#i was fighting to contain a grin the whole time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

crybabycabin · 4 days ago

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pressure points | b.b.

✮ synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.

✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

✮ disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences

✮ word count: 10.6k

✮ a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo

The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.

He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearing—the kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months ago—when he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.

"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"

The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.

"Need a hand?"

You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.

"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."

He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.

"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"

"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."

Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.

"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"

"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."

He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.

"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."

"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."

"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.

"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"

He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.

Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.

It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.

He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.

"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."

"No problem."

He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"

He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.

"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."

It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."

He's so fucked.

The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.

When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?

So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.

But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.

You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.

"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."

"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.

"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."

You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.

Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.

He should stay away.

He doesn't.

"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"

"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."

"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."

"I smile."

"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"

Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."

"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"

The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.

"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"

"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"

"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."

Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.

"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."

"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."

Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.

But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.

"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.

Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."

The faucet thing turns into a whole production.

You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—

"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."

The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.

"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.

"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."

He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.

"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"

"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.

Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.

"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.

"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."

He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.

"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."

"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.

Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."

It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.

"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.

"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."

"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"

"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."

"So don't go."

"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."

He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You were going to ask me to go with you."

"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."

"I really don't."

"There's an open bar."

"Still no."

"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."

That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...

"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."

The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.

He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.

The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.

"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."

"Did it work?"

"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."

He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."

"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"

"I said no dancing."

"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."

"That's not a law."

"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."

The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.

You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.

"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."

His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."

Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.

"Bucky—"

"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."

You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."

But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.

He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.

"I'm sorry if I—" you start.

"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"

"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."

"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."

You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.

You pull back after that.

It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.

"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.

"I don't mope."

"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"

Bucky's silence is damning.

"What'd you do?"

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."

Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."

"...okay?"

"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."

"Why?"

"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"

"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"

"Then she's naïve."

"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."

"It's worked so far."

"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."

Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?

He's already standing before he realizes it.

"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."

Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.

"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."

He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.

"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.

"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."

"By what?"

You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"

"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.

You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."

The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.

"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.

"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."

Each observation feels like being flayed open.

"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."

"You can't know that."

"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."

"You don't understand—"

"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"

He kisses you.

It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.

The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.

You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—

Reality crashes back like ice water.

He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.

Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.

"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."

"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"

He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.

"I should go," he manages.

"Or," you say, "you could stay."

The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.

You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.

He leaves.

The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.

He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.

Now he wants to break his own.

You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.

It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.

"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"

He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."

Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."

Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.

It's fine. It's working. You're safe.

He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.

Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.

"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."

"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.

"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."

Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.

The mission goes sideways in minute three.

"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"

The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.

"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.

It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.

"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."

Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.

They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.

His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—

Your door is open.

Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—

The deadbolt is broken.

The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.

Bucky goes utterly still.

His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—

Blood.

Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.

"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—

Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.

Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.

He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.

His phone rings. Unknown number.

"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.

"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."

"Where is she?"

"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"

Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—

"What do you want?"

"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."

The line goes dead.

Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.

Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.

He's going to paint the city red for it.

"Buck, slow down—"

"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.

Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"

"Watch me."

"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"

"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."

Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"

That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.

"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."

"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"

"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."

"Buck—"

"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."

"So what, you're going in alone?"

Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.

"They touched her," he says simply.

"I know, man. I know. But—"

"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."

"Buck, come on. At least let me—"

"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"

"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."

"Too late for that."

Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—

Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.

"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.

Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.

The trail goes cold in six hours.

Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.

"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"

Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."

"We'll find her."

We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.

He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.

Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.

"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."

"Get out."

"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"

"I said—"

"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."

The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."

"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."

"I know that."

"Then stop giving them what they want."

Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.

"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.

"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.

"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."

"I am focused."

"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."

He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.

"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"

Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.

His blood turns to ice, then flame.

"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."

She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.

"Just me," he says. "Let her go."

"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."

The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.

You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.

"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.

You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."

The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.

"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."

You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."

Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.

"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."

"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.

This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.

"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."

Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"

The video cuts.

Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.

"That bad?" Yelena asks.

He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.

Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.

"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."

"I know."

"You can't just walk in there like idiot."

"I know."

"So what's plan?"

He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."

"Barnes—"

"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."

The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.

"Don't you fucking dare."

Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.

"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."

"Rooftop," from Yelena.

"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."

"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.

The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.

"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."

"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."

"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"

Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.

"Where is she?"

"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."

"We?"

The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."

"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."

The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."

Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.

Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.

"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."

"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."

"Sweetheart—"

"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."

"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"

The knife moves toward you.

The world explodes.

Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.

Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.

Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.

"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"

He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.

When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.

"Come any closer and—"

Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.

"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."

But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.

"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."

"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.

He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.

"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.

Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.

After that? After that, everything changes.

But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:

Never again.

Never fucking again.

The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.

"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."

"I'm fine."

Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.

"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."

He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?

"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."

Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.

"When will she wake up?"

"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."

"Sam already made that joke."

"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."

She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.

Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.

"You're spiraling again."

Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.

"You're awake."

"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"

"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"

"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."

"It's fine."

You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.

"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"

"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."

Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"

"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."

"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."

"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."

"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"

"That's not—"

"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."

"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"

"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."

You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.

"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."

"Stop."

"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."

The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.

"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.

"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."

"How can you say that?"

"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."

"I should have protected you better."

"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."

"I should have never let them take you in the first place."

"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."

"This isn't funny."

"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."

"You are—"

"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."

He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."

"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."

"I know."

"Like, incandescently furious."

"I know."

"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."

His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"

"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"

He kisses you.

There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.

The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.

His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.

The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.

When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.

Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.

"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"

"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."

You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."

"I'm already in therapy."

"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."

"...fine."

"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."

"Okay."

"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."

"Deal."

"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."

He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.

"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."

"I know."

"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."

"I can take it."

"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."

"Noted."

You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."

He freezes. You squeeze his hand.

"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."

His throat feels tight. "I can do that."

"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."

"It's not that bad."

"Bucky."

"Fine."

But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.

The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.

"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.

"Yeah."

"And stubborn."

"Definitely."

"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."

He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.

The least he can do is try to prove you right.

When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.

And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.

"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.

"Hey yourself."

You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.

It's terrifying.

It's everything.

It's enough.

3K notes · View notes

evie-sturns · 5 months ago

Text

yapper - Chris Sturniolo

summary: you talk, a lot. chris finally has enough of your voice and puts his hand over your mouth, little did you both know that this would let to a lot more than expected.

contains: smut, fluff, shy!chris, yapper!reader, risky sex.

---------------------------✩------------------------------

9:28pm

"okay- but guess what happened next! she literally took off runnings, like- i mean i know she was embarrased but running away is just gonna make an even bigger fool of yourself right?" i ramble on and on, and on... and on.

"but-" i start, cutting myself off with a gasp, "i forgot to tell you oh my god! okay so you know that one girl who i used to work with, wait whats her name?"

chris suddenly speaks up, "baby," he sighs, his voice has a twinge of frustration in it, which doesnt suprise me.

ive been speaking his ear off this whole hang out, but its not my fault that i just have so much to tell chris.

i stay silent for about 3 seconds before instantly starting up again,

"jen-! that was her name, okay so basically i found out that her and her boyfriend are in like this massive fight right now because she fucki-"

chris cuts me off,

his hand clasps over my mouth, which shut me up pretty fast.

i stare at him with my round eyes, his hand still firmly plastered over my lips.

he clears his throat, breaking eye contact quickly.

i slowly reach up, grabbing his wrist and trying to gently lift his hand away.

he keeps it there though, his gaze drifitng back over to me.

chris's eyes are fluttering shut everytime he blinks, his cheeks burning red as the silence in the room grows, its nice for a change though.

i open my mouth to try protest, but my voice is muffled by his palm. "mmf- chris just-" i start,

he shakes his head, "all you do- is just talk y/n! oh my fucking god."

a grin spreads across my face, which chris seems to take note off.

suddenly he sits up right, grabbing my shoulder with his free hand.

he gently lays me down on the couch, his hand still plastered over my lips.

he then hovers over me, staring down into my eyes.

i feel heat pool in my lower abdomen, goosebumps travelling up my arms as the eye contact with chris grows stronger.

he gently removes his hand away from me, his face inches from mine.

he it between my legs, his torso millimeters above mine and his hair tickling my forehead.

“not.. another word.” he whispers,

i nod slightly,

he brushes his lips against mine, our noses brushing.

suddenly his lips connect with mine, my chest instantly tightens as i grab at him,

he inches my legs further apart with his knee, which shortly after brushes against my clothed cunt.

i let out a needy whine against his lips, causing him to pull away,

“shh sh.” he shushes me, his hands on either side of my head.

“i wan’ you..” i whisper,

chris’s cheeks flush red, his eyes darting away for a second,

“yeah?” he mutters, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he blinks a few times.

i nod, “i- i really do.”

i sit up on my elbows before reaching for his belt buckle,

he doesn’t say anything, just letting me.

i unbuckle his belt, a soft thump fills the room as it drops onto the couch.

i tug down his jeans, and he helps me discard them to the side.

his hands rest on my knees,

he suddenly speaks up, “i- i mean- we really can’t.. matt and nick are home and nick has a friend over it’s- it’s so risky..”

i frown slightly, “but- please! that’s not fair!”

he shakes his head, letting it tip back.

“i’ll be really.. really quiet i swear.” i whisper,

“i doubt that..” he scoffs,

“cant we just go to your room?” i groan,

he shakes his head, “nick will be right next door, he’ll hear stuff..”

i look up at him through big wide eyes, toying with the waistband of his boxers,

“i’ll be so good and quiet..” i breathe,

“fine- fine okay- just- god..” he mumbles,

he reaches for my waistband and tugs my small shorts off, before pulling at my panties.

he practically tears my tank top off, leaving me fully revealed.

“we have to be quick though.” chris mutters, pulling his shirt off over his head, leaving him only in his black boxers.

i nod with a smile,

he palms himself through his boxers as he hunched over, clearly overwhelmingly horny.

i tug down his boxers, the cold air hits his tip, causing him to let out a shaking gasp.

“please..” i grin,

he nods, “you- be quiet.” he whispers, grabbing my hip and lining himself up with me.

my arousal coats his tip as he gently presses it in,

the stretch hurts so good, i let out a small moan.

he slowly presses more inside of me, my walls clamping around him at the size,

“fuck- chris-“ i moan out, completely forgetting the one rule he had for me,

he stares down at me, his movements stilling,

“i fucking told you, be quiet.” he grunts,

“i can’t..” i whine loudly, his thickness stretching me out.

he moves his hand, placing it right back over my mouth with a small tut.

he starts to thrust into me, making sure his strokes are deep each time.

i squeeze my eyes shut, my whole body feeling like it’s on fire,

my stomach tingles heavily, i purse my lips together, trying to stop my noises but it’s not working.

a moan rips out of me, muffled by chris’s palm.

“noisy girl, fuck..” chris groans, his pace rapidly picking up speed.

i wrap my legs around his waist as i frantically grip at his back, my nails sinking into his skin.

my moans get increasingly louder as i turn my head to the side, making chris hand on my mouth slip away.

“you just- you just can’t shut up can you?” he grumbles, his voice trembling as he gets closer,

“i- fuck!” i babble out,

suddenly, chris pulls out of me.

empty, is the only word to describe how i feel.

“chris no- please i was so close- please!”

he cuts me off, “sit up.”

i sit up on the couch, the dull ache between my thighs frustrating me.

he gets up on his knees, his cock right infront of my face.

i stare up at him frustratedly, folding my arms,

“since you won’t keep your mouth shut, gonna have to atleast put it to work hm?” he whispers,

i roll my eyes, my hole fluttering from loss of contact.

he reaches two fingers down and taps my cheek, “open.”

i part my lips,

“go on, use that damn mouth for good.” he mutters, his hand reaching round to my hair and twirling it into a makeshift pony.

“fuck you.” i mumble quietly, a small grin on my lips.

he gently presses his tip to my lips, i wrap my lips around it, tasting myself on him.

i let out small grunts as i take him further down my throat, my lower jaw already aching.

his tip kisses the back of my throat, making me squeeze my eyes shut.

“good, so good..” he groans,

he starts to move his hips, gently fucking my face.

i let him, keeping my lips firmly around him.

his pace quickens, the head of his cock repeatedly hitting the back of my throat.

small gagging noises fill the room as his pace gets even faster.

“oh fuck baby- oh god, gonna— gonna let me fill that pretty mouth up?” he rambles, his grip on my hair tightening,

i nod,

“that’s a good girl,” he whimpers with one final thrust of his hips,

spurts of white shoot down my throat, a smile growing on my face as i swallow it all,

he gently pulls out of my mouth, rubbing my cheek with his free hand.

he flops back onto the couch, his cheeks red and sweaty.

his hair sticks to his forehead from the dampness, he gently pulls me onto his lap.

“can you fuck me now chris, so mean of you to edge me like that.” i huff, rolling my eyes.

“why would i let you cum? you weren’t following instructions properly yeah?” he chuckles, earning a loud groan from me

i tip my head foward onto his shoulder

“my jaw hurts.” i groan,

“does that mean you’ll finally stop all the talking?” he grins,

“no— not at all actually- i still haven’t finished my story!”

taglist #1

@jayz4dayz4 4 @sassysturniolo2008 @nyktoxs-lover r @nathando-64 esgf @starsturns234 @chrissturnsss s @joemamaaa42069 9 9 @sturnthepot t t @zayyluvz z z @realuvrrr r r r @livialifesblog @sturnioloblogs s @riowritesitall l l @raysmayhem-72 @sturnsdoll @obvisturns @stupid4sturniolo @meerkatzthings @witchofthehour r @rosalierenee43 @gabrielle-brun1 @ilovemymannnnnnn n @sturnioloxlver r @buckys-goodgirl @sturniol0s @ilovemymannnnnnnn @chr1sgirl4life @luanetaluenta @sturnsssbow @mattfangirl @luvr4miya a @luvtay111 @lolasturniolo @freshloveforthefit @ruedowney y y @lovingchrissposts @333michelle e @h3arts4harry y @jamiesturniolo o @chrisstopherfilmed @itzdarling @ @daddyslilchickenfingers2 @ev3rgreenxtrees enxtrees @certifiednatelover r r @solarsturniolo @mattsenthusiast t t t t @yomamaslays4lyfe e @peachmelbaesunpostre @alinaa131 @pepsiluvr0209 9 @creamoncreamoncream2 @szobofc c c @mattscoquette @blahbell668 @sturniolo04 @bitchydragonparadise e @sturni0l0tripletzz z 0 @ratatioulle @sturnsforlife @mattsonly @justalittle47 7 @sunsetsturniolos s @downbad4reid

#nick sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo smut #sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x reader #chris sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo #chris sturniolo #sturniolo #sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo x you #christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo imagine #the sturniolo triplets

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crepezinhos · 5 months ago

Text

The Lion and The Fox

POV: Sunday has always had high expectations of you, his dear secretary, and his lovesick obsession for you has only made his trust on you increase uncontrollably. But now, he felt like his world was crumbling right in front of him when he learned that you were pregnant, and the father was the man he most despised, that he wish he could deport from Penacony, Aventurine.

⚠️ WARNINGS:

— This is a Yandere and Suggestive SFW Oneshot

— Reader is FEMALE and uses SHE/HER pronouns

— Contains: A lot of dirty-talking and racially-motivated talking, accidental pregnancy, bloody fighting, attempted murder, violent language and obsessive/possessive behavior.

— Yandere!Boss!Sunday x Pregnant!Reader x Yandere!Aventurine

— AU is: In-Game

Sequel

“Ah, Y/N. You’re here.” Sunday turned his gaze away from the windowed wall of his office with a little grin growing in the edges of his lips to look at you, who was entering the room with embarrassment already taking you over.

“Hi… Mr. Oak.” You didn’t even dare ignoring his greet as you pushed the door back to its place from behind, especially considering how much he personally respected you.

But you immediately sighed in defeat as you realized how obviously awkward your tone accidentally came out of your throat, which you knew would alarm his attentive ears in a blink.

“Is everything okay?” And his speed to figure someone’s head out, or at least yours in particular, made you even less confident to keeping making eye contact at those mesmerizing amber eyes of his. “You seem very disturbed, dear.”

“Mr. Oak, I—” At the same you desperately wanted to vomit those words out of your chest, your logical thinking warned you that the conversation you were about to have with him right now would not be easy work, perhaps even heartbreaking.

Sunday begun silently walking away from his spot and going towards you, as if he was trying to avoid any explosive reaction out of you or comfort you. But unfortunately, his elegant apparent d and tall figure completely triggered the opposite out of you.

“I need to take a break.” You threw your head to the left as you confessed your intentions to him without any further context, paralyzing the Halovian. “Like… a few days or a whole week…”

“A whole week?” Sunday’s tone did not change, though, and after a few seconds waiting for a response, he finally figured you were too uncomfortable to speak any more without his leadership. “May I ask why?” He continued walking, a little more faster this time, cornering you against the wall even if his hands remained behind his back as usual.

“I’m not feeling quite well, Mr. Oak—”

“Please, address me as Sunday, dear.” You suddenly felt something wooly reach your left cheek and begin to caress it gently, figuring it was Sunday’s fingers after successfully cornering you against the door. “My apologies… I won’t interrupt you again.”

“I’m just feeling sick. That’s all…” You awkwardly finished yourself while trying to ignore his intimate demonstration of care.

“And you need a whole week to recover from it?” His tone shifted to a more serious one while that hand of his spread itself around your whole jaw and slightly pulled it upwards, forcing you to look at him again, and your silence made it obvious to him that you were either lying or hiding something from him. “Let’s sit down, dear.” His hypnotizing grin almost made you vomit the truth right there out of guilt.

Sunday released you and begun stepping towards where his office desk and fancy chair were, without acknowledging how quickly he had convinced you to speak the truth to him. That distressing nod in your throat was already unbearable on its own, but that you were being forced to tell such disappointing news to such a sweet and caring boss like Sunday, that truly admires you and trusts you deeply, just couldn’t be postponed anymore.

“I’m pregnant!” As soon as the distance between you and him was comfortable to you, when Sunday’s hand was about to reach his chair’s arm support, you let the beast out of its cage. “I am feeling sick indeed, but it’s because I’m pregnant and I have no idea what to do about it yet!” Your voice cracked a few times as you bowed your head down, tears barely glistening your eyes, but you did your best to hold them back and not stress Sunday, who had fully paralyzed in his spot.

…

“I beg your pardon?” Sunday slowly turned his head to you, the rest of his body immobile in its place.

“You heard me, Mr. O—… Sunday… I’m pregnant.” You crossed your arms and legs, leaning against the wall vulnerably.

And once again, Sunday didn’t say anything again some awkward seconds, causing your heart to beat even faster than it already was.

…

“P-Pregnant..?” This was one of the first times you’ve ever heard Sunday’s voice crack and stutter.

“Yes, sir.” You quickly nodded.

…

“Like… pregnant pregnant?” Sunday repeated himself again, a little more desperate.

“Yes, sir.” And you nodded to him again, a little more desperate too.

“When did you…” He didn’t know what to ask you due to the unprocessed shock. “For how long have you known this?” Sunday sounded a little madder as you expected, but at the same time you could feel some worry and anxiety coming from him as you saw him move a hand to his collar and start fidgeting his own tie.

“I took the test a few days ago, Mr. Oak.” Although you noticed how you referred to him in the wrong manner, Sunday didn’t seem to notice it, or at least preferred to not scold you again.

“How many people know about it yet?” Sunday finally turned his full body to you. After all, that question mattered a lot.

“None of my friends know about it yet, only the father and you, sir.” At this moment, it felt like all of your friendship with Sunday never existed in the first place, considering how incredibly negative his reaction was.

“Ah, yes… the father.” Sunday spat the word like a curse, scoffing at it right afterwards before pausing for a moment. “Who is the lucky man, Y/N?” Sunday decided to speak in a warmer tone, hoping it would help appeasing the suspense between you two, but it wasn’t quite useful to you.

“Sunday, I… I don’t think I should—”

“I have to know who the father is, Y/N.” He immediately shut you off with a shaky, anxious voice before you could fully reject him. “I don’t think it would be beneficial for us if the people of Penacony were to learn that the secretary of the Head of the Family… my secretary… is pregnant of someone of bad influence, especially if I was not aware of it or consenting to it. Don’t you agree?” Sunday’s voice cracked a few more times with his growing anger as his fingers became more aggressive with his tie.

You weakly nodded, feeling more tears rise up to your eyes. You were expecting Sunday to have a negative reaction indeed, but you did not expect him to be this bold. It even made you question your non-professional friendship with him. Was he not as attached to you like you thought? Was his kindness to you just a souvenir for your hard work? Have you two ever developed a friendship in the first place? If not, were you really just a secretary to him? If yes, how intimate are you two?

“This seriously endangers your job, Y/N, so if you don’t wish me to take extreme measures with you, tell me, dear, who is the father..?!” Despite his self-control, you noticed a pattern of how he was simply unable to hold all his anger when he mentioned the ‘father’.

You breathed in and out, preparing yourself for the bomb you were about to drop on him. After all, losing your job to this did not seem to be the smartest choice to be done, although the answer itself could still make you lose your job anyway.

“I believe the father is Aventurine, sir.” You closed your eyes as you told your version of the story, trying to make it more broad by stating as a theory rather than a fact, but you were certain that the baby was Aventurine’s.

…

Sunday scoffed.

…

“Aventurine?” Sunday’s tone deepened, almost falling into pure madness. “The Sigonian from the IPC?”

“…Yes, sir.” You weakly nodded again, finally finding some courage to open your eyes and look up to him.

“You’ve been going out with him?” Sunday’s tie wasn’t tucked under his white tuxedo anymore, and he was barely blinking his widened eyes.

“I believe you’re crossing a line of privacy, sir. I won’t be answering that.” You felt blood rush to your cheeks as you remembered your last date with the gambler, specifically when the baby was being made, speaking a little bit more annoyed.

“Why? He didn’t assault you or anything of the sort, did he, dear?” Sunday’s hands crossed around each other.

“No, sir.” Your tone went back to its previous shy one.

Sunday’s eyes finally dropped and stopped violently staring at you, looking around in confusion as he breathed in and out harshly. It did help you and your body to calm down, though.

“You know you can always trust me if there’s any danger going on in your life, right?” Sunday looked at you again with curiosity, which made your body stiffen again.

“Absolutely, sir.” You nodded more confidently. That statement reassured you about your previous thoughts about Sunday.

He really isn’t that bold. He never was. Today was just a minimal and reasonable exception.

“Good.” Sunday’s eyes got distracted again as he thought about all the facts that have been told, and you decided to contribute with your own silence.

…

“You know what? I must apologize to you, dear. What kind of man treats a pregnant lady like this? Only some uneducated punk… It was very childish of me, Y/N, I’m truly sorry.” Sunday suddenly relaxed in a blink, his hands going behind his back as usual while a cute grin took over his lips again as if he hadn’t almost gone mad in front of you.

After all, self-control is a really important aspect in this sort of job.

“No, it’s ok… I understand. I would be very worried too if I found out my secretary suddenly got pregnant.” Sunday hummed a giggle at your comment as you shrugged your shoulders.

“Go home, dear.” Sunday walked to you again, his hands landing on both your shoulders. “Go take a good rest. I’ve made you work enough this week.” His thumbs gently brushed your skin like wet porcelain, even raising them a few times to push some strands of your hair behind your ear.

“You’re… you’re not mad?” Deep down, you found his sudden change of behavior weird, and you weren’t exactly comfortable with it.

“Mad? Why would I be mad at you, dear? I trust you to make a smart choice about this.” And now that you were closely staring at his fine face, that smile, no matter how warm it was, it seemed to be betraying whatever was going through his mind. “Make sure to keep your commitment with the Family in mind, ok?” Sunday suddenly leaned his face to the right side of your face, his mouth hanging inches away from your ear as his voice suddenly turned serious.

“Of course, boss.” You nodded to Sunday, who patted your head in appreciation for a few seconds before finally letting you go.

SLAM!

All the human bodies in the casino were attracted by the loud bang of the double doors being against the walls as they were brutally pushed open, whispers beginning to accumulate onto each other as they realized it was Sunday Oak who walked in.

“Is that Sunday Oak?”

“I thought he condemned gambling…”

“What is he doing here?”

“Sunday Oak?”

“Should I ask for an autograph?”

“Isn’t he Robin’s older brother?”

Sunday couldn’t care less about any of those comments or the glances landing on him as he walked inside the flashy halls of the casino. He was entirely interested and focused on his hunt, and his hunt only.

After all, it didn’t take him more than 5 seconds to identify what he was searching for.

Aventurine.

The slim, blonde man sitting down lazily on a chair with spread legs and a pack of cards in his hands, accompanied by two other men playing with him, sitting in the opposite corners of the table, all of them shaping the form of a triangle where Aventurine was directly facing Sunday. The table was full of cards and chips thrown around it, even a few real credits too, showing that they weren’t just playing casually, and three cups of alcohol being the only objects standing still.

“Ah, the Head of the Family himself, Sunday Oak! What an honor it is to have you in my casino! What brings you here tonight?” The gambler put his cards facing down in the table to open his arms to Sunday in a warm greeting.

His purple eyes still managed to shine through the dark pair of sunglasses he was wearing and the whole dark ambient around them.

But Sunday’s murderous face didn’t appease a bit with his warm greeting.

“Leave.” He glanced down at the two other gamblers, who simply shared confused looks with each other and Aventurine when they heard his order. “NOW!” Both men immediately flinched upwards hearing his scream, fleeing from their seats as if they were fleeing for their lives.

After all, who would be insane enough to challenge the Head of the Family?

As soon as the steps of the coward men started to become faint murmurs in the ambient, Aventurine finally started taking advantage of their privacy to speak again.

“See… when I say that you’re always welcome in here, Mr. Oak, that doesn’t necessarily mean you have the right to interrupt any of the games—”

“You got Y/N pregnant..?!” Aventurine’s smirk grew as he realized what was Sunday’s objective in his casino and how angry he was due to it, even if he had been interrupted.

“Ah… so you’ve heard the news…” Aventurine proceeded to grab the glass of liquor sitting closest to him and took a sip of it. “It is also an honor to have being the first person to congratulate me…”

“Congratulate you..?” Sunday’s eyes widened in audacity at his words. “Congratulate you?! For what? For making such an absurdly irresponsible decision?!” Sunday finally dragged one of the empty chairs closer to him and sat himself down at on it, both his hands slamming the table while Aventurine simply mired down at the liquor in the glass. “You’re a gambler, and you’re completely addicted to it! What is wrong with you?! What kind of man sustains his family by gambling?!” Aventurine couldn’t help but scoff at his words as his eyes finally looked up to meet his again, starting a war of eye contact.

“Oh, please, we both know that you’re not mad at the fact that I’m a gambler about to become a father.” The gambler finally placed the glass back to the table, his arms crossing as he leaned against the chair.

Sunday refused to answer him although both men had a lot of privacy to discuss such an intimate topic.

“You’re mad that it’s not going to be a beautiful and cute Halovian baby growing inside her with cute little wings on his head and a shiny golden halo that will grow to be the Family’s next prodigy..! And instead, it’s going to be a little Sigonian trash with cursed fortune.” Aventurine used his hands to point at Sunday’s features and his owns, but it didn’t trigger Sunday to answer him, despite his boiling annoyance. “Not that? No? Then it might be that… you’re mad at the fact that it wasn’t you who made the path inside her womb first?” Aventurine uncrossed him arms and set them on table while leaning his body a little closer to his to challenge him, finally causing Sunday to slightly snap.

After all, an obsessed man like him could not handle the imagination of his perfect pure darling being bred by the man who directly competes with him for her, all twirled around his figure and showing him your nudity.

“You little shit…” Sunday fisted his own hands as his eyebrows to frown in the table’s cloth as he tried avoiding those sinful thoughts.

“Me?” Aventurine’s eyes widened with Sunday’s hypocrisy. “Imagine you’re constantly trying to hang out with this marvelous, jaw-dropping and inspiring woman, but she’s always rejecting you because she was either working in a Saturday night, or too exhausted from it on Sunday, hum? You feeling me now?” Aventurine tried waiting for an answer, but Sunday refused to let himself downgrade to the gambler’s level and backed down again. “I think I should actually thank you for making her exhausted and home-alone during her precious weekends. You’ve surely left that woman touch-starved, and I certainly took advantage of that whenever I insisted in visiting her in her home… She’s actually extra tight when she’s stressed.” Aventurine winked at him, intentionally ignoring Sunday’s unblinking, widening eyes. “Just to think about my cock suffocating inside that tiiight pussy of hers while she begs for me to keep ravishing it nonstop makes me so hard…” Aventurine was rubbing his legs together under the table to avoid his slight erection to grow any further under his pants while his cheeks slightly reddened.

“You hell-sent maniac…” That was all Sunday could mumble without exploding. “Do you even listen to yourself? Is this the poor vocabulary that poor kid would learn from their father? You have absolutely no conditions of being a father. I know it, you know it, Y/N knows it. Do you have any idea how worried she was when she was talking to me about this mess? Do you think she’d be that worried about it if I was the father of her child, hum? Do you think she’s happy to be pregnant of you?” Sunday finally decided to take some dominance in the conversation and leaned closer to Aventurine.

“Do you think she’d be any happier to pregnant of you, Mr. Oak? Her manipulative boss that takes advantage of her every free second to keep her revolving around you, yet, refuses to take a single step forward with your relationship with her and keeps edging her pleasure in you?” Aventurine sounded a little angrier as he described Y/N’s work ambient.

“You know nothing about me and Y/N…” Sunday hissed at him. Deep down he knew he had a fair point and that he had to change his relationship with her if he wanted to conquer her heart.

“Well, I certainly know all of this would’ve probably been avoided if you weren’t the coward that you are, and asked her out before I did. Now, even if you did manage to make her fall in love with you and make her your wife, you’d never be able to get rid of the shape of her insides, forever prepared to receive me inside her instead of you because she knows who introduced her the magic of paradisiacal pleasure.” Aventurine twirled his fingers together and set his chin on top of them, his face proudly hanging on it.

“You do realize Y/N is most likely going to abort that cursed baby, right?” Sunday finally found an opportunity to counter Aventurine, smirking in victory after all those sexual comments of you Aventurine has been doing to frustrate him.

“Good for her.” Aventurine shrugged his shoulders, dumbfounding Sunday, who allowed his smirk to die for a moment.

Sunday didn’t understand. Wasn’t he cheerful about her pregnancy? Wasn’t he happy about claiming her womb first and making her a mother before him? Wasn’t he initially arguing with Sunday about being a father?

“You’re just bluffing. I know you’re disappointed.” Sunday brought his grin back before Aventurine could take dominance again, trying to convince him to let that guilt out of his mind.

“I don’t think you’ve understood it yet, Mr. Oak… I don’t intend to be a father. Never intended to be.” Aventurine spoke with a straight face, very relaxed as he confessed his feelings, unlike Sunday.

“I beg your pardon?” Finally, Sunday felt challenged again, so his smirk died again and never rose again.

“Sure, it would be disappointing if she did decide to abort the baby. After all, the idea of repopulating my clan back to this world sounds good to me… but I got her pregnant simply because I want to get her away from you, and that pregnancy is going to force her to take a break from you, and maybe eternally. I already heard you did let her go home today, so it’s already working! Thank you, Mr. Oak!” Sunday was entirely speechless at Aventurine’s confession, not a single full phrase managing to form in his head as the gambler paused again to take another sip of his liquor.

And Sunday knew he had more to add onto that confession, seeing how he swallowed the liquor quickly.

“It surprised me how all it takes to impregnate a woman is a single little puncture in a condom… Make sure to double-check your condoms before sex, Sunday! Protection isn’t a joke!” Sunday couldn’t believe all he had to add to his confession was a joke.

“You..! You did it on purpose?!” Sunday hissed as if he wanted to squeeze the gambler’s head until it crushed into a gory mess.

“Congratulations, Mr. Oak! We can finally have a man-to-man conversation!” Aventurine threw his hands in the air cheerfully as if he was celebrating his birthday.

“Do you have shit in your head instead of a functional brain?! Do you realize you’re putting the life of a child on stake and even her trust on you?! You’re a monster! You had no right to fool Y/N like that!” Sunday was finally finding out how little power of you he had on his hands, his anger finally spilling from its chamber.

“Oh? But you have the right to keep overworking her with the stupidest tasks ever? Making her bring you breakfast and lunch from the cafe with the stupidest exigences ever?! Like ‘No veggies, only keep the onions’, ‘Diet raspberry juice’ and ‘Strawberry cupcakes for desert with no sprinkles or extra frosting’? To make her rearrange your whole calendar for the month because you suddenly have a doctor’s appointment in the middle of month? Knowing she’s not intelligent or bossy enough to tell you’re just taking advantage of her position and her trust on you? That you’re a very busy man and genuinely can’t deal with fucking calendars on your own?” Aventurine also dropped his smirk, speaking in a more angered one as well.

“It’s her job, and I’m her boss. And don’t you worry about it because Y/N gets some good money for all her hard work and she loves me for it.” Sunday defended himself a little proudly. It was a good reason to keep her busy with him.

“And I’m just a great fucking friend! See? We’re both playing dirty here…” Aventurine giggled at his own pun, which made Sunday’s wings to twitch.

“Don’t imagine it… Don’t picture it…” Sunday thought to himself, and Aventurine took advantage of his silence.

“And, think about it, what is the worth in all the money you apparently give her if she can’t find herself some time to spend it because her boss can’t let her enjoy her weekends, hum?” Aventurine crossed his arms, settling them on the table to keep himself still leaning close to Sunday’s face.

“As soon as I get you out of my way, I’ll make sure she’ll have a lot of time to enjoy her life with me as her company.” Sunday threatened him with a mean smirk in his face, finding joy in Aventurine’s struggle.

“I don’t think you’ve realized it yet, Sunday. Y/N is already mine. All, all mine. She’s been mine for a long time now and will always be mine. Your little tricks to imprison her with you are clever, but you know how gambling with me works. I’ll always find my way out of risk and become the winner. And if Y/N is clever enough to remember this little fact, you might face a serious danger of her deciding to keep the baby.” Aventurine’s irises were trembling with excitement and hatred for Sunday as he talked about his possession over you.

“We both know she won’t.” Sunday hissed, still keeping his smirk, although he was doing a great effort to not punch the gambler’s face.

“How do you know, hum? Y/N is the kindest soul in this planet! I don’t think she’d opt to interrupt that growing life inside her so easily like you think. Maybe she’ll start sympathizing with it and decide to accept the duty of raising it with me as the father and provider. And if that happens, what are you going to do, huh? Shove your hand inside her womb and abort the baby yourself? You can’t do anything!” Aventurine cackled at the thought of Sunday trying to get rid of the baby inside you or convincing you to do it and pathetically being defeated.

“Maybe I’ll fire her. I can’t afford to have a secretary who’s going to birth a disgusting Avgin nor can she afford her life without the salary I give her… It’s a fair trade!” Sunday threatened enthusiastically, although in his mind he knew he’d never do that to you.

“Oh, really? And make her hate you forever? What a stupid way to give me the opportunity to finally imprison her with me, Sunday! Maybe she’ll learn how great it is to have me as her sugar daddy…” Aventurine threw himself in the chair and I’m his arms in the arm as if he was receiving a gift from Sunday.

“Or maybe I’ll take the matter to my own hands and marry her with me before you. And trust me, gambler, I’ll make sure you have the lowest share of custody, or maybe even none. I’m the head of the Family Oak. I own this whole planet in the palm of my hand.” Sunday also rose his hands in the air and inflated his chest, trying to demonstrate the size of the power he owns.

“Yet, you can’t stop the woman you love from fucking with other men.” Aventurine hummed some giggles while Sunday had to stop himself again to impede his brain from picturing that scenario. “I would rather die than let a baby of my blood to be raised by you. To be raised like a mere annoyance in the house… forever incapable of making his daddy proud of him because he’s not his real son… destined to be overshadowed by his future siblings… Both Y/N and the baby would be happier to have me taking care of them instead of you.” Aventurine’s tone deepened again, his arms lowering sown to his knees and gripping them to control himself.

“I will not lose Y/N to you, gambler. I don’t care if that baby would not be the happiest one in the world. I refuse to let you have her for another single minute of your life with those dirty hands of yours.” Sunday spat his prejudice for the gambler with no remorse.

“Oh-ho? Are you afraid I’m a better womanizer than you, Mr. Head of the Family? That my ‘dirty hands’ are capable to make Y/N moan my name in a volume you’ll never be able to get out of her?” Aventurine stared at the deepest corners of Sunday’s eyes.

“Quiet.” Sunday hissed barely above a whisper.

“That my fingers will penetrate that wet pussy of hers while I devour her throbbing clit with my dirty Avgin mouth? Oh, yeah, I’ve already done that!” Aventurine brought a hand closer to Sunday, only to thrust the air with his ring-finger and middle-finger a few times, pretending it was your pussy.

“Shut. Your. Mouth.” Sunday made sure to pronounce every syllable of his order slowly, exciting Aventurine to keep teasing him even further.

Sunday’s cheeks were reddening with arousal as he couldn’t hold back the few pictures his brain illustrated for him of Y/N’s naked body being touched by Aventurine, meanwhile the gambler moved his hands to his body and started brushing his own body in a suggestive way.

“Ohh~… Aventurine..! You feel sooo good around me~… Oh, right there..! Fuck me right there, Aven..!” Sunday’s fingers gripped on the table’s cloth as if that was the only thing keeping him from having a boner on his own, trying to force himself to focus on the gambler’s threat rather than his pathetic teasing. “Ah, yes~! Touch me, Aventurine! Touch me!” Aventurine put his own palms on his own breasts and gently fondled them, which made Sunday feel so disgusted he slightly backed away from the pervert in front of him.

“Do you seriously think acting like this is going to annoy me?” Sunday bluffed, betraying his own mindset. “I must thank you for the spoilers, though.” He shrugged his shoulders, pretending there wasn’t a noticeable tent growing in his pants.

“See? Even you recognize you’ll never be her first in anything because I’ve been there first!” Aventurine dropped his act, jumping back to the table, leaning over to challenge Sunday with a creepy expression and a proud smile. “Every Saturday night, when you decided to send her a ‘Goodnight’ message and ask how she was doing, I was already pining her down on her own bed and taming her pussy.” Sunday’s mind was unfortunately too attracted to that scenario, forcing himself to think about it.

Thinking about your insides being stretched by the gambler, your breasts fondled by the gambler, your pretty moans being listened by the gambler, your mouth kissing the gambler, your clothes being taken off by the gambler…

All by that stupid gambler, and not him.

“Focus, Sunday. Focus. Focus on the gambler.” Sunday thought to himself.

“Sometimes I even answered you for her, y’know? Sending you a ‘Goodnight’ with cute a heart sticker, pretending to be your dear woman while the real one was gagging on my cock.” Sunday’s eyes widened as he heard that disgusting confession.

Every time you talked to him at nighttime, Sunday would think about what were you possibly doing while texting him. Maybe you were changing yourself into your pijamas, specifically a beautiful nightgown of his favorite kind. Maybe you were kicking your feet and your cheeks were red because you were talking so intimately with your sweet and handsome boss.

How did you even save his contact as? Most likely ‘Mr. Oak’ or maybe ‘Mr. Sunday’ because of your professional relationship with him, but maybe it is something more friendly like ‘Sunday’ or ‘Sunday ❤️’.

But now all those fantasies that made fall in love with you even harder, were crushed by the gambler’s words, and he was really hoping the man was just bluffing to annoy him.

“You disgusting piece of crap..! You had no right to do that!” He hissed as his mind pictured more and more dirty illustrations.

“Seeing you smirk at me every time I passed her to you, thinking you were in charge of her and that I was losing precious time with her, made me want to laugh. Poor you..! You had absolutely no idea! You could’ve died without knowing!” Aventurine started cackling as he saw Sunday’s destroyed ego.

Sunday couldn’t believe it either. The gambler was right, and he did not plan on ever admitting it. To think that he has been interpreting you so wrongly all along and that that Aventurine was taking advantage of his foolishness was making him ache in need for revenge.

It was embarrassing to see a man of his level of money, power and intelligence to commit such a rookie mistake, of letting your weekends free of his obsessiveness and stalking, and find himself in the edge of losing to someone so weaker than him.

But Aventurine didn’t notice Sunday’s breathing becoming louder and louder.

“That’s why I had to show you the truth. To show you who is truly in the lead.” Aventurine unexpectedly leaned closer to Sunday until he was a few centimeters away from his right ear, invading his personal space. “That’s why I made a little hole in my condom before going to her home and ejaculated a lot of sperm inside that pussy when we were having sex. Thousands of my little spermatozoids… finding a way out of that rubber barrier and swimming their way inside her womb, claiming ‘your’ territory…” Sunday shit his eyes, trying to control his painfully quick heartbeats while Aventurine kept enjoying the mental torture. “And trust me, Sunday, despite her not knowing what I had planned for her, she was the one that kept begging for me to keep fucking her and to cum inside her again. Not a single cell of her body wants you—” Sunday unexpectedly unchained himself from the chair, violently grabbing Aventurine’s collar by his green uniform and fisting his knuckles across his cheek.

Sunday just couldn’t deal with his own imaginations anymore.

It hurt him to imagine you not desiring for him to touch you that way. The same way you’ve allowing the gambler to do. It couldn’t be true. He knew he could make you feel as good as the gambler did. All that he was missing was courage to ask you out. To think of Aventurine having the privilege to watch you during sex, giggling about Sunday’s obnoxiousness. To think of the gambler fucking you right in front of him, conquering your heart, and you enjoying it rather than asking him to stop and to saves by Sunday.

Even if it was just a dark fantasy. A horror one. One that would never come to be true, if it depended on you at least, he smacked Aventurine’s face as if he wanted to avoid that possibility as much as he could. He did not want that scum making someone like you fall in love with it anymore.

Although the punch itself wasn’t hard enough to make Aventurine drop his smirk, it was surely made him roll down from the table and vulnerably land on the floor along with a few cards, chips and one of the wine glasses, that broke as soon as it touched the ground, and Sunday throwing himself on top of him.

“YOU WRETCHED DOG!” Sunday kept attempting to spank Aventurine, who allowed himself to receive every single punch like a masochist while laughing at how Sunday snapped. “YOU HAD NO RIGHTS TO DO THAT TO Y/N!” Everyone in the casino already had their bodies turned to both men, some had even stood up to have a better view of the scene going on, all the whispers accumulating onto each other again.

“What’s going on?!”

“Are they fighting?!”

“Why are they fighting?!”

“Did Sunday Oak lose a bet?!”

“Who is Y/N?”

“They know each other?!”

“Punching me… won’t undo what has been done, Sunday! She’s pregnant! 100% pregnant!” Finally, Aventurine got bored of Sunday’s amateur boxing and rose his hands from the floor, clutched them around Sunday’s cranial wings, squeezing them hard to almost break its bones, and launched his forehead against Sunday’s.

“Who is pregnant?”

“This Y/N person is pregnant?”

“For God’s sake, who’s Y/N?!”

Sunday moaned loud in pain, accidentally weakening his weight on top of Aventurine, who quickly pushed him away from the top and reverted the positions.

“She’s mine… all mine!” Despite the few blood drops running down his nostrils and red marks in his cheeks, Aventurine kept smirking as if he was having the biggest thrill of his life. “And I’ll make sure to keep impregnating her every time I need to remember you who is in the lead! Over and over again!” Aventurine made sure to whisper his words about you and guarantee that nobody would gossip about their conflict, or at least gossip it with all the context behind it.

Aventurine’s punches were way more painful compared to Sunday’s, which was causing him to become so pained and desperate that he couldn’t even react to it, nor hold the gambler back. He doesn’t really tell people that he’s quite stronger than he looks. Although his slim body and smaller height sell the contrary image, all the years he spent being a slave strengthened his muscles forever, unlike Sunday, who has never quite invested in giving himself a buffer body. And the many rings hanging in his fingers, made of multiple gems, were making it only worse.

Sunday started to panic. So many people were witnessing the worst side of him, the Head of the Family, the representative of their planet, being in a casino and initiating a fight on it, one that he was also pathetically losing. After he’s given so many speeches about the importance of peace and the abolishment of violence, he was the first one to opt for violence when the stakes of a fight got too high? Even if he found a way to avoid the situation to escape everyone’s mouth, it still wouldn’t hide the multiple bruises in his face, and that would immediately denounce that he got involved in a fight, whether being who started it or not. Injuries like hematomas and cuts can take weeks to fully heal depending on their depth. How would he hide that from his public? His dear little sister? Gopher? Or… you?

“Oh, fuck.” Sunday thought.

Had he just made a bad decision? Had he embraced his instincts rather than his critical thinking?

He couldn’t let himself lose his reputation or influence so easily. He’d be willing to beg for Aventurine’s mercy as long as his face remained intact. So, that’s why he did his best to turn his face to the side while his arms and cranial wings crossed on top of it to create a barrier between him and Aventurine.

“What is it, birdie? Are you scared?! Come on, punch me again, I dare you!” Aventurine teased as he started digging his hands under his protection and undo it.

But Sunday was way more focused on the miracle laying in the floor by his side. The cup that had previously fallen in the floor and was ignored by them had broken into many big shards of glass, all beautifully laying down by his side and going unnoticed by the gambler.

How fun would it be to stab the foul gambler?

One of Sunday’s arms slowly reached out to the glass, but it wasn’t long enough to grab it, his fingers slightly touching the pointy tip of the glass. And unfortunately, a single arm on its own wasn’t enough to impede Aventurine from breaking through his barrier and curl his both hands around his neck.

“Bye-bye, Mr. Oak…” Aventurine’s eyes only widened in pure joy the more he suffocated Sunday’s throat.

Sunday grunted and gasped, trying to salvage the remaining oxygen in his body while his single hand kept helplessly trying to fight him back and pull at least one of Aventurine’s arms away of his neck.

Aventurine was so invested in his own sadism, watching Sunday’s face contort and crumble, that he still didn’t realize what was his other arm doing, slowly pulling the glass closer to his palm bit by bit.

And when Sunday’s fingers were finally able to pull that piece of glass close enough to him, with a swift movement, Sunday was finally able to—

“ENOUGH!” Aventurine was suddenly pushed away from Sunday by a security guard, immediately making Sunday’s lungs fill themselves with the oxygen he had lost while the glass stabbed nothing but the air.

And with the assistance of incoming men, Aventurine was quickly struck on the floor with his belly turned down and his hand locked together behind his back.

“Smart move, birdie! But, don’t you see..? You don’t stand a chance against my luck!” Aventurine cackled while he was momentarily being cuffed while Sunday was still recovering from the murder attempt.

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU!” Sunday couldn’t stand seeing that smirky face of his anymore and quickly stood up again, getting up on his feet again just to launch himself on the gambler again, the shard of glass already prepared to stab him.

But Sunday was immediately held back by even more guards that arrived in the scene, every muscle of his arms being held back while his legs desperately kicked the air.

“N-No!” He grunted in agony while one of the guards that cuffed Aventurine begun moving to Sunday and undoing his grip on the shard, pulling it away from him after a few seconds.

Aventurine kept cackling at the scene he watching, loving to see Sunday losing all his power and dignity in front of so many people.

“I PROMISE YOU I’M GONNA KILL YOU WITH MY OWN HANDS ONE DAY, YOU MANIAC!” Sunday spat his violent threat while still trying to launch himself towards Aventurine.

“Lets settle the bet, then! Whoever kills each other first gets to keep Y/N forever! Fair trade, ain’t it?” The gambler rose his head to talk to Sunday more confidently.

“AND I’LL MAKE SURE YOUR DIRTY CLAN WILL BE ERASED FROM HISTORY!” Slowly, both men were dragged afar away from each other, Aventurine being set in a sofa while Sunday was kicked out of the casino, rolling down a few staircases before finally finding himself wormed on the floor.

“Oh, wanna raise the stakes?! If I’m the one who kills you, then… your little sister will be punished too~…” Sunday fumed in anger as he thought of the murder of his little sister.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE PUT ROBIN INTO THIS, YOU LITTLE SHIT!” Aventurine rolled his eyes in boredom with Sunday denying to raise the stakes of their bet.

“Get him out of my sight.” Aventurine looked at the guards and spoke more seriously, a smirk still displayed in his lips.

Sunday gasped when he begun being pulled away from his prey.

“YOU’RE DEAD, GAMBLER! DEAD!” Sunday made sure to state his final words before he was thrown in the streets.

Sunday rolled a few stairs down, ruining the perfect white color of his suit, but unfortunately he couldn’t stop to relax, ease the pain and fix himself because of the people that could be around him. So, he quickly got up from the floor and fled to a narrow corner between two tall buildings, surrounded by dark and trash and isolated him from anyone’s sight.

Meanwhile he fixed his suit, hair and face, while calling a cab to pick him up, Sunday kept insulting the gambler and even himself.

Sunday knew he should’ve asked you out long before all this situation, but he didn’t believe he had to do it since he didn’t think Aventurine’s competition was that dangerous. So, he preferred to wait until he believed you and him had developed a better friendship, and possibly sparked you to like him more than as a friend, a colleague or a boss.

But now, the race for your hand in marriage has started and Sunday is ready to cheat to win.

It doesn’t matter if he suffocates you with work.

It doesn’t matter if he has to kill Aventurine or the baby.

It doesn’t matter if he’ll not raise the baby without a lot of love and care.

It doesn’t even mattter if you don’t want to marry him in the first place.

He’ll win this bet.

Sequel

Taglist: @komelliko @gaboplaydespacito

Don’t forget to like and comment if you liked it! <3

1K notes · View notes

pha55ed · 7 months ago

Text

Nonsense Christmas || F1/F2

type :: smut!

tw/cw :: smut!, hot women in minimal clothing!!!, sexual jokes,

contains :: carlos, charles, lando, oscar, max, ollie, paul, pepe

summary :: you get offered to do a photoshoot for christmas which is awesome! but the drivers then find out it's a lingerie shoot and lose their minds

xmas celly here! || f1 masterlist || f2 masterlist

Carlos Sainz | 55

yourusername : so excited to announce my collab with savage x fenty! this design is so cute and perfect for girlys to surprise their bfs (or gfs) in! which is what im doing rn! hi carlos 👋😊

→ user 01: OH MY GAWWWD??? JAW ON THE FLOOR

⎯→ user 02: Carlos gotta be able to fight or else imma snatch her away

→ carlossainz55: you look lovely! (answer the phone now)

⎯→ yourusername: thank you!! (no, im scared

→ user 03: her face card is so lethal

→ user 04: she's this generations it girl omfg

The second you answered his calls, Carlos was hyperventilating. It was like you could practically hear how feral he was going after seeing your photoshoot. You couldn't help but smile at the thought of him going crazy. Your surprise went perfectly!

"I'm coming home now," He says sternly, "Unlock all the doors, I'm running in."

"Well that doesn't sound very safe." You say, trying to joke with him. Thank god he couldn't see you in person or else he would see how wide you were grinning at his words.

"Oh shut up, wait for me on the bed" He says as he hangs up.

You did your job and now all you had to do was wait- Oh my fucking god he's at the door already. You can't even say anything before he's all up on you, getting ready to berate you for looking too good for the world's eyes.

"I missed you" He mumbles as he kisses your neck eagerly. His hands roaming down to your ass, giving it a squeeze which makes you laugh. But he's not smiling at all. You knew what was gonna happen and you didn't care.

Charles Leclerc | 16

yourusername : the victoria secret winter showcase was such a blast! loved seeing all my girls again and esp all you guys! i wouldn't be here without you <3 happy holidays to all

→ user 01: MOTHER IS BACK!!!!

⎯→ user 02: Literally the best walk in the whole show

→ charles_leclerc: i will go to war for you

⎯→ user 03: she awoken his primal instincts

→ user 04: will we see you again??? u were SLAYINGGG

⎯→ yourusername: duh! see you next year <3

→ user 04: she's beautiful, humble, and with a rich boyfriend? when is it my turn

The second you got off stage, Charles was doing his absolute best to compose himself. Seeing you still in your lingerie set, cute little hat and gloves made him pants feel so tight. You kept wanting to say goodbye to all the girls, thanking the staff, being your usual self. This is the one time Charles was wishing you would keep your mouth shut and rush home.

Once you both were out, he rushed you into the car. But not the passenger seat, instead he pushed you into the back seats. He quickly followed you, unbuckling his belt and staring at your body.

"Charles!" You say, shocked at how desperate this man was. "We can't! People are gonna see-"

"And?" He says as he rips his belt off and begins to unbutton his shirt. "My windows are tinted, amor, no one will see."

He's hands are quick, instantly getting your clothes off too. Once he saw the same white lacy set you were wearing earlier, he can't help but grin like crazy. He was worshipping the ground you walked on. Practically licking your footsteps.

"I'm so so lucky," He groans, his hands caresses your body with such care. "So so lucky."

Lando Norris | 04

yourusername : skim's winter collection is out!!! And I'm part of it! So happy to show off these sets to the world ❤️

→ user 01: body is TEAAAA

⎯→ user 02: the body of my dream fr fr

→ landonorris: but when i wear ur bras I'm a slut???

⎯→ yourusername: u got no boobs to deserve a bra

⎯→ landonorris: so ur calling me skinnyyyyyyy?

→ user 03: slayed so hard that dinosaurs r extinct

⎯→ yourusername: don't blame me for that :(

→ user 04: can't believe lando is just... joking around... do u think this is a fucking game? you think this is funny? i will steal your girl and propose and start a family of 5.

⎯→ landonorris: trust me, we're gonna be a family of 5 once i'm home

And he wasn't joking about that comment because you two have been at it for almost an hour at this point. He was flipping you from position to position just to make sure he got every single angle of you in this lingerie set. Doggy, missionary, cowgirl, all sorts of positions that even Sabrina Carpenter hasn't tried.

He already cummed once too, but he was so horny that he was instantly recharged. Thankfully he was sane enough to help clean you up before pounding you once again. But that was the only break you had. You couldn't help but just feel bad for your neighbors for having to hear you two go wild.

But Lando isn't a monster! He knows that it can hurt after going for so long. So while your whining, begging him to slow down or give you a break for minute, he simply just reaches for the bedside drawer. He whips out a fat tube of lube and squirts some onto his dick before quickly getting back to work.

"L-Love you," He mumbles as he keeps thrusting in and out "Love you so much, ahh"

Oscar Piastri | 81

yourusername: let my inner princess out for Victoria Secret's Santa Baby collection! every piece is so precious, just like all the crew members and girls 💋

→ user 01: literally a goddess

⎯→ user 02: blessed by aphrodite herself

⎯→ user 03: she IS aphrodite

⎯→ yourusername: don't curse me girl 🙅‍♀️🙅‍♀️

→ user 04: ur such a ball of sunshine UGHHHH

→ user 05: i pray this doesn't get on my bf's feed

→ user 06: can oscar fight?

⎯→ oscarpiastri: no but i can dox you

You know "Jealous" by Nick Jonas? That's exactly how he's feeling right now. Seeing everyone admire not just your body but how lovely your energy is was making him want to burn the entire building down. He was so supportive of your being a model, how could he gate keep your beauty from the world?

But now, oh god he hates this. He rushes you both home after the shoot and instantly lays you on the bed. His mind is racing yet he's not saying much to you.

"Oscar?" You ask him, looking up at him from the bed. Which instantly makes his dick throb, something you see through his pants. Even just saying his name might drive him to the edge.

"If I cover you in hickies, you can't work anymore, right?" He says, taking off your top and rushing to unbutton your jeans.

"Don't do that," You say trying to sound stern but you did love the idea. "You know I have another shoot soon!"

"You have foundation," He says as he begins to kiss down your neck and pressing harsh circles on your clit "You'll live." He says as he pushes your panties to the side. Your breathing hitches, knowing how good he was with his fingers.

"Unless," He pulls his hands away and looks down at you. "you really don't want to?"

But he knows you want it, he just wanted to hear you say it. To know you were as needy for him that he was for you.

Max Verstappen | 01

yourusername: i WOULD be freezing cold but thank god for the skims fleece bodysuits!! happy holidays to all! may ur pussys be warm and used ⛷️

→ user 01: (Y/N)?!?!?!1 THE CAPTION

⎯→ user 02: i need to know if kim's reaction to this 😭

→ user 03: literally like a barbie doll

→ user 04: looked at myself and sighed

⎯→ yourusername: stalked ur page and found ur facebook, GIRL u go to stanford, have a nice ass house, AND A LETHAL ASS FACECARDDDD hush ur mouth, ur lovely

⎯→ user 04: omg thank you??!?!?!?!! 😭😭

⎯→ user 05: she's the ultimate girls-girls

→ user 06: if max doesn't comment soon i'mma assume she's free for me

→ maxverstappen1: sorry i was drooling, im only commenting to scare user 06 away

⎯→ user 06: im gonna hex you.

You fully unlocked mad max at these photos. Although the shoot was simple and not even super suggestive: he was fuming and needed to get it out. He was joking in the comments, but he’s already jacked off once to the photos.

And once he gets home, it’s over for you. You’re pinned against the wall, his lips going all over your body. Not an inch of you is left unkissed.

“Unbelievable” he said as he sneaks a hand behind your head, grabbing a fistful of your hair. He tugs you downwards, you already know that that means.

Instantly you’re on your knees, looking up at him as if you had no idea why he was so angry. That just made him even more angry. Which may or may not have been your intention.

He unbuckled his pants quickly, throwing the belt to the side and letting his pants fall down to his knees. Your hands already know to do and pull his boxers down. And you’re instantly hit with the sight of his hard cock, a veiny and thick one.

You’ve seen it many times before, but you always can’t help but stare in awe of how something that size of a wrist is fitting inside you.

“Don’t just stare at it.” He tugs your face directly into his dick, smushing your face against it. “Get to work.”

Oliver Bearman | 87

yourusername: so so so happy to modeling the newest set for my bestie's brand! i'm wearing... nothing... 😉 the real sets come out in a week! stay tuned MWAH

→ user 01: my whole face is PINK omg

⎯→ user 02: my tip is RED

⎯→ user 03: oh...

⎯→ user 02: i'm a girl, dw

→ user 03: ... start an onlyfans... please.... please please please

→ user 04: oh my godddddd, i dropped the keys to my 1962 Ferrari 250 GTO, oh I'm so clumsy! (I'm 6'0 too) (and pretty funny)

⎯→ olliebearman: and i drive for ferrari, at 6'1, whilst cracking jokes

Ollie knows his worth, he knows he's a highly sought after man. But he's never felt more insecure than now, reading your comments filled with not just men but also girls?! He had to fight off both sides, which made him feel even more weary that his girlfriend is so desired.

So the only way for him to stop his insecurities was easy! Just fuck it out of his system, duh! So now, you're stuck bent over in doggy style in the shower. Why the shower? Because he knew he would make an absolute mess out of you.

He's pounding into you, making loud slaps against the walls. It echos throughout the entire bathroom. You're sure your neighbors can hear but there's not much you can do. You're stuck being a moaning mess while he's holding onto your hips for dear life.

As if that wasn't enough, he leaned forward to whisper into your ear. "Never, never again..." He says, breathing heavy from being so tired, yet his body was moving on his own. "No one can see you like this, ever."

Paul Aron | 17

yourusername: "angel?" set is out now! so proud to be part of the process for this🪽 i did, indeed, feel like an angel

→ user 01: mind you this is my first impression of you... and i'm following asap

⎯→ user 02: i was prepared to fight u for a second

→ user 03: LAWWDDD??? I COULD TAKE A BITE OUTTA UR ASS

⎯→ user 04: enough ass to feed a whole family of 5

→ user 05: paul... count your days

⎯→ paularon_: what did i do???

⎯→ user 06: u better worship the ground she walks on

⎯→ paularon_: of course i do, that's my whole purpose

→ user 07: perfect body, gorgeous face, hot ass boyfriend, GOD HAS FAVORITES

Oh he's livid. Not because you did the shoot, how could he blame you for simply looking good? He knew he picked a baddie and was ready to take all the repercussions alongside it. But he was livid because the fans were practically drooling over you. He's a possessive guy, it's basically his middle name.

He won't get off you at all, as if he needs you like air. His comment wasn’t a lie, he was worshipping you just like he should. Leaving hickies all over your neck, sucking on your breast, fingering you until you cummed at least twice. And he's not even done.

It's like he's trying his best to tease himself for as long as possible. You see how huge his dick is, how it's practically drowning in it's own precum. But he refuses to fuck you until he knows you're satisfied.

He's mainly doing this because he knows he's going to cum fast. Just from giving you pleasure makes him want to cum already. Being inside would only make him last one thrust, maybe two if he's lucky.

You're tired, fucked out from his fingers and sore from his hickies. But he simply kisses your cheek before bringing his head down to your cunt.

"N-No," you say, so overstimulated and wanting to see him get pleasure too. "Paul, just... Just f-fuck me already"

"Shhh" He says, not giving a single care for what you have to say. As he licks your cunt. You shiver from the touch, already knowing you're going to stuck in that bed for hours.

Pepe Marti | 21

yourusername: was i cold? 😣 yeah, but it was so worth it! loved working with the crew to take these breath-taking shots, i've never felt prettier 💌

→ user 01: oh. my. GOD??????? THE BODY

⎯→ user 02: seeing her without a 10lbs hoodie hiding her is so weird but SO GOOD

⎯→ user 03: literally thought this was an entirely different girl

→ user 03: i'm putting u in my heart locket

⎯→ user 04: literally going to print this out onto my wall

→ user 05: pepe is so so SO FUCKING lucky

→ pepemartiofficial: my beautiful girl 😘

Although you were much more shy and reserved than others, seeing you do this shoot made him feel so proud of you. Every photo was stared at by him for hours, just loving every detail that makes you you. He can’t help but feel so lucky to have such a beautiful girl but see your confidence grow.

So now he’s fucking you gently, dick pushing against your stomach from how long he is. His head is in your neck while his hands are holding yours. Each thrust is slow and patient, making you feel each centimeter of him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he groans into your neck. “So so, proud” he barely mumbles that. Feeling the strong urge to cum.

Although fucking with him was gentle this time, you still came. He always made sure you were placed first. So now he’s basically just overstimulating you, going at an agonizing slow pace to just fuck with you.

“T-Than’ you.” You say to him, wanting to grab his hair or back. But you can’t, since you’re pinned down by his own hands that are interlocked with yours.

“Gonna cum,” he groans again into your neck also pathetically “Inside?” He begs “That’s okay right??”

#f1 #f2 #formula 1 #formula 2 #f1 x reader #f2 x reader #carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #lando norris x reader #oscar piastri x reader #max verstappen x reader #ollie bearman x reader #oliver bearman x reader #paul aron x reader #pepe marti x reader #f1 smut #f2 smut #f1 smau #f2 smau

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sparklingblu · 3 months ago

Text

Guess

ft. Wonyoung

“You are always on your playstation!”

Wonyoung’s at it again.

She stands in the doorway like some final boss you didn’t agree to fight - wearing a sleeveless halter-style crop top and denim shorts that let her long legs stretch halfway into your peripheral vision. Arms folded tight across her chest, one eyebrow arched, the full disapproval of a disappointed mom compressed into the expression of your stepsister.

You don’t even bother looking up from the screen. “Didn’t you just spend three hours doing a face mask and dancing in your room?”

She scoffs, walking in like she owns the place. “That was productive,” she declares, brushing past the pile of laundry she’s supposed to fold. “You’ve been in the same spot since, like, breakfast.”

“I was gonna make it to Diamond today…” you mutter, fingers locked around the controller as your eyes scan for movement on screen. Apex Legends. This was supposed to be the peaceful part of your day - parents gone on vacation for a week, fridges stocked, no one to nag you.

Correction: no adults to nag you.

“Ran out of things to do,” Wonyoung shrugs, now leaning against the side of the dining table. Her voice drops into a familiar drawl - the one that says she’s decided her new hobby is annoying the hell out of you. “You’re more fun than TikTok when you’re grumpy.”

“And you’re more annoying than a lag spike mid-fight,” you say, just as your character vaults into a crossfire and gets absolutely shredded. You groan, dropping your head back against the couch with a thud. “Are you serious? You made me die.”

“I breathed,” she says innocently, plopping down on the table. “That’s not a crime.”

You shoot her a look. “You’re a walking distraction.”

She smirks. “A cute one.”

You sigh, tossing the controller onto the table. “Alright, fine. What do you want to do, Your Highness?”

Wonyoung grins like she’s won a battle you didn’t even know you were fighting. “Now that’s the spirit. Let’s play a game.” She says, a mischievous glint lighting up her eyes.

You narrow yours in response. “What kind of game?”

“It’s simple,” she says, rummaging through a drawer and pulling out a scarf. “You blindfold me, feed me some fruit, and I guess what it is.”

You blink. “What.”

“It’s not that hard to understand, is it?”

You stare at her, and then at the scarf in her hands. “Is this another of your weird TikTok trends? Is there a hidden camera? Because I’m not getting cancelled for being a test dummy.”

Wonyoung snorts, rolling her eyes as she tosses the scarf at you. “No, genius. This one’s just something I saw in a variety show. Thought it would be funny.”

You raise a brow. "Funny for who?"

“I don’t know. Depends how bad your fruit selection is,” she says, moving to sit cross-legged on the couch, looking way too comfortable for your liking. “Come on. I’m bored, you’re not ranking up any time soon, and the fridge is basically a produce section waiting to be useful.”

You sigh, glancing longingly at your paused game screen. Yeah. You were really starting to regret asking what she wanted to do.

“Fine,” you mutter, getting up with the enthusiasm of someone heading to a war zone. “But you better leave me alone after this.”

“No promises,” Wonyoung says sweetly, dismissing you with a wave of her hand.

You trudge into the kitchen, muttering under your breath the whole way. This was supposed to be a peaceful, game-filled holiday. No chores. No chaos. And definitely no blindfolded guess-the-fruit game with your bratty stepsister.

The fridge hums as you open it. Inside, lined up neatly in their little Tupperware containers - probably arranged by your mom before they left - are the fruits of your impromptu challenge: strawberries, blueberries, kiwi, mango…

And then you spot it.

A lemon.

Sliced and peeled, its bright yellow wedges sitting there like temptation itself.

You smirk. “Perfect.”

You grab a handful of each and toss them into a bowl, then make your way back into the living room, where Wonyoung is still sitting on the couch like she’s at a sleepover from hell. She cranes her head at the sound of your footsteps.

“About time,” she says. “You pick the ripest mango, or are you stalling?”

“No. I just wanted to make sure I had something special for you,” you reply, holding up the scarf with an evil little flourish. “Alright, come here.”

Wonyoung drops to her knees, her long hair falling down her back as she lifts her chin, blindly obedient for once. You loop the scarf around her head and pull it snug - maybe a little too snug.

“Hey! Not that tight,” she protests, wriggling a little.

“If you can’t see, you can’t cheat,” you say. “Rules are rules.”

She huffs. “Like I’d want to cheat. I’m just better than you at everything, naturally.”

You chuckle under your breath, giving the knot a final tug. “We’ll see about that.”

She sticks out her tongue at you blindly, which somehow feels very on-brand. You set the bowl on the couch and lean in close.

“Ready?”

Wonyoung tilts her face up, lips parted slightly in expectation, blindfold on, hands resting neatly on her lap like she’s waiting for royalty to be served.

You pick out a slice of strawberry first - safe, soft, sweet. You gently press it to her lips.

She takes it without hesitation, chewing thoughtfully for all of two seconds.

“Strawberry,” she declares confidently.

You raise an eyebrow. “Lucky guess.”

She scoffs. “Please. That one was way too easy. Try harder.”

Alright then.

You go for a kiwi next. A little tangier, but still nothing wild. You plan the piece onto her waiting tongue, watching as she chews with a smug little smile forming on her face.

“Kiwi,” she says, almost yawning through it.

You lean back slightly, arms crossed. “You sure you are not peeking under there?”

“Maybe you are just bad at picking hard ones,” she shoots back, tilting her chin up like she’s ready for the next round. “This is way too easy. You’ll have to step it up if you want to beat me.”

Your smirk widens. “Oh, don’t worry. I plan to.”

You reach into the bowl, and pick out a slice of lemon. If she wants it to be hard, you will make it hard. You line it up to her lips, and she takes it without suspicion.

The moment it touches her tongue, her whole body jerks.

Her face scrunches like she’s been electrocuted, eyebrows drawn together, lips pursed as she lets out a muffled curse. “What the fuck was that?!”

You burst out laughing. “What? I thought the game was too easy?”

“You are the worst,” she sputters, spitting out the last of the sour pulp.

“And you’re the one who wanted to play,” you shrug, still laughing. “It’s ok if you want to back out now. I understand.”

She snorts. “As if I would. Come on. Give me another. But you better make it a good one.”

You look down at your stepsister, still on her knees, mouth open and ready for the next “fruit”. And you realize, at this moment, she looks no different from a prostitute waiting for a facefuck.

An idea forms in your mind - why don’t you have real fun with this game? This bratty slut of a sister has done nothing but ruin your holiday. She deserves to be punished.

Slowly, you unzip your pants and pull out your hard, throbbing cock. It has already grown to full length from your not-so-innocent imaginations, the tip leaking with pre-cum. And more importantly, it’s the last thing she expects.

“Here’s the next one for you to taste,” you say smoothly, gripping the base and guiding it towards her waiting mouth. “Open wide.”

For a split second, Wonyoung hesitates at the glee in your voice. Then her lips part eagerly, tongue darting out to welcome you inside. You thrust forward, pushing your cock past her lips and onto her tongue.

She gags a little at the sudden intrusion but quickly adjusts, swirling her tongue around as she takes you deeper, desperately searching for a clue about the foreign object in her mouth. Little does she know that it’s doing more good to you than her. The wet heat of her mouth feels incredible and you have to suppress a moan.

“Mmm, what do you think it is?” you ask, pulling back slightly to let her speak.

“B-bana-na,” she mumbles around your cock, bobbing her head to take you further. Her hands come to grip your thigh for balance as she continues to suck your tip in an attempt to decipher the mysterious “fruit”.

You smirk down at her, amused by her obliviousness. “Wrong,” you chuckle darkly, shoving your cock back into her mouth and down her throat. She gags and sputters, drool dripping down her chin, but you hold her there, reveling in the way her throat constricts around you.

“Guess again,” you growl, starting to thrust shallowly, fucking her pretty little face. She gurgles, tears streaming down her cheek, then pulls back just enough to gasp out.

“C-cucumber?” she stutters, confused.

You pause, debating whether she’s just acting clueless or genuinely dumb enough not to know a cock is in her mouth. The way her brows furrow in confusion suggests the latter, but you can’t be sure.

“Wrong again,” you say flatly, holding her head steady as you slowly slide your cock in and out of her mouth. “You know what it is, don’t you? Don’t play innocent.”

Wonyoung makes a muffled noise of protest, trying to pull back. But you tighten your grip on her hair, forcing her to take your cock deeper. “Nngh…I-don’t….know…” she whimpers, gagging as you hit the back of her throat.

You snort derisively. “You’re not backing down, are you? Not my little sister, the one who’s better at everything than me.”

There. You have hit her sore spot. You know Wonyoung’s ego is bigger than her head. Even if she’s out of her depth, she’ll never admit defeat.

You take advantage of her hesitation, starting to fuck her mouth in earnest. Wonyoung gags and spatters, hands scrabbling at your thighs as you use her face. Her face is a mess of tears and saliva but she doesn’t try to pull away, determined to endure.

“Good girl,” you purr mockingly, thrusting harder. “Tell me when you know what it is. At least you are getting an A+ for effort.”

Wonyoung just whimpers, drool streaming down her chin as she struggles to breathe through her nose. But she shows no signs of quitting, despite the degrading filth coming out of her mouth and the overwhelming sensation of being choked by your thick cock. Afterall, nothing can be worse than defeat.

You suddenly force your cock all the way down her throat, stretching her gag reflex to the limit. She slaps frantically at your thigh, coughing and choking around your cock as it invades her airway.

But there’s no room for mercy here. You hold her there, relishing in the feeling of her throat squeezing your cock, silencing her protests. Tears stream down her face as she struggles for air, nose pressed firmly against your pelvis.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally pull back. Wonyoung coughs violently, heaving and sputtering as she gasps and retches.

“Giving up already?” you ask, cock still rock hard and glistening with her spit.

If she isn’t blindfolded, you are sure she would be glaring. “Fuck you,” she rasps, voice hoarse from the abuse. “I’m not giving up. Just…let me try again.”

You smirk down at her, almost impressed with her insistence. “Oh? You want another taste?”

Wonyoung swallows hard, nodding mutedly. You grip her hair, yanking her head back and shoving your cock back into her mouth without warning.

“Mmph!” Wonyoung gasps as you bottom out in her throat, forcing her to take every inch. You start fucking her face again, determined to push her to her limits.

“Take it slut,” you growl, setting a punishing pace. “You wanted to play this game, so fucking take it like the whore you are.”

You have abandoned any shred of gentleness, fucking her face with brutal intensity. Wonyoung claws at your thighs as she’s used like a cheap fleshlight. But nonetheless, she persists. The lack of air can’t be more important than her pride.

Her defiances only spurs your on and you set a brutal pace, fucking her face like a man possessed. Your hips snap forward violently, slamming your cock into her throat over and over.

“Fuck, your little throat feels so good,” you grunt, holding her head steady as you ravage her mouth. “Take it all, you dumb slut. Let me use your face like the whore you are.”

The filthy wet sound of your fucking fill the room, punctuated by Wonyoung’s muffled gugrles and choking noises. You can feel her throat constricting around you, fighting the intrusion. But you don’t let up, slamming balls deep and grinding against her face. “Fuck, look at you. Choking on my cock like a slut. You are fucking pathetic.”

Wonyoung whimpers, hands scrabbling weakly at your thighs. But you just laugh, fucking her harder. “Oh no, you don’t get to quit now. We’re not done yet until I say we are done.”

You set a brutal pace, pounding into her tight throat like a jackhammer. Wonyoung’s toes curl, her body growing limp as she’s facefucked into oblivion. You can feel your orgasm building, balls drawing up tight. But you hold back, wanting to humilitae her one last time.

You yank her off your cock, letting her gasp for air. But before she can breathe, you slap your thick shaft against her tongue, smacking it obscenely.

“Come on, stupid,” you sneer. “You really don’t know what this is? How fucking dumb are you?”

“You mother-” But before she can finish protesting, you shove your cock back into her mouth, muffling her curses. She gags and sputters around your length in shock and humiliation.

You fuck her face with renewed vigour, grunting as you near your peak. “Open wide, slut. You are gonna know what this fruit is now.”

With a final brutal thrust, you bottom out in her throat, spurting thick ropes of cum directly into her stomach. She chokes and retches, gagging on the sudden flood of semen, but you hold her in place, forcing her to swallow every last drop. Only when you’re completely spent do you release her, letting her fall back gasping and heaving.

Wonyoung’s throat is red and raw, her lips swollen and bruised. Cum and saliva drip from her chin to the floor. She looks thoroughly used, a broken mess.

You admire your filthy work, tucking yourself away. “Now do you know what it is?”

It takes a while for Wonyoung to catch her breath.

“E-eggplant?”

#kpop smut #male reader #girl group smut #kpop fanfic #ive smut #wonyoung smut #izone smut

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arixella · 2 months ago

Text

Breaking Law

╰┈➤ pairing: Traflgar Law x female! reader

a/n: : woah.

summary: In the hidden hum of the Polar Tang, you push Law past his breaking point, leaving him loud, wrecked, and utterly yours.

wc: 620

contains: smut, dominant/teasing dynamic, public risk, rough sex, mild dirty talk, affectionate teasing afterward.

The hum of the Polar Tang beneath you was steady, rhythmic — but not nearly as distracting as the sound of him.

Trafalgar Law was buried deep inside you, hishands gripping your hips like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality, panting harshly against your neck.

His breath hitched, a groan tearing from his throat - louder than usual. Raw. Unfiltered.

"You're louder than the damn engines tonight," you murmured into his ear, voice laced with mischief.

His hips stuttered, then slammed forward in response, a deep, broken fuck echoing off the steel walls of the utility room he'd pulled you into. Tools rattled on their hooks from the force of it. Your back arched, body stretching under the sharp contrast of cold metal and his fever-hot skin.

"Don't test me," he growled, but even his warning was shaky, coated in the kind of need he usually kept locked up tight behind sharp eyes and tighter control.

But not tonight.

Tonight, Law wasn't the calm, collected surgeon. Tonight, he was losing it - unraveling against you, inside you, because of you.

"You like this, huh?" you teased, running your hands down his sweat-slicked back, nails dragging lightly just to hear him gasp again.

"You like how tight I am... how I squeeze around you every time you moan like that?"

A guttural noise spilled from him, his grip bruising now, pace brutal. He shoved your legs higher around his waist and fucked you harder, each thrust punctuated with another moan - deep, dark, and filthy. His lips brushed your ear, breath coming in hot bursts.

"Don't— don't say shit like that right now," he gasped, voice rasping into a whimper as you clenched around him on purpose. "You're gonna — fuck— make me_"

"Lose control?" you whispered.

He slammed into you, deep and punishing, biting down on your shoulder to muffle the sound he made - but not enough. It still spilled out: a desperate, beautiful cry of pleasure you'd never heard from him before.

It made your whole body thrum.

"You sound so good like this," you whispered, lips brushing his temple, fingers threading into his hair. "I want the whole damn crew to know who's making you fall apart."

Law groaned, jaw tight as his rhythm faltered.

He was close - and from the way his body trembled against yours, he was fighting it. But you knew how to tip him over.

"You always act so composed," you panted, tugging his hair. "But when you're inside me like this? You're mine. And you love it."

He came with a strangled moan, hips jerking deep, cock pulsing inside you as he spilled everything with one final, wrecked sound. His breath hitched, and he nearly collapsed against you, forehead resting on your shoulder as he shivered through the last waves.

The silence after was thick. His hands slid to your waist, a little gentler now. Still catching his breath.

You smiled, dragging your fingers through the damp hair at the nape of his neck. "Bet the crew's gonna have questions."

He groaned.

"If I hear one word from Shachi or Penguin, I'm Rooming you straight into the ocean."

You grinned. “Worth it”.

♡♡♡

#anime #one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece law #trafalgar law #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #law x you #law x y/n #trafalgar law smut #law smut

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cupidsworstcrime · 3 months ago

Text

Jason Todd x dom f!reader

inspo - for the anonnie that asked so nicely

this is a random collection of sub!jason scenes ive written. cause im bored

contains spanking & mommy kink (sub jason is such a mamas boy and im taking that to my grave, you can pry needy boy jason out of my cold dead hands)

He pretended to fight it.

“Don’t you fucking dare—”

But the second you grabbed his wrist and sat on the edge of the bed with that look in your eyes, Jason Todd—the Red Hood himself—stumbled straight into obedience.

Because you weren’t playing. Not really.

You tugged him forward.

He grumbled. Bitched. Rolled his eyes.

But when you bent him over your lap, he didn’t resist.

His face hit the blanket with a sigh he tried to cover as a groan. His hips were tense, his hands fisting the sheets.

“You really think this’ll do something for me?” he muttered.

You smoothed a hand over the curve of his ass—grinning as he twitched.

“You tell me.”

Smack.

The first one was gentle. Barely more than a firm tap.

He jerked anyway.

“You—!”

Smack.

A little harder. You watched his shoulder blades shift, a low breath slipping from his lips.

“Jason,” you cooed. “Still wanna act like this isn’t getting to you?”

He didn’t answer. But his hips shifted just enough for you to see the outline in his sweats. Obvious. Wanting.

So you kept going.

Soft spanks between harder ones. Your hand soothing, then striking. He gasped. Swore under his breath. Gritted his teeth. But never told you to stop.

“Color me surprised,” you murmured, scratching your nails along the reddened skin. “You’re really into this, huh?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled.

But it was weak* Shaky. His ears were pink. His thighs tensed with every slow touch between swats.

You leaned close to his ear.

“Say ‘please.’”

He groaned, full-body, low and wrecked. His pride dangled by a thread, and when he finally whispered:

“Please…”

"Please what, baby?"

"...Please ma'am...."

You swore you felt his cock twitch against your thigh.

You let him up when he was panting—chest rising, face flushed, lips parted.

He couldn’t look at you. Wouldn’t. Just flopped beside you and buried his face in the blanket.

“Shut up,” he mumbled again.

You didn’t say a word.

Just ran your fingers through his hair while he came down from it—melting under your touch, his ego scattered in the sheets behind him.

And he’d never admit it.

But he hoped you'd do it again.

Maybe harder.

Maybe next time… he'd call you something filthier than “ma’am.”

He starts off strong. Confident. Pushes you down on the bed with a smirk like he didn’t melt over your lap last time.

“Yeah? You like being bossy, sweetheart?” he grins. “Let’s see how you like it when I take the reins.”

He climbs over you, muscles tense, eyes dark—but not angry. Hungry. His hands skim your waist, his voice drops.

“Gonna make you beg, baby.”

But two minutes in?

Your fingers dig into his hips, your mouth brushes his throat, and he shudders. His pace stutters. You roll your hips just right and suddenly—

“Fuck—wait—don’t—ah—”

His words are breathy. Loose. Falling apart.

And then you're teasing again.

“You sure you’re the one in charge, baby?”

He growls. Tries to flip the script. Tightens his grip on your wrists like it helps.

But then you say:

“You gonna beg again, pretty boy?”

And his whole body reacts.

His breath catches. His eyes flutter. He whines—actually whines—and buries his face in your neck.

You grin.

“Poor thing,” you whisper. “You’re so easy to ruin now.”

And he is. Because when you wrap your legs around him and pull, his strength is nothing next to how bad he wants it—how much he craves you. Not just the sex, but the way you see him, the way you touch him like he's precious and yours.

“Fuck—please,” he pants, rutting into you, voice high, desperate. “Don’t stop, just—please—"

He doesn't even realize he's begging until it's too late.

And he hates how much he loves it.

Afterward, he lays there—boneless, panting, wrecked—his forehead against your chest and his ego shattered into stardust.

You run your nails up his spine and kiss his hairline.

“Still think you’re the one in control?”

He groans.

“You’re never letting me live this down, are you?”

No. No, you’re not.

And he’s never been more in love.

It started as a joke. A throwaway comment.

“What’s the matter, baby? Need Mommy to take care of you?”

He froze.

A beat. A shiver. Then the quietest:

“…yeah.”

And that was it.

At first, he’s holding on—tense arms, furrowed brow, trying to act like he’s in control. But the second you start cooing at him, fingers tight in his hair, praising him just so sweetly?

He’s done.

“Such a good boy, my sweet boy,”

“Look at you, taking Mommy so well,”

“You don’t need to think, baby, let me do it for you.”

And he whimpers.

He’s not speaking in sentences anymore. Just broken little sounds—gasps and moans, half-formed pleas.

He says “Mommy” once with a sob in his voice and it flips something in you. So you lean down and purr it back.

“That’s right, baby. Say it again.”

And he does. Again and again—until it’s not even full words anymore.

“M-Ma—Mama—please, I can’t—”

You stroke his flushed cheeks with your knuckles, praise spilling from your lips like holy water while his eyes glass over. He’s trembling—beautiful and desperate, hips rocking mindlessly as you guide him toward the edge.

“Shh, shhh, it’s okay, sweetheart. Mommy’s got you. You’re perfect, you’re doing so good—such a good boy.”

Tears slip down his face. He’s not even embarrassed. Just holding you tight, breathing you in like air, nodding with wide eyes and wet lashes.

"Love you, love you, need you, Mama—”

And when he finally breaks? It’s with your name in a gasp and a sob, clinging to you like you’re the only thing holding him together.

Later, when he’s curled up against you, totally wrecked, you whisper:

“Didn’t know you were such a little Mommy’s boy.”

He grumbles, hiding his face in your chest. But his hips twitch.

“…fuck you.”

“You did, baby. So well.”

And he melts again.

He tries to pretend it’s fine. That it was a one-time thing. That he didn’t come undone in your hands, babbling and begging with tears in his eyes.

But the minute you scratch the back of his neck or kiss the hinge of his jaw just right? His whole body tenses.

And he goes quiet.

Not brooding Jason quiet—bratty, needy Jason quiet.

The kind where his eyes are heavy, cheeks pink, and you know he’s already spiraling.

“You okay, baby?”

“…m’fine.”

Liar.

The second you tug him into your lap—yes, lap, this man is heavy but obedient—and whisper a soft “Good boy,” he melts. One hand in his hair and the other stroking his thigh, and he’s sinking into it like a fucking prayer.

He doesn’t even notice he’s whispering it until it slips out again—

“…Mama…”

You feel him freeze against you, like he could claw his soul back into his body if he tries hard enough.

“You said it again.”

“…no I didn’t.”

“Oh, baby. You did.”

You tilt his chin up, and he whines. Pink all the way to his ears.

You could ruin him right there again, and he knows it.

Later, when you're tangled together in bed, he’s curled up in your chest, hands possessively clutching your hips.

“Didn’t even know I could feel like that,” he mumbles. “Didn’t know I wanted to.”

And you just stroke his hair, murmuring,

“That’s okay, baby. Mama knows what you need.”

He shivers. Bites his lip.

But he doesn’t deny it this time.

You’re lying together, the soft glow of moonlight spilling over the bed, the hum of the city just outside your window. He’s been asleep for about an hour, still tangled in your sheets, body pressed up against yours.

At first, he’s calm—silent in his slumber. But then, in the stillness of the night, you hear it. Just a whisper.

“Mama…”

Your breath catches. He’s not awake, not fully. It’s just a soft, murmured confession, but it’s so full of need, so full of him, that you can’t ignore it.

You smile softly, rubbing your hand through his hair, playing with the ends. You could ruin him again, could wake him up and pull him back into that desperate little boy he’s trying to deny, but instead, you let him sleep.

But you can’t help yourself. You press a kiss to his forehead.

“I’ve got you, baby.”

His face twitches, a sigh slipping from his lips, and his hand instinctively wraps around you tighter, like he’s afraid you might disappear. It’s adorable—your tough, broken Red Hood, shivering in his sleep at the thought of losing you. You think, maybe, if he did wake up, he’d be too ashamed to admit it.

But right now, he’s safe. And that’s all that matters.

The next day, it’s like nothing happened. He’s still the same, stubborn, cocky Jason Todd you know—sarcastic quips and teasing jabs thrown in your direction like they’re second nature. He’s acting all tough again, but there’s a subtle edge to it.

He can’t hide the way he’s looking at you—his eyes softer, not quite as guarded, as if he knows he doesn’t have to pretend. And you notice—his hand keeps brushing against yours whenever you’re near, like he’s testing the waters, waiting for you to remind him who’s really in charge.

He doesn’t expect it when you tease him.

“You’re acting so bratty today,” you murmur with a sly grin, catching his eyes.

He smirks back, though there’s a nervous edge to his smile.

“I’m not—what are you talking about?”

But you can tell by the way his hands are fidgeting, by the way his jaw clenches, that he’s not as calm as he wants you to think.

So you step forward, so close he can feel the heat of your body.

“Do I need to put my good boy in his place?” you purr, your voice low, teasing.

His whole body freezes. His eyes flicker to yours, and for a moment, you can see that war raging inside him—half of him wants to throw a smart comment back, but the other half? The other half is aching, desperate for you to take control again.

His hands ball into fists, but he doesn’t move away. He doesn’t even try.

“You’re—goddammit,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. He’s already gone, undone by just a few words.

You can see the tension coil in him, his breath hitching slightly. You’ve got him right where you want him. But you decide to push a little further.

“You need me to remind you who’s in charge, baby?”

He breathes out slowly, eyes dark, but this time, he doesn’t pull away. He swallows hard.

“…Yeah,” he whispers.

And that’s all you need. You step closer, running your hand over his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath your touch. You lean in, just a breath away from his lips, and whisper one last thing:

“Good boy.”

And just like that? He’s lost again. You’ve undone him—completely.

That night, when he’s curled against you, you hear it again.

“Mama…”

But this time, it’s not a whisper. He’s awake now, groggy, blinking at you through the dark, eyes glazed over with sleep and want.

You press your lips to his forehead, your thumb tracing over his cheek.

“I’ve got you, baby,” you murmur, soothing him back to sleep.

And this time, he doesn’t fight it. He nuzzles against your chest, his hand wrapped tightly around you as if you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He’s not even embarrassed anymore. It’s just you and him.

“I love you, Mama,” he mumbles softly, his voice thick with sleep.

Your heart swells. He’s yours. Completely.

You press one last kiss to his head and whisper softly, “I love you too, baby.”

And as he drifts back into sleep, you both know it’s only a matter of time before the cycle starts again. The teasing, the control, the sweet surrender.

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

He was quiet at first—staring at you with that unreadable expression, hands fisted in the sheets.

But his body? His body betrayed him.

You could feel the tension in his shoulders. The heat in his chest. He wasn’t fighting anymore. He wanted this, needed this.

You watched him closely. His movements slower now, like he was afraid that one wrong move would have you pulling away.

“You’re going to follow every single command I give you tonight, aren’t you?” you asked softly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.

He didn’t hesitate this time.

“Yes,” he breathed. Quiet. Almost too quiet, like the confession itself was a secret, something too intimate to voice.

You smiled. That’s what you wanted to hear. So you slid closer to him, brushing your fingers along his jawline, letting the weight of your touch sink in.

“Good boy.”

He exhaled sharply—like he couldn’t believe it was happening. Like he’d been dying for you to say those words for far too long.

But you weren’t done yet.

You placed your hand on his chest, making sure he was looking right at you. His gaze met yours, intense, vulnerable.

“Take off your shirt. Slowly.”

Jason swallowed, a slight tremor in his hands as he obeyed. His body was perfect—strong, scarred, but perfect. He was so fucking beautiful, and the way he took his time, like he was savoring every second of your attention, made you ache with the need to claim him.

He never once looked away, not even when his hands fumbled at the waistband of his pants. He wanted you to guide him. To tell him how to do it. How to strip for you.

You whispered, “Good boy, Jason. Now. Pants off. All the way.”

And like the obedient puppy he’d become, he did exactly what you said. He took off his jeans, laid out before you, chest heaving as his face flushed. His cock was already hard, his body responding eagerly to your commands.

You smirked at him, that familiar power creeping back, the knowledge that you had him exactly where you wanted him.

He couldn’t even look you in the eyes anymore. His gaze drifted to the floor, face burning with embarrassment, but his cock stayed hard, aching for your touch.

“Touch yourself,” you ordered, voice low and controlled. “I want to see you touch yourself.”

He hesitated just a moment—his usual resistance slipping away.

Then, with a shaky breath, Jason obeyed. His hand wrapped around his cock, starting slow. His breath hitched, but he didn’t stop.

You watched him carefully, every twitch in his body making your pulse race.

“Good boy,” you whispered. “Just like that.”

He shuddered, his hand speeding up, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

He was desperate.

And you were the one who had broken him. Completely.

“Please, mama,” he gasped, eyes searching yours. “Tell me what to do next.”

Your heart skipped a beat. This was the side of Jason that he never let anyone see—the side of him that was completely at your mercy.

“Don’t stop,” you commanded gently. “Make yourself cum for me. Don’t hold back.”

The words were barely out of your mouth when his body stiffened. His breath caught, and his hips bucked involuntarily, his hand moving in a blur as he got closer.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I’m—”

But you cut him off with a firm command.

“Cum for me, baby.”

That was all it took.

His back arched, a deep groan escaping his lips as he came undone. You could see the way his whole body trembled, his fingers gripping the sheets beneath him for stability.

And even after he was done, his breathing ragged and shaky, he didn't stop.

He looked at you—desperate. That familiar cocky grin was long gone, replaced with nothing but adoration. He wanted to please you more. Wanted to feel you take control, wanted to hear more of your voice, more of your praise.

“Good boy,” you murmured, brushing a hand through his hair as he collapsed against the pillows, completely undone.

Jason didn’t say anything for a while—just let the feeling wash over him.

He didn’t need to say it. You could see it in the way he held you after. The way he kissed you slow and deep, like he was claiming you in the quiet moments afterward.

And you both knew—it wasn’t over.

He wanted more. More of you. More of your control. More of being broken and put back together, piece by desperate piece.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd #red hood x reader #red hood smut #red hood x you #jason todd smut #sub jason todd #sub red hood #dom reader

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leriexoxo · 2 months ago

Text

Call Me Noona

Sub! Jisung x Dom! Reader

Tags: smut, sub!Jisung, slow teasing, edging, oral (m receiving), power play, light dom!reader, accidental hentai discovery, striptease, friends-to-something-filthier, overstimulation, begging, praise & degradation, desperate needy Han Jisung, soft aftermath, unprotected sex

Word count: 8.3k

Summary: It was supposed to be a normal movie night—until you stumbled across Jisung’s well-hidden hentai stash. He tried to stop you. You watched anyway. And the way he squirmed beside you, all flushed and flustered, calling you noona without even realizing it?Let’s just say… you liked the way he sounded when he begged. Now you can’t stop pushing his buttons—and he can’t stop calling you noona.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

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

You were sprawled across Jisung’s bed like you owned the place, one leg hooked over the other, fingers lazily tapping through his movie folders with the TV screen mirroring everything from his laptop.

“Seriously,” you muttered, eyes squinting at the endless rows of file names. “How do you even have this much downloaded? You single-handedly killed streaming culture.”

Jisung groaned from the floor where he was sitting cross-legged, elbow propped on his knee and cheek squished against his palm. “I like having options, okay? What if the internet goes out one day and I can’t access Crunchyroll?”

You rolled your eyes with a grin. “Yeah, because God forbid you go a day without watching someone scream about friendship mid-fight.”

He smirked at that, but didn’t argue.

You scrolled past a bunch of series titles in Japanese, barely glancing at the years or episode counts. Half of them looked like gibberish. Some had thumbnails, some didn’t. But one caught your eye. Simple title. Clean file. Just one episode.

“Ooh,” you said, clicking before he could react. “This looks artsy.”

“No—wait—no no no not that one—”

Too late.

The screen went black for a second, then faded into the opening shot. Nothing too wild at first. A girl standing in the rain. Very Studio Ghibli vibes. The camera panned up…

Then straight into her cleavage.

You blinked. Jisung scrambled to his feet, tripping over a hoodie on the floor in his rush to get to the laptop.

“I swear I didn’t mean—that folder wasn’t supposed to—just give me a sec—”

You held up a hand, stopping him. “Chill. It’s fine.”

He froze mid-crouch, staring at you like you’d grown three heads. “…Fine?”

You nodded, casually grabbing the popcorn bowl from the nightstand and tossing a few kernels in your mouth. “It’s just cartoon porn, right? You’re not gonna die if I see a titty or two.”

Jisung looked mortified.

The screen lit up with another scene—this time two characters way too close for a casual conversation, rain-soaked clothes clinging to animated skin. The girl made a soft sound as the guy leaned in. A second later, the moaning started.

You didn’t flinch. But you felt Jisung tense beside you.

You smirked a little. “I mean… not bad. Plot’s kind of dramatic, but I get the appeal.”

He was standing rigid, like he was bracing for impact. “We can turn it off. Seriously. It’s not—this isn’t—I didn’t think you’d ever—”

“You’ve watched this whole thing?” you asked, interrupting.

His ears turned red. “…Maybe.”

You tilted your head, giving him a once-over. He wasn’t even looking at the screen anymore—just staring at the carpet, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding back a scream.

Cute.

You patted the spot next to you on the bed. “Come on, Sungie. Sit. We’re already halfway in.”

He looked at you like you’d suggested committing murder. “You’re seriously gonna—?”

“Yup.” You popped the p and smiled. “Don’t be weird about it.”

He hesitated for a beat. Then, like his body was moving against his will, he slowly climbed onto the bed beside you. Not touching. Barely breathing.

You kept your eyes on the screen, but you could feel the heat radiating off him. The occasional twitch of his knee. The way he sucked in a breath every time the moans got louder.

You leaned in just slightly. Close enough to smell his shampoo.

“So… is this your go-to?” you whispered.

Jisung’s breath hitched. “I—uh—w-what do you mean—?”

“You know.” You licked a bit of salt from your thumb. “When you’re in the mood.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His eyes were wide, locked on the screen, but they weren’t really watching anymore.

And when the next moan hit—a sharp, needy whimper that echoed around the room—you noticed it.

The way his legs shifted. The faint outline beneath his sweats.

Oh.

This was going to be fun.

You didn’t say anything right away. Just let the silence stretch between you, broken only by the slick, wet sounds coming from the TV. The kind that would’ve been embarrassing even in porn—especially in porn—but in animation? It was somehow worse. More exaggerated. Intense in a way that felt… intentional.

Jisung was a statue beside you, barely breathing. One wrong move and he’d probably combust on the spot. He’d pulled a blanket over his lap, which might’ve been subtle if his entire soul wasn’t screaming embarrassment. You caught the way his knuckles tightened on the edge of it every time the moans on-screen got louder.

You glanced sideways, pretending to adjust your seat, and yep—there it was.

The faint twitch of his hips. The way his thighs subtly pressed together.

The way his hand shifted beneath the blanket like he was trying to nudge his hard-on into a less painful position.

Gotcha.

You smirked and leaned back a little, drawing your knees up and wrapping your arms around them, feigning nonchalance. “You know, for someone who begged me to come over and hang out, you’re awfully quiet.”

“I didn’t know you were gonna find that folder,” he muttered, voice tight, ears practically glowing red.

“Mmhmm. But you didn’t stop me either.”

“I tried! You clicked it too fast, noona!”

There it was—noona. Said in that panicked, pitchy whine that made your stomach flutter. A little desperate. A little helpless. You wanted to hear it again.

You grinned. “Okay, so let’s say hypothetically I’m sitting here watching hentai on your bed and your very respectable, totally innocent reason for owning it is… what?”

He groaned. “Don’t do this to me.”

“Do what, Sungie?” you asked sweetly, shifting your legs so one of your feet brushed his ankle.

He tensed.

“I’m just trying to understand,” you went on, voice dropping just slightly, playful but edged with curiosity. “You like this stuff, don’t you?”

“I didn’t mean for you to see it—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Jisung looked like he wanted to melt through the floor.

His lips parted, but no sound came out. You could see him trying to fight the words—his pride, his shame, the fact that you were watching him crumble one flustered breath at a time.

You let the silence answer for him. Let the soft moans and wet slaps from the screen fill the space between you.

Then, slowly, you leaned forward, propped your elbow on your knee, and rested your chin on your hand—watching him with lazy interest.

“So what do you do when you watch this, when no one’s around?” you asked, voice low and smooth. “Do you jerk off right here in bed?”

He made the tiniest gasp.

Your eyes dropped, just for a second, to where the blanket twitched again. A helpless little shift. Like his cock heard you and flinched.

And god, he was hard. Painfully so, judging by the way his legs clenched when your gaze lingered.

You smiled.

“You’re really not gonna make it through this, are you?”

Jisung’s throat worked around a swallow, and when he finally looked at you—eyes wide, lips parted, hands death-gripping the blanket—you felt the spark of it. Control. A flicker of power. A crack in the tension that made your skin prickle with anticipation.

He was fighting it. So hard. And failing.

Exactly how you liked it.

You could practically feel it pulsing off him now—heat, tension, humiliation thick enough to taste. The moans from the TV were getting louder, wetter, the kind of exaggerated audio that would’ve been funny if not for the way Jisung was visibly suffering beside you.

He was still under the blanket. Still pretending like he was fine. But his chest was rising faster now, his hands clenched in his lap like if he let go for even a second, he’d lose the last thread of his composure.

You tilted your head and smiled sweetly. “So… which part do you usually come to?”

He choked on air.

“I—what—”

“C’mon,” you murmured, nudging his knee with your own. “You’ve obviously watched this before. You know the plot. What’s your favorite scene?”

“I’m not—fuck, I can’t—”

His voice cracked halfway through, and he covered his face with both hands, shaking his head like that would magically make you disappear. But it didn’t. And he didn’t move away. If anything, he was squirming closer, shoulders tight, thighs pressed so close together it looked painful.

You shifted, turning toward him a little, letting your leg brush against his under the blanket. Casual. Gentle. But deliberate.

He jolted.

You leaned in, voice low. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

His fingers peeked down from his face just enough for you to see his wide, glassy eyes. “You—you don’t even like this stuff—”

“I like watching,” you said, gaze dropping again to the subtle, twitchy movement beneath the blanket. “Especially when you get like this.”

He let out a soft, frustrated sound—half breath, half whine—and bit down hard on his bottom lip.

You inched closer, your thigh now fully pressed against his. Your hand slid down to rest just beside his lap—not touching. Just hovering. Your fingers flexed ever so slightly above the blanket, like you might move. Like you could—at any moment.

Jisung stared at your hand like it was a live wire.

“You’re really hard, Sungie,” you whispered. “I didn’t even do anything.”

“That’s the problem,” he whispered back, voice trembling.

You almost moaned at that.

Instead, you let your fingers trail forward—just a little—brushing the edge of the blanket. “You’re throbbing.”

“I know,” he said through gritted teeth, shoulders hunching.

“Do you want me to touch you?”

His head snapped toward you, eyes wide in panic and hope and sheer, desperate disbelief.

But your fingers didn’t move any closer. They stayed right there, just above the spot where you could see him twitching. You could practically feel the heat of him through the fabric.

“Say please,” you whispered, lips curling.

He whimpered.

That tiny, high-pitched, completely involuntary sound that made your stomach drop and your thighs clench.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, grinning. “Did you just whine, baby?”

Jisung’s entire body curled inward. His face was buried in his hands again, voice muffled but still audible. “You’re killing me…”

You leaned closer, lips just inches from his ear. “You’re such a mess. All I did was sit next to you and press play.”

Another whimper. Slightly louder.

You could feel how close he was to breaking. No touching, no kissing, not even a hand under the blanket yet—and he was already leaking, hips twitching like he didn’t know whether to thrust or hide.

God, he was perfect like this.

And you weren’t done yet.

—

You hadn’t even touched him.

That was the part that was really driving him insane.

Your hand was right there, hovering above the blanket like a tease, so close he could feel the air shift every time your fingers moved. And he wanted it—God, he wanted it so bad he couldn’t think straight.

The worst part? You were calm. Like this wasn’t doing anything to you. Like you weren’t fully aware of the absolute meltdown happening next to you.

His hips shifted again—unintentionally, stupidly. A tiny jerk up toward your hand before he caught himself and froze.

You caught it.

You felt it.

And your smile turned downright cruel.

“Aw,” you cooed softly, “Sungie… were you trying to hump my hand?”

He gasped like he’d been slapped. “No! I— I didn’t mean—”

You leaned closer, your breath brushing his ear. “It’s okay. You can. If you want.”

A full-body shudder rippled through him.

“I can’t,” he whispered, and his voice broke like something inside him snapped with it. “I—Noona, I can’t.”

You froze.

Then smiled.

That little “noona” slipped out like a secret—unthinking, accidental, soaked in humiliation. A slip of the tongue wrapped in submission.

He was so far gone.

“I think you can,” you whispered, inching closer. “Or do you need help?”

He whimpered.

You let your fingers dip lower—still not touching, but now brushing the faintest hint of pressure against the blanket. Just enough to make him twitch again, like his cock had a mind of its own.

Jisung made the softest sound you’d ever heard from him. Barely a noise. Just a choked little gasp, like he was trying not to cry.

And then—so quiet you almost missed it:

“Please…”

You blinked.

He said it again, this time louder, voice wrecked and shaking.

“Please.”

Your breath caught.

“Please what, Sungie?”

His hands were fists now, gripping the edge of the blanket so hard his knuckles had gone white. He still couldn’t look at you. Couldn’t say it. Not that part.

But you weren’t letting him off that easy.

“Tell me what you want,” you murmured, fingers grazing the slightest pressure against where you knew he was throbbing. “Use your words, baby.”

He gasped again and shook his head. “I c-can’t.”

“You can,” you said softly, drawing circles with your fingertip on the blanket. “Or I’ll stop.”

His whole body jerked. “No! Don’t—don’t stop—please…”

You smiled. Sweet. Warm. Patient.

Then whispered, “Beg.”

And that was it.

Jisung broke.

“Please touch me,” he gasped, breath hitching between each word like they hurt to say. “Please, I—I’m so hard, I can’t—I need it, noona, please just—just touch me, I’ll be good, I swear, I’ll—fuck, I’ll do anything—”

You could feel it. The way he was straining under the blanket now. He was throbbing.

“God,” you breathed, just watching him fall apart, “you’re so fucking pretty when you beg.”

And he whined. Full-on, breathless, trembling and red-faced.

Completely, deliciously ruined.

“Please,” Jisung whimpered again, the word catching on the edge of a sob. “Please, noona, I’m—I need it, I’m so—fuck—please…”

He was trembling under the blanket now. Shaking like he was on the edge of something he couldn’t crawl down from. Eyes glassy, thighs clenched so tight he was probably cramping. You watched him fall apart and felt your chest swell with it—fondness, lust, power. All tangled together in one hot little knot low in your stomach.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Okay.”

And then—finally—your hand slipped beneath the blanket.

He gasped.

Not a sharp sound. Not a surprised one.

Soft.

Like relief.

Like he’d been holding his breath for an hour and was only just now allowed to exhale.

You slid your hand over the tent in his sweats, slow and teasing, feeling the heat of him pulse through the fabric. He was hard. Rock hard. And so wet—the front of his pants soaked through with how much he’d been leaking.

You let out a low hum, stroking gently over the damp spot. “Poor thing…”

Jisung made a strangled sound—half cry, half moan—and his hips lifted slightly off the bed. He was trying not to thrust, not to grind into your hand like some desperate little thing, but he couldn’t help it. His body was moving before his mind could stop it.

Your palm pressed a little more firmly.

“You’re dripping through your pants, baby,” you murmured. “You’re really that needy?”

He nodded, frantic, panting against his fist like he was trying to muffle the sounds spilling out of him.

“Look at me,” you said.

He did. Barely. Just a flick of those wide, wet eyes up to yours.

You leaned in, stroked him again—long and slow this time, from base to tip—and whispered, “You’re such a good boy.”

He whined.

The sweetest, softest little noise, punched right from the center of his chest.

“You’re gonna let me take care of you, hmm?” you cooed. “Just relax and let noona touch you. You don’t have to do anything.”

“I’m—I’m gonna come,” he gasped, hips jolting into your palm, “I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“No you’re not,” you said sweetly. “Not yet.”

You pulled your hand back.

He cried.

Not loud—but enough to make your heart stutter. A choked little sound like someone had just pulled the rug out from under him.

“Shh,” you soothed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re okay. You’re doing so well for me.”

He nodded, trembling. He didn’t even realize his hands had grabbed the hem of your hoodie, clinging to it like a lifeline.

“Breathe, baby,” you whispered. “You’re gonna be good and wait for noona, right?”

Another tiny nod. Barely there.

“Good boy,” you said again, and god, the way he shuddered under your praise made you feel drunk.

You slipped your hand back under the blanket, just resting it there over the soaked spot in his sweats, not moving—just letting him feel you.

“Let’s try again.”

He didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Not with your hand cupped over him, warm and steady, applying the faintest pressure to his swollen cock through those soaked-through sweats. He was trembling too hard to move, thighs shaking from holding back, lips parted like he was still trying to beg but the words had been knocked clean out of him.

You dragged your hand in a slow circle, barely pressing—just enough for friction. Just enough to feel him twitch under your palm.

Jisung’s breath stuttered out of him like a sob.

“You’re so sensitive,” you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I bet you could come just like this.”

He let out a choked moan, fingers curling tighter in the hem of your hoodie like he was clinging to you to keep from unraveling. His hips rocked into your hand with a slow, broken rhythm—tiny, desperate thrusts, as if he was scared to move too much but couldn’t stop himself either.

You smiled and stroked him a little more firmly. “Do you like it when I touch you like this, Sungie?”

He nodded frantically, whimpering, but you weren’t satisfied.

“I wanna hear it.”

His head dropped back against the pillows, throat tight, chest rising fast. “I— I love it. I—please—noona, it feels so good, I—fuck—”

Your whole body sparked at that.

The way he said your name—noona, in that breathless, broken voice like he was handing you every ounce of control he had left. Just giving it to you, willingly. Needing you to have it.

You rewarded him with a slow, deliberate stroke.

And he gasped.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just a soft, overwhelmed little sound—like relief, like pleasure, like he’d finally been given permission to feel it.

Your fingers slid under the waistband of his sweats, warm skin to skin now, and his body jerked. His cock was soaked at the tip, twitching against your palm as you wrapped your fingers around him for the first time.

He cried out softly, hand flying to cover his mouth.

You kissed the side of his neck, nuzzling into his skin as your hand slowly—cruelly—started to stroke him.

Gentle.

Measured.

Like you had all the time in the world.

“God,” you whispered, “you’re so pretty when you’re falling apart.”

And he was.

He was falling apart—legs shaking, hands trembling, mouth spilling the quietest, neediest little noises as you stroked him slow and wet, letting his pre-cum slick your hand.

He whined again—full-bodied, almost like he was about to cry.

“Please,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please don’t stop. Please, noona…”

You smiled into his neck, never once speeding up.

“Just a little more,” you said. “Be good and wait for me.”

He sobbed. Nodded. Let you ruin him.

And you kept going.

Just enough to keep him on the edge.

You could feel it in the way he was pulsing against your palm—hot and thick and aching. He was close. So close. And still you kept it slow, your fist sliding along his shaft in long, measured strokes, just enough pressure to make him twitch, just enough rhythm to keep him teetering on the edge.

He was trying so hard to be good.

Trying not to buck up into your hand.

Trying not to sob every time your thumb swirled over the weeping tip of his cock.

You leaned over him, voice low and soft and cruel. “You wanna come?”

“Yes,” he gasped, hips jolting up involuntarily. “Please—please, noona, I need to—”

You cut him off with a sharp squeeze at the base of his cock.

He choked on a moan, thighs shaking beneath you.

“You need to what?” you asked, cocking your head. “You gonna be a good boy and ask me right?”

He nodded so fast it looked like it hurt.

“I want your mouth,” he whispered, voice shredded, “please—please suck me off, noona, I’ll—I’ll be good, I’ll do anything, just—just let me come, please…”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, heat pooling between your thighs at the sheer need in his voice. That desperate, raw edge that made your pulse pound.

“You think you earned it?”

He whined, hands fisting in the blanket now. “Yes—no—I don’t know—I just—please, I want your mouth, I want it so bad—need it—”

You didn’t make him wait anymore.

You slipped down the bed, pulled his sweats down to mid-thigh—and fuck, he was pretty. Red and flushed and dripping, twitching against his stomach like he’d explode if you so much as breathed on him.

And you did.

You leaned in, warm breath ghosting over his soaked tip, and Jisung shuddered so hard the bed shook.

You looked up at him from between his legs. “Gonna be a good boy and come in my mouth?”

He let out a wrecked little sound—half sob, half yes—and nodded again, barely able to hold eye contact.

You licked a slow stripe up the underside of his cock.

He screamed into his hand, trying to muffle it, but the noise still broke out of him, loud and wet and helpless.

You grinned, then finally—finally—wrapped your lips around the head, sucking him in slow and deep.

“Fuck—!” he cried out, body jolting like you’d shocked him.

You moaned around him, letting the vibrations ripple through his cock as you sank lower, swallowing him halfway, then bobbing up to suck just the head, tongue swirling around the slit where he was still leaking for you.

Jisung was gone.

Totally undone.

“Please,” he whimpered, a high, broken cry, “don’t stop—please, noona, I’m gonna—gonna come—”

You looked up at him again, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach, and gave him the softest, most indulgent look.

“Then come for me,” you whispered around the tip, lips brushing.

And he did.

With a strangled moan and a full-body jerk, Jisung came—hard, hot, all of it spilling onto your tongue as his hips stuttered and his thighs trembled under your hands.

You didn’t stop until he was whimpering, twitching, so sensitive it hurt.

Only then did you pull off slowly, licking your lips with a hum of satisfaction.

“Good boy,” you murmured, crawling back up beside him and cupping his flushed cheek. “You did so well.”

Jisung could barely breathe, eyes dazed and glassy, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon.

You kissed his temple and smiled.

—

Jisung didn’t come out of his room for hours.

You didn’t bother knocking.

He needed space. Or at least, he thought he did. You’d seen the look in his eyes after he came in your mouth—glassy, overwhelmed, too stunned to speak. And now, judging by the silence down the hall, he was probably wrapped up in a ball of existential dread and leftover arousal, replaying every humiliating little whimper he made with his face buried in his pillow.

Which was fine.

You were in the kitchen, stealing his last packet of ramen.

He could sulk. You weren’t worried.

But Jisung?

Jisung was spiraling.

He’d taken one look at his reflection in the mirror after you left him wrecked on the bed and nearly short-circuited. His mouth had dropped open like he was looking at someone else. Some needy little version of himself who begged, and cried, and humped your hand like a virgin loser with a mouth kink and zero self-respect.

And you’d smiled. The whole time. Like it was cute.

Like he was cute.

It was making him insane.

He hadn’t even meant to say that. Noona. That slipped out like it was embedded in his nervous system. He only ever said it when he was flustered, embarrassed—helpless.

And now you probably knew that.

Now you knew everything.

He paced. Stopped. Paced again.

Then slammed his fist against the wall and groaned.

He had to say something. He couldn’t go back out there and pretend nothing happened. He had to clear the air. Get his dignity back. Reclaim a shred of pride.

He had to man up. So he did.

Sort of.

He came out of his room wearing a hoodie and shorts that hid absolutely nothing. Still red-faced. Still looking like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

And you?

You were sitting on his couch, sipping hot broth, completely unbothered.

You looked up when you heard him approach, smiled like you’d just remembered he existed.

“Oh hey. You good? That nap must’ve knocked you out.”

Jisung froze.

“…A nap?”

You slurped your noodles. “Mhm. You were all tuckered out, so I figured I’d let you rest.”

His jaw fell open.

You said it like you hadn’t wrecked him. Like he hadn’t come in your mouth and collapsed into the mattress like a short-circuited robot. Like he hadn’t sobbed into his own hoodie while your hand slowly jerked him off for ten full minutes.

Like that hadn’t happened at all.

You didn’t even look at him differently.

“I—” he started, then shut his mouth.

You turned to glance at him, calm, patient. “You okay?”

He stared.

Then looked away.

Then forced himself to meet your gaze.

“I need to talk to you about what happened.”

You blinked. “Okay.”

“…Earlier.”

“Yeah?”

“When you…” He paused, face reddening instantly, “…you know.”

“I sucked your dick,” you said plainly, watching him with an innocent tilt of your head.

He flinched.

“Oh my god—don’t say it like that.”

You shrugged. “I’m just saying what happened.”

“That’s the problem!” he burst out, hair sticking up like he’d just pulled at it. “You’re so chill about it, and I—” He gestured at himself, vaguely distressed. “I’ve been locked in my room for hours because I literally cannot stop thinking about how pathetic I was.”

“You weren’t pathetic.”

“I begged.”

“And it was hot.”

His mouth opened. Shut. Open again.

You sipped your soup.

“I can’t look at you,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face.

You gave him a slow, cheeky smile. “But you can call me noona.”

His whole body went still.

You watched it land.

Watched the heat crawl up his neck like wildfire.

“I didn’t— I didn’t mean—” he stammered, ears turning scarlet, “That’s not—I only do that when—”

“When you’re embarrassed?” you offered sweetly.

He groaned, face crumpling into his hands. “Oh my god.”

You scooted closer on the couch, socked foot nudging his thigh. “You were really cute, you know.”

He whimpered.

“I mean it,” you said, softer now. “I liked it. You were so open with me. So honest about what you wanted.”

He peeked out through his fingers, still sulking, still red.

“…You’re not gonna stop messing with me, are you.”

You grinned. “Absolutely not.”

He groaned again—but quieter this time.

And he didn’t move away when you leaned into his side.

—

It’d been days since you touched him.

Days since you had him in your mouth, soaked and shaking, calling you noona like it meant something—like it slipped out from a place so deep he didn’t even realize it was there. You hadn’t brought it up since. Not even once.

But he’d been acting different.

You noticed.

You always noticed.

Jisung had a way of drifting toward you now. Sitting closer than necessary. Hovering in doorways when you were in the kitchen, pretending to be busy while his eyes tracked you from behind his bangs. He hadn’t looked you directly in the face since that night. Couldn’t. But he kept orbiting you like he didn’t know how not to.

And honestly? It was adorable.

So you decided to play with him.

The whole group was over at Chan’s place. A casual hang, nothing special—snacks, games, bodies flopped across beanbags and the floor. You ended up next to Jisung on the couch, thigh pressed to his, just barely.

You didn’t pull away.

He didn’t either.

You kept your voice light, playful, engaged in the group chat as usual. But under the surface, you started your game. Small touches. Innocent, on the surface. A light hand on his wrist when you passed him a drink. A brush of your knee when you shifted. Fingers ghosting over the nape of his neck when you leaned across him for the remote.

He flinched at that one.

You didn’t even look at him.

Just smiled to yourself and kept going.

He wasn’t saying anything—but the way he kept swallowing, the way his thigh twitched under yours, the way he kept adjusting the hem of his hoodie like he needed to hide—oh, he was feeling it.

And he had no idea how obvious he was.

You leaned in close at one point, pretending to inspect his phone screen. “You okay?” you murmured, quiet enough that no one else would hear.

He nodded too quickly.

“Yeah,” he said, voice a little too thin. “Fine.”

“Mmm.” You trailed your fingers down his forearm as you leaned back again. “You seem tense.”

You didn’t miss the way he shifted.

Didn’t miss the way his breath caught.

He didn’t respond.

You turned your attention back to the group.

Let him stew.

A few minutes passed. Jeongin was yelling about Felix stealing his banana in Mario Kart. Jisung hadn’t said a word. You could feel the heat coming off him like a furnace now, his leg trembling ever so slightly where it touched yours.

Then you dropped a piece of popcorn between his legs.

Deliberate.

You reached down to grab it.

Your fingers grazed his inner thigh.

Jisung made a sound. Barely a breath, but enough.

You heard it.

You smiled.

And then—slow, subtle, with only the two of you in on it—you leaned over and whispered, just for him:

“You missed me, didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His face had gone scarlet, ears burning as he shifted slightly away—but not far enough to break contact.

Then, barely audible, like it’d been dragged out of him against his will:

“…Noona.”

You bit back your grin.

Because now you knew.

He wanted more.

And he didn’t even know how to ask for it.

You couldn’t stop the smirk that curled on your lips.

You’d been playing with him all night, and now you were done pretending. You knew what he wanted. You could see it in the way his eyes darted over you when he thought no one was looking. In the way his body tensed whenever you made a move, every touch sending an electric jolt through him that he was too embarrassed to acknowledge.

It was cute, how much power you had over him.

And you weren’t about to let that go.

The game was fun, but it was time to finish what you started.

As the group started to thin out—Felix and Jeongin arguing over who could carry the most snacks, Chan swearing he’d make up for the mess—your eyes never left Jisung. He was still sitting there, but there was a visible tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his jaw like he was holding something in.

You could practically hear his heartbeat.

You stood, casually walking toward him, the edges of your smile curling up with a dark, secret intention. You weren’t sure if he was aware, but his body was already reacting to you, the way his eyes tracked your every move, the way his breath hitched when you came into his space.

“Hey,” you said, voice smooth and innocent. “I need to grab something from my place. You wanna come with me? I’ll give you a ride.”

Jisung blinked, the hesitation flashing in his eyes before he nodded slowly, like he was too lost in his own head to come up with a reason to say no. His throat worked as he swallowed, fighting to control the panic that was starting to edge in. He didn’t want to go, but he couldn’t say no to you. Not anymore.

“Yeah, okay,” he muttered, his voice tight, like he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to.

You could see the war in his mind. He didn’t know if he should resist. But he wouldn’t. Not when the tension between you both was too thick to ignore.

You led the way out of the apartment, your fingers brushing against his as you reached for your keys, feeling the buzz of anticipation thrumming under your skin.

The ride to your place was quiet, too quiet, but there was an underlying tension that made every second feel thick, drawn out. Jisung sat too stiffly next to you, and you could tell he was fighting himself—his body was practically shivering with need, but his face was doing everything to hold it in.

You pulled into your parking spot, and when you stepped out of the car, you didn’t wait for him. You were already moving, hips swaying in a way you knew drove him crazy.

By the time you reached your front door, you could feel him lingering behind you, his gaze almost burning into your back.

You turned just as you unlocked the door, catching the nervous flicker in his eyes. “You’re not leaving yet, are you?”

His gaze flicked to the ground, avoiding your eyes. “I—I wasn’t planning on it…”

“Good.” You smiled sweetly, opening the door and stepping aside, letting him enter first. “I thought we could have some fun tonight.”

His body tensed the second those words left your lips. You noticed the way his eyes widened, then narrowed as he processed your meaning. He didn’t have to say it, you could feel his reluctance, but you could also feel the way his body wanted to follow.

He took one step inside, then another, and finally, the door clicked shut behind him, leaving the two of you in the silence of your apartment.

You were in front of him in an instant, your fingers catching the hem of his hoodie and tugging it upward. “You look so good when you’re nervous,” you murmured, your lips close to his ear.

He inhaled sharply, unable to fight the shiver that ran down his spine. “Noona,” he whispered, low, his voice breaking with that same nervous energy.

“Shh,” you soothed, almost patronizingly, as you peeled the hoodie off his body, revealing the tight t-shirt underneath. You let your fingertips trail across his skin, watching the way his muscles jumped under your touch, how his breathing quickened with every inch of contact. “You don’t need to be nervous, Jisung. I’m not going to bite… unless you want me to.”

He stuttered, a low sound escaping from his throat that he couldn’t contain, and you could see him unraveling. The distance between you both was closing, every touch sending him closer to the edge of what he could handle.

“You’ve been so good for me,” you cooed, trailing a hand down to rest just above the waistband of his jeans. “And you know what happens when you’re good, right?”

His throat worked again, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to touch you but didn’t have the guts. “What… what happens?”

You didn’t answer with words.

Instead, you moved closer, pressing your body flush against his. His breath hitched as he felt your heat against him, and you took a moment to just bask in the way he was falling apart. He couldn’t even look at you directly anymore—he was too shy, too humiliated by how much he wanted this.

And you? You loved it.

You had the power. You held all the cards.

“Let’s see just how much more you can take tonight.”

The door clicked shut behind you both, and Jisung took a small step back, his fingers nervously twitching by his sides. He didn’t know where to look—anywhere but at you, really. The weight of what had just happened, the pressure of everything building up between you, was almost too much for him to handle. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, his thoughts scattered.

But you weren’t going to let him think.

You watched him, your eyes burning into his as you crossed the room slowly. He flinched slightly when you moved, but you didn’t care. You reached out, trailing a finger down the side of his face, lingering just under his jaw. The touch was soft, teasing, but it made his skin flush, his body already betraying him.

“Can’t believe you just let me lead you all the way here,” you purred, voice low, practically dripping with a dark satisfaction. You didn’t even need to say more for him to understand exactly what you meant.

Jisung opened his mouth, but nothing came out, like his voice had been stolen by the intensity of the moment. His hands fidgeted at his sides, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other.

“You look so cute like this,” you teased, stepping closer. “All flushed and nervous. Don’t tell me you’re scared now, Jisung.”

“I—I’m not scared,” he stammered, but there was no convincing it in his voice. You could see how badly he wanted to take control—how much he craved to prove himself to you, to show you that he was more than just a shy mess.

But you weren’t having any of that.

You closed the gap between you, pushing him lightly against the wall, your body pressing flush against his. He gasped at the sudden proximity, his breath hitching as his hands hovered around your waist, but he never quite touched you. His fingers trembled with restraint, as if he knew better than to act without your permission.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice desperate, but still so soft, so willing to let you lead.

“Please what, Jisung?” you purred, tilting your head, your lips curling into a wicked smile. “Tell me what you want. Tell me how badly you need it.”

His throat tightened, and for a moment, he seemed to freeze, caught between the urge to stay obedient and the overwhelming desire to let it all spill out. His eyes fluttered shut, and he bit his lip like he was fighting a losing battle against his own desperate need.

“Want you,” he finally mumbled, barely audible. “Want you, noona.”

You felt the power surge through you at the sound of him saying it, and you took your time. You didn’t rush it. You leaned in closer, letting your breath brush against his ear, your lips grazing his skin just enough to make him shiver.

“Want me?” you repeated, soft and taunting, as you let your hands slip under his shirt, your fingers dancing across his skin in a way that made his breath catch. “Is that all you want, Jisung? Are you sure?”

He nodded quickly, a sharp, needy sound escaping him as his hands finally, finally found the courage to rest on your hips, pulling you tighter against him. His body was trembling now, like he was losing control, and you could feel how badly he wanted it.

“Please, noona,” he begged again, his voice low, strained with the weight of his need. “Don’t tease me.”

But you didn’t care about his pleas. You could see the way his eyes darkened as he struggled, still too shy to take the next step but wanting to. He was so damn desperate.

You knew exactly how to handle him.

Reaching down, you undid his pants with slow, deliberate movements, just enough to drag it out. You watched his face twist with frustration, eyes flicking between your hands and your face, unsure what to do with himself. You teased the waistband of his boxers with your fingers, but you didn’t pull them down. Not yet.

“I think you’ve been waiting long enough,” you finally whispered, giving him the release he so badly craved.

Jisung let out a shuddering breath, his body finally relaxing in defeat as you took control, his cock springing free from the confines of his boxers. His eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a broken moan when your hand wrapped around him, just once—enough to drive him wild.

“You want it, don’t you?” you murmured, your voice like velvet, though you were far from gentle. “You want me to finish what I started?”

He couldn’t answer. He was too far gone, shaking under your touch as you stroked him slowly, carefully, watching him unravel under the pressure.

“Please,” he gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please, noona, I can’t take it anymore.”

And that was all you needed to hear.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered, “What noona wants, noona gets, Jisung.”

His chest was heaving, his body trembling under your touch—and you hadn’t even started yet.

Still pinned to the wall, pants shoved halfway down his thighs, Jisung looked ruined already. His lashes fluttered, lips parted, his cock twitching in your hand as you gave him the slowest, laziest stroke imaginable. Just enough to keep him there, teetering, aching.

“You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you?” you purred, your voice a soft blade. “Every time you touched yourself. Every time you watched one of those filthy videos.”

He whimpered. Literally whimpered. And it went straight to your core.

“I—I didn’t mean to—” he stuttered, eyes glassy, desperate. “I just—fuck—couldn’t stop.”

Your grin widened. Exactly the answer you wanted.

“Well,” you whispered, drawing back slightly, “I think it’s time I give you something better to fantasize about.”

You stepped back. Slowly. Intentionally. His hands twitched toward you like he couldn’t bear the distance, but you just tsked and shook your head.

“No touching,” you warned, voice firm. “If you want this—you watch. Hands behind your back, pretty boy.”

He swallowed hard. Then obeyed. Just like that. His wrists pressed to the wall behind him, his cock bobbing helplessly in the open air, flushed red and leaking already, the image of pure obedience and pure lust colliding in one trembling body.

And then—you started undressing.

Deliberately slow. You held his gaze, never letting him look away. Every piece of clothing peeled from your skin like a secret he wasn’t supposed to see. His breathing turned ragged. His thighs trembled. You hadn’t even touched him again yet and he already looked close to tears.

Your bra hit the floor. His knees buckled.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Noona—noona, please—”

You stepped closer. Your hands skimmed up your own body as you walked, swaying your hips with wicked intention. “You like this, baby? Like watching me take my time just for you?”

His mouth opened to answer, but only a broken gasp came out.

Then your panties dropped. And he lost it.

Suddenly his hands were on you, grabbing, clinging, pulling you back against him like his body had stopped listening to his brain. You let him. You let him.

You didn’t miss how hard he was rutting against your thigh, panting desperately, moaning into your skin like he was starved. His fingers fumbled across your waist, hips, ass, like he couldn’t decide where to touch first.

“I—need you,” he gasped, helpless. “Please, please, I can’t—I need—”

Your lips brushed his ear. “You want to fuck your noona?”

He whined.

Your fingers slid between your legs, slow and taunting, just enough to coat yourself. You grabbed his cock and guided him to your entrance.

“You get one chance to behave, baby,” you murmured. “Make it count.”

And when you finally let him in—

He broke.

Jisung cried out, a choked, wrecked moan as he sank into you, his arms wrapping around you like he was trying to climb inside your skin. His hips moved with frantic desperation, rutting into you like he couldn’t control himself, like his body was acting on pure need.

“F-fuck, you feel—you feel so good, noona—” he whimpered, hips snapping hard against yours, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the room. “Been dreaming—fuck—been dreaming of this—”

You kissed his neck, dragged your nails down his back, and he whimpered again.

His thrusts were erratic, messy, driven by pure instinct. He buried his face in your shoulder, clutching at you like his life depended on it. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin.

“Need you, noona—need to come inside—wanna come so bad—please—please—”

You shushed him, whispering filth into his ear, telling him how good he felt, how sweet he was when he begged. Every word made him moan louder, lose rhythm, his control slipping like water through shaking fingers.

You clenched around him—tight, deliberate—and he cried out, biting down on your shoulder as he came, hips jerking wildly, cock twitching deep inside you. His whole body went stiff, then soft, collapsing against you like his bones had melted.

You held him through it, even as he trembled, even as he whimpered into your skin, still whispering broken apologies between his breathless moans.

But all you did was smile.

Because this was just the beginning.

—

Sunlight crept in through your half-closed blinds, golden and lazy, washing the room in a quiet warmth that didn’t match the wreckage of the night before.

You stirred. Barely.

Your body ached in all the right ways. Limbs heavy, thighs trembling at the faintest twitch. You blinked up at the ceiling, lips parted in a breathless little sigh as the memories hit you all at once—his moans, his hands, the way he begged, the way he fucked you through every single orgasm you gave him permission for.

You felt like you’d been dragged through heaven, ruined by a boy with too much energy and not enough self-control.

And then—movement beside you.

Jisung.

He was curled up against you under the sheets, hair messy, lips kiss-swollen and still curved up in the faintest smile. One arm was lazily draped across your stomach, and the other curled under his cheek like he was the innocent one here.

He looked utterly blissed out.

You hated how adorable he was.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep. His eyes cracked open halfway, still glazed, warm and dopey. “You alive?”

You groaned.

“Barely,” you muttered, unable to stop the grin pulling at your lips. “You’re insane. Who the hell fucks like that and still has energy to keep going?”

He giggled. Actually giggled. And you felt the vibration of it through your ribs where he was pressed against you.

“Guess I was just… really excited,” he whispered, rubbing his cheek lazily against your side like a cat. “You stripped for me, noona. You had me fucked up. I had to give it back.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting slightly—then freezing as your thighs protested the motion, sore and jelly-like. “I literally can’t feel my legs.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide, and then that soft grin stretched into something a little too smug.

“…Really?”

You narrowed your eyes.

He bit his lip. His ears flushed. But the pride in his expression was unmistakable.

“I knew I was doing good,” he mumbled, voice just the tiniest bit cocky through the sleepy rasp. “You were so loud. I was like, holy shit, this is real.”

“You begged the whole time,” you shot back, nudging his thigh with your knee—though the motion immediately made you regret it. “Don’t act like you didn’t cry on orgasm number three.”

He groaned and buried his face in your stomach, too embarrassed to argue.

“I was sensitive! You kept squeezing me—what was I supposed to do?!”

“You loved it.”

“…Yeah.” He peeked up at you with the softest little smile, all sheepish and clingy again. “I really loved it.”

You carded your fingers through his hair, letting your nails lightly graze his scalp, and he melted into your touch like butter. It was almost ridiculous, how this sweet, flustered boy was the same one who’d left you shaking just hours ago.

He kissed your hip gently. Then again. And again. Just soft little things, like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

“Can we stay like this all day?” he whispered.

You sighed, sinking further into the mattress, the ache between your legs humming in agreement. “We don’t have a choice. I literally can’t walk.”

He grinned. Absolutely beamed. Then cuddled up tighter against you, slipping his leg between yours, like he was trying to steal the last bit of warmth from your body.

“Then I guess I did good,” he said softly.

You glanced down at him. “Jisung?”

“Yeah?”

“…Next time, warn me.”

He giggled again, and your stomach did that stupid fluttery thing. His lips brushed over your skin, fingers trailing nonsense patterns over your side. He looked like the happiest boy alive.

And honestly?

You kinda loved that it was you who made him that way.

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

Authors note: so this was a bit long and we arent really due for a jisung update yet but my friend really wanted a subby jisung fic so i had to write, kinda got carried away lol.

I hope you liked it still, it means a lot to leave me your comments and likes and reblogs! Thank you!

#skz imagines #han jisung smut #han x y/n #han x reader #han smut #han jisung x reader #han jisung #jisung stray kids #skz jisung #skz smut #jisung x reader #stray kids jisung #jisung smut #skz fluff #skz fanfic #stray kids

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anisespice · 3 months ago

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“ the fuck-it list ” || hq! pt. 5

one || two || three || four

synopsis: there’s a list going around consisting of hot guys on campus that are deemed “fuckable” with theories as to what they’d be like in bed. it’s all fun and games until somehow your boyfriend ends up on this list.

pairing: various x gn!reader [ suna, aran, kita ]

warnings: mature content. MDI. cursing, suggestive language, mild objectification, atsumu slander/bulling (mostly from suna lol), mentions of soft dom/brat-taming, breeding-kink kita supremacy, not proofread so there may be some errors here and there, and I think that's it :]

notes: NO ONE LOOK AT ME THIS TOOK SO FREAKING LONG THAT WE'RE IN A WHOLE NEW YEAR SINCE THE LAST ONE WAS POSTED LOL But, I wanted to make sure I portrayed the characters as accurately as possible, and I've once again been hit with the burnout stick :'))) so thank you so so so so much for your patience, hope you enjoy!

tagged: @daedaep69 , @ahahadumbo , @viktoryn , @mdsb , @ourgoddessathena , @ushygushybaby , @hyori2 , @lumpywolf , @fantasycantasy, @captaincyberqueen, @tsukiran

SUNA's messy as hell, you bet your ass he knows about the list.

Most definitely clowned Atsumu when the whole mix-up between him and Osamu went down a couple weeks ago. He'd poke that dead horse out of pure boredom or just to document his reactions for a laugh later, resulting in some of the most unflattering, yet entertaining footage of your mutual friend that you were certain he'd keep for blackmail.

“You didn’t need the poor guy’s misery in every possible angle you could think of.” You shook your head at him, fighting the grin on your face. Sitting across from him at a booth in the canteen, you pass the time in between classes by letting him show you photo after photo, video after video of Atsumu’s latest performance.

How his storage managed to survive was beyond you.

Suna shrugged, taking a sip from his drink. “Sure I did. Need to have variety for when I make merch and sell it at his games. ‘m thinking tshirts, buttons, stickers, y’know. The whole nine yards.”

“You’re terrible.” You shook your head again as you sifted through blurry photo after blurry photo.

“Terribly smart.”

“Mm. Debatable.”

“Tsk,” he reached over to flick your forehead, “keep hating and you won’t get a cut of the profit.” Despite him softly glaring at you, he grinned at the giggle you graced him with in response, flicking his forehead back. “Anyway, wanna see the one of him throwing a chair at ‘samu for calling him the mid-twin?”

You paused, eyes widening. “He did not.”

Suna lifted his arm to give you room to lean against his side. Despite your better judgment, and a smidge of pity for the blonde, you couldn’t deny he had some pretty priceless reactions that never failed to get a laugh out of you. Plus, it was all in good fun at the end of the day—No harm, no foul, right?

Immediately snuggling up to his side, he took the phone back to scroll right to said video, angling it so you could watch it together. You chortled at the sound of your boyfriend behind the camera, panting and laughing as he attempted to hold the camera steady while sprinting away from Atsumu before inevitably getting caught right before the recording abruptly stopped. You blinked in shock, mouth agape as you slowly connected the dots with the last few milliseconds you had. “Did he..Did he tackle you??”

“Yep. Like a big, blonde buffalo. Life flashed before my eyes.”

“Oh my god,” you replied, hand coming over your mouth as you fought back your giggles. Suna squinted at you, arm that was curled over your shoulder coming down so he could lightly pinch your ear.

“You’re ‘posed to laugh at his expense, not mine.”

This only made giggling harder to contain, eventually morphing into cackles as the last few moments of the video replayed in your mind over and over. Suna pursed his lips, placing the phone on the table to free his other hand as it came to pinch your other ear. He tugged on them, not so hard to hurt but enough to get his point across as he pouted at you. “Quit it.”

More laughs bubbled out of you, now at his ridiculous retaliation as he pulled your ears far enough to resemble a monkey’s. You raised a brow, reaching up to grab at his wrists. “You quit it.”

“No, you.”

You squinted. “No, you.”

“You.”

“Rin-Ow! Stop it, you ass!”

This little back and forth went on for a few minutes, up until it eventually ends with you in a small headlock, biting his forearm in retaliation. It didn’t hurt at all, except maybe your pride, especially when you heard the familiar sound of his phone snapping pictures—When did he even grab it? You pulled back in shock, looking up and meeting your own gaze on the screen as he rapidly snapped away, even having the nerve to give a peace sign in some of them with the very arm you were latched onto.

You gaped in horror, “No you didn't! Delete those!”

He hummed in feigned thought, keeping his phone just out of reach as you struggled to snatch it from him. Rin smirked, “No way, now we both can laugh, babe. We'll call it even.”

With a glare, you opened your mouth to retort but he immediately shut you up by leaning down to capture your lips in a sweet kiss, lazily so, and swallowing any protest you tried to voice until you eventually melted into it. You could just feel his smug grin, and you were tempted to bite his bottom lip, but he pulled away before you could commit. He snorted as you still glared at him, although it softened more and more with every kiss he placed on your face to placate your sourness toward him.

Gradually, the kisses started to grow wet, making you squirm away with an annoyed whine, but he merely tightened his hold on you keeping you from getting far. Despite your struggle you couldn't help but laugh, "Ew! Ugh! You're so fucking gross!"

"Mm, gross for you." He placed another to your lips before releasing you. You gently pinched him in retaliation, muttering a small threat to his kneecaps if those photos of you ever saw the light of day.

After the two of you settled back down in a comfortable silence, your mind started to wander back to the discussion from earlier. With the abundance of guys who've been placed on said list so far, Atsumu of all people one of them, you couldn't help but wonder... Looking over at him as he played with his straw, you asked, "Hey...do you think you're on the list?"

Rin paused, then gave a small shrug, "Dunno. Never checked."

You scoffed, "I find that hard to believe. You weren't ever curious?"

"Not really, always thought it was kinda dumb. I only grew mildly interested after 'tsumu threw a tantrum about it, saw it as another way to get on his nerves. Other than that, it's never crossed my mind. Besides, as if I'd give him the satisfaction of knowing I'm on it, too." He blinked, then looked at you. "On second thought, yeah, check and see so I can dox whoever posted it before that knucklehead catches wind."

"Rin." You slapped his arm, knowing he was half-serious. "We can just report it."

He merely shrugged again, internally debating, but didn't say anything as you did some digging on the account to see if anything came up. It helped that the admins of the account started alphabetizing after posting so many entries, it made it easier to navigate through the endless sea of thirst and shameless threads. When you finally made it to the 'R's and noticed how short the section was, you had high hopes. Until, right there plain on your screen, paired with an off-guard photo of him you posted once on your story in past, was his entry.

‘Rintarō Suna. 6’1ft of malicious intent. A straight up walking red flag, but it’s okay—Red’s a sexy color. Definitely the kind of guy who’d call you “Bro” as a term of endearment, then make out with you while using your ass as a stress ball. He can’t keep his hands to himself to save his LIFE yet swears on it that he’s not clingy lol. But don’t let the cuddly side of him distract from the fact that he can be such a little SHIT ♡. He’d edge you for hours, rearrange your insides like furniture, then have the NERVE to tease you for walking funny. You’ll let it slide though…his mouth’s good at other things than just being smart. MASTER at giving head, treats it like an art form, would rather eat a pair of jeans that ever go a day without you on his tongue. 8.5/10. And he for sure takes pictures/videos of you for his viewing pleasure later. Say cheese!’

As you both stared blankly at your screen, him with furrowed brows and you struggling to hold down a smile. Rin eventually kissed his teeth. "Can't even be mad, read me like a damn book. Was this weirdo in the room with us taking notes, or something?"

You chortled, "Don't even joke like that."

"I'm just saying, tweak a few things here and there, you'd think I ghost-wrote this."

"Sooo, I take it you're no longer worried about Atsumu seeing this?"

Suna smirked, "Hell no, at least mine's accurate. Send him the link."

“Your bitch-ass ex is about to piss me off, bro.”

Upon your unannounced arrival into his dorm, courteous of the spare key he gave you for emergencies, you figured now was a good time to exercise that privilege because this was a borderline catastrophe. Granted, you could’ve approached it more delicately, but you were already upset from the nonsense you witnessed on your timeline during your doom-scrolling session.

ARAN gave you a look of disapproval, but decided to address one issue at a time. “First of all, we’ve kissed. Many times. I am well aways from being a ‘bro’. Second, language. Thirdly, when ain’t they pissin’ ya off?”

“Whatever, you better get’em before I do. You know I’m not above drastic solutions, I’ll steal their dog and hold him for ransom, I’m being so forreal.”

He snorted, shaking his head. Closing his laptop to give you his full attention, nodding at the chair across from him for you to take. “How ‘bout we talk first before riskin’ jail.”

You sat down and handed him your phone, “Read that and I bet you’ll be on board in seconds.”

Aran squinted at the screen in confusion, scanning over the contents before his eyes widened to the size of volleyballs and jaw dropping to the table. You nodded in triumph having predicted this reaction, smugly crossing your arms as you said, “Uh-huh. Bet dog-napping sounds pretty good right about now.”

“No.” He deadpanned, but still overtly shook. “What even is this?”

“It’s called ‘The Fu—” a small glare from Aran. You rolled your eyes, correcting yourself, “The Eff-It List’.”

“Ok, I can see that. But, what is it?”

You scoffed, “Basically a perverted forum that talks about strangers and their kinks or whatever. Purely speculative for the most part, but recently they started letting people send in their own entries. And yours came straight from the horse’s mouth.” You reached over to point at an all too familiar username, well aware of it being his ex’s burner account in their hopes to remain anonymous.

'Aran Ojiro. 6’0ft of tall, dark, and handsome. If you’re searching for a Service Dom with a heart of gold, then you’ve come to the right man. When it comes down to the dirty and flirty, this hunk would be an Olympic level threat to the bums in your timeline. Not only plowing a hole straight into your vertebrae but cooking you a bomb-ass meal afterwards that will have you wanting his pants around his ankles for a round who-knows-what. Truly a gentleman, won’t finish until you do at least twice. And aftercare of a God, we’re talking rose petal baths, oil massages, honeyed affirmations, and finishing off with warm cuddles in those beefy arms of his. Yum. Aran’s big on communication; tell him what you like, what you don’t like, whatever you say, goes. Will make you feel like royalty but rearrange your insides like a common concubine. This absolute King gets a 100/10 from us.'

The way his face was scrunched up, you would think he ate something sour. You’ve only ever seen him make such a stank face at the twins whenever their bickering escalated to physical violence. He was silent for a long moment as he analyzed the post, re-reading it again and again only to grow more perturbed. He exhaled deeply through his nose before handing you back the phone, reaching into his pocket to grab his own. Aran began to type while you were in the midst of conjuring up your revenge plan.

“So, I was thinking, they normally walk their dog in the morning before class, like ass-crack of dawn early-“

“Language.”

“-and they’ll most likely have their guard down, right? So I’m thinking you’ll hide in the bushes, ready to release the squirrel we’ll use as bait, and while they’re distracted I’ll sneak from behind with a shovel and-“

“There. It’s been taken care of.”

The words died in your throat, stunned to silence. You blinked a few times in bewilderment, and watching as Aran set his phone down to open his laptop back up and resume working on his assignment. Mentally floundering, you leaned forward with raised eyebrows, “Come again?”

“They’re gonna get the post deleted.”

“Wha—Who?” You squawked.

“My ex. I sent a DM statin’ that we know they’re involved and that I’m not comfortable with this being spread, so unless they want student affairs involved for sexual harassment, they better work on gettin’ that post taken down. Give it a minute, bet it’ll be gone.”

You blinked once more. Then, after a few minutes later of more stunned silence, you refreshed the page. Sure enough…his post wasn’t there anymore. Not a trace of it anywhere, as if it never existed. With a disbelieved chortle, you dropped your phone on the table and slumped back in your chair, staring into space. Aran grinned, eyes trained on his laptop screen as he cheekily said, “Ya did say get’em before you do.”

With a playful huff, you crossed your arms. “Damn killjoy.”

“Language.”

You slowly grinned, mischievously. “…Shit.”

“Oi.”

You raised your hands in mock surrender, relenting as you giggled. Aran shook his head at your antics, resuming his work. However, you leaned forward to push his laptop screen down a little so that his attention was on you once more, pausing his typing fingers. He raised an expectant brow, waiting for you to speak. You gave him a pointed look, “You blocked them after sending that DM, right?”

He snorted, reaching over to gently pat your head. “And reported their account.”

You beamed with satisfaction, leaning back in your chair. “Good. Fuck ‘em—Oop!Waitwait, hang on, it was a slip of the tongue, I forgot, I’m sorry!”

Aran immediately closed his laptop and began to stand, rounding the table to approach you menacingly, although fear wouldn’t be the emotion you’d describe as he closed in on you like prey. You didn’t even attempt to make an escape as he scooped you up in his aforementioned beefy arms, squeals following after your giggles as he carried you into the next room, ready to give you what he deemed a suitable punishment for your potty-mouth.

The king hath spoken.

You fought to contain your laughter at the sight of your boyfriend’s gears visibly turning in his head as he stared at your phone screen, brows furrowed and hands on his hips like a dad judging someone’s front lawn. KITA was at a loss for words, to say the least. Like Aran, it merely confused him upon the first read, and re-reading it over and over aided nothing. You could no longer hold it in when Kita eventually looked at you with a blank face and said, “Not true.”

Tickled, you decided to tease him by feigning ignorance. “Hm? You think so? It sounds pretty accurate to me.”

Kita frowned, leaning over your shoulder to re-read it again, just in case he was missing something you were seeing.

'Shinsuke Kita. 5’9ft of calm before the storm. At first, we chalked Kita up as a boring vanilla, someone that doesn’t like to step outside of the norm, and blends in with the mundane. However, what would appear to be a dreary missionary nightmare can easily be disputed when you take a deeper look into those carmel hues of his. As we’ve mentioned in a previous post, it’s always the quiet ones you need to be cautious of. Sure, he’ll invite you over to show off his beautiful garden, innocent enough. Well…needless to say, his garden won’t be the only place he plants his seed. With the right person, and the right amount of pressure, we believe Kita to be a closeted pervert with a RAGING breeding kink. Whether you can or cannot conceive, it doesn’t matter to him–Mating press, full nelson, prone-bone, you name it, he’s doing it. Then, he’ll tell you about what produce is in season as if you aren’t fighting for your life right after, continuing his day like he didn’t take his time molding your insides to the shape of him. Scary. 10/10'

He shook his head, opinion standing firm. “’s too vulgar. Have I ever been vulgar to ya?”

You pursed your lips, shrugging coyly. “Well…there have been a couple times.”

Kita blinked, then took a minute to think about it. And he thought hard. Slowly, he started to become concerned, contemplating the last time you were intimate in case this were a possibility. Surely you would’ve told him if he was acting out of line…

The act doesn’t last long, especially when he looked back at you and plainly said, “Yer teasin’ me.”

With a small chuckle, you gave up. “Fine, you got me. You have been nothing but a gentleman during sex, I won’t argue that. But, you have to admit, there were a few things in here that were spot on.”

“Like what?” He crouched down, continuing his task.

You gestured around, “Well…you did invite me over to look at your garden.”

Kita paused his pruning, looking around at your pointed observation. He hummed, then gave a small shrug. “Not to jus’ sleep with ya afterward. My intentions were strictly pure.”

“Ok, fair. But, you do want a family.”

“‘s a normal goal to have, and in due time, we’ll accomplish it. Once I’ve married ya, of course. That don’t make me a ‘closeted pervert’.”

You grinned, crossing your arms. “You didn’t deny the ‘raging breeding kink’ part-”

“Look at how well yer favorite sprout’s doin’, love.” He was quick to change the subject, beckoning you to come see for yourself. You humored him, crouching down next to him in the dirt, and happily gazing over his shoulder to watch him delicately handle your leafy little guy.

But, if you squint, you could see a little tinge of pink in Kita’s ears.

#🍁wasabi #PART 5 LETS GOOOO #🚨🚨🚨🚨#hq #haikyuu #hq!#hq smut #hq imagines #hq fluff #hq x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!!#suna rintarou #aran ojiro #kita shinsuke #the fuck-it list

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demie90s · 1 month ago

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Questions We Shouldn’t Answer

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Paige Bueckers X READER ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ MASTERLIST MORE

⭑ pairing: Paige Bueckers x reader (fem!reader)

⭑ summary: You and Paige agree to film a fan Q&A video, thinking it’ll be chill. It’s not. Between chaotic questions, fake beef, suspicious flirting, and the unspoken fact that y’all are secretly dating, the energy is loud, unserious, and dangerously close to getting exposed.

⭑ genre: Comedy, slice-of-life, secret relationship, chaotic love

⭑ warnings: Swearing, flirtatious bickering, heavy sarcasm, delusional fans, dangerously unserious energy

⭑ word count: 0.5k

The second they tell you it’s a media day “content shoot,” you already know what time it is.

You show up twenty minutes late—iced coffee in one hand, lip gloss in the other, Paige’s hoodie on your back. And she’s already seated on the other side of the set, legs crossed, rolling her eyes like she didn’t FaceTime you five times this morning to wake you up.

The camera’s not even on yet, and Paige is mouthing, “Take it off.”

You mouth back, “Make me.”

KK walks by with a bag of Tru Fru and stops. “Lord, y’all not even tryin’ to hide it no more.”

You grin, slide into the seat next to Paige, and lean your cheek on her shoulder like you didn’t just come from clowning her in practice. “She missed me.”

“She was at my apartment last night,” Paige says flatly to the producer.

“Y’all ready?” the media guy asks, clearly already tired.

“Been ready,” you say, kicking your Crocs off under the table. “Let’s cook.”

FIRST QUESTION: Who’s the better shooter?

You blink slow and look dead at Paige.

She doesn’t even flinch. “Me.”

You tilt your head. “You sure about that?”

“I know I’m sure. Be for real.”

You snort. “You went 2 for 10 yesterday and I counted.”

“And you had four turnovers in one scrimmage—should we keep score?”

KK walks by again in the background: “World War 3 loading.”

SECOND QUESTION: What’s your pregame hype song?

You both answer at the same time.

You: “Baby Keem—‘Honest.’”

Paige: “‘Straightening.’ Migos.”

You pause. “See that? We was locked in. Right there.”

Paige turns toward the camera. “We have a shared playlist, actually.”

You glance at her, then at the camera. “Private, though. Can’t risk y’all catching feelings over how good the vibes are.”

THIRD QUESTION: Who’s most likely to get a tech first?

Before the words are out, Paige points to you.

You lift both hands like, “I mean, yeah.”

“She gets one almost every month,” Paige says.

You wave her off. “I’m passionate. Geno love it.”

Behind the camera, you hear Geno’s voice: “I absolutely do not.”

FOURTH QUESTION: What’s your favorite memory together?

The silence is suspicious.

You both look at each other, then back at the camera like, “Next question.”

“Oh it’s like that?” the producer teases.

You bite your lip, grinning. “Yeah. ‘Cause if we answer it, y’all gon’ post it, and if y’all post it, she gon’ be on blogs. I’m not tryna fight comments.”

Paige looks real smug. “Somebody sounds obsessed.”

You fake a gasp. “Yeah. I am.”

The editor already knows that part getting clipped.

FIFTH QUESTION : What’s one thing the fans don’t know about y’all?

Paige leans back like she’s thinking. You lean forward like you already know what you’re about to say.

You drop your voice low. “She be singing in the shower. Loud. Off-key. Beyoncé runs on a Taylor Swift beat. I’ve suffered.”

Paige side-eyes you. “You literally sleep with your socks on.”

The crew loses it.

Interviewer: “Okay last one—who’s most likely to get caught sneaking into someone else’s dorm past curfew?”

You don’t even blink.

You: “Depends. Are we talkin’ caught on camera or caught in the act?”

Paige shifts in her seat, real calm. Too calm.

Paige: “You’d be caught. You don’t know how to shut a door quietly.”

You: “You don’t lock yours.”

Silence.

KK, somewhere behind the camera: “OH MY GOD.”

Geno, barely containing himself: “Y’all are bold today.”

You just smirk and lean back like you didn’t just air out a whole situation.

Paige mutters under her breath, “I should’ve stayed home.”

#paige x reader #paige bueckers uconn #paige bueckers x reader #paige x oc #paige buckets #x reade #gay #Gxg #wbb uconn #uconn x reader #uconn basketball #uconn wbb #wbb x oc #wbb imagine #wbb x reader #wnba x oc #wnba x reader #wnba imagine #wnba fanfic

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catherinnn · 1 year ago

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Truth or Dare Harrington?

Steddie x reader

summary: The gang has a night out singing karaoke and drinking. When the party dies down, this trio continues the fun at your apartment.

warnings: SMUT (+18), threesome, p i v, unprotected sex (don't do this, this is fiction), oral sex (m & f), no body descriptions appart that it's afab reader, smoking weed and drinking alcohol.

words: 3.2 k. masterlist

part 2

It had started as a fun night out celebrating you were all finally available, the entire group.

Ever since some of you started collage and others started working, the group wasn't what it once was. But tonight you were all here, drinking shot after shot and finishing endless cups of whatever you were ordering.

You went to a karaoke bar –Robin's idea– and it was the most fun you have had in a while.

You did all from solo songs to duets.

You sang 'I'm Just a Girl' with the girls; you sang a duet with Eddie doing 'The Chain'; Steve dared you to sing 'Take My Breath Away'; and then you made him sing 'Last Christmas' –even though it is July– but he made you sing it with him. Eddie and Steve dedicated you their version of 'Maneater' which you didn't know if you should be flattered or offended by.

To sum up, every possible song until your vocal cords hurt.

After that, you offered your apartment to keep the party going. Steve and Eddie were the firsts to say yes very excitedly, but the rest of the gang decided to head home already, calling it a night.

Eddie offered to share some of his good stuff but they went off either way. You still agreed to go and smoke at least for a little while with the boys.

That's how you ended up in your couch, passing a joint among the three of you while you played some dumb drinking game.

"Truth" Eddie chooses.

"Who of the two of us was your favorite to sing with tonight?" you ask him.

"Oh, that's mean. I liked both of you," Eddie takes a moment to think. "but I think we had a lot of chemistry on that stage, big boy"

"What?" you ask offended at his answer. "We had so much chemistry with that song, and it was much more of an iconic moment than yours!"

"Hey hey, he already made his decision!" Steve argues. "Control your jealousy"

"Get out of my apartment" you joke.

"Alright, calm down, I'll make you choose too" Eddie starts. "If you were... stranded on a desert island with one of us, who would it be?"

You roll your eyes, "that's easy, Steve" Eddie gasps offended and Steve grins proudly. "Well, because he was an athlete, he has a good body to survive and also take care of me" you tried to defend your answer.

"I'll take care of you baby" Steve winks at you.

Eddie and you start bickering until Steve makes you shut up and keep playing.

"Quit fighting, Eddie I dare you to say your favorite thing about her"

Eddie smirks already knowing his answer, "Umm, let me think," he says, pretending to be indecisive while forming two circles with his hands in front of his chest, mimicking the shape of breasts.

Steve laughs at this and you roll your eyes containing your giggle.

"Uh- no, it's her eyes, definitely" he answers for real this time.

"Yours?" Steve asks you now. "What's your favorite think about him?"

"Umm," you look at him while thinking your answer. "I could say your eyes as well, but I don't want to copy you... and I love your hair but we have the king of all hairs here present" you say referring to Steve. "I really like your smile, your whole face lights up when you smile, and you have those cute dimples too"

Eddie, ironically, can't help but smile at your statement.

"My turn" you declare. "Stevie, truth or dare"

"Dare"

"I dare you to... hold hands with Eddie for the next three rounds"

"Alright" he takes the other man's hand in his as he also takes the joint from his mouth to keep smoking himself. The latter rolls his eyes at this.

More rounds like that continue, where Eddie makes you sit on Steve's lap until you finish playing, and you make Eddie do a sexy dance without music where you couldn't stop laughing.

"Truth or dare Harrington?" the metalhead asks him.

"Truth"

"What is... a fantasy of yours? A sexy one"

"Uh..." Steve debates whether to say it or not. "Well, I've always wanted to- um, to have a threesome"

"Really?"

"Yeah"

"With two girls?" you ask him.

"Yeah... or a guy and a girl too, I think" he confesses.

"Princess, I dare you and Steve to shotgun" Eddie says all of the sudden.

"What? It's not even your turn"

"We're not even following those rules anymore" he defends.

"Uh, fine" you agree either way.

Steve grabs the joint and as you were already on his lap you just turn your head to look at him.

"I'll do it, yeah?" he checks and you nod.

He takes a drag and holds it, you move your head as close as you can so your lips are almost touching. He exhales the smoke into your mouth and you inhale it.

You don't know if it's the weed or having Steve so close to your face you're almost kissing, but you get a little dizzy on your head.

"You okay?" he checks on you again noticing this. You nod slowly without moving away yet, as you exhale the smoke.

Eddie looks at this smirking, enjoying the scene. "Steve, I dare you to kiss her"

"W- what?"

"Oh, you are both dying to! Just do it already!" he accuses.

You and Steve look back at each other as if you're asking the same question: Can we?

And you both give each other a little nod.

Therefore, Steve slowly closes the distance, finally kissing you.

His lips feel soft on yours. You can taste something sweet as well as the weed from before. The kiss is slow and tender, he caresses your cheek to pull you closer. Your hands go to his hair, feeling how soft it is.

When you separate, you let a little laugh out and so does he.

"That's cute" Eddie comments. You both look back at him.

Steve tries something, hoping it goes well. "Munson, I dare you to kiss her now"

He looks at Steve surprised, but with a smile on. As if he couldn't believe he had said that.

"Can I, sweetheart?" He asks you.

It's like having a little red devil on one shoulder saying, 'Yes! Go kiss him!' and a little angel on the other shoulder saying, 'No, you shouldn't be doing this.’

You pick the devil's side.

Getting down from Steve’s lap, you move closer to the other boy now.

He smirks at you before pressing his lips to yours.

This kiss was a little harder, not fast, just more passionate. He tastes like mint mixed with a smoky sent, being the weed and cigarettes. His hand is also on your cheek, almost at your jaw, keeping you in place. Your hands are also on his hair as you play with his curls.

You separate and feel that dizzy head again. What are these boys doing to you?

He smiles as well as Steve did and you ignore the little jump your belly does.

"I think there's only one move left" you comment as you look at them. You point at one, then at the other, and continue moving your finger back and forth between them, indicating both of them.

Eddie looks at Steve with a big grin. He's enjoying this way too much.

"O- okay" Steve agrees and they get closer until they start kissing.

You lean back enjoying the show. They don't hold back, it’s not a mere peck on the lips, not even close to that. They kiss properly. You wonder if now their tastes are mixed as well. Or if they can taste your lips as well as each other's.

You sit up and get closer to them. They separate and both look at you with puffy lips, you smile at that sight. You feel their hands at your waist bringing you closer. You grab both their faces gently as you bring them closer together and to you.

They see you closing your eyes and they follow you.

It's your first three-way kiss, it's not as uncomfortable as you imagined it would be. It's pretty fun actually, feeling both of their lips against yours, tongues meeting each other again. It's really hot.

You separate after a few minutes of that, looking at them smiling.

"Umm, do you... do any of you want to stop?" Steve asks a bit awkwardly.

Eddie is quick to shake his head, looking at you expectantly.

"Me either" you confirm.

Eddie smiles and kisses you again. You extend your hand to Steve so he doesn't feel left out. He takes it and starts to kiss your neck now. You let out a soft moan against the other boy's mouth.

Kisses and touches are shared among the three of you. You feel Eddie's hands under your shirt and Steve's on your ass. The metalhead lifts your shirt up a little as if asking you if it's okay, you separate from Steve's mouth and lift your arms up. He bites his lips as he takes the shirt off.

Both boy's hands are quickly on your waist, belly and chest.

"You can take that off too, you know?" you say referring to you bra. They look at you as if you just told them they won the lottery.

Steve is the first to reach the back of your bra and unhook it. Eddie's hands take your straps and slowly takes it off completely.

They stare at your boobs as if it is the first time they're seeing breasts. You know for a fact that it's not.

Steve's hands that were on your waist, travel upwards to touch them. Eddie goes to kiss your neck and travel down to your chest, and then to your breasts.

Steve kisses you again and you go to take his shirt off now. You moan on his mouth as Eddie plays with your tits expertly, making you more impatient.

“Can you lay down for us, sweetheart?” Steve asks you and you do as he asked.

Eddie sits up next to Steve, looking down at you as well. Steve whispers something in Eddie’s ear and he nods in agreement. You frown.

“Care to share with the class, boys?” you tell them. Eddie smirks at your joke but stays quiet.

“We just want to take of you” Steve starts.

“Enjoy you a little bit. Does that sound good, princess?” Eddie continues.

You’re still intrigued of what they agreed on, but accept either way.

“Good, just relax for us” Eddie says again as he hovers on top of you and starts kissing you. You enjoy having him like this. You feel Steve’s hands on your thighs going up to your hips.

“Can I take these off?” he asks referring to your pants and you give him the green light.

He unbuttons your pants and takes them off, taking his time, caressing your thighs while you still enjoy of the other boy’s lips on yours.

“These are so cute, baby” the bigger boy comments making Eddie stop kissing you to turn his head and see what he was talking about.

“Oh” Eddie lets out sweetly, “Do you always wear pretty panties like these?” he teases and you shake your head. “No? And why did you wear them tonight?”

You shrug this time, acting innocent. The truth is they make you feel good about yourself. You feel pretty and hot with them. As you knew you were going to go out with them tonight, you wanted the confidence. But you weren’t going to admit that.

“Just a coincidence? Or did you wear them because you were gonna see us?” Eddie continues teasing you.

“What do you think?” you say against his lips, challenging him.

“I think you’re not as innocent as you seem right now” he confesses and it takes everything in you not to make him lay down now as you sit in top of him and see if he can still tease you that way. But you don’t, because you also want to focus on Steve.

“Stop it you two” Steve orders.

“Open your pretty legs, baby” Eddie changes the subject smirking as he moves to face your panties now.

Steve takes advantage of this and lays next to you as he starts kissing your neck.

Eddie finally takes your underwear off and you feel him kissing your thighs, traveling up.

You turn to kiss the boy next to you and he responds happily, caressing from your waist, to your back, your neck, your hair. Everywhere he can really.

Eddie’s kisses move to your cunt now, focusing on your clit and teasing your entrance with two of his fingers.

It’s harder to focus now, Eddie puts his mouth to good use when he’s not mocking you. He makes you feel so good, knowing exactly where and how to play with your pussy. This, added with the touches and kisses Steve leaves on your skin, making you burn.

You moan as you back to kissing Steve, one of your hands on his hair and the other on the hair of the boy kissing you lower. Pulling at each mane.

Eddie doesn’t even want to blink, looking at you both make out as you hide your moans on Steve’s mouth. He is enjoying your sweet taste and the beautiful view. Flickering his tongue quickly on your clit and then sucking on it, he enters two of his fingers in you, making you arch, he smirks against your pussy.

His tongue moves in sync with his fingers, picking a more urgent pace as he feels you clench. You separate from Steve as you keep moaning.

“Gonna cum, baby? Are you close?” the latter asks as he enjoys watching you like this.

“Yes, mmph” you let out pulling on the long set of hair and arching even more as you cum. Your legs try to close but Steve stops them before you succeed.

Eddie keeps licking your pussy for a few more seconds after you cum, to then get up triumphantly. Steve grabs the boy to give him another kiss, tasting you on his tongue. Both men moan at this.

While you catch your breath you see them as they undress each other completely. When they’re done, they look back at you.

“Do you want to keep going?” Eddie asks you and you tell them yes.

They make you sit in the middle on them, your back to Steve. Eddie kisses you and you still taste yourself a little, Steve kisses your whole back.

The tattooed boy steps back, and Steve slowly pushes you down, positioning you all on fours.

“If you want to stop at any time, please tell us. Okay?” He says in your ear and you nod.

You feel Eddie’s hand on your chin, making you look up. He kisses you again as you feel Steve positioning himself in your entrance.

“Can I, baby?” he checks one more time, and you give him the green light once again.

You moan in Eddie’s mouth as you feel Steve entering you. He’s big, really big, making you feel him everywhere.

Eddie kisses your check, jaw, and neck until you get used to Steve’s size. Then he gets up, and you’re now facing his belly.

Before either of them says anything, you understand what they want to do. You start kissing his happy trail down to his cock. He’s also very big, a little less thick than Steve, but definitely nothing for him to feel jealous of.

You feel Steve moving slow but deep inside you, and as he feels you getting more wet around him, he fastens his thrusts.

You start kissing Eddie’s head and licking his length for a few seconds just to tease him. Then you finally wrap your lips around him, slowly entering your mouth. He throws his head back, getting lost in the pleasure.

“Your mouth feels so good, princess, fuck” he curses.

Steve moves faster at this, “Pussy’s so good too, you’re just fucking perfect” he moans.

You moan with your mouth completely full, making Eddie grunt and wrap his hand in your hair, also preventing it from bothering you.

Both boys take pleasure on the view as well. Eddie can see Harrington with his mouth slightly open, letting some moans and curses out as he moves perfectly inside you. He can see your round ass and Steve’s hands gripping it harshly. Lastly, he can see your beautiful face in pleasure as you take all of him in your mouth. He wonders how he can be so fucking lucky to be living this, but wishes it never stops.

Steve watches your pussy take him expertly, from his tip until he feels his pelvis come in touch with your skin. He watches your ass all round and perfect in front of him; he can’t see your face, but he sees Eddie’s hand grip your hair tighter and tighter until his skin turns white. He watches the other boy’s tattooed chest and arms, with his head turning back in pleasure from time to time, showing his big neck.

“Fuck yes, just like that, princess” Eddie curses. And Steve smirks feeling you clench around him.

“She likes hearing you, Munson”

“Oh, do you now? You like me saying how good you’re taking me? Best fucking blowjob I’ve ever had” You feel a tingle of jealousy imagining him with another girl in her knees for him, you’ll find a way to bother him with that when your mouth is not completely full.

“Fuck, she really does” Steve snitches on you and Eddie laughs.

“Such a good play toy we have here for us, Harrington”

“Fucking right we do”

Eddie feels you whimper against him. You separate, taking him out of your mouth to breathe for a second.

“That’s good, catch your breath, sweetheart” he says as he brushes his thumb over your swollen lips.

“Fuck, Steve! Harder!” you take the advantage to tell him and he obeys, making you face the cushions now form how hard he’s thrusting in and out.

“I can feel how close you are, baby, cum for us” He orders now, sliding a hand to play with your clit.

“Oh, yes yees, just like that!” You grip the cushions hard as you let yourself come undone.

“Shit baby, you’re so hot” He moves harder and faster now, catching his climax.

He quickly takes himself out, stroking his cock fast until he cums on your back, cursing and moaning as he does.

He picks up his shirt and cleans you out as you catch your breath.

You feel Eddie now next to you again.

“You feel okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah, I’m really good” you comment, and you see he’s still hard.

“Eds” you get up to sit on his lap, but he stops you.

“Wait, hey. Do you want to keep going? We don’t have to?”

You roll your eyes playfully, still appreciating his concern, and you kiss him again.

He kisses you back so needy, grabbing you to sit on him and feeling you up.

He stops for a second and looks to the side of the room, Steve is sitting down watching you. Eddie signals the seat next to him, and Steve gets closer to you.

You go back to kissing Eddie, and Steve is kissing his neck.

Hands are everywhere, feeling each other’s bodies. You get up slightly and grab Eddie’s dick so you can sit on him.

“Oh, shit” he moans against Steve’s mouth. You move back and forth on him, Steve’s hands controlling your movements, helping you to ride Eddie.

“Oh fuuck” you moan arching my back.

“Sensitive baby?” Steve teases you and you nod.

“You feel so good, princess, holy shit” his head rests back on Steve’s shoulder. You both go to kiss and bite his neck, leaving marks behind just like the one’s Steve’s leaving on your hips from his tight grip.

“You feel so so good in me, baby” You tease him a little, whisper in his ear. “You both did, stretching me out so well, my big boys”

“Fuck- I- I’m not gonna last, I’m so close” He rests his head on your shoulder now, leaving bites and kisses.

“Cum with me Eds, I’m so close too” you jump faster now.

“Look at our little bunny here” Steve keeps teasing you both now, Eddie looks up at you and kisses you once again.

“Mhh, cum Eddie! Cum with me!” You tell him as you let go. He follows you right behind, grunting your name.

You stay like that with him, hugging each other. Steve gets up to grab a glass of water and a towel so he can clean you up once again.

He rests back on the couch next to you two.

“That was incredible” he comments.

“It really was” you say, turning your head to look at him, still resting with Eddie.

“You okay, Munson?” Steve checks since he stayed silent.

“I’m awesome man” he finally lets out. “and was incredible, indeed”

“You’re staying over? Don’t make me sleep alone now” you ask them.

“Of course, sweetheart”

“If you insist, princess”

You let out a small laugh, pleased with their answers.

“Let’s go to bed before we fall asleep on the couch” Steve orders.

And you sleep with one of them on each side, all cuddling together. You haven’t slept that good in a while.

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