#its nice to just draw something a little different than that

[coffeegnomee]

genuinely i think alot of kaboodle's actions on lifesteal can be explained by her scripted lore background. the world of scripted lore is fraught with the idea that "lore" is just... being miserable. it was something that made it difficult for me to get into ksmp (though i did eventually enjoy it), because it felt just so awful all the time. pointless arguments didn't tug at my heartstrings, it made me frustrated. but that's besides the point

i think maybe one of the reasons she takes everything way harder than she should and exaggerates relationships and disagreements is perhaps because she is drawing in past experience to be a good entertainer, in the way she is familiar with. which is so fair! we are formed by our backgrounds. it does unfortunately make it difficult to watch her if you're accustomed to the more ""live action"" sort of format lifesteal is usually in, where people seperate their characters from themselves a little less. but she has a good size audience that seems to fw it, so i dunno

that's just my take on the overuse of the word "betrayal" and such

agree but disagree. yes scripted is usually just being miserable but zam is just miserable all the time and his lore actually makes sense and is very entertaining to watch and he also separates himself from his character (to a degree). but when he is miserable he is consistently miserable while also doing some fun things to distract from the misery or making some impact on the server like cleaning up spawn while being miserable to chat. kab just sits around and talks and does fuck all. sorry. hating. a lot of hating below.

and it's annoying because she is miserable but then will go be fighting her inner demons of destruction, but then won't destroy because she doesn't want to be mean and she cares so much, but then she plans to destroy anyway but then she doesn't do it and doesn't have any consistency in any motivation or characterization and she's all over the place. every hour her emotional state is different and there's absolutely no effort at a throughline and everything before is just thrown out the window.

And it pisses me off that she does come from scripting because surely her characters on ksmp had some throughline and consistency.

and yet her inconsistency on ls does make sense bc in scripted you can plan and succeed with every plan you make when you are literally scripting the outcome.

but on lifesteal you can plan for something cool and fun and it can be taken away in an instant by the very same people you were trying to impress and that is hard and will send anyone into being tilted.

and trying to decide how to react to that is wildly difficult and i dont really envy them having to figure out what to do, but i do wish she would DO something. but that's also unfair because she is doing something, she's rebuilding. but while rebuilding she's going between wanting 4c to help her while also trying to convince him to betray his team while also trying to convince him to give her a heart without a fight while also planning to kill him while also reminding herself she has to be nice to him. so she's just using him. just say it with your full chest. you never cared about him and you just want someone else to do the work to get your own selfish self-pity plan back on the server.

you want to complain and then have someone swoop in and save you. and you dont want to make any effort to actually care about that person.

it's miserably sad and annoying to watch because lifesteal is about caring about people, and she goes on and on an on about caring *so much* but she doesn't give a shit about anyone but herself. and she lies to herself and and chat and insists that she cares.

and yes that's a rather consistent characterization to through at ls!kab but damn if it doesn't read like that at all and she went from genuinely apologizing to 4c to just using him flat out and reminding herself that she needs to use him and cant just kill him.

maybe its just that she's vilely unlikable. maybe that's the point in her scripted mind. make a hatable character. and yet her actions also speak to desperately trying to make a likable character whom youre sympathetic to, she tries desperately to guilt trip and pull at the heartstings about how shes just been betrayed so many times and life is so hard for her and shes so weak and how could you be mean to someone so pathetic and wounded.

but she's not likable at all. she doesnt care about a single other soul or what they care about. the second they put a boundary up she wants to run and leave, which, fair enough, actually a cool characterization of trauma but like also so abusive-coded. but in the end she chose to not abandon bacon as far as we can tell, but i can tell you give it two seconds and that thought will come back and she'll decide to betray him anyway. because nothing is consistent and nothing she says has any long term value. she just goes on the past five minutes to decide what she will do.

she's just so fake and that fakeness can be attributed to the character, but it only feels even more fake because she insists it's a character and not her as she turns around and does something that makes more sense for her to do as herself than the character. she is being two people existing on the same account, swapping out whenever necessary. but that's stupid. take responsibility for your actions and your emotions. stop blaming others.

and yes. it all goes back to how painfully different scripted mcrp is from unscripted.

and i know for damn sure that this will not be like this next season because she will learn from this season. or she doesn't. and that's what's so frustrating. the possibility that she never learns why lifesteal is lifesteal.

the possibility that she keeps writing asshole abusive characters that just get more abusive because of her own internal mental problems that lay unresolved and shoved under the rug like they aren't part of the character even though they are part of herself. she refuses to look at herself and acts like if just just acts hard enough they won't affect anything. they effect everything. you can't run from yourself when you are making unscripted content.

and yes. i am being really mean about someone who clearly has a lot of baggage. yes i am being mean about someone who is abusive as a defense mechanism and hates boundaries because of fear of being alone and all these things that are basically the bully being bullied at home type beat.

but she embraces none of it. doesn't even see any of it. thinks she has written a cute story with kazam, a cute ship that may be a little messed up but is at it's core cute.

it's fucking abusive and shit. it makes my skin crawl. zam is screaming to be let out of it and she thinks it's sunshine and roses. she is, to use the word literally, delusional about her actions. she thinks they are one thing when they are anything besides that.

but we do have one success story. and the trend goes that every lifestealer learns what lifesteal is by their second or third season. they all eventually get it. vi chose to do a very distinct character vs streamer in s4 and he crashed and burned to a degree unfathomable. and he learned from it. and he now says that was his favorite story he ever told. he see's how he's grown as a person because of it.

there is only hope in the future when it comes to kaboodle. lifesteal genuinely changes you and makes you grow. not because you choose to grow, but because it forces it out of you.

but in this moment im just constantly a ball of rage and constantly sent into sadness every time i watch. and she keeps interacting with my mains so im not going to just miss the story, and the progression is already happening, the kablantis shock is a genuinely lifesteal trauma moment for kab and is already changing her in good ways. this is the story, this is part of watching lifesteal. the meta conflict is what makes this server painfully unique. this difficult encounter with players that piss you off. because people in life are like this. people can suck and hurt each other and don't look at their internal mental state, they shove things under the rug and think they're fine and cause sorrow and pain when life gets difficult. that's life. encountering it as story really helps understand the people around you. to be more compassionate, be able to see when theyre hurting and chose to be kind anyway. to learn how to feel the negative emotions and process them and not run from them yourself. or learn how to stick up for yourself and put up your own boundaries and learn that you can. to figure out who you are. it's the best. and the worst. and leaves me hating until i realize it is interesting even though i hate it.

[paging-possum]

hm. might fuck around and draw some other peoples ocs just for funsies when I have time its a nice change of pace from what I usually do

[icewindandboringhorror]

Pages from trying to keep a little sketchbook-scrapbook type thing going for two weeks lol. I gave myself specific rules in hopes they might all end up more cohesive/consistent seeming, but alas, scribbly chaos reigns, it seems

[thetangibleghost]

I've always wanted to wake up from a dream laughing and I just did but I realized after I woke up that I have missed a million social cues :((((((((((((((((( it wasn't even funny idk why I couldn't stop giggling. I dont even giggle irl.

[velarisdusk]

Unveiled Pleasures

Day 4: Virgin | Rhysand x Reader word count: 4.3k author’s note: this was not a kink i thought i had but during planning, the thought of rhys getting a dark look in his eyes, losing himself and going feral when he finds out…… yum :) ✦ . Kinktober Masterlist . ✦

A blizzard rages outside, snow swirling in the darkness. It’s been relentless; for two days, its winds clawed at windows and howled through the night. Snow accumulates in thick drifts outside, burying Velaris in a frosty silence. Inside the townhouse, the warmth of the fireplace provides a cozy, safe haven.

You and Rhysand are curled up together on the couch, wrapped in a heavy blanket. The house is quiet; Amren is back at her apartment, Cassian is in Illyria (Gods help him, you can’t imagine the storm there), Azriel’s away on reconnaissance, and Mor winnowed to the cabin last night, claiming she needed some “alone time.” But you had a feeling she just wanted to leave the two of you here, together. 

You’ve known each other for centuries, since you were all young and reckless, before the world became complicated. Over the years, you’ve become more than friends — you’ve become constant in each other’s lives, someone to rely on through war, heartbreak, and everything in between. For a while, there was something between you — something unspoken but undeniably there. The way his hands lingered when he touched you, or how you’d catch him looking at you a little too long.

But whatever it was, it never grew beyond that. Time passed, and eventually, it seemed like he’d moved on. You told yourself you had, too. You never let it become a big deal, never let it interfere with the easy friendship you shared. It was just… there, hovering in the background, a feeling you’d long since learned to live with. And now was no different, chatting and playing card games on the couch, sharing a blanket by the fireplace. You would’ve thought it cliche if not for the fact that you’d been in this exact scenario more times than you could count — and nothing had happened.

Nothing will happen. 

“Place feels off,” you muse absently, shuffling the two cards in your hand as you consider your next move.

Rhysand chuckled softly, running a hand through his hair. “Off how? Too quiet without Cass?”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Well, yeah, that… but also just calmer.” You glance up at him, noticing the way the firelight casts soft shadows across his face. “We’re usually out doing something or surrounded by other people. Just not used to this much quiet, I guess.”

He nods thoughtfully, drawing a card from the deck and placing it face up next to the 10 of clubs. Ace of hearts. “That’s true,” he agrees, glancing at the cards on the blanket. “But it’s a nice change of pace, don’t you think? A well-deserved one.”

You eye your own cards — 10 of spades and ace of clubs — two pair. You toss two peppermints into the makeshift betting pool. “Raise. It’s definitely safer,” you say with a shrug.

Rhys matches your bet, tossing in two more mints. “Safer? From what? Drunk fae trying to chat you up? Or Cassian making an ass of himself with every female in sight?” His brow quirks up as a grin spreads across his face. 

You burst out laughing, the image of Cassian’s failed attempts at flirtation all too vivid. “Both, actually,” you manage between fits of laughter, shaking your head. “That last time at Rita’s… that was something.”

Leaning back against the couch, he shakes his head with a mischievous grin. “Do you remember that awful line Cass used on that poor girl? Something about his sword and–”

You burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. “Oh gods, don’t remind me. He really thought he was being clever.”

Rhys chuckles, rubbing his jaw. “He always thinks he’s clever. Like this—” He suddenly leans toward you, his voice dropping into a ridiculous impression of Cassian’s deep tone. “You ever heard the phrase, ‘bigger the sword, bigger the—'”

You both dissolve into laughter before he can finish, your sides aching from how ridiculous it sounds.

He grins, gaze still playful as he mimics Cassian again, this time reaching out and gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “But then he’d get all serious,” Rhys murmurs, his voice dropping lower, soft and teasing now. “He’d do this… look into her eyes and say, ‘I could spend hours just watching the way you blush, imagining what else I could do to make you look like that.’”

The sudden shift in his tone and the warmth of his hand against your cheek make your breath catch. You freeze, the playful atmosphere suddenly charged. He holds your gaze, the firelight flickering in his violet eyes, and for a moment, it’s hard to remember this is supposed to be a joke. 

You laugh, but it’s quieter now, more nervous. “Cassian really said that?” you ask, but it’s hardly louder than a whisper. 

Rhys doesn’t drop his hand, his thumb absentmindedly brushing your skin as he looks at you. “Well,” he says softly, his smile softer now, uncertain. “Maybe not like that… but, I guess… something like it.” You feel your face grow warm, a quiet tension slipping between you. His eyes search yours, and something unspoken passes between you both — something neither of you can ignore anymore. 

His voice is quieter when he speaks again, as though he’s only just noticing the change himself. “You okay?”

The question feels loaded like there’s more behind it than just casual concern. You nod, but your voice is stuck in your throat. You can’t tear your gaze away from his. He’s still so close. Rhys leans in slightly, his thumb moving to brush along your jawline now, the motion slower, more deliberate than before. His eyes flicker over your features, lingering on your lips for just a second too long. 

You swallow, heart pounding. “Just… surprised.”

“Surprised?” His brow lifts slightly, but his tone is softer, more serious now. “By what?”

By the way his touch sends a ripple of heat through you, by how your heart races under the intensity of his gaze. You don’t say that though. Instead, you let out a shaky laugh, trying to play it off. “That you’re taking this Cass impression so seriously.”

Rhys huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His fingers pause for a second, lingering on your neck. He doesn’t move away. “I’m not, really… just… You’re looking at me differently,” he says softly, almost like he’s noticing it for the first time. The room feels suddenly smaller, the crackling fire and storm outside fading into the background. 

You hold his gaze, your heart pounding. There’s a question in his eyes, and you can’t help but feel the pull between you growing stronger. You’re both so close now, the warmth of his skin against yours more pronounced. 

Without breaking eye contact, Rhys’ hand gently slides down to rest at the back of your neck, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. His gaze drops to your lips, and for a moment, time seems to stretch.

He leans in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. His lips brush against yours in a soft, tentative kiss. It’s a slow exploration, a testing of the waters. When you don’t move away, his kiss deepens, his lips melding with yours as the warmth between you ignites into something more intense. 

As the kiss between you and Rhysand grows more heated, the heat becomes almost unbearable. Clothes are shed in a frenzy of passion, and you find yourself in your undergarments, sinking to your knees on the plush carpet before him. The firelight flickers across the room, casting a warm glow that dances over both of you. You start to reach for the waistband of his boxer briefs, but suddenly, uncertainty creeps in. Your hands falter, and you pull back just enough to look up at him, a mixture of nervousness and determination in your eyes.

“I’m not really sure what to do,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly. “It’s my first time.”

Rhysand’s eyes widen, his expression shifting from surprise to an intense, almost reverent focus. He takes a moment to process your confession, clearly stunned.

He speaks softly, his voice a mix of awe and disbelief. “After all these centuries, you’re still–”

He pauses, searching for the right words. “You’re still a virgin?” His gaze sharpens, the intensity of his stare turning into something more primal. 

When your only response is a nod, a slow, hungry smile spreads across his lips. “Gods, that’s incredible,” he breathes, his voice low and tinged with a dark thrill. Leaning in, his breath warms your ear. “You have no idea how much that turns me on. The thought of being the first one to touch you like this…” His hand slides over your head, fingers threading through your hair with a possessive caress. “The first to make you feel things you’ve never…” He inhales deeply, his nose brushing against your neck, “–felt before…”

Rhysand pulls back slightly, his hand gently gripping your chin, and he tilts your face up to meet his eyes. “You have no idea how much I’m going to enjoy this… Guiding you through it, showing you everything…” His eyes flash with a mix of hunger and satisfaction. He traces his thumb over your lips, his touch charged. 

“Not everything; I’ve read romance novels,” you clarify, shifting your weight back onto your calves.

Rhysand’s lips twitch and he lets out the barest breath of a scoff, shaking his head as if in awe. His eyes flicker with a dark amusement as his hand trails from your jaw to the nape of your neck, fingers toying with your hair. “Romance novels,” he repeats, his tone light, but the glint in his eyes betrays something darker. His thumb brushes your cheek, and his lips curve into a slow, teasing smile. “Well, then… you’re practically an expert, aren’t you?”

You feel the weight of his gaze as you fumble for a response, a nervous laugh bubbling up. “Well, I mean–”

Rhysand cuts you off, his voice edged with raw desire. “I’m going to show you everything you need to know.” His grip on your hair tightens just slightly, his eyes locked onto yours with a possessive intensity. “Just focus on me and let me take control,” he murmurs, his voice low. “If you need anything, you speak up, alright?” The intensity in his gaze makes you feel like you’re melting.

You nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and excitement, and his gaze doesn’t waver. His fingers trail lightly over your collarbone and down to the swell of your chest, his touch a teasing whisper against your skin. With a deep breath, you lean forward, your hands cautiously pulling down his underwear, and Rhysand’s breath hitches slightly as you expose him. “That’s it,” he murmurs, his hand resting lightly on your head, guiding you as you lower yourself, taking him into your mouth.

The room is filled with the soft sounds of your movements and his encouraging murmurs. As you cautiously take him into your mouth, you focus on finding a rhythm, the unfamiliar texture and warmth making your pulse race. Your hands rest lightly on his thighs, feeling the tension in his muscles as you move. Each gentle stroke is executed with trepidation and eagerness, guided by Rhysand’s soft, approving sounds.

Rhysand’s hands gently cradle your head, his grip firm but tender. “Damn,” he groans, his tone laced with surprise. “You’re a natural.” His praise sends a shiver through you, mingling with the heat of your desire. Though he guides you slightly, his touch remains light and encouraging. His voice drops to a low murmur, filled with adoration. “That’s it, just like that,” he urges, his breath hitching as you experiment with different motions. His nails gently graze your scalp, and he lets out a soft, appreciative groan when you press a flat tongue to the underside of his cock. “You feel so good, baby. Just keep going, you’re making me lose my mind.”

Every word from him makes you more determined to continue, your movements growing more confident as his reactions heighten your arousal. “You can take me deeper, I know you can,” he murmurs, his voice low and urgent. “You’re doing so well, you got it,” and his hips start bucking into your mouth. Your own breathing becomes shallow as your throat constricts around him, the new sensation is overwhelming yet intoxicating.

With a low groan of approval, Rhysand suddenly shifts, his hands coming to rest of your shoulders. “Hold on a moment,” he says, helping you up from the floor, and guiding you back onto the couch with him, a dark hungry glint in his eyes. 

A hand reaches under you, deftly unclipping your bra with a single, smooth motion. He moves the other to the waistband of your underwear, and he slides both off of you tantalizingly slowly. He discards them with a casual flick, leaving you completely bare and vulnerable under his intense, appreciative gaze. 

“Go on, let’s get you a bit more comfortable,” he says, adjusting you with deliberate care so you’re sprawled out comfortably across the couch. His gaze smolders with hunger as he moves between your legs, his breath fanning over your inner thigh. 

The anticipation is almost unbearable as he begins to tease, his tongue a tantalizing caress that makes you gasp and shiver. The sounds of his enjoyment mingling with yours create a symphony of shared desire, each touch sending waves of sensation through your body. 

Just as his tongue delves deeper, the sensation blurs your senses, making the room seem to spin and float. The combination of his skilled tongue and the disorienting rush of winnowing overwhelms you with a euphoric intensity. When your vision clears, you find yourself in Rhysand’s bedroom, his tongue still lavishing attention on you. He takes his time to savor every part of you. His movements are masterful, each flick and stroke of his tongue tailored to make you writhe in pleasure. He alternates between gentle, teasing laps, and more focused, firm strokes, finding the rhythm that has you gripping the sheets. 

His hands are relentless, roaming your body, occasionally tracing the curves of your thighs or the sensitive skin of your hips. He clasps your hands tightly, anchoring you as his deep, guttural moans vibrate through you, heightening every sensation and leaving you squirming with need. 

Amidst the physical pleasure, Rhysand begins to invade your mind with a barrage of filthy, electrifying thoughts. His voice, though unspoken, reverberates in your mind like a seductive whisper. “It’s going to feel so good when I fuck you,” he promises. “Picture how good it’s going to feel when I’m buried deep inside you, how you’ll be trembling under me.” The mental imagery is a pleasant surprise — he shows you vivid scenes of him thrusting into you with relentless vigor, making you gasp and shiver. “It’ll feel so much better than your fingers, darling.”

“Can you see it? Feel it?” he sends into your mind, his thoughts a sultry whisper caressing your consciousness. “Feel me pushing into you, filling you completely. Every thrust, every stroke… I want you to feel every inch of me, how your body will mold perfectly around my cock.” The intensity of his words only drove your arousal to a fever pitch, leaving you moaning and writhing with an urgent need. 

His thoughts also weave images of you coming undone, of him making you see the stars with his touch. “I’m going to make you come so hard, you won’t know what to do with yourself. I’ll have you screaming my name, begging for more.” The raw, possessive desire only drives you closer to the edge, each thought and image adding to the pleasure building rapidly within you. “You’re my sweet little virgin now,” his voice growls in your mind. “But not for long. By the time I’m finished with you, you’ll be begging for my cock every chance you get. You’ll be a little whore for me won’t you? Needing to be filled again and again.”

When your climax finally crashes over you, it’s intense and all-consuming, leaving you gasping and trembling. Rhysand’s mental presence remains, a constant, darkly, satisfying presence as you ride out your orgasm. 

After you’ve come down from your high, Rhysand pulls back slightly, his gaze dark and hungry. He leans over you, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks softly. “See how easy that was? You’re going to be amazing, just like that. “

He shifts, positioning himself between your legs, his cock slick and hot against your folds. As he aligns himself, his voice is thick with desire “Feel how hard I am for you? Feel how much I want you? I’m going to fuck you so good, make you feel things you never imagined. You ready for me, sweetheart?” He looks up from where the tip of his cock lines up with your entrance, eyes locking onto yours with a burning intensity.

You meet his gaze, your voice trembling slightly but filled with determination. “I… I want you, Rhysand. I need you.” Your breath hitches as you look up at him, the vulnerability in your eyes matched by a fierce desire. “Please, don’t hold back.”

Rhysand’s smile turns predatory, his eyes alight with satisfaction. He maintains eye contact as he pushes inside, inch by inch, savoring every second of your tight, untried body struggling to accommodate him. “Does it hurt?” his voice drips with mockery and satisfaction when you squeeze your eyes shut. “Does it hurt having this pussy stretched out for the first time?” He watches your reactions intently, delighting in them as your expressions shift from nervous anticipation to surprised pleasure, your brows furrowing with the intensity of it all. 

He cradles the back of your head, tilting it down toward where your bodies are joined. “Look at that,” he breathes, his tone full of wonder. “Look at how you wrap around me. So… fucking tight — it’s like you’re sucking me in.”

The mewl you let out would be embarrassing if not for the overwhelming pleasure and mind-numbing stretch of his cock inside you. “Rhysand, please,” you whisper, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you try to steady yourself.

“Please, what? What do you want me to do, darling?” his voice is a lazy drawl, as though he has all the time in the world to tease you, to make you beg for more. His hips are still, the need to move evident in the tense muscles beneath your hands, but he holds back, watching you writhe beneath him.

“Please, Rhys, just move,” you whine, your body yearning for more, the slow stretch making you desperate. “Just want you… Want you to move.”

“Move?” He raises a brow at you, feigning confusion. “Move where? Move off of you?” He starts to pull out, slowly, torturously, and for a moment, the sensation feels good — until the realization hits that he’ll leave you empty. Without thinking, you wrap your legs around him, arms clinging to his neck to keep him in place.  

He chuckles darkly, a low, amused sound. “You’ll have to be more specific, I need to hear what you want, or…” He pulls out further, the head of his cock barely inside you now.

“Fuck me,” you gasp, your voice trembling with need. “Rhys, fuck me, please.”

The glint in his eyes is dangerous, primal. He leans down, brushing his lips against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

He thrusts back into you, slow but deep, filling you completely. “You feel that?” he murmurs against your neck. “You’ve never had anyone touch you like this before, have you? I’m the first… and I’ll be the only one to make you feel this way. Your fingers don’t even reach this deep, huh? You can’t even pleasure yourself the way that I will.” His words are gentle, but the power behind them is undeniable. “So pure, so untouched. You’re mine now. I’m going to make sure no one else gets to fuck you like this.”

The way he speaks, the deliberate pace of his thrusts as he starts to push in and out of you, has you melting beneath him, pleasure and helpless surrender pooling in your belly. Every inch of him fills you perfectly.

“You’ve no idea what you do to me,” he whispers, his thrusts growing harder, deeper. “Look at how you take me, so well. So fucking tight and sweet, like you were made for this,” he growls, his breath puffing against your skin as he thrusts again, deeper this time. “You feel that, darling? That’s me, stretching you open, shaping this pretty pussy so it’ll only ever fit me.”

A gasp tears from your lips, your body overtaken by the sensation of him inside you, deeper than anything you could have imagined. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your legs trembling as you try to keep up with the rhythm he’s setting. “Rhys,” you whimper, your voice soft and breathless. “It’s so… so much.”

He leans down to capture your lips in a heated kiss, a dance of tongues and lips, exchanging breath ang longing. When he pulls back, his voice is a low rumble. “It’s going to be more, sweetheart. So much more. You can take it though, I know you can.”

You shudder at his words, the physical and mental onslaught of pleasure overwhelming. “Rhys, I–” you gasp, struggling to speak as your mind spins. “I’ve never– fuck! I didn’t know it could feel this good.”

“Of course you didn’t,” he purrs, his pace quickening slightly, making you moan with every deep stroke. “You’ve never been fucked before. You didn’t know what you were missing, did you?”

Your breath catches, your hands fisting in the sheets as his words sink in. The sensation of being filled, stretched, and dominated by him is getting to be too much. “Rhys, please,” you whisper, “please, don’t stop.”

His lips curve into a wicked smile. “I’m not stopping. Not until I’ve ruined you for anyone else.” He thrusts into you harder now, making your body jolt with each sound of skin against skin. “No one else is ever going to fuck you like this. You’ll always want me. You’ll always need me.”

The pleasure building inside you is almost too much, the sensation of his cock slamming in and out of your tight heat. “It feels so good!” you cry out, your pretty noises spurring his desire. “I– I can’t… believe how good it–”

“You like that, don’t you?” he growls, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “You like the way I stretch you out. The way your body squeezes me like it’s never going to let go.” He moves faster, his thrusts becoming rougher, more demanding. “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me how much you love it.”

Your head is spinning, your body trembling as the pleasure builds. “I love it,” you gasp, your voice high and breathless. “I love the way you feel inside me, Rhysand.”

His eyes harden, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. “That’s right. You love being fucked by me, don’t you? You love the way I make you feel, the way I take your virgin cunt.” His hand slides down your body, gripping your hip to keep his unrelenting pace. “And I’m going to keep fucking you until you’re screaming my name, until you can’t think of anything else but how good my cock feels inside you. So innocent… But not anymore, darling, you’re going to want this every single time you see me.”

Your muscles shake as you respond wantonly. “I want more, I want you to fuck me harder.” Rhysand groans, flipping you over without pulling you off his cock. His hands grip your hips as he pulls you closer, his cock slamming into you with renewed force.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he growls, his voice rough with lust. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for. But I’ll give it to you, if that’s what you want?” He glances at you for confirmation, though he already knows what he’ll see.You’ll look back at him with a blissful nod, your eyes heavy and barely open. You cry out as his pace turns punishing, far beyond what you’d imagined during those restless nights spent desperately rubbing your clit to thoughts of him. You can barely catch your breath as he fucks you for all you’re worth. 

“That’s it,” he groans, his voice thick with desire as he pulls you up, holding you flush against his chest. His hands wander over you, the swell of your breasts, the soft skin of your neck. “You’re going to come for me again, aren’t you? I can feel it. You’re so close. You’re going to come all over my cock, aren’t you?”

You can’t speak, your voice lost to pleasure. “Rhys, please,” you gasp, your hands gripping the sheets as you feel yourself hurtling toward the edge. “I’m so so close.”

He teases your ear lobe between his teeth as he whispers, “Come for me, go on. Show me how good it feels to have your virgin cunt fucked for the first time.”

“Feels so good, feels so–”

With a final thrust, you fall apart, your body convulsing as your orgasm rips through you. Rhysand’s name is a broken moan on your lips as the pleasure floods through you. Rhysand watches you as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm, his pace never slowing. “That’s it,” he coaxes you through it. “That’s my girl. You’re mine now, sweetheart. Only mine.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Taglist <3

@starlightazriel @nvdax @halo-hanging @paleidiot @kismet27

@mellowmusings @gracielacie @d3ad-ins1de @loviseamms @inkedinshadows

@natasha153 @deathdoordoctor @spacebananabud @secretsicanthideanymore @edance2000

@lorosette @alykatv @honethatty12 @hellabizzy @serena-capella

@acoazlove @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @scorpioriesling @hannzoaks @confusedsezure

@elenapri0502 @randomgurl2326 @scarsandallaz @julesvanslutta @90angiex

[marvelstoriesepic]

Whumpcember (day 15)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Broken glass

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: slight mentions of panic attacks; crying; slight injury and blood; Bucky being a sweetheart because I love him so much

Author’s note: This got unnecessarily long somehow. Again, this was meant to be a shorty. Also, I was in my feels when I wrote this. Anyway, thank you for reading!

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

The final box of Christmas decorations thuds to the ground as you let it down with a heavy huff. You straighten up your back with a grimace, rolling your shoulders.

You might think as an Avenger, carrying a few boxes, would be an easy task. After all, you are trained to thrive under the most punishing conditions, with sharp skills and boundless stamina. But after hauling all those cartons stuffed with tinsel, garlands, and ornaments up from the storage room to the towering Christmas tree in the compound’s common area, you are left panting like you’ve just run a marathon.

It’s almost laughable. Thankfully, you are alone for now. Sam would have a field day, smug grin plastered across his face at the state you’re in.

Wanda, Natasha, and Clint meant to help you with this but they were all still glued to the desk, writing reports, but Bucky is supposed to be back from his latest mission any minute now and you wanted to do this nice thing for him at least. He did sound a little worn out on the phone earlier when he called you to tell you they were on their way back.

So perhaps decorating the Christmas tree would lift his spirit a tiny bit. It’s the first step in what you hope will be a cozy and inviting scene - something Bucky might walk into and, for once, not feel like a soldier returning from a war zone but a man coming home.

The tree is a statement, of course. Tony insisted on it. It’s so tall, it might even brush the high ceiling of the room and there is no way you’ll get some ornaments all the way up without risking your life. And Bucky would definitely not brighten up if you tried it out.

So you’ll absolutely be needing Wanda’s help sooner or later. With a flick of her wrist, she could make this whole thing a hell of a lot easier but you don’t have the time to wait until she is done writing her report.

You let your eyes roam over the many ornaments lying neatly in the box before you and one of them immediately sparks your attention. Your fingers brush against the delicate surface of the red ornament placed almost carefully beside the others.

Its glass is smooth and cool, the color a deep crimson so much more in depth than all the others. You hold it up to the light, turning it slowly, marveling at how the glow from the tree’s string lights catches on its curves and the unique and detailed pattern all across.

It’s heavier than expected, the weight surprising for something so fragile. The gold clasp at the top gleams faintly, tarnished just a little with age. A thin ribbon dangles from it, curling at the end like it has been tied and untied countless times.

There is something about it, some intangible quality that draws you in - a sense of history, of significance.

And then it happens.

The ribbon slips from your grasp, too quick for your fingers to snatch it back. If you weren’t so enamored with the beautiful piece, you would have gotten access to your reflexes a little earlier.

It’s too late now though, and you can only watch in stunned silence as the ornament tumbles to the ground, the crimson surface catching flashes of light as it falls.

It hits the hardwood floor with a sound that is both sharp and final - a crack, then a splintering.

Disappointed in yourself, you crouch down to the shattered remains. Tiny shards of glass fan out like a constellation, glinting under the glow of the tree. The ornament is no longer whole, splintered into different-sized fragments.

Annoyed that you were so stupid and careless to let this special ornament fall to its devastation, you begin to pick up the many red pieces into your palm.

It really was unique. It would have looked great on the tree-

Your movements freeze. Your heart leaps to your throat. A rush of panic claws at your chest and rises up to your ears where it floods and pounds tremendously.

Rebecca B.

It’s a name ingrained into the largest surviving piece of the glass - a faint, looping scrawl. Clearly written by hand.

Rebecca Barnes. The realization makes you weak in the knees and you fall back onto your heels, your ass hitting the floor with a thump.

This isn’t just some random ornament. This isn’t another piece of holiday cheer to hang on a tree and forget about for the rest of the year after packing it back into boxes to store it in a corner of the storage room.

This ornament belonged to Rebecca Barnes. Bucky’s sister. Something Bucky kept all these years, hidden among the other decorations like a relic of a life he’d lost long before his own had been ripped apart.

The air around you feels heavy. The smell of pine from the tree now stings in your nose. Your heart might actually have fallen along with the ornament because it too is shattered in pieces.

The shards tremble in your palm and you stare at them along with the rest still lying helplessly on the ground, as if there is actually something you can do right now to go back in time and not pick it up ever again, just to make sure.

But there is nothing you can do.

Your heart breaks even further at the thought that Bucky might have put it here deliberately. Maybe it was an attempt to move forward, to share the memory of his sister. Maybe he thought the ornament didn’t belong in some dusty package hidden away, but out in the open, a part of the holiday warmth he’s been so hesitant to feel. Maybe it was his thought of remembering her with someone else this time, instead of alone.

This would be such a huge step for him. And you would feel so proud if you weren’t on the verge of a panic attack.

Because it’s broken, divided into so many pieces. You just dropped something so carelessly that probably meant the world to Bucky. And, god, did he deserve the world. But you took it. You contorted the precious memories of his little sister. Unwillingly, of course. But that doesn’t make you feel any better right now.

You have known Bucky for a few years now. Though knowing him feels like a word too shallow for what you share. You never labeled it, both of you walking the fine line, and never crossing it.

But you see that Bucky trusts you - the kind of trust he doesn’t hand out freely. And for good reason, after all. In fact, you’re not even sure he’s ever given it to anyone else in quite the same way, not even Steve. And that’s saying something.

You see it in the small things, in the way his guarded demeanor softens when it’s just the two of you, the soft smiles that seem to be reserved for you. It’s the kind of friendship where silence doesn’t have to be filled, and words don’t have to be spoken to be understood.

He lets you sit with him on the couch in the living room on nights when his past pulls him under and doesn’t allow for him to get some shut-eye. You are usually awake yourself, sometimes just running on adrenaline after coming home from a mission and accompanying him silently. He always seems to linger out here when you are away on a mission anyway, so you usually meet him here after getting home, watching his shoulders slowly droop and his back rest more comfortably against the back of the couch.

You are the first at his bedside when his nightmares claw at his mind. You’ve seen him at his most vulnerable - shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked chest, hair plastered to his face, his breaths coming in uneven gasps as you help him fight to pull himself out of his memories.

Those nights, you never push him to talk. You don’t ask him to explain or tell you what he saw. Without a word, you would hand him a glass of water and wait while he drinks, his hands trembling so slightly it makes your stomach feel heavy every time. Sometimes you tell him to breathe with you, in and out, until the panic subsided and his shoulders stopped shaking.

You were never sure how much touch he needs in those moments so you usually stay at a small distance from him, but it seems your presence alone does wonders.

When he would be ready, he always searched your face so long and intensely, before croaking out a heavy but meaningful “Thank you.”

And his small acts of kindness always fill you with a jittery feeling that makes your knees weak and unfortunately doesn’t help at all when fighting against Natasha in the ring.

Just a few weeks ago, Bucky spent an entire Saturday afternoon fixing the squeaky hinge on your bedroom door because he heard you muttering to Wanda about how annoying it was.

He never even told you he was going to do it. You just came back to your room later that evening to find the door silent as a ghost. It took a whole week for you to find out how this happened. And it wasn’t him, who told you. It was Clint, who saw him walk around with a toolbox and a satisfied smile on his face that Clint, as he told you found a little terrifying.

Additionally, he always seems to know when you need a break during training sessions, tossing you a water bottle before you even realize how tired you are. Or he would plant himself wordlessly between you and your opponent for the day, with his arms crossed and a chastising glance at you when you’ve been fighting for hours without acknowledging the way your movements already grew sluggish and wobbly.

You are always aware when his hands linger on your shoulder a second longer after a sparring match, his metal fingers cold but careful, as if he’s memorizing the feel of you there. Or the way your stomach twists when he catches your eye across the room, and for just a moment, it’s like the rest of the world falls away. And the way he talks to you, even when people are around, his voice lower, softer, words chosen with an almost uncharacteristic care, makes you feel like you’re the only person he truly is interested in talking to. You also love the nights he shows up at your door with takeout, wordlessly handing you your favorite meal, and striding into your room to settle at the foot of your bed with a contented sigh.

Through it all, however, was always this persistent question you had. The one that molded into an ache inside your chest. Because what if? What if you took one step closer and stopped holding back? What if you risk everything you have with him now for something more?

But right now you feel like those questions don’t hold the same energy anymore. The same weight. No, they just got weightless. Pointless. Because you just ruined everything without even risking it.

You just destroyed something that can’t be fixed with glue and an apology. It can’t be fixed with you sitting with him and comforting him in the dark while his mind goes to the same cruel place like many times before.

This feels like you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross.

The wrong line.

Shaking hands pick up the largest fragment, the soft loops of her name still visible through the fractures. The sharp ends bite into your palm like the memory of something sacred that’s been lost. You don’t feel the sting. You don’t feel the sensation of the few droplets of blood sliding over your palm where the ends nicked your skin.

The only thing you register is that this foolish mistake might actually unravel everything you’ve built with him.

He let you in, further than anyone, but that doesn’t mean he won’t push you back out if you give him a reason. And this definitely feels like a reason.

Your mind presents you with his reaction when he comes walking in here and sees what happened.

At first, there’d be nothing - just the stoic silence he uses to sink into, the kind that makes it impossible to tell what he’s thinking. But you’d see it in the smallest of things - the way his jaw tightens just enough to be noticeable, the flicker in his eyes that he’ll try to hide but won’t be able to, the stiffening of his shoulders. And then the desolation, like a tide pulling back just before it crashes. You wonder if he would say anything at all, or if the silence would hang heavy.

You swallow hard, begin to feel the sting behind your eyes, and try to force the lump in your throat down.

You’ve worked so hard to be someone he could rely on, someone he could trust in ways he hasn’t trusted anyone else in decades. You’ve sat with him, listened to him, stayed silent with him. Learned to know him so well, you even memorized the subtle shifts in his expressions, the things he won’t say but still lets you feel.

And now, here you are with broken glass in your hands and a painful feeling in your chest, terrified that this could be the moment that shatters the thing between you.

He might pull away, retreat behind those walls he’s spent years building. What if he doesn’t let you sit with him anymore. Or what if he does, but his shoulder would only grow more tense. What if he starts holding back, measuring his words, locking the parts of himself away that he once entrusted to you?

The idea of losing him - not just losing him, but losing this connection, this unspoken, almost-more-than-friendship thing that you’ve both been too afraid to name - makes your breath catch and something rise in your chest that might be bile.

A sob comes out instead.

It comes out like a wound ripped open before it could begin to heal. You press a quivering hand to your mouth, in hopes of muffling the sound, but it’s no use. More broken sobs come anyway.

You try to pull yourself together, to force the tears back, but your body feels so weak under the guilt and shame.

More parts of the broken ornament bite into your skin, red droplets welling up and sliding down your skin, pooling at the curve of your wrist, before falling soundlessly to the floor.

Pain should ground you. It should pull you out of this spiral, force you to snap back to some semblance of control. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t do anything at all.

Instinctively, your hand gives way, the pieces tumbling from your fingers and scattering across the hardwood once more.

You only sit there, frozen, your breath hitching and catching in your throat as tears streak down your face, warm and unwelcome. You can’t stop them.

You’re not supposed to be this weak. You’re not supposed to break down like this, over something so small. And yet that makes the sobs only harder to contain. Because this isn’t small - not to Bucky. And that’s the part that leaves you as shattered as the crimson glass. Perhaps as shattered as your relationship with the person you fell for as hard as the ornament fell to the ground.

It’s Rebecca. His sister. His past. His grief. It’s a tiny piece of his life that he trusted enough to bring out of hiding, to put here with the rest of the world, in the open where it could be seen. Where it could be touched. And you touched it, only to let it fall. Only to ruin it.

Shame knocks down on you so hard, you draw your knees up to your chest, curling into yourself as though you could make yourself smaller, invisible, anything but this.

You don’t even know what to do with your blood-streaked palm, only letting it hover in the air, the shallow cuts glistening under the still-glowing lights of the tree. It’s a mess. You are a mess. Curling your fingers into a fist, you wince in pain at the stinging of the cuts but you leave it like that.

Perhaps you are overreacting, sitting here on the floor in the common area of the compound with a bleeding hand and the shattered remains of Rebecca Barnes's memory, but you feel so helpless and remorseful, you can’t really think straight at the moment.

The sound of the elevator is faint, but it’s enough to reach your ears. You freeze. You just sit there, knees drawn to your chest, blood smeared across your palm, the shattered glass of the ornament glittering like broken stars on the floor.

You are tear-streaked, trembling, your chest still hitching with uneven breaths and Bucky just got home.

Those approaching footsteps are so familiar to you, you would always recognize his gate. Usually, it’s comforting, grounding to know he got home and would leave you with relief in your chest.

But there is no place for relief in your chest right now.

His footsteps sound normal, steady, perhaps a little hurried but he hasn’t reached this room yet.

You don’t look up. Instead, you bite your lip to stop the sob that threatens to escape. The shame is too sharp, cutting deeper than any piece of the ornament and making your heart bleed as well.

Maybe if you stay still, if you stay quiet, he’ll miss you somehow.

But then his steps come to an abrupt halt and you know you are screwed.

Burning tears spike once more and the sob breaks free.

“Woah, hey-” he calls out, so urgent, so worried.

Bucky is across the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees in front of you with a speed that catches you off guard.

“Sweetheart, hey.” It falls from his lips so softly, so worried, it nearly breaks you all over again.

Tears fall more freely at the kind of tenderness in his tone and suddenly his hand is cupping your face, thumb, and knuckles brushing the streaks of wetness from your cheeks.

But they keep coming.

“Look at me, please! Doll, look at me,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly gentle, but dripping with so much concern. His metal hand is on your face as well and he tilts it upward, guiding your gaze toward his.

His brows are drawn so deeply, lips parting slightly as he studies your face - the tear tracks, the desolation in your eyes, the shame and guilt, the trembling of your shoulders.

You can’t look at him. Can’t bear to see it. So you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping you’ll ever be able to forget that look on his face. Not when you know what’s coming. Not when you know what you have caused.

Just wait until he sees it, you think. That look will change.

“No,” he whispers, his voice so soft again, but there is a firmness in it. The pad of his flesh thumb smooths gently across your cheek again, while his metal fingers move to your hair. “Hey, no, don’t do that. It’s okay. Y/n, it’s okay!”

You shake your head quickly and try to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a choked sound, half-sob, half-breath. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t know what this is about.

You want to stay hidden behind the veil of your closed eyes, safe from not seeing what you know will be there in perhaps seconds when he figures it out - disappointment, maybe anger, the grief of what you’ve broken.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart, please.”

There is something in his voice you can’t ignore. It sounds unshakable and steady, yet fragile and thick.

Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes flutter open to meet his, but when you do, you freeze.

Because he already knows.

He looks at you. Just looks, but you see he already put the pieces together. He saw the shards scattering around your knees. His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it but he looks at you with an intensity that is new to you. There is that understanding in his eyes. But it’s so soft. So gentle.

There is no anger, no frustration, no disappointment.

There is nothing of the reaction you had feared for.

Yes, there is pain in his eyes as well. It’s unmistakable, flickering in the soft blue of his irises. But it’s not the pain you expected.

It’s not for the ornament. It’s not for what it meant.

It’s for you.

You can see it in the way his brows crease, the frown that tugs at his mouth. And the way he never once lets his gaze stray to the shards on the floor. All he looks at is you.

Bucky keeps his hands on your face, continuing to swipe over your cheeks like he’s afraid you’ll crumble if he lets go. Then, his thumbs still, resting against your cheekbones, his touch so achingly gentle that it only makes more tears fall.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, and the word cracks, quiet and uneven. He still doesn’t look angry. He still doesn’t look disappointed. He looks devastated - not for what you’ve done, but for what it’s done to you.

Your lips tremble, barely able to form words.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Come here.”

Baby definitely is a new one. It’s something he’s never called you before. But there is no time to linger on it, no chance to unpack the flutter it sparks in your stomach because he’s already pulling you toward him.

His flesh arm wraps around your body, tugging you against his chest, while his metal hand finds its place at the back of your head, cold but reassuring fingers threading through your hair.

He lets you cry against his chest. Cradles you so tightly to him, you might actually get worried about your ribs, but it feels so good. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his heart is pounding. The fabric of his tactical suit presses against your skin, rough and worn from the mission he just came back from, but it grounds you to some extent.

“It’s okay. Just breathe, alright? Breathe,” he keeps whispering, exaggerating his breaths against your body to invite you to follow his lead. You try.

“I’m so sorry,” you sob, the words spilling out in a choked, broken rush as you bury your face in his chest. The tears won’t stop, soaking into the dark fabric of his suit.

“Shh,” he keeps on with his soft voice. His arm around you tightens, holding you closer, while his metal hand stays solidly at the back of your head. His fingers brush through your hair in slow, soothing motions. “Don’t be. Don’t you dare be.”

He continues murmuring to you when you try to apologize again, his voice low and warm. He talks so calmly and sure, you feel something inside of you churn.

Bucky tilts his head slightly, resting his cheek against your hair, and you feel the warmth of his breath as he talks to you.

And yet, biting guilt gnaws its way through your ribs. You feel terrible - worse than terrible - because it should be you comforting him, not the other way around.

It’s him who lost something precious, something you had broken. And here he is, holding you, brushing tears from your face, whispering words meant to stitch you back together.

But somehow, he doesn’t even seem to care. He holds you like you are the only thing that matters right now.

Remorse burrows deep, heavy, and shaming, until it pulls you back to yourself - slowly, shakily, but enough to loosen the sobs caught in your throat.

You sniff and take a breath, a real one this time, ragged but yours.

Then, you shift in his arms, gently pressing against his chest to put space between you. His hold loosens, slowly, with a hesitation that tugs at something in you. As if he is reluctant to let you go. Still, he relents.

His flesh hand slides away first, but his metal one lingers, brushing through your hair one last time before settling on your shoulder. He keeps you close, his thumb brushing absentminded sweeps across your sweater.

His gaze never strays and it’s heavy. You can’t meet his eyes for long. They’re too full of that care you don’t deserve, the care he shows you in so many small gestures all the time.

So your gaze falls to the floor, but then you freeze again.

The broken shards that had glinted so mockingly against the floor just moments ago are gone. Instead, settled carefully on the coffee table as though it had never fallen at all, is the ornament.

Whole.

It takes you a moment to process it, to trust what you’re seeing. The cracks are gone, smoothed over seamlessly. The gleaming red glass catches the light of the Christmas tree, its golden little details shining like something out of a memory, timeless and unbroken. As beautiful and aesthetic as before.

For a moment, you even wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then you notice Wanda standing at the far side of the room. Her hands lower slowly, the telltale red glow of her magic fading from her fingertips.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t step closer - just tilts her head slightly, offering you the faintest, knowing smile. Her eyes are warm.

God, of course. You should have thought of that. It even makes you feel a little ridiculous. You live together with people who possess supernatural abilities, powers beyond comprehension. You should have thought of Wanda. How her hands could have mended it back together in seconds.

A choked breath stumbles out of you, somewhere between relief and disbelief. Bucky follows your gaze, his brows furrowing, only to soften when he sees the ornament resting perfectly intact on the table. He stares at it for a moment.

But then he looks back at you and his sweet smile could melt any ice this winter has to offer.

His flesh hand moves a few strands of hair out of your face and tugs them tenderly behind your ear. His hand stays on your cheek. “Told you it’s okay.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I still broke it,” you say, words slipping out quietly, somberly. Your gaze remains fixed on it. Wanda seems to have slipped out again.

“Stop,” Bucky cuts in, his voice more firm than before but still gentle as always. He shakes his head, moving closer to you again, gaze fixed on you.

You feel his hand brush against yours, but then his shoulders stiffen up. He stops. His eyes catch on something and his expression shifts in an instant.

“Jesus-” His frown deepens, something like a shadow crosses his eyes. Sharp eyes lock onto the red streaks lining your palm, the cuts where the shattered glass had broken your skin.

You hadn’t even realized you were still holding onto the pain - too caught up in everything else to notice the dull throb of your hand or the sting of the scratches.

“You’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?” The words are a quiet exhale, soft but weighted. There is no reprimand in his voice, no anger - only concern coloring every syllable.

His thumb ghosts over your wrist, careful not to brush against the cuts. His intense gaze flickers from your injured hand to your face, searching your expression.

“It’s not a big deal-”

“Don’t.”

Bucky shakes his head. His jaw tightens and he exhales sharply through his nose. It’s not frustration - not with you, anyway. It’s something deeper, something that seems to pain him in his chest as he studies the scratches like they’re a personal failing.

“Bucky,” you say while trying to pull your hand back from his grasp when he tilts it more toward the light to get a better look. As if he hasn’t the eyesight of a super soldier.

“Doll. Let me see.” His lips press into a thin line, the faintest hint of exasperation ghosting across his face.

The sigh you let out drags down your chest and you don’t resist when Bucky keeps cradling your bleeding hand and studies the scratches. His brow is furrowed in concentration that feels too much for something so small.

You want to tell him it’s fine, that this is nothing, but the words die before they reach your tongue.

“Let’s get you fixed up,” he says tightly, the tone of his voice all business and leaving no room for argument.

But you shake your head. It’s your fault the ornament broke in the first place. You’re aware it’s whole again, but it was in shambles just moments earlier and you cut yourself thanks to your own stupidity.

“Bucky, you just got back from a mission-” you protest, your voice quieter than you’d like.

“Not too worried about myself right now, doll,” he interrupts, his voice insistent but warm. The hint of steel beneath his words not directed at you but at the way your guilt is still in control, trying to downplay yourself.

“Come on.” He says it softer now, but before you can argue any further, he’s already moving.

Without so much as a pause, Bucky stands and scoops you up into his arms as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You barely have a second to process the shift, before you’re pressed securely against his chest.

“Bucky!” you exclaim, startled, your uninjured hand reaching for his shoulder to steady yourself.

“Relax, doll. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused, though his expression remains calm, focused.

You sigh again, but there is a laugh on your breath. “Buck, I can walk. You don’t have to-”

“Not hearing it,” he says simply, almost flatly. He just continues striding along the halls with you in his arms. His steps are heavier, but you know it’s not because of your weight. He holds you like you weigh nothing at all. “You’re hurt.”

That doesn’t sound like a plausible explanation to you, since you’ve come home with way worse injuries from missions over the last months alone. But the gruffness of his voice, the one that always accompanies him when you’re injured, no matter how small - the seriousness, the concern - it shuts you up for the time being.

You let your head rest against his shoulder. He smells a little like gunpowder and dust, but you only latch onto the parts that are him and breathe them in.

“I didn’t mean to break it, Bucky,” to whisper, gaze dropping to the tightly pressed ball that is your bloody fist. “I’m so sorry.”

You feel the intake of Bucky’s breath against your body and his eyes warmly falling down on you. You don’t meet his gaze.

“You didn’t break anything, sweetheart.” His voice is like velvet, brushing so softly against your skin. So reassuringly. So profoundly gentle. “You’re okay, doll. We’re okay. I promise.” His hands curl tighter around you.

You blink, your head tilting to glance up at him, and your breath catches when you meet his gaze.

It is intense. His brows are pulled together - not with anger, but with concern. Like the only things he cares about right now are the tears that linger in your eyes and the way you’re still trying to curl in on yourself, still letting your body slightly shake with the guilt that he refuses to let you carry.

Something stirs in your belly. Something flutters, as if thousands of tiny wings brush against the walls of you, demanding to be seen. To be felt.

Because you let your mind spiral so much earlier, bracing yourself for a reaction of disappointment, frustration - that flicker of something unnameable that might pull the two of you apart.

But it still isn’t there.

Not even close.

It’s the opposite, really.

[hoe4hotchner]

can you dooooo, secret relationship with reader owning a 5 star restraunt??? the entire team goes there on rossi's dime and everyone finds out because the chef keeps coming to the table again and again and hotch was given a dessert he didnt order and all of his food was removed from the bill??

Étoile | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Chef fem!reader | WC: 1k | CW: Fluff, food, wine

A/N: I honestly just realized that I forgot the part about the bill.

The scent of roasted garlic, seared steak, and freshly baked bread filled the air as Hotch followed the rest of his team into Étoile. Everyone in the city seemed to rave about the five-star restaurant. The interior was a masterpiece of elegance — something that looked like it came straight out of a French Château — with its low lighting, polished wood and golden accents, and flickering candlelight casting a glow over the tables.

Rossi had insisted on treating the team to a celebratory dinner after their caseload lately, and he had, of course, spared no expense.

The team marveled as they were led to their table — a spot tucked into a private alcove that provided a perfect view of the open kitchen. Hotch felt a flicker of nerves as he glanced in that direction, and his eyes found you instantly, at the center of the busy kitchen, directing your staff with a calm yet authoritative nature to you — one that was rarely seen in the field.

You looked brilliant in your chef's coat, hair neatly tied back, your focus shifting seamlessly from one task to another. Hotch quickly looked away, feigning interest in the wine menu as the host seated them. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to notice how intently his gaze lingered on you.

But, of course, fate had other plans.

Just as the team settled into their seats, you stepped out of the kitchen, your confident stride drawing their attention immediately. A polite, professional smile curved your lips as you approached the table.

"Good evening, everyone," you greeted warmly, your voice carrying easily over the soft hum of the restaurant. "Welcome to Étoile. I’m the executive chef and owner, (Y/N). It’s a pleasure to have you dining with us tonight."

“Wow,” Garcia said, her eyes wide as she glanced around the dining room before settling on you. “This place is gorgeous! And you own it? That’s amazing!”

You offered her a genuine smile. “Thank you. I hope you’ll all enjoy tonight’s menu. If there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Your gaze flicked ever so briefly to Hotch, the corner of your mouth lifting in a barely perceptible smile. It was a fleeting glance, gone almost as quickly as it came, but Hotch caught it — and so did Rossi, though he said nothing.

The team, oblivious to the exchange, returned their attention to their menus, already discussing what they might order. Hotch, on the other hand, shifted in his seat, his nerves bubbling just beneath his exterior.

As the evening went on, the telltale signs of your connection to each other began to unfold.

You checked on their table personally — not once, but several times, despite the fact that the restaurant was fully booked. Each time, you lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, your smile a little softer when your eyes met Hotch’s.

When the entrees arrived, Hotch’s plate was different from what he’d ordered. It wasn’t a mistake; it was a refined, elegant dish not listed on the menu. The server placed it in front of him with a knowing smile.

“This is Chef’s special request,” the server explained.

Hotch blinked, his expression giving away nothing, though he was certain his team noticed the slight shift in his posture.

“Special request, huh?” Morgan said, leaning back in his chair and eyeing the plate. “Man, must be nice to get VIP treatment.”

Hotch only gave a tight smile, his response curt. “I’m sure it’s just part of the service.”

The night continued, the atmosphere lively as the team enjoyed their meal and laughed over Rossi’s insistence on ordering the most expensive wine. But the final nail in the coffin came with dessert.

The team had ordered a selection to share — an assortment of tarts, soufflés, and pastries. But when the desserts were brought out, the server placed an additional plate in front of Hotch — a chocolate soufflé adorned with a delicate swirl of raspberry coulis and a small chocolate garnish.

Hotch frowned. “I didn’t order this.”

The server smiled, unfazed. “Compliments of the chef.”

Morgan arched a brow, his curiosity piqued. “Compliments of the chef? Again? Alright, Hotch, what’s going on here?”

“Yeah,” JJ chimed in, grinning. “You’ve been getting the royal treatment all night.”

Hotch opened his mouth to deflect, but before he could respond, Rossi leaned forward, his tone teasing. “Don’t think we haven’t noticed, Aaron. The chef herself has been hovering over this table like a moth to a flame.”

Garcia’s eyes widened. “Oh my God. Wait a second — Hotch, do you know her? Like, know her know her?”

Before Hotch could say anything, you appeared at the table once more, a light laugh escaping your lips as you held up your hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, don’t be too hard on him. It’s true.”

The team turned to stare at you.

“Hotch and I…” You glanced at him with a soft smile. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while now.”

For a moment, there was a stunned silence over the group. Then Morgan let out a low whistle.

“Hotch,” he said, shaking his head in mock disbelief, “you’ve been holding out on us. A five-star chef? Man, you’re full of surprises.”

Garcia clapped her hands together. “This is amazing! I have so many questions. How did you meet? How long has this been going on? Oh, and please tell me he helps you in the kitchen sometimes because I’m picturing it, and it’s adorable!” The pictures played in her brain, mixing with the memory of cooking omelets with Hotch.

As the team bombarded you both with questions, Hotch met your gaze across the table, a faint blush shading his cheeks. Despite the exposure of your relationship, a warmth spread in his chest.

You reached out to squeeze his hand briefly before pulling away, your voice tinged with humor as you answered the team’s questions to the best of your abilities, making sure not to overstep Hotch's boundaries with the information you let pass.

[andhumanslovedstories]

I've been running this writing experiment lately to cut out phrases like "I felt" in my fiction writing. Like I was looking at a sentence in a draft that said, "he felt as if character's eyes were pinning him in place." And then I was like, "well, does he think that or is it true? As a result of this person watching him, he's froze. It's not like a thing, it is that thing."

Oh and "almost"! I'm always going, "He felt almost relieved that it hadn't happened." Well, did he feel better that it didn't happen or didn't he? Or "somewhat", I'm always going, "she felt somewhat perturbed."

And like none of that is wrong, to be clear. I don't know if it'd improve your writing, I don't even know if it'll improve my writing, but I use this sentence structure all the time so every viewpoint is from a voice that thinks about what it thinks, hedges its statements, and offers the same ability for wry little jokes formatted in the exact same way. And I have a lot of writing like that and I think (!) that they're good, but read as a whole, I'm like, "god, they all sound the same." Like there's one melody that I write songs to, so even with different lyrics, it's almost (!) the same song. Something I've been struggling with in regards to my writing and why I've felt so blocked is how boring I found writing my usual way. I'd read something and enjoy the individual parts of it, but then I'd step back and I didn't like the whole. And I got good at this enough at seeing that I didn't like it to do it in real time as I was writing, which as you can imagine didn't improve the process of writing because now I was bored AND dejected about being bored.

There's this sentence-level structure fact that I use unconsciously. A pattern I find easy is short sentence, short sentence, short sentence, long sentence. So I write that. "He [verbed]. He [verbed]. Then he [verbed]. As he [verbed] to his [consequence], he [verbed] that [noun] was [statement of condition]." Which could work, it often does make for a nice rhythm, but it's something I reach for often because it's easier for me.

Just last sentence, I originally typed, "I find it easier for me." But if what I mean is "using this pattern is less effort than another pattern," then it's easier for me. One voice is hedging its bets and the other asserting. Either is fine! But they're different! And, again, GOD you would not believe how many words I've cut out of this paragraph as I write it. I'm so chatty. I love using twelve words when six will do. And that gives my writing a specific tone to my ear.

So if I am bored of that tone, why not try using just the six words? Why be understated? Why be afraid of stronger opinions? So right now with my fiction, I'm experimenting with cutting out as many self-reflective words as I can. Sometime you do need to draw attention to the face that this is the character's interpretation, but like you definitely don't need to do it as much as I naturally want to do it. You don't need to always go out of your way to allow the possibility that the narrative voice is wrong. During editing, I trim the weaker ones (I originally typed, "what I consider the weaker ones" Is that more accurate?). But I think them being there in the first place shifts my language which shifts my character's which shifts my plot. It's sentence structure all the way down!!

(this barely applies to my writing on here, btw. i try to do good but yknow this is a tumblr blog. i'm not trying to get a lit mag to accept it.)

Anyway blah blah (chatty!) the point is I've been trying to write in a way opposite of my interests. Something that doesn't take itself too seriously, that emphasizes EMOTION and ACTION instead of minimizing it, and that clips through scenes at a good pace. Doing this been amazingly fun. I've been having such a good time doing it. I am writing so much because I really enjoy doing it. The process of writing is so fun again.

This post is about two things. One is my new mood stabilizer and therapy day camp. The other is about the benefit of pretending to be MXTX.

[werecreature-addicted]

I remember some of your posts about a minotaur who lived with a peasant girl, can I ask for something about that? If it's not a bother of courseDue to the life that the minotaur has had, its instincts never appeared, that is, it never went through a stage of heat due to the stress and abuse to which it was subjected, but now everything is different, it is calmer, more relaxed, and it began to pay attention to a girl, specifically the girl she lives with, and apparently her instincts are beginning to appear, her body asks her to "mate" with her partner, although it is difficult to control herself, plus they are nothing yet and the girl does not know that minotaurs also go through a hot season, and it's not like she was going to ask him that, it would be very strange xd

(imagine that poor cock crying to enter the girl, but he must hide it, even if it is uncomfortable)

Sam master list for previous parts.

under the cut because this is long...for me at least.

Normally when it came to the physically demanding chores around the farm Sam liked to do the heavy lifting, literally. You were stronger than you looked but you still didn't have the monstrous strength that he did, and even besides that, he liked to spoil you. He'd never admit it out loud but he liked the way you sometimes watched him as he repaired the siding of a barn or hammered in a sense post. Something about the way your eyes followed him left a warm feeling in his belly. It's especially nice now that sometimes you kiss him after he's done a good job.

Now though, he just stands and stares as you work, nailing together bits of wood making your own saddle stand out of leftover bits of material. You looked so good, sweaty, and bent over your little bench. Is this how you felt when you watched him work? Sam doesn't even have the vocabulary to describe the strange heat that burns inside of him. He's supposed to be doing other work right now but he can't tear his eyes from you.

He wants to bend you over that saddle stand and- and what? He flinches back from the thought he didn't want to hurt you and he hates that his instincts are pushing him in that direction. But he wouldn't hurt you, his mind argues back. He wouldn't pin you down to hurt win a match or something. He'd be gentle. He'd pleasure you. Sam shudders. Where were these thoughts coming from?

His nostrils flare and even from across the barn, he can smell you and the salt of your sweat makes his cock throb. Sam sits down hard and pulls a nearby milk bucket over the large tent in his pants. He immediately feels stupid and tosses the pail aside, it did more to draw attention to his boner than hide it. He settles for just sitting awkwardly and hoping you don't notice.

How can Sam ever look you in the eye again after this? He supposes he shouldn't feel so guilty about being attracted to you but surely it's perverse to want you this badly when you're not even doing anything. At least if you were naked in bed trying to seduce him he'd have good reason to be this turned on. Sam shudders and replays the mental image of you, naked in bed, looking up at him trying to pull him towards you. Fuck he needed to get on top of you.

Just as that thought crossed his mind you bent over the waist-height wooden stand to grab something from your toolbox jutting your ass out in front of him. In a second Sam is on his feet, walking towards you before he can register what he's even doing, all he knows is that he needs you.

"oh, Sam-" you gasp, jumping a little when you turn to see him right behind you. For someone so big he moved silently. Sam takes a step forward and presses you back against the barn wall. "What's going on honey?" you ask trying to sound calm but you'd be lying if you said you weren't a little nervous about his behavior. Sam had always been so cautious with you, overly gentle and paranoid that he might hurt you by accident. The Sam you knew would never pin you against a wall like this, it was nervewracking but also exciting.

"I uhm I just wanted to be close to you I guess," he mumbled, lowering his snout to your shoulder as if he was smelling you. Sam steps closer and you feel something brush against your thigh at first you think it's his leg but you look down and realize it's his barely restrained cock poking into your thigh.

"Do- are you uhm in heat Sam?" You ask and the monster on top of you freezes.

"do- do minotaurs go into heat?" he asks puzzled.

"I guess I don't know but most monsters do have you really never gone into heat before?" You ask then wince, it made sense that he wouldn't go into heat when he was under such harsh conditions his body wouldn't let him go into such a vulnerable state.

"No," he said, his hips grinding softly against your thigh he groans at the friction and you can't help but shudder too. You might not go into heat but you did want him just as much. "Will you help me?" he asked desperately.

"yes- yeah, I'll help you let me just-" As soon as he has your consent all other thoughts fly out of his head. He pushes his mouth to yours kissing you and effectively shutting you up. This wasn't like any of the other soft and innocent kisses you and Sam had shared in the past this was heated, and needy and caused a warm heat to bloom inside of you. This isn't a kiss for the sake of kissing, this is a kiss that promises much much more to come.

Even desperate like this, Sam still tries to be gentle as he strips your clothes and kneels down so he can hook your legs over his broad, muscular shoulders, your back pressed to the wall of the barn he holds your weight easily.

"I'm going to get you nice and prepped for me, my cock is big and I need you to take every inch, okay?" he asks softly, kissing the soft skin of your inner thigh as his thick fingers ghost over your cunt.

"Hold my horns while you rid my face," Sam instructs. You look down at his horns, one normal and the other broken and jagged. You hesitated, you knew how much that broken horn hurt him and you didn't want to grab it, but before you could put much more thought into it Sam pressed his mouth to your cunt, running his large soft tongue over your folds getting you wet enough to slot his big fingers inside of you. You yelp and settle for holding on to his good horn with one hand and tangling your fingers in his hair with the other.

Sam's cock ached. He needed to be buried inside of you, but he held himself back. He imagined the pained squeak you'd make if he tried to fuck you without any prep and that was almost enough to snap him out of his lusty haze. Almost.

You lose count of how many times you cum as he stretches you out and gets you ready for his dick, eventually though he decides that you're ready for him, or he just gets tired of waiting. Your legs tremble and for a second you worry you're not going to be able to stand on your own but you needn't worry, Sam had no intention of letting you stand. he readjusts his grip so that your legs are over his forearms and he pins you against the wall again his cock nudging your opening, slipping up your pussy as he tries unsuccessfully to push into you. His cock head bumps your clit and you feel a pulse of warm precum ooze out onto your hot skin making you shudder, your thighs tense in his arms, and Sam grunts, spreading your legs a little further as he grinds his cock over your cunt again.

You reach between your two bodies and grasp his cock. You curse silently to yourself feeling the weight and girth of it for the first time. You stroke him a few times before you guide his dick inside of you.

Sam had been so careful to be gentle with you this whole time, but now that he feels your tight heat gripping him in a way he's never felt before he no longer has the restraint. His brain shuts off and he feels more like a beast than he has in years. Sam slams his hips against yours burying his cock to the hilt in one swift motion. You cry out and dig your nails into his biceps, holding on for dear life as he thrusts into you with all the strength of a bull plowing a field. You're pretty sure you hear something crack and for a minute you aren't sure if it's you or the barn wall behind you that's breaking.

Sam groans loudly as he sinks his cock into you over and over again. His hips have a mind of their own as they steadily rock back and forth. He hates to admit it, but every time you cry out in pleasure or in pain it makes his cock throb. He would have thought the sound of you hurting-hurting because of him, would be enough to break his heart instead it makes him whimper and only fuels his desire to fuck you harder and fill you with his cum until you were swollen with it.

The mental image of you bloated with his seed proves to be too much for him and with one more deep stroke he cums deep inside of you, his legs shake with the relief of finally breeding you. He pulls you away from the wall and crashes backward into a hay bail laying down to catch his breath while keeping you impaled on his cock.

It feels right to have you on his chest and be surrounded by the earthy comforting smell of hay and dirt. You shift a little and his hands fly up to your hips pushing you back down.

"Stay... please," he almost begs softly.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sam, I just want to get off your dick," you promise, trying to shift again. then he looks at you with the saddest most pleading look you've ever seen. his big brown cow eyes sparkling at you.

"Please don't, I want to be inside of you so you can feel me get hard again before I fuck you," he mumbles pleadingly. how could you say no to that face?

[anantaru]

albedo with a breeding kink?

cw. breeding kink, you guys are kinda reckless, implications of wanting to get you pregnant!!!!!, fem! reader

a/n. albedo + breeding is so canon, like there's no way it isn't

albedo knows of the risks of deciding against using a condom tonight, and if anything, he was aware of it more than anybody else— although you said it's alright, only for this one time, ultimately you sought after feeling him inside of you as well, raw and pressed up deep against your most dearest places.

the possible consequences? well, certainly they could be dealt with after.

what's more to it, such prospect of naivety was quite audacious, yes, perhaps, but albedo had always inspired you to try out reckless things— because believe it or not but he was a fan of trying out new kinks in the bedroom, maybe for research purposes or simple curiosity.

for all you know, it could also be his way of figuring out the notions he found to be delicious.

now, one of his hands was clenched at the side of your thigh to keep you steadied while the other was wrapped around himself, slowly pumping his length to the bare sight of you as his cock stayed perfectly settled against your sopping folds, sticking and messing up your core with his pre.

you admire his chest, how it seems like he was just perfect, no flaws, barely dusted with sweat, at any rate that little glow on his skin made him even more beautiful.

his abs too, incandescent without blemish, sculpted with lean muscle.

albedo slowly taps the head of his cock against your hole and smiles when he notices how your slick was immediately covering him. as though sensing his stare, your hips shuffle up to play with him, in fact, giving your boyfriend a clear indicator that you've waited for him long enough turned him on even more.

to be able to jam you with his cum tonight sent even more blood rushing down to his dick until he hisses at the slight throbs his shaft would set free, until of course, he decided it was time for his cock to bury its inches inside of your melting walls.

his hips start to go fast immediately— each thrust multiplying its rhythm to the point where you could feel his warm ruts pervade your skin. it's almost cruel, as were his eyes so heated and hungry, pupils blown as his gaze slips up and down the connection of your joined bodies.

what had first started out as a foreplay session with no rush and taking ones time, now gradually developed into something much more delicious.

albedo wasn't drawing your pleasure out anymore nor did he want to keep you waiting any longer either, he stopped the teasing too— although he would still squeeze and pinch your erect nipples to keep them all nicely for him.

no taunting anymore, no tapping his cock-head against your folds or fucking you with his tip to watch your sweet reactions set the room on fire, because you see, albedo was seeking his own pleasure in this moment— said pleasure not being the climax himself, but the lewd sight of you taking him and that need to splatter his cum all over your sore walls until your legs were beginning to shake around his hips.

your lips part and you moan lowly as he pushes his chest against your own, the precious sounds slipping from your mouth breaking into rough parts as your walls wrap around him ever do tight, leaving the man breathless and hot inside.

instead of rolling into each movement, albedo decides on a different approach and rocks his hips back and forth your pussy, switching between as fast as he could go while then going slower again, forcing you to feel the way his cock presses up against the sweet spot inside of you, fast and slow fast and slow, taking only slight adjustment on his tempo as to make you feel the pressure all the way across your lower area, the feeling that he knew made your eyes roll back into your head.

that's what it was in the end, the pleasure that sent you aflame, too much for too little of time, making you want more as you both come undone, you two at the same time.

albedo's hips buck needily as they stutter through each thrust when you throb and clench down on him, cumming strongly all around his shaft until he could feel a filthy ring of whiteness cover his dripping erection.

a needy, god-awful whimper escapes his throat as he moans luxuriously into your neck when he feels his cum rush to all the right places, the tight entanglement of your walls pressing tight against his shaft spiking electric bolds through his nerves.

although his hips won't stop moving yet.

much to his surprise, your cunt still took him impossibly deep, so tight and wet and unable to slide himself out. yet you're utterly spent that you had to rely on him holding your legs up. even so, you didn't want to lose the connection yet and neither was your boyfriend as he decided to keep himself stored in you.

sure enough, albedo wanted to stay like this for a while, or even longer, because he knew if he was to pull out now, all of his hard work would come to waste and you'd be empty of him much faster than he could even process.

otherwise than that, he really hoped it had worked tonight, there's no way that it wouldn't have, right? after all, his precise calculations always seems to be right.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify, claim as your own

[oizysian]

13 // Fleshlight // Cum For Mommy

Summary: Wanda buys a new toy for Y/N.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Warnings: enchanted cocks, dirty talk, bondage

Word count: 760

Kinktober masterlist

“Just lay back …” she pushed me back gently, my head hitting the soft pillows and my body tensed up with uncertainty. “… and relax. I’m gonna take care of you tonight.”

I let out a deep breath and tried to relax like she told me to, getting comfortable and letting the tension melt from my shoulders.

“There,” she cooed, rubbing her soft hand along my arm. “Now, let’s get you ready.”

“Ready?” I asked, my eyebrows raising slightly with curiosity.

“Yes.” She flicked her fingers at me and my clothes were gone.

Naturally, I thought to myself, if we were going to have sex we would have to be naked. But, then the wisps emerged from her fingertips and wrapped around my limbs, holding me in place.

“What are you doing, Wanda?” I asked nervously and she smiled.

“Giving you a little treat.”

Before my eyes, a cock grew between my legs, red and thick, and I realized she had something different planned for tonight. She looked down at it, clearly pleased with what she had created, and got up from the bed, walking over to our dresser to search within the drawers.

“I bought this specifically for this occasion.” She said as she brought out a box, still sealed in plastic. “Just for you, detka.”

I watched silently as she returned to the bed, sitting next to me and opening the box, showing me its contents.

“A fleshlight?” I asked with amusement.

“I wanted to try something new with you. See how long you can last.”

I was about to speak when she bent her head down and took the tip of my cock into her mouth, sucking on it. She took the whole thing into her mouth, getting it nice and wet with her saliva, and made a show of licking the length of it.

“T-that’s not fair, Wanda.” I said softly, already trying to control myself. “You said you were using the fleshlight.”

She pulled off of me and licked her lips, smiling devilishly as she did so.

“I did, but I had to get you ready first.”

And ready I was. My faux cock stood tall, proud and at attention, just waiting for her to continue her delicious torture. She took it out of its plastic and examined it, looking it over before bringing it to my cock and running the opening over the tip.

“Don’t tease.” I said as I struggled against her magic.

“I believe I’m the one that’s in control.” She said with a smirk before engulfing my cock in the toy. “I’ll do with you as I please.”

I let out a pathetic moan as she brought the toy up and down my length. It felt better than I imagined it would, and it only made me wish that she was riding me instead.

She watched intently as my magical cock slipped in and out of it, perverted squishy sounds coming from within.

“You take it so well.” She moved it slowly, drawing a low moan out of me. “Does it feel better than my pussy?”

“No,” I groaned, fighting off the urge to cum already. “Your pussy … I want your pussy.”

“Not until I’m satisfied.”

I threw my head back against the pillows in frustration, my hips bucking upward towards the toy as she fucked me. She smiled as she played with me, the sounds I was making pleasing to her and the way I looked only urged her on further.

“You’re such a good girl, fighting off your orgasm so this will last longer. You want mommy to fuck you all night?”

I nodded, words escaping me at the moment. She clicked her tongue at me, clearly disappointed with the fact that I hadn’t spoken to her when she asked her question. She slowed down again, bringing it to the tip of my cock and leaving it there so I couldn’t reach release.

“Words, detka. Or you have to do it yourself.”

“Yes!” I croaked, hips jerking desperately. “I want you all night.”

She bit her lip in excitement and let the toy slide down my length, then began pumping rapidly. I let out a gasping cry, my legs shaking as I felt myself about to cum.

“That’s right, darling. Cum for mommy.”

Her words pushed me over the edge and I came inside of the fleshlight, the spurting sound of my cum filling the toy loud as it spilled all over me.

“That was a big one.” She cooed, still pumping the toy along my enchanted dick. “Do you have another in you for mommy?”

[pedroscowgirl]

unexpected encounter

aaron hotchner x fem bau!reader

Warnings: smut! minors dni! p in v (wrap it up), creampie, power dynamics (he's your boss), teasing ? lmk if i forgot something (i prob did)

summary: You were off duty, enjoying a sunny afternoon in a tight, bodycon sundress that accentuated your curves, when you unexpectedly ran into your boss, Aaron Hotchner.

masterlist

a/n: i know it's fall but i just couldn't get this idea out of my head so here you go <3

(also it's 3 am rn and ill post my hugh story tomorrow for those who were waiting on it cuz now its getting a lil late)

The evening sun casts a warm glow as you step out of the café, its fading rays highlighting your sundress, a snug, bodycon fit that clings to your curves. It’s a casual weekend, far removed from the usual dark suits and crime scenes, and you feel a certain freedom in wearing something that shows off your figure. The dress is vibrant, hugging your waist and hips, and the neckline dips just enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, nothing too provocative, but more than enough to draw attention.

You’re not expecting to run into anyone from the BAU, especially not your boss, SSA Aaron Hotchner. But as fate would have it, there he is, standing near his car across the street, his gaze locking onto you as if he’s frozen in place.

You pause, surprised at seeing him, and the moment stretches out longer than you expect. Hotch, the ever-composed leader, is staring. Not just a glance, but a full-on, wide-eyed stare. His usual mask of professionalism cracks slightly as his eyes trace the lines of your dress, lingering briefly on the exposed skin at your neckline before snapping back to your face.

"Hotch?" you say, your voice light with disbelief, trying to break the tension. "I didn’t expect to see you here."

He clears his throat, his expression quickly shifting into something more familiar stoic, controlled. But there’s no mistaking the way his eyes flicker back to you, like he’s struggling to keep his gaze in check.

“I could say the same,” he replies, his voice a little more hoarse than usual. "I didn’t mean to stare."

You chuckle, trying to ease the tension. “It’s alright, I’m off-duty, you’re allowed to stare.” You give him a teasing smile, knowing full well how rare it is to see this side of him.

Hotch seems to struggle with how to respond, his usual sharpness dulled for a moment. He’s not used to seeing you like this, out of your professional attire, out of the controlled environment of the BAU. He’s not used to seeing you as…anything other than an agent.

“I... uh… you look nice,” he finally says, and you swear you catch a glimpse of something like admiration in his voice, something he’s clearly trying to suppress.

You smile again, feeling a bit of warmth rise to your cheeks. “Thank you, Hotch.”

For a moment, it’s just the two of you standing there, the sounds of the city buzzing around you. It’s strange, he’s your boss, after all. But here, outside the confines of the BAU, things feel different. There’s no case, no profile, no killer to chase. Just Aaron Hotchner, looking at you like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“Well,” he says after a pause, breaking the silence, “I should… get going.”

“Yeah,” you nod, not wanting the moment to end. “I’ll see you Monday.”

But as you turn to leave, you can feel his eyes on you for just a second longer than necessary, like he’s not quite ready to break the spell.

And neither are you.

Monday rolls around, and you’re back at the BAU, your professional self once again. You’re dressed in your usual work attire, nothing flashy, just your go-to blazer and slacks. But something feels off. Specifically, Hotch feels off.

You notice it almost immediately during the morning briefing. Normally, Hotch commands the room with his calm authority, making eye contact with every agent to ensure they’re on the same page. But today, he’s avoiding your gaze. Subtly, of course, but after working together for so long, you can tell. When he speaks, his voice is as firm as always, but there’s something different, an edge, a tension that wasn’t there before.

He keeps the briefing short, his eyes barely lingering on you as he assigns the team to tasks for the case. The second it’s over, he quickly retreats to his office, leaving the rest of the team exchanging confused glances.

“What’s with him?” you whisper to JJ, leaning in as everyone gathers their files.

JJ shrugs. “I have no idea. He’s been quiet all morning.”

Emily slides in next to you, overhearing the conversation. “Did you do something to piss him off?” she teases, her eyes glinting with curiosity.

You roll your eyes but feel your stomach flip, wondering if you should tell them what happened over the weekend. You and Hotch didn’t do anything wrong, but there was definitely a moment. One you haven’t been able to stop thinking about either.

“I didn’t… exactly piss him off,” you say, your voice lowering. JJ and Emily exchange glances, their interest piqued.

“Spill,” Emily demands, her tone playful but insistent.

You sigh, looking around to make sure no one else is within earshot. “I saw Hotch over the weekend. Outside of work. I was, uh, wearing a dress.”

JJ raises her brows. “Okay…?”

“A bodycon sundress,” you clarify, feeling your cheeks heat up. “And it was… well, more revealing than what I normally wear around here.”

Emily leans back, clearly enjoying this. “So, you’re telling me Hotch saw you looking all hot and couldn’t handle it?”

You shrug, a small smile creeping onto your face. “I don’t know about that, but he definitely stared. I mean, he was stunned. He couldn’t even look away for a minute.”

JJ’s eyes widen in amusement. “No way. The Aaron Hotchner showed an expression on his face?”

“Exactly!” you say, laughing now that you’re sharing it with them. “I didn’t think much of it, but today? He’s been acting weird. It’s like he can’t even look at me.”

Emily grins. “You broke Hotch’s brain. Well done.”

JJ chuckles softly. “He’s probably just not used to seeing you like that, out of work mode. It might’ve caught him off guard.”

“Off guard is an understatement,” you murmur, thinking back to how he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “But it’s not like anything happened. It was just… a moment.”

“A moment that Hotch clearly can’t stop thinking about,” Emily adds. “You’ve thrown him off his game, and honestly? I love it.”

JJ gives you a more reassuring smile. “I’m sure he’ll get over it. It’s Hotch. He’s probably just trying to re-center himself. Maybe he’s worried about crossing any lines.”

You nod, but part of you wonders if there’s more to it. The way he looked at you—it wasn’t just surprise. There was something deeper, something he clearly didn’t know how to handle.

“Well,” Emily says, grabbing her tablet, “this should be fun to watch. Let’s see how long it takes for him to figure out how to act normal around you again.”

You laugh, but internally, you feel that same curiosity rising. What was Hotch thinking when he saw you? And why does it feel like it’s affected him this much?

The rest of the day drags on, but you can’t shake the tension between you and Hotch. Every time you walk by his office or catch a glimpse of him from across the bullpen, there’s this undercurrent, something simmering beneath the surface. You try to focus on the case, to act as if nothing happened, but it’s impossible to ignore the way his presence feels so much heavier today.

By mid-afternoon, you’ve had enough. You need clarity, or at least to know that this awkwardness isn’t all in your head. So, when you notice Hotch heading for the break room, you seize the opportunity.

You walk in just after him, the door swinging shut softly behind you. He’s standing by the coffee machine, his back to you, shoulders a little more tense than usual. You take a breath before speaking.

“Hotch?”

He turns slowly, his eyes meeting yours, and for a second, there’s that flash of something, surprise, maybe even desire, before he quickly masks it with his usual professionalism.

“Agent” he says, the formality of your title jarring. His voice is cool, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s holding something back.

You step closer, trying to keep your tone casual. “I’ve noticed you’ve been… distant today.”

Hotch raises an eyebrow, but there’s a tightness in his jaw. “I’ve been focused on the case. Nothing more.”

You cross your arms, feeling a mix of frustration and something more personal. “Really? Because it feels like you’re avoiding me.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looks away for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, before his eyes return to yours. “I’m not avoiding you. I just—” He pauses, his expression faltering for the briefest moment. “I want to maintain professionalism, that’s all.”

You blink, caught off guard by the admission. “Is this about Saturday?”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, confirmation, maybe. He looks almost uncomfortable now, like he’s been caught in something he didn’t want to acknowledge.

“I didn’t expect to see you outside of work,” he says carefully, his voice a little quieter. “And… I wasn’t prepared for how you looked.”

You feel a warmth rising in your chest, knowing now that you weren’t imagining things. “It was just a dress, Hotch.”

He lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, his hands resting on the counter behind him as if he needs the support. “It wasn’t just the dress. It was…” He hesitates again, as if he’s struggling with how much to admit. “It was seeing you outside of this job. Seeing you as… more than just my agent.”

Your breath catches slightly at his words. More than just an agent? You hadn’t expected him to be this honest, to admit that there was something more to his reaction.

“And that bothers you?” you ask, your voice softer now.

“It complicates things,” he says, his gaze finally softening. “We work together. I’m your superior. I have to maintain a level of professionalism, not just for me, but for you, too.”

You step a little closer, feeling a pull between the two of you that you can’t quite explain. “But it’s not just about professionalism, is it?”

Hotch’s eyes search yours, and for the first time, you see the conflict written all over his face. “No, it’s not,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The air feels thick with everything unspoken, everything hovering just beneath the surface. You can feel the distance between you narrowing, both physically and emotionally, and it’s like a magnet pulling you closer.

“I don’t want this to affect our work,” he finally says, breaking the silence. But the way he’s looking at you now, his eyes soft, his expression vulnerable, makes you wonder if he’s trying to convince himself more than you.

“It won’t,” you assure him, your voice steady. “We’re both professionals. But we’re also human.”

Hotch exhales softly, his posture relaxing ever so slightly, like the weight of his inner struggle is easing. He still looks conflicted, but there’s a shift in his demeanor, a sense that maybe he’s not entirely ready to let this go, either.

Before either of you can say anything more, the door to the break room opens, and you both immediately step back into your professional roles as JJ walks in, oblivious to the charged moment she’s interrupted.

“Hey,” she says casually, reaching for the coffee pot. “You guys okay?”

“Yeah,” you reply quickly, exchanging a brief glance with Hotch. “We’re fine.”

JJ looks between the two of you but doesn’t press further. “Good, because we’ve got a new lead on the case. Hotch, we need you in the conference room.”

Hotch gives you one last look before nodding to JJ. “I’ll be right there.”

It’s a warm, sunny afternoon when you arrive at the park for a team’s casual get-together, organized by Garcia, who insisted everyone needed some downtime outside the walls of the BAU. Laughter and conversation fill the air as the team relaxes, scattered across picnic tables and blankets.

You’re wearing that sundress again, the one that hugs your curves, the one that made Hotch’s breath catch in his throat the last time he saw you. It’s a bodycon dress that highlights your figure, with just enough of a neckline to show off a hint of cleavage, and when you walk up to the group, you immediately feel his eyes on you.

Aaron stands across the grassy clearing, wearing a simple polo and jeans that fit him perfectly. The dark material contrasts with the sunlit background, casting shadows across the strong lines of his jaw and the slope of his neck. He’s looking at you, his expression intense, his thoughts seemingly far away.

He’s quiet—Hotch always is during these gatherings—but you know what’s on his mind. It’s the same thing that’s been lingering between the two of you for days, the weight of unspoken words and unresolved tension. His eyes flicker from your face to your body, lingering on the dress, and you can see his jaw tighten. The rest of the team is laughing, eating, and enjoying the afternoon, oblivious to the tension that’s simmering just beneath the surface.

As you settle down near the picnic table, chatting with JJ and Emily, you can feel Hotch’s gaze like a physical touch. He tries to be subtle, to act like nothing is out of the ordinary, but you catch him glancing at you again and again. Each time, his eyes darken with desire, his body language betraying the thoughts racing through his mind.

You shift slightly, adjusting the hem of your dress, and you can almost feel the way his focus sharpens. Every movement you make seems to affect him, his grip tightening around his coffee cup, his posture stiffening ever so slightly. He’s trying to keep it together, trying to maintain that professional composure, but you can see him slipping.

From across the table, Garcia rambles about some new tech gadget she’s discovered, and Reid chimes in with his usual barrage of facts. But your mind is on Hotch, and the way his gaze hasn’t left you for more than a few seconds. You glance up, meeting his eyes from across the distance, and the heat between you is undeniable.

He looks away quickly, but you catch the way his fingers clench slightly into a fist before he releases them, exhaling as if to steady himself. You bite your lip, feeling a surge of confidence as you decide to tease him, leaning forward a little more as you laugh at something Emily says. You know exactly what you’re doing.

Hotch’s eyes flash again, and for a moment, you think he’s going to snap. His hand flexes against his thigh, and his gaze grows even darker, filled with barely-contained need. He wants to touch you, he needs to, you can see it in the way he shifts in his seat, the tension rolling off him in waves. But he can’t. Not here. Not in front of the team.

The rest of the group is oblivious to the magnetic pull between you two, but you know. And Hotch knows. His restraint is fraying at the edges, his focus divided between trying to keep up the pretense of professionalism and the urge to take you somewhere more private.

You catch his eye again, holding his gaze just a moment longer than before, and you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch, the smallest hint of a smile, or maybe something more primal. His control is slipping, and he’s fighting it with everything he has.

As the afternoon stretches on, the laughter and casual conversation continue, but all you can think about is what’s going to happen when this gathering ends. When it’s just the two of you. When he doesn’t have to hold back anymore.

And by the way Hotch keeps looking at you, his thoughts following every move you make, you know it’s only a matter of time.

As you pack up your things, you notice him lingering by his car, his eyes still on you, and your heart skips a beat when he makes his way over to you.

"Need a ride home?" he asks, his voice smooth but heavy with something more.

You nod, sensing that this is the moment you’ve both been waiting for. There’s an undercurrent in his words, a promise of something more than just a simple ride.

The drive to your place is thick with tension, the kind that makes the air feel heavier, charged with anticipation. Neither of you speaks much. There’s no need to, everything has already been said in the heated looks exchanged back at the picnic, in the way his hand brushed your lower back for just a second too long as he led you to his car. It’s there in the way he’s gripping the steering wheel now, his knuckles white as he tries to keep control, though you can tell that his thoughts are anything but steady.

You glance at him from the passenger seat, noticing the way his jaw is clenched, the tendons in his neck tight as he stares at the road. His usual cool, collected demeanor is crumbling, and you know exactly what’s on his mind. You in that dress. The way he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since he saw you at the park. The way you’ve been teasing him all afternoon, letting your fingers linger on his arm when you spoke, leaning just a bit closer to him than usual.

It’s like a silent game between the two of you—one that’s about to reach its breaking point.

The second the car pulls into your driveway, you can feel his restraint finally snap. The engine is barely off before Hotch is out of the car, quickly making his way around to your side. He opens the door for you, but as you step out, you can see the way his eyes are filled with a hunger that’s only grown stronger throughout the day. His hand is on your lower back again, guiding you up the steps to your door, but this time, his touch lingers. You can feel the heat of his hand through the thin fabric of your dress, and it sends a thrill through you.

You unlock the door with trembling fingers, your heart racing, knowing what’s about to happen. You step inside, and the second the door closes behind him, it’s like a dam breaks.

Hotch’s hands are on you before you even have time to turn around. His fingers curl around your waist, pulling you back against him as his mouth finds your neck. His lips are hot and urgent against your skin, and you can feel the rough stubble of his jaw scraping lightly as he kisses along the curve of your throat. His breath is ragged, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all day,” he growls against your ear, his voice low and rough, filled with barely-contained need. His hands slide up your sides, his fingers tracing the outline of your dress, and the way he’s touching you, like he can’t get enough, makes your body heat up instantly. “Ever since I saw you in that damn dress…”

You gasp as his hands tighten on your waist, pulling you even closer, his hips pressing against you in a way that leaves no doubt about how badly he wants you. His mouth moves along your neck, hot and insistent, as his fingers slip beneath the fabric of your dress, hiking it up slightly so he can grip your bare skin.

“Aaron…” you breathe, your voice catching as you tilt your head to give him more access. Your body is already reacting to his touch, your pulse quickening, heat pooling in your belly. You want him just as badly, have been wanting him since the moment he first laid eyes on you in this dress.

You barely make it to the kitchen before Hotch lifts you up, his strong arms wrapping around your waist as he sets you on the counter with ease. The cool surface contrasts with the heat of his body pressing against you, and you gasp at the sensation. His hands are everywhere now, on your thighs, sliding up to your hips, then gripping your waist as he pulls you even closer to the edge of the counter.

He kisses you hard, his lips crashing against yours with a need that makes your head spin. It’s a kiss filled with everything he’s been holding back, all the tension from the past week finally spilling over. You kiss him back just as desperately, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands continue to explore your body.

His fingers slide under the hem of your dress, hiking it up higher as his hands trace the curve of your thighs. The way he’s touching you is possessive, almost frantic, like he can’t get close enough. He breaks the kiss for just a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. His hands slide up your sides, brushing over the neckline of your dress. “This dress… you have no idea what it does to me.”

You bite your lip, your heart racing as you look into his eyes, dark with need. “I wore it for you,” you admit softly, your voice breathless. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it.”

Hotch groans softly "fuck you're such a slut for me" his hands tightening on your waist as he kisses you again, slower this time, but no less intense. "fuck yes aaron I am" you replied and his hands roam over your body, slipping beneath the fabric of your dress to touch your bare skin. You arch into his touch, your body responding to him in a way that makes it impossible to think about anything else.

One of your straps slips from your shoulder, and in an instant, Hotch freezes. His breath catches as he pulls back slightly, his eyes fixed on your exposed skin. The strap falls, and your breast is revealed to him. For a moment, he just stares, his eyes darkening even more as he takes you in.

“God…” he breathes, his voice barely a whisper. His hands move to your shoulders, gently pushing the strap further down until your dress is hanging loosely off one side. His eyes flicker up to yours, filled with a mix of awe and raw desire. “You’re so beautiful.”

He leans down, his lips brushing softly over your exposed skin, kissing along the curve of your breast with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. But the tenderness doesn’t last long, soon, his kisses grow more urgent, more desperate, as his hands cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive skin.

You moan softly, your head falling back as his mouth finds your nipple, his tongue swirling around it before he sucks gently, sending a surge of heat straight to your core. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter as he continues his assault on your senses, his lips and hands everywhere at once.

“I can’t… stop,” he groans against your skin, his voice rough and filled with desire. “I’ve wanted this for so long…”

His hands slide down to your hips, gripping you tightly as he pulls you against him, his erection pressing firmly between your legs. You gasp at the sensation, your hands gripping his shoulders as he moves against you, his breath hot and ragged in your ear.

“I need you,” he murmurs, his voice low and desperate. “Right now.”

You nod, breathless, as you pull him closer, your legs wrapping around his waist as he lifts you slightly off the counter. His hands slide under your dress, pulling it up higher as he presses himself against you and takes off your underwear, his lips find yours in a heated kiss that leaves you both gasping for air.

When he finally enters you, it’s like everything else fades away. The world outside, the past week of stolen glances and restrained touches, it all falls away as he moves inside you. His pace is slow at first, savoring the way you feel wrapped around him, his lips brushing over your skin with every thrust.

You arch against him, your hands gripping his back as he moves faster, his control slipping as the need between you builds. His mouth is on your neck, your shoulder, your breasts everywhere, as he pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

The strap of your dress falls completely now, both your breasts exposed to him, and Hotch loses it. His hands cup your breasts again, his thumbs brushing over your nipples as he thrusts harder, deeper, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“You’re perfect,” he groans, his voice filled with awe and desire. “Everything about you… I can’t get enough.”

You moan his name, your body trembling as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. The way he moves inside you, the way he touches you, it’s all too much. You feel the tension coiling in your belly, ready to snap at any moment.

And then, with one final thrust, you’re falling. You cry out, your body arching against him as pleasure crashes over you in waves. Hotch follows seconds later, groaning your name as he shudders, his body tensing as he finds his release.

For a moment, neither of you moves, your bodies still connected, your breaths mingling as you come down from the high of it all. Then, slowly, Hotch pulls back slightly, his hands still holding you close as he looks into your eyes, his expression softer now, filled with something more than just desire.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers, his voice full of awe as he brushes a stray hair from your face. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to keep my hands off you after this.”

You smile, breathless, as you lean in to kiss him again, slow and deep, savoring the moment. “Then don’t,” you whisper against his lips, and the way he kisses you in return tells you that he has no intention of letting go anytime soon.

taglist (lmk if u wanna be added): @looking1016 @pear-1206 @doe-eyed-diva @ssa-aaronhotchner @sweetpinkchampagne @totallyjovialblaze @pastelpinkflowerlife @donttrustlove @actualdeemon @jencole214 @fandomawesomeness @devilslittlehelper

[driverlando]

Jealous biker lando being over protective of waitress reader 👀

Dangerous Territory ── biker!lando x waitress!reader ✧.*

The diner hums with its usual late-night rhythm. The faint clatter of cutlery, the buzz of conversation, and the smell of frying bacon and coffee fill the air. You’re moving from table to table, a practiced smile on your lips as you top off mugs and serve plates. It’s late, and your shift is dragging, but it’s familiar, comforting in a way. The neon lights from the diner’s sign outside cast a soft glow over the checkered floors, painting everything in a warm, nostalgic light.

From the corner of your eye, you spot Lando in his usual booth, sitting with his back to the wall, one arm slung casually over the back of the seat. He’s always there at the end of your shifts, watching you, not in an overbearing way but in a protective, silent kind of presence. His leather jacket creaks as he leans back, his dark eyes tracking your movements with a kind of lazy interest. The dim lighting throws shadows across his sharp jawline, making him look even more dangerous than usual. He doesn’t need to say much; just his being there is enough to let everyone know you’re not alone.

You try not to focus on him too much, knowing that whenever your eyes meet, something sparks in the air between you. But it’s hard not to notice him, sitting there like a storm waiting to break, his motorcycle parked just outside, ready to whisk you away once you’ve clocked out.

As you move back to the counter, you feel someone’s eyes on you—a different kind of stare. A guy at the counter, someone you haven’t seen before, grins at you as you set a plate of food down in front of him. His smile is too wide, his eyes lingering on you a little longer than you’d like as you bring him his food. “Another burger and chips,” you say politely, sliding the plate in front of him, already moving to step back when he decides to lean in.

“You work here every night, darling?” His words are slurred but sharp enough to make your stomach turn. His eyes rake over you, from your waist up to your face, and the sleazy grin spreading across his lips sends a chill through you.

You force a smile, trying to keep things professional. “Most nights,” you reply curtly, turning away to tend to the next table, but his voice follows you, dripping with entitlement.

“You’re too pretty for a place like this,” he says, louder now, drawing a few curious glances from nearby tables. “How about you finish up here and I take you somewhere nice, eh? Bet you’ve never been treated right.” His voice greasy, oozing with an unwanted familiarity.

You freeze, fingers tightening around the coffee pot in your hand, trying to keep calm. “I’m fine, thanks,” you say through gritted teeth, praying he’ll get the hint and leave you alone.

But, of course, he doesn’t. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that. I’m just trying to be friendly. How about I get your number?” He leans further over the counter, and now you can feel his breath on your skin, the stench of beer making your stomach churn.

You’re about to respond when you feel a shift in the air, a prickle of tension that’s unmistakable. Lando’s watching. And this time, he’s not staying in his booth.

From where you stand, you can see the change in everyone else—the way conversations pause, forks freeze mid-bite, and even the jukebox seems to fade into the background.

Lando’s not rushing. He never does. He walks with purpose, slow and steady, his boots thudding against the tiled floor with a deliberate weight. His leather jacket is half-zipped, the collar up, his eyes locked on the bloke at the counter with a look that could kill.

You’re caught between wanting to stop him and knowing better. Lando’s never been one to start trouble, but he doesn’t shy away from it either, especially not when it comes to you.

The guy at the counter seems blissfully unaware of the impending storm, too caught up in his own delusions of charm. “What d’you say, love? You can do better than this place, yeah?”

Before you can open your mouth, Lando steps up behind you, his chest almost brushing your back as he positions himself between you and the counter. His presence feels like a shield, his hand lightly grazing your waist, a silent gesture that says, I’ve got this.

“You’ve got about three seconds to leave,” Lando says quietly, his voice low and controlled, but there’s an edge to it that sends a shiver down your spine. The kind of tone that promises hell if the bloke doesn’t listen.

The man’s smile falters for the first time, but he tries to laugh it off. “Oi, mate, no need to get all worked up. We’re just having a bit of fun, yeah?” His eyes flick between you and Lando, clearly trying to assess if this is worth pushing.

Lando doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. “I’m not your mate,” he growls, his hand tightening slightly on your waist. “And she’s not interested. So, unless you want to be picking up your teeth from the floor, I suggest you leave.”

There’s a pause, thick with tension. Lando’s arm brushes against yours, a small but significant reminder that you’re not alone in this. His fingers twitch slightly, as if resisting the urge to do more, but his presence alone is enough to make the guy back down, finally clocking just how dangerous Lando is. He mutters something under his breath—something about not wanting trouble—and then fumbles to grab his jacket, to throw some money on the counter before practically tripping over his stool in his haste to leave. The bell jingles as it swings shut behind him, and the quiet that follows is almost deafening.

You exhale slowly, the knot in your stomach finally loosening. Lando’s hand lingers on your waist for a moment longer before he turns slightly, looking down at you. His jaw is still tight, his eyes softer now but still flickering with the remnants of protective rage.

“You alright?” His voice is gentler now, his thumb brushing your side.

You nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah, thanks”

Lando’s gaze softens as he looks at you, the intensity melting away now that the guy is gone. His hand moves to your waist, fingers brushing gently over your hip in a way that feels more like a reassurance than anything else. “Didn’t like the way he was looking at you,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with protectiveness. “Bloke’s lucky I didn’t deck him.”

You laugh softly, though there’s a hint of truth in his words that makes you shiver. “You didn’t have to get up, I could’ve handled it.”

Lando raises an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, but why let you when I’m right here?” he teases lightly, though there’s no mistaking the seriousness in his eyes. He’d do it again in a heartbeat.

You roll your eyes playfully, but you can’t deny the flutter in your chest at how easily he steps in when you need him. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he says with a grin, tugging you just a little closer before pressing a soft kiss to your temple. His hand lingers on your waist as if he can’t bring himself to let go, even as you pull away to get back to work.

As you return to your shift, you can still feel Lando’s eyes on you, that quiet, protective presence watching over you from his booth. And though the diner’s back to its usual buzz, you feel safer, knowing Lando’s never far, ready to step in the moment you need him.

—

read After Hours here

[troublesomesnitch]

Rimming Aemond - Drabble

Aemond x Maid!Reader - Quick smutty drabble

The way he was bent so beautifully over that table - I couldn't help it, I had to write this little thing.

Contents: eating Aemond's ass, plain and simple. Be warned, this is graphic, and I was hardcore blushing when I wrote it.

Words: 1600

Tensions are high within the castle as the crown prepares for war. High among its serving staff; high among its guards. High among the royals who walk its gilded halls. And high within the one-eyed prince, for even if he would never admit it, the stresses weigh on him as much as on everyone else. 

He has always been demanding, your prince, but now more so than ever he is difficult. Quick to anger, less forgiving if your work is not to his satisfaction. Rougher when he fucks you in secret, holding you down and snapping his hips hard against yours, using you as little more than a vessel for release and replenishment. 

You do not like it very much, this roughness to his touch, at least not every time. But you dutifully turn up whenever he sends for you - always under a suitable pretense, of course. Sheets need changing, floor needs sweeping. He wants water. He wants wine. Tonight he asked for figs, and they lie beautifully arranged on a golden plate, untasted and untouched as he devours your mouth instead. 

Even his kisses are rougher now, hungry for something your body cannot give him. Battle. Blood. He moans into your mouth when you bite his lip, as eager as always, running his hands over your bottom and down the back of your thighs. About to lift you up with ease, hoist you onto the table and take you right there and then - 

“No,” you exclaim, squirming in his arms and pushing lightly against his chest. “Not tonight.” 

Prince Aemond is an honourable man in some regards. Although clearly dismayed, he releases you with a quiet sigh, stepping back to let you catch your breath and hopefully explain this very sudden change of heart. If you want him in a different way - or not at all. 

“Well?” he demands, tapping his fingers impatiently on the back of a chair. 

“Bend over,” you breathe. 

The prince is not used to taking orders. Not from anyone, and most certainly not from you. His brows draw together in a frown right away, displeasure written all over his face. A maid should never speak to a prince in such a way. Even if he is her lover.

 But when he opens his mouth to scold you, you beat him to it. 

“Go on then. Bend over.” 

You can see that he is sorely tempted to dismiss you for your insolence, or at the very least punish you in some sort of way. But his curiosity wins over, and he does turn around to lay himself across the table, helped along by the push of your hand between his shoulder blades. On his stomach, resting on his elbows. A position most unfit for someone of his standing, especially a man, and you are quick to place yourself behind him, reaching around to slip a hand down his trousers and wrap it around his swollen cock. Make sure that he is nice and hard, too aroused to be prideful. It is a risky endeavour, this thing you have in mind, and you want him wanting and pliant, far enough gone that he will not resist. The way he gets when he is just about to come, and you are quite sure that he would pluck the sapphire straight from his socket and offer it to you, if only to be allowed to finish in your mouth. 

“Does it feel good?” you whisper, low and sultry, hiding a smile against his back when he murmurs yes. 

Really, you are only buying yourself time, gathering up your courage, but he doesn’t know that. He only feels the way you stroke his cock, and the way your other dainty hand slithers in between his legs to massage his balls too, the way he likes it. Cupping and fondling, squeezing almost a little too hard. 

But when he starts to pant, you release him. Which makes him give a dissatisfied groan.

“Wait,” you breathe, fumbling with the closure of his breeches. Swiftly tugging them down, before finally kneeling to the floor so that your face is at level with your intended destination. His smooth, naked arse. 

Slowly and gently, you run your hands up the back of his legs. Giving a squeeze to his thigh, and a soft exhale onto his skin - a warning before you press your whole face against his backside. The prince tenses at once, shifting his upper body to turn towards you, to object, tell you no - but he cuts himself off with a gasp when the tip of your tongue swipes between his buttocks. 

The scent and taste of him is heavy and warm, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but enticing in its own strange way. You are careful at first, pressing your tongue against the place where his skin starts to pucker, flicking it slowly up and down, never quite touching his opening. Only feeling his tender skin. Soft, and hot, and dusted with little hairs that tickle your mouth, much like the hair on his balls, only even more downy.  The prince grunts out a husky fuck, and he reaches back to grip onto your hair, tangling his fingers in it, not quite sure if he wants to push your head away, or press it closer. 

It is all the encouragement you need. You lap at him eagerly, moving your tongue in circles around the rim of his opening, with little concern for modesty, or propriety, or when he last bathed. It is wonderfully lewd, wonderfully filthy; not only to expose this most intimate part of him, but to press your mouth to it and taste it, hear how he gasps, feel how he tightens with each of your licks. Both the muscles in his shapely thighs, and the one you can feel pulsing under your tongue. 

You imagine you must be the very first woman to ever pleasure him this way. Likely the last as well, for when he marries, his wife will be a noble lady, and you do not believe a lady would ever demean herself with such an act.

With you it is different. You are naught but a common girl, a simple chambermaid. It is an honour and a privilege for you, being allowed to wait upon the prince. Change his bedsheets, scrub ink stains from his floors. Plunge your tongue into his royal arse. 

He groans unabashedly from it now, legs trembling and fingers gripping the carved edges of the table, his knuckles turning white as you clamp your hands onto his buttocks to spread them apart. So you can delve in deeper, press your tongue flat against his hole and lick it, alternating between slow drags and quick, teasing flicks. Delighting in the way it makes him moan. Only very briefly do you draw back to catch your breath, and to have a quick, indecent look at his backside; at his firm, supple buttocks and the area in between, where the skin is sinfully darker, and now glistening with your spit. And at his little puckered hole, which unsurprisingly is as beautiful as every other part of him. Rosy pink in colour, and framed by wispy white hairs. It twitches with anticipation as you lean in again, pressing your tongue against it, this time breaching him with the very tip. Making a violent shudder run through his body. 

"Fuck," he groans, releasing your head, his hand disappearing underneath the table to grasp his own cock and stroke it. 

You have never before felt him tremble like this, never heard such wanton moans from him as just now. He shamelessly thrusts his arse backwards, wanting your tongue deeper, wanting it more, wanting it to touch that tender, throbbing place inside him - you know there is a spot within a man’s behind that gives him pleasure, as you have heard other girls giggle and blush when they spoke of it. From what you understand, it would be too far to reach with one’s tongue, but there are other ways to make use of it, and that is what you aim for instead. 

Slipping your hand in between his legs, you push gently against that soft bit of flesh beneath his balls, holding your hand still, just letting him feel the warm pressure from your fingers. It makes him moan, and you can feel how he is throbbing everywhere; in your hand, in his arse, in the back of his knees. Soon you feel the first little spasms of his rapture too; his legs tensing, his balls pulling tight against his body, heavy and full, desperate for release. 

When he spurts, he collapses flat onto the table, unable to support his own weight, shaking and moaning uncontrollably. His hole tightens rhythmically around your tongue, twitching and contracting with pleasure, and you find yourself wondering if this is how your insides feel around his cock when he fucks you - if so, you can certainly see why he is so eager for it. 

Afterwards, he is quick to wipe his hand clean and pull his trousers back up. You expect him to dismiss you right away, but instead he reaches out to absentmindedly stroke your hair, for once at a loss for words. His face full of disgust at what has just transpired - but also sweaty and blushed from how much he enjoyed it.   

“You should rinse your mouth,” he finally grumbles, sternly and coolly, his upper lip curling over his teeth.

You hold back a little smile when you curtsy. 

“Would that be all, My Prince?”

“Yes,” he says, straightening his back, squaring his shoulders, lifting his chin to its usual haughty position. “That would be all.” 

Please feel free to come into my asks or DMs with critique of my fics! Constructive is preferred, but not required.

No tags, because the subject matter might not be to everyone's taste...

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

I came back from the movie theaters (Fnaf Movie) My lord I FREAKING LOVED IT THE WHOLE THING IDC AHHH Ahem-

I saw that requests are open, SO a Platonic Headcanon Request if you don't mind, Fnaf (Movie) Animatronics with Gender-Neutral (17-soon to be 18) Reader as the new security guard? or maybe tags with Mike and possibly Abby? (Reader ain't tall just-idk 5'2 maybe I am projecting-)

(I know this request doesn't make sense because of the tiredness due to staying up late because of excitement. Feel free to delete this ask if its too complicated)

bonus: If you want to, You can also Include Chica's Cupcake

Have a nice day/night, From 📞 ☕ (PhoneCoffee) Anon

Oh I can definitely work with this ^^

......

When you started working at Freddy's overnight, you hoped this would be your last summer job ever before you turned 18.

"Steve" said it was all pretty straightforward: watch the cameras and make sure nobody broke in.

Easy as pizza pie, right?

Well, when you realized one of the animatronics very subtly moved from their usual spot, you wanted to check them out for yourself.

Plus, sitting in the office for six hours every night would def get boring as hell.

So you head to the main stage area, finding the whole gang mysteriously gone--Foxy included.

Then you get surprised by them emerging from different places in the pizzeria, eyes glowing a sinister yellow as they surround you, wary of your intentions.

"O-Oh hey..um..Fazgang?" You try your best not to look so terrified.

Surely someone was controlling them, right? They couldn't possibly hurt you.

Yet they stop and collectively realize "wait, isn't this a teenager? And why are they working this job??"

But since you're not wrecking anything in the pizzeria (or screaming bloody murder unlike the last guard), they spare you and are just very chill overall.

You now start to believe all the rumors of them being haunted by little children.....although not even that scares you.

On the second night, you learn that they can understand simple drawings--and that's how you pretty much communicate with them and build up trust.

While Bonnie is regarded as the "most aggressive", he was a real sweetheart who let you shine his guitar and hugged you tightly to express his thanks.

Alas you haven't found a way to stop it from constantly short-circuiting when he strums it...but you vow to figure something out.

Chica was equally as sweet, although for some reason Carl the Cupcake made you feel nervous.

The way he can be on the plate one moment and then disappear the next makes you worried that he'll sneak up on you and bite your ankles off.

But as long as Chica's around, that won't ever happen.

Although Foxy looks quite dangerous, you try your best to patch up the hole in his chest using some spare parts from backstage while being oblivious to the deadly Freddy mask saw trap in the corner, something he's grateful for.

He even sang you a little sea shanty as thanks!

Freddy was the first to be suspicious of you, but after seeing a drawing you made of him, he grows to like your presence, too. Especially after how nice you've been to his bandmates.

So you definitely survived more than five nights at this place--longer than anyone so far.

When Mike gets hired and comes in for his first shift with you, he's surprised that a teen is training him.

He suspects this was some lousy summer job you were forced to get and thinks you're gonna act miserable the entire time you work together and not actually teach him shit.

But as it turns out, you love your job!

You show him the Fazgang during their "showtime" performance and assure him that while they may look creepy, they're not bad at all.

And while you're not getting paid extra to do simple maintenance on them, you still enjoy trying to keep them in tip-top shape (especially Foxy, who needs repairs the most).

Mike seriously thinks you shouldn't be doing that as it's not in the job description AND it could be dangerous.

Even if you have expertise in robotics, he still thinks it's not worth losing a limb or finger to those complex contraptions.

Like he almost did after getting near a springlock suit.

But you just teasingly remind him who the trainer is..and he goes quiet.

Foxy overhears this, and you see him snickering from behind the Pirate's Cove curtain, amused by you basically schooling this 25-27 year old man.

Unfortunately he startled poor Mike, who looks over quickly.....only to find the fox standing in his usual position, acting completely normal.

"Was he just laughing at us...?"

"Nope." You play dumb, shrugging. "Must be his voice box malfunctioning....c'mon. Let's see if we can fix that."

Least to say, you're not gonna let him sleep on the job anytime soon.

[r0-boat]

Back To The Kitty Cuz shes kinda Pretty

Lighter x Fem!barmaid!reader drabble

Lighter is a man who PINES for you even when he doesn't show it. He also doesn't know how to talk to you because he loves you so much.

Lighter's POV

The boss is always asking me why I don't hang out at Cheesetopia more. I get why she asks It's a nice place good atmosphere and really good food but my attention is occupied...

To bar in particular.

In a small town; smaller than Blazewood.

Ya can't miss it It's sleek polished dark wood exterior with shining red light spelling its name. The name escapes me. Oh well I'll probably remember it on the way I know how to get there by hard after all.

Drive your vehicle straight down Eridu interstate Take the third right turn you see keep driving until you see a rundown little town. You can tell the only people who come here are really for the bar...

'The Cat's Tap...' yeah now I remember...

Nice of them to have that big sign. Like clockwork I come in every Wednesday, Giving yourself a routine makes an impression. Especially when you're trying to catch someone's eye.

Usually, I don't care how people perceive me, even if they perceive me at all. But she's different. Her polite, soft tone and cute refresh me like a glass of iced sweet tea in the Outer Ring on a hot summer's day. Her eyes and smiling lips ooze with naivety that draws me to protect it at the same time hiding a hint of something more that I'd like to pick apart.

People don't normally drink on weekdays less they want to work with a hangover. And Wednesdays well... Cheesetopia has their happy hour. So I'm usually one if not the only one to come in and they'll just be me for a little while.

I gently push the door open with my hand as I'm greeted with that familiar face at the counter. "Hello again Lighter." She greets me not even looking up at the table she's trying to clean, I can see the corners of her lips turn into a smile.

I want to know what made her smile.

"hello to you too." I reply before sitting at one of the bar stools. She knows my name, But I don't know hers. She's the only service worker I know in the outer ring to not wear her name tag. Damn it. Just my luck. She wasn't wearing it today either.

I know she has one I saw it before with her name.... I just don't remember...

My eyes peak up on my shades, as I want to see all of her as she prepares my usual I can't hide the small smile on my lips. I noticed that the name tag isn't the only thing she's forgetting. Looks like half of her uniform is missing as well...

I would be worried if her boss wasn't her father. Who coincidentally isn't usually here on Wednesdays.

I put the glass to my lips, hoping this time the alcohol would finally give me enough courage to say something to her. I'm usually so good at this, but when it comes to her, I don't know what I become. Man small talk is hard....

I usually just wait for her to ask me questions and I answer. And then we talk from there. But the beginning is always the hardest. Trying to find some excuse to hear her voice.

Trying to get her name.

Trying to get her number.

Trying to get her...

I want her...