#I say with this so much love in my heart for you

[julietsf1]

For Her - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: She came to support him. Instead, she was met with hate and a paddock full of people who acted like she didn’t exist. But if there was one thing about Lando Norris, it was that he loved out loud (3.2k words)

content: protective boyfriend, public relationship, public displays of affection, romantic grand gesture

AN: happy new season guys!!! what a race, I hope china will be kinder with my heart :') here's another fic for our race winner! muah <3

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The first race of the season should have been magical.

It should have been the kind of morning you’d always imagined—walking through the paddock with the giddy excitement of someone witnessing greatness up close, feeling the electricity in the air, the intoxicating mix of tire smoke, adrenaline, and champagne already waiting for its moment in the podium spray. You had thought of how proud you would feel watching Lando, how thrilling it would be to see him in his element, how belonging you might feel in a world that, until now, had existed for you in stories and through screens.

You had not imagined being denied entry.

"Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back."

The security guard barely spared you a glance, already moving on to the next person in line, his voice impassive, as if he had done this a hundred times before and you were simply another face in a sea of hopeful girls who had tried to talk their way into the paddock.

You gripped your lanyard a little tighter, your heart skipping slightly. "I have a pass," you said, voice gentle but firm as you lifted it to eye level, the McLaren logo glinting in the sunlight.

The guard exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. "We've had a lot of fans trying to sneak in today. If you don’t have the right accreditation, I can’t let you through."

Your stomach twisted.

"I do have the right accreditation," you tried again, as kindly as possible, despite the heat creeping up your neck. "I’m with McLaren. My boyfriend-"

"Yeah, that’s what they all say."

The words were clipped, dismissive, and spoken with the kind of flat finality that suggested he had already decided you were lying.

Embarrassment coiled in your chest, wrapping itself around your lungs, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.

You stood there, cheeks burning, as people brushed past you, throwing curious glances your way. The seconds stretched endlessly, each one more excruciating than the last.

It wasn’t until a McLaren staff member recognized you—"Oh, she’s with Lando," they had said offhandedly—that the security guard finally stepped aside, not bothering with so much as an apology.

By the time you walked through the gates, the joy you had carried that morning had dulled into something smaller, something fragile.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

...

The McLaren motorhome stood like a beacon in the paddock, its sleek glass windows reflecting the bustle of team personnel moving inside. You exhaled slowly, shaking off the earlier embarrassment, and made your way toward the hospitality lounge, longing for something warm and familiar.

A latte, perhaps. Something to reset the day.

You stepped up to the hospitality counter with a practiced sort of grace, the kind that had been instilled in you from your childhood—shoulders back, chin lifted, a polite smile even when you wanted to disappear.

The woman behind the counter was stunning in a sharp, effortless way, her McLaren uniform crisp, her dark eyes shrewd, assessing. She barely looked up when you stepped forward.

"Good morning," you greeted, your voice light, pleasant. "Could I get an oat latte, please?"

The woman’s gaze flicked to you then, sweeping over you in a way that wasn’t unkind but wasn’t exactly warm, either.

"Are you with media?" she asked, already sounding bored.

You shook your head, still polite. "No, I’m—"

"Hospitality is for team guests only," she interrupted, her words clipped, a polite but unmistakable dismissal.

There was something about the way she said it, the way her lips curled just slightly, that sent something sharp down your spine.

You held up your accreditation again, your expression kind but unwavering. "I am a team guest. It is my first race though! I'm with Lando."

A pause. A flicker of something in her gaze.

And then, a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Ah," she said slowly, like she was only just now realizing. "Of course you are."

There was something else behind her tone, something you recognized.

You had met people like her before, in glittering lobbies, at perfectly curated events, in spaces where perception was everything. People who measured others in careful glances and quiet, ruthless judgments.

The woman tilted her head, her smile suddenly saccharine. "I’m afraid we’re only serving certain guests at the moment."

The words landed with the soft cruelty of a velvet dagger.

She wasn’t saying no outright.

She was refusing you while pretending it was about something else entirely.

You stared at her for a moment, your fingers tightening slightly over the strap of your bag.

You could have fought. Could have pointed out that this was ridiculous, that you had every right to be here, that her behavior was as transparent as it was petty.

But instead, you simply let out a soft breath and smiled.

Not the kind of smile that was warm and grateful.

The kind of smile that veiled the frustration you were feeling.

"No worries," you said gently, dipping your head, your voice smooth, graceful. "I wouldn’t want to trouble you."

And with that, you turned and walked away, back straight, head held high, because if nothing else—you were not the kind of woman who begged.

But it still stung.

...

The hotel room is quiet except for the faint murmur of the city outside. The occasional car hums past beneath the window, the distant noises of Melbourne nightlife drifting in through the small gap in the balcony door. Inside, the glow from the bedside lamp casts soft golden light over the pristine sheets, the half-finished cup of tea you abandoned hours ago, and your phone—face-down, untouched, deliberately ignored.

You had set it aside like it burned you.

And in a way, it had.

You don’t need to look at the screen to know what’s waiting for you there.

A photo. You, walking alone through the paddock, caught at an unflattering angle—your hands adjusting the strap of your bag, your gaze flicking off to the side. Out of context, impersonal, just another frame in someone else’s story.

But the caption beneath it?

That made it personal.

The caption beneath it, however, was anything but subtle.

"Classic gold digger. No personality, no job, just another wag looking for a paycheck."

The replies were worse.

"She looks so full of herself. I bet she spends his money like crazy."

"Lando deserves better. She looks disgusting."

"Does she even like racing or just his wallet?"

You had expected something like this eventually. Being seen always came at a cost.

But expectation doesn’t soften the blow.

It doesn’t make the words less sharp. It doesn’t stop them from settling in the quiet places of your mind, the ones that whisper in the dark when the world is still.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hand over the sheets, willing away the tightness in your throat.

It’s fine.

You were raised to handle things like this with grace, with an understanding that women who stand beside successful men are often reduced to spectators, accessories, footnotes in their own stories.

You know who you are. You know your worth.

And yet, knowing doesn’t stop the sting.

A keycard beeps at the door.

Then, the soft sound of it swinging open, of footsteps—light, easy, carrying a kind of restless energy even now.

"Hi, darling," Lando’s voice fills the space before he does.

You don’t turn immediately, letting yourself blink once, twice, composing yourself in the quiet before offering a small smile as he steps inside.

He looks effortlessly disheveled—his hair still damp from the rain outside, his McLaren polo slightly untucked, the fabric creased like he’d run a hand over it one too many times.

He is still buzzing—from the high of the weekend, from the thrill of being back in the car, from the sheer joy of doing what he loves.

And then he looks at you.

And everything shifts.

His grin falters. His brows pull together.

"Hey," he says again, but softer this time, slower. "What’s wrong?"

You hesitate, fingers brushing against the sheets. "It’s nothing."

Lando stills.

"You’re upset."

It’s not a question.

You exhale, tilting your head slightly, lips curving in something almost amused. "No big deal, this is your weekend."

But Lando doesn’t smile.

Instead, he moves—crossing the room in three long strides, sinking down in front of you, his hands warm against your thighs, his gaze level, intent.

"Tell me," he says, quiet but firm.

All day, you have been ignored, dismissed, treated like an inconvenience. And yet, here he is, giving you his undivided attention, his entire world narrowing down to this moment, to you.

You hesitate. Then, finally, you murmur, "People weren’t exactly kind today."

His grip on your legs tightens just slightly.

"Security thought I was a fan trying to sneak in. Hospitality wouldn’t serve me." You let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "And now there’s a photo of me online. People saying I’m a disgusting gold digger."

Lando doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, he reaches for your phone, flipping it over with careful precision before scrolling. He doesn’t need you to guide him—he finds it immediately.

His jaw tightens.

And then, in a tone so low and steady that it makes your stomach flip:

"Are you joking?"

You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, pushing himself up, pacing now, running a hand through his curls.

"Such bullshit," he starts, turning sharply, voice too controlled, too even, "that after everything—after how much effort you’ve put into being here, after how much of your life you’ve adjusted for me—these people had the nerve to treat you like that?"

You shift under his gaze, biting your lip. "Lando, it’s not—"

"No, no, hold on," he interrupts, hands in the air like he needs a second to process. He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

"Because from where I’m standing, you’re the easiest person to love in any room, and I genuinely don’t understand how anyone could be that dense."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, jaw tight. "Honestly, I don’t even know whether to be pissed or impressed by their level of dickheadness."

He stops, inhales sharply, then turns back to you.

"Tomorrow," he says, voice steady now, decisive. "We fix this."

You raise a brow. "We?"

Lando tilts his head, giving you a look like you have just asked if the sky is blue.

"Obviously."

...

There are very few things in life that can silence an entire paddock.

Lando Norris walking in hand-in-hand with you is apparently one of them.

The usual morning commotion—the hurried strides of engineers, the murmured strategy discussions, the distant hum of espresso machines—all of it seems to slow, the air shifting as one by one, heads turn.

Eyes follow you as you move through the paddock, curiosity crackling in the air like static before a storm.Conversations taper off, whispers trailing in your wake, phones discreetly lifted, cameras capturing the moment in real time.

Lando, of course, is unbothered.

If anything, he thrives under the weight of their attention. His grip on your hand remains firm, steady, unwavering, his strides unhurried, his smirk bordering on self-satisfied.

He wants them to see.

It’s deliberate—the way he holds you close, the way his fingers brush over yours in soft, thoughtless patterns, the way his head tilts toward you slightly every time you speak, like you are the only thing worth listening to.

There is no question about what this is.

There is no question about where you belong.

He makes sure of it.

And then, with perfect, almost cinematic timing, he steers you toward McLaren hospitality.

Right to the coffee bar.

The barista from yesterday stands behind the counter, the same sharp-cut uniform, the same perfectly applied lipstick, the same calculating gaze.

Only now, it falters.

She sees Lando before she sees you, her posture straightening, professional mask slipping into place like second nature. But then, her eyes flick toward you—toward your hands intertwined, toward the subtle, unspoken intimacy of the way he keeps close.

You watch as realization dawns.

Oh.

Lando leans against the counter, effortless, grinning.

"Two oat lattes," he says, voice bright, easy, amused. "One for me, one for my girl."

The silence that follows is exquisite.

The barista hesitates—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to see it.

Panic.

"Of course," she says, voice smooth but not quite as sharp as before.

And just like that, there are no shortages, no waiting, no excuses.

The coffees are made within seconds.

Lando watches, humming thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly against the counter as she slides the first cup toward him. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip before letting out a long, obnoxiously satisfied hum.

"Mm," he muses, shifting his weight, sparing her a glance. "Tastes better today."

His smirk is dangerous.

"Must be the service."

The barista’s lips press together just slightly.

You take your coffee, cradling the cup in your hands, offering her a soft, serene smile.

"Thank you," you say lightly.

You watch as she winces.

And Lando, the ever-efficient instigator that he is, takes it one step further.

"You know," he muses, as if the thought has just occurred to him, "I think I should make this a tradition."

He turns to you then, eyes bright with mischief, voice just loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear.

"Morning coffee," he says smoothly. "Every race weekend. For the foreseeable future."

The barista looks like she wants to disappear.

You, on the other hand, can’t help but smile.

...

The checkered flag had waved, the roar of the crowd still vibrating through the air, but none of it mattered—not the celebrations, not the flashing cameras, not the McLaren team swarming the pit wall in victory.

Because the moment Lando climbed out of the car, eyes scanning the chaos, he found you.

And then—he ran.

Straight toward you, helmet discarded, race suit half-unzipped, curls a disheveled mess from the heat of the cockpit.

You barely have time to react before he collides into you, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

You shriek—an actual, real shriek—as your feet leave the pavement, the entire world tilting as he spins you in circles,laughter spilling from his lips like he can’t contain it.

And then—he kisses you.

Right there, in front of thousands of fans, in front of cameras, reporters, his entire team.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d won the race and you in the same breath.

The world erupts around you—cheering, chanting, Oscar groaning dramatically in the background.

"Oh my god. You two are disgusting."

None of it matters.

Because Lando is grinning against your lips, breathless, victorious, yours.

When he finally sets you back down, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t even try to.

Instead, he beams down at you, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat, voice all cocky, all Lando.

"So, did I impress you or what?"

You roll your eyes, fond and exasperated all at once. "Eh. You were alright."

He gasps. Actually gasps.

"You’re joking." He turns toward the cameras, mock-betrayed. "Did you guys hear that? I win a Grand Prix, and she says I’m ‘alright.’"

You bite your lip, pretending to consider. "You were pretty fast, I guess."

"Pretty fast?" he repeats, positively scandalized. "Babe. I am literally the fastest man in Australia right now."

You burst out laughing. "I was kind of rooting for Oscar."

Oscar, mid-drink of water behind you, chokes.

"Lies." Lando pulls you back in, forehead resting against yours, his voice dropping into something softer, something just for you.

"Say you’re proud of me."

You sigh dramatically. "I guess I’m—"

"Say it."

You grin, heart pounding. "Fine. I’m proud of you, Norris."

He hums, satisfied, smug, still absolutely glowing. "Thought so."

...

Lando was still riding the high when he got to the media pen, his race suit unzipped to his waist, curls damp with sweat, and that stupidly charming grin still plastered across his face.

It wasn’t just a ‘first win of the season’ grin.

It was a ‘my girlfriend is here, and I just won a whole-ass race for her’ grin.

The interviewer barely got a word in before Lando pointed directly at you, standing just off-camera.

"Her."

You blink. "Me?"

"Yeah, you!" He turns back to the cameras, nodding enthusiastically. "Let’s just get this straight—I did this for her. Like, entirely. One hundred percent. Full motivation. If she hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve parked it in a gravel trap on lap ten."

The interviewer laughed. "So, you’re saying she’s your good luck charm?"

"Absolutely," Lando replied, dead serious. "I mean, have you seen her? Look at her."

The camera did not pan to you, thank god. The poor guy running the live feed probably had no idea what to do.

But Lando? Oh, he was just getting started.

"She walked into this paddock today looking like an actual goddess, completely unaware that she is, in fact, the sun incarnate, and people want me to talk about tire degradation? No. I want to talk about her."

The interviewer tried so hard to stay professional.

"You—uh, you had great pace today—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lando waved him off.

"Lando, I don’t think—"

"Listen, I need to emphasize something." Lando leaned in, tone conspiratorial. "Do you know how lucky I am? Not only is she breathtaking, but she’s also, like, annoyingly smart. Like, did you know she reads all the time? Real books.Not just memes and Twitter threads like me."

He gestured vaguely, suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.

"She doesn’t even realize how much people admire her. But I see it. I see everything. And I just think the world needs to start appreciating her at my level."

"That is… very sweet." The interviewer was visibly struggling to keep up.

"Just had to get that out there."

"Well, congratulations on the win, Lando," the interviewer finally managed, skimming over his list of unanswered questions he had prepared.

"Thank you." He nodded seriously, finally letting go of the mic. "And big thanks to the team, of course."

You rolled your eyes from behind the cameras, suppressing a smile.

...

The internet had seen many things, but no one was prepared for Lando Norris using his post-race interview as a full-blown love letter. 

"Lando’s race pace was great, but his girlfriend propaganda was even stronger."

"THE WAY HE JUST POINTED AT HER IMMEDIATELY I CAN’T."

"Lando Norris said ‘this win is for my girlfriend’ and proceeded to recite a romantic sonnet on live TV. My standards are ruined."

Later, as the two of you curled up in the hotel room, finally away from the cameras, Lando buried his face in your neck with a content sigh.

"You know," he murmured, voice sleepy, warm, full of love. "I really did win that for you."

You ran your fingers through his curls. "I know."

"I meant every word, too."

You smiled. "Don't you think it was a bit much?"

"I don't think it was nearly enough," he said, already half-asleep, grinning like he had never been happier.

[punkshort]

Don't Give Up On Me

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader (materialists)

Summary: Should you give up on the man you love when he disappoints you, or do you give him another chance?

Warnings: language, tons of angst, smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex, hurt/comfort, making men beg and cry

WC: idk I wrote it on my phone - maybe 2K?

A/N: sorry if this is premature. I can't help it. If we got his name wrong I'll just go back and fix it later okay byeeee

Tears that have been burning the backs of your eyes for the last two hours finally threaten to spill down your cheeks now that you're in the privacy of his town car.

Harry sits next to you, still talking on his phone like he has been all night while his driver takes you back to his penthouse. It's nestled in the heart of the city with a breathtaking view, but it's the very last place you want to be right now because you know what you'll have to do once you get there.

You're going to end things, once and for all.

It's been on your mind for a while, but you always talk yourself out of it. You make excuses for him, cover for him, and lie to him when you say it doesn't matter, but it does. It really fucking does.

You know he's a busy man. You've always known this. But foolishly, some part of you believed he would change. That after countless fights, he would eventually understand what's important to you, and it wasn't his money or his things — it was him.

All you ever want is for him to just be there when it counts, and he almost always lets you down. But tonight? Tonight was special. He knew it, too. You told him for weeks how excited you were to receive this award for all the hard work at your firm.

When it came time to accept it and give your speech in front of three hundred people, you excitedly climbed to the stage to take your prize. Your eyes swept around the room, searching for the only person you wanted to see, and your heart sunk when you realized he had stepped out of the room to take a work call.

Again.

It was in that moment you decided you wouldn't put up with it again.

The car stops in the usual spot outside his building. The driver opens your door and you slip out with a tight smile. Harry's right behind you, wrapping up his call, but you ignore him. You charge into the lobby and stab at the call button for the elevator. If he notices your anger, he doesn't let on. He laughs to whoever is on the other end while you adjust the strap of your dress with a huff.

Once the elevator arrives, he finally hangs up. You step inside and he presses in the code for the penthouse on the keypad, then the car smoothly lifts. You stare at the screen above the door while Harry scrolls on his phone, still completely unaware when he asks, "What's your boss's name again?"

You clench your jaw and fight back tears before you answer him. He grunts.

"Thought so. Went to Yale with him. Never liked the guy."

Your award feels so much heavier in your hand now. Like it's trying to pull you back down to the lobby and stop you from doing what you need to do. But you adjust it and lift your chin a little higher — you need to do this.

The doors slide open to Harry's massive, extravagant living room. You step out and walk right past it all — past the ornate kitchen, the priceless art, the expensive marble — through the long, perfectly decorated hallway to his bedroom.

You go right to the closet and grab an empty gym bag, tossing your award inside. You hear him somewhere in the room removing his watch, cufflinks and ring while you stuff your bag with whatever clothes you can think of. It's only when you exit the closet and storm into the bathroom that he notices something is wrong.

"What are you doing?"

You sniffle and sweep your toiletries off the counter, tossing them directly into your bag.

"I'm leaving."

Your voice is a little shaky but it sounds better than you expect. He watches you from the doorway as you move erratically around the room collecting your belongings.

"Wh— why?" he finally asks. You're grabbing your things from the shower when you hear it. He sounds sad, and maybe if it were any other day, you would have felt bad. But that day? That day, it just pisses you off.

You whirl back around and drop your bag on the floor to pin him with a glare. He's in the doorway still wearing the clothes from tonight: pressed black pants and a crisp white shirt, although now the collar is undone and his tie is abandoned somewhere in his bedroom.

"Why?" you repeat. Your tone is so icy, you hardly recognize it. "You — weren't — fucking — there!"

On the last word, you step forward and shove him. He stumbles backwards a bit, but only from shock.

"Baby—"

You shake your head and lean down grab your bag.

"Don't," is all you say when you brush past him. You throw the bag on your bed, half the contents spilling out, but you don't care. You're shaking like a leaf when you round the bed to your side and begin to grab your things from the nightstand.

"I'm sorry," he says softly from the other side of the room. You ignore him and keep working. "It was important. I told you—"

"And this was important to me!"

You snap your head up to yell at him with tears streaming down your face. His expression falls and he reaches out, but you take a step back.

"You're right. I'm — I'm sorry. I'll do better, I prom—"

"No! I'm done! I'm tired of having the same fights with you. I was so fucking stupid to think you'd ever choose me over... over all this."

You gesture broadly around his room but you mean his penthouse in general. He gets it. It's not the first time you've fought over this.

He watches you quietly while you continue to pack with shaky hands. When you're nearly done, he speaks again.

"I do want you," he says, "more than all this. I just — I want to make sure we're comfortable. I want to make sure we have enough so you never have to work again—"

"But I like working! I love what I do! I've never wanted to quit, I've never wanted anything from you... not your money or your cars or your clothes. I just..."

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose.

"I only ever wanted you," you mumble.

You bury your face in your hands as he crosses the room. You feel him standing in front of you and you know deep down, you're done for.

But still, you try.

"You have me," he says. His hands gently slide up and down your arms, but you keep your face hidden in your palms. "It won't always be like this. It's the busy season, that's all. It's... it's temporary. And then we can do whatever you want. We can go to Paris or Italy or Bora Bora... anywhere. It's up to you."

He takes another step closer and carefully plants a kiss to the top of your head. And you fucking let him.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he breathes. Your hands drop to your sides. "I should've been there, you're absolutely right. I'll never do something like that again, you have my word."

You sigh and finally tip your chin up to look him in the eye. It's kind of not fair how handsome he is on top of everything else: a thick head of wavy dark hair, gorgeous brown eyes, a greying beard he's self-conscious about but you find absolutely endearing. If there was one man on the planet who had it all, it's Harry Castillo.

He gives you a small smile and pinches your chin between his fingers when he sees your resolve crumbling.

"Can I make it up to you?" he asks.

You take a deep breath and try to scrape together what dignity you have left.

"No," you reply. His smile falters but otherwise he doesn't move. You take a step back but it's not far enough.

"I told you. I'm done."

Right when you go to turn and pick up your bag, he drops to his knees and wraps his arms around your waist.

"Please," he begs, gazing up at you from the floor. Your eyes widen with shock at this man who is quite literally worth billions falling to his knees, pleading with you to stay. "Don't go. I'll do anything. Please, I-I can't — I won't be —"

"Harry—"

"Please," he says again, urgently. You see his throat bob and his eyes fill with tears. "I'll do whatever you want. I-I just— I don't think I can do this—"

He swallows and presses his face against your stomach. His eyes slide closed and he breathes in deep while you're still struggling to catch up.

"I'll do anything," he whispers, but this time, his hands tighten around your waist. His jaw falls open and he mouths at your middle while a tear sneaks down his cheek.

It shouldn't affect you. You should push him away, take your bag, and go. Instead, you find yourself leaning forward into his hold.

"Harry..."

Your voice holds no conviction. His hands begin to move. They slide down your legs and push up the hem of your dress. He leaves feverish open mouthed kisses across your clothed stomach and over your hips. Your eyes fall shut and you gasp when his palms slide up your bare legs, pushing up the fabric of your dress until his fingers grab hold of your ass and he gives you a rough squeeze.

"Please," he's murmuring, over and over. Your jaw is slack and you give in. You just fucking give in when he pulls down on your panties until they drop to the floor. With shaky legs, you step out of them and crack open an eye when he tosses the lace over his shoulder.

You're weak. You know that. But you really thought this time was the last straw. Instead, he somehow has you underneath him once again. Your dress is in a sad little pile on the floor, along with his pants. His tongue is dancing hungrily with yours as you push his shirt over his shoulders.

You know you should have stood your ground, but you also know he's hurt. He's so broken and you want to fix him. You want to be the one who shows him what it's like — what it could be like. You want to prove that love can heal old wounds and can be beautiful, if you let it.

He groans when he first enters you. It's low and deep and it makes you gasp. His teeth graze your jaw and he whispers everything you want to hear: that he loves you, that he would do anything for you, that he's sorry. You let those words fill you up and mend the wounds he caused, just like all the other times before.

"Never again, okay?"

You nod and wrap your arms tightly around his shoulders. You say his name with a breathy moan and his hips flex faster, deeper.

"I can be good for you. I— I — fuck—"

He pushes your knees to your chest and you cry out. The angle is so much more intense. It has you clawing at the sheets and mumbling unintelligible curses under your breath as he splits you open, reminding you just how good it can be.

"I won't hurt you ever again," he babbles. Your chest aches. Your eyes water. He keeps fucking you so deep that it has you making noises you never heard yourself make before.

"I don't think — don't think I can d-do this without — you," he groans into your neck. Your nails scrape down his back. You throw your head backwards into the sheets and let him do what he does best: make you feel good and forget all the pain.

His mouth finds your jaw, then your cheek, and finally your lips. You moan and his tongue slips inside, licking past your teeth. He's so close. Your bodies practically melt together as one with each steady rock of his hips.

"Feels good, right?" he groans into your mouth. You nod and gasp when the muscles in your stomach begin to pull.

"Yes," you whine, all earlier anger forgotten.

"Yeah, I know," he coos. His hips snap faster, cock plunging deeper until the room is filled with your helpless moans and the sounds of your soaked pussy gushing all around him. He makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat when you clench tightly around his thick cock.

"Gonna come for me?" he asks. You whimper, cheeks blazing hot and body slick with sweat. He chuckles breathlessly and continues to drive himself into you, over and over. "Yeah, c'mon, it's alright. I wanna feel it — I need to feel it. C'mon, baby, just—"

Before he can finish his sentence, your muscles spasm and you scream out his name. A litany of curses falls from your lips as you pulse around his painfully hard length. He grinds his teeth and keeps fucking you through it until your body goes limp and you melt into the silk sheets.

His arms circle around you and he really begins to fuck you — hard. Each thrust is paired with a deep grunt until his cock swells and he comes inside you with a loud, strangled groan.

He collapses on top of you in relief. He occasionally jolts forward, giving you more of his release with each weak roll of his hips until he's spent. His head falls to your chest and he closes his eyes to catch his breath. Your fingers come up to gently rake through his hair and you lay just like that, silent and panting for air while his cock softens inside of you.

"I mean it," he rasps. You peel your eyes open and stare at the ceiling. He presses a soft kiss in the spot between your breasts when he says, "I'll be better. I won't fuck up again. Please, just — just don't give up on me."

Your arms coil around his neck and you hold him close as tears fill your eyes, now for an entirely different reason. You know he's been hurt before. Know what he went through and how badly she broke his heart.

But to his credit, he didn't give up. He kept searching for love, despite it all.

Nobody's perfect. You're far from it. But you know Harry has a good heart. He just needs a little extra care to heal it.

"Okay," you whisper.

You feel his grateful, hot tears pool silently against your chest and you hold him a little tighter.

Everyone makes mistakes, you think. Even the ones who love you the most.

It'll take time. It might hurt. But you'll keep trying. Because what happened wasn't his fault, and you both deserve to have a happy ending.

Some people just have to work a little harder for it.

[dirtyvulture]

15 Minutes

Natasha Romanoff x Reader*

18+ only, read at your own risk

Word count: 2430

Requested by abyss anon (and other anons): here me out. i've been listening to 15 minutes by sabrina carpenter and the lyrics “i can do a lot with fifteen minutes, only gonna take two to make you finish” is stuck in my head.

what if masc!r with innocent!shy!nat who is completely and utterly inlove with reader but too afraid to make a move? and when she finally does... *wink* but we all know baby natty is going to make up for it all night.

AN: This basically became pure filth with like a sprinkle of plot so...enjoy!

*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.

The first time Natasha met you, she knew she was in love with you. Which really sucked for her because you were the type of person who didn’t look at her twice. You were constantly surrounded by people who were prettier, better, and more important than her. Natasha felt so insignificant around you, and whenever she tried to make her presence known, it always ended in a colossal and embarrassing failure.

She had exactly three conversations with you. The first was just an exchange of names, so she didn’t count that. But it was the first time she got to touch your hand and look into your eyes, and she almost physically fell for you right there.

The second conversation was at the dining hall’s salad bar, where the two of you had reached for the tongs to the romaine at the same time. You had insisted she go first, and Natasha had tried to make a joke about lettuce that fell so short it kept her up for three nights. 

The third conversation took place on a basketball court, where you were playing a scrimmage with a few friends. Natasha emboldened herself to approach, which she immediately regretted when you passed her the ball and asked if she could sink a shot from the three-point line. She stumbled through a pickup line about if you could show her, but you and your friends had only laughed. Naturally, she had missed, and she went home in shame, promising to never speak to you in front of others again.

She always told herself that if she had 15 minutes alone with you, she could get you to give her a chance. But getting those 15 minutes was an impossible task in itself.

Or so she thought.

She finds you sitting alone in the common room, staring at the television, but you hardly look interested in the James Bond movie playing.

Fifteen.

“Y/N?” Natasha whispers. Your head shifts in her direction, but you don’t say anything to acknowledge her. “Is anyone sitting with you?” You grunt, which Natasha cannot determine as a definitive yes or no. “Can I sit with you?” She holds her breath, surprised by her own confidence but fully expecting a denial.

“Sure,” you say, to her shock.

Natasha rounds the couch. You make no effort to move and she settles on the cushion next to you.

Fourteen.

She isn’t sure what to say next. You seem incredibly absorbed in the movie, and she’s nervous to break your focus.

“Natasha,” you say, still not looking at her. “That’s your name, right?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a pretty name. For a pretty woman.”

Natasha’s heart thunders in her chest. Did she hear you correctly? “You think I’m pretty?” she asks.

“I think you’re beautiful.” You look her in the eye now, and Natasha has to catch herself before she falls off the couch.

“I…Um…Wow. Thank you. That’s…really nice of you to say,” she stammers.

“I’m not just saying it. I mean it.”

Thirteen.

Natasha stares at you, trying to read your passive expression. Maybe you were just messing with her, or took a bet from your friends to flirt with her. No one–not even Bruce–wanted her. So why would you? 

“You’re especially cute when you’re nervous,” you say.

“Nervous? I’m not–”

You chuckle. “I know the effect I have on you. And most people. But I hardly notice any of them when you’re around me.”

Natasha feels like she’s in a dream. Are you really saying these words to her? And you mean every one of them? She pinches her thigh, but the sting doesn’t do much to clear her head. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you,” she admits in a rush.

“Is that so?” Your right eyebrow lifts and Natasha squeezes her thighs together subtly. “I never approached you first because…well, I didn’t think you’d be able to handle me.”

Twelve.

Natasha leans forward, resting her hand lightly on your upper thigh. She’s determined to prove you wrong if that’s the only thing she succeeds in tonight. “And what makes you think that?”

Your expression changes to one of surprise. “You’re cute, but way too innocent–” The words die in your throat when her hand slides up to cup the bulge in your sweatpants. 

“You were saying?” she says, turning her voice into a huskier tone. 

“Natasha,” you grunt, and she can tell you’re fighting to keep your hips pinned to the couch, “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“I don’t plan on it.” She grips onto you and wonders if the fabric is thin enough for you to feel the heat of your palm. 

“Someone can walk in at any moment,” you warn her.

“Good. Then they can see you’ve always been mine the whole time.” She feels you twitch and start to harden. She wonders if she can get you off with her words alone, but quickly decides she’d much rather have you inside her instead. 

Eleven.

“I didn’t take you for an exhibitionist,” you comment. 

“What do you know about me? Besides my name,” she counters.

“That you’re awful at flirting–oh shit.” Natasha pushes her hand past the waistband of your sweatpants and it closes around your hot and hard flesh. She rubs you up and down, her thumb brushing the underside of your tip with every stroke and she grins when she starts to see your thighs tremble. “You ever done this before?” you gasp, your hips rocking off the couch to push yourself through her hand. 

“You tell me, baby.” 

You grunt at the term of endearment. “Not quite what I expected from you,” you say. 

“In a good or bad way?”

“Hmm, well…” You look down at your crotch, frowning because you can’t see any of the action under your sweatpants. Natasha uses her free hand and tugs them down, and you lift your butt up to slide them to your knees. Your cock bobs out and Natasha subconsciously licks her lips, knowing she is that much closer to having you the way she always dreamed of. “Are you gonna keep staring at it or do something with it?” you ask suddenly.

Ten.

“I don’t want you finishing too early,” Natasha says, right as a bead of pre-cum leaks out of your dick.  

“I won’t,” you say, although for once, your voice lacks confidence.

“I bet you can’t last two minutes in me.”

Your eyes narrow at the challenge. “And what if I can?”

“Then I’ll let you take me back to your room and fuck me any way you want.”

You inhale sharply at the filthy thoughts her words inspire. 

“But if you can’t…” Natasha squeezes your cock for emphasis, “Then I get take you to my room and fuck you any way I want.”

You snort. “That’s not really a bad deal either way.”

“You’ve hardly seen what I can do,” Natasha warns.

“So show me more.”

Nine.

“Be careful what you wish for.” Natasha leans over and takes the head of your cock in her mouth.

“Goddamn,” you mutter, pumping your hips up into the new heat of her mouth. You had severely misjudged Natasha in her innocence, but you weren’t upset to be wrong. Her tongue flicks against your tip and you’re practically squirming in your seat when she presses down and takes you into her throat.  

“Fuck, your mouth feels good,” you pant, your hands coming to the back of Natasha’s head and gently pushing on it to keep her in place. “This is hardly fair,” you whine.

Natasha releases your cock and it slaps against your stomach, glistening with her saliva and your pre-cum. “You want me to stop?” she asks.

“Not really.”

Eight.

“Then be quiet,” she says, and her dominance surprises you. It also makes you even harder, which you didn’t know was possible at this stage anymore. “Besides, we aren’t even at the main event yet.”

“Main event?” You have to bite your lip to distract yourself as her mouth descends on you again. You squeeze the muscles in your thighs to keep them grounded, not wanting to show her how close you are. 

“Mhmm,” she mumbles around your cock, and the vibrations have you holding on the couch cushions for dear life. The pounding between your legs heightens, spurred on by the fact that the prettiest girl around has her head in your lap, her mouth bobbing frantically up and down your dick. 

Seven.

“You’re cheating,” you whine, but you totally love it as you jog your hips up a few times. 

“I’m what?” Natasha draws back fully and the cold air that hits your cock makes it visibly twitch. 

“Ugh, fuck,” you mutter. “Never mind, baby. Just put your mouth back and–”

“No,” Natasha says, and you shrink back into the cushions just a little. Maybe you should have kept your mouth shut like she said. “I can tell you’re about to cum, and I don’t want you finishing in my mouth.”

“Oh.” Somehow, despite every skill she’s just showed you, you’re surprised she won’t swallow. But you won’t hold it against her. She’s already doing better than most of the girls that sleep with you.

Six.

Natasha leans towards your face, her lips brushing your cheek on her way to your ear. “I want you to finish in my pussy,” she whispers, and the words alone nearly send you over the edge. 

“Oh.” You don’t even realize you’ve reached down to grip the base of your cock, squeezing hard to quite literally prevent yourself from finishing all over your sweatpants. 

“But…I don’t know if you can last that much longer,” Natasha says, pulling away from you. 

“Yes, yes, I can,” you plead. You would do everything in your power to please and if you couldn’t…what was really the worst that could happen? 

“Hmm.” Natasha tilts her head, as if seriously contemplating ending things with you right here.

Five.

“You started this,” you protest. “You can’t leave me hanging.” Literally.

“I didn’t expect you to be so whiny,” she says.

“I didn’t expect you to be this mean,” you counter.

Natasha chuckles. “And you’re the one who said I couldn’t handle you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, happy to eat your words if she’ll ride you. Natasha stands up, and for a moment you think she’s going to walk out on you, but she shimmies down her jeans and you drool at the sight of her lacey red panties. You drop your sweatpants to your ankles so you have more room to move as Natasha swings her leg over your waist.

Four.

You can see the damp patch of her arousal and it hardens you further to see she’s just as excited as you are. 

“Two minutes,” she says, humping you slowly. 

“Easy,” you promise, but you already know you’re going to lose. You reach for her hips, happy that she doesn’t swat you away, and pull her towards yourself until her stomach presses against your cock.

At first, you had been genuinely concerned that someone would walk in on the two of you, but now you couldn’t care less. You were about to get with the Natasha Romanoff, someone your friends had told you would be untouchable. 

Your hands wrap around to her butt and squeeze teasingly. “I’m ready for you,” you remind her, as if she forgot what she was supposed to be doing.

Three.

“I can see that.” She reaches down to grab your cock and drags it along the wet patch of her panties. You groan and dig your fingers harder into her butt. She was far more of a tease than you had ever imagined.

“Come on, baby,” you beg as your cock rubs against the smooth fabric of her panties.

Natasha pulls her panties to the side to reveal her glistening center. Your eyes widen and your hips jerk up to brush through her wetness. She puts one hand on her shoulder to steady herself and uses the other to finger herself. The slick noises she makes are downright sinful and you’re practically vibrating with excitement.

“Let me,” you say, eager to get any part of you inside her and trying to replace her fingers with your own. 

“I think I’m ready,” she says, lifting herself up high enough to position the head of your cock with her opening.

Two. 

Both of you inhale sharply at the first contact. You’re certain you’ve left your marks on Natasha’s butt as she slowly sinks down, taking your entire length in her molten heat.

“Fuck, oh, fuck,” you gasp as you feel yourself twitching inside of her. Natasha rests on your thighs and rocks back and forth. A moan rips out of your throat and your head falls back on the couch. The tightness surrounding your cock is too much. 

“Don’t let me down,” Natasha teases, raising a few inches and falling back down again. Her hand slips around your throat possessively, but even that isn’t enough to bring you back from the brink.

Your bodies move together in a calm rhythm that does not match the emotions racing inside of you. While part of you wants to jackhammer into her like an animal, part of you also wants this feeling to last as long as possible.

Which, to be perfectly honest, wasn’t going to be more than another minute. 

“Do I feel good?” Natasha whispers, threading her fingers in your hair and pulling your head back so you have to look her in the eye as she fucks you.

“You feel perfect,” you grunt, your lower body starting to shake, but you give up trying to fight it off.

One.

“You’re lasting longer than I thought,” she hums, clenching around you with the tightness of a vice and you arch your chest into her, slipping your hands under her shirt to clutch at the warmth of her skin.

“Not for much longer,” you admit, feeling a thin layer of sweat forming on your forehead. The band in your stomach finally snaps and your thighs lock in place as you spill your seed into her, but hardly feeling relieved. Natasha circles her hips to coax out every last drop, leaving you shaking and begging her to stop. 

“I think I won our bet,” she says, finally climbing off your cock. 

“Whatever,” you mutter, your cheeks tinged red. 

“I want to claim my prize now,” she continues, pulling her jeans back on and offering you her hand.

You don’t protest and go to follow her back to her room.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Thanks for ideas, anons! Hope you liked it. :)

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[fireinmoonshot]

misunderstanding | joaquín torres x fem!reader

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader Summary: When you overhear Joaquín talking about you being clingy, you assume he secretly hates that you have been lately. Joaquín sets out to make you realise it was all just a misunderstanding. Warnings: Mentions of food. Word Count: 3.1k A/N: This was requested and I loved the idea so much so I just had to write it. It took me a few days but I've gotten around to it. I love how it turned out as well – it ended up being one of my longer Joaquín fics!

“So, is Joaquin your boyfriend?” Cass Wilson, Sarah’s oldest son, asks.

You’re sitting in the living room at Sarah Wilson’s house with her two sons sitting on either side of you on the couch. You’d offered to babysit them for a bit while Sam and Bucky took Joaquin out for some training and Sarah finished up with her shopping in town. For a while you’d been watching something on TV, but then the boys had gotten bored and started an interrogation instead.

“He is,” you confirm.

AJ, the youngest, nods, as if pleased by your answer. “Are you an Avenger too?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m not an Avenger. I’m just a normal person.”

“That’s a bit boring,” AJ sounds a little disappointed.

It’s then that you hear the sound of a car door closing outside, followed by the sound of laughter – Sam, Bucky and Joaquin are back from training, saving you from a possibly awkward conversation with Cass and AJ. You stand up from the couch. 

“It sounds like your Uncle Sam is back, I’m gonna go open the door for them, okay?”

Your hand is on the door handle, about to open it, when you hear what the men are talking about. It makes your heart drop into your stomach. 

“Yeah, she’s really clingy lately,” Joaquin says, his voice unmistakable. “It’s kinda weird cause she never was before, but after everything happened and I was in hospital for a while, she has been.” 

Your hand falls away from the door handle and as you hear footsteps coming up the stairs, you step backwards away from the door, feet leading you away before you can think too much about it. You walk straight through the living room, ignoring AJ and Cass’ confused voices asking you why you were going in the opposite direction of the front door, and head upstairs, going straight for the bathroom – one place you can trust Joaquin isn’t going to barge in looking for you when he notices you’re not downstairs. 

With a deep breath, you lock the door behind you and put your hands down on the edge of the sink, trying to calm yourself down and slow your heartbeat. Joaquin’s words are on repeat in your mind. She’s really clingy lately. Had you been? You hadn’t really meant to be. It was true that you’ve never been a particularly clingy girlfriend before, but after almost losing him, maybe you had become one of them. 

And Joaquin doesn’t like it.

Joaquin, who is quite possibly the most clingy boyfriend on the planet, doesn’t like having a clingy girlfriend. It’s almost laughable. You stop yourself from actually laughing out loud, which ends up being a good thing when you hear a knock on the bathroom door.

“Angel, you in there?”

Your head snaps towards the door and you stifle a groan. While Joaquin wasn’t going to barge into the bathroom looking for you, it clearly wouldn’t stop him from knocking and sussing out where you were. There are only so many places to hide in this house.

“I’ll be out in a second!” You call, trying to keep your voice steady and not show how much you’re hurt. You don’t want Joaquin to know that you overheard him, but it’s clear to you now more than ever that you can’t be clingy to him anymore. He wants his space or he wouldn’t have been telling Sam and Bucky all about how clingy you are.

When you exit the bathroom, after splashing some water on your face to try and calm yourself down a little more, Joaquin is still out in the hallway, leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom and scrolling on his phone. He looks up as soon as he hears the door open, a smile on his face. 

“How did training go?” You ask, trying to be casual about it.

Joaquin puts his phone back in his pocket and walks towards you, wrapping his arms around your waist in greeting. It’s only been two hours since he last saw you but to him, two hours is basically the equivalent to two months. He can’t help but notice the way that you don’t drape your arms over his shoulders like you’d usually do.

“It was good,” he replies. “I kicked Sam’s ass, actually. Bucky was even impressed.”

You give Joaquin a tight lipped smile and extract yourself from his arms. “That’s awesome, baby. I’m proud of you.” You can hear voices downstairs – Sam, Bucky and Sarah, who has obviously returned back from town while you were in the bathroom. “Is that Sarah I hear downstairs? I promised her I’d help her with dinner tonight.”

Before Joaquin can so much as utter another word, you’re walking down the stairs. He watches you, confused, and shakes his head as he follows you downstairs to the kitchen where Sam and Bucky are helping Sarah put away the groceries. 

He really had had a good training session. It was nice to spend some one on one time with Sam and Bucky like that, to learn different things from each of them and watch them sparring together. If he was even a little bit of a better fighter after it, he’d consider that a win. 

The fact that he couldn’t stop talking about you on the way home had probably lost him a few points with Sam and Bucky, though. He couldn’t help it, though – you’re the love of his life and you’d offered to look after Sam’s nephews so they could go out and train. He’s always thinking about marrying you and starting a family with you, so to see you do something like that just made him love you even more. 

Even though he really would have loved to have you come and watch him train. 

When he’d mentioned that to Sam and Bucky though, they’d given him a strange look. 

“You two aren’t one of those couples that can’t ever be separated, are you?” Bucky had asked, looking a little disturbed at the idea. 

Joaquin snorted. “Did you not just notice that I spent two hours away from her so I could go and train with you guys?” 

“Yeah, and talked about her for at least an hour of that,” Sam added.

“It’s no secret that I’m clingy as hell when I’m around her,” Joaquin shrugged as they got out of the car and started walking towards the house. He had a skip in his step just at the thought of you being inside the house. “But to be fair, she’s been really clingy lately. It’s kinda weird cause she never was before, but after everything happened and I was in hospital for a while, she has been.” He paused to smile to himself. “I love it though. She should be clingy with me more often.” 

They’d walked inside then and the first thing Joaquin did was ask the boys where you were. They said you’d just run upstairs, so Joaquin assumed you were in the bathroom and headed straight upstairs to check on you.

Now, as he walks into the kitchen behind you, he doesn’t even think twice about placing his hands on your hips as he stops behind you. He’s glad when you don’t immediately shake him off. You’re standing next to the counter, right by the door, watching as Sam and Bucky argue over which cupboard salt goes in.

Sarah rolls her eyes and snatches the salt from Sam’s hands before putting it in the correct cupboard in an attempt to stop the men from arguing in her kitchen. You laugh a little as you meet Sarah’s eyes and she just sighs and shakes her head.

“You want me to help you and Sarah with dinner too? I don’t mind,” Joaquin says in your ear, his hands still on your hips. He’s completely unaware that you’re fighting your instinct to lean back into his chest and also trying not to pull yourself out of his grip.

“It’s fine, baby,” you say, voice only loud enough for him to hear. “Sarah and I will work better once all of the men are safely out of the kitchen.” It’s a little harsh but it’s true.

Joaquin laughs, the sound making you feel warm and comforted. “Yeah, I’m actually gonna agree with you on that one, angel.” He leans down to press a kiss to your cheek before stepping away from you. He doesn’t want to leave, but he can sense that you’re not yourself and until he can get some alone time with you, he doesn’t want to push you. “Guys, lets go show AJ and Cass that new move you taught me and leave the ladies alone for a bit, yeah?”

Somehow, his words actually work and Sam and Bucky leave the room after Joaquin. It’s remarkably more quiet inside now that they’re gone and Sarah lets out a breath of relief.

“I’m actually impressed Joaquin didn’t join in on that and managed to get them outside,” Sarah admits. “That kid can usually talk more than Sam and Bucky combined.”

You chuckle and walk further into the kitchen to help Sarah finish unpacking the groceries that Sam and Bucky hadn’t gotten around to. “Yeah, you’re right about that one.”

Outside, Joaquin is smiling as AJ and Cass freak out over how cool the new move is after Joaquin shows it to them. But in the back of his mind, he’s still worried about you. Something is off – with the way you’d pulled yourself out of his grip upstairs and the way you’d been less affectionate with him downstairs. Has he done something wrong? He can’t think of anything off the top of his head. Everything has been normal with you until now.

“Hey Cass,” Joaquin starts, pulling the older boy to the side as AJ asks Sam and Bucky to show them some more cool moves. “Did something happen with my girlfriend while we were out?”

Cass looks up at Joaquin, confused. “No, we just watched a show and talked. Then she said she was gonna go open the door for you guys and then she came back through and went upstairs really quickly.”

Joaquin thinks. What were they talking about as they were walking towards the house? It hits him, then. He was talking to Sam and Bucky about how you’d been clingy ever since he’d gotten out of the hospital. You had to have overheard him… had he said something that had hurt your feelings? Whatever it was, he needs to fix this right now. 

He doesn’t even bother to tell Sam and Bucky where he’s going, just thanks Cass and heads straight for the house, ignoring Sam as he calls out to ask him where he’s going. There’s only one thing he needs to do right now and it’s not out here.

You’re still in the kitchen, mid-way through washing some of the vegetables that Sarah had gotten to cook dinner with tonight. Sarah is cutting up the ones you’ve already washed. She looks up as Joaquin walks in the room, a little breathless from having basically ran back inside the house. 

“Everything all right, honey?” She asks him. 

“Yeah,” Joaquin nods. “Can I borrow your sous chef for a second though?”

From your spot at the sink, you put the vegetables down and grab the hand towel to dry your hands. You hadn’t expected Joaquin to come back in so soon, letalone to ask to talk to you. But maybe you hadn’t been as successful at hiding your hurt as you thought you were.

“Of course you can,” Sarah says, watching as you walk over to him.

Joaquin reaches down and grabs your hand before tugging you out of the room and up the stairs towards the bedroom that you’ve been sharing while you’re visiting Sarah and the kids. He’s a little surprised that you don’t resist him, but once the bedroom door closes, you drop his hand just like he’d expected you to do since he first took it.

“What’s this about, Joaquin?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest.

He looks at you for a moment, trying to read your expression but failing. “I owe you an apology, angel. I think I said something earlier that hurt your feelings. That’s why you brushed me off earlier and have been kinda short with me, right?”

Joaquin is more perceptive than you’d thought and there’s no point in trying to deny it when he already somehow knows that he said something that hurt you. 

“You did,” you admit. “I didn’t think you minded that I’ve been clingy with you since your accident, especially because you’re so touchy with me. But I’m sorry, Joaquin. I never meant to make you uncomfortable or make you feel like I don’t give you space.” 

You watch as Joaquin opens his mouth, then closes it again. He furrows his eyebrows and runs a hand through his hair. “Wait, what the heck are you talking about? When did I say that I didn’t like you being clingy or that it makes me uncomfortable?”

“Earlier,” you frown. “When you were coming back inside after you went out with Sam and Bucky. I was at the door and I heard you telling them that I was clingy. That I never used to be but ever since you were in hospital I became that way.” 

Joaquin laughs softly and runs a hand over his face. “Okay, angel. You didn’t hear everything I said, did you? When you ran off upstairs like the boys told me, you left before you finished hearing what I said.” He steps towards you and takes both of your hands in his. “You missed the part where I said I love you being clingy with me. That you should be clingy more often.” 

For a moment you just stare at him, a little confused. “Are you just saying that to try and make me feel better or something?” You ask, apprehensive.

He shakes his head. “You can even go and ask Sam and Bucky if you don’t believe me. They heard me say it,” he says. “I mean, come on, angel. I’m clingy with you, why would I not love it when you’re the same to me? I love it when you touch me, when you put your hands on me or when I hold you and you lean into me. I love that you’ve gotten in the habit of randomly kissing me whenever you see me and texting me in the middle of the day to check in whenever we’re not together. I mean that.”

Much to your dismay, tears start to form in your eyes. The second Joaquin sees them, he drops your hands and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. One of his hands rests on the side of your head, stroking your hair gently.

“Angel, why are you crying?” His voice breaks a little. He can’t help it. Joaquin always gets emotional whenever you do. It’s something deep within him that he can’t control.

“I feel like an idiot,” you mutter into his chest, your hands balling up in the back of his shirt. “I misunderstood what you were saying and I’ve been treating you badly for it ever since you got back without even hearing your side of it. I just assumed.”

Joaquin sniffs, rubbing your back. “You are not an idiot. If I’d heard you saying something like that, I probably would’ve jumped to conclusions as well. Don’t beat yourself up about it, okay?” 

You pull back from the hug a little, but keep your arms around him. You don’t want to let him go, especially when you see the tears sliding down his cheeks. “Joaquin, why are you crying?” Your eyes widen, one of your hands moving to his cheek to wipe away a tear.

He lets out a breathy laugh. “Cause you’re crying! And I’m the reason you are.”

“No!” You shake your head. “I’m the reason I’m crying, baby.”

“Yeah, but I’m part of the reason,” he mutters.

You wipe another tear as it falls down his cheek and he does the same for you, gently swiping underneath your eye too. You stare at each other for a moment before both of you begin to laugh. 

“I bet we look ridiculous right now,” you grin up at your boyfriend. “Both of us, standing here in the middle of the room crying our eyes out. It’s a good thing you picked this room for us to have this talk rather than the backyard, for example.”

Joaquin laughs. “Yeah, Sam and Bucky would think we’re going insane.”

You lean up and press a kiss to his cheek, still a little wet from the tears that had been falling down it only moments earlier. “You are not the reason I was crying, Joaquin. I shouldn’t have assumed that you hated it. I should’ve finished listening to what you were saying before I ran off and hurt my own feelings. You’ve never made me cry.”

“I hope I never do,” Joaquin mumbles, tightening his arms around you. “I’m still sorry that something I said hurt your feelings, even if I didn’t mean to, angel. Do you accept my apology for that? I’m not gonna be able to drop it unless you do.”

“Yes, Joaquin. I accept your apology.”

He lets out a breath of relief. “I suppose I should return you to Sarah,” he sighs.

“Not just yet,” you shake your head and move closer to hug him again, resting your face against his chest. His warmth spreads through you, giving you comfort after all the stress of the last hour or so. It’s a good thing Joaquin is a quick thinker because if you’d had to sit and stew on all of this for a bit longer, you would’ve been a bigger mess. “I just want a few more minutes with you now that you’ve told me you like me being clingy.”

Joaquin smiles. “You know I’m not gonna leave you alone for the rest of the night once you and Sarah are done cooking dinner, right? I’m gonna be glued to your side. Sam and Bucky might tease me about it forever but it’ll be worth it.”

“Good,” you hum. “I missed out on some of my favourite kinds of PDA when I was hurting earlier, so we have a little bit to make up for. I want a hand on me at all times. You got that, Torres?” 

He chuckles softly. “I think that can be arranged.” 

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ how they react to your simping

ᨳ♡₊➳ feat. gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: request from this ask!

₊⊹. Satoru Gojo

It starts as a bit.

A joke.

A funny little thing you do to pass the time.

"Satoru," you say one day, dropping into the seat across from him, locking eyes with the intensity of a protagonist about to deliver a monologue that changes the trajectory of the plot. "You're the most stunning man I've ever laid eyes on. A masterpiece sculpted by the gods. A celestial being walking among mortals."

Gojo, already grinning, slurps his sugar-laden monstrosity of a drink. "Keep going."

"And your eyes," you continue solemnly. "If I stare too long, I think I might ascend. Transcend, even. Witness the birth of a new universe."

"Mmhm, mhm," Gojo hums, nodding. "I am quite pretty."

You squint. "That was supposed to be my bit."

"Hey, I can't help it if you're spitting facts," he says, flipping an imaginary strand of long hair behind his shoulder.

You let it go. But only because you have a mission.

The mission? Spoiling Gojo so hard he actually malfunctions.

Gojo is used to being worshiped. Adored. Gawked at. What he's not used to is someone actually putting in effort beyond the usual "oh my god satoru, you're sooo hot!" routine.

So later that day when you casually drop a bouquet of fresh flowers onto his desk, he blinks. Once. Twice.

"What's this?" he asks, twirling a rose between his fingers.

"A bouquet, obviously," you say. "They reminded me of you."

He preens. "Because they're beautiful?"

"Because they're high-maintenance and will die if left unattended for too long."

He chokes on his own spit.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Gojo is not prepared for the sheer level of simping you unleash upon him.

You leave handwritten love notes in his coat pockets.

You text him daily affirmations like "Rise and shine, my shining deity of a man. May your day be filled with adoration befitting a being of your grandeur."

You make a whole PowerPoint presentation titled "Top 10 Reasons Satoru Gojo is the Pinnacle of Human Evolution", complete with graphs, transitions, and a Q&A section at the end.

Gojo is thriving.

Nanami, witnessing this firsthand, is suffering.

"You're just encouraging him," Nanami says one afternoon as Gojo dramatically rereads a love poem you wrote on parchment paper.

"He's thriving under my care," you say, flipping through a list of future compliments to deploy. "It's called nourishment."

"It's called enabling," Nanami corrects, watching Gojo dramatically place a hand over his heart.

"I AM LOVED," Gojo wails, pretending to faint into his chair.

"What you are is insufferable," Nanami mutters, sipping his black coffee like it's the only thing tethering him to sanity.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You decide to go all in.

You book a fancy restaurant.

You show up with flowers, dressed like you're about to propose.

Gojo, seeing the setup, vibrates with excitement. "Oh my god, am I finally being courted properly?!"

"You deserve nothing less," you say smoothly, pulling out his chair like a true gentleperson.

"You shouldn't have," he fake-swoons, placing a delicate hand on his chest.

"No, you shouldn't have been going on for this long without experiencing the true depths of my affection."

The waiter arrives. You order the most expensive dish for Gojo before he even gets a chance to speak. "He'll have the filet mignon, medium-rare, with truffle butter. And your finest wine."

Gojo grips your hand across the table. "I am beside myself with emotion right now."

"You are a treasure, Satoru," you whisper. "A rare jewel. A divine gift."

Gojo wipes away a single imaginary tear.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

At this point, you've given Gojo too much power.

He now EXPECTS this level of treatment.

"Where's my daily compliment?" he pouts one morning when you forget to text him.

You stare at him. "Satoru. It's 6 AM."

"And yet I am here. Unloved. Unworshipped. Unadored."

"You are a grown man."

"A king should not have to remind his subjects of their duties," he grumbles.

Nanami groans in the background.

You rub your temples. "Satoru."

"Yes, my love?"

"You are—" You take a deep breath. "The sun that lights up my world. The radiant deity upon whom my mortal existence depends."

He beams. "Thank you, beloved."

Nanami leaves the room.

₊⊹. Suguru Geto

You had decided enough was enough. Suguru Geto had been prancing around with his stupidly silky hair, his deep, philosophical musings, and his unfairly attractive smirk for too long. It was time to strike.

And by strike, you meant overwhelm him with unhinged romance until he had no choice but to fall for you.

You found him meditating under a tree, all calm and ethereal, probably contemplating the moral complexities of the Jujutsu world or something equally dramatic. You, however, had more important things to discuss.

Like how down bad you were.

"Geto," you declared, standing before him like a medieval knight about to swear fealty, "I offer you this token of my undying admiration."

Then, with a flourish, you revealed—

Chocolates.

Not just any chocolates. You had gone full simp mode and gotten a heart-shaped box.

Geto looked at it. Then at you. "...Should I be concerned?"

"Only about how much I love you," you replied dramatically, shoving the chocolates into his hands.

There was a pause. A long, heavily judgmental pause.

"Are you trying to court me like some kind of high school rom-com protagonist?"

"YES."

Another pause.

"Is it working?" you asked.

Geto opened the box, picked up a chocolate, and took a bite. He chewed slowly, considering. Then—

"...Maybe."

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Now, Geto was a cool, composed, and deadly sorcerer.

Which meant it was your job to ruin his life with affection.

So, naturally, you initiated the next phase by hugging him out of nowhere.

This man had fought dangerous curses, but nothing—nothing—could prepare him for the sheer force of your affection.

You launched yourself at him like an affectionate gremlin, wrapping your arms around his waist with the force of a hungry raccoon finding a trash can full of McDonald’s fries.

Geto froze.

"...Are you okay?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

"Never," you mumbled into his robe. "But that’s not the point."

"...And the point is?"

"I just think you deserve love and appreciation. And I wanna be the one to give it to you."

Silence.

Then, after a long moment, he sighed, resting a hand on your head.

"...You are ridiculous," he muttered.

"You love it."

"...Perhaps."

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

By the end of the week, Geto had officially accepted your nonsense.

You’d catch him hoarding the chocolates like some kind of dragon. You saw him smiling to himself after one of your many, many dramatic compliments.

And when you finally mustered the courage to ask, "So, does this mean we’re dating now?"

Geto, ever the enigma, smirked and patted your head.

"...I suppose I should accept my fate."

₊⊹. Kento Nanami

Nanami is a serious man. A man who, if given the choice, would rather be doing his taxes than engaging in anything even remotely resembling romance. Not because he doesn’t want romance, but because romance requires effort, and effort is, unfortunately, time-consuming.

Which is why you have taken it upon yourself to court this man like a medieval suitor with a crush so strong it could level a small village.

You decide today is the day. The day you finally ask Nanami out. The plan is simple:

1. Find Nanami.

2. Say, "Hey, I like you, wanna go out?"

3. Win.

It’s foolproof. You are a genius.

Nanami, as per usual, is dressed like the world's most exhausted salaryman, sipping a coffee that he is holding like it’s the only thing tethering him to existence.

"Nanami," you say, feeling the confidence of a thousand mediocre fuckboys online.

He looks at you. His gaze is neutral. Calculating. As if he can already sense that whatever is about to come out of your mouth will disrupt the fragile equilibrium of his sanity.

You inhale deeply. Go for it.

"Would you like to engage in a mutually agreed-upon romantic outing with me where I attempt to woo you with my sheer charisma and a potentially expensive dinner?"

Silence.

Nanami blinks. Once. Twice.

Then he takes an excruciatingly slow sip of his coffee, as if using the liquid as a buffer to process the sheer absurdity of your phrasing.

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"That depends," you say, doubling down. "Did it work?"

Nanami stares at you. Then sighs.

"Sure."

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Since you have decided to be the biggest simp for Nanami, you have prepared a gift to give him at the beginning of your date. Something that says I am a responsible adult capable of mature affection while also saying I would die for you, sir.

Which is how you find yourself handing Nanami a loaf of bread from his favorite bakery.

Nanami, a man who has spent years perfecting the art of keeping a neutral expression, visibly falters.

Nanami stares at the bread. Then at you. Then at the bread again, as if he is trying to determine whether or not you are a figment of his own overworked imagination.

Finally, he says, "Thank you."

Which, in Nanami Language, translates roughly to: I have never been more emotionally moved in my life.

You, being the proactive, aggressive simp that you are, have decided to push boundaries. Specifically, physical affection boundaries.

So later on the date, you do the unthinkable. You hold his hand.

Nanami, a grown man who has fought literal curses and experienced horrors beyond human comprehension, immediately short-circuits.

His posture stiffens like he’s just been accused of tax fraud. His grip tightens slightly, as if he’s afraid you might just evaporate if he doesn’t hold on properly.

"This is fine," he says, in the tone of someone who is very much not fine.

You squeeze his hand. "I could kiss you, you know."

Nanami exhales so hard it could power a wind turbine.

"Please do not say such things in public."

"You want me to save it for when we're alone?"

Nanami looks at you like he is considering whether it would be socially acceptable to walk into the ocean and never return.

You grin. You have won.

And Nanami, though he will never admit it, likes losing to you.

₊⊹. Choso Kamo

You had a plan.

A stupid, possibly catastrophic plan.

But you were going to ask Choso out.

The issue? Choso was built different.

Not in the "cool, gym-rat, grinds at 4 AM" way. Not even in the "mysterious loner with a dark past" way. No. Choso was built different in the "has absolutely no understanding of normal social cues" way. He had the emotional intelligence of a Roomba. He walked like an NPC. He stared at inanimate objects like they had personally wronged him.

And, worst of all, he had no idea you were trying to make moves.

You had flirted. You had winked at him. You had complimented his little pigtails. You had even touched his arm, which, in romance language, was basically a marriage proposal.

Nothing.

Choso was simply not getting it.

So now, you were taking a more direct approach. You were going to spoil him until he physically had to acknowledge your affection.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

You waited until Choso was comfortably seated at your usual hangout spot—a little café that had tolerated your nonsense for far too long.

You slammed a neatly wrapped box onto the table with the intensity of someone presenting a sacred artifact to the gods.

Choso blinked. Slowly. Then looked at you.

“...Am I being arrested?”

“What? No!”

He looked down at the box again. Then back at you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Choso. Open it.”

Choso stared at the box like it might explode. Then, with all the hesitance of a man defusing a bomb, he started unwrapping it.

Inside was a custom hoodie—black with deep purple accents, soft as hell, and embroidered on the sleeve with “Best Big Bro” in delicate script.

Because if there was one thing Choso loved more than you (debatable), it was being a big brother.

Choso stared at it. Completely frozen.

You waited. And waited. And—

“…Do you not like it?” you asked, anxiety creeping in.

Choso lifted his head, and you almost gasped.

He looked emotionally compromised.

Like, full processing error. His eyes had slightly widened, and his mouth opened just a little, like he was trying to form words but had temporarily forgotten how human speech worked.

He lifted the hoodie like it was the most valuable thing he had ever received.

“You got this… for me?”

Your heart lurched. “Yeah, dude. It’s literally yours.”

Choso gently set the hoodie down, stood up, and left the café.

…

HE LEFT THE CAFÉ.

You sat there, dumbfounded, watching the door swing shut behind him. You did not know how to feel.

What the hell just happened?

Did he hate it? Was he rejecting your affection?

But just as you were about to spiral into a crisis, the door slammed open again.

Choso returned, looking like he had gone outside to scream into the sky.

He stopped in front of you, took a deep breath, and said, “I did not know how to process that.”

“…The hoodie?”

Choso nodded, completely serious.

“It was too much.” He exhaled deeply, as if he had just lived through a traumatic event. “I had to step outside. It was the nicest thing anyone has ever given me.”

Before you could even respond, Choso dropped into the chair across from you, locked eyes, and grabbed your hands.

“You are important to me,” he said, voice dead serious. “I don’t know how to handle being… doted on. But I will try.”

“…So you like it?” you managed to choke out.

Choso nodded. Solemn. Deeply sincere.

“I will cherish it forever.”

He paused.

“Do I have to pay you back?”

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Despite the initial trauma, Choso wore that hoodie everywhere.

And you mean everywhere.

Grocery shopping? Hoodie. Training? Hoodie. A formal event? He debated wearing the hoodie.

Every time you saw him in it, your heart grew three sizes.

And the best part? Choso finally got the hint.

Or rather, he returned the favor in his own extremely weird way.

One day, he solemnly presents you with a tiny, perfectly round rock.

“This is for you.”

You stare at it. “…Choso. Is this just... A rock?”

Choso nods, his expression grave and intense. “It reminded me of you.”

You don’t know what that means, but you’re keeping the rock forever.

₊⊹. Toji Fushiguro

So, you’ve decided to ask Toji Fushiguro out. Bold of you. Statistically speaking, your chances of success are equivalent to trying to microwave a Hot Pocket evenly—low but not impossible.

You approach him, full of misplaced confidence, and hit him with:

"Hey, I think you’re hot. Want to go out?"

Toji stares at you. For the first time in his life, he is the one being objectified, and he does not know how to cope.

“...You serious?” he asks, popping a toothpick into his mouth like he’s the protagonist of a Western movie.

You nod, mostly because you’ve already committed and retreating would be embarrassing.

Toji, a man who survives off hitman money and food bribery, strokes his chin as if he’s considering a very important life decision. "Eh. You payin’?"

Ah, yes. Romance.

You, a modern working-class citizen barely scraping by, sigh deeply. “Sure.”

He grins. "Alright, babe. As long as I get fed, I’m yours."

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Most people might play it cool. You, however, are about to hit Toji with full-throttle, maximum-effort simping.

You start hyping him up like a Twitch chat during a speedrun:

"Oh, wow, you lifted that entire sofa by yourself? That’s crazy, I didn’t know Greek gods were still around."

"Bro, your arms? Jail. Straight to jail."

"You look like you commit tax fraud in a really attractive way."

Toji, completely unused to someone simping this hard for him, just stares at you. "The hell is wrong with you?"

But he doesn’t tell you to stop.

No, instead, he starts getting visibly cocky. His smirks get more frequent. He starts cracking his neck more, flexing just because. At one point, he lifts an entire vending machine with one hand just to “see if you’d react.”

(You do. You react violently. Your soul momentarily leaves your body. He finds this hilarious.)

"Man, this is fun," he mutters, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s now just performing feats of strength for your entertainment like a circus strongman.

Eventually you decide it’s time to go full simp mode. You present him with The Ultimate Romantic Gift™—a custom, high-quality, weighted blanket.

Yes. A weighted blanket.

Toji blinks at it. "The hell is this?"

"It’s a weighted blanket. It helps with sleeping. It’s supposed to feel like a hug."

Toji, a man who absolutely does not get enough proper sleep, picks it up and frowns at the heft of it. "Why would I want my blanket to hug me?"

"Because you have unresolved trauma, and I love you."

Toji pauses. Stares at you. Stares at the blanket. Stares back at you. His grip tightens like you just handed him a weapon of mass destruction.

"Holy shit," he mutters under his breath. He looks almost…emotional? No, wait. You think he’s malfunctioning. His brain is short-circuiting from the sheer thought of someone giving him something that doesn’t explode.

Toji does not say thank you (because he’s emotionally repressed), but that night, he's completely KO’d under the blanket, snoring like a bear hibernating for the winter.

He has never slept so well in his life.

The next morning, he casually throws an arm around your shoulder and mutters, "Aight, I’ll keep ya."

[moonstruckme]

Mae I have a lil request idea! Can I please get any of the boys with a gf whose inexperienced and she's super stressed about having sex (I just started being open to the idea of dating but I haven't been with anyone in 3+ years and I'm scared/nervous about sex now like what if they hate my body?? Or I suck??)

Thank you for requesting angel <3

cw: smut mdni, body insecurities, reader isn’t a virgin necessarily but is inexperienced

James Potter x afab!reader ♡ 1.1k words

You’re trying very hard not to think. To get swept up like you’ve heard you’re supposed to, and in fairness James is doing a very fine job of sweeping you. He’s all strong hands and wet mouth moving over the slopes of your face, your neck, your sides. He’s got your shirt off on one side to expose your shoulder, and you think it’s only a matter of time before the rest follows.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles. It’s believable when he sounds like this, almost drunk, like he can’t lift his lips from you for one second to get it out right.

You burrow your fingers in the curls at the back of his head and try to let yourself be swept. Your body reacts in all the right ways. You gasp, you arch, you throb. You feel the muscles of James’ back, let the friction of his knee between your thighs send electric frissions coursing through you. You relish the warmth of every point of contact and tell yourself that all is going perfectly.

It’s not enough. When James undoes your trousers and his fingers brush the fabric of your underwear, your head is all alarm bells.

You try to enjoy yourself through their wailing. It feels nice, the way he’s touching you. But oh god, what if he cares that you didn’t shave? Do adult men want a bare vagina? Or what if James wouldn’t like it bare, but what you have is too much for him? Is there a universally agreed upon pubic hair length you don’t know about?

The rest of your body is a whole other thing. James calls you beautiful, but he hasn’t seen all of you. What if he takes your clothes off and he doesn’t think so anymore? You know he’d never say anything cruel, but he’s still human, he can think it.

You don’t know what you’re doing. There are so many ways this could go wrong. Even if he’s fine with your body, you could still be too boring or try too hard or be too loud or too quiet or not move right. You could break his dick. There’s no way he’ll want to see you again after that. Not even James could be that forgiving. What if you mess all this up because of one stupid night?

Your heart pounds to the beat of what-if, louder and more insistent until you can’t take it.

“James.” You set a hand on his chest.

He makes a low sound, misinterpreting your hesitance as encouragement. His lips part over your shoulder, fingers teasing the elastic of your underwear. Your breath seizes.

“James.” You push a little this time. James takes the hint immediately, pulling back to look at you.

“Hm?” He blinks. You know his vision must be fuzzy, his glasses on the nightstand, but whatever he can see of your face makes his brows pull in and up in the middle of his forehead. “What’s wrong?”

“I didn’t shave,” you say.

James’ expression relaxes. For a second he looks like he might laugh at you, but presumably your obvious distress keeps him from it. “Okay,” he says, moving his hand a couple inches up from your underwear to run it over your stomach soothingly. “That’s fine, love, I don’t care. I’m a grown-up, I don’t need you to pretend you don’t grow hair.”

This comforts you, but only some.

“I just feel like I need to give you some disclaimers.”

Now James does laugh. It’s just a little one, soft, the way sunlight dapples through the shade of a tree canopy. “You don’t need to disclaim anything.” He kisses you, curved lips against your frowny ones. “But lay it on me, if you want to.”

“I just…” He keeps kissing you, and you speak in between. “Your pasta was really good, but I’m sort of bloated now.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“I also don’t have any, like, moves.”

It’s almost a giggle, the thing that vibrates against your lips. “Moves?”

“Yeah. I’m not exactly well versed in all this. I feel like I’m going to fuck it up.”

“Sweetheart.” James says it all warm and heavy, the sort of tone that usually portends him squishing your face in his hands. This time, he only kisses the tip of your nose with sticky fondness. “If you’re nervous, we don’t have to keep going, but none of these are things you need to worry about.”

You touch his wrist, stopping his hand rubbing your stomach. It sits patiently just below your navel.

“I don’t know what to do,” you say, earnest in the way James always manages to draw out of you. “I need a manual. What’s my job?”

“I promise you won’t need a manual,” he says, kissing you again. “Lovely, your only job is to feel good.”

You frown. “That seems sexist.”

“What?” He laughs. “It’s not sexist.”

“It’s not? You have a job and I don’t. Feels sexist to me.”

“I just told you, your job is to feel good. And it’s not sexist.” James’ mouth moves down to your neck. “It’s a beginner’s pass.”

You swallow as he finds a favored spot below your ear. “I just get that this once, then?”

James pauses for a moment. “Well, there’s also the I’m-in-love-with-you pass.”

“Oh?” Your voice is turning breathy. “What’s that one mean?”

“It means you get to do whatever you want, sweetheart.” He kisses that same spot over and over until you think you’ll go mad. “I’ll love it no matter what, because I love you.”

You give in with a soft whimpering sound. James hugs you close like he means to comfort you, and you take your trousers the rest of the way off yourself.

There are no holds barred after that. You let James put his hands or his mouth wherever he likes, and each time he checks in that something is okay you barely have the air to tell him yes. It feels different than you were expecting, different than anyone else in your history or imaginings, hot but gentle and good in a way that transcends what you thought the word to mean before.

James does get your clothes off, eventually, but you’re not alone in that regard. Being vulnerable with him feels more privileged than frightening then. You can’t believe you ever worried that these hands would find fault in you. You’ve never wanted anyone to touch you so badly as you want James to.

“I love you,” you murmur, against his chest, his cheek, into the hollow of his throat.

James says it back a dozen times. When he calls you beautiful, you know he means it.

[dreamersparacosm]

under the checkered flag - epilogue blurb 1!

prompt ; in which your boyfriend, who’s normally all confidence, cockiness and self-assured, turns into a pouty, jealous mess when he remembers how much of a catch his girlfriend really is.

warnings ; unprotected sex, lil bit of oral (m recieving) (also this is not even a blurb. this is a whole ass story. also wrote this hungover so if there’s grammar errors… welp. idk how i got so ahead of myself pls help)

request ; linked here

part of the under the checkered flag universe

You’re not entirely sure why you agreed to this.

The room is packed: it’s loud, buzzing with conversation, glittering lights and expensive diamonds you could never dream of affording, filled with the kind of people who look like they walked off the cover of Vogue. Jungkook, of course, is in his element, shaking hands, flashing his signature grin, seamlessly weaving through the crowd like he was born for this.

Meanwhile, you are hiding behind him like a child.

“Baby,” Jungkook murmurs over his shoulder, amused. His hand rests against your hip, keeping you tucked close as he greets another executive, another industry legend who already knows exactly who he is. “You gonna say hi or just use me as a human shield all night?”

You huff, clutching onto the sleeve of his tailored suit, peeking past his shoulder just enough to offer a shy, “Hi.”

The older man chuckles, shaking his head. “Cute one you got there, Jungkook.”

Jungkook beams, unbothered. “I know, right?” His fingers tighten around your waist, clearly very proud of you, and he wants everyone in this room to know exactly who you are.

And, to be fair, they already do. Your face has been plastered across every media outlet since his last race a few weeks ago, the headlines barely able to contain themselves. “Jeon Jungkook Off The Market: Meet the Woman Who Stole His Heart.” Paparazzi shots of him running to you after his win, kissing you in front of thousands, wrapping you in his arms like you’re his greatest trophy. Really, it was getting a little overwhelming.

You smile up at him as the aforementioned man turns away to entertain another person “Why are you doing this?”

He bites back a smirk. “Doing what?”

“Introducing me to every single person like I’m some mystery. They know who I am, Jungkook.”

“Do they?” He grins, leaning down, voice dropping just enough for only you to hear. “Because I don’t think they know you’re the love of my life yet. Want me to make a bigger announcement?”

Your face bursts into flames. You slap his side, making him laugh as he pulls you closer, not letting you escape even an inch.

“Relax, my love.” He presses a kiss to your temple, warm, grounding, very much second nature now. “Just wanna show you off a little.”

You groan, burying your face in his shoulder. “I hate you.”

“Liar liar pants on fire.” He says it so easily, so confidently, because he’s right. You’re completely, stupidly in love with him actually. However, the worst part of that? So is everyone else in this damn room.

The buzz of the party hums around you as you trail behind Jungkook, hands still lightly clinging to his arm like it’s your lifeline. He doesn’t seem to mind, laughing lightly as he introduces you to every person who approaches, all the while keeping one eye on you, making sure you’re still there, still close. You’re the quiet one, always in the background, but tonight? You’re sticking to him like glue.

The chaos around you only adds to the sensation of feeling out of place, and your mind pulses with the need to break free for a moment.

“I’m gonna get some champagne,” You tug on his arm to get his attention, hoping he won’t follow, aching for just a second alone.

“Alright,” Jungkook says, winking at you. “Dont wander far, I’ll miss you too much.”

You roll your eyes, the slight teasing in his voice making you smile despite yourself.

And finally, with a little space between you two, you head for the bar, where the bartender is already pouring multiple glass of champagne, a brand you hardly recognize besides the times that Jungkook has sprayed it over your head in his locker room after a win. You grab one, thank him with a smile, clutching your drink tightly, letting the warmth of the alcohol loosen some of the tension in your shoulders. You lean against the bar, taking in a deep breath, trying to shake off the intensity of the room.

You shift slightly, your heels pinching the back of your feet. Even though Jungkook is across the room now, deep in conversation with some high-profile men, you can still feel him, like a phantom touch, like gravity pulling you toward him even from a distance.

You’re halfway through your first sip when someone leans in beside you. His voice is warm, easy-going.

“Is it safe to assume you’re with Jungkook?”

The voice comes from your right, definitely belonging to someone who’s good at conversation.

You glance up, blinking at the tall, well-dressed man beside you. He’s… handsome, you suppose. Friendly. Dressed in a navy suit, collar slightly open, drink in hand. Polished, but not in an obnoxious way. He leans against the bar with a casual kind of confidence, the kind of presence that blends in rather than commands the room.

“Yeah, I am,” you admit, still feeling a little shy. “I’m his… well, girlfriend. Sort of.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Sort of? That’s an interesting answer.”

You huff a small laugh. “I mean, yes. I am. He just… likes making a big deal out of it.”

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” he chuckles, taking a slow sip of his drink. “I take it you’re not used to all this?”

You shake your head immediately. “Not even a little.”

He laughs, genuinely, like he understands. “I get it. These events can be overwhelming.”

You tilt your head slightly, curiosity creeping in. “You say that like you’ve been to a lot of them.”

He grins, and that’s when it clicks. You suddenly recognize him, the familiar face.

“Wait—” Your eyes widen. “You’re a driver too, right? You raced today.”

His smile turns a little playful. “I did. And I did alright, if I say so myself.”

“You placed third, didn’t you?”

He blinks, slightly impressed. “Didn’t expect you to know that.”

You blush slightly, shrugging. “Well… I may have learned a thing or two from Jungkook.”

“Ah, so he’s been turning you into a racing expert, huh?” He teases.

“Not even close,” You laugh, shaking your head. “But congratulations. Third place is still huge.”

“Thanks,” He says, tipping his glass toward you. “Though, I have to admit, Jungkook is damn near impossible to beat. The guy drives like he’s invincible.”

You smile softly, the kind of smile that only comes when someone you love is being praised. “Yeah… he does.”

“You must be proud of him.”

“I am.” The words fall out before you can second-guess them, before you can hide them behind your usual shyness.

That much, you know is true. You are proud of Jungkook, more than he’ll ever know.

The man watches you for a second, a knowing look flashing in his eyes. Then, he smiles, shaking his head slightly. “He’s got a good one.”

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

He gestures toward Jungkook, who’s across the room, entertaining the guests, bright and effortless. “I mean, it’s not every day you see him this… settled. The guy used to be a bit of a wildcard.”

Your stomach flutters. You know that. You know exactly who Jungkook was before you.

You swallow, about to respond, when his next words catch you off guard. “Though, I have to admit…” He leans in slightly, voice dropping just a bit, teasing but still measured. “It must be tough, standing next to him all the time, knowing you stand out. ”

You feel your heart skip, your fingers tightening around your glass. You’ve always been completely oblivious when it comes to flirting. It’s not intentional—you just never assume anyone would be interested in you like that. Compliments fly over your head, teasing remarks get brushed off as jokes, and subtle advances? You don’t even register them.

Even with Jungkook, it took months of playful taunts, agreeing to do whatever you wanted, and blatantly flirty texts before you even considered the possibility that he might actually like you. And now, standing here at the bar, faced with a man who is clearly steering the conversation into dangerously suggestive waters, you’re a little slow to catch up. The moment finally clicks a beat too late, the realization washing over you like a delayed shockwave—oh. He’s not just making conversation. He’s flirting. And you? You walked right into that trap.

You let out a soft laugh, playing with the hem of your dress, trying to ignore the way his words sit uncomfortably in your chest.

“I mean, yeah,” You say lightly, swirling the champagne in your glass, forcing yourself to play it cool. “Jungkook has a lot of eyes on him. That’s kind of the deal when you’re one of the best, right?”

You try to steer the conversation back to Jungkook, hoping it’ll naturally fizzle out, but he gives you a look. A slow, appreciative glance. The kind that lingers just long enough to make your stomach twist in anxiety.

“That’s true,” He muses, his voice casual. “But I think most people would be looking at you tonight.”

Goddamnit.

Your fingers grip the glass so roughly it might shatter in your hands as you blink at him, processing. You laugh again, but this time it’s a little awkward, a tad nervous, like you’re trying to buy yourself a moment to think.

And then, as naturally as breathing, you look for him. Jungkook.

Your eyes search the crowd, scanning past the fitting dresses and tailored suits, past the photographers and the industry elites, until they land on him.

Of course, he’s right at the center of it all.

He’s laughing, head thrown back slightly, looking so alive, so magnetic, exuding the kind of confidence that made the world fall in love with him (and you as well, for that matter.) His suit jacket is long gone, probably thrown off on the back of a chair somewhere, replaced with a perfectly tailored white button-up, his sleeves pushed up just enough to tease the tattoos running along his forearm. He looks stupidly good.

He’s glowing, genuinely happy, his eyes crinkling as he talks, hands gesturing animatedly, completely and utterly in his element.

You bite your lip, a new kind of frustration blooming in your chest. How is he over there, completely fine, while you’re over here trying to figure out how to escape this conversation without being rude? Why must the universe put you, of all people, in the ring of fire?

“So,” The driver’s voice pulls you back, making you blink and turn your attention back to him. “How did you and Jungkook even meet? I don’t think I ever heard the full story.”

You shift again, clearing your throat, desperate to reroute the conversation away from yourself. “Oh—uh, through work, sort of. It’s actually kind of funny—”

Focus. Focus on Jungkook. Keep it safe. Keep it neutral.

You take another sip in between your sentence, the champagne fizzling against your lips, but the tightness in your chest doesn’t ease. You keep your focus on the man, trying to steer every single word back to Jungkook. It’s a delicate balancing act, keeping the conversation polite while dodging every veiled compliment, every lingering glance, every slight shift in tone that threatens to turn friendly into flirtatious.

“Yeah, it’s kind of funny, actually,” you pick up where you left off, still trying to keep it collected. “I had no idea who Jungkook even was when we first met. Everyone was freaking out about him, and I was just..”

You pause, shaking your head with a soft laugh. “Well, completely clueless.”

He chuckles, leaning in slightly, interest still flickering behind his eyes. “And now you’re wearing his jacket, front and center at every race.”

“Guess I learned who he was real quick,” You joke, though your fingers tighten slightly around your glass.

He tilts his head, like he’s about to say something else, perhaps even heavier, when two warm hands slip around your waist. They’re firm, familiar. A voice, deep, steady, and close enough to feel the breath of it against your temple. “Didn’t realize you two were getting so close.”

You blink, your entire body reacting before your mind even processes it. His presence is instant, all-consuming. You barely have time to react before you feel him pull you back against him, his grip on your waist just tight enough to send a message. The warmth of his chest presses against your back, solid and unwavering.

And when you tilt your head slightly, looking up at who you know damn well is your boyfriend — Oh. Oh, he’s not happy.

His jaw is tight, his lips pressed into a firm line. His usual easy-going expression is replaced by something darker, sharper, a quiet intensity simmering behind his eyes.

The man clears his throat, shifting awkwardly. He knows. Everyone in this room knows. Hell, even the higher powers know better than to mess with Jungkook’s girl.

“Jungkook,” he greets, nodding slightly. “Good race today, man.”

Jungkook doesn’t move. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t blink.

He just keeps his eyes on the man in front of you, expression unreadable, until he finally speaks.

“Yeah?” he muses, voice deceptively smooth. “Guess I’m lucky I had my girl with me.”

His hold on your waist tightens, just slightly, as if reinforcing the point.

Your pulse spikes, warmth creeping up your neck as you become painfully aware of how close he is.

You’re not usually the center of attention. But right now, you may as well be standing in the eye of a storm.

The tension lingers for a moment more. Jungkook’s hands are possessive, fingers pressing slightly into the fabric of your dress. His presence is impossible to ignore, a wall of warmth at your back, his cologne—deep, musky, with some woodsy notes—wrapping around you like a second layer of skin.

The man shifts, clearly picking up on the shift in atmosphere. Still, he offers an easy smile, nodding toward you.

“She’s beautiful,” he comments, like it’s the most obvious fact in the world. “Guess I can’t blame you for keeping her close.”

Jungkook hums smugly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly, like he’s weighing his next words carefully. “Prettiest girl in the whole damn room.”

Your stomach flips violently, a cage of butterflies releasing themselves in your body. You’ll never get used to the way he speaks about you.

The driver gives one last chuckle, his eyes flicking between the two of you before wisely deciding to move along with his night. He excuses himself, raising his glass towards both of you before scurrying away as quick as his legs can take him.

And then it’s just you and Jungkook.

You exhale, not even realizing you had been holding your breath, still feeling the ghost of his touch on your waist.

You’re about to say something, but before you can, he turns to you, leans down, presses a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek. The warmth of it spreads across your skin like wildfire.

He pulls back, just slightly, his lips hovering over your skin, his voice dropping into something quiet, “You really let that guy talk to you for that long?”

Your eyes widen. “What? I wasn’t—”

Jungkook pulls back, finally looking at you, and he’s pouting. Actually pouting. The 27 year old man. Lips jutted slightly, brows furrowed, his usual confidence slipping juuuust enough to reveal the jealousy simmering beneath. It might be the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.

You can’t help it. You giggle, heart swelling in your chest.

“Jungkook,” You breathe out, leaning up, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He grumbles something under his breath. You kiss him again, again… one more time for safe measures. Tiny, peppered kisses, soft and teasing, trailing across his cheek until you feel the tension in his shoulders start to ease. He exhales slowly, tilting his head, still acting like he’s suffered through the potato famine, furthering your agenda on the sassy man apocalypse.

“I just don’t get it,” he mutters, dramatic. “Why does everyone love you?”

You giggle again, nose brushing against his as you murmur, “Maybe because I’m soooo beautiful?”

Jungkook scoffs. “You think I don’t know that?”

And for the rest of the night, Jungkook doesn’t let you go. Not for a millisecond.

His arm is wrapped around your waist like an iron band, keeping you flush against his side as he guides you through the afterparty. He greets people, nods along to conversations, but his attention never fully strays from you.

Every so often, he leans down, his lips brushing against your temple, the shell of your ear, whispering things only for you.

“Having fun, pretty girl?”

“Gonna keep breaking hearts tonight, or am I enough attention for you?”

“Can’t believe you almost let some other guy steal you away. The blasphemy.”

You laugh every time, eyes sparkling, cheeks warm from the champagne and from the way his voice wraps around you like velvet.

By the time you’re finally in his car, it’s even more obvious.

The moment he pulls onto the empty streets, one hand gripping the wheel, the other immediately finds your thigh. You’re all giggles and smiles, alcohol-induced laughs spilling from your lips as you shift beneath his touch.

“You’re being so touchy,” You tease, voice teasing, light, dripping with warmth.

Jungkook barely glances at you, but you see the smirk pulling at his lips. “Don’t see you pulling my hand away.”

You roll your eyes, but your skin betrays you, heat pooling everywhere his fingertips graze. His thumb circles slowly, rubbing absentminded patterns into your thigh, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“You’re ridiculous,” You mutter, biting back another laugh as you lean against the headrest, the world outside the car nothing but passing trees and shadows.

“And you’re also tipsy,” Jungkook counters, stealing a glance at you, his eyes dark, amused, playful.

He licks his lips, the silver of his piercing catching the streetlights, and you hate how mesmerizing it is.

“So?” you huff, crossing your arms in mock defense.

“So,” he drawls, fingers squeezing slightly around your thigh, watching with interest as you visibly react. “You’re all giggly and sweet right now, and I think I like it too much. My bad for wanting to get my hands on my girlfriend.”

Girlfriend.

God, the word rolls off him so easily it makes you dizzy.

“You like me all the time,” You poke his hand that’s on your thigh.

“Yeah, but I like you even more when you’re like this,” He plays with his lip ring as his eyes focus on the road.

You peek up at him through fluttering lashes, watching the way his jaw flexes, the way he glances at you just a little too long at a red light. And then, without thinking, you lean toward him, voice dropping into something soft, just shy of teasing. “You’re really that possessive, huh?”

Jungkook’s fingers flex, grip tightening, and for a split second, he looks like he might mount you in that car. “Oh, you have no idea.”

And, he proves it to you. The second his front door swings shut behind you, there’s barely a beat of silence before his lips crash onto yours. It’s immediate, it’s urgent, all-consuming from the tip of your scalp to your toes.

His hands are already on you, fingers digging into your hips, pulling you in like he’s been starving for this. You gasp against his mouth, the taste of champagne still lingering between you, and it makes you giggle yet again like a little high schooler. “Jungkook—”

“Mm,” He hums against your lips, not even bothering to let you finish.

“You’re so cute when you’re needy ,” You chortle in between, barely able to keep up with his pace. Jungkook groans, grinning against your lips before kissing you again, longer, slower.

“What did I tell you about calling me cute?” He mutters, voice low (definitely playing up the octave to seem even more menacing.)

“That it’s true?” You tease, bubbly from the way he won’t stop kissing you.

In a single swift motion, Jungkook grips your thighs and lifts you off the ground, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and a squeal exits your mouth.

“Jungkook!” You yelp, arms looping around his neck in surprise. Except it’s really no surprise, because the man has made it clear he’ll throw you around like a rag-doll. He’s already moving, already carrying you toward the bedroom with so much ease your head is spinning.

“Tired of you running from me,” He murmurs, smiling cheek-to-cheek, his bunny teeth poking out as he shuffles quickly down the hall.

You can’t stop laughing, light and heady, fingers threading through his dark hair as he all but sprints the rest of the way. He nearly flings you onto the bed like you’re deadweight.

The laughter is still spilling from your lips when Jungkook slots your mouth with his again, swallowing every giggle, every teasing remark before it can fully form. He kisses you like he needs you to stay quiet, like he’s trying to erase every last trace of your playful remarks before they slip past your lips.

But, you are not letting him off that easy.

“You were so jealous tonight,” You whisper between kisses, smiling against his lips.

Jungkook groans, tilting his head back just slightly before diving back in, his mouth brushing yours in a way that feels punishing.“Maybe. Or maybe I was just passionate.”

You roll your eyes, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as he leans into you.

“It was kinda hot,” You mock. “You couldn’t stand it, could you?”

Jungkook grumbles something under his breath, his fingers pressing into your waist, pulling you closer, as if kissing you harder will shut you up. But the moment his lips trail down to your jaw, your pulse leaping beneath his touch, you decide to take control.

In a swift motion, you push against his chest, sliding out from underneath him and standing up.

Jungkook stumbles back onto the bed, eyes wide for half a second before something darker, more intrigued, flickers through them.

You smirk down at him, your confidence surprising even yourself.

“Oh?” Jungkook muses, grinning as he props himself up on his elbows. “Taking charge today?”

You hum, sliding onto his lap, your knees pressing into the mattress as you settle yourself atop him.

“I think you need to be reminded,” You murmur, your fingers ghosting over the silver chain around his neck before trailing downward, nails grazing the buttons of his shirt.

“Of what?” He questions, eyes dark, eager, watching your every move.

You lower yourself, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth, not quite kissing him, just kind of floating.

Slowly, with a purpose, you start kissing down his jaw and the column of his throat. “That I’m all yours,” You whisper against his skin, letting your lips brush over him with every word.

“All mine?” His voice is rough, strained, his fingers practically imprinting upon your skin. He needs to hear it again.

You pull back slightly, rolling your eyes just a little. The man knows very well you’re all his, but the desperation in his voice has you a little more soaked than you’d like to admit.

“Yes, baby,” You breathe out, cupping his face, your thumbs brushing over the faint pink tinge dusting his cheeks. “All yours.”

Now, Jungkook has seen many sides of you. The quiet, reserved girl who hides behind him at events, the sweet and hesitant thing who blushed at every flirty remark he threw your way, the one who overthought every touch, every glance, every lingering silence between you. However, that’s not to say he’s not thoroughly enjoying how unbelievably attractive you looked sitting on top of him.

The girl—the one who is straddling his lap, fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, murmuring sinful things in that soft, teasing tone, the heat of breath sending shockwaves straight through him—he does not recognize.

His heartbeat pounds in his ears, blood rushing to his cock. He can hardly breathe or think, all logic stripped away. Jungkook watches, wind knocked out of him, as you shift in his lap, your hips rolling against the growing bulge in his pants. He is ever the patient man; almost as if he wants to see how far you’ll take it.

He continues to stare as your fingers reach behind you, tugging at the zipper of your dress, the soft fabric peeling away from your shoulders, slipping lower, revealing more, more…more. Good lord.

The room is silent except for the soft rustle of fabric, the faint collective gasp in his breath as your dress pools around your waist, leaving your bare skin kissed by the golden lamp light in the room. Jungkook is entranced, his pupils dark. He’s still propped up on his elbows, yet he’s barely keeping himself upright.

Your body is soft curves and slow movements, every roll of your hips against him smoother, more confident than the last, every movement calculated and precise .

His head tips back against the mattress, his long lashes fluttering, his cock throbbing beneath the confines of his pants. Just when he thinks he might combust, you lean down, your lips hovering near his ear, whispering something he doesn’t even hear properly through the haze in his mind. He doesn’t even know what language you’re speaking.

Every teasing shift of your body against his, every brush of bare skin against fabric is driving him to the brink of insanity.

“Tell me what you want, baby.” Your hands trail up his chest, slowly undoing every button, nails barely scratching the heated skin beneath his shirt. Your jaw slightly drops as you let out a soft, needy whimper, a sound so devastating it makes his cock twitch beneath his slacks. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

Jungkook’s resolve crumbles, and his hand flies up, fingers wrapping around your jaw. He tilts your face toward his, making sure you see him. His eyes are feral, his pupils so black and wide they nearly swallow you whole. “Want my cock in your mouth.”

The words send a bolt of heat straight to your core, your body clenching instinctively. There is a small part of you that’s not all that experienced, despite your past boyfriend and you having sexual experiences. It’s just.. different with Jungkook. You think he expects more, although he tells you he doesn’t. But you’ll do your best for him, like you always do.

He moves up, sitting against the headboard, and you wiggle down, your lips parting just slightly, like you’re already imagining how he’ll feel pushing past them, how he’ll taste on your tongue, which you 100% are.

Your fingers work slowly, methodically, undoing the zipper of his slacks with a deliberate precision that has Jungkook shaking beneath you.

The sound of the zipper unfurling is deafening in the quiet room, drowned only by the unsteady rhythm of his breath, the way it stutters every time your fingers brush against him, every time you shift or press a kiss just a little lower. The man is putty in your hands.

You slip his pants down his thighs, fabric pooling around his ankles, and you throw them somewhere in the room; it doesn’t even matter. What matters is beneath them, he is hard, aching, straining against the waistband of his boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide just how much he needs you, letting you take control while he teeters on the edge of losing it completely.

Your lips press softly to the fabric, your breath warm, your hands gliding up his thighs, fingertips tracing the defined muscles there, feeling the way they tense under your touch, how they twitch with anticipation.

Jungkook watches you, his dark lashes heavy, his chest rising and falling too quickly. He gathers your hair for you gently, fingers running through the strands, pushing them away from your face, tucking them behind your ears, cradling the back of your head, making sure he can see you completely.

For the first time in a long time, you want to be seen.

You want him to watch as you shift, as you lean back, as you slowly kick off your dress, letting it slip down the length of your body, letting it pool onto the floor in a forgotten heap, leaving you bare and exposed.

The black lingerie set you had worn underneath is still intact, a stunning contrast against your skin, the delicate lace barely covering anything at all, making you feel utterly unbreakable under his gaze.

You finally pull his boxers down. His cock springs free, the thickness of it always making you gulp. It’s flushed an angry shade of red, the tip glistening with precum, leaking and throbbing.

You swallow, your mouth already watering, your thighs pressing together as you wrap your fingers around him, feeling the weight of him in your palm. “F-fuck, baby,” Jungkook gasps, his head tipping back against the headboard, his hands gripping your hair tightly.

You stroke him slowly, taking your time, watching every little reaction, fascinated by how his body responds to you, by how his hips barely lift off the bed, chasing your warmth, chasing more. There’s normally a slight hesitation from you, but between the mix of the champagne and how fucking good he looks, you lean in. The first kitten lick to his tip is tentative, barely a flick of your tongue, just a taste.

Jungkook groans, his body jerking, “Jesus fucking Christ,” he curses, his voice shaking, his grip trembling against your scalp.

You hum softly, the sound vibrating against him, your lips parting slightly, your tongue flattening against the tip this time, lapping up the bead of precum that had gathered there, savoring the salty, musky taste of him on your tongue.

“That’s it, baby, fuck, so good,” Jungkook moans, his thighs tensing, his abs clenching, eyes screwing shut, then flickering open again, desperate to watch you, desperate to see you taking him, loving him, making him fall apart in the most beautiful way possible.

His praise makes you braver, makes you bolder, makes you want to see him even more undone, even more at your mercy. You press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his tip, feeling him pulse beneath your lips, hearing the way he gasps sharply.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” He whispers, his voice awe-struck that you’re letting him have this piece of you.

His cock is heavy, filling your mouth so perfectly, stretching your lips as you slowly bob your head, taking in as much as you can. You feel the weight of him glide over your tongue, your throat relaxing, your jaw straining in the best way possible.

“Shit, baby,” Jungkook groans. You’ve always loved how vocal he gets for you.

You steal a glance up at him, and that’s when your eyes meet. His gaze is so dark, pupils blown out, his lips parted, damp. The moment he catches your heavy-lidded, pleading stare, something in him breaks like a live-wire.

“F-fuck,” He chokes out, his abs flexing as his breath breaks. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You get the urge to keep going, faster now, the wet, lewd sounds of your mouth working him filling the room. Your tongue flattens along the underside of his cock, the heat of your mouth searing, your hand wrapping around the length that won’t fit, pumping in time with your movements.

“So, so good, so fucking good,” He pants, voice cracking like a prepubescent boy, his self-control hanging by a thread.

You feel it when he starts to twitch on your tongue, when his hips stutter, when his grip tightens, when he pulls your hair just slightly, as if he’s trying to stop himself from spiraling completely.

“Shit, fuck, wait—” He pulls you off him suddenly, his cock leaving your mouth with a wet pop, a string of saliva still connecting you. Your lips are swollen and glossy, your breath ragged as you look up at him, dazed and a tad cock-drunk.

“But…” You sigh, your voice small, your fingers still gripping his length, feeling the way he pulses in your palm. “I wanted to keep going.”

Jungkook groans, pulling you up onto his lap where he needs you most. His lips find your cheeks first, then your nose, your forehead, your jawline, kissing you everywhere, like he’s seconds away from breaking.

“I know, baby, I know,” He pants, barely coherent. Before you know it, he’s positioning you, guiding you to straddle him, to let him sink inside you where he belongs. “But I need you to sit on my cock, baby, please.”

His forehead presses against yours, his lips brushing against your mouth, his breath mingling with yours. “Need to feel you, need to be inside you.”

You whimper against him, the words sending a shudder through your body. Your core throbs and aches for him, whole body on fire like you’ll die if you don’t have him.

You align yourself, rolling your hips just slightly and letting his tip press against your folds. You glide it through your slick, coating him in you. It’s disgusting how aroused you are by him, but there’s comfort in knowing he feels the same way about you.

The sensation sends a jolt of pleasure through you, and your head tilts back, your mouth falling open, a soft, breathless moan slipping past your lips as the friction sparks along every nerve in your body.

Jungkook is completely gone, eyes glued to where your bodies meet, his jaw clenched so tight. He’s doing everything in his power to not completely lose control before he even gets inside you.

You sink down, slow, so slow, inch by inch, your walls stretching and molding to accommodate him.

The moment his thick length pushes inside, Jungkook groans, low and broken, while he holds you steady. The slide feels endless, like it always does, stretching you out like you’ve never taken him before, and he’s still struggling to ground himself, trying not to explode right then and there.

“Oh, f-fuck,” He hisses, his thighs tensing beneath you, his muscles coiling so tightly. He’s barely keeping himself from thrusting up into you, from taking what he wants, from losing himself in you completely.

You are getting split in half. Or, it feels like it. Your walls squeeze around him, your body shuddering.

“That’s it, baby,” he pants, his voice low, as his fingers trail up your spine. “Taking me so f-fucking well, feel so good, so tight.”

You only really sit comfortably when your clit presses against his pubic bone, when he is fully, completely inside you, when his cock is buried to the hilt, stretching you so perfectly, so devastatingly deep that it feels like he’s become a part of you.

“Oh my fucking god,” He chokes out, his grip on you bruising, completely lost in the feeling of you milking him already, pulling him in deeper, deeper, deeper. “I almost, fuck, I almost came just from that—”

The thought of it, the idea that you could make him cum just from sinking onto him, has your brain on autopilot.

You start to move, hips rolling in smooth undulations, dragging yourself up his length, feeling every ridge, every inch, before sinking down again. It’s a steady rhythm, one that has you both gasping for air.

But you don’t let him look away from you.

Nails pressing into his shoulder blades, you keep him anchored to you, your body flush against his. You tilt his face back up, your lips ghosting over his. The eye contact sends a shudder through him, his pupils blown wide, begging without words.

“You’re mine,” You murmur, your voice soft but firm, dripping with possession. Your hands trail up to cup his face, holding him there, making sure he hears you.

“Yeah?” he pants, his voice slightly slurred and drenched in adoration “Show me, baby. Let me feel it.”

Your walls squeeze him with every movement, every drag of your hips. And it’s all too much: his cock reaching even deeper, grazing that spot that paints stars in your vision.

“You’re so fucking good to me,” He groans, his voice choked, eyes desperate.

Your hands slide into his hair, tugging slightly, and he whimpers, his lips grazing over you, kissing wherever he can reach, mouthing at your skin. “All yours, baby, fuck. No one else, just you.”

Your heart swells, his jealousy from earlier feeling so distant, so insignificant, when he’s begging for you like this.

“Mine,” you whisper again, your lips ghosting over his ear, your hips picking up the pace, making him writhe beneath you.“Always fucking mine.”

Jungkook shudders, “Yours, baby.” And the words are just being repeated over and over like babbles, barely coherent to either of you as the feeling of being full by him overtakes all.

His hands lift you slightly, just enough for you to feel the drag of his cock leaving you, before he pulls you back down, filling you again in one smooth, deep motion. You cry out, your walls fluttering around him, the pace shifting from teasing to something more consuming, more needy.

“That’s it, baby,” he mumbles, his hips meeting yours now, pushing deeper, guiding you exactly how he wants you. “Just like that, ride me just like that.”

“Kook,” You whimper, nearly shaking, nearly crying from how good it feels, your hands sliding down to press against his chest.

You’re practically soaking him, your slick glistening at the base of his cock, collecting there, and he might need to be put in a mental institution after catching sight of it.

“Look at what you’re doing to me,” His eyes lock onto yours, hand slightly moving your face to avert your gaze elsewhere. You glance down, and fuck, he’s right. He’s glistening, his cock shiny with your arousal. Every time he pushes back inside, there’s more slick coating his length, dripping onto his thighs, pooling at the base of him like a sinful masterpiece.

“You feel that, baby?” he whines,“This is all yours.”

Everything becomes messier, sloppier, you’re not even sure where you are anymore. Jungkook is barely holding on, his thrusts erratic, his hands tight on your waist, slamming your hips down over and over again.

Your walls are fluttering, pulsing around him, the pleasure so intensethat you can barely even think or form any thought that isn’t jumbled.

“Jungkook, fuck,” You sob, your body jolting forward every time he drives into you, every time he hits that perfect spot inside you, over and over and over again.

“I got you, baby, fuck, I got you.” And then you really can’t take it anymore when he says things like that. Your hand flies between your legs, fingers pressing to your clit, rubbing furiously. You’re trying to tip yourself over the edge, trying to chase the orgasm that is so close, building like a wave, curling at the base of your spine, ready to crash over you at any second.

Jungkook watches, lips slightly parted. He can’t tear him away from the way you touch yourself, how you look so absolutely fucked out on top of him.

“You gonna cum for me, hmph? Hm, baby?” His words send a shockwave through you, his pace stuttering for just a second before he pounds up into you without a single ounce of restraint left.

“Fuck!” You cry out, your release inevitably waiting for you. Jungkook grins, knowing how close you are, already used to how you look when you finish.

The pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave, drowning you in pure, white-hot ecstasy. Your entire body locks up, breaking apart as your orgasm rips through you with violent force.

“Oh, Jungkook,” Your walls are squeezing around him so tight it nearly forces him out, your head tipping back, mouth falling open, but no sound coming out. Your fingers slip from your clit as your body gives out, but Jungkook doesn’t stop. His hands are locked onto your waist, his hips still driving up into you, prolonging your orgasm, forcing you to ride it out until you’re whimpering.

“Holy fuck, squeezing me so tight,” He’s shaking with restraint, his muscles taut.

Watching you fall apart like this, feeling your walls clench around him like a vice, holding him, owning him, milking him—it’s a lot.

Jungkook grits his teeth, his grip on your waist turning bruising, his chest rising and falling in frantic, erratic pants as his orgasm hits him like a fucking wrecking ball.

“Fuck, mineminemine,” He gasps, and for the first time since you two started dating, he doesn’t ask for permission to finish inside of you. Doesn’t wait for your sweet little nod, your usual whispered “yes” into his ear.

No, not tonight. Tonight, he needs to claim you, needs to remind you, remind himself that no one else is going to have you.

Tonight, he slams you down onto his cock one final time, burying himself as deep as he can go, he spills inside you, filling you up.

“Take all of it, baby,” He gasps, his hips jerking up, riding out his high. Your bodies tremble together, both of you completely wrecked. Yet still, he stays inside you. Still buried to the hilt, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against his sweaty body. His lips press lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your temple, your collarbone.

The room bathes in the warm afterglow of post-sex air. Your limbs are tangled with his as you lay with your head sprawled across his chest, his heartbeat still hammering beneath your ear. For a long moment, neither of you speak. Just deep, ragged breaths. The faint hum of the city outside. The lingering warmth of his hands tracing slow, absentminded patterns across your bare back.

“So… still wanna deny how jealous you were tonight?” You laugh, the words muffled slightly against his skin.

Jungkook groans, his arms tightening around you instinctively. “Don’t start.”

You grin, tilting your head slightly to catch the faint pink creeping up his ears.

“No, but really,” you hum, your fingers lazily tracing the chain around his neck, feeling invincible. “You almost lost your mind over a five-minute conversation. Kind of insane, actually.”

Jungkook lets out a low, gravelly laugh, the sound vibrating through your ears. “You don’t understand how fucking attractive you are. Seriously.”

“Jungkook—”

“No, really,” he kisses your forehead, watching you so intently you feel like he’s seeing right through you. “You walk into a room and I lose my goddamn mind. Every single time. You could have anyone, and yet… you chose me.”

He exhales slowly, lips brushing against your forehead in a way that feels so domestic. You don’t know what to say to that, so you sit with the words for a minute, let them reverberate through your chest. And it almost feels like your chest can’t contain it, like the pressure is building too fast, too much, like your ribs might crack beneath the weight of it. Behind them, your heart swells, expanding at least three sizes larger than its usual.

You pull him back down, lips curving into a soft smile as you kiss him again. “Always gonna choose you, Kook.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

[jobean12-blog]

Love Bug

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader (Mob Au)

Word Count: 1.5K

Summary: You and your very busy husband are on a rare weekend getaway to your beach house when an unexpected house guest causes some trouble.

Author’s Note: this is for Missy’s @saiyanprincessswanie writing challenge! I did a Mob AU and used the prompt, “I would move mountains for you.” Thank you so much for hosting Missy! Love and hugs my friend🩷 The Mob AU part is subtle but hopefully you’ll feel it! Also, I personally hate these fuckers and if you’re interested to see what they look like, click here. Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always!❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰

Warnings: soft fluff, fun, laughs, a scary bug, Bucky being sweet and cute, it’s mostly silly and domestic

PS this idea came about because I wrote THIS for Joel Miller the other day and I thought Bucky would be fun too! 🩷

You open your eyes and stare at the outstretched hand resting on your pillow. The simple gold band circling his left ring finger catches the light from the rising sun and it rivals the way the gold streaks along his metal arm shine and sparkle.

You reach up and place your hand in his and the firm bicep beneath your cheek flexes at your touch. He shifts behind you, tightening the arm at your waist and pressing the hardness between his legs against your back.

You really need to pee.

The steady in and out of his breathing warms the nape of your neck, every inch of his contoured chest rising and falling against your back, legs tangled together. It’s the most comfortable spot in the known Universe.

You still really need to pee.

But he rarely gets to sleep in, and you’re torn between the urge to close your eyes against the discomfort and trying to sneak off to the bathroom.

Worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, you make the painful decision to disentangle yourself from your husband and slide out of bed, releasing a breath when he grumbles in his throat. You grab his discarded button down from the floor and slide it over your shoulders.

He rolls over in a bare-chested sprawl and goes back to breathing evenly, the sheet tented where it rests between his legs.

It takes everything in you to leave the bed, but you manage to slip away and into your en-suite bathroom. The large windows by the bath frame a view of the ocean, letting in the thick rays of the sun and highlighting the beauty of the marble flooring.

You’re momentarily distracted by the view so when you walk toward the toilet at first you don’t notice the large insect sitting just below it.

Right as you step onto the rug it moves and you catch sight of it out of the corner of your eye, letting out a high-pitched scream that would wake the neighbors if they were any closer than a mile away.

Bucky is out of bed and in the bathroom before you can even call his name, sheets tangled in his legs, hair wild and mussed from both your hands last night and the sleep that followed and a large knife in his hand.

“Doll?” he croaks out, staring at you wide eyed, body poised and ready to fight.

“It’s…,” you start, backing away slowly toward your husband. “Buck it’s one of those things. With the legs. Hairy looking.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his heart starting to return to a normal beat and his head clearing, but he doesn’t lower the knife.

There’s silence other than the sound of his breathing and you squeeze yourself behind him, hanging on to his forearms with a death grip.

Finally, he lowers the knife and exhales.

“Hairy legs?” he asks as he runs a hand through his hair.

“It’s by the toilet!” you whisper.

“I don’t see anything!” he says, squinting now.

“See, right there!” you point, still safely tucked behind him.

“Whe…? Oh yeah. I see him.”

It moves again and you let out a squeal of terror, pressing yourself closer to him.

“Get it Buck!!! Get ittttt!” you whine.

Your eyes are squeezed shut and your face is hidden against his back so when he starts to laugh you feel his body shake.

“THIS IS SO NOT FUNNY!” you hiss.

“I’m sorry doll face,” he says, turning to you. “But I ran in here thinking I’d have to kill someone.”

“Don’t take your eyes off it! We could lose it and then it’ll be living in here forever and get even bigger and and…”

His nose scrunches up and his eyes crinkle at the corners, more laughter erupting from his chest.

When he finally calms down he gives you a sympathetic look. “It’s ok baby doll. I’ll handle it but you’re gonna have to let go.”

You blink several times, expression blank. You look down at your fingers that are digging into his skin.

“Oh! Right, but…”

You peek around him to see if the centipede is still there…and he is, staring at you menacingly.

“I can’t let go. What if it comes over here. I hate the way they move.”

“Then you’ll have to come with me,” he says carefully.

You shake your head no.

“Baby doll.”

“We have to move. You can just buy us a new beach house!”

“Sure, I can,” he says with a sideways smile. “But you love this house.”

You sigh in defeat and cling to him harder.

“I have an idea,” he says softly as he scoops you into his arms and skirts the wall until he reaches the tub.

He sets you down inside it, the high sides and four brass feet keeping you safely off the ground and away from the centipede.

“There,” he says.

You give him a small smile and watch as he searches the bathroom, his eyes lighting up when they land on the small hand towel neatly folded and hanging by the sink.

“YOU CAN’T KILL IT BUCK!” you screech.

He pins you with an incredulous look.

“What did you expect me to do doll?”

“I don’t know but if you squish it then I’ll never be able to use that toilet again.”

You cover your eyes with your hands but separate two fingers to peek through.

His hand falls to his side as he surveys the bathroom again, then, as if suddenly remembering he has a knife, he lifts it and starts to stalk toward the toilet.

“OH MY GOD Bucky, you can’t stab it!”

“I can stab anything,” he says quietly, his voice deadly.

“But I don’t want you to kill it,” you reply in an equally quiet but much softer tone.

He stops moving and turns toward you slowly, exasperation in his expression but when your bottom lip sticks out in a pout he softens and relents.

“Then what should I use?” he asks.

The both of you look around and then your eyes land on the stack of cups near the sink and they brighten.

“Cups Buck!”

He smiles and gets one and with calculated and careful steps, he approaches the centipede.

You duck lower into the tub and make squeaky noises every time you see the insect twitch.

“Be careful Bucky!” you whisper shout.

“Shhh,” he says softly, the muscles in his bare back tense with his cautious movements.

When he’s close enough he slowly lowers the cup over the centipede, letting out a loud exhale when it appears he has it trapped.

“Now what?” you ask.

He stands and shrugs.

“I didn’t think that far ahead.”

You slowly rise from the tub and move closer to him. “Can we just leave it there?”

“It will definitely die.”

“Oh.”

“I could just step on the cup?”

You grab his hand, holding it tightly and shaking your head. “No. I don’t want to hurt it I just want it to live somewhere else, far away.”

“We can slide something under the cup.”

“Good idea,” you agree.

“Get me a magazine doll. That should work.”

You run back into the bedroom and grab one, returning with it to your safe spot behind Bucky.

He bends down and carefully slides the magazine under the cup.

“You’re butt looks really good,” you say with a giggle.

“Good to know you’re ogling my ass during this life-or-death situation doll face.”

“It’s just a centipede Buck.”

He’s on you before you can react, caging you against the sink with his arms.

“Just…a centipede? Says the one who screamed bloody murder ten minutes ago and had to hide in the tub.”

“I was just trying to pee! It could have attacked me at my most vulnerable time.”

He tries to hold back his laughter, but the corners of his mouth turn up and he drops his head into your neck.

“You’re going to put it outside right?” you ask as your fingers smooth up and down his back. “Like all the way across the street? Maybe the next town over?”

When his eyes meet yours they still sparkle with mirth and he cups your cheek, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Of course I will.”

“Thank you.”

“I would move mountains for you doll.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too Buck.”

He kisses you softly, his lips lingering before moving to the corner of your mouth and then along your jaw to meet the shell of your ear.

You shiver in his arms.

“I’m gonna take care of his little fucker,” he murmurs. “And while I do that I want you to get naked and get back in bed.”

Without and answer you squeeze out of his hold and rush back toward the bedroom, squealing when his left-hand whips out and smacks your ass.

You can’t wait to get back into bed but not before making a stop at one of the other four bathrooms down the hall (hopefully bug free!).

[gayshitanddadjokes]

Actually hold on I'm coming back to this. one of the reasons people feel so lonely these days is because no one expresses affection as much anymore. I got sick of having no one tell me they love me so I started saying 'I love you' whenever I say goodbye and doing half of a heart and my friends do the other half of the heart

‘You should only send hearts to ppl you’re romantically involved with’

WRONG! BOUNDLESS PLATONIC LOVE, WARMTH, AND ENTHUSIASM BE UPON YE!!!❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[ari-ana-bel-la]

Hey, I love your fanfics so much!! I would like to know if you could make one that involves anguish... Charles' daughter suffers an accident and he panics

Papa is here

The house was filled with laughter and the clinking of wine glasses as Charles and Alexandra enjoyed a quiet evening with their friends. Carlos and Rebecca sat comfortably at the dining table, while Pierre and Kika occupied the couch, engaged in an animated conversation. The air smelled of good food, candles flickered warmly, and for once, life felt simple.

"She really drives everywhere now, doesn’t she?" Carlos chuckled, swirling the deep red liquid in his glass.

"Everywhere," Charles said with a soft smile, leaning back in his chair. "Mall, school, beach… I swear, I barely see her anymore."

Alexandra sighed but with a proud gleam in her eyes. "She’s independent, and honestly, it’s been a relief. She’s always been responsible."

Pierre smirked, nudging Charles. "She got that from her mother."

Charles scoffed. "Excuse me? I think I was a pretty responsible teenager."

"You? Responsible?" Rebecca laughed. "Didn’t you once race your dad’s car through Monaco because you were late for dinner?"

Carlos burst into laughter. "I’d pay to see that!"

Charles groaned, rubbing his temples as the others teased him. But despite the playful banter, pride swelled in his chest. His little girl, his Yn, had grown up so fast.

Just then, Alexandra’s phone buzzed. She barely glanced at it before picking up.

"Hello?"

Everyone continued talking, but within seconds, the atmosphere shifted. Alexandra’s expression froze, her body went rigid, and her grip on the phone tightened.

"What?!" she cried, standing abruptly. Her chair scraped against the floor as she turned pale. "No, no, no—please, tell me she’s okay! Please!"

The entire room fell silent. Charles’ heart stopped.

Alexandra’s breath came in ragged gasps. "Where is she? How bad is it? I need—I need to see her! Please!"

The moment she ended the call, tears streamed down her face as she looked at Charles.

"It’s Yn," she whispered, her voice breaking. "She—she had an accident. Another driver hit her."

Charles felt the air leave his lungs. His heart pounded violently in his chest, his ears ringing. "Where?" he choked out.

"The hospital," Alexandra sobbed. "She’s in surgery."

No one wasted another second.

The drive to the hospital was tense and silent, except for Alexandra’s quiet crying and Charles’ shaking hands gripping the wheel. His mind was racing, his thoughts a blur of fear and worst-case scenarios. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t.

When they arrived, Charles practically ran inside, the others hurrying after him.

"My daughter—Yn Jules Leclerc," he gasped at the nurse's station, barely able to form words. "She was brought in after a car accident. Please, tell me she’s okay."

The nurse gave him a soft, apologetic smile. "She’s still in surgery. The doctors are doing everything they can."

Alexandra let out a pained sob, covering her mouth as Rebecca wrapped an arm around her. Kika, holding back tears herself, held her other hand.

Charles stepped back, running both hands through his hair as panic clawed at his chest.

Pierre and Carlos exchanged worried looks before stepping closer.

"Hey, Charles, breathe, mate," Pierre murmured, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Breathe? My daughter is in surgery, Pierre!" Charles snapped, his voice shaking. "I—I don’t even know if—" He cut himself off, unable to say the words.

Carlos took a slow step forward. "Listen to me. I know you’re scared. We all are. But you’re no good to Yn if you collapse from a panic attack, okay?" His voice was steady but gentle, his hand squeezing Charles’ shoulder.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, his breath uneven. His whole body trembled, and for a terrifying moment, he felt like he was losing control.

Pierre guided him to a chair. "Sit. Just for a moment."

"I can’t—I can’t just sit while she’s—"

"I know," Carlos said quietly. "But you need to breathe."

Charles swallowed hard, gripping his knees, trying to steady himself. He could hear Alexandra’s quiet sniffles, Rebecca whispering reassurances, Kika rubbing her back.

The minutes dragged on painfully. Every time footsteps echoed down the hall, Charles’ head snapped up, desperate for news.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a doctor in blue scrubs approached.

"Yn Leclerc's family?"

Charles shot up so fast his chair nearly fell over. "Yes! Yes, we’re her parents!"

The doctor nodded, his face unreadable. "She’s out of surgery. The accident caused significant injuries—her left arm is broken, and she had internal bleeding, but we were able to stabilize her. She’s still unconscious, but she’s strong. She made it through."

Charles let out a shaky breath, relief and fear mixing painfully in his chest. "Can I see her?"

"She’s in room 214," the doctor said with a small smile. "She’ll need time, but she’ll recover."

Before anyone could react, Charles was already running.

The sight of Yn in the hospital bed nearly broke him.

Her face, usually so full of life, was pale and bruised. A bandage wrapped around her forehead, her arm in a cast, tubes connected to machines that beeped softly.

Charles’ legs nearly gave out.

He stumbled to her bedside, his hands trembling as he reached for her, brushing a few strands of hair away from her face.

"Papa is here, mon amour," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. His fingers stroked her hair gently, as if afraid she might break under his touch.

He had been so scared. So, so scared.

"I should have been there," he murmured, his throat tightening. "I should have protected you."

His other hand grasped hers, careful not to disturb the IV line. He brought it to his lips, pressing a soft, shaky kiss to her knuckles.

"You scared me, mon ange," he admitted, his eyes stinging. "But I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere."

The door opened quietly, and Alexandra walked in, her eyes red from crying. Behind her, Pierre, Carlos, Rebecca, and Kika lingered.

Seeing Yn like this broke her all over again. She clutched Charles’ shoulder for support. "She’s okay," she whispered, mostly to reassure herself.

Charles nodded but didn’t take his eyes off their daughter. "She is."

Silence filled the room, heavy with emotions.

Rebecca sniffled. "She’s gonna be so mad when she wakes up and sees all of us hovering."

Pierre chuckled weakly. "She’ll roll her eyes and tell us we’re dramatic."

Carlos smirked. "That would be a good sign."

Charles finally let out a small, exhausted laugh. "Yeah… it would."

They stayed there, surrounding Yn with love, waiting for her to wake up. And when she did, Charles would be right there, holding her hand, reminding her that no matter what—

Papa is here.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves! I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-🩷🎀

[little-miss-apple]

Caleb loves seeing the shape of your teeth marking his skin. He wears them like badges of honour. As soon as the marks disappear, he will do anything for you to leave new ones scattered across his skin.

He can't explain exactly what it is about them that he loves so much. Is it the small visual reminders? Is it the stings that makes him gasp? Is it knowing your lips were on his body? Is it know he's the one satiating your oral fixation? Maybe it's all of those. He doesn't really know. He just knows he can't get enough.

Sometimes you see the marks and feel sorry, worried you might have hurt him a lot when it is still there several days later. You try to soothe the marks on his hand, hoping to massage the skin back to normal.

"whatcha doin', pipsqueak?" he asks when he looks away from the movie playing on tv, noticing your frown as you rub his hand. "why is this still here..." you mumble to yourself more than to him. He let's out a soft laugh before pulling you a bit closer.

"because you bit me sooooo hard, you almost drew blood!" he teases you, but you don't seem to find it funny. When he sees your unchanging frown, he tilts your chin towards him, forcing you to meet those galaxy like purple eyes.

He leans in and you close your eyes, ready for his lips to touch yours, but they never do. "Ouch!" you wince when he pinches your cheek "what was that for?"

"you should get back at me..." I grins as he puts the back of his hand to your lips, hoping you will deepen the markings as revenge, but you don't.

It quickly turns into a little game of 'caleb trying anything to piss you off and get you to open your mouth', but you remain steadfast, lips tightly pursed together no matter how much he tickles, pinches and teases.

He is desperate for a reaction, for you to sink your teeth so deep into his skin that the shaped will be etched into it for weeks. He holds you in his lap, arms slung around your shoulders from behind as he pouts.

The display of your phone that had been tossed to the side starts ringing, a familiar name as the caller ID.

Before you can even reach towards the phone, Caleb snatches it away and puts it on speaker while once again pushing the back of his hand to your lips.

"Hey Tara, it's Caleb!" he announces cheerfully. Suddenly his other hand pushes your panties to the side, thanking the heavens you were wearing just his shirt and your underwear on this lazy evening.

You almost let out a shriek at the sudden touch, but luckily Caleb's hand is conveniently placed between your teeth the moment your lips separated.

"Don't make a sound, pipsqueak..." he whispers in your ear in your ear while playing with your clit, lying through his teeth to Tara, claiming you were already asleep.

Tara says she'll call you later but Caleb isn't ready to hang up yet. He asks about new restaurants in Linkon city, cute date spots and other fun activities and Tara is all too happy to tell him all her favourite spots.

Meanwhile tears are starting to form in your eyes as you try your best not to moan while his middle finger gently dips in your entrance. Your jaws clench on his hand and he let's out a hiss. It doesn't escape Tara's ears.

"Are you alright?" the ever kind hearted woman asks, completely unaware of how you're currently sprawled out in Caleb's lap while he finger fucks you into pure bliss.

"Yeah, was just being clumsy and bumped my toe... nothing severe!" he claims as he inserts a second finger, stretching you out so perfectly.

As his fingers pump inside of you, he uses his thumb to apply some pressure on your clit, getting you so close to the edge. You're about to cry and don't know how much longer you can hold back these obscene sounds that are so close to spilling from your lips.

Luckily they seem to finish up their conversation, Caleb readily accepting Tara's invitation to go to one of her hot spots with the four of you, just like with Linkon new year. Soon after the line cuts off, signaled by the tell tale beeps.

A shaky, muffled moan leaves your lips as you can finally relax a little. But your muscles contract when Caleb finally brings you to your sweet release. He helps you ride it out till the last second before removing his hand from your lips, admiring the red marks fully covering it.

"you were so good for me..." he coos as you come down in his arms "your little friend had no idea that you were here, dripping all over my fingers."

He nuzzles into your neck, leaving a trail of kisses on your shoulder before leaving his own mark there gently as you fall asleep in his embrace.

[whosashan]

hello helloo!!! ♥️♥️ sending you love 💕 i want to ask for a request about lads. yk the tiktok prank where the bf is sleeping and the gf was waking him up, telling him he have to hide bc her "bf" is here? 😂 i know this would ate hard with xavier. anyhow you can make headcanons about it?? <3

thank you and have a nice day 🧚‍♀️

SNEAKYYY

PAIRING: lads men x gn!nonmc!reader (Caleb calls you pipsqueak, though - I just think it's cute:(()

SYNOPSIS: What did you expect when you woke your lover up in a panic, telling him to hide because your “boyfriend” just got home? Are you ready to face the consequences? (a little suggestive, I guess?)

A/N: Thank you for the request. Hope you enjoy!

Stumbling upon a new TikTok trend, you couldn’t resist the temptation. The setup was simple—wake your lover in a panic, tell him he needs to hide because your “boyfriend” just got home, and see how he reacts. A harmless prank, really.

Or so you thought.

With a sly grin and your heart thrumming with anticipation, you turned toward the man peacefully asleep beside you. His breathing was slow, steady, his face relaxed in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. He looked so serene, so blissfully unaware of the chaos you were about to unleash.

But oh, if only you had known.

Xavier

Xavier’s face was peaceful, content in the depths of sleep. His breathing was slow, steady, and every now and then, a soft sigh escaped his lips. From the way his brows twitched ever so slightly, he had to be having a good dream—you wondered what it was about.

And you were about to ruin it.

Suppressing a giggle, you placed your hands on his broad shoulders and started shaking him frantically, your voice laced with urgency.

"Xavier! Wake up!"

He groaned, his face scrunching up in sleepy protest as he buried himself deeper into the pillow. His lips formed the smallest pout, reluctant to part from the dream world. Slowly, his heavy eyelids fluttered open, hazy and unfocused as they met yours.

You took your chance.

"Xavier! My boyfriend's here! You need to hide, quickly!"

Your voice dripped with manufactured panic, and honestly? Your acting was Oscar-worthy.

For a moment, he just stared at you, his brain clearly not catching up yet. He let out another sleepy hum, eyes lazily shutting again. With a huff, you grabbed his face between your hands and pinched his cheeks in an attempt to wake him up faster. But instead of reacting, he only nuzzled into your touch, a content sigh leaving his lips.

Adorable.

And then—his entire body tensed.

His eyes snapped open, sharp and alert, and before you could register it, he bolted upright. His expression had darkened instantly, any trace of sleep now completely erased.

"What—" His voice was rough, hoarse from sleep. His brows furrowed, confusion flashing in his eyes before it was quickly replaced by something else. Something much, much more dangerous. "I'm your boyfriend."

Your heart skipped a beat.

"Hide under the bed!" You insisted, struggling to keep a straight face, though his reaction was making it very difficult.

But Xavier wasn't having it.

Ignoring your words entirely, he grabbed your wrists and, in one swift motion, flipped you beneath him. You gasped, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he hovered over you, his grip unyielding.

"Who are you talking about?" His voice was lower now, edged with something possessive, almost feral. His usual easy-going demeanor was long gone, replaced with something far more intense. His fingers dug into your wrists, firm yet careful, as if he was fighting the urge to squeeze harder.

You blinked at him, momentarily speechless. This was not what you had prepared for. Chaos? Yes. A dramatic reaction? Of course. But this? The way his jaw clenched, his chest rising and falling heavier, his entire body radiating something primal—oh, you had underestimated him.

"Xavier—it was just a prank!" you finally stammered, eyes wide.

He searched your face for a moment, his grip still tight. Then, before you could say another word, he dipped down, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. A gasp escaped you before you could stop it.

“…Is that so?” he murmured, his warm breath fanning against your pulse. His teeth grazed the spot lightly before sinking in just enough to make your body jolt. "Do you think that was funny?"

A shiver ran down your spine, excitement creeping up your skin at the sheer dominance in his voice. It wasn’t unusual for Xavier to get jealous, but this?

Lord have mercy.

"I'm sorry," you said quickly, your voice slightly breathless. "I just wanted to see how you'd react—"

His rough hands suddenly cupped your face, tilting it up so you had no choice but to look at him. His gaze was unreadable, but the corner of his lips curled just slightly—oh, you knew that smirk.

"I’ll show you real fun," he muttered darkly.

And just like that, his mouth was back on you, his hands traveling lower, as he made sure you understood exactly why no one else could ever take his place.

And… other places, too.

Zayne

Looking over at your boyfriend, you almost felt guilty.

Zayne looked utterly at peace, his face relaxed in deep slumber, the steady rhythm of his breath tickling your skin as he lay half-draped over you. He almost looked angelic, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting golden hues over his features.

Almost.

Because in just a few seconds, you were about to drag him straight down from his heavenly repose.

A devilish grin crept onto your lips as you admired your handiwork. You had rehearsed this moment—every word, every inflection. Zayne was sharp, observant to an almost terrifying degree, and if you wanted this prank to work, you had to be convincing.

Taking a deep breath, you launched into your performance.

“God, Zayne! My boyfriend’s here! Wake up!” you whisper-yelled, lacing your voice with expertly crafted panic. To sell it further, you lightly patted his cheek—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to jolt him from sleep.

His reaction was immediate.

His brows furrowed as he cracked open one hazy eye, the sleep still thick in his expression. For a brief moment, it seemed like he was still lost in his dreams, but then, as if on instinct, he swiftly rolled off you and pushed himself upright.

Without a word, he started toward the door.

Your lips parted in shock. Wait, was he actually leaving?!

But then—he stopped.

His body went unnaturally still, tension creeping into his frame. And then, ever so slowly, he turned his head over his shoulder, pinning you with a sharp, unreadable gaze.

“…Excuse me?”

The sheer offense in his voice nearly made you break character. His brows were slightly raised, his mouth parted just enough to showcase his disbelief.

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.

“Zayne, quick! He’ll be here any second now!” you urged, pressing your hands against his back in a futile attempt to move him.

But he didn’t budge.

He turned fully to face you, his towering presence suddenly suffocating. His eyes, darkened by the lingering haze of sleep, now held something far more dangerous beneath their surface.

“…Are you cheating on me?”

The way he asked it—low, slow, as if he could barely force the words past his lips—made your stomach drop.

For a fleeting second, you actually felt guilty. Not because the prank was cruel, but because of how easily your performance had convinced him.

“No!” you blurted out, dropping the act entirely. “It was a prank! A stupid TikTok trend! I swear, I’d never—”

Before you could finish, Zayne moved.

In one smooth motion, he lifted you off the ground, making you gasp as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. His arms locked around you, holding you effortlessly, his grip firm but controlled.

His eyes darkened in an unfamiliar way.

“I see,” he murmured, voice like silk wrapped around steel. “So, you think deception is funny?”

You swallowed, heart hammering against your ribs as he tilted his head, his breath ghosting against your jaw.

“I-I didn’t mean—”

“I hope you’ve already thought of a way to compensate me for this emotional turmoil,” he mused, his fingers tightening around your thighs just enough to send a shiver down your spine. His tone was teasing, laced with amusement—but there was something else beneath it, something dangerous.

A warning.

Zayne was nothing if not thorough in proving a point.

And by the way he looked at you, you had no doubt that by the end of the night, you would never dare to prank him like this again.

Rafayel

Rafayel lay sprawled across you, his long legs draped over your form as he slept soundly, his soft snores barely audible. His body was heavy with exhaustion—he had been painting non-stop for days, pouring himself into his art until sleep had finally claimed him.

You smiled to yourself, suppressing the giggle threatening to escape. He looked so peaceful, so utterly lost in his dreams.

And you? You were about to ruin it.

Without hesitation, you wiggled his shoulders dramatically, shaking him until his brows furrowed and his lashes fluttered open.

"Rafayel!" you whisper-yelled, gripping his hand in faux urgency. "My boyfriend's here—quick, hide!"

A deep groan rumbled from his chest as he blinked up at you, clearly still tangled in the fog of sleep.

"What nonsense are you spewing now?" His voice was rough, hoarse with sleep, but something in his gaze darkened—not with confusion, but with something else.

Before you could react, his arm wrapped around your waist, effortlessly yanking you back onto the bed. You let out a startled squeak as your body collapsed onto his, your palms pressing against the firm warmth of his chest.

"What—Rafayel! He'll see you!" You struggled to maintain the panic in your voice, but the way his hooded gaze settled on you made it very difficult.

"Good." His response was unexpected, unnervingly calm.

Your breath hitched.

"...Huh?" That was not the reaction you anticipated.

He exhaled slowly, fingers curling around your wrist as he brought it to his lips. His mouth ghosted over your skin before his teeth grazed it, a slow, teasing drag that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Let him see," he murmured, his voice deep, deliberate. "Maybe I could teach him a thing or two."

Your heart skipped a beat.

Your carefully rehearsed act? Gone. Completely obliterated by the way he looked at you, by the way his fingers brushed over your pulse point as if he could feel the way it had started to race.

"W-what?" You stuttered, your mind suddenly blank.

He hummed in amusement, his hands gripping your waist before flipping you beneath him in one smooth, effortless motion. His lips skimmed the sensitive skin along your neck, his breath warm against your pulse.

"Next time," he murmured against your ear, his teeth lightly grazing the shell, "if you plan to prank me, be prepared to deal with the consequences."

Your breath caught as his fingers trailed lower, his tone as smooth as silk yet laced with something undeniably dangerous.

"Waking me from a perfectly good dream just for this?" He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. "I do believe you owe me proper compensation."

Oh, you were in trouble.

But maybe—just maybe—you didn’t mind one bit.

Sylus

Sylus lay beside you, his breathing steady, his chiseled frame relaxed against the sheets. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast golden shadows across his sharp features, highlighting the smooth lines of his jaw and the way his dark lashes rested against his cheekbones. He looked untouchable like this—serene, at peace.

But not for long.

A mischievous grin curled on your lips as you hovered over him, suppressing a giggle. You had this planned perfectly. Sylus was sharp, calculated—always ten steps ahead—but if you played it right, maybe, just maybe, you’d catch him off guard.

You shook his shoulder dramatically, gasping.

"Sylus! My boyfriend’s here—you need to hide, now!"

His eyes opened immediately, dark irises meeting yours, unbothered, unreadable. A slow blink. Then another.

Silence.

Then, as if waking at his own pace, he stretched, exhaling through his nose. His lips quirked into something between amusement and irritation. "Mm," he hummed, voice still thick with sleep, "interesting."

You pushed his chest, trying to feign urgency. "Sylus, go! He’s gonna be here any second!"

For a fleeting moment, he almost humored you—his body tensing slightly, his gaze flicking to the door as if he were genuinely considering it.

And then, just as quickly, his amusement won.

He tilted his head, lips curling into a slow, knowing smirk. "As if someone else would dare to even look at you."

Your stomach flipped at the certainty in his tone.

Before you could react, his hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you down until your breath hitched and your body pressed flush against his.

"Nice try," he murmured against your ear, his voice a low, teasing whisper. "But you forget—I know you." His grip tightened, firm but never painful. "And I know you wouldn’t be so careless as to let another man think he could have what’s mine."

Your breath caught, completely thrown off your game.

He chuckled, deep and rich, enjoying the way your face betrayed you. "Mm. What’s wrong?" His fingers trailed down your spine, deliberate, slow. "You were so convincing a moment ago."

You swallowed hard. "It—it was just a prank," you admitted, voice smaller than you intended.

"I know," he murmured, tilting your chin up with two fingers. "But tell me—was it worth the consequences?"

Before you could ask what consequences he meant, he had already flipped you beneath him, his knee pressing between your thighs, his lips ghosting over your pulse point.

"You just love testing me, don’t you, sweetie?" he mused, his breath warm against your skin.

You should have known better.

Playing games with Sylus?

You never really won.

Caleb

Caleb was sprawled out beside you, limbs thrown haphazardly across the bed, his cheek smushed into the pillow, messy hair falling over his closed eyes. His chest rose and fell in an easy rhythm, the steady sound of his breathing almost lulling you to sleep.

He looked so peaceful. Sweet, even.

Too bad you were about to ruin that.

Suppressing a grin, you shook his shoulder frantically. "Caleb! Wake up!"

He groaned, face scrunching up as he tried to burrow deeper into the pillow.

You slapped his arm, urgency laced in your voice. "Caleb! My boyfriend’s here! You have to hide!"

That got his attention.

With a confused grunt, he blinked up at you, eyes bleary with sleep. His lips parted slightly as he took in your panicked expression, still groggy. "Huh?"

"Go! You need to hide!" You tugged at his wrist.

For a second, he seemed to actually consider it. He rubbed his eyes, blinking sluggishly, as if his brain was trying to reboot. Then, suddenly, he stopped.

Something clicked.

And then he smirked.

"Ohhh," he drawled, stretching his arms over his head. "That kind of prank."

Your stomach dropped. Of course he would know.

Oh no.

Before you could react, Caleb grabbed your waist and flipped you onto your back, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His boyish grin was still there, but there was something else beneath it now—something darker, something sharp.

"You really think that’s funny, huh, pipsqueak?" His voice was still light, teasing—but his grip on your waist? Not so much.

You swallowed. "I—I thought you’d freak out more."

He snorted. "That's funny." After all, he knew your every move.

Your breath hitched.

Caleb was the laid-back type, all smiles and easy laughter—but push the right buttons? And suddenly, that warmth turned into something possessive. Something dangerous.

His fingers dug into your waist just enough to make your skin tingle. "But now that I am awake," he murmured, leaning in close, "I think I deserve some kind of payback for my so-called emotional distress and lack of sleep."

"Caleb—"

"Shh," he cooed, lips ghosting over your jaw. "You wanted to see me riled up, didn’t you?" He grinned, but his eyes held a warning. "Congratulations, pipsqueak. You got exactly what you wanted."

His hand trailed lower down your waist.

Oh. You were so screwed.

[violetstarr24]

Image 1: A reddit post from r/TrueOffMyChest by user u/Empty-Ad-2031 titled "I miss my husband so goddamn much. It reads:

I (35M) divorced my husband (36M) three years ago. And God, I miss him. I asked for a divorce for a few reasons, most of which being that his depression got exponentially worse day after day and he refused to seek treatment. Sometimes he wouldn't even go into work and ended up getting fired from his job. I stayed with him for so fucking long, praying that one day he would start trying to get better. It was all I ever wanted, but that day didn't come. I sobbed the entire time signing those papers, and when I handed them to him and asked for a divorce, he just gave me the emptiest, deadest look and signed them without a word. My heart felt like it had been shattered with a hammer, anger and sadness and fear tied together in the world's tightest, ugliest knot and inset deep into my chest. I put on a brave face for my friends, tried to frame it as shackles coming off and a new beginning, but it was a lie. It just hurt, and it keeps hurting, and it will never stop hurting. He was my soulmate. I'll never love anyone like I loved him. He used to be so sweet and loving, so passionate and happy and every other wonderful thing a man could want from another. They say each day gets easier, but it isn't for me. It's been three years and I'm still reaching over to the other side of the bed in the morning to pull him close, and it always stings when my hands touch fabric and not his skin. It's been three years and I'm still expecting to see his car in the driveway when I get home from work. It's been three years and my heart isn't any less broken than the day he left. I've been stalking his socials, I'll admit. He's been getting back to the gym, started meds, and I see him smiling so genuinely in these photos. He looks so incredible. Maybe if I had just waited, he would have changed his mind and went to a doctor like he is now? Or was it me that held him down? Was I making it worse?

Image 2: A continuation of the previous post. It reads:

I hope not. I wanna go over to his place and just fall into his arms and beg him to take me back. Maybe he's wishing the same thing about me. If there's even a chance I could have my boy back I feel like I should try. I'll never know otherwise. EDIT: One: 1 am a homosexual man. My husband is a homosexual man. I am not a woman. Yes, I know I'm effeminate and kind of emotional. Get creative. Two: my husband was a binge drinker. He refused treatment no matter how much I begged. We got antidepressants but he wouldn't take them. I know he's started meds now because he's posted about them and his 2 yrs sober chip that he got last month. Three: I never stopped loving him. I never loved him any less. Near the end of our marriage, I started drinking to cope. The second I realized I was, I realized he was dragging me down with him, and I couldn't help him anymore. I didn't dip the second it got hard. Many of you are being kind of rude. I'll accept that I wasn't the perfect husband, nobody is. But claims that I never loved him are just wrong and make me feel sick to my stomach. EDIT 2: No, I am not the catalyst for this. His depression started when his young brother died terribly and unexpectedly. It's not because he just hated me so much. We were childhood sweethearts and had been together for years when this happened.

Image 3: A new post titled "[UPDATE] I met my husband that I divorced 3 years ago." It begins with a link to the the previous and next post before continuing. It reads:

Well, with Reddit's advice, I did it. A few days ago, I called my (35M) ex-husband (36M) whom I divorced after 6 years when he refused to seek treatment for his depression. I called him later in the evening. It was the first time we'd spoken since a bit of trouble he'd had while he was still drinking 2 1/2 years ago. He picked up on the second ring. Our conversation was a little stilted at first, as to be expected, but he said he was really glad to hear from me. We ended up meeting up for coffee yesterday as so many of you suggested. I'll admit: it was kind of hard to see him, but in a good way? He looked so much better than the last time I had seen him, but he looked exactly like the man I married. He had put off a ton of weight (he gained like 75ish pounds during his struggle with depression, and before some dick says so, I didn't leave him because of his weight gain), he looked way healthier and very put together. Ill just say it: he looked incredibly hot. What made it hard was that I couldn't kiss him hello like I used to. But God, the way his eyes lit up when he saw me, I barely needed to. We got our coffee and sat, and he updated me a little on his life in the last 3 years. What really turned his life around was in part the divorce but moreso a DUI (nobody was hurt, he was caught a few blocks from his apartment). He's since gone to rehab and AA, gotten his license back, and had to use a breathalyzer whenever he started his car for a while. He hasn't had a drop of alcohol since and I told him I was so fucking proud of him. He's also started antidepressants, and made a point of telling me that they're not SRis, but when I asked what that meant he got embarrassed and told me nevermind (???). Bottom line is that they've been helping him, he's back to being a gym rat, and he's almost completely turned his life around. This was around the point I started tearing up. It just felt so good knowing he was okay. Better than okay, he was good. I also apologized to him for not sticking by him. He cut me off and said I had nothing to apologize for. He was a wreck, and I was being dragged down with him. That also felt good to hear. I apologized for not contacting him much during the last 3 years. That apology, he accepted.

Image 4: A continuation of the previous post. It reads:

He was dating someone for a few months, too. He broke up with him once he tried to get him to drink on New Year's. He seemed dismissive of the guy. Guess it wasn't too serious. We got up and went on a walk after a few hours, and I think we both realized it felt like a first date. I had to stop myself from trying to hold his hand at a few points, Hi admit. We ended up sitting on a bench in a nearby park, and I confessed. I told him I missed him more than anything, how I never stopped loving him, and how if he wanted to, I'd love to try again from the beginning this time. We'd go to couples' therapy, keep our heads above the water, and take it slow. He was quiet for a minute before he told me something. He said he was doing better now, but there may be a time where he sunk low again. Depression isn't easily cured, and he was far from cured. He still had bad days, but he said there would be one difference: he promised he would never stop trying to improve. He was never going to give up like he did before, and refused to neglect me like he used to. If I was willing to accept that truth, he was willing to try again. I agreed, and he pulled me into an embrace and snuck a kiss to my temple. You know when it's the first warm day of spring after a cold, harsh winter, and the soft breeze and basking sun hit your skin at the same time? It felt something like that, to the 1000th degree. After a while he walked me back to my car and squeezed my hand goodbye, and the second I got inside I started sobbing like a baby. Happy tears, though. I'm currently sitting in bed, kicking my feet like a teenage girl, texting him back and forth to schedule an actual date. He said he'd plan everything, and try his best to make up for the birthdays and anniversaries he missed. He said it would "knock my socks off." What a dork. I love being in love. Not gonna lie, this is gonna be a bit hard to explain to my friends and family. Not looking forward to those conversations, but right now I don't care. My man loves me. Thank you to everyone who had kind words to say, and all the people that messaged me with sympathy and advice. I hope we all find happiness, and love if we want it. I never would have made the leap if y'all hadn't encouraged me. Best of luck to all of you, and sorry for the overly flowery language <3 EDIT: we've scheduled a date for tomorrow evening. I'll let people know how it went two days from now in my final (unless something big happens) update. EDIT 2: at his place presently. Shame me not, reddit.

Image 5: A new post titled "[FINAL UPDATE] | went on a date with my ex-husband last night." It begins with a link to the previous post before continuing. It reads:

My (35M) ex-husband (36M) and I recently reconnected. I won't go over the details of why we split or our reconciliation since l'm sure the average redditor can click buttons and most likely read. He was the one taking me out, and promised that it would, in his words, "knock my socks off" to make up for his neglect of me. He sure as hell delivered. A little backstory, we've been together since we were 15 and 16 respectively, and have never moved out of our hometown. This year would have been our 20th anniversary (of getting together, not marriage). We were dating secretly for about five years before our parents caught us one day during summer break. The fallout from finding out their son was gay actually made his parents split. His dad wanted to send him away to conversion therapy. He's seen his father maybe once per year on average, and every time he's incredibly cold towards me. Would never refer to me as his son-in-law, only my husband's "pal." I wonder why. Anyway, not what you're here to read. I'll get on with the lore. He picked me up from the house and wouldn't tell me where we were going, but told me to dress warmly. He ended up taking me to the place where we met: a run down ice skating rink in our town. He used to do hockey, and I spent some time trying to learn figure skating until people started beating me up for it. Both sports would practice at the same time and I remember barely being able to keep my eyes off him. We went skating, I tried to pull off a few of the moves I remembered (he only had to catch me from falling on my ass once or twice, and I won't complain about an attractive man that I love hooking his arm around my waist), and we spent an hour or so there until our feet hurt. At one point I said that my face was getting cold, so he skated around in front of me and placed his gloved hands on my cheeks to warm me up. I just about burned a hole in the ice from how hard I was blushing, I swear to God.

Image 6: A continuation of the previous post. It reads:

He wasn't done then. We left and went to dinner, specifically the restaurant where we had our first date. It's a cheap hole-in-the-wall place, seeing as we were poor teenagers when we first met. We chatted and ate food that probably took 5 years off our lives, he was an incorrigible flirt, and even held my hand underneath the table like he did all those years ago. I know I said I never stopped loving him, and I stand by that, but I think I somehow fell in love with him a thousand times over again during that meal. At the end of dinner, he asked if I had energy for one more simple thing, to which I agreed. He took me a while out of town to a dark sky zone park, specifically the one where he proposed to me ten years ago. He set out a blanket to sit on and another to cuddle under, and we went stargazing all bundled up together. You never know how much you miss the sound of someone's heartbeat until you haven't heard it for so long. We shared a bottle of sparkling grape juice in plastic champagne flutes and dumb, giggly kisses. It felt so similar yet so different. He told me in a moment of quiet that he loved me, and oh, God. It took everything I had not to cry. I barely hesitated before asking if he wanted to change venues. He seemed surprised, but eagerly accepted. I ended up at his place, as some of you may have seen from my edit on my second post yesterday. I wanted to take it slower than this, but it was so hard to. I was so starved of affection and hadn't been intimate with anyone for just about six years. I'm gonna keep what happened at his between us, but all I'll say is that his medication was no issue and all of you should be jealous. I woke up in his bed this morning, reached over for him, and pulled him close just like I used to do. I haven't been this happy in a long time. We had a sleepy discussion and decided to get back together, but we're not using the term boyfriends. It just feels weird after all this time. So he's my partner, or my lover. He's mine. Thank you, reddit. Wouldn't have done it without a little push from the internet. Let's see where all this goes.

Image 7: A picture of Kermit the Frog lying on a bed with his arms out, surrounded by dozens of heart emojis. END ID

[yizhouism]

— bf!caleb headcanons;

trust that this man will not leave you alone. you want space? "sure," he says while taking one step away from you

he is LOCKED in and he will not let you go, i fear. should have ran away when you had the chance, when he was still willing to let you go... because now that's he's had you? yeah... sorry but it's till death with him! beyond that even (wink wink)

you can't stand him anymore? he'll tell you to sit on his face

you're tired of him? "no, you're not pipsqueak! you just need a nap"

always pulls the "sorry, my gf said i can't go card". like, it's to the point that everyone thinks you're an overprotective and controlling gf

you're not! he's the problem!!! he's the obsessed one!!!

time and time again you've told him to hang out with his friends more but noooooo, why would he want to spend his friday nights getting wasted with his friends when he can spend the night cuddling with you? do you not care about him anymore? do you want other girls to flirt with him at the bar? he's going to spend the whole night wishing he was in your arms anyway so don't make him go. pretty please? *cue the puppy dog eyes*

caleb clings to you like a koala. he's not just velcroed to you—he's superglued to you

a hand on your waist, playing with your fingers, squeezing your thigh, gently kicking your feet with his, his head on your shoulder, his head on your lap, backhugs whenever you're both standing, his fingers playing with your hair, a kiss to your shoulders, your cheeks, the back of your hand

speaking of physical affection, he likes to bite you! not in a possessive way (contrary to popular belief), he just has a severe case of gigil (cuteness aggression) whenever it comes to you

it's neverending and the most endearing part is that he doesn't even realize that he does it 🥹

but he will ease up if you ever express discomfort. after all, this man's first priority is your comfort and safety

he sees you pouting and not only does he want to kiss your lips but he also wants to munch on your cheeks. they're just so cute all puffed up like that, so can you really blame him?

caleb who can't help but notice how much of your stuff is themed around apples and planes—all reminders of him

when he finally noticed just how much you look for him in every aspect of your life, his heart just melted into a puddle. caleb is the type who always needs to feel needed, so to know that you need his presence to the point that most of your things are a testament to his being? yeah... he's a goner. he's never felt so loved before? god knows you're in for a long night of him worshipping you 🤞

the fighter plane keychain that hangs from your bag? your apple-themsd kitchenware? the map of skyhaven that decorates the wall above your couch? your apple-themed accessories—all of it makes him giddy

"you're love me a lot, don't ya pips?" he says teasingly, only for you to reply with a quiet but certain "i do"

it's so certain and so sure, and your eyes are looking at him with so much adoration, as if he painted the stars in the sky himself—it's just too much for his poor heart to handle that he finds himself hiding his face in the crook of your neck

caleb is not shy about letting people know he's taken. i mean... he wears the necklace you got him like a collar so ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

he wears your apple-themed hair ties around his wrist (this is canon! see: longtime yesterday)

the type to always find a way to mention his girlfriend no matter what the topic of the conversation is

"you know, my girlfriend—" "we get it caleb, shut up!"

also always has a spare sanitary napkin or tampon on him. anything you might need, he has on him

if y'all started dating in highschool, i feel like he'd also be the type to order extra sets of his sports jerseys just to gift to you

nothing gets him going like seeing "xia, 05" plastered all over your back (caleb was player no. 5 in his highschool basketball team)

the type to run to you after every game and scoop you up in a big hug despite being all sweaty

"ugh, caleb, you're sweaty!" "oh hush, i know you love it, pips."

aaaand, he's not wrong 😞 there's just something so endearing to you about being the first person he runs to after every big win—like you're the prize instead of the trophy they just won

and to him, you are. you're the best prize—the best thing, best person in his life

[bernardsbendystraws]

𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐲 — 𝐂.𝐒.

SUMMARY ʚɞ Chris thinks you’re just a dream.

CW ʚɞ Fluff, kissing, touching, established relationship.

PAIRING ʚɞ Bubble .ᐟ Reader x Chris Sturniolo

A/N: COPYRIGHT NOTICE. New layout! Please read the copyright notice! This is just a lil fic for my babies bc I really wanted to use the top right pic since I had to take I down the first time. Fuck off tryna be weird. I’m having fun and vibing and I refuse to let anyone ruin that!

With love and big tits, Rose ➜ au masterlist

“Pretty,” you coo, petting Chris’ face while cupping his jaw. 

He’s staring up at you with contentment, with pure and utter joy. His flushed cheeks are warm, his hands clamping around your waist, keeping you perched in his lap as the light breeze flows by. 

The grass shutters with each puff of wind. Flowers and branches rustle, the sound adorned by light chirping from a blue bird singing in the air.

Chris puckers his lips, closing his eyes as he waits for you to kiss him. The second your lips land on his, he can’t help but smile against you, letting a hum of joy vibrate between the sweet affection. 

“Hm, thank you, Bubs. Fuckin’ love kissin’ you,” he says, his eyes slowly blinking at you as you rummage your hands through his hair. 

You nod firmly, leaning down and planting a soft kiss on the tip of his nose, laughing as it scrunches. “Mhm, ‘course. I love it too,” you remark, your voice flowing like a soft, gentle melody. 

Chris stares into your eyes, almost as if he’s searching for something. The slight crinkle of your brow makes him smile sheepishly. “Sorry, just… can’t believe you’re mine.” 

Your eyes soften as you tilt your head to the side, analyzing his doe eyes as he beams with love radiating out of every pore of his body. “You’re so sweet,” you sigh, bringing your hands to the tops of his shoulders as you try to get up. 

Chris is not pleased. His hands react before his mind, tugging you even closer than before, dragging you plush against his front. 

You huff, the air coming out in short breaths as you feel his heart thump against your own chest. 

“Don’t leave. Just… just wanna hold you, Bubs—wanna hold my girl.” 

You bite on your inner cheek, nodding as you relax in his grip, the feeling of his arms collapsing around you making your heart beat slower, your breaths calming as you let yourself feel safe in his hold. 

He just wants to hold you.

He just wants to make sure that this dream is real.

A/N: I literally love them so much. You can’t tell me this isn’t how Chris would be with his girl IRL. He’s so cutie 🩵🫧

Comment if you wanna be on the taglist. Lmk any thots, questions, comments, or concerns. Hope you’re having the best day today and I really appreciate any and all support and love.

Interacting has always been something super important to me, hence why I try to reply to every single comment and such. Having my inbox off is helping me feel a lot better so I really appreciate all the patience and kindness.

I’ve turned non-anon asks back on, but I still might not be yapping until I feel 100% ready to.

This is a really long end note, but I’m really grateful for everyone that specifically comes onto my account, wanting to talk about my work or just making me smile in general.

I love you 💕

With love and big tits, Rose 🌹

[evendimmer]

"I hear you, angel, I hear you."

Pairings: Soft!Agatha x Reader Summary: Agatha helps reader feel seen. Or heard, in this case. Word count: 592 Warnings: 18+ MiDNI Mommy kink (A referred as "mama"), fingering (R receiving), slight mentions of bullying, prawn with lots of feelings A/N: A short one, but no less smutty and with a lot of feels.

Agatha always tells you how much she loves your voice, although you never truly understand why.

Growing up, you’re used to being told by grownups and peers alike that you’re too chatty, too loud, too squeaky and even too annoying. Pipe it down, they’d tell you, nobody wants to hear it.

It might not even be true but when you hear something for so many times, a little voice within you started asking questions. Soon enough the questions became a fact, and the fact turned into your truth.

Nobody needs to hear you.

You stopped talking. Not unless it’s absolutely necessary anyway. No small talk, no chitchat, the little chatterbox died together with your childhood, buried away deep in the depths.

But Agatha is different. 

“Mama loves hearing you say my name. Please, angel, let me hear you.”

Agatha looks at you like you’re the sole reason of her existence, cupping your face in her hand and kiss you deeply and hurriedly, all the while pumping into you with her other hand and you feel your chest almost bursting.

She pulls back to look at you so intently that you have to look away, tears welling in your eyes— you’re not sure if it’s because of how good Agatha is fucking you or because of whatever the fuck that is exploding in your chest— 

Agatha notices the state of you and immediately panics.

“Angel— angel, shh it’s ok,” she scrambles to cup your face and coos. “Please, keep your eyes on mama, please.”

So you oblige, locking your eyes with her while your tears stream down your face and Agatha smiles, so soft and warm like the autumn sun and somehow it makes your core even more sensitive, your moans getting higher with her each thrust. She can tell you’re close. 

Agatha leans closer to kiss your temple, murmuring right in your ear, “please angel, please,” while carefully caressing your very sensitive clit.

You whimper at the contact. Your hands flying up to reach for her shoulders, only to find her pulling back to look at you through furrowed brows, almost begging as she mouths out another silent “please”.

You know what she wants.

It’s already near impossible not to give in to her, not with Agatha begging you like this, nor with the tide of emotions welling deep inside you, urging, pushing, tugging at your heart. So in a shaky voice, almost too quiet to be heard, you say her name.

But Agatha hears you. Her eyes widens as if taken by surprise, then there’s a flash of joy, quickly replaced by an almost feral want.

“Again, angel, please, again.” She grunts as she thrust into you harder and faster than ever, fucking you like her life depends on it.

And you hear yourself saying her name again, louder this time, over and over as your climax draws near. Agatha must have known it too, either from the way your nails dig into her back, or the way your pussy clamps down hard onto her fingers, or maybe how you’re crying out her name. 

She presses her thumb on your clit before swiping firmly, “Come for me, angel, please, come for mama.”

That’s what did it for you. You feel your climax rushing all over you and you keep chanting her name like a prayer. Agatha holds you tight with her free arm as you’re riding out your orgasm, all the while whispering I love you, I love you, I love you my angel with her lips pressed on your ear.