss @hextech-bros @a-book-lover-things @ruexj283 @mrsnikstan @sleepysongbirdsings @sapphirebarnes @bananababygirl10 @multiversefanfics @winchestert101 @andziabarnes @chrisevansleftnipple @daisydark @luckyhornet @maryevm @avengemepercy @mandoloriancookie @starstruck-cowgirl @doubledizzy22 @yvespecially @shereadzzz

[springismss]

ᱬ⛧ baby mine 2.0 ~ s. todoroki

sum: how would shoto feel about becoming a father? here's a little month-by-month on how things would feel/go.

pairing: husband! shoto todoroki x wife! reader

content: sfw - established relationship, pregnancy, just an overview. fluffy and sweet. epilogue spoilers of shoto’s hero position for anime only watchers/those not caught up on the manga/new fans.

a/n: oh hey, i'm finally back after my first week of training at my new job with a work i've been doing when i come home. this is just a little rewrite of baby mine which i posted a good few years ago, but i feel like this is a good follow-up to perfect as well (both of which will be linked below). as always, likes, comments and re-blogs are deeply appreciated.

word count: 2,114

links: bnha/mha masterlist | baby mine | perfect | masterlist

The air felt thick as you paced back and forth, chewing on your fingernail as you looked at the object on the bathroom countertop. You should be used to this feeling, but you still felt the same antagonising dread at what you would see. And much like every other time, you prayed that this one would be different.

The sound of the timer going off brought you out of your little ritual, feet bringing you to a stop in front of the object. Maybe you should leave it, pretend this wasn't happening once again and throw the stupid thing away. You knew what you were about to see, a sight all too familiar these past few years.

Taking a shaky breath, you reached forward and grabbed hold of the object, hand shaking slightly as you stalled for a moment. This was like every other time, so why were you feeling more anxious this time? Deciding it was best to get it over and done with, you quickly turned the object over, only to be met with the words you never thought would appear for you.

‘Pregnant 3+’

Holding back a sob, you gripped the counter to ground yourself. This had to be a joke, right? A faulty test. Something just to get your hopes up before it was cruelly ripped away from you again. You didn't think you had it in you to go through that again.

A sudden knocking on the door brought you to your senses as you quickly wiped your eyes, hoping to catch any stray tears that had begun to fall. "(y/n)? Are you okay? You've been there a while this time". Of course, they were worried; you could tell by how they sounded.

Taking a deep breath to calm yourself, you turned and walked towards the door, placing your hand on the handle and opening it with a small click. You looked up, taking in the person in front of you, the person who was just as worried as you were.

Shoto Todoroki - your husband and the current number two pro hero.

"Sorry my love, it took a little longer than I thought. I couldn’t find the towels…”. The look on his face told you that he knew exactly what you had been doing. Your ever attentive husband always knew when you were up to something, especially when it come to something like this.

It was no secret, that despite his past, both you and Shoto wanted to expand your family with a child of your own. A child that would no doubt be showered with love and given a childhood the pro never had a chance to have.

"So, tell me...". More tears slipped down your cheeks as you tried to hold back another sob, unable to find the right words to say. Shoto, used to the heartbreak as well, sighed out, crushed that yet another attempt, to him, had been unsuccessful. "It's okay, there's always next time".

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer to him as he ran his hand through your hair. Trying to soothe you in one of the best ways he could. He knew it wasn't much but it was the best he could do. Feeling powerful, even as your husband was a gut wrenching feeling

"Sho, I'm pregnant". He looked at your teary eyes in shock as your words slowly began to sink in, looking down at your outstretched hand that held the test. A big smile tugging at his lips as he cupped your face, kissing you softly.

♡ Month 2 ♡

The feeling of being on cloud nine never left for you both, although Shoto was slightly wary. Sure his relationship with his father was slowly getting better but due to his childhood and upbringing, he was always left second-guessing himself.

What if he fucked up? What if he didn't fall into the role of being a father? Those questions stayed at the back of his mind, regardless of how much he pushed them aside. "Shoto, I still can't believe we're going to be parents".

Looking down at your belly, you smiled and rubbed your hand over your still soft stomach. As the days passed, it felt more like a dream. Sure, you'd suffered with the morning sickness, the bouts of fatigue, but you knew it would be worth it in the end. "We can't wait to see you, little one!".

The dual-haired male looked at you and smiled. He knew you'd support him in this journey, his past couldn't define how he was as a dad. Only he could, and with you by his side, he knew you would always cheer him on.

♡ Month 3 ♡

A blank screen greeted the two of you as you both entered a room, exchanging greetings with the sonographer.

Today was the day the two of you would get to see your child for the first time. Various 'what ifs' ran through your mind as you gripped Shoto's hand. His eyes looking into yours in a silent promise everything would be okay. He knew you wouldn’t be able to handle another heartbreak.

Laying yourself down, you got comfortable and closed your eyes as you waited for a sign that everything was fine. That the life growing inside you was still there and stronger than ever. The lump in your throat growing dangerously until you heard it.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

That small sound made you open your eyes, tears lining your waterline as you saw the tiny life on the screen. A slight squeeze of your hand drew your attention to Shoto, his eyes shining as he looked at your child.

"A perfectly happy and healthy baby. Such a strong heartbeat already".

Both of you smiled at each other, the tears finally slipping down the sides of your face as you took in the image. The lump that had been there moments ago was slowly disappearing as you gazed at the screen.

♡ Month 4 ♡

A small bump had begun to appear on you, your body finally starting to show the presence of the small life you were carrying. Your hand never left your bump whenever you had the time to touch it. "I guess I look kind of pregnant now".

Looking down, you smiled and wrapped your arms around your husband, your eyes meeting his before you closed yours slightly, falling into a much-needed sleep.

Glares over you, then down to where you were starting to swell. Shoto’s eyes flashed in slight worry before returning to normal, gently placing a hand on yours, careful not to wake your sleeping form.

He wasn't going to lie, he was scared. Scared of what was to come and the type of father he'd be. No one could blame him, not even you, but you'd support him no matter what.

♡ Month 5 ♡

Facing the ultrasound screen again, the pair of you chatted amongst yourselves, having the odd argument about the gender of your child. Of course, you didn't mind what you were having, but it was nice to have a little friendly bet on who would be right.

The small image of your child appeared on the screen again as your hearts began thumping in disbelief, the high you felt gazing on the small life never leaving. Everything was perfect and normal, even seeing what looked like a small wave or two.

"Now, would you like to know the gender?". You both looked at each other, nodding with a smile. It might have seemed like a stupid question, one that others would most likely say no to, but to you and Shoto, it would mean you would get to prepare for what was to come.

"Well, I can tell you both, you're having a perfectly healthy baby-".

♡ Month 6 ♡

Clothes. Toys. Essentials.

You name it, it began to pile up as you started to finally prepare properly for the arrival of your child. Emotions had began to run high, and if it wasn't floods of tears, it was hot tempers. Your hormones weren't helping you whatsoever, as the slightest thing would set you off.

Shoto walked into the bedroom to find you curled up on the bed, a small baby grow hugged to your chest as you sobbed. In an obvious panic, he ran over and held you close to him after he sat down. "Hey, baby, what's wrong?".

That sentence, despite coming from a good place, made you cry harder, muffled sobbing sounding against his chest.

Turns out you were emotional over the fact that a small baby could fit into that piece of clothing.

♡ Month 7 ♡

Shoto's family gushed over you continually, making sure you were safe and comfortable whenever you visited them with Shoto.

Fuyumi and Rei would excitedly touch your bump, asking a variety of questions. Gossiping and sharing stories of how Shoto was as a baby, some making you laugh at your husband’s embarrassment.

Natsuo would spend time with Shoto, casually talking about life with his younger brother. Especially how he was feeling regarding the upcoming arrival and, despite not being a father himself, encouraging him to enjoy the years ahead.

Enji, on the other hand, would sit back and watch on. Taking in the buzz around him with a somewhat contented smile on his face. He still has a bit of a way to go before he could be a part of the family unit.

♡ Month 8 ♡

Things became more painful and tiring for you as your body ached. You wanted nothing more than for the heavy feeling to go and have your baby in your arms. Showering them with all the cuddles and kisses you could manage. "(y/n), it won't be long now, I promise".

You looked up a little and smiled, the overwhelming tiredness visible on your face. He hated not being able to help you, take away the pain you felt, the uneasiness, but most of all the worry. The worry that something was going to go wrong, regardless of you both making it this far.

Resting a hand on your swollen belly, you felt the strong movements as you hummed out. Taking hold of your husband's hand, you rested it on the place you had your hand moments ago, just in time to feel a kick.

"I hope so, Shoto. I just want to meet our little one".

♡ Month 9 ♡

A new cry pierced the silence of the room, ringing loud and clear as you gripped onto Shoto. The two of you smiled as tears slipped down your faces. The emotions you felt finally crashed through you at once. "You did it (y/n)! I'm so proud of you".

Shoto placed soft kisses on your dazed face as a small bundle was placed into your arms. The baby moved around slightly, settling down on the softness of its mother's skin, beginning its first feed. Eyes opening slightly before shutting, suckling away.

"White hair with red tips, gorgeous blue eyes. She's definitely a Todoroki".

You looked up as Shoto sat down beside you, giving a tired smile as you nodded your head. The past months had been a whirlwind. Despite the tiring time you’d just been through and the way your body ached, this moment made it worth every single second.

♡ The first year ♡

The tiring nights. The endless amount of changes and feeds.

Shoto couldn't deny it; it was hard. Really hard. He constantly second-guessed himself, and he didn't feel like he was good enough. Even during those doubtful times, you encouraged him as his biggest supporter, be that through words or actions, you always made sure he was okay.

Things became slightly easier, and cuddles and kisses became more frequent as your daughter grew. New milestones and wonders greeted you all. Even Shoto's family adored their niece and granddaughter. Especially Enji, who took his time, taking great care not to mess up this time around.

Then came the words.

The day she said "Dada".

Shoto sat crying. Normally, he wasn't one for showing emotion, but the moment she said that, he couldn't hold back. From the moment he found out you were finally pregnant to the first time holding his beautiful daughter, he couldn't believe he could be a dad, yet he was such a perfect dad to this little girl who couldn't help but adore the very ground he walked on.

Picking her up, he gently rocked the small girl as her eyes slowly closed, drifting off into a peaceful sleep.

"I've got you, princess. Daddy will keep you safe. I'll always be your number one hero, no matter what happens".

permanent tags; @ani-net

© springismss - don’t repost, copy, translate, steal or modify.