#i only started moving on when i COULD move on

[kryptoclark]

mornings like these.

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

summary: you're trying to make scrambled eggs. clark doesn't really care. (he's trying to scramble your eggs instead)

wc: 3.8k

genre/tags: established relationship, boyfriend!clark, fluff, smut, morning sex, size kink, slight praise kink, oral (fem receiving), p in v sex, implied protection (reader on bc), creampie, soft sex, p w.o p, no use of y/n, as domestically sweet and smutty as it gets <3

the apartment is quiet, save for the soft sizzle of butter in the pan atop the stove and the occasional clink of a spatula against the skillet. outside, the sun is beginning to rise, spilling orange light through the sheer curtains, casting long gold streaks across the kitchen tile.

you're standing at the stove, barefoot, wearing nothing but one of clark's old metropolis u shirts and humming quietly as you cook.

the eggs are nearly done, evident by their yellow fluffiness and you reach up to grab plates from the overhead cabinet above your head and then you hear a sound:

the faint creak of the hallway floorboards.

he's up.

you don't turn around yet. you just smile to yourself, turning the burner off and sliding the last bit of scrambled eggs onto the second plate.

then, after a moment, you decide to speak. "you're staring."

clark's voice is still rough with sleep when he answers, low and thick with that familiar farm boy drawl.

"i'm allowed to admire my lovely girlfriend."

then you feel his arms wrapping around you from behind, warm and firm as his hands find purchase splayed across your waist. he presses against your back, nose brushing your shoulder, and sighs like this is his favorite place to be. like you are.

"morning," you murmur softly, your smile audible now.

"mornin'," he says, his thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles against your sides. "you always look good in my shirts," he adds lowly.

you lean back into him a little, slightly teasing. "you're only saying that because you enjoy the view."

"i always like the view," he corrects you, mumbling the words against your skin and his lips graze the base of your neck.

the words sit warm and heavy between you – sweeter than sugar and softer than the warm light basking his kitchen. you turn your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to brush his jaw.

"you always say the nicest things when you want something," you tease softly.

clark huffs a soft laugh, his breath fanning your skin. "and what if i do?"

his hands haven't moved from your waist, but now they're a little firmer like he's reminding you of his strength. as if you don't know how easy he could fold you over the counter if he wanted.

you smirk and shift slightly in his arms, grinding back just enough to feel the unmistakable shape of his cock, half hard and pressing into you.

"clark," you say, mock scolding. "i'm making breakfast."

"uh-huh," he hums, nosing along the curve of your neck, voice lowering. "but you started it."

"i said you were staring and now, you're the one all grabby."

his hands trail under the cotton fabric of his shirt, skimming your stomach and then up your ribs.

"you're wearing my shirt and no bra," he murmurs. "you're cooking and humming, looking like the reason i don't get out of bed on sundays."

you laugh, but it catches in your throat when his right hand trails down to pinch the soft flesh of your ass. "and in just panties under here. it's like you wanna kill me." he noses back up your neck, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. "we can eat later," he says, dragging his fingers slowly back to your waist.

you're breathless already, trying to stay upright. "the eggs–"

"–will be fine," he finishes for you, turning you around gently in his arms.

and then he kisses you, soft lips meeting your for a connection that's slow, deep and filthy with intent all at once. his hands trail down to grip the backs of your thighs, squeezing the flesh there with a low hum.

you clutch at his bare shoulders, your fingers pressing against the hard contours of his shoulder muscles, his skin warm because of course he's always warm.

he lifts you like its nothing (because it is), hands slipping under your thighs to anchor you against him.

"clark," you breathe as he starts walking, already heading toward the bedroom. "the food's gonna get cold," you warn him softly. it's a half-protest because there's no real bite in your tone, evident by the lack of your body's resistance by the way your legs wrap around his hips for extra steadiness.

"that's why 've got a microwave," he murmurs lowly, eyes lidded slightly downward and glazed over. yeah, there's no getting clark out of this mood until you've exhausted yourselves.

clark carries you down the hall like he's done it a hundred times – granted, he has – with a quiet urgency, like he woke up this morning starving for you and now that you're in his arms, there's no sign of him letting go anytime soon.

might as well relent.

you're kissing him all the way to the bedroom, hands buried in his dark curls, mouth dragging along his jaw, and you don't need super-hearing to hear his pulse thudding hard against you. he barely manages to kick the door shut behind him before he's laying you back on the bed, cool sheets crumbling beneath your body as he hovers over you with a look that steals the breath from your lungs.

even in the soft glow of morning in his quiet apartment, there's a look of intensity in the deep blues of his eyes. one that reminds you that he's memorized every inch of you, but the hunger in them tells you he wants to do it again. slower. deeper. needier.

his hands are everywhere, first braced on either side of your hips, then smoothing up your waist, fingers skimming under his shirt, the delicate softness making your breath hitch.

the light bleeding through the curtains in his bedroom casts against his hovering frame above you, giving him a glowing aura on the right side of his body.

he takes his time taking your shift off, like he's unwrapping a precious gift, revealing your skin to the air and his intense gaze at the same time.

clark groans, quiet and low, like the sight of you takes something out of him, which it does, no matter how many times he's seen you before.

he palms gently up your thighs, his hands large and warm as they settle back on your hips. he leans down to kiss the center of your chest, between the valley of your breasts, his lips reverent and humming against you. you gasp as he presses open-mouthed kisses along the slopes of your breasts, one hand snaking upward to pinch at a stiffened peak. he silences a whimper with a hushed whisper of 'sorry,' against your smooth skin, despite continuing his ministrations, rolling the nipple between his forefinger and thumb.

"clark," you pant softly. you arch slightly, breathing shallow and heart pounding in your chest. "enough teasing."

he half-hums, half-chuckles, lashes fluttering against your breast as he presses a kiss there. your words make him grin – lazy and lopsided and far too smug for someone of his usual candor.

"but, baby," he muses, trailing his lips down the smooth skin of your belly, "that's the best part."

you whimper softly, lower body squirming against the sheets, searching for any form of friction.

he chuckles again, nodding at your neediness. "okay, okay," he murmurs, soft and low. his finger hook into the hem of your panties, teasingly flicking them against your hip once before pulling them down your legs and tossing them aside with a practiced flick.

your legs part for him instinctually, humming when his palms squeeze around the plush flesh of your thighs and pulls them further apart. he leans down pressing a kiss to the inner side of your knee. he peppers kisses up the side of your leg, meeting your inner thigh.

"so pretty," he murmurs, his lips going higher, then higher, until you're gasping, your finger tangled in the sheets.

you don't have to say anything. your hips shift restlessly and he hums in approval.

"'haven't even done anything yet," he says, voice low and reverent, almost smug. he has the full qualification to be, with the way you writhe and pant against the bed after he's done little to nothing.

"clark," you breathe again, tone bordering desperate.

he doesn't need to be told twice. his mouth descends upon you – warm, slow and torturously thorough. his tongue lazily flicks against your clit, lapping at the hardening bundle of nerves with just the right pressure that makes your eyes flutter shut and your back arch further off the bed.

your hands fly to his hair, tugging reflexively at the dark locks, and clark groans at the way you tug him closer to your core. he easily manhandles you, hoisting your legs over his shoulders, inhaling the scent of you while his tongue never wavers.

even now, with his mouth between your thighs and your body unraveling all from his doing, there's a special kind of care in the way clark touches you. he doesn't simply take from you, rushing to meet both of your ends. no, he draws it out. he touches you like he's memorizing every inch of you all over again.

clark is thoughtful.

he effortlessly swept you off your feet with his kansas farm boy charm on his first day working at the planet. and not because of grand gestures.

quite the contraire.

it's little things that clark does that made you fall in love with him.

like how he always walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic. or how he carries an extra umbrella in his bag, just in case it rains and someone in the office forgot theirs. how he remembers your coffee order. how he'll fold your laundry if he stays over your place, not because you asked him to, but because he "had a little time while you were showering."

it's how he listens, really listens, like nothing in the world matters more than what you have to say.

it's the soft expression he holds when you meet his gaze, either at home or at the office.

it's the whispered words he reserves for only you to hear – sweet nothings, gentle praises, utmost compliments.

just like he's whispering right now against your core between languid laps that you can't even make out

"fuck," you gasp, legs trembling around his shoulders. your toes curl at the skillful precision of his tongue.

he pauses just long enough to murmur, "language," into your skin, then grins when he feels you glare down at him. (as if he doesn't swear like a sailor every time he's balls deep buried inside you.)

"i swear to god, clark–"

"blasphemy now?" he teases the inside of your leg again, gently kissing the juncture between your thigh and pelvis.

you shoot him a warning look but it's soon wiped off your face when his mouth returns to your core, this time swiping up your slit. his tongue gives a break to your puffy clit, circling the area under it, reaching your entrance, achingly fluttering.

he hums in satisfaction, dipping his tongue past the opening of your entrance, making your walls flutter.

you're already so close, and clark knows it. if he wasn't your boyfriend, it'd be embarrassing. he pulls away to meet your gaze with his heated one. the blues of his eyes are nearly nonexistent with the ways his pupils have dilated. "always so messy," he muses with a smug smile, bringing his fingers to swipe through the slick between your folds, spreading it around your twitching core.

clark is a giver.

so, despite having pulled away when you were oh, so close to an orgasm, it wasn't out of cruelty. it never is. it's always for something better.

and from the way he kneels up at the foot of bed, allowing you view to the large and hard outline visible behind his sweatpants, you have an idea what that is. the cotton clings to the outline of his cock, the fabric damp at the tip where precum has already soaked through.

his finger hooks into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down in a slow motion, making a show of it. tease, you think mentally and rolling your eyes with a smile. his heavy cock springs free, thick and flushed, the head slick and leaking with his arousal.

your mouth waters at the sight.

you've seen him like this several times, but it still knocks the breath out of you. you always remind him his cock is a good representation of his entire being. he's just so big, so achingly beautiful in a way that makes your center flutter at the sight.

clark meets your gaze, reads your expression and the way your hand twitches to reach for him and he shakes his head. "later," he rumbles, scooting closer to you on the bed, settling between your thighs. "need to be inside you," he adds.

you nod eagerly, panting as he lines himself, giving himself a few slow strokes and nudging the head of his cock at your entrance. "think i'll fit without prepping you with my fingers first?"

you're too needy to care, nodding anyway. "we'll make it fit," you murmur firmly.

clark laughs at your determination to take him without properly preparing your tight walls. the memory of your first time flashes in both your minds: how it took an hour and three toe-curling orgasms coaxed from his fingers before your pussy was able to take his cock.

safe to say, you believe you've conquered him since then.

you roll your hips purposefully against the engorged head of his cock, demeanor desperate. "clark," you whine softly.

"alright, alright," he hums with a nod, slowly pushing inside your welcoming walls with a soft hiss.

your walls stretch around him immediately, fluttering from the sudden pressure of his size. the head alone feels impossibly thick. already punching the air from his lungs despite how gentle he is.

"shit," you breathe, fingers fisting the sheets beside you as he slowly pushes in another inch.

clark groans above you, slack jawed as he watches the way your body tries to take him. "you're so tight, sweetheart," he says through gritted teeth. "still... every time... so tight f'me."

your thighs shake around his hips, your whole body arching to meet him, desperate for more, even as your pussy clenches instinctively at the intrusion. "don't stop," you pant, voice breathless. "i can take it, i can-"

"i know you can," he cuts you off, murmuring the words and brushing his lips across your cheek as a gentle reward. "you're my good girl, right?"

your core clenches around him at his question and you nod frantically, nearly delirious with need as he pushes in deeper. the stretch burns in perfect way: so much, but not too much, just enough to make your mind muddled with fuzz.

slowly and steadily, he gives you another inch, and then another, his large hands gripping your hips to hold you steady to keep you from squirming too much.

"halfway there," he murmurs, but it's more to himself than it is to you. he watches, eyes glazed over and jaw open, as your pretty little body struggles to accommodate just half of his length. "you're taking me so well, sweetheart."

you whimper at the praise, arms winding around his back, clinging to him like a lifeline as your hips roll helplessly to attempt and meet his.

"more," you breath, voice broken and needy. "please, clark..."

his gaze darkens, pupils still swallowing up the blue. he leans down, resting his weight on one forearms beside your head while the other slides under your thigh, hooking your leg up around his waist for a better angle. "i know, baby. i know," he murmurs reverently. brushing his lips over yours in a kiss that's soft but hungry, his cock twitching inside you from the sheer intimacy of it all.

and then he pushes further.

you croon, mouthing falling open in a silent gasp as inch by inch, as he splits you open and stretches you to your limit, and then past it. your walls pulse around him, fluttering like your body can't decide whether to suck him in deeper or clamp down to keep him out because he's too much; too thick; too clark.

clark grunts softly, his voice soft husky at your hair. "i missed this," he murmurs, hips stilling so he can savor the way you're trembling beneath him. the ends of his curls, damp with sweat brush against your earlobe, tickling you. "missed the way you feel around me... like you were made for it," he muses. it's obvious he's drunk with sex, never so bluntly vocal about something so obscene.

you nod, feeling his forehead press to yours. "think i was," you pant, lashes fluttering as your lips brush against each others.

you weren't sure if fate travels across solar systems, but damn are you glad that earth was the planet he crash landed on.

your words do something to him. you can feel the effect rippling through every muscle in his body. his cock twitches deep inside you and his restraint falters.

he sinks deeper into you.

your mouth drops open with a strangled moan and clark swallows the sound with a hungry kiss. his tongue licks into your mouth as his cock continues to stretch your pussy. he's three-quarters in, then four-fifths, then–

"fuck," clark groans, voice raspier than ever. "that's it... that's my girl, taking all of me."

he bottoms out with a heavy press of his hips, the base of his cock flush against your soaked swollen folds. the hair above the base of his cock brushes against your clit, creating a delicious friction. you feel full in a way that should defy logic, as if he's reaching places inside you that no one has (and let's be real, no one else ever will).

and the best part?

it's not just sex. it's never just sex. not with clark.

he lifts his head, meeting your gaze, his lower lip trapped between his teeth because he's holding back oh, so much. "can i...can i move yet?" he asks, tone strained.

you smile at his unwavering consideration and chuckle through your nose, nodding. "mhm, 'm okay," you murmur softly.

his hips roll, slow and deliberate, easing out just enough for to you feel the loss, making you whimper, before he sinks back in with a deep needy groan.

your hands clutch at his back instinctively, fingertips pressing into the firm planes of muscles, anchoring you.

clark moves like he worships you – because he does.

each stroke of his is slow, reverent and full of maddening patient he always has, like he's determined to make you feel every inch of him. it's as if he wants to carve himself into your velvet walls (as if he hasn't already) in the quiet morning light.

"y'feel so good," you slur softly, voice featherlight. "always feels s'good."

"yeah?" he rasps, burying his face in the crook of your neck, gently nibbling on the damp skin. "you feel like heaven, sweetheart."

and you believe him. not just because of how he says it, but because of how he says everything. clark speaks with nothing but truth, softness, and, only with you, with an undercurrent of awe, like he's genuinely shocked that he gets to love you this way.

his pace builds, inch by inch, thrust by thrust, until you're gasping his name like a mantra. your bodies rock together in a practiced rhythm, slicked with sweat and tangled in warm sheets and sunlight. his name continues to spill from your lips from sheer instinct and without thought.

clark murmurs soft encouragements against your skin, his lips pressed to your cheek, down your jaw, down the slope of your neck, across your shoulder.

"you're doing so well for me, baby... so good..."

you're so full, so dizzy, so completely undone.

"clark, 'm about to... gonna..." you whine, feeling the pressure tighten in your lower belly.

he chuckles warmly, slipping his hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing soft circles over the sensitive bundle of nerves. "you gonna cum already, sweetheart?"

you nod, eyelashes fluttering as you struggle to keep your eyes open, your brain nearly mush at this point.

clark reels at your expression, knowing he's the only one to subject you to this state of mind and body.

"cum then, baby," he says, voice tight with balanced control as he continues the relentless rhythm, rocking your body into the mattress. "wanna feel you cum around my cock."

your orgasm hits fast, no warning, save for the high pitched cry of his name spilling from your lips. you're thankful you're over at his apartment instead of your own because you really can't afford another noise complaint from your neighbors. you claw at his shoulders, leaving indents for sure (that'll heal in less than ten minutes), and your thighs squeeze around his hips as you cum hard around his cock.

clark groans as you tighten around him, barely managing before he rasps, "i'm about to– inside– can i?"

you nod eagerly, body flushing with heat. he never fails to ask despite every constant reassurance from you that you're on birth control and he's always welcome to cum inside. that's just another thing that makes clark, clark.

he manages a few more thrusts before he follows you over the edge. his hips still as he buries himself to the hilt, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills into you with a strangled moan of your name.

the room goes quiet, with the exception of your mingled breathing and birds chirping outside his window.

he doesn't pull out right away – he never does. clark never rushes to move. he always just holds you, pressing kisses to your temple while carding his fingers through your hair. he pulls back enough, just to look at you, just to see your hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and stupid in love. he presses a kiss to your forehead, a million words sealed into the intimate gesture.

you feel his cock soften inside you as he stays buried in the warmth of your body as if it's where he belongs. he likes to think so, at least.

you hum, lazy and content, arms wrapping around his neck as you nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder, pulling him flush atop you, unworried about how he practically crushes you.

"the eggs are definitely cold," you murmur against the sweat-slick skin of his neck.

he pulls back – too worried about his weight on top of you, bracing his arms beside your head – and sports a grin, lazy and crooked. "worth it."

you snort, tracing your finger along the hard expanse of his chest. "you always say that."

"and i always mean it."

again, you weren't sure if fate traveled across solar systems, but somehow, someway, it sent clark kent straight to you.

.... currently feral. hope you enjoyed <3

[j3llyc4kes]

summary: your criminal boyfriend sukuna who absolutely rocks your world in the best way possible. now you’re in ur prison gf arc?

wc: uuhhh, 7k? i think..i yapped

cw: angsty, fluff, smut, mentions of guns, prison, drugs, etc. comfort at the end, pinky promise :3

you met ryomen sukuna through some mutuals. back when you were still smart. still cautious. some house party with peeling paint, shitty music. way too many bodies and way too many red solo cups.

you went with one of your girls yuki tsukumo—well, got dragged along. she was pointing people out, talking fast, already tipsy. you were half listening, half not giving a fuck.

then she leaned in, whispered over the rim of her drink,

“and that’s ryomen. don’t. he’s like crazy. like—jail time type shit.”

your ears perked up like a dog.

“jail time?” you asked. and then you saw him.

sitting on a shitty couch, red eyes. black tattoos on his face, crawling down the back of his neck, his arms, clearly all over. all ink and muscle and attitude. dragging a hand through a soft pink buzzcut, smoking a blunt. shirt half unbuttoned (thank fuck). tatted hands in his pockets like he could kill you or kiss you and you’d say thank you for both.

and to your surprise, he looked in your direction as you mindlessly walked to up him like you’d be shot by cupid. he smirked, looking you up and down—like he already knew you’d walk over.

“you lost?” his voice was low. rough. amused.

you shook your head. “nope.” sitting on his lap anyways.

and you swore it was just you being dumb. wanted a quick fuck, nothing more. you weren’t actually gonna fall for him.

after the first time you met him, it started slow. drinks, texts, late nights that blurred into mornings. you never asked what he did—not really. he never volunteered it. but the cash came easy. so what the hell right?

“you scared of me yet?” he asks you one night, voice low, fingers brushing your thigh while you sat in his lap, his gun cold against your lower back while it was tucked in his waist band.

you shake your head. “dunno, should i be?”

he grins. all teeth. “nah. i’d never hurt you.” and he meant it.

you always looked the other way when he left in the middle of the night. didn’t feel the need ask why he always checked the blinds twice. why he had two phones. why he flinched when a black SUV passed too slow.

because sukuna…he was surprisingly gentle. always held the door for you. always touched you like he meant it. he made you laugh when you didn’t want to, made you feel like the only girl in the world. took you out and never let you pay. took you home and made you feel safe, somehow, even with a gun or two on the nightstand.

you know he’s not a good man. you’re not stupid.

but he just looks so goddamn fine when he leans against the hood of his car, blunt between his lips, black hoodie clinging to his frame. the kind of man people cross the street to avoid.

i mean come on, he’s a criminal. a real one. not some fake ass who shoplifts and smokes mids. sukuna moves product, handles money, kills when he has to—cold, smart, ruthless.

but with you? he’s just so soft. always puts his gun on the counter before dinner. keeps his voice low when you’re tired. kisses the inside of your wrist and tugs you into his lap when you’re mad at him. carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch. rubs your feet without asking.

he kisses you so sweetly. calls you baby in that low voice like it’s a threat. you argue like you want to kill each other and fuck like you’re trying to bring each other back to life.

so when he comes home at night, blood on his clothes and that dead-calm look in his eye, and mutters, “need you to say i was with you tonight,”

you don’t ask. you just say: “yeah. course you were.”

(fuck it, we ball)

and some months later, he’s still in your bed. still eating all of your snacks, washing your dishes sometimes, kissing your neck with a kind of possessiveness that should be a red flag—but feels so green.

the thing is? he never lies to you. doesn’t even try to.

“i’m not clean,” he says one night, tracing tattoos along your thigh while the tv plays something neither of you are watching. “i do bad shit. and i’m not gonna stop.”

you probably should’ve left then. but instead, you kissed him.

and by the end of year one, you’re living in his apartment—scratch that, your apartment, because his name’s not on the lease. “can’t leave a paper trail, princess.” the place is cozy and yours. you got loud neighbors and a pitbull named akuma—big, gray, dumb as hell, and completely obsessed with sukuna.

“he’s gonna be a little menace to society,” you said when he brought the puppy home.

sukuna just smirked, kneeling down, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “takes after his dad.”

the three of you are like some fucked-up little family. your neighbors always side-eye you. your mom knows but chooses not to say anything anymore. and now your friends have stopped trying to talk you out of it.

and you stopped pretending you wanted out a loooong ass time ago.

fast forward to two years in: the fridge is covered in dumb polaroids. you brushing your teeth. him flipping off the camera. akuma in the middle, tongue out, wearing the stupid, gucci harness you swore was too expensive until sukuna said, “yeah, and?” and bought it anyway.

and now sukuna’s even got your name inked into the thick muscle of his forearm. right above those bold lines on his wrist.

“seriously? this isn’t like sharpie or something?” you’d asked when he came home from the tattoo shop that day.

he just smirked. “dead serious.”

when akuma jumps into bed and crushes your legs and sukuna tells him to get off but doesn’t mean it, when he presses his inked hand to your thigh while you’re watching a movie and says “gonna put a ring on it, you know that?”

you believe every word.

one day, you see the red and blue lights flash by in a blur out the window when he comes running inside the apartment—breathless—you don’t question him. idiot move but it’s because he always comes home. always throws his wallet and his keys on the counter and kisses your cheek like nothing happened. cooks dinner shirtless, muscles flexing while he flips the steak and washes his hands off in the sink.

you clean his knuckles. you patch his ribs. you kiss the crown of his head while he falls asleep on the couch with his arms around you and that’s all that matters.

but you notice how he’s been on edge. more late nights. tighter grip on your waist when you’re out. more checking the windows. more guns on the table.

“you trust me?” he asks later that night, voice low in the dark.

you’re in bed, curled against his side, tracing the black ink on his chest. akuma at your feet. his heart’s beating too fast.

you nod. “always, kuna.”

he exhales, fingers brushing over your spine.

“then no matter what happens—no matter who says what, or what you hear—you remember that. alright?”

you look up at him. search his face. “baby, what’s going on?”

he doesn’t answer. just kisses your forehead, holds you tighter.

a week goes by after that conversation. everything is almost perfect and then it’s not. it all happens so fast. it’s 2:26 a.m. quiet, maybe a little too quiet. then it’s not.

one minute you’re on the couch, hoodie on, legs tucked under you, sukuna’s head in your lap while a movie plays low in the background. he’s half-asleep, arm curled around your thigh, breathing slow like—for once—he’s letting himself rest.

then a crash. your front door kicked in. boots pounding down the hall. shouting—sharp, cold, barked like war commands.

“CLEAR.”

“LEFT SIDE.”

“MOVE MOVE MOVE—”

“HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!”

akuma is the first to react—your gray pittie, big and gentle and stupidly loyal—howling, barking like he’s ready to kill. but there are too many of them. someone yells to grab the dog. you scream his name, but they’ve already got him by the collar, dragging him back while he thrashes and whines. red and blue lights flash across the walls. guns drawn.

you’re frozen, shaking, the room is spinning.

you’re still processing—still trying to understand why there are rifles in your face. why they’re screaming your name. why they’re tearing through your drawers, your closet. why they’re grabbing sukuna’s burner phone, the rolled cash, the duffel bags, the box under the bed he told you never to touch.

sukuna’s already standing—calm. too calm. hands raised. jaw tight.

his gun’s on the coffee table. he doesn’t move. he just looks at you.

“listen to me. breathe. look at me. i told you—don’t forget, alright?”

you’re crying now. shaking. choking on air.

his eyes—sharp, red, unreadable—don’t move.

you lunge for him, but two officers grab you first and shove you against the wall. you’re screaming just trying to see him, but they’re in the way, shouting over you.

“wait—please, don’t hurt him!” you shake your head, blinking through tears, “he didn’t—he—what the fuck is going on?!”

“ryomen sukuna, you’re under arrest for organized crime, weapons trafficking, drug trafficking, assault with a deadly weapon—”

the words don’t sound real and it’s not like you didn’t know. you weren’t stupid. you just loved him too much to say it out loud.

as they read him his rights. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t blink. he lets them cuff him—wrists behind his back, shoulders loose. they slam him into the wall and he still turns to find you.

and he’s smiling.

the cuffs are tight. your apartment’s destroyed. your dog is howling like he’s mourning a death.

but sukuna just smiles. like this is nothing. like he knew it was coming. which in hindsight, he tried to warn you something was coming.

his eyes stay on you, even through the flashlight beams, the chaos.

“it’s okay, baby,” he says, soft, just for you. “don’t cry.”

“sukuna—please, no—”

he keeps smiling. even as they start pulling him toward the door.

“i’ll be alright. i promise.”

and just before the hallway swallows him, just before the sirens drown it all out.

“baby,” he calls out again, louder this time. “look at me.”

you do, through the blur of tears, you do.

he’s got a split lip from how they man handled him, bleeding. his arms tensed behind his back. his face still calm.

“don’t worry, yeah?” voice steady. “they’re just doing their job. i’ll be fine.”

“b-but you promised—” your voice breaks. “you promised me—”

“i know.” he nods. and for the first time, the smile slips. just for a second. “i know, baby. i’m sorry.”

they drag him out towards the squad car. akuma’s losing it—thrashing against the grip on his collar, trying to follow him. you collapse to the floor, sobbing. akuma finally escapes from one of the officers and pushes his head into your side, whining like his heart’s breaking too.

as you look around, they’re bagging everything. phones. files. guns. bricks. a woman in a black blazer reads off inventory like she’s listing groceries. her voice is calm. efficient. it makes you want to scream.

while you’re left on the floor—sobbing, shaking, clutching your dog while your whole life gets zipped into evidence bags. and all you can hear is his voice, still yelling from outside:

“don’t fuckin’ touch my girl or my dog—you hear me?!”

you stare past the officer crouched in front of you, not even hearing him anymore—just watching sukuna get shoved into the back of a squad car.

and just before the door slams, he shouts, “i love you, y’know that? i’ll come back.”

the door closes.

all that was left was the mumbling of officers as they raided your apartment. after that, they take you down to the station. they question you for hours but they don’t have anything on you nor do they any info from you.

you were smart. loyal. quiet. just his girlfriend, just the love of his life. you didn’t know a damn thing. you were with him on this day. and that day. you gave them alibis for everything they tried to pin on him.

never flinched. never snitched. you held the line.

and when they finally let you go, hours later—bleary-eyed, fingers trembling, walking back into the wreckage of what used to be home—akuma’s waiting by the door. his tail thumping, eyes wide, like he doesn’t know how to stop looking for him.

and neither do you.

couple months down the line, it’s his court date. it’d been painfully long. phone calls, visits here and there but it was finally time for his sentencing.

you had gotten there early. standing in a corner, speaking with his defense attorney.

but as the time passed, the courtroom felt cold and quiet in that fake, choking way.

you’re sitting stiff in the second row, all black—tight dress, heavy coat, heels loud on the tile when you walked in. hands gripping the edge of the bench, white-knuckled as you waited.

your eyes lock on him the second he steps into the room.

sukuna walks in wearing shackles like they’re fucking jewelry. orange jumpsuit unzipped just enough to show the ink crawling up his chest. wrists cuffed, ankles too, chain connecting them down the middle.

he’s smirking like this is a joke. like he already knows how it ends. then his eyes land on you. his girl.

“hey, baby. you look good.”

“shut the fuck up,” one of the guards snaps, yanking the chain forward.

you don’t flinch. you don’t even speak. you just watch him walk to his seat like he owns the place.

he sits back like it’s a poker game. his leg bouncing, smiling. those red eyes scan the room once, like he’s bored.

then it begins. and soon enough, the judge starts reading the charges.

violent, serious shit. none of it exaggerated even a little bit.

organized crime. trafficking. assault. illegal weapons.

which again, you know what he did. you knew before the cops ever did. meanwhile everyone in the room looks at him like a monster but not you.

you don’t even blink when the jury says “guilty” after every charge and neither does he.

the judge ends the trial with his sentence, “twenty-five years. eligible for parole in seven.”

the courtroom breathes in like it just took a punch. and sukuna? sukuna just laughs. real fucking loud, ugly and real. he throws his head back like he’s in on some joke no one else gets.

the judge bangs the gavel. some man yells at him to shut up and stop laughing, the guards move fast.

he just grins through all of it then turns his head toward you, mouth split in that same damn smirk.

“still gonna write me, baby?” he calls, smug, voice booming off the walls.

you nod once—sharp. you could care less who sees.

the guards haul him up, start dragging him toward the side door. he doesn’t resist. just keeps smiling at you like he already knows you’ll be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. and he’s right.

the truth is, the charges could’ve been a hell of a lot worse. they had enough to bury him alive but you? you were a fucking godsend. every little lie was perfect. you lied through your goddamn teeth. all the fake alibis, timelines, pretending not to know what half the shit in your apartment was—had worked. even after they grilled you for hours. days. tried to shake you, to get you to break.

but you never gave them shit. you kept your voice steady, your story straight and your love for him ironclad.

and it worked. it could’ve been 40 years to life. it could’ve been no parole. it could’ve even been you, too. but here you are—still free. he’s not. but he’s still yours.

and seven years later? he’s still yours.

sure, he’s missed holidays. birthdays. every new year’s kiss. but every thursday at 3:00pm? you’re there.

you’re used to the routine now. first your ID, patdown, metal detector. pretty boring stuff.

at that point, you knew every guard by name.

you’ve done this a hundred times—plastic chairs, shitty vending machine coffee, body searches.

you don’t care because the second he walks into the visitation room everything else fades out.

he’s bigger now. broader. face leaner, eyes sharper—darker in a way that says time has passed, and prison doesn’t change people so much as refine them. orange jumpsuit rolled to the waist, white tank clinging to his chest, black ink crawling up the back of his neck like smoke.

and that grin—dangerous. crooked. just for you.

“fuck, baby,” he drawls, sliding into the seat across from you. “you get hotter every time i see you. is that a new lip gloss?”

you roll your eyes. “you gonna flirt or ask how i’ve been?”

he shrugs, smirking. “same thing.”

still cocky. still loud. still him but the edges are tighter now. more controlled like every second without you has been simmering under his skin.

there were times you’d talk. about nothing. about everything. he tells you about prison like it’s high school drama. you tell him about bills, work, new TV shows, keeping the bed warm for him. he listens like every word matters. like you’re the only real thing in his world.

“are you wearing that chain i sent you?” he asks.

you tug it out from under your hoodie—a little silver bar with his name engraved.

his grin widens. “of course you are, don’t know why i even asked.”

and sometimes, when the guards aren’t looking, he leans in close. voice low, filthy, just for you:

“you gonna let me fuck you in the conjugal trailer next month?”

“still think about that pretty little body when i fall asleep.”

“i’m gonna come home and ruin you. you know that, right?”

you squeeze your thighs together. he sees. smirks. and of course the smug bastard is proud of himself.

and sometimes it’s quiet. just the sound of your fingers tapping on the metal table. he stares at your hands like they mean something.

“seven years,” he mutters. “and you’re still here.”

you shrug. “you’d do it for me.”

he lifts a brow. “would i?”

you give him a look.

he laughs—low, warm and real. “yeah,” he says. “yeah, i fuckin’ would.”

there’s no kissing here. no touching past a handshake, a goodbye but the way he looks at you?

you feel it everywhere.

and one day, just as the guard calls time, just as he stands and stretches and leans in a little closer than he’s supposed to—

he murmurs, voice quiet, steady. “marry me when i get out.”

you blink. “what?”

but he’s already turning away, that same old grin tugging at his mouth, shouting something crass to another inmate, hands cuffed behind his back.

the door slams shut behind him.

and you’re left sitting there, heart pounding, chain warm between your fingers, replaying those words in your head.

the next time you see him, he walks in wearing that ugly-ass orange jumpsuit as usual, smile already stretching across his face the second he sees you.

“look at you,” he says, voice low and filthy despite the guards. “dressed all nice for your criminal boyfriend.”

you roll your eyes. “you asked me to.”

“yeah. and you listened. you always do” he leans in. “always such a good girl for me.”

the tension’s thick. his wrists are cuffed, but his eyes are on you like he’s already got his hands around your throat.

“heard the news?” he asks casually, voice like honey dipped in gasoline. “early release. next month.”

your breath catches. “wait, are you serious?”

“mmhm.” he leans back, tongue flicking over his teeth. “good behavior.” he grins. “just for you.”

he’s been cleaning up—no fights, no smuggling, no stabbings in the yard, even though he wants to. because he wants to see you again. wants his hands on you. his mouth. wants you under him, not across the table.

“been thinkin’ about what I’m gonna do to you first,” he says, voice lower now, eyes burning. “once i get out.”

you swallow and shift in your seat. “are you gonna behave?”

he laughs. full-bodied, dark. “fuck no. i’m gonna ruin you.”

he leans forward, chained wrists clinking on the table, eyes locked on yours.

“i’ve been locked up seven years, princess. do you know how much time i’ve spent thinking about that sweet little body under mine?”

you feel your cheeks heat, but you don’t look away.

“you better be ready,” he says, voice rough now. “’cause i’m gonna spend the first night out fucking you like i’m tryna get sent right back.”

so thankfully, he’s the kind of inmate that runs the damn yard but keeps his nose clean just enough to qualify for early release. he did beat someone’s ass in the showers last month for talking sideways about you—but still managed to earn “good behavior” by bribing the guards and running literacy programs like a deranged philanthropist.

next time you hear from him he calls you from the jail phone with that lazy, smug tone:

“two more weeks. then i’m home. you ready for that, princess?”

“depends. are you gonna kill anyone again?”

“no, baby. i’m a changed man, pinky promise.”

a pause. “unless they touch you.”

but life as a prisoner’s girlfriend had been interesting to say the least. some your favorite memories though?

the video call visits. the video calls hit different.

you answer from the bed, in his hoodie that thankfully still smelled like him, all soft lighting and skin and love in your eyes.

the screen flickers—and there he is.

inmate #966666. your man. arms crossed, face lit by the shitty fluorescent light in the visiting block. buzzed short on the sides, salmon pink thick on top. face tattoos sharp even in pixelation. smirking. cocky. starved.

“there’s my girl,” he rumbles, leaning in like he’s trying to reach through the screen. “lookin’ all cozy in our bed.”

you smile, soft. “missed you today.”

he leans back, legs spread, grinning. “yeah? say it again.”

you roll your eyes, giggling. “missed you.”

“mm,” he hums. “missed you more, baby. how’s our place lookin’? bought anything new for me to come home to?”

and you have—so you flip the camera around, showing off the new record shelf, the little framed photo of you two from before, and the rug you’ve been saving for.

“can’t wait for you to see it for real,” you say quietly. “can’t wait till you come home.”

his face softens—just barely. eyes half-lidded.

“me neither, princess. every night i picture it. you. the apartment. our bed. my hands all over you again.”

you bring the camera back to yourself, and akuma sits up on the floor beside your bed, tail thumping.

sukuna lights up like a kid on christma.

the dog perks up at his voice, sniffs the screen, tail going harder.

“yo, come here, big man,” he coos. “you takin’ care of my girl, huh? keepin’ her warm at night? …better not be sleepin’ on my fuckin’ pillow.”

you both laugh. but you already know when sukuna gets out, he’s picking that big soft baby up in his arms like it’s nothing, and probably crying into his fur when no one’s looking.

and the letters? worth framing.

he sends them folded perfectly, sprayed with just a hint of your favorite cologne. immaculate. front-and-back, always. tight, clean handwriting. detailed as hell—how he’s doing, what he’s thinking about. sweet shit like “wish i could hold you right now. need it bad.” and spicy shit like: “wanna fuck you face-down ass-up the minute I’m out.” “was dreamin’ about you last night. woke up hard. you owe me.”

one of his first letters had said:

hey baby, how are you? miss you real bad. i woke up thinkin’ about your laugh. that one that comes out when you’re tryin’ not to snort. i miss it. miss you. drawn your face from memory like four times now. don’t tell nobody, they’ll say i’m gettin’ soft. been missing your smell. you smell like home. that sweet vanilla shit you always put on. i look at your pictures every night. even got one under my pillow. even when they toss my cell, i hide it like it’s fuckin’ contraband. you’re my peace. can’t lose you princess.

then they’d switch, just like that.

you know, i thought about that one night. you dancing in the kitchen, making soup, wearing those little shorts. you remember the ones? yeah. me too. that’s why i wrote this with one hand. also last night i laid in this goddamn bunk and imagined the sound you make when you take your bra off after a long day. hard as a rock. you’re such a fuckin’ problem. do you still wear that lacey one i like? the one that barely holds anything? bet your titties are sittin’ real pretty in it right now. fuck me.

i miss how you say my name when you’re tired. i miss how you say it when you’re on top. i miss your thighs around my neck. i miss your mouth. i miss being inside you so deep you forget your own fuckin’ name.

but more than that? i miss watching you eat dinner across from me. i miss you bitchin’ about your coworkers. i miss your fingers in my hair when i can’t sleep. i don’t give a fuck how long it takes, you’re it for me.

and he always had a sketch tucked inside. sometimes it’s little things—your side profile, your body. or sharp, shaded tattoos—ones he designed for you. (something he did on the side when he was still a law abiding citizen). his name in kanji. a snake coiled around a katana surrounded by lilies.

this one’s for your spine. wanna see it when i fuck you from behind.

then, right under that like he didn’t just make you cry and wet at the same time:

…also. take it easy at work. remember to eat. and kiss akuma for me. shit, also, can you put some extra on my books? tryna get you something for your birthday. don’t ask what. it’s not a weapon, swear.

and you do—put money on his books, no hesitation. commissary’s got nothing on you. he’s got honey buns, decent ramen, and the best soap on his block. your man is moisturized and fed. period.

and at the end of a long, loving, slightly filthy letter, he always signed in that perfect script: “ryo. always yours.”

you kept every letter in a shoebox under your bed, every sketch on your corkboard. you read them on bad days. and good ones.

you always wrote back, too— keeping him updated with everything. little doodles, lipstick kisses on the envelope, spritz of perfume here and here. snuck in polaroids of you and akuma. even some spicy ones for his eyes only. always signed with “your/name, always & forever <3.”

oh and those conjugal visits? they most deeeefinitely take the cake.

you had waited weeks for them, marked off in red hearts on the calendar.

one of the first visits:

you walk into that little cold-ass private trailer with a bag packed—cute pajamas, your favorite lotion, that perfume he likes. he’s already there when you arrive, looking like sin in his real clothes. not that orange jumpsuit he’s usually in. eyes glued to you the second you step in.

then he softens. just a little.

you stand. don’t even say anything. just walk straight into his arms. he buries his face in your neck, breath catching like it’s the first inhale he’s had since they locked the door behind him.

“fuck,” he mutters. “you smell good. gonna feel even better.”

his hands are everywhere. rough palms on your waist, your thighs, your ass. lips dragging over your skin like he’s starved—and he is.

he grabs your waist fast, pulls you in for a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth, rough like he’s been starving for you.

“got something to show you,” you whisper, breathless already.

you turn around, pull your dress up, and tug the side of your thong down just enough to show him—

small script. his name. right cheek. close to the curve of your hip.

he goes still. his hand on your ass, thumb dragging right over it. then he finally speaks.

“nah, what the fuck,” he laughs, eyes wide, voice shaking. “you got my name tatted on you?”

you look back over your shoulder, smiling.

“been had it. waited to show you in person.”

his hands are now rubbing all over you, gripping that ass with both hands like it’s his last meal. but then, he’s got you onto the bed so fast the mattress groans. pulls your dress over your head and yanks your panties down. he stares like he’s looking at something holy.

“missed this mouth,” he groans, spreading your legs, licking up your slick with a filthy moan. “missed how fuckin’ sweet you are when you’re beggin’.”

you gasp, already squirming.

he fully buries face between your thighs, hands gripping your waist like he’s starving and hasn’t had a real meal since he got locked up. moaning into your cunt, licking like it’s his last day alive.

“taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he groans. “missed this fuckin’ pussy so bad. missed how you sound when i’m inside you.”

after a two or three orgasms from his tongue and fingers, he finally fucks you. it’s deep, rough, desperate. your legs around his waist, your back arching off the mattress while he pounds into you like he’s making up for lost time. his tip hitting that sweet spot repeatedly in your pussy that makes your body take a fucking screenshot. teeth on your neck, fingers digging into your hips right below where his name is inked into your skin.

he just mutters filthy shit in your ear:

“you got my name on you, and now you’re gonna take all of me.”

“this ass? mine.”

“gonna fuck you so good you dream about it ‘til the next visit.”

then he flips you both, makes you ride him, sucking your tits while they bounce, eyes half-lidded.

“shiiiit, sweetheart—gonna fuck a baby into you in this nasty little room if you’re not careful,” he grits.

and you just moan louder, hands in his hair, riding the edge of pure bliss.

“missed you,” you whisper, staring up at him, cradling his face.

he kisses you. hard. filthy. then soft.

he pulls away breathless. jaw slack, panting like a dog in heat.

“fuck, baby—come on. gimme that shit. come all over my dick. show me how much you missed it.”

you do. messy. loud. milking him for all he’s got.

and he follows right after, hands gripping your ass so hard they’re sure to leave bruises as he cums deep and desperate.

and when he’s done, he kisses your neck, arms wrapped around you.

“gonna marry you when i get out,” he whispers. “i swear.”

you both lie on the tiny mattress after some much needed TLC. tangled up, his head between your tits, your fingers in his hair. he traces your tattoo with his fingers.

“gonna take care of you right, when i get out,” he murmurs, voice rough. “no more bullshit.”

you kiss his jaw. whisper back. “i know.”

and when you left that day, sore and glowing, your man watched you walk away as the guards put the cuffs back on him, mouth curled into a grin, voice low like a promise:

“keep my side of the bed warm, baby. i’m comin’ home. promise.”

and the day he gets out, you’re already there.

you’re standing by the gate before the sun’s even up. his hoodie on, necklace with his name around your neck. you’re trying to play it cool, but your hands won’t stop shaking.

and when that gate finally opened, when ryomen sukuna steps out, a free man, tattoos gleaming in the morning light, black tee hugging his chest, hair grown out just a little, grin already forming.

you don’t even get a word out before he grabs you, spins you around like a goddamn princess. his hands firm on your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, face buried in your neck.

“fuck, baby,” he breathes. “missed you so fuckin’ bad.”

you’re laughing. crying a little. arms wrapped around his shoulders so tight it hurts.

he sets you down, but barely. just enough to kiss your cheeks, your jaw, your nose, and then he pulls back, still holding your face like it’s precious.

“you ready?”

you blink. “for what?”

he grins. big. so sure.

“courthouse. thirty minutes away. judge’s on lunch break. said he’ll squeeze us in.”

you blink again. “wait, the fuck? are you—you’re serious?”

“sweetheart,” he says, already dragging you toward the car, “i’ve been locked up seven fuckin’ years. i’m so serious.”

cut to an hour later: courthouse.

fluorescent lights. ugly tile. fake bouquet from the clerk’s desk in your hand. cheap rings in a little box you picked up from the nearest pawn shop on the way there. you didn’t even have time to change. he didn’t care. not even a little.

“you look perfect,” he mutters, adjusting your hoodie like it’s designer couture. “i’m gonna wife you up in my hoodie. that’s so hard.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re such a dumbass.”

“your dumbass now,” he grins emphasizing the your. “permanently.”

you say your vows that came straight from the heart in a cheap government office, between a sleepy officiant and a laminated “no food or drink” sign.

but he looks at you like you’re in a white dress on a mountaintop.

he kisses your hand when he slides the ring on.

says “’bout fuckin’ time,” loud enough that the clerk snorts.

and when they say “you may now kiss—”

he doesn’t wait. he pulls you in, kisses you like he’s trying to breathe through you. it’s deep and messy and a little bit desperate.

you giggle against his mouth.

he presses his forehead to yours, still grinning.

“mrs. ryomen fuckin’ sukuna,” he says proudly. “finally.”

you walk out as husband and wife.

he pulls you in by the hips and kisses you again in the parking lot, hands low, grin wide.

“made good on that promise, yeah?”

you decide not to do anything fancy. no champagne. no five-star dinner.

you celebrate the only way you know how—greasy as hell.

just burgers and fries at that little place you used to talk about in letters and phone calls—the one with the neon sign and checkered floors. sukuna orders double everything, and he’s across from you in sweats and an ankle monitor, eating like a man who forgot what real food tastes like.

he steals your fries when you’re not looking. you slap his hand.

he smirks. “married now, baby. my fries too.”

you share a milkshake. vanilla. extra whipped cream. two straws.

he stares at you across the table like he still doesn’t believe you’re real.

“you know i dreamed about this?” he says, voice rough from grease and emotion. “used to lay there and think about you, right across from me, doing this exact same shit.”

you smile. press your foot against his under the table.

“dream about the milkshake or me?”

he snorts. “both. obviously.”

he takes your hand and kisses your ring finger, red eyes locked on yours and filled with so much love.

and when you finally drive home—real home—his leg’s bouncing the whole way. you both get off the car and head up the steps and you unlock the front door.

“you sure he’s not gonna bite me?”

you snort. “you’re the one who taught him to go for the ankles.”

the apartment is quiet when you pull up. it’s familiar to him, but different. newer furniture. he’s seen it all in video calls but it’s different in person now. his shoes aren’t by the door anymore, but everything else—everything you—is still here. still home.

he hesitates at the threshold. just for a second. like he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he walks in. but then—

“AKUMA!” you call out, voice soft but firm.

and there’s the sound of scrambling paws, claws on the hardwood, and then akuma’s there—gray, stocky, a little older, but still full of love and joy.

the pitbull barrels into the room like he’s about to tear through the walls, skids to a stop, and freezes when he sees him.

sukuna kneels down, slow, whispering. “…yo.”

akuma just stares at first—like he’s short-circuiting. akuma sniffs the air. tail wags once. then again. and then he launches.

sukuna catches all 70 pounds of him like it’s nothing, falling back onto his ass with a grunt as akuma licks at his face like he’s trying to put seven years of love into one minute.

“fuck—okay, okay—goddamn—” sukuna’s laughing, arms tight around the dog’s back, fingers gripping his fur like he’s afraid he’ll disappear again.

akuma’s whining, tail a blur of chaos, body wriggling like he can’t get close enough.

and sukuna—your big, bad, tatted-up, ex-convict husband?

he fucking cries. silent at first. then not. (expected)

his shoulders were shaking, arms wrapped tight around the dog, forehead pressed to his fur.

you just watch from the doorway. hands over your mouth. heart splitting. he looks up at you, eyes wet.

“fuck, baby,” he says, voice cracking. “i didn’t think—i didn’t know if—”

you kneel beside him. touch his back. “he never stopped waiting,” you whisper. “neither did i.”

he pulls you both in—you and akuma—his whole world in his arms now. big, calloused hands around your waist. akuma draped across your laps like a living blanket.

you sit beside him. curl against his side.

“god, y/n, you—fuck—i…,” he whispers into akuma’s fur. “didn’t think i’d get to see you again.”

and for the first time in seven years, sukuna lets himself feel safe.

after you both settle in, it’s quiet now. real quiet. not prison quiet.

no locks clanking. no cell doors slamming. no count. no cold tile or shitty mattress. home quiet.

you’re both clean—fresh from a hot shower, towel-dried hair, his hands all over you the entire time like he couldn’t believe you were real. when he brushed his teeth, he kept making jokes about “first night as a free man, i’m getting minty for my wife.”

his wife.

he’s got everything he dreamed about for the last seven years. sheets that smell like you. a real bed. a dim lamp in the corner next to a photo of you, him & akuma.

and you—standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but one of his old shirts and a look that says finally.

the ring glints on your finger in the dark. he exhales like he’s never really breathed before. he sits on the edge of the bed for a while. just stares at the wall.

you don’t rush him. you know what’s going on in that handsome head of his. this is the place he got arrested in. the same room they tore apart. same windows, same shadows.

“seven years,” he murmurs. “first night back in my bed.”

you walk over. slow. crawl into his lap and wrap your arms around his neck.

“our bed,” you whisper.

he swallows. hard. hands settling on your hips.

eyes drinking you in like he can’t believe you’re real. like maybe he’s still dreaming in some concrete box.

“you’re my wife,” he says, voice thick. “fuckin’ wife.”

you smile against his lips. “so make me feel like it.”and that’s all it takes.

he kisses you hard—mouth desperate, like he’s catching up for all the years he couldn’t. he pulls your shirt over your head, kisses the top of your chest first, then lower. his hands are everywhere. reverent. hungry. he grabs your thighs, flips you onto your back, crawls down between your legs like he’s starving.

and he is.

he pulls your panties off with his teeth. kisses your inner thighs like he’s praying. then licks into you, slow and deep, groaning when your fingers tangle in his hair.

“sweetest fuckin’ thing,” he murmurs against your pussy. “missed this taste every night. used to jerk off thinkin’ about this right here.”

he eats like he’s got time to worship. not rough. not rushed. just…grateful. long licks, fingers curling inside, nose pressed to your clit until your thighs are shaking and your hips are grinding into his face.

“go ahead, baby. be a good girl and come on my face. it’s your first night as my wife. i got shit to prove.”

you come hard. breathless. crying out his name.

and he doesn’t stop. not until your thighs are twitching. not until he’s satisfied.

then he crawls back up, drags your mouth to his, lets you taste yourself on his lips.

“sit on it,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “wanna watch you ride me. wanna feel all of it.”

you straddle him, slow, sinking down onto his cock until you’re full—so fucking full it steals your breath.

he moans, head tipping back, gripping your hips, watching every inch disappear.

“my fuckin’ wife,” he breathes. “look at you.” you move slow at first, hands on his chest, grinding your hips like you’ve got nowhere else to be for the rest of your life.

and he loves it.

he’s got his hands all over you. one on your waist, the other cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple.

he fucks up into you, matching your pace, mouth dragging across your throat.

“seven fuckin’ years,” he pants. “you know how many times i dreamed of this?”

you’re shaking now. gasping.

“show me,” you whisper. “show me how bad you wanted it.”

he flips you fast—so fast—lays you down on his bed for the first time in seven years, and fucks you deep, slow, deliberate. the room filled with the most obscene sounds. bed creaking, the sweet, wet squelch of your pussy and his balls slapping against your ass.

he kisses your fingers. your mouth. your ring.

“mine,” he whispers into your neck. “forever. mine.”

you come again. this time with his name in your mouth and his hand locked with yours.

he follows right after—groaning low, buried deep inside you, face pressed to your chest. (definitely pregnant after that)

you collapse on top of him. he wraps you up. presses kisses to your hair. just lays there, breathing with you, forehead to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.

“thank you,” he whispers. “for waiting. for staying. for not giving up on me.”

no more grainy phone calls. no more visits. no more letters. just the two of you home with nothing between you but peace.

he rubs his hand over your back, voice soft.

“we’re good now, yeah?”

you nod, half-asleep. “mhm.”

“told you i’d come back.” he whispers.

after that, it gets quiet again. except akuma’s snoring in the corner like a damn freight train. the door’s locked. the city’s asleep.

and you’re in bed, legs tangled with your husband’s, skin warm from hours of sex and laughter and most of all—relief.

sukuna’s on his back, one arm around your waist, the other tucked behind his head.

he’s watching the ceiling like it owes him something, blinking slow, chest still rising a little too fast. like he can’t quite believe any of this is real.

you lean over him, kiss the ink on his collarbone.

he smiles—lazy and smug—as usual.

“what?” you murmur, tracing a line down his stomach.

he glances at you, eyes half-lidded. “just thinking.”

“oof, that’s dangerous.” you tease.

he huffs a laugh. “yeah.”

you wait and then he says it—quiet, almost like a joke.

“remember the party?”

you blink. “the one where we met. over some shitty, warm beer that toji picked up at the corner store?”

“mmhm.” he smirks, but softer now. “the one where yuki told you not to talk to me.”

you laugh. full and real. “‘don’t. he’s crazy, jail-time type shit.’”

“and you came and sat on my lap anyway.”

“i meeean, you were hot.” you shrug.

“and you’re an idiot.”

you smile, curl into his side, cheek resting on his shoulder.

he presses a kiss to your forehead, knuckles brushing your bare spine.

“guess i should thank your dumbass friend,” he mutters, voice low, already fading into sleep. “she’s the reason i met my wife. my ride or die.”

you smile and don’t say anything. you just hold him tighter, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear all over again.

two years in, then seven apart.

crime. then courtrooms. then shitty vending machine coffee. hundreds of letters and visits.

and now he’s here, tucked against your side, finally. fully.

yours in a way no one ever thought he should be.

you whisper, barely a breath. “guess you’re not so crazy after all, huh?”

he stirs—doesn’t open his eyes—but he hears you and with a rough, half-asleep laugh, he mutters.

“still fuckin’ crazy.”

then he kisses your shoulder, presses closer, and falls back asleep with his hand curled around your wedding ring.

you’re just starting to drift off—his breathing slow against your skin, your fingers still tangled in his hair—when the mattress shifts with a heavy thud.

then a groan.

“no. absolutely the fuck not—” sukuna mumbles, voice hoarse.

akuma, in all his 70-pound glory, launched himself onto the bed. sprawling across both of you like he’s claiming his spot. head wedged on your stomach, paws kicking into sukuna’s ribs.

you laugh, half-asleep. “aw, kuuuna. baby, he missed you.”

sukuna sighs, glaring at the ceiling.

“seven years in prison, and i come home to my traitorous cockblockin’ dog.”

akuma lets out a loud sigh and promptly starts snoring. loud and obnoxious.

you kiss his little boxy head and then sukuna’s temple, still grinning.

sukuna grumbles something under his breath—but his arm curls tighter around both of you.

and you’re pretty sure you heard him mutter the words, “thanks…whoever’s out there.”

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

a/n: this was pretty long! been sitting on this for about a month now, hopefully you all enjoyed it! let me know if i should continue this or leave it as is! t

[danysdaughter]

Drown Me Gently

pairing | new!avenger!bucky x siren!reader

word count | 6.6k words

summary | a half-siren joins the new avengers, hiding centuries of shame beneath skin that was never yours to begin with. but when bucky barnes sees past the danger to the devastating loneliness underneath, the monster you fear you are finally begins to unravel.

tags | THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS, (kind of ig) unprotected sex, comfort sex, emotional intimacy, hurt/comfort, emotional angst, identity crisis, soft!bucky, dark past, trust issues, body horror (light), self-hatred, non-accurate siren mythology, mutual pining, reader backstory, deep emotional healing, sensual tension, dark past, post-trauma connection

a/n | chat, I've literally had this fic in my drafts for almost a month. I lowkey don't know if I like this or not, anyway tell me what you think about it, because I'm second guessing. also based on this request

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You barely had a chance to take a seat before the interrogation began.

“Do you have gills?” Yelena asked, leaning forward like she was inspecting a specimen. “Or do they only show up when you're wet?”

You blinked. “Um—”

“Wait, hold on.” Ava cut in, arms crossed. “Do you eat people? Like, in a sexy way? Or like… teeth and blood?”

“Neither?”

Bob’s eyes lit up. “But hypothetically, if you were shipwrecked, would you rather lure sailors to their deaths or just vibe on a rock singing Adele?”

“I don’t—”

“Also,” Alexei boomed, squinting at you. “How do you have babies with tail? Is it like seahorses? Or salmon?”

“Why would it be like salmon?” Ava muttered.

“Maybe she lays eggs,” Bob said thoughtfully. “Do you lay eggs?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. This had to be a test. Some kind of extremely unorthodox hazing ritual.

“I’m sorry,” you finally managed. “Are these actual questions or did you all just watch The Little Mermaid before I got here?”

Walker, inexplicably sipping a protein shake at 8am, nodded solemnly. “So... do you explode if you drink salt water?”

You stared. “I'm from the ocean.”

“And what about chlorinated water,” he asked, completely serious.

Yelena snorted.

Before the next round of nonsense could begin, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Alright, that’s enough.”

You turned. Bucky stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His eyes settled on you for a beat too long.

“Give her a second to breathe before you start asking about mating rituals.”

“Thank you,” you breathed.

He moved past the others, walking toward you with measured steps. You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until he got close enough that the rest of the room seemed to dim around him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, but couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Do you ask all the new recruits about their reproductive methods, or just me?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Only the ones who are rumored to eat people.”

────────────────────────

A Few Days Later

You sat on the edge of the couch like a guest who wasn’t sure if they were invited or accidentally wandered in. Your posture was perfect, hands folded neatly in your lap, gaze fixed somewhere safe—like the TV that no one had turned on.

Yelena flopped down beside you with the grace of a feral cat. “You don’t talk much,” she observed bluntly. “Which is fine. Some of us overshare to make up for our emotional repression.”

“That’s just you,” Ava said from the kitchen, balancing a tray of chips and something that might’ve been experimental dip.

“Correct.”

Alexei hovered behind you, inexplicably trying to angle a photo of his dog toward your face. “This is Misha. He was trained to kill before he was housebroken. You would get along.”

“I’m… sure he’s lovely,” you replied politely, offering a tight smile.

Bob sat cross-legged on the floor like a camp counselor. “Okay, but seriously. Do you want anything to eat? We’ve got empanadas. And tofu stuff. And I think someone tried to make brownies.”

You shook your head. “Thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“No fish?” Walker smirked. “Or is it just... men on the menu?”

The room went dead quiet for half a second. Ava groaned.

“Really?” Yelena muttered.

“I’m a vegetarian,” you said quietly.

Walker blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Yes.”

“That’s even more terrifying,” Bob said thoughtfully. “You choose not to eat meat. Yet you still eat men. For sport, right?”

“I do not eat men.”

“Sure,” Ava said with a shrug. “But if you did, it’d be poetic justice. Like, ‘Oops, your ship tried to colonize my homeland, now you're lunch.’”

You gave a tight-lipped smile again, but the joke didn’t quite sit right. They didn’t notice the way your gaze dropped or how your fingers fidgeted slightly at the hem of your sleeve.

Except Bucky.

He leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes on you in that quiet, unreadable way of his. Watching. Not judging. Just… observing. Carefully.

“You always like this?” Ava asked, circling to sit nearby. “Polite. Mysterious. Quiet. Like a goth librarian who also knows how to drown people with her mind?”

You hesitated. “I try not to make people uncomfortable.”

“You don’t,” Yelena said, popping a chip into her mouth. “We’re uncomfortable by default. It’s a trauma response.”

“You’re basically the least weird person in this room,” Bob added. “Which is suspicious in itself.”

That earned a small laugh from you—surprising even yourself. Heads turned, and you flushed faintly under the sudden attention.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you said.

It wasn’t much. But it was something. A sliver of trust cracked open just enough for light to slip through.

And across the room, Bucky eyes softened.

It had started with snacks and sarcasm. Someone had turned on a movie. Bob was quoting every line with annoying precision. Ava kept tossing popcorn into Walker’s protein shake. For a while, you had almost forgotten to be cautious.

Almost.

“Okay but seriously,” Yelena said, elbowing you gently, “you’ve got to let us see it sometime. The thing. With your voice.”

You hesitated. “It’s not something I do for fun.”

“But it’s, like... mind control, right?” Walker asked, overly casual. “Like Jedi mind tricks, but with falsetto?”

You glanced around. Ava watching with narrowed eyes, trying to read you. Bob leaned forward, too curious. Yelena still too close. Even Alexei had stopped mid-story. And Bucky—still across the room, still silent.

“It’s not mind control,” you said slowly. “It’s... influence.”

The air shifted.

“My voice can influence people. Not just emotion. Thought. Action.”

The joking stopped.

“And I can sense... intention. Urgency. Fear. Hunger. The things people hide.”

Then softly you added. “It’s not always... voluntary.”

There was something fragile in your voice then. Not a confession, but a warning.

Your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers curling in your lap. You could already feel it. The subtle recoil in their posture. Not loud, but enough. Enough for your pulse to tick faster, warning you.

“Damn,” John muttered. “So you just walk into a room and feel everyone’s business?”

“I try not to,” you replied, softly.

That landed harder than you meant it to.

The silence that followed was heavier than any you'd felt all day. Thick with the kind of unease you’d learned to recognize long before you joined this team. Not fear. Not rejection. Just... awareness. The realization that your power wasn’t theoretical anymore. It was here. With them. Listening.

You felt the wall go up in them before they even realized they were building it.

So you did what you always did. What you were best at.

You retreated.

Your shoulders folded in. Your body went still. Not dramatically. Not enough to cause a scene. Just... quieter. Smaller. Like someone sinking slowly beneath the surface of the sea.

No one said anything.

But from across the room, Bucky watched you carefully—jaw set, brow furrowed—not at you, but at the room. At the shift. At how fast they’d gone from teasing to tiptoeing.

And you?

You didn’t need to read anyone’s mind to feel how far away you suddenly were.

────────────────────────

Later That Night

The wind was soft out here. Almost warm, brushing past your bare arms with the gentleness of something that wasn’t trying to take anything from you. You sat curled on a narrow bench, knees pulled to your chest, chin resting lightly on them.

You hadn’t meant to be found. That was kind of the point.

So when the door behind you slid open, your heart sank just a little. Until you heard his footsteps. Quiet. Measured. Familiar now.

Bucky didn’t say anything at first. Just moved beside you slowly and sat down, leaving a respectful distance between you.

“I figured you might be out here,” he said, voice low. Like he didn’t want to scare you off.

You didn’t look at him. “Why?”

“You didn’t say anything.”

The corners of your mouth turned up, barely. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“You’re not. Just... noticed.”

For a while, you both sat in silence, the kind that wasn’t awkward. Just... open. A space you didn’t have to fill.

“I didn’t mean to make them uncomfortable,” you said finally. Voice soft. Still watching the stars.

“You didn’t,” he said automatically.

You turned your head, just a little. “You felt it.”

He paused. “I felt them realizing they don’t understand you yet. That’s different.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

His eyes flicked to you. You didn’t see the way they narrowed.

“I know what I am,” you continued. “People don’t have to say it. I can feel it. The moment it shifts. That little breath of fear when they realize I can reach inside their heads without asking. It’s not wrong. I am what they think I am.”

You looked at him then, just briefly. Enough for him to see the resignation. The calm acceptance that only comes from long practice.

“A monster,” you said quietly.

His jaw clenched, barely. You saw it, even if he tried to hide it.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s not.” He turned toward you fully now. “You think you’re the only person on this team who’s scared of what they’ve done? What they’re capable of?”

You didn’t answer.

“You think any of us have clean hands?” His voice stayed even, but there was a tightness to it now. Not anger. Something closer to frustration. Or pained. “Ava’s killed for hire. Yelena was trained to be a weapon since she could walk. Walker…” He paused. “You saw the headlines.”

He let the silence hang for a beat.

“I spent seventy years hurting people with no choice. With no soul. If anyone here knows what it means to be used, to be feared—it’s me.”

You blinked. “That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because you're human.”

He stared at you. Then, quietly, “And you're not?”

You didn’t respond.

The wind picked up. You turned your head back toward the night.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, softly, “You scare them a little. Yeah. But not because you’re a monster.”

You glanced at him.

“They just don’t know you yet. And people fear what they don’t understand. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

You looked down at your hands, where your fingers were laced tight together. Like you were holding something in.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I know,” he said.

And you believed him.

Not because his words were kind, but because they were quiet. Steady. Because they didn’t ask anything of you.

Because he didn’t look away.

And for the first time since you joined this mess of a team, you didn’t feel like a weapon waiting to be triggered.

You just felt... seen.

────────────────────────

Abandoned Shipping Yard

It was supposed to be a clean extraction. In and out. Minimal resistance. Ava had scoped the perimeter, Yelena laid out the breach pattern, Walker was already ten paces ahead being Walker, and Bucky had given you a nod just before the comms went live.

You were ready. Or you thought you were.

The cold air clung to your skin as you moved through the corridor of rusted containers. You kept to the shadows, as always, listening more than speaking, watching more than acting. A quiet presence, there when needed—never more.

The first wave of hostiles came fast—mercs, jittery and underpaid. Nothing the team couldn’t handle. You barely had to use your voice.

But something changed.

Second floor. A new group. More organized. You didn’t see them until they’d already flanked Alexei. You reacted before you thought—instinct firing faster than strategy.

They raised weapons.

And you hummed.

Not loud. Not full. Just enough to stop them.

A sound low in your throat, rich with warning and pressure and pull. It rolled over the air like a tide, a siren note pitched directly into their nerves.

They froze.

Then they turned.

Not toward Alexei.

Toward each other.

Guns half-raised. Hands twitching.

Confusion swelled, slow and dangerous. One man dropped his rifle. Another started crying. A third turned to face you like he couldn’t remember why he was holding a weapon at all.

Then Walker’s voice shouted through comms: “What the hell was that?!”

A sharp click—a trigger cocked.

Bucky got there first.

He shoved the last merc down before he could swing his weapon back around, snapping a zip tie around his wrists with clinical precision.

“Clear!” Yelena called from above.

“Room’s secure,” Ava confirmed, quieter, voice tinged with something more cautious.

You stood in the center of the room, throat tight, breath short. The air still trembled faintly with the residue of your voice.

Everyone was looking at you.

No one said anything.

Until Walker.

“Was that you?” he asked, not angry—just stunned. Like he’d seen lightning strike too close. “What even—what was that?”

“I didn’t mean to—” you started, but your voice wavered.

“That wasn’t just noise. That was... influence, right? You turned them on each other?”

“No.” You swallowed. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened. They were going to shoot Alexei, I—”

“But it wasn’t controlled,” Walker said sharply. Not cruel, just assessing. Calculating risk. “What if they’d turned on us?”

That stung. More than it should have.

“I wouldn’t,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“She said it was involuntary,” Bucky cut in, stepping forward. His voice didn’t rise, but it carried weight. “She stopped them. That’s what matters.”

“She also almost made a guy kill himself,” Walker muttered.

“She saved Alexei,” Bucky said firmly, turning toward the others. “We’ve all lost control before. Don’t pretend we haven’t.”

You stood silent, heart pounding, the aftermath of your own power still vibrating under your skin. The others started moving again—resetting, clearing the area, checking gear. But they gave you space now.

Too much space.

You barely heard the rest of the debrief. Your voice was gone, locked behind clenched teeth. Guilt wrapped around your chest like a vice.

You walked ahead in silence.

No one stopped you.

────────────────────────

You hadn’t even taken off your boots. You sat on the floor, back against the wall, arms wrapped tightly around your knees like they might keep you from slipping any further into yourself.

The door creaked open softly.

You didn’t look up.

But you knew the sound of his steps.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Bucky said gently.

You didn’t respond.

He came closer but didn’t sit. Just leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed loosely. Watching. Waiting.

“I lost control,” you said after a long moment. “They’re right to be wary.”

“They’re wrong,” he said simply.

“You didn’t see their faces.”

“I saw yours.”

You glanced up, surprised.

“You looked like you were trying to tear yourself in half,” he said. “Because you cared more about hurting them than saving yourself.”

You looked away again.

“They don’t understand what it feels like,” you said quietly. “To have something inside you that people fear. That you can’t always lock down. That might one day hurt someone—even if you don’t want it to.”

His expression shifted. Pain, recognition, something deeper.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

The softness in his face, the tension in his shoulders—he knew. He knew.

And still, he was here.

Not afraid. Not flinching. Just... here.

You exhaled shakily.

“I think I made a mistake joining this team.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been watching you,” he admitted. “And not because I’m waiting for you to snap. I watch because I see you trying. Every damn day. Even when they don’t notice.”

Your throat tightened.

“You don’t scare me,” he added. “None of this does. You do more to hold yourself back than most of us ever have to.”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You belong here. Even if it takes them time to see it.”

────────────────────────

The Next Night

Bucky wasn’t looking for you.

That’s what he told himself.

He told himself he was going for a walk. That his muscles ached. That the silence in his room was too sharp around the edges tonight.

But when he passed the door to the training pool and saw it slightly ajar, lights off, humid air curling into the hallway like a whisper—he knew.

Of course it was you.

He stepped inside quietly, the heavy door hissing shut behind him. The sound echoed across the still water.

“Hey,” he called out softly, scanning the dark. “You left the lights off.”

He moved toward the control panel instinctively, fingers brushing the switch.

“Don’t,” came your voice.

Not a shout. Not even stern. Just quiet. Low.

Carried like a ripple across the water, echoing from somewhere deep in the pool.

He froze.

“…You okay?” he asked, softer now.

A pause.

Then, “Yes.”

But there was something in the way you said it—like you were holding your breath inside the word.

The pool was a long, Olympic cut of black glass. He could barely make out your shape beneath the surface—a flicker of motion in the far end, a slow shift of shadow.

“You’re in the water.”

“Yes.”

The silence stretched again, heavy but not uncomfortable. He stepped forward, letting the heat of the pool air wrap around him.

“I thought maybe you’d gone,” he admitted. “After yesterday.”

There was a sound, something like a soft splash. A flick of fin, maybe. Movement, not retreat.

“No,” you said. “I just needed to be… this. For a while.”

He squinted toward you, his eyes adjusting to the dark. It took a moment, but then he saw it—just barely. The curve of your back breaking the surface. The subtle gleam of something slick and scaled beneath the low ambient light.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t stare. Just stayed still.

You exhaled slowly, the sound barely above the waterline. “I’m not hiding.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I just don't want to be seen like this. Not… yet.”

He nodded, even though you probably couldn’t see it. “Alright. Then I won’t look.”

And to his credit, he didn’t.

He turned away slightly, gave you space, let you move without watching. But he still stayed. Because you hadn’t told him to go.

Because, maybe, you wanted someone to stay.

“I’m not human the way you are,” you said after a while. “Not just physically. Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing skin that doesn’t belong to me.”

He breathed in slow. “I know that feeling.”

“Do you?” you asked, not unkindly. Just tired.

Bucky shifted his weight. “I’ve worn a lot of masks. But yeah. There are days where I look in the mirror and don’t see someone who belongs anywhere.”

The water rippled quietly.

“Then you understand why I needed to be in the dark tonight.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

A pause.

“You ever wish you could just… stay like that?” he asked gently. “Who you are in here. Not the version you have to show everyone else?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then, “Sometimes I think the version they see is the monster. And this—the water, the dark, the scales—that this is the real me.”

“And is she the monster?”

“No.”

Then you added, softer, “She’s worse.“

The words sank like stones.

You waited for him to back away. To excuse himself. To do what most people did when they saw behind the illusion.

But he didn’t.

“You’re not a monster,” he said, steady as stone. “Not in any form.”

You let out a breath—half bitter, half broken. “You should be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

“You should be.” A sharp breath. “Especially you. After what you’ve been through. After what it’s like to have your mind twisted, your will taken—I could do that to you. Without even trying.”

Silence.

You expected him to leave. You preferred him to leave.

Then a soft rustle.

You heard it before you saw it—fabric sliding off. The quiet thud of boots meeting concrete. A belt unhooking. Then another sound: the shift of weight, the hiss of disturbed water.

Your head turned sharply in the dark. “What are you doing?”

Bucky’s voice came low and calm. “Showing you I’m not afraid.”

His bare feet met the water first, then his legs. He stepped slowly into the pool, each movement careful, deliberate—like he was approaching a wounded animal. Like he knew you might vanish if he moved too fast.

You froze.

The lights stayed off.

The water rippled gently around him, catching faint echoes of motion from where you were submerged.

“You can’t even see me,” you said.

“I don’t need to.”

Your voice trembled. “You don’t know what I look like like this.”

“I know what I feel,” he said. “I know it’s you.”

He moved further in, the water reaching his ribs, his breath slow, steady.

You stared across the dark, at the shape of him—a silhouette against nothing. Vulnerable. Unarmed. Open.

You whispered, “Why?”

He paused, standing still in the middle of the water.

“Because you’ve spent your whole life trying not to scare people,” he said. “Trying to keep yourself small, quiet, contained. And no one’s ever just... let you be.”

You blinked.

Something deep inside you shifted.

“I’ve been used too,” he said softly. “Controlled. Hurt. Turned into something I didn’t recognize. And I’m still here. Still fighting to believe I’m not what they made me.”

The ripples between you both softened. Fewer waves. Less space.

You whispered, “You’re not.”

“Neither are you.”

For the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe.

Not in the way you did above water—but in the way that didn’t hurt.

“You shouldn’t trust me this much,” you said, a final warning. One last barrier.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But I do”

The water between you held its breath.

You didn’t move at first—didn’t trust the trembling in your limbs or the sharp edge of your pulse. But Bucky stood still, waist-deep, facing the other side of the pool, like he wasn’t waiting for danger—just for you.

So you moved.

Slowly. Silently. The water embraced your form the way it always had—your real shape, the one you kept hidden beneath flesh and clothes and fear. You glided like breath, like tide, like instinct. Your tail made no sound. Your scales caught no light. You were the shadow beneath the surface, and he didn’t flinch.

Not even when you came close.

Close enough to touch.

You hovered at his back, watching the curve of his spine rise and fall with every breath. Water clung to his skin, catching faint glints of motion—your motion—as you lifted a hand above the surface.

And touched him.

His shoulders tensed at first, just barely, but he didn’t pull away.

Your fingers were cool against his skin—webbed, slick, foreign. The pads of them brushed along the ridge of his shoulder blade, then down the line of his arm.

Still, he didn’t turn.

So you did it again.

This time, both hands—light and deliberate—placed just above his hips, fingertips resting at the base of his spine, gently urging.

He let out a slow breath.

And turned.

The water shifted as he faced you.

He still couldn’t see all of you—darkness and depth obscured your form—but he could feel you there. Close. Solid. Real.

His hands came to your waist, cautious, reverent. His thumbs brushed faint ridges along your sides—faint scales you hadn’t hidden, soft flesh beneath them. He could feel the texture of you, alien and familiar all at once.

You let him look.

Not completely. Not yet.

But enough.

You tilted your head up, and he bent just slightly toward you. His face a breath away, eyes searching yours in the dark.

“I see you,” he whispered.

And he did.

Not a siren. Not a monster. Not an aberration.

Just you.

The water lapped quietly around you, the two of you suspended in the dark.

Bucky was so close now. Close enough for the heat of his body to ghost across your skin despite the coolness of the water. Close enough that the contrast between you—his warmth, your chill—felt like static between touching wires.

He looked at you then, fully. His eyes locked on yours, no hesitation. Just slow awe.

You saw the flicker of realization behind his gaze.

Your eyes—icy and deep, nearly luminescent in the dark—weren’t human anymore. The pupils too sharp, the color too unnatural. You didn’t try to hide it.

And still, he whispered, breath brushing your mouth,

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Your lips parted, not to speak, but just to feel that warmth.

Then he leaned in—deliberate, drawn, inevitable—and kissed you.

The first touch was slow, hesitant only in reverence, like he was afraid of breaking something sacred. His lips were warm—so warm—pressing softly against yours, testing.

You didn’t hesitate.

You kissed him back, and the pull was instant. A current dragging you both under.

His hands rose, one settling against the back of your neck, the other at your waist, anchoring you to him. You opened your mouth against his—slowly—and his tongue slipped inside with a soft groan that vibrated low in his throat. You tasted him: salt, metal, heat, something earthy and real.

He tasted you: cool and mineral, like sea-salt and secrets, ancient and raw.

His tongue tangled with yours in deliberate strokes, slow and deep. It wasn’t frantic. It was exploration, mouth against mouth, breath mingling, like he was learning you piece by piece.

Then he felt them.

The faint edge of your fangs—barely exposed as your body stirred with instinct and desire.

He didn’t pull away.

He kissed you harder.

And you let him.

Your webbed fingers curled into his hair, claws grazing his scalp just enough to make him shiver. His hand slipped lower, across the slick curve of your back, dragging you flush against him in the water. Your tail brushed his legs—he felt the ripple of it, powerful and sinuous—and instead of flinching, he leaned into it.

He deepened the kiss with a quiet groan, tilting your head just enough to taste more of you, to chase the sharp edge of your teeth and the soft gasp you gave him when he sucked on your bottom lip.

He wanted more. You wanted.

But the kiss said it all: this wasn’t hunger.

It was surrender.

And when he pulled back—only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, both of you panting, breath fogging between mouths—his voice dropped again, rough and reverent.

“You’re not a monster.”

You trembled in his arms, not from cold.

And for the first time, you let someone hold you without fear of what they’d find in the dark.

The kisses evolved—mouths moving in rhythm, breathless and hungry, like they’d been holding back for far too long. The water around you rippled with every shift of your bodies, your bare skin slick against his, every nerve alive.

Bucky’s hands slid lower, smoothing over the firm plane of your back where slick, textured scales had shimmered moments ago. But now—he felt it.

They were fading.

His lips broke from yours just enough to murmur, breath hitched, “You’re changing…”

Your forehead pressed to his as your hands threaded through his wet hair. “I can’t stop it,” you whispered. “When I feel—”

He kissed you again, cutting the words off with a gentleness that said you don’t have to explain.

The transformation was slow, intimate.

You felt it first in your hands—your fingers unwebbing, reshaping. Human again. Your claws softened, becoming skin. You ran them down his chest, gasping softly at the warmth, the roughness of him against the new smoothness of you.

Bucky’s hands wrapped around your waist as you shifted again, the powerful muscles of your tail twitching, tensing—then separating.

Legs.

Human.

Bare.

You wrapped them around his hips instinctively, pulling him closer, water lapping between your bodies, heat blooming between where his skin met yours.

His breath caught, hard, sharp.

You were soft and solid and real in his arms, human now but still you—something wild and full of want beneath the surface. He kissed down your jaw, tasting salt and skin and a thrill he hadn’t felt in years.

His voice, low and rough, ghosted along your throat: “You don’t have to be afraid.”

You shivered in his hold, lips brushing his ear as you whispered back, “I’m not.”

And for once, you weren’t.

Not of what he’d think. Not of what you were. Not even of what you wanted.

Just the sound of your shared breath, the gentle churn of the water, the beat of two hearts finally in rhythm.

Your legs wrapped tighter around his waist as he held you against him, his hands roaming—slow, reverent, learning every curve and shape as if memorizing what it meant to have you.

Not to claim.

But to be allowed.

The warmth of him bled into you, his mouth trailing over the column of your throat, lips parting around your skin as he kissed lower—slowly, like he wanted to taste every shiver.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders as his mouth returned to yours—hungrier this time. Tongues sliding together with unspoken urgency. He groaned into you, low and rough, when you rolled your hips into him beneath the water.

The sound you made—half gasp, half moan—hit him like a shot to the spine.

His hands cupped the back of your thighs, holding you up, keeping you close, guiding your body so you fit around him perfectly. The heat between you sharpened, pressed tight through soaked fabric and wet skin, every movement stoking something deeper.

There was nothing frantic.

Only build.

Only the slow, sacred pull of yes.

The kiss deepened until there was no air between you. His chest pressed to yours, heat meeting the coolness of your skin, fingers curling along your ribs, tracing the path where scales had once been.

You tilted your head back as he kissed his way down—jaw, neck, collarbone—tongue flicking against the hollow of your throat. Each touch lit up something low in your belly, and when you whispered his name, he froze just long enough to look at you.

Eyes dark, lips parted, hands still reverent.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, wet strands of hair clinging to his brow.

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

Bucky’s mouth returned to yours with hunger barely tempered now, his kiss pulling sounds from your throat you didn’t know you could make—not songs, not power. Just want.

He guided you back through the water, hands steady at your waist, until your spine met the edge of the pool wall. The tile was cool against your back; he was warm and solid against your front.

His fingers brushed along the curve of your ribs, then up—slowly—tracing the faint shimmer where scales had retreated. He explored each new inch of you with careful reverence, like he was learning you with his hands, like every discovery mattered.

Your breath hitched as he slid one palm beneath the water, low across your hip, then between your thighs—fingers ghosting over the softest part of you with a touch so achingly gentle you shivered.

He swallowed the moan that left your mouth as his other hand found your jaw, tilting your face up so he could kiss you again—deeper now, tongue claiming, teeth grazing your lip.

You gasped, fingers curling around the back of his neck as your legs tightened around his hips, urging him closer.

He groaned, low and wrecked, as he pressed his body into yours fully—his arousal hard against you, his mouth dragging kisses down your throat as you arched into him.

“God, you feel like…” he murmured, unfinished, overwhelmed, pressing his forehead against yours.

Your hand found his chest, feeling the steady, pounding rhythm beneath the scars. “I feel like what?”

He looked at you like you were unreal. “Like something I’ve never deserved. But I’m not letting go.”

He reached down again, guiding himself into you with aching care.

When he pressed into you—slow, stretching, deep—your mouth parted in a soundless gasp, nails sinking into his back as your body opened for him.

The sensation was molten. Your body slick and ready, still half-wrapped in water, and every movement felt amplified—rippled and weightless, like being made and unmade in slow motion.

He held still inside you for a beat—his breath stalling, eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nodded, voice caught in your throat. “Don’t stop.”

So he moved.

Rhythmic. Deep. Rolling his hips into you with intense precision, like he wanted every thrust to be a memory etched into your bones.

You clung to him as you rocked together, lips never far, gasps exchanged like prayer. The water splashed gently around you with every movement, hiding and revealing, sheltering and exposing.

And when you came apart in his arms—body shaking, breath hitching, fingers tangled in his hair—he followed seconds after, groaning into your skin as he buried himself in you one last time.

Afterward, he didn’t let go.

He just held you, still wrapped in warmth and water, as if grounding himself in the shape of you—your real form, your chosen form.

And you stayed there, arms around him, mind quiet for the first time in days.

────────────────────────

You lay together outside the pool, still dripping, the tiled floor beneath you warmed by residual heat from the water and each other.

Bucky’s body was solid and relaxed beneath yours, your head resting on his chest, your arm draped across his ribs. His breathing was slow now, steady, one hand lazily tracing your back—his fingers brushing the faint outlines of where your scales had shimmered.

He didn’t speak for a while. Just let his fingers explore you softly, as if mapping something sacred.

Then, voice low, “So… the other you. The form in the water. Is that the real you?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Your breath pushed gently against his skin, your eyes half-lidded with calm.

Then softly, “Both are the real me.”

He didn’t move, but you felt the weight of his silence.

You lifted your head slightly, just enough to brush your lips against his—light, unhurried, a kiss not driven by need but by quiet affection.

A moment passed before you added, “I’m half-human. Half-siren.”

His eyes opened, and he tilted his head to meet your gaze, brows furrowed—curious, but not skeptical.

You sighed, a faint smile ghosting your lips. “Tale as old as time. Sailor meets siren. Siren gets curious. Doesn’t immediately murder him.”

That made him huff a quiet breath against your temple.

“Sometimes… they mate. Rarely. Just to understand. Or because something stirs in them they don’t expect. The sailors rarely survive the interaction. Then they return to the sea.”

His fingers paused at your spine.

You shifted your weight slightly, eyes locked on his, and said quieter still:

“This time, the siren left with a baby.”

His breath caught, just barely.

You looked down.

“And that baby got left behind on land. Half-breed. Too human for the ocean, too strange for the shore.”

He said nothing.

But his hand moved again—this time higher, threading through your hair, cupping the back of your head gently as if trying to hold that pain, that truth, without crowding it.

You exhaled slowly, resting your forehead against his collarbone.

“A monster on land. An abomination in the sea.”

The words hung between you like steam, curling and vanishing before they hit the air.

Bucky didn’t try to correct you. Didn’t rush to wrap those words in comfort. He just moved—his hand smoothing up your back, across your hair, anchoring you to his chest. Holding you like it was the only thing he knew how to do.

His hand never left you.

Now, it moved with a new purpose—his touch slower, more intentional, tracing the skin between your shoulder blades.

You stiffened slightly.

He’d found them.

The scars.

Faint, old, but still jagged—slashing diagonally across your back in places that seemed more symbolic than accidental. He ran a thumb along the longest one, slow and careful.

“They match,” he murmured.

Your brow furrowed. “What?”

“Your claws,” he said. “From before. In the pool. The shape of them.” He traced another line. “These look like what they’d leave.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then you whispered, “They did.”

“You mean—?”

“The sirens,” you said softly.

He froze. “Jesus.”

You pushed your face gently against his shoulder, hiding from the look you couldn’t bear to see on his face—pity, horror, heartbreak, you didn’t know which would be worse.

“I didn’t belong here,” you murmured. “On land. Never really fit. So I thought—maybe the ocean would feel like home. Maybe they would understand.”

His hand stilled on your back.

You swallowed. “They didn’t.”

You pulled in a shaking breath, voice tight but steady. “They said I was soft. Weak. That I smelled too human. Felt too much. That I’d taint their species if I stayed.”

A beat.

“They tried to tear the human out of me.”

Bucky closed his eyes. His jaw tensed beneath your hand where it rested on his chest.

You whispered, almost bitterly now, “All the myths are true. They are monsters. They don’t love. They don’t feel. They don’t keep anything they can’t control.”

Silence.

Bucky’s fingers paused again, still tracing the old scars like they were something sacred. “You survived them,” he said quietly. “That says more about you than them.”

Your breath hitched, then came slow and shallow.

“I didn’t just survive them,” you murmured. “I tried to be like them.”

He stilled.

“I thought if I let go of everything human in me, they’d let me stay. If I stopped feeling… stopped flinching when they hunted. When they—”

You stopped, your throat tightening.

Bucky’s eyes were open now, watching you with more than concern. With something like dread.

“I tried,” you said, barely above a whisper. “To become what they were. To be unfeeling. A real monster.”

Your fingers curled slightly against his chest. “I even did it. Their way. Took ships off course with my voice. Lured them close. And I fed.”

His hand faltered.

“I ate humans,” you said, the words fractured, sharp. “So they’d accept me.”

Silence.

The worst kind.

Bucky didn’t move. He didn’t breathe, but you felt his body tense underneath you—hurt, not at you, but for you.

You turned your face further into his shoulder, shame crawling up your spine like ice.

“But it never worked,” you whispered. “I was still too soft. I felt everything. Even when I tried to bury it.”

His arms wrapped tighter around you—gently, but with purpose.

“I couldn’t keep it down,” you continued. “The guilt. The screaming. The way they laughed at me for choking on blood.”

Your voice cracked. “Meat makes me sick now. Just the smell of it.”

He breathed then, long and broken.

You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek. Steady. Solid. And somehow still here.

The silence between you became thick. Not with judgment, but with something worse—your own shame.

You whispered, barely audible, “I became something I hate. I wanted so badly to stop being an outcast, I turned myself into a real monster. And they still didn’t want me.”

You closed your eyes. “They didn’t need to kill me. I did that myself.”

Bucky exhaled slowly, his hand sliding up from your back to cup the back of your head again. He didn’t say it’s okay. He didn’t say you’re forgiven. He didn’t try to rewrite your past.

He just held you.

Because there are wounds too deep for words.

Because you had already condemned yourself, and he knew the last thing you needed was someone else trying to absolve what you hadn’t even survived emotionally.

Still, his voice reached you, low and rough and real,

“I hope someday you'll understand that you were never the monster in that story.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t believe it. But you didn’t pull away, either.

And for now—that meant something.

our girlie:

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@Ruexj283 @muchwita @fayeatheart @Leathynn @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @luminousvenomvagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @yvespecially @snake-in-a-flower-crown @mencantaleer @shellsbae00 @theewiselionessss @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @avivarougestan @xoxoloverb @superlegend216 @lori19 @sired4urmama @writing-for-marvel @thriving-n-jiving @ogoc-19 @fckmebarnes @excusememrbarnes @its-in-the-woods @barnesonly

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[iamactuallysocute]

I LOVED PART 4!!!

But….i need to know.

How do the other boys act when miss manager is ovulating??????

..pretty please😙🙏

cw: so so so nsfw, lots of jerking off, every position imaginable, just boys going crazy bc I know what y’all want from me

Mystery got aggressive—not toward you, never you—but the others were his chew toys for a full 72 hours. He bit Romance so hard at one point that you swear you saw teeth marks through his shirt.

Abby went to the gym. Like, brutally hit the gym.

Jinu just… avoided eye contact. Completely. He kept fiddling with his sleeves. Adjusting his collar. Fixing his hair every time you entered the room.

Baby was an asshole.

You were basically pumping pheromones through the vents, and they were all just sitting there, marinating in the biological equivalent of a fuck-me aura they couldn’t escape.

You don’t know for sure how often they… helped themselves. But you’re not stupid. You heard things. You heard the fucking shower running at 3 a.m. A creak at night. A muffled groan. The subtle squeak of a mattress or the rhythm of a fist meeting skin.

Abby was just standing there. Right at the edge of the counter, mouth parted slightly, holding something he absolutely wasn’t about to eat.

His eyes were locked on you like you were doing a strip tease instead of cutting fruit in shorts.

You raised an eyebrow. “What.”

He blinked. Looked down. Looked up again. “…Nothing. You just—”

His voice cracked. Abby’s voice cracked.

Then he cleared his throat and flexed like his soul depended on it. “You look good. That’s all.”

The pause he gave before he walked away?

You knew. You knew. He was adjusting himself the second he rounded the corner.

He flirted with you shamelessly all day after that. Said “baby girl,” laughed too loud at your snark, flexed every time he reached for something. He wore the tiniest tank top that week, tight across his shoulders and damp around the collar, because he’d “just worked out” and didn’t “wanna overheat.”

You weren’t blind. You knew what he wanted.

You remember wondering if he could snap your spine in half with one arm.

You also remember thinking please try.

And god, he was so good in his head, too.

When he fucked his hand at night, it was all praise. All whispered “so good for me,” and breathy grunts about your thighs. He thought about taking you in the kitchen, legs around his hips, kissing you hard enough to make you cry. He dreamed of making you cum in his lap just from his fingers. Said your name like a blessing.

And then walked by you in the morning like nothing happened.

Jinu though?

He started holding your gaze longer than usual and smiling a lot more, say, soft and warm, “You okay today?”

You okay today?

Like he wasn’t hard as hell the night before, fucking his fist under the covers while imagining your thighs pressed around his ears.

Jinu didn’t say anything crude. Didn’t look you up and down. He just tended to you. Boyfriend-coded.

But sometimes you caught him staring. When he thought you weren’t looking. Long, slow stares that moved from your mouth to your neck to the curve of your hips.

In his room, he closes his eyes and imagines your thighs, sticky and trembling. The soft gasp you’d make when he licks into your mouth. How you’d cling to him, not because he took you, but because you wanted to stay.

He didn’t touch himself at first. Just thought.

Then he broke.

And it was messy. Quiet.

Devastatingly slow.

And in his head? He made love to you. Not fucked—made love. Like it meant something. Like the skin on your thighs was sacred and your moans were something he wanted to frame and hang in a museum.

But he also imagined you riding him. Kissing his neck. Hands on his chest, breath hot and full of want.

The tiger started shadowing you more during that week. Probably because he didn’t trust Jinu not to fall in love and fuck it up. Smart cat.

Baby was insufferable.

He was the only one who didn’t adjust for the situation. No posturing. No fake sweetness. Just a ramped-up version of his usual bullshit.

He never said he could smell it. Never even hinted. But the way his nose twitched? The way his fingers would tap restlessly on surfaces when you got too close? The way he’d go silent when you leaned over a table?

He was affected. He just refused to admit it.

One time, you dropped a spoon near him.

He didn’t move. Just looked down at it, then back up at you.

You bent to pick it up and heard him exhale.

Low. Shaky. Almost a whine.

He imagined making you cry on his cock, getting you down to his level, stripping the softness from your tone until you were begging and breathless. He thought about holding your wrists down. Thought about kissing you until you sobbed. Thought about spitting in your mouth and asking you to say thank you.

Then he’d wipe himself off, glare at the ceiling, and go back to pretending you annoyed the fuck out of him.

Mystery was a silent storm.

You felt it more than saw it.

He was always strange. Growly, reactive, unpredictable, but that week? He avoided you. Which would’ve been fine if his body didn’t betray him every second he was in a room with you.

But then you’d walk by, towel around your shoulders, water on your collarbone, and he’d freeze.

Hands clenched.

Teeth bared.

You don’t even want to imagine what he did alone in the dark those nights. Probably something feral. You wouldn’t be shocked if he dug grooves into the wall with his nails just trying to keep his mind off you.

He didn’t say anything. Not one word. But he bit Abby that week.

He dreamed of pinning you against the wall, hands on your throat, mouth on your ear, growling words you’d never understand but would feel. Thought about burying himself in you so deep he forgot where he ended. Thought about you biting him back.

And I know I already talked about Romance in that part but I’ll talk about him again anyway a little bit.

He watched your lips. Your hips. The dip of your throat when you swallowed. Licked his own lips like he wanted to trade your breath for his. Got too close. Touched your thigh and didn’t move it. Let his voice drop two octaves and murmur filth like it was small talk.

He imagined tying you down. Lace. Silk.

Fucking you in front of a mirror, watching your face twist with every thrust. Telling you to scream his name louder. To cry pretty. To take it.

You knew they liked you but didn’t know that they liked you this much. You didn’t know that Romance kept a hairpin you’d left on the counter. Didn’t know he tucked it in the little pocket of his shirt and rubbed it between his fingers before going on stage.

Didn’t know he kissed it once. Drunk. Whispered “one day, baby.” to a damn piece of metal and glass.

You didn’t know that his fantasies weren’t just about fucking you, but about ruining every man who had ever touched you before.

He thought about it: your exes, your hookups, your flings. Imagined you saying “no one ever made me cum like this” while you sobbed around his cock.

He needed to be the best. The last.

And he hated that he wasn’t your first.

Even more that he wasn’t your only.

You didn’t know Abby kept things too, your chapstick, a ring you thought you lost, the wrapper from a candy you shared.

You didn’t know he’d sniffed your shirt once when you were in the shower.

Didn’t know he thought about marrying you.

Not just in the “put a ring on it” kind of way. In the domestic way of a fantasy where he picks you up from the grocery store, where you wear his hoodies and nothing else, where he carries you around the house just to make you laugh.

And yeah, sure, in his fantasies he also fucks you into the mattress hard enough to shake the bedframe, but then he’d wrap you in his arms and tell you he loved you while you drifted off on his chest.

He was a romantic. In a dumb, muscle-headed way.

You didn’t know that Baby used to mess around. But now? No one tasted good anymore. No one made him want to bother.

You didn’t know that he dreamed about breaking down for you. Like, collapsing. On his knees. Cheek on your thigh. Whispering apologies he didn’t even know he owed you.

And then, after that—in his sick, fucked up little fantasy—you’d pull his hair and ride his face until he was gasping for breath.

He didn’t understand it.

Didn’t want to.

You didn’t know Mystery watched you sleep.

You didn’t know that his fantasies weren’t about positions or even pleasure, they were about possession. He wanted you to need him. To cry for him. To scream and for it to be his name on your lips and no one else’s. He wanted to eat you up from the inside and curl around your soul and own it.

And he’d do it gently.

Slow. So slow.

And Jinu. God, you didn’t know how deep Jinu’s affection ran.

In his fantasies?

You were his wife.

No collars. No chains. Just vows. And eternity. He wanted your heart in his hands, your name tattooed on his chest, your wedding ring pressed to his lips while he kissed your stomach.

But you didn’t know he also thought about bending you over the kitchen counter. About making you say “Jinu, please” with tears in your eyes.

He was gentle with his love, sure.

But Jinu could devour.

And you would thank him for it.

[letteremi]

i asked my best friend how to know if a girl likes you, and he gave me the worst advice ever

gojo satoru x fem!reader - gojo satoru has liked you since you walked into the physics 1111 lecture that one fateful morning. And he’s tried so hard to flirt, to dazzle, to amaze, but you’re like an unreadable brick wall. so what does gojo satoru do? read the impossible book, of course, with suguru's help. 

warnings/tags: 16+, university/college au, non-sorceror au, smitten at first sight, lowkey nerdjo, gojo being a sucker, gojo being horrendously down bad, ice queen!reader, mentions of Shoko and Utahime, Suguru as wingman, the lightest lightest smidge of angst, happy ending, mutual pining, swearing

word count: 4k

His fingers stopped flying across his busted laptop’s keys once he heard the door to the lecture hall swing open, as he shuddered at the breeze instead. 

Who could be the one walking in so late, in the middle of the professor’s sermon? Disrupting this class that he could pass with his eyes closed, really — how rude! (not that he was listening either, the daily wordle was more his jam). 

And then his sharp, blue gaze landed on you. 

God, he hates cliches, but it did really feel like an angel fell out of the sky to bless him that day. 

Your muffled footsteps on the clean cut carpet were so unhurried, so constant, against his increasingly racing heartbeat — pulsing so hard he could feel it thudding against his eardrums.

Your own laptop, and some blue notebooks — the colour of his eyes, oh you were meant to be — held in the crook of one elbow, as you shut the door with an effortless grace that his buffering brain can only describe as cool. 

He notes that it’s because you don’t want to let it slam shut, and echo through the packed hall, and his heart stutters at the care you put into the little things. 

When you glide by him to sit in the row ahead, as smooth as the breeze that entered the room, the scent of your perfume blankets him — and for the first time in this class, Satoru feels alive in a way that has nothing to do with the scribbled equations plastered across the whiteboard. 

And then you pull out your laptop, and his keen eyes pick up on how you’re actually typing out whatever Professor Yaga has moved onto right now. For the second time that day, Satoru does something else that he has never done during Yaga’s monotonous monologues. 

He starts jotting down notes. 

Safe to say, you were forgiven for the travesty of making him cold (and is it charming if he says it’s because your presence warmed him right up?)

⋆｡°✩ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Listen, Satoru has tried everything. Everything. To gauge whether you like him or not. 

He’s moved closer to the front row, even if it means having to brave Yaga at a distance much closer than he’d like. Now, you sit beside him, but it feels like he might as well be on the other side of Japan. 

Satoru isn’t used to this. He knows he’s pretty, knows that his face has the power to blind others with sheer beauty. Knows that usually, one casual glimpse of his face is enough to make someone fall for him like they’re slipping on a romantic sheet of ice. So, the way you ignore him — except maybe to ask him for his notes (on a good day) is driving him up the wall. 

By six weeks of this, he considers you a friend, but he thinks you might think of him as an annoying seatmate who won’t stop jabbering in her ear. 

The tell-tale signs of being flustered are noticeably missing from you — the classic nervous laughter, secret glances, you don’t even put your water bottle on his self-assigned seat so that no one else will sit next to you (that’s fine, he’s warded off anyone who dares now) — and ever present on him. 

Pink-tinged ears? ✅

A sweat that breaks out whenever you so much as turn to look at him? ✅

The way his thoughts take twice as long to form, and yet he still doesn’t know what to say to you? ✅

Not that you even spare him a look, not that you even care. 

When he gets an amused huff as you exhale through your nose, he considers that a victory.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. 

He finds that he doesn’t mind it one bit. 

Satoru literally ascends when he strolls into the lecture hall on one mundane Thursday, having given up all hope, and he spots your blue water bottle on the spot right next to you. 

He rakes his fingers through strands of white, knowing how that makes his eyes pop, and then, with hands in his pockets, walks to your side. You glance up when you hear him come to a stop, and you give him that serene, close-lipped smile — like you’re actually happy he’s here — and you move the blue placeholder. 

“Saved you a spot,” you say, like you’re reading a particularly boring news article. 

And all the words that he wanted to say — he rehearsed them in his head, a suave mantra meant to swoop you off your feet — leave his mind like water flowing down a pipe. Because you saved him a spot. You wanted him here, right next to you. 

“Aww, next time just confess to me.” Oh. That was decidedly not cool. Projection was not suave. 

You huff like you’ve just regretted every decision that led to this moment in time, especially accepting your course offer. “In your dreams.” And Satoru has to fight the urge to confirm that his dreams do include you. 

The minute that lecture ends, he’s rehashing every detail to Suguru, down to the colour of the socks you were wearing. 

“And she saved me a seat. The seat, Suguru.” 

“I literally do the same for you during calculus,” comes Suguru’s matter-of-fact reply.

And Satoru’s delusions come crumbling down like sandcastles against mighty waves of reality. Could it be that you just thought of him as a friend? His heart throbs like he’s been shot by one of Cupid’s lead-tipped arrows. 

He’s quiet, like a puppy that’s been kicked down — and Suguru wonders if he’ll start whimpering, before the pity starts to seep in. “You know, there are certain ways to tell if someone likes you. Aside from the usual signs.” 

Satoru’s head snaps up like Suguru has offered him the elixir of immortality, and not just tips from his psychology elective. 

“Tell me, right now.”

⋆⭒˚.⋆

No. 1: remembering the little things that he’s told you

Normally, he’d threaten Yaga (only in his head, of course) with mumblings of ‘i’m gonna shave all your hair off’, and ‘i’m going to replace your coffee with decaf’ for assigning a group project this close to exams. Now, he wants to kiss the ground that Yaga walks on, because you’re in his group. 

Your other group mates are absent from your first team meeting (Satoru wants to send them all flowers and chocolates) at the cafe, and now, you’re discussing when to meet next. 

You’re in that sweater he adores, and he thinks that you’ve walked out of a magazine in your outfit. Your hand is cupping your cheek, elbow propped up on the table, and he doesn’t even think you realise you’re pouting while deep in thought. “I’m free any day next week.” Noted. 

“Shoko’s volunteering on Monday, and Tuesday,” you hum, “so we can’t do those days.”

You stir the hot chocolate you ordered, the spoon clinking against the ceramic. “Airi has work on Wednesdays, and Thursdays, so not those days either.” 

Across from you, Satoru swears that you can hear his heart hammering in his chest. He informed (read: badgered) you just this week that he had a basketball game on Friday — a not-so-subtle hint for you to come to it. If Suguru was right, and you recalled that, then that was ⅓ of the three signs. 

Like something important just sprung into your head, you look up at him. Yes. This was his moment. “You don’t have anything on Friday, right?”

Oh. Oh man. “Actually, I have a match then.” He tries to hide his disappointment. 

Your eyes widen — just a fraction. “Oh, you do?” 

Owch. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Sign number two — starting up random conversations with him

When Utahime slides into the other seat beside you the following Thursday, you immediately turn to her, eyes bright, and ask her whether she would rather give up kissing, or sauce for the rest of her life. 

You didn’t ask him that. And he got here first! 

Satoru stares at you, scandalised. His jaw drops so dramatically it might as well hit the floor. He even gestures at himself (behind your back, Utahime rolls her eyes). Hello? Present and ready to be questioned about weird hypotheticals. 

But then you giggle, and all the fake outrage melts away like ice on a hot summer day. 

He exhales, loud and proud, muttering something about being betrayed in broad daylight. “I guess I’ll just sit here, sauce intact and tragically unkissed,” he murmurs, more for the drama than anything else. 

You shoot him a look that is ice-cold, like looking down upon a mere insect. “Hey, Gojo. Did you do the pre-reading?” 

What a totally normal question to ask a classmate. That’s strike 2 out of three. 

But at least you’re talking to him now, and so he sits up like an overexcited dog. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

You turn back to your laptop like the matter is of no importance to you anymore. “Just curious.”

And don’t you dare ask anyone how Gojo Satoru reacted to your two word response. Because he definitely, 100%, did not, sink into his chair like a deflated balloon, clutching his chest like you delivered a mortal wound.

Utahime has to smack him on the back of the head to get him to stop his dramatic groaning. 

“Pathetic,” she hisses, but Satoru only shoots her a thumbs-up from where he’s sprawled, eyes closed in an agony he wears like a badge of honour. 

Meanwhile, you keep typing, like you don’t even care for the scene unfolding beside you — but the slight twitch at the corner of your mouth betrays you. 

And he catches it. 

Oh, he catches it. 

He straightens immediately, blue eyes lighting up like fireworks. Because for Gojo Satoru, even a single twitch of your lips is enough to keep him hoping. 

This counts as half a sign. For him, at least. 

Suguru delivers a similar blow to the back of his head when he regales the tale later. 

⋆⭒˚.⋆

Sign three — reacting to his presence 

“If she likes you, she will subconsciously adjust herself when you are close by.” Suguru flicks the laser pointer to the third, and last sign. They commandeered an empty lecture hall for this, and Satoru knows it’ll be worth it. 

“What would that look like?” Satoru pushes his glasses up his nose bridge, scribbling sprawling notes on the notebook in front of him (and if they’re the brand you use, that’s nobody's business). 

Suguru sighs. This was going to be a long night. 

~

It’s Suguru’s voice that echoes in his mind as Satoru steps foot into the library. ‘She’ll straighten up when you enter the room.’ As he enters the study space for an impromptu study session with your friends, his eyes search for you amongst the gaggle of students — to find that you’re already looking at him. 

At this, Satoru’s heart skips a beat. Were you waiting for him? The thought turns him to mush. 

“You’re late,” you say, voice utterly devoid of anything but grim disappointment. 

His cheeks are positively burning now. “Fashionably,” he counters, grinning as he slides into the empty seat beside you — the one you didn’t put your bag on, even though you definitely had plenty of time to claim it (another sign? He’ll ask Suguru later). 

“You missed Shoko’s riveting explanation,” you tell him, not unkindly, nudging your laptop in his direction. “We’re doing practice questions now.”

And maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, or maybe it’s the sheer high of seeing you again, but for a second, Satoru swears your arm brushes his on purpose. That you tilt your screen toward him just a little more than necessary. That you lean in when you speak, like you’re not just explaining a question, but letting him into a secret only the two of you share. 

Satoru goes very still. His heart is doing cartwheels. He’s 90% sure he’s not breathing. 

But then you shift away to grab your pen, and you do it with such ease that he wonders if you felt the pull that he felt to you just now (probably not).

He coughs. Nods. Pretends he needs you to explain the question again, but he’s re-evaluating the facts, and trying to not think about how close you are right now. 

You did not straighten up like you had been electrocuted when he walked in — if anything, you slouched further, turning to face the wall. 

You crossed your arms when he sat down. A sign of defensiveness. 

It was immediate, how you turned back to your laptop, avoiding facing him like he was contagious with some sort of illness. 

Huh. That makes 0.5/3 for Suguru’s signs of attraction. 

Maybe it was time to give up. 

⋆｡°✩ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Gojo hasn’t responded to your text yet. Usually, the three dots appear right as you send the message. Your brows furrow, and your heart pinches. Did you fumble it? 

You first saw Gojo Satoru during orientation, and my god, he was breathtaking. Literally. You choked on the water you were sipping, almost drowning in the flood of feelings. Your friend had to repeatedly batter your back, until the water evacuated your breathing tube. 

But how could you not? He looked like he’d walked straight out of some unfairly aesthetic campus brochure — the kind of handsome that university photographers would beg on their hands and knees to shoot, the kind that Deans would insist on plastering on glossy promotional leaflets to lure in potential students.

Tall, impossibly tall, with messy white hair that somehow managed to look perfectly styled, each lock arranged by Aphrodite herself. He didn’t wear his glasses that day — and when you first saw them perched on his nose, it felt like it was inevitable that you’d be caught staring, with the amount of times your eyes kept drifting his way.

He moved like the whole campus was his personal runway: hands in his pockets, earbuds dangling, a half-finished ice coffee (whipped cream on top) in hand that he never actually seemed to drink.

Every small movement felt effortless, magnetic — like he knew he was beautiful, and owned it like another asset up his sleeve of tricks. 

But you thought he was just a pretty face. 

Until he sat next to you. 

And you knew he was smart — you had to be, to get into Tokyo Jujutsu University — but you didn’t know how smart. Not until he leaned over during the first lecture (eight weeks ago, on the dot), and pointed out a mistake in Yaga’s equation with the kind of casual confidence usually reserved for people who had discovered the laws of physics on their own. 

“Prof wrote it wrong,” he whispered, voice low and amused. “Wanna bet on how long it’ll take him to realise?”

But you, you just stared at him. This fine specimen of a man was talking to you. How long had you stared at the back of his head during this very lecture? How long had you thought that this was just a silly crush? 

Your words failed you, but he was undeterred. He just gave you that grin — the one that made his eyes crinkle, and his entire face light up like the sun itself decided to live in his smile. 

From that moment on, he kept sitting next to you. You didn’t really know why, but you did know you felt like you were the first to discover some absurd fact about the universe at the thought of it. 

You chew at your lip. Did he tire of you? Did he seriously not get your hints?

You saved him a seat. 

You smiled at him. 

You brushed his arm. 

You explained the problem to him so many times, that the logic of it was beginning to unravel in your head — you had to re-work it out by yourself, before going through it with him again, so you didn’t look like an idiot. 

Okay. But to be so, so, so fair, you did accidentally forget the date of his basketball game that one time.

But that was one time!

And it was because you remembered exactly the day, the time, the team he was playing against — his jersey number — and you didn’t want to sound like a stalker by saying that, so you messed up the date on purpose. 

By then, you were too embarrassed to even show your face at the game. So you didn’t turn up, even though you had bought his favourite snack for it (you were trying to Pavlov him, before Shoko told you how insane that was). 

Okay, fine. That one was on you. But still!

You check your message again. 

Left on seen?

How dare he. 

Without a second thought, you’re slamming the door of your dorm shut, and you’re racing through the halls. 

⋆｡°✩

“Geto Suguru.” The voice that calls his name rings more like a death toll than a greeting. 

Suguru lifts his heavy head, still groggy with sleep — his notes stick to his sweaty cheek as he does. You swat them off his face like they’re the layers you must peel off to uncover a secret. 

“What is up with Gojo?” 

Suguru groans. “Why are you asking me, and not him?” 

Suguru could probably say that about almost all the questions that Satoru has asked him thus far. They stick to him like fruit flies desperate for even a drip of the nectar of his knowledge. Which isn’t much, mind you, but apparently more than Satoru. 

“You’re his best friend. His confidante.” You’re not backing down, and Suguru flicks sleep-addled eyes to your imposing figure — you’ve placed your hands by your hips like it’ll intimidate him into answering. “Does he like me?”

Now that’s a question that has his eyes snapping wide open. He didn’t think you’d be so bold.

Huh. Nice. 

Suguru rubs a hand over his face, as if hoping the action might buy him time or magically teleport him out of this conversation. It doesn’t. You’re still standing there, radiating an energy so fierce it makes him feel like he’s being interrogated under a spotlight. 

“Look,” he starts, voice still gravelly from his impromptu nap, “Satoru is…Satoru. He’s not exactly subtle.” 

And with the way he can practically see the question marks in your eyes, and floating around your mind, he knows you two were made for each other. You open your mouth to protest, but he holds up a hand. 

“He talks about you. All the time,” Suguru continues, his tone resigned yet still affectionate.

Suguru sighs, gathering his scattered notes like he’ll actually review them. “He likes you, okay? He likes you so much it’s driving me insane. He’s like a walking, talking Pinterest board of you.”

He finally looks up, and now his eyes are sharp, despite the sleep lingering in their corners. “So,” Suguru says, tone mischievous, “are you going to keep torturing me, or are you finally going to tell him?”  

Your hands drop from your hips, heart slamming against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. 

Tell him. 

Tell Gojo — the boy with constellation eyes and the too-loud laugh and the doodles of Yaga he draws in lectures — that you like him too. 

You don’t realise you’re already moving until Suguru’s muffled ‘Good luck!’ echoes behind you, chased by a triumphant snicker. 

⋆｡°✩

You slam into a solid body, and you feel the arms helping you up before your eyes trail up to see who. 

Oh. Gojo. 

And for all your determination, you’re rendered speechless, except for one, exclaimed, “Sorry!” 

Because the man is in front of you now. And courage is so much easier to fake behind closed doors. 

Your eyes flick up and down his body. His chest is heaving, like he’s also run through winding corridors to get here.

His hair is messy, yet again, but it’s not styled — it’s like he’s actually rolled out of bed. You glance down. Oh. He did actually just roll out of bed, if the Digimon pajama pants are anything to go off by. 

And yet, he still looks exquisite. 

Screw this guy (which coincidentally, is also something you plan to do). 

His hand is still resting under your elbow, holding onto you — not because you’ll fall, but because he just wants to hold you. His thumb grazes your skin, and it’s like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, because his eyes are fixated on yours, and yours alone. 

You can practically hear your brain short-circuiting, and it feels like puffs of smoke are coming out of your ears, each neuron screeching at you to say something, anything. 

But he beats you to it. 

“Hey,” he breathes out, as if he hasn’t seen you in years, instead of what? Eighteen hours? His eyes are wide, sparkling even in the dull hallway light, and there’s a hesitant curve to his mouth that you’ve never seen before. “Are you alright?” 

You nod. 

He stares at you for a moment, gaze dipping to your lips, then back to your eyes, like he’s trying to read an answer before you’ve even asked the question. 

“I, uh —” you start, but he blurts over you. 

“Did I mess up? The text...I didn’t mean to ignore you, please believe me! I fell asleep in the middle of our conversation.” You’re staring at him, lips parted like you want to interrupt him, but a part of you aches to know more. “And then Suguru’s text — like just right now — woke me up.”

You blink. Wait. He thinks he messed it up?

“I thought I fumbled it,” you say at the same time, voices overlapping like a badly mixed duet, or some kind of romantic comedy accompanied by a whimsical soundtrack. 

There’s a beat of silence. And then, he laughs. The kind of laugh where your head is thrown back, that echoes down the hallway and makes your heart slam into your chest so hard that you’re worried it might just burst out and hand itself over to him. 

“You thought you fumbled it?” he repeats, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“I mean…yeah,” you admit, and you drop your hands. He catches your wrists, tugging you closer. And then, he moves forward, stepping so close that you have to crane your neck to look at him. 

You can see the flutter of his ridiculously long lashes, the curve of his sleepy smile. 

“Fuck this,” he mutters, and before you can process it, his hands are cupping your face, warm and careful, and he’s kissing you. 

The world tilts — or maybe it just stops for you, for this moment in time. You clutch at his sensible hoodie, nails digging in like you might float away otherwise, and your knee knocks into his stupid (cute) Digimon pants as you step nearer. He tastes like toothpaste, and cheap instant coffee, and somehow, it’s perfect. 

When he pulls back, he’s breathless, and his forehead rests against yours. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded in a way that has nothing to do with sleep deprivation. “I just really, really like you.”

You let out a small laugh. “Yeah,” you whisper, fingers sliding to tangle up in his hair. “I like you too.” You tug at his white locks, and he groans into your ear in a way that makes a heat pool between your thighs. 

And then he’s pulling you in again, kissing you with a ferocity. His hands are more demanding, more needy, as they travel your body — greedy, and consuming, like he won’t ever get to touch you again. And you say it again, and again, in the spaces between the kisses.

On his lips, against his cheek, to the corner of his smile. You’re only making up for every second you didn’t say it before. 

Somewhere down the hall, you swear you hear Suguru yell, “Finally!”, before a door slams.

But right now, none of that matters. 

It’s just you, Satoru, and the electrical crackle of everything you were both too scared to say. 

Now, it’s out in the open. 

Now, the real fun begins. 

a/n: the drabble…it got away from me………. anyway! hope this was okay !! i finished like 5 episodes of true beauty while watching it i fear i am not a speed typer

© 2025 letteremi. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise/copy, translate, or repost my work to any platforms 

[thatdisasterauthor]

Thoughts on the Grand Canyon Lodge?

Firstly, all thoughts are my own and not tied to my employer etc. etc. etc.

With that out of the way, I understand the sadness and the frustration and the disappointment that such a lovely place (and so many other buildings) burned down. But I have long said that when it comes to disaster losses, we need to be more accepting of the impermanence of things. Nothing lasts forever, and it's okay to mourn things when they're gone, but that's life. You can't let it consume you. The lodge burning down doesn't mean you can't remember all your favorite times there, or that there won't be a way in the future for people to make new memories in the same place. It's not the first time the lodge has burned down, after all!

Now, as for the anger and blame that's being hurled around about the response to this fire: everyone needs to cut it the fuck out. A building is not worth the lives of the people out on those firelines. They did what they could against a fast moving, massive wildfire that was started by natural causes, but in the end nature won out. There is only so much you can do in those circumstances, especially with historic wooden structures.

This is not the end of tourism on the North Rim, it's just a change. Something new will come, and what that is will be an important conversation between the NPS, the local communities, and other interested parties. For everyone who loved the Lodge and other things that were lost to this fire, I urge you to (in a few weeks, when things have calmed down a little) reach out to your local NPS office and volunteer groups and elsewhere to see what you can do to help. There's going to be a lot to do, and as we all know departments like NPS are really hurting right now due to all the governmental chaos.

Now, on a more personal note, here's what I would like to see happen going forward:

Rebuild the Lodge with the latest fire safety standards in mind while maintaining the original look and feel as much as possible, and explain it. Put up permanent placards around the new lodge explaining why different materials were chosen, why design changes were made, etc..

Where possible and safe, leave some evidence of the fire's effect on the original building. Maybe don't put a new roof on one of the semi-outdoor areas, and leave the burned beams, IDK. Put placards there too.

Involve the local community in the recovery process. You know those stands where you slot your phone in and then take a picture and email it in to a scientific study to monitor the growth of plants or something? Put those up everywhere and use the submitted photos to post about the rebuilding and regrowth process and show timelapses and all that. And do other things, like working with local companies and really highlighting their contributions.

Have a memorial wall somewhere in the new lodge where people can leave pictures and write down their memories of the old lodge. Embrace the grief.

Give a way for tourists to learn about and participate in the recovery process as well. Maybe community replanting areas they can visit, or have ranger led hikes where everyone gets a seed shaker of local seeds.

Signage signage signage. Put signs explaining the fire ecology of the area, what happened with this fire, how things regrow after fire, all of that.

Make sure to have tons of fire safety information everywhere. Not just how to avoid human caused fires, but how to stay safe if you are out exploring the area and a fire starts.

Sell fire safety related items in the shops.

Sooooo, yeah! Those are my thoughts.

[societyfolklore]

Just Competitive  

Title: Just Competitive  

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary:  Sam’s new gf keeps waking you up

Word Count: 2.5k  

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, Established relationship Light possessiveness / dominance, Noise kink elements, Bucky gets competitive, fingering, unprotected sex

A/N:  Ok so the other night I woke up at 2:30am and this is what happens when you ask the group chat what to do. @azriona This was your idea! (also sorry for everyone else who got edged in the chat)

Bucky rolled over, eyes still heavy with sleep, only to find you already wide awake- eyes on the ceiling, brows pinched in irritation.

“What’s wrong- ”

He didn’t even finish the sentence before he heard it.

Moaning. Loud, exaggerated, and frankly theatrical moaning. The kind that bounced off the thin apartment walls with no shame.

From the other side of the wall, Sam’s room.

Sam’s new girlfriend.

Bucky blinked at the ceiling, then turned toward the wall with a mix of annoyance and reluctant admiration. “Jesus,” he muttered. “She’s still going?”

You groaned, rubbing your face. “Twenty-five minutes. She’s been going off like a broken wind-up toy for twenty-five minutes, Bucky.” It was all too much right now.  “It's 3 a.m.,” you whined, dragging a pillow over your face. “Why does everyone have to be loud now?”

Bucky chuckled, soft and gravelly, then pulled you into his chest, spooning you close. One arm wrapped around your waist, petting gently over your stomach.

“We knew it was gonna be an adjustment moving in with Sam,” he said, trying to soothe you.

You nuzzled in, only to freeze when the sound of the headboard started thumping against the wall.

Again.

“Oh come on,” you hissed. “What’s she trying to prove? She always gets like this when she knows I’m home.” A beat. “Tell me I don’t sound like that.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He just started kissing the side of your neck, slow and deliberate, his hand sneaking a little lower under the sheets.

“No, doll,” he murmured against your skin. “You sound so much better.” Another kiss, hotter now. “Prettier. Real.” His hand gripped your thigh and pulled it over his hip.

You squirmed, suddenly more awake, heat creeping up your cheeks.

He smirked. “Wanna put on a show of our own?”

You were about to swat him away, really, you were, but Bucky’s fingers were already sliding lower, finding that soft, puffy spot between your thighs, circling your clit with lazy precision. It wasn’t fair how practiced he was at this. How well he knew your body.

Your breath hitched, hips twitching back into him before you could stop yourself.

He snorted softly into your hair. “That’s it, sweetheart. Knew you’d warm up to the idea.”

You tried to sound annoyed. “I’m not trying to compete with her- ”

But your words dissolved into a soft gasp as one thick finger slipped inside you. The stretch made your back arch into him, thighs instinctively squeezing together around his hand.

“Oh, come on, beautiful,” Bucky drawled with a grin you could hear in his voice, “we can get you to do better than that.”

Your hand grabbed the edge of the blanket, already flushed with heat, trying not to give him the satisfaction. But then his thumb started stroking again, gentle, taunting circles on your clit, and your body betrayed you with a whimper.

“That’s better,” he cooed, finger curling just right. “Thought you said you don’t sound like her.” Another stroke. “But this? Baby, this is music.”

“Bucky- ” you tried to whisper a warning, but it broke apart halfway through, breath catching in your throat as he added a second finger, his arm tightening around your waist to hold you still while he played your body like a favorite song.

“Y’know,” he murmured into your neck, lips brushing your skin, “if she wants to perform, she should hear what a real show sounds like.”

His fingers plunged deeper, curling just so. You moaned, louder this time and Bucky groaned behind you, rutting his cock against your ass through his boxers, hard and throbbing.

“Fuck, that’s it. There’s my girl.”

He bit softly at your shoulder, then licked the spot to soothe it. “Think I could make you cry for me before she hits round four?”

You turned your head slightly, breathless and hot all over. “You’re awful.”

He grinned, kissing your cheek. “M’just competitive.”

“I think someone’s holding back…” Bucky murmured, voice all sweet mockery, hips grinding slow and deliberate into your ass while his fingers pumped inside you, unhurried but ruthless.

You whimpered, clutching the sheet with one hand and his metal wrist with the other, thighs trembling as he twisted just right, making your muscles clamp tight around his fingers.

“Ohh,” he laughed softly, low and warm in your neck. “There it is. That little clench- mm, yeah, you’re gettin’ close, huh?”

His thumb rolled over your clit in a tighter circle and your whole body jerked, a desperate moan catching in your throat.

You squeezed his wrist hard, but it wasn’t enough.

“Bucky- Buck, wait- no- ”

He knew what that meant. Knew you didn’t really want him to stop. That you were right on the edge. Which is exactly why he did.

He pulled his fingers out slow, wet and glistening, and you made a pitiful noise of protest that only made him smile wider.

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart,” he said, already rolling you onto your back like you weighed nothing. “Don’t look at me like that.” He slotted himself between your thighs, pushing his boxers off. “You know I’m just tryin’ to help you live up to your potential.”

You glared up at him, flushed and needy, hips trying to chase his even before he lined himself up. But he didn’t push in right away. No, Bucky had to tease.

He ran his cock through your slick folds, tip dragging lazily up and down, tapping against your clit until your whole body twitched.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled, voice suddenly tight. “You’re already soaked. It didn’t take much- never does with you.”

He held your hips still, teasing the head of his cock along your slick folds again before finally giving in, slow, steady, thick. The tip nudged at your entrance before gliding up and down to smear your wetness, until your hips arched up in silent plea.

Then, finally, he pressed in just the tip, thick, hot, stretching you just enough to make your breath leave your chest in a broken gasp.

You arched, clutching his bicep. “auhh- ”

Bucky grinned.

“Better.”

He pushed in another inch, then another, groaning at how tight you were around him, your body pulling him deeper with every inch.

“You gonna give me those pretty sounds now, doll?” he whispered, rolling his hips just so. “Or do I gotta work for ‘em?”

You didn’t even get the chance to answer.

Because that was when the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of Sam’s headboard started agai Harder this time. His girl’s voice climbed an octave, all high-pitched gasps and theatrical moaning, just shy of pornographic.

And then- fuck- you heard Sam.

A low groan, unmistakable.

You buried your face in Bucky’s shoulder with a miserable whine.

You were screwed now.

Even in the near-darkness of the room, you could feel Bucky’s expression change, could sense his tongue poke into his cheek, his jaw flexing as he stared at the wall like he was personally offended.

“Oh, hell no,” he growled, pulling his hips back and snapping them forward, burying his cock deep, all the way in, dragging a sudden, guttural cry out of you before you could stop it.

“Bucky- !”

“That’s better,” he grunted, hand sliding under your thigh, hitching your leg up so he could angle himself deeper. “You let them have their noise. You’re gonna sing for me now.”

He started to move, slow but powerful thrusts that punched little gasps from your throat with every roll of his hips. You clung to his shoulders, eyes wide, trying to hold back, but it was useless. Every thrust forced a sound from you, each one a little louder than the last, your body unraveling beneath his.

You were already soaked, already there, and the feeling of him dragging along every nerve-ending inside you made you tremble. He was so deep, so heavy inside you, his hips grinding with purpose, like he was sculpting those sounds out of you.

“Not gonna let ‘em win, baby,” he whispered, breath hot against your lips. “Gonna fuck you so good you forget your own name. Let her try to moan louder than you- I dare her.”

His metal hand gripped the headboard behind you for leverage, and you swore it was about to start banging against the wall too. The creak of the bed and slap of skin echoed through the room.

“Bucky, fuck- ”

“There we go,” he praised, fucking into you harder, rougher now, each thrust rocking you up the bed. “That’s my girl. Soundin’ so pretty for me.”

You moaned helplessly, arching into him, fingers digging into his skin, and he was relentless, devoted to making you cry out louder than whatever was happening on the other side of that wall.

“You feel that, sweetheart?” he groaned, dragging his cock out slowly before slamming it back in, harder than before. “That’s it, let them know how good we fit. Let them know who’s makin’ you feel like this.”

You tried to answer, tried to form anything like a thought but it all shattered as he slammed into you again, grinding deep, and your breath hitched into a needy, helpless cry.

Your fingers clutched the pillow beside your head. Your legs trembled. You could barely keep your eyes open.

“Bucky- ”

He growled low, loving the way you moaned, loving the way your body trembled under his. Every sound you made spurred him on, every breathless whimper, every little hitch of your hips. He was drinking you in like he’d starved for it, worshipping every flutter and squeeze you gave him.

The girl next door let out another dramatic scream, the headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall, but all you could focus on was the way Bucky filled you, every inch of him, thick and hot and perfect inside you. The pressure of his cock dragged against that spot that made your spine bow, your thighs clenching around his hips instinctively.

Bucky grinned into your neck, not slowing. He fucked you through it- deliberate and deep, his hand sliding between you to circle your clit just to hear you sob again. The world was narrowed down to just the heat of your bodies and the slick slide of him inside you.

Nothing else mattered. Not the noise. Not the neighbors. Just the man above you, within you, around you, driving you out of your mind.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted, mouth against your throat. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you. Let her hear you.”

You did.

You couldn’t not.

He was grinding into your spot now with every thrust, dragging his cock against it until your toes curled and your nails scraped his back. Your moans started coming louder, broken, desperate, real. It wasn’t a performance. It was a surrender.

“Ohh, fuck, you feel good,” you sobbed, voice high and shaky.

Bucky’s head dropped, his breath stuttering. “God, you sound so good.”

His voice cracked slightly as he rutted into you, deeper and harder, his grip tightening on your hip. "Fuck, baby... you’re squeezin’ me so tight- keep that up and I’m not gonna last."

His mouth found yours, messy, hungry, claiming you completely as his hips snapped faster, harder, losing the rhythm as he chased both of your releases like he needed them to win. Like it was a goddamn competition now.

And maybe it was.

His chest was heaving, breath ragged, as he braced himself above you, each thrust more urgent, more desperate than the last. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss, swallowing each other's whimpers and gasps as he fucked you through the mounting tension building between you.

You cried out into his mouth when he hit just right, your back arching off the mattress, thighs shaking around his waist. Your whole body tensed, every muscle winding tight like a wire ready to snap.

“There. There- fuck, baby, I’ve got you- let go,” he rasped, holding you tight, grinding deeper, determined to take you with him.

And then you broke.

Your orgasm ripped through you with devastating force, your mouth falling open as a high, raw moan spilled out, his name dragged from your throat again and again. Your walls fluttered around him, soaking him as your thighs quivered, toes curling tight.

Bucky wasn’t far behind.

“Shit- fuck,” he gasped, hips stuttering as your body milked him. “Gonna fill you up, baby- fuck- take it- ”

With a shuddering groan, he buried himself to the hilt, cock twitching deep inside you as he spilled, filling you with hot pulses. His muscles tensed, arms locked tight around you, and he stayed there, shaking against your chest while your bodies trembled together.

The bedframe finally banged once- twice- against the wall, a perfect echo of your cries, before stillness settled over you both. Bucky sagged against you, chest heaving, lips brushing your jaw as he caught his breath, his body pressed so close it felt like you were still one- joined and molten and weightless in the aftermath.

Both of you were drenched in sweat, your skin sticking where it touched, the heat of your bodies radiating between tangled limbs. Your heart pounded against his chest, and his matched it beat for beat, steady and grounding as your fingers lazily traced the back of his neck.

You clung to him, dazed and utterly spent, your body still humming with the ghost of your climax, little shudders twitching through your thighs. You let your cheek rest against his shoulder, eyelids fluttering shut, the silence around you ringing like an echo chamber of the storm you'd just ridden together.

You were both loud, breathless, fucked-out messes in the dark- hair mussed, voices hoarse, sheets soaked beneath you.

And you didn’t care.

You didn’t care if they heard.

Hell, you hoped they did. Let Sam and his girlfriend have their act.

You had something better. Something real.

Bucky was still inside you, his cock softening but not leaving you, like even his body refused to let go. He nuzzled your cheek, one arm wrapping more tightly around your back, the other brushing his fingers gently through your hair. A tender kiss pressed against your temple as the muffled sounds from next door finally gave way to silence.

“Think we won that one,” he murmured, smug and sleepy.

You let out a breathless laugh, still shaking a little. “Think we both lost our minds.”

His arms tightened around you, possessive and soft all at once. “Worth it.”

You tilted your head up, eyes meeting his in the dark. “Think we woke Alpine?”

He snorted, mouth curving into a tired grin. “Probably." 

You both chuckled quietly, your legs still wrapped around his hips, unwilling to break the closeness.

And then, in the stillness that followed, came the faintest sound, soft little wails starting up from the hallway. Mournful, high-pitched, and thoroughly dramatic.

“Speak of the devil...” you murmured against his shoulder.

Bucky huffed a laugh, burying his face in your hair. “Alpine’s filing a noise complaint.”

Neither of you said anything else after that. You didn’t need to. Not until you both heard the telltale noise of the little queen scratching at the door. 

[trevuorzegras]

FINDING OUR LINE 　MAX VERSTAPPEN

　　　max verstappen x mom wolff!reader

SUMMARY 　as the lines between racing and real life blur, max finds himself building a family in the most unexpected way.

contains 　single parenthood, mild angst, mild language, mentions of Injury (minor scraped knee), protective family dynamics, google translated dutch, use of y/n.

　　THE SOFT PATTER of footsteps echoed through the Red Bull garage. Max turned, locking eyes with a small child darting behind a tire rack. He let out a low chuckle, already taking a step toward her.

Peeking her head out, the little girl giggled when she saw him. Max crouched to her level, offering a kind smile.

“Where’s your mom, sweet girl?” he asked gently.

She shrugged dramatically, then tried to dart past him with the mischievous speed only toddlers seem to possess. Max caught her by the arm before she could bolt again. She pouted in protest but didn’t fight him, letting her small fingers curl around his as he led her in search of Christian Horner.

He didn’t get far.

A blur rushed toward him, nearly knocking over a pit cart in her sprint. Max stopped cold, eyes wide, as a woman about his age — maybe younger — flew past the crew and scooped the child into her arms.

“Oh my God, Adelyn,” she breathed, cradling the girl tightly, her voice trembling. “Jesus, you scared me.”

Max blinked. Once. Twice. He didn’t move.

The woman looked up, eyes meeting his. She was still catching her breath, hair wild, cheeks flushed from the sprint. There was a moment. Brief, electric. Where neither of them spoke.

“She yours?” he asked finally, voice low.

She nodded, eyes still locked with his. “Yes, i’m sorry. she just… she likes to wander.”

Max smiled, something soft and unexpected blooming in his chest. “She’s quick. Nearly outran a world champion.”

The woman laughed then. A real laugh, one that cracked through the tension like sunlight. “Guess I should sign her up for karting.”

Max grinned. “Maybe. I’ve got some connections.”

There was a pause. The child in her arms had already moved on, tugging at her mother’s necklace with drowsy fingers.

“I’m Max, by the way.”

“I know,” she said, amused. “I’m Y/n.”

Another beat.

“Well… if Adelyn ever wanders into the paddock again,” Max said, a little more confident now, “I wouldn’t mind helping you find her.”

Y/n smiled, this time slower. Warmer.

“Noted.”

Max scribbled down his number, handing it to her.

And then just like that, Max watched her walk away — a whirlwind of a woman with a child on her hip and a lingering look over her shoulder that promised this wasn’t the last time.

It started small.

A few texts here and there. Y/n thanking Max again, apologizing for the chaos, him replying with a joke about hiring Adelyn as his new race engineer. Nothing serious. Nothing with weight.

Until the next race weekend.

They weren’t even supposed to run into each other, but Max had spotted Adelyn sitting on a curb outside the paddock, legs swinging, talking animatedly to one of the McLaren mechanics about why orange was a “silly” car color.

Max found himself grinning before he could stop it.

“Hey,” he said, crouching beside her, “you giving Zak Brown a hard time again?”

She whipped her head around. “Max!”

And that was it.

From that moment on, Adelyn sought him out like he was gravity. Between sessions, she’d somehow find her way near the Red Bull garage. The crew got used to it quickly — especially when Max started keeping snacks in his locker for her and letting her sit in the car during downtime.

Y/n, at first, was hesitant.

She didn’t want to overstep, didn’t want to complicate anything, but Max made it easy. He never pushed, never crossed lines. He just showed up. Again and again.

When Adelyn fell and scraped her knee? He was the one who scooped her up and distracted her with stories about high-speed crashes and banana peels. When she threw a tantrum because her stuffed bunny was lost? He helped y/n turn over half the paddock to find it — and bought a second one “just in case.”

And one evening, when the team was packing up, Adelyn crawled into his lap while he sat on a tire and simply stayed there. Head on his chest. Eyes fluttering closed.

Max looked up at y/n then, unsure. Waiting for her to take her daughter back.

But she didn’t move.

“She trusts you,” she said, voice quiet.

When someone from the pit crew jokingly asked if he’d gone soft, Max shrugged and muttered, “She’s practically mine now, anyway.”

He didn’t expect y/n to overhear.

But she had.

And she didn’t correct him.

The café sat tucked along a quiet Monaco street, sunlight casting soft reflections through its wide windows. Inside, the world felt slower — clinking cutlery, the low murmur of locals, the occasional hiss of the espresso machine.

Y/n sat at a small corner table with Adelyn perched beside her, swinging her legs and smearing strawberry jam onto her plate more than the toast.

Across from them, Toto Wolff sipped his black coffee, newspaper folded beside his phone, one brow twitching in mock disapproval as Adelyn reached across the table with red fingers.

“Careful,” he warned, drawing his sleeve back. “That’s Armani.”

“It’s a nice red now,” Adelyn declared, sticking a sliced strawberry on the rim of his cup with great ceremony. “Like lipstick.”

“I don’t wear lipstick.”

“You should. You’d look fancy.”

Y/n snorted into her coffee.

Toto gave her a long-suffering glance. “You encouraged this.”

“I created it,” she said proudly.

Adelyn smiled up at her grandfather, then went back to coloring on the back of a napkin. “Are we going to the park after this?”

“Assuming you don’t ruin my entire suit first, yes,” Toto muttered.

The door chimed behind them.

Toto didn’t look up right away — but Adelyn did. Her eyes lit up.

“Max!”

Y/n’s head snapped toward the door, her mouth halfway open to stop her — but it was too late. Adelyn was already off the bench and running full-speed toward the entrance.

Max caught her before he could even say hello, startled but smiling as she threw her arms around him.

“Hey, kleine rakker,” he said, lifting her with practiced ease. “You keep popping up everywhere.”

“You forgot my hat,” she said sternly.

“Again?” He winced. “I really need to start carrying it in my glove box.”

He turned toward the table and froze.

Y/n was already standing.

And beside her stood Toto Wolff.

Max straightened instinctively, one hand tightening slightly around Adelyn.

“Toto,” he said quickly, respectful, eyes wide.

Toto said nothing at first. His eyes moved slowly from Max, to the way he held his granddaughter, to the very comfortable way she rested her head on his shoulder.

He didn’t speak but the weight of his silence was loud.

Y/n cleared her throat. “We were just having breakfast. She saw him and —”

“She ran into the arms of a Red Bull driver,” Toto said calmly. “In public.”

“Hi, Max,” Adelyn beamed, oblivious.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Max said, eyes still on Toto. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I imagine not,” Toto said. Then to y/n, more quietly, “This has been going on a while?”

She hesitated. “It’s… casual. He’s good with her.”

Toto tilted his head, expression unreadable. “Casual. With a three-year-old involved.”

“She made that choice, not me.”

Max slowly set Adelyn down. She tugged his hand. “You’re coming to the park, right?”

“We’ll see,” Toto answered for him.

Max said nothing.

The drivers behind him — Lando, Charles, and Daniel — watched from a safe distance, like people witnessing a high-stakes poker hand.

Toto turned back to Max, voice even but firmer now. “I assume you understand the position you’re in.”

“I do.”

“Do you?” Toto asked, stepping forward slightly. “Because that’s not just any child you’re holding. That’s my granddaughter. And her mother is not another name in your garage-side highlight reel.”

Max stood a little straighter. “With respect, sir, I’m aware.”

Toto studied him a beat longer. Then he finally relented, just a little. A slow breath in.

“If you’re going to stay in her life,” he said quietly, “I expect consistency. I expect effort. And I expect you to remember exactly who’s watching.”

Max nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

Toto stepped back. “Good. Then sit. You’re already sharing the jam.”

Max lowered himself carefully into the chair next to y/n, who offered him a small, sorry smile.

Adelyn plopped onto his lap without asking, already trying to steal his croissant.

Y/n leaned in, whispering, “Welcome to the family.”

Max exhaled. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Max didn’t expect to enjoy the zoo.

It started off chaotic — Adelyn insisting on feeding every goat in the petting area, then promptly bursting into tears when one nibbled her sleeve. Y/N was already halfway to an apology when Max crouched down and took her tiny hand.

“Hey,” he said, brushing off her jacket. “You okay?”

She sniffled. “He tried to eat me.”

“He tried to eat your fashion,” Max corrected. “Goats have no taste.”

Adelyn giggled.

Max leaned in, lowering his voice like it was a secret. “Next time we come, we’ll bring revenge snacks. Strawberries dipped in glitter.”

She brightened. “Can we feed him glitter strawberries?”

Y/n groaned. “Please don’t teach my child to poison goats.”

Max grinned and took Adelyn’s other hand. “Just creative justice.”

Y/N watched them walk ahead together. Her daughter skipping, Max matching her pace and for the first time in months, she didn’t feel like she was doing this alone.

They were stuck inside.

Rain hit the windows in sheets, the sky overcast and lazy. Y/n had half a laptop open on the kitchen table, but her attention was long gone.

From the hallway came a shriek followed by Max’s unmistakable laugh.

She peered around the corner.

Adelyn was on Max’s shoulders, both of them covered in sparkly, mismatched stickers.

“I’m a flying pony,” she declared.

“You’re a dangerous flying pony,” Max said, holding onto her legs like she might actually take off. “We need air traffic control.”

Y/n stepped forward. “Are you seriously letting her use my skin-care samples as glitter glue?”

“She said it was war paint.”

Adelyn stuck a sticker to his forehead. “Max is my sidekick. We’re fighting crime.”

“Who’s the villain?”

Adelyn pointed dramatically at the vacuum.

Max nodded solemnly. “It had it coming.”

Later, after the war was over and Adelyn was napping in her room, y/n handed Max a mug of tea and leaned beside him on the couch.

“You’re good with her,” she said quietly.

He looked down at the tea, then at her. “She makes it easy.”

Y/n smiled. “Still. Thank you.”

He didn’t say anything. Just looked at her for a long moment.

And for the first time, y/n didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.

Max hadn’t meant to fall asleep.

He’d been lying next to Adelyn on the couch, reading from a picture book she’d insisted had “car magic,” and the next thing he knew, it was 1 a.m. and his phone had slipped between the cushions.

He blinked awake to the soft click of a door.

Y/n stood in the doorway, a blanket over one arm, her eyes soft in the dark.

“She knock out?” she whispered.

Max nodded. “Halfway through the sentence.”

Y/n stepped closer and covered both of them with the blanket, her hand brushing his shoulder as she tucked it around Adelyn’s little frame.

“Thanks for staying,” she said.

He met her gaze. “I didn’t want to leave.”

Y/n sat beside him, quiet for a beat.

“She loves you, you know.”

“I love her too,” he said, almost without thinking.

And then — quieter, like it wasn’t meant to be said at all, “And I think I’m starting to love you.”

Y/n looked at him. And didn’t pull away.

She just leaned in, rested her head against his shoulder, and whispered, “I know.”

The paddock was quieter than usual, the hum of preparations momentarily paused as Toto found Max standing near the motorhome, hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes on the ground.

Toto approached, slow and steady — the kind of presence that could fill a room without a word.

“Max,” he said, voice low but firm.

Max looked up, nerves tightening his jaw.

“I’ve been watching,” Toto said, eyes sharp but not unkind. “How you’re with Adelyn.”

Max blinked. “I try.”

“Try? You’ve done more than try.” Toto’s gaze softened just enough to show a hint of pride. “You stepped up when it mattered. That’s rare.”

Max swallowed. “I want to be part of her life. Apart of Y/n’s life.”

Toto nodded once. “Good. Because if you’re in this — really in this. Then you’re in my family.”

Max felt the weight of that moment settle deep. “Thank you, sir. That means everything.”

Toto’s rare smile cracked through. “Don’t screw it up.”

The post-practice media scrum buzzed with the usual questions about tires, track conditions, and strategy. Max sat relaxed but focused, fielding queries with his usual mix of sharpness and charm.

One reporter leaned in. “Max, how do you handle the pressure during a season like this? What keeps you grounded?”

Before Max could answer, Lando, standing just off to the side, smirked and called out, “Probably the girlfriend, mate. Heard she’s got a pretty fierce kid too.”

Heads turned. Cameras zoomed.

Max blinked, caught off guard, then gave Lando a pointed look. “Lando…”

But the grin on Lando’s face only grew.

Max exhaled and shifted in his seat. He glanced at the cameras, then continued, voice softening. “Y/n — and her daughter, Adelyn. They’re kind of my world right now.”

The room buzzed with surprise and curiosity.

Another reporter asked, “So, family life is helping with the focus on track?”

Max nodded, smiling. “Definitely. It’s a good balance. Racing’s intense, but coming home to them? That’s everything.”

Lando nudged him again. “Look at you, all domestic.”

Max laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it.”

NAVIGATION　　 ✶ 　　F1 MASTERLIST

© V A M P — plesse do not copy, repost, translate, or use my work without consent.

[sweetonsin]

AFTER HOURS

pairings: professor!joel miller x curvy!reader

summary: you're heartbroken, humiliated, and spiraling—your ex not only cheated, but he did it with a skinnier, louder girl from your own lecture hall. It’s your final semester, and your senior capstone professor, Joel Miller, has always been a little too attentive, a little too perceptive. You never thought he noticed you like that..until you're alone in his office, crying, and he tells you to lock the door.

warnings: nsfw, 18+, age gap, au joel miller, teacherxstudent smut, orgasms, creampie, face sitting, joel lovesss her curves, bent over a desk, unprotected piv, protective!joel, female receiving, praise kink!reader.

wc: 5.3K

requested by: @allyourfavesinoneblog

You don’t mean to cry in his office.

You really don’t. You’re not the type. But your hands are shaking, and your chest is tight, and you feel like if you take another step across campus, you’re going to scream.

So you find yourself in front of Professor Miller’s office, heart pounding, makeup already smudged from holding back tears all through his lecture. His door is cracked open, the warm gold light spilling out into the hall.

You knock once. Soft.

Joel looks up from a stack of papers, his eyes immediately narrowing with concern. “Hey. You alright?”

You hesitate.

He sees it all before you can lie.

“C’mere,” he says, voice gentle, but no-nonsense. “Sit down.”

You do.

You collapse into the chair across from him, clutching your phone to your chest like it might break in your hands. You can’t even look up at him. He says your name softly—once, twice. You flinch the second time. That’s when he knows.

“Talk to me.”

You breathe in sharp. “He cheated on me.”

Joel blinks. His jaw works. “The kid you were seeing?”

You nod, choking on the shame. “With that girl. From class. The one who always shows up late and wears nothing—”

“I know the one,” he interrupts, calmly. “And I also know you, sweetheart. And I know you’re worth a hell of a lot more than that skinny little brat with an attitude problem.”

Your mouth parts in shock.

Joel doesn’t take it back.

You look up at him, startled—and he just stares at you, arms crossed, leaning back in his chair. Steady. Calm. And so fucking solid you could cry.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you mumble. “He left me for her. That says everything.”

“No,” Joel says simply, “it says he’s a goddamn idiot.”

You shake your head, looking down at your thighs, arms crossed over your stomach. You feel like a joke. “I knew I was too big for him. I knew it.”

And that’s when Joel moves.

He rises from his chair like a storm rolling in—silent but heavy—and crosses the office to crouch in front of you. Big hands, callused and warm, cradle your thighs. His thumbs stroke just above your knees, and his voice is a low hum.

“You listen to me,” he says. “You are soft in all the right places. You’re not too big. You’re too good for some little boy who doesn’t know how to treat a woman. He couldn’t handle you.”

You sniff, still not quite believing it.

His fingers tighten. “But I can.”

Your stomach flips.

“What?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he says. “I ain’t blind, sweetheart. And I sure as hell ain’t sorry for the way I look back.”

You’re breathless. You’ve spent months keeping your crush on Professor Miller quiet. He's always been too good-looking, too rugged, with that low voice and rough Southern drawl and hands that looked too big for academic life.

And now he’s on his knees for you.

“I shouldn’t—” you start to protest.

Joel looks up at you with dark eyes and a crooked smirk. “You came to me, didn’t you?”

He stands, towering over you, then gently takes your hand.

“Lock the door, baby.”

Your breath catches. You do as you're told.

He backs toward his desk, eyes never leaving yours. “C’mere.”

You cross the room like gravity’s dragging you.

He sits on the edge of his desk and pulls you into the space between his legs. One hand cups your cheek. “You sure?”

You nod.

“Use your words, baby. I need to hear you say it.”

“I’m sure,” you whisper. “I want this. I want you.”

That’s all he needs.

His mouth is on yours—hot, firm, commanding. His hand on your waist, gripping the soft flesh with something like reverence. He kisses like he’s wanted to for years. Like he’s angry he didn’t do it sooner.

You gasp against his mouth when he lifts you, setting you onto the desk. Your thighs spread naturally around him, and he groans when he sees how your skirt hikes up.

“Fuck,” Joel mutters. “Look at you.”

His fingers trail down to your thighs, dragging slowly down the curve. “You got any idea what it’s like for me? Tryin’ to teach a lecture when you’re sittin’ there lookin’ like that?”

You whimper. “Like what?”

Joel smirks. “Like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

His mouth finds your neck, licking and sucking until your head falls back. Then he drops to his knees again. This time, it’s not to comfort you.

It’s to worship you.

He pushes your thighs open and groans, burying his face between them like a man starved. His stubble scrapes against the sensitive skin, his tongue already licking through your soaked panties.

“Oh my God, Joel—”

“Shh,” he rasps. “Lemme taste you. That’s it, baby. You just sit back and take it.”

You cry out when he tears your panties off and dives in properly—tongue stroking, sucking, teasing your clit until your hips buck. You try to hover, overwhelmed by the intensity—

And then he growls, wrapping strong arms around your thighs to hold you in place.

“I said sit, baby. Not hover.”

You gasp.

“If I die, I die,” he mutters into your cunt. “Let me drown in this sweet fuckin’ pussy.”

You sob out a laugh and moan all at once, thighs trembling around his face.

“You taste like heaven,” he groans. “So fuckin’ sweet, baby. That boy didn’t deserve you. Didn’t know how to treat you. Didn’t know how to eat.”

His tongue works you like a machine, flicking over your clit just right, curling inside you until your whole body locks up. Joel’s muttering between strokes:

“That’s it, baby.”

“Good girl.”

“You’re perfect.”

“I could live between these thighs.”

You come with a broken cry, your hands gripping his curls, your thighs locked around his head—and Joel moans like he’s the one getting off. He keeps licking, letting you ride it out on his tongue until you’re limp and boneless on his desk.

When you finally blink up at him, Joel’s wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild.

“You good?” he rasps.

You nod weakly. “More than good.”

“Good,” he says, standing. “Because I’m not done with you.”

Joel picks you up like you weigh nothing—like he’s grateful you’ve got thighs for him to hold—and carries you to the leather couch against the wall. He sets you down gently, pulling his belt free with one hand.

“Joel—”

“I’ve been patient,” he mutters, unzipping his pants. “Been good. But the way you taste? The way you fuckin’ moan?”

You glance down and swallow. He’s huge.

“You still want me?” you ask, softly. “Even like this?”

Joel stills.

Then—he steps forward, straddles your thighs, and grabs your hand. Places it right over his cock, hard and heavy in his boxers.

“You feel that?” he growls. “That’s for you. Not them. Not her. You. Every soft fuckin’ inch of you turns me on. I don’t want some bony little brat—I want a woman.”

You’re breathless. Wet all over again.

“I want you. So bad it hurts.”

You tug his boxers down, and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking. He strokes it once, slowly, as he watches you take it in.

“Turn around,” he murmurs. “Hands on the couch. I want you from behind.”

You obey, heart racing.

He lines himself up and slides in slowly—inch by inch—and fuck, he fills you so deep you can barely breathe.

You cry out, head dropping.

Joel curses, gripping your hips hard. “So tight, baby. So warm. Took me so fuckin’ good.”

He starts moving, thrusts slow and deep. One hand cups your belly, the other on your hip. You feel him everywhere—inside you, around you, claiming every inch.

“You know what I see?” he pants. “When I look at you in class?”

You shake your head, gasping.

“I see thighs I wanna bite. Hips I wanna bruise. Tits I wanna suck. A body I wanna worship.”

You moan, arching back into him. “Joel—”

“I see a girl who deserves the fuckin’ world. And I wanna give it to you.”

You come again with a choked sob, pulsing around him, legs trembling.

Joel groans like he’s dying and spills inside you with a harsh moan, grinding into you until he’s drained.

You both collapse onto the couch, tangled together, panting.

His arms wrap around you from behind, lips pressed to your shoulder. “You okay, baby?”

You nod against his arm. “More than okay.”

You rest like that for a long moment, wrapped in warmth and the scent of him—earthy, musky, safe.

Then Joel kisses your neck and whispers, “Next time, I’m takin’ you home.”

You blink up at him.

“Gonna cook for you. Run you a bath. Put you in my bed and make you forget every bad thing that little shit ever said about your body.”

You smile, eyes glassy. “Yeah?”

Joel grins.

“Yeah, baby. And tomorrow?” He pulls you closer. “You’re gonna walk into that class lookin’ smug as hell. Let ‘em wonder why you’re glowing.”

[trashytracktales]

(I'm really sorry for the size of what I sent you and if you want to ignore it I'll completely understand)

I don't know if you like writing enemies to lovers (that's the only way I can describe it) but I've been thinking a lot about how you would make an amazing story with this "plot" because you write so well

So I'm here to ask for a one shot of Lando where he and Flo's best friend (his sister) don't get along and are always picking on each other (but deep down Lando just uses this as a protection so other people don't know he likes her, because he's afraid of ruining their friendship).

The scenario could be the two going to Flo's horse riding competition but they are late for the event, so Lando suggests giving a ride to his sister's friend and she accepts because she doesn't know the city and the place is on a remote farm. Halfway there it starts to rain and the car ends up getting stuck because Lando didn't want to follow the GPS, saying he knew a shorter route and this makes the two argue. The girl gets irritated by Lando's stubbornness and gets out of the car, even in the rain, and goes to a barn that is the only covered place nearby. Obviously Lando goes after her and when they get there the two admire each other for a while because the wet clothes are stuck to their bodies, leaving little to the imagination. So Lando can't hold on and kiss her and all the desire to have her is released at that moment (pls make it a smut 🥺)

Hold your horses | LN⁴

🐎 summary ──── They’ve been pushing each other’s limits for as long as they can remember, and storms aren’t something that scares them. But when they get caught in the eye of one, desire and resentment collide in a moment they can’t ignore nor change.

🐎 pairing ──── Lando Norris x Flo’s best friend (she/her)

🐎 rating ──── explicit

🐎 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, angst, smut, push-pull dynamics, arguments and dirty talk, swearing, power imbalance, wet clothes??, banter and manipulation through teasing, fingering, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, unresolved tension with open ending (don’t hate me pls I can already smell the requests for part 2).

🐎 word count ──── 7.1k

🐎 date ──── Jul. 14, 2025

🐎 a/n ──── I had this request sitting in my inbox since December of 2024. Whoever sent it, if you’re still here and reading this, I’m sooooo sorry love. I hope it was worth the wait 🤎

“JUST ADMIT IT, Lando,” she says, letting out an exasperated sigh. “We are stuck,” the girl offers the only plausible verdict and, somewhere far in the distance, a loud clap of thunder grumbles like it agrees with her.

Outside, the English countryside is a blur of grey and green, soaked in a sudden summer storm. The windshield wipers squeak uselessly across the glass, struggling to keep up with the downpour. Mud splatters up the sides of the car, and the wheels dig deeper into the soaked dirt road every time Lando tries to gun it.

He doesn’t look at her right away. Instead, he’s absolutely convinced that the sheer willpower will reverse the fact that they’re halfway up a deserted country lane, surrounded by trees that loom in on either side like spectators, and very, very stuck.

“We’re not stuck,” Lando insists, his jaw tight; he’d rather chew on wood than agree with her.

“I’m so sorry,” she says mockingly. “The fact that we are not moving might’ve gave me that impression. But thank god it’s not the case,” she continues, flashing him a fake smile.

“I just need to rock it out of the rut,” he explains, giving her an annoyed look back.

She nods. “Of course, you’re going to rock it out,” the girl repeats after him, the irritation in her voice betraying the fact that, in reality, she thinks his solution is terribly uninspired. “Genius. Did you read that in a Top Gear magazine? Wait, do you even know how to read or you just looked at the pictures?”

Beyond frustrated, Lando throws the car into reverse and hits the gas again. The tires squeal and spin, slinging more mud into the air. As a result, the car lurches an inch, maybe two, then creaks and settles deeper, the nose now slightly tilted to the right.

She clears her throat. “You were saying?”

He exhales through his nose, clearly trying to keep it together. “Can you shut up for a second?”

“You shut up. If it wasn’t for your big mouth, we wouldn’t be in this situation right now,” she points out. “Who ignores the GPS in this type of weather?”

Lando rounds on her. “I know the area, alright?”

The girl scoffs. “Clearly! We’re on a road that looks like it was last used by the Romans. But Lando knows the area. Go ahead and get us out, then. Because we’re one thunderclap away from being part of a missing persons case.”

“Why do you always have to be so dramatic?” he asks in an even tone.

She replies so quickly that it almost takes her by surprise, too. “Because I always knew you’d be the cause of my death, Norris.”

Much to their misfortune, the rain starts pouring harder, drumming angrily against the roof of the car. The sky looks heavy, thunders rolling in the distance like some kind of bad omen. They’re surrounded by thick hedgerows and open fields that stretch out in every direction, broken only by the occasional, soggy-looking fencepost. There’s no farmhouse in sight, no signal, no other cars or people. Just them.

And that’s the worst part.

“You know, I didn’t even have to drive you,” says Lando through gritted teeth as he unbuckles his seatbelt and throws open the door on his side. Water rushes in before he slams it shut again, soaking his hoodie through before he even rounds the car.

She watches him through the windshield with her arms crossed at her chest. A part of her wants to feel bad, because he looks miserable, hair plastered to his forehead now, jaw flexing as he surveys the tires like he can will the car to move. But on the other hand, he deserves it. Lando’s been nothing but a cocky, irritating nightmare since the moment she met him. Always mocking and always acting like her presence was some kind of personal inconvenience, even though she’s the one who’s had to put up with his snide remarks at family dinners, his eye-rolls whenever she talks about university, and the constant yet silent competition over who can get under the other’s skin faster.

“No traction,” she hears his voice again, jolting slightly when the door swings open. Lando climbs back in, dripping water across the console, managing to sprinkle her with a few cold drops, too. His curls are officially a mess, there’s a streak of mud on his jeans, and his expression is thunderous next time he speaks, “Road’s completely washed out,” he finally admits, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary.

The echo leaves a sinister melody in her ears. “Oh?” she gasps, faking surprise. “You mean we’re stuck?”

Lando glares at her. “Can you not?”

“I’m just trying to understand how your shortcut landed us in a damn bog.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, he throws his head back with a groan. “You’re actually the worst.”

“And now what?” she asks, outraged by the fact that he doesn’t even seem remotely concerned about looking for a way to get them out of there.

“We wait for the rain to pass,” says Lando, finally stopping the car.

The moment the engine dies beneath them, the hum vanishes, and the rain rushes in to fill the silence. In the sudden stillness of the stalled car, the air shifts. Neither of them speaks for a while, but that something that’s dancing between them it’s painfully palpable now.

“I shouldn’t have agreed to come with you,” she confesses in a small voice, turning to look out the window to her right, where the storm shows no sign of stopping anytime soon. “It’s always the same shit packed differently.”

Lando shrugs. “No one forced you, mate,” he reminds her in a flat voice, not to be rude, but mostly as a fact.

She presses her lips into a thin line, forcing herself to stay calm and not to give him more power over her than he already has. But even if she’s staring out the window, watching the world distort under the glass, she can still feel his eyes flicking to her, studying her, waiting for her to react. Ever since she became part of the Norris household orbit through his sister, there’s always been some sort of hostile dynamic between them, a constant game of who can strike the sharpest blow while pretending they don’t care. Flo used to be the mediator, but when it’s just the two of them, it’s as if a civil war is about to erupt at any moment.

“You offered, mate,” she accuses, turning to look at him. “So I thought maybe we could act like two normal people who don’t hate the fuck out of each other. For once.”

Lando frowns lightly. “No, I only did what Flo asked me to,” he says in a defensive manner. “Which was to give you a ride. And hate’s a strong word, don’t you think?”

Although she bites her lip in order to stop the words from leaving her mouth, they still find a way to slip through her lips, “You act like it fits.”

Her affirmation stings more than Lando wants to admit. It lodges deep in his chest, making him go still for a moment. Maybe he’s been too caught up in the rhythm of their game to see how sharp his own edges have gotten. How sometimes, in the heat of trying to win a stupid argument, he might’ve pushed too far. Said things that weren’t just clever or sarcastic, but cruel.

“This is such a disaster,” she admits, pulling him back from his own mind. “I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere, in a car with you of all people, late for my friend’s competition, and—”

“And what?” Lando cuts her off, dragging a hand through his damp curls, water flinging from the strands. His hoodie clings to his skin, soaked and uncomfortable, but the tension inside the car is worse than the weather outside. “What do you want from me right now? To make the car fly?”

She shakes her head. “You act like you know everything, and then this happens,” the girl gestures around the car, the rain, the stuck tires, and lastly, at the air between them. “Trying to keep up with you it’s exhausting.”

Lando’s eyes flash, twisting his body towards her as if his seat caught on fire. “Don’t pretend you know me.”

“Don’t pretend I don’t.”

It’s the conviction behind her words that shuts both of them up.

Her eyes widen in surprise, and then it’s as if a veil of tranquility wraps around her shoulders. Like something just simply clicked. Of course she knows him. She knows that he always taps his fingers against the steering wheel when he’s annoyed with the traffic, that he chews the inside of his cheek when he’s trying to keep his temper in check, that he can be loud just to fill silence, and sarcastic just to keep people at arm’s length.

Lando gets moody when he’s hungry, which, she’s learned, happens every few hours like clockwork. He’s infuriatingly competitive, even when it’s just a silly game of cards, and somehow always manages to be both irritatingly confident and quite avoidant when things get too real.

But she also knows he always drives five miles under the speed limit when it’s raining. She’s seen the way he softens when he’s around little kids, how he crouches down and talks to them so they won’t feel too small. He has his sister’s back without a second thought, even if that means to drive her annoying best friend to her competitions from time to time.

And Lando knows her too.

He knows that she always has to have the last word, even if it’s just a whispered insult under her breath as she walks away. That she rolls her eyes at him so hard it’s a miracle they haven’t gotten stuck yet, and that she says his name like it’s a curse, ninety-nine percent of the times.

Even so, he likes the way it sounds coming from her mouth.

She’s dramatic in the most exasperating way, throwing her hands around when she talks, sighing loud enough to be heard in the next room. She pretends to hate everything Lando likes just to get a rise out of him, and she’s been picking fights with him for years over the stupidest things: his haircuts, how he ties his shoes, the music he listens to, or the way he eats chips like he’s in a race.

She drives him insane, and she weaponizes it. But thing is, he’s the one that lets her.

“What are you doing?” asks Lando, watching her reaching for the door handle.

“This is getting old,” she tells him with a trace of weariness in her voice. “I’m done having the same fight with you,” she adds, slamming the door before he even gets a chance to stop her.

The metallic thud echoes through Lando’s head, leaving him behind for a few moments, losing sight of her figure cutting through the rain. Instinctively, his hands reach for the steering wheel and he squeezes it in his palms to anchor himself. He knows that this is just another manifestation of her stubbornness, but he can’t remain indifferent to it, no matter how hard he tries.

The rain soaked her in seconds, angry drops dripping down her hair and past her collar. Her boots sink into the soft earth with a sickening squelch, mud clinging to her soles like it’s trying to hold her back as a warning. The wind lashes sideways across her face, pushing her hair into her mouth and eyes, but she keeps walking, even though she doesn’t know where she’s going yet. The only certainty is that she needs to get away from him, from the weight in her chest and, most importantly, from the sound of his voice that’s still ringing in her ears.

She knows she should turn back from the moment the sky lights up with a flash of lightning that splits it in two for a few seconds, and the thunder that makes her chest vibrate. But there’s something strangely comforting about the discomfort she feels and the way the rain drowns everything out. Especially her thoughts.

The road ahead bends, and so does she, veering off toward the field that dips low near the treeline. Nestled behind a tangle of hedges, barely visible through the sheets of rain, she sees an old barn, weathered and crooked, but as long as it has a roof, she decides it’s enough to shield her until the rain stops. So she scrambles over a ditch and through tall grass, the cold clawing at her naked legs, her breath coming in ragged bursts as she finally reaches the door that resists her for a second before finally giving way with a groaning creak.

It’s dim and musty inside, but to her surprise, it’s neater than she’d imagined from the outside: stacked hay bales line the far wall, and the floor is swept clean, the scent of damp wood and old straw wrapping around her like something familiar and strangely calming. The rain muffles to a soft drumming on the roof above, and for a brief moment, she’s alone in the hush of it all, her breath finally slowing down.

It’s peaceful, but then the door opens again, and she doesn’t need to turn to know exactly who it is.

“Can you stop being difficult for a minute?” he barks, stepping inside and letting the door slam shut behind him. “What are you doing walking off like that in the middle of a goddamn storm?”

“What are you doing coming after me?” she fires back.

Lando shakes his head, frustration visible on his expression. “You could’ve gotten lost.”

“Not with you around, I won’t,” she replies sarcastically. “I’m sure you would’ve found a shortcut and show up at the end of the fucking world just to keep annoying me.”

For the first time, Lando agrees with her. “You’re right. I would find you,” he snaps. “Because apparently, I’m the piece of shit stuck to your shoe, yeah? Always there, making your life miserable.”

Her mouth opens, stunned by the venom in his voice, but Lando won’t let her interrupt him this time.

“And maybe I am doing it on purpose. You wanna know why?” he asks rhetorically, stepping closer to where she stands. “Because you do the exact same thing to me.”

She straightens, her face hardening. “Excuse me?”

“No, you’re not excused,” his hands are clenched at his sides, water dripping from the cuffs of his sleeves. “Not when you get under my skin like it’s your fucking job. You don’t get to push every button I have, and then act like I’m the one being unreasonable.”

“Well, you are,” she spits back.

The words ricochet between them like it’s a tennis match. Without thinking, Lando takes another step forward, until they’re only a foot apart, their breath blending in the cold air.

“You think this is fun?” his voice lowers for a beat. “You think I enjoy losing my mind every time you walk into a room like you know exactly how to piss me off?”

Her throat tightens, but she doesn’t say a word. However, she knows that’s true because, again, like it or not, she knows him.

“It used to be fun,” he nods once, his eyes never leaving hers, “But we lost the fucking plot. I don’t even recognize myself when I’m around you,” Lando says quieter, but no less intense. “No one else does this to me. So why does it have to be you?”

His question cuts deep, but it sounds off, almost like surrender.

There is just too much to unpack and, somehow, not enough time. Not when her mind takes her to the ages when it was easy to tease him and push back, just because she was too afraid to pull. They’ve been circling each other for years, stuck in a cycle they didn’t know how to break and, over time, that became their normal. But they’re not teenagers anymore. And now, she discovers how resentment became their fallback, because it was always easier to fight than to face the weight of whatever they were — not enemies, but not friends, either.

With Lando standing in front of her like that, upset and shaken, she realizes that maturity has finally caught up from behind and it’s begging them to reconsider not just who they’ve been to each other in the past, but who they choose to be next.

“You really mean that?” she asks in a small voice. “That you don’t recognize yourself when you’re around me?”

Lando breathes, staring at her like she’s something he wants to destroy and protect in the same heartbeat.

“I…” he begins after a few seconds of complete silence. “I don’t know.”

It’s honest, she can tell by the way his chin quivers a little, as if her question awakened in him the same exact thought she just had.

Her lips part, like she’s about to fight it. Or maybe laugh it off. But nothing comes out. Instead, she catches the way he’s looking at her now. Not like he did when he stormed inside or with the smug grin he wears in the corner of his mouth when he’s trying to get even.

This moment is something else entirely; they’re both awake now.

Lando’s not even looking at her anymore. His eyes are stuck somewhere lower, caught on the line of her soaked shirt clinging to her body like second skin. What was once just an oversized white button-up now leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. The fabric has turned translucent, plastered to her frame, every inch of her outlined in dim light. The belt cinched at her waist draws the shirt tighter, accentuating the slope of her hips and the curve of her chest.

She feels it all at once, how her soaked mesh bra is doing little to hide anything and how her thighs are streaked with mud from walking through the field. Water is still trailing in thin lines down her neck, slipping between her breasts, and that’s where his eyes land at last.

His jaw clenches, making him look like he’s holding himself back with everything he has. His chest heaves with each breath, deep yet uneven, like the air has grown too thick to pull in properly.

“Lando…” she trails off, and even her voice sounds differently, a little unsure and way too soft for either of their liking.

His gaze snaps up, meeting hers again, tilting both of their worlds the second their eyes lock.

Suddenly, everything is reflected back at her in that stare: the frustration, the anger, the desire. The years of tension neither of them ever addressed because it was safer to bicker and pretend that hate was the only thing that tethered them. But it’s wasn’t. It’s not. It can’t be, with the way they look at each other now.

Not when Lando seems like he’s seconds from losing the battle with himself. From closing the space. From doing something neither can’t undo.

“Always under my skin,” he ends up saying as an observation, his voice frayed at the edges. He doesn’t look away from her for another second, not even as he drags his tongue across his lower lip, like his mouth is too dry for the words sitting heavy on it. “And yet, I wouldn’t want anyone else bothering me the way you do.”

His confession is beautifully wrapped in words that only she can understand. Her heart starts to race at that, realizing that the line between them is getting thinner and thinner the longer they stand in front of each other without moving; not because they can’t, but because neither of them wants to do it first.

Next, her breath catches in her throat, and it’s impossible for Lando not to notice. He sees the way her jaw tightens, how her fingers curl against her sides like she’s trying to stop herself from reacting.

She lifts her chin instead, a mocking glint returning to her eyes. “You’re just easy to play with, Norris,” she says, her armor sliding back into place. “That’s not my fault.”

Lando smiles. “Go on, then.”

“What?”

“If I’m so easy,” he steps forward, finally closing the remaining gap, “Play with me, darling.”

She knows exactly what he means, and exactly what he wants. Lando does a very good job at masking his taunting in determination, maybe even curiosity. But he can’t fool her with it, because she’s aware that whatever game they’ve been playing up until this very momment has teeth now. For a split second, she hates how well she understands him, how perfectly she can read the tension in his shoulders and the way he’s trying not to reach. They’re standing on a knife’s edge, and neither of them is saying it, but both of them know. Both of them wait.

“Come on,” Lando says again, provoking. “Say something smart. Push another button.”

She’s practically twitching to say something that will keep them in the only lane they’ve ever known, but the words never leave her mouth, because his is now occupying hers, with no trace of restraint. One of his hands is instantly in her hair, keeping her there. And it’s everything he’s been holding back, poured into the shape of her lips, the press of his chest against hers, the furious way his other hand grabs at her waist as if he has earned the right.

Luckily, she saw it coming and she answers it right away, her mouth welcoming the heat of him in. She can taste rain and frustration, and it shoots straight through her like the lightning outside, loud and electric. Her hands slide under his hoodie without a second thought, palms slick and freezing as they press to the bare skin of his stomach. Lando gasps into her mouth, the contact ripping a groan from his throat that vibrates against her lips and makes her knees weaken. His skin is like fire beneath her fingers, and she feels his muscles jump under her touch, like even that small yet bold movement has undone something in him.

He surges forward, pushing her back until her spine hits the cold wall behind her with a wet thud. She doesn’t even notice she has no personal space left at all, because all she can feel is the weight of his body pinning hers and his mouth kissing her like it’s the only norm they’ve ever known. They’re absolutely drenched from the storm, the strong scent of wet earth clinging to their skin, tangled with the musk of warm clothes and sweat. But underneath it all, there’s one thing that stops them from retreating: a burning desire that neither knows how to control anymore. A raw, persistent want that coils between their bodies and steals the air from their lungs with every breath they try to take between kisses they can’t stop giving.

The girl urges herself into him like it’s second nature, her fingers dragging up his ribs, and his hands slide down to her hips, gripping hard, propping himself in the curve of her. They’re not even trying to slow it down or question it. There’s no pause and no hesitation, just mouths and hands and ages of built-up tension exploding between them in the quiet shelter they’ve found while, ironically, running from each other.

Time turns back to normal speed when their lips finally part, their mouths clinging to each other for a breath longer than necessary, like even their bodies can’t quite accept they’re two separate thinghs. A soft sound slips from her lips as the kiss breaks, half sigh, half protest, so Lando doesn’t move far. Instead, he rests his forehead gently against hers, both of them breathing hard, chests rising and falling in messy tandem.

Lando’s lips curl into a small smirk. “That’s what I thought,” he pants, voice soaked in satisfaction, in a way that only he could manage after a first kiss like that.

Instinctively, her hand flies up before he can move another inch, fingers curling firmly around his jaw. She tilts his face toward hers, forcing his gaze to lock with hers, without the possibility of avoiding her gaze. “Hold your horses,” she breathes, tightening her grip on his chin, enough to stop the smugness from spreading further. “You were the one who cracked first.”

Lando huffs a laugh through his nose, eyes flicking between hers. “Cracked?” he repeats. “I’d say I finally did us both a favor.” His hands are still firm on her hips as he speaks, not letting her go. “And you didn’t exactly complain.”

“I’m still deciding,” she confesses, pushing him gently with the intention of putting some distance between them. Just to clear her mind.

But Lando doesn’t budge. Instead, he pushes back into her, tenderly matching her force as a final statement.

Carefully, his hands trail down her sides, fingers gliding over the damp fabric clinging to her curves, leaving gosebumps in their wake. When he reaches her hips, he pauses for a second, then lets his palms settle low, cupping the shape of her ass in both hands. The soft squeeze that follows pulls a tiny gasp from her, not really out of surprise, but from the intensity of how right it feels and how immediate her body responds to his touch. As if she does it on command, her hips rock into him with a mind of their own, which makes her protest at the fact that she is so easily steered by him. Into the first damn wall.

Lando notices her conflicting thoughts and, amused, he drops his forehead to her shoulder with a sigh, like the weight of it all has finally caught up to him. His breath is hot against her collarbone, and he doesn’t dare to move.

“Decide what?” he asks. “If you want to fight or fuck? ‘Cause I’m sure your body has already decided for you.”

She can’t help but roll her eyes just as her hands drift upward, with enough intention yet unsure, until her fingers tangle in his soaked curls, tugging gently at the roots. Still, Lando doesn’t lift his head. But his mouth finds the curve of her neck instead, warm lips brushing the rain-slick skin there. He tastes her like she’s suddenly something fragile that he can easily break under his force if he wanted to. And in the middle of that, it only takes a tilt of her head for him to smile, this time softened — and alarmed — by the newly found truth between them.

“Fucking hell,” he whispers, “My sister’s going to kill me.”

The girl lets out a breathy laugh, her clasp in his hair tightening. “Not if I tell her you took very good care of me.”

Her statement elicits a sound from him, something between a whimper and a muffled rasp, but it catches in his throat and turns into something more intense when she arches against him.

“How do you know I’m that good?”

She grins, eyes gleaming as her fingers slide down the front of his hoodie, stopping just above the waistband of his jeans. “Because of that big mouth of yours.” She leans in then, almost brushing her lips against his jaw as she continues, “You wouldn’t be this cocky if you couldn’t back it up, would you?”

Lando has to swallow the lump in his throat just as her fingers start to work the top button. As she does, her eyes are locked on his, daring him to contradict her again. Or to stop her.

Ironically enough, his big mouth is not so big anymore.

Lando’s fingers twitch on her ass, but can’t stay there. They drift beneath the hem of her shirt and under the damp lace of her panties. He takes his time, tracing the edge with maddening precision before slipping them gently down her thighs. The soaked fabric peels away from her skin, clinging for just a moment before falling into his waiting hand. She continues to watch him closely, pulse thudding hard in her throat, as Lando folds the lace and stuffs it into the pocket of his hoodie to keep it safe.

It shouldn’t feel so intimate, but she can feel his heart beating against her chest in a rhythm that only seems to match her own the moment his hand moves lower, almost like he’s testing to see how far she’ll let him push. Far, he figures, when his fingers slide between her folds, through heat and damp, and stills there. Not from waiting for permission, but from satisfaction.

His breath is warm at her temple next time he speaks, “I see why you’re always picking fights with me,” he concludes. “So you can get off later, thinking about it, hm?”

Her jaw tightens, fingers curling into his shoulder. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” he replies quickly, as if he already knew she was gonna say that. His grin spreads slow, the kind of smirk that used to make her want to punch him, but now only makes her weak.

It’s too late for her, too, as his fingers trace lazy, maddening circles along her opening, reading her. Learning her at an agonizingly slow pace. Even though she tries to hide her reaction, her hips tilt toward him without permission. She clutches his bicep to support her weight before she melts beneath him completely, eyes closing shut for a brief second.

He studies her face, teasing with the tip of his fingers right at the edge of her tight entrance. “Tell me how much you hate me right now.”

Her eyes snap open, surprised yet defiant, her response caught in her throat when Lando finally presses a finger inside, then adds another one, only to reduce her complains to simple whimpers. There is a lot of gentleness to the way he touches her, though. Every motion is purposeful, intended to pull the maximum pleasure out of her with minimum effort.

While her fingers dig into him harder, he draws his back almost entirely, dragging them just enough to leave her wanting more. Then he pushes in again, stretching and curling the tips slightly until her breath comes out in little spasms and her head tips back, thighs wrapping instinctively around his wrist, like she could trap the feeling there and keep it from breaking her open.

“Didn’t know you could go quiet,” whispers Lando, keeping his eyes on her mostly because he needs to witness this unseen version of her, willing and honest in a way neither of them ever dared admit existed. “Guess I just needed to find the right way to shut you up.”

Her entire body responds with a deep craving she hadn’t known could feel this good. She gets wetter with every shift, so soft under his touch that makes her question the strength in her own legs.

Lando’s gaze drops to where her hips subtly roll against his hand, seeking friction, release, anything to keep from falling apart too fast.

Half in protest, half in need, she manages a whiny, “Fuck you.”

“That a request?” asks Lando, his thumb lightly tapping her clit to remind her that she’s at his mercy right now.

“Lando,” she mewls, his name falling from her lips like a curse. Or a prayer she doesn’t know she’s saying.

“Wanna hear you,” he pushes her, the speed of his fingers increasing with every breath he takes. “Say you hate me.”

She would talk, if her brain still worked. But all functionality is reduced to the way he finger-fucks her with such sweetness and annoying dexterity. Besides, it wouldn’t even be true. She doesn’t hate him. Not right now, at least. Most of the time, Lando just irks her. Because there is no one else that manages his performance of tap-dancing on every single one of the over seven trillion nerves in her body.

Forcing herself to lift her head, she looks at him for a brief moment, then lets it fall in the crook of his neck, her breath hot against his skin. “You ruin everything.”

Lando lets out a low chuckle, but it’s not mocking. More like… strained. Heavy with anticipation and desire. “Yeah?” he coaxes, lips grazing the edge of her cheek, fingers curling again inside her, dragging a broken sound from her throat. “Go on.”

She squeezes her eyes, teeth sinking into her lip, trying to hold on to whatever pride she has left. However, slowly but surely, it’s slipping away, straight into his already massive ego.

“I hate…” she gasps as he twists his fingers, “That your mouth never stops running.”

“Mhm, what else? Let it all out while you’re soaking my fingers,” he encourages her as his thumb moves in circles around her clit, making her hips twitch into him. “Let me hear it while your body keeps begging me to stuff you full of me.”

“Lando,” she warns, her breath getting caught between shame and heat and the unbearable intimacy of his words. She clings to him like he’s a lifeline, and she hates the way it makes her feel so safe, knowing that she’s in good hands. “I hate—” she tries, but it breaks off into a moan, silent and strangled.

“Me?” he finishes for her, feeling the way her walls start tensing in pulses she can’t control.

Her eyes open just in time to see the look on his face, bright and hungry.

She shakes her head.

“No, you don’t, baby,” Lando agrees in a mellow voice, his mouth brushing the corner of hers.

His fingers move faster now that he knows she’s close, more insistent, the slick rhythm of skin on skin drowned only by the roar of another series of thunders rolling outside.

Another quiet moan escapes her lips, and then she’s falling, clenching hard around his fingers as wave after wave crashes through her. Her body jerks in rhythm with his hand, fists gripping the front of his hoodie like it’s the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

“There you go,” he exhales, their breaths intertwining.

His other hand returns to her waist then slips to the back of her thigh, lifting until she’s settled against him, trusting him to hold her there. Her back meets the wall once again just as her boot scrapes softly on the ground, the other lifted and locked around him as his palm supports under her knee.

Gazing into each other’s souls like that shouldn’t be allowed. Not when they’re so close that he can smell her shampoo — a warm honey scent, blending with something sweet that makes his jaw clench. Not when his scent is so subtle but familiar, and makes her want to drink him in without a second thought.

Her eyes fall on the space between them, watching Lando pull away from between her legs. Then back up to meet his again with wide pupils. Patiently, he pushes his jeans down and reaches to guide himself against her, like he already knows what this moment means for both of them. He’s warm and hard, making her gasp as he nudges forward, the heat of her already drawing him in inch by inch. Her body tenses in disbelief, surprised by how well he fits inside her.

Lando feels her body melting into his slowly. “Are you okay?” he asks her in a soft tone.

She nods. “Keep going.”

And so he does, pushing deeper and savoring the closeness. Carefully, he lifts her off the ground completely, wrapping her other leg around his waist and, by the time he’s fully sheathed inside her, they’re face to face again, breath shaky and warm against each other’s lips.

“Forgive me,” he almost begs.

The girl lets out a breathless laugh, “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

For a heartbeat, Lando’s mouth quirks. He pulls his hips back, dragging himself almost entirely out of her warmth, and then thrusts forward harder, stealing the next breath from her lungs. Her laugh vanishes, swallowed by a choked sound she doesn’t mean to make.

Lando’s jaw clenches as he squeezes her hips tighter for more support. “For not having the restraint to be gentle with you.”

She shivers at his words, understanding that he’s doing everything in order not to break her. Rather, Lando’s trying to show her what she does to him, without her even knowing. And he wants to show her that underneath the surface, there’s an unbearable ache of finally having her, and knowing he’ll never be able to forget how she feels after this only ignites the fire inside him.

The girl finds out what he means sooner than she thought.

His rhythm starts claiming and is filled with a hunger that’s been caged for far too long. Every thrust is purposeful, angled perfectly, as if he’s been planning this in the dark corners of every argument they’ve ever had.

Her sharp tongue, always ready with a retort, is useless now. Her breath is shallow, and she’s still clinging to him like he’s the only thing holding her together.

“How many times have you imagined this?”

“In my imagination, Norris, you’re mute,” she bites back, but it’s shaky.

Lando grunts, “Unrealistic.”

He starts pounding into her, hard and fast, chasing the breathless moans he’s already addicted to. He’s relentless, but never careless. Rough, but knows how to fuck her until her attitude turns into desperation, and the only words that are coming out of her mouth are imploring him not to stop. There’s no room for breathing like a normal person, and no space for thought. Just the eagerness of his hips, the way her body arches into him without meaning to, how every time he sinks deep, she forgets how to do anything but feel. Him.

Her fingers claw on either side of his face, desperate to keep him close. She’s lost, suspended between the storm hammering the roof above them and the storm he’s dragging out of her from the inside, wondering how does he manages to be everywhere, all at once: in her ears, in her mind, and all around her. At that, her body reacts accordingly, legs trembling around his waist.

With his mouth partially open, Lando follows her facial expressions, because he feels how close she is, how tightly she squeezes his length, how every thrust only winds her tighter. And he wants to witness that.

“You feel that, don’t you?” he pants, not slowing. “You can’t even think straight, hm?”

“Shut up,” she manages, and Lando responds to her spiteful request in his own manner: by stopping.

He freezes deep inside her, holding her there as if he’s waiting for her to apologize, even though he knows that won’t happen.

The absence of movement is brutal. Her pussy clenches in protest, desperate for more, making her blink repeatedly as if her mind has been pulled back from the edge of something vast and consuming.

Lando looks at her, faces inches apart. “Feel that aching little hole, gaping out for me?”

She can’t argue while multiple body parts are betraying her, clinging to him with quiet, pulsing desperation.

“Lando,” the girl moans, her back straightening up, urging him to get moving.

“Don’t think you’re better than me,” he tells her in a whispered voice, slowly resuming his dizzying pace. “We’re the same, you and I.”

His fingers sink into either side of her waist, anchoring her to every deep, punishing thrust, dragging her closer and closer to her climax, her body jolting with every collision of his hips against hers. For all she knows, the storm outside could’ve already stopped, but all she can hear is the way Lando breathes her name between gritted teeth as he fucks her so good that she’s not even able to process the words that came out of his mouth.

She writhes against his hold, chasing that sweet pressure building at the base of her spine, winding tighter with every stroke that finds that perfect spot inside her. Again and again. And again. Her fingers get lost in his curls, fisting his hair like a lifeline. And when her orgasm hits, her entire body locks against him with a strangled moan, hips shaking as her release tears through her.

Lando swears under his breath. “That’s it, fuck,” he sighs in pleasure, every muscle trembling. “Let me feel that pussy throb.”

The way he says it cuts straight through her pride. Becacuse even in all their sourness, her body listens to him. It reacts to him with more than desire. No one else has ever made two completely differen feelings seem like one. They are the epitomy of duality, and nothing they represent should complement each other as well as they do.

She lets go, boneless in his arms, her chest heaving as aftershocks roll through her.

Lando doesn’t stop until he makes sure she’s completely worn out, then he pulls out slowly, with a stifled groan, the sensation almost undoing him prematurely. He rests his forehead to her chest, breathing hard, letting all his weight against her spent body as he presses his cock on her thigh, watching it drip in thick loads down her leg. The tension floods out of him, his body shuddering as every inch of him gets taut.

“Lan?” she calls for him after a long pause in which neither of them moved.

His breath is ghosting warm over her damp skin, and his hands, once gripping her like lifelines, have gone still at her hips. Then he exhales a long breath that sounds more like inconvenience.

“Am here,” it’s all he says, but doesn’t lift his head to look at her.

That alone makes her chest tighten.

“Are you…” she trails off, not sure how to finish the question.

Are you okay?

Do you regret it?

What now?

“All good,” he replies. “I have a change of clothes in the car,” he adds matter-of-factly. “Let’s dry you off.”

The warmth of his body leaves her as he takes a step back, eyes dropping to the groung. She watches as he tucks himself back into his boxers, then fastens the button on his jeans with a quiet finality. It shouldn’t feel like this, but it makes her want throw up, mostly because she has allowed herself to believe, even if briefly, that they are compatible in some way.

But nothing’s really changed.

They’re still the same two people who push too hard and never give each other an inch unless it’s by accident.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Rafayel's non-mc significant other.

Imagine being Rafayel's everything.

Imagine watching that everything begin to crack. The way it started small. A misheard word. A lingering glance at someone else. A comment that wasn't meant to cut as deep as it did.

Imagine you were his world but that world had grown loud. Heavy. Pressured.

Imagine the way the fights began quietly at first. Whispered frustrations. Passive sighs. Then came the sarcasm. The jealousy. The way his voice tightened whenever your coworker's name slipped from your lips. The way your expression pinched whenever he got too close to his bodyguard whenever they were out together.

Imagine he was yours. God, he was yours. But sometimes, it felt like you didn't believe it anymore.

Imagine his home, his studio was the only place he could breathe. Canvases half finished. Brushes scattered everywhere.

Imagine he hadn't slept properly in days, not with deadlines, not with his upcoming exhibit, not with your voice echoing in his mind after every fight. But today was supposed to be normal.

Imagine you came in through the door like you always did. Key left in the table. Shoes off. That quiet smile. Tired, maybe. But real. He noticed the way your fingers curled around the takeaway cup with his name scrawled in marker. Still thoughtful. Still trying. And he was too. But then it happened.

Imagine a single misstep. A misplaced elbow. A cup too close to the edge. The painting. That painting. The one he had poured weeks into. Hours. Breath. Everything.

Imagine it ruined. Coffee bleeding across the lower half, dripping down like tears. Like mockery. He froze. You froze. And then came the storm.

"You always do this!" "I was trying to help Rafayel!" "Helping? You call ruining my work helping?" "Maybe if you let me in-" "Maybe if you didn't hover-" Screaming. Again.

Imagine fingers pointing. Accusations thrown like knives dulled only by how often they had already been used. The way you looked at him like you did not even know him anymore. Like you didn't know whether to cry or walk out.

and Imagine that's when it hit him. He was tired. Not of you. Never of you. But of the breaking. The fighting. The bitterness that curled beneath his ribs every time you turned walk away in frustration.

Imagine he stood there in the aftermath. The canvas ruined. Your jacket half pulled on, keys shaking in your hand, breath unsteady.

and Imagine for a moment, he couldn't speak. Because what if you were done? What if this fight, this one was the last straw? What if you were already slipping away, piece by piece, every time he raised his voice and failed to reach for your hand after?

Imagine he loved you. God, he really do love you. But what if you were tired of being unloved in the way you needed?

Imagine his mind spiraled fast, relentless. What if you found comfort in someone else? What if someone listened better? Fought less. What if you thought being his muse meant being second to his art? What if the love he poured into you was the wrong shape, the wrong shade?

Imagine you weren't just someone in his life. You were the color in it. But now, all he saw was grey.

Imagine Rafayel didn't chase you right away. Not because he didn't want to. But because he didn't know if you'd want him to.

Imagine he stood there in the mess, paint drying beside spilled coffee, the scent of your perfume still lingering in the air like an afterthought.

and Imagine the way he whispered, so quietly the walls didn't even echo it. "Please... Please don't let this be the last time you walk away." He didn’t sleep that night. Didn't paint. Didn't even move.

Imagine the silence that filled the room without you in it. It louder than any fight the two of you ever had. And for the first time, Rafayel didn't know if love alone was enough to save what was breaking.

Imagine the way he swore. If there was even a sliver of hope left in your heart. He'd paint his way back into it. Stroke by stroke. Even if his hands were shaking. Even if he had to start from nothing. Even if all that remained was the ghost of a love worth fighting for.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

[wetforsylus]

Romantic Neighbour

☆ summary. your neighbour was a flirt. it was impossible to escape him unless you gave him that one thing he desired: your attention.  

pairing. sylus x fem!reader

warnings. dilf!sylus, SLIGHT perv!sylus, Luke n Kieran being the 'best' wingmen, teasing, p in v, oral, fingering, masturbation, dirty talk, reassurance, slight crack fic, tension, creampies, overstimulation, porn with little plot, kinda rushed, 3.4k wc

a/n. thank you for 1k and happy (late) sylusversary <3 the start is kind of choppy so sorry in advance.

“The house next door has been vacant for a while, no?” Tara asked, flicking a few cards the two of you were playing with, between her fingers.

You only shrug in response and glance at the window, staring at the shiny building, before averting your gaze back to Tara.

“I heard someone was house searching recently, but since it’s a fancy house it should take a while for someone to actually get it.” you reason, placing your card on top of hers, giggling at the fact you already had won.

“Mhm, let me know who moves in- heyy!”

A breathy laugh left your lips and you nod, “don’t worry i’ll let you know.”

--

Time went by and eventually, someone moved in, and everyone was talking about it. Apparently the said man who moved in was terrifying? He already had bad impressions like people saying he’d look like he’d kill you if you even glance at him. You didn’t believe it, but didn't want to risk introducing yourself.

But to your surprise someone knocked on your door a couple days later, you didn’t check who it was and opened it to be met with a pair of twins smiling up at you. The pair glanced at each other before one of them stuffed their hand in their pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.

“Housewarming party next door, it’d be appreciated if you came.” one said enthusiastically while the other one nodded with his brothers’ words.

You stare at the paper in his hands and hesitantly take it, nodding at them, “thanks, see you later then.”

Both of their faces lit up and they nodded, waving you goodbye before you shut the door. A heavy sigh left your lips and you read over the invitation card, it was nothing fancy, all it was, was the address, the time to be there at, and a small message at the bottom, offering to let you invite a plus one, and you decided to take that opportunity.

It took a few tries to convince Tara to make her come with you, but since you had no other friends in the neighborhood, except her, you didn’t want to go alone. So once she agreed, the two of you got ready in a comfortable outfit, minutes after the party already started and walked over when you were finished.

The party just started minutes ago and people were already filling up most of the space in the backyard, and inside the house. It was like the twins invited the whole city! As you and Tara swam between the heavy crowd, she suddenly had to go to the bathroom and said she’d meet you at the drink stand.

You nod and head over to the drinks, picking up a drink and leaning against a wall, swirling the liquid in your glass as you wait for your friend.

--

“Sylus why don’t you talk to her yourself, she’s your neighbor after all.”

“Don’t pressure me, I'll talk to her eventually, alright?” Sylus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he glanced at you one more time. He was surprised you’ve been somewhat entertaining him, even if you were just standing idly against the wall, not even attempting to drink your drink.

Luke only chuckled in response before glancing at Kieran with a mocking grin on his face.

“Don’t do anythi–”

Before Sylus could finish his sentence, Luke turned around and started walking over to you, with Kieran following suit. Sylus sighed and followed the menacing pair, and before he could call out to them, Luke ‘mistakingly’ tripped over you and made your drink spill all over you.

“I’m so sorry, miss!” Luke said, panicked.

You chuckle in response and shake your head, trying to calm down the panicked twin in front of you.

“Sorry about them.” Sylus interrupts, intervening between the two of you before carefully grabbing onto your wrist and dragging you away from them, “let me help you clean up, yeah?”

You stammer a few words before nodding and following along Sylus who ended up dragging you to his bedroom.

“Seriously, you didn’t have to do that, my house is just next door.” You say as Sylus already had a damp towel pressed against your sticky skin, trying to carefully remove the mess Luke made.

“It’s fine, think of it as a way of introducing myself – though, this isn’t how I planned on doing so.” the last words left his lips in a mumble and you laugh.

“Are they your kids?” you ask, leaning further back against his bed as he pressed the towel lower on your body. His breath hitches at the sight and his fingers start getting shaky as he tries to compose himself.

Sylus hummed and fixed his glasses before continuing, “guess you could say that.”

As he finishes cleaning off the drink from your body, you sigh and stare up at Sylus who was quickly putting the towel away before heading back to you, his eyes gleaming down at your figure already leaving, wishing you could stay longer.

“I’ll see you later then.” you nod, walking towards his door, glancing back at the starstrucked man whose fingers only twitched at the sight of you already walking meters away from him.

“Shit.” he murmured, closing the door and plopped on his bed, burying his face in his shaky palms. Sylus inhaled a deep breath before his body twitched, and instead of him not introducing himself properly to you, something else seemed to be a problem.

He removed his face from his palms and stared down at the boner pulsating through his pants, hesitant to do something, he couldn’t control it anymore.

He stormed off to the bathroom, and shut the door behind him, hands grasping on the edge of his counter, gripping onto it as he tried to contain his breathing. Sylus stared at himself before muttering something incoherent under his breath and slipping his fingers under his pants.

He pulled down the fabric, staring at his already leaked boxers and pulled those down momentarily. He wastes no time and wraps his fingers around his cock, pumping his wrist in a quick movement, pleasure started to blind him as the only thing he could actually think about was you.

He winked an eye open as he tried to think of anything else but you, but everything around him started to remind him of you. It's a shame the two of you just met a few hours ago, and he's already acting like this? Sylus stared at the mirror for a second before slamming his back against the wall and sliding down against it, his fingers wrapping tightly around the head before slicking down, forcefully.

He swallowed a moan, lips quivering at the sensation as he tried to hold in his sounds. His teared eyes roll back as he reaches for release, hips jolting forward at the last few seconds and in a sigh, he plops on the ground, embarrassed.

There was no way he was going to act like that again.

--

The next day rolled along and you were beat. After you left Sylus’ room you found Tara, partied for a bit, then went straight home.

You were currently sitting in bed, scrolling through your phone until a knock jolted you from your spot, you stared at your door and hesitantly started going downstairs. Your fingers rested on the doorknob and without checking (again) you flung open the door to find Sylus staring at you with a crooked smile.

“Did you happen to know how to fix a shelf?”

You raise an eyebrow and eye him up and down, “you look like you’d know how to fix one though?”

A mocking chuckle left his lips and he shook his head, “I actually… do not, would you help me, sweetie?”

And you of course agreed, it barely took any more convincing and you were already standing in his living room in front of his slanted shelf, the boards slightly dropping off as the nails were barely on, also threatening to fall off soon.

“Alright..” you sigh, tracing the shelf with your finger, eyeing at where to start.

Before you could ask Sylus for the instructions or a screwdriver, the door flings open, making you flinch and turn around to see the twins holding a box of tools and a booklet.

“Sylus! we found the instructions and tools you need for us to fix the shelf- oh!”

“What's she doing here?” Kieran asks, pointing his finger at you, then back at the shelf.

Sylus laughs and struts over to the twins, taking the stuff from their hands and placing them on the ground next to you, “the two of you took forever so i asked nearby, she just seemed to be available.”

“We only took five min–ugh” Luke nudged Kieran and eyed at Sylus who was still staring at the two of them with a twisted smile, begging for them to leave the room and take the hint. They both eventually took the hint and left the two of you alone.

“What was that about?” you chuckle, picking up the instruction book and screwdriver, already starting on fixing the shelf.

“Don’t mind them,” he scoffs, leaning over you, fingers lightly tracing your hand before grabbing the booklet from you. “Let’s work on this shelf, sweetie.”

You agreed and surprisingly found fixing a shelf more fun than you thought. Both you and Sylus were kind of quiet but talked here and there, it wasn’t much except a lot of touching and working.

In some moments he’d brush his large bicep across your arm, linger there for a few moments before continuing to help you, and you weren’t complaining. There also was one moment where he didn’t have a ladder and wanted to carry you so you could fix the top.

You didn’t know his strength was great, especially when he was holding you with one arm, while the other one was only ghosting over you in case you’d fall. And for some reason, you knew he knew how to fix a shelf, but didn’t know why he had to ask you?

And before you knew it, you both finished fixing the shelf. It was already past noon and you were starving.

“You must be hungry, wanna eat?” Sylus offered like he read your mind. You stared at him, eyes glistening in excitement before you nodded and already made your way to his kitchen. He chuckled and followed you momentarily.

When the two of you reached the kitchen he led you to his fridge and opened it, revealing a lot of food that could feed more than just three people. You stare at the food filled fridge in awe and look back at Sylus with a convincing look, which he unfortunately fell for immediately.

“Go ahead.”

You giggle and bring out some food, “you could sit back and I'll make something for the two of us.”

Sylus agreed immediately and sat down, admiring you working in the kitchen, his eyes darting from your hard working hands and mistakenly looking at your tits bouncing at every move you made. God, he had to mentally slap himself for that.

And before he knew it, you were already done making the food.

You serve the food to him and the two of you eat together.

Sylus was surprised at your cooking, it was good, like really good. Once he finished eating he pushed his empty plate back and stared at you, who was still finishing up your last few bites, as you zone out, staring at the table.

“The food was good.” He said, breaking the deafening silence filling his kitchen. You laugh and nod, thanking him before plopping at the back of your chair, staring at the empty plates in front of you.

“Let’s have dinner together, this time I'll make something.” Sylus said.

“Really?”

He nods and picks up the plates on the table, putting them away in the sink and heading over to you, brushing past your slumped figure on the chair, wanting to so badly just lift you off and-

“What time should I come over?” you ask, glancing at the clock at his wall and back at his glowing ruby eyes.

Sylus stammered a response and without thinking, “Stay over until dinner.”

--

But the ‘staying over’ in question did not mean sitting on the couch and watching a movie, but instead meant having his tongue shoved deep in your pussy, eating – no, devouring you like you were his early dessert.

Well it did start off as a movie, but Sylus decided to pick the most rated-R movie out there which made you not focus on anything except his sultry voice teasing you throughout the film, sputtering phrases like, “focus on the screen.” “Come closer if you’re scared.” (and you actually did, how embarrassing.)

And after the constant teases you couldn’t handle it and asked him if he actually wanted to watch the movie, and the way you stared at him made him pause before answering. You did see his gaze flicker to your lips and before you knew it you and him were leaning in.

And that’s what led a little makeout session to him literally devouring you like an animal on his couch.

You gripped onto his hair, head thrown back as he shoves his tongue deeper in you, curling and pressing against your sensitive gummy walls, making you shudder in response, almost yanking his hair off.

“N-ngh slow down-” you whine, riding yourself against his face, feeling his glasses knocking against your skin, cold metal sparking you every second. Sylus groans in response, the grumble of his voice vibrating through your body as he continues to eat you out like a beast.

His hands stayed locked on your spread thighs, gripping on it for dear life as if you were going to disappear at his touch. He pulled away for a second to stare up at you for a second, then catch his breath. He presses his thumb against your clit, slowly spreading you further apart, watching the small mess pool out of you.

You blush in embarrassment when you feel his finger glide lower, teasing your sensitive folds before sliding a finger inside you, making you clench around him. He chuckled in response and pumped his finger in and out of you, watching you flutter at his touch. His eyes twist in desire, wanting to see more.

“Could you go for more?” he asked, licking his lips before sliding another finger inside you. You choke a moan and nod, fingers wrapping around his large wrist as you watched him fuck his digits quicker and quicker in you, making you spiral.

You suddenly felt him slide his fingers out of you and wrap his arm around you, lifting you off the couch and walking over to his room, flinging the door open and placing you on the same bed you were on the night before.

Sylus doesn't waste any time and cupped your knees with his large palms, spreading your legs again, staring at your fluttering hole, practically begging for him. He sighed at the sight, face heating up at the situation, he was about to go crazy any second now.

Sylus pressed himself against you, grinding himself in a slow movement, trying to savor the moment. The feeling of his throbbing aching boner hitting you on every thrust made you whine in response, unable to sputter out any words except noises you were practically begging for him to use you.

“I know sweetie,” he moaned, thrusting himself harder against you, making you shudder in response. Sylus brought one hand to his belt and yanked it off, sliding his pants off moments later, his cock twitched at the sight of you, and when he saw your teared eyes silently begging for him, he couldn’t take his sweet time anymore.

He pressed his cock against your hole, slowly sliding himself in, biting his lip at the feeling of you. He’s only met you a day ago, went insane for you the same night and now he’s inside you. A shaky moan left his lips before he thrust himself further in you.

“You okay?”

You nod, tightening your grip around his wrist, feeling him starting to slowly slick in and out of you. The air in the room started to feel hotter by the second, Sylus continued a steady pace, asking for reassurance every second.

When he took the hint that you were okay, he pushed his full length in you, making you wrap your legs around him, your pussy tightening around his cock and thats when a reaction was caused by Sylus.

You wink your eyes at Sylus and when he made eye contact with you that's when he lost the rhythm. The once slow, rhythmic thrusts that were sent in you minutes ago were now painted with an arrhythmic pace, his thrusts were brutally quick, too fast to keep up with.

Inch by inch his cock fills you up, your stomach hurting in a good way, you instinctively thrust yourself against him, letting him fuck you deeper and deeper, his tip kissing your cervix at every thrust as your gummy walls hugged his pulsating length buried deep in you.

“hngh y-you could handle one more round, right? riighht?”

Too much in a haze to answer you attempt to nod, your dizzy mind, trying to keep up with his words and with him inside you, you felt like you were going to crumble at one more touch. A relieved sigh left his lips and he nodded.

“Yeah? You can?”

“mh–mmghh”

Sylus caught his breath when he stared at your teary eyes and lowered his gaze to his cock suffocating your pussy. His pupils swirl at the sight and he presses his finger against your folds, stretching you as he eyed the mess seeping out of you.

“F-fuck gonna-”

He bit his lower lip, blood probing their way out his rosy flesh, sliding down his lips as he stared at the heavenly view. Before he could control himself his cock thumped louder and louder, making you squirm beneath him and in one final thrust, spurs of his mixture jolted right inside you.

You gasp in shock, catching your breath and eyed Sylus who stared at you through fogged lens. He whispered a hundred apologies, as he slowly slid out of you, gulping at the sight and before you could tell him it was okay, another surprised thrust knocked right through you.

“Ah- sy-” you tried to ask him what he was doing, but he leaned in and captured your lips in a hungry kiss, his tongue sliding against your padded folds, slicking in your mouth, tying his tongue with yours.

You moan in the kiss and slide your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, feeling him sink deeper in your mouth. Sylus continued to ride against you, hips rolling against your bare skin, smacking loudly, sounds echoing through the room.

“Sylus- p-please” you breathe, pressing your lips on the corner of his mouth, feeling your stomach ache more, pussy pulsating at his touch. Sylus nodded and his lips found yours again.

“Mhmm– l-let it out, yeah?”

--

You and Sylus ended up doing a lot more than you both intended to, after a long evening which ended up finishing up at night, you both were now having a late dinner after getting cleaned up. You wanted to go back to your house to shower and get ready but Sylus offered for you to do it at his place, and wear his clothes.

So now you had no choice but to wear his large pajamas that could practically be worn as a dress as you eat the food he made.

“I’ll go home after this.”

“Alright, sweetie.”

“Do you think.. Luke and Kieran heard anything?”

Sylus chuckled and shook his head, “of course not, they aren't even home. The whole thing was a set up, well the shelf was. The movie was not–”

“I knew it!” you interrupt, pointing your fork at him, "I knew you could fix it anyway, I don't even know why I helped.”

“Yeah? Wanna help me fix something else tomorrow then? It was fun wasn’t it?”

“Depends what it is.” you mumble, toying with your food on your plate.

“If you stay over then maybe you'll find out wha-”

“No.”

a/n: I might write more fics, sorry if theres any mistakes.

[chrizzzbang]

I Shouldn't Want You, But I Do

pairing: Pervy!Bang Chan x Best Friend's Sister!Female Reader

wc: 4.4k

cw: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, obsession, slight dubcon vibes, voyeurism, masturbation (f and m), Chan eavesdropping, obsessive thoughts, Chan’s fantasies, cursing, dirty talk, strong sexual tension (not proof read) (lmk if I missed anything)

Minors DNI

Requested

Summary: Chan’s been crushing hard on his best friend’s sister for way too long and his imagination has gotten very out of control. After accidentally overhearing her in a very private moment, he can’t stop thinking about her.

It started so innocently.

Chan had only gotten up for some water. It was late, pushing 2AM, and the house was silent. He knew this place like the back of his hand by now, crashing here more weekends than not. Your brother, his best friend, was passed out upstairs after a long day of gaming and weed, probably snoring into a pillow.

And Chan? He was just wandering the hallway half-asleep, shirtless and barefoot, blinking blearily.

Then he passed your door.

Slightly cracked open.

And there it was.

A sound so soft he almost missed it. A faint breath, half gasp, half moan.

He froze. Brow furrowing. He leaned just a little closer, tilting his head toward the crack in the door.

Then he heard it again.

Whimper. Wet.

His breath caught. His body stiffened, heart suddenly pounding in his chest like a war drum.

No way.

You couldn’t be. Not you.

You were his best friend’s little sister. You barely even looked at him half the time. Always teasing, rolling your eyes when the guys were loud. Always in your own world.

But now…

Now you were behind that door, moaning quietly into the dark. And if he really focused, if he let himself listen, he could just barely make out the slick, obscene sound of your fingers moving between your thighs.

He should’ve walked away.

Should’ve kept moving, grabbed his water, gone back to the guest room like nothing happened.

But instead?

Chan stayed. Back pressed to the wall. Eyes closed. Breathing hard.

You gasped again, just a whisper of breath, and he swore he felt it in his dick.

He could picture you so clearly. Legs spread wide. One hand between your thighs, the other clutching your pillow. Biting your lip. Eyes half-lidded. Head thrown back.

He could picture it way too easily. And that was the first sign of a problem.

Then you said it.

“Fuuuck… feels so good…”

Soft. Sweet. A little desperate.

And that broke him.

Chan’s cock throbbed under his boxers so hard he almost reached down right there in the hallway like a fucking creep. But he couldn’t stop imagining it, couldn’t stop hearing that breathy little moan over and over in his head.

You didn’t know he was there.

Didn’t know he heard.

His hand was already down his pants by the time he shut the door to the guest room behind him.

He barely even made it to the bed. Just dropped onto the mattress like something possessed, back pressed to the headboard, legs splayed out beneath him, dick straining hard against the thin cotton of his boxers.

Chan hissed through clenched teeth, barely keeping quiet as he pushed the fabric down, his cock finally springing free, aching and already leaking at the tip. The rush of guilt didn’t even register. Not with his head full of you.

“Fuck…” he muttered, wrapping a shaky hand around himself. “Fuck, fuck, fuck-”

He started slow at first. Stroking the way he always did, tight grip, rough, fast, but it wasn’t enough. Not with your voice still ringing in his ears. That soft gasp. The sound of your slick fingers moving faster. That tiny, breathy moan like it was meant to be secret.

And then there was that word you whispered, just once, just barely…

“Please…”

Chan groaned. Head thudding back against the wall. His hips snapped upward, chasing friction like he needed it to live.

He imagined your thighs spread open, knees drawn up, fingers circling your clit just the way he imagined you liked. He imagined slipping into your room, watching from the shadows as you got yourself off. Maybe you’d pause when you noticed him. Maybe your fingers would stop moving. But maybe, fuck, maybe, you’d let him help.

He pumped his cock harder, breath ragged now.

“Bet you’re so fucking wet for it,” he whispered to no one. “Fucking dripping, aren’t you? All for yourself… fuck, for me.”

His strokes turned desperate. Sloppy. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, and he didn’t even try to hold it back. He pictured you sliding two fingers in, working your clit with the other hand, breath catching as you got close. That same whimper. That perfect, sweet little gasp.

He was already so fucking close it hurt.

“Let me taste it,” he growled under his breath. “Bet you’d fucking melt on my tongue. Ride my face like a needy little- shit”

He came hard. Guttural. Spine arching, teeth bared, hips twitching as thick ropes spilled across his hand and stomach. He jerked through the aftershocks, eyes fluttering shut, his whole body trembling as he rode the wave out in silence.

Then came the crash.

His chest heaved. His hand stilled. The silence crept in like guilt. Heavy. Unavoidable.

He looked down at the mess he made of himself, panting, skin flushed, cock still twitching, and all he could think was: What the fuck is wrong with me?

But even as he wiped himself off with the first shirt he could reach, even as he buried his face in the pillow and begged for sleep to shut it all off, he already knew he’d do it again.

It’d been months since he heard you that night.

He told himself it was just a one-time thing. That he’d get over it. That you were just a passing fantasy born out of a dry spell and poor impulse control.

But he had already begun seeing you in a different light.

And now? Now he noticed.

Noticed that you walked around the house in tiny little shorts, tank tops without a bra, licking popsicles on the couch like it wasn’t the most torturous thing he’d ever seen in his life.

You weren’t even trying and that was the worst part.

“Hey, Chan,” you called out lazily from the kitchen, bare legs on full display as you leaned over the counter. “Do you know if we have any more of that chocolate almond milk? I swear someone drank it all.”

He blinked up at you from the couch, eyes zeroing in on the way your ass stuck out while you rummaged through the fridge.

Fuck.

His mouth went dry. He looked away before he got caught staring. Again.

“Uh… nah, think your brother finished it,” he mumbled, praying the growing bulge in his sweatpants wasn’t too obvious. “He chugged like half the carton last night.”

“Figures,” you muttered, shutting the fridge with a sigh. You turned, popped the cap off a water bottle with your teeth, and tilted your head back to take a long sip. Drops of cold water slid down your throat, catching in the dip between your collarbones.

Chan bit his cheek so hard it hurt.

This was getting out of hand.

Every time you brushed past him in the hallway, every time your thigh touched his on the couch, every fucking time you tied your hair up in that messy little ponytail, he swore he was seconds away from doing something unforgivable.

You had no idea what you did to him. Or maybe you did. Maybe you knew.

Because last night, when your brother passed out early and the two of you ended up alone in the living room watching some random horror movie, your bare thigh had rested against his the whole time. He hadn’t moved. Couldn’t. Too scared you'd notice the hard-on he was hiding under the throw blanket.

Then you turned to him, eyes wide from a jump scare, and whispered:

“You’re warm.”

And laid your head on his shoulder.

He hadn’t slept all night.

His cock had throbbed against his own stomach for hours, just thinking about your skin on his. Your cheek resting against him, your breath warm through his shirt. If you’d shifted even an inch closer, he might’ve come in his fucking pants like a teenager.

Now, here you were again, leaning over the kitchen sink to rinse a cup out, shirt riding up just enough to show the curve of your lower back.

Chan’s jaw clenched.

He had to get out of here.

“Gonna… gonna take a shower,” he blurted, standing too fast. “Feel gross.”

“Okay,” you said with a little smirk, sipping your water. “Don’t take too long. We’re doing movie night again, remember?”

He barely nodded as he escaped down the hallway, muttering something incoherent under his breath.

The second the bathroom door locked, Chan was yanking off his shirt like it offended him.

His skin felt too tight, his sweats clung to his legs, and his dick had been pressing painfully against his waistband ever since you leaned over in those fucking shorts.

“You’re warm.”

That innocent whisper from last night played on a loop in his skull like a curse. You hadn’t even meant anything by it, he knew that. You were just being friendly, soft, a little sleepy.

But it wrecked him. The way your voice got all low and breathy. The way you looked up at him with those sleepy eyes like he was safe. Warm. Close.

Like you’d be okay with falling asleep in his lap.

Like you’d let him touch you if he asked.

He turned the shower on cold, hoping the freezing spray would shock some sense into him.

It didn’t.

The second he stepped in, eyes shut, head tilted back under the stream, you were all he could see.

You, standing in the kitchen sucking the water off your thumb. You, head on his shoulder last night, mouth parted like you wanted him to kiss you. You, behind that door again, fingers moving slow and slick while you gasped his name without even knowing it.

Chan groaned through clenched teeth, already hard and aching. His hand moved to wrap around his cock before he could even try to talk himself out of it.

“God, what the fuck is wrong with me…” he muttered, forehead pressed against the wall, palm stroking tight and fast like he could erase you from his brain with enough friction.

But he didn’t want to erase you.

He wanted to ruin you.

He wanted to slip into your room next time you touched yourself and stay. Sink to his knees at the edge of your bed and press his mouth between your legs until you were whimpering for real. Until you were tugging his curls and crying out his name, loud and shameless.

He wanted to hear the way you’d sound when you came on him.

Chan’s hips snapped forward into his hand, slick water dripping off his chest as he jerked himself hard enough to bruise.

“Bet you’d taste so fucking sweet,” he grunted, voice low, breath fogging the glass door. “Let me fuck you with my tongue, baby, wanna feel you shake for me…”

He was losing it.

He gripped tighter, thumb swiping over the swollen head, wrist working fast, breath coming out ragged and fast as he imagined you on your knees in the shower with him. Dropping the towel. Letting him see everything.

Would you blush? Would you look shy? Or would you smirk up at him with that same little look you gave him today in the kitchen, like you knew you had him wrapped around your finger?

“Fucking tease,” he hissed, eyes squeezing shut. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

He came with a groan, hot and heavy against the tiles, his thighs trembling under the weight of it. The sound of the water masked the sharp slap of skin and the wet string of curses that followed, but nothing could drown out how wrecked he felt afterward.

He leaned there for a minute, panting, forehead pressed to the wall, cum washing down the drain between his feet, trying to remember how to breathe.

He was so fucked.

So deep in it he couldn’t see straight.

Because this wasn’t just lust anymore.

It was need.

You were just trying to grab your clothes.

Laundry done, towel wrapped tight around your chest, hair up, body still warm from the dryer heat as you padded barefoot down the hallway. You planned to shower after Chan finished his, figured you had a couple minutes before he was out.

But when you turned the corner you ran right into him.

Chan froze mid-step, just outside the steamy bathroom, water still dripping from his curls and chest bare under the towel slung around his shoulders. He was only in sweatpants and he looked at you like you’d just slapped him across the face.

“Oh, sorry!” you gasped, clutching your towel tighter. “Didn’t think you were done yet.”

Chan didn’t answer at first. His eyes dropped fast, to your legs, to the curve of your waist, to the loose knot barely holding your towel up. You saw the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, the tight line of his jaw.

He looked wrecked.

Like he’d seen a ghost.

Or worse, like he’d seen exactly what he wanted and knew he couldn’t have it.

“Nah,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “I’m done.”

You nodded, shifting a little. But he didn’t move. And neither did you.

The hallway was suddenly too narrow, too quiet. You could still smell the shampoo on him, feel the heat radiating from his chest. You hadn’t seen him shirtless in forever, when it hadn’t meant anything.

Now?

Your eyes dipped lower than they should’ve.

And he noticed.

Chan stepped back slightly, like distance would save him. Like not looking at you directly would make his cock stop twitching in his sweatpants.

It didn’t.

“You okay?” you asked lightly, trying to fill the silence.

He nodded too quickly. “Yeah.”

You reached up without thinking, fingers brushing his damp hair. “You missed a spot. Shampoo’s still in your curls.”

The moment you touched him, he froze.

He wasn’t breathing. You could see it, the stillness in his chest, the sharp set of his shoulders. And when your hand pulled back, he finally let out a quiet breath.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered.

Your head tilted. “Like what?”

His voice dropped lower, strained. “Like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

That gave you pause.

You blinked, slowly, feeling the air shift between you. Then let the corner of your lips pull into the faintest smirk.

“I don’t,” you said, soft and curious. “Why don’t you tell me?”

That did it.

Chan cursed under his breath and turned fast, storming off down the hall like he was trying to outrun his own thoughts.

You watched him go.

And smiled to yourself.

You didn’t mean to hear it. Didn’t mean to stop.

But the second you stepped out of your room and heard the low, muffled groan from behind the guest room door, you froze.

You knew that sound.

Your heart thudded, skin prickling with heat, and you took one step closer until you were standing just outside the door. It was cracked open less than an inch, not enough to see anything clearly.

But enough.

His voice came again, soft and low. Broken.

“Fuck…”

You could hear the slick, steady rhythm of his hand, the quiet thump of the bedframe shifting under his weight. Every sound went straight to your core. You hadn’t even meant to look, had told yourself just hearing it was already too much.

But then you heard it. Heard your name.

“…God, baby, can’t stop thinking about you…”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He didn’t know you were there.

Didn’t know the door hadn’t latched. Didn’t know you were standing right outside, barefoot, flushed, towel still clinging to your body.

You swallowed hard, eyes locked on the sliver of the room you could see through the door. His silhouette shifted. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand braced behind him, the other pumping slow and desperate over his cock.

Your name fell from his lips again, quiet this time, like a prayer.

“Say my name again,” he groaned under his breath. “Wanna hear you say it like that again, fuck.”

Your thighs pressed together instinctively.

You bit your lip as his hand sped up, movements messier now, breath coming out in harsh, ragged gasps. He let out a sharp, frustrated moan, head tipping back, curls falling into his face.

You could feel how close he was.

His voice cracked as he muttered, “Bet you’d taste so fucking good, just wanna eat you up, baby, please…”

And then he came.

With a sharp, strangled groan, hips jerking up into his fist. His abs tensed, legs spread, cum spilling over his hand and stomach as he gasped your name again, lower this time. Softer.

Wrecked.

Completely ruined.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just stood there, watching through the door as he fell back onto the bed with a heavy breath, arm over his eyes, chest heaving. He didn’t even know he’d said your name out loud. Didn’t know he’d been heard.

Didn’t know that your towel was slowly slipping as you turned away, heart pounding, thighs clenched, breath shallow.

He would.

Soon.

The next morning, you woke up with a plan.

You knew Chan was still trying to recover from last night, maybe embarrassed, maybe frustrated, maybe both.

So you decided to have a little fun.

You made sure your room door was just cracked open, the perfect angle for anyone who might be wandering the hall. Fortunately, your brother was working.

You pulled the softest cotton robe on, one that barely covered anything, the kind that slipped off the shoulders if you didn’t hold it right.

Then, moving slow and deliberate, you started your morning routine.

You brushed your hair, every stroke exaggerated, letting the strands fall just so.

You stretched, arms high over your head, the robe slipping dangerously low.

You bit your lip, pretending not to hear the faintest thud of footsteps outside.

Obviously it was Chan. Maybe he was watching.

You didn’t care.

You dropped the robe.

Naked, standing in the sunlight streaming through your window, you moved toward the mirror.

Your fingers traced lazy patterns over your skin, fingertips sliding over curves you knew drove him crazy.

You took your time.

You knew his eyes were on you.

You could almost hear his breath hitch, feel his gaze burning holes into your back.

You folded the robe back over your body at last, turning just enough to flash the faintest smile over your shoulder.

He didn’t want to be caught staring.

He really didn’t.

But there you were, door cracked open just enough for him to see.

And God, you moved like you knew exactly what he was doing.

Every brush of your hair was a damn invitation. Every stretch, every careless slip of the robe,  it was like you were teasing him just by existing.

Chan’s breath hitched. His chest tightened, heart pounding like a drum in his ears.

He wanted to knock, to tell you to stop. But he couldn’t move.

Couldn’t look away.

And when you dropped the robe completely, standing there naked in the sunlight, he felt his knees go weak.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice barely audible. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He swallowed hard, biting his lip to keep himself quiet.

That little smile you gave over your shoulder? It was the final blow.

He wanted to run in and wrap his arms around you.

But all he could do was stand frozen, breathless, and wonder how the hell you always managed to have this power over him.

It happened the next day.

You were sitting on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when he appeared in the doorway.

His hair was still damp, but his eyes were burning with something fierce, something different.

He swallowed hard, stepping inside without a word. Then, before you could even say anything, he dropped the towel from his neck and took a slow step toward you.

“I can’t fucking hide it anymore,” he blurted out, voice low and rough like he’d been holding it in for too long. “I’m obsessed with you. Like, every fucking second. I hear you in my head when I’m trying to sleep. I see you when I close my eyes.”

You blinked, heart pounding.

He wasn’t done.

“I know I shouldn’t want you like this, like that, especially since you’re my best friend’s sister. But I can’t help it. I want you. I want all of you. And the worst part is,” he bit his lip, eyes darting away for a second, “I think you want it too.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, intense and raw.

“So, what the fuck do we do about it?”

You didn’t say anything at first.

Just watched him, his eyes searching yours, raw and unguarded.

The way his chest rose and fell, the slight tremble in his hands, the heat radiating off him, it was all too much.

Slowly, a smirk tugged at your lips.

“So,” you said, voice low and playful, “you’re obsessed.”

Chan swallowed hard, stepping closer, his breath hot against your skin.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice rough. “And it’s driving me crazy.”

You reached up, fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the tension there.

“If I wanted this,” you murmured, “would you? Or are you just all talk?”

He smiled, half cocky, half desperate.

“Try me.”

The space between you vanished in an instant.

His hands were on your waist, pulling you close, and the world narrowed to just the two of you.

Your heart slammed in your chest as he dipped his head, lips brushing yours, soft, tentative at first, then deepening into something hungry and desperate.

The kiss stole your breath, hands tangling in his damp hair as you pressed into him, the weight of all the months you’d both been holding back finally melting away.

When you pulled back, just enough to look into his eyes, you whispered,

“Guess we both wanted this.”

He grinned, that fire in his gaze burning brighter than ever.

“Yeah. No more hiding.”

Chan’s hands were hot and possessive on your waist, fingers pressing into your skin as if he could burn the memory of this moment into his bones. His lips trailed fiery kisses along your neck, each bite making you shiver and arch into him.

“God, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he groaned, voice low and thick with need.

You smiled against his mouth, your fingers threading through the damp curls at his nape, pulling him closer as you pressed your body fully against his. His chest was warm beneath your palms, heart hammering a frantic rhythm that matched your own.

Slowly, deliberately, your hands slipped beneath his shirt, feeling the smooth skin beneath the damp fabric. He shivered as you traced your fingers down his ribs, your touch light but full of promise. Then you tugged the shirt up and over his head, revealing the lean, muscular form you’d been dreaming about for months.

Chan’s eyes darkened as he watched you, breath hitching when you slid your own clothes off, letting them fall to the floor. Your skin was flushed and glowing in the soft light, every curve a silent invitation.

His hands didn’t hesitate, roaming over you with a hunger that made your knees weak. He cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened beneath his touch. You gasped, head falling back as he pressed his mouth to one, sucking hard, biting gently.

Your hands explored every inch of his back, feeling the muscles tense and flex beneath your fingertips. When your fingers caught the waistband of his sweatpants, you tugged at it, your eyes locking with his in a silent question.

He nodded, breathless, and you slid the pants down his hips, your hands spreading his legs just enough to reveal the hard length straining beneath the fabric. You stroked him slowly, fingers warm and sure, feeling him pulse under your touch.

Chan groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder, lips brushing hot kisses down your collarbone as his own hands moved lower, tracing the lines of your hips and thighs. He bent you backward gently onto the couch, one hand supporting your back while the other pressed your legs apart.

He kissed his way down your body, lips trailing fire across your stomach, dipping lower to the curve of your hips. His tongue flicked over your inner thigh, sending electric jolts through you.

When his mouth finally found your slick heat, you arched your hips instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair. His tongue moved slow and deliberate, circling your clit, teasing and tasting until your breath hitched and your body trembled.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured against you, fingers sliding inside with expert ease. The slow, curling motion made your hips lift off the bed, desperate for more.

Chan’s mouth left you with a wet kiss, lips trailing back up to meet yours. The kiss was deep and hungry, teeth grazing lips as his fingers continued their maddening rhythm inside you.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as he pressed into you, his length sliding home with a shuddering groan. The couch shifted beneath you, the world narrowing to the feel of his skin against yours, the sound of your breath mingling.

He moved slow at first, savouring the moment, but soon the pace quickened, hips snapping against yours with increasing urgency. Your hands roamed over his back, nails digging into his skin as waves of pleasure built higher and higher.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Chan growled, voice thick with need.

Your climax hit like a tidal wave, breathless screams of his name filling the room as your body convulsed around him. He followed close behind, hips stuttering as he came deep inside you, holding you tight as you both rode out the heat.

When the storm passed, he collapsed beside you, pulling you close until your bodies were tangled and warm. His breath was slow and steady now, fingers tracing lazy circles on your back.

“Damn,” he whispered, breath hot against your ear. “You’re such a tease.”

You smirked, fingers trailing up his chest. “Says the guy who just lost his mind over me.”

He groaned, tightening his grip around you. “Yeah, well… you are impossible to resist.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away. Instead, you traced lazy circles on his bare skin, watching the way his eyes fluttered closed.

“Think you can keep your hands to yourself now?” you teased.

Chan’s eyes snapped open, mock horror on his face. “No fucking way.”

He kissed you again, slow, playful, like a promise of more mischief to come.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice soft but sure.

“Yeah… yours,” you replied, resting your head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

[grotesquevi]

sorry for giving you ANOTHER request but omg

remote controlled vibrator on academic rivals sub ellie during a final

BUSTINGGGG

eighteen+ content ahead, interact accordingly pls, first of all YES, she would try so hard to stay silent at first, forgetting the answers to her important test of ancient runes, leaving teeth marks on her hand cause she bite it too hard to keep her moans in, ughhhhh let me expand on this filthy thought cause turns out i’m not ovulating yet i’m just constantly horny, this is how 900 words of insanity looks like:

so it all starts when you keep fucking your vampire roommate, cause this one-time thing bullshit? it's almost funny to mention when ellie’s in your coffin lately, sharing her blood with you, closer than ever when she first suggests this competition of who got better grades until the semester’s coming to an end and time reaches the horrific finals week.

it’s healthy, isn’t it? this playful game even when it is the whole point of why she hated you for starters. one night sneaking out to a human town close to the campus and it’s enough to make ellie’s brain combust with new ideas — i mean, she has to give some credits to the pretty human you both managed to feed from in a secluded alley, she was part of it too when a ray of light shine upon her.

"if you got better grades than me before the finals begin, then you get to choose my dare. if i won, you're the one doing my dare instead, you up for that, leech?"

dare is a nice way to say punishment, cause that's what it seems for ellie when you show up with your papers a day before the ancient runes test and it only proves what she already knows: you have better grades than her. polished, constant, of course you have better grades than she does.

finals week is similar to doomsday, a contract that got her back to hell when she can see you walking down to ms. dean desk to hand out your essay and go back to your seat when she's not even halfway done with her own and fuck — ellie tries to give you a pleading look even, tries cause it fails in the process as you ignore her like she's not in the same room as you are.

a dare is a dare.

five, ten minutes. the gigantic clock in the very front of the class it's only a reminder for her growing anxiety: when are you going to fucking do it? there are fucking bats hanging in the ceiling watching her every move and you decided now was the time to use your dare? twist ellie's words to make them work your way?

it starts out slow. makes her grip her ink pencil too tightly for a moment when she can feel the subtle vibration between her legs in the worst moment. makes her look over her shoulder as you're already fixated on your roommate, in the tension that settles in her back and makes her muscles ache. you're too connected to her.

"stop this," ellie manages to mimic in silence, a mere movement of her lips going through the words cause she doesn't want to get caught. "leech. i mean it."

you don't look at her face at first. or if you do, you ignore anything that she could possibly say as you reply in the same silence — "fucking take it."

there's not a single sound in the room when ellie squeezes her legs together so tight, she has to bite her lip to avoid the pleasant sounds she threatens to make when the vibrator in her panties pushes against her clit. controlled by a little remote you keep in your hands, it seems designed to stay there despite any sudden attempt to make it to the side.

the elder futhark is the oldest runic system ever created. it evolved...

fuck's sake.

she can't remember exactly what she was so invested in writing seconds before as her entire concentration seems to melt away entirely to the floor. any coherent thought ellie held was replaced now by how good it felt in her neglected cunt, how she'd like to please herself instead of being obliged to bite part of her hand like it will prevent the moans that wanted to slip free.

a subtle buzzing fills the air as you turn on the level: you're going to fucking hear everything she has to say after the test is done. cheeks blushing, ellie's hips shoot forward seeking for more friction as her underwear sticks now to her folds, soaking wet as the vibrator keeps its hard work.

you're in so much trouble.

there's no need to breathe, but on your seat you can hear how she takes a big breathe as if to calm herself: she's anxious, the exam is too difficult and it makes sense she's nervous — another level and ellie swears she can feel the vibrations on her fucking brain, slammers against her swollen nub, pushing her stupidly quick to the edge.

cruel, she loves it when you have no mercy. the weight of your gaze makes her shiver as a low moan escapes from the back of her throat and her brows furrow together in need: you know she's close. after so many times seeing it first hand you know how her eyes blaze with a different kind of hunger at the moment, that needy look on her face that makes you kind enough to let her cum.

nobody cares cause everyone's too invested in their final test to notice the smell in the air you can recognize easily. resting her entire weight back on the seat ellie chokes for a minute; yet even then when she tries to hide her face from you, you can still recognize the red in her skin as she recently fed from fresh human blood: delicious safe heaven.

it's devastating isn't it? your roommate looks at you like you committed treason — but no. you don't give a single fuck.

that's what makes her blood boil at first. she cannot even finish her essay properly when she's asked for her exam as the time is done, and you, on the other side of the room keep the biggest grin on your face: was that a fucking tactic to ruin a perfectly good gpa?

you really are fucking dumb if you think ellie's going to let that pass.

[messylxve]

MEETING SUPERMAN──SUPERMAN!

2025!superman x reader 2.1k fluff

!spoiler-free for superman (2025)!

prev part ; next part

Maybe today was just the worst day of your life. It started awfully when you realized you left your balcony door open, letting in so much rain water that your fresh laundry was now soaked. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, you slept through every single one of your alarms, making you more than late for your opening shift. 

You might’ve left with two left shoes had they not already been left by the door. 

“You’re late,” your boss grunted when you finally came in, quick to pick up the coffee order he was working on. “I had to open for you.” 

Ring ring ring. You see a lady at the counter, impatiently slamming her finger down over the bell for your attention. “Excuse me, I’m ready to order.” 

“Just a minute ma’am.” You plastered a smile on your face as you walked by her, following your boss as he began to gather his own things to leave. 

“I know I’m late,” you sighed. “I slept through my alarm and I accidentally left my bal–,” 

“I didn’t ask for excuses,” he interrupted. “You’re late, it goes on record. If it happens again I will fire you.” 

With that, he pushed past you, ignoring you as you followed sharply on his tail. 

Ring ring ring. “Excuse me! I said I’m ready to order!” 

“Just a minute ma’am, please!” You look to see your boss, nearing the Employee’s Only door, ready to flee. 

“Respectfully sir, I’ve shown up every single day I’ve been scheduled and more. I’m here, on time, every day and I’ve had no complaints from any customer. Is there any way you can give me a pass, just this one time?” 

When he finally stopped, you were rather met with the man’s stone face and a finger being pointed in your face. “You’re not special. You are not immune to the rules. If I need to replace you today, I will. If I need to replace you right this second, I will. See that I don’t have to and do. Your. Job.” 

With a final scathing glare, he grasped the door and slammed it shut, violently enough that the window of the door seemed to shake under the force; leaving you alone with the same woman ringing the bell incessantly. 

“Hello! It’s like I’m not even here,” she snarked when you finally met her at the counter, acting as if you weren’t on the verge of tears right in front of her. 

“I apologize for the wait ma’am ho–,” 

“I hope you’re not expecting some tip after this horrible service. This generation doesn’t know the first thing about treating a customer right.” 

On any other day, you might’ve found a way to ease the woman, offer a discount or crack a joke at your own expense, but instead, you plastered a thin smile on your lips. 

“Of course not ma’am, how may I help you?” 

At this point, you had decided it couldn’t possibly be any worse of a day, so you pushed on and let it move past you, flashing each customer the same smile and infuriatingly friendly ‘customer service’ voice. Maybe the universe would grant you some semblance of mercy. 

Ring ring ring

On goes the smile. 

“What can I do for you today, sir?” 

“All the money in the bag.” 

You froze, all color in your face draining as you looked up at the man. He couldn’t have been much taller than you, dressed in all black and a ski mask. From his hoodie pocket you could see the imprint of his hand gripping his weapon, finger wrapped around the trigger, prepared. 

“Don’t scream, just empty the register. Now.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you tried to recall anything on what to do if the store was to be robbed. 

You couldn’t remember a single detail. 

All you could remember was the one thing that would likely get you shot on the spot. “I can–I can’t.” 

Your hands trembled and you could feel the tears well up in your eyes as the man grew visibly angrier. 

“The fuck do you mean you can’t,” he hissed, grabbing the unwanted attention of some of the nearby customers. “Take the money out the damn register and give it to me!” 

“I can’t open the register without a key.” 

He grit his teeth angrily. “Where’s the key?” 

“In the–in the back.” 

You watched as the gears in his head churned, rationalizing his next few decisions. 

That is if a rational decision to him meant sending the mass of customers into a frantic chaos. 

With a grand show and display, he whipped out the gun, firing a warning shot into the air. But before anyone was quick enough to move from his path, he grabbed hold of a woman, pressing the gun into her side. 

“Get the key. Unlock the drawer and give me the money. Every minute you’re back there is another bullet.” 

You nodded your head frantically, practically tripping on your feet as you rushed into the back. Every second felt agonizing as your brain screamed at you how short a minute really was. 

On any other day in any other circumstances, you wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving the mess you were making, but it didn’t matter. Every inch of the place was flipped over until you finally got your hands on the tiny metal key. 

BANG

You jumped at the sound of the first gunshot, dropping the key on the ground. 

“Five seconds left,” you heard him scream. “The next one’s going through her!” 

In a trembling panic, you fumbled to pick up the key. 

Like a hummingbird trapped in a cage, your heart slammed violently against your chest as you shoved yourself through the doors, hands in the air. 

“I have it! I have it!” 

The man looked deranged as he shakily pointed the gun back at you. 

“Don’t shoot,” you attempted to reason, stepping closer to the register—and by proxy, him. “I’m unlocking the drawer and we can all move on like nothing happened.” 

You opened the register quick, the soft chime of coins being pushed around and the drawer sliding open feeling louder than ever. Your fingers trembled uncontrollably as you went for the big bills first. 

He kept the gun on you, his hold on the woman only tightening as his eyes twitched, flickering between you and the door, the windows, the street. 

Then you heard the wailing sirens. Quiet at first, maybe a couple blocks away, but they grew louder, nearing closer. 

The man stiffened, his eyes narrowing in on you. 

“Did you call them?” His voice, somehow just as threatening, was just a whisper to the thickly tense air. 

You shook your head. “I–I didn’t, someone outsi–,” 

Red and blue flooded into the cafe, painting all the fear on your face as you stared down the barrel of his gun. 

It all moved in slow motion, the noise reaching your ears before everything else caught up to you. BANG!

You saw his finger lay down on the trigger. You saw the anger on his face as his impulses took over. You felt the fear of death drown you in and overwhelm you. But you never felt the bullet. 

One minute your eyes were clamped shut, prepared for the painful impact. The next minute, your eyes peeled open to see a man. Tall, fearless, and dressed in red, blue and yellow. Like something out of a comic book. 

“Don’t worry,” he reassured, his voice deep yet comforting. “You’re safe.” 

In a blink the man was replaced with a large gust of wind, lifting your hair in a wild mess with you. 

When you looked back to the gunman, his hands were behind his back, bound by the man in blue. “No need to fear,” he assured the room, pushing the man towards the exit. “He’ll be in the hands of the police now.” 

Somewhere between then and him turning the man over to the cops, the room burst into applause, praising the mystery man in a cape. But you were completely and utterly stilled, watching as the man spoke with the policemen. 

“No ulterior motives, no prizes,” he explained to the officers. “All I want is truth, justice, and a better tomorrow.” 

You watched as he cut you one last look before disappearing into the sky. 

“All I’m saying dear is if you had a more stable job, an office job, none of this would’ve happened. You certainly wouldn’t have to worry about looking silly on TV.” 

Night came quick and all you wanted to do was collapse into your bed and forget everything that happened. Instead you were reaching into the second hour of a long extended phone call with your mother as you considered the height below you from your balcony railing

“Mom,” you groaned into the phone. “I’m not having this talk with you again.” 

“We’re not having a talk,” she exclaimed in a tone that suggested the two of you were definitely having the talk. “I just think if you went for something more practical like med school, not study how to write for 4 years.” 

“An English Writing degree is practical mom.” 

“Sure,” she hummed. “For a teacher. I don’t see you applying for any teaching jobs anytime soon. All of your time is spent on that silly blog that no one’s reading anymore. Your brother says you’re running out of material.” 

You sighed, hanging your head over the balcony. “I should turn in for the night. Goodbye mom.” 

You could practically hear her shaking her head at you disappointingly. “Good night dear.” 

With a final click, you shoved your phone in your pocket. Somehow, your headache only worsened since you left work. Because of course it wasn’t the cops interviewing you or being robbed or being held at gunpoint that stressed you out the most, but your mother questioning your life choices. 

You groaned loudly, borderlining a scream if it wasn’t for your neighbors as you ran your hands across your tired face. 

“Long day?” 

You gasped, stumbling back and falling onto the ground below you at the sudden sight of the red caped man hovering in front of you. 

“It’s you,” you squeezed out, crawling backwards in shock as he landed softly on your balcony. 

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you like that.” 

You watched as he held out a hand for you, towering above you. 

This couldn’t be real. You had to be hallucinating. 

“It’s…okay,” you mumbled. You hesitated, scanning his hand as if he’d magically reveal something from it. To your surprise, it was soft, gentle, not what you were expecting from such a grandiose man. 

With little to no effort, he pulled you up to your feet, allowing you to catch yourself on his arm when you stumbled forward. 

“I never got to see if you were okay after today. Imagine to my surprise I see you on your balcony when I fly by.” 

“Fate, perhaps,” you breathed, a part of you still stunned and amazed by the marvel of this man in front of you. “I’m sorry for asking but, who are you?” 

He tilted his head off to the side, measuring his words. “A humble protector of my city. Nothing more.” 

You nodded slowly, taking in his words. “No title, or superhero name? You’ve already got the cape.” 

He smiled. And not a half smile or forced, plastered on smile, but a bright shining smile that only made sense for a man like him. “I haven’t given it much thought. I suppose the people will name me on their own.” 

He was genuine. Something in you could just tell. 

“One more question,” you blurted. 

He lifted his eyebrows, curiosity piquing his interest. 

“Why?” 

You watched as his brows furrowed back down, not quite understanding your question. “Why?” 

“I mean, the world has had its fair share of magically powered people. Not many of them have wanted to do what you’re doing…Why are you doing it?” 

You watched him, studied him as he conjured up some semblance of an answer. “Because I want to see a better tomorrow. And unlike most, I actually have the power to change it. So why not use it?” 

Once again you found yourself nodding slowly, entranced in his every single word, striking you right to the heart. “I for one can’t wait to see it then.” 

The man only smiled, taking his few steps back. “You stay safe.” 

In a gust of wind he was gone, his blue and red losing itself into the night sky. And you watched and waited until his presence faded. 

With an excited grin, you practically threw yourself to your computer, opening the 'silly little blog' your mom couldn’t help but shoot jabs at.

 You thought back to the man, everything you remember about him. Something about his presence just screamed super. Super grand, super humble, super charming. Super handsome. But most of all, a superhero. A real one. 

TRUTH, JUSTICE, AND A BETTER TOMORROW

It was a seemingly normal day at work when a man named Superman saved my life. 

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[thatonegrimm]

CAN WE GET A SAJA BOYS (SEPARATE) X READER WHERE READER IS SUOER GOOD AT GIVING MASSAGES, AND GIVES THEM ONE AFTER A PRETTY STRESSFUL DAY? 

-⭐️

Thank you for the request! These are always fun to write lol. Here you go!💌

🌙 Saja Boys x Reader – You Give the Best Massages

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🧿 Jinu 

Jinu wasn’t the type to admit when he was stressed.

He just sat a little too still. Smiled a little too tightly. Rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to manually release the tension coiled in his spine.

You found him like that on the balcony, sitting in a patio chair with his tea untouched, his gaze unfocused.

“Turn around,” you said softly.

He blinked. “What?”

You stepped behind him, placing your hands on his shoulders. “I said, turn around. Let me help.”

Jinu stiffened as your thumbs pressed into the knots beneath his hoodie, but he didn’t pull away.

You worked in silence—slow, firm pressure along the cords of muscle between his shoulder blades. He exhaled sharply, head tilting forward just slightly.

“That’s… wow. That’s really good,” he muttered.

You smiled. “You carry everything here,” you said, kneading gently. “Let me take some of it off your shoulders.”

For once, he didn’t argue. Just leaned back into your touch, eyes closing.

Later, he’d quietly bring you a blanket and your favorite tea.

But in that moment, all he said was: “Don’t stop.”

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

💪 Abby 

Abby looked like nothing could shake him. Unbothered, unbreakable, all relaxed charm and big energy.

But after back-to-back rehearsals and helping move heavy set pieces when no one else could, even he had his limit.

You found him face-down on the floor, groaning into a pillow.

“I’m dying,” he mumbled.

You grinned. “Good. Stay there.”

You straddled his lower back and started working your hands up his spine. He jolted.

“Wait—woah, that’s—holy crap.”

Your thumbs hit a tense spot near his shoulder blades and he let out a very un-Abby-like whimper.

“You’re tense,” you teased.

“I’m always tense. I didn’t know until just now,” he muttered into the pillow.

You laughed, but your touch stayed steady—rolling circles into his shoulders, then kneading into the muscles of his arms. Slowly, Abby melted under you like warm butter.

By the end, he was completely limp.

“You’re magic,” he groaned. “Marry me.”

You smacked his shoulder playfully. “Let me finish the massage first.”

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

📚 Mystery 

You didn’t notice it at first.

Mystery never looked tired. He didn’t slump or complain or sigh dramatically.

But his silence had shifted—more withdrawn, more brittle.

So when he sat beside you, eyes shadowed and shoulders tight, you didn’t ask questions. You just reached out, lightly brushing your fingers over his arm.

He flinched—but only a little.

“Let me?” you asked quietly.

After a pause, he nodded.

You moved behind him, fingers finding the edge of his shoulder blade, working along the tight bands of tension he’d clearly been ignoring. He didn’t speak, but he tilted his head slightly to the side—giving you access.

You felt him unravel in degrees. A breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. A subtle shiver when you found just the right spot near his neck.

Finally, he whispered, “…Feels good.”

“I know,” you said. “You don’t have to hold everything by yourself, you know.”

He didn’t reply, but you felt it—the way his fingers brushed yours afterward, small and deliberate.

A thank you in silence.

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

💋 Romance 

Romance lived for affection, but even he had bad days. Off-stage stress, a manager with too many opinions, and a performance that didn’t go how he wanted—it left him sulking on the couch, arms crossed, frown threatening to settle in for the night.

You came up behind him quietly, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing the crown of his head.

“Want me to help?” you asked.

He turned just enough to meet your eyes. “You’ll make me cry.”

“I’ll risk it.”

You pulled him onto the floor between your knees and began massaging his shoulders, thumbs pressing in small circles.

He melted. Instantly.

“Oh god, you’re good at this,” he moaned. “Is this love? Is this how I die?”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “Yes, by massage. Very tragic.”

As you worked down his back, he sighed, completely boneless in your hands. His voice dipped quieter.

“…Thank you.”

You kissed his shoulder. “Always.”

And later, when you tried to stop, he dramatically flopped back onto you.

“Now I live here. This is my home.”

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

🔥 Baby 

Baby never asked.

But you noticed how he moved a little slower that night, hoodie riding up his back as he sprawled on the floor after practice, arms crossed under his head like a makeshift pillow.

You sat beside him and poked his side.

“Wanna trade? I give you a massage, you stop being grumpy.”

He grunted. “I’m not grumpy.”

You arched a brow. “That wasn’t a no.”

So you scooted behind him and gently placed your hands on his back.

At first, he tensed like he was trying not to react.

Then your palms pressed into the tight space between his shoulders—and he groaned.

“Don’t tell anyone I made that noise,” he mumbled.

“I’m recording it for blackmail,” you teased, grinning.

But you kept going—slow, methodical, watching his posture shift as he finally let himself relax. His breathing evened out. His hands unclenched.

When you stopped, he cracked one eye open.

“…Ten more minutes.”

You smirked. “You like this, huh?”

“…Shut up.”

But the next night, he was already sitting on the floor, hoodie off, waiting.

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