#and sometimes i just need an escape from you know | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mandoalorian · 2 days ago

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where you end, i begin [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: you didn’t expect sam wilson to be the one to pull you off the street, or to offer you a place to stay when you had nowhere else to go. but what you least expected was to come face-to-face with the leader of the new avengers — bucky barnes. you didn’t trust him. he didn’t trust you. but when sam sent you both on an errand together, something shifted. not enough to fix the past. just enough to start the fire.

word count: 7000

warnings: 18+ for eventual smut, enemies to lovers, thunderbolts* spoilers, sam/bucky are fighting, mention of family member death, details of physical and emotional abuse, grumpy!bucky, avengers tower fic

masterlist

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It had been fourteen months since the bar. Fourteen months since Shane broke a glass against your wrist, since a stranger in sunglasses asked if you were okay, and since the world met its new set of so-called heroes.

You still thought about that night sometimes—the way your heart raced not from fear, but from certainty. You’d seen it in Shane’s aura before it happened: the pressure rising, the colour deepening to that dangerous red you now knew too well. You’d seen it coming, just like you always did. And you still hadn’t stopped it.

Not really.

Now, you moved through your days like a ghost. A few bar shifts here, a couch to crash on there. Shane always came back around. He always had just enough charm, just enough regret, to get the door open again. And you always gave in—because it was either that or sleep in the cold.

What you didn’t know was that someone else had been watching, too.

Sam Wilson wasn’t a shadowy man by nature, but he had grown good at disappearing when he needed to. He didn’t make noise when he followed you out of the bar late at night, checking that you made it home. He didn’t flinch when he saw you stumble out of Shane’s apartment with a fresh bruise blooming along your collarbone.

He just kept notes. Kept watching.

He told himself it was because he saw something in you—something bright beneath the ache, something sharp. Power wrapped in grief, hidden behind cracked lips and tired eyes.

He told himself it wasn’t pity.

It wasn’t until the alley fight that he was sure.

You’d only meant to get your phone back. That was it. Shane had taken it—again—and you were done playing the patient game. But when you walked into that alley behind the bar, he was already drunk. Already yelling. Already grabbing for your wrist.

You felt it before he touched you: the spike in his chest, the tangle in his thoughts. His aura snapped like a live wire—violent, chaotic, erratic. You saw the shape of the blow before it came.

So you moved.

For once, you didn’t hesitate.

You caught his wrist, twisted, stepped into his chest with your palm flat over his heart. You didn’t know how you did it—but when you pushed, something surged from you. His body slammed into the dumpster with a crack loud enough to make the rats scatter.

You stared at your hands like they didn’t belong to you.

And Sam, across the street behind the windshield of his parked car, finally made the call he’d been putting off for over a year.

You didn’t go back to Shane after that. You didn’t have a choice. The door was slammed shut, your clothes thrown into the gutter. No phone, no money. You wandered all night. By morning, you were curled on the curb outside the bar, your hoodie soaked through from a burst of April rain.

That was where Sam found you again.

And this time, he didn’t keep walking.

You didn’t hear him approach.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the ache in your body or the way your hands were still shaking from everything you’d finally escaped. Or maybe it was because part of you had stopped expecting kindness. Kindness never walked up without a catch.

You hadn’t cried yet. Not since the fight.

Not when Shane shattered your phone against the apartment wall. Not when he screamed loud enough to wake your neighbours and you had to run barefoot with your backpack half-zipped and nothing but a crumpled twenty-dollar bill in your coat pocket. Not even when the woman at the shelter said there were no open beds, no space, no time.

You sat on the stoop of the corner store across from your old block, your coat soaked through at the shoulders and a plastic bag of your remaining things resting by your feet. You hadn't eaten since the night before. Maybe longer. The sky above had turned a familiar kind of gray—the kind that made the city feel quieter than it actually was. Like something was holding its breath.

Then, a voice.

“You always sit out here in the rain, or just when you’ve got nowhere else to go?”

You looked up sharply, instinct sparking under your skin. The man stood just out of reach, hands half-raised in a non-threatening gesture. Worn jacket. Scuffed boots. Cap pulled low over his eyes, sunglasses despite the storm clouds overhead. A paper bag dangled from one hand like a peace offering.

You narrowed your eyes. “You got a habit of bothering women who are clearly not in the mood?”

He cracked a faint smile. “Only when they look like they need a sandwich.”

Your stomach twisted at the word. A memory of warmth. Of feeling full. He stepped forward slowly and extended the bag.

“Double sausage, egg, extra cheese. They gave me two. You want it?”

You hesitated. But then the wind picked up, and you felt yourself flinch, thin fabric clinging to your soaked arms. Pride didn’t warm you. Hunger didn’t wait.

You reached out and took the bag without saying thank you. He sat down next to you, close enough to be companionable but not so close you’d mistake it for intimacy. Just a quiet presence.

You peeled the sandwich open and took a cautious bite.

He didn’t speak again until you were halfway through it.

“I’ve seen you fight.”

That stopped you cold.

You turned your head, chewing slowly. “Excuse me?”

He adjusted his sunglasses slightly but didn’t meet your eyes. “About a week ago. The alley behind McCready’s. That guy tried to grab your arm. You moved before he could. Like you felt it coming.”

You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him, tense and still.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you. Not in a weird way,” he added quickly, as if realising how it sounded. “More like… a protective one.”

You snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause that doesn’t sound weird at all. And I don’t need protecting.”

“Yeah, I figured that much,” he muttered. “I saw you in that bar. Fourteen months ago.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The night that guy smashed the glass. Screamed at you like he wanted to break something more than the tumbler. You handled yourself. Scared him off before anyone else could even move.”

You stared at him. Memory unspooling. A man at the bar, alone in a booth. Cap, sunglasses. You hadn’t looked twice.

But how could you forget meeting Captain America.

“I thought you looked familiar,” you muttered.

“I wanted to check in that night. Say something. But I figured you didn’t need another man in your face. Especially not one you didn’t ask for.”

You frowned. “So why now?”

“Because I don’t think you’ve got anyone else.”

There it was. Brutal. True.

You looked down at your bag. Damp. Pathetic. Full of useless things like books and makeup and a single cracked hairbrush. The shelter turned you away. Your phone was in pieces. You had no money. No room to go back to. No friends.

No plan.

And yet still… “You could be a creep.”

“I could,” he said honestly. “But I’m not.”

You looked at him again. Studied his posture, the way he sat steady and relaxed, unthreatening. Something in your gut told you he was telling the truth. That soft, rare little voice that hadn’t failed you yet.

“…You’re really him?”

He smiled.

Then, he pulled off his sunglasses.

The recognition came in slow, like fog rolling off a lake.

Sam Wilson.

You’d seen his face on screens. Back when there were still screens in your life. The man who took the shield. The man who walked away from it. The one who didn’t ask for the spotlight but carried the weight anyway.

“Why would someone like you help someone like me?”

He shrugged. “Because someone once told me power doesn’t always look like flight suits and laser beams. Sometimes it’s the kind of power you can’t explain—but you feel it. When I saw you fight… I saw something real.”

You exhaled, long and slow.

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“I know.”

You looked away, then back.

“…Couch or floor?”

He grinned. “Guest bedroom. I’ll even throw in a working shower and some clean towels.”

You smirked, even though your heart was racing. “That’s a bold offer.”

“I’m a bold guy.”

You stood, slowly, and gathered your bag. “So what are you now? A social worker?”

“Nope,” he said, standing beside you. “Just a guy trying to build something better. And maybe… recruit a few misfits along the way.”

You eyed him. “I didn’t know you were part of the Avengers again.”

He looked toward the clouds, thoughtful. “It’s a work in progress.”

────✪────

Sam’s apartment was warm. Too warm. Or maybe it just felt that way because you hadn’t been inside a home that didn’t scream danger in every corner.

The floors were wood, worn but clean. A stack of mail sat on the counter. The living room had a strange mix of modern and hand-me-down furniture. A dark leather couch. A navy throw blanket. The kind of space someone tried to make liveable without giving too much of themselves away.

You stood near the doorway with your damp bag clutched in both hands while Sam disappeared into the kitchen. You heard a fridge open, something fizz, and then his voice: “You want water, soda, beer?”

You hesitated. “…Water’s fine.”

He returned, handed you a bottle, then nodded for you to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

You didn’t move right away. Not until he added, “It’s just us for now. My roommate’s out — his name’s Joaquin. Works late sometimes.”

You followed, wary but quiet. He pointed to a room down the hall. “That’ll be yours. The bed’s clean. Closet’s empty. You can stay as long as you need.”

You blinked at him. “Why are you being so… nice?”

He didn’t stop walking, but his voice lowered just a touch. “Because I’ve seen too many people fall through cracks no one’s willing to patch. If I can offer you a few bricks and some glue, I will.”

You didn’t have a response for that.

The bathroom was spotless. The cabinet had backup toothbrushes and unopened soaps. The bedroom wasn’t big, but it was safe. You stared at the freshly made bed like it might vanish if you blinked too hard.

“I can take you shopping tomorrow,” Sam said gently. “Clothes, food. You can make a list of what you like. We usually cook in, unless Joaquin tries to microwave fish again.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Sam grinned.

“See? You’re already fitting in.”

You looked down, the smile fading. “I’m not used to people doing this. Being… decent.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

There was a knock at the door.

Sam’s entire energy shifted.

He gave you a quick glance — nothing panicked, just measured — and stepped toward the door.

“I’ve got it,” he said over his shoulder. “Sorry, he said he was coming later.”

You stood awkwardly in the hallway, unsure whether to retreat or wait. Then the door opened, and a voice drifted in.

Low. Familiar. Tightly controlled.

“You called.”

You couldn’t see him from where you stood, but something in your chest twisted anyway.

Sam sighed. “Come in, Barnes. Take your boots off. I just got this floor waxed.”

Boots thudded on the mat. Footsteps crossed the living room.

Then—he was there.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The Winter Soldier.

You knew his face. Had seen it splashed across news reports, dossiers, nightmares. His hair was longer now, thick and wavy. Honestly, he might have blow dried it. But the eyes were the same—steel blue, tired, sharp.

You froze.

He didn’t notice you at first. He was too busy handing Sam something—a file, maybe. Paper clipped, sealed tight.

“It’s a peace offering,” Bucky muttered. “Figured you’d want it before the next press conference.”

Sam looked unimpressed. “You mean the one where your girlfriend Val tries to trademark the term ‘heroic vigilante’?”

“I don’t even like her,” Bucky snapped. “You think I asked to be part of that PR stunt?”

Sam scoffed and turned away, muttering something under his breath about damage control.

And that’s when Bucky saw you.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

But his eyes locked on you like he’d sensed something.

Like your name was written in the air.

Sam noticed the shift and turned, his tone lighter now. “Right. Uh, Bucky, this is—”

You cut in. “You don’t have to.”

He raised a brow and introduced you anyway.

Sam stepped between you slightly. “She’s staying here. Guest room.”

Bucky tilted his head. “She your new protégé or something?”

Sam smiled, calm but pointed. “Let’s just say she’s got potential.”

There was silence, thick as oil.

Then Bucky gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, voice unreadable.

You didn’t say it back.

You barely heard them after that. Something buzzed in your ears—sharp and thick like static. You felt Bucky’s presence in the room even after he stepped out of it, like the imprint of something heavy and permanent.

You didn’t remember walking to the guest room. Didn’t remember closing the door.

But suddenly you were inside it, alone, your fingers clutching the edge of the desk like it might anchor you to the floor. Your breath came in short, shallow bursts.

He’s here. He’s here. He’s in this house.

Your skin felt too tight, like your body wasn’t built to contain what was happening inside it. You closed your eyes, trying to will your powers still, but it was no use.

The room lit up in invisible colours—his aura had followed you.

It was like burnt silver wrapped in thunderclouds. Regret. Guilt. A pressure that scraped like glass beneath the ribs.

You couldn’t tell if it was his or yours.

The memories flooded in too quickly—your brother’s laugh, your mother’s scream, the news report, the blood. You couldn’t catch your breath. You couldn’t see without seeing him. That metal arm. That gun. That empty stare.

Your knees gave out.

You sank to the floor, hands over your ears as your powers bloomed wild and brutal. The light behind your eyes fractured like mirrors breaking underfoot. You felt the energy of the house—Sam’s steadiness, Bucky’s conflict, your own panic—a cacophony of emotion clawing to be named.

You bit your tongue hard enough to taste metal.

Then you screamed into your palms. Not loudly. Just enough to bleed something out of yourself.

And then—you shut it down.

You focused on the floor beneath you, the air in your lungs, the silence between heartbeats. You counted.

One. Two. Three.

Again.

One. Two. Three.

Eventually, the trembling stopped. Your aura dimmed. You forced yourself to crawl onto the bed, blanket pulled up to your chin like a child trying to disappear.

Outside the room, muffled voices.

Bucky stood just inside the doorway of the apartment, the air thick with unspoken things. He hadn’t seen Sam in over a year, and somehow this hallway—this ordinary patch of tile and light—felt heavier than any battlefield.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” Bucky said first, voice low, rough with dust and memory.

Sam gave a quiet laugh, though there was no humour in it. He leaned a shoulder against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “That so? Funny. Last I heard, you were naming teams after yourself and making a mess of the cleanup.”

Bucky frowned. “You think I wanted this?”

“I think you wanted control.” Sam’s tone was measured, but the bite beneath it was sharp. “Wanted to be something that didn’t belong to Steve.”

That landed like a punch, and they both felt it.

Bucky didn’t flinch, but he looked away.

Sam pressed on. “You disappeared, man. Fourteen months. No calls. No check-ins. Just… vanished.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. “You think I had the luxury of checking in? I was doing damage control. You don’t know the shit Valentina’s been pulling—”

“You were my friend, Bucky,” Sam snapped, stepping forward now, heat rising in his voice. “I’ve been here. On the ground. Watching what’s happening, watching people get twisted into weapons again—”

“I was one of those weapons,” Bucky shot back. “Don’t preach to me about it.”

The room held its breath.

Bucky exhaled, ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t come to dig all this up. I came to talk.”

“About what?” Sam asked, voice flatter now. “About making peace? Mending fences? About maybe being on the same side again?”

“Something like that.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, gaze cutting straight through him. “You show up with your tail tucked, looking to ‘talk,’ and you don’t even know what kind of shitstorm you walked into.”

Bucky raised a brow. “What storm?”

Sam hesitated. Just for a moment.

“…Never mind,” he said finally, pushing away from the doorframe. “Doesn’t matter. You want peace, you’ll have to earn it.”

“I’m not looking for forgiveness,” Bucky muttered.

“Good,” Sam said, turning toward the fridge. “Because I’m not giving it.”

The silence between them lingered even after the heat of the argument cooled. Sam busied himself with pouring water, the clink of glass the only sound for a long stretch. Bucky just stood there—arms crossed, steel-eyed, jaw tight. But something about his stillness looked more like guilt than anger.

Finally, Bucky exhaled. “What can I do to make things better?”

Sam didn’t look at him right away. Instead, he turned to the window, watching the late afternoon sun stretch shadows across the floor.

“You can start by showing up when it matters,” Sam said quietly. “Start by taking responsibility without hiding behind guilt.”

“I am taking responsibility.”

“No, you’re doing what you’ve always done, Buck. You’re trying to fix everything without facing it.”

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly bristling. But before he could fire back, Sam cut in again—calmer this time.

“She needs clothes. Shoes. A damn toothbrush.” He glanced back at Bucky. “Take her to the mall. Walk beside someone again. Start there.”

Bucky groaned under his breath. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. You want a way back in? You earn it.” Sam gestured toward the hallway. “Start with her.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath, then reluctantly trudged down the hall. Sam followed, but it was he who knocked—twice, gently—on your door.

Inside, you were curled under your blanket, aura flickering dimly like a bruise trying to fade. Your eyes were puffy, but alert, scanning the shape of Sam’s shadow beneath the door.

“Hey,” he said, soft but clear. “I know today’s been… a lot. But I was thinking maybe you could get out for a bit. There’s someone here who can take you shopping. Just for essentials.”

You stiffened. “I don’t want to go. You said you’d take me tomorrow.”

“He’s not—he’s not Shane,” Sam said gently, misunderstanding the tightness in your voice. “I wouldn’t let anyone near you if I thought they’d hurt you. This guy… I trust him with my life. I mean that.”

You didn’t answer. The silence grew teeth.

Eventually, Sam added in a hush, “He’s not a monster.”

But he was.

You stood slowly, your hand grazing the wood of the door. Through the thin barrier, you could sense it: the man standing just behind Sam. The storm in his aura, the tension in his breath. His presence buzzed against your nerves like static before lightning.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The man who killed your brother.

You pressed your forehead gently to the door. Sam thought you were scared of men. That you'd been broken by Shane, fragile and flinching.

But that wasn’t it.

You were finally close. Closer than you ever expected. You’d seen the headlines, watched the broadcasts—but nothing could compare to the sheer proximity of him. His heartbeat, his shadow.

You took a slow breath and opened the door.

Bucky was standing there, arms crossed, leaning on one hip like this was the last place he wanted to be.

His eyes flicked over you and then away, like you were another problem to solve. Maybe you were.

Sam smiled, clearly relieved. “Good. Just a quick trip. Get what you need.”

You gave the former Winter Soldier a long, measured look.

This was where your plan began.

“Fine,” you said.

And you stepped past the threshold.

────✪────

You hadn’t spoken since leaving Sam’s apartment. The silence in the car was thick, choked with unsaid things. Bucky drove like he wanted it over with—hands tight on the wheel, jaw clenched, eyes fixed straight ahead.

You didn’t thank him. He didn’t offer small talk.

By the time you stepped into the fluorescent haze of the mall, the air between you was already crackling.

“So,” Bucky muttered, holding the door open with the flat of his vibranium hand, “what exactly do you need?”

You stepped past him without looking. “I dunno. Soap. Clothes. Dignity.”

He huffed a quiet laugh under his breath. “That last one might be out of stock.”

You paused, turned, arms folded across your chest. “Was that supposed to be funny?”

He gave a shrug that might’ve meant anything. “You’re the one who said it.”

You narrowed your eyes, studying him—his posture, his expression, his aura. That storm inside him hadn’t lessened. If anything, it swirled darker now. A tension in his gut. Something like guilt. Or resentment. Maybe both.

You turned and walked faster, weaving into the crowd of shoppers.

“You always this pleasant?” he asked, trailing behind.

“Only when I’m with charming company.”

His voice stayed low, a little amused despite himself. “Is this because you don’t like me, or because you don’t like anyone?”

“I don’t know you,” you said sharply. “And let’s keep it that way.”

“Sure,” he said, falling into step beside you, “except I’m the guy stuck helping you pick out deodorant.”

You stopped abruptly in front of a store.

“Let’s get one thing straight.” You turned toward him. “I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t want this. I had a life. I was getting by. And now I’m stuck here—with you.”

“You were getting by?” Bucky quirked an eyebrow. You froze, unsure of how much Sam had told him about your situation. Never the less, it wasn’t his business.

“I was getting by.” you lied through your teeth.

His brow furrowed slightly, annoyed but... curious. “And… Stuck?”

“Yes. Stuck. With some half-retired war hero babysitting me like I’m some charity case.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “You think Sam’s doing this out of pity?”

“I think you don’t want to be here.”

“That’s true,” he said without missing a beat.

You scoffed and turned toward the nearest clothing rack, shoving through the hangers harder than necessary.

“Then why come?” you asked after a beat, your voice quieter now. “Why agree?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was flat and honest. “Because I owe Sam.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “That’s all this is?”

He held your gaze for just a second too long. “What else would it be?”

You didn’t have an answer.

So you grabbed a few shirts off the rack and stormed toward the fitting rooms. When you emerged ten minutes later, arms full of items, Bucky was exactly where you’d left him—leaning on a bench, arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be in a war zone.

“I need sneakers,” you muttered, brushing past him.

“Lead the way,” he said with a sigh.

The shoe store was quieter. You sat down on the little bench, trying on a pair of black high-tops, when Bucky finally said something that caught you off guard.

“So what do you like to do? When you’re not yelling at me, I mean.”

You glanced up at him with a sharp look. “You’re joking like you’re part of the circus— Not an Avenger. Although…”

He was too unbothered. “You’ve got a lot of sharp words for someone who can’t decide between a pair of shoes.”

You shifted on the bench, adjusting your stance as you reached down for the other shoe. But before you could slip it on, a cry pierced the air.

You froze. The sound of a baby wailing echoed through the store, followed by frantic footsteps as a mother rushed to comfort the child.

Bucky’s head snapped toward the noise. He raised an eyebrow, glancing at you.

You didn’t move. You barely breathed, your pulse quickening as the panic in the child’s aura swirled like an impending storm. The baby was in distress—too much of it, too quickly.

“Everything okay?” Bucky’s voice broke through your concentration, but you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t, not yet.

The crying grew louder, escalating, and before you knew it, you were standing, your body tight with an involuntary urge to do something about it.

You took a deep breath, eyes squeezed shut. You felt the pressure in your chest. The emotions of the baby bleeding into the atmosphere. You reached out, not physically, but with your senses, and tried to calm the child.

It was only for a second, but in that moment, the energy shifted. The crying stopped abruptly, as if the child’s distress had been soothed. The air seemed to calm with it.

When you opened your eyes, you saw Bucky watching you, expression unreadable.

“You... you felt that, didn’t you?” His voice was low, quiet. “Before it even happened.”

You didn’t answer right away, lowering your gaze to the shoes in your hands. “Black or blue?”

Bucky stared at you for a long beat, his gaze flickering over you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He could tell there was more to you than what met the eye. And though he didn’t fully understand it, the way you had handled that... there was something almost unnatural about it.

But he didn’t press. He was still trying to understand everything about you—the quiet walls you put up, the sharpness in your words. And yet, he could see past all of it.

“Black,” he said after a moment, his tone less tense than before.

You shrugged, deliberately ignoring his suggestion and putting the black sneakers back on the shelf. You took the blue pair to pay at the cashier.

Bucky didn’t say anything else for a while. He just kept walking beside you through the store, quiet, observant.

Finally, after a few more minutes, you turned to him with a look that could’ve cut glass.

“You can’t always just fix everything.”

He looked down at you, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “Who says I’m trying to fix anything?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but instead just let out a frustrated huff.

He watched you with a growing curiosity.

And for the first time since you’d gotten in the car, you both felt like maybe—just maybe—the quiet was starting to break.

The drive back to Sam’s was nearly as awkward as the drive to the mall.

Rain drizzled against the windshield, thin and cold, painting the world outside in gray streaks. You sat pressed against the passenger door, your eyes on the window but your senses—your aura—locked on him.

Bucky didn’t speak. Not at first. He just gripped the steering wheel like it might splinter in his hands if he eased up.

“You moved before that kid even started crying.”

His voice broke the silence like a stone in still water.

You blinked, feigning confusion. “What?”

“At the shoe store,” he said, glancing sideways. “The baby. You stood up before it happened. Like you knew.”

Your pulse ticked in your throat. “Lucky guess.”

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. You could feel the flicker of his suspicion—quiet but sharp, like a blade being unsheathed slowly.

“You’re not normal,” he said.

Your head snapped toward him, heart pounding. “That’s rude.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m not normal either. Neither’s Sam. Or anyone trying to do what we’re doing now.”

“What you’re doing?” You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Please don’t lump me in with your little project.”

He arched a brow. “It’s not my project.”

“Right. You’re just the face of it.”

“Val’s the one in charge,” Bucky said carefully, testing the waters. “And Sam? He’s just as much part of it as anyone else. He just doesn’t realise it yet. He brought you in. Hey, maybe you can get him to sign—“

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snapped. “Sam gave me a place to sleep, that’s all. I’m not here to be anyone’s weapon.”

The word hung between you, heavy and unspoken.

Weapon.

Bucky stiffened. You felt it. A ripple in his aura—like regret twisted with something darker. Guilt, maybe.

“The Avenger’s aren’t weapons.” Bucky said straightforwardly but solemnly.

“That’s all you are.” you bit back, narrowing your eyes.

“We’re peacekeepers.” Bucky mellowed.

“You’re liars.”

“Sam been putting those thoughts in your head?” he asked, too calm.

You scoffed. “No. Sam’s the only one who hasn’t lied to me.”

A tense silence passed.

Then you said, quietly, “The only Avengers that ever mattered were the first six. Bruce Banner. Natasha Romanoff. Clint Barton. Thor. Tony Stark and Steve Rogers. That’s what my brother used to say.”

You didn’t know why you told him that. Maybe because the car felt too quiet again. Maybe because your throat ached with words that never got said.

“Steve Rogers was his hero,” you murmured. “Wanted to be just like him. Told everyone he’d join the Avengers one day, even when the world stopped believing in them.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the wheel. But he said nothing.

You glanced at him. “So no offence, but you don’t get to walk around calling yourself an Avenger like it means something.”

You didn’t mean to cut so deep.

But you meant every word.

When he finally pulled up to the curb outside Sam’s apartment, he turned off the engine, but didn’t move.

“You know,” he said slowly, “Your brother wasn’t wrong. About Steve.”

Your breath caught.

“But Steve believed in people. He believed in me. Doesn’t that count for something?”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you had nothing to say—but because you didn’t trust your voice.

If Bucky hadn’t murdered your brother in cold blood, you figured your brother might have actually liked the man.

Bucky opened the door without looking at you. “Let’s go. You’ve got clothes to unpack.”

You didn’t speak when you walked in. Just kicked off your shoes, dropped the shopping bags by the door, and beelined for the hallway without glancing back.

“Hey—” Sam started from the kitchen, but your footsteps were already retreating down the hall.

Your bedroom door shut with a soft click. Not a slam.

You didn’t have the strength to slam it.

The lights were off. That was good. You needed quiet. Dark. Stillness.

But it didn’t help.

Not really.

You pressed your back to the door, sinking slowly down until you were sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest. Your breathing was shallow, erratic. That thing in your chest—the one that always knew more than you wanted it to—was pounding like a second heartbeat.

Your skin pulsed with it. Like a wave just beneath your flesh.

Aura sensitivity.

You couldn’t switch it off. Couldn’t silence the pull of emotions around you. Couldn’t stop your body from picking up on the tension bleeding from the living room, the faint echo of Bucky’s anger still clinging to the hallway like smoke.

The mention of Steve clearly struck a chord. Good.

The room dimmed at the edges. Or maybe it was just your vision faltering, warping with the tremble that started in your fingers.

He knew.

Not everything. Not why you hated him. Not who he’d taken from you.

But he’d seen something.

That wasn’t part of the plan.

Your hands curled into fists, fingers trembling. You tried to regulate your breath, slow it down. In for four. Hold. Out for six.

But your lungs didn’t want to listen. They fluttered, panicked.

And then it started.

Soft at first. The glow beneath your skin. Pale and golden and sickly-sweet like syrup. It traced your veins, pulsing like fireflies trapped just beneath the surface.

You were spilling.

No one could see it. Not yet.

But if they did—

You scrambled off the floor and into the en suite bathroom, flicked the cold water on and splashed your face, hands, neck. Anything to shock your body back into focus. The chill bit at your skin. You welcomed it.

And behind you, barely audible through the wall, you heard the low hum of voices.

Sam.

And Bucky.

“She slammed the door?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

Bucky shrugged, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge and twisting the cap. “Didn’t slam it. Just… walked off.”

Sam watched him.

“She said something about the OG Avengers,” Bucky added quietly, gaze fixed on the bottle label. “Her brother was one of those kids. Worshipped Steve. Thought he’d wear the suit one day.”

A long pause.

“She told you that?” Sam asked, eyes narrowing.

Bucky nodded once. “Slipped out. Didn’t mean to.”

Sam’s brow furrowed.

“You do realise,” Sam said slowly, “she doesn’t trust you. At all.”

Bucky looked up. “I figured that out around the part where she said I don’t get to call myself an Avenger.”

Sam didn’t laugh.

He just exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. “Then earn it. Show her she’s safe here. That this isn’t just some recruitment stunt.”

Bucky leaned back against the counter, jaw flexing. “What if I can’t?”

Sam looked toward the hallway, where your door stayed closed and the air felt just a little too heavy.

“You can. You just need to start being better.”

────✪────

The apartment was quiet, but you couldn’t sleep.

Too much noise in your head. Too much you didn’t understand.

You found Sam on the balcony, sitting in one of the cheap plastic chairs, staring out at the skyline like it owed him answers.

You hesitated in the doorway.

He glanced back once and patted the chair beside him. “Can’t sleep?”

You shook your head and stepped out.

It was cooler out here. Wind in your hair, city alive beneath you, but far enough away that it felt like someone else’s problem.

You sat. Pulled your knees up to your chest, arms wrapped around them. “Thanks. For earlier.”

Sam just nodded. “You did fine. Held your own.”

“I mean for letting me stay.”

He shrugged, eyes still on the horizon. “You needed a place. I had one.”

You glanced sideways at him. “You always do that? Help strays off the street?”

His lips twitched at that. “Only the special ones.”

That earned a quiet laugh from you. Barely.

Then came the pause.

The one you weren’t sure how to fill, until the words came out before you could pull them back.

“What’s his deal?”

Sam turned to you. “Who?”

You didn’t answer. Just gave him a look.

Sam sighed and leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “You don’t wanna get into that.”

“I kind of do.”

He was quiet a long moment, considering.

“Bucky’s… complicated,” Sam said eventually. “He’s trying. Has been. But he’s got a long shadow behind him. Not everyone sees past that.”

“Do you?”

“I try,” Sam said softly. “We’ve been through a lot together. Doesn’t mean I excuse everything. But I know what it’s like to be rewritten.”

You nodded slowly, heart twisting.

“I’m not afraid of him,” you murmured.

Sam gave you a long look. “Good. But you should know—he’s not like the man you see in headlines.”

You considered his words only briefly.

Your throat tightened. “Why me?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted honestly. “But when I saw what you could do, I knew you didn’t belong where you were. And I don’t think you want to be there again.”

You swallowed hard.

“I don’t.”

The apartment was dim and still. Only the occasional whir of the refrigerator broke the silence, but it wasn’t enough to quiet your thoughts.

Trying to go back to sleep had been impossible.

You’d really tried to go back to bed when Sam did, after your conversation on the balcony. You figured you might sleep better knowing that everyone else was sleeping too. But none of this felt right.

Too much noise behind your eyelids. Too much weight on your chest. The bed felt foreign, like if you stayed in it too long, you’d vanish into the sheets and never come back.

So, again, you padded quietly through the apartment, wrapped in a hoodie two sizes too big and thick socks that muted your steps.

You didn’t expect anyone else to be awake.

But there he was.

Barnes.

Sitting at the kitchen table, elbows on the wood, long fingers curled around the neck of a bottle. He looked like he’d been carved out of the dark itself — broad shoulders hunched, tired eyes fixed on the manila folder splayed open in front of him. His jaw tensed as he read something over again, and again, like the words were mocking him.

The soft creak of the floor made him glance up.

You froze.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

Finally, you shifted your weight. “Do you live here or something?”

His brow lifted faintly. “No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He sighed. Rubbed a hand over his jaw and looked back at the papers. “Just overstaying my welcome.”

You hesitated in the doorway before stepping inside. Opened the cupboard for a glass, filled it with water from the tap. His eyes tracked you once before settling back on the folder.

Your curiosity gnawed at you.

“What is that?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at it like it personally offended him.

“A file,” he said at last. “A peace offering.”

You leaned against the counter, arms folded. “For Sam?”

Bucky nodded once. “Proposal. Co-leadership. New Avengers. Shared responsibility.”

Your brows rose. “That sounds… mature.”

He huffed a bitter laugh. “Apparently not mature enough to be taken seriously.”

You watched him for a long beat.

“So instead of signing it, Sam sends you shopping with me.”

He didn’t laugh at that. Just let his head tip back, eyes on the ceiling like he was praying for patience. “He’s testing me,” Bucky muttered. “Seeing if I’ll break. If I’ve changed. I don’t blame him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I did a lot of things,” he said. “Things that don’t go away just because I want to do better now. Sam thinks I betrayed him.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the glass. You didn’t know what to say to that.

Then he looked at you.

“I just want to fix things.”

Something in his voice made your chest pull tight. It wasn’t desperation. Not quite. It was quieter than that. Lonelier.

You crossed the space and sat at the edge of the table, far from him, but close enough to feel the tremor in the air.

“Maybe,” you said carefully, “you should stop trying to be a hero.”

That caught him off guard. His eyes narrowed, a frown tugging at his lips. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you murmured. “You’re just not very good at it.”

He blinked. “Wow. Thanks.”

But you weren’t teasing.

You were looking at him too closely now, and he could feel it.

You didn’t see the Winter Soldier.

You saw something else. Something broken.

“I see sadness,” you said softly. “Big, heavy grief. Not loud. But deep. You carry it like it belongs to you.”

He tensed. “You reading my energy?”

This time, you tensed. Oh, he knew.

“No. Just your face.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away.

You held his gaze, and something passed between you. Unspoken. Uneasy. Familiar.

You looked down. Swirled your glass.

“Heroes don’t always look like the people we loved,” you said, almost to yourself.

Then you pushed back your chair and stood.

Bucky didn’t stop you. But he watched you go, with something tired and heavy etched into every line of his face.

And when you glanced back before disappearing down the hallway, he was still staring at that folder, like if he read it enough times, the words might finally save him.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

Fic taglist: @ruexj283 @avengemepercy @espressovz @sebastians-love

Want to be added to a taglist? Let me know which one!

#thunderbolts spoilers #avengers tower fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #avenger bucky #thunderbolts #the new avengers #fic series #sam wilson #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x reader

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c4tluver02 · 3 days ago

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locket

wc: 1.6k

summary: Steve is the best boyfriend who gets you gifts and takes you on late night drives!!!!

warnings: u have long hair, hes taller than u (?) but nothing! flufffffyyy

“Were you able to go shopping with Rob?”

“Yeah, I helped her with some stuff and I actually got you something.” He says mumbling the last few words together.

A laugh escapes you at his antics. It's your nightly call with Steve where you ask each other about the day even though you will probably see him sometime tomorrow.

“You what? Sorry, say that again?” You heard him but Steve spoils you too much which you've told him time and time again he definitely doesn't need to do.

“I did get you something but I immediately thought of you when I saw it so I just had to get it for you.”

Your heart can't help but flutter at how thoughtful your boyfriend is. “That's very sweet of you Stevie.” He can tell you're smiling as you say it. “I actually made cookies for you, I was gonna bring them over tomorrow.” You say factually, lucky that you had a gift in return.

“Well I could always come over now and we could have a gift exchange? Maybe a little late night drive after?” He knows a late night drive is your favorite. Not always accessible since he can't just teleport to you.

“It’s 9pm my love. I will see you tomorrow I promise.” You would feel so guilty if he drove all the way over here for some cookies. Despite wanting to see the gift he got it wasn't worth wasting gas over.

“Exactly, it's only 9 I know you won't be asleep for another few hours. I'll come through your window and I'll be so silent like-.”

“Like a ninja I know.” You copy him with a laugh. “I’ll unlock my window, okay? See you soon.” He makes a hard bargain and you honestly would love to see him, waiting till tomorrow felt so far away.

–

You lay on your bed reading a book but it only takes a few minutes for him to arrive. When you hear a soft knock on your window you jump.

“Sorry I thought knocking would help not scare you.” Steve says as he opens the window.

You close the book and walk over towards him. He’s getting his leg in and you have your hand on his back holding him steady.

“See? Like a ninja.” Steve says smiling at you.

You beam back at him. Only a handful of times that Steve felt through your window prepared you to have a hand ready for him to grab on incase he falls.

“Very graceful.” You say quickly before giving him a kiss. “I have your cookies, do you want one right now?” Stepping down from your tippy toes you walk over to your bedside table that the cookies rest on.

“I mean it wouldn't hurt to try one to make sure it's not poisonous.” He shrugs, taking his shoes off to lay on your bed.

“You think I'd poison you Stevie?” Your eyes are big and glossy, lips a little pouted and Steve wishes he could kiss the look off your face. You are wearing a sweater of his and sweats that also might be his based on how long they are on you.

“Course not, but any good baker needs a taste tester right?” He teases, eyes scanning you up and down. Steve goes to bite the cookie in your hand and you're too late to swipe it away.

“Mmmm. So good.” A deep moan comes out of him as he lays his head back on your pillow.

You take a bite of your own and nod to yourself. It actually is very good, maybe you should go pro. It makes you smile to yourself that Steve would probably back you up on it. When you finish the cookie you lay down next to him and his arms wrap around you immediately.

A soft hand goes under your hoodie to rub your back and you snuggle your face in his neck. He smells heavenly and even better he's like a burning hot furnace. The sweat pants and hoodie is only doing so much for you during the winter.

Before you both accidentally fall asleep you lift your head up. Steve's eyes are closed and he's waiting for you to say something.

“So are you gonna give me my gift or what?” You ask as you rest your chin on his chest.

“Hmm, aren't we eager?” His eyes are still closed but a smile is spreading on his face. You wish you could stare at him a little longer, he looks so pretty right now.

“I just gave you your gift. I thought we were having a fair trade off.” Now you're fully off of Steve and laying on your knees with arms crossed.

“Okay, okay let me get it.” There's a small bag at the end of your bed, it's got tissue paper in it and you can tell the store wrapped it for him.

“Steve.” You say nervously. “Please tell me whatever’s in there is not expensive, that looks expensive.”

He gives you a small kiss to your temple before sitting back on your bed. Simply handing it to you for you to open. He feels giddy and extremely excited to see your response.

Gently opening it, scared to break it in any way, you see a small box at the bottom. It’s a dark blue velvet case and when you open it there's a locket.

A gasp comes out of you as you pull it closer to get a better look at it. “Steve oh my gosh.”

“I haven’t put anything in it yet. I thought we could look through some pictures together and I can fit it in there.” He quickly says. “Do you like it?” Eyes searching for yours in confirmation.

“Do I like it? I love it. I've never gotten anything like this, it's so beautiful.” You wrap your arms around him and he falls back onto the bed. Giving his cheeks a ton of kisses till you finally meet his lips and give him a deep kiss.

“Thank *kiss* you *kiss* so *kiss* much.” And by the end of the sentence he's in a fit of giggles.

“Of course baby, want me to help you put it on?”

“Yes please!” You turn so your back is facing him and lift your hair up.

He puts it on with ease and gives you a gentle kiss behind your ear.

Turning back to him you give him one more hug. “I can't believe you got me this and all I did was make you some cookies.” It comes out just a little muffled because of how you hold your head on his shoulder.

He laughs still rubbing your back and giving your hips a squeeze. “The cookies are a great gift. I love your cookies.”

“You really didn’t need to get me this Stevie.” You say letting go of the hug. Your hands finding their way to his jaw.

“I know I didn’t need to but I wanted to so let me spoil you, okay?” He says putting a loose strand of hair behind your ear and stroking your cheek.

“Okay.” You melt at the touch, leaning into his hand.

“Now how about we go for a quick ride and then you can get some beauty rest.”

You giggle and get up, opening your window as he slips his shoes back on. The way you flawlessly get out with no issue isn't lost on Steve. He has just as much trouble getting back out as he did getting it, maybe because he's taller than you he thinks.

As you close your window you turn around to see Steve ready with the passenger door open. You step in and get buckled up as Steve gets in to do the same.

“What type of music are we thinking?” You ask.

“Probably something soft if you’re gonna fall asleep.”

You roll your eyes playfully and hit his arm. “I won't fall asleep.” You state standing your ground.

“Okay, put on whatever then.” Steve decides not to bite back instead he rests his hand on your thigh and rubs soft circles.

Youre only about 7 minutes into the album you played, with his warm hand on you and the soft melody of his voice your eyes can't help but flutter close. It’s an extremely cozy moment and it lulls you to sleep within minutes. Steve decides to go around once more before he decides to take you back.

A soft rub on your cheek wakes you up and you let out a groan. You were so comfortable and now Steve has to leave. Possibly the worst thing ever?

“Can’t I just go home with you?” Too tired in your sleepy state.

“M sorry baby, but then your parents won't know where you went.” His hand is still holding your head for you.

“I’ll still see you tomorrow though right?”

“Yes you will see me tomorrow.”

Finally giving in, you get up and give him a hug goodbye. “Thank you again for the locket.” You say before kissing him.

“Mhm no problem angel.” He says it so softly and the way his hands linger tells you he doesn't want you to go either.

But alas you get out of his car and he waits for you to safely get back into your room before he waves his final goodbye to you. There's a tired grumpy look on your face that makes him laugh as he drives away. He couldn't wait to see you tomorrow.

#steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #stranger things au #writing #stranger things #steve harrington fanfic #blurb #steve harrington fluff #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x y/n

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bunnis-monsters · 1 day ago

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Your puppy

PREVIEW(PATREON/KOFI EXCLUSIVE)

Sub!Werewolf x Reader

WC: 5k+

warning: breeding, knotting, public sex, bjs, pussy eating, pregnancy, degradation(not towards reader)

A/N: this was a commission but the commissioners account isn’t available… Yuri if you see this, I can resend the google doc to you.

Going out and having some fun with your friends wasn't out of the ordinary for you. In fact, nearly every weekend you were able to spend a few hours at the bar while your lover waited for you to get home.

The only problem was that you were out 30 minutes later than you usually were tonight… and a male werewolf had brushed against your shoulder while passing by.

Most people would think this was nothing, being in public meant sometimes a person of the opposite gender would come into contact with you. It happened, and it was nothing to fuss over.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, werewolves didn’t think that way.

As you took off your uncomfortable shoes and sipped on your water, you could hear your boyfriend’s tail wagging from the bedroom. You smiled, ready to cuddle up with him and eat snacks as he snuggled you like the cuddly pup he was.

To your surprise, your lover came out of the room, his ears flat against his head and his tail wagging in a nervous, annoyed way as he stormed over to you.

“Baby?”

You were about to open up your arms for snuggles, but stopped when he nearly tackled you, pinning you to the wall and burying his face in your neck.

“You… smell like… another male…” he murmured between inhales, his nose tickling you as he sniffed you like an angry dog.

“A guy bumped into m-“

He growled low, his tail wagging behind him as he pouted, his canines poking out. It didn’t seem like he wanted to listen to your excuses…

“Can’t believe you let a man touch you…” he grumbled, nipping and biting at your neck, being a jealous and needy little pup. “Mean, you’re mean to me and don’t love me enough…”

“Baby…” you cooed, moving your hand up to scratch between his wolf ears. “You don’t mean that, you know I love you more than anything.”

He let out a whine, his tail going crazy. “Mmm… you’re mean to your puppy… gone so long, and coming home smelling like some other werewolf… gonna make me go crazy…”

Trying to soothe your pouting boyfriend wasn’t easy, especially when he was busy scenting you, rubbing and nuzzling against your body and clinging to you like a koala.

“Such a needy pup, I haven’t even gotten my heels off yet.”

Soft puppy whines escaped his throat, and he buried his face into your neck. It was embarrassing, being so needy for you. He just couldn’t take it!

You knew before long he’d be getting over excited. That’s how he was like, a puppy that got too excited when you got home. He needed your attention, all of it on him at every moment of the day.

Your fingers traced along his chest, and he straightened up a little to try and show off for you. He was perfect, handsome and weak to your touch.

Just how you liked it…

“Feeling needy?”

You giggled when he became flustered, his ears folding as he yipped at you in embarrassment. Seems you hit the nail on the head.

“Not… I’m not needy. Just…”

He huffed, his bulge pressing into your thigh as he began humping it. “Just…”

“Just needy for me, hmm? Need me to take care of you because you’re a dumb little puppy that gets so jealous and lonely without me?”

His tail wagged, but he let out a whine. You could tell he wanted to freely hump your thigh… but he was such an obedient pup that he waited for your permission.

You finally sighed, gently tugging on his waistband. “Go ahead, puppy.”

His cock sprung forward, red and dripping against your thigh. At first he was slow, pressing the tip into your soft flesh and rubbing gently, as if testing the waters. He looked up for your approval, panting and drooling.

All you had to do was nudge his cock and he was humping your leg like a wild animal. His face was buried in your chubby belly, giving you little excited bites as precum leaked from his aching cock.

Want to read this? It’s only available on my Patreon and Kofi! Go there to read other exclusive stories along with early fics!

NSFW TAGLIST: @avalordream @bazpire @im-eating-rn @anglingforlevels @kinshenewa @pasteldaze @yoongiigolden @peachesdabunny @leiselotte @misswonderfrojustice @dij-ology @i8kaeya @lollboogurl @h3110-dar1in9 @keikokashi @aliceattheart @mssmil3y @namjoons-t1ddies @izarosf1833 @healanette @lem-hhn @spufflepuff @honey-crypt @karljra @zyettemoon1800 @exodiam @vexillum-moeru @imperfectlyperfectprincess1 @enchantedsylveon @mysticranger575 @readeryn68 @danielle143 @kittenlover614 @filthybunny420 @annavittoria-mm @makimamybelovedwife @blubearxy @omglovelylaila @toocollectionchaos-universe-blog @fruk-you-usuk-fans @hammerhead96-blog @slightlyusedfloormat @bubblez-blop @sunshineangel-reads @heroneki-neko @soapybabyboop @anonymouskiwi @flamefoxx @sandramalikstyles-blog @breathingstarlight

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zepskies · 1 day ago

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Funnily enough, this is the first time I've ever written a professor AU! But thank you, lovely!! I loooooove the color scheme of the moodboard Liane created. It matched my personal aesthetic so well and the classic lit in there just provided the perfect creative fuel! lol 💕💕

thissssss is such a beautiful and bittersweet description 💗💗

Oh thank you!! 🙏🏽 I worked really hard on that little intro - really helped me set the scene.

this was such a clever “meet cute” !! 😩 (I mean not really given they are very aware of each other but like, personal meet cute?) and yeah judging by sir-stares-a-lot off to the side, i’m glad dean was there to assist her <33 public transportation can be exhausting sometimes fr 🤦🏽‍♀️

ehehe yes it's a kind of "meet cute" for sure! Oh God yeah, Dean was really needed there to assist in multiple ways lol. Public transportation can be scary for a woman alone, especially late at night!

I actually ended up having to withdraw from college a while ago (:/) but man if I had him as a professor ??? I would’ve had perfect attendance for sure 🫠💓

Oh no! I'm sorry to hear that. 😥

Very much agree though lol. If Dean were my professor, I'd never miss a class. 😏 And I'd have to record every lecture bc I probably wouldn't be able to catch everything he was saying lolll.

i went from aww to real to aw :/ and finally to how the hell did those girls find out 😭 but I will say my nosey ass is intrigued 👀 lmao

Oh you know how news like that travels. 🥲 That's definitely going to be a subject explored in the series!

boy if you don’t watch out :| i’d pull my taser out idc 😭

LMAO that gif of disappointed grandma killed me! 🤣 But yes, I'd threaten to tase him in the dick idc either 🙃

literally!! the other day this guy got unnecessarily close to me at the bus stop so i gave him a dead stare and asked if i can help him with something in a flat tone as I backed away from him, then he tried playing dumb like mannn I ain’t trying to hear all that, move !!🤚🏽

omgggg guys really do try it, don't they? So creepy. lmfao and you pulled out the "Can I help you??" 🤣

Sometimes you really do gotta --

I personally adore when someone talks about something they’re passionate about. it’s so refreshing because they actually care and you can see it, hear it. like personally I don’t really have a passion for anything anymore lol which i’m fine with now, it just makes it that much better when I encounter someone who does have that passionate spark, like yesss pls tell me all about that subject 🙂‍↕️♥️ i mean correct me if i’m wrong (<3) but you seem to have such a big passion for writing, like it shows how much you love to do this, how much you care and all the effort that goes into the entire process. it all reflects in your writing !! every time you write interesting tidbits and fun facts I find them so interesting. you seem like the chill english teachers i’d get along with, in the best way ofc !!💘 (ex-teacher’s pet here 😔😂) also I hope i’m making sense lovely, brady isn’t the only pothead here lmfao 😭🫶🏽

Yesss I feel the same way! I love it when people are passionate about a subject. I'm sorry you don't feel like you have that passion for something right now, but I hope you do discover something new to enjoy and geek out about. 💗💗

Oh you're very right about that lol. Writing and storytelling is my passion and one of my key creative outlets, so I've studied it and tried to make it my career too. Fanfic though is very self-indulgent for me lol. It's mainly where I come for escapism and to try new things creatively in my writing. I'm so glad you find the "tidbits/fun facts" interesting!! 🥹💕💕 Since I also teach English, this was a really fun story for me to write lol. I think I'd love to have you in my class! I'm on the whole very chill with my college peeps (though I can't be as much with high school 🤣).

lmaooo girl no worries, you're making perfect sense 😘

yesssss keep gathering her up in your warm strong arms dean 🙂‍↕️🙏🏽 lmfao

Right? Even I melted while writing that part~

this was truly such a wonderrrrfull story 💛 the mutal pining is killing me but it’s so good!🫠 idiots in love…except they’re both really smart and it’s not love yet, they’re just pining…but still!🤠

Aww thank you, my lovely!! 🥹💓💓 I'm so glad you enjoyed it! The mutual pining is gonna be tough to start with, but I think these two are going to "give in" sooner than you might think. We'll see when I actually start writing the rest of this. 🤣

10 'Til Midnight

Pairing: Professor!Dean Winchester x Student!Reader

Summary: A chance encounter outside of the classroom shifts the way you see your professor. Forever.

AN: Here’s a one-shot for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! This also fulfills a request for one of my lovely Patreon members, @redhoodieone, who wanted to see AU Professor!Dean with a plus-sized student!reader. The reader is a graduate student (mid-20s) and Dean is in his 30s in this, so not really a wide age gap, but we’re still flirting with a gray area here lol.

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: graduate student!reader, plus-sized!reader, Shakespeare geekery, mythology and other nerdy classic lit. references, AU Brady sighting, sexual tension, mutual pining(?)

The ash cloud of exhaust rose up from the sidewalk steam grates. It infiltrated your nose as you hurried down a few well-worn concrete steps and into the bowels of the subway, a transition into deeper darkness.

To you, that acrid, mini plume of pollution was the smell of New York City; old cigarette buds and weed hash, fresh tequeños and hot dogs wafting from the open door of the bodega on the corner, mixed with a whiff of piss.

This was the city of broke creatives clinging to their fragile dreams with both hands, usually while the natives rolled their eyes. You were one of those shiny happy people with a dream and the battle-tested will to make it happen, especially tonight. You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

You replayed your favorite scenes in your mind like 1940s movie reel, except it was live in technicolor. An unconscious smile spread across your lips, but you had to hurry. Your train was about to leave in…

You checked the time on your phone—ten minutes to midnight—and compared it to the digital sign up ahead. Your eyes widened.

Shit! One minute?!

You had no choice but to try and run in your heels. That had you skidding to the open doors as they began to close, but you just managed to slip inside, albeit literally slipping with a yelp.

A man saved you by grabbing hold of your arm and waist before you fell, bunching the fabric of your coat beneath his hand. You gasped when you stared up at a familiar face. A sharp jawline covered with stubble, just neat enough to be respectable; dark brows shaded over green eyes, trained on you; bowed lips pursed with confusion.

“Professor?” you said, breathless and shocked.

He was just as baffled, but he finished helping you up as your name fell from his lips.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded and thanked him for the save, still catching your breath.

“Here, sit down,” he said, gesturing to a couple of empty seats on the subway. You joined him in sitting, though you ignored the stare of the guy standing closest to you who was holding onto a rail. He wore jeans and dirty hipster Vans, a brown bomber jacket and a gray beanie. The stench of weed and cheap cologne clung to him.

And his gaze followed you until you sat down. Slightly unsettled, you were subtle in the way you angled yourself toward the man beside you.

Professor Dean Winchester.

He really was the last person you expected to see on your way home tonight. You still couldn’t believe you ran right into him!

But then, you noticed the playbill sticking out of his coat pocket (his coat looked more expensive, a dark charcoal gray with a high collar, and it suited him).

“Oh, you…you saw the play too?” you said in excitement, showing him your own playbill that you fished out of your purse. You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore. You thought he might enjoy a play that was all about the convergence between the fairy realm and the human realm.

He’d admitted that he’d never seen a Shakespeare play live, but he said he’d look into it. You didn’t think he was actually taking you seriously though.

“Uh, yeah, I did. I’ve never been a big Shakespeare guy, truth be told, but you hooked me,” he said. When he smiled, it made the corner of his eyes crinkle a little.

You couldn’t help but smile too every time you noticed that…even though it made your cheeks warm in a blush. He really had no business being this handsome. And the suit? All crisp and black, paired with a classic, off-white dress shirt and a black pinstripe tie.

Clearly he’d dressed for the occasion of going to the theater, because usually he was one of the chillest professors you knew. He showed up to class in jeans, boots, plain henleys and jackets, though never without his watch, a classic leather time piece with a silver watch face and bold black numbers. It was so vintage, you’d asked about it once when you met with him to talk about one of your essays on Native American burial practices. He’d told you that the watch belonged to his father, who passed away a few years ago now.

“So what’d you think?” you asked. “Weren’t the sets beautiful? It was so ominous and creepy in the ‘forest,’ and ethereal too, like the fairy realm part of it.”

He nodded, smiling slightly wider at your enthusiasm. “Yeah, was a good production. The actors were top-notch.”

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.” You paused, realizing what you said, and a nervous giggle tumbled out of your mouth. “Well, the character. Not the ass—donkey—whatever. You know what I mean.”

The man laughed, rich and deep and washing over you pleasantly, even though you half covered your face in embarrassment.

“Can’t argue with you there. The ass was hilarious,” he smirked.

Another giggle, and you flipped through the playbill again to distract yourself from looking at his ruggedly chiseled face. Why, oh why did he have to be so fucking attractive? And somehow he was still single. You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

“But really, the actors who played the couples in the love quadrangle were awesome,” you said. “Helena was my favorite.”

He raised his dark brows. “Really? The girl who gets shit on the most in the play?”

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life. You let out a snort of laughter.

“I don’t want to be her, I just think she did so well at showing that vulnerability,” you explained. “There’s nothing worse than being in love with someone who doesn’t even see you, you know?”

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

“In her mind, she’s probably thinking, ‘Well, even if he’s yelling at me, at least he’s acknowledging I exist,’” you said, “which is incredibly sad and isn’t giving Shakespeare many brownie points for feminism, but it’s a reality that some women go through.”

After a moment, he seemed to see your point with a nod of his head.

“That’s fair,” he said, arching a brow. “Though I gotta hope you don’t let any guy talk to you like that.”

You shook your head with a smile, but before you could answer him, your phone slipped off your lap and tumbled to the dirty subway floor. You twisted away so you could reach down and grab it, but you caught that whiff of cheap cologne again. Gray beanie guy let go of the rail and bent down to scoop up your phone before you could. You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

That oh-so-gracious offer was followed by a glance down your dress. You sat up straighter, adjusting the collar of your coat back over your neckline with a weary huff.

“Ah, you know what, I’m good with just my phone…please.”

This was why you kind of hated the subway. You didn’t know when you were going to have to interact with a creep trying to steal your phone, shoot his shot, or look down your dress as a consolation prize.

You held out your hand expectantly, but still, “Brady” didn’t take the hint.

“Aw, what, you have a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“Oh my God. Are you fucking serious?” You sighed and decided a white lie was best here. “Yes, I have a boyfriend. Now give me my phone, please.”

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

“Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, maybe we can grab a bite to eat, theeen you know. If things are going well, we could take things back to your place,” he said, his brows popping with sleazy suggestion. He still held the phone away from your grasping hand in frustration.

“Hey,” a deep voice cut in.

You hesitated, glancing back at Professor Winchester. He glared up at Brady with a stony look that you’d never seen on him before.

“Give her the damn phone,” said the professor. His tone boded no argument.

Still, Brady pushed his luck.

“What, you her boyfriend or something?”

The professor didn’t bother to answer the question, but he stood from his seat, his long coat draped down all six feet and change of him, broad shoulders and calm confidence. He stared down at the lankier, scruffier pothead. Then he held out his hand.

Brady shifted back on his heels, seeming to realize that he didn’t want this version of Midnight on the Orient Express—the kind that ended up on the 6 o’clock news the next morning. With a roll of his eyes, Brady dropped the phone into your professor’s hand, complete with a dickish quirk of his lips. Professor Winchester gestured at him to fuck off.

“Walk away,” he said.

To your astonishment, the Brady just tossed him a “fuck you, bro,” and went to the other end of the car. You stood up too, just as the subway pulled to a stop. Professor Winchester handed you the phone.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Is this your stop?” he asked, still glancing back with a suspicious eye at the asshole still glaring at your backs.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Okay, come on,” the professor said. He laid a guiding hand on the small of your back and joined you in stepping out of the subway car. To your relief, Brady stayed on the train.

“Thank you,” you said again. “Really, you didn’t have to miss your exit for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, with a shake of his head. His frown was still in place just thinking of that fucking loser. “I’ll have better peace of mind knowing you got home safe.”

Once you told him that your apartment was another few blocks away, he knew he was going to be walking you home. You told him you weren’t that new to the city, but in his mind, it still wasn’t a safe neighborhood for a young woman to be walking around by herself at this time of night.

He had no other motive than that, however…

He’d been pleasantly surprised to see you tonight. You were a flash of scarlet that tumbled into his arms, the scent of your floral perfume teasing his nose before he caught sight of that little dress clinging to your curvy form, ending just a couple inches above the knee. But you drew your wool coat closer to your body, hiding the tantalizing flash of red from view.

It was for the best, he thought, as he cleared his throat and tried to find something else to focus his eyes on while you two walked together. He couldn’t help but land on your face again, on your pretty painted lips.

A deep, full-bodied red.

It was a familiar shade. You’d worn it before, while chewing the end of a pen absently in concentration during one of his lectures on the difference between skinwalkers and shapeshifters—those long, pointed nails tapping a quiet rhythm against the plastic. It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you. If nothing else, he always knew he had your attention.

He also knew you were getting a master’s degree in English, and you were taking his class as an elective. You’d actually sought him out before the semester started to make sure you got a spot in his class.

“Sorry, sir, I know it’s early. I’ve just been trying since last year to get into this class, and I really wanted the chance to take it before I graduate this year.”

He’d shifted in his swivel chair with his jean-clad legs casually crossed. He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

The repetitive bounce really helped him to think sometimes; it was basically his version of a fidget spinner.

“You like mythology that much, huh?” Dean asked.

“Oh, yeah!” you said, as your eyes lit up. “I find it so fascinating how every culture in the world has their own stories that have still survived for thousands of years. Some of them even overlap. Like, maybe it’s technically a different creature, but they have the same name, just in another language. Or it’s the same creature, different backstory. It’s like any novel I’ve ever read—similar tropes, but the style, the packaging. That’s what becomes new and creative.”

Amusement tugged at Dean’s lips.

“Same candy, different wrapper, right?” he offered. His reward was your bright smile.

“Yeah, exactly.”

He’d approved your request without a second thought. Unlike 95% of the students who came and went through his classes, you weren’t just smart. You cared. You had a passion for this stuff…and it mirrored his own.

“So, uh, you liked that play, huh?” he asked. Wanted to rub his hand over his face right after. Smooth, Winchester.

But it succeeded in brightening your eyes again.

“Oh yeah. People tend to think of it as one of Shakespeare’s sillier plays, but it drops some interesting ideas about love, for example.” All while you spoke, you spun vivid gestures with your hands.

Dean’s remained in his coat pockets, but watching you made his smile deepen. He liked when you got like this, so animated and alive with your thoughts. It threatened to draw him out of his somewhat jaded shell.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he asked. Not because he really wanted to talk about what some sixteenth-century ye olde-y English douche thought about love, but because he wanted to hear you explain it.

You didn’t disappoint.

“Well, there’s the famous Lysander line, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” you said, “but that’s not even my favorite. That’s boring. That’s every rom-com ever, from Harry Met Sally to While You Were Sleeping, all the way to He’s Just Not that Into You, and Crazy, Stupid Love.”

Dean had to interject. “You watch a lot of chick-flicks, don’t you?”

Your lips puckered, but the amusement in your eyes answered his question.

“Like I said, I think Helena is the most underrated tragic figure in the whole story. Yeah, she’s pretty much a doormat, following Demetrius around even though he claims he’s in love with her best friend. Even though he curses at her, threatens to kill her if she keeps annoying him, following him around like an abused puppy. We can agree, he’s like, the biggest asshole in existence, right?” you said.

“Oh, very much agree. You want some coffee?” Dean asked, pointing to a guy selling warm pretzels and drinks from his vendor cart on the side of the road. It had stopped snowing a few days ago, but the February air was still sharp and bitterly cold at this time of night. If only it were midsummer.

“Uh, you know what, I could go for some tea. Thank you,” you said. But you didn’t let that derail you from your thoughts on Shakespearean love. You were still waxing literary analysis while you dug into your purse to find your wallet, but by the time you got it out, Dean had already paid for both drinks and a large soft-baked pretzel.

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! I meant to pay for my part—”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take half,” Dean said, and he shot you a smile while handing over your hot tea and half of his pretzel. He got your eyes to light up for a different reason as you took the treat. You thanked him with a sweeter smile.

Then you took a bite, and you kept talking.

“But then she says, ‘Love can transpose to form and dignity.’ It can make us act like idiots, right? I mean, back in high school I wrote my boyfriend’s essays for a whole year because I didn’t want him to fail English, and let’s face it, he could barely spell his own last name.”

“Yikes,” Dean chuckled. Sounded like a GED and a gas station job in that guy’s future.

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.” You rolled your eyes, accepting Dean’s sympathies with a gracious nod and a dismissive hand wave. Still, he hoped all you’d given to that guy was your time.

"Well, the guy you're seeing now better be treating you better," he said.

You blinked, your brows furrowing a bit in confusion, until realization dawned on you.

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend," you said with a small chuckle. "That's just what I tell pushy weirdos on subways."

Dean was tripped up for a second, but he eventually quirked a smile.

“So anyway, my favorite bar of the whole play is what Helena says in Act 1,” you said. “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

In that moment, Dean’s eyes were a little too captivated.

But you broke the spell.

You glanced ahead to continue along the crosswalk with him, taking another warm, soft bite of pretzel.

“And that’s why Cupid’s always painted like a blind baby…or something like that,” you said. You laughed a little, and you seemed to realize just how long you’d been yapping his ear off. You came to a stop at what he assumed was your apartment building, but you suddenly got quiet. Embarrassed.

“Sorry, once I open my mouth on this stuff, I can’t really stop unless someone stops me and tells me I’m literally killing them with words that don’t make sense.”

“You’re making a whole lotta sense to me,” Dean replied. And he realized that he meant it. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. I like that.”

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

“Well, did you like the play?” you asked, smiling in embarrassment. “Sorry, can’t remember if I even asked you that yet.”

He chuckled. Even if you had, he didn’t mind answering again.

“I like it more now, hearing you talk about it,” he said. But maybe that was too honest. He padded it with something more appropriate, as your instructor. “It makes sense, since you’re an English major, but your passion always comes through in your essays. I’m really glad you decided to take my class this semester.”

You demured further at the praise. “Oh, thank you. It really is my favorite class so far this year, but…that’s because you’re the one teaching it. You're really good at telling stories. You make them simple and easy to understand, even when we're talking about hell hounds and old ghost stories, or the uh, Oedipus complex, or something.”

Dean chuckled, but it was his turn to be touched, even if it surprised him too. You were just so honest and free enough to speak your mind. It was refreshing.

“Well, thank you. Glad to hear at least one person’s getting something out of it,” he said, his smile warming for once.

You smiled too, looking at him through your lashes. “All right well, thanks again for walking me home. I’ll, um…see you on Monday-ayy!”

You stepped up onto the first stair leading up to your apartment and caught an icy patch with your red-bottomed heels. A gasp fell from your lips as your arms spun out to catch yourself on anything that could keep you from falling, and that happened to be Dean—specifically his coat, and then his biceps when he moved in fast to keep you upright.

He ended up gathering you into his arms while you clung to his coat. Your red nails bit into the dark fabric. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to rid himself of that image, his jaw ticking in response. But another one just replaced it when his gaze met yours, half-lidded and shocked, but…contemplating.

Hot breaths mingled in between, puffing visibly on the cold air.

“God, I’m sorry!” you breathed.

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat past the slight roughness in his voice. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, um…Take Two,” you said, laughing weakly.

You aimed to let him go and continue on up the stairs by yourself, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from trying to help you. He held your elbow at least, with a hovering hand by your waist in case you slipped again. When you finally made it to the door, you paused and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Again, that look in your eyes said you were debating something in your mind.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded. “Yeah, I just, um…you know what? Never mind. Uh, good night!”

Dean nodded, giving you a casual salute. He didn’t leave until you got in the building safely, but for his entire long walk home, your face wouldn’t leave his mind. That look of internal conflict, like you’d been weighing some kind of pros and cons. He had to wonder…

Had you been about to invite him up to your apartment?

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you.

Didn’t stop Catherine Zeta-Jones from hooking up with Michael Douglas. She’s barely pushing fifty while he’s halfway into Senior Depends.

Second problem. Career ending and reputation ruining and his own clock punch at the local 7/11—kind of a problem.

You were a student.

Grad student, came a whisper from the back of his mind.

In Greek mythology, the golden apples of Hesperides in Hera’s garden were guarded by a dragon. The Norse gods also believed in their own version of immortal golden apples, harvested by the goddess Idunn. Sounded a bit like Eden, right? As in, the Judeo-Christian Garden.

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence for the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Remembering the feeling of your soft curves under his hands, Dean had a feeling it would be more than fucking worth it.

But he shook the thought from his head, his fingertips digging into the soft insides of his coat pockets.

He was your professor. That was where those thoughts should end.

You didn’t even see him that way…did you?

You shucked your heels off as soon as you got inside your apartment. You heaved a deep sigh and shed your purse, your coat, your earrings and necklace, which you set down on the nightstand in your bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed and fell back onto the creaky mattress.

Your hands came to rest lightly over your stomach, a safe place, while you thought back to how Professor Winchester held you so tight. Secure. Gentlemanly.

How he looked at you, his green-eyed gaze falling to your lips, like he was contemplating the best way to close that distance, bowing his head those last few inches and…

You forcibly shook your head. He was your goddamn teacher.

It didn’t matter that he was probably the youngest faculty member on campus, and you were a twenty-five-year-old graduate student. Whether or not the man was “age appropriate,” he was still your professor. You couldn’t think about him like that.

And he absolutely didn’t look at you like that…

Did he?

AN: Sorry again for all the nerdy lit. tidbits, but I had fun. 😂 I'm thinking about expanding this into an actual little series, so let me know what you think! ❤️

⋆˙⟡ Follow @zepskieswrites (with notifications on) to get notified every time I drop a new chapter. ❤️

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#lovely review!! 💓💓💓#reader appreciation #lovely mutuals #zep replies

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claramelooo · 19 hours ago

Text

CHECKMATE

Hey, my lovely readers! It's been a while, huh? I missed you so much!

It with big pleasure that I present for you my new project. I've been try a new formula that I wanted to write this one. So, it's a experiment....

Maybe I'll post the chapter one still this month... I don't know... I have a lot of things to do... urghhh 😩😩😩

But anyways... I hope you can enjoy it!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: +18, BDSM, Top/bottom dinamic, Brat/Tammer dinamic, Agatha dom! Reader bottom! Reader top from the bottom! (sometimes), manipulation, dubcon, strap, mommy kink, mommy issues, age difference (Agatha's 50 and R's 20), degradation, power dinamic, cnc, angst, fluffy, spanking, anal, feet & plot twist.

Prologue

When the pawn is the chosen piece.

The camera smiles first.

And then, as always, she follows.

Agatha Harkness lifts her chin gently, a polite smile precisely sculpted on her lips — sweet, almost kind. That’s what they expect from her: empathy. A human candidate. Submissive to the will of the people, loyal to the country, the eternal widow of America. A woman who married only once, who never hid scandals… simply because she never had any.

Never allowed them.

She moves like a queen on the chessboard. Dangerous, but discreet. Lethal, if underestimated.

“Washington needs change, and I’m the only one who can make it happen,” she says into the mic at the end of yet another exhausting debate, her voice calm, clear, and motherly.

The cameras flash.

Hearts ignite with the fire that politics stirs.

Jennifer Barkley smiles behind the cameras, proud. Tony Stark, ever the charmer, steps forward to shake her hand, congratulating her on the success of the spectacle — a staged show of support, crafted by numbers and strategists.

But Agatha no longer sees any of it.

She’s only thinking about what she’s about to lose if she gives in to the temptation of feeling.

Because in the political game, love is a distraction.

And she’s not here to be loved.

She’s here to win.

The fake ID feels warm in your hand, made of cheap plastic, and you were sure it cost less than a subway ride.

The tight dress Carol lent you didn’t do justice to the city of Seattle — rich and green. You were sure she’d gone overboard picking a bar like this.

But c’mon… it’s Carol Danvers!

All it takes is one smile from her and you obey.

The entrance to the bar is a breath of freedom in the silent prison your life has become — your relationship with her, if you can even call it that. Carol holds your hand, but not out of care.

It’s possession.

A warning.

The pulsing lights pull you away from reality for one night. You drink and pretend this is happiness.

Until your eyes meet hers.

Icy blue eyes — you were certain there was a hint of green, or maybe it was just the bar’s lights.

But they’re hers.

And they’re locked on you.

The stare is hard, severe. You shrink inside, wondering if something’s out of place. Your hair? Your makeup?

Shit, you curse yourself silently. You knew it was a mistake to wear so much mascara. Now all your flaws were probably plain to see for that woman who looked so… perfect.

You look away, embarrassed. But something lingers. A tension you can’t name. A presence that doesn’t dissolve, even when you turn your back.

It was 3 a.m. You searched for Carol with blurry, drunken eyes, the need to breathe in a calm, quiet space growing by the second. The energy in that place was draining you, making you want to cry.

You hold back the tears like it’s just another regular day, searching for the nearest exit so you can breathe and escape the sea of people.

The half-jammed emergency door creaks open, and you seem to have found a safe place to regulate your emotions.

Seattle’s ever-freezing air makes you feel even lonelier, more depressed — until someone else seems to need space just as much as you…

It’s her!

The woman from the table across the bar.

The woman with cold, terrifying eyes.

Terrifyingly hypnotic.

You lift your eyes a bit higher and take a chance.

The feminine silhouette before you is imposing, stunning. Dark hair cascading like a rope framing a strong face — but something in her flushed cheeks, from the alcohol or maybe the cold, adds a softness to her otherwise severe figure.

You’re intrigued.

The cobalt blue gaze like icy blades piercing into your soul. She doesn’t smile. But she studies you, as if discovering something you never even knew about yourself.

You swallow hard.

She doesn’t even ask your name.

And still, you feel like you’ve just been chosen.

~*~

I dedicate this story to all lovers of politics and women, especially haha 😆💜

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi

#agatha all along #wlw post #checkmate #agatha harkness x fem reader #agatha x reader #agatha harkness #domme mommy #mommy k!nk #lgbtq #lgbtqia #agatha harkness x reader #mommy knows best

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snowseasonmademe · 1 day ago

Text

Especially on camera

word count: 6,125

warning ‼️: smut

pairing: wiliam saliba x black female reader

summary: wilo had a hard day and he couldn’t miss this opportunity to release his stress

tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @btslover117 @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

@kjlovesbigwilo

note: sorry this took kind of long. i got carried away but on the bright side its long and very entertaining ;) as always, enjoy and tell me what you think.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wilo had a hard day.

The game against PSG had stripped the spirit from his body in the cruel way only football can—slowly, then all at once. The locker room was too quiet afterward, filled with heads hung low and the kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, just numb. He sat toward the back of the team bus, slouched in his seat, headphones on but no music playing. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of his jersey. Defeat clung to him like sweat. It wasn’t just the loss—it was knowing that the season’s hopes had come undone with it. That it was over.

“Maybe next year” he muttered under his breath, not believing it.

But then—buzz. His phone lit up in his palm. He glanced down, expecting some team update or sponsor message, but instead his heart caught fire at your name.

11:56 PM

you – katrina needs you

Katrina.

His lips quirked despite the weight in his chest. That name—your name for her, your little inside joke—hit him like a memory in full surround. You’d dubbed your pussy “Katrina” after that first night together, when he’d made you come so hard and so fast, you’d nearly cried. “She’s dangerous” you’d said between giggles, sweat-slicked and high off the release. “Natural disaster levels.” he said back

He hadn’t forgotten. Couldn’t.

The name stuck. Not just because it was funny—but because it was true. You were the storm, and he? He drowned in you willingly every time.

He stared at the message, thumb hovering. His whole body tensed. He wanted you, badly—but sometimes, you liked to play. Tease him. Make him jump through hoops before you let him taste what you both knew belonged to him. Tonight though, he wasn’t in the mood for riddles. He didn’t want to earn it—he needed to lose himself in you. Quiet the ache in his chest, the buzzing in his head. You were the only one who could silence everything.

He tapped out a reply anyway.

12:00 AM

wilo – tell her no games.

A minute later:

12:02 AM

you – she said why would she play games when you know she has needs and you’re the only one who can please them.

His throat went dry.

His dick twitched under his sweats.

It wasn’t just about sex. It never was.

The way you texted him, matched his heat with yours, said what you said without hesitation—it wasn’t just lust. It was alignment. Shared hunger. He needed to feel that again, even if only for tonight.

And time was never on your side. Your tour schedule, his travel demands, the constant cameras, the necessary secrecy. You lived in fragments, stolen moments behind closed doors. When you had the chance to see each other—really see—you took it. Because the rest of the world didn’t give you much.

He couldn’t miss this. Not tonight.

12:12 AM

wilo – will be there in one hour. send me location.

12:14 AM

you – don’t be late. we’re waiting.

You tossed your phone onto your chest and let a smirk rise to your lips, body already pulsing with anticipation.

A soft laugh escaped you as you pressed your thighs together, trying to trap the ache that was growing between them. He had that effect on you—Wilo didn’t just fuck you. He touched something deeper. And when he was gone, you swore your body remembered him.

Your girls used to joke:

“Y’all don’t be fuckin’, y’all be screwin’.”

And they had proof. That one time they walked in on you two mid-session—they never recovered. The sounds, the sweat, the headboard slamming, the cries that echoed down the hall. Wilo moaning loud, your voice breaking like you were being murdered. They still brought it up with raised eyebrows and fake concern.

“I don’t know how your pelvis is still intact” one of them had said last week.

You didn’t care. You liked it that way.

You wanted to scream. To feel him inside you so deep it changed your anatomy. You wanted to shake and cry and forget your own name. You wanted to feel that stretch in your lower stomach where his tip pushed so deep, it felt like pressure on your soul.

You were lost in those thoughts, fingertips tracing the hem of your shorts, when your phone buzzed again. His ringtone.

You answered instantly.

“Y/N,” he said. His voice was a low growl, dipped in that thick, beautiful accent that made your stomach flip.

“Mmm?” you hummed, coy and soft.

“I’m trying to hurry but there’s traffic. Don’t touch yourself. I will do it. Just wait. I be there in a few minutes.”

A sharp breath escaped you. Your fingers froze.

“I’ll wait,” you whispered. “I love fucking you too much to do it myself.”

He audibly exhaled, like he’d just been punched in the chest.

“I will crash if you talk like this chérie,” he said tightly, voice shaking with need.

You giggled, teasing but not. “Oh we can’t have that. You have to eat me first, then you can crash your car.”

He laughed, really laughed—and it lightened the air between you. The tension, though, still pulsed underneath like a drumbeat.

“Okay. I will see you soon” he said, and hung up quickly—before you could tempt him into veering off the road entirely.

As soon as Wilo hung up the phone, you tossed it onto the couch and headed straight to your room. You moved with purpose—slow, sultry, almost ritualistic. Tonight wasn’t about trying too hard or dressing up for show. This wasn’t new. Even with how rare your meetups had become, there was something sacred in the routine. Familiar. Intimate. Raw. You knew what he wanted. You knew what you wanted. That was all that mattered.

You slipped into something barely-there: a loose black sleep shirt and matching shorts, the kind that clung only where they wanted to but swayed easy with every step. No panties. No bra. You weren’t in the mood for clothes to get in the way. Tonight was about access, about urgency. You considered shaving for a second—not out of shame, but habit. The hair between your thighs had grown out just a little, but honestly? This wasn’t a night for vanity. He didn’t care. You could show up with a full, wild bush and he’d still bury himself in you like he was starving. He wanted in. He always did.

You walked back out to the foyer, checking each blind to make sure the world couldn’t peek in. Privacy was survival in your world. Your fingers tugged the last blind into place—and that’s when you heard the knock. Three firm thuds. You froze. Your heart paused. Then—an excited grin spread across your face. You gave yourself a quick, silent twerk of celebration—pure instinct, pure joy—before smoothing your shirt and gliding to the door.

When you opened it, there he was.

Big. Broad. Towering. His presence filled the doorway before he even crossed it. He radiated this primal confidence—the kind that came from knowing he was wanted, needed. Big dick energy if you will. His gaze landed on you like he already knew what was waiting for him, and his whole body was humming with intent. His hands were clenched, jaw tight, like he was trying to hold himself back out of respect. But the fire was right there—behind his eyes, in the heat radiating off his skin. This wasn’t just desire. This was need.

He knew he’d satisfy you. Knew that once he got his hands on you, there’d be no doubt. Because your pleasure was his pleasure. Watching you unravel, hearing you moan, feeling you clench around him—that was what got him off the most. He didn’t just enjoy your reactions; he craved them. Needed them. And you? You weren’t afraid of that hunger. You leaned into it.

But he also knew that pain made you sing. The right kind, at the right time. The sharp slap to your ass while he drilled into you from behind. His hand yanking your hair back while you cried out his name, bent over the kitchen counter. You didn’t want gentle all the time. You wanted that fine line between too much and just enough—where it almost hurts, but it feels so fucking good that you beg for more. You wanted him to ruin you lovingly, to bruise you where only you and he would know. And Wilo? He lived for that balance. He took pride in it.

“Can I come in?” he asked, towering over you like a shadow you never wanted to outrun.

You turned, walking deeper into your apartment as you tossed over your shoulder, “You’re not gonna bite me, are you?”

“If you want, I will” he said, stepping in and closing the door behind him. His arms slid around your waist with ease, his chest pressing into your back, his hips firm against your ass. That heat—his heat—wrapped around you, soothing and maddening all at once. The scent of his cologne mixed with the natural musk of a long day. You inhaled it like oxygen and tilted your head back onto his shoulder.

He moved your hair to the side, his lips brushing against the soft skin behind your ear, trailing down your neck, your jaw. His hands roamed your body slowly, reverently.

“I was late,” he murmured into your ear, his voice low, thick with desire. “I make up for it now.”

You barely noticed that he was walking you until your back met the wall. His hips ground into you, pressing his hardness against your ass. You whimpered, hips arching back to meet him, eager to feel more. You rocked against him, creating friction that made you both exhale.

“Fuck me, Wilo. Right now” you whispered, cheek resting against the wall, your voice breathy and begging.

“I will, chérie,” he murmured, turning you around. “Let me make up for being late.”

But as he spun you, his strength underestimated the moment—your head bumped the wall. “Ahhh, shit,” you hissed, clutching the back of your skull.

“Oh—I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry,” he said immediately, kissing your cheeks with urgency, his eyes wide and soft with guilt.

“I can’t fuck if I have a concussion, William,” you said through a wince, voice dry.

“Is okay. I’m doing the fucking” he replied with a half-laugh, brushing kisses down your face and neck, trying to soothe your annoyance. You rolled your eyes, but let it slide. You were too hungry for him to care.

He sank to his knees, his palms running down your sides. He hooked one of your legs up over his shoulder with ease, positioning you perfectly against the wall. His hands were firm, grounding you there. Your fingers tangled into his curls, bracing yourself.

His lips ghosted over your inner thigh—open-mouthed, wet, messy. He knew you liked it filthy, liked to feel it all. You gasped when he groaned into your skin, tongue tracing slow patterns that only teased what you knew was coming.

He licked up the inside of your thigh, pausing to admire you. The loose shirt you wore barely covered anything. There was nothing between you and him but the humid air.

He looked up at you, eyes low, voice thick. “My Katrina… so good for me” he whispered, lips grazing your folds. His breath made your knees weak.

Then, he devoured you.

There was no slow build-up. He latched onto your clit like he’d been waiting his whole life to taste you again. His tongue moved with confidence—pressure perfect, rhythm locked in from memory. You cried out, head falling back against the wall.

Your grip on his hair tightened, legs trembling already. He wasn’t eating you out. He was feasting. Like you were the last meal he’d ever have, and he was determined to make it count.

When he slipped his middle finger inside you, you nearly lost it. You were already dripping—soaking. He moved inside you with purpose, curving up, stroking that spot he knew would have you unraveling.

“Fuck—Wilo” you gasped.

He didn’t stop. He hummed against your clit, the vibration making your hips buck. When he felt you twitch, he pushed another finger inside and started pumping harder, tongue relentless.

You were undone.

You cried out, thighs spasming as your orgasm tore through you like lightning. Your free leg gave out, but before you could fall, he hooked it up too. Now he was holding you—both legs over his shoulders—as he continued devouring every drop of your release. His tongue never wavered. His arms locked you in place. He wanted all of it. Needed all of it.

He didn’t stop until he was sure you were empty—and even then, he gave you one last, slow lick, like he was savoring you. Your hands slipped from his hair, your whole body trembling.

And when he finally looked up at you, his lips and chin glistening, his eyes were glazed with lust—but also pride. He looked like a man who’d just worshipped at the altar of your body.

Because for Wilo, making you cum wasn’t just about satisfaction—it was about power. Connection. It was about giving you exactly what you needed… and being the only one who could.

He let go of your legs one at a time—slowly, carefully, like you were something sacred and fragile. His hands gripped your thighs gently, lowering them as if he didn’t trust gravity to treat you the way he did. Your body was trembling, spent, soaked. You clung to his shoulders as he rose to his full height, your head resting briefly on his chest like you needed help staying grounded.

Your eyes were glazed, unfocused, wandering off into the blissful haze of your orgasm. Everything was warm and distant, like you were still floating in the pleasure he’d given you. You barely noticed the wetness seeping through your shorts—your own cum dripping down your inner thighs, clinging to your skin, staining the fabric. You’d soaked yourself for him. You didn’t care. You wanted to stay in this fog.

“Are you here bébé?” he asked, voice low, mouth close to yours.

You could smell yourself on his breath. Tangy, raw, earthy. That alone made your thighs clench again, made your lips part in instinct. He’d eaten you like a man possessed—and now the proof of that was on his tongue, in his beard, and in the air between you.

You wanted to taste it too.

So you kissed him.

Messy. Sloppy. Greedy. There was no finesse to it—just heat. Your lips collided, opened, moved with a hunger neither of you could control. His hands slipped down to your ass and gripped. Not soft, not gentle—hard, like he needed to mark you, to claim you again. You moaned into his mouth, tongue tangling with his as you tasted yourself, as you shared yourself with him. That primal mess of saliva, breath, and sex between your lips made your head spin.

You could feel his dick pressing into your stomach—hard, hot, throbbing. The length of it rested against you like a promise. You knew it was ready. Ready to stretch you, drag against your walls, fill you until the only thing you could do was take it. It twitched against your skin like it was aching to be inside you. You wanted that too.

You pulled away and looked up at him. His pupils were blown—huge and black, swallowing the brown of his irises. His lips were slick, swollen, parted. His whole body was tight with restraint, like he was hanging on by the thinnest thread. He needed you now.

Just like you needed him.

“Go to my bedroom and wait for me there,” you said, smirking against his lips. “I have to get something real quick, okay?”

He nodded once. Then he leaned in, breath brushing your ear as he whispered, “I will have no clothes when you come back.”

He pulled back to look at you, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed like he was daring you to take too long. His control was hanging by a thread. You giggled, pecked his lips one more time, and turned away.

You could hear the way he rushed off to your room. Could practically feel his urgency in the way his feet hit the floor, quick and heavy. It made your stomach flutter.

You walked calmly to the back closet of your apartment—the one that held your real secret. You reached up onto the highest shelf and pulled down the camera. Your camera. His camera. The camera.

The one he bought for the two of you in Milan—the trip that was supposed to be innocent, but ended up changing everything. The one that had seen you in every angle, every position, every orgasm. The one you used to satisfy yourself when he wasn’t around. When your fingers weren’t enough and only the sight of him fucking you open could make you cum.

You clutched it to your chest and, just before walking back, decided to strip. You needed to match his energy. His greed. His need. You took off your shirt, your shorts, everything—your skin already tingling from the thought of his hands back on it. You walked slowly to the bedroom, completely bare.

And there he was.

Laid out across your bed like he belonged there. Hands behind his head like a king, relaxed—but his dick was anything but calm. It was angry, needy, pointing straight up toward the ceiling. Higher than Travis Scott. The tip was flushed, red and leaking. The veins stood out, thick and pulsing, running down the length like maps toward your ruin. You licked your lips.

His dick was made for you. To fill you. To drag against every nerve ending inside you. To make you scream, cry, beg. To make you come back to life again and again.

“Finally you come back. Thought you left me,” he said, voice low and teasing as you closed the door behind you.

“No,” you purred, holding the camera up in your hand. “I was just looking for our friend.”

You saw the recognition flash across his face immediately. The memory. The hunger. The camera was a symbol—of all the dirty, beautiful, wild things you’d done together. His eyes darkened.

“Let’s record again,” you said.

“Are you asking?” he asked, sitting up and scooting toward the edge of the bed.

“Do I really have to ask? I know you want to.”

You straddled him slowly, one knee on either side of his hips, your heat hovering just over his length. His dick twitched between you, hungry for your body.

“I do,” he said, reaching for the camera. “Lemme see.”

He turned it on and pointed it toward your face. “Hi, camera,” he said, grinning.

You turned your head, shy at first, laughing softly.

“Non,” he said, voice stern. “Don’t be shy. You want this. Say hi to camera.”

You turned back, smiled wide, and said, “Hi, camera,” with a soft giggle. But he wasn’t here for giggles. He wanted a performance. He needed it. You always performed for him—and tonight, he was ready to devour the show.

He propped the camera on a pillow at the end corner of the bed, angling it perfectly. You both knew what was coming. He leaned back against the headboard, spreading his legs just a bit.

“Crawl to me, bébé.”

You obeyed immediately. Crawling slowly, deliberately. Your ass swayed with every movement, hips rolling with intent. You knew the camera had a perfect view—and you wanted to watch it back later, when he wasn’t around. You wanted to relive every second.

You crawled between his legs and positioned yourself close to his dick. No hands this time. Just your mouth. You licked long, slow stripes from base to tip, letting your tongue explore him. He groaned deep in his throat.

His hand gripped your hair—not to force, but to guide. You were in control. He was just the canvas.

With your back arched and your ass high, you moved your mouth over him, lips wrapping around the tip, tongue swirling. You moaned softly—just enough to let him feel the vibration. He threw his head back.

This was more than pleasure—it was release. For both of you.

You added your hands, twisting as you sucked. You didn’t want him to cum yet—not until he was buried inside you—but you needed to taste him. Just a little. Just enough to satisfy that hunger you’d been nursing for weeks.

Your eyes locked with his as you sucked harder, your mouth stretching around him. You wanted him to see it. To feel how much you wanted him. He was right there.

“Stop, stop. Let me fuck you now,” he said suddenly, voice rough but tender.

You popped off him and sat up, waiting.

He leaned forward, moving behind you with a grace that was almost terrifying. He turned you so that your body was stretched across the bed—your profile in full view of the camera. He pressed your back down until your ass was high in the air—his favorite angle. You were open. Exposed. Busted wide just for him.

His. His ass. His pussy.

He grabbed the camera and aimed it right where his hips hovered behind you.

“Look at thiz,” he said in that thick, hungry accent. “So sexy.”

He jiggled your ass with one hand, and you caught the hint—so you started to twerk back on him. Just enough to make him groan.

“Mmmhm… there you go bébé,” he whispered, utterly satisfied.

You glanced over your shoulder and smiled at him—mischievous, filthy, and completely gone.

Then he took his dick and ran the tip up and down your slit. Teasing. Spreading your slick across your folds and over your clit.

“So wet… Katrina miss me, hm?”

“She said she doesn’t wanna be empty anymore,” you said, voice thick with lust, eyes locked with his. “I think you should help her out Wilo.”

He grinned, cocky and crazed with lust.

Then—finally—he pushed in.

Only the tip.

And it was already perfect.

“Yessssss… ughhhh,” you sighed, pure relief leaking from every syllable as your head dropped.

“Ughhhh,” he groaned low and deep behind you, voice rich and full of satisfaction. The camera sat in full view, capturing every inch as his swollen, flushed tip slowly disappeared inside your soaked pussy, his other hand wrapped tightly around your hips like he was steadying himself just to survive the feel of you.

You were already clenching—around him, around the sheets, around the wild heat spreading through your limbs. You didn’t know how many times you were going to cum tonight. You just knew it would be too much. Maybe not enough. Either way, you needed it. You craved every drop of what this night had to offer.

He started slow. Shallow strokes. Just the tip. In and out. In and out. You could hear how wet you were, the obscene sound of your arousal echoing off the walls. You moaned without thinking, your swollen walls tightening with each pass of his head over your most sensitive spots.

“You said no games Wilo,” you huffed, breath hitching as you turned your head back to look at him, brows furrowed.

He locked eyes with you. “You’re right bébé,” he said—then with zero warning, he pushed all the way in.

You screamed, “Ahhhhhh—fuck!” as your hands clawed at the sheets, back arching uncontrollably. Your face buried into the mattress like it could soften the impact of how deep he was.

Wilo set the camera down, knowing this wasn’t going to be a one-hand moment. He needed both. Both to handle you. To control this. To lose himself.

He grabbed your head, angling it toward the camera so it could see the wrecked expression on your face. And then—he started to really fuck you.

Long, heavy strokes. Thick. Intentional. Every thrust sank into you like he wanted to leave a permanent mark. His hips slapped against your ass, his balls landing with perfect rhythm. The sound alone had your eyes rolling back.

“Oh—” he moaned, deep and heady, “you feel so fucking good. So good.” His head dropped back.

You could feel it. Another orgasm creeping up like fire licking your spine. He didn’t stop. His hand lifted in the air and came down hard on your ass.

The slap stung—but in the best way.

“Again baby,” you begged, pushing your hips back onto him, needing more.

He smacked it again. Harder this time.

You moaned like a prayer. Like a promise. It hurt—but god, it felt so fucking good.

You looked right into the camera. But it wasn’t close enough. It needed to see this. Needed to catch it all. So you reached beside you and grabbed it, angling it perfectly beneath where his thick dick was disappearing inside you.

“So nasty for me bébé,” he said with a smirk, completely turned on by your boldness. This was what he loved—when you let go, when you stopped pretending and just gave in to the chaos between you.

His grip tightened around your hips. He started slamming into you, faster, harder, your pussy stretched and soaked, your moans almost turning into sobs.

This was the screwin’ your friends joked about.

The headboard knocked against the wall.

Your whole body jolted forward with every powerful thrust.

“Fuck—Wilo—oh my God, don’t stop, I’m gonna cum!” you cried out.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He kept going, unrelenting, and just like that, you came around him with a scream.

“Ughhh—oh yesssss!” you shouted.

The camera captured it all. Your pussy spasming violently, gripping him like a vice. Slick and creamy, your release clung to the base of his dick.

Your arms gave out, and your knees buckled as you collapsed flat on your stomach, panting and dazed.

Wilo slowly pulled out and grabbed the camera, angling it downward to show his wet, glistening dick.

“Made a mess all over me,” he said, voice thick, pride swelling behind every word. Then he spread your cheeks, exposing your glistening, dripping entrance.

“And look at this… I love fucking this pussy,” he whispered. His tone made your spine tremble.

He placed the camera on your nightstand, carefully adjusting it so it captured both of you fully. He wasn’t planning to pick it up again until he was watching his cum leak out of you.

Wilo laid down beside you and whispered, “Sit here” gesturing toward his face.

You didn’t think you had the strength left in you—but you moved anyway. Straddled his hips and scooted forward, inch by inch until your wet core hovered above his mouth.

He didn’t wait. His arms locked around your thighs, and he pulled you down.

You hissed at the sharp sting of his mouth on your oversensitive clit. He sucked it in like he missed it. Like he needed it.

His big brown eyes stared up at you—soft, unblinking, almost innocent—while his tongue worked filthily between your folds.

You started grinding. Slow, needy. His nose bumped your clit as his tongue dove deeper. You gasped.

“Oh fuck, William, I’m gonna cum again. Please…”

You didn’t know why you begged. You never had to. He always gave you everything.

He hummed against your clit, the vibration forcing your hips to rock harder. You were close again. So close. And then—

Something shifted. Sharp. Sudden.

Before you could process it, clear liquid burst from between your thighs and into his open mouth.

You screamed.

Your body shook with the force of it, legs trembling, thighs clamping around his face.

“Oh my God, oh my God—fuck!” you wailed.

He never looked away. Even with his face soaked, even as your eyes clamped shut from the force of it all, his gaze was locked on you.

He was hypnotized—by the way your chest bounced, by the pleasure shaking your entire frame.

When your body finally stilled, you tried to slide back down his chest. Shaky, dazed, breathless.

“Katrina almost got me that time” he laughed, his voice ragged.

You couldn’t even speak. He didn’t mind.

He just pulled you in and kissed you—messy, wet, raw—just like how you kissed him after he ate you the first time.

His face glistened with your release. His neck, his beard, his lips.

You loved how he smelled with you on him.

If you could bottle it and make him wear it, you would.

He laid between your legs like he belonged there—because he did. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, legs hooked over his hips as if your body refused to let him go. He kissed you slow, deep, until your lungs forgot how to work without his breath in them. His hands mapped you like he was rediscovering you—gripping your thighs, palming your waist, squeezing your breasts. When he slid one of your legs higher, propping it up just right so the camera on the nightstand could catch every second of him stretching you open, you shivered. You knew what he was doing. He wanted a memory—full view of the way your pussy welcomed him in.

“I’m happy I came,” he whispered, pressing kisses over your cheeks, your jaw, the soft skin under your eye. “Missed you.”

Your heart tugged in your chest. The sincerity in his voice hit different when it was between strokes and moans.

“I missed you too, William,” you replied honestly, voice small but sure. You pulled him in again, and just like that, he sank inside you.

The stretch was immediate. The burn and the fullness took your breath away. You moaned into his mouth, arms clenching around his shoulders. Your nails scraped lightly down his back as he began to thrust—deep, not soft, not slow. He wasn’t being careful now. He was fucking you. Giving you the ache you craved. The bed creaked violently beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall in a stuttering rhythm. The side table trembled, a glass toppling over and hitting the floor with a dull thud, ignored. The pillows fell off the bed completely. None of it mattered. You were consumed.

He grunted into your ear, hot breath brushing your neck. “Don’t pull it out. You better fucking leave it in.”

Your back arched at that. “Wilo—fuck, please—” you whimpered, and that only made him go harder.

This was the rhythm your body begged for when he was gone. The kind of pace that made your toes curl and your eyes roll back. Just rough enough to leave you sore, but never enough to make you want it to stop. Your pussy pulsed around him with every thrust. You couldn’t think, couldn’t form words—just moan and scream, letting him do whatever he wanted with you.

“Can you hear it?” he growled into your ear. “How wet you are for me chérie.”

You could. It was obscene. The slick, messy squelch of your bodies meeting, again and again. It sounded like your pussy was trying to pull him deeper. Like it didn’t want to let him go either. It sounded like fresh mac and cheese. Like soggy cereal. Like heaven.

You were soaked. The kind of soaked that made the sheets damp beneath you. The kind of soaked that had your thighs and his glistening. The kind of soaked that meant your laundry would be a whole different battle tomorrow.

Then he hit a spot—one he hadn’t touched before tonight—and your eyes snapped open. That was it. That was the trigger. A tidal wave of pleasure surged through your belly, and your mouth fell open in a silent scream.

“Oh—fuck! Wilo!” you cried out as your orgasm slammed into you, unstoppable. And just like that, he followed.

“Bébé,” he groaned against your neck, voice strained as his hips stuttered.

You both came, bodies jerking in unison, sweat mixing with cum, breath catching like you’d both run a marathon. He filled you up completely, spilling deep inside you with long, guttural moans, hips twitching as your pussy milked every drop from him. You swore you could feel him throb as he emptied himself.

He laid there a while, just breathing. Listening to your soft gasps. One of your legs still hung limply over his shoulder, trembling with the aftershocks. He lowered it gently and pressed soft kisses all over your face, still whispering your name like a prayer.

“You alright? How you feel?” he murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from your face.

“I’m good,” you nodded with a slow smile. “I’m good Wilo.”

He sat up, slowly pulling out of you with a deep breath. He grabbed the camera quickly, eager to capture what he knew would be his favorite part. He pointed it down between your legs just as his thick, warm cum began to spill out of you. It dripped over your folds, creamy and heavy, a glistening reminder of how much you took from him. He dipped two fingers inside you, gathering a bit of the mess and dragging it back out slowly, then raised the camera to your flushed, glowing face.

“Open” he said lowly.

You looked right into his eyes as you opened your mouth, and he slid those fingers between your lips. You sucked them clean without breaking eye contact, moaning softly as you did.

He groaned. “Mmm.”

Then he leaned in to kiss you again—wet, messy, unhurried. His face and neck were still slick with your scent. You could smell yourself on him, and you loved it. If you could bottle that scent and make him wear it every day, you would.

Still holding the camera steady, he pulled back just enough to whisper, “Bye,” with a cheeky little wave and soft giggle.

You laughed too, flushed and breathless as the screen faded to black.

He tossed the camera somewhere on the bed, not caring where it landed. All he wanted was you in his arms. He pulled you close, cradling your back to his chest, his chin resting gently on your shoulder as his breath tickled your neck.

“Thanks for letting me come over” he murmured, his voice quieter now, gentler. The rough edge of lust was gone, replaced by something softer. “I really need this.”

You let out a little hum, barely able to speak through the haze of exhaustion. “I needed you too… missed you a lot,” you mumbled, your words slurring slightly, lips heavy with sleep.

He smiled against your skin, rubbing slow circles into your stomach. “I’ll see you more now. Season’s over. I can come to you, we can keep doing this… if you like.”

You loved that he said it like that. No pressure. No awkward questions. No trying to make it something it wasn’t. He got it. He always got it. This wasn’t about love or promises—it was about the space you two created when you were together. Fucking. Laughing. Touching. Talking sometimes. Just two people doing what felt good with no expectations. And you loved that.

“Mhmm,” you replied, smiling faintly. “I want that. I wanna do this with you. More.”

He kissed the back of your shoulder in response. You both lay there in silence for a while, your breathing syncing up. The heat of his body behind you, the soft weight of his arm across your waist, the occasional brush of his lips against your back—it was perfect.

Eventually, he stirred, voice low so he wouldn’t disturb the comfort you’d settled into. “I will clean up and shower. Have to go back before coach finds out I’m not there. I will be in big trouble.”

You nodded sleepily, barely opening your eyes.

He slipped out of bed and padded softly to the bathroom. You heard the water run, the sound of drawers opening. A few minutes later, he returned with warm clothes for himself and a handful of wet wipes for you. He moved gently, cleaning between your thighs with such care it almost made you emotional. Like you weren’t just someone he fucked. Like you were someone he wanted to care for.

After he wiped you clean, he scooped you up into his arms without a word and carried you to the couch. He knew you loved sleeping here sometimes, wrapped up in your favorite fluffy blanket with the soft light from the kitchen glowing nearby. He laid you down, covered you carefully, then stroked your head with a tenderness that made your heart ache a little.

“Rest,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “I’ll text you when I’m home.”

And you did. You drifted off right there on the couch, warm, clean, and satisfied. Not just from the sex—but from the feeling of being understood. Held. Wanted, in the way that mattered to you.

#deonn writes ✍🏾#william saliba fic #william saliba smut #william saliba fanfic #big wilo #william saliba x reader #wilo saliba #william saliba #william saliba x black reader #william saliba x black female reader #footballer x black reader #footballer fanfic #Spotify

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xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 days ago

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𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐲𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦

[ 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ]

∿ 𝐚/𝐧 : here’s a short little drabble i wrote after playing sylus’s memory card Valleydream Bloom. 🐉🌸 i really loved the atmosphere of the card—soft, eerie, a little wistful—but i couldn’t help feeling like something was… missing? like it brushed up against something deeper but didn’t quite dive in. especially when it hinted at the idea of dragons going off alone to die. that imagery haunted me, and i couldn’t stop thinking about what that actually means for sylus. what it says about the life he was prepared to live before you came along.

so i wrote this. just a quiet little piece about love, solitude, and the graveyards we build inside ourselves.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 like a memory—sharp, persistent, unwilling to be forgotten.

Sylus walked ahead in silence, his coat slicing through brittle air. He hadn’t offered his hand. Not once looked back. The path beneath his boots was not one he ever meant to share.

And yet, you followed.

Your footsteps trailed behind him—soft, insistent. The only sound for miles. Like a heartbeat he sometimes resented for continuing.

He hadn’t spoken on the way here. Nor did he now.

The words curled inside him like coals—hot, but too dangerous to touch. It was easier, always easier, to stay quiet. To let the silence wrap itself around the ache.

The hill rose slowly, like even the land hesitated to reveal what waited beyond. When he reached its crest, he didn’t call for you. Didn’t point. Didn’t speak.

He simply stopped. And stood.

Below, the earth opened into a quiet hollow. Bones—vast and ancient—sprawled across the clearing like the remains of a forgotten cathedral. Arched ribs crowned with moss. Vertebrae blooming with stubborn flowers.

Time had made a garden of what was once a grave.

He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t. Not yet.

“There,” he said at last.

His voice didn’t crack. But it should have. “That’s where dragons come to die.”

The wind carried his words like a confession.

He drew a breath that didn’t want to come.

“They leave their kin. When they feel it—when they know—Something calls to them.

A final instinct. Not to fight. Not to cling. Just… to vanish.

Far from eyes that might remember them strong.”

He stepped forward. The bones loomed, monumental in their stillness. Like gods laid low.

“It’s not weakness,” he said, more to the skeletons than to you. “It’s not shame.

It’s peace.”

He hovered a hand over a fragment of skull—curved, pale, brittle with time. But he didn’t touch.

There are lines you don’t cross. Even in death.

“I understood that. I respected it. I planned for it.”

A single laugh escaped him. Quiet. Hollow.

“All my life, I trained to vanish. To become smoke. A shadow that never asked for light.

I thought that was strength.”

And then, finally—he turned.

His eyes found yours like the sky cracking open.

“I made peace with dying alone.”

His voice didn’t rise. It fell. Weighted.

“No home. No tether. Only silence. The slow erasure of self.

The kind of life that ends quietly.

The kind that leaves no flowers behind.”

A pause. Too long.

“But then you came.”

He said it like a curse. Or a prayer.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. He didn’t need words from you—only presence. Proof that something in the story had changed.

“I tried to ignore it,” he said, voice fraying. “You. With your ridiculous laughter. The way you wait for my answers even when I have none. The way you look at me like I’m… real.”

He swallowed.

“You made it hard to disappear.”

He sat down on a slab of vertebrae. Letting the weight sink into his bones.

“I came here alone once,” he murmured. “Long ago. I looked at these bones and thought, yes—this is how I’ll go.

No mourning. No mess. Just quiet.”

He looked up at you. Not with longing. Not gratitude.

Devastation.

“And now I don’t know how to leave you.”

The sentence nearly broke him.

He stared at the flowers—those defiant, gentle things blooming through centuries of death.

“They bloom because something died here. Something powerful. Something the earth loved, even in its ending.”

His voice softened.

“I don’t want to be loved in death.”

He shook his head. Slow. Miserable.

“I want to be loved while I’m still falling apart.”

He leaned back on the bone, hands braced behind him, like he could press himself into the grave and vanish by degrees.

“You make me want things I was never meant to want.

A future. A name that doesn’t taste like blood. Nights with warmth instead of weapons beneath my pillow.”

Silence. Again.

“I’m terrified.”

He didn’t mean for you to come closer. But you did. You always did.

You were like time—unrelenting, soft, irreversible.

He tilted his head back. Closed his eyes. Breathed.

“I used to be proud of being alone.”

He opened his eyes. Looked at you like he was drowning.

“Now it feels like dying.”

Your fingers reached for his. He didn’t move.

He let you. Just once.

And for the first time, the bones didn’t feel cold beneath him.

They felt like memory. Like warning. Like a version of himself that never found you.

He let his forehead fall to yours. Not for comfort.

For surrender.

“I don’t want to be a dragon anymore.”

And in the hush that followed, even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

#sylus x reader #sylus x mc #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #dragon sylus #qin che #lads #sylus qin #sylus x you #sylus fanfiction #sylus fanfic #short story #short n sweet

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wpdarlingpan · 2 days ago

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The Shadow (Thunderbolts*)

Beginning Yandere Yelena x Anxious!Widow Reader

Beginning Yandere Bob x Anxious!Widow Reader

(Could expand to all Thunderbolts)

Female Pronouns

Summary: Former widow reader feels out of place in the watchtower, Bob and Yelena are here to remind her that her place is with them, they are family after all.

Word Count: 1.7k+

Warnings: Angst, Possible Spoilers, Depressive Thoughts, Anxiety, Use of Y/N, The Start Of Obsessive Behavior (let me know if I need to add more)

A/N: I absolutely loved the movie and had to write something for it so this is my first attempt. I hope it’s good and my requests are open (even if I may take awhile to get to them) so if you have any Thunderbolts ideas, let me know! <3

Being in the Watchtower after never having set a home for years was an odd experience, and from being on my own to having a team was an adjustment I hadn’t quite gotten used to.

I often sit in my room, as I am now, tucked into a window seat I requested from Valentina when we were able to decorate our rooms. As I stared out into the skyline, I couldn’t help but think why I was here.

John was… well, John. He was pretty good at acting like he was important.

Bucky was kind. Kinder to me than the others. Maybe he saw himself in me, or it’s because I’m too reserved to cause him trouble like the others.

Ava had her phasing abilities and was good at keeping up with the team's banter.

Alexei was like the team dad, supporting his kids' soccer team.

Yelena was a former Red Room assassin who paved her own path.

Bob is the strongest being on Earth.

Then there’s me. I can do what Yelena does, but not as efficiently, nor am I able to connect with others as she does.

Growing up in the Red Room made her want to help others and grow beyond what they wanted her to become. To me, it stunted me. I’ve never been able to move on. Every time I close my eyes, I see Katerina, the girl I killed on my first test to show my worth to the Red Room and almost desensitize my emotions from death.

She got out, she saved me and the other widows from Dreykov while I couldn’t even remember my name. Yelena was the new Black Widow, rightfully so, while I’m her shadow.

We have dinner together every night at Alexei’s insistence, and it was not like anyone really had any other plans. But even when we sit together, I feel the pressure of their stares. As if they are waiting for me to speak up.

I try to spend time with them so that they don't feel like they have a ghost in their home, but it is not much.

John and I watch television while he talks about something, and I listen.

Ava and I usually train or practice her abilities, I time her as she works on phasing for longer than a minute.

Alexei makes me nervous; he is loud but never has said anything rude, although he makes me nervous when he says to speak up when he can't hear me.

Bucky and I usually read together, or sometimes he lets me stick magnets on his arm. That ones rare but it’s mainly when he can tell I need to fiddle with something.

Bob and I usually seem to just exist in the same space, letting ourselves use each other to be a lingering presence to keep us from the void.

Yelena… I avoid Yelena. I can’t face her; we know what the other has gone through, and I still can't bring myself to talk to her about it. She seems to be handling things better than I am, and I don't want to hold her back. She was older than I in the academy and advanced further than I did before we escaped, yet she found who she is, and I am still looking.

I can tell she wants to talk to me, it’s in the way she looks at me at dinner or the way her mouth opens slightly when I rush past her in the hallways. Even when she makes a sarcastic comment, most likely to Alexei or John, and I can’t help but laugh, I never say anything more.

I don’t even know why I’m here. I just am not special- I am cut off from my thoughts by a knock at the door. Looking over I spot Bob shyly poking his head in.

“Hey Y/N,” He stuttered out, not moving into the doorway yet as he rocked on the balls of his feet.

“Hey Bob,” I say softly, beckoning him inside. He lets out a small smile before joining me on the window seat. This had been a common occurrence for the past few weeks. He’d come in whenever he was overwhelmed by the team or simply to see me, as he claimed. I don’t see what he sees in me, yet he seems oddly attached.

I was surrounded by people, yet I felt just as alone as before. I was no hero to be worshipped, and the public agrees.

We sit in silence, and I appreciate it, while a part of me longs to reach out and start a conversation with the man who seems so easily approachable, yet I cannot even make the first step.

He reaches into his pocket, and I tense up nervously before he pulls out a simple locket. It was silver with a small star on the end. I look at him questioningly as he hands it over to me.

"Just in case you forget," Bob replied simply and tucked his hands away, surly twirling them nervously in the pocket of his sweatshirt.

I fiddle with it slightly before opening it. It was a picture of me and him on one side and the team on the other. I grip it tightly before looking up at him, confused.

“I can see the look on your face. The longing for a connection as you watch people around you smile at one another. But you are so deep in your own head that when people look at you, you see judging eyes over the soft smiles. I only say this because that was me. Before them and before you,” He spoke, pointing at the group in the picture. Each of them had their heads turned and were smiling at me in their own way, as my own was tucked. Although Alexei was just a corner of the face as he looked like he was taking the picture while looking at us.

I stare at him wide-eyed. I realized I was not exactly hiding my feelings, but I was not expecting to be approached about them like this. Nor do I even remember the picture being taken.

“I-I just.” I couldn't bring myself to say anything more as he shook his head with a shy smile before grabbing the necklace from my hand and leaning in to put it on me. I close my eyes in fear of having someone so close, even though a part of me probably yearns for any physical connection.

“Everyone cares about you in their own way. You just gotta open your eyes and see it… Don’t just tuck the void down. It’ll overflow and explode one day, I would know.” He tries to tease at his own expense before reaching over for my hand.

I stare at him in slight anticipation before a knock on the door interrupts us. Yelena is standing there, a hand still on the door as she looks at us.

“Did not realize we were having a heart-to-heart. I am getting good at those.” She says, walking into the room. “Can I have a second with Y/N, Bob?”

She looks at him expectantly as she stands in front of his spot at the window. I look at him desperately trying to tell him not to leave me. He seems to consider it for a moment before looking back at Yelena and nodding.

“I’ll come back after.” He reassures softly, looking down at the necklace and smiling slightly before walking out and shutting the door.

I curl into myself more at the thought of talking, let alone with only Yelena.

“Why don’t you like me?” She asks straightforwardly, sitting down in front of me as she looks into my eyes as if she is staring into my soul.

“I don't not-”

“Every time you see me, you run away, and even at dinner, you sit as far away from me as possible.” Yelena cuts me off immediately, and I gape at her, trying to find the right words. “Did I… Did I do something to you? In the Red Room?”

She looks at me expectantly, but I can see the lingering heartbreak behind her eyes as she asks me that question. I did not even consider her resorting to that.

“No! No you didn't.” She lets out a sigh of relief “I just, you have been handling all this New Avenger stuff so well and connected with everyone on the team. You guys are like a family, a dysfunctional one, but still a family. I feel like a part of your past lingering behind you.”

Yeelan stares at me silently. I begin to fiddle with my fingers, and she reaches over, grabbing my hands into her own. I froze momentarily, not expecting this reaction before looking up at her.

“You are a part of my past I would rather leave behind, yes, but that doesn't mean you are the one who hurt me. I see you, and I see the first good thing I did. You fought your way out once you were released, and I have never been so proud. And I only act like I am a good Avenger, I had the best model, you know.” She nudges me slightly with a smile.

“Natasha?”

“My sister.” She confirms with a nod. “She was my older sister and without her I don't know what I would've done.”

“An older sister,” I say wistfully. Someone who would protect me, someone who could be that guiding light- I shake my head to knock myself out of the fantasy.

“You are not beneath me in any way, you are so strong. Stronger than I was at your age, and you have so much farther to go. To make a new name for yourself. You don't have to be a widow. Hell, if you don’t want to fight, I will keep you off of missions. But, maybe you can give me a chance to be for you what Natasha was for me. An older sister.”

My heart beats sporadically out of my chest as the locket and her hands ground me to the earth. A sister? After all of this?

“You don’t have to be alone, you know. I won't let you be ever again. Just let me in.”

“Yes,” I whisper, and I see the joy in her eyes as her hands hold me slightly tighter. Completely missing the flicker of obsession growing behind them.

#thunderbolts #the new avengers #bob reynolds x reader #yelena belova #yelena black widow #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova imagine #Yandere #marvel #bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #ava starr #john walker #alexei shostakov #bob reynolds #robert reynolds #the avengers

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kiss-of-moonlight · 2 days ago

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SEX IN THE STUDIO | HAN JISUNG

genre: smut warnings: language, deepthroating, oral (reader receives),slight mention of dacryphilia, one use of daddy —wc: 0.9 k

You were good at many things. Taking breaks was not one of them. Jisung understood how easy it was to lose track of time in the studio. But you've been there the whole day, and it didn't look like you were planning to come out anytime soon. He opened the studio door and leaned against the doorframe, watching as your eyes concentrated on the screen in front of you, eyebrows furrowed.

He walked in, wrapping his arms around your neck from behind. You turned your head, a bit startled from his sudden appearance. "Still up? It's one in the morning," he asked, chuckling at the surprise on your face. You took off your headphones before stretching your arms in front of you, biceps straining as the veins in your forearms popped out. "It's one already?" you asked, taking a deep breath and leaning back against the chair.

"Mhm. It's past one, actually," he mumbled into your hair, pressing a soft kiss there. You tilted your head back and looked at him, patting your thigh. "Didn't realise. Can't shut my brain off sometimes, you know how it is." He saw you pat your thigh and immediately sat on your lap, straddling you with his arms around your neck.

"You're working too hard, babe," he purred, leaning closer and brushing your lips together. You sighed into his plump lips, fingers digging into his waist as you pulled him closer, capturing his lips in a deep, slow kiss. He smiled into the kiss, letting your tongue enter his mouth as his hands slid up your shirt, tracing the muscles beneath his fingertips. As you broke away, his hands reached your shoulders, working out the knots. You let out a relieved groan as he worked out the tension that had been building up for days. You tilted your head back, him not missing the opportunity to kiss your neck.

"Fuck.." You hadn't realised just how worked up you were, cock already stirring awake at his touch. He smirked, one hand coming down to palm your bulge while the other scratched at your nape. You let out a shaky breath. "Don't tease me, you brat." He just chuckled, squeezing your cock through your pants and leaning in to peck your nose. "You do need something to wind down, right?" he murmured, pressing a kiss to your racing pulse.

A soft moan escaped your lips as his warm mouth made contact with your pulse point, sending electrifying sparks dancing across your skin. "Yes, goddamn it… I need you to help me relax, darling," you breathed, resolve crumbling under the onslaught of desire. "Think you can do that for me, Sungie?" He slid down your pants and freed your throbbing cock, wrapping a hand around it and swirling a thumb around the weeping tip. "Anytime, daddy~"

Fuck. Him and his nicknames. You bucked into his hand, cock twitching with the way he was looking at you. You could resist breathing more than you could resist that look. Once he got on his knees in front of you, you grabbed the back of his head, guiding his lips down to envelop the swollen head of your cock. He teased your tip, hands on your thighs as he lapped up the precum and traced his tongue along the prominent vein on your cock. You were trying your best not to be desperate and fuck his mouth, but he was making it so hard. "Shit, baby…I won't hold back if you act like this…" You tangled your fingers in his silky hair as his talented mouth descended, taking you inch by glorious inch. He could feel your grip on his hair tighten and he was smirking as he looked up at you absolutely losing it. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he took your entire cock, nose touching your skin.

Your entire body went rigid, a low, guttural cry tearing from your throat as his mouth engulfed every throbbing inch of your length. "F-Fuck!" The feeling of your boyfriend's hot, wet throat constricting around your sensitive cock was too intense, too perfect. Your free hand gripped the armrest of your chair so hard your knuckles turned white. You thrusted shallowly into his mouth, not being able to resist the warmth. You watched with a predatory gaze as he pulled away to breathe, a string of saliva connecting his plush lips to your cock. He looked so fucking pretty—glassy eyes wide, soft cheeks pink, and lips glistening. You could eat him alive. He dove back in, sucking eagerly, making sure to keep those pretty eyes locked onto your lustful ones.

"God, you're fucking good at this, aren't you?" As if you didn't know. Throwing your head back against the back of the chair, you buried yourself to the hilt, orgasm crashing over you in waves of blinding ecstasy. It always hit different when you were too pent up, like a glass of cold water past midnight. Jisung kept his mouth still for a while before pulling back and coaxing the rest of your cum out, moaning in approval of your musky flavour.

"You're so hot when you come, you know that?"

You chuckled, pulling him onto your lap. Your thumbs brushed away his tears.

"And you're pretty when you cry."

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fixinglockjaw · 2 days ago

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Could you maybe do a fic for Sunoo x chubby female reader??

⫘⫘⫘MY FLUFFY BUNNY GIRL⫘⫘⫘

“No..” Y/N says as Sunoo caressed her body, paying attention to the more softer spots. You curl up and put two arms protectively over your stomach, trying to hide your body from his hands and view.

“Baby.. don’t hide your body from me, I like it the way it is. Soft and beautiful, everything for me to admire and worship.” Sunoo said as he gently removed your arms from the shielding position.

“But I-” You start, but quickly get cut off by a soft kiss to your lips.

“No ‘buts’. I love you the way you are, I’ve told you that a million times already, haven’t I? Such a short time after Sunghoon introduced you to me and the others and I already have you as my girlfriend. I wanted you bad, or else I wouldn’t have acted on my feelings so quick.” He reassures, caressing your hair the whole time as he speaks.

“Y-yes.. I know..” You nod, your worries easing up.

“There there.” He coos as his hand runs down your waist, over your thigh and finally stopping at your pussy which is only covered by a thin layer of your cotton panties. “Feels so warm and wet, baby..”

“Yes.. only for you..” You spread your legs a bit wider, giving Sunoo easier access.

“Oh? So eager.” He grins and starts moving his fingers around, massaging and sometimes pressing, teasing you.

“Ngh..” You whine, moving your hips into the stimulation.

“Is that good, baby?” He pulls your panties to the side and slowly dips two fingers into you, starting to thrust them in and out. “Good.. just feel it..”

Your body starts to respond. Your cheeks heat up as your breathing gets faster. You look at Sunoo with needy eyes, clearly needing more of his attention.

“There baby…” He starts moving his fingers faster, getting you closer and closer to the edge.

“M’close..” You mumble, your thighs starting to shake.

“Finish for me baby.. come on..” He kisses your neck as a final thrust of his fingers send you over the edge, your body shaking and a low moan escaping your lips. “Good girl..”

(This a short one and slightly more vanilla. Shorter, because I have some stuff I have some things to do lately. Vanilla, because I wanted to go after Sunoo’s personality a bit more.)

#anon ask #enhypen smut #enhypen #kim sunoo #enhypen sunoo #sunoo smut #enha sunoo #sunoo x reader #sunoo

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pollyaunt · 3 days ago

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i honestly no longer wanna be part of the #ACOTAR fandom anymore.

it's nothing the loving community that was formed over 10 years ago, with SJM interacting with the fans and all of us holding genuine love for the stories and the characters she poured her heart and soul into.

It's just not there anymore. Even SJM knows that tbh.

For the 10 year anniversary, the author herself did not post about it which is no matter what, pretty much an alarming call of how deeply fucked and ruined this fandom has become with the amount of toxicity on every platform in relation to this.

I dont blame her, who'd want to interact with a community where majority of the 'fans' are hellbent on hating the goddamn MCs, writing and spreading negativity about the same and the author, acting entitled thinking SJM is nothing but a system like ChatGPT where anything can be said and there'd be zero repercussions and that she owes us everything she does/has done, outright hating the plotlines and the stories in the name of 'criticism', taken the ship war to an extent where most 'readers' have started using it as rage bait for likes and views, so on and so forth?

Imagine spending years of your life and creativity into something you love and are passionate about and people have nothing but hate filled for it after it being loved for so long. Imagine how gut wrenching that transition must've been.

Would you rather want to interact with a community where most don't like your books or are just so focused on pitying your own FICTIONAL characters against each other that they tend to constantly forget the meaning of morally grey? I don't think so. It's not that hard to drop a book and keep it to yourself when you don't have nice things to say unless and until an author is genuinely fucked and an outright bad person.

I love SJM and the world she has created, and maybe i'll continue to interact sometimes or during major events but from here on, I just can't call myself a fandom member of the ACOTAR universe any further.

I hope this community gets a fandom cleanse which is much needed and maybe we're able to go back to the loving and cherishing genuine readers it used to have. Reading was supposed to be an escapism, especially fantasy.

It can't be a goddamn escape when most of the people are hellbent on relating reality with the fantasy.

Until then, to the stars who listen & the dreams that are answered xx

#sjm #sarah j maas #acotar #acowar #acomaf #acofas #acosf #a court of thorns and roses #a court of frost and starlight #a court of wings and ruin #a court of mist and fury #a court of silver flames #acotar fandom

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brawnsleloenigmadoublesonic · 3 days ago

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Brawn. Brawn goddamnit.

Periods making me horny instead of bleeding so now I gotta tell you more about something that's been brewing in my head,

This relates to the "horny telepathy" soundwave thing, but like, what if, what if he uses it subconsciously. What if he gets horny and now it's everyone's problem cuz now they're subjugated to nights of endless wet dreams, soiled berths and unclean panels that didn't even open because soundwaves didn't.

It takes forever for others to figure out it's their third in command; what with how not obvious it is in the waking world. He looks fine, he looks okay, sure he isn't touching people, less than usually, but that's just one of his quirks, his things.

It should be humiliating, accidently like,,,, screen sharing your wet dreams to your entire work place (and maybe enemy territory too who knows), and it is infuriating to some people, because those dreams sometimes have them screwing themselves from an unknown perspective, and it's either a

"what the fuck"

"that was weird, kinda into it though" or

"I would not fucking say that"

Just--

Listen he should accidently project and then when it's found he should get fucked into the ground. Hard. And stuffed too hehehe, I'm gonna elaborate but it's literally 2:30 an fr me rn night night Brawn.

Nobody can escape a horny Soundwave, he reaches everywhere! He's so subtle about it too, makes sure he's just as efficient as he always is, even if all he can think about is dragging some bot back to his room and going at it until they both bluescreen. Someone needs to get Shockwave in here before he frags Megatron!

#valveplug #wavewave #soundwave #telepathic accidental voyuerism #what a tag #wet dreams

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lalalychee-x · 20 hours ago

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"College boy." Rodrick Heffley x male!reader pt 2

THIS IS AN ABSOLUTELY GOATED request for part 2 from 🌾🍞 anon, who asked for a part 2 and I'm flattered!! I'M SORRY, ITS BEEN A WHILE SINCE YOU REQUESTED A PART 2, I HAVE EXAMS AAAAA- Hope you enjoy this part too (they get freaky)...!! Mwaaaaa asks always open guys, I love them!

cw: period-typical attitudes to being gay (not homophobia though), male/amab reader, older/college reader (21), Rodrick in last year of highschool, so he's 18, awkward first-time blowjobs, rude/crude teenage boy humour

★ It's been a while since Rodrick tripped over his sexuality, thinking of you so badly he actually couldn't escape a speeding ticket when driving his van. So now he actually has to walk home and he hates it. Even worse when a certain convertible pulls up and he REALLY doesn't want to decline a free ride... click here for part 1

Rodrick needed to back-track this all. Okay, he'll admit, he WAS thinking about it. Thinking about it all day, all week.

It all started when he got Heather's number when he flirted with her outside the bowling alley, and told him to "swing by sometime." And he had. Of course he had. He was Rodrick Fucking Heffley, who got punked by a group of highschool girls.

So how the hell did he end up slammed against a granite countertop, gripping a stranger's expensive shirt while their tongue was halfway down his throat?

Well, turns out Heather's older brother wasn't just some preppy dude with a nice car. He was hot. Older, confident, smug as hell — the kind of guy who looked at Rodrick like he was a stray dog he was about to either adopt or put in his lap just to see what would happen.

And Rodrick let it happen.

No one knew. He hadn't talked about it. Who would he even tell? Rodrick hadn't even looked him in the eye the next time he came around to pick Heather up — just stayed silent, face hot, like he was afraid his dick was gonna remember what happened if he said more than a sentence.

Now it's been a couple weeks.

And today, Rodrick was trying so hard to look cool.

He was waiting out front of the school with his bandmates, sprawled across the sidewalk like they owned the place, cracking jokes and pretending they weren't all probably failing. Rodrick had his jacket off his shoulders like it was a cape. Fingerless gloves, shirt unbuttoned just enough to say yeah, 'I know I'm hot,' eyeliner smudged on purpose.

It was a whole look. And you were eating it up.

Heather was taking forever. Probably reapplying lip gloss or bullying freshmen or whatever she did.

His friends were trickling off, getting picked up or peeling away on their sad little skateboards one by one. Rodrick stayed put, tapping his boot against the pavement, adjusting his chain wallet, glancing at his phone for no reason. Just vibing.

And then?

Then he heard it.

A car horn — short, sharp, and obnoxious — ripped through the air like a slap across the face.

Rodrick's head snapped up.

He finally noticed you.

Window down. Arm draped out the side, knuckles loose on the wheel. Designer sunglasses. Lip between your teeth, chewing gum slow and deliberately like you were in a goddamn commercial. The engine purred like a threat. You looked like sin on legs and a fat inheritance.

And you were looking right at him.

Rodrick froze like he'd just been caught with his pants down.

Because in a way, he had. And after what happened last time? He doesn't want to imagine having his pants down, because... well, that's obvious.

The car didn't roll past. It lingered. Engine purring low AGAIN like it was laughing at him.

Rodrick squinted against the sun, already feeling the heat crawl up his neck. He didn't move. He could've walked away, sure. Pretended he didn't see you. Kept his pride and maybe a shred of sanity.

But he didn't.

Instead, he stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, jaw clenched like he was trying to win a fight he didn't even know he was in yet.

The convertible idled in front of him, all sleek lines and ego. Then came the voice.

"Hey, loser."

You were leaned out the window, sunglasses low on your nose, gum clicking against your teeth. That grin on your face? It was unholy. Like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

Rodrick rolled his eyes so hard he almost saw the moment you kissed him play out in the back of his skull. "Real original," he muttered, biting the inside of his cheek.

"Aw, don't pout." You stretched your arm a little farther out the window, flexing your fingers mockingly. "I figured you'd be flattered I remembered you."

"Yeah? Well, I'm not." He puffed up a little, angling his shoulder like he wanted to block your view but couldn't stop himself from inching closer to the car. "What're you even doing here?"

You popped your gum. Loud. "Picking up my bitchy little sister. What else?"

Rodrick blinked. "Heather?"

"Duh."

His brows knit together, mouth twitching like he couldn't decide between confusion or sarcasm. "She left like... fifteen minutes ago."

You tilted your head, mock confusion on your face.

"Did she now?"

You slammed your palm hard against the outside of the door with a thunk, arm still draped lazily out the window, wrist dangling like you owned the whole damn parking lot. The car jumped slightly under your force, and Rodrick actually flinched.

You didn't smile, cursing obnoxiously loud, "That bitch."

For a second, his face was all wide eyes and instinct, like a feral cat cornered behind a dumpster.

Then he burst out laughing.

Not just a chuckle—a full, mocking cackle that cracked out of his chest like he was watching a soap opera and you were the main character having a meltdown. "Holy shit," he snorted, "You look like a pissy brat. Relax, man."

You narrowed your eyes. "Shut the hell up."

Rodrick took a step forward, one arm just above the driver's window, leaning in casually and milking this new authority—like he'd won something. "Touchy, huh? Thought you were all grown up—"

"Touchy?" you cut him off sharply, voice low now, almost a growl. "You wanna talk about touchy? Last time I recall you're the kid—a kid with a raging boner."

The laugh caught in his throat.

Rodrick's mouth opened, then closed. Like maybe if he stared at you long enough, you'd take it back. His ears turned a distinct, traitorous red.

You popped your gum again, the sound sharp as a slap, and let your arm hang loose again like you weren't even phased. You stared into his face, his more rigid posture and his fist against your car. You weren't phased, god no, you saw pathetic, barely legal teens running their mouths all the time. But this time, you wanted that mouth on something else—eyeliner, cracked lips and smudged makeup all.

Rodrick, however, looked like someone had just unplugged his amp mid-set.

"Well?" You grin, eyes flicking from his face down to his studded belt then back up again, "You better run home, buddy. Before your mommy tells y' off or something?"

Rodrick didn't move.

His hand curled into a loose fist against the top of your car door, knuckles pale like he was using it to stay grounded. His eyes flicked down to the tires, then your rims, then back to your face. He was quiet for a second too long, and that silence said everything.

You raised an eyebrow. "What, cat got your tongue?"

"No," he muttered, voice tighter now, jaw clenched like he'd just bit down on glass. "Just thinkin'."

You leaned your cheek into your shoulder, blinking at him real slow. "Let me guess. Van trouble?"

Rodrick's eyes narrowed.

You huffed a little laugh, shifting in your seat. "Right. You've been walking, haven't you? What happened, Daddy find out you drive like a bat outta hell?"

He didn't respond, just gave you a glare that tried to be threatening but only made you smirk harder.

You dragged your tongue across your teeth and clicked your gum again. "I'll give you a ride."

Rodrick perked up ever so slightly, but you held up a hand like a cop issuing a citation.

"Backseat."

His face dropped.

"What?"

You popped the car door lock with a little click, lazily jabbing your thumb over your shoulder. "You heard me. You wanna get driven, you sit in the back. Can't have you near the stereo, you might get ideas."

"Are you serious?" His voice cracked with disbelief and something dangerously close to a whine.

You smiled now, mean and slow. "Dead serious."

Rodrick looked at the door, then at you, jaw working like he was chewing rocks. "You treat me like a fuckin' dog, man."

You shrugged. "Nah. I like dogs."

He muttered something under his breath—definitely a curse, probably directed at you—but he opened the back door anyway, dragging his feet like he was being escorted to a prison van.

You watched him slump into the seat through the rearview mirror. "Good boy."

Rodrick flipped you off immediately, middle finger directed at you through the mirror, leanign against the window like a little shit.

You didn't start the car.

Instead, you leaned forward, grabbing a fresh piece of gum from the center console, slow and deliberate like you were on a break instead of chauffeuring some crusty eyeliner gremlin with control issues. You unwrapped it with a flick of your wrist, popped it in your mouth, and started chewing again, slow like molasses.

Rodrick squinted at you through the rearview mirror. "Dude. What are you—?"

You turned, not your whole body, just your head, resting your elbow on the wheel like you had all the time in the world. "You want some?"

He looked at the pack, then at you, suspicious. "Is that the weed kind?"

You rolled your eyes. "No, princess. I wouldn't waste the good shit on you. Pink lemonade. Super innocent. Calm down."

Rodrick gave a little scoff but didn't move.

"Suit yourself," you said with a hum, stretching just enough to spit the old gum into a tissue and stuff it into the door pocket. "More for me."

A pause.

"Just drive," Rodrick gritted, leaning his forehead against the glass like he was trying to escape by osmosis or something.

You made a soft noise of protest, exaggerated and bratty. "Can't. Finishing my gum. Can't you see? My mouth's busy."

Rodrick groaned, leaning back again, both hands in his hair now.

You caught his eye in the mirror, that same mirror where he'd glared at you, flipped you off, bit back a dozen smartass retorts. And now?

Now his gaze was stuck. Jaw clenched. Thighs spread just a little too wide.

Your smirk curved wider, and you tilted your head.

"Unless," you said, voice dropping slow and sticky, "you want your mouth busy too?"

Rodrick stopped breathing.

Like actually. You saw it. His chest locked up, and his eyes darted from your mouth to the back of your headrest and then down to his lap like maybe that would save him. He HAD been thinking about it all week. He was basically semi-hard for days, honestly (though he'd never admit it), too embarrassed to jack it off.

You didn't turn around. Just stayed staring into the rearview, chewing your gum, letting the quiet buzz of the car hold the moment taut.

And now Rodrick Heffley looked less like a punk and more like a problem about to beg for one himself.

"Well?"

Rodrick cleared his throat. Loud. Like maybe that'd distract from the very obvious urge

"I'm not— gay— or into...that—," he muttered.

You raised your brows at the mirror. "Cool. Neither is gum, but you've been chewing on me with your eyes since the kitchen."

"Jesus," he groaned, pushing his palms to his face. "You don't get it."

"No, I do." You smirked and let your tongue flick against the gum once. "You're not gay. You just—what? Accidentally had your tongue down my throat? Accidentally got hard? Accidentally stood in the shower for twenty minutes thinking about it, but didn't jack off because that would make it gay?"

Rodrick flinched. You grinned. You knew.

His hands dropped to his lap again. "I didn't—fuck off, dude—"

"Aw, c'mon," you crooned, turning your head just slightly now, still leaned casually against the wheel like you had all the cards. "I'm just saying. If you're gonna moan about being straight, you might wanna stop looking like you're one lip-bite away from crawling up here and asking me to fuck you."

He scowled, flustered, but didn't deny it.

You let the silence crawl back in, slow and viscous, like syrup in the heat. Then, softly but it wasn't meant to soothe him or anything—the exact opposite actually,

"Unless that's not what you want. Maybe you don't wanna fuck. Maybe you just wanna suck."

Rodrick blinked, almost spluttering over nothing. "What the hell—"

"Not a bad option." You popped your gum again. "Start slow. Feel it out. Literally. Could be an experiment. You're in high school, right? Great time for science."

Rodrick looked like he might short-circuit. He opened his mouth. Closed it.

He's a highschooler, a dude at that too—sex and porn is meant to be funny, obnoxious and excite him. Not nervous, god why is he nervous?

Then, very softly, his gaze dropped and he muttered something that sounded like:

"...I mean—not...I dunno..."

It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't a no either. You could work with that.

You reached up and killed the engine. The quiet thud echoed loud in the space between you. You unbuckled your seatbelt, smooth and slow, then rolled your neck like you had time to kill.

Then, one hand shoved casually in your pocket, you stepped out of the car.

Rodrick straightened in the backseat, heart pounding like the drums he thought made him cool.

And you rounded the side, steps easy. Measured. Like you weren't about to absolutely ruin him, "Let's take care of that week-long boner, loser."

The second the door clicked shut behind you, Rodrick had to stop himself from backing away, cursing at first but shut up immediately. No time wasted — your fingers curled around his collar, tugging him forward until your mouths collided in a kiss so messy it knocked your teeth together. He tasted like Coke and teenage desperation, and you still tasted like that gum you'd been chewing, artificial mint and sugar, sweet and sharp on his tongue. It made his knees weak.

He leaned back against the seat, trying to match your rhythm, but he was all nerves and fidgeting hands, kissing like someone who'd had a few hot dreams and maybe tried it once behind a garage in seventh grade. Your lips moved slow, dragging over his in a way that had him chasing after the contact, heat rising up his neck. Every time your teeth scraped his lower lip, he gasped into your mouth like you'd stolen all the air from the car.

You kissed like you were used to this. Like you knew how to melt someone down to mush without even breaking a sweat. And Rodrick, poor Rodrick, who always tried so hard to look cool with his flannels and black nail polish and that stupidly smug walk, was crumbling already.

You gripped the sides of his unbuttoned flannel, easing it off his shoulders, one arm at a time, and he let you, blinking up at you like you were something holy and dangerous. Underneath, his vintage Iron Maiden tee clung to his chest, collar stretched and sleeves rolled, like he'd tried way too hard to look effortless that morning. He wasn't pulling it off now—he looked flustered, cheeks pink and lips slick, like he'd been caught in something too big for him.

He shifted, sitting up slightly, and fumbled at the button of your jeans. His fingers were trembling. He missed the catch the first time, then the second. His nails scraped your waistband. You didn't help—just watched, still half-straddling him in the cramped backseat, licking your lips like you were enjoying the show.

"Take your time," you said, slow and syrupy, practically crooning it against his jaw.

Rodrick froze. Looked up at you, eyes wild, like you'd just pulled a gun on him. His face twisted, flustered and furious, and he scoffed, "Fuck you. You're takin' the piss right now."

You laughed, quiet and rich, leaning in until your forehead bumped his. "Nah," you whispered, your lips brushing his again, so soft it made him twitch. "I just like watching you try."

His breath hitched. You kissed him again—this time slower, letting him taste the gum still on your tongue, sticky-sweet and minty. It pissed him off on how good it tasted—he made a mental note to actually take the gum next time you offered.

Next time? God, why is he even thinking about a "next time"?

It took Rodrick a solid thirty seconds to finally undo your belt. He kept tugging at the wrong loop, too forceful, too clumsy, and you leaned your weight back on your palms, watching him like this was entertainment. Maybe it was. His brows were drawn together, lips parted in concentration. When he finally got the tongue of the belt through the buckle, he let out a breath like he'd just cracked a safe.

The zipper was easier—he tugged it down in one slow motion, the sound loud in the heated silence of the car. He paused when your cock was free, stiff and flushed, the tip already glistening. His eyes widened just a little. You didn't miss it. You never did. You've done this a few times before, but he clearly hasn't even seen porn of two dudes before.

"You're a guy too, Rodrick," you said, voice warm with amusement. "You know what feels good, right?"

He nodded, hesitant. One hand cupped you awkwardly, his fingers twitching like he wasn't sure where to start, then finally curled around your cock. His touch was cautious at first—slow pumps, like he was still testing the waters. But it only took a few strokes before he found a rhythm, the kind that made your hips jerk slightly forward into his hand.

"Mmph," you exhaled, half-laughing, half-moaning. "Damn. You're pretty good at this."

That did it—Rodrick's cheeks lit up instantly, a flush rising from his collar to the tips of his ears.

You tilted your head, grin sharp. "So how often do you jerk off to get this good at handling dick, huh?"

He choked on air—literally coughed, pulling his hand back like your cock had burned him or something. "What the fuck—?!"

You laughed outright this time, low and throaty, grabbing his wrist and guiding it back to your crotch. "Relax. I said you were good. Don't go getting all shy on me now."

Rodrick muttered something again—something that might've been fuck off or I hate you or Jesus Christ—but he was still holding you, still moving his hand, and you were still panting through your teeth, barely holding in a groan.

"Don't just use your hands," you said slowly, your voice going silkier, heavier. "Use your mouth. C'mon."

His eyes snapped to yours like you'd just pulled the emergency brake mid-highway. "What?!"

You just tilted your hips forward, cock tapping lightly against his lower lip, a bead of precum catching on the edge of his mouth. "C'mon. I've seen how you stare. Open up. I'll tell you what to do."

He was frozen. And then, so slowly it was almost comical, his lips parted, breath trembling.

"Keep your head down. Windows are glass, y'know?" you murmured, your fingers threading into his hair, guiding his head down to hollow out his mouth. "Now choke on something for real, babe."

Rodrick pulled off for a moment, panting and wet lips against your tip, brows furrowed in a weak glare, "Call me babe again, I'll bite your fucking dick off."

You huffed a laugh, "Sure, sweetheart."

And before he could snap back, you nudged his mouth open again with a firm, guiding hand on his scalp.

He went back down slower this time. Less out of hesitation—more like...curiosity. His lips wrapped around your tip, warm and tentative, and you felt the way he breathed through his nose, nostrils flaring as the weight of your cock settled onto his tongue. The taste hit him in waves—salty, bitter, heady—and his whole face twitched like he didn't know if he hated it or if he wanted more.

He tried to hide it. Tried to pretend he was indifferent. But you saw the way his lashes fluttered, the way his eyes briefly closed when you twitched in his mouth. That tiny throb of your cock against his tongue? He felt it. And it made him shift in his seat.

He was getting hard.

You caught the way his thighs pressed together. How his hips squirmed, almost guilty, like maybe if he clenched up tight enough his dick wouldn't be leaking against the inside of his jeans right now.

You groaned, low and pleased, hips barely tilting forward. "That's it. Good, fuck..."

Rodrick didn't answer. Couldn't—not with his mouth full, and your fingers tugging lightly at his hair to keep him there. But his eyes flashed up at you, defiant and pink-cheeked, watery with effort. You were thick, and he still wasn't used to it. His jaw ached, his throat was trying to suppress a gag, and yet he didn't pull off again.

You gave a shallow thrust—just enough for him to feel your cock stiffen inside his mouth.

He shuddered.

Rodrick groaned, and the sound vibrated down your length. He didn't want to answer. But his mouth stayed open. He sucked back down, slower, deeper this time, spit dragging from his chin to your base.

He liked it.

He hated that he liked it.

And you could feel the tremble in his thighs when your cock bumped the back of his throat again—could see the way he rocked ever so subtly into his seat, chasing a little friction, desperate not to make a sound.

You noted it through hazy vision, furrowing your brows to make use of it. A little surprise never hurt anyone, right?

Your hips twitched once—just once, experimentally—up into the wet heat of his mouth. And that was all it took.

Rodrick flinched with a surprised grunt, the motion nudging him deeper, forcing him to adjust and—fuck—he didn't back off. He actually followed through, the shift in pressure making your thighs tense.

"Oh—fuck..." you groaned under your breath, fingers tightening in his hair, guiding him just enough, but letting him choose to keep going.

And he did. Mouth working messily and drooling now, rhythm shaky but there, flushed red from his ears down his throat, like sucking you off was getting him off too—and it was. His own hips kept shifting like he didn't know what to do with the ache in his jeans. Because he really didn't—the closest thing he's ever been to cumming untouched was a wet dream.

You caught it just between the messy fold of his clothes —the way his hand hovered near his waistband, unsure, then gave in.

Your hand clenched against the car seat. The air felt thinner, charged, like it was vibrating around you both.

And when it hit, it hit hard. Your breath shuddered out, spine arching just a little, and Rodrick jerked at the taste, the sudden strange texture filling his mouth, but didn't pull back. Didn't flinch. He stayed right there, like he didn't know what else to do except ride it out with your cock in his mouth.

A second later, he slumped forward with a stifled gasp, forehead thudding lightly against your thigh. His mouth still damp. His belt half undone. He was breathing like he'd just sprinted a mile, and the way he clung to your leg like it was anchoring him made your lips twitch into a slow, smug smile.

His face was pink. Embarrassed and glowing all at once.

You ran a hand through his sweaty bangs, barely brushing your knuckles over the back of his neck.

"Damn," you muttered, catching your breath. "You're wayyy too good at that for a guy who's not into dudes."

Rodrick groaned into your thigh, trying to burrow and hide his face. "Shut up."

You couldn't. Not when he looked so cute— his face was a warm, flushed colour and eyeliner that began to run after sucking your cock pricked a few tears at his eyes.

You noticed the stickiness against the loosened waist of his jeans, his hips twitching in tiny, involuntary aftershocks. A huff of laughter slipped out of you before you could stop it—mean, but kind of stunned, too.

He's still catching his breath like he's fighting off the shame. You take the bait, whistling slightly as you motion to the crotch of his jeans where he'd cum, "Didn't even have to touch you, damn. Liked it that much?"

Rodrick groaned loudly, dragging the sleeves of his discarded flannel over his face like he could disappear inside them. His whole face went about as red as the knobs on your car radio, and when he didn't snap back right away—not with a joke, not with a shove, not even a middle finger—you blinked.

He was mortified. It would be too easy to push him further, but you decide to let up this time.

Your teasing tapered instantly. "Hey," you said, voice gentler now. Your fingers skimmed along his shoulder, grounding. "Hey, I'm not—"

He didn't lift his head, "Oh, fuck off."

You shifted, letting your palm settle between his shoulder blades. "Look, I'm not gonna keep going if you're freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," His voice was still muffled into your jeans, but more steady, holding more vigour now, "Just. Shut the fuck up."

You did, scoffing and half-relieved his bite came back. "...You think your parents'll care if you stay out a few more hours? Or are you some curfew princess."

His head tilted, just slightly. "What?"

"Just asking," you shrugged, voice casual, but your thumb brushed behind his ear, playing with the fake cuff on them.

Rodrick's still reeling from the mess he just made, but he lifts his head, blinking at you. His face is a mess of emotions—still a little red but some sort of gratitude that you aren't totally making fun of him at least.

"Yeah..." he mutters, still avoiding your gaze. "They're not home for a while."

You give him a wink, rubbing your thumb on his bottom lip now—feeling the stickiness of it from whatever of your cum he couldn't swallow. Or rather, coughed back up when trying to. "I'm staying my whole break here this time. If you're up for it."

Rodrick's eyes narrow in warning and disbelief. "You really are an asshole."

You shrug, still chewing your gum and leaning back in your seat. "I'm not heartless though."

He props himself up on his elbows, cogs turning in his head. Did you mean what he thought you meant?

"What?" You look at him, mumbling for the first time since you've met him. "I got hobbies besides being college fuckboy-trash."

Rodrick stares at you, eyes narrowed like he's trying to figure out if you're screwing with him again—but there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth, betraying the smile he's fighting. He exhales a shaky laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah, well...your other hobbies better include food. I'm starving."

You reach for the keys from your back pocket, gum snapping between your teeth in a smile you pray he didn't catch. "Guess it's your lucky night, Heffley. Hope you like drive-thru food and post-nut clarity."

♡ Please do not modify, steal, plagarise or post on other platforms without asking. Thank you!

divider creds: @cursed-carmine

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