#Just been thinking about this and having feelings lately. Wanted to voice them instead of getting in the shower like a responsible person.

[reignpage]

Why They Would Cheat On You

Gojo

He got bored. Of course, you were never just a toy to him. Having been friends for a while, he truly enjoyed your company more than you’ll ever know. You’d gone through a lot together, had each other’s backs more than times than he could count, and you understood him better than anyone. He owed you a lot. Perhaps that was why he didn’t reject you when you finally confessed your feelings, why he let it go on for so long, and why he didn’t realise that what he felt for you wasn’t love but, rather, loyalty. 

She wasn’t anyone special, just a girl he thought was cute. So was the other girl, and the one after her. They were all cute. Nice enough, too. It was never an ego thing, he thinks, but it was nice to have people look at him like he’s a god, rather than just, ‘Toru who’s late to the date because he was off saving people. Again.’ Or ‘Toru who doesn’t text for days because he forgot about your existence, since, you know, he’s saving people. Again.’ 

You asked him, ‘Why? Why would you do this to me?’, when you found out. There was a calmness to your voice and it was so familiar, his lip twitched. He never wanted to hurt you but surely you knew that it was never going to be a forever thing, that just wasn't how things worked in your world.

Having no answer he could give you, he instead offered to stay as friends. You were appalled. He could tell when you did that eyebrow twitch you always did. It was cute. You tried to slap him. His infinity was up. And both of you went your separate ways, wondering how long it had been like that.

Geto

He no longer needed you. You were a resourceful person; he respected that. Loyal, intelligent, strong, you were everything he needed to start his mission. Unfortunately, your loyalty came with strings – you wanted love. Needed it. And well, he wasn’t exactly opposed. You weren't terrible company and he did enjoy his time with you. Long walks, light chatter, a warm body, obedient pet, it was all perfect… until you eventually grew complacent, started taking on roles far exceeding your rank simply because you thought your connection with him equated to a partnership, and dared mutter some useless thing about abandoning your posts together to live a quiet life. 

You didn’t understand. 

She did, though. She never reached out first, always waited for his time, his approval, and prioritised the work over everything else. It was all he wanted: someone who shared his vision and could appreciate the future he’s trying to build. 

You caught them in the act and he did resent the tackiness of it all — it wasn't his style and was so far beneath him. But you had to find out eventually, he supposed. When you left wordlessly, he moved her in faster than you could even pack your things up.

He never thought about you again, not until you were there on the battlefield, on the other side of things. Kind smile was met with a sneer and he didn’t blame you, not even in his final moments.

Choso

He liked the attention. At first, he was so happy you were attracted to him and that you wanted to go on a date. Ecstatic even. Having you as his girlfriend was fun! He had someone who shared his interests, who was patient and understanding. You were sweet and kind too.

But then it stopped being fun. You’d nag him to clean up after himself, tell him he shouldn’t eat this and that, that he should hang out with his brother less because that’s all he did and you missed him. He didn't understand why you did since you lived together, though he didn’t dare argue that. Being a boyfriend was a lot of work; it was like he was doing everything wrong. You wanted flowers but you didn't want to have to ask so how was he supposed to know when to get you flowers?

You wanted space when you were down but then you'd get mad at him if he didn't chase after you. He had to guess what you wanted for lunch every single time when he just wanted to eat. It was tiring.

She was your best friend. She always gave him so many compliments, looked at him like everything he said and did was so interesting, so funny, whereas you didn't have that spark in your eyes anymore. You only thought about the laundry, the mortgage, and the cost of the things you used to like. It was nice to be understood – she had your qualities but none of your burden.

You didn’t even get angry when you found out. Just told him the lease is under your name so he can find somewhere else to live. It’s odd though that when he turned up to her house, she didn’t answer the door, or his messages. The two of you just disappeared from his life.

Toji

He needed some cash. That thing between you was never serious. You were lonely and he didn’t have a place to live. And man, you took him in faster than everyone else. Guess you were really pent up. For a while, you were managing well – had a steady job, big enough house, and a car. And sure, you nagged him about his bad habits but you always let him get away with nabbing a couple hundred from your wallet, so it was fair game.

Your body ain’t bad either, better than lots of the women he’d slept with, cleaned well too, which was a rarity amongst the people he hung around with. He put up with all the sex, the fixing things up round the house, and all the hand holding and cheesy matching couple fits, or whatever, ‘cause you kept him fed. Yeah, he had it good.

Then, you lost your job and became a real pain in the ass.

She had money.

Pity actually arose in his head when you begged him to stay, to give you some time to figure things out, and promised you’ll do better, give him more than he’s ever had. God, lonely women were pushy. And as much as he’d love to stay in one place, he couldn’t handle how clingy you were. Such a turn off.

Guess he'll have to try his luck elsewhere. Again.

Nanami

He needed to feel like a man again. Your marriage was perfect. A literal fairytale. He’s never been happier and he was doing it all with his dream woman. When did things fall apart, he couldn’t say for sure, but he did know why: you wanted to give him a big family. It was all you wanted, the one thing you thought you needed to give him in exchange for all the love he gave you.

The doctors told you it just wasn’t going to happen and you were so stuck on the idea of doing it naturally and having your very own children that you didn’t listen to any of the times he vowed you were more than enough. Sex was planned around your ovulation period. You didn’t touch him outside of that, shrugging him off when he’d lay kisses on your shoulder or cheeks. When you did have sex, you weren’t even there, just counting down the seconds until he could cum inside you. You wouldn’t even bother taking off your clothes, much less foreplay. It was like he was making love to a corpse. 

She was warm, young, alive. He never thought the new associate would take an interest in an older, more worn down man like him, but she flirted like the ring wasn’t on his finger, and eventually, he did stop wearing it; she didn’t like the feel of it on her skin. 

You were distraught when you found out, clinging to yourself and sobbing. You repeated, again and again, ‘I knew it. I knew it.’

Like a switch had been flicked, he begged for you to forgive him, promising that he’ll do better, that it’ll never happen again, but the damage had been done. Leaving your ring with him, you went away, last he heard, to your hometown, rekindled some lost thing with someone you once knew. You never did have any children.

And he never remarried.

Sukuna

He never promised otherwise. For a human, you were actually interesting, or rather, he found you interesting. All the things you showed him made him feel things, things he never got to experience and never saw the value in doing before. That was probably what he liked so much about you – your ability to entertain. And he thought for as long as you fulfilled your purpose as his new object of interest, he’d be satisfied living a quiet life, but all humans do is disappoint. And change. Soon, you were lecturing him about the sanctity of life, admonishing him for being cruel, scolding him like a child. Fuck, humans are annoying. One day, when he had killed someone you were close to, he tried to explain that they deserved it, that their spirit reeked of ill-intentions but you flinched. 

She didn’t. In fact, the filthy little thing liked the things he did to her, even wanted him to go further. Now, that was entertaining. He didn’t even realise how bored he was getting with all the ‘make love’ bullshit you spewed; going slow was never his style. Neither was vanilla missionary with all the fucking eye contact. She never looked at him with disappointment every time he acted out, not even when blood reached her shoes, or when she was covered in it. 

None of the women who’d offer themselves up to him did. 

So, when you found out and that was all that filled your eyes, the sight took him aback, just as your cries did. He didn’t ask you to stay but he thought, in that one moment you hesitated, that maybe you expected him to.

Pathetic.

[verstappenverse]

You Belong With Me / Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max never believed in soulmates until he met you. The only problem? You’re already dating Lando. Somewhere along the way, between late-night calls, inside jokes, and everything in between, you and Max became best friends. He tells himself it’s enough. That the friendship is worth the ache. But as your connection deepens, Max starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you feel it too.

6.8k words / Part 1 / Masterlist

After weeks of cold distance and polite smiles and safe topics.

Just one line.

Are you awake?

His heart jumps.

Yeah

You reply straight back with a question.

Can I come over?

He doesn’t even think, just replies.

Always.

Minutes later you’re at his hotel door.

No pre-tense. No cameras. You slip into the lobby in a hoodie, sunglasses tucked into your hair, and the moment he sees you, it hits him all over again.

That ache.

You’re quiet at first. Nervous like you’re not sure where to start or whether coming here was a mistake, but Max doesn’t push. He just lets you in, literally, into his suite, into his silence, into the space he’s tried to keep empty so he wouldn’t miss you as much.

Now you’re here and sitting on the edge of his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, twisting the fabric like you’re anchoring yourself to something. You look like you’ve been crying. Your makeup is smudged in a way that suggests you wiped it away with your sleeve hours ago.

“I’ve missed this,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. “You.”

Max sits beside you, heart thudding.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says. “I know why you pulled away.”

You turn toward him, eyes shining. “Do you?”

He swallows hard. “Yeah. Because if you didn’t, people would start asking questions and you’d have to answer them.”

A beat.

You don’t deny it.

Instead, your fingers brush his, light and barely there, but enough.

Max turns his palm up, wordless, letting you decide, and when you place your hand in his, shaky but deliberate, it feels like gravity itself shifts.

The room feels still. Like a held breath. Like the world is waiting.

And Max, foolish, hopeful, hurting, thinks maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment everything shifts. Maybe you’re about to tell him you can’t keep doing this thing with Lando, not when you’re here, not when this feels real.

You look up at him. Really look, and Max feels the wind knocked out of him by the weight in your gaze. It’s not just guilt or confusion or pain. It’s everything he’s been carrying alone for weeks, mirrored right back at him like a cruel, beautiful reflection.

Like home.

Like hope.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whisper, like it hurts to admit. “I don’t know what this is. What I’m supposed to do.”

Max’s heart splinters a little, but he nods. He gets it. He’s been living in the space between right and want for too long now.

You shake your head, eyes glossing over. “I feel like the worst person in the world.”

“You’re not,” he says quickly. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Your voice cracks on the next words. “Haven’t I though?”

He stays quiet.

Because what can he say? You’re here. Not with Lando. Sitting on his bed. Holding his hand and yet nothing’s happened. Not really... but everything has.

“I hate that I miss you,” you say, dropping your gaze to where your fingers are grazing his. “I hate that I look for you before I look for him. That I... God, Max, I hate that I let this get so far.”

His throat tightens. “I let it get here too.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” you say.

“I know,” Max whispers. “He’s a good guy.”

You swipe at your cheek with your sleeve. “And you… you’ve been this—this constant. I don’t even know how it happened. It’s like I blinked and suddenly you’re the first person I want to tell everything to. The one I think about when I’m��when I’m—” You cut yourself off, mouth trembling.

Max doesn’t press. He just watches you fall apart quietly, the way he’s always watched you gently, completely, without expectation.

You breathe in sharply, trying to hold yourself together. “This isn’t fair. To him. To you.”

“No,” he says. “But it’s real.”

You look down at your joined hands. Your thumb moves, just once, across the back of his hand like it wants to remember him and then, slowly, reluctantly, you pull away.

And that’s what undoes him. Not the leaving. Not the silence. That. That small, devastating act of removing your hand from his.

His fingers curl into a fist instinctively, trying to hold onto the warmth you left behind. It’s ridiculous how empty his hand feels. How it burns with absence.

You stand before he can say anything, and he follows, because his body reacts before his mind can stop it.

You wrap your arms around yourself, hoodie sleeves swallowing your hands. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“But you did,” he says gently.

You nod, almost ashamed. “I wanted to see you. I needed to. I just... I don’t know what to do with any of this.”

“Then don’t do anything,” he says softly. “Not tonight.”

Max watches you, shoulders tense, hand still near the door like you’re caught between fight and flight.

“I’d wait,” he says quietly. “You know that right?”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes.

“I’d wait until you’re ready,” he says. “Even if it hurts. I’d rather have pieces of you than nothing at all.”

You break then, quietly, a single tear sliding down your cheek. You glance at the door. Back at him. Eyes filled with so much ache it nearly knocks him over.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I never mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t.”

You hesitate one more moment like you might stay, like you might turn back, maybe you’ll say fuck it and fall into him and damn the consequences, but then your hand brushes the doorknob.

And you leave.

Like you were never there. And Max stays exactly where he is, staring at the closed door, wishing he could hate you, but all he feels is love, and the echo of what almost was.

The next day everything’s different again.

Not just different. Intentional. As if someone rewrote the script overnight and forgot to tell him.

Something happened.

Something shifted.

Max doesn’t know what, not exactly, but he can feel it in his chest, heavy and sharp and un-ignorable.

Lando has his arm wrapped around your waist as you move through the paddock, his hand tucked into the back pocket of your jeans, fingers resting there like a claim, the kind of touch that screams mine without a single word. He kisses you before his interview, tucks your hair behind your ear in full view of the cameras, pulls you in tighter whenever someone says your name. For show, or for him, Max isn’t sure. Maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe the result’s the same.

And you let him.

He watches it all unfold like a slow-motion car crash, the kind where you see the impact coming a mile away, but you’re strapped in, locked down, powerless to stop it. The kind that already hurts before the metal hits.

It feels like someone’s punishing him for the night before.

Everywhere he turns, there’s another image, your hand in Lando’s, his head on your shoulder, your laugh caught mid-frame as if it’s never belonged to anyone else. It’s everywhere, on screens, in camera rolls, on the lips of reporters who call you F1’s golden couple like it’s gospel. And Max doesn't want to look, but he also can’t look away.

And Lando?

He keeps glancing Max’s way.

Little flickers. Measured looks. Eyes that land on Max like warnings. Like questions.

Each look says something Max doesn’t want to read. There’s something in his eyes suspicion maybe, or recognition, or the start of a storm neither of them has the words for yet.

Like he knows.

Like he’s not about to lose you without a fucking fight.

Max doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t confront. Doesn’t text.

He just gets in the car.

Slams the visor down.

And when the lights go out and the race begins, he drives like the track owes him something blood, redemption, answers. Like the throttle is the only thing still speaking his language. He pushes harder, faster, past the edge of control, because flat-out is the only way to silence the sound of your voice echoing in his head, soft and broken, saying his name in the dark.

As if he can still outrun the part of him that just for a second, believed you might have been his.

By the time he pulls into parc fermé his hands are shaking. From adrenaline, maybe. Or something worse. He barely hears the congratulations through his earpiece, the cheers of the team, the noise of victory that doesn’t feel whole.

Later he finds your name in his phone. Stares at it for ten minutes.

Types:

Was last night nothing?

The words sit there on the screen, raw and vulnerable, but his chest tightens the second he sees them. He deletes them before he can talk himself into believing he’s owed an answer.

He tries again.

Did he know you were with me?

This one lingers longer. His thumb hovers over the send button, breath shallow, mind spiralling with the what-ifs and the maybes and the brutal reality of the day that followed, but that one disappears too.

The phone slips from his hand and lands on the bed with a dull thud. Max pushes up from the mattress, crosses the room, and plants himself at the window. The glass is cool against his forehead as he leans in, staring out at the city lights flickering below.

The thoughts come fast, then all at once:

I should’ve kissed her.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

I should’ve said more.

I should’ve asked her to stay.

But he didn’t. He let the moment slip through his fingers like sand, too respectful of lines that had already blurred.

And now you’re back where you started, and he’s alone.

He exhales slowly, rests his head against the window, and whispers the truth he’s not sure he’ll ever get to say out loud.

“I wanted you to choose me.”

But you didn’t.

And now, he doesn’t know if you ever truly would.

After Singapore Max starts to feel it slipping, not all at once, but piece by piece, like a slow leak in something airtight. A quiet hiss. A steady drain.

Lando has momentum.

A string of podiums. A perfect qualifying streak. Lap times that raise eyebrows. Confidence that’s no longer tentative or boyish, but solid, effortless. The kind that reads as charm in every interview, in every fan clip, in every article that now starts to wonder if he’s the one to watch.

And her.

Max tells himself it’s fine. Tries not to care. Tries harder not to show it. He focuses on the car, on the next session, on the next track. He keeps his jaw tight during press conferences. Shrugs off every loaded question with the same rehearsed calm. Says the right things. Nods when asked about the championship gap

But it claws at him in the quiet moments, in the gaps between sessions, in the hollow of his hotel room, when the TV hums softly in the background but offers no distraction. In the seconds before sleep, when the world dims and the truth bleeds in like static.

It’s the little things that wreck him the most.

Max watches it all from the other side of the garage. From behind mirrored sunglasses that hide more than just his eyes. From interviews where he stares too long at nothing. From cool-down rooms where your laughter filters through walls. From highlight reels where your shadow always falls close to Lando’s.

And he pretends. He pretends harder than he ever has.

It comes to a head in Mexico.

The paddock is blistering, loud, crowded, pulsing with media, photographers, sponsor reps and too much sun. Max is already running hot beneath the collar, physically and otherwise. His head isn’t in it. Not fully. Not with the way you’ve been avoiding him again. Glancing away like you can’t look at him for too long without something giving you away.

He catches sight of you in McLaren garage by the espresso machine. You’re holding a coffee, staring down at your phone, there’s a strand of hair stuck to your cheek from the heat, your mouth is pursed in concentration, unaware you’re being watched.

When you glance up and see him, you smile small and shy. A softness that hasn’t fully left you, not yet. Familiar in a way that makes something sharp lodge under his ribs, and for a second the noise dulls.

But then Lando comes up behind you, slinging an arm around your shoulder like he owns you. He walks up like it’s easy, like it’s natural, like he’s not about to ruin the last sliver of calm Max has left. Like you’re not something fragile Max has spent months tiptoeing around.

Lando says something into your ear that makes you laugh, but it’s not your laugh. Not the one Max knows. Not the one that takes up space, that makes people turn their heads because it’s real and unfiltered and yours. The one that used to erupt in his car, over his headset, in the spaces he was allowed to have.

This one feels practiced. Not fake exactly, but safe. It does something to Max he can’t quite describe. A twisting, hot thing under the skin, like jealousy and grief and regret have all tangled into something volatile.

He doesn’t mean to confront Lando. Not really, but fate has a way of lining things up when you least want it to, twisting paths until there’s no option but collision.

After quali Max cuts across the paddock, towel slung over his neck, race suit unzipped to his waist. He’s heading toward the Red Bull motorhome with a thousand things on his mind, sector times, tire strategy, the way your laugh didn’t reach your eyes earlier, and none of them prepare him for the moment Lando turns the corner.

They nearly run into each other.

They’re alone. No cameras. No press. No audience to perform for.

Lando’s got that half-smirk on his face, the kind he gets when he thinks he knows something.

“Good session,” Lando says, holding a water bottle lazily.

Max doesn’t smile. Doesn’t offer back the usual banter.

Instead, he meets Lando’s eyes and says, evenly,

“How is she?” he asks, quiet, but pointed.

Lando’s brow lifts slightly. “What?”

Max keeps his gaze steady. “She used to check in.” He pauses. “She doesn’t anymore.”

Lando’s mouth presses into a line. “Yeah. I noticed that too.”

Max swallows. “Did you ask her to stop?”

“It’s not really your business,” Lando says, calm. Honest.

Max studies him. “Did it bother you?”

Lando lifts a shoulder in a slow shrug. “Should it have?”

Max doesn’t respond. His throat is too tight to trust his voice.

Lando gives him a long look, not smug, not angry. Just… measuring.

“She chose to pull back,” he says finally. “I didn’t ask her to.”

Max’s jaw tightens.

They stand there for a moment, the hum of the paddock still around them but oddly distant. Two drivers at the top of their game, suddenly reduced to something rawer. Something much more human.

Then Lando says, “You two were getting closer.”

It’s not an accusation. Just a fact.

Max doesn’t flinch, doesn’t deny it, doesn’t deflect. He just lets the truth settle between them and replies, quiet and full of truth, “She’s the best part of my day.”

Lando doesn’t have anything to say to that. He looks at Max like he’s seeing him clearly for the first time, and then he turns and walks away.

The media has a new favourite narrative.

'The Changing of the Guard.' 'Is Lando Norris the Future of Formula 1?' 'Lando & [Y/N]: The Grid’s Newest Power Couple?' 'The Secret to His Success May Be Off Track.'

Max doesn’t click the articles. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, that the media has always been full of noise, but the headlines are impossible to miss.

He sees them in airport lounges, on Twitter threads, in the photos pushed in front of him during press. They flood his feed no matter how many accounts he mutes. They’re brought up during press conferences by journalists who smile too wide, asking loaded questions disguised as casual banter.

Max pretends to scroll past. Pretends they don’t sting. Pretends that your face beside someone else's doesn’t twist something deep and awful inside him.

But it does.

Because you’re everywhere. And you’re not his.

The girl Max can’t stop thinking about. The one who used to send him dumb memes when she couldn’t sleep. Who would spiral at 2 a.m. about things that didn’t matter to anyone else, but mattered to him because they mattered to you. The one who never made him feel like a machine or a headline or a name printed in bold font, just Max. Just a guy who liked sim racing and late-night drives and eating takeout on hotel balconies.

The one who laughed at his sarcasm when no one else even noticed it was a joke.

The one who once upon a time curled up near him and told him he made her feel safe.

And now?

Now she won’t even meet his eyes.

Max knows you both let it get to this. Let the space grow so wide between you that he doesn’t even know how to cross it anymore.

He doesn’t know how to quiet the voice in his head whispering the same unbearable thought over and over again.

You were never mine to lose.

But he lost you anyway.

He dreams about you.

Not the dramatic kind. Nothing wild or movie-perfect. No grand declarations. No kisses in the rain.

Just small things.

You, barefoot in his kitchen, standing on cold tiles with one sleeve pushed up and the other slipping down. Your hair is messy, tied up badly, strands falling into your eyes as you laugh at something stupid he’s said while leaning against the counter, stealing raspberries from the container in his fridge.

You curled sideways on his couch, legs tucked under you, wearing his hoodie like it was made for you, absently playing with the drawstrings and focused on the TV while he’s focused on you, memorising the shape of that moment

You in the passenger seat of his car, windows down, wind tangling your hair while you sing along loudly, shamelessly, to a song you pretend to hate. You catch him watching you at a red light and you roll your eyes, cheeks flushed, mouthing what? like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to him.

It’s never more than that.

But it’s always enough to leave him aching when he wakes up.

The days stretch long and weightless. Travel. Press. Team briefings. Another race. Another win. Another podium he doesn’t remember standing on.

You’re still around. He sees you in the paddock. In the background of photos. Tagged in stories. Walking just a few steps behind Lando, or standing off to the side during interviews, always smiling at the exact right moment.

You’re everywhere, and yet you’ve never felt further away.

Your texts, if they ever come, are polite. Neutral. Stripped clean of the voice he used to hear in every sentence. They read like someone else wrote them.

No late-night sarcasm. No weird TikToks. No spiraling paragraphs about nothing in particular.

He answers, but it’s like talking through a window that used to be open and is now sealed shut.

He sees everything, and you let him see nothing, and he doesn’t know how to stop missing someone who’s still in the room.

Then comes Abu Dhabi.

The final race. The end of the season.

He stands on the top step of the podium with champagne in his hair, the championship he clawed tooth and nail for, and another trophy in his hands, but it doesn’t mean as much without you there.

And so it finally breaks.

The paddock is winding down, quiet, exhausted. Mechanics peeling off into the shadows, interviews finishing up, the buzz thinning out into something calmer.

Max is walking back toward the Red Bull motorhome when he sees you.

You’re standing nearby, close enough that he thinks it has to be intentional. Alone. No cameras. Just you, arms folded, shoulders curled slightly inward.

For the first time in months, Max doesn’t hesitate. He walks straight toward you, barely thinking, throat already tight.

“Why do you do it?” he asks, voice quiet but sharp, cracking into the stillness.

You blink, startled. “Do what?”

“Act like there’s nothing between us.”

You blink, startled, already tensing. “Max—”

“No,” he cuts in, stepping closer. “You don’t get to do that. Not after this year. Not after everything. I know you feel it. You looked at me like I was the only thing keeping you sane in Singapore. And then you walked away like none of it mattered.”

You drop your gaze, jaw clenched. “I had to.”

He laughs once hollow and bitter. “Why? Because people noticed? Because he noticed?”

You don’t answer.

“I’ve seen it,” Max says, voice rising. “The way you look at me when no one’s watching. The way your voice changes when we talk. You might have pulled away,” he says, “but you never let go.”

Silence.

Your eyes snap back to his, and for a moment, they’re glassy. Vulnerable. Then you say, quietly, “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me,” he pleads. “Explain it to me. Because from where I’m standing, we had something. We still have something. So why won’t you leave him?”

You flinch.

And for a second, a split second, he thinks you’re going to say it. That you’ll let it all collapse. That you’ll finally stop choosing the version of yourself you think the world wants.

But instead, your voice comes out small. “Because it’s not just about me.”

You shake your head, exhaling like it’s hurting you. “You really think I can just walk out of one relationship and into yours? Do you know how that’ll make me look, how that will make us look? That it won’t follow us? That it won’t destroy what we could be before it even starts?”

Max shakes his head, his voice rough. “I don’t care.”

“Well I do!” you snap, the words coming fast and cracked. “It’ll look like we were cheating. Like I used him. Like I just traded up the moment you opened your fucking door. He’s never done anything to deserve this.”

Max’s face tightens. “And I have?”

“No,” you whisper, pain flashing across your features. “I’m trying to do what’s right, what’s best for everyone, but it just—” Your voice breaks. “It just feels like I’m failing with every move I make. You make me want something I shouldn’t even be thinking about… things I don’t know how to want without hurting someone else.”

“So what?” Max says, voice rough. “We punish ourselves for it. Pretend it doesn’t exist?”

You hesitate. Your voice shakes. “It’s not about punishment. It’s about not burning the people we care about just to have what we want.”

“But what if I want you anyway?” he asks, eyes shining now. “Even if it’s complicated. Even if it’s messy. Even if it ruins me.”

Your breath catches, and you look at him, really look at him.

“I can’t leave him. Not for you. Not for us. Because if I do, we don’t start something new, we start something already broken. Something built on guilt. I’ll lose you both. And it’s selfish... I’m being selfish and it's already breaking me everyday, but I don’t think I’d survive that.”

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks!” he fires back. “Be selfish! I care about you. I care about what you want. And I know part of you wants this, wants me, so what the hell are we doing?”

Your breath hitches. And for a second, he thinks you’re going to fall forward and kiss him. Say fuck it and end the pretending.

But you just shake your head again.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” he says, quieter now. “If you let it.”

You don’t answer. You just look at him , eyes glassy, mouth parted like you’re drowning in everything you don’t have the courage to say.

And then, softly, like it’s costing you everything:

“I’m sorry, Max. I'm so sorry.”

He nods, he doesn't know if he has the energy to fight anymore

You turn before he can fall apart in front of you, before you change your mind, before he asks you to stay again.

And Max watches you walk away one final time.

No goodbye. No promises.

And all he can think is…

You said sorry. But you never said I’m wrong.

You never said you didn’t feel it.

You just said you can’t.

That’s somehow the worst part, because it means he wasn’t imagining it. It was real... and he still doesn’t get to have it.

The off-season is quiet.

No races. No noise. No schedule to chase. No distraction from the fact that he’s been left with nothing but his thoughts, and the sharp, unbearable memory of your voice cracking as you said, “I’m sorry, Max.”

He goes home to Monaco and tries to reset.

He throws himself into training like it might erase the sting, early runs through cold, dark streets, weights he pushes until his arms give out. He spends hours on the simulator, hands locked around the wheel until his knuckles ache.

And every day he checks his phone.

Still no message from you.

You’ve gone silent.

No texts. No likes. No comments. No digital fingerprints at all. No presence.

You’re just… gone.

Lando’s still posting, still partying, still being Lando, but there’s no sign of you in the background anymore. No stories of you behind the camera. No tags. No shared locations. No blurry selfies in hotel mirrors. No trace of your voice in the background anymore.

At first, Max tells himself not to hope. Maybe you're just laying low. Maybe you're still with him, just private now.

But then the rumours start.

It begins with a headline, buried at first on low-tier gossip sites.

'Are Lando Norris and [Y/N] over?' 'No New Year’s posts? Fans suspect a split.'' 'Lando removes several pictures of [Y/N] — breakup confirmed?'

The kind of articles Max usually scrolls past without blinking, gossip columns, fan speculation, digital junk food, but this time he reads them.

He scrolls through the articles in the middle of the night, eyes darting over every detail like he might find the truth hidden between the lines. Fingers tapping, scrolling, pausing, zooming in like the truth might be there in a photo caption or an untagged image.

He reads Reddit threads, fan comments, wild guesses. Some say you’ve broken up. Others think it’s a soft launch for something new. One comment simply says, ‘She vanished.’

There’s no official statement. No confirmation. Just silence. Max hates how familiar that silence has become.

But this?

This feels different, because now he’s watching the story unfold the way the world always has from the outside. Guessing. Hoping. Praying for signs.

You’ve disappeared and he doesn’t know what that means, but he knows what he’s hoping it might mean and it terrifies him, because hope is dangerous. Hope is the thing that’s been clawing at his chest since Singapore and whispering in his ear since Abu Dhabi, always telling him that maybe you walking away wasn’t the end. That maybe you needed time

Max doesn’t know what’s more painful, believing it, or the risk of being wrong again.

When pre-season testing rolls around, Max is sharper behind the wheel. Controlled when everything else feels impossible to grip.

The rest of the world buzzes back to life, the hum of engines, the shuffle of engineers, the tension of interviews. He keeps checking the paddock like you might suddenly appear around the next corner, but you don’t.

No one knows where you are.

Not even Lando.

Max finds that out in the hospitality lounge of all places. Lando’s there, slouched on a couch, sunglasses on, water bottle in hand, pretending to be more relaxed than he probably is.

Carlos walks in and drops onto the couch next to Lando.

“So,” Carlos says casually, “is [Y/N] coming out this year or what?”

The question hangs in the air a second too long.

Lando shifts in his seat. Pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and glances a little too quickly towards Max, and Max sees it, that flicker of discomfort, the kind you can’t fake.

“No,” Lando’s jaw tightens. “We’re not—she’s… doing her own thing.”

That’s it. No explanation. No joke. No follow-up.

Max doesn’t speak, but his chest thunders.

You’re not with Lando. Not anymore.

Max doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that, because he’d spent all off-season imagining what it would be like to hear those words, all year maybe. He’d played it out in the quiet, sleepless hours wondering what he’d say, what he’d do, how fast he’d find you once it was real, and now that it is real, you’re unreachable.

No texts go through.

No "seen" receipts. No replies. No ghost emoji reaction at 2 a.m. like you used to send.

Your socials have been silent since Christmas. Not a whisper of your voice in someone else's story. It’s like you vanished. Like you dropped off the grid and took the last pieces of him with you.

No one knows if you’re traveling, hiding, healing, or just staying as far from everyone as possible.

He doesn’t sleep that night, all he can hear over and over is the last thing you said to him.

“I’m sorry Max.”

And he realises with a cold twist of clarity, maybe you didn’t just run from Lando.

Maybe you ran from him. From what he made you feel. From the truth he couldn’t stop offering even when you weren’t ready to hear it. He wonders if loving him scared you more than losing him.

You might be gone, but Max can’t stop looking.

It starts subtle. A question here. A passing mention there.

He asks your mutual friends carefully at first, like it’s just curiosity.

“You heard from her lately?”

“She still in Monaco?”

“Did she change her number or something?”

Most people shrug, say they haven’t seen you in weeks, some say months.

Even Lando shrugs when Max finally works up the nerve to ask directly.

“I don’t know,” he says, voice flat. “We haven’t talked.”

Max doesn’t believe him at first. It feels too convenient, too detached, but there’s something in Lando’s face tight and unsettled that tells him the split wasn’t entirely his idea. That much is clear.

Somehow, that makes it worse because now Max doesn’t just miss you he worries about you.

The next part isn’t subtle.

Max starts searching for you like it’s a compulsion. A second skin. A habit he can’t shake.

He scrolls Instagram every night, eyes scanning for any hint of you. Old photos, tagged friends, even archived stories.

He goes through the accounts of people you used to hang out with. Public ones. Private ones. He’s not above sending a follow request or two if it gets him closer.

He sees a blurry photo from a rooftop in Barcelona a girl in the background who might be you, has her hair tied up the way you used to, face turned away.

He zooms in so much the image pixelates.

It’s not you, but still he keeps looking, because it’s not just that he misses you anymore.

It’s that you were his person.

It feels like a lifetime ago now, but you were his best friend. The one who made everything feel less heavy. The one who gamed with him until 3 a.m., whispering through headsets while the rest of the world slept, laughter stifled like teenagers sneaking around their parents.

The one who’d FaceTime him from the floor of your hotel room just to show him a weird bruise shaped like Australia on your shin. You'd tell him about your day, your weird hotel neighbours, a pigeon that followed you through the paddock, blurry screenshots of his own confused expressions from fan edits. You didn’t even care if he responded, you just wanted to see if you could make him smirk in front of Horner.

Max had let you into parts of himself no one else ever touched the unpolished parts, the wired-too-tight corners, the quiet thoughts that never made it past interviews. With you he didn’t have to be Max Verstappen™ he could just be.

You got him. In this rare, impossible, borderline psychic way that made him feel like maybe his brain had finally found its match.

The first race of the season comes and goes. Everyone says he’s back in form. Stronger than ever. Pundits talk about how sharp he looks. How he’s starting the year with the same fire. How the winter break clearly did him good.

They don’t know he nearly missed the team briefing because he was trying to decode the playlist you used to send him before lights out. Trying to figure out if the final track meant something. If you’d left a message in the lyrics.

They don’t know he still checks the hotel lobby after every session like you might be waiting. Missing something no one else saw him lose.

He texts you once.

Just one word.

Please.

No reply.

He deletes it two days later.

By the second race, he’s unraveling.

Not in the way people notice. Not in lap times or sector performance. On paper, he’s still sharp, still Max, but GP knows him too well.

He finds Max outside the paddock, sitting on the edge of a loading bay, shoulders slouched like the world’s gotten too heavy again.

“You okay?”

Max nods. Lies. “Just tired.”

GP doesn’t call him out, not directly. He just folds his arms and stands there, quiet, watching him the way only someone who’s sat through a hundred versions of Max’s silence can.

“This about her?” he asks gently.

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. It doesn't surprise him that GP has caught on, has probably known this whole time.

GP sighs and sits beside him. “You ever think maybe she’s scared?”

That hits harder than Max expects it to.

Max stares down at his hands. “Of what?”

GP doesn’t sugarcoat it. “You.”

Max turns to him, blinking.

GP continues, softer this time. “Or not you, exactly. Just… what it means to love someone like you. Loudly. Completely. Knowing what it might cost her.”

Max stares down at his hands, fingers flexing slightly. “I never asked her to lose anything.”

“No,” GP says, steady. “But that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t have.”

He pauses, watches Max for a beat, then adds gentler, more deliberate. “She probably thinks she’s protecting you too.”

Max’s head lifts just slightly, something flickering in his eyes.

“She’s seen what happens to the people closest to you. The press, the fans, the scrutiny. The way your name fills every headline, every comment section. The timing, the fallout, the narrative they’d build around the two of you? People would tear you both apart. You might not care what they say about you, you never have, but I’d bet anything she does. For both of you.”

He pauses, then adds, “She’s probably doing what she thinks is right. Protecting you. Protecting herself. Maybe even protecting what you had… by walking away from it. And I bet she thinks the longer she stays gone, the better chance you’ll have of letting her go.”

He lets that land, lets Max sit with it. Somewhere deep down Max knows he’s right, but it still doesn’t make it easier.

That night in the privacy of his hotel room he opens your old texts again. Scrolls to the stupid things, the inside jokes, the stupid selfies, late-night thoughts about the universe.

He scrolls slowly.

Which one’s your favourite again? The cinnamon squares or that weird Dutch one that tastes like sweet gravel?

There’s a photo attached. You, standing in the cereal aisle at midnight, eyes wide, phone held high Max remembers how you’d FaceTimed him right after, spinning in circles in the aisle, laughing under your breath while trying to pronounce the Dutch cereals. You couldn’t find the exact one he told you about, it had been discontinued, but you still wanted to get something close. Just so it would be waiting for him when he landed.

He almost laughs.

Almost.

The paddock’s gone quiet after the third race of the season.

Media’s finished, fans cleared out, lights shutting off one by one.

Max doesn’t plan it.

He’s walking without thinking, letting instinct tug at his feet. He finds Lando near the McLaren garage alone, still in his fireproofs, fingers tugging absently at the collar like it’s strangling him.

Max doesn’t hesitate.

“Lando.”

Lando turns slowly, jaw already set, eyes dull with something Max can’t name. “You want something mate?”

Max walks up slowly, hands in his pockets. His heart is already pounding, but his voice stays low.

“I need to know why you let her go.”

Lando stiffens. There’s a pause long enough to make Max wonder if he’s about to get hit, but then Lando exhales.

“I didn’t let her go Max.” Lando says, hoarse now, “I just... couldn’t reach her anymore. It wasn’t about me in the end, she tried man.”

Max frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She was already halfway gone when we were still together,” Lando mutters. “And don’t act like you didn’t know that.”

Max doesn’t flinch. “I knew something changed. I didn’t know how much.”

Lando scoffs. “You were the change Max.”

Max clenches his jaw. “I didn’t ask for it to happen like that.”

“No,” Lando agrees. “But you didn’t stop it either.”

There’s bitterness in Lando’s tone, but underneath it something hollow. Like he’s not angry anymore just exhausted.

“You think I didn’t notice how she looked at you?” Lando goes on, voice cracking. “Every fucking race weekend? Like you were oxygen and she was drowning next to me.”

Max swallows hard. His throat burns.

“She tried,” Lando goes on. “Tried to fight it. To stay. To be fair. To pretend it wasn’t happening, but you… you made her feel something she couldn’t un-feel.”

Max steps closer, quieter now. “Then why didn’t she choose me?”

Lando finally meets his eyes and it might be the most honest Max has ever seen him.

“I guess she was afraid it would break you. The way it broke me.”

Silence. Nothing but the hum of a few generators and the ghosts of a thousand interviews echoing down the paddock.

Max exhales through his nose, steadying himself. “Where is she?”

Lando shakes his head. “I don’t know. Really I don't.”

Max stares at him for a long beat, but there’s no lie in his voice and so he turns to walk away, but Lando calls after him not angry, not bitter.

“If you find her,” he pauses, swallows, “don’t screw it up. Make all of this worth something.”

Max stops in his tracks, breath caught somewhere in his chest.

He turns back just enough to meet Lando’s eyes across the dim space between them, no pride, no walls. Just two people standing in the wreckage of the same storm, and nods.

The next day he does something he hasn’t done in years.

He books a commercial flight with no return date. No private jet, no team itinerary, no one to track him.

Leaves the paddock after the race before the final interview’s finished, ignoring the calls, the handlers, the carefully structured schedule meant to keep his world spinning.

No one knows where he’s going, but he knows.

You once told him where you’d go if you ever needed to disappear. He remembers the conversation now with startling clarity, it got lost somewhere in the chaos between time zones and shared screens, you said it like a throwaway thought and the fact that it took him this long to remember, after everything, after all the nights he spent missing you makes him want to tear something apart, because now it’s all he can hear.

“There’s this little town outside Florence...” you told him, smiling at your ceiling during one of those sleepless 2 a.m. FaceTimes. “No cell service. No noise. Just olive trees and time.”

He laughed back then. Called you dramatic. Told you you’d last two days before begging for Wi-Fi and a proper coffee.

Now he doesn’t care how late it is. Or how reckless it sounds. Or how stupid it feels to pin everything on a single thread of memory.

Now he’s on a plane with nothing but a backpack and your voice in his head, chasing a place you once imagined in passing like it was a dream.

Chasing a ghost.

Chasing you.

Taglist - @yara011 @rikersmunky @oddends @putherup @princessria127 @how-am-i-serpose-to-know @danielricroll @gahrcons @a-library-ofmy-own @hott1es @halleywrites @ymreads @cmleitora @osclerc @lyapark @inmynotes63 @whistlef0rthechoir

[youareinacomawakeup]

Do you guys ever think about the

and also

BECAUSE I DO

[solaceseven]

more than friends?

things they do that make you second-guess your friendship featuring: gojo satoru, geto suguru, kento nanami, ryomen sukuna, toji fushiguro.

GOJO - being touchy.

you’re used to gojo’s touch.

the way he drapes himself over your shoulders like a human scarf, pulling you into his side without a second thought. the way his hand finds the small of your back when he guides you through a crowd, his palm pressing firm against you, like he’s staking a silent claim. you’ve grown accustomed to the way he plays with your fingers absentmindedly—twisting your rings, tracing circles over your knuckles—while he rambles about something completely unrelated.

it’s always been like this.

that’s what you tell yourself, at least. that it doesn’t mean anything. that he’s like this with everyone.

but lately, it’s been getting harder to believe that.

because his touches have started to linger. his fingers don’t just graze your wrist anymore—they rest there, warm and grounding, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate strokes against your pulse. when he reaches for something above your head, he doesn’t just stretch over you; he presses his chest against your back, close enough that you feel the heat of him seep into your skin.

and then there’s the way he looks at you.

like right now.

you’re both sprawled out on his couch, half-watching some random movie he insisted was a classic (it’s not), when you feel it—his fingers, absentmindedly tracing shapes on your wrist.

you try not to react, try to focus on the screen, but your breath catches anyway. if he notices, he doesn’t say anything. he just keeps going, slow and lazy, the pads of his fingers skating along your skin like he’s mapping out something only he can see.

your pulse jumps when his fingers move up—tracing the inside of your forearm now, featherlight. it’s not accidental. you know it. he knows it.

but he doesn’t stop.

you sneak a glance at him, expecting that usual smug grin, but he’s still staring at the screen. too casual. too relaxed. he’s testing you.

like he’s waiting for you to do something about it.

you should move your arm. you should pull away. you should call him out.

but you don’t.

because the way he’s touching you now—it’s not friendly. it’s not casual. it’s not something he does with anyone else.

and the worst part?

he knows you know it.

GETO - never correcting people when they assume you’re his partner.

you don’t think anything of it at first.

you and geto move through the grocery store like you always do—bickering over which brand of cereal is better, tossing random snacks into the cart, laughing when he makes fun of your terrible attempts at balancing fruit on top of an already overflowing pile of groceries.

it’s easy. it’s comfortable. it’s just you and him.

and then you get to checkout.

the cashier, an older woman with kind eyes, watches as geto effortlessly lifts the heavy bags before you can even reach for them. he does it without thinking, just like how he had taken the cart from you earlier, just like how he always opens doors for you, just like how his hand had rested on the small of your back when guiding you through the aisles.

she smiles warmly.

“you two make such a lovely couple.”

you freeze.

your brain short-circuits for a split second, mouth already opening to correct her, but then—then you hear nothing from geto.

not a single word of clarification. not even a chuckle or a shake of his head.

nothing.

instead, he just hums, tilting his head slightly as if considering the statement. he doesn’t deny it. doesn’t laugh it off. just lets the words sit there, completely unbothered.

your head snaps toward him, eyes wide.

he meets your gaze, entirely too calm, a slow smirk forming at the corner of his lips. and then—because he’s absolutely insufferable—he leans in slightly, voice smooth as silk.

“you hear that?” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear. “we’re a lovely couple.”

you want to strangle him.

your reaction must be obvious because the cashier just beams, clearly convinced she was right. “oh, young love is so sweet. you take good care of them, dear.”

geto chuckles, and before you can protest, he effortlessly places a hand on the back of your head, ruffling your hair like you’re some flustered little thing.

“always,” he says smoothly.

you don’t remember the rest of the transaction. you’re too busy contemplating whether it’s legal to strangle someone with a grocery bag.

as you’re walking out, geto leans in again, voice dripping with amusement.

“you could’ve corrected them,” he muses, lips dangerously close to your ear. “but you didn’t.”

your stomach flips. you hate that he’s right.

NANAMI - always taking care of you.

you don’t plan on staying this late.

but time slips away between deadlines and last-minute emails, and before you know it, the office is nearly empty, the sky outside painted in deep shades of navy. you sigh, rubbing your temples, already dreading the long commute home.

by the time you step out onto the quiet street, the city lights glowing around you, your phone buzzes.

you don’t have to check to know who it is.

nanami: where are you?

your stomach flips.

you: just leaving work. why?

the message is barely delivered before another one comes in.

nanami: stay there. i’ll be there in five.

you frown at your screen. he was nearby?

true to his word, exactly five minutes later, a familiar figure approaches.

nanami, dressed in his usual crisp attire, looking entirely too put together for this hour. he doesn’t say anything at first, just glances at you, scanning you over like he’s checking for any signs of exhaustion.

“you should have left earlier,” he says, voice even, but you catch the slight furrow of his brow.

you roll your eyes. “yeah, well, i got caught up.”

“hm.” he exhales, the sound bordering on exasperation, before tilting his head toward the direction of your apartment. “let’s go.”

you blink. “what?”

“i’ll walk you home.”

you huff a laugh. “nanami, it’s fine. i can handle walking alone.”

he gives you a flat look, as if the idea is so ridiculous it doesn’t even warrant a response. Instead of arguing, he simply starts walking, fully expecting you to follow.

and—of course—you do.

it’s not the first time he’s done this. You know it won’t be the last.

he doesn’t hover, doesn’t lecture you about staying late. but his presence is solid beside you, steady and unwavering. his hands stay in his pockets, but you know—if anything were to happen, if anyone so much as looked at you the wrong way—he’d be on them in a second.

as you near your building, you sneak a glance at him. “you didn’t have to do this, you know.”

nanami sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose like you’re the one giving him a headache. “i know.”

“…then why do you?”

he stops walking. turns to face you, studying you for a long moment.

then, with a sigh—like he’s so tired of explaining the obvious—he simply mutters:

“because you don’t take care of yourself.”

and that’s that. no room for debate. no further explanation.

your heart stumbles in your chest.

because he doesn’t say i worry about you. he doesn’t say i do it because I care.

but he doesn’t have to.

the truth lingers in the quiet, in the way he watches you, in the way he makes sure you’re safe—every single time.

and when you step inside your building, looking back one last time, you catch him still standing there. waiting.

making sure you’re okay.

like he always does.

SUKUNA - being unreasonably jealous.

it starts off as nothing.

a passing comment here, an unimpressed scoff there. sukuna has always been blunt, always had a sharp tongue and an even sharper glare. but lately, you start to notice a pattern—one that becomes impossible to ignore.

it happens again tonight.

you’re out with friends, the atmosphere light and easy, laughter filling the air. you’re mid-conversation with some guy—a friend of a friend, nothing special—when you feel it.

that presence.

it’s not loud or obvious, but it’s there. a weight lingering at your back, pressing into your skin before you even turn around.

and when you do—

sukuna is already watching.

seated across the table, one arm draped over the back of his chair, his gaze locked onto you with an expression that makes your stomach flip. bored. blank. irritated.

you try to ignore it. you keep talking, keep laughing at whatever the guy is saying, but it doesn’t matter. because every time you sneak a glance in sukuna’s direction, his eyes are still on you.

unwavering. unrelenting.

you swallow, trying to shake the weird tension creeping up your spine. but then the guy leans in slightly—just slightly—and that’s all it takes.

there’s a sharp scrape of a chair against the floor.

and then sukuna is there, standing beside you, a hand dropping heavily onto your shoulder.

“alright,” he drawls, voice slow, lazy, but carrying something unmistakably sharp. “this conversation looks thrilling.”

the guy stiffens. you do, too.

you glance up at sukuna, narrowing your eyes. “what are you doing?”

“listening.” his fingers tap idly against your shoulder, his weight sinking into the space beside you like he belongs there. “should i join? or is this, what—special?”

your brows furrow. “are you serious?”

he tilts his head slightly, feigning confusion, but you know that look. the glint in his eyes, the smirk barely tugging at his lips—he’s enjoying this.

the guy across from you clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “uh—i was just—”

“no, no,” sukuna interrupts smoothly, finally dragging his gaze away from you to look at him. “you were just what?”

the guy hesitates, then shakes his head. “never mind.”

and just like that, he stands, mumbling something about needing another drink before walking away.

you whip around to face sukuna fully, shoving his arm off your shoulder. “what the hell is wrong with you?”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t even pretend to be remorseful. if anything, he looks amused. “relax,” he hums. “didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

you scoff. “oh? and how exactly was he looking at me?”

sukuna shrugs, completely nonchalant. “like he could have you.” his head tilts, eyes flickering over your face. “and he can’t.”

your heart stumbles.

you open your mouth, then close it. because what do you even say to that? what does he even mean by that?

he smirks at your silence, reaching out to flick your forehead lightly before leaning in—just close enough that your breath catches.

“relax, brat,” he murmurs, voice deep, low, too much. “i’m just looking out for you.”

you should shove him away. roll your eyes. call him out for acting like an overprotective asshole.

but instead, you just sit there, pulse unsteady, second-guessing everything you thought you knew about this friendship.

because you know sukuna. and you know damn well—

this wasn’t just him looking out for you.

TOJI - flirting with you consistently.

it starts small. barely noticeable at first.

a lazy smirk here, a lingering touch there.

you don’t even think much of it in the beginning. it’s just toji being toji, right? he flirts with everyone—cashiers, waitresses, random people in passing. it’s just how he is.

except… it’s different with you.

because when he leans in close, voice dropping lower just for you to hear— “that color looks real good on ya, sweetheart. what, tryna drive me crazy?”—his eyes don’t leave your face. because when his fingers skim the small of your back, guiding you through a crowd, they stay there a second too long to be casual. because when he throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth, he’s comfortable like he belongs there—like he’s claiming that space.

and then there are the compliments.

not just the casual you look nice or that suits you. no, never that simple.

“bet guys lose their damn minds over you.” he says it so offhandedly, like it’s just a fact—just something everyone knows.

you scoff, rolling your eyes. “yeah, sure.”

“i mean it,” he murmurs, and you hate the way your stomach flips when his gaze settles on you, something dark and unreadable in his eyes. “if i were them, i wouldn’t let you outta my sight.”

you tell yourself you’re imagining it—that he’s just messing with you. that’s what he does.

but then it keeps happening.

every single time, without fail.

you’re just trying to grab something from a high shelf? suddenly, he’s behind you, reaching over your head, his chest nearly brushing against your back. he doesn’t have to get that close. he knows it. you know it. but he does it anyway, voice low in your ear as he hands you whatever you needed.

“next time, just ask me, yeah? don’t gotta strain that pretty little neck of yours.”

you push him away, muttering something under your breath, and he just laughs, all smug amusement.

he’s always touching you, like he can’t help himself. a hand grazing the back of your neck when he adjusts your hoodie. his palm resting against your thigh when he leans in to say something. he doesn’t cling to you, doesn’t make a big show of it—but it’s there. subtle. constant. a quiet, unspoken thing.

and then—then, there are the moments that really get to you.

like when you’re out with friends, sitting side by side, and his fingers find the hem of your sleeve. absentmindedly playing with the fabric, rolling it between his fingertips. he doesn’t even seem to notice he’s doing it, just listening to the conversation, relaxed and completely at ease. like touching you is second nature to him.

or when you’re waiting in line for something, standing close, and he leans in just slightly, dropping his voice low.

“keep looking at me like that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your lips for half a second. “gonna start thinkin’ you want somethin’ from me.”

your breath catches.

and the worst part? the absolute worst part?

he sees it. every damn time.

sees the way your pulse flutters at your throat. sees the way your fingers twitch, like you don’t know what to do with them. sees the way you avoid his gaze, pretending like your entire body isn’t reacting to him.

and every time, without fail—he just smirks.

like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. like he’s enjoying it. like he’s waiting—patient, unhurried—for you to break first.

and the thing is…

you think he knows you will.

eventually.

[lxnarphase]

𓇼 FUCK HER, FLIP HER, BEND HER BACKWARDS !

❤︎₊‧⁺...synopsis : the church always says sex for pleasure is a sin, and nanami kento is a man of the lord. but fuck, if his wife isn't worth sinning for. wc: 4.3k

❤₊‧⁺...cw : n. kento x fem!reader, religious themes, traditionalist views on sex and marriage, loss of virginity, missionary to mating press, breeding kink, overstimulation, unprotected sex, nanami loses himself in your pussy, slight cum play, dirty talk

❤₊‧⁺...lunar's note : am i unintentionally coping with religious trauma? possibly but it is fun :33 anyways based of this! forgive me if my writing is a bit rusty, it's been a while but enjoy !!

the two of you have spoken about eventually having children many times, but knowing the steps it took...it kept you both pushing it back, knowing eventually you'd both be ready.

after speaking with doctors, asking for advice from the church, and having you grumble about the neighbors who welcomed a cute baby girl, the two of you figured it was time.

you did your best to act normal all dayl, trying not to seem to nervous or too excited as you went about your chores for the day.

it may just be an act to procreate, but...it's still your first time with nanami. you want it to at least feel special.

there was nothing in the bible that went against that, right?

well, you have plenty of time to overthink since it seems that your dear husband will be at work late. to pass the time, you wait upstairs in your shared bedroom, the TV on as a distraction.

you're so stuck in your own world that you don't even notice him in the doorway before he clears his throat, leaning in the doorway. "oh! hi, honey, welcome home!" you go to stand up, but he holds up a hand, making you stop before you can get up from the bed.

it's silent, aside from the noise from the TV, and you can feel your stomach flip in anticipation.

has...has he always looked that handsome?

he continues to stand by the door, still not making eye contact. "you said it...starts today, correct," nanami questions, focused on undoing the straps of his watch. it shouldn't be attractive, it's such a simple task...yet it has your stomach doing flips as you nod.

"mhm, my, uh...ovulation starts today." it's such a weird thing to say, it just makes everything feel so...clinical. but that's how it's supposed to be, right? those who use sex for pleasure instead of procreation are sinners, or whatever the reverend at the church says.

"mm."

slowly pulling it off, he sets the watch on the dresser before shutting the bedroom door

"good."

dear god in heaven, you think to yourself, struggling to swallow the saliva pooling inside your mouth as he starts to undress. please forgive me for such inappropriate thoughts about my husband.

he removes his suit jacket—black today, it seems—placing it carefully on his desk chair, followed by his cufflinks and tie. his shirt is next, each button popping to reveal his strong, well-maintained physique.

you have to stop yourself from pumping your fist in the air for getting so lucky with such an attractive man as your husband. too busy ogling him like a horny teenager, you miss him undoing his belt before tugging them down and stepping out of his boxers.

once you do realize he's fully undress, you blush hard once he approaches the end of the bed—it took everything out of you not to stare at that...monster hanging between his legs, dear lord—and climbs onto it, making his way to hover over you.

his eyes roam up and down your body, taking in the pretty silky night dress you had on. It’s a soft blue with lacy white trim with little intricate flower designs.

modest, yet sensual.

"this is new," he comments, voice low and sultry. you can't help but wonder if he meant to sound so...so...

you don't find the correct word for it, but this new tone lights a fire in your stomach that has your r thighs squeezing together just a little bit.

"well, i figured it was an important night...you know, finally popping our cherries a-and starting a family?"

it's a weak attempt at humor, your voice clearly giving away your nervousness. you just pray that he ignores it.

a soft hum leaves him, his fingers playing with the intricately designed lace trim. the idea that you want to make this whole ordeal special, that you want to give yourself to him wholly, and that you want to swell with his child...

it pleases him greatly, a small smile touching his lips.

"well, aren't you sweet, my dearest?"

such simple words, yet they relieve so much tension from your shoulders. you can't help but smile back before a little gasp falls from your lips when his hands start to lift the dress up. his hands, they're so big, so hot on your skin.

It's a struggle to remember that this is for the purpose of producing offspring and nothing else, but you try, you try so hard.

but when you hear the hitch in his breath at the realization you didn't have anything else underneath the dress after he pulls it over your head, it's hard to remember.

the thought just about completely leaves your mind at the way nanami, your usually put-together husband, looks so hungrily down at you, a look you've never seen before in those pretty hazel eyes.

his gaze lingers on your body for a moment, mouth opening before shutting instantly, preventing himself from saying something he'd likely regret.

calm down, kento, he reminds himself, taking a second to clear his mind. this is for the purpose of family, not sinful and carnal desires.

even so, he's drinking in the sight of you, unable to stop his hands from rubbing up and down your sides, the soft skin of you, his wife, warming his palms. all his.

"gorgeous," he mumbles, unaware he even said it.

the moment you feel his leaking cock brush against your leg, a thought occurs to you.

neither one of you has a single idea of how to do this.

sure, you both know enough about putting it inside and moving, but that was about it. is there something else you should do? things you should say, places you should touch to aid in the process?

they never explained the actual process of sex in church, and lord knows your mother and father would've keeled over and died instantly if you were to ask them.

'it comes naturally when god deems it your time' the reverend stated once during a sermon. you fight back a frown, realizing that man probably had even less of an idea of how to do it.

however, the feeling of his tip nudging against your slit rips a gasp out of you, bringing you back into the present.

"are you alright? you left me for a bit there," nanami asks, his brow furrowed in worry. if you weren't ready, he was willing to back off. he may want to fulfill this important aspect of marriage, but...not if you don't want it.

"n-no, i'm okay! just...wondering how all of this is going to work out," you softly reassure, giving a weak giggle.

he can't blame you, he isn't very sure either. but as the man of the house and as your husband, he didn't plan on letting you worry. he would do all the work, you just needed to lay there looking so pretty, so soft, so...he realizes he's doing it again, letting his mind wander to places it shouldn't.

"just...j-just relax, we will figure it out as we go along."

with your silent nod, nanami starts to push his hips forward, hissing silently when he realizes the wetness that greets him.

you were this aroused just from...talking?

the thought of scolding you for letting your mind wander crossed his own, but...it would be hypocritical when his cockhead is dribbling precum all over your soft mound.

you choke out a noise of pain when his cock finally notches onto you and starts to push inside. sure, your wetness helped get the tip and the few inches after it inside, but just that is already too much for you, and you're expected to take all of it?!

you do your best not to move, not really sure what you should be doing. you'd be a good wife and bear with the pain if you had to, your nails digging into the pillow under your head as you braced yourself for the rest of his cock.

but this is absolutely unbearable, how do other women bear with this and have 6 or more children?!

a flicker of concern flashes through nanami's eyes at the sound you made, and he stops moving forward. he may be a bit mean sometimes, but he wasn't cruel.

if you both are going to go through with this, he is not going to make you suffer and nor is he going to force you to endure a painful experience.

no true man of god would do such a thing.

"breathe, don't hold it in," he instructs, his voice somehow calm and collected. one of his hands laces with yours, hoping to provide some sort of comfort as his lips brush against your forehead. "i've got you, darling, the pain will pass, just...tell me to stop if it gets too bad. don't hold it in."

giving a soft nod, you try to match his breathing, your body relaxing and making it easier for nanami to slip the rest of himself inside, a near silent sigh escaping him. the tightness and initial resistance that greeted him nearly made him moan, his cock twitching violently inside of you.

something about the physical feeling and knowledge that you saved yourself for him like you promised years before you both got married sent a surge of possession and pride, knowing he has such a loving and faithful wife who is so willing to give herself up to him like this...he can only hope you feel the same knowing he saved himself for you and only you.

so, as a 'reward'—and totally not because he fears you'll strangle his cock off with how tight you are—he's so gracious to you, not moving to let you get used to the stretch and feel of him inside, the room silent except for your matching breathing.

a few moments go by, and you should feel embarrassed when you feel slick drip out of you and down your ass. the realization that your dearest husband, one of the most faithful men of the church, is letting his cock soak inside of your hot cunt makes you whine a little, slick walls fluttering around him.

he's so fucked.

"a-ah...i'm going to move now," he warns, taking your sudden noise as a good sign. nanami shifts his legs just a bit before giving an experimental thrust, his brow furrowing as he slowly finds a rhythm.

the feeling of your hot and gummy walls is absolutely intoxicating, divine, nothing he's ever felt before.

this is what it felt like?

this is what he waited for?

fuck, it felt...it felt so good.

too good.

for you, the pain completely melts away, and you silently thank god and the angels above for giving you a merciful husband who is so kind as to wait for you to loosen up around him.

little do you know, he would rather kill himself than start moving when you're still adjusting to the pain and stretch.

his gentle movements make you all but melt under him, your eyes fluttering at the unbelievable pleasure coursing through your veins.

no wonder your parents preached about saving yourself until marriage, and thank the heavens you listened.

the very thought of feeling this way with anyone but your kento puts a bad taste in your mouth.

meanwhile, nanami chants prayers in his head over and over again as he tries his best to focus on the 'true' purpose for this.

the sticky, wet, and gooey sensation of your plump cunt sucking him, practically weeping each time he pulls out is just unfair.

the poor man, he's fighting so hard to maintain his composure, to not succumb to the base instincts that those soft moans of yours are beginning to stir within him.

"s-shush, darling," he grits out, hips still following his slow, deep pace. "don't...don't make such noises," he all but pleads, voice tinged with a huskiness that betrayed his growing need for you.

“i-i’m sorry! just, it...feels good, y-you feel good, feels s-so good,” you whisper, hands coming up to cover your mouth and stifle those sickeningly sweet noises.

but of course, that isn’t enough because each push and pull of his cock stirs your drooling cunt, filling the room with wet, filthy squelching sounds.

nothing about this is holy, nanami thinks as he grits his teeth, hands fisting in the sheets next to your head.

look at her.

those soft, muffled noises are truly music to his ears, his pace morphing from the slow, deep grind into a faster pace as your soft body gives into the pleasure.

so wet, so damn tight around my cock., like she never wants to let me pull out.

"k-kento, y-you're goin' too deep, i-i can't be quiet, s'too much!"

messy little pussy, 's beggin' for cum, needs it, needs to feel my tip kissin' her cervix as i pump load after load into her womb.

he knows what that little voice is, and no matter how much he wants to claim that it’s the sound of demons pouring their sinful words into his mind, he knows that it's his thoughts, fueled by those dirty little noises that she can't hold back.

how pitiful, how sinful, doesn't she know she's going against all the teachings they've heard preached every weekend in their church?

doesn't she know she's giving into lust?

doesn't she know her pretty sounds are making his dick throb, painting her insides with his hot, gooey precum?

"hush, 'm not going to t-tell you again, you...you need to be quiet," he growls, the command lacking its earlier authority.

nanami also knows lying is a sin, and he's doing a damned lot of it right now as he tries to convince himself that you need to stay silent. after all, this—this is just a process of giving you both a child, just like you wanted, and nothing else.

but he's lying to himself.

he needs you to be quiet or else he'll lose it.

the poor man is barely holding onto his restraint, and these sweet noises pouring from your mouth aren't helping at all.

"y-you make this so difficult sometimes, my dear..." his voice is rough with need and desire, a stark contrast to his usual composed demeanor. "but, by god, you're...you're. absolutely. exquisite."

he punctuates his words with a particularly hard thrust, grinding his hips into you in a way that has the coarse hair on his crotch to rub against your clit. the pleasure it gives you is electric, your legs coming up to squeeze his hips as you try to grind with him.

his words, his simple praise only makes you hiccup his name, crying out louder as your watery eyes roll back as your needy cunt squeezed down on his fat cock.

you're such a sweet thing, trying oh-so hard to mute your sounds. each snap of his hips is all but driving you insane.

“i-i can’t, ken, y-you don’t understand, i-it feels so good, i-i’m so full! you’re pressing against all the good spots, kentoo, i-i love you s' much, b-but i can't!”

be a good fucking husband and do what you were made to, nanami kento.

his teeth dig into his bottom lip, trying to hard to ignore that temptation purring in the back of his mind.

the voice is so much louder now, echoing throughout his mind and muting any prayers or pleads to be mindful of the sanctity of this whole process.

fuck her. give her what she needs, what she deserves.

but it's too fucking hard, he can't his hips are speeding up, his strong hands moving to grip your thighs, unaware of how they start to anchor behind your knees.

breed your pretty little wife and give her a baby like she deserves.

with a deep groan, nanami finally loses all control, fingers digging into your supple thighs to push them to your chest and practically folding you in half.

this new angle has him openly moaning like a dirty whore, allowing him to plunge even deeper into your tight, gummy walls, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each and every deep thrust.

"k-ken, kenny, k-ken," you sob, tears catching onto your lashes as your entire being is assaulted by the endless pleasure your husband is giving you. he doesn't even look like your kento anymore, his pupils blown so wide that you can barely see the ring of greens and brown of his iris.

"f-fuck. 's all your fault, you know that," he hisses, eyes narrowing as he weakly glares down at you. but you can see the hearts in his eyes as he gives in to the pleasure.

his dark eyes bore down into yours, the wet plap plap plap plap of his hips slamming into yours almost overpowering his voice. "if y-you just stayed quiet like i asked, w-we wouldn't be here."

a little spurt of wet gushes out of you, making his fall forward into the juncture of your neck with a groan at the dirty noise it makes,

"god, i-i can feel it, y'know? can feel this sticky pussy—such a dirty little pussy—makin' such a mess. saved it jus' for me, didn't you, baby? mmhm—fuckin' hell, 's tight—thank you god f' giving me such an angel of a wife." nanami is huffing nonsense against your neck, pounding into you with a force that has the bed creaking loudly.

if you weren't being fucked stupid, you would be worried he was about to break the bed.

"you can keep that pretty mouth of yours shut, b-but you jus' had to have the noisiest little cunt."

he's so mean, but it only serves to make you gush even more, the way juices pour out of you and only make the already filthy noises even nastier.

"she's talkin' to me, baby, y'hear it? i'm...i-i'm gonna breed you," he manages to whine into your ear, pulling away to press his sweaty forehead against yours.

his tongue, so pink and pretty—you want it in your mouth, want to taste it want to feel it against yours—runs over his top lip as he watches drool drip down the corner of your mouth while you nod brainlessly.

nanami's never felt so dirty, so unhinged, but it feels so right, feels so fucking good. he never wants to leave your pussy, never wants to pull out, this is where he belongs, buried deep inside you as his cock pumps load after load right into your tummy, giving you what you need, what you deserve.

"yeah? you want that? i'll give it to you, baby, promise, 'm gonna be a good husband a-and knock you up, gonna make you a mommy."

that has you keening, tears pouring down your cheeks at the pleasure it shoots up your spine. you know you're close, but it's different.

it feels different, feels too much, there's pressure you've never felt before from the few times you'd cave in and play with your puffy, swollen clit in the shower when you waited for nanami to get home from work to kiss you to sleep.

no, you feel like you are about to fucking explode. "ken, i-i can't, 'm gonna—s-something's coming," you try to warn, your hands fisting in his hair as you tug and tug and tug.

the pull of his hair makes him moan like a slut, it sounds so fucking good. his eyes are rolling back before he rushes to comfort you, pressing soft little open-mouthed kisses against your lips.

you don't need to fight it, you just need to give it to him, give him what he needs.

"shh, shh, don' cry, y' look t'pretty, honey. l-let it happen, cum for me, i've got you, angel, cum for me s-so i can fill you up," he coos, his hips growing erratic as he feels your silky walls starting to fluttering around him, feeling you teeter on the edge of release.

he shifts, just barely, just enough to better position himself to fuck deeper into you. but that slight movement has his cock smushing against something soft and spongy that makes you sob, growing softer and more pliant under him, and you know you are done for as all you can do is wail his name.

"please, pretty girl, cum for me, show me how good 'm making you feel, soak my cock, c'mon, you can do it."

with a loud mewl that nearly has nanami soaking your walls in cum, you dig your nails into his biceps as you finally, finally cum. and you're right, it is different, your cute pussy squirting and creaming all over his dick.

the poor man is choking back a whine, eyes wide in shock as your cunt just gushes slick everywhere, clenching around him like a vice as you cum.

your juices are soaking his cock and balls, splattering against his lower abdomen obscenely. the thought of making you do that again crosses his mind for a split moment before the need to fill you up for being so good overpowers any other thought.

not giving you a break, he continues his unforgiving fucking, ignoring your cries and pleads for him to slow down.

"nonono, shh, shh, shush, you can take it," he coos against your lips, no longer caring if this was sinning or not. all he could think about was the constant squeezing and spasming of your poor overstimulated slit that was milking him toward his orgasm.

you try to squirm away, but the way he has you folded in half has you unable to do anything but accept his stupidly deep thrusts that make you swear you can taste his cock in the back of your throat.

"t-tha's it." he's panting, slurring his words, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs. it’s so wet, so messy now, but he can't find it in himself to care.

no, all he can think about as he looks down at you is how you'll have that angelic glow as you grow round with his baby, and everyone will know you're his, that he knocked you up, he pumped you full of his cum, that you're his you're his you're all fucking his—

"f-fuck, honey, i-i can't..." his hips stutter as he does his best to maintain his rhythm, but his own release is barreling down on him. his heavy balls are drawing up tight as they slap against your ass, your juices still pouring out and soaking all of him.

"'m gonna fill you up, 'm gonna pump this—this sinful little cunt f-full of m'cum, angel, gonna knock you up, gonna have you drippin' with me, g-gonna give you a fuckin' baby, shit—"

with a deep, guttural groan, nanami hisses your name as he buries himself as deep as possible, his hot tip kissing your cervix as thick, hot ropes of his potent cum pour right into your womb, hips grinding into you and giving little thrusts as you milk his cock weakly despite your overstimulation.

it's—it's so much, he's still cumming, how was all of this inside of him? you can practically feel it sloshing around inside of you, and you whimper when you feel it gush out around his now softening cock, dripping down your ass onto the bed.

a moment or two passes, and he sits up, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face and looking down at you.

oh.

you sweet thing, you're an absolute mess. you have tear streaks down your cheeks, your lips swollen from him unknowingly biting them between the little kisses he was giving you, a pretty sheen of sweat on you, and...

his eyes trail lower to where his dick is still nestled inside of you, and it takes everything in him to not accidentally thrust his hips a little bit.

it's a creamy, sticky mess, a mixture of his and your cum seeping out your poor, abused pussy.

"o-oh. sorry, my love. i'm...not quiet sure what happened there. i apologize for such...foul language," he mumurs, his hand stroking your hip. "'s okay," you softly coo back to him, your eyes fluttering shut as you try to catch your breath. "i-i liked it..."

but you quickly learn you've married both a man of god and a curious, insatiable bastard who can't help but drag his cum all over your pussy, quickly finding your clit. and the reaction you give him is one he decides he likes, your hips canting up as your soft, oversensitive walls squeeze around his cock again.

"k-kento, that's nasty!"

all you get in response is a grumbling noise in his chest as it takes you weakly slapping your hands against his chest to get his eyes to snap away from your gooey, creamy pussy.

clearing his throat, he looks down at you, that heated look slowly creeping back onto his face. "perhaps we...we should try once more. just to ensure it takes," he states, doing his best to show some semblance of dominance.

but it's impossible when his hair is sticking to his sweaty forehead, his pupils blown as he gazes down at your panting form like he's about to devour you whole.

"after all, a...a big family is what god wants from man and woman, right? so we...shouldn't delay and keep trying." his hand trails up your side before finding its way to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh.

his thumb experimentally rolled your nipple, and the way your body reacted, a soft gasp of his name...how is he supposed to explain the feeling he's getting in the confessional booth?

"y-yeah," he gulps, leaning his head down. you can feel his hot breath against your tit, and you swear you feel drool drip onto your breast. "w-we'll keep trying. jus' to make sure w-we do what the scripture asks."

may god forgive him for being such a fucking liar and a damned bad one at that.

all rights reserved © lxnarphase | do not repost, copy, translate, or alter my work

[daryltwdixon]

Joel Miller meeting your parents

this is just a stupid little thing from seeing this gif of him in this post ok thank you and goodnight. Been having writers block so if an idea can get this far on docs I’m posting it

|| fluff, little bit nsfw, daddy kink, old man joel, peepaw joel meets your parents, reader's dad is kind of a hard ass, I suck at flirty banter tbh, cracking up at some of the shit I put in here, enjoy ||

“Baby, I’m serious—” Joel said, but his hands betrayed him, gripping at your hips like he couldn’t help himself as you climbed into his lap. Your knees framed his thick thighs, still clad in worn denim, while his green plaid shirt had come untucked and bunched around his waist. A sliver of soft, tanned stomach peeked out as he leaned back against the bed frame.

“I’m serious too,” you murmured, voice thick with want as you pressed your mouth to his neck. Your fingers wove through his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “Need you, Joel. Been thinking about this all day.”

“We’re gonna be late if you keep this up,” he rasped, even as his head tipped back to give you more of his throat, groaning low when your teeth grazed the scruff along his jaw.

“Don’t care,” you breathed, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “They’ll be fine.”

You hiked your skirt higher, rocking down against him, already expecting to feel that familiar ache of him beneath you—but instead, your hips stilled at the softness of his lap. You blinked, confused, pulling back just enough to search his face. But Joel wouldn’t meet your eyes. His gaze darted everywhere else, over your shoulder, to the wall behind you, the damn nightstand—anywhere but you.

“…Joel?”

He still wouldn’t look at you. You moved your hands to his chest, flattening them against the flannel, feeling the heavy thudding of his heart beneath your fingers.

“You okay?” you asked, softer now, studying him. He looked nice tonight with his hair slicked back, beard freshly trimmed, and his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the veins in his forearms.

You cocked your head, more curious than concerned now as you really looked at him. “Are you…” You reached up, cupping his jaw, gently turning his face until his eyes finally met yours. “Joel Miller, are you nervous?”

He let out a long breath, his voice low and a little rough. “Course I’m nervous, baby.”

“Why?” you asked, easing back in his lap. You could still feel the warmth of his hands on your hips, thumbs sweeping slow, steady circles. It was more soothing for him than you now, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

“Any man’d be nervous meetin’ his girl’s parents for the first time,” he muttered, eyes flicking away again. Then, quieter, “Even if they weren’t his own damn age…”

You smiled softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips—gentle, unhurried. He let you, kissing you back with a quiet sigh, the kind that said he was trying not to get pulled under. You hovered close, noses brushing, before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes again.

“They’re gonna love you,” you whispered.

Joel gave a dry huff, eyes flicking away. “They’re gonna think I’m a damn pervert.”

“You are a pervert.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, narrowing just a bit, the muscles in his jaw tightening. You didn’t miss the way his brows dipped or how his eyes darkened, heat stirring just beneath the surface.

You bit back a grin, fingers tracing along the collar of his shirt. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

He rolled his eyes, still glaring up at you, and you let your shoulders drop, giving in. “Okay, so you’re older than me, who cares? You’re also respectful. And kind. You’re a good man. You even built my cat a window catio.”

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, though he still wouldn’t look at you.

“And you didn’t have to say yes to any of this,” you added, quieter now. “But you did.”

He let out a breath, one hand tightening just slightly at your waist.

You leaned in, your nose brushing his. “And if I thought for one second they wouldn’t like you, I wouldn’t be dragging you into this.”

Finally, his eyes flicked to yours, unsure but searching.

You gave him a small smile. “You’ve got nothing to prove. Just… be yourself. Maybe with slightly less scowling.”

His lips twitched into even more of a smile then, and you kissed the corner of his mouth, lingering there a moment. “But if it helps…” you murmured, lips grazing his jaw now, “I can think of something to get your mind off it for a minute.”

Joel let out a slow breath, one he’d been holding in the entirety of your reassurances, his head falling back against your pillows again.

You smiled against his throat, lips curved with mischief. “I mean… if you really want me to stop…” you murmured, pressing your mouth to the spot just under his jaw. “I could get off your lap.”

Your hips shifted like you might, and his grip on you instantly tightened.

“But then…” you went on, voice all innocent and sinful at once, “what should I do about all this?”

You reached down, took his hand in yours, and guided it between your thighs, right over your panties, where the heat of you was unmistakable. His palm pressed flush against the soaked fabric, and you felt his breath catch sharp in his chest.

He hummed low in his throat, something dark and approving, and as your fingers slipped away, his own pressed harder. His touch was firm, possessive, like he’d been dying to do it but holding back until now.

“This’s all for me?” he finally muttered, voice rough as gravel. “Just from sittin’ in daddy’s lap, huh?”

You whimpered, rocking into his hand, desperate for more friction as you nodded. He gave it to you, slow circles with his fingers that had your breath stuttering, your thighs trembling around his. Even with the fabric between you, you could feel his rough calloused pads of his fingers perfectly against the heat of you.

“Joel,” you whined, barely even meaning to say it.

With a grunt, he shifted, and suddenly your back hit the mattress with a soft thud. He was over you in a flash, his body heavy and hot as he settled between your legs, looking at you like he was starving.

“You got me all worked up now,” he muttered, voice thick and low as his hands dragged your skirt higher, exposing more of your thighs. “Can’t let you walk out that door like this.”

He dipped his head to your neck, lips brushing over your pulse point before suckling gently. The scrape of his beard followed, rough and hot, as he worked his way lower, mouthing at the curve of your collarbone. Then down further, pushing your shirt up as he went, lifting it just enough to mouth at the soft skin of your chest.

“Let me take care of you,” he rasped, dragging his tongue over the top of your breast, nipping at it like he couldn’t help himself. “Let me take care of this little problem, huh, baby?”

You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair. “Knew I’d get your mind off it, old man.”

His hands were everywhere now—palming your thighs, gripping your hips, pushing your panties aside just enough to slide his fingers back where they belonged in your wet, glistening entrance. His mouth returned to your skin, kissing and suckling until your back arched and your breath hitched in your throat.

Joel finally lifted his head, eyes dark and hungry as he hovered over you.

“You gonna be the one tellin’ your parents why we’re late?” he quirked his eyebrow with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

You smirked, hands sliding up his shoulders and onto his neck, tugging at the nape of his hair, “I’ll say I had to help you calm your nerves. Blow off some steam. Pretty sure I’m doing everyone a favor.”

Joel huffed a low laugh, shaking his head as he looked down at you. “That so?” he murmured, his smile pulling a little wider. “You’re real proud of yourself, huh?”

You grinned up at him, eyes sparkling. “You’re welcome.”

He chuckled again, the sound low and warm in his chest. But then something shifted, his gaze lingering a little longer, smile easing into something softer. His eyes flicked around your face like he was locking it into his memory. The mischief faded, replaced by something deeper, something heavier.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t playful anymore. It was deep and unhurried, messy and slow, full of everything that had led up to this night, where you were finally taking this next step, where things became even more real. One hand braced beside your head, the other deep inside you between your trembling legs, dragging you closer to the edge with every slow, deliberate roll of his hips.

Your breath caught. He pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he murmured, barely audible, like it had slipped out before he could stop it.

“Love you too, big guy,” you whispered, smiling as you pulled him back down to you.

The porch light flickered on above you as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the worn steps. Joel stood just off-center in front of the door, fingers loosely laced, jaw tense, shoulders drawn up like he expected to be called into a principal’s office.

You watched him for a moment, the way his eyes kept scanning the darkening yard, how his foot tapped once, then twice. He was wearing that soft brown light jacket over the green flannel, the one you loved so much. His hair was smoothed back now, but you could still see the faint tousle where your fingers had been tangled in it less than an hour ago. There was something boyish about how nervous he looked.

You stepped in close and laid a hand flat against his chest.

“Hey,” you said gently. “You’re okay.”

His eyes finally met yours, soft and searching, and you offered him a small smile as your fingers smoothed out the front of his shirt, pressing down a wrinkle that wasn’t really there.

“You’re gonna be fine, Joel. It’s just dinner.”

“Do they know that I’m–?” he mumbled.

You leaned up, brushed your lips over his, cutting him off. It wasn’t hungry or rushed, just soft, sweet, and steady. 

When you pulled back, your voice was quiet. “Relax. Like I said, they’re gonna love you.”

He exhaled through his nose, a little shaky, and gave a small nod. His hand came up to rest gently on your waist, thumb brushing over your hip like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

Then, behind you, the front door creaked open with a slow, familiar groan. You turned just enough to see the porch light glint off your dad’s glasses.

Joel straightened like he’d been caught doing something criminal. “Sir,” he greeted, stepping forward to shake your dad’s hand.

Your father was stone-faced, giving Joel a single nod as he returned the handshake. He stood in the doorway, quiet and watchful, eyes moving between the two of you without a word.

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry.

“Are they here!?” came a familiar voice from just inside. A second later, your mom popped her head around your dad’s shoulder, her hands clutching his arm. Her eyes lit up the second she saw you.

“There she is!” she squealed, practically barreling into you for a hug.

You let out a soft laugh as she wrapped her arms around you, warm and overwhelming in the best way. She pulled back just enough to hold you at arm’s length, eyes flicking over your face like she was making sure you were really here.

Then her gaze shifted.

“And you must be Joel!” she said brightly, stepping toward him with a big smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied politely.

“Oh, don’t call me that,” she waved him off, offering her name instead.

You caught the twitch of a smile on Joel’s face as he repeated it, his voice soft with that drawl you knew so well.

She reached out and placed her hands on his arms, eyes roaming over him with zero subtlety. “Well, aren’t you handsome,” she said with a wink.

“Mom…” you groaned under your breath.

“Come inside, you two. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

Joel glanced at you, his jaw tight but his eyes softer now. There was still a flicker of nerves there, but beneath it was something quieter. Maybe even grateful. Like he couldn’t quite believe he got to be standing here, hand still warm from your dad’s handshake, your mom’s voice ringing with welcome, your hand just a breath away from his.

You offered him a small smile, one he returned without thinking, and the two of you stepped inside together.

You leaned up to kiss your dad’s cheek as you passed, and he returned it gently, one hand settling on your arm in a quiet, welcoming squeeze.

“So,” your dad’s voice carried from the head of the table, “what is it you do, Joe?”

“It’s Joel, dad.”

Your father raised his eyebrows like he hadn’t noticed the correction, even though he absolutely had.

“I own Miller Contractin’,” Joel said, calm and steady. “We build houses, do commercial work, though mostly stick to residential these days. All across the county.”

Your dad nodded, still not looking up from his plate, chewing a little harder than usual. “Miller Contracting… That just you, or you got a crew?”

“My brother and I are partners, we got a good crew of guys.”

“Hmm.”

A long sip of iced tea later, your dad’s voice pipes up again: “What kinda permits you gotta pull for that subdivision on the west side?”

You blinked. “Dad—”

Joel didn’t miss a beat. “Depends on the parcel. New builds gotta go through the county first, then the town for inspection sign-off. If it’s remodels or additions, we skip the land survey.”

Your dad finally looked up, eyes narrowing. “And your license number?”

Joel raised an eyebrow right back. “You wanna write it down?”

That earned a chuckle from your brother across the table, who quickly masked it with a bite of roll.

Your dad gave a grunt that could’ve meant anything, then pointed his fork across the table. “You hunt?”

“Not in a while,” Joel said. “Used to. Mostly just keep a few rifles around now, in case somethin’ needs shootin’.”

Another nod.

Then, after a long pause, your dad took another bite and mumbled around his food, “Built that deck out back myself, y’know. Back in ’98.”

“Yeah, when I was 8 months pregnant and bout ready to burst from stress,” your mom quipped with a little scoff.

Joel, bless him, didn’t so much as smirk. “It’s a good build. Still holdin’ up well.”

Your dad’s fork hovered in the air, then he gave a small, barely-there nod like Joel had just passed some pop quiz of his.

You finally started to relax until he opened his mouth again.

“One last question, Joel,” your dad said casually, sawing through his steak.

Joel’s shoulders tensed slightly. “Yessir.”

Your dad glanced across the table. His eyes flicked to your neck, then to Joel. Then back to you. With his knife, he gestured loosely toward your collarbone.

“That a hickey on my daughter’s neck?”

You nearly choked on your water.

Joel froze, fork halfway to his mouth.

There was a beat of stunned silence before your mom smacked your dad’s arm.

“David.”

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence, still chewing.

Joel cleared his throat. Loudly. “I—uh—must be… a-a nasty bug bite or somethin’.”

You stared down at your plate, cheeks on fire, absolutely refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

Your dad just grinned around another bite, like he’d just scored the winning point in a game no one else knew they were playing.

Later, the two of you ended up shoulder to shoulder in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, trading off dishes and bumping hips as you loaded the dishwasher and tackled the giant roasting pan your mom had insisted was “vintage, not ancient.”

Joel rinsed a plate, set it in the rack, and glanced at you with a sly grin. “You always this bossy with kitchen duty?”

You shot him a look over your shoulder. “I’m not bossy. I’m efficient.”

“You barely let me step up to the sink before you were shovin’ the dryin’ rag in my hand.”

“I did not.”

“Reckon ya did, sweetheart. And to think I’m just tryna be a good guest.”

You laughed, nudging him with your hip. “I just know where our strengths and weaknesses lie is all.”

“Uh-huh.” He held up the rag and dish in hand dramatically. “Well, I’m puttin’ it on my résumé.”

“Oh yeah? Skills: contracting, firearm safety, surviving dad interrogation, and above-average dish drying?”

He turned to you, eyes playful. “You forgot exceptional boyfriend.”

You pretended to think about it. “Jury’s still out.”

He gave you a mock glare. “Keep talkin’ like that and you’re gettin’ another one of them hickeys on your neck. Right on the other side. Bet your dad would love that.”

Your eyes widened. “Joel.”

“Symmetry,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most reasonable explanation in the world.

Joel stepped back from the counter, towel still in hand, and playfully flicked it toward your backside. You squealed, swatting at him with your sudsy hand, and nearly bumped into the oven.

You were both laughing when the kitchen door creaked open and your dad leaned inside.

Joel straightened like he’d been caught red-handed again, shoulders stiff.

Your dad gave a long look at the two of you, then cleared his throat. “Joel.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You drink beer?”

Joel blinked. “Sure do.”

Your dad nodded once, like he’d already made the decision before asking. “Come out on the porch. I got a few in the cooler.”

Joel shot you a quick look, like he was trying to read if this was good or bad.

You just smiled and mouthed, go.

He followed your dad out, wiping his hands on a dish towel as he went. You watched him go with a little flutter in your chest.

“Oh,” a sudden thought crossed your mind, “daddy?”

Both men turned.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Yes, honey?”

The silence that followed was crippling.

Joel went stiff as a board, like he’d just realized he’d stepped off a cliff and was waiting for gravity to finish the job. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. He looked between you and your dad with eyes wide as saucers, face draining of color.

Your dad was staring at him. Hard.

You turned crimson, choking on air. “I—I was just... I was gonna ask if you wanted some—Mom said there was pie for dessert. Or maybe it was cheesecake? I don’t–I don’t know. Actually, let me go ask her.”

You slapped the sponge onto the counter and bolted, eyes on the floor, muttering something that might’ve been English as you fled the kitchen.

You sat curled into the corner of the couch, a slice of pie balanced on your lap and your second glass of wine halfway gone. The living room was dim, lit mostly by the lamp beside your mom’s armchair and the soft flicker from the TV, playing some home renovation show you weren’t really watching.

Your mom leaned back, swirling her wine. “So… he’s cute.”

You smiled behind your fork. “Mmhm.”

“And polite. Little stiff.”

“He was a little nervous. Bein’...” you shrugged, “You know, same age as you guys and all.”

Your mom raised her eyebrows, taking another sip from her glass. “Please. Age is but a number these days. The amount of older men I dated when I was your age…” she chuckled to herself at the memories.

You snorted, shaking your head as you scooped another bite of pie, the quiet of the house settling in around you like a blanket.

She tilted her head, watching you with that knowing, mom-look. “He seems like a good man, honey.”

“He is,” you said softly, nodding.

Your mom’s gaze softened as she looked at you over the rim of her glass. “I see the way he looks at you. The way you two laugh together. It's nice… seeing you like this.”

You felt your smile pull a little deeper, the warmth in your cheeks not just from the wine. “Yeah,” you murmured. “It feels nice, too.”

The moment settled between you, quiet and soft until your thoughts drifted to the porch. You tried not to let your mind wander, but it crept in anyway. Whatever conversation Joel and your dad were having out there… you hadn’t wanted to hear it. After the fiasco in the kitchen you just hoped he was alive. But then you heard the back door open, the low rumble of Joel’s voice, and your dad laughing about something involving backyard irrigation, you knew whatever happened, it hadn’t gone badly.

Joel and your dad stepped into the living room, their voices trailing off mid-conversation.

“—and I told him if he tried to DIY those stone steps without checking the grading, he was gonna bust his ass in the first rain.”

Your dad huffed a laugh. “You’re not wrong. Maybe I’ll call your company in spring.”

Joel just gave a polite smile, his eyes finding yours immediately.

Your mom rose to her feet and crossed the room to kiss him on the cheek, then turned to wrap her arms around you. “Thank you for comin’ tonight. Come back anytime, you two.”

You smiled, hugging her tight. “We will.”

“You picked a good one,” she whispered in your ear, giving you a little squeeze before she headed toward the hallway, bidding you goodnight.

You turned just in time to see Joel and your dad shaking hands. It looked firm, respectful, less like a test this time and more like an understanding.

You crossed the room and kissed your father goodbye, and while he didn’t say much, his hand on your back lingered for a second longer than usual. That was about as close as you were gonna get to a blessing.

You and Joel walked out to the truck in the cool night air, his hand brushing your lower back, just enough to feel steady.

Once inside the cab, he pulled the door shut and let out a massive exhale, sinking into the seat like he’d just survived a firefight.

You grinned at him, cheeks warm from the wine and your heart even warmer.

“You did good tonight,” you said softly.

He looked at you like you’d just handed him a ribbon at the county fair. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Really good. You survived my dad. Didn’t insult his deck. Kept it very buttoned up.”

He huffed a laugh, “It is a nice deck.”

You leaned your head back against the seat, looking at him through your lashes. “Kinda hot, actually. Watching you all nervous and respectable.”

He gave you a look. “Few times in there I wasn’t so sure. Thought he might shoot me right then and there when he asked about your neck. And don’t get me started on your stunt in the kitchen.”

You groaned and covered your face. “I didn’t meaaaan it.”

Joel chuckled, the sound soft and low as he reached over and gently tugged your hand away from your face. “Still nearly gave both me and your old man a heart attack.” 

You grinned at him as he kissed your hand gently, one knuckle at a time, “But you’re my old man.”

He let out a breath, shaking his head as his smile tugged wide and helpless. “Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re gonna be the death of me, darlin’.”

You leaned in, bumping your nose against his. “Worth it.”

[seungisms]

( skz reaction ) condom or no condom .ᐟ 

🖇️📂 who in skz likes to fuck with or without a condom

genre: smut, minors dni, warnings: unprotected sex, public sex, slight breeding kink with chan cause grrrr, humiliation kink, overstimulation, small size kink with seungmin (his dick is too big for you cause i said so) creampies 🗣️🗣️🗣️ note: got super carried away and this is kinda dog but let’s gooooo

방찬. BANG CHAN

condom. he already has seven other kids he doesn’t need one more. mainly uses them cause he can’t be trusted when he swears he’ll pull out and cum on your stomach or tits instead. the faster his orgasm is to approaching the less he’s able to think about what he’s actually doing, every single coherent voice inside of him screaming for him to pull out is ignored as his cock fucks into you deep and sloppy - the promise of finally filling you up until his cum is spilling out past your little hole just makes it far too appealing to stay buried inside of your tight pussy, determined to leave you a sticky used mess once he’s done. hates himself for it but his breeding kink is dangerous, this man has to battle himself everyday to not fuck you until you’re full and pregnant, so convincing him to ditch the condoms will take some work. beg cutely enough and he’ll give in. swears he’s only doing it to shut you up but the second he sinks his bare cock into you he’s losing every lousy ounce of self-control he might’ve had, mouth drying up and eyes trained on the way your cunt struggles to take him. and he can feel every single nook and cranny of your plush cunt in ways the condom just doesn’t allow and he just can’t find it in himself to rid himself of the pleasure of finally filling you up the way you so desperately crave.  he can normally hold his orgasm out for a few good rounds, ensuring you’re completely fucked out when he finally does cum - but the first time you go without protection he’s busting inside of you within minutes. always buys you the morning after pill though and apologises for cumming inside of you, trying to ignore how good it felt to fuck your pretty pussy with no barrier.

리노. LEE MINHO 

no condom. when he cums, he cums hard. so wearing a condom just makes no sense to him and he’ll just end up ripping it off mid fuck, filling you up over and over until it’s leaking out of you, cussing under his breath that he should’ve fucked that stupid thought out of you for even suggesting to wear one in the first place. prefers having you on some type of brith control instead cause with the amount of cum this guys feeds into your pussy a condom isn’t gonna do shit. he’ll wear them when you first start dating just cause he wants to make sure you feel safe and comfortable with him but the second he catches wind you like it RAW?? he’s taking a lighter to every single condom he’s ever owned, in the trash, never to be seen again. and anytime you try to suggest using them again he’ll act so fucking offended, knowing fine rightly how much you love receiving the loads of cum he gives your greedy little pussy to even humour the idea. far too addicted to the feeling of filling you up over and over until your pussy is left all creamy and sticky and you’re crying that you can’t take anymore to ever think about going back, especially not when he’s felt the addicting press of your cunt smothering his dick and milking him for all he’s got, he couldn’t even fathom the thought of wearing them again.

창빈. SEO CHANGBIN

both. he’ll always try to remember one but gets such a bad case of pussy tunnel vision that most of the time he’ll forget about the stash he keeps in his bedside drawer. tries to keep one on him cause the amount of times you’ve found yourself getting fucked in some random empty supply cupboard or bent over his studio desk have been too many to count cause this man can’t keep his dick in his pants for the life of him, only realising he doesn’t have one when it’s far too late and he’s already painted your pretty pussy sticky with his cum. he’s far too impatient and just can’t ignore the feeling of needing to get his dick wet no matter how hard he tries, somehow always manages to convince you to let him fuck you raw when he doesn’t have a condom, swearing he’ll pull out but he wasn’t prepared for how much he’d love filling your little cunt up again and again until you just can’t take anymore of him. hates the part of him that gets off on seeing you stained and dripping in cum, and might even start telling you he ‘forgot’ to buy more while he was at the store - just to have the sight of your cute cunt all used and spilling over marked into his brain. 

현진. HWANG HYUNJIN

no condom. nothing gets him off like fucking you with no condom. he loves the risk of it all and the fact that he can turn you into a pretty mess with just a few pumps of his dick. loves fucking you raw so much that he’ll have videos saved on his phone of his cock stretching you out - soft praises of, ‘taking me so well angel,’ hardly audible over the sloppy sounds of his cock pumping into your pussy. needs to be as close to you as humanly possible so wrapping a piece of rubber around his dick to devoid himself of the heavenly feeling of your cunt suffocating around him just makes no sense. completely loses himself in the heat of your pussy, locks his jaw and rests his forehead on your shoulder when he’s fucking into you - just so he doesn’t lose all sense of sanity just from the mere feeling of your cunt milking him for all he’s got, and he’s prepared to give you it all. in the early stages of your relationship he’ll try to at least pull out for your sake, but the more he did the more he noticed your thighs locking around his hips to keep his dick firmly planted inside of you, forcing him to empty his loads into your greedy cunt and he just has to thank whatever god there is out there for blessing him with a girl that’s as eager for his cum much as you are. 

한. HAN JISUNG

condom but he forgets half the time. jisung gets so pussy drunk so quickly that protection will be the last thing on his mind, especially when he gets the chance to finally bury himself deep into his favourite place - your pussy. he likes the idea of being safe and protected but his hunger for your pretty little cunt to be wrapped around his cock any chance he can get just stands in the way of actually doing so. it’ll get to the point where you’ll have to carry them instead cause this man is prepared to fuck you nearly everywhere you go, doesn’t matter if you’re in public or not, he’s gonna beg to have your sweet walls wrapping around him near daily. if you actually do make him wear them it won’t last for long, he’ll whine and beg and near damn cry cause it’s just not the same :( and you have him so pussy spoiled that he might actually get blue balled all thanks to the rubber separating you both, might even pull out and take it off just when he’s fucked you dumb enough that you won’t notice, slipping back in and near sobbing the second your pussy swallows him up again, every raw twitch and spasm making his dick swell up even more. likes making a mess of you far too much to commit to condoms so they’ll become an increasingly rare occurrence in your relationship. 

필릭스. LEE FELIX 

condom. as much as he wants to he’s just far too paranoid about accidentally knocking you up to actually fuck you raw. also likes knowing you feel comfortable during sex and as appealing as thought of making your pussy all creamy with his cum is, he’d be a worried mess afterwards. makes sure he always has one in his wallet, cause with the amount you beg this man for his dick he’d rather be safe than sorry. even when you’re being all needy and he’s teased you to a state of being completely fucked out, whining about how much you need him to fuck you when the heavy weight of his cock bumping against your clit just isn’t enough - he’ll still find the will to ignore the painful swell of his dick to pull away and go grab a condom, chuckling and kissing away the cute pout of disappointment that sits on your lips when your hope of having him fuck you raw was once again shattered. tells you to stop being so goddamn ungrateful and take what he gives you :( with or without a condom this man KNOWS how to work his dick so he’ll fuck you stupid no matter what. the further you get into your relationship the more willing he’d be to finally ditch the condoms, but the second he slips into you with no rubber for the first time is the second he loses every ounce of control - fucking into you like an animal and suddenly your sweet, doting felix is gone and is now fucking you deeper and harder than he ever has before, wondering how he’s went all this time without the feeling of fucking you raw. 

승민. KIM SEUNGMIN 

no condom. this man will laugh straight in your face if you ever try to make him wear one. he knows fine rightly how greedy you are for his cum so he won’t take you seriously at all, fully arguing that a pussy as cute as yours shouldn’t be left all empty and sad without a cock in it and would look much, much prettier if it was dripping in cum. and he’s more than happy to be the one covering your little cunt in it. anytime you try to suggest using a condom he’ll make sure you regret it, forcing you to sit on his dick and fuck yourself over and over until that stupid thought was completely rid out of your pretty little head - pumping load after load into your pussy until it’s left all messy and sticky and begging for a break. loves reminding you how much you’d miss the feeling of his cock filling you up if he actually used one and deep down you hate that he’s right. sometimes he gets a little carried away cause the sight of you covered in his cum just goes straight to his dick, likes fucking you in public and making you walk around after with his cum dribbling down your thighs, knowing if you bent over just a little everyone around would get an eyeful of your cute ass painted in it peaking out from under your tiny skirt. and he’ll just have to fuck another load into you later that night from the thought alone. his cock is too big for you, and he gets such a nasty kick out of this fact, watching the way his cum from earlier that day trickles out of your pussy when he’s fucking you - only for him to push it back in with his cock and force you to take even more of it. loves seeing his cum drip to of your used cunt when he’s done and no amount of condoms is gonna take that away from him. 

아이엔. YANG JEONGIN

condom, but he’s easily persuaded to ditch it. jeongin is just there for a good time and as long as he gets his dick wet he doesn’t really care. he’ll always have one in his wallet just in case but the second he gets a taste of your pretty pussy he’s only able to think with his cock and completely forgets the concept of protection. this man needs you almost every hour of the day and most of the of the time wrapping a condom on his dick is the last thing on his mind, he’d much rather it be your pussy instead. can’t think straight when he’s turned on and the only fix is you. you’ll literally have to pry him off you when he’s this eager, lips chasing after you with a small whine of protest when you pull away from him in the backseat of the company car he’s somehow managed to squeeze you into after the rest of the boys and managers were busy setting up for rehearsal, trying to get him to focus long enough to grab a condom but he’s just too busy rubbing the fat head of his cock into your cunt. he’ll be so pouty when you stop him again, ‘forgetting something jeongin?’ and he’s just like, ‘uhhh, no? i remembered to turn my computer off this time,’ and just gets right back into trying to stick his dick into you finally. only realises he forgot a condom when he’s already fucked a load into you, letting out a small sigh of relief once he pulls his softening cock from your used pussy, watching the way his cum follows and dribbles out past your folds. but he can’t find it in himself to care cause you’ve never looked prettier. always helps you clean up after though :( 

© seungisms - all rights reserved. reposting/modification of any kind is not tolerated. 

[humanjarvis]

whose?

synopsis: what’s his is yours.

tags: fluff, smut (handjob), kind of comfort, in a way. jealous/possessive reader, reader needs reassurance, caleb subs himself out to give it to them. reader is a bit delusional but he’s into it, of course word count: 1.4k

a/n: i have reached the point in writerdom where my “drabble ideas” exceed 600 words and must become full fics. i like this one though

“So, how was it?” 

Caleb looks up as your voice echoes from the living room, having just returned from a Fleet meeting. That afternoon, there’d been a new recruit skill showcase, and he’d been summoned to judge.

“Nothin’ special,” he calls casually, strolling into the room. “The guys at the DAA were a lot more passionate, and a lot nicer to be around. Although…I think this one girl was trying to get on my good side. Kept lookin’ over at me during her trials like she wanted to impress me. She even came up to me afterwards saying she liked my eyes—I had to turn her down. Shame you weren’t there with me, otherwise we could’ve saved her the trouble,” he ends with a sheepish chuckle. 

Unfortunately, Caleb was too wrapped up in his storytelling to notice you flinching at four particular words: “girl,” “liked,” “my eyes.”

Bristling in irritation, you shoot him a skeptical glance before turning your attention back to your phone. “Whose?” you ask, your eerily calm voice cutting through the dry air.

“Huh?” he blinks confusedly. “Whose…what? She said she liked my eyes, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he repeats.

You tut, ticking your head up to the side and raising a sloped eyebrow. “Whose?”

Caleb feels like he’s back in a college classroom, sweating with nerves as he stares at an exam question that hadn’t been on the study guide. 

What had he said wrong? He racks his brain for an answer, and then—oh. He knows what you're doing.

Lately, when other people commented on his body—the body you'd waited so long to touch without consequence—you got a bit…sensitive.

He knows what you want him to say, now. And, like always, he was happy to indulge your adorably territorial request.

“…Yours,” he swallows.

“Good.” With a haughty sniff, you click your phone off and lob it across the couch. “Come here.”

And now, Caleb feels like he’s back in high school, suddenly getting called to the principal’s office. Except this time—because it’s you—a thrill rockets down his spine, propelling him forward in long, obliging strides. 

He sits obediently when you pat the spot next to you, and you turn to face him with a light scowl on your face. An act, he thinks. You’re no more than a lion cub trying to be brave, but you need the validation, the reassurance. And he’ll gladly give it to you.

“I wasn't doing it on purpose,” he pouts. “It's not my fault. Just wanted to tell you about my day.”

“It is your fault,” you grumble, “for being so damn hot and charming all the time.” 

He uses all his effort to take you seriously. To listen solemnly instead of preen at your praise.

“But I am glad you told me, because that means I can remind you,” you add, climbing on top of him. “These,” you start, fingers tracing the outlines of his purple irises, “are mine.” He inhales sharply when you come forward, his eyes fluttering shut to let you press twin kisses to their lids.

He shivers for a moment before opening them gently, encouragement and poorly hidden delight in his gaze. “Yeah,” he rasps in agreement. “Yours.”

Humming in pretend contemplation, you trail your finger down the bridge of his nose. “This too,” you declare, tapping it lightly. 

You take his quick nods as a sign to continue. 

Just a few more centimeters, and your hand reaches his full mouth. “And these,” you start, lowering your voice as you lean in, “are definitely mine.” Claiming his lips in a searing, open-mouthed kiss, you tangle a hand in his hair as he groans into you. His large palms splay across your back, tugging you even closer, and you’re almost upset when you have to pull yourself away. But you have a point to prove. 

“Am I right?” you ask through uneven breaths, and he answers you with hazy eyes and swollen lips. 

Onto the next part.

Running your hands down his bulky arms—also yours—you inch back on his lap just enough to see the full pane of his clothed abs. Like usual, he knows what you want before you even ask and swiftly tugs his shirt off, exposing himself to you with unconditional trust. 

You let a soft smile grace your lips as you count the smooth muscles, chiseled by years of hard work and restraint. “Each of these,” you begin, lightly tapping each one, “is also mine. So I certainly hope she’s never seen them,” you warn with a deceptively playful squint. 

“Nope,” he says proudly. “Nobody outside this room has for a long time. I just keep ‘em in good shape because I know their owner likes them,” he smirks and squeezes your hip gently. 

Flustered by how readily he plays along, you clear your throat bashfully. Damn him. “Y-yes. Well. I do,” you stutter, cheeks burning when his grin widens.

Alright. Evidently, he’s eager—almost too eager—to be put in his place, if you can even call this that. You have to shift the power in your favor, to get the ball back in your court. And luckily, you’re in just the right position to do that. 

Meeting his gaze defiantly—he is not in charge here—you reach between your bodies to slip your hand into his pants. As your warm fingers wrap around him, he lets out a choked whine and screws his eyes shut, only to blink them open seconds later with a pitiful stare. 

“Mhm,” you hum in approval. From Caleb, that look is a show of submission—his favorite card to play when you score the upper hand. That look—the furrowed brow, the pleading gaze, and the slightly quivering bottom lip—means he’s yours to control.

“And whose is this, Caleb?” you tease with reclaimed confidence, squeezing gently around his hardened length. 

“Yours,” he breathes shakily, the response automatic. “Only have it for you—so you can use it.” 

“That’s right,” you smile in satisfaction. Giving him a quick kiss, you lift his heavy cock out of his boxers, watching in admiration as the head glistens with growing need. “Mine to use. Why don’t I show you?” 

Reaching up, you run your thumb across his tip and down his rigid length, coating it thoroughly until he’s slick with his arousal. You figure it’s okay to reward him—that’s part of learning, right? Rewards for good behaviors, punishments for bad. And despite the small hiccups, the moments where he’d siphoned your dominance, he’d been so good for you tonight. 

So you start with slow strokes. Gentle praises and twists of your hand, up and down, down and up, until his face contorts in bliss. Frantic gasps and whimpers fill your ears, and you’re happier than ever that you’re the only one who gets to see him like this. You know there’s no one else—you’ve always known, deep down—but that doesn’t stop you from needing to hear it. From needing him to say it. So you’ve started to ask for it in…creative ways. “You’re all mine, right Caleb?” you murmur between pumps, savoring the pleas that fall from his lips. 

“Forever,” he moans, glassy eyes trying their hardest to focus on your face. “Only yours. Only want to be yours.” 

The fuzzy feeling inside you is a bit out of place in the moment, but as your heart swells, you decide not to care. Latching your lips onto his, you increase the pace of your strokes until he’s struggling to return your kiss, overwhelmed by the dual sensations. Giving him space to breathe, you take the opportunity to whisper in his ear: “Let go, Caleb. But remember, that belongs to me.” 

And as your words envelop him, he spills into your hand with a mewling groan. After two more lazy pumps, you settle yourself back in his lap, positioned right over his twitching cock. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, kissing his cheek gently. He buries his face into your shoulder in response. 

Chuckling, you ease his head back and gaze into his—your—violet eyes. “I almost forgot,” you add softly, placing a hand over the erratic thud in his chest. “This? This is mine, too.” 

[wanderingbue]

Turns out, Wilson thinks he’s gay.

He drops that bomb on a Thursday night, sitting on House’s couch, where they’re splitting a greasy pizza and a large order of onion rings. Wilson’s not nearly drunk enough for it to be a joke, is the thing. His hands and voice are steady when he explains how it’s haunted him since he was a teenager, how he ran from it and into three failed marriages, how he cheated because he liked the thrill of the chase but was always unsatisfied with the outcome. He wants to tell the important people in his life to ask them for support in this new era, and House is the first one to know.

And yeah, it could explain things. A lot of things. Like the haircare routine, the regular mani/pedis, the shoe collection. This wouldn’t surprise many people. But House isn’t sure he believes him.

Still, Wilson is his best friend, so he tries.

He doesn’t interrupt the first time he sees Wilson getting a little too close and smile-y with a male nurse. (He interrupts the second time, because he knows that nurse is a vegetarian, and House can’t have that influencing Wilson’s cooking and takeout habits.)

He doesn’t sabotage Wilson’s first date with another man. (He does steal Wilson’s phone the next morning and delete the guy’s text asking for a second date, because anyone asking so soon is desperate, and Wilson can do better.)

He tells Wilson which shirts, ties, and pants make him look gay, only this time, he means it positively. He starts TiVoing Queer as Folk for them, instead of The L Word. He offers Wilson poppers one weekend, then has to explain what they are, and how he came to find out about them in the first place (he used to rave in the 80’s, so what?).

House is being supportive, really. Even if he still doesn’t totally buy that Wilson is actually gay.

Mostly, he doesn’t think Wilson is gay because nothing changes.

Wilson still comes over most nights to watch trash TV and drink beer. He still dutifully drops his responsibilities at work, albeit briefly, to provide a diagnostics consult, or to assist in some borderline illegal scheme. They still hang out, and argue, and laugh, and bicker, and celebrate wins together, and are there for each other in the quiet aftermath of loss. They’re still the same.

Maybe Wilson is just confused because he expected to have a wife and kids, and to live in the suburbs by now. Maybe he thinks the reason for this heteronormative failure is that he’s been chasing the wrong kind of tail, instead of the fact that he spends half his time at work and the other half with House, leaving no room for anything or anyone else. And maybe House should feel guilty about that, about robbing Wilson of the life he deserves and forcing him into a fake midlife sexuality crisis, but he doesn’t.

He sort of feels bad about that part, though—the fact that he doesn’t feel bad at all.

But he’s forced to acknowledge his faults when Wilson approaches him in his office one night, trembling before he can even get the words out, I can’t hide how I feel anymore, I need to tell you the truth.

House accepts that he’s selfish because he lets Wilson kiss him breathless, knowing Wilson will never be able to kiss anyone else like this again, knowing that when he tells Wilson to take him home, he’ll never be able to leave. Now he gets it all, the early mornings and the late nights, the warm beds and the cold shoulders, the biting words and the gentle apologies, and every jagged edge left will be weathered by time.

He understands that he’s greedy because he drinks up all the praises and pleading, every filthy word Wilson moans into his ear and whispers into his skin. There’s a lifetime of hunger behind it, a cosmic collision of pain and joy and grief and devotion. It’s a wine aged for twenty years between them, bottled want and yearning, poured into an overflowing glass.

He recognizes that he’s possessive, because he knows he’s got him now, and it's for good. There’s no more sharing attention, or waiting his turn, or swallowing the bitter bile of jealousy. Wilson will stray from any map to follow his true north.

So, whatever, maybe Wilson is lying about being gay, but at least House is honest about being worse.

[meowdei]

content includes: female reader, drunk reader + mentions of alcohol, modern + non curse au sukuna, established relationship, unnamed friends, reader makes one (1) dick sucking joke, reader dips fries into shakes because she’s elite like that, he carries reader

It’s half past midnight when he comes to pick you up. Your face sours as soon as you see him, taking an instinctive step back.

“Nuh uh,” you say, wagging a finger back and forth in his face as he scowls. “It’s girl’s night. No men allowed—we’ve been over this!”

“As if I wanna join your stupid girl’s night,” he scoffs. Sukuna is tired. (Of you). It’s too late at night to be worrying about what ditch you’re going to end yourself up in after lord knows how many drinks, so regrettably, he takes matters into his own hands.

It’s a good thing he does, too, he thinks with a flare of his nostril as he eyes the drunk, mess of a woman that’s supposed to be your ride home. Designated driver my ass, he all but grumbles under his breath.

“Hey—” he looks over to the side with an irritated flick of his eyes as a hand smacks his shoulder. Your friend (in not better condition than you) levels him with a snarky look before she hisses, “You heard her! It’s girl’s night. Go away.”

Sukuna ignores her—because, well, that’s what he always does anyway. She talks far too much to be considered a normal amount, and he doesn’t like the shrill sound of her voice. Instead, he turns to you, gives you a firm, scolding look before he grunts, “We are going home. Now.”

You seem to catch onto the stern tone of his voice because within seconds, you’re slumping against him as you whine, “Fine,” with a pout. “Mean.”

“Yeah?” He snorts, “You know what’s meaner? Nasty men who find girls passed out in the middle of the streets. Now let’s go. We’re going home—all of you.”

A chorus of whines and petty insults makes him want to grab a drink himself—being inebriated seems like the only way your friends are tolerable, but as annoying as they are, he refuses to leave them here wasted.

So he does the noble thing, and sacrifices his ear drums as they play whatever stupid pop song is trending on the radio at full volume down the streets, heads sticking out of the windows and screaming the lyrics out to innocent passerby’s.

Sukuna is just a guy. Not the best, most chivalrous or charitable guy, maybe—but just a guy, all the same. He’s not done anything wrong to deserve this torture. He’s been nothing but a kind (usually) boyfriend that loves you unconditionally (most of the time), supports you wholeheartedly (when it suits him), listens to your problems (if he’s in the mood), and makes you feel special (as long as it doesn’t inconvenience him).

Still, he’s stuck basically being an uber driver—for free, no less—to your ungrateful, bratty, obnoxious friends that aren’t pretty enough to enjoy your company in the first place. They don’t even thank him when they get out as he drops them off one by one to their homes, opting to say goodbye to you as if you’re the one who pays for the gas in his car.

Finally, the last of your friends (who he likes to consider nuisances) leaves, freeing him of anymore radio pop songs and unnaturally loud giggles.

He grumbles as you ask, “Can we get milkshakes?”

“No.”

“Please?” You whine, “I want strawberry.”

“That’s great,” he says sarcastically, “The answer’s still no.”

“Please, please, please, Kuna? I’ll suck your dick on the drive there—”

“Jesus, what’s the matter with you?” He hisses, fighting back flushed cheeks as he glares at you once the car rolls to a stop at a red light.

Usually, he’s the one making such lewd comments and getting under your skin—but lacking in sobriety is seriously forcing the two of you to switch roles. He’s starting to wonder if maybe he should be nicer to you—you deal with a lot. (Not that he’s mean. He considers himself a pretty generous boyfriend).

“I’ll even pay,” you offer.

“You didn’t bring a wallet, so it looks like I’ll have to pay,” he says blandly.

You grin, giving him an innocent smile as you excitedly ask, “So that’s a yes?”

“Are you going to be quiet if I say yes?” He clicks his teeth in thinly-veiled irritation.

You grin, nodding enthusiastically.

Well, he thinks bitterly, so much for no more pit stops.

It’s not long until he’s pulling into the drive-thru of the nearest fast food joint, rolling his window down to order your stupid, late night request.

“We’ll take one strawberry milkshake, please,” he says gruffly.

“Anything else?” Comes the tired reply of whoever is taking his order.

“No—”

“And large fries, please!” You lean over him to shout out the window and make sure the poor worker hears you. Sukuna glares, (gently) pushing you back into your seat as he hisses, “Put your seatbelt on! And you asked for a milkshake, not a damn meal.”

“Fries aren’t a meal,” you huff, “And they’re good dipped in the shake. You can’t have one without the other.”

“No—”

“I’ll scream that I’m being kidnapped,” you warn, “I want my fries.”

“Fucking fine,” he throws his hands up, exasperatedly caving to your request because, yeah, having some drunk, half-conscious woman in his front seat screaming bloody murder about being abducted at two a.m. is not a good look to a stranger that doesn’t know any better. “One strawberry milkshake and large fucking fries and that’s it,” he growls to the other person through the drive-thru speaker.

It’s not the poor employee’s fault, and he knows it, but he’s too tired and sleep-deprived to care about his snarky attitude.

“It’ll be ready at the window,” the man speaks tiredly, completely unphased.

“Yay!” You squeal.

It’s a pretty bothersome task to have to stop the car five minutes after receiving the food just to open the lid of your cup for you so that you can dip your fries into your milkshake easier, but he figures it’s better than a tiring drive home. Or worse, a spill all over his car seats at your own attempt.

He glances over at you wearily as he finally (hopefully) starts to drive home, watching as you dip your french fries into your frozen drink and happily eat away. He crinkles his eyes at the combination.

He’ll never understand people’s unnatural obsession with pairing anything remotely salty and sweet together.

“My friends think you’re weird,” you hum, taking a handful of fries to your mouth as you say between chewing, “They say you’re intense. Like, scary intense. But I told them, that’s just his face.”

Finally, a small smile cracks on his face, breaking through the grumpy, tired exterior. He snorts, shaking his head. “Drunk you has way too much to say.”

“Drunk me is honest,” you retort, clutching your fries to your chest as you huff, “Now I’m not sharing my fries anymore.”

“You weren’t going to anyway,” he rolls his eyes.

Finally, his car pulls into a familiar parking spot, just outside of your shared home as he parks and turns to you. You giggle at him before humming, “How’d you know?”

“Because you never do,” he rolls his eyes.

“That’s because this relationship is 50/50! You buy the food, and I eat it.”

“Yeah?” He snorts, shaking his head—still, there’s something endearing about the way you clutch your fries close to your chest, as if guarding them with your life. He leans over, snatching one easily anyway, smirking in amusement when you gasp and pout at the gesture.

“Hey! That’s mine!”

“Yeah, whatever,” he grunts, fighting back a fond grin before he asks, “Let’s go. We’re going in.”

With that, he comes around to your side of the car, pulling you out and hoisting you up to carry you bridal style as he marches over to the front door. Sighing happily, you admire his face as he walks.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He raises a brow, mildly shocked. “For?”

“For bringing me home. Same time next week?”

He chuckles, pressing a soft, affectionate kiss to your forehead. “Absolutely not. No more girl’s nights with those shit shows.”

[abbotjack]

thinking about sending robby and abbot nudes but they’re both old and sext illiterate so they respond with something like 👍

Message Received (18+ MDNI)

Content & Warnings: NSFW (18+), suggestive photo reference, fingering (Jack), oral sex f!receiving (Robby), established relationship, dom!Jack energy, softdom!Robby energy, dirty talk, mild brat!reader, age gap, tension-heavy buildup, emotionally grounded smut, and just two very different men completely wrecked by one photo.

word count : 1,723

📩 Robby – “thumbs up.”

You send it on a whim.

Soft lighting. A lace bra you didn’t really plan to wear today. Not overt, but obvious enough.

You wait maybe thirty seconds before regretting it.

Another fifteen before his reply pops up.

Robby : 👍

Just the emoji. No caption. No follow-up. No “holy shit” or “you’re killing me” or “I’m leaving work right now.”

Just… a thumbs up.

You stare at it like it might change.

You : Are you serious?

Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then reappear again.

Finally:

Robby : Sorry. Was in the break room. Looked amazing. Shouldn’t be looking at you like that while Dana’s eating a yogurt next to me.

You laugh—because of course he’s being normal about it. Of course he’s being Robby.

You : Yogurt’s more important than me?

There’s a long pause.

Then:

Robby : No. You’re very distracting. I didn’t know what to say.

That makes you smile. Still, you want more.

You : Wish you were here.

It’s hours later when you hear the key in the lock.

Late enough that you thought he might not come. Late enough that part of you hoped he wouldn’t—just so you wouldn’t have to sit there pretending you weren’t still thinking about that dumb thumbs up.

But the door opens.

And Robby steps inside.

He shuts it behind him gently, like he’s trying not to make too much noise. Drops his keys on the table. Looks at you like he’s still catching his breath from something that’s been building all night.

You’re still in that bra.

The same one from the photo. Still waiting.

He exhales—low, unsteady.

“You’re so mean,” he murmurs. “You know that?”

You tilt your head. “I’m thoughtful.”

He starts unbuttoning his coat. “You sent that while I was sitting next to Dana.”

“I noticed.”

“I panicked.”

“You sent a thumbs up.”

“I panicked hard.”

He shrugs the coat off and crosses the room. Slower than usual. Like he’s not sure he can walk and think at the same time.

“I opened it,” he says when he stops in front of you. “And then had to sit there like I didn’t just get hit by a truck.”

You smile. “You seemed fine.”

“That was me dissociating.”

You laugh, but it’s quiet. He’s close now. Close enough to feel the heat coming off him.

He raises a hand and brushes it down your side—light, steady, like he’s grounding himself.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he says, voice soft. “What you looked like right before you took it. How long you waited to see if I’d say something else.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” you lie.

He just hums, stepping forward, crowding you gently until your back finds the wall. One hand braces beside your head. The other finds your waist.

“No?” he murmurs, dipping just enough to brush his mouth near your jaw. “You weren’t hoping I’d come home like this?”

Your fingers twist in the front of his shirt. “Maybe a little.”

He kisses you.

It’s soft, at first. Familiar. But there’s a tremble behind it, something fraying. You sigh into his mouth, and when you do, he groans—quiet, rough—and presses in harder. His hands move lower, gripping your hips like he needs to feel every inch of you.

“I wanted to say something,” he whispers against your cheek. “Wanted to tell you what I was thinking.”

“Then tell me.”

He doesn’t.

Instead, he drops to his knees.

You gasp, and he looks up once—just once—to make sure you’re still with him. You are.

He reaches up, hooks his thumbs into your underwear, and pulls them down slow. Gentle. Careful. Like he’s unwrapping something precious.

One hand glides up behind your thigh, lifting it over his shoulder. The other anchors you at the waist.

He kisses your hip first. Then your inner thigh. Then higher.

His stubble scrapes just enough to make you shiver.

And when his mouth finally touches you—hot, open, reverent—you feel your knees nearly buckle.

He holds you steady.

He groans softly at the first taste. Then again when you tilt into him.

You brace yourself against the wall, hand clutching the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair.

He moves slow at first. Methodical. Like he’s trying to memorize you. No rush, no teasing. Just full, devoted attention—lips, tongue, breath—all focused on pulling you apart with steady, quiet purpose.

When you gasp his name, he tightens his grip on your thigh and pulls you closer, mouth sealing over you deeper.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

Because this is everything he couldn’t say. Everything he didn’t know how to text. Everything he’s been holding back since you first pressed send.

And it’s all here now—on his knees, in his hands, in the way he keeps going until your head hits the wall behind you and all you can do is feel.

📩 Jack – “what is that”

You send it because you’re bored.

Lying in bed. Still damp from the shower. Wrapped in a towel that barely covers anything, legs stretched out across the sheets like you’re not waiting for an excuse. The lighting’s soft—just your bedside lamp, low and gold. It makes your skin look warm. Intentional. You angled yourself toward it on purpose.

You look good. You know you look good.

And Jack? Jack’s on shift. Third night in a row. Which means you haven’t seen him—really seen him—in two days, unless you count that half-second yesterday when you passed in the hallway, both headed in opposite directions. He didn’t stop. Barely glanced. Just muttered “go home” without breaking stride—like looking at you for more than a second might’ve done something to him.

Like it already had.

So you take the photo. Legs just slightly spread. A caption typed with two thumbs and no shame:

You : come home, I miss you

Delivered. Read

Then:

Jack : what is that

You stare at your phone.

You blink.

You : What do you mean what is that. It’s a nude, Jack.

Read.

And then… nothing.

No follow-up. No typing bubbles. No emoji. Not even a fucking ellipsis.

You huff. Dramatic. Roll onto your side with a groan and grab a fistful of blanket like it’s going to do anything to cool the ache you definitely caused yourself.

If you didn’t know him, you’d think he didn’t care.

But you do know him.

And that silence?

That’s not indifference.

That’s a promise.

You’re in for it.

You’re lounging in bed in your underwear when you hear the door.

It’s late. Past midnight. You don’t move.

Jack steps in. Damp from the rain, scrubs wrinkled. He closes the door, sets his keys down, shrugs off his jacket.

Still doesn’t look at you.

You wait. Quiet.

Then—

“You send that picture just to piss me off?”

You smirk. “I was being sweet.”

He finally turns.

“You don’t do sweet.”

“Didn’t realize nudes were so boring to you,” you murmur, stretched out across the sheets. “I won’t do it again.”

His jaw ticks. “I was working.”

You tilt your head. “And now?”

He moves.

One step. Then another. Slow. Controlled.

Until he’s standing at the edge of the bed, looking down at you like he’s still deciding which part of you to ruin first.

He climbs onto the bed, slow and deliberate, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. You watch the tight line of his shoulders, the way his jaw works like he’s still biting back everything he couldn’t say earlier.

“Now you’re getting what you wanted.”

You blink up at him, lashes fluttering. “Oh? What’s that?”

Jack shifts closer, grabs your thigh—strong, steady—and lifts it over his hip, settling himself between your legs. His palm drags down your outer thigh like he’s lining you up. Holding you there. Making you wait.

“Me.”

Then he kisses you.

Rough. Steady. Like he’s been playing this on loop since the second that photo hit his phone and ruined him.

His mouth opens over yours like he needs it just to stay upright. You arch instinctively, back bowing into the pressure, thighs tightening around his hips.

“Thought about this all fucking day,” he mutters into your skin, lips at your throat. “You don’t get to send me that and pretend you didn’t know what it’d do.”

You smirk, rocking your hips into his. “Did it ruin your shift?”

He laughs under his breath—dark, quiet. Dangerous.

“Don’t push it.”

You grind into him again. Slower this time. Testing.

“I missed you,” you whisper, low and saccharine.

He hums—sharp, dry. “Yeah?”

Then his hand moves.

Fast. Precise.

His fingers hook under your panties and tug them down—slow enough to draw a shiver out of you, fast enough to say he’s not asking. They’re gone a second later, tossed somewhere near the foot of the bed.

He doesn’t break eye contact.

Doesn’t say a word as he slides his fingers between your thighs.

You gasp when he finds you—already wet, already aching—and his lips twitch like he’s smug about it. Like he knew.

“You’re soaked,” he says, voice barely audible. “Figured.”

His fingers move slow at first. Two of them. Deep. Steady.

You moan—quiet, caught—and Jack exhales like that was what he needed. The confirmation. The surrender.

His thumb finds your clit. No teasing. Just pressure—tight and constant and mean.

Your hips jump. Your fingers grip his wrist.

He doesn’t let up.

“Jack—”

He shushes you with a kiss, his hand working between your legs like he has all the time in the world.

You cry out—nearly choking on it.

He curls his fingers.

You jolt.

“There she is.”

His voice is steady. Like nothing about this has affected him. Like he’s not hard under his scrubs, not unraveling with every pulse of you around his hand.

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek.

“This is what you wanted, right?”

You nod, dizzy.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “God—yes.”

His mouth grazes your jaw.

“Good.”

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re shaking.

Not until you’re arching into him, hand clutching the sheets, panting his name through clenched teeth like that photo wasn’t the start—it was the warning.

And this?

This is what happens when he finally opens it.

[mild-lust]

"He's an idiot." Steve Harrington x Female!Reader

❥ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 6k

❥ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Sweet!Steve Harrington x Female!Reader

❥ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: After being stood up by Eddie Munson, you run into Steve Harrington on the walk home from the trailer park. He lends you listening ear and a ride—and instead of taking you home, he takes you to his.

❥ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: MDNI! 18+ content! Explicit language. Smut with undertones of fluff, and a little angst (if you squint). Unprotected penetrative sex, f!receiving oral sex, past casual relationship with Eddie.

❥ ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: My first post, nerve wracking as hell !! I think I got a bit carried away !

You stare at the phone blankly after hanging it up. It was a call that you had been all but unfamiliar with receiving, but it conflicted you all the same each time. And always went the same way. He would make fake niceties, ask you shallow questions about your day and try to keep up some small talk before, inevitably, asking the same damn question. 

“Do you wanna come over tonight?”

You huffed in annoyance each time, making a half-hearted attempt to resist and trying to conjure up some lame excuse not to, but each time you would end the call with a reluctant ‘Fine, Eddie, I’ll be there.’ You hated yourself for being persuaded so easily. It was basically routine at this point, and it was stupid of you to even pick up the phone in the first place. As soon as you heard his voice on the other line, you should’ve hung up on him. You always think these things are so easy to do until you have to do them, until you hear his sultry voice pleading on the other end of the phone for just one more time. You let yourself think, in that moment, that maybe it’ll be different for once. It’s a stupid, short-lived belief.

Even so, you find yourself sat in front of your vanity again, brushing your hair and curling your eyelashes in hopes of impressing him. Maybe if your cheeks are a little more rosy, your eyelids a little more colourful, he might change how he feels about you. He might come to the revelation that he wants more than just sex this time. You know your efforts are futile, as long as your clothes are easy to take off he couldn’t care less about anything else, but it makes you feel better for a few moments to let yourself believe otherwise is true. You reluctantly slip on a matching set of underwear, lacy and baby pink. Very intentional. You know you look good, and you know that Eddie will appreciate it. You realize that this is the reason he expects the same thing every time—because you deliver it. You curse yourself for it. Shaking the thought from your head, you step into a short pink dress, throwing a cable-knit cardigan on top. 

You try not to think as you walk down the stairs, out of your house, and down the street to his. You consider turning back about a million times, but you end up at his trailer before you can actually muster the courage to do it. You knock on the door a couple times, waiting patiently, stupidly, for a response. Then again when you don’t receive an answer, the action proving ultimately as useless as the first one. You raise onto your tiptoes to try peek through the window, and you find that the trailer is completely empty inside. Your face grows warm as you look around the trailer park, realizing no one is around or waiting for you. 

Tears threaten your eyes, and you forcefully blink them away before they get the chance to well. You shake your head, promising yourself that you won’t be brought down by the behaviour of Eddie Munson. Not again. You turn and make your way back down the street, your shoulders slumping. The street is desolate and lifeless, the late hour clearing the pedestrians from wandering and leaving you alone on the road. That is, until headlights shine from behind you, casting your shadow on the concrete front of you. 

A familiar burgundy BMW slows as it approaches, stopping beside you. The tinted window rolls down, and you’re met with the face of Steve Harrington. You brush a stray hair from your face, then attempt to clean the smudged mascara from beneath your eyes with the knuckle of your thumb.

“Hey, L/N,” he drapes his arm over the door, “what are you doing out here?” he asks, his eyebrow cocked as he looks up and down the dark street. You’re slightly surprised to hear the concern in his voice. Although, you suppose, you’ve seen him around and you hang around a lot of the same people. Besides, it’s kind of impossible to roam the halls of Hawkins High School and never hear the name King Steve. You’ve had quite a bit of interaction with this boy, but the significance of your friendship only really occurs to you the moment that he stops his drive to talk to you. 

You shrug your shoulders, and you feel your cheeks grow rosy as you realize you have to find a way to avoid telling him the truth for the sake of your own dignity. He raises an eyebrow at you, “It’s late, you know,” he says, pointing out the obvious. You feign a small, agreeing smile, nodding your head as you avert your gaze to the ground. You open your mouth to speak, hesitating when you try to figure out what to say, “I know. I, um,” you shake your head, “I was just on the way home.”

He’s clearly dissatisfied with your response, concern still evident on his face when he tilts his head, his eyes narrowing. “That’s awfully vague,” he mumbles, almost to himself, “Here, you want a ride?” he asks, gripping the stick shift and switching back into drive, his gaze unwavering. 

You blink at him, slightly surprised by the invitation, “No, that's okay, Steve.”

You purse your lips into a polite smile, and he gives you a disapproving frown along with a quick, dismissive shake of his head. He opens the door opposite to him, a gesture for you to get in. His tone is persistent but gentle, “Come on.” He cocks his head toward the empty seat beside him, “Let me at least get you off the street. You can chill at my place, just to… you know, not be alone.”

You carefully consider his offer, pulling your lower lip between your teeth in thought, a subconscious attempt to suppress the smile that tries to pull your cheeks. You dip your chin, soon decidedly trotting your way around the front of his car and slipping through the passenger door. His arm crosses your body as he shuts it beside you with a soft thud, before he returns his grip back to the steering wheel. You lay your hands in your lap, watching yourself fiddle with your fingers. It’s hard not to think about the fact that you’ve never been alone with this boy. The car is quiet for a beat, the low hum of the engine bringing ambience to the space. You realize that you feel a bit less lonesome now, being in this car with him. A wave of gratitude washes over you, and you wonder if he knows that he’s saved you from a harrowing, pitiful night at home alone. 

“Thanks,” you mutter, needlessly ashamed to say it. 

He shakes his head, “Don’t mention it,” he says as he turns to look at you, his expression curious once again. “Where were you coming from?” 

You scrunch your nose and bring your gaze back down to your nervous, fidgeting fingers. “Nowhere,” you lie, the familiarity of embarrassment crawling up your neck. 

He gives you a comforting half-smile, his eyes shifting back to the road now that he has you talking, the engine turning and thrusting the vehicle forward. “No, come on.”

You hide your face with your hands, an action you realize is meaningless as he’s not even looking at you anymore, “God, it’s embarrassing.”

He smiles amusedly when he senses your unease. He remains wordless, the quiet itself urging you to continue. “I went to… um, Eddie’s place.” The words leave your mouth reluctantly, humiliating and heavy on your tongue. 

You see his eyes widen a bit as he processes what you’ve said. “No kidding,” He says with a scoff, disbelief heavy in his voice. “Munson?”

Your chest tightens, and you’re unsure if you’re more ashamed by your actions or Steve’s reaction. “Yes, Munson,” you huff, “but nothing happened.” 

He seems to lose some amusement from your clarification, potentially hoping for a juicier outcome. To your surprise, he doesn’t press any further. You were glad to see him bring his focus back to the road, going back to quietly navigating the stark streets for the remainder of the drive. You watch the unlit houses go by through the window, cruising by streets you only faintly recognize. Before you know it, Steve is pulling into his driveway and leading you up the small steps to his front door. He coolly unlocks it and opens it for you, welcoming you into the darkness of his living room. Light creeps in from a small light in the kitchen, allowing you to just barely make out the outline of his furniture.

You squint your eyes, lingering in his foyer once you’ve hung up your sweater. He sets down his keys and heads towards his staircase. “Are your parents home?” you ask tentatively.

“Nope,” he replies, “they’re in Chicago for the weekend.”

He throws the words away, moving into his house without a second thought, apparently used to being alone. It’s only when he disappears into the kitchen that you think to catch up to him, finding him with a crisp can of Coke already opened. He leans against the open door of his refrigerator, his head tipping back as he takes a swig. You stand in the doorway, your eyes trailing up his exposed neck, moles sparsely trickling along his flesh and adams apple as it bobs with deep gulps. Your eyes snap back to his face when he speaks again, “Want something to drink?” 

You shake your head and murmur a sheepish ‘That’s okay, thank you’. He nods and moves past you, travelling across the long distance between his kitchen and his living room. You follow behind him, your head turning every which way to take in his house. It’s spacious, tasteful, but you can’t help but notice its overbearing hollowness. The halls are empty and dark, any sign of liveliness or family apparently absent. You wonder how often his parents must be gone for the house to be this pristine, practically untouched. You clear your throat, taking a seat next to him on the couch, sure to keep a safe distance between the two of you. 

“What were you doing at Eddie’s house?” Steve questions you again, breaking the silence and setting his elbows on his knees. You recognize an edge that suggests more than just innocent curiosity; an insistence that makes you wonder if he’s truly interested in your answer rather than simply enticed by the gossip. 

“Um,” you wet your lips, “he wasn’t even there, actually.” Your mouth dries up as you say it, the reminder digging a pit in your stomach. He tilts his head to the side, clearly not understanding.

“Hm? Why not?” 

You raise your shoulders, letting out a soft, defeated sigh. “He was supposed to be.”

Uncertainty flickers on his face, and his expression softens when he realizes the implication. “Oh,” he utters, his voice quieter now, “I see.” He leans back against the couch, looking down at his lap. 

“It’s not a big deal,” the words tumble out, quick to reassure him. “We’re not, like, together or anything. Just… kinda sucks.” His eyes find yours as you speak, actively searching for any sign of doubt on your face. You press your lips together, “It’s fine.”

“Okay,” he nods slowly, not entirely convinced of your apathy. “Well, he’s a dick, you hope you know.” 

Your lips curl, eased by his attempt to sympathize with your being stood up. You wave him off. “Oh, whatever.” 

“Seriously,” he persists, rolling his eyes as he takes another sip of his Coke.

You shrug your shoulders, “It’s Eddie.”

“I guess. Still a dick move,” his voice softens. “I mean, no dude should get to stand anyone up.” He pauses for a moment, seemingly careful to choose the right words. “You don't deserve that. You’re… a really nice girl.”

“Nice?”

Steve keeps your gaze when he continues, “Yeah. He’s a moron.” He tsks. “If I had someone like you coming over…” He trails off, unsure of whether or not he should continue. 

“What?” you ask curiously.

“I mean—look at you. I’d be waiting at the door."

“Really?” you say. As if you need to hear it again to fully understand what he means. 

He swallows dryly, setting his can onto the coffee table and, in turn, settling closer to you. “Come on, you’re gorgeous.” He says simply. 

His leg brushes yours, and he doesn’t pull away. You nod, mostly to yourself, and try not to smile too obviously as you look down at your lap. “Thank you,” you mutter quietly enough that you’re not sure if he hears it. There’s no indication even once you look back at him, but you realize that he hasn’t taken his eyes off of you. You feel your cheeks burn up, and you hope he doesn’t notice the pinkish-red that tends to slither up your neck when you get nervous. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard that a million times, though.”

You purse your lips, somehow embarrassed not to have been told something when you have no control over whether or not you’re told. You try to shrug it off, “Not really.”

Steve is visibly puzzled by this. “No?” He asks inquisitively. 

“You know,” you say, trying to feign indifference. “Eddie’s not really… a talker.”

“‘Not really a talker’? What does that mean?” he replies, as if there’s no way he could be interpreting this correctly. You fiddle with the hem of your dress, instinctually starting to feel defensive over Eddie, despite yourself.

“You know,” you say again, hoping he’ll understand before you have to say it. “Neither of us really talked. Not much opportunity for compliments.”

He scoffs, “That’s bullshit.”

You frown and swat him half-heartedly, “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not,” he raises his eyebrows and holds his hands up in a mock-surrender, “Just saying. Must’ve been real good for you to put up with all that.”

You laugh humourlessly, glancing away from him. “Yeah, you’d think so.”

His eyebrows furrow, trying to make sense of your crypticity. It only takes him a second, and his eyes flit back to yours. He cocks his head. “He wasn’t?” he asks lightly, trying to sound casual though the interest in his eyes isn’t exactly subtle.

You don’t want to offer anything more, admittedly embarrassed to elaborate. You figure he can read between the lines, but his gaze is unwavering, still curious. You hesitate before you continue, “I don’t know.” Part of you wants to protect Eddie’s intimate life for the sake of his privacy, while the other doesn’t really care after what he pulled tonight. Decidedly, you go with the better part. “It was never really about me.”

“What, you mean, he never, like… you never—” he breaks, his eyebrows raising as it dawns on him, “Oh.”

You’re grateful that he’s not judgmental about it, just surprised. Possibly even for your sake. Silence hangs between the two of you for a moment, not particularly uncomfortably, before he breaks it again. “Wow, that sucks.” All you do is tighten your lips and nod agreeingly. “You deserve, um,” he stops to weigh his words, “You should be with someone who knows what they’re doing.”

You’re not entirely sure what he means. He’s searching your face, as if he’s still trying to decide something, and his eyes dip to your mouth almost imperceptibly. He sets his hand onto your knee, gingerly, giving you the opportunity to pull away from him. You don’t. 

You let out a nervous exhale as he leans closer to you, the distance between you closing further and further. Once his mouth meets yours, it’s drastically different from the hungry, lustful make-outs you’d shared with Eddie. He presses softly, his lips moving cautiously, still proposing a question. He breaks the kiss, just for a moment, only leaving an inch or two between you. Another opportunity to let you pull away if you wanted to. Once he sees that you don’t, his hand moves to cup the side of your face, and he kisses you again with more fervour. Though his lips are still moving with care, gentleness, there is more intent behind it. He’s eager. 

You shift closer, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you rest your hand on his leg. His tongue brushes along your bottom lip, a silent request meant to coax it open. You answer it, slipping your tongue alongside his. You still yourself, suddenly unsure, and wonder if you’re moving too quickly. You’re not sure of how far he’s meaning to take it, or whether or not the kiss was supposed to mean anything at all. Your answer comes soon after when his hand trails carefully up your thigh, deliberate and certain. You lean into his touch, and he gently pulls you into his lap. Your knees settle on either side of his hips, and he places both hands on the small of your back. You sigh softly against his mouth, moving your hands to both sides of his neck and drawing him impossibly closer. 

The skirt of your dress gathers around your thighs when your front presses flush to his, your legs spread across his lap. His hands travel to your bare thighs before he stops himself at the hem of your dress. He lets out a careful exhale, pulling his lips from yours and searching your eyes. Your noses still touch, his breath fans hotly against your face, and you bring your hands to cup his cheeks.

“It’s okay,” you whisper reassuringly, answering the question he hasn’t yet asked aloud. 

“No, I…” he trails off, his eyes flicking to the ceiling. He swallows once, then utters quietly, “Upstairs?” 

The single word earns a fervent nod from you, and you lift yourself from his lap, offering your hand to him. He hastily takes it, moving in front of you to lead you out of the living room and up his staircase. Once you’ve made it to his room, he shuts the door behind him with a quiet ‘click’. He crosses the room with only a couple strides, his hands again holding your face and bringing you into another kiss before you can even make it to the bed. He walks you backwards and only breaks away from your lips once the back of your legs bump against it, then he lowers you gently on top of his rumpled bedspread. As he crawls over you, his lips attach to your neck and kisses tenderly along your jaw. 

He presses another gentle kiss to your lips, resting his forehead against yours to take a second to catch his breath. His hand rubs the fat of your thigh, hesitating when it traces the hem of your dress. You place your hand on his and guide it higher up your leg. 

Steve sits back for a brief moment to swiftly pull his shirt over his head, tossing it aside and causing it to pile in a heap on the floor. He leans back down for another kiss too quickly for you to properly see him, so you resort to instead moving your hands to run delicately along his stomach and up to his chest. He grasps your thigh and hikes it up to his hip, opening your body against him. His hips rut gently against yours just once, and you can tell that he’s making an effort to restrain himself. The growing tent in his jeans rubs roughly against you even after he stops moving. His hand wanders further up your thigh, skimming the bottom of your dress and pausing, almost waiting for you to stop him. Yet again, you don’t. Instead, you raise your arms to allow him to peel it over your head and discard it to the floor, just as his shirt was. 

Your face grows hot when you’re left bare underneath him. As he leans back onto his knees, you see his breath hitch in his throat when the lingerie that you initially put on for Eddie is revealed. His hands instinctively move to your hips, tracing his fingers along the lacy material that clings to your curves, his eyes still fixated on your body.

The longer he stares, the more self-conscious you feel, even if it only lasts for a second. “What?” you ask sheepishly, pulling your knees together in a half-hearted attempt to close yourself off. 

“Nothing,” he responds quickly, his eyes darting back to yours, “It’s just… Eddie’s an idiot.”

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your lips, your hands reaching out to pull him back in for a kiss—partly to stop him from staring much longer. Obviously, that’d been the reaction you’d hoped for, but you’d gotten so used to being stripped so hurriedly that it was surprising to be given more than a few seconds before rushing to the ‘good part’.

 His hands continue to admire your body when his eyes can’t, moving along your waist and eventually cupping your breast. His thumb brushes over the hardened peak of your nipple through the thin material, the sensation causing a shudder to run down your spine. Your back arches into him responsively, along with a quiet moan that’s muffled by his mouth. 

His lips travel down to your neck and press hotly below your ear, tenderly making their way down to your chest. His erection rubs evidently against your inner thigh. Despite himself, he doesn’t grind or urge against you. He still takes his time to plant gentle, open-mouthed kisses along your skin, lower, lower, lower…

Faint pants escape from your lips, your chest rising and falling heavily. His lips press between your breasts, trailing down to your belly button, to the soft plush of your inner thigh. You gasp softly, a chill running through your body when he presses a feathery kiss to your clothed clit. He continues to pepper light kisses on your thighs as one hand roams along the side of your body, stopping when it reaches the lace of your panties. His eyes flicker to yours, and you answer the question he means to ask with a keen nod of your head. 

A finger hooks the material, sliding them down your legs smoothly. Once they pass your thighs, knees, and ankles, he balls up your underwear and tosses it aside, then hooks his hands around your legs to pull you closer to him.

Your eyes flutter shut when he licks a long, slow stripe up your slit. Your cunt pulses desperately, the almost torturous pace he’s setting already making your head spin. He evasively pulls his tongue back into his mouth, and in its place, he slides his middle finger to glide along your folds. He slips it in tentatively, his eyes wide as he looks up at you for even a semblance of hesitance or doubt. All he’s met with is the soft gasp that’s drawn from your lips, a clear green light for him to continue. Pushing deeper into your soaking entrance, his finger curls and his lips attach to your clit, suckling. This earns another gasp, the pretty noises coming from your mouth growing more consistent once his finger starts to slip in and out of you. 

His tongue swirls around your sensitive clit, and he slides his index finger alongside his middle, his thick digits already starting to stretch you out as they move with mesmerizing care. You have to make an effort not to tug too hard on his hair when your fingers thread through it, your knees draping over his shoulders. With his tongue lapping and sucking on your puffy clit, fingers curling expertly to brush against your sweet spot with every pump, you realize how badly you’d been lying to yourself about ‘not minding’ the lack thereof with Eddie. Because, Jesus, does this feel fucking phenomenal.

His free hand moves to grasp your thigh, encouraging your legs to stay open once they try to close around his head. You start to burn up from the inside, being pushed closer to the edge despite his pace that refuses to quicken to match your rapid breaths. It’s a bit embarrassing to near your orgasm so quickly before he’s even fully undressed, but it’s excruciatingly hard to focus on anything except the waves of pleasure that wade through your body. 

“Steve,” you breathe, trying to grab his attention. You tighten your fingers in his hair, a weak attempt to break him away from you, but he persists. Your skin tingles with the sensation of his tongue working against you, and the lust that blooms in your lower tummy begs you to take this further. You squirm slightly underneath him as you mewl his name once again, “Steve...” 

All he does is him in mindless acknowledgement, the sound being muffled by your cunt. Once you get him to finally pull away and look at you, he is a visionary. His lips are pink and wet, parted slightly as he gazes up to look at you. His dark hair is tousled by your eager grasp and a strand falls loosely onto his forehead. You brush it from his eyes. You truly don’t know how much longer you can wait to have him, and you find yourself driven by this burning impatience. 

You urge him to move from between your thighs, pulling him to sit up. Tucking your lower lip between your teeth, you lay him down beside you and climb on top of him, settling your knees on either side of his hips. You reach behind your back and unclasp your bra, pulling it off and tossing it into the growing pile of clothes on the floor. This warrants a groan to erupt from deep in his throat, his eyes taking in your bare chest as if he’s immediately committed to memorizing it for future notice. 

“So pretty…” he whispers, and it’s unclear whether or not he meant for you to hear him. 

He attaches his mouth to yours again, wasting no time to slip his tongue past your lips and explore. There’s a newfound sense of urgency now, his movements still deliberate but considerably more driven. You shift backwards to give yourself enough room to start working on his belt buckle, your fingers fumbling as if you’ve never undone a belt in your life. Then he lifts his hips to help you tug his jeans down his thighs, and he’s left in nothing but his Calvin Klein briefs, the barrier between the two of you starting to dwindle. You can’t stand being naked where he remains clothed, even if it’s nothing but a pair of briefs, so your fingers move quickly to slide under his waistband. You wet your lips and tug delicately, just enough that his erection is revealed from beneath the fabric. 

You almost salivate when he springs free and weighs heavily against his stomach, a drop of precum gathered at the pink tip. You can’t help but reach to wrap your hand around him, your fingers barely meeting around his girth. His reaction is immediate; his eyebrows creasing, his lips parting with a sharp inhale, and his head tipping back against the headboard with a faint ‘thud’. You swipe the bead of arousal at the head with your thumb, before moving your hand slowly down his length. You’re only granted a stroke or two, base to tip, before he stops you by grabbing your wrist. “Easy,” he breathes, seemingly concentrated on restraining himself from ending the night right then and there. 

It’s unspoken, but there is a mutual understanding between the both of you that he needs to get inside you, like, yesterday. You lean forward, bracing yourself with one hand and arching your back somewhat purposefully, allowing you to hover above his cock. He shifts between your legs, his hand replacing yours at the base. You’re a bit embarrassed by the sheer amount of arousal that already coats his thick cockhead, though he seems to be in utter disagreement with you when he responds with a guttural groan. He aligns himself with your slick, carefully gliding the tip up and down without yet going in. 

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, despite the telling circumstances. 

“Yes, Steve,” you respond firmly, almost exasperated by his unwavering hesitancy. “I want you,” you emphasize, hoping the slight whine in your voice is enough to soothe his uncertainty. 

Luckily, those three words are all he needs to hear. Once he properly positions himself, all he says after that is a small ‘Tell me if you wanna stop’, and his hands move to steady your hips. Your eyebrows knot, and your chest swells with anticipation, even nervousness. His tender demeanor, the way he looks at you, it’s so overly different from how Eddie treated you. You wonder how you ended up here, with Steve, instead of in Eddie’s trailer as you always do. Coincidence, you suppose. If you had ended up there again, you certainly wouldn’t—

Holy fuck.

The thoughts are swept clean from your head once he guides you down onto him, your mind overcome instantly with the tantalizing stretch his cock brings upon entrance. Your nails go to grasp his shoulders, your jaw slackening with an audible gasp. Your eyes flutter open, your senses overwhelmed with the firm grip he holds on you, the grunt that falls from his lips, the air that punches from your throat with the first deep, experimental thrust. 

He holds your soft hips tightly, enough that it seems he’s keeping you from moving any more. “Jesus christ,” Steve mutters, his voice strained. “You’re so—fuck.”

You give yourself a moment to adjust, partly for his sake, especially because it seems if you move at all he’s going to fucking explode. Once you see him relax, you set a controlled pace, rolling your body against his. His eyes fixate on where you’re connected, and you watch his expression change; the light crease between his eyebrows, the lower lip that he sucks between his front teeth, his jaw that tenses visibly. It’s not long before he’s drawing small, breathy moans from you, his cockhead dragging mesmerizingly along your inner walls. 

Soon, you find yourselves in a rhythm, your bodies familiarizing themselves with each other and starting to work in tandem. Your hands slide up to the sides of his neck and you let your head fall back to look at the ceiling, your face starting to twist in pleasure. You can’t help the noises that drawl from your lips, his cock hitting the perfect spots inside you so easily. You don’t notice, but he can’t keep his eyes off of you. Sweat beading on his hairline, low groans coming from his throat as he watches your every move, the way your breasts bounce with every deep stride of your hips. He’s completely enthralled by you, your long nails clawing at his shoulders helplessly. You lean back down, your front pressed to his as you bury your face in the crook of his neck, trying uselessly to suppress the mewls that escape your mouth. You busy your lips by kissing along the sparse freckles on his sweat-slick skin.

“Oh, Steve,” you moan out. “Steve,” you repeat mindlessly, the word warbled by your breathlessness. There is a visceral reaction to your babbly moaning of his name, a shiver running through his body as he struggles to maintain a steady pace. 

Panting, he threads his fingers through the damp hair on the back of your head and gently pulls you forward to look at him, his eyes darting along your flush face. He brings you in for a kiss, your ability to reciprocate lasting only momentarily before you end up doing nothing more than gasping into his mouth. He curses under his breath, his eyes squeezing shut as his hand falls back down to your hip, helping to guide your unstable pace. 

With a tight grasp on you, he starts to thrust upward to meet your movement, pushing himself deeper inside you. The room fills with the sounds of skin-on-skin, and he starts to do most of the work to make up for your ever decreasing control. His thrusts don’t last long before they become erratic, his hips moving desperately and clearly starting to chase release. You cry out, your hands moving quickly to dig into his shoulders again. 

“Fuck,” he grunts in response, knitting his eyebrows together, “That feel good?” You’re unsure if the question was rhetorical, the moans that rip from your throat more than enough evidence for him, but you answer anyways. 

“Yesyesyes,” you murmur, “S’good.” You’re almost whining, the coil in your tummy starting to tighten rapidly. You turn into a hot, trembling mess on top of him, letting lewd noises wrack through your body. 

“Holy shit,” he says with a strangled groan, heavy breaths causing his chest to rise and fall against yours, his chest hair scraping between your breasts. “You’re driving me crazy,” he pants, his tip brushing deliciously against your sweet spot. 

You plead his name, pleasure blooming under your sensitive skin and spreading to the rest of your body. He surges forward to capture the noise with his mouth, the kiss only lasting a second before he breaks from your lips and presses his forehead to yours. You tense and arch almost completely against him, your thighs aquiver as you start to unravel around him, barely keeping the ability to hold yourself up on your knees.

He watches you fall apart intently, eyes blown-out with admiration. They then shut with concentration after he’s successfully ridden out your high, his face contorting blissfully as his hips stutter, a weak warning leaving his lips. 

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—”

He abruptly pulls out, only a few pumps of his hand necessary before he erupts onto his own stomach, painting his cock with shiny, white streaks that run down his length. There's a collective moment where you’re both trying to catch your breaths, struggling to find composure. Licking his lips, Steve brings his hand to brush away the baby hair that sticks to your forehead. Without realizing, he bats his eyelashes as he studies your face; your parted, puffy lips, the rosy tint to your flushed cheeks, the heave of your chest. Truthfully, you look a bit ruined. Not that he’s complaining. 

You turn over to lay flat beside him, your shoulders brushing, and stare blankly at the ceiling. You’re mildly terrified of what’s to come, how he’ll act after this. You wonder if you’ve just broken your whole dynamic by letting this happen. You trace the patterns of the small bumps on his popcorn ceiling with your eyes, and wonder whether or not he’ll treat you with the same sort of respect now that you’ve had sex with him. Going off of past experiences, you have reasonable doubt. 

You feel his eyes on you, and you turn your head to meet them. As if he’s read your mind, his lips curl slightly, reassuringly, and he slides an arm behind your head to wrap around your shoulder. You let him pull you to your side, leaning your head into his chest and resting your hand close by. His thumb draws slow circles on the tingling skin just below your shoulder, goosebumps rising in their wake. 

You catch a glance of the alarm clock across from his bed, the numbers 11:37 stare back at you in bright red. Admittedly, there’s no urgent reason for you to have to get home, but you don’t want to overstay your welcome. You mutter against his skin, not really making an attempt to move, “It’s almost midnight,” you say as more of an observation than an excuse, paying close attention to the reaction it garners.

In any situation with Eddie, this would’ve warranted a dismissive ‘why don’t you head out?’ or, on a good day, an ‘I'll drive you home.’ Amazingly, that’s not what you hear next. 

“You don’t have to go yet, do you?”

This takes you a bit off guard, the softness in his voice. Nonetheless, you answer honestly. “No, I guess not.”

“Good.”

❥ MDNI banner by @cafekitsune

[beloveds-embrace]

(a lil stress-written drabble of princess reader x guard 141)

The grand halls of your father’s castle are silent today. There should have been a glorious, blessed wedding- your wedding. Instead, there is only hushed gossip and veiled glances as servants scurry about, pretending not to discuss the tragic and untimely passing of Lord Davenshire. The fourth such incident this year alone.

You sip your tea, watching the garden from your balcony, a pleasant smile gracing your lips and a complete contrast to the angry, fearful cloud that has been haunting your father lately. It’s a beautiful morning. Birds sing, the sun bathes the palace in golden warmth, and best of all, there is no unwanted husband at your side.

No, your dear father will have to try again. And again. And again and again and again.

Soft footsteps approach, too quiet for the untrained ear. But you know them. You don’t flinch as strong arms wrap around your waist from behind, a familiar scent of leather and spice enveloping you.

“Another one bites the dust.” Gaz murmurs, his voice low and amused against your ear.

You hum in response, setting your teacup down. “Oh dear, how unfortunate.”

Strong fingers trace along your forearm, and you turn your head just slightly to meet Gaz’s gaze. His eyes gleam with something wicked and delighted.

“Unfortunate indeed,” Price says as he steps onto the balcony, hands clasped behind his back. He looks every bit the disciplined captain he is, but there’s a certain satisfaction in his gaze as he surveys the castle grounds below. “The poor man was simply riding his horse when it suddenly reared and threw him.” He shakes his head, feigning solemnity. “Neck snapped like a twig.”

“How dreadful.” You croon, feeling Gaz’s smirk against your neck.

“Dreadful,” Soap echoes as he lounges on the railing, twirling a dagger between his fingers. “Cannae imagine why these men keep droppin’ like flies.”

“They must be terribly unlucky,” Gaz adds, leaning against the stone wall beside you, his smile sharp. “Or perhaps they should have considered who exactly they were trying to take from us.”

Your heart flutters at his words, at their words. Loyal, deadly, devoted- the four of them have been your constant shadows, your protectors, your everything.

Your father calls it misfortune. He believes some curse has befallen your suitors, that fate itself refuses to see you wed. And in a way, he is right. Just not in the way he thinks.

Because fate has intervened, but in the form of the most dangerous men in the kingdom. Men who would see the world burn before they allowed another to place a ring on your finger.

You turn in Ghost’s direction, reaching a hand out until he obediently places his chin in your delicate palm. He doesn’t take his mask off, but you can nonetheless feel his mouth against your skin. His eyes darken as he looks down at you, and you feel the weight of all of them- the unyielding devotion, their willingness to kill for you, to ensure that no one ever takes you from them, not now and not ever.

And you? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You smile, letting your fingers brush over Ghost’s jaw before turning to the others. “It seems I am doomed to remain unwed.” You sigh dramatically, though your grin betrays your amusement.

Price chuckles, stepping closer, his calloused fingers lifting your chin. “A tragedy, truly.”

“Aye,” Soap agrees with a shark smirk. “Guess that just means you’ll have to settle for us, lassie.”

Your heart swells, warmth pooling in your chest. Settle? No, this is exactly what you want.

You lace your fingers with Ghost’s, leaning into Price’s touch as you glance at the others. “Whatever shall I do with four such devoted guards, hm?”

Gaz smirks, his voice a teasing whisper as he brushes his lips against your temple, hands dipping low to hold your waist. The warmth you feel now has nothing to do with the lovely weather, anymore. “Oh, Princess, I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

[flowersforbucky]

devil's in the backseat

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 3.7k

summary/prompt: a night at coney island with your friends turns out much differently than expected.

or getting fucked in front of a mirror

author's note: this is my first halloween fic!! this was so much fun to write. if you've read haunting adeline, then you know exactly what inspired the mirror maze scene! also disclaimer i have never been to coney island so if any of this is inaccurate then just pretend ok it's fiction :))

warnings/tags: smut, 18+ only content, sex in a public setting, mirror sex, oral (female receiving), unprotected p in v, friends to lovers, romanogers makes an appearance! kind of grumpy!reader, protective bucky, random men being creepy, language, reader is afab, she/her pronouns, reader pov, no use of y/n, porn with a little plot, fluff

my masterlist

“I can't fucking believe I let you talk me into wearing this.”

You tug the tight, cherry red colored velvet fabric of the babydoll dress in place for the dozenth time since arriving at Coney Island.

“What? You look hot. Plus, our costumes go great together.”

Natasha's costume mirrors your own - except hers is a pearlescent white and instead of a pitchfork and horns, she dons angel wings and a halo.

“I don't feel hot. I feel cold. It's fifty degrees and the sun hasn't even set yet.” If it wasn't for the black thigh high boots that cover the majority of your legs, you'd be shivering in the chilly late October weather.

“It's not my fault that you put off getting a costume until the last minute and had to pick through what little was left at Spirit Halloween,” she mumbles, passing you one of the cups of apple cider that the cashier hands to her. You gladly accept, sucking down the hot liquid in hopes that it will warm you from the inside.

Her phone dings as the two of you walk towards the rides. “It's Steve,” she informs you as she reads the text message. “They just got here,” she looks back up at you with a smirk on her face and a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Bucky decided to come with them.”

You roll your eyes, suddenly hating your borderline provocative costume even more.

“I thought he was leaving for a job in Denver this evening?”

It's not that you didn't want to see Bucky. It's that you didn't want to see Bucky dressed like this. As if you don't already get flustered around him when you're dressed in normal, everyday clothing. The hem of your dress barely conceals the curve of your ass and your tits are practically spilling over the low neckline.

“Guess it's been postponed,” she shrugs, nudging you with her shoulder.

The two of you turn to look in the opposite direction when a familiar voice calls your names. You see Steve, Sam, and Bucky walking towards you. Steve is dressed as a pirate, eyepatch and all. Sam wears a cowboy costume with an oversized hat, concealing the upper half of his face entirely.

And Bucky? Bucky wears jeans and a navy blue Henley.

Yeah, you're regretting any of your life choices that lead up to this moment.

“Well, well, well,” Sam drawls as he tips his hat back enough to take in yours and Natasha’s outfits. “Look what we have here. An angel and a devil. Have you two already entered the costume contest for best duo or should I go add your names?”

“You wouldn't dare,” you scold him. Natasha just laughs, falling into Steve’s embrace as he plants a kiss to her forehead.

“We should, you know,” Natasha agrees. “I think we'd have a pretty good shot at winning.”

“Yeah, right,” you retort, looking around at some of the more elaborate, creative costumes that many of the strangers around you are sporting. You notice a man and woman dressed as Beetlejuice and Lydia Deetz and know that you and Nat wouldn't stand a chance in a costume contest. “And what about you?” You acknowledge Bucky, your eyes skimming up and down his civilian clothes. “Didn't have time to pull together a costume?”

He smirks, his eyes trailing up your figure for a heated moment before he responds. “I'll have you know that I am in costume, actually.”

Steve and Sam both snort in laughter.

“Oh yeah? And what are you supposed to be, exactly?”

He tugs up the sleeve of his shirt, showing off the shiny vibranium that is his left arm.

“I'm the Winter Soldier,” he says with a smug grin. “Obviously.”

“How creative,” you praise sarcastically.

“Cut me some slack,” he feigns insult. “I was supposed to be halfway to Colorado right now. I didn't have time to pull together anything too cute.” His eyes flicker to your dress and boots at the word cute. If anyone else notices, they say nothing.

“What are we doing just standing around here?” Natasha exclaims, tugging Steve in the direction of the rides and games. “I want to ride every ride and eat funnel cake.”

They race ahead of the rest of you, with Sam close behind, leaving you and Bucky to fall into step beside each other.

“So, why did your mission get postponed?” You ask casually, trying to fight down the nerves that threaten to bubble over every time you're alone with him.

“Beats me,” he shrugs. “Fury didn't give much of an explanation. I got the text as I was loading my bags into the car to head out.”

“That's annoying,” you mumble, swallowing the remnants of your hot apple cider. “I'm sorry,” you tell him with a glance in his direction. “I'm sure it was for a good reason.”

He shrugs. “I'm here, so I can't be too mad about it.”

Before you can overthink exactly what he means by that, you're both brought to a halt when a jolly looking man in a Ghostbusters costume steps directly in front of you, blocking your path.

“This little devil looks like she needs a giant sloth!” He exclaims, gesturing towards the prizes hanging above the balloon darts station next to you.

“Oh, no,” you start. “That’s okay–”

“Come on!” The red-faced vendor insists, looking at Bucky. “Don't you want to win your girl a giant sloth? Perhaps a giant giraffe? If she was mine, I'd be winning her any prize she wants. I'll give you five throws for ten doll–”

“Fine, fine,” Bucky relents, digging into his back pocket for his wallet. You notice a faint hint of pink blooms along the apples of his cheeks, but he doesn't correct the man when he calls you his girl. “You've worn me down,” he sighs as he shoves a crumpled ten dollar bill into the man's hand.

The man accepts the money with a satisfied, toothy grin and hands Bucky five darts.

“If you get three out of the five throws, you can choose a prize from here,” the man gestures towards a section of smaller prizes. “And if you get all five throws, you can choose–”

The man is cut off by the sharp popping sound of a balloon, and then a second, and a third, until all five darts have been impaled on the board in a consecutive line in a matter of seconds.

“She'll take the bunny,” Bucky tells him before he can erase the stunned look off of his face. He points to a large, flop-eared purple bunny hanging from the upper row of prizes.

Unlike the vendor, you aren't shocked by his perfect aim at all. Anyone who knows Bucky would have known that he wouldn't miss a single shot. You are shocked, however, that he chose the bunny without even asking which prize you want.

The man in the Ghostbusters costume grabs the bunny and hands it to you, surprise still etched on his face. He mumbles a quick goodnight before he's moving onto the next people approaching the stand.

“How did you know I'd want the bunny?” You ask Bucky, trying to juggle the stuffed animal, your empty cup of cider, and your pitchfork all in your arms.

“You like bunnies, right? It was an educated guess.” He shrugs, moving through a thick crowd of people away from the game stations. “Here, let me carry it for you,” he offers when he notices the large stuffed animal is obstructing your vision. You hand it over to him and he tucks it underneath his metal arm.

“Thank you,” you tell him, your cheeks heating at the realization that he'd remembered such an inconsequential piece of information about you. You do like bunnies. The cold night air suddenly feels a lot more balmy.

“I'm - uh - I'm going to find a trash can real quick,” you say as you wiggle the empty cup in your hand. Truthfully, you just need a moment to collect yourself.

You begin walking in the opposite direction before he can reply, your eyes scanning the throng of people for a garbage can.

So what if he knows that you like bunnies? It's a pretty trivial fact that probably means nothing. You know that Natasha’s favorite animal is flamingos - because she's your friend. It's normal for friends to know things that their friends like.

Right? Right.

“I like that outfit a whole lot, baby. But I think you'd look even cuter in just the boots and those horns.”

You're so lost in your internal monologue that you don't even notice two men closing in on you as you toss the empty cup into a trash can. Unlike most of the people here tonight, neither of them are in costumes. They stand so close to you that you can smell booze on their breath.

“Oh, fuck off,” you groan as you attempt to walk away, but they've effectively blocked you between their bodies and the large garbage can behind you. Wicked grins grow on their faces as you realize that you can't get by them.

“Look, I don’t have the patience for this tonight. Get out of my fucking way.”

“Or what?” One of them taunts. “You'll use that little pitchfork on us? Jokes on you, because we're into that.”

“What if I used it on you?” A familiar voice comes from behind them. “Would you still like that?”

Before they can even turn around to identify the voice, Bucky is pulling him back by the hood of his sweatshirt and throwing him on the ground with little to no effort. The other one attempts to stumble away as Bucky turns his attention to him.

He still has your bunny clutched in his flesh hand - despite the seriousness of the situation, you have to bite your lip to keep from smirking at the sight. You don't know of anyone who could be quite as intimidating while holding a stuffed purple bunny.

“What about you?” Bucky asks, towering over the guy by half a foot. “You got anything you wanna say?”

“I - no - we didn't know she was with someone,” he half slurs, half stutters out. His gaze flickers to Bucky's vibranium hand. The man on the ground manages to stand back up, following after his friend.

“Now you know,” Bucky calls after them as they quickly hobble away.

“I had that handled, you know,” you tell Bucky with a nod towards your pitchfork. “But thank you, anyway. Really.”

He places a gentle but firm grasp on the top of your arms and begins to tug you in the opposite direction, guiding you through the small crowd that had stopped to witness the altercation.

“I have no doubt about that,” he sighs, releasing his grip on you when the two of you are a reasonable distance away. “But I also don't doubt that you handling it would have drawn even more attention.”

He's right. If he hadn't stepped in, your method of handling it would have been even more dramatic.

“They would have deserved it,” you mumble. “I knew I shouldn't have worn this stupid costume.”

“They definitely would have deserved it,” he agrees. “And your costume isn't stupid. You should be able to wear any costume you like without getting harassed by drunk assholes.”

The two of you approach the ferris wheel as it comes to a slow stop, a couple getting out of one of the cars. You and Bucky flash your wristbands to the operator, who offers to hold your pitchfork for you while you’re on the ride.

“Besides,” he continues as you sit down next to each other in the car, the operator locking the gate in place. “I happen to like your costume. A lot.” He turns his head to you, his gaze trailing from the tops of your thigh high boots and up to the felt horns that adorn your head.

There's a shift in energy as the ferris wheel suddenly comes to life, sending you sliding across the limited space of the metal bench seat and right up against him.

“Oh, yeah?” You tease with your face a few inches from his. Close enough to see your reflection in his irises. “Is that why two different people have implied that I'm yours tonight and you haven't corrected either of them?”

“Your costume had nothing to do with that. I wouldn't have corrected them even if you were dressed as a giant banana,” he says, his tone and face both serious. “Does it bother you that I didn't correct them?”

“No,” you answer automatically - eagerly. You should feel embarrassed, but with the way he's looking at you, and how good it feels to be pressed so snug against him, you can't find it within yourself to care. “I didn't correct them either,” you point out.

The ferris wheel comes to a stop to let new people get on when your cart reaches the peak.

“And why is that?” he asks lowly. If you weren't sitting so close to him, you wouldn't have been able to hear him over the obnoxiously loud carnival music that pours from speakers in between the ferris wheel's carts.

He wraps his metal arm around your shoulders, pulling you further into him.

“Because I liked the sound of it,” you answer honestly. Your voice quivers - from nerves, or from a gust of wind that sways the pod still perching at the top of the wheel.

“Is that right?” he murmurs. He places his flesh hand on the exposed skin of your thigh - just above the top of your boot and just under the hem of your dress. His fingertips rest near the crack between your thighs. Instinctively, you spread your legs apart - not much, but enough for him to smirk at your body's automatic response to his touch.

“You like the sound of being my girl?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I do. Is that okay with you?”

He chuckles, his fingers inching further up your thigh. You spread your legs open further, giving him the go ahead to go as high as he wants. He stops when he reaches the apex of your thighs, just an inch away from the cloth of your panties. He applies pressure with his fingertips, his short nails digging into the sensitive flesh and making you clench your legs around his hand.

“That depends,” he contemplates. “Are you my girl?”

You open your mouth to answer when the sensation of his index finger grazing the fabric that covers your cunt makes you forget how to speak. You sit there with your mouth agape as he hooks a finger into the cotton panties.

He eases a finger through your folds, lubricating it in your slick before adding a second finger and massaging the pads of them over your sensitive clit.

“Feels like you're my girl.”

You become vaguely aware of the fact that the ride is now in motion once more, heading back down to the ground, when Bucky places the stuffed bunny on your lap in an effort to conceal what is happening in the cart that you and him share.

He alternates between slow, languid circles and quick strokes against your clit as the ferris wheel makes its way down and then back up again. You can feel yourself soaking your underwear as the world dizzies around you. You hide your face in Bucky's neck to conceal the pleasure written across your face.

You're seconds away from coming against his fingers, the pressure in your belly building to a climax, when he pulls away and tugs your dress into place. Your gaze snaps up to his, shooting daggers, as the ride comes to a slow stop. He looks back at you with an amused smirk as the operator approaches the cart to unlock the gate.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart,” he tells you in a strained voice as he snatches the bunny back from you. “After you,” he motions with his head as the operator holds the gate open for you.

Stunned and speechless at what just happened, you stumble out of the cart and down the stairs to the ride's exit with Bucky behind you - both of you completely forgetting about your pitchfork. You can't help but snort a laugh at the position of the large stuffed animal - directly over Bucky’s crotch.

“Real discreet,” you tell him, glancing down at the bunny and then back up to the semi-pained expression on his face.

“I have to admit, right now this thing is worth every penny that I spent on it,” he sighs, and then removes one hand from the bunny to place it on your lower back. “Follow me,” he instructs with a smirk.

He guides you through the crowd and you follow him without question, just trying to ignore the wet ache between your legs.

You shoot him a quizzical look when you arrive at the house of mirrors. You haven't been in a mirror maze since you'd gotten lost in one at ten years old.

There's an attendant sitting in a chair outside of the entrance who unenthusiastically greets the two of you. Bucky reaches into his pocket, digging out his wallet for the second time that evening. He pulls out a hundred dollar bill and flashes it at the elderly man smoking a Pall Mall.

“Take this and don't let anyone else in until we come out,” Bucky tells him before dragging you into the attraction. You and the gray haired man both go wide eyed.

“What was that?” you cackle as the door slams to a close behind you. Bucky doesn't answer, just grabs one of your hands in his and begins guiding you through the maze of mirrors as if he's been here a hundred times.

The entire place is lit by bright, neon red lights that only aid in further confusing your sense of direction. Bucky doesn’t seem phased in the slightest, finally coming to a stop after a few minutes of maneuvering through the endless mirrors.

“You never answered me, you know,” he says as he drops your bunny to the floor. “When I asked if you're my girl.” He smirks at you, stepping closer to you and backing you against the mirror behind you.

“You just paid that man a hundred dollars to get me alone,” you jab as you pull him to you by the front of his Henley. “I think it's safe to say that I am.”

He smiles as you pull him down to you, crushing your lips to his. His hands trail down your back until they land where your thighs meet the curve of your ass cheeks. You release months worth of tension into the kiss, sweeping your tongue along the swell of his bottom lip before slipping it into his mouth the second that he parts his lips for you. He groans into the kiss, kneading the globes of your ass with his fingers. You can feel a prominent bulge through his jeans against your stomach.

Adrenaline begins to kick in when he pulls away, looking down at you with lust blown pupils. He sinks to the floor below you, kneeling in front of your cunt as he raises your dress around your waist and tugs your panties down your legs and over your boots. He slips them into his back pocket before hiking one of your legs across his shoulder.

You can already feel your juices leaking down your inner thighs before his mouth makes contact with you. When he does, you lean your head back against the glass behind you in pleasure.

He sucks your clit between his kiss-swollen lips with an obscene pop before running his tongue down your folds. He plunges his tongue inside you and you grind yourself against his face, chasing the release that you were seconds away from on the ferris wheel.

He moans at the taste of you and the vibration has your walls clenching around his tongue. You ride out your orgasm on his face, the neon red lights blurring and spinning around you.

Despite the fact that your legs feel like jelly, you pull him up to you as soon as you're able to form a coherent thought. You clumsily paw at the button of his pants and his zipper, and he shoves both his jeans and boxers down over his ass, just far enough to free his cock.

He places both of his hands just under your armpits and lifts you as you instinctively lock your legs around his hips.

The head of his cock nudges your wet folds, your juices coating his length before he nudges it inside you.

You feel full before he's even halfway in you. Your walls constrict around him and he digs his teeth into his bottom lip as he adjusts to the sensation of you.

“Fuck, that's tight. You're perfect,” he grunts as he sheaths the rest of his length into you. You let out a sound somewhere between a whimper and a gasp.

He has total control as he cradles you between his body and the cold, hard mirror behind you. He sets a harsh pace, his head ramming against your cervix at the sweetest angle from his position beneath you.

He manages to support you with the strength of only his vibranium arm as he brings his flesh hand between your bodies, once again massaging your clit in rapid circles as he fucks up into you.

You cum around his length in a shockingly short amount of time, digging your teeth into the flesh of his neck as he follows after you, filling you up with hot ropes of his cum.

You stay in the same position after you've both reached your climax, panting against one another in the claustrophobic feeling space.

“We should probably go find our friends,” you say breathlessly with a kiss to the side of his face. “Sam's probably getting sick of being a third wheel.”

He pulls out of you, his cum running down your thighs and ass cheeks. He gently lowers you back down to the ground as he begins to tuck himself back into his pants.

He laughs, cupping your face in his hands as he pulls your lips to his once again.

“If he hates being a third wheel, just imagine how much he's going to hate being a fifth wheel.”

[hexlenx]

EVEN IN OTHER UNIVERSES, I LOVE YOU. — aaron taylor-johnson

In which you came home tired from work and only just wanted to lay down on your shared-bed with your husband. Only to see five different version of said husband.

note: hello! So I have come to write another one shot or fic or whatever you call it because I couldn't help myself but write this new idea I thought of. I do hope you enjoy!

warnings!: none because we fluffy today pookie.

__________________

Sighing tiredly you let out a groan as you took a small break in your car, resting your head on the steering wheel as you closed your eyes for a few moments.

You just finished your work from helping your director write the script for the next movie you're starring. You see, you've been an actress in the industry for a long time now and even though it's tiring you continue to work through it as it is your passion. Plus, it's where you met your lovable and handsome husband. A fellow well-known actor in the industry.

The director asked for your help because you had experience in directing as well as a degree for it. So hence why you also came home late while your husband went ahead after a bit of your persuasion. Thinking of your husband, you smiled fondly. How can you be so lucky to have such a man?

While you were taking a small break from your car, said husband was sweating profusely in the kitchen with a spatula in hand while wearing a pink apron.

Looking at the five males in front of him, Aaron cursed underneath his breath.

"Fuck me."

The gate opened automatically after scanning your car's number plate. Before driving in reverse towards the garage door. Humming a soft tune you put the car on park and grabbed everything you need from the car before coming out of it.

Opening the door connected to the kitchen, you took off your shoes and hanged your coat on the hanger before calling out to your husband with a bright smile.

"Honey, I'm home!" Your smile slowly turned into worry as you were greeted by nothing. Usually you were greeted by a beaming charming smile as well as a giant hug lifting you off from your feet while being spun around by your husband.

Where could he be?

"Aaron? You there?" In slight worry you walked around the first floor of the house searching for your husband, but alas there was no sign so you moved upstairs.

There was a thump in one of the rooms when you were in the middle of walking on the stairs making you feel worry and fear when you heard a voice groaning as well as cursing. Your mind was running in a fast pace as you run up from the stairs towards the source of those noises.

No it can't be, please tell me he didn't—

The scene in front of you shocked you. The noises stopped as the figures looked at you in silence.

"Love, I can explain—" Aaron was the first to break the silence with his hands up as if he was trying not to anger you. And let me tell you, you do not want an angry wife at you.

However, instead of an angry wife. You looked like you were about to cry. You see, another thing about you is that you are quite an open and very sensitive person. Your legs gave up as you collapsed on the floor, tears running down your face as your exhaustion mixed with your anxiety was not a good combination right now.

"I—i thought you were with a w-woman—" you stuttered as your husband immediately went over you to put you in his embrace the moment your knees buckled whispering praises as well as reassurance to you. Desperately trying to calm you down. He knew you were very tired since it's about ten in the evening by now and he supposes that the noises he and the others made, made you think of something else.

His heart broke just by thinking he was doing things to another woman other than you, he cannot and will never do such a thing to you. He loves you too much to do so.

The five other male in the room looked at the scene in front of them, disbelief clear in their faces as they looked at your figure. Hearts beating uncontrollably as the younger looking male in the room muttered a name.

Your name.

This made all of you to snap your heads up to the male. Now that you look at it, they all looked just like your husband. No, actually all of them are your husband. No one can impersonate your husband unless it's your husband himself, his face is too unique to be able to copy.

"Why are there five more of you?"

Now that the situation has calmed down, you, your husband and five more of him sat in the living room in silence. Assessing the situation.

"So you're telling me that you, Dave was getting beaten up almost to death before coming here? James, you got here when you were stuck by Voldemort. Alexei, got here when you fell from your horse at full speed, head first. Tangerine, you got here after getting shot on the neck trying to kill the White Death's child and Pietro, you got shot multiple times by saving Clint from dying? Have I summarized it correctly?" You summarized outloud as the others nodded to confirm your statement. You sighed as both you and your husband looked at each other, not knowing what to do since unlike some of their worlds, you guys don't have the power to bring them back to theirs. But they all don't seem like they're hurt from their explanations. Maybe it's cuz they're in a different world.

"What were you doing before I barged in the room?" You asked your husband who looked everywhere but you.

"I was trying to give them some clothes, Dave, Pietro and James was the only one who accepted it but the other two wanted something that fit their styles." Aaron sighed as he took a sip at the coffee he made since it was getting late. He really thinks that you should rest first and let him handle it though.

"Sorry gentlemen, but it's quite late in the evening and I would like to take a nap and rest. We will take care of this tomorrow." You sent them a tired smile as you stood up from your seat and towards your bedroom upstairs, leaving all six of them in the room.

As soon as you were out of hearing range, Aaron's expression turned cold as he looked at Dave. Even if he knew the kid wouldn't hurt his wife because he played his character years ago, he will still not let loose his guard. Dave flinched from the glare and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly while the others stared at him the same way as Aaron, that's weird.

"How do you know my wife?"

This made the men's eyes go wide. Wife? That made them collectively let out a sigh of relief. Wife..

"She's also your wife?" James asked Aaron, it's kind of weird talking to yourself as he looked at the older one in wonder.

"also?" Aaron questioned.

"Yea, I mean. In my universe I married her and had Harry after we got married at twenty-one." James enthusiastically explained as his face brightened up when talking about his lover.

"Uh.. she's my girlfriend in my universe too." Dave lifted up his hand awkwardly. Though you can see that he is also happy to announce that you are his lover.

"I'm also her lover when I have escaped Hydra with my twin sister." Pietro said with a charming smile, his face brightening up whenever he mentioned his wife.

"I'm married to'er in my universe. Doll, was the only one who accepted me other than my brother." Tangerine uttered out as he lit up a cigarette before puffing it out the smoke from his mouth, where he got that from? I don't know and neither does the others.

"...she is my affair, my lover that I intend to protect with all of my soul. The only maiden who saw me for me and not some viscount." Alexei said as his eyes were clouded with the memories of his lover. Ah, how he longed to be in her arms again.

"All of us are her lovers in another universe, huh?" Aaron sighed out, his smile coming out as he thought that even in different versions of himself, he chooses you and is still with you. It makes him sigh in content and happiness as he is assured that no matter what happens, he is still with you in the end.

"Even in every other universes, I love you." All men uttered out, the atmosphere becoming serene as they sat in a few moments of silence.

Warmth filled their chests as the leaned back in their seats as their thoughts only circled in one subject.

You.

[alchemistc]

"Do you have some time? I could use some help."

Tommy tips his head back against the side wall of the hangar, stares at the rafters, tracks the flight of a starling through the beams. "Not sure I can steal a third helicopter in a little over a calendar year without some consequences," he murmurs, because the sound of Evan's voice is still ringing in his ears and he's fairly certain he'd accept those consequences without blinking, if it came down to it.

Evan's sharp burst of laughter sounds brittle, stale.

"No, I uh - actually I could use some advice?"

Tommy pushes himself up from the overly casual lean. "I'm all ears."

"You're mostly nose and cheekbones, actually," Evan says, that lilt to his voice teetering on dangerous ground for just a moment before he clears his throat.

In the entirety of the six months they were together Tommy heard about thirty individual stories about the times Evan went to someone for advice. About work, about his personal life, about the barista at his local who might have had a personal vendetta against leggy brunettes.

Tommy'd considered it an ill omen that he never made the roster.

"I just, um. I just got off the phone with Chief Simpson?"

Tommy wishes he was there. Sitting next to him, across the room from him, on the other side of a window just looking at him. He sounds - small.

"He's not disciplining you, is he? Because I know a union rep who -."

Evan cuts him off. "He just offered me the 118."

Tommy swallows. Tommy mulls the words over. Tommy tries to think of a delicate way to ask if the rumor that Hen turned it down is true, then.

"And how are you...feeling about that?"

Tommy will be perpetually in Evan Buckley's corner, he knows. From a distance or up close and personal, Tommy will always, always want the best for him.

He's so fucking young. He's lived so many lives at this point Tommy imagines he must sometimes feel ancient, trapped in a body and a mind that hasn't quite caught up to his soul.

Tommy knows he's thought about it, before. Taking on that role, using the skill set Bobby taught him to make another house into a home. But he'd likely never thought about it in the context of not having Bobby a phone call away. Certainly never thought about replacing Bobby.

"I don't - I don't know. How I'm - how I'm feeling. It's - I just - I want -."

Tommy checks the time. Watches the starling flit across the ceiling towards the nest Donato had threatened to beat them all about when they mentioned trying to find a way to dislodge it. Twenty-seven minutes until the end of his shift. His replacement is already here, fucking around in the weight room, bag already stuffed in his locker and flight suit already laid out on the bench because Goggins has zero respect for anyone else who might need the locker room. Melton won't mind if he takes off early. Might even be pleased to shave two hours and twenty seven minutes of OT off the books when Tommy asks if he can leave, instead of staying late. "Do you want to meet up, somewhere?"

"I... Tommy." He's not sure what his name means, sounding like that, in this particular context.

"Wherever you want. I can be almost anywhere in an hour or less. This just feels like something you might need to wrap your head around for a minute and -." He has to be vulnerable, here. In a way he fucking hates. "And it sounds like you could use a hug. I'd - I'd like to give you a hug."

Evan had never exactly been precious, about how much he craved the casual touches as much as the intimate ones.

He has to wonder who got bumped, to make Evan call him. Why not Howie, Hen, Maddie, Eddie?

"Are - are you serious?"

"As a car crash. Time and place and I'll be there."

Hopefully it won't actually require him to steal another bird to make it happen, but he'd do it, no questions asked.

"Is it out of order to suggest your place?"

Tommy can feel his brows quirking. Is Eddie still in town? Why the hell isn't Evan going to him with this?

"It's incredibly convenient for me, actually."

It's short work to let him know about how long it'll be, that he doesn't need to bring anything ("Evan, I'm serious, just be safe getting there."), to start his search for Melton. He's halfway through a rushed goodbye when Evan blows out a breath.

"Thank you, Tommy."

It's unnecessary, but it hits him right in the sternum. He'd never needed the thanks, actually preferred most of the time to have the things he does for other people go unacknowledged - thanks for that one, dad - but the tenor of Evan's voice, the tremble on his name, makes Tommy want to break the speed barrier to get to him.

Fuck.

He's never shaking loose from this one.

"Hey, you call, I come."

It feels like glass scraping it's way up his throat and out of his mouth. It feels like the type of confession he can't take back.

"I...same. Just so you know."

He hadn't known that. It's...terrifying.

"I'll see you soon, Evan.*

He still sounds small, as he says goodbye.

Tommy would fight the whole damn world to never have to hear his voice sound like that again. Best he can manage now is making his way home as quick as possible.

Maybe it'll be enough.

Maybe.