#I'm sure they all shift around with time you know

[andraxicated]

Rainy cockwarming and sex with all the LIs!

This is just a little sexy blurb, but imagine...🌧💦

It's nighttime, raining, and you're in the mood for cuddles. So he's all pressed up against your back, and you could feel him eventually getting excited. You shift and groan, saying that you're not in the mood for sex. You just want to sleep. So he keeps his hands to himself until he can't take it anymore. He just has to ask you, and if you agree, then you'll both be happy. Surely, his darling won't deny him a bit of pleasure?

Xavier would kiss your neck, then travel slowly to the area underneath your breasts. His hand would caress your waist to get you in the mood. And you can't help but squirm and curl up in pleasure. He'd ask, "Can I put it in?" and you'd give in, raising your leg to let him hit it from the back and insert himself slowly into your warmth. He feels full inside you and he'd moan so close to your ear. He'd thrust slowly a few times, keeping it nice and steady before a few fast thrusts. He cums inside before being sleepy and staying inside you to warm his cock. It ended up with you not being able to sleep.

Zayne would tell you sheepishly that his dick hurts from all the blood that flowed to the area. It's not his fault he gets so turned on from you in your pajamas. You turn to him, giving in because you do not want him to be uncomfortable all night. He'd kiss you as thanks before pulling down your pajamas and entering you slowly because he's big. You cry out and shake, but Zayne would soothe you so that his presence inside your cunt would be pleasurable for both of you. "You're so good to me..." He stays still inside you, not doing anything, until you give in from the frustration of just cockwarming. "Zayne, move please..." And Zayne would comply and start at a slow pace until a few hours later where you're absolutely getting pounded into the mattress.

Rafayel would peek over at your side and say, "You're not asleep" to which you open your eyes to roll them and face him. "Because I'm trying to sleep with your dick pressed to my ass". He'd just give a smirk and a few minutes later he's gripping the base of his cock to prod at your entrance, tapping a few times before entering. You both moan at the pleasure and he immediately gets to work, no questions asked. He'd piston his cock in and out to make you scream, getting lost in the lovemaking, before manhandling your body to the next position where he fucks you at a deeper angle.

Sylus would have his arms around you while you try to sleep and sense the desire pooling between your thighs when his cock twitched between the plush of your ass. Goosebumps rise from your body when his large hand stalks towards your center and slips inside your shorts, feeling your pussy for wetness. "You're wet," He claims, and you feel like a cat caught in a trap because it is true. You were soaking to the point his big cock didn't have much resistance when pushing in because you made it so easy for him. Sylus has you in a mating press because he loves it when he sees the expressions you make while having sex. He moves and gives experimental thrusts for you to adjust until he actually starts fucking your cunt up so hard the headboard bangs against the wall.

Caleb would put his nose near your neck and dry hump you, thinking you were fast asleep. "Fuck, pips I love you aahhh" He gets off on your scent but his cock is still heavy with the load he's carrying. You were still awake and let him have his fun, knowing Caleb had to release a few more times before falling asleep. So you decided to help by climbing on top of him, taking out his cock, and throwing your discarded underwear on his face. He moans louder than you, his face showing great pleasure when his member is fully embraced in your warmth. He displays his gratitude to you by thrusting from underneath and keeping you impaled on his cock until he cums and falls asleep. He has to stay inside, of course.

[cheerfulmelancholies]

Elliot stared at the blurry mass of writhing shadow and smoke, indifferent to the power of the being before him. It wasn't that he wouldn't feel threatened by an immensely powerful being beyond the realm of humanity's conceivable physics—rather, because the entity was so outside the range of human understanding, all Elliot could do was tilt his head at it in befuddlement.

"I don't get it," he said plainly as the massive being shifted about almost as if it were vibrating in place. Its only discernible features were the several ruby red eyes dotted about its form. "You made it sound like just looking at you would cause complete agony, but you're just, like, a giant blob of darkness. With too many eyes." Said eyes narrowed at him as a voice echoed both within his mind and the air around them.

"You should be trembling in fear, paralyzed by the mere sigh of me," it rumbled, observing the tiny speck of the mortal standing beneath itself with rare curiosity. "Yet you gaze upon me like I am little more than one of the fauna of your world."

"Well…" Elliot started, trailing off as he scratched the back of his head. "I'm just not sure what exactly I'm looking at here. I know being incomprehensible is the point and all, but… maybe you're doing too good a job at that."

Quaz'el'Far, in all its infinite wisdom from eons of roaming realities on a whim, for once felt unsure of what to do. What a strange statement. It had never witnessed a mortal with immunity to its unknowable horror, much less one that would act so calm in the face of something like itself. "I do not understand," it admitted, reluctant to make such a statement.

"Welcome to the club, buddy," Elliot sighed. He glanced around at the empty space he'd been brought to, a pocket dimension that was supposed to be punishment for the human mind. Apparently. Though it was rather lackluster. While he'd heard of white rooms being hell on the psyche, he didn't think an eldritch being would rely on something so… boring. If he strained his eyes hard enough, he could almost make out the faint shapes and colors dancing around the white void, but even then it did little more than give him a slight headache from the effort.

"How is it that you see me, yet you remain unaffected by my presence?"

Elliot redirected his attention to the mass of shadow, matching the slow blink of its eyes with his own. "Look, Quail-uh, Que-hmm… Listen, Q, I'm sure whatever freaky powers you have outside of teleporting people to empty voids are absolutely terrifying. It's just… looking at you, you just look like a vibrating blob of shadows and eyes. That's it. Maybe you're supposed to be more than that and my tiny human brain can't handle it so it just… fills you in with stuff it does know."

The human brain was funny like that.

It was an interesting statement, and one that Quaz'el'Far spent considerable time pondering. These humans had evolved to such a state that they could simply ignore its mind-shattering form in favor of something they could understand? A sharp jolt pulsed through its body, the feeling unfamiliar until it recalled the reactions of the many mortals it had destroyed.

Fear was an unfamiliar concept to the unknowable being, and it found that it did not care for the feeling.

Elliot, growing bored of both the conversation and being stuck in the nowhere space, continued. "If, uh, if we're done here, can I maybe go now? I'm gonna be late for work…"

What nonchalance! As if an all-seeing god meant nothing! Quaz'el'Far drew itself back from the perplexing mortal, eyes gazing through the timelines in an attempt to pinpoint when humanity had begun to obtain this… this disgusting indifference.

No matter how many timelines it parsed, how many universes it peered into, there was no other mortal with such mental fortitude as this one. The concept that one mere human could be capable of such an ability staggered it. If this human could withstand its presence, what else was it capable of? It didn't want to learn.

Inhuman eyes blazed as the great Quaz'el'Far stared down at the mortal in fear and disgust. "You may return to your life, mortal," it began as it opened a portal beside the horrid abomination. "My apologies for having kept you."

"Oh! Uh, no worries. Thanks, mate!" With a wave, Elliot stepped through the swirling mass of color and warmth. As it closed behind him and he found himself back in front of his apartment complex, he wondered if the portal was also supposed to be some incomprehensible horror his mind shouldn't have been able to fathom. It was a good thing humans were so good at putting things together with limited info. So when he glanced at his phone and saw the time, he already knew before he started jogging to the bus stop that he'd be late, would walk in mildly sweaty, and John would chew him out for his tardiness yet again. The entire interaction with the weird shadow monster was already pushed to the back of his mind, waiting to be forgotten like his lunch box already had been.

You bear witness to a horror beyond your comprehension. However, because you don't comprehend it, you....just don't get it. The horror in question is terrified by this.

[badathumanemotions]

Spencer with a breeding/ pregnancy kink...

Like part of it is purely out of wanting to be a father but he can't deny that the thought of Reader having a bump and leaky tits isn't nice either. And once he actually gets her pregnant he's rubbing her belly while he fucks her...

I'm cursed I think

Breeding Season

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader MDNI Masterlist CW:Smut, Pregnancy, Breeding Kink, Pregnancy Kink, Oral Sex (R rec), Vaginal Sex, Cream Pie, Lactation, Squirting, Fluff, Dirty Talk. WC: 7,893 (Not Proof Read)

The conversation starts with your legs tangled under a blanket and his fingers tracing slow, absent patterns along your thigh. The TV is on, volume low, playing something you haven’t been following for the past half hour. You’ve been too focused on the feel of him beside you. The way his body settles so easily into yours now, like it was always meant to be here.

You’ve been thinking about it for a while now. Not obsessively. Just in passing moments. When he kisses the top of your head without thinking. When his hand finds your stomach in his sleep. When you catch him lingering in the baby section at the store, gaze flickering over soft yellow onesies and the smallest socks you’ve ever seen.

But you’ve never said it aloud.

Not until now.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” you murmur, voice barely louder than the sound of the narrator on screen.

Spencer hums, warm and content beside you. “Yeah?”

You hesitate, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s not exactly casual.”

That makes him shift, just enough to glance down at you. He searches your face, already alert, already open.

You draw in a breath. “I’ve been thinking about trying. For a baby.”

His expression doesn’t change at first. He just blinks, lips parting slightly like he wants to make sure he’s heard you right. You can see the way the words land in him, all at once. Not light. Not heavy. Just... real.

“You have?” he asks, slowly.

You nod, watching the way his face softens.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand moves under the blanket, finding your hip, his thumb sliding in slow, thoughtful strokes. There’s no tension in him. Just quiet, thoughtful stillness.

“I didn’t want to bring it up first,” he says finally. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured. But yeah. I’ve thought about it too. A lot.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Not uncomfortable. Just full of everything that doesn’t need to be rushed.

“What do you picture?” you ask.

Spencer’s mouth tilts, not quite a smile. “Everything. You. Me. A house with too many books and not enough shelves. A kid who reads before they’re supposed to. You, laughing in the kitchen. You, holding them. Me, probably panicking over something ridiculous.”

You laugh softly, and his eyes light up at the sound.

“But mostly I just picture you,” he continues. “Pregnant. Glowing. Walking around in a shirt with a bump so obvious it doesn’t matter if I keep my hands to myself or not.”

Your cheeks flush. “You’d be unbearable.”

He dips his head toward you, lips brushing your temple. “Completely.”

The moment settles again. You feel the shift in it, the turn it takes. Not abrupt. Just... natural. Like the moment you decided. Like the moment he did.

“Do you want to?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“I want everything with you,” he says. “And I want to start now.”

His mouth finds yours slowly, reverently. There’s no urgency in the kiss, no crash of movement. Just his hand slipping to your waist, guiding you to straddle his lap while the blanket falls forgotten to the floor.

You sink into him, knees bracketing his hips, fingers fisting in the soft cotton of his shirt. He kisses you like he’s rediscovering something. Like your mouth has changed and he needs to map it all over again.

You feel his arousal building beneath you, hot and heavy and unhidden. He’s already hard, but he doesn’t grind up into you. Doesn’t rush it. His hands settle at your hips, thumbs grazing the curve of your lower belly, and for the first time, the touch feels like a promise.

“You’re sure?” he asks, pulling back enough to look at you.

You nod. “I want it.”

He lifts your shirt slowly, pressing his lips to your stomach. One kiss, then another, just above the waistband of your pants. “Then we’ll try.”

He kisses you once more, slow and deep, then pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Come with me,” he whispers.

You nod, breath already unsteady, and let him guide you up from the couch. His hand stays at the small of your back, thumb tracing your spine as he leads you through the quiet apartment and into the bedroom. The light is low, the sheets slightly rumpled from this morning. He doesn't rush to fix anything. He only turns toward you, both hands cupping your face like he needs a moment just to look.

Then he kisses you again, firmer this time, mouth parting yours with soft insistence. His hands drift down to your waist, then lower, until he’s lifting your shirt in one fluid motion and pulling it over your head. Your bra comes next, and when it drops to the floor, his eyes flick to your breasts like they always do. He doesn’t touch yet. Just looks  with something warm and reverent behind his gaze.

His pants and boxers are suddenly gone. Your clothes follow, the final barrier slipping past your thighs before he urges you gently onto the bed.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how perfect you are,” he murmurs.

You reach for him, but he shakes his head, smiling softly. “Let me take care of you.”

You lie back on the bed, and he follows, lowering himself onto the mattress between your thighs. He parts them with his hands, slow and careful, and kisses the inside of your knee. Then again, a little higher. And again, and again, alternating sides as he works up your thighs.

It’s not teasing. Not quite. It’s reverent. Like he’s tasting you one inch at a time, learning your body all over again. Then his mouth is on you.

At first it’s just his tongue, broad and slow, one long stroke through your folds that makes your back arch off the bed. You’re already wet for him, and he groans into you like the taste is everything he’s been craving.

He does it again. And again. Slower. Deeper. His tongue moves in smooth, lazy passes, coaxing your body open with steady, practiced rhythm.

He’s not chasing your orgasm. He’s building it.

His hands stay firm on your thighs, thumbs stroking your skin as he mouths at you with devastating patience. He circles your clit with the very tip of his tongue, featherlight, then presses a little harder, holding there just long enough to make your toes curl.

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice already shaking.

Spencer hums like that’s all the encouragement he needs. He shifts lower, spreading you wider with his hands, then licks into you deeper, his tongue dragging along your entrance, dipping in just enough to make your hips stutter.

He does it again. And again. Alternating pressure, pace, direction. Testing how you respond. Not because he doesn’t know. He does. But because he wants to see all the ways you fall apart for him now.

His nose brushes your clit as he works you over, and the angle makes everything sharper. You moan louder, thighs trembling around his head, and he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he presses closer.

He flattens his tongue and moves it in slow figure eights, then sucks gently at your clit until you’re panting his name into the sheets. One of your hands fumbles for his hair and threads through it, tugging hard when he slides a finger into you.

You gasp, whole body tightening as he curls it inside you, the motion slow and purposeful.

“That’s it,” he says softly, pulling back just enough to speak, voice husky. “Let me make you feel good.”

Then he’s back on your clit, mouth moving in practiced rhythm, his finger thrusting slow and deep inside you. He adds another, stretching you open, filling you until your hips lift off the mattress and your fingers dig into his scalp.

The sounds he makes, low groans, quiet sighs, the wet suck of his mouth, only drive you higher. He’s in no hurry. There’s no rush in his pace. Just endless, deliberate pleasure, wringing every last ounce of tension from your body until it feels like you could break apart from the sensation.

You’re close. You know it. So does he.

Your whole body seizes up as your orgasm hits, hard and fast and total. You cry out, shaking, thighs clamping around his head as waves of heat crash over you. Spencer groans like he’s the one coming, like tasting you like this is too much to bear.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking you through it, soft and steady, until you’re twitching, too sensitive, pushing at his shoulders as your body finally starts to come down.

Only then does he lift his head.

His mouth is slick with you, chin wet, cheeks flushed. He kisses your thigh again, slow and soft, then moves up your body with reverent care.

When he reaches your chest, he mouths over your breasts, kisses up your throat until he meets your lips. The look in his eyes is too much. Like he can’t believe he gets to have you like this.

He kisses you gently, slow, deep, letting you taste yourself on his lips, before reaching down between your bodies and wrapping his hand around his cock.

You’re still trembling from his mouth, your thighs slick and parted, body already pliant beneath him. But he doesn’t move to press inside. Not yet. He just lingers there, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, slow and deliberate, coating himself in the wetness he pulled from you.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice thick, reverent. “Dripping for me. And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You gasp as the tip nudges your clit, the pressure sharp and unexpected. His thumb presses into your hip to keep you still, eyes locked on your face as he drags himself down again, lining up with your entrance but refusing to push forward.

Your breath catches when he dips just barely inside. Not enough to satisfy. Just enough to tease. Your walls flutter around nothing, already clenching with need.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear, voice so low it’s barely a whisper.

“I’m going to cum so deep in your pussy it won’t have a chance to drip out.”

You whimper as the head catches on your clit, pleasure sparking straight through your core. Spencer doesn’t stop moving. His hips roll hard, letting the underside of his cock rub against you with just enough pressure to make your thighs twitch.

“I need to be inside you,” he pants. “I need to fuck you full.”

You can barely speak, but he doesn’t wait for you to find the words. He watches your face instead, like he’s memorizing every single shift in your expression, every flutter of your lashes and gasp of your mouth.

“I want it,” you breathe. “I want your cum. I want you to fuck a baby into me.”

“I’ve been thinking about this for so long,” he says. “Cumming in you, watching you take it, feeling your pussy milk it out of me like you’re already carrying my baby.”

You gasp as he pushes in just a little more, your walls fluttering in anticipation.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he growls. “You're going to take it, every inch, and you're not going to stop me.”

And then he thrusts forward, not slow, not careful—just one long, rough stroke that seats him deep, all the way to the base, until your hips meet and your back arches off the mattress.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice low. “You feel so good. So perfect around me.”

He groans again and starts to move, hips snapping forward in sharp, desperate thrusts. The pace is immediate, all restraint gone. He’s fucking you like he needs it. Like he’s been kept from you for too long.

Every stroke is hard, deep, rough in a way that makes your whole body jolt beneath him. Your breasts bounce with each thrust and his eyes are drawn there, dark and hungry.

His voice is wrecked when he speaks again. “You're going to look so fucking good. Breasts full and heavy. Aching for me.”

His hand comes up to your chest, fingers curving under the weight of one breast as it moves with every rough thrust. You cry out, the sound caught between surprise and need, and his groan follows fast, guttural, helpless.

You gasp his name, your hips rocking up to meet him as your hands scramble to grip his shoulders. “Spencer, fuck...”

He thumbs over your nipple, slow and firm, and the sensation makes you jolt. “Yes,” you choke out. “Touch me. Keep touching me.”

He does. He fucks you harder, rougher, like your encouragement only fuels him more.

“You were made for this,” he growls. “For me. For taking my cock. For carrying my child. Fuck—your body’s begging for it.”

You whimper beneath him, legs trembling with the force of his thrusts. “I want it,” you pant. “I want to be full of you. I want you to cum inside me until I can’t hold any more.”

The sound that rips from his throat is something primal. He buries his face against your neck, breath scorching against your skin as his rhythm falters for a second, like he’s close already but fighting it.

“You’re going to be swollen with my child,” he says, voice breaking on it. “You’re going to walk around every day with your pussy full of my cum, knowing exactly what I did to you.”

“God, Spencer.” You clutch at him, pulling him closer, your nails dragging down his back. “Yes. Fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me like you’re going to get me pregnant.”

He lifts your thighs higher, folding you open for him, and the angle makes you cry out loud, stars blinking behind your eyes as he slams into the deepest parts of you.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice shaking. “So tight. You’re squeezing me like you never want me to leave.”

“I don’t,” you moan. “I want you to stay right there, filling me up, until your cum takes.”

His eyes snap open at your words, wide and wild and completely undone. “You say shit like that, and I’m not going to last.”

You meet his gaze through the haze of lust. “Then don’t.”

He groans again, hips stuttering, cock dragging against every aching spot inside you. His thrusts are relentless now, every movement harder, sharper, more desperate.

“I can feel it,” he growls. “Your pussy trying to keep me in. You want this just as bad as I do.”

“More,” you whisper. “I want it more. I want you to fuck me again and again until it sticks. Until I’m pregnant and you still don’t stop.”

His hands clamp tighter on your thighs. He pounds into you like his life depends on it, the rhythm so brutal it rocks the bed under you.

“You’re going to take every drop,” he grits out. “Every last fucking drop until there’s no doubt you’re mine.”

“Yes,” you cry out. “Yes, all of it. I’ll take everything. Just don’t stop.”

His jaw clenches. You feel his body coil like a wire pulled taut, fighting the edge with everything he has.

“Not yet,” he growls. “Not until I feel you cum on my cock. Not until I know you're ready to take it.”

Spencer suddenly pulls out, chest heaving, pupils blown wide as he looks down at your trembling body. His hands move fast, gripping behind your knees and lifting—higher, higher—until your thighs are flush to your chest, your hips tilted up, completely open to him.

You gasp as the change stretches you out. Your breath stutters from the pressure, the exposure, the sheer vulnerability of it. But he’s right there, gaze locked on where your bodies meet, expression wild.

“Stay just like that,” he mutters, climbing back over you, forcing your knees up even tighter. “I want to get so deep in you there’s no doubt.”

He drops his weight forward, pressing you into the mattress. Your legs are trapped between your bodies, spread and pinned, and he uses it. Leverage. Power. He slides back inside with one brutal thrust that punches a moan from your chest.

“Oh my god—Spencer.”

You can barely breathe. The angle is punishing, his cock slamming into you so deep it feels like he’s splitting you open. He groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

“This is how I’m going to do it,” he pants, each word timed to the roll of his hips. “Just like this. Holding you down. Unable to stop me.”

You whimper, hands scrambling for something to hold onto, but he’s everywhere. His chest presses to yours, his hips grind down relentlessly, the mattress creaks beneath the force of him.

He braces both hands beside your shoulders now, using them for leverage as he starts to fuck you in earnest. Harder. Deeper. Like the thought of getting you pregnant has snapped something loose in him.

He’s not being careful anymore. He’s fucking you with his full weight behind every thrust, each one rougher than the last, forcing soft cries from your throat. The squelch of slick between your legs is obscene, made louder by the slap of his hips hitting your ass over and over.

“I can’t stop,” he growls. “Not when you feel like this. Not when your pussy’s squeezing me so tight.”

“Going to watch your belly grow,” he mutters, breath hot against your throat. “Going to fuck you again while you’re pregnant, when you're already so full of me you can barely take another inch.”

Your head rolls back against the pillow. You're writhing beneath him, thighs trembling, body open and helpless under his relentless pace.

“Say you want it,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Say you want me to breed you.”

“I want it,” you gasp, desperate and breathless beneath him. “I want you to breed me. I want your baby, Spencer.”

His whole body tenses. He stares down at you like he’s never seen anything more perfect. Then he growls—low and primal—and fucks into you with renewed force.

“That’s right,” he pants. “Say it again. Say who’s going to put a baby in you.”

“You,” you moan. “You are. You’re going to make me pregnant.”

A guttural sound rips from his chest. His hips snap forward, burying his cock to the hilt, then he does it again, over and over, his thrusts harder, sharper, more demanding. He’s rutting into you like he’s trying to etch the shape of himself into your body.

You whimper beneath him, dizzy from the stretch and the speed, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the room like it’s the only thing that exists.

“I’m going to watch you swell with my child,” he snarls against your throat. “I’m going to fuck you until I know it’s taken. And then I’m going to do it again.”

He presses one hand to your lower belly, just above where he’s driving into you. The other stays braced at the headboard, keeping you pinned.

“You’re going to walk around with my baby inside you,” he grits out. “Every time someone looks at you, they’ll know I did this. I bred you. I filled you up and made you mine.”

Your breath shudders in your throat. Every word hits somewhere deep in your chest. He’s inside you like he belongs there, like there’s nowhere else he’s ever needed to be.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you want to carry my child.”

“I want it,” you gasp. “I want to be pregnant. I want everyone to know I’m yours.”

He lets out a noise that’s half groan, half curse, and his rhythm stutters for a second. Then he picks it back up, harder than ever. Each thrust is like a claim being driven into your body.

“I’m going to fill you up with cum over and over,” he snarls, “until I know you’re pregnant. Until your belly’s round with my child. Until you can’t take any more.”

His voice is breaking now, wrecked with need, with possession, with pride.

“You’re going to be swollen with my child. Mine. You understand?”

“Yes,” you whimper, breath catching on the word. “Yours. I want to be yours.”

Your voice snaps the last thread of control inside him. His thrusts go ragged, pace faltering as his whole body begins to tighten above you.

“Then take it,” Spencer groans, voice low and ruined. “Take everything I give you.”

His hips move faster, slamming into you with deep, bruising force, over and over, dragging you right to the edge. His hand tightens on your waist like he’s anchoring himself, his eyes locked on where your bodies meet.

“I can feel how badly you want it,” he rasps. “Your pussy’s so fucking tight. She’s begging for it. Begging to be knocked up.”

You sob something between a moan and his name, fingernails biting into the flex of his forearm as your hips jerk up to meet his every brutal thrust.

He leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “You’re going to look so fucking beautiful with my baby inside you. Soft and glowing. You won’t even be able to hide it.”

You whimper, completely undone beneath him.

“I’m going to keep you like that,” he snarls, slamming into you. “Barefoot and pregnant. Let the whole world see what I’ve done to you.”

He pulls almost all the way out, cock gleaming with slick, then drives back in with a vicious snap of his hips that knocks the breath out of you. His body covers yours, sweat slick and burning hot, every inch of him focused on the act of claiming, of making you his in the most permanent way possible.

“You think I’ll stop once you’re pregnant?” he pants. “Fuck no. I’ll fuck you while you’re swollen. While your tits are leaking. While our baby’s growing inside you. Because you’re mine. Every part of you.”

Then he slams in once, deep and final, his whole body locking above you as his cock throbs inside you. You feel the first pulse of it, hot and thick, and his mouth drops open in a groan so desperate it borders on worship.

“Fuck,” he chokes out. “Fuck, take it. Take all of it. That’s my baby in you. Mine.”

He doesn’t stop moving. Even as he cums, he keeps grinding his hips in short, dragging rolls, making sure you don’t miss a drop. You can feel him emptying into you, thick and endless, the pressure of it sending heat spiralling through your gut.

But he’s not done.

His grip shifts, and he starts thrusting again. Slower now, but deeper. Focused. Intent.

“I’m not stopping,” he says, voice wrecked but steady. “Not until you cum. Not until I feel your pussy squeezing my cock, greedily taking every drop.”

You cry out, body shuddering beneath him. He reaches down and rubs your clit in tight circles, fingers slick from where you’ve soaked him.

“You need to cum,” he whispers, thrusting harder again. “You need to cum with my seed still leaking into you. Let it take. Let your body catch.”

You’re so close it hurts. Your hips jerk up, meeting his strokes, and he keeps talking, keeps driving it deeper.

It tears through you. The orgasm hits with brutal intensity, ripping the breath from your lungs as your back arches and your walls clamp down hard around him.

You sob his name, trembling uncontrollably as waves of pleasure crash through you, your cunt fluttering around his cock like your body is trying to milk him again.

“Fuck yes,” he groans, holding deep inside you, arms shaking. “That’s it. That’s what I needed. Make sure it takes.”

You’re gasping, dizzy, overwhelmed, his body heavy over yours as the aftershocks keep rolling.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just presses his hand to your lower belly again, stroking softly.

“Mine,” he whispers. “All of you.”

And you are. Marked, filled, claimed in every possible way.

At thirty week your belly is round, unmistakable beneath everything you wear, full with the child you made together. Your breasts ache with weight and change. Your back hurts more often than not. And Spencer still looks at you like he’s seeing a miracle.

He’s on his knees at the edge of the bed, mouth pressed reverently to the swell of your stomach, like he can’t help himself. Like he never could.

He’s been like this the whole time. Touching. Kissing. Talking to the baby whenever he thinks you’re asleep. And fucking you as often as he can manage without making you too sore.

“You’re so full,” he murmurs against your skin. “So fucking full of me.”

His hands spread wide across the sides of your bump, fingertips brushing where he knows your skin is the most sensitive now. He’s mapped it all. Counted the stretch marks as they appear, tracked your symptoms like a research project he never wants to finish.

“Thirty weeks,” he says, kissing the top curve of your belly. “And every time I see you, it’s more real. Our baby. Inside you. Growing because I put them there.”

You stroke his hair, thumb brushing along his hairline. He looks up at you like he might cum from nothing more than the sight of you above him like this. Hair messy. T-shirt stretched tight over your breasts.

He glances up, already dazed, already lost in you. “Let me make you feel good.”

You reach for him before he can slide lower, your fingers curling in the front of his shirt.

“Don’t,” you whisper, breath already unsteady. “I need you inside me.”

He pauses, lips hovering just above your belly, blinking up at you.

“I was going to eat you out,” he says, voice low, reverent. “I wanted to take my time. Taste how sweet you are when you’re like this.”

You groan softly and tug harder at his shirt, desperate now. “I don’t need your mouth right now, Spencer. I’ve been soaked all day. I can’t wait. I just want your cock.”

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Is it the hormones again?”

You nod, tugging him closer, voice nearly a whimper. “They’re out of control. I feel it everywhere. My nipples are aching. My cunt’s throbbing. I just need you.”

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your knees apart with careful urgency. “You want me to fuck you like this? While you’re heavy with my baby?”

You moan just from the sound of it. “Yes. Please, Spencer.”

His breath shudders out of him. You see the restraint break in his face, feel the hunger snap loose in his body.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Okay. Okay.”

He moves quickly, sitting up on his knees to strip off his shirt, tossing it to the floor without a glance. Then he’s reaching for you, hands moving with focused urgency. He helps you sit up just enough to peel off your own shirt, then your bra, until your breasts are bared and heavy between you. The moment they’re free, his hands are on them.

He groans, low and aching, as he cups them fully in his palms. His thumbs brush over your nipples and you gasp at how sensitive they’ve become.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Full and swollen. Fuck, you're so beautiful like this. Every inch of you changed because of me.”

You moan at the sound of his voice, at the heat behind his words. He leans in to kiss you, slow and deep, hands still working over your breasts until your nipples tighten under his touch.

Then he pulls back, gaze sliding down your body. You watch the way he looks at you, the awe in his eyes, the greedy drag of his stare over every new curve, every stretch of skin pulled tight over your bump.

“I want to see all of you,” he says, voice rough with need.

He helps you out of the rest of your clothes, then stands to shove his own pants and briefs off in one motion. His cock is flushed and leaking, already so hard it juts up against his stomach. You’re bare now, both of you, and the way he looks at you makes your whole body ache.

Spencer steps closer, eyes fixed on your belly, your breasts, the slick heat waiting for him between your legs. His hands return to your hips, slow and reverent as he leans down to kiss you again, this time rougher, hotter, full of need.

Then he pulls back slightly, breath catching as he looks over your body again.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

He hooks his hands under your knees and shifts you downward, guiding you closer to the edge of the bed. His touch is careful, practiced, already knowing exactly where to hold and how much to lift to avoid strain. His gaze flicks to your face every few seconds, checking for any sign of discomfort.

Once you’re positioned just right, he straightens up, running one hand from your thigh to your stomach. His palm lingers there, slow and warm.

“I like the challenge,” he says, smirking as he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. “I’ve liked figuring out every way I can still fuck you like this. How to keep you full, even when your body’s already carrying everything I’ve given you.”

You shudder, the heat between your legs going molten. “Then stop talking and do it.”

Spencer growls under his breath, fingers digging into your thighs as he steps between them. His cock bobs against his stomach, flushed and throbbing, the head already slick. He strokes it once, twice, then lines himself up with your entrance.

“You’re really ready for me?” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to yours.

Your response is a broken sound, hands grabbing at the sheets. “Don’t make me beg.”

“I like when you beg,” he says, voice tight. “But not tonight.”

He presses forward slowly, thick and hot, your walls stretching to take him. The fullness makes you gasp, and he groans, sinking in until he’s seated completely.

You moan and roll your hips up.

“I need more, Spencer. Please. Don’t hold back.”

He looks down at you, sweat beading at his temple, lips parted.

“You want me to fuck you like you’re not pregnant?”

“I want you to fuck me like I’m yours,” you say. “Like I’ll break if you stop.”

His next thrust is sharper. He’s not careful anymore.

He starts to give you exactly what you asked for.

Spencer’s next thrust is brutal. Deep. His hips slam into yours hard enough to jolt you up the bed an inch, and you gasp, loud and wrecked, your whole body trembling from the force of it.

“Oh my god,” you choke out, already shaking beneath him.

He groans like the sound fuels him, like it sinks into his bloodstream and drags his restraint out by the root. He pulls back and does it again, another punishing thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.

“You’re dripping,” he snarls, voice low and harsh. “So fucking wet for me.”

You are. You can feel it, slick coating your thighs, your heat clutching at him with every motion. You’re soaked, flushed, oversensitive in the way only late pregnancy and surging hormones can bring. Every inch of your skin feels electric. Every thrust sends sparks ricocheting through you.

“Spencer,” you moan, hands scrambling to grab his forearms, his waist, anywhere you can anchor yourself. “More. Fuck, I need it.”

His hands slide to the backs of your knees and shove them higher, angling your hips up. It’s rough, but you welcome it, arching into him, hips already moving to meet his with frantic rhythm.

“I’m not going to stop,” he pants. “You don’t get to ask and not take it.”

And then he’s fucking you. Truly fucking you. Fast, hard, relentless.

Each thrust is sharp, perfectly aimed. The bed creaks with the pace, your breasts bouncing with every motion, and his eyes flick down, hungry and wild.

Your whole body is alive. The pressure is unbearable. Perfect. Every drag of his cock along your walls makes your stomach flip, makes your head spin, makes your body scream for more.

“I can feel you,” you whimper, nails dragging down his back. “I feel everything.”

“I know,” he growls. “That’s what you wanted. To feel it. All of it.”

You nod, too overwhelmed for words, and he rewards you with another brutal slam of his hips that makes your toes curl.

“You’re mine,” he hisses. “All of this. Mine. My perfect pregnant girl. Needy and wet and so fucking full for me.”

His pace doesn’t falter. It quickens, hips snapping forward like he’s chasing something, like he needs to bury himself so deep in you you’ll never be empty again.

Spencer’s rhythm doesn’t falter, but his attention shifts, gaze catching on the way your breasts bounce with every thrust. Heavy, full, flushed at the tips. He groans low in his chest, his mouth going slack for a second as he watches them move.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Look at them.”

His hands leave your hips without warning, greedy and reverent at once as they come up to cup your breasts. His fingers sink into the soft, swollen weight of them, thumbs brushing over your nipples.

You cry out at the contact, back arching. The sensitivity is unbearable. Your whole body is on fire.

“Can’t keep my hands off you,” he growls, squeezing tighter. “So full. So heavy. You look like you’re already nursing.”

Then you leak.

A bead wells at one nipple, then another, and Spencer chokes on a groan like it hits him physically. His hips stutter for the first time since he started fucking you, the vision of it knocking the wind from his lungs.

“Jesus Christ.”

He squeezes again, just enough to draw another slow drop, and it breaks him.

“That’s because of me,” he rasps. “Because I bred you. Body preparing our child. And you’re still letting me fuck you like this.”

You whimper under him, clenching tight around his cock as he rocks forward again, harder now, completely unravelling.

“Perfect fucking woman,” he mutters, eyes locked on your chest, fingers wet with what he’s drawn from you. “You were made for this. For me.”

Your thighs shake. You’re dizzy with it. Every nerve, every pulse, is tuned to the drag of his cock and the possessive weight of his touch on your breasts.

His hands return to your hips for a moment, grip bruising as he pounds into you hard enough to rock the bed. Then one slips up again, greedy and familiar, until it’s splayed wide across your belly.

He groans when he touches it, like the contact is too much, like it short-circuits something in his brain.

“I can’t stop touching you,” he pants, hand stroking slow over the tight curve of your stomach. “You’re carrying my baby. I did this to you. And it makes me want you even more.”

He leans down, weight braced on one elbow, palm still warm on your belly, thrusts still hard and fast and ruthless.

“I should be ashamed of how much this turns me on,” he breathes. “But I’m not. Not when you look like this. Not when I know it’s my child growing inside you.”

You gasp at the words, at the heat of his body against yours, at the fingers pressing just a little firmer into the taut skin of your bump.

“You’re perfect,” he says again, like he can’t stop repeating it. “Big and glowing and already leaking. Your body’s changing for our baby and I can’t fucking get enough.”

He rocks forward again, and you moan louder, helpless beneath him.

“You should see yourself,” he growls. “Stretched and full, taking my cock like you were made for it. Breasts so swollen you’re leaking for me. My baby growing inside you. Every single thing about you right now is driving me out of my fucking mind.”

You shudder under him, eyes fluttering shut. The angle, the pressure, the filth in his voice—it’s all too much.

“I want you like this forever,” he whispers, voice ragged with need. “Pregnant. Full. Fucking glowing. And every time I fill you up, I’ll know it’s mine.”

His hand doesn’t leave your belly. It anchors him there, dragging across your skin every time he thrusts, like he needs the reminder. Like he still can’t believe it.

He doesn’t ease up. If anything, the way your belly presses against his hand seems to set something off in him.

He thrusts harder, deeper, until your body jolts with every movement and your fingers twist in the sheets just to keep yourself grounded. The slick, obscene sound of it fills the room. You’re soaked, drenched around him, and he fucks through it like he never wants to stop.

“God, listen to you,” he groans. “So wet for me. You can’t help it, can you?”

You try to answer, but it comes out as a moan. Everything’s too much. The stretch. The heat. The friction. His hand dragging down again to your hip so he can pull you harder into every thrust. He hits deep, again and again, dragging against places inside you that feel newly sensitive. Like your whole body has changed to crave this more.

He looks down at you and groans low in his chest.

“Your tits,” he pants. “I can’t stop staring. I think about them every time I close my eyes.”

His hands are on them before you can speak. He leans up just enough to cup them both, thumbs brushing over your nipples, then squeezing harder. You cry out, hips bucking into his just as your left nipple leaks a warm, sticky line down the curve of your breast.

He groans, rough and hungry, like the sight knocks the air right out of him.

“Fuck, that’s it. That’s what I want. So swollen. So ready.”

He lowers his mouth and laps at the spill of milk, licking it from your skin with a low, reverent sound. His hips don’t stop moving. His cock drives into you in a punishing rhythm while his mouth worships your breast like he can’t decide which part of you he wants more.

You feel his cock twitch deep inside you as he groans again, sucking harder.

“Spencer,” you gasp, trying to hold onto something, anything, but all you can feel is his tongue on your breast and his cock pounding into you like he’s trying to break you.

He lifts his head, lips slick, and looks down at you like you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.

“You were made to carry my baby,” he growls. “Made to be fucked like this. Big and pregnant and dripping for me.”

He thrusts deeper, angling up so you feel every inch drag inside of you. Your thighs tremble from the force of it.

“Every time you walk into the room,” he pants, “I get hard just looking at you. Just knowing what I did. What you’re carrying. My baby. My cum. My fucking claim.”

His hand returns to your belly, spreading wide across the swell like he can feel the future inside it.

“I can’t stop wanting you like this,” he says. “I don’t want to stop.”

Your walls clench hard around him. Your body is singing with it now, pulsing and slick and desperate.

And he’s still going. Still thrusting. Still holding onto your belly like it’s the most sacred thing in the world.

Spencer’s rhythm is unrelenting now, hips slamming into yours with an urgency that borders on feral. The headboard knocks against the wall in time with every thrust, but neither of you notices, too lost in the chaos of slick skin and broken breath.

You're soaked. The sheets beneath you are damp with it, the mess of your arousal smeared between your thighs, all over him, everywhere. His cock slides through it with ease, every stroke deep and devastating, hitting the spots that make you gasp and twitch and sob for more.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, his voice unravelling with each word. “You feel so good. I’m not gonna last if you keep squeezing me like that.”

“I can’t help it,” you gasp, hips jerking up to meet his every thrust. “You feel too good, Spencer, I can’t—”

You break off on a whimper as he angles just right and your whole body lights up. Your legs kick uselessly at the sheets. He doesn’t let up. He’s not giving you time to adjust. He wants you ruined, wants you shaking, wants you right there on the edge.

“You’re going to cum,” he pants, mouth dragging across your cheek. “I can feel it. You’re close. So fucking close.”

His hand slides between your bodies and finds your clit, swollen and slick. The second he touches you, your spine arches like a bow. He circles it fast, tight, his hips never missing a beat.

“Oh my god,” you cry, voice broken and high. “Spencer, please—”

“You’re going to cum so fucking hard,” he growls. “You’re going to soak my cock while I fill you up again. Your pussy’s going to drag every drop from me like it never wants to let go.”

Your muscles are locking, tightening. Every nerve is stretched thin. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as your climax coils hotter and tighter inside you.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear.

“Hold it,” he growls. “I want to feel you cum the second I do. I want you to milk every drop of my cum into that perfect, pregnant body.”

You sob his name, head tossing side to side on the pillow. You’re right there. Teetering. Shaking. One more thrust, one more stroke of his fingers and you’ll fall apart completely.

Your whole body is wound tight, every nerve a live wire. Spencer is relentless, hips snapping forward with deep, claiming thrusts while his fingers circle your clit in firm, precise strokes. You’re soaked, everything slick and hot, his cock dragging perfectly through you each time he plunges back in.

He’s panting above you, flushed and wild-eyed, watching your face like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

“You’re going to cum,” he grits out. “I can feel it. Right there, aren’t you?”

You gasp, unable to speak. Your back arches, spine bowing up from the bed as heat coils low and tight in your belly. The pressure is unbearable.

“Come on,” he growls, voice ragged. “I want to feel it. I want to see you make a mess all over my cock.”

You cry out when he presses harder against your clit, his thumb unrelenting as his pace picks up, sharp and punishing. The tension breaks in an instant. You don’t just cum — you rupture. Your orgasm rips through you with a raw, helpless sob.

The pressure releases in a sudden rush and you squirt hard, liquid gushing out of you in pulses you can’t control, soaking your thighs, his cock, the sheets. Your legs tremble violently as your body writhes beneath him.

Spencer groans loud and long, like it’s been punched out of his chest. “Oh my god. You’re squirting. Fuck, you’re squirting for me.”

He pulls back just enough to look between your bodies and watches, utterly mesmerized, as another gush spills out around the thick base of his cock. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, gripping your hips like he’ll break apart if he doesn’t anchor himself. “You’re drenching me.”

Your voice is nearly gone. “Spence—”

His gaze snaps up to your face, and whatever he sees there pushes him over the edge. He buries himself deep and stays there, cock twitching inside you as he cums hard. Thick ropes of it flood your cunt, hot and heavy, and he groans through clenched teeth.

“That’s it,” he pants, barely able to speak. “Take it. All of it. You deserve every drop.”

His hips jerk again, slower now, grinding into you like he wants to leave it as deep as it can possibly go.

Your body is still pulsing, oversensitive and spent, but he doesn’t pull out. He stays there, thick and buried and full of everything he’s just given you. One hand slides up to your belly, warm and reverent.

“I made you do that,” he says softly, like he can’t believe it. “You squirted because of me.”

You can’t even speak. You just pull him down into a kiss, still shaking with aftershocks, still stretched and filled to the brim with him.

The room is quiet except for your breathing, both of you still catching it in fits and starts. Spencer hasn’t moved. He’s still inside you, still buried deep, and his body is draped over yours like he doesn’t trust himself to pull away yet.

Your skin is slick with sweat, your thighs trembling, your muscles aching in the best way. Your breasts are sore, your stomach taut and flushed, and you feel him everywhere. In the heat between your legs, in the stretch of your body, in the fullness that’s somehow even heavier now.

He nuzzles into your neck with a soft groan, one hand sliding slowly down your side until it settles over your belly again. His palm is warm, wide, stilling as he feels the rise and fall of your breath beneath it.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs, voice quiet, almost reverent. “I don’t think I’ll ever get over this. Over you.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “You’d better not.”

His laugh is quiet, more breath than sound. “I mean it. Everything about you. Your body. What it’s doing. What we made.”

His thumb strokes your skin gently. His other hand smooths over your hip, grounding you. You’re soaked between your thighs and still stretched around him, but there’s no rush to move. His cock softens slowly inside you, and you swear he’d stay like this forever if he could.

You turn your head to press your lips to his temple. “Did I really squirt?”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. There’s awe there. Still.

“Like your body couldn’t hold back from me even if it tried.”

You laugh, quiet and spent, and he kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“Don’t get smug,” you warn, not even trying to sound convincing.

“I’m not smug,” he whispers. “I’m obsessed.”

You feel the weight of his hand over your belly again. He closes his eyes for a moment, like he’s feeling for something, even if the baby hasn’t moved. Like he just wants to connect.

“We really made a person,” you say softly. “They’re real.”

He nods. “They’re ours.”

Neither of you speak for a while. You just lie there, tangled together, soaked and wrecked and content. Eventually, he shifts to clean you up, slow and careful, murmuring little apologies when you wince. He kisses your thigh, your stomach, your breast, before pulling the blanket over both of you and curling in close again.

One hand rests on your belly. The other slips beneath your neck to cradle you closer.

You fall asleep like that. Full. Claimed. Loved.

[revelboo]

I'm tryna be in a KOBD sandwhich fr. Like put them 42DDDs on me Breakdown and tell ur twink doctor to get behind me and put it in my [redacted] and then [redacted] until he [redacted]

... I apologize for my outburst

He knock on my out till I breakdown

Ok im done 😫

🤣 surrender to the thirst! 🔞 Mass displaced mechs 🌶️ DP fem bits implied

Sharing

Knockout x Reader x Breakdown

• Letting himself into his habsuite after a frustrating day of being threatened, roughed up, and yelled at by Lord Megatron all because his little heir had a tiny rattle when he’s venting, Knockout’s lips twitch at the wet smack of Breakdown rutting into you. The big mech on his knees behind you, hips pumping and it’s hard to be annoyed at the two of you for not waiting for him when he enjoys watching Breakdown servo’s flexing on your hips, spike driving deep, hips rocking urgently. Pleased that the two of you are getting along better, because for the longest time, Breakdown hadn’t wanted you. The big, fool actually afraid you were replacing him, instead of just adding a new element to their berthplay. And after finding out humans can be sparked? Needs Breakdown to spark you. Wants to hold Breakdown’s sparkling in his arms, feel the warmth of a little one in his arms. Desperate for it.

• Moaning as Breakdown’s servos tighten on your hips to jerk you back to meet his thrusts, you hear Knockout clear his vents and your head turns to look up at him mass shifted and standing over the two of you, watching Breakdown rutting against you. You try to say hi and it just comes out as a breathy whimper when Breakdown drives deep and overloads, feeling his excess running down your thighs as he leaves you behind. Again. It’s hard to be annoyed, when he’s usually surprisingly attentive with you. Except for when Knockout’s around, then he’s impatient and hurried. Know he loves you, but given a choice, Knockout’s definitely his favorite.

• ‘I’ve had a terrible day and you’re taking both of us,’ Knockout growls, the command in his deep voice almost making Breakdown overload all over again. Reluctantly slipping free of you, he palms you, servos driving into you until they’re slippery with slick as you whimper a soft ‘please.’ And you tremble when he presses his servo inside you, feeling how much tighter you are here, not able to take his spike here. Slicking you with his release for Knockout, before he’s standing and pulling you up. “Everything okay?” Breakdown asks, trying to get a read on the other mech as you wrap your hands on his spike, to make him shudder. ‘Megatron?’ You ask, eyes innocent as he rumbles at you.

• Watching Breakdown lift you and pull you down on his spike with a growl, Knockout shifts behind you as Breakdown’s big hands flex on your hips when you wrap your legs around him with a moan. Releasing his spike, Knockout presses against you. “Relax,” he growls. Because you’re ready for this, he’s been training you so they could both claim you for weeks. Rocking lazily against you, he hears you whimper as you squirm between them and he’s slowly stretching you when you suddenly relax to let him drive deep. “I want a sparkling,” he admits, hating the vulnerability in the words. And Breakdown’s optics widen, the big mech almost looking scared.

• Gasping as Knockout drives deep, the feeling of fullness is almost overwhelming and they’re not even moving yet. Trapped between them as Breakdown raggedly vents and growls something in their language and Knockout hesitantly responds. “If you’re talking about sparking me, I’m in,” you manage and they both freeze to make you sure that’s what they’re talking about even though you should have a say, too. Hear them both growl and then they both begin slowly thrusting. Can feel them both bottoming out inside you. Breakdown finding a rhythm and Knockout matching it. And it really is too much, body racing for that peak much faster than you’d imagined possible. Feeling both of them going deep. Knockout venting against you, hands on your middle as Breakdown’s servos tighten on you. Hearing their engines getting noisy as fans kick on and you’re sweating as they start overheating.

• Groaning feeling Knockout’s spike rubbing against his own through a thin layer of you, Breakdown swears. And you’re squirming urgently between them, gasping his name and Knockout’s. Crying out as you come apart and his pace falters when Knockout grabs the back of one of his hands, snarling. Hips pumping as the medic overloads, head thrown back and you whimper between them when he leans down to claim Knockout’s mouth, overloading inside you. Feels Knockout shift his plating and he doesn’t hesitate to shift his own. Imagining a little Knockout as his spark snares you and Knockout both. His back hits the wall as Knockout’s hips pump lazily. So tangled in you and Knockout both, he’s almost drowning, coaxing hungrily to spark you. To spark Knockout. Needing to hold a sparkling in his arms and not caring how he gets one.

[sweetcalebb]

Xavier is jealous ! ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

— wc: ~ 500

— summary: it's silly to be jealous of a cat... but does that stop xavier?

— a/n: self-indulgent cus i love my kitty and could totally see xavier getting clingy over one :P

<3

Cats are weird. That's Xavier’s official stance.

They scratched things for no reason. Slept all day, then tore through the apartment at 3 a.m. like it was a racetrack. Stared into corners like they saw ghosts.

Ugh. He hated that last part.

They were smug, too.

Still, you loved yours. And lately, Xavier was starting to think it you might love him a little too much.

It was always in your lap. Always winding between your legs, rubbing its face against your ankles like it owned you. You’d coo and scratch behind its ears, and Xavier would just be… there. Watching.

Not that he was jealous of cat. That would be ridiculous.

He was not jealous of a cat.

"So.. what does he do all day..?" Xavier asks, eyeing the little thing as it curls around your feet and purrs. All cute and sweet. Like he didn't know it's games.

What did it want? More food? Treats?

That must be it. It was such a little manipulator—

"Well, he sleep a lot."

Xavier's gaze shifts back to you, then back to the cat. "I sleep a lot too," he murmurs, too quiet for you to hear.

"Wanna give him a treat?"

Xavier blinks, eyeing the little cat treat in your hand. He doesn't necessarily want to, but how is he supposed to say no when you're looking at him like that?—wide-eyed and hoping.

So of course he takes the treat.

"Sure," he utters, looking at you for assurance. When you nod and turn to your cat, he slowly crouches down and holds the treat out.

"Here," he says awkwardly. "Want a treat?"

Xavier waits, gently wiggling the treat around like that will coax your cat to come closer.

It does. Slightly. Sniffs the treat, then turns its back towards him and starts grooming himself.

Xavier lets out a stuttered sound, his brows knitting with confusion. "Did he just—?"

When he looks up at you, your hand is cupped over your mouth, your shoulders shaking with the force of your laughs.

Xavier pouts, standing up. "Are you laughing at me?"

You nod and he huffs.

"This is who you spend your time with? Some cat with no manners?"

You don't even try to hide your laughs anymore. "Aww, you're getting all worked up."

Xavier frowns. "And you're laughing at me."

"I can't help it! You're so cute!"

You try to hug him, but Xavier stands stiffly—hands at his sides, and his face pinched in that little pout that makes you melt.

"If I'm so cute then maybe we should spend some time together." He glances at your cat, who still has its back turned towards him. "Alone."

"Okay. Let's."

Xavier finally softens. "Really?"

When you nod, he doesn't hesitate. Just grabs you by your hand and drags you to your room. Of course, your cat pads behind you, but Xavier only huffs at it.

"Do not disturb."

Then he's closing the door and sinking into your bed with you curled in his chest. He nuzzles into, wrapping his arms around you tighter when he hears scratching at your door.

"Let's stay like this all day."

"But my little—"

"All day."

You laugh. "30 minutes."

"An hour."

"..Fine."

So, maybe Xavier is a little jealous of a cat.

[syndrossi]

And now a fill for this prompt!

x~x~x

The screams and groans from what had been King Robert and his retinue had not yet faded, nor had the dragon’s rider even dismounted, but as soon as Catelyn’s eyes locked upon him, she knew.

Ned, what have you done?

The dragon's presence alone told the tale, but its rider’s pale hair whipping about upon the wind confirmed it. Her arms tightened around Rickon, who she had swept up into her arms the moment the dragon had descended upon Winterfell.

She shifted her gaze to the children whose presence had been a waking nightmare these past few moons, the only souls in all of Winterfell who had run toward the dragon, rather than away. Their hands were tightly clasped, their heads turned upward at the dragon overhead. One dark as her lord husband’s—bitter proof, she had thought at the time, of his faithlessness—and the other pale as the dragonrider’s above.

The dragon’s landing shook the ground, its rattle dislodging loose pebbles from the castle’s stonework to fall upon the yard like a rain of frozen sleet. The castle’s men-at-arms clutched their weapons, but with the ashen pallor of men who knew that the steel would melt alongside their flesh before they ever closed with the dragon.

“Where,” the dragonlord growled, gaze sweeping the yard, “are my sons?”

There had been no Lyseni beauty, the dead Lady Rhea that Robb had told her about. Catelyn had imagined her face a hundred times at night, body curled around a pillow rather than the husband who had broken both her heart and her faith. Beautiful. Bewitching. As much as she had wanted to envision a harlot, she had been unable to, knowing her husband’s tenderness.

She had tormented herself with visions of Ned holding the woman in his arms, head resting between her breasts as her fair hair spilled around him. Her eyes would have been the unearthly purple of her son’s, her voice just as sweet. As difficult as Catelyn had found Jon’s presence at times over the past decade, she had been unable to stand Raymar’s, whose face had held not a hint of Ned’s blood—his mother personified.

That should have been her clue. Neither child holds a drop of my husband’s blood. And yet…

Catelyn looked at Jon, who had tried to grab for his brothers before freezing in place, midway between their family and his. Willam looks just like him. They cannot be unrelated.

Was Jon yet another lie of Ned’s? There was no denying his Stark blood, however much she would like to. Could he be Brandon’s? Ned’s eldest brother had not been known for his virtue, but the babe he had brought back with him after the war was too young. Brandon Stark had been dead too long.

Lyanna’s? Ned’s sister had been stolen away by Prince Rhaegar, but she had died near the war’s end as well. She could not be the twins’ mother.

Catelyn stared forward, heart numb even as her mind raced, hardly listening to the words being exchanged between the dragonlord and her husband. She knelt alongside him as he bent the knee, and Daemon Targaryen proclaimed himself king.

Willam and Raymar—that cannot be their names—ran to him, and the Targaryen dragonlord wept as he embraced them, kissing their hair and cheeks, before seeming to take note of Jon’s presence. Shock rippled across his face, then a wild joy, and at his command, her husband’s bastard approached, wary as a wild cur, to be swept up as well.

They are our new king’s sons. But try as she might, Catelyn could find no relief in the thought.

x~x~x

Hard to feel relieved when you realize you've set your new king's sons up to hold a very powerful grudge against you and your family... Also, like, her family were very enthusiastic participants in the rebellion! Her husband allying with a Targaryen for some kind of restoration seems wild on the surface, though I'm sure eventually she concludes that it's the only possible play if dragons are involved.

[rcmclachlan]

Fuck It Friday/Sentences Sunday/Motivation Monday (Musings)

Tagged by @screamlet and @firehose118 on Friday, @station18908 and @freneticfloetry yesterday, and @ambernotember, @zeraparker, and @chococara25 today

Here's some more of the s3 lawsuit arc alt meeting au that I actually wrote into the tumblr text editor just now. Do the kids still say YOLO?

+

Buck looks up and misses Peru and its huge, endless sky with a sudden, sharp ache. The LA skyline just seems to eat more of it every day. He remembers Maddie saying she got a bunch of calls during the blackout last year from people who were terrified of the giant, silvery cloud in the sky, because none of them had ever seen the Milky Way before. Sometimes he thinks he's going to look up one day and there'll be no sky at all—just a tangle of steel, concrete, and glass.

"The city wants to settle," Buck admits quietly, skirting the edge of full-on whispering. He keeps waiting for a reporter to jump out of the shadows and demand a quote. "They offered me twelve million dollars."

"Shit." Tommy lets out a low whistle, then shifts a little. It brings his arm up against Buck's. "Makes sense, I guess. The city's been hit with so much bullshit over the last few years that they'd probably throw in ownership of Library Tower to avoid the media circus alone. You gonna take it?"

While Buck was laid up on the 9th floor of First Pres after the bombing, he watched an episode of Modern Marvels on his phone centered around the history of dynamite, and when Bobby refused point blank to let him come back, all he could taste in the back of his mouth was nitroglycerine. It's been sweating out of his pores for weeks, crystalizing in every deposition he's been forced to sit through, building up at night when he can't sleep and when he checks his phone throughout the day hoping to find even one new text; and all the while he's been dreading the single spark that would send it all sky high.

He thinks of Eddie calling him exhausting in the middle of Howie's Market and tastes burnt caramel; hears Bobby's patronizing you're not ready like the crackle of a lit detacord; and the easy way Tommy makes the city's offer sound like a fair response to all of the shit Buck's been shoveling since the bombing is a shock out of nowhere.

Kaboom.

"I don't want money!" Buck explodes, sliding off the wall and shoving his hands into his hair. "I don't want a single, solitary dime, Tommy, I just want my job back!"

Normally, having someone stare at him the way Tommy's currently doing — like Buck just admitted to being a space alien or that he had a room full of porcelain dolls like his Uncle James — would be mortifying enough to shut him up, but he's been sweating nitroglycerin and no one's upended him to redistribute the weeping. There's no stopping him now. 

"D-Do you know how hard I worked to get to where I am? My doctors didn't think I'd be able to walk normally again, never mind run up ten flights of stairs with a full kit on! I did the training! I did the full course so many times I thought I'd die some days, but I-I passed every time. Every test they threw at me, I passed. I'm pretty sure they made a few up just to see if I could handle them — and I did. I did, and I was cleared by every person on that med panel and they all shook my hand and welcomed me back! I should be back!"

For a white-hot moment, he thinks he's going to take out the entire block with the sheer force of his anger. And despite being well within the blast radius, Tommy does nothing.

Panting, Buck closes his eyes and waits for the dust to settle. "Th-They covered my name."

"They what?"

"On my locker," Buck murmurs. When he opens his eyes, the world swims through a curtain of tears. "They... put her name over mine. Bosko. They just... taped right over it. Like a bandaid."

Even to his own ears, he sounds baffled. Not even angry; all his energy was expended during the blast. Now he's just hurt and confused, because no one told him. No one said they were bringing someone else in.

"I just... I don't understand how it was that easy for them."

"That what was easy?" Tommy asks, unbearably gentle, and it has Buck knuckling away a fresh, hot wave of tears. It sounds like how having your back rubbed while you're throwing up feels. Buck can barely tolerate it, but he's so grateful it's there all the same. 

Buck breathes out shakily and finally says it out loud. One final shockwave. "Replacing me."

+

No pressure tags: @beanarie, @setmeatopthepyre, @leashybebes, @geddyqueer, @dharmaavocado, @politenotice, @alchemistc, and @apollabarnes (plus everyone who tagged me first!)

[sobbingscripter]

Tags: [wlw][mdni][roommates that stay roommates?][masturbation mention][clit play through the panties][oral (f!rec.)][unexplored feelings][tw. not beta-read]

Zatanna hates being your roommate.

Not for any particular reason other than the fact that you're extremely abusive of her magic in ways that are inconsequential, as well as inconvenient.

Carpooling for the sake that you never hit a red light and once your car's slotted perfectly into a parking lot, you hop out, lock the car doors and clock in. Ignoring the way her hands slap against the windows, blue eyes wide as she watches you leave her boxed in, with a 2 inch window space.

Sure, she teleported out of the car, but the betrayal remained.

She makes appliances float while you clean, she supersizes all of your snacks because of course, magic is what you want it to be.

And you want it to be paying less for more.

And she's had enough.

"Listen," Zatanna pushes open your bedroom door so hard that the hinges nearly snap all the way into a 180° angle, "I'm done being your— oh my god!"

She shuts her eyes tightly, feeling the way heat creeps up her neck, her face tinting a rosy pink and her fists clench at her sides.

"I should've knocked." She whispers meekly.

"Oh, really?" Your sarcasm is thick, arms folded over your chest, obscuring your breasts from her view and your eyes narrow. "Captain Hindsight."

"Okay, first of all," She opens her eyes and immediately shuts them back, "put your tits away!"

"I am who I am." But you comply, grabbing your T-shirt from the edge of your bed, pulling it over you messily and Zatanna peeks through her lashes, watching the way you rest your foot on the edge of your bed, a dollop of some sweet scented lotion in your palm and you smear it along your thigh.

Zatanna already forgot her point. Crystalline pools focused on the curve of your legs, watching the way your hands circle and press into the muscle. And her mouth feels dry.

"You were saying something about me calling you Captain Hindsight?" You urge. And she snaps out of it.

"Right." She nods. "Uh, you should've covered up." It's a weak rebuttal. She knows that, but she also knows that you're not wearing a bra under that 'Vote for Pedro' T-shirt, and she also knows that you smell like Shea butter and coconut.

Her brain feels funny with the image of your naked body burned into her memory. Perfect tits, the curve of your waist, the way your tummy moved with your stupidly calm breaths.

"You should've knocked." You retort, switching legs. "I could've been masturbating."

Dark brows furrow. "You masturbate?"

And your expression falls. "Yes? The fuck— Yes, I masturbate!"

"These walls are thin and I've never heard anything." She folds her arms over her chest, shifting her weight to one leg and her cotton-y night shorts pull taut around the softness of her thighs.

"Firstly, I use my fingers. And secondly, I'm just really quiet." You explain.

And she pulls a face. "Just get a vibrator? It's normal."

"I like using my fingers." You defend. "It's quick and easy. You know, just like, flick and go."

"So, you've never used a vibrator?" She takes a step further into your bedroom, before ultimately deciding to plop herself on your bed, messing up the covers as she shifts to face you.

"Not on myself." You answer with a shrug, and you begin to moisturize your arms, smoothing over your skin and Zatanna follows your every move. Her tongue brushing across the plumpness of her bottom lip when she catches a glimpse of your belly underneath that stupid, novelty T-shirt.

"Then why won't you use it?" She questions, and her tongue feels just a bit heavier when she catches your scent.

Sweetness and soap. And it's nearly overwhelming.

"Dunno." You hum. "I'm not big on getting off."

"How many times do you masturbate?" The question catches you off-guard and you snort.

"Wow. We're abolishing boundaries tonight, aren't we?" And you purse your lips. "Like, every night?"

"And you're not big on getting off?" She cocks a brow, pink lips curling in amusement and she shifts, bringing up one leg just a bit and she looks like a fucking centrefold.

Your gaze flickers but not long enough to be caught.

"It feels good for like, 2 seconds and then like," You shrug, "It's boring. I just do it 'cause I'm bored and you forbade me from bringing people over."

Zatanna let's out a bubbly laugh. "I can't believe that's the rule you follow."

"I don't fuck with magic, Tanna." You deadpan. "I'm terrified of you shrinking my head. Like in Beetlejuice."

Her laughter breaks the quiet comfort of the room, head tipped back and supple throat exposed, and her laughter sounds like something akin to a creaking door that undoubtedly leads to horrors.

"Their heads are tiny because they try to cut in line."

"Still horrifying." You set your lotion back down on your dresser, rubbing the excess on your hands and down the front of your shirt, and Zatanna's eyes follow your movement.

Before she lets out a breath before she gasps.

"Is that why you randomly go wash your hands at like, 4am every night?"

And your ears burn. "Why're you listening to me wash my hands, you creep?"

"The pipes rattle when you use hot water." She hums, sprawled across your sheets like a lazy cat.

Like she belongs there.

"So," she hums, "how do you do it?"

Your brows crease. "Do what?"

"Masturbate."

"I'm not doing that in front of you." You fold your arms over your chest, in a show of refusal, although in actuality, you're trying to hide the way your nipples pebble at the mere thought of Zatanna watching you.

Or better yet, you watching her.

"Fine." She huffs, before shifting, resting back against your fluffed up pillows, and her thighs part so subtly that you'd barely even notice. "Then show me."

⊹♡🎩♡⊹

"Through the panties?" Zatanna raises a brow, staring down at you from beneath long lashes as you lounge lazily between her thighs, her arms folded over her belly.

Milky thighs are parted just enough for you to be comfortable between, her shorts discarded and all you're looking at is her puffy pussy, stuffed into lavender granny panties.

"The fabric adds extra feeling." You exhale a breath, before you're hooking your finger around the gusset of her panties, pulling the material flush against her folds. And you try to ignore the way soft, short strands tickle the back of your pointer.

And you keep your finger there, before bringing your other pointer digit forward, nestling it between her folds, just enough to make a little divot in the fabric.

And you peer up at her through your lashes when you drag your fingers between them, watching the way her brows twitch just a bit. But she keeps her expression relatively schooled, watching you with those icy blue eyes.

"You make this much eye contact with yourself too?" She teases and you hum.

"Yeah, I look at myself in like, the darkness of my phone screen and I just whisper, 'I used to be an honour student'."

Zatanna's laughter dies in her throat when you use your nail against her clit, so soft and so attentive, gently brushing over the little button and her brows raise.

"Oh... Oh wow." Her hips twitch almost needily, hands awkwardly grasping the fabric of her shirt and she bites her bottom lip, watching the way your finger circles her clit so tentatively.

And the way you're tugging her panties doesn't do anything for her either, and she watches that pretty doe eyed gaze flick down, towards where she's soaking through her panties.

And her cheeks burn.

"Don't look..." Her voice is weak, cheeks flushed.

"Listen," You hum, "I'm flattered that you think I'm talented enough to do this with my eyes closed. But please," you raise a hand, dramatic in that way that always makes Zatanna's lips twitch, "I'm only human."

"Right." She murmurs, almost teasingly. "You're not a vagizzard."

You pause, your fingers still before you meet her gaze, lips pressed into a thin line and you inhale sharply.

"I'm not mad you said that. I'm mad I didn't say it first."

Zatanna snorts, but her brain fries when you're pulling her panties to the side, sticky fabric bunching beneath your grasp and you're dipping your head, dragging your tongue between her plush lips.

And your lashes flutter and your pussy twitches in your panties.

Your fingers push the fabric away, and you're pushing her thighs further apart, gaze lowered to where pretty folds peek and spread obscenely, shimmery gossamers of slick strewn lazily across and you swallow.

Peering up at her through your lashes.

Just as you lower back down, your tongue flicking between her folds, the sweetness painting your tongue in the shades of her core and you're easing into it. The texture of your tongue makes her toes curl, and one of her hands lower, keeping her panties to the side.

"You're really—hah— good at that." Her voice is weak, lashes fluttering and her lips part in a quiet moan, before she's biting down on her bottom lip, eager to keep quiet.

You've got an ego and she'd prefer it unfluffed right now.

"I eat a lot of pudding cups." You murmur, your words slurred and you shift closer, arms hooking around her thighs, locking her in place. And you're wrapping your lips around her clit, sucking idly, your fingertips digging into the fat of Zatanna's thighs.

And your tongue curls just right, and her thighs clamp around your temples, a moan slipping from her lips.

"Oh my God—!" She squeals. "Stop, stop, stop!"

You pull back immediately, eyes wide as you meet her gaze. "Why? What's wrong?"

"You're gonna make me come..."

The panic on your expression gives way to annoyance.

"I'm gonna beat you with your own wand."

And you lower your head back down, tongue flicking and curling, flipping into those pretty infinities that make her eyes roll back.

And she pants, before whimpering out the meekest, 'fuck', and she's coming, clamping down around nothing, and you're lapping at her core.

Messily, lazily.

And when you pull back, the lower half of your face is glossy, catching the light of your bedroom and she pants, heavy lashes fluttering open and those big blue eyes are hazy.

"You good?" You murmur softly, your fingers tugging her panties back into place, and you watch the way her slick makes the panties even darker.

And she nods weakly. "Uh huh..."

"Okay." You clap your hands. "Now, go away. I wanna flick my bean."

"Can I wat—"

"No."

And she groans, already pushing herself up and carrying herself towards the door, glaring at you as she picks her shorts up from the floor.

You settle beneath your covers, grinning at the way she slams your bedroom door shut and you grab your phone from your nightstand.

Before you pause.

.

.

.

"Get your ear away from the wall, you sick fuck."

"Can't I have anything!"

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[seitmai]

Many thoughts

And if it wasn't okay, he’d take care of it or do his best to cheer you up.

That's the spirit!

The smile on your face nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. He had it bad and he swore he fell for you more with each day that passed. He tried not to follow you around the tower like a lovesick puppy, but he often found himself in the same area as you so he could talk to you or ask you to spar as a desperate excuse to touch you. Whenever he pinned you beneath him, he had to rush back to his room and jerk off as images of your face and echoes of your sighs and gasps raced through his mind.

Someone has a crush 🤭

“I’m fine. Just… distracted,” he answered, almost wishing he was a little injured so you'd dote on him some more.

He would love nothing more than her being the person that nurses him back to health, damit serum! 😅

“Smooth,” Ava said once you were out of sight. “You know, I’m the one who can phase through walls, not you.” “Don’t blame Barnes. She looked good in her dress,” Yelena said with a knowing smirk when Bucky snarled. “Perhaps she will wear it again if you ask nicely.” “Shut up,” he muttered, but he had a goofy smile on his face since the feel of your lips lingered on his skin. The girls would never let him live it down, and he wondered if his crush on you was obvious to you or if he hid it well enough.

Haha of course the girls clock it instantly and make fun of his antics, as it should be 😅

He chuckled when you pouted. It was fucking adorable. “Wasn't ditching you,” he promised. He’d never do that. “Just needed some fresh air.” “So, it’s okay if I'm here, too?” “Of course.” He wanted to be where you were.

If he was really honest its probably is his dream like that 🤭

Bucky nodded and hoped he wasn't dreaming. Asking to touch him showed how thoughtful you were. “Yeah, sure,” he said evenly.

He is pinching himself just to make sure

You placed a hand on his upper thigh and gently squeezed. Heat curled at the base of his spine from your touch and he tried not to get excited. He couldn't get hard, not here, not now. He focused on the white hot anger that flowed through him instead since John touched you just as intimately.

Oh this is gonna be hard (in more than one way)

You moved your hand away and he was two seconds away from taking your hand to put it back there. “I bent one of his fingers back before I came up here,” you told him, making him proud. “I think Bob may have filmed it.”

Haaha I live that Bob filmed it lol

“That’s my girl,” he said before he could stop himself. His eyes widened when you turned your head and held his stare. “I mean…”

Freudian slip👀🤭

“I told her I already had a date,” you replied and pointed at his chest. “You.” The words slowly registered. “So, Valentina not only expects me to be there, but she thinks we're going to be there together?” he asked, gesturing between the two of you. “The two of us.” You shifted in your seat. He hardly ever saw you uncomfortable. “Yes, the two of us, and I'm sorry,” you said.

Probably the only time he is happy to go to one of these events 🤭

Bucky wasn't sorry. Not at all. “Wow,” he breathed. He had pictured himself asking you out so many times and should've done it long ago, but he hadn't imagined a fake dating scenario with you asking him. Is that what it was?

His scenario that he imagined to fall asleep finally becoming reality?!

“No, I’m not mad at you. Not at all,” he promised, exhaling before he moved his hand to your cheek. He felt the temperature rise in your body, heard your heart beat faster. “But why me? Why not Bob or…” He almost choked when he asked, “John?” “Because I want you, Bucky,” you said without hesitation. “No one else.”

Well let's hope that was clear enough now 🤭

You lifted a hand to brush his hair back. “Would I be pushing it if I said I don't want it to be fake?” He briefly closed his eyes, as if it could hide his longing. The simple question rocked him. “Don't ask me that if you don't mean it,” he whispered. You leaned in and rested your hand against his. “I mean it. I want you,” you whispered, your lips a breath away from his. You wouldn't play with his feelings or heart. “I want the man who talks with me, spars with me.” You kissed the tip of his nose. “Walks into walls because of me.”

Awww 🥰

“I know, but I want a real date with my girl before the benefit,” he smiled, his lips skimming yours. “Been wanting to ask you out for ages.” “Yeah?” you smiled back. “And it took me arranging a fake date to give you that push?”

🤭🤭🤭

“You're the one who should come with a warning,” you teased, still not kissing him quite yet. “Those tactical pants make your thighs and ass look incredible. And your t-shirts? I swear you wear them on purpose to see if I fall over.”

Valid

“Um,” Bob said from behind you two. Bucky hadn't paid attention to his footsteps since he was so consumed with you. Instead of pulling away from each other, you continued kissing as if you hadn't heard him. “Okay. Guess you two aren't coming back to game night. I’ll tell Yelena and Ava not to bother you,” he added before leaving you two alone.

“I walked into a wall because of you,” he pointed out. “I touch myself because of you,” you blurted out.

Ahaha poor Bob 😂

Leave You Breathless

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Thunderbolts!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky wants to ask you out and you give him the courage to do so in an unexpected way.

Word Count: Over 2.4k

Warnings: Longing, pining, mild humor, fake dating mention (of sorts), kissing, referenced masturbation, confessions, getting together, slight possessive and jealous behaviour, Bucky's POV, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?) and he's smitten.

A/N: Waiting at the airport and whipped this up. What is it with me and game nights? ���� Not part of Tower Shenanigans, but it has that feel of sorts. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky nursed a beer as he sat on the roof and looked at the stars. He was taking a small breather from the impromptu game night after Alexei spilled his drink all over the table. He should've asked you to join him, but you had stepped away to take a call with an annoyed look on your face. Whoever it was that was bothering you he hoped everything was okay.

And if it wasn't okay, he’d take care of it or do his best to cheer you up.

His lips curled in a gentle smile when he heard your footsteps behind him. “One of these days you might be able to sneak up on me,” he said, twisting his head so he could look at you.

The smile on your face nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. He had it bad and he swore he fell for you more with each day that passed. He tried not to follow you around the tower like a lovesick puppy, but he often found himself in the same area as you so he could talk to you or ask you to spar as a desperate excuse to touch you. Whenever he pinned you beneath him, he had to rush back to his room and jerk off as images of your face and echoes of your sighs and gasps raced through his mind.

While he tried not to stare at you either, he always had his eyes on you whenever you were around. That morning he had been so busy staring at you that he poured too much coffee into his mug and burned his hand, which you thankfully hadn't seen. And there was that time he walked right into a wall when you wore a form fitting dress for an event Valentina demanded you attend.

“Bucky! Are you okay?” you had asked, rushing over to check on him. When you cupped his face to look over his face with worried eyes, he nearly melted on the spot.

“I’m fine. Just… distracted,” he answered, almost wishing he was a little injured so you'd dote on him some more.

“Well, let me kiss it better anyway,” you said, surprising him by kissing his nose and spreading warmth up to his cheeks.

“Thanks.” He swallowed hard. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

“Thanks,” you whispered back and walked away, leaving him to stare after you as you glided away with confidence and grace.

“Smooth,” Ava said once you were out of sight. “You know, I’m the one who can phase through walls, not you.”

“Don’t blame Barnes. She looked good in her dress,” Yelena said with a knowing smirk when Bucky snarled. “Perhaps she will wear it again if you ask nicely.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but he had a goofy smile on his face since the feel of your lips lingered on his skin.

The girls would never let him live it down, and he wondered if his crush on you was obvious to you or if he hid it well enough.

Whatever level was beyond whipped was where he was.

Back in the present, you playfully groaned when you took a seat beside him. “You have enhanced senses. I’ll never be able to sneak up on you.”

Bucky turned toward you, watching as you tilted your head and gazed up at the sky. The night seemed more beautiful because of your presence. “You never know,” he said. You had stealth and agility, and you gave him a run for his money in training.

Your eyes sparkled when you turned your gaze on him, the mixture of your subtle perfume and natural scent making him breathe a bit deeper. “Your faith in me is astounding,” you teased, nudging his arm. He’d always believe in you. “But why did you ditch me down there?”

He chuckled when you pouted. It was fucking adorable. “Wasn't ditching you,” he promised. He’d never do that. “Just needed some fresh air.”

“So, it’s okay if I'm here, too?”

“Of course.” He wanted to be where you were.

You smiled, your knee touching his. “I asked where you went and John put his hand on my thigh when he said you were up here.”

It was as if someone shined a red light in front of Bucky’s eyes from the sudden rage he felt. “He what?” he asked, gripping the bottle tighter and feeling it crack under the pressure.

“He put his hand on my thigh,” you repeated, making him clench his teeth. He set the bottle down, too, so he wouldn't shatter it. “Like… Wait, can I demonstrate?”

Bucky nodded and hoped he wasn't dreaming. Asking to touch him showed how thoughtful you were. “Yeah, sure,” he said evenly.

You placed a hand on his upper thigh and gently squeezed. Heat curled at the base of his spine from your touch and he tried not to get excited. He couldn't get hard, not here, not now. He focused on the white hot anger that flowed through him instead since John touched you just as intimately.

Would breaking his fingers be too much?

You moved your hand away and he was two seconds away from taking your hand to put it back there. “I bent one of his fingers back before I came up here,” you told him, making him proud. “I think Bob may have filmed it.”

“That’s my girl,” he said before he could stop himself. His eyes widened when you turned your head and held his stare. “I mean…”

There was no excuse that came to mind for why he said that. All he had to do was confess how he felt. It should've been simple. He was reformed, a super soldier, a hero, and surely he could open his heart to you. So why wouldn't the words come out?

Why couldn't he say that he wanted you to be his girl?

“About that…” You took a breath and scooted away a few inches which had him internally panicking. Did his comment bother you? “What if I sort of told someone that I am your girl?”

His cheek twitched. “I’m sorry, what?” he asked. Did you really tell someone that?

And why did he respond that way instead of playing it cool?

“You know that call I took a bit ago? Well, it was Valentina,” you said, taking another deep breath. He didn't like where this was going. “She wants me to go to a benefit this weekend, and she was hoping I would schmooze a recently divorced potential investor,” you explained, wrinkling your nose and shuddering.

Bucky stomach dropped. You were beautiful and charming, so it wasn’t a shock that Valentina wanted to use you for her advantage. It made his blood boil. First John touching you, and now this. “What does that have to do with being my girl?” he questioned, not connecting the dots.

“I told her I already had a date,” you replied and pointed at his chest. “You.”

Bucky had enhanced hearing, but he couldn't have heard that statement correctly. “You what?”

You bit your lip and risked moving closer again. “I told her you were going as my date.”

The words slowly registered. “So, Valentina not only expects me to be there, but she thinks we're going to be there together?” he asked, gesturing between the two of you. “The two of us.”

You shifted in your seat. He hardly ever saw you uncomfortable. “Yes, the two of us, and I'm sorry,” you said.

Bucky wasn't sorry. Not at all. “Wow,” he breathed. He had pictured himself asking you out so many times and should've done it long ago, but he hadn't imagined a fake dating scenario with you asking him. Is that what it was?

“Bucky, I really am so sorry. I should've asked before I said anything to her,” you said, putting a hand over his before pulling it away just as quickly. “I understand if you don't want to.”

He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal..“It’s okay. I want to go.” He didn’t stay at benefits for long since kissing up to people wasn't his thing and he couldn't stand Valentina, but he’d put up with all of it to be by your side.

“It is? You do?” you asked, your teeth digging into your lip again and drawing his attention to your perfect mouth. “You’ll go?”

“It is, I do, and I will.” He hesitated, but mustered up the courage to put his hand over yours this time. He’d do anything for you. “Really. It’s okay.”

If Valentina had put him in a spot like that, he may have done something similar.

You looked where your hands were joined together and smiled softly. “And you aren't mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad at you. Not at all,” he promised, exhaling before he moved his hand to your cheek. He felt the temperature rise in your body, heard your heart beat faster. “But why me? Why not Bob or…” He almost choked when he asked, “John?”

“Because I want you, Bucky,” you said without hesitation. “No one else.”

Bucky’s next breath came out harsher than he intended. You didn't say you wanted to date him- you said you wanted him, and he wanted you to want him in every way. “You really want me to be your fake date out of everyone else?” he asked, the word “fake” like acid on his tongue.

You lifted a hand to brush his hair back. “Would I be pushing it if I said I don't want it to be fake?”

He briefly closed his eyes, as if it could hide his longing. The simple question rocked him. “Don't ask me that if you don't mean it,” he whispered.

You leaned in and rested your hand against his. “I mean it. I want you,” you whispered, your lips a breath away from his. You wouldn't play with his feelings or heart. “I want the man who talks with me, spars with me.” You kissed the tip of his nose. “Walks into walls because of me.”

“Sweetheart,” he exhaled, the term of affection easily slipping out.

“I don't want it to be fake, Bucky,” you said, wrapping yourself tighter around his heart than he thought possible. “And I don't think you do either.”

He curled a hand around your hip to draw you closer on the bench. “No, I don't. I don't want to pretend,” he confirmed, kissing the tip of your nose the way you had kissed his. “So, why don't I take you out tomorrow?” he asked, finally asking the question that had been burning in the back of his throat for ages.

He felt your next breath when you tilted your head. “Tomorrow? The benefit isn't until this weekend.”

“I know, but I want a real date with my girl before the benefit,” he smiled, his lips skimming yours. “Been wanting to ask you out for ages.”

“Yeah?” you smiled back. “And it took me arranging a fake date to give you that push?”

“Give me a break. I’m an old man,” he joked.

You smirked, a seductive and dangerous glint in your eyes. “Should I wear that dress tomorrow, or will it give you a heart attack since you're an old man?”

He let out a groan. “I think that dress should come with a warning.” He had already jerked off to the thought of you wearing nothing beneath that gorgeous dress and he would think about that again when he finally went to sleep tonight.

“You're the one who should come with a warning,” you teased, still not kissing him quite yet. “Those tactical pants make your thighs and ass look incredible. And your t-shirts? I swear you wear them on purpose to see if I fall over.”

“I walked into a wall because of you,” he pointed out.

“I touch myself because of you,” you blurted out.

He wasn't sure if he closed the gap or if you did, but his lips were suddenly on yours and everything finally felt right. He wanted to devour you, but he slowly let the heat build before deepening the kiss. When your lips parted, he took the opportunity to sweep his tongue into your mouth and worship it the way he wanted to worship every inch of you. He wasn't going to rush or ruin this perfect moment. Not when he finally had you in his embrace, where he wanted you to belong.

He savored the moan that vibrated on his tongue and swallowed it down to keep it buried deep inside him. When you pulled away to breathe, he didn't let you get far before he went back in for another kiss. The world around you didn't slow down or rush by. It was simply a perfect moment that reverberated through his entire being.

Bucky framed your face when you pulled away again, your gentle panting making him smirk. “I touch myself because of you, too,” he said, chuckling and covering your mouth again when you let out a wanton moan. If he wasn't careful he’d have in his lap and he didn't want to rush that either, unless you wanted to. “And I might break Walker’s fingers for touching you,” he growled.

He worried for a second that it was a bit too much, too possessive. But he heard the whimper in your throat and knew you liked it. “Maybe break one to start with since we weren't officially together.”

“Fine,” he huffed. You were right. You weren't technically together earlier tonight, so he couldn't hold it completely against him. “But he isn't touching your thigh again, sweetheart. You're my girl now.”

“About time,” you sighed, bringing your lips back to his.

“Um,” Bob said from behind you two. Bucky hadn't paid attention to his footsteps since he was so consumed with you. Instead of pulling away from each other, you continued kissing as if you hadn't heard him. “Okay. Guess you two aren't coming back to game night. I’ll tell Yelena and Ava not to bother you,” he added before leaving you two alone.

Bucky would have to plan the perfect date for tomorrow and deal with the team teasing and asking questions. Tonight, he’d leave you breathless with kisses and then kiss you again. And he’ll kiss you every day after that because you were finally his girl. 

I guess we can consider this the end of my vacation and my welcome back of sorts agree the week? I missed you lovelies. 🥰 Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[alwerakoo]

''Everything you're looking for''

TMNT 2012 Donatello x Casey Jones first kiss, 3k words

Art by @nerdy-turtle-enthusiast

Read on AO3

---

Donnie never really liked fireworks.

He didn't like a lot of things growing up, and he's almost certain it's one of those things that come with growing up with four brothers and clawing his way into any sort of individuality he could afford at the time.

Looking at them now, they seem pretty alright.

“You know,” Casey tells him, shouting over the noise, “I kind of blame you for this.”

He's walking backwards, his sneakers unsteady on the wet grass, and Donnie has to resist the urge to jab his staff into his ankles until he trips.

“You wanted to see how far it could go,” he huffs. “And if we programmed it like how I wanted to in the first place, this wouldn't be an issue.”

He knows it's true, and the pitiful remains of what's left of their drone that he's holding onto are proof enough.

It looks like it went down hard, hitting a tree or four on its way. It's a little hard to look at.

Donnie's inventions are creatures of hard labor and effort, and seeing them beaten down always makes something bitter boil in his chest.

He shifts, moving to hide the jagged plastic and metal in the bag slung over his shoulder.

“If we did it how you wanted to, it wouldn't even take off,” Casey says.

“I'm going to drown you in a lake.”

Casey tilts his head back in laughter, almost drowned out by the distant fireworks.

Their search for the drone drove them further away than they anticipated, and Donnie doesn't feel particularly surprised that his family started out the New Year's celebration without them.

It's exactly what they threatened to do, and he supposes the only thing to blame would be Casey Jones, his dumb ego, and inability to rationally judge distances.

It's the sort of thing that would've made him a mess of anxiety and anger just a few years back, but now it only leaves him with dejected acceptance.

He's not sure why he even followed, now that he thinks about it.

It was Casey's idea to fly it out, his idea to chase after it when it broke down, and Donnie followed him without a second thought.

Maybe he just wanted to prove him wrong.

Casey turns around, staring ahead at the lake in the distance. All the sparks and smoke leave a sort of shimmering hue over the water, and Donnie watches it ripple as they walk.

“Bummer they didn't wait for us,” Casey says.

“You wouldn't wait for them,” Donnie notes.

“I'm gonna shove our drone down Raph's throat for this.”

Donnie laughs.

Casey isn't really funny as much as sometimes he says things that are so crude, there is really no other way to react.

It drove Donnie crazy a few years back, in that way most things Casey said or did used to.

His brothers used to tease him for it, and looking back, Donnie can't say he blames them. Sometimes, it really seemed like Casey occupied more of his thoughts than even April.

“What are you thinking about?” The question leaves Donnie's mouth without much intention, like a lose thread from the tapestry of his thoughts, and he almost catches himself off guard with it.

Casey turns to look at him over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“What?”

“You've been quiet, which means you're thinking,” Donnie says. It's an honest observation, and it leaves him feeling a little silly. Quickly, he adds: “This doesn't happen often.”

Casey gives him a look.

He's been looking at Donnie a lot over the past few months, and he's starting to think it's something on his face.

“I'm thinking of something April said,” his friend answers, finally. The sky ahead clears out slowly, the sudden bursts of color less and less frequent, and their walk slows, all the hurry gone from it. “She said New Year's always makes her think of the one before. And how things change and all that shit.”

“I'm not sure she worded it like this,” Donnie says.

“She also said you sucked ass,” Casey adds. “And I was like 'April, why would you say that-'” Donnie leans forward, pushing at the back of Casey's arm, making him stumble. “Ow, okay, alright, you bitch.”

“And are you thinking of last year?” Donnie asks, a little more serious.

Casey shrugs.

“I guess.”

They spent the last New Year's much like this one – huddled together at the lake near the Farmhouse.

It was the end of Casey's and April's first semester in college, and it made the whole thing feel very grand and very grown-up, for whatever it was worth.

Donnie got to light up the fireworks last year.

“And also of, like, when we first came here, you know?”

Donnie feels his mouth pull into a frown. He doesn't particularly like thinking about that part of his life.

Their first visit to the Farmhouse filled him with bitterness, anger, and grief that took years to outgrow.

“I do.” He hopes his tone is enough to make Casey draw back from that specific line of thought.

“Can I tell you something?”

Donnie can't say no to him, but there's some old sadness leaking into his every breath, and he hopes it's not showing as much as he fears it does.

“Sure.”

Despite it, Casey doesn't say anything for a moment longer. He slows down to walk beside Donnie now, one hand shoved into his jacket, the other fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve.

“I was really...” He starts, then stops again. “It was really shitty. When Leo was still recovering and all. And I just- You made me feel a lot better then. And I guess I never thanked you for that. So. Thanks, I guess.”

Donnie blinks.

Casey's refusing to look back at him, but it doesn't stop him staring.

“I made you feel better?” He questions. “Weren't we fighting, like, all the time?”

He has some good memories from that time, and when he thinks about it now – Casey's in a lot of them. But there's such a large shadow Shredder cast over that part of their lives that it's hard to focus on any of the bright parts.

“Well, yeah, but that was, like, part of the fun. Distracted me and all that.” Casey shrugs. Then he smiles a little, almost just to himself. “And we weren't fighting all the time.”

Donnie's not sure what's that supposed to mean.

He frowns, mind racing back to that time.

“I think-” He starts, then hesitates.

It's the kind of raw honesty that seems to come naturally to Casey but not Donnie.

But it's a cold night, the air smells vaguely like smoke and ozone, and the fact that Casey can't see as well in the dark as he does makes him feel a little braver.

“You were a nice distraction, too.”

Casey doesn't answer.

But he walks a little faster, leaving Donnie behind again, like he wasn't really expecting an honest answer from him, and it made him lose his nerve.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he huffs under his breath.

There's this weird little thing Casey does sometimes – hand clenched into a fist, his thumbnail scratching at the skin of his knuckles.

Donnie's known him long enough to know it means he's lying, or trying to hide something, or both, and it makes the corners of his mouth curl upwards.

They walk in silence for a moment longer, interrupted only by the sudden noise and burst of light far ahead, until Casey finally says:

“You know what really sucks?”

“Global warming?” Donnie jokes, fidgeting with the strap of his bag.

“No, I like summer.” He says it in that tone where Donnie can never tell if he's being serious or not. “We missed the countdown, and there aren't even any hot girls for me to kiss here.”

Donnie asked April if she thought Casey would be a good kisser a few years back, in a strange surge of jealousy that he was desperate to hide under nonchalant teasing.

She gave him a look that made him scared to open his mouth for the rest of the day.

He's probably not.

Donnie wouldn't know.

“April's here,” Donnie notes, amused at the wince that twists Casey's face.

“I'm not suicidal,” he says, oddly serious. “I mean girls who want to kiss me.”

“Oh, I'm sure there are plenty of girls throwing themselves to kiss you back in New York,” Donnie teases.

He says it more out of principle than any actual malice. He and Casey don't really talk about that kind of stuff anymore – thank God – but he wouldn't be surprised to see his friend with a girl back home.

Casey Jones is handsome in a way that requires a little imagination and a lot of 'if's. If he combed out his hair, washed his face for once and maybe got rid of that awful bandana – he'd be pretty good-looking.

Donnie heard of some girls that took on harder challenges.

But then he wouldn't look much like Casey Jones after all, and there's a part of Donnie that finds that perspective strangely disappointing.

“Oh, you know it,” Casey says.

His voice sounds a little strained; he's tilting his head up to the sky to follow the fireworks. Donnie watches the way his hair falls down past his ears, brushing over the back of his neck.

(Pretty good-looking indeed.)

They watch what must be the last of the fireworks explode in a flurry of reds and oranges, the sky lighting up for the last time tonight.

There's a strange sort of silence that follows after it.

“But alas,” Casey sighs. “No hotties here.”

“Aw, rude,” Donnie says. “I'm right here.”

It's a joke, and he makes sure his voice sounds light with it. Casey turns to look at him.

And then he stops.

He falters, his feet catching against each other, arms shifting awkwardly to keep his balance.

Donnie reaches out instinctively, grabbing onto Casey's elbow to hold him in place.

“Wow, watch where you're going,” he half-whispers. Some honest worry slips into his tone, and he quickly adds: “Slugger.”

He's been catching himself doing that more and more lately.

Casey is his friend, and it's been years since Donnie felt petty enough to make him doubt that, but there's a part of him that shies away from this sort of honest vulnerability.

He's an old dog, and he's not used to new tricks; rolling over like this – neck bared.

He wonders if he should ask Casey if he's okay, or if that would make it all somehow feel even more awkward, like he's fifteen again, and every little thing he does comes wrapped in four layers of second thoughts and doubts.

Except he's not really sure Casey is listening to him anymore, actually.

His eyes are wide, nose and cheeks red from the cold air. They've all grown over the last few years – Donnie and his brothers more so than others. He's almost a full head taller than his friend, and the tilt of Casey's neck makes him feel every inch of that difference.

He wants to pull back, suddenly unsure on his own feet, but Casey reaches out, grabbing onto his arm.

His hands are cold.

“Sorry?” Donnie says, almost like a whisper.

It's a strange moment, and it makes him a little afraid to speak up, like any sudden noise would shatter-

Whatever this is.

“You know,” Casey says finally, voice low and quiet. “I always thought-”

He doesn't finish.

He pulls his other hand out of his pocket, reaching out to Donnie's shoulder. He grabs the ends of his mask, smoothing the material between his fingers.

He doesn't pull on it.

Donnie leans down either way.

Casey looks lost in thought, fingers brushing against the side of Donnie's neck.

His pupils are wide, gaze fixed on Donnie's face.

Like he's waiting for something, looking for something, wanting to say something-

Something.

Donnie can give him something.

It's l'appel du vide, and it takes him a moment to fully make sense of his own thoughts, his own movements. It's the urge to drive his car off the road, and then the mind-numbing coldness after actually doing it.

It's something he didn't know he wanted to do until the wheel was in his hand, and he can feel his arms tense – braced for the impact.

He leans further down, his knees bending and their faces close.

“You always thought what?”

Casey doesn't answer.

There's a strange sort of awe on his face, like he's been staring up at the night sky the entire evening, and yet somehow – this is still his favorite view.

And then they're kissing, and Casey has his hands all over his face, arms, pressed against the back of his neck. Donnie can feel his own pulse under Casey's thumb, his heart drumming against his ribs like a thunderstorm.

Kissing Casey, Donnie realizes, is pushing his knee against the steering wheel – both hands busy; it's oil stuck under fingernails after a long night in the garage; it's going 100 in a 70; and it's every jealous, bitter thought he ever had at fifteen.

It's strange to imagine he ever wanted to go on without knowing how it feels.

Casey pulls away first, his thumbs pressed into the soft spot behind Donnie's jaw. His hands are rough and dry, boyish and a little sweaty, and Donnie hopes he never lets him go.

“I didn't know-” He sounds breathless, a little dazed, and Donnie leans in again to kiss the words right off his mouth. “Wow.” Casey tilts his head back again, eyes wide in the dark. “I didn't know you were-”

“Yeah,” Donnie interrupts him again. His jaw shifts under Casey's touch. “Well, me neither.”

It's not the full nor even the most honest truth, but it's one that feels most fitting for the moment.

They linger for a moment, both unsure.

Donnie wants to kiss him again. Because he's afraid if he doesn't, he might never get the chance to. Because he wants to. Because he wants him.

But he stays still, his fingers awkwardly pressed into Casey's side. He's wearing a leather jacket, and it makes Donnie's hands feel especially clumsy and wet.

“That's-” They're so close he can still feel Casey's breath on his face. “Do you-”

He doesn't get to finish.

There's a loud buzz coming from Casey's pocket, followed by an obnoxious ringtone, and it makes both of them flinch.

“Shit,” Casey curses.

Then he curses again, coming up with a rather eloquent string of crude words as he reaches into his pocket.

Donnie pulls away to let him, but Casey puts one hand on top of his, like he wants to keep him there.

Donnie's not sure it's a fully conscious gesture, but he doesn't fight him on it.

“Sorry, it's Raph,” Casey says, his face pale blue from his phone screen. “He's asking where we are.”

“Oh,” Donnie says.

He's standing a little further back now, his knees and back straight, but one hand still on Casey's side.

It's awkward.

“Sorry, I'm... Sorry.” He shoves the phone back into his pocket.

“Okay,” Donnie says. Then: “Happy New Year.”

Casey looks at him like he just pulled off a magic trick.

“What?”

“Is that not what you're supposed to say after the kiss?”

He can feel Casey tense under his touch.

“Oh,” he says, voice high and thin. Then he laughs. “I- No, yeah, I guess. Fucking hell.”

He's fumbling.

Casey's a delicate machine of fake bravado and false confidence, and it's fascinating to watch it break down so easily.

In a car crash sort of sense.

“Man.” He combs his fingers through his hair, looking everywhere but at Donnie. He still doesn't pull away from the touch. “This is so weird. I'm sorry, I don't know why- I don't know why I did that.”

It's very like Casey to take credit for Donnie's actions. He almost says that out loud but thinks better of it in the last moment.

He finally pulls his hand back, flexing his fingers. Casey's shoulder moves in a strange way, like he wants to stop him, but then doesn't. Instead, he says:

“We should get back, they're gonna worry.”

It sounds like he wanted to say something else entirely.

“Sure,” Donnie answers.

He feels a little dazed and foggy, and he's almost certain he'd follow Casey anywhere in this state.

They stand still for a moment longer despite it.

Casey's flushed and tense, not just from the cold, and it makes something strange twist in Donnie's gut.

“You know what, let's just...” Casey interrupts himself, biting on his lip. He's been doing that a lot tonight. “How about we just pretend this never happened?”

And for a moment, there's a snap of something hot and angry in Donnie's chest; something a few years younger and elbows deep in insecurity and self-doubt.

For a moment, he almost says: no.

And then he looks a little closer.

Casey's nervous, gaze fixed on his own feet.

Donnie watches his thumb scratch over the skin on his knuckles.

It's an invitation; a game he's not sure Casey knows they will be playing yet.

He and Casey are best friends in the same way they used to be rivals – with unapologetic passion and everything they have.

Donnie's willing to take him up on this, too. Whatever it may be.

“Okay,” he lies.

“Okay?” Finally, Casey looks up at him.

For a split second, he almost looks disappointed. It's all Donnie needed to know.

He leans down again, their foreheads almost touching; one hand on Casey's arm so he doesn't stumble.

“You're welcome, by the way. For the distraction.”

Then, just as quickly, he straightens, puts a palm to Casey's forehead, and with only half of his strength – pushes back.

“Hey!” Casey groans, raising a hand to rub at his face, looking over his shoulder when Donnie moves to pass him. “Oh, you're such an asshole. That was a vulnerable moment, don't use it against me.”

The air feels light again, and there's something warm and heavy sitting right between Donnie's ribs.

He can hear Casey follow him, his footsteps light on the grass.

“Yeah, well, that was your second mistake.”

Donnie watches the water on the lake, still and dark blue under moonlight.

He wonders what kissing Casey there would feel like.

(He wonders if Casey will let him find out.

He thinks the answer might be yes.)

“What was the first?”

Silently, Donnie reaches for his bag, raising it up to shake the pathetic remains of their drone.

Behind him, Casey laughs.

[chara-cat5]

lads isekai au ch 8

reader is gender neutral, warning: swearing, mdni

masterlist

first 1

previous 7

next 9 (not out yet)

"hi, sweetie."

your whole form went stiff as you met his red eyes, but that didn't seem to bother him as he tugged you into a dancing position, one hand in your stiff one, his other at your waist. he hummed softly, that all knowing smirk on his lips and eyes sharp and observant.

"you don't mind giving me a dance, do you? i just need to see how my cat is doing."

you narrowed your own eyes at him, following his lead for now.

"why don't you just ask mia yourself?"

"mia? oh, did i mention my cat's name?"

you felt your face go pale as his smirk grew.

"i... we came together, so i assumed you saw..."

he hummed, twirling you before tugging right against his chest, voice lowered dangerously.

"i think you know more them you're letting on, sweetheart."

you swallowed, eyes wide as you tried to lean away. shit shit shit shit- knew too much? what- oh, geez he looks serious-

"i- i'm just observant. i'm not sure what you mean."

"oh, i'm sure you understand. you knew the twins before you met them. you were looking for me as soon as you walked in, which means you not only know my appearance, but also my occupation and habits. you know my relationship with mia, despite only being asked about a 'cat'."

with each accusatory statement he made you step backwards. you let out a soft yelp when your back met the balcony door, stumbling as he released you. he let you put distance between the two of you since you had nowhere to run. he said your name, sending your heart racing all the more faster.

"so, you're gonna start talking, sweetheart, or mia is gonna have to look for a new roommate."

"woah woah woah- l-let's calm down now. i'm not- i'm not here to cause you issues, i just-..."

you took in a breath, gripping the banister of the balcony.

"... you're right. i do know you and the twins and probably more then i'm meant to. but, i'm not here to hurt anyone. not you, and defiantly not mia."

he dropped his smirk at your admission, his expression serious and unreadable.

"... how and why do you know this information then?"

"i..."

'i'm from another world where you're a love interest in an otome game.'

can't really say that, can you? how the hell do you get out of this situation without dying??

before either of you could say another word, screams sounded from the room behind the tall crow. you pushed past him, already unbuttoning the top few buttons to fish your spear out. the room was a mess, purses, furniture and tableware scattered over the carpet. screams of terror were loud, the crowd of panicked people going this way and that to try and escape. in the center of it all, a wanderer floated, it's harsh screeches sounding over the panicking mob.

fuck. it was definitely one of the wanderers with the shield shit. the kind you needed a love interest to beat.

"sylus, come with me!"

you called over your shoulder, yanking your spear off the chain around your neck. scrapping the tip across the ground, making a sweep toward the wanderer, sent vines shooting out, wrapping around it's form. you followed it up with a rotating swing, your spearhead carving through it's form. it snapped the vines around it's arm, raising it to stab toward you, sending a shot of panic through your heart.

"you really don't want to make it easy for me, huh?"

you felt your body get pulled back, a weightless feeling taking over as black and red tendrils wrapped their way around you. the blade barely missed you, and your back met sylus's firm chest, his arm out stretched toward the beast. following his lead, you sent another flurry of vines toward it, both strangling and squeezing till it popped. the thing fell to dust, leaving the two of you in an empty room. you let out a breath, walking to the wanderer remans to check for a protocore.

"you took your time, eh?"

he let out a scoff behind you, his feet scuffing as he shifted his weight.

"took my time? you rushed in- recklessly might i add- without even checking if i was following."

his voice got louder as he walked closer, his shadow casted over you. you only hummed, pocketing the core and standing up. quick steps sounded nearby, mia panting softly next to you.

"i heard screaming, what happened in here?"

"wanderer. we took care of it. did you find anything from where you went?"

she shook her head, eyeing both you and sylus. you retracted your spear, shoving it into your pocket.

"i'm going to go start the report. i don't think we'll find anything out like this."

"wait a minute, sweetheart. you aren't getting off that easily."

sylus grabbed your arm, stopping you from walking off. mia looked between you, a look of confusion and panic rising to her face.

"do you... know each other...?"

"ask them."

you shot him a glare, the idea kicking his shin and running enticing.

"i know of him. i would't say i know him personally..."

"then what would you say, sweetheart because so far you've only proven you know far too much."

before you could argue back, mia stepped between you, facing sylus. you blinked in surprise, her tone more serious then you've ever heard her.

"skye, this is my friend. i'm sure whatever it is, it's a misunderstanding. why don't we talk later."

she glanced over his shoulder, security finally making their move into the room. while he looked like he wanted to argue, he agreed, leaving the two of you to explain what went down as hunters.

"i don't know what's going on, but please tell me later."

.

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entity [user] encounter entity [sylus]

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a̵f̵f̴i̶n̵i̸t̷y̵ level [3]

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taglist: @sleepisfortheweakpooh @plzdonutpercieveme @young-adult-summer @mentaltrouble2201 @noxus123 @asakiyu @leftpoetrymoon @hon3yydew @anemobabygirl @clandestienly @crimsonrubie @beaconsxd @yuurisfavblog

hello loves!!

got a break at work so i could format this (i write in my notes app then copy paste everything into tumblr)

if y'all would like, i can answer any questions you have! buuuuut, no spoilers will given. so i'll pick and choose.

thank you for reading!!

-chara <3

[robinvomit]

[ boyfriend. ]

"you could clean this place up once in a while, you know? it looks like a fraternity lives here."

tim doesn't acknowledge the comment with anything more than a glance, knowing that any remark he made would definitely be thrown back in his face. you just smile in response and go back to the file in your hand.

the safehouse is quiet outside of the lights buzzing above you and a fan in the corner that seems like it might be on it's last leg. you have to give him credit, there's no bottles or food containers, it's mostly crumbled up papers, tech parts and spare clothes laying all over the place. you've never known him to be the most organized person on the planet, thinking back momentarily to when you made him clean his room.

the sound of tim elbow deep in the 'everything' drawer in the little kitchen gains your interest and you look over the top of the paper, eyebrow raised.

"i know this is where i left it," he grumbles, and by the looks of how he's rummaging, you'd think the drawer was magical. "unless someone moved it."

"tim.." you began, closing the file, "not a single person touches your weird little goblin drawer."

"it is not a goblin drawer. it's organized. i know where everything is."

"oh, clearly. that's why you're still looking?" you snort softly, shaking your head. "if by ‘organized' you mean the aftermath of a hurricane."

once again, he doesn't entertain you with a response, just pulls out something that looks like it might belong in a completely different dimension and groans, dropping it back into the mess. you listen to everything being pushed around, wondering just how much he's managed to fit in there and why anything important is being kept in the kitchen.

you decide not to be curious, knowing that usually doesn't end well when it comes to him, and return to your file, shifting to lean back more comfortably on the couch. your ability to drown everything out is interrupted by the sound of him mumbling to himself:

"great.. can't find it and my boyfriend's gonna be a little menace all day."

your gaze lifts once more and an eyebrow raises, taking a second to make sure you heard that correctly. he isn't acting like he just said what he did but you're positive you heard that word.

"oh?" you finally put the file down, elbow on the arm of the couch as you rest your cheek on your fist. it comes out dry despite being highly amused at the way he seems to briefly pause. "when did i become your boyfriend, timothy?"

he doesn't move for a moment, you're not even sure if he breathes or not, before he straightens up and turns to look at you. he's doing his best to keep his features void but you can see that deer trapped in headlights look behind it, like he's not sure if he should answer or bolt for the fire escape.

"don't- please don't do this." he sighs, eyebrows pulling together but he makes no move to return to digging. you can actually see his expression shift to something that says he's too exhausted for this conversation.

"i'm not the one that said it," you say, waving your free hand. "but if i'm your boyfriend, you're doing an absolutely terrible job at this. no good morning text, no coffee, not even a kiss. are we already breaking up?"

tim pinches the bridge of his nose and mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like 'okay, he's doing this, we're doing this.' before shifting his weight, arms crossing. "i didn't mean to say it out loud. slip of the tongue."

you tsk'd and got to your feet, stretching a little with a sigh, like it was a deliberate display before walking over to him. "see, but you did and i don't know what i'm supposed to do with that. do you want me to be?"

he blinks. another follows and you know he's in his head, having a melt down because he definitely wasn't planning to drop that word out loud. in front of you. for what seems like the first time since you've met him, he's not sure what to say.

you soften a little and reach for his hand. "it's okay. you can call me your boyfriend if that's what you want," you mumble, shrugging slightly as if you're not trying to make this official in the middle of his unruly safehouse.

tim stared at you for a second then dropped his gaze to your hand, then back up with a small nod. "..okay."

"romantic." you roll your eyes and squeeze his hand. "buuut.. if you're going to go around just saying stuff like that and drop the bomb you apparently already saw me that way, the least you could do is follow this amazing confession with a kiss. since that's what boyfriends do, and all."

he groans like he was waiting for this, waiting for you to pull something. "you're really going to do this? this really does make us a thing now," he mutters the last part, looking at you with a raised brow.

"tim.. we've basically been a thing for two years, it just has a title now."

he can't even find it in himself to argue, thinking back on the last two years and realizing there hasn't been a moment where he wasn't looking at you that way. he glances around like he's debating something before his hand comes up to the back of your neck, guiding you into a kiss. it's soft, sincere - something honest that he can say without using words.

pulling your hand back to rest your arms over his shoulders, you tip your head to nudge your nose against his playful. "much better," you muse, "was that so hard?"

he rolls his eyes and says: "i hate you." but his hand lifts to ghost over your side before one arm settles around you, a kiss being pressed to your forehead.

"sure you do." you press one back to his cheek in return before pulling back just a little. "now.. find your weird gadget things and let's go.. you're late to our first date by two years."

[ taggies: @seleneprince , @ baby bat ♡ ]

[karikitdemonrp]

Akimitsu blinked and listened to Inuyasha, giving a nod. "Yes... Souls. I'm sure you can figure out exactly what I mean by it." He muttered, moving his gaze to continue writing in his scroll. "I know it looks like I'm treating her like a test subject but I don't intend to. It's just a being like her has never existed before so this is new information about life. When I sensed what she was I almost blurted it out, though Kagome was quick with that note, that's why I managed to hold back. I suppose Auntie told her about my... Hyperactive and excitable nature when it comes to things like this." The demi-god gave a bitter sweet chuckle.

"I never really felt like I belonged, for multiple reasons. One of which being that I'm a demi-god but I'm sure you had it rougher because of stigma. After all, I'm a demi-god and gods are looked at better than demons but it's still a weird spot to be in. The other is how my brain works." He sighed, pausing his writing for a moment to think. "I don't really get people, more so than others like us. Half human, half something else. But for me, it was always a bit weirder. I was made fun of for my ideas and for how I perceived things. Though, I never fully understood it. So I guess what I'm trying to say is if it comes across that I'm treating her as a test subject know it's not my intention and to let me know about it." The demi-god wrote down what Inuyasha said about Kari's abilities.

"Well... I know what rank deity she is but it's not exactly... ... oh boy." Akimitsu turned around and realized that Inuyasha was still there, watching and probably confused. "Oh! Right, you were watching. Sorry, I got super absorbed in what I was doing I forgot you were there. You see, these liquids are kinda like the essence of a god, to put it as simply as possible. It's not exactly that but it's the best way I could put it. I figured out a sort of system to figure out a gods rank by seeing how a god reacts to different levels. No reaction means no match. A reaction means it's as close of a match as possible. And this--" The demi-god held up the vial of viscous gold and blue liquid. "This is the highest rank possible, well almost but this is the highest rank I could obtain and it was super hard to get. There is only one rank higher than this and there's only one in that category, so Kari being this high a rank means one of two things." Akimitsu took a moment to go write down his findings, then continued to speak.

"Faster than the wind, huh. Barriers too. Symbols glowing when under emotional stress which is kinda normal for a kid regardless. I couldn't controll my abilities very well to start. Any time I got scared the pond outside would bubble and burst out, any water near by reacting to me. Also a shifting of Kari's scent and her aura from what Auntie wrote in her note. Though that's likely due to something with the seal on her scarf and not her." He murmured to himself thoughtfully, eyes glazing over as he continued to think. "One strand might not be enough but I'll try my best." His voice was soft, thought filled as if he weren't fully present but still able to reply. He got to work examining the strand of hair first then adding certain liquids to it, the first being a foggy pale yellow color, being careful to only add small drops to it. Nothing happened to the hair and Akimitsu narrowed his eyes slightly "Ok, not that one. Maybe this one." He pulled out another vial of liquid, this one a sapphire blue color. There was no reaction and Akimitsu showed slight concern. Next was a shimmering ruby red liquid that was more vibrant and more viscous than blood, almost like tree sap. He didn't pour it and instead took the strand and carefully dipped it in the vial. Again no reaction. "This is... Concerning." He gulped, moving to another liquid, this one was also viscous bit this time more like tar, aside from that it was a dazzling golden color with a bit of blue dotted in it here and there and no matter how much it was mixed, the blue never vanished. Akimitsu dipped the strand of hair into the liquid and there was a slight reaction, a small amount of white steam rising off of the small strand of hair. The demi god swallowed hard, taking a breath.

"First, it could mean the rank carried over and one of her parents was that high of a rank, which is most likely. Or two, one of her parents was a slightly lower rank but the strengths of her parents combined and thus gave Kari this rank. Either way, Kari's deific abilities are on par with the goddess of the sun and her siblings. But the dull reaction has me a bit concerned, though it could be because she's also half demon. Something similar happened when I tested it on myself." Akimitsu hummed softly in thought. "As for figuring out how strong her demonic abilities are that's a bit more tricky. I don't get many demons of a higher caliber around here and I'm not one for traveling very far, but I might have something." The demi-god stood up again and began rummaging through a different set of vials.

"Let's see here..." The demi-god hummed softly to himself while he looked. "Ah, here we go. I have a small amount of great demon essence here thankfully and plenty of lesser demon essence and after this I'll try and cross reference some specific demon dna to see if I can figure out what kind of demon she could be, at least as best as possible. Each demon has a certain pattern that identifies them as a part of a certain group, hopefully I'll be able to figure that out sooner rather than later." He informed then got to work doing the same process. Kagome eventually walked back in with some strands of Kari's hair but realized it wouldn't be necessary. But before she could go, Akimitsu asked her to leave them on his desk next to him just in case something happened to this one. He swiftly added the strands of hair to a vial so they wouldn't blow away and went back to work.

Kagome looked at Inuyasha with a confused expression. "So, uh, what's the verdict so far?" She asked, trying not to be too loud while Akimitsu worked.

Inuyasha stood near the doorway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in quiet thought as he watched the children vanish outside. Once they were gone, and Kagome stepped out after them, he finally shifted, his golden gaze landing on Akimitsu. The half-demon’s posture was tense—not from mistrust, but from the kind of weight that came with watching someone walk the path he once knew all too well.

“Tch. Of course it’s complicated,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Souls, huh…”

When Akimitsu asked his question, Inuyasha didn’t answer right away. His ears twitched slightly, picking up on the distant sound of Kari’s voice, faint and a little steadier than before. His eyes softened a little.

“She’s made a few barriers on her own, yeah,” he finally answered. “First time was when we were ambushed near Kaede’s village—she didn’t even know she was doin’ it. Just instinct. Then again while we were traveling… happened when she got cornered, overwhelmed. Her scent changes every time, her energy too. And when she panics? Those weird symbols on her body—they glow.” The hanyou paused, his jaw tight.

“She told me once she felt like she could’ve run faster than the wind. Like somethin’ inside her wanted to break free… but didn’t. Like her body was holdin’ back.” His brows furrowed, annoyed—though not at Kari. “Didn’t say it out loud, but I think she was scared of what might happen if she didn’t hold back.”

He looked at Akimitsu, his expression suddenly sharp.

“Don’t treat her like a test subject. I don’t care what scrolls you got or how smart you are—Kari’s a kid. Not a damn artifact.”

Inuyasha exhaled, calming himself before he said something more heated. He looked away, ears twitching, eyes distant. “But… I get it. You’re tryin’ to help.” He stepped away from the door and walked over, pulling a loose strand of silver hair from the sleeve of his haori. “She shed this earlier. Take it, if it helps. Might have both demon and god traces on it, I dunno.” His claws twitched slightly before folding his arms again.

“And no—she doesn’t know what she is yet. The seal’s still doin’ its job… barely. But if those cracks keep spreadin’? It’s only a matter of time. We need to know what she is before she figures it out the hard way.” His voice lowered slightly, almost hesitant.

“She asked me if she’d still be okay… even if she could do more than just make barriers.” He glanced toward the door, toward where she was laughing faintly with Shippo.

“I didn’t give her some flowery answer or anything. Just told her… yeah. She’d be okay. Long as I’m around.” His eyes hardened again, gaze snapping back to Akimitsu.

“So whatever you find out—you tell me first. Not her. Not yet. I’ll decide what she can handle.”

[lvl109]

helen of troy ✶ sylus qin

summary.ᐟ non!mc reader. wc: 1274. cw: infidelity, alcohol consumption, unprotected (and shameless) sex. porn with the barest amount of plot. president au (?? lmfao)

tee says.ᐟ it's scandal season, baby... was watching it with my mom and fitz's dynamic with olivia reminded me so much of sylus... and then i was talking to iris @humanjarvis (hi beloved <3) about it briefly... and now here we are. if you've seen scandal then you know what this is based on. screaming kicking my feet this is making me so unwell. self indulgent fic no.8363736338. as you do.

and just a brief note—i know sylus would never do any of this. my commitment king. this is just a silly little fic based off of a fictional tv show. :)

the party is in full swing.

colleagues, political allies and friends, relatives, and staff mingle amongst each other as drinks and chatter are traded over low music. you don't remember what the party is for. some anniversary for a dead founding father or a celebration of life for some state’s congressman. you don't care. you make sure the alcohol doesn't let you.

one glass is all you're allowed. you'd promised tara and you didn't like seeing her upset. but your stomach churned at the sight before you, hands itching for another glass back and relish in the momentary burn as it fizzled down your throat.

a happy couple leaning into each other, engrossed in conversation. the wife laughs at a joke you don't hear. the husband keeps an arm out to steady her, the hand at her back comfortable. assured. a sight to see, the president and his first lady. the envy of all. 

you know very well how those same hands feel against bare skin. you say a silent apology to your young secretary and snatch a glass of a platter as a waiter walks past you, knocking it back in one go.

“drinking to forget someone, miss?”

you just smile as familiar company settles at your corner of the party. silver hair comes into view when you turn your head slightly. “you can speak comfortably, you know. it's a party. drink, have fun, you're not on duty.”

xavier eyes your empty glass. his expression doesn't change much, but you see his slight shift to mild exasperation. “i'd rather not. who knows the reason why you're on your way to giving yourself liver failure.”

it had been months since you'd last seen your head of security. the two of you had been separated since you no longer worked for the president for… reasons you'd rather not get into. reasons you were correctly trying to drink yourself into memory loss.

your skin will never forget the revenant way he touched you, the secret confessions whispered against bare shoulders. the kisses that felt like incomplete promises. your grip around your glass tightens.

“i'm going to get some air.” this time, your smile is thin. forced. xavier makes no comment, just nods as you leave to gather your coat and leave. 

to the rest of the party, you slip out of the door unnoticed. but not to one. never to one.

you can hear his footsteps behind you. different from the rest. you know this. you've been by his side an entire election and well into a presidency. you know what his footsteps sound like. unhurried. full of the confidence required of the commander in chief. 

the president is not behind you. all titles were dropped the moment he'd stepped out after you.

his steps pick up when yours do. the hallway is lit lowly and your steps sound even louder despite the carpeted floor. your heart bangs against your ribcage, thundering in your ears—you can feel him closing in, fabric swishing with each step. something like fear and exhilaration lights a path down your spine and surges your body forward. but it's no use.

his hand grips yours and yanks you to the side before you turn the sharp corner. you don't even have th chance to utter a sound of protest, pulled into a dark closet before the door slams shut and you're crowded against a wall.

a shaky breath exhale is all the warning you get. his lips crash against yours with the passion of a thousand burning suns. hot and possessive and claiming as his hands cup your face and take. your body curves into him on instinct, purse dropping to the floor. 

the sound snaps you back to reality, letting out a sharp gasp before you push him away. your hand is flying towards his face before you can even stop it, chest heaving.

sylus stares back at you unfazed, his lips pink from your sudden kiss. red blossoms across his cheek. the man before you commands armies at whim. one word and irreparable damage could be dealt to your worst enemies. the most important person in the entire country now looks at you with barely restrained hunger with his wife just a hallway from where you stood.

you blame the alcohol for the crack in your resolve. 

his hands find your waist as you launch yourself into his arms, pulling him down into a kiss that bruises both your lips. his answering groan makes your head spin, the sound low and almost relieved. impatient hands tug at your jacket and toss the offending material somewhere near your purse.

without warning, he spins you around and presses you against the wall, broad chest against your back as he hikes your skirt up. your hands claw at the wall as he makes quick work of his belt, babbling utter nonsense as his zipper slides down.

“yes,” you shudder out, head falling back against his chest as a large hand settles at your back. arching off the wall, ass pressed against his crotch, you hear him curse lowly and whimper pathetically. “touch me, touch m—ohh—”

the slide is torturous. a slip between already damp thighs, fabric bunched at your waist. his head catches on your clit and you moan into your palm. teeth nip at your skin in warning.

“let me hear you.” his voice is darkened with desire so palpable you can almost taste it. “let everyone know who owns me.”

you don't even have the time to wrap your head around that before he thrusts inside of you. your inhale is cut short by a choked whine, lips immediately falling open to cry out.

“open up for me,” he grits against your skin, breathing shakily as his hips snap upwards at a steadily frantic pace. “show me how much—how much you missed. this.”

your nails scrape at the wall, scrambling for a surface to hold on to. you flounder until one hand takes root in his hair and tugs, releasing a moan so bassy near your ear you clench hard enough to see stars.

“'cause i missed this. missed you. nobody gets me the way you do. mhm, fuck. not zayne, not my incompetent staff, and not—” he grunts as your legs begin to tremble, holding you up by the wall. “definitely not my wife. i would kill for you. send a thousand men to die for you. don't. leave. me.”

each word is punctuated with sharp thrusts that make you useless beyond sentences, watered down and fucked stupid to just half coherent words and sobs. “sy—lus, w-wait—mmn, close—”

a breathy laugh near your ear makes your heart flutter. “no one’s stopping you, my love. you know all this belongs to you. use me.”

you'll regret it later. your lapse in judgment. the shame will make your chest cave in at your most private moments, cursing yourself for ignoring reason. 

but in this closet, you're not fucking the president and succumbing to pleasure you know isn't yours. you selfishly chase after your orgasm and squeeze your eyes shut when he tells you he loves you, voice cracking when your thighs squeeze together and the pleasure rocks through your body.

you at least have the sense to force him to pull out and finish over the fading marks on your ass. the final kiss you share feels more promise than goodbye. no words are shared when you tug our skirt back into place, the distance growing between the two of you already.

he wasn't yours. but damn if a small part of you didn't want him as bad as he did you.

[ddejavvu]

Hiccup meeting reader who works in welding and is making him a new stirrup, and they have a conversation about riding and he offers to teach her. She’s scared of heights but would go to spend time with him 🙂‍↕️

It's strange, realizing you have a fear of heights well into adulthood, but to be fair you've never been presented with the offer of flying on the back of a dragon before, so you'd never really figured it out.

You'd stayed clear of Berk's cliffs in your youth but that was more anxiety than cold, solid fear. Your feet had stayed firmly away from the edge in case you'd fallen onto the unforgiving rocks below, but all of the village kids were taught not to get too close to the edge. Flying, being completely airborne on nothing but a creature that used to raze your village, is what makes you realize you have a fear of heights. What's even stranger is that your fellow blacksmith may be the biggest fan of flying in all of the Archipelago.

The dragons aren't the scary part- you've been used to them for years, and Toothless knows you from how often he accompanies Hiccup to the forge. There's no hesitation from you anymore before you reach out to scratch at the small scales around his snout, but when he rustles his great wings or throws them out to his sides you take an instinctive step backwards.

Hiccup tinkers with his metal foot almost weekly, but this stirrup is better fitted when he's seated in Toothless's saddle, and he can't work from that angle. And- even if you're the only logical choice, seeing as you're the other blacksmith on the island and you'd been occupying yourself by throwing pebbles into the flames from across the building, it's nice to know that Hiccup trusts you with something as important as his limb. You trust him too, and the unspoken agreement makes you feel special.

Right now you're crouched by his side, tongue pinched between your lips as you check the mechanism that locks Hiccup's foot into the stirrup of the saddle. It's important that it locks tightly, otherwise he could fall or be injured during flight, but he needs to be able to extract it at will, too.

It had loosened itself slightly, but it seems to work fine now, and when you give him the go-ahead, he unlocks his foot and finds himself free of the saddle without any pain or warped metal.

"Perfect," He gushes, almost laughing in relief as his eyes shine brightly. He clicks it in and out of place experimentally, "Y'know if you hadn't been here, I'd have folded myself in half trying to weld my own stirrup shut."

"You'd singe off your eyebrows," You snicker, your palm butting against his shoulder in a gentle, good-natured shove, "I don't mind helping- I've got nothing else to do today. But you can thank me by fixing the clasp of my bracelet later- it broke," You look down sadly at your bare wrist, "And I'm not as good at the small stuff as you are."

"I'll fix it," He assures you, settling further into the saddle atop Toothless's back, "But I was really gonna thank you by taking it for a spin- you wanna go flying?"

Your spine tenses as dread pools in your gut.

You're always able to dodge the question, feigning hunger or remembering suddenly that you'd forgotten to hang your washing out to dry. Now that you've just revealed your totally empty schedule for the day, you're not sure how to weasel your way out of flying without being obvious.

But it seems any effort is in vain. You should have known- maybe you could have placated Snotlout with a half-baked excuse, or told Ruffnut you were just feeling queasy and couldn't handle a zippleback flight, but Hiccup notices things the others don't, and he's always been that way. He picks up on the momentary shift of your face- a briefly furrowed brow, and sees the way your teeth dig into your lower lip with unease.

"Come to think of it," He speaks again, his voice quieter now, "I've never seen you fly before. I know you're not afraid of dragons," He concludes, "But... you're afraid to fly, aren't you?"

"I'm not afraid," You protest meekly, eyes downcast as you spend entirely too long meticulously replacing your tools, "I'm just- I don't know, it seems risky. Your leg is connected to the saddle but mine won't be. Even in stirrups, it'd be so easy for me to just fall, and there's no guarantee I'd be caught, and it just seems like a pretty quick way to die, if you ask me."

"You sound a little afraid." Hiccup teases tentatively, searching for a smile on your face, even briefly, "But that's okay. It is scary- I mean, at least the first time. But Toothless is a pro." He promises, patting the side of the dragon's scaly head, "And I'll be there too. That's just about as safe as you can get for your first flight. And if you want, we can just glide over the forest. Nothing too high, and not over the ocean. Just ten minutes?"

Ten minutes on the back of a dragon.

Hiccup holds out a hand, and you seem to have accidentally welded your feet to the ground, because they won't move.

"Come on," He smiles, gesturing encouragingly with his outstretched hand, "Do you trust me?"

You do trust him, you remember, as you squeeze your eyes shut and take his hand. You do trust him, and you let him tug you across the floor and maneuver you onto the back of his dragon all while you're staring at the backs of your eyelids- you do trust him, and for the next ten minutes, that will have to be enough.

[respectfulrebel]

SCREAMINGGGGGGGGG

I love him I love him I love him I love him I love himmmmm 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

And I love you cause this was so much fun to read and got me giggling the whole time 🥰🥰🥰🥰

"No, no, no," you repeat, swiping past a firefighter, a guy who looked like he could be a fighter-or maybe a trainer-some 'voice actor, a real actor, a guy wearing a mask to obscure his face with his whole ass titties out, dubbing himself as being from Arcadia (whatever that meant)

The final profile-someone who looked potentially like a priest

🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭 giggling kicking my feet cause all the Easter eggs 🤭🤭🤭 brilliant

What man's ass jiggles while he's shaking his arms???

A good man’s ass 🤭

"This won't do. You need a better selection pool."

Nah, she needs you 🤭

paired with a set of tight short shorts that leave very little to the imagination as he starts squatting.

"Come here, buddy. Use me as support to get deeper."

FOLIO!!! 😂😂😂😂😂

"Oooh, someone forgot to pay their rent. Naughty, naughty," Folio taunts.

I love him 😂

"I thought you'd want some snacks," he offers quietly, holding up one of his premium bags of chips.

Stooooooooooppp 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 he brought her snacks???? I’d marry him on the spot

"Well, you are prettier than Jolly. Maybe not Davis, though."

🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭

"You keep up the good dance moves, babygirl, and I'll take care of you," you tease, reaching out to give him a playful smack on the ass as you climb into the car and he brings a hand to his forehead while closing the door, dramatically pretending to faint over your charming words.

I love their dynamic sooooo muuuuch I’m gonna cry 😭😭😭

The two of you go back and forth, perfectly in sync with the movie. Noah begins to crawl toward you, slow and dramatic, after easing onto his knees, and you slide off the couch to meet him on the floor, mirroring his movements as you both crawl toward one another.

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 stoooop that’s so cuuteee

As he straightens up and moves toward you, your hands find his upper arms, fingers pressing lightly into the warm flex of muscle. His nose brushes yours, breath warm against your lips. He's close-so close you expect him to pull away, but he doesn't.

MY HEART IS POUNDING

His hands slide around to your lower back, gently tugging you closer, your bodies swaying, almost grinding, to the slow, sensual rhythm. The movement mirrors the dancing he does in the club, deliberate and intimate, full of unspoken promise.

You're close enough now to feel the heat of his breath ghosting over your lips. Close enough that if one of you moved even an inch-

Then the back door slams.

NOOOOOOOOOO 😭😭😭😭😭 SOO CLOSE 😭

"Well, usually yes, but not today. I'm here because I'm supposed to be meeting a date."

OH MY GOD

"I'm not insecure or anything. I know he's a charmer—there's a reason he has a Facebook support group. Which I'm pretty sure Folio moderates," he adds with a wry look.

Fucks sake 😂

"You don't have to decide right now," Jesse says, slipping his hands into his pockets with a casual shrug. His tone is almost nonchalant, but there's something about his posture, the restraint in his expression, that suggests he's holding himself back. "Figure out where your head's at... and call me."

Are we gonna break Jesse’s heart? 😭😭

He shifts, just enough to make room for you, and as you melt against his side out of habit and comfort, his arm wraps loosely around you.

You feel the way Noah relaxes beside you before he dips his head, gently nestling it against the crown of yours.

And for a moment, you swear you hear Noah mumble the words softly against your hair-something quiet and almost instinctive. It sends a warm, fuzzy flutter through your chest. You already knew he was a hopeless romantic, but that doesn't stop it from making you fall just a little bit more.

I need them to fall in love and live happily ever after 😭😭😭😭😭

𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒… 03

Summary: When you were convinced to visit a male strip club, you didn’t anticipate that the guy you locked eyes with on stage and who subsequently pulled you up for a routine, would turn out to be the same guy whose roommate advert you’d be responding to less than 24 hours later.

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x reader, (slight) Jesse Cash x reader.

CW: two idiots in love, reader ogling Noah like he's a piece of meat, Noah in his short shorts.

WC: 5.5k.

AN: Alright, so I’m not sure how many parts this will have. All I know is that this is for fun I hope you enjoy Noah being a lovable himbo.

Dividers: silent-stories.

Fic Masterlist

With a heaving sigh, you throw yourself onto the couch and lean back, resting your head against a cushion you’d moved to the armrest. It was back to the drawing board after yet another failed date, scrolling through the now limited options. If it wasn’t some cheesy line in their bio that put you off, it was the fact they were either clearly out of your league—or out of your radius.

“No, no, no,” you repeat, swiping past a firefighter, a guy who looked like he could be a fighter—or maybe a trainer—some ‘voice actor,’ a real actor, a guy wearing a mask to obscure his face with his whole ass titties out, dubbing himself as being from Arcadia (whatever that meant), a guy who looked like a potential contender… only for you to double-check his profile and see you weren’t his type (read: not a man), and then a young woman about your age with long hair, tattoos, and incredibly pretty, that made you pause until you saw the picture of her with a friend who was clearly far from just a friend.

“I wonder how long before they realize they’re in love with each other,” you mumble to yourself with a sigh.

The final profile—someone who looked potentially like a priest, is what makes you roll your eyes and give up altogether, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to ease the tension headache building behind your eyes.

It’s useless, and you’re making no progress in moving on from your crush on Noah. In fact, you swear it’s only getting worse, especially when you catch him flaunting around in those short shorts while shaking his protein shake.

What man’s ass jiggles while he’s shaking his arms???

You’d like to think the dates hadn’t been all that terrible—except they had.

First, there was Sam: the influencer who insisted on taking selfies or recording everything for their TikTok page, even going as far as wanting to move tables because “the lighting looks better over there.” They spent the entire date talking about themselves, never once asking about you, and rattled off their stats like it was a business pitch—ending with, “Obviously, I get better numbers than you do from streaming.”

Then there was Darren, the magician. He actually caught your attention at first, until he performed his best trick yet: a disappearing act… right as the bill arrived. Asshole.

After that came Lyle, a guy completely obsessed with crypto. He decided to give you a full breakdown of everything from blockchain to Bitcoin, proudly showcasing his NFT collection like a parent showing off baby photos.

Your last ditch effort had been with an older woman, Gillian, and while the date had started out great, it was her sly comment—“What do you plan to do with your life? Streaming isn’t exactly a real job, is it?”—that made your mommy issues flare up, a little too close for comfort.

While you’re scrolling through your phone, a large tattooed hand suddenly reaches down from above and snatches it right out of your fingers.

“Noah!” you huff, pushing yourself upright as he starts scrolling through the options on your screen.

“Wow, these are the dudes you’ve got coming up?” He tuts like he’s personally offended, shaking his head. “This won’t do. You need a better selection pool.”

“Well, that’s the only one I have. Now can I have my phone back?”

He ignores your request entirely and turns, heading into the kitchen. You push yourself up from the couch to follow after him.

“Noah!”

“And this is your profile?” he scoffs. “You need to liven it up a little. Maybe a few better pictures—we can get Bryan to take some real photographic shots!”

“I’m not using Bryan to take pictures for a dumb dating app.”

“Why not? These do nothing to compliment you.” He pauses and turns to gesture down at you in your shorts and oversized T-shirt, making your cheeks warm at the implied compliment.

“Uhh… thanks?” you mutter. For a second, you swear his eyes rake over you a little too long, lingering, but then he’s back to studying the screen like your love life is a group project.

“Where are the guys?” you ask, glancing around.

As if on cue, the sound of music blares to life from the backyard, followed by the low hum of voices and laughter. That answers your question, and Noah simply points in the direction of the backdoor, eyes still locked on your screen like he’s the one whose dating profile is currently under scrutiny.

Following him outside, he offers your phone back, and just as you step out, Jolly calls over to you from the bench he’s currently sitting on, a dumbbell in one hand that he’s steadily lifting into bicep curls.

“Hey! How’d the last date go?”

“Terrible.” You screw up your face, lifting a hand to block out the sun. “It was like being on a date with my mom—probably would’ve been cheaper, too.”

“Hot,” Folio chimes in.

There’s a chorus of disgusted groans and “gross” comments thrown his way before he quickly backtracks.

“I mean me going on a date with her mom. That sounds hot.”

Suddenly, there’s a shift from disgust to agreement, a few thoughtful hums, and now it’s your turn to be disgusted. You roll your eyes and move beneath the shade provided by the neighbor’s overhanging tree.

It doesn’t take long for your eyes to wander, settling on Noah, who must’ve had breakaway pants on earlier, because now he’s wearing nothing but a tight tank top, showcasing the multitude of tattoos trailing along his arms, throat, and peeking out from his chest and back, paired with a set of tight short shorts that leave very little to the imagination as he starts squatting.

While the guys have their workout circuit going, you’re just standing there, watching until Folio creeps up beside you and whispers, “You’re drooling.”

Naturally, he catches you—staring, ogling, literally drooling. You can never escape him and his keen eye. You roll your eyes, but he just smirks and saunters over to Noah.

“Come here, buddy. Use me as support to get deeper.”

There’s a cheeky grin on Folio’s face—he knows exactly what he’s doing, because the next moment, Noah’s gripping onto him and suddenly squatting lower, whole ass practically out, and your mouth goes dry.

“I’m gonna… cool down,” you mumble—more of a poor excuse than anything—as you march straight to the pool’s edge and throw yourself in.

It happens quicker than you have time to process. Suddenly, you’re being scooped up by a pair of strong arms and pulled out of the water, Noah surfacing right after, tossing his head and hair back like some majestic mermaid.

“What the—?” you gasp, shaking your head as you cling to him while he carries you over to the edge of the pool.

“You haven’t paid this month’s rent yet,” he explains.

Your brow furrows. “Excuse me?”

“You haven’t paid the rent,” he repeats casually, “so you lose your pool privileges until then. Don’t worry, I’ll set up the paddling pool for you.”

You scoff, completely unable to believe what you’re hearing, as Noah lifts you from the water and sets you on the pool’s edge.

“And you’re gonna jump in and drag me out every time I get in there?” you ask, a little bewildered.

Noah stands back slightly, nodding as he runs his fingers through his wet hair. “If I have to, yeah.”

“Unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath.

“Oooh, someone forgot to pay their rent. Naughty, naughty,” Folio taunts.

“Fuck you,” you snap, half laughing, and splash water in his direction, only for him to dodge, jumping away with a high pitched laugh.

“It’s just until you pay up,” Noah says so politely, despite how matter of fact it sounds. As he climbs up and out of the pool, you almost have to avert your gaze—his now wet shorts have become so skin tight they leave nothing to the imagination.

Size, shape, cut or uncut—you can suddenly make out everything with how tightly they cling to him. All it does is feed the beast you’ve been trying to quell, adding to the ever growing catalog of fantasies rolling around in your mind like some twisted choose your own adventure.

“But I’m not paid until the tenth of the month!” you call after him as he walks past, heading toward the heart shaped paddling pool. He drags it a little further from its usual spot and retrieves the hose to start filling it up, clearly trying to make his point.

“Then you’ll be without privileges for ten days. You know the rules,” he shrugs.

When you hear someone snickering, you look over and catch Jolly doing his best to hide his amused expression beneath the brim of his cap.

“Jolly!” you sigh.

He just shrugs, raising his hands like he’s Switzerland. “Don’t look at me—we’ve all been there.”

With an exaggerated huff, you push yourself to your feet and stomp over to the half filled paddling pool. Still fully clothed and dripping, you step inside and plop down with crossed arms and legs, making your point.

“See? It’s not that bad, right?” Noah looks down at you with that same wide grin and soft eyes.

The expression makes you crack a little, because while his ‘rules’ sound utterly ridiculous, he’s being too reasonably adorable for you to even argue with him.

Later that night, while you’re mid stream, you catch a faint knock on the door and glance over, calling out, “Come in.”

Across the screen, several remarks light up in chat along the same lines—‘surprise guest?’, but thanks to your setup, the identity remains a mystery.

Still, the smile that crosses your face is the undeniable giveaway.

“I’ll be right back, guys,” you call into the mic, pulling off your headphones. You quickly bring up your paused stream screensaver before turning in your chair toward Noah, who stands in the doorway to your room looking like a sad puppy.

“I thought you’d want some snacks,” he offers quietly, holding up one of his premium bags of chips.

“Oh? I thought I’d lost my privileges,” you tease, and that makes a slight grin break across Noah’s face. He relaxes a little, clearly gauging that you aren’t too offended by what happened earlier.

“Well, I can always sneak you some. Just don’t tell the guys I let you off easy,” he says, stepping into the room and settling on the edge of your bed, close to you.

“They might start to think you’re playing favorites,” you murmur, gently nudging your knee against his as you turn to face him more. You feel yourself flush a little at the thought—though you swear you catch the faintest blush at the tips of Noah’s ears.

“Well, you are prettier than Jolly. Maybe not Davis, though.”

“I’ll take that,” you laugh, reaching for the bag of chips he opens and offers. You pop a couple into your mouth as he glances toward your paused screen.

“What are you playing?” he asks, nodding toward your computer.

“Would you believe… Animal Crossing?”

“No way!” His face lights up with excitement, and you shuffle back a bit as he moves closer.

“I wanna play!”

“Wait, you like Animal Crossing?”

He quirks a brow at you as he stands. “The jock villagers are literally my dudes.”

That makes you laugh, because of course they are. Out of all the personality types, that would be the one he’s drawn to.

“Here!” You lean over, pulling your spare chair into place and patting the seat for him. You hand him your second controller. “Are you okay with streaming?” you ask, ready to switch the stream back on.

“I’m your favorite guest, aren’t I?” he teases, flashing a wide grin.

You just nod with a quiet, “Sure,” and switch the stream back on, offering him your spare headset—complete with matching cat ears.

“Well, I guess we do have a special guest tonight.”

That sets the chat off in a frenzy, messages spamming across the screen as Noah eagerly begins creating his character to join your island.

“What are you doing?” you ask, narrowing your eyes as you watch him.

“Moving in,” he replies, not missing a beat.

You scoff and shake your head. “Making yourself right at home already.”

“Like you haven’t,” he teases, glancing over at you, his tongue peeking out briefly—revealing a glint of something silver, before he turns his attention back to the screen.

You’re left momentarily dumbfounded, your stomach doing flips. The butterflies you thought had long since fluttered away now back.

Coming to the club has become a regular occurrence for you, especially on nights when you’re not streaming. Mostly, it’s for the company, because the moment all the guys are out of the house, it feels a little too quiet and frankly, a little too lonely.

When you first moved in, you never imagined you’d actually end up enjoying having multiple guys shouting around you—working out, blasting music, watching movies, wrestling in the pool. The chaos that always seems to ensue somehow became part of the charm, and eventually, all that noise just faded into the background—comforting, familiar, a soundtrack to their constant presence.

Taking your usual seat at the bar, you pull out your laptop with the intention of finishing off a handful of video concepts for upcoming streams. On top of that, you’ve still got side uploads you haven’t even started to piece together. Realistically, you could look into hiring someone to help with editing, but you’re a perfectionist, and your income, while steady enough to sustain yourself, still doesn’t justify bringing someone else in.

“I’ll have a bottle of water,” you say to the unfamiliar voice that asks for your order. When you glance up from your screen, you clock someone who isn’t Matt placing a bottle of water down on the bar beside you.

“Where’s Matt?” you ask the new guy behind the bar, who—unlike Matt—is dressed in a more uniform like style: a collared shirt, black pants, and even a matching black button-up vest. There’s a distinct curl to his hair, and each time he lifts his tattooed hand to card his fingers through it, you watch the strands spring to life before flipping back into place.

“Not here,” he answers quickly, glancing up at you briefly. “Am I not good enough?”

That makes you pause. For a second, you almost assume you’ve offended him, until you catch the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“No, just… you’re new,” you say, and he nods, showing off a little as he tosses a bottle for his next customer before smoothly pouring their drink.

“Jesse,” he introduces himself, setting the bottle down and sliding the drink across the bar. He wipes his hands on a nearby rag before offering one to you. You give your name in return.

“You a friend of the guys?” you ask, gesturing toward the stage, already alive with the four male dancers.

He makes a slight face before breaking into a grin. “Yeah. We all go way back. Used to be roommates with Noah and Jolly once upon a time.”

“Oh?” Your brow quirks. “Had to get out the nest and spread your wings?”

He pauses, glancing at you with a slightly raised brow. “That, and someone moved in and stole my room.”

“Ouch.” You lift a hand to your chest in mock offense. “Whoever would do such a thing?”

That sends you both into a quiet, shared laugh.

Watching him struggle was becoming painful. Between the influx of customers and his terrible attempts at tricks with the bottles and drinks, you decided to save him from drowning any further. Shutting down your laptop, you hop off your stool and walk around to the back of the bar—only for Jesse to catch sight of you with a curious eye and a quick, “Wait, whoa, what are you doing back here? You can’t be back here!”

“I’m saving your ass,” you declare, turning to a nearby customer and taking their order before effortlessly starting to make their drinks.

“So you’ve bartended before?” Jesse asks, pausing just to watch how seamlessly you go about mixing the combination of drinks being requested.

“Back in college,” you shrug, giving him a brief glance.

“You went to college?” It comes out more surprised than he probably intended, and you gasp dramatically, reaching over as though to kick him.

“Yes, computer engineering, actually.”

“Oh, so you were one of those pretty nerds.”

“Who said anything about was?” you quip, flashing him a quick wink before turning back to the customer and offering them their drinks.

“What about you?” you ask in the brief reprieve between customers, your eyes skimming along his tattooed forearms, exposed by the way he’s rolled up his sleeves halfway.

All of the boys seem to share a similar style of tattoos—something you can’t help but notice, but his look good on him. Just like Noah’s, they suit him in a way that feels intentional, like a pretty canvas you couldn’t imagine being bare now that you’ve seen it like this.

“What about me?”

“Was bartending always the dream?” you tease, and he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Oh, no. I did English Lit.”

“Oh?!”

“With plans of being the next great American author,” he explains.

“You need a degree for that?” you tease again, biting your lower lip to hold back your laughter.

“Yeah, I guess not,” he sighs, leaning against the bar as he laughs quietly. “And you need a computer engineering degree for what you do?”

“Streaming?” You quirk a brow slightly. “I didn’t want to make it too easy on myself and do something entirely relevant to my degree.”

Your tone drips with sarcasm, but Jesse picks up on it instantly. Before long, the two of you are batting jokes back and forth with ease, the night slipping by in a blur—only breaking the spell when Noah approaches the bar.

“Want a ride home?” he asks, sweat still dripping down his collarbone and tattooed neck, glitter smudged across his face.

“Yes!” you bounce up from behind the bar, already moving to gather your laptop. “But you really need to learn to hose off before you leave work. I’m tired of glitter in the shower.”

You point at him, but Noah just raises a brow, flashing a cheeky grin.

“And lose an excuse to have you help me? That seems unfair to you,” he teases.

Behind you, Jesse mutters under his breath, “Don’t miss that.”

You shake your head with a quiet laugh, waving at Jesse. “Thanks,” he says, as you cross over to Noah, your laptop bag slung over your shoulder. Your free hand finds the small of his back, guiding him toward the door.

“How’d you do tonight?” you ask, stepping into the cool night air, watching how a light breeze lifts a few overgrown strands of his hair. Even in the moonlight—smeared eyeliner, glitter, and all—he’s pretty.

“Not bad. A bachelorette party was asking about private shows.” He pulls a slip of paper from his pocket and shows you a number.

You raise a brow. “And I want this because…?”

“They thought you were our booking agent or something. I don’t know—maybe you could be.” He shrugs as you reach the car. He pops the trunk, tossing his bag in, then opens the passenger door for you.

“You want me as your booking agent?” you scoff, not sure if you heard him right.

“For events and stuff outside the club? Sure, why not?”

“Because I’ve never been an agent in my life?”

“You stream. You’re basically your own PR team. You make your own content, handle your own promotions, moderate your own chat most of the time, and you edit everything yourself.” Noah starts listing things off like a checklist. “You’re a one man band. Why not use those skills for something else?”

“Oh yeah? And you’ll use your skills?”

“If you insist.” He smirks, and before you can respond, he starts to gyrate his hips the same way he does on stage, laughing as he dances toward you.

Naturally, you can’t help but burst out laughing. “You keep up the good dance moves, babygirl, and I’ll take care of you,” you tease, reaching out to give him a playful smack on the ass as you climb into the car and he brings a hand to his forehead while closing the door, dramatically pretending to faint over your charming words.

It’s Noah who starts it.

You’d been happily watching Dirty Dancing alone in what you thought was an empty house—until he wandered in, claimed it was his favorite movie, started singing along, and now he’s sliding off the couch onto the floor, stretching out just like Patrick Swayze on screen, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“How do you call your loverboy?” he sings, playing it up like the natural performer he is.

You’re quick to fall into step, shifting to the edge of your seat, lifting your hand to beckon him with one curled finger as you sing back, “Come ‘ere, loverboy!”

The two of you go back and forth, perfectly in sync with the movie. Noah begins to crawl toward you, slow and dramatic, after easing onto his knees, and you slide off the couch to meet him on the floor, mirroring his movements as you both crawl toward one another.

When the scene shifts, Noah mimics playing air guitar, bent backward on his knees in a way that shows off the flexibility you’ve seen so often on stage. You would’ve taken the moment to admire him—his form, the way he moves, the ease in his body, but you’re too caught up in the rhythm of your shared performance.

Then comes your daring touch. As he straightens up and moves toward you, your hands find his upper arms, fingers pressing lightly into the warm flex of muscle. His nose brushes yours, breath warm against your lips. He’s close—so close you expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans in closer, hands settling at your waist. The only time he breaks contact is to mimic the choreography on screen—his head dipping toward your stomach, your hands cradling the sides of his neck to guide him upward again, until he’s pressed against your chest.

His hips sway with the music, his hands on your hips, guiding them as you rise to your feet together, until he finally lifts his head just enough to look down at you.

Even as the scene continues to play, the music fading into a soft lull in the background of the scene, it’s the words that follow that catch your attention—You’re the one.

They stand out like a spotlight, echoing in your head as you gaze up at him. It makes your heart pound, because you can’t help but feel like maybe he is. Or maybe it’s all in your head—wishful thinking, misreading something that isn’t really there, but he still hasn’t pulled away.

His hands slide around to your lower back, gently tugging you closer, your bodies swaying, almost grinding, to the slow, sensual rhythm. The movement mirrors the dancing he does in the club, deliberate and intimate, full of unspoken promise.

“You’re a pretty good dancer,” he murmurs.

That pulls a quiet laugh from you as you turn your head slightly, avoiding his gaze. “Compared to you? I don’t think so.”

“No, I mean it. You should come on stage sometime at the club. I could teach you a few moves.”

You want to ask if he’s teasing, but you know better. When it comes to dancing, to his work, he never jokes. He’s proud of what he does.

Your arms hang loosely around his shoulders, fingers gliding up into the back of his hair. You look up at him, and nod. “Yeah, okay.”

You’re close enough now to feel the heat of his breath ghosting over your lips. Close enough that if one of you moved even an inch—

Then the back door slams. The sound startles you both, making you spring apart. You quickly busy yourself, flopping back onto the couch and fixing your eyes on the movie—pretending nothing just happened.

Jolly and Davis’s voices filter through the house, followed by the sound of Folio and Nick entering. As Folio peers into the living room, he catches sight of the movie playing on the TV.

“Ah man, he hasn’t tried to get you to do the lift yet, has he?” he asks.

You quirk a brow, glancing between Noah—now seated back near you—and Folio.

“He’s obsessed with trying to get one of us to do that lift. Watch out, or you’ll be next.” He points at you as if issuing a warning, before disappearing into the kitchen just as Jolly announces the food is ready.

Noah practically vaults over the back of the couch, promising to return with your plate, but all you can focus on is the pounding in your chest—the lingering effect of just how close the two of you had been.

Your thoughts drift, dangerously, to the idea of recreating that iconic lift scene, and you realize, more than ever, that you desperately need a distraction from him.

It’s in the local coffee shop that you spot a familiar face—Jesse, leaning back in his chair, a book in one hand and a coffee in the other. Narrowing your gaze as you draw closer, you tilt your head to read the title of the book, saying it aloud to catch his attention.

“Lolita, really?” You raise a brow—part amused, part curious—your lips tugging into something resembling the former.

“Are you really judging the taste of an English lit grad?” Jesse replies, lowering his book and peeking up at you from behind it.

“Hm, depends on your take, I suppose,” you shrug, swaying a little on the spot.

“Probably not something most people would agree with.” He shifts forward, setting his book on the table and gesturing for you to sit. You slide into the chair opposite him.

“So that means it’s pretentious,” you tease.

He scrunches his nose and raises a hand, holding his forefinger and thumb an inch apart. “Maybe a teeny bit.”

You laugh and lean back, taking a sip of your iced coffee. “So, where’s your laptop? Aren’t all aspiring authors supposed to sit in coffee shops with their laptops, looking all tortured and artistic or something?”

“Well, usually yes, but not today. I’m here because I’m supposed to be meeting a date.”

“Oh?” Your brow furrows, and you reach into your pocket, pulling out your phone to glance at the time. It’s not that you feel like you’re interrupting, but the coincidence is just a little too perfect.

“That’s… interesting. I had a blind date a friend set me up on. I was supposed to meet him about five minutes ago.”

“Is that so?” Jesse leans back in his chair, brow raised and a sly smirk curling at his lips—like he’s already pieced the whole thing together.

“Could you give me a second?” you quickly excuse yourself, slipping outside as you hit ‘call’ on Troy’s number. Naturally, he answers within a couple of rings, his voice too bright, too vibrant, clearly aware of what he’s doing.

“How’s the date?”

“Why did you set me up with Jesse?” you hiss down the phone, not bothering to hide your annoyance as you walk further away from the coffee shop to prevent Jesse from witnessing your meltdown.

“Because I saw the way you two have been flirting behind the bar and—”

“That wasn’t flirting,” you interrupt, correcting him with a huff.

“Oh, please. A guy who challenges you in both wit and intellect? You were about ready to eat him alive on the spot.”

You huff again, momentarily silenced by the fact that he’s not wrong. You admittedly have a type, intellectual sparring is your version of foreplay, and Jesse definitely lit that fire beneath you when you helped him behind the bar.

“So, me and Matt spoke—”

“And how are you and Matt?” There’s a snipe in your tone, not hiding what you’re insinuating: that you’re not the only one nursing a crush on someone in the club. Only in your case, it might be two someones.

“I’m still playing hard to get, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes and audibly growl as Troy returns to his train of thought.

“As I was saying—we spoke and decided you two were a perfect match, so we set you up.”

“And you don’t think setting me up with the friend of the guy I have a crush on and live with was a bad idea?”

He grumbles something about not always having the brains to go with his beauty, and you roll your eyes again.

“It’s either this, or you get desperate and go back out with some other Tinder knucklehead. So either suck it up and tell that big, beautiful himbo with the jiggly ass and too little shorts how you feel… or go on a couple dates with Jesse just to get him out of your system.”

“So, Noah’s always been like that, huh?” you ask.

“Oh, the whole ‘taking away privileges and replacing them’ thing? Yeah, he’s a bit of an ass for that,” Jesse chuckles, your hands just brushing as you walk side by side.

“I’ve gotta ask,” he continues. “Do you like him? Noah, I mean. It’s just… I’ve never been on a date where the sole focus has been multiple questions about my friend slash ex roommate.”

You feel your cheeks warm and drop your head, staring at the ground like it might help deflect what he’s insinuating. “It’s complicated.”

“I get it.”

You peek up at him, brow raised slightly, urging him to go on.

“I’m not insecure or anything. I know he’s a charmer—there’s a reason he has a Facebook support group. Which I’m pretty sure Folio moderates,” he adds with a wry look.

You snort, brow furrowing to match his. “It’s just a stupid crush,” you say with a shrug, brushing it off.

Jesse raises his hands in a lighthearted defense as the two of you come to a stop at the end of your driveway.

“I’m not judging, but I like you. I had fun, and if you decide you want a second date—one where Noah isn’t the sole topic of conversation—I’d love to take you out on one.”

You worry your lip between your teeth, nibbling over the thought of a second date with Jesse, and just how much you’d unintentionally—or maybe subconsciously, brought Noah up tonight.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Jesse says, slipping his hands into his pockets with a casual shrug. His tone is almost nonchalant, but there’s something about his posture, the restraint in his expression, that suggests he’s holding himself back. “Figure out where your head’s at… and call me.”

He pulls one hand from his pocket, gently lifting it to your chin, tilting your head toward him. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek. It doesn’t feel entirely platonic, but it’s not quite romantic either—something soft, in-between. It stirs a flicker of warmth, but nothing like the heat Noah ignites just by being near you, and that realization leaves you heavy with guilt.

“Thanks, Jesse,” you whisper.

He steps away, and for a moment, you pause—watching him walk off. You catch him glancing back. Your eyes meet, lingering just a second too long, before you both turn and disappear your separate ways.

When you come in, the house is still full, but quieter now, with everyone scattered around the living room, watching a movie.

“Where have you been?” Folio calls over, brow raised with a teasing grin.

You just roll your eyes and sigh, plopping down on the couch beside Noah. He shifts, just enough to make room for you, and as you melt against his side out of habit and comfort, his arm wraps loosely around you.

This has become a common theme between the two of you—light touches, quiet closeness—somewhere between casual affection and what you’d consider flirting, though you weren’t sure if he thought of it that way. Still, you always seemed to gravitate toward each other—like now.

“My friend set me up on a blind date,” you mutter, waving a hand to brush it off as unimportant.

Noah shifts beside you, glancing down. “Good?”

There’s something in his eyes that looks hopeful, but not in the sense that he wants it to have gone well. Maybe the opposite, and the thought catches in your throat, echoing the words Jesse had said just moments ago.

“No. It was… just okay. Probably not gonna happen again.” You shake your head.

You feel the way Noah relaxes beside you before he dips his head, gently nestling it against the crown of yours.

On screen, George is telling Mary, “You want the moon? I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.”

And for a moment, you swear you hear Noah mumble the words softly against your hair—something quiet and almost instinctive. It sends a warm, fuzzy flutter through your chest. You already knew he was a hopeless romantic, but that doesn’t stop it from making you fall just a little bit more.

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