#like I want to be kind I want to be nice SO bad

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0K (sorry!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), teammates to lovers, angst, talk of insecurities, john is an asshole who’s emotionally constipated, mention of violence, wound tending trope, heavy kissing, groping, teasing, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, mild body worship, hair pulling, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, missionary position, john has a huge praise kink, aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: listen ,,, I know he’s a bad person & he’s flawed but he’s so well-written and hot … and it’s wyatt russell !! first time writing for john and I loved this, I hope you guys love it too! thank you so much for your support! 🫶

Ash floats through smoke-laden air in the aftermath of an explosion, chunks of a building blown into the streets, screams of civilians pounding within your ears. Time stills, as if it’s come to a crawl, and everything slows around you.

Missions still paralyze you from time to time, fear and doubt creeping in, keeping you frozen in-place. It’s gotten somewhat easier, adapting to chaotic situations, attempting to fit in with your new teammates.

A clammy perspiration clings to your flesh beneath your suit, the design nondescript. Valentina had pushed for something flashy, more in-line with your abilities, but you refused. The less that you stuck out, the better.

It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the rest of the team, healing powers at the expense of your own energy, but you were designated as the ‘medic’, for obvious reasons. Whenever someone was injured or too roughed-up, you were there to help.

“You still with us over there?”

John Walker’s snide quip emanates from the communication link sitting in your ear, and it’s enough to effectively shatter your stupor. It wasn’t a malicious remark — just a little annoying, likely furthered by his tone of voice.

Steve Rogers was someone you knew, years ago — an acquaintance, really, but he’d helped get you out of a bind with undercover H.Y.D.R.A operatives. When he wore the shield, when Sam wore the shield, it stood for something greater than themselves.

Walker had been thrown into enough turmoil already; losing the role of Captain America, murdering an innocent, losing his family. It was all his fault, he knew this — it didn’t make the pain any less, knowing he was at the root of it all.

The both of you butted heads more often than not, two differing personalities that clashed in verbal sparring matches or thinly-veiled hostility. You’d tried to empathize with him, but he made it difficult with his condescending attitude.

Bucky had played mediator more times than you could count — you didn’t enjoy getting angry, the feeling never benefited you. Nevertheless, you were trying to get along with Walker and learn to work better as teammates.

Things were progressing, albeit slowly. Even after extending the olive branch and being kind to him, maybe too nice, he still held some lingering indifference towards you.

“I copy.” In the aftermath of thwarting enemies of the state, you prefer to help the civilians, ensuring that they were out of harm’s way, healed. Jogging toward a group of people attempting to move rubble aside, you’re quick to assist.

“There’s still one more, if someone wants to take care of it,” Ava’s voice comes over the communicator, muddled by background noise of emergency vehicles. “Unless you need help.”

“I got it.” Quick to volunteer, Walker’s voice cuts in before dissipating. You’re busy helping move wreckage aside, freeing any trapped citizens and making way for ambulances. Wailing sirens fill the air, and things move swiftly.

The air smells of burning, intermingled with a twinge of copper, a streak of crimson splashed upon your cheek. It’s a shallow cut, something trivial and minor, muscles aching with a dull throb after the dust begins to settle.

Helicopters begin to circle overhead, the media soon to follow. It was some rogue section of former H.Y.D.R.A operatives that had caused this mess, and with the formation of the New Avengers, these threats seem to appear more often.

The public is torn — one side openly celebrating that there’s protection again, the other side scornful of a ragtag group of government rejects. You aren’t one to pay attention to the discourse, focusing on finding your own footing, building relationships and making amends.

Despite having the team to lean on, you had a complicated relationship with your own family. After your powers manifested, you became isolated, kept at a distance, prompting you to run away and find S.H.I.E.L.D, when it still existed.

Still, you felt alone sometimes, but the pain had lessened with the passage of time. Alexei, of all people, treated you like a daughter, and Ava proved to be a reliable friend, despite her constant grimace. The more you assimilated with them, the more the bitter sting dissipated.

The team was a conglomerate of fragmented pasts — scars, veiled wounds, regrets; but they had become your family, or something close, and that meant the world to you.

As first responders began to flood the scene, you regrouped with the rest of the team, scraped and battered from the fighting, but all intact. Bucky and Yelena typically helmed any media events following a battle, but this time, everyone wanted to go home.

“Look at us,” Alexei laughs, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, and Yelena’s. “We are good team! The best team that the world has ever seen!” He cheers, and you find his enthusiasm endearing. John winces, stepping away from the Russian’s hold.

“You say that after every mission.” Yelena points out, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The jet is somewhere down the street, and you all begin the arduous process of walking back.

“It is to remind of the truth, of our strength.” Alexei boasts, gleeful as ever as he jogs to keep up with Bucky. Bucky’s taken to letting him pretend that he’s the “co-captain”, just to keep his spirits high.

Morale is Alexei’s specialty — there is never a dull moment when he’s around, and his enthusiasm evokes a small smile from you, curling at the corners of your mouth. Dull, throbbing pangs of sore muscle ebbs through your body.

Straggling along at the tail end of the group, you step through some of the smaller pieces of rubble, a majority of what remains to be disposed of by a clean-up crew. Your mind is elsewhere, and the idea of sleeping once you’re back to the Watchtower is very appealing.

John is there too, uncharacteristically quiet as he walks a pace or two ahead of you, and you notice the slight stutter in his gait. There’s crimson blooming from a gash on the back of his suit, a deep wound, and your brows furrow together.

He didn’t say anything about it, which is typical, but you can’t help but be concerned. You didn’t dislike John, simply abhorred his attitude and the way he sometimes believed that he wasn’t at-fault.

Closing the distance, you come up on his flank, softly clearing your throat. “You’re hurt,” You murmur, low enough for only him to hear. He has an issue with getting injured, as if his pride is simultaneously bruised, so you keep it cordial. “I can take care of it.”

He’s always been reluctant to accept your help, allowing himself to fester within the pain, as if it’s some sort of penance for all the wrong he’s done. His muscles ache, and the gash, bruises, and cuts don’t make anything easier.

“I’m fine,” Dismissive, John brushes your concern aside, focusing on getting back to the jet without collapsing. The serum does its part, easier to manage the pain, but it doesn’t take away the sting. “It’s not that bad.” He utters, hoping you’ll drop it.

It’s his tone again; bitter, indifferent, swatting your offer aside as if you’re more bothersome than helpful. For reasons you can’t explain, it makes you angry, as if he’s too good for your help. Your jaw clenches, and you try again.

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help, John. When we get back to the Watchtower, I can —”

“I said I’m fine.” Walker retorts, snapping at you without hesitation. It’s born from an amalgamation of agony and his own innermost demons that he’s wrestling with. He stares ahead, not wanting to look at your expression.

Bewildered, you fight against getting frustrated with him, wondering if there’s something that extends beyond his surface-level condescension.

Though, you wonder what you did to make him hate you so much — you sparred about the past, sure, but you were trying to bury the hatchet.

As if pierced by something sharp, you scoff, attempting to smother the flicker of fury that burned within your chest. It overrides your judgment, mouth moving before you can tell yourself to stop. “What’s your problem with me? Jesus, Walker, I just want to help you.”

The both of you are far away enough for the rest to remain oblivious to your sudden squabbling, and John grits his teeth, a sharp inhale splitting his lungs. “I can handle this on my own.” His tone is edged, but there’s something more beneath the surface.

Cerulean hues issue a warning for you to drop the subject, and you do, albeit reluctantly. Anger diminishes into confusion, uncertainty; you didn’t understand. Despite your efforts, he continued to swat you away as if you were a pest.

The splinter of desperation in your cadence turns his stomach, verbal sparring settling into a tenuous silence. John steals a glance despite himself, noticing the forlorn look that is etched into your brow, as if you’ve done something wrong.

He knows it’s not you — never has been, it’s him. John’s agitation dwindles into guilt, knowing that your intentions were wholly good, selfless. It’s something that he wishes he could have, and he’s working on it, but the process is emotionally heavy.

Scorned, you keep pace with him, even if he’s pushed you aside, ensuring that he makes it to the jet intact. The rest of the team regards you with perplexity, though you’re dismissive of it, settling into the webbing of your flight-seat.

The aftermath is often hushed — bodies catching their breath, a wordless recuperation, senses beginning to climb down from heightened adrenaline. Bucky’s piloting you out, heading back to the Watchtower.

Exhaustion settles in, replacing the exhilaration that comes with missions, the surge of vigor in your bloodstream. Tilting backwards, your head meets the cool interior of the jet, engine’s idle buzz thrumming beneath your boots.

John sits beside you, unexpectedly, his strenuous sigh rattling your body, passing from the bulk of his bicep to you. His visage is contorted into a look of thinly-veiled wistfulness, glancing sideways at you, a faint grimace of apology.

Quiet, you don’t relocate, simmering in the silence without so much as a murmur. Copper stings your nostrils, the scent of his blood, and you pretend that it doesn’t phase you; it does.

Your arms loosely fold over your chest, listening to the drone of the quinjet. The ride home is short, shorter than expected, and you’re eager to crawl beneath scalding water and let it burn the rush away.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the helipad outside, your gaze flutters toward John, whose stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away.

It was the same look he had when you were in the Void with him; loathing, conflicted, ripping himself apart for you to see.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done it hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

Saying something now seems meaningless, words fading to ash within your throat, raw from thirst. Your fingers idly curl into the sleeves of your suit, tension relinquished as the team begins to file out of the jet, bearing the bruises and scrapes from the mission.

When you enter the Tower, a sense of relief finds you, the comfort of home, shoulders slouched as you make for your room. Bob is lingering beside the window, a book in his hand, headphones dangling from his ears.

“Good work today,” Bucky calls, attempting to boost morale. He’s at the helm, trying to steer this ship in the right direction, but it’s harder than it looks. “Get some rest.” He moves toward the lounge, hoping to get a status update on the cleanup.

Alexei chimes in with an echoed remark about how everyone did a good job, mirroring Bucky’s own statement. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth despite yourself, feet dragging as you sluggishly stumble toward your room.

Through the light clamor, you don’t see John, disappearing through the tinted pane of your door, feeling it hiss and click behind you. Your room is warm, cozy; it’s a sanctuary you’ve created, making something within the ruins of your old life.

A hush falls throughout the Tower, typically a quiet evening after returning from a mission. Outside, the skies turn to a swirling ink, veiled by heavier clouds that signal the onset of rain.

Peeling away your suit, your flesh is exposed to the coolness of your quarters, glittering with a layer of perspiration, body speckled in light cuts and fresh bruises. The shower calls your name, inviting, and you marinate beneath the water for half an hour.

Bruises pulse with a dull ache, remnants of crimson swept away by the water, leaving you renewed as you change into loungewear. Perched along the edge of your bed, you towel-dry your hair, gaze flickering toward your door.

You shouldn’t be the one to apologize.

The thought of checking on John crosses your mind, and then it stays, leaving you frustrated and torn. You didn’t hate him, you never have; if anything, you were left wondering why the strange hostility still lingered, after everything.

Even then, your desire to help overrode the brief spat that you had. He was your teammate, and leaving him to lick his grievous wounds without ensuring his safety felt cruel.

A tremulous inhale invades your lungs, steeling yourself as you cross into the corridor, leaving your room behind. His quarters are down the hallway, towards the very end, marked by blanched lights on either side.

No one sees you, and you creep over the cold tile as if you might be apprehended in the process. The walk there feels as if it’s stretched on for an eternity, taunting you with each step as you make it to the tinted panel.

His lock is off, you realize, and you try to knock, the sound eerily soft. There’s nothing, only an awkward stretch of silence that makes you shift uncomfortably, the chill of the floor sending a shiver down your spine.

“John?” Abandoning the use of ‘Walker’, you idly pace before the door, weaving in idle circles as you wait for him to answer. Still, nothing — you wonder if it’s intentional, if he’s purposefully ignoring you to prove a point.

Intending to ask for forgiveness later, you slide the door open, stepping into his room with a twinge of anxiety. You shouldn’t be skulking around in here, but his lack of answer had you worried — more than you should’ve been, really.

“So much for knocking,” His voice cuts through your scrambled thoughts like a serrated knife, though lacking the sardonic poise. “Could’ve waited a minute.” John utters, and you spot him in his bathroom.

Startled, your gaze draws to him, attempting to patch himself up with bloodsoaked fingertips and a disgruntled countenance. His back is facing the mirror, head craned over his shoulder, blonde brows creased together, throat stirring with a noise of agitation.

“You didn’t answer.” With a weak protest, you hover in the doorway, shuffling forward to let it close with a subtle click. Everything seems devoid of personal decorum in his room, as if he’s still deciphering what goes where, some belongings still in boxes.

“You didn’t give me a chance.” John retorts, lips parted to make room for a strained sigh. He’s been harsh enough today — he recollects, composes himself, and lets his guard waver.

“I was worried about you.” The weight of your confession brings him pause, hand poised against his back, attempting to apply gauze. He’s failing miserably, cerulean hues darting toward you, arms folded over your chest.

John stops, jaw tense as he huffs with frustration, discarding the roll of gauze onto the bathroom countertop. The low glow of the light glitters against his skin, pleasantly sunkissed, muscles taut and broad, speckled in violet bruises.

There’s a rawness to him, sinewy yet firm, the honed strength of a trained soldier. He’s visceral, nothing grossly herculean, but he’s worked for his physicality, sacrificed plenty for it.

You realize you’ve been ogling him, gaze carefully tracing over the blonde hair smattered over his chest, trailing along his abdomen before it disappeared beneath his tactical pants.

Tendrils of heat snake across the back of your neck, a twinge of something desirous stirring within your stomach. You aren’t used to it, and you feel yourself attempt to rip your gaze away to something else; and you can’t.

He’s a man beneath it all, beneath the shield, the armor, the facade of an inflated swagger, all of the peacocking — he’s vulnerable, now. John’s countenance softens, startled by the sincerity that permeates your voice.

It’s unusual for him to be this quiet, as if you ripped the bravado and smugness right from his throat. Pacing forward, you decide to extend the offer again, hoping that he’ll accept your help and throw away the pride.

“I can help,” Your tone is disarmingly tender, something that John knows he’s undeserving of, given his behavior towards you. You vex him, but not because of your demeanor — he’s falling, and he’s trying to stop himself; he can’t. “Please.”

John concedes, head bobbing in a brief nod as he turns to face the mirror, lukewarm water ridding the crimson that stained his fingers. Coiled muscle cuts across his back, flesh littered in old scars and a colorful variety of bruises.

With a soft exhale, you awkwardly move into the doorway of the bathroom, blanketed by the pale orange of the lights, the distant buzz something of a comfort to you. The gash stretches from his left rib to spine, an ugly wound, oozing red that trickles over his back.

Scraped, calloused hands grip the edge of the counter as he props himself up, gaze flickering toward your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, still damp, tousled and disheveled, a cut on your cheek, mannerisms somewhat shrewd.

It’s quiet — too quiet for your liking, but you don’t want to be the one to break the ice. Wordlessly, you reach out, palm beginning to mist with wisps of a faint green, your powers manifesting.

“I’m sorry for today,” John murmurs, stopping you in your tracks. The mist wavers, concentration effectively shattered by his apology, which happened to be entirely unexpected. “About not letting you help me.”

“Is it something I did?” Your inquiry evokes a pang of melancholy, as if his heart is bleeding, still halfway stitched together. “Listen, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m trying to move past it.”

John sighs, exiting through his nostrils; measured, restrained. “You didn’t do anything,” He’s learning to admit when he’s the problem, digits tightening against the dark granite; it groans beneath his grasp. “I don’t hate you.”

Relief blossoms within your chest, as if some weight is lifted from your shoulders. Still, you wonder what exactly is wrong with him, festering below the surface, something he’s trying to bury. “Be honest with me — what’s wrong?” You question, brows furrowing together.

He’s reluctant to tell you why he’s comfortable with sitting in the pain — why he feels he deserves it. John knows that you mean well, always looking out for everyone else, showing kindness when you didn’t have to.

“This is what I deserve,” John utters, cadence embittered, withholding a wave of emotion. Tears swim, unshed within his eyes, and he actively fights against it. “The pain — for what I did, for what happened.”

For Lemar, for Olivia, for the blood on his hands, for the son who’ll only know his father as a deadbeat. He hates himself, deep down — he’s learning to be a better man, if that were even possible.

His transparency startles you, attempting to process this information in a way that evokes empathy. No one on the team is truly, wholly good — there’s amends that need to be made, most of them in the healing process, including you.

It’s a bleak contrast from the man constantly barraging you with snarky remarks, constantly engaging in banter with you. You don’t remember him opening up like this with anyone else.

Still, your hand drops, fingers twisting together as you scramble to come up with some encouragement. You’re so accustomed to his general smugness and cocksure attitude that this blindsides you.

“Just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t mean that you deserve to suffer, or rake yourself over the coals again,” It’s gentle, sound advice — John’s eyes screw shut. “Everyone deserves to heal, including you.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out. He was glad that he never went through with it.

In the Void, when you found your way into his room, it was the moment Lemar had been killed. Replayed, over and over again, unable to be prevented — but his reaction could’ve been.

He could’ve been a better man.

In the beginning, he tried to justify it, rationalizing killing someone in cold blood. After time passed, he knew how wrong he was, how he desecrated the shield, the mantle; all for something else, to sate his rage. No matter how much healing he did, that would haunt him forever.

“Thanks.” He grits, as if he doesn’t fully believe your words. John understands your intentions, that you’re being empathetic and kind despite the abrasive way he’s acted towards you. It makes him feel worse. “I am trying.”

“I know,” Placating, your digits begin to shimmer with wisps of emerald energy, your power manifesting. “I know you are, John.” Oozing with a tender amiability, you can hear the tremor in his exhale.

When you called him John, it startled him; he’d gotten so accustomed to ‘Walker’, but he didn’t mind this in the slightest. Despite the rough beginning the both of you had with one another, he was warming up to you.

Admittedly, he thought it was the right thing to do, not fully letting you in to protect himself. When you had cordial conversations, he felt your kindness shroud him like a warm blanket; you’d moved on from the past.

Quiet, your hand finally lifts to his wound, brows creased in concentration, energy expelled into healing mist as it curls around the flesh. It feels like cold water, albeit soothing, pluming over torn skin and blood until it sinks inward.

A low grunt rips through his throat, somewhat startled at the sensation of your powers; simple, but wildly effective. It’s as if he’d never been slashed to begin with; the bruises and scrapes don’t go away, but the rest of it does.

Strained, your arm quivers, resolve slipping as you step away, using the doorway as a form of support. You’re always a little weak after you’ve healed someone, almost as if it’s an exchange of life.

“Better?” With a tender smile, you watch as he nods, inspecting himself in the mirror; nothing left behind. “Next time this happens, I hope you’ll let me help you.” You prompt, and he chuckles; it isn’t the typical condescending chide he gives you, either.

“I can’t make any promises.” John’s tone loses that bite, the indifference; it’s disarmingly soft. “Thanks again, for that. I’ve been an asshole to you — wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to help.” He murmured, tone lacking mirth.

“You have, but that can change,” Lips remain poised into a smile, one that makes his heart lurch within his chest. “You don’t have to keep being an asshole.” Your remark makes him scoff, though it’s more of a bemused sound, than anything else.

“I’ll lose my charm,” John counters, but he’s being sarcastic — somewhat, at least. You suspect he’ll still remain sharp-tongued and smug, but lose the indifference with you. “I know it’s something I need to work on.”

Grateful for his acknowledgment, you finally feel your energy return, a slow ebb that spreads throughout your body. Leaning off of the doorframe, you awkwardly step aside, figuring that this was your queue to leave.

“For the record, I never disliked you,” He utters, jaw clenched as he carefully navigates on what to say next. “Never had a problem with you, either. Your problem with me was justified.” John shrugs, his stare even-keel.

Bewildered, you let the pang of surprise fester, head cocking to one side. “I never really had a problem with you, or disliked you,” After this, you were beginning to understand why he was an asshole sometimes. “It’s all in the past, now. I want us to move forward.”

John’s halfhearted smile oozed with sincerity, a genuineness rarely seen by others. “I can do that.” Even still, he wouldn’t blame you if you had some sort of gripe against him, but you were kind — you were good, even if you didn’t think so.

His gaze hasn’t left you, cerulean hues fluttering over your countenance; you’re beautiful, eyes beset by kindness, half-dried tresses strung over your crown. The shirt you’re wearing is a size too big, sweatpants baggy, too.

He’s acutely aware of how obvious he’s being, ogling you; he always thought you were pretty, but in the bathroom’s faint glow, you’re stunning. You weren’t subtle either, he knows this, catching your shrewd gaze as it lingers on his arms.

John’s hands reach for his shirt, black spandex all wrinkled, balled up, stained with dried blood. The tension becomes unusually thick, mere embers kindled to life, now a fire that he doesn’t know if he can extinguish.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; as if he’s trying to calm himself down, ease the tension. With his shirt still clenched in one hand, he’s offering you his undivided attention.

With arms loosely folded over your chest, your fingers idly pluck at frayed stitching on your sleeves, a fleeting distraction. “Why were you always indifferent towards me, if you didn’t hate me?” You’re not accusatory, just curious.

Shit — John’s mind is scrambling for an answer that doesn’t make him seem strange. He’s got feelings for you, and you’re slowly drawing them out into the open; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Sometimes it’s easier for me to not let somebody in,” He shrugs, gaze wavering, flickering toward the ground. The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope. “Because of what’s happened.”

Even then, his explanation still feels like he’s covering up for something else. Nevertheless, you let it rest, offering him a threadbare smile. “We don’t judge here, if you haven’t learned that already,” You sigh. “I’ll be here for you, if you choose to let me in.”

He already has — he’s appreciative, nodding as a display of gratitude before he finds your gaze again. “Thanks.” John smiles despite himself, swallowing down the words that want to escape him.

Silence settles between, the same tension simmering like before, causing you to shift your weight. He’s staring again, but you’re oblivious to it this time, angled away, trying to figure out what to do next.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, your shoulders begin to slouch with relaxation. “I should probably go — you need rest.” You blurt, fumbling over your words, maintaining a sheepish smile as you shuffle toward the door.

John doesn’t really want you to leave; and he knows it’s selfish of him. His lips part, as if to ask you to stay, but he’s frozen, rooted in-place. Still, he nods, quietly resigning to letting you go back to your room.

His feet feel anchored to the floor, each step a drag as he trails after you, following you to the doorway. He’s quiet, still deliberating, turning over every word, every action within his mind. John comes up short, watching as you stop to say something else.

The closeness is sudden, wracked with tension; you’re nearly brushing arms with him, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. You’re both reaching for the door panel simultaneously, fumbling, fingers ghosting over one another; you recoil like you’ve been burned.

In the slim proximity, he catches a whiff of your shampoo — vanilla and peach, something sweeter, causing his jaw to tick. He’s looking again, unable to stop himself, gaze wandering over your body, appreciative; he grips the door frame as a distraction.

When you catch his stare, it burns you, something incendiary, as if he’s searing you into his mind. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, and you’re prepared to tell him goodnight, end it there — but you won’t move.

Silence stretches on, the sort of contemplative quiet before the onset of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. Bodies linger within arm’s reach, screaming, and you have the audacity to stare at him, doe-eyed.

Then, you say his name, a feather-light whisper, gentle and placating. It barely registers, but he hears it, notices the parting of your lips, the way you haven’t recoiled from the closeness.

John’s mouth is suddenly pressed against yours in a heated frenzy.

A sharp inhale splits your diaphragm, lungs quaking, filled with a sudden surge of ecstasy when he kisses you. There’s a gasp stuck in the back of your throat, swallowed by the snare of his mouth.

His lips are unexpectedly soft, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his smart mouth. There’s a charged passion that echoes beyond the kiss, as if he’s walking the fine line of restraint.

Bewildered, your head is spinning, brain foggy, as if someone knocked you out. Left reeling, you don’t know what to say, what to do. Though, you’re receptive, mouth shyly moving against his, hands frozen at your sides.

When he pulls away, gauging your reaction, you appear as shocked as he does.

Each breath is labored, wrought with the sudden sting of exhilaration, butterflies beginning to pool within your belly. “I’m sorry.” John’s voice is low, a pleasant hum within your ear, but you don’t seem upset by what he did.

“Don’t be.” Without pause, your lips fly to meet him again, reciprocating the kiss, one that seems sluggish and passionate instead of frantic.

He’s kissing you back, hand dropping from the door to your hip, calloused digits caressing you through your shirt. The gesture ignites a fire within your bones, unable to stifle your mounting excitement.

Shyly, your hands move toward his chest, soft like velvet, smoothing over his pectorals as he presses you up against the door. A low groan vibrates through his chest, reveling in the feeling of your skin touching his.

There’s a poised strength coiled within his body, firm, flesh and blood, chest rising and falling underneath your hands.

His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for contact.

He tastes metallic, an amalgamation of copper and a natural musk. Digits idly smooth over the coarse, blonde hair that covers his chest, descending toward his groin. The thought alone makes your knees weak.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — even then, your experience is thin.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Recoiling from the kiss, your fingers tremble, deftly tracing over his collarbone, over scar-kissed skin, over faint clutches of freckles. “John, I — Are you sure?” You whisper, hoarse, afraid that he might regret it all in the morning.

“Wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure.” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. He’s strong, secure — you didn’t expect to feel so comfortable with him. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”

His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear. Flush to you, his confession makes your bones lurch, and you wonder what else he’s thought about, too.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

“John …” A soft mumble rolls from your tongue, hands beginning to trail from chest to shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. His beard burns against your flesh, a pleasant scratch, reminding you that he’s real, this is real.

Warm breath feathers over your throat, your jaw, your cheek — he’s still smirking, too. “You’re getting shy on me.” He mumbles, able to taste the heat that bristles from your flesh. A hitch forms within your throat, his remark making you burn.

“No,” Posturing a weak defense, your body succumbs, lips parted to make room for a dizzying sigh. “I’m not.” It’s pathetic, your retort, but he’s still grinning as if he’s caught you in a trap, attempting to reign in the smug attitude.

“Right.” John’s cadence is dangerously low, little more than a pleasant husk that scratches the back of your brain. He’s teasing you still, cerulean hues alight with mirth, fingertips barely skirting underneath your shirt.

He’s charming — too charming, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it. Something firm through his kevlar pants, briefly grinding against your pelvis.

A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan, causing you to smile, as if you’ve discovered his secret. “Already?” It’s playful, sure, but you’re simultaneously flattered that it didn’t take much work.

It’s his turn to blush, scarlet crawling over handsome features, red spreading towards his neck. “Can’t help it,” John mumbled, gaze briefly meeting yours. “You’re beautiful.” His low timbre made you shiver.

Unable to smother your smile, you urge him closer for another kiss, digits clamoring for the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there. Each entanglement of lips seems to grow in fervor, charged with mutual excitement, passion.

His hands are fisted in your shirt against, giving it a soft tug, as if silently asking you for your permission. Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your maw.

With a brief nod, he breaks from you, only to assist in removing your shirt, tossing it elsewhere in his room. You aren’t wearing a brassiere, which catches his attention, stopping in his tracks as he admires your physique.

“Jesus,” John sighs, rapturous, noticing the doe-eyed look you’re giving him again. Lips part, jaw unclenched as he not-so-subtly ogles your collarbone, letting it drift toward your chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Swallowing your anxiety, you feel yourself melt beneath his stare, incendiary enough to turn you to cinders where you stand. “The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Barely above a whisper, your gentle teasing evokes a half-smile from him.

A huff leaves him, hand steady as he kneads into your hip, dipping lower, grasping at your haunch as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. You’re still kissing him, held aloft by John’s arms, bearing your weight without effort.

He carries you to his bed, gray sheets already disheveled, laying you down as he crawls on top of you. A soft exhale whistles through your nose, arousal beginning to coalesce between your thighs, warmth pooling in your belly.

“You sure?” John murmurs, wanting to ensure that you’re certain about this. He is, but he wants to make sure that all cards are on the table. He’s not used to this, to showing vulnerability, but it feels comfortable with you.

“Yeah, I am,” Gazes twine together, the only illumination being the glow from the bathroom, blanketing you in swirls of orange and shadow. “I want you, John.” Your admission is saccharine, steeped in a warmth that he clings to, savors.

Christ, he wants you, too — craves you more than air, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. It’s a sudden shift from how things were before, but the tension had finally come to a boiling point, and he was glad that it had.

Mouths connect instantaneously, eliciting a pleading moan from your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your legs drop, spread apart to accommodate for his frame, lean muscle wedged between your thighs.

His palm kneads into your calf, dragging to the crook of your knee, caressing you over your baggy bottoms. Your hands thread against the nape of his neck, taking handfuls of his blonde tresses, ensuring that you weren’t rough with him.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue shyly mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch upon your bottom lip.

John grunts, the tent in his pants grinding recklessly against your core, friction causing both of you to writhe. As if to torment him, you roll your hips forward, evoking a groan from him, his gaze pleading with you to stop.

“Don’t,” He warns, strained, attempting to hold himself together. Your mouth quirks into a smile, one that he feels even as he kisses you again, your palm splaying over his shoulder. “Can I take these off?”

His hands curl into your sweatpants, fingers teasing the waistband as he waits for you to consent. As soon as you nod, accompanied by a breathy ‘yes’, he’s tearing into them, the stitching splitting apart beneath his inhuman strength.

A gasp slipped from your mouth, writhing beneath him to free yourself from the fabric, kicking them to the floor. John marvels at the sight of you, your body something perfect, malleable within his grasp, mouth planting a kiss against your jaw.

Cool air plumes over your heated flesh, offering some alleviation, a reprieve from the fever-pitch of your body. John’s hand smooths over your leg, squeezing into your thigh, digits flicking over the hem of your panties.

The brief gesture makes your head spin, desperate for him to touch you. He’s already got an idea in his head, calloused fingers rough like leather as he drags his hand between your legs.

Knuckles ghost over your clothed cunt, feeling the tangle of damp cotton, the way your throat sputters with a subtle gasp. Your thighs twitch, knees trembling on either side of him as your nails trace over the back of his neck.

“Christ,” He huffs, forehead nearly flush against yours, watching as you squirm from the brief caress. John repeats the motion, feeling your nails dig harder into his skin, mouth screwed open. “You like that?” His murmur makes you feel weak.

With a nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his hand. To your delight, he doesn’t torment you, doesn’t make you work for it as his fingers slip beneath your panties.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. To your utter bewilderment, he lifts his digits to his mouth, sucking them clean before he lavishes your throat in a myriad of kisses.

“John, please.” Moaning his name, the sight he just treated you to is sure to be burned in your mind forever, causing your thighs to rub together. Kissing a trail down your neck, he finds your sternum, mouth voracious, ceaseless.

A boyish grin settles onto his features, deriving enjoyment from your reaction, continuing to worship your flesh in rapturous kisses. No inch of skin is safe as he descends, lips pluming over your breasts, your ribs, navel; lower, and lower again.

You taste sweet, as if your skin oozed with sugar, and he’s savoring every piece of you, kisses steeped in a disarming reverence. His beard tickles your flesh, goosebumps cascading down your spine as he makes it to your waist.

His muscles flex, pulled taut as he crawls lower, face hovering beside your hip as he eases your panties down, letting them creep over your thighs. Everything feels hot, body set ablaze, arousal coalescing against your cunt.

Lips press to your thigh, shoulders creating space, bullying your legs apart. Digits flex, trembling as they lower to card through his tresses, gaze ensnaring with his own, causing you to shiver.

John kisses a trail over your inner thighs, toward the glistening heat at your apex, listening to your breath hitch. It’s labored, wrought with exhilaration as your back begins to arch.

That ghost of a cocksure grin feels like a hot brand against your thigh, softening when you make a strangled, pleading noise. Nearly prone against the sheets, he lets your legs recline against his shoulders, hands gripping your hips.

The first rake of his tongue over your cunt is agonizing, hot embers, scorching against your flesh as he laps traces the length of your slit. It’s sluggish, exploratory — he’s keen to know what makes you writhe.

With parted lips and eyes wrenched shut, a needy moan splits past your throat, unable to keep quiet. John’s chest stirs with a low grunt, greedy tongue deftly splitting past your folds, tasting you with a sudden fervor.

Still, he’s gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms massaging into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant.

John eases you into it, committing every detail of your body to memory; hoping there’s a next time, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. Lapping against your core, his ministrations slowly gather haste, nose grazing your clit.

A myriad of moans leave you, attempting to keep the sound hushed, as to not alert any unwanted attention. Your legs tense, flex on either side of his head before his shoulders nudge you apart again, mouth dragging over your cunt.

He maintains something of a rhythm, attempting to walk the line of restraint, as to not overwhelm you. Your body rattles beneath him, spasmodic tremors of delight rolling down your spine, waves of bliss felt all over, ebbing through your veins.

One hand haplessly fists at the sheets, fingers curled so tightly that you want to rip it apart. He’s too good at this, which surprises you — he doesn’t give that impression, initially.

The room feels like a furnace, bodies bleeding heat, each breath hoarse, tight with rapture. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

John’s gaze flutters from the task at-hand to your countenance, contorted into an expression of ecstasy, effortlessly pretty. His heart skips a beat; you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

You’re wound up, coiled over and over again, into a tangle of heat, furled desire that’s begging to be released. Carding through his tresses, you gingerly scratch at his crown, briefly tugging on his hair, hips wantonly urging into his mouth.

“G—God, John,” A sheepish moan falls from your mouth, coupled with a sharp inhale that rips through your diaphragm. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing at all, back arched from the mattress. “So good at this.”

It’s an inkling of praise, but it’s enough, evoking some hunger from John, who's eager to please. The tent in his tactical pants is borderline painful, erection grinding against the bed in a pitiful attempt to alleviate some of the friction.

Driven to the brink, you feel as if you’re beginning to toe the line of some steep plunge, his lips urging you closer to a release. Everything feels hot, as if you might combust, arousal coalescing between your thighs.

John has you pinned down, nose ghosting over your folds, tongue still ceaselessly lapping at your core until there’s a shift in rhythm. He presses a kiss to your clit, listening to the tremor in your exhale, feeling your legs tense.

Teeth catch across your bottom lip, biting down with an absent pressure, digits beginning to lightly curl against his scalp. His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm.

“You’re easy to rile up.” John murmurs from between your legs, a breathy chuckle floating from his chest when your fingers pull on his hair. He plants a reverent kiss to your thigh, teasing, but the break doesn’t last for long.

If it weren’t for his lips pursing around your clit, you might’ve clawed for a retort, but he rips any remark from your throat. The sudden ripple of bliss sends you reeling, choking on a simpering whine as you shift beneath him again.

His mouth gingerly laps at that sensitive clutch of nerves, shockwaves shattering through your body, tingles of ecstasy following suit. A strangled moan snares in your throat, slipping through when he drags his tongue along your cunt.

He’s right, though — you are easy to vex, and he’s mapping you out as if you’re intimately familiar to him already. John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

You’re getting close, body being pushed to a blissful oblivion, the white-hot heat that threatens to consume you. His hand drifts from your thigh to the slick warmth between, thumb seeking your clit like a missile, slowly circling around it.

“Fuck,” You moan, the expletive uncharacteristic of you, but he finds plenty of enjoyment in you saying it. His name is soon to follow, a bedroom hymnal, repetitive as it spills from your tongue, crying out his name to the ceiling. “J—John!”

It’s pathetic how easily he’s got you squirming, tension beginning to unfurl, the knot within your belly stretched to the brink. He’s careful, tender, intimate in a way that makes your features surge with warmth.

“That’s it.” John murmurs, timbre little more than a drawl as he coaxes an orgasm from you, thumb continuing to toy with your clit until you burst. He’s mesmerized, a super-soldier reduced to a lovesick boy, watching you with a thinly-veiled rapture.

With one simple circle of your pearl, you’re gone, ecstasy bleeding from you in one wave, nearly overwhelming. You’re blinded by euphoria, white-hot stars crossing your vision until you’ve melted into the sheets.

Nerves are frayed from bliss, tossed into the throes of pleasure, one that you may not fully recover from. Stars linger still, head foggy, dizzy from a desirous haze as you try to find a scrap of composure.

He tastes you again, one last time, committing it all to memory as he kisses your leg, kneeling in-between your thighs. You’re shaking, chest tight with drawn-out sighs, gazes ensnared, burning with adoration.

“You’re really good at that.” A soft whisper rolls from your lips, appreciative, but John looks like you’ve just called him perfect. He’s starved for praise, reduced to a mere beast, laying at your feet, preening for more.

John’s up on his knees, staring a hole through you, hands reaching for his belt. Driven by both excitement and instinct, you sit up, fingers clamoring with his own as you’re helping to wrestle his belt off, unzipping the front of his tactical pants.

“You drive me crazy,” John groaned, feeling you grow smitten in the wake of his admission, desperate to be inside of you. “Can’t think straight.” He utters, and you know it’s an intentional compliment.

He repositions himself, hunched in, blanketing you with his bulky physique, lean muscle glued to your frame. He’s much larger than you, you realize, listening to the shuffling of fabric, feeling his cock press incessantly against your navel.

You’re intimidated, bewildered by his size, startlingly large, unabashedly so. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, your hands come to hook around the back of his neck, no space remaining.

As if to ignite the tension further, your mouth catches his, lips locking together in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself, an added layer of debauchery, but he’s groaning into your lips, fisting the pillow near the side of your head.

John’s other hand finds your thigh, kneading into your haunch as he steadies himself, cock heatedly grinding against you. Mouths tangle, clash — it’s a war of teeth and tongue, thirst instead of hunger, as if he needs you more than anything.

Wanton, exhilarated breaths drag between bodies, the warmth of his sigh pluming over your features, his beard ragged against your cheek. His blonde tresses are tousled, disheveled — he’s painfully handsome, kissing all over your mouth.

He withdraws, heads flush together, mere centimeters apart as he adjusts himself, cock nudging against your folds. You’re clinging to him, a twinge of anticipation churning in your belly.

“You alright?” He utters, low and husky beside your ear, actively restraining himself from being too spirited. There’s something intoxicating about the way you’re staring at him; it’s tender, more than he deserves, he thinks.

Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, and then beneath, where a yellowing bruise sits. Hands wander to the firm muscle of his shoulders, kneading over freckled skin.

John exhales; a drawn-out, contented sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled groan.

“Go slow,” You squeak, body already sore from the mission — he might add to it, if he isn’t careful. His lips seal themselves to your throat, peppering your flesh in a myriad of sweet kisses, nose brushing over your jugular. “I need you.”

Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins, oozing raw strength, but he knows to rein himself in, head bobbing in a brief nod. “Say that again.” John grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

His head is partially buried into the hollow between throat and shoulder, beard prickling your flesh, a satisfying sensation. An excitable buzz wracks your body, sending tingles all over, a throbbing pulsing from between your legs.

“I need you,” Wantonly, your palm splays over his shoulder-blade, nails digging into his skin, eliciting a low groan from your paramour. “J—John, please!” It’s a plea, a desperate one, spoken through a beguiling cadence, one that winds him into tight knots.

With a shudder, John is thirsty for your embrace, a man lost within a desert, finding his oasis. His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, heeding your words as he fists at the pillow, body kissed by perspiration.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, fighting against baser, lesser instincts. Clinging to him as if he might fade through your fingers, he moves at an agonizing pace, not wanting to hurt you.

He doesn’t, a husky groan ripping through his diaphragm when your hips accidentally roll, feeling his muscles tense beneath your hands. “Jesus,” John grits out, feeling your nails dig crescents into his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

A moan tumbles from your parted lips, his cock filling you completely, nearly bottoming out as he sinks forward. Intermingled groans and hot sighs tangle in the thin space between, heat against heat.

Your knees squeeze near his waist, legs kept spread apart by his musculature, bodies clawing for one another, ardor thinly-veiled. John’s countenance is contorted into a look of concentration coupled with bliss.

“S’good,” You moan, having adjusted enough, allowing yourself a moment of composure; it won’t last, and you know it. “Move.” Breathy and wrought with exhilaration, you give him the signal to take things further.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. Propping himself up on one arm, the other holds steadfastly to your thigh, an anchor.

Foreheads knock together, noses ghosting over one another as he begins to thrust into you, bicep flexing with exertion. The first drag of his hips sends you reeling, and you know that you won’t last long — and neither will he.

A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.

The fit of him is tight, cock oozing with heat as he draws back again, following through as he jolts forward.

Beneath you, the bed frame creaks — faint, as if it shows some give with the super-soldier on top of you. Your digits coax him in for a kiss, mouths colliding in a messy clash of tongue and needy lips, fire feeding fire.

John groans into your mouth, pushing and pulling, hips urging into yours, cock filling you with each thrust. Between fervent kisses and pleading moans, your head is foggy, dizzy with desire.

He develops a rhythm, the pace steady, each drag of his hips ripping a moan from your mouth, and he earned it. His hand kneads into your thigh, squeezing on occasion when the pleasure mounts, muscles coiled within his stomach.

“Y—You’re perfect,” The praise leaves your tongue as a hoarse whine, a noise that leaves goosebumps trailing over John’s spine. It’s the validation he desperately craves, the veneration, knowing he’s doing something right. “Don’t stop.”

A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.

It’s unintentional, his shifting pace; it begins to climb, from drawn-out and steady to needy, rutting into you as if each stroke would be his very last. John is trying to keep himself controlled, but you make it so difficult.

He slows again, the pleasure mounting, a knot that is becoming frayed at either end, prepared to be pulled apart. His cock throbs incessantly, pulsing inside of you, feeling your cunt clench around him.

Perspiration glitters along his brow, glistening along his hairline as he hunches in over you, and you feel all of him, viscerally.

The bed frame rattles in protest, as if bowing to his strength, and he’s already tearing the stitching in the pillowcase beside your head. A soft gasp slips from your lips, his mouth ghosting over yours.

Grunts of ecstasy leave him in droves, cock easing in and out of your cunt as if you’re made for him. John’s countenance is one of bliss and concentration, frustration now dissipated.

Each snap of his hips drags you further into the throes of ecstasy, and he’s nearly there, cock spearing into you. His breathing is growing ragged, raspy as it curls beside your ear, hot breath pluming over your face.

Noises surge in volume, filling his room with the sounds of vigorous lovemaking; he doesn’t care if the team hears anymore. John’s rapturous groans make you shiver in delight, head flush to yours again, the closeness addicting.

Another grunt ripples through his chest, the sound stretched, the rest tapering off as his hips begin to stutter, pace erratic and desperate. He’s close, weighing the odds of finishing inside of you, nearly whimpering when your legs hitch around his hips.

His name spills from your lips like a confessional, sobbing to the heavens, feeling your body begin to unfurl with tension. Bodies move within one another, his cock buried deep, kissing your cervix with each thrust.

From the tension in his muscles alone, you can tell that he’s about to burst, combust like fireworks in your hands. You’re on the pill, and so you urge him closer, wanting him inside of you even still.

When your name emerges from John’s mouth, you’re awestruck, flustered by the way in which he says it so tenderly. “I’m on the pill.” It’s all you’re able to say before he’s swallowing your words, covering your mouth with his.

The kiss is voracious, needy — John is unable to mask how he feels about you, letting it all bleed into tangled lips as he cums. He releases inside of you with a groan, followed by a rush of warmth that blankets your insides.

Tingles of delight wrack your body, a subdued release that seems to twine with his, a muted buzz surging through your bones. John’s hips crawl to a sluggish rhythm, agonizingly slow, as if to absorb the last few traces of friction.

Each breath heaves for composure, shallow and taut with exhilaration in the aftermath, sweat-slick skin melded together. His forehead nestles against yours, labored breathing evening out quicker than yours as he stills.

His spend and your arousal feel slick between your legs, making a mess of his sheets, joined bodies bleeding heat. You’re reeling, slower to recuperate as he pulls out of you with a soft grunt, rolling over to lay beside you.

John doesn’t leave, cerulean hues glued to your countenance, as if his whole sense of gravity has been shifted, changed. It’s hushed, save for your labored sighs, in-tandem with one another.

Wordlessly, he coaxes you closer, muscled arm hooking around your middle, inviting you to lay against his chest. One palm remains splayed, flat against your ribs, soothing you with easy caresses.

“Are you still with me?” John’s wisecrack makes you blunder, a soft laugh escaping you, hand playfully bumping against his chest.

“Yeah,” Unable to smother your smile, you’re delighted to sink into his embrace, keeping your hand on his chest. The hair beneath is something you trace through, over muscle, over old scars and greenish bruises. “I …”

As you trail off, John’s head cranes down enough to brush his lips against yours, the kiss sweet, bristling with a thinly-veiled affection. He lets you finish your thought, watching as you sit up enough to see him fully, perched on your stomach.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” You utter, agonizingly soft, cadence wrought with an amalgamation of sentiments. John’s trying to be better, and it’s something you want to be a part of, if he’ll let you.

Neither did he, admittedly; it’s something John’s willing to admit to. “The thought never crossed my mind,” He murmured, blonde lashes fluttering as his hand cupped your jaw, calloused and careworn over satin skin. “But I’m not perfect.”

“I know, that’s why I like you.” With a dazzling smile, he’s caught right in the crosshairs, lips parting with a placating huff. It turns into a hum of a chuckle, his hand still firm against your side.

In a gentle clamor, his lips find yours, beard tickling your skin again, the sensation wholly pleasant. The kiss lingers, something that feels closer to home, a newfound warmth that the both of you desperately crave.

John’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, a peculiar mirth beginning to touch his eyes. He feels you plant a kiss against his shoulder, and he knows he’s completely screwed — you’re falling, but he’s falling harder.

[jukashi]

I know when this sort of thing gets posted there will be replies going 'I'm just venting' or 'Men don't need any more coddling' or 'oh so we need to stroke men's egos by saying only nice things?' and so on. So, I want to add: sexism against women will always exist so long as there is sexism against men, and vice versa.

It would perhaps be nice to disassemble gender completely, but in the meantime the majority of human cultures assume most humans are either man or woman, and even if acceptance of nonbinary identities became magically universal they would remain a minority, so most people would still assume most people are either men or woman. When people think 'people who are not men' they think first of women, and when people think 'people who are not women' they think first of men.

So, statements like 'men are violent' necessarily implies 'non-men are not violent', drifting to 'women are not violent', implying 'women do not fight', and so 'men are violent' leads to 'women are weak'. If you convince people men are selfish, you will convince them that women are servile. If men are monsters, women are victims.

Besides that... making broad negative statements about any group that someone can't opt out of being a member of never improves anything, because there's never any actual intent to improve anything. When sexist societies said women were emotional and stupid, did they reward women who demonstrated discipline, who educated themselves? No, it was punished. At best it exiled you from your identity, made you Not A Woman, at worse you got 'taught your place'. You got worse than nothing for trying to defy the expectation. If you played into it, you got an excuse for mistakes and misbehavior. Insulting women as emotional only encouraged many to be emotional, made it part of the identity, made them go: well! I'll be emotional then! But I will say it better - that I am nurturing, kind, passionate! Good things, things to be proud to be identified with instead of ashamed, but in a sexist society they were code words for being a manipulable slave, which served the real masters of that society perfectly well.

Saying women were emotional, saying women were stupid, never encouraged them to be disciplined or to educate themselves. It was never meant to.

How do you think describing men as violent and dangerous will encourage them to be gentle and safe? The ones who defy the expectation are punished. At best they will be Not-Men, at worse being half-trained dogs, used and abused but never trusted, never let in. A man will never get anything from people who say men are bad by trying to prove them wrong. Insulting men as violent and dangerous only gives an excuse, reinforces it as part of the identity, encourages many to be violent and dangerous, to go: well! I'll be violent and dangerous then! But I will say it better - that I am powerful, capable, tough! Good things, things to be proud to be identified with instead of ashamed, but in a sexist society they are code words for being a tool to be used, which serves the real masters of society perfectly well.

This isn't a moral argument. It's not an argument about what's virtuous, not an argument about what beliefs make someone a good person or a true member of the approved group. It is an argument of method, of how to achieve a purpose.

Saying men are evil only ever achieves the opposite of everything that anyone who describes themselves as a feminist claims to want.

really cannot emphasise enough that "All Men Bad" and "masculinity is inherently violent, dangerous, and evil" are load-bearing pillars of radfeminism and these ideas cannot have a place in any truly progressive queer theorising.

[willyoubemycherryy]

Counting Licks (Bo Chow x Reader)

Summary: He does bite- never too hard though…

Contains: smut, giving a bitch sum head or sum, minimal plot, no I genuinely mean it, oral (f. receiving), kissing, dirty talk, refers to the 🐱 as ‘her’, he’s feral for the cookie, pussydrunk Bo, biting, petnames, “I ain’t never date no man who ain’t suck me off the bone”, BITINGGGG, public, but u guys are alone, I saw sinners again last night and this is the product so good luck

A/N- if you see a mind running around that looks lost, it’s mine. Leave it be.

+ with @bochowswife and @taylormarieee in mind🥰🎀

*Takes place in the ‘fix it’ universe

.♡

The club had been open for weeks and had been a bigger success than originally planned.

It was kind of an unspoken rule that anyone in attendance didn’t mention the incident from that night, it being “bad mojo” and all that and people were only too happy to put it behind them.

Another thing that happened by the end of the first week was the switch from plantation credits to actual money or change. Quarters, dimes, nickels, were all welcome as long as it could spend. They changed it in a way that business wasn’t affected but worked for the locals. Now, prices were different depending on what they was drinking and that did wonders for money flow. So much in fact, that they needed help managing it all.

That’s where you and Bo come in.

Managing his own store and such, Bo was good with numbers- quick too- a trusted friend of the twins, and he’d been there to help them set up since day 1. So when the twins asked him to do the till counts during near end of the first half of the night, it was an easy yes. Surprisingly enough, Smoke and Stack were on the same page with not minding Bo bringing you into the office with him while he worked; claiming you kept him focused and that was that but….

Bo was supposed to be counting the tills and you were supposed to keep him focused.

“Mmmm, she’s so sweet baby”,

Bo purrs in that heady southern drawl before he laps another firm drag up your slit. “Nice n’ wet f’me..”.

A debauched moan bubbles deep from your chest as Bo slurps your clit into his mouth with a drunken hum. The vibrations make your head spin, lower stomach tensing up as you try to ground yourself before you lose your mind but Bo doesn’t let up- can’t bring himself to. Not when you coat his mouth with your taste looking like the answer to every prayer he’s ever prayed with full lips and wide eyes that constantly looked at him like you didn’t just want him but needed him.

He groans, pulling away with a string of saliva connecting you, smacking his lips hungrily as his hands help themselves to your curves and god- you melt. Much like ice would under the heat of the devil’s tongue only faster this time because pleasure is always better when business is meant to be the goal. Tingling nips to your thighs trail back up slowly to your wetness and you suck in a deep breath through your teeth, heavy arousal licking flames across your skin making you sweat. The music outside was loud enough to drown out your activities which was great because Bo was aiming to suck you off the bone.

Gripping the fat of your hip, he pulls you closer against his open mouth- tongue wet, hot, and insistent as he hungrily licks inside you. The pleasure is crushing and your hands find his hair, petting and messing at it weakly while you gasp and whine in bliss. Bo takes your throbbing bud in his mouth again, lapping stroke after stroke against the underside of your clit before rolling it between his teeth and you jolt as he bites down with just enough pressure for the pain to warm before he soothes it with a heavy lave of his tongue and you cry out so hard it feels like your chest is caving in.

“B-Bo! We-, the t-ti- fuuuck!” You can’t even string a sentence together with the way he’s taking you apart, sucking your clit like a piece of candy before rolling the sensitive swollen nub back between his teeth and you’re shaking. Eyes fluttering back as the most pitiful choked out sobs you’ve ever heard from yourself fall from your lips as you grind up into his handsome face.

It’s as if you’re floating. His hands are so big and rough- strong and everywhere. You might be crying for real now. Bo’s so hard that the blood rush makes his ears ring but he couldn’t be bothered to pay that any mind.

Not when you’re so close.

“Thaaat’s it sweet thing..”

And you’re crying and stuttering in that sweet, pretty, way you did whenever you got real close-your hips bucking up into his greedy maw and he can feel the way your leaking hole twitches under his tongue and he growls. A hand leaves your hips in favor of stuffing three of his fingers knuckle deep inside your spasming cunny as he catches your clit and bites- flattening his tongue to soothe the pain sweetly and he’s so sloppy with it as his fingers lazily stretch you open that you can’t take it anymore. It’s too good- too much.

The slutty arch of your back doesn’t make your orgasm any easier to bear as it tears clean through you, coming so hard you hear sight. Heart beating through your chest as you scream, spraying his thick fingers and sinful mouth with a hot burst of your slick. It gives Bo goosebumps as he moans into your flushed skin, mouth working even harder as he laps up your release. Even sucking you off his fingers before rushedly undoing his pants and jerking his fat throbbing shaft off with that same hand. Burying his head back to finish cleaning you up, the sweet taste and smell is so fucking good- so heady- that he’s coming minutes later into the hand that’s soaked with you, resting his head against your thigh while you catch your breath and wait for your senses to realign so you can convince him to take you home.

Till counting long forgotten.

[yumeka-sxf]

After the exciting start of a new Garden arc last time, today's new chapter did not disappoint either! First thing I noticed upon reading is - Yor's new outfit! (though you're not being very discreet with that "Garden" badge 😅)

Also that little lemur guy in the upper left of the panel is like "Wtf?!" I would think that too if a person suddenly leaped onto the tree branch next to me 🤣 (you can see him scurrying away in the next panel underneath...nice little detail from Endo there.)

Before I get into specifics of this chapter, I wanted to analyze the exchange between Yor and Hemlock in the jeep - namely, the Hemlock/Nightfall parallel, with Hemlock accusing Yor of losing her edge due to "playing house" for too long, which is exactly what Nightfall said to Twilight when she first appeared.

This made me think of an interview with Endo that was shared in the recent iterations of the SxF exhibition that's going on in Japan: when asked which character has changed the most in the series so far, he said Yor while also mentioning that Loid has barely changed. And I can see why that's the case with how Yor responded to Hemlock. Her experience during the cruise arc made her understand her own development - that now more than ever she wants to continue her work because she has more people she desires to protect.

She actually recognizes her own change and embraces it, while Loid...still hasn't gotten there yet. If we compare this exchange between Yor and Hemlock with the one between Loid and Nightfall, Loid clearly doesn't have this same self recognition about how living with the Forgers has changed him. He either genuinely doesn't know or he's in denial, which is why Nightfall is the one who points it out, and even when she tells him, he doesn't have a response.

One could argue that this may have been the case in old chapters, but ever since the mole hunt arc, he has recognized himself how he's changed. I do agree that the mole hunt arc made him realize that he's "softening" in a way, but he sees this as a detriment more than anything else. Unlike Yor who sees how her love for the Forgers has made her stronger, Loid sees it as something that will make him weaker rather than fuel his resolve.

We haven't seen much of Loid's deep inner thoughts since the end of the mole hunt arc, so only time will tell if he'll start to see his own development as something to be accepted rather than pushed away (just a note that I don't have a specific link for this part of the interview, but Fasionnessutsu shared screenshots of it in a thread here).

But anyway, back to other thoughts about this chapter, it was no surprise that even though Yor and McMahon changed into these safari-looking outfits, Hemlock is still wearing his suit. Why am I not surprised someone like him would totally refuse to wear that? 😂

And omg, the fact that Yor is still hung up about the "welcome home" kiss 😂 The fact that she's so earnest about it all this time later means...something, lol.

Also McMahon having a wife...it was kind of vague here but I wonder if she knows about his undercover work? Probably not, but would be interesting to see how much of his marital situation mirrors Yor's.

We apparently got another minor character introduced in this chapter - McMahon's pet falcon (and scouting assistant) Keekee.

In the Japanese version he calls her "Kiki-chan," with "kiki" being the sound she makes. It's nothing big, but I just found it amusing that a stoic, no-nonsense guy like McMahon calls his pet bird "-chan" 😅

The flower that Damian and company found has returned! I mentioned in my last chapter post that it may have some connection to Anya's past - we'll see!

This chapter ends on quite the cliffhanger, with Hemlock attacking Yor because, according to him, she's an impediment to his work and he's allowed to get rid of such impediments. We've already seen several examples of how quick to kill he is. Compared to Yor who tries her best to only kill "bad guys," Hemlock's first notion for anything in his way is to kill, whether it's the deer he's supposed to protect, or a fellow assassin he thinks is dragging him down.

Again, there's parallels that can be drawn between him and Nightfall, but unlike Nightfall whose obsession is fueled by idolizing Twilight, Hemlock's obsession seems to be fueled by animosity for Yor. Where that animosity came from is something we'll hopefully see in upcoming chapters. My theory is that, at some point, Hemlock idolized Yor and is now upset that she seems to have "softened," or he's always been jealous of her and now is even more enraged that she's not taking her job seriously anymore. Whatever the case is, I look forward to seeing how it plays out 👀

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

The Dangers of Dream Walking -Oneshot

Word count: 5748

Y/N hated her power.  The ability to dream walk was at times nice, but mostly it was a literal and figurative nightmare.  People dreamt crazy and unhinged things all the time, so it was rare to ever step into a happy dream.  She couldn’t understand why she was born with it, what good it did her or anyone else.  It wasn’t like she could manipulate the dreams.  She could only watch on as a casual observer.  Until she met the Avengers.

She had been knocked out by a piece of debris during another fight the Avengers were having, and had dream-walked right into a memory of Wanda Maximoff, who was temporarily knocked out as well.  But this time, Wanda turned and looked right at her in the dream and talked to her.

“You can see me?” Y/N asked incredulously.

“Yes,” Wanda said simply as her memory played out behind her.  “How are you here?”

“I…I dream-walk,” Y/N explained, walking toward her.  “I think I got knocked out and now…”  The image of a young Wanda and what Y/N figured was her brother playing in a field of wildflowers distracted her.  “I’m sorry,” she said, sensing the sadness in Wanda’s eyes.  “I don’t have control over it.”

Wanda tilted her head and analyzed her.  “But you can,” she replied.  “I can see it in your mind.  I’ll come find you, dream-walker.”  Then she and the memory disappeared, and Y/N hopped into a new dream.  A week later she was surprised to open her door to Wanda Maximoff in the flesh.  “I told you I’d find you,” she said cheekily.

From that day on she had been taken in by the Avengers.  She wasn’t an official team member, but had been working with Wanda on honing her power and using it to be able to tap into specific people’s dreams, then using the connection of being in their mind due to the dream and then going through their memories and thoughts.  She even learned how to start manipulating the dreams, changing the circumstances or interacting where she could to make it so nightmares turned into softer dreams.  It proved useful when she was able to get into an operative’s mind and find the coordinates and plans for the next attack.  And it proved even more useful once the Avengers fell apart, the Blip happened, and then Wanda disappeared.  After everyone came back she was lost for a while until Bucky Barnes asked for her help.

“We’ve got a new guy that has…well, some mental issues,” he explained.  “And I think your abilities might be able to help him work through those issues and make it so he can access his powers without the dark side taking over so easily.”

“I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I can try,” she said.

That’s when she met Bob and started working with him extensively, and was recruited back into the New Avengers.  They became like family to her, and she loved being able to be a part of something bigger again.  She, Yelena and Ava would have girls nights.  Alexei would compliment her abilities heavily and praise her for her efforts with Bob.  Bob was awkward and quiet, but seemed to enjoy their quiet moments of reading together and then forming their own two-person book club.  Walker was still an asshole, but she was able to get him to simmer down most days.  Then there was Bucky.  Sweet but serious, sarcastic but kind, dangerously strong but soft, and devastatingly handsome Bucky.  

Y/N pushed her feelings for him down deep, not wanting them to affect her working relationship and new friendship she had made with him.  But it was getting harder the more he tended to seek her out after rough missions or bad mental days and she would help him drift off into a dreamless slumber, or as he sat next to her during team movie nights, or as the little friendly touches started between them that eventually morphed into long hugs and him kissing the side of her head before they left for another mission.  He was usually quiet, not the one to start a conversation and preferring to be a casual observer, but when they were alone he talked and asked questions.  

At night she usually took heavy sleep aids to help her completely knock out so she wouldn’t accidentally walk into the team’s dreams.  Something about the pills helped her mind go fuzzy enough to have her own dreamless sleep and not unwittingly walk into other’s minds as she slept.  Then one night a year into living at the Watchtower with them she had fallen asleep after a long day working with Bob.  The mental exhaustion had worn her out, and she hadn’t taken the sleep aids.  That was the first time she had seen it.

Her eyes opened in what looked like…Bucky’s room?  She looked around in confusion, then heard heavy breathing.  He wasn’t in his bed.  The edges of her vision looked blurry, and she realized she was dream-walking.  Shit, she thought.  I’m in his dream...dammit.  She didn’t mean to, and willed herself to try and wake up, but then the breathing got louder and turned into grunts.  Her curiosity got the better of her, and if it was a nightmare maybe she could at least help him ease out of it.  She followed the sounds to his bathroom where the door was slightly opened.  She peeked inside, then silently gasped, her mouth dropping open dramatically.

It was partially a memory from a few weeks back when he’d come home from a mission with a nasty wound along his chest and she had tried to help him clean it up since he refused to go to the med bay because, “I’m a super soldier, doll, I’ll heal soon.”  Bucky was sitting on the lid of the toilet like he had been weeks ago, shirtless with a bandage on his chest that she had placed there after cleaning it, but in this dream he was fully naked and she was now on her knees between his legs sucking him off.  Y/N’s eyes widened in comical shock as she watched herself suck Bucky’s cock lewdly, letting out little mewls, moans and gags as she tried to take all of him, her right hand fisting what she couldn’t and stroking him at the same speed as her head bobbed up and down on him.

“That’s it, doll, fuck,” Bucky groaned, his metal hand holding back her hair and his right hand cradling her jaw.  “You’re so good at this, you know that?  Such a good girl.”

Dream Y/N made an affirming sound as she pulled up off of him for a moment to breathe then smiled up at him.  “Your good girl,” she said seductively before lapping at the head of his cock, her spit dribbling down his shaft.

“Damn right,” he huffed.  “My good girl.”

Y/N had walked into wet dreams before, always quickly walking out of them with her hands over her eyes or ears, but this time she stayed and watched.  It was strange to see herself doing something so vulgar, so dirty, and enjoying it.  But all she could really focus on was Bucky’s face.  The way the ever-present crease between his brows was now from a look of lust and desire, his mouth agape as he breathed, every once in a while biting his bottom lip as his head fell back, then looking back down at dream-her with the most lovesick expression she’d ever seen.  The way his lips said the dirtiest words and praises to her, how gently he cradled her head and she could see him struggling not to thrust into her mouth.  

His breathing got faster, and the sexiest whimper bubbled up from his throat as he tensed.  “I’m gonna cum!” he whispered, then a moment later he held her head down and shuddered as he let out a long, loud moan that echoed in the bathroom, his hips rutting into dream-her’s mouth.  Dream-Y/N whimpered as well, swallowing as much as she could.  Bucky sat there for a moment before pulling her up and off his cock, wiping at her lips with his flesh thumb and smiling at her.  “Let me see, Y/N.”  Dream-Y/N obediently opened her mouth and stuck out her tongue to show him she swallowed it all.  “Atta girl,” he smirked, then kissed her deeply.

Y/N felt the pull in her mind and watched the vision go hazy, then she woke up, gasping for air as she sat up straight in bed.  She was in her room again, looking around frantically as she pieced together what she had seen.  There was a deep ache and wetness between her legs that made her groan in discomfort and she fell back on her bed in a huff.  “Fuck me,” she breathed exasperatedly.

***

She knew she shouldn’t pry, that she should take the sleep aids and forget she ever saw it.  But she didn’t.  She let herself fall asleep naturally from then on and purposefully sought out Bucky’s dreams.  He didn’t dream about her every night, but more often than not he did and she was the star of his fantasies.  His wet dreams were quite…colorful.  The positions he put Dream-Y/N into were intense, and the way he spoke to her was dirty but also sweet and endearing.  Every time she would leave his dream she’d have to cum afterwards, pathetically muffling her cries as she pleasured herself to the memory of his dreams night after night.  

During the day when they interacted nothing changed, but she felt herself looking at him more often, which was quickly picked up on by Yelena and Walker.  They teased her about it, and she tried to deny it but ultimately would just roll her eyes and walk away.  “I mean, he’s nice looking,” Yelena said as she nudged Y/N’s shoulder.  “Why don’t you go for it?”

“Go for who?” Bob asked.

Y/N jumped in her seat and wheeled around to face him.  “Jesus, Bob!  How do you just appear out of nowhere?”

“I don’t,” he chuckled.  “But seriously, who are you going for?”

“Bucky,” Yelena said.

Y/N turned to her and smacked her arm, making Yelena yelp as Bob nodded.  “Oh, yeah, you should,” he said with a small smile.  “He stares at you, too.”

She turned back around and smacked his arm, making him yelp and step away.  “Both of you stop it,” Y/N hissed.  

“Why are we smacking people?” Bucky’s voice chimed from the other side of the common room.

They all whirled around to look at him in surprise.  “‘Cause they deserved it,” Y/N said quickly, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, adding a little shrug at the end of the sentence.

His eyes narrowed as he looked at each of them then huffed a laugh and shook his head.  “I’m sure,” he smiled.  “Ready for your lesson, doll?”

“Yep!  I’m coming!” Y/N said in a more chipper tone, then turned to Yelena and Bob once Bucky was out of sight.  She made a “zip it” motion over her mouth to them, and they both snickered as she jogged away to catch up with Bucky.  He led her to one of the many training rooms, holding the door open for her as she thanked him and stepped in to find a table set up with guns lined up on it.

“Alright, first, I’ll teach you how to put one together,” Bucky said, his tone turning professional.  “Then we’ll practice shooting.  Sound good?”

“Okay.  Remind me why I need to know how to shoot a gun?” Y/N asked teasingly as she stared at the array of guns on the table.

“It’s a good skill to have,” Bucky said, coming up behind her and grabbing one of the assembled guns.  He flicked the safety off then with his other hand handed her some ear plugs.  She quickly took them and put them in her ears, then watched as he raised the gun and took merely a second to aim and shoot at a target on the opposite side of the room.  It hit the bullseye perfectly, the gunshot still ringing in her ears and making her wince.  He then met her gaze and shot at the other four targets without looking.  Her eyes widened as she held his stare, then looked at the targets.  Each of them were perfectly shot through the bullseye.

“That was hot,” Y/N said with raised eyebrows and a blush on her cheeks.

Bucky laughed, a blush painting his cheeks as well as he put the safety back on and set the gun back on the table.  For the next hour he taught her how to put one of the simpler guns together, how to load it, unload it, clean it, and then it was time to practice shooting.  Y/N wasn’t good at it.  The feeling of the gun in her hands felt unnatural, and the kickback made her flinch each time.  She still hit the targets within the outline of the body drawn on them, but not in any fatal areas.

“You gotta get behind it,” Bucky said with a slight laugh in his voice after watching her tense up after the last shot.  “The recoil won’t be as rough if you do.”  She took a deep breath and aimed, angling her body a little differently.  It helped as she shot, the recoil not making her feel so off balance.  “Good.  Again,” he said with a smile.  After a few more rounds he stepped behind her.  “Left foot forward,” he instructed, slightly kicking her shoe to make her step forward.  “Right foot back.  Square shoulders,” his hands directed her shoulders to face the target better.  “Lean forward to anchor yourself.  Elbows slightly out to absorb recoil,” his hands slid down her arms to put them in proper position.  “Engage your pec muscles to squeeze your hands together, wrists locked.”  His hands slipped back and down to her mid-back as a secondary anchor, barely touching her.  Then he leaned in toward her ear.  “Now aim.”  His voice dropped, and she had to suppress a shiver as she aimed carefully.  “Take a deep breath,” he said quietly, his breath tickling her ear.  She inhaled deeply.  “Let it out, and shoot.”

Y/N slowly let out the breath and shot.  The recoil wasn’t nearly as bad that time, and it hit right in the middle of the forehead of the target.  She let out a surprised huff of a laugh, and felt Bucky’s hands squeeze her sides.  “Good girl,” he said proudly.

She froze.  He said it.  He fucking said it.  In real life.  To her.  She tried to school her expression as she set the gun down and he stepped away on shaky legs.  “Um…thanks,” she said, clearing her throat.  “I, uh…excuse me.”

“What?  Where are you going?” Bucky asked as she stepped around him.  “We’re not done yet.”

“I just need a minute,” she said, walking fast out of the training room and towards the nearest bathroom.  The second the stall door was closed she leaned against the wall and stuck her hand down in her pants.  Once her fingers made contact with her clit she moaned, shutting her eyes tight as her mouth hung open.  She was already so wet just from him touching her during the lesson and calling her a good girl that she immediately pumped two fingers inside her sopping pussy, causing a full body shiver to roll through her.  Did she Pavlov’s Dog herself into nearly cumming every time he called her that from watching his wet dreams?  Just as her thumb was flicking at her clit and getting her close she heard the bathroom door open.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice called out.  She silently cursed, her hand stilling in her pants as her eyes snapped open.  “What happened, huh?  Did that freak you out?  I’m sorry, sometimes that first lesson can be a little intense, actually shooting the target like that.”

“I’m fine, Buck,” Y/N said hastily.  “I’ll be there in just a minute.”

She heard him sigh and then walk toward the stall she was in.  “It’s okay, Y/N, just talk to me,” he said softly.

“I’m fine.  Seriously.”  Her wobbly voice did not help her case.  Her fingers twitched inside her and she lightly gasped, trying to be quiet.  

“Y/N, what are you…”  He stopped, then she heard the almost imperceptible sound of a deep sniff.  Goddammit, she thought.  Damn that super soldier serum.  There was a long pause, then he shuffled closer to the stall door.  “Are you…touching yourself?”

Y/N wanted the earth to swallow her whole.  This was so embarrassing.  Of course he knew.  How would she explain this?  There was no good explanation.  She’d have to tell him about the dream-walking, watching him fuck her crazy in his wet dreams for the past couple of months.  She ripped her hand out of her pants and flushed the toilet with her free hand, tucking the wet one behind her back as she opened the stall door.  Bucky stood ramrod straight, his eyes looking dark and analytical as he stared down at her.  “That’s crazy,” she said, skirting around him as best as she could.

As she tried to walk away he suddenly grabbed her and pushed her toward the tiled wall.  She squeaked in shock as he caged her against it with his arms, his left knee moving between her legs and invading her space.  His metal hand reached around and gripped her wrist she was hiding and pulled it back around carefully and up to his face.  His bright blue eyes looked sharper than usual as he looked her over, his breathing heavy, and when her fingers were close to his face he broke eye contact and stared at her wet fingers, still soaked with her arousal.  His eyelids fluttered as he tilted his head and his nostrils flared as he sniffed her fingers.  He then met her gaze again and brought her fingers to his mouth, opening wide and licking at them.

Surely this was how she would die.  Her heart thundered in her ears, she blinked rapidly and her mouth fell open as she watched him lick then suck her fingers into his mouth.  He closed his eyes as he tasted her, and the hum he let out vibrated around her fingers.  She sighed, her head falling back against the wall.  Her knees shook, threatening to give out, and his flesh hand wrapped around her back to hold her flush against his body and keep her upright.  He finally pulled her fingers out of his mouth and opened his eyes, licking his lips as he stared at her.  “You taste delicious, doll,” he whispered.  “Why were you touching yourself?”

She swallowed thickly and dropped her gaze to his chest.  “I…I needed to,” she said weakly.

“Why?” he asked firmly, his metal hand letting go of her wrist and then pulling her chin up to make her look at him.

Y/N couldn’t handle the intense look in his eyes and the shame so she shut her eyes.  “I’ve been dream-walking into your wet dreams for the past few months,” she confessed quickly.  “I didn’t mean to, I just forgot my sleeping pills one night and suddenly ended up in your dream and I saw myself giving you head.  I’m sorry.”  She felt overwhelmed and inhaled shakily, trying not to cry.  “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t say anything at first, then she felt him move and kiss the side of her mouth.  Her eyes snapped open as he pulled away and he smirked at the look on her face.  “What else did you see me doing to you?” he asked.

Y/N huffed.  “Y-you…you fucked me in the shower,” she whispered.  “And on your bed.  Then during a mission.  Basically everywhere,” she stifled a laugh at the memory of all the places and ways he’d dreamed of fucking her.  

“What was your favorite?” he asked, his metal hand sliding down to her throat and wrapping his fingers around it.  He didn’t squeeze, just held her there as he stared at her.  

“I…all of them,” she breathed.  “I loved all of them.”

His smirk widened into a wicked smile.  “Especially when I called you a good girl?”

Her eyes rolled back in her head unwittingly and she whined in his face.  “Yyyeeesss,” she grunted through gritted teeth.

Bucky moaned and kissed her.  Y/N gasped through her nose, kissing him back and trying to keep up with how passionately he was kissing her.  His tongue slipped into her mouth, and she could taste the remnants of her arousal as she entangled her tongue with his.  His flesh hand moved down her hip, over her ass cheek, then up to her breasts, kneading them and leaving a tingling sensation in his wake.  His metal hand slightly squeezed her throat, pulling another whine from deep in her chest.

“Fuck, doll,” he groaned against her lips.  “So responsive.  Just like in my dreams.”  He pulled away and rested his forehead against hers as they both breathed heavily.  “Lesson’s over.  Let’s go upstairs and you can choose which dream we recreate first.”

She nodded frantically.  He let her go and grabbed her hand, pulling her out of the bathroom and walking with purpose toward the elevator.  The entire ride up he didn’t say anything or move, watching the floor numbers rise as he held her hand firmly.  When the elevator dinged he nearly ripped her from the elevator and dragged her to his room, shutting and locking the door behind her and then pushing her against the door.  He kissed her again, his hands roaming over her eagerly.  Y/N melted against him, letting him move her and kiss her any which way he wanted to.

“How do you wanna start, Y/N?” he asked as he licked at her neck.  “You wanna suck me off like that first time you saw me?  Or do you wanna fuck me?  I’ll do whatever you want.”

Her hands were shaking as she gripped his shoulders, trying to ground herself so she wouldn’t collapse.  “Do you…do you actually want to do this?” she stuttered, her self-doubt kicking in.  “I u-understand if you’re…mad or–”

“Stop that,” Bucky said, gripping her cheeks and making her look at him again.  “What you saw in my dreams is exactly what I want.  You.  I want you.  I’ve been falling for you from the moment we met, doll.  I want your body,” he kissed her lips.  “I want your mind.”  He kissed her forehead.  “I want your heart all to myself.”  He dipped down and kissed the spot over her heart, making her almost sob.  “I want you to be mine, and I want to be yours.”  The look on his face and the hope in his eyes was almost too much to bear as he gazed at her.

“I want that,” Y/N nodded.  “I want all of that.  I’m yours, and I want you to be mine.”

“Already am,” he shook his head with a knowing smile.  “I’m yours.”  He kissed her again, but this time it was softer, sweeter, and the tenderness made her whimper against his mouth.  Her hands moved up to hold him by the back of the neck and keep him close to her, and he used the leverage of her hands there to lift her and make her wrap her legs around his hips.  Bucky turned them towards his bed and laid her on it, continuing his kisses as he stayed there with her for a moment.

When he moved his kisses to her cheek and down to her neck she finally found her voice.  “I want…I need you to make me cum with your fingers,” she said.  “I need to cum so bad, Buck.  Please…please honey…”

“Mmh, I like that,” Bucky smirked against her neck.  He quickly stripped her of her clothes, leaving her naked and splayed out on the bed.  His eyes hungrily gazed at her as he stripped himself, and she ogled him openly as his flesh hand moved closer to her pussy.

“No, not that one,” Y/N said.

Bucky looked like he short circuited for a moment, his eyes widening as he stared at her in shock.  Then his eyes narrowed and he brought his metal hand forward, hovering it over her pussy.  “You want my metal fingers?” he asked, sounding perplexed and in awe.  She nodded, smiling softly at him.  He let out a long sigh, like he was relaxing after a long day, then brought his metal hand up to her face.  “Open up,” he instructed.  Y/N opened her mouth and he dipped his middle three fingers into her mouth.  She licked and sucked them, loving the way the metal felt against her tongue and giggling at the clink sound they made against her teeth.  When he felt like they were lubed enough he pulled them out of her mouth and brought his hand back down between her legs.  “Good girl,” he praised her with a knowing smirk.  

She visibly shivered at the praise, and he sunk two fingers into her without warning.  Y/N gasped, her back arching at the sudden but pleasant intrusion that her body had been yearning for.  He pumped his fingers slowly, letting her get adjusted to them and watching her carefully, making sure she wasn’t in any pain or discomfort.  His eyes couldn’t seem to decide whether to stay on her face or her pussy, mesmerized by the slick sounds coming from between her legs and the moans and whimpers falling from her lips.

She was so close already, and whimpered at the need and desperation that made her hips tremble in his hand.  The metal felt amazing inside her, somehow staying cool against the immense heat radiating from her pussy.  Bucky could tell she was struggling to finish and leaned over her a little bit, bringing his face close to her pussy.  He suddenly spit on her clit, and she flinched at the added warmth as well as the sound, her breathing getting even heavier at how hot that was.  His metal thumb started circling around her clit, rubbing in his spit as his fingers continued to fuck her.  He watched her squirm for a moment before getting close again and then licking at her clit.  Her hips bucked into his face, but that only seemed to drive him on as his flesh hand held her left thigh tightly to hold her down, his metal fingers moving faster inside her as the tip of his tongue flicked her clit.

“Holy fuck, doll,” he mumbled against her.  “So good…let go and cum, Y/N.  Be my good girl and cum.”

The build-up of her orgasm was finally about to tip over the edge.  She reached down and gripped Bucky’s hair in her fingers, tugging at it as her hips grinded against his mouth.  He moaned, sucking at her clit hard, then teasingly nibbled at his with his teeth.  She came with a shriek, her legs clamping against his head as she bucked against his face again and again.  Bucky kept moaning into her, his mouth and fingers refusing to stop and letting her ride out the orgasm as long as she wanted.  

Once she stopped shaking he gave her one last broad lick and eased his fingers out of her, then put them in his mouth and licked them clean.  She watched him enjoy her cum, the arousal rebuilding quickly.  “Honey,” she breathed.  His eyes flicked up to her face as he pulled his pointer finger out with a pop.  “That was so good…thank you,” she huffed.

Bucky smiled and wiped his hand on the comforter before climbing over her and slotting his hips between her legs.  His cock was heavy and hard laying on her pussy and lower stomach.  Her hips squirmed again at the feeling, and he smirked watching her writhe uncomfortably, her lustful frown as she looked down at him making him beam.  “So desperate for my cock, doll?” he teased, leaning down to kiss, lick and suck at her tits insistently.  

“Yes,” she said unabashedly, her fingers back in his hair and scratching down his scalp.  

“Is this how you want it?” he asked, dragging his lips across the skin of her chest.  “The dream where I fucked you hard and fast on my bed, with you begging me to fill you, huh?”

“Oh my…GOD YES!” she grunted.  

He chuckled against her sternum before moving back up and kissing her.  “On your stomach, doll,” he instructed.  Y/N immediately rolled over, planting her knees on the bed and raising her ass in the air with her face down in the bed.  She heard him huff another laugh and then position himself behind her, rubbing his cock through her soaked lower lips.  His flesh hand slapped her ass cheeks, and she whimpered again at the sting that he rubbed out gently.  “Such a good, obedient girl,” he said lowly, teasing her pussy with the tip of his cock over and over again.  “Go on.  Beg.”

She turned her head to try and look at him as best as she could, her eyes pleading with him as she shook her ass back against his hips.  “Bucky, honey, please…please?  I need you to fill me.  I want your fat cock to fuck me and fill me up, please.  Please please please, honey?  I’ll be so good.  Your good girl.”

His eyes rolled back at that and his mouth dropped open.  “Damn right you are,” he groaned, then thrust forward and filled her completely.  Y/N yelped at the sudden stretch and fullness, her face smooshing back into the bed as she dropped her head down and her own eyes rolled back.  He was perfect.  She had never been so full in her life, and she knew instantly that she was ruined for any other man.  Bucky let her adjust for a minute, a deep hum vibrating in his chest that she could surprisingly feel through her pussy, then he rolled his hips.  That pulled a whine from her, and from then on it was like a bargain between them.  A roll of the hips for a moan.  A hard snap for a whimper.  Widening her legs for a grunt and hands squeezing her ass cheeks.  They were playing with each other, learning what the other wanted and responded to the most.  Y/N had never felt so turned on or completely loved and cared for, and it made her sniffle as she started to cry.

“You crying, doll?” Bucky asked, laying his front over her back and kissing between her shoulder blades.  “Does it feel that good?”

“Yes, honey,” she moaned, her fingers grasping the comforter in a death grip.  “Never been so…mmh, full before,” she said.

“Really?  Aw, buttering me up, huh?” he asked, the teasing tone coming back full force, his lips tracing along her back and his teeth nipping at her randomly, making her tense up.  The way his beard was leaving goosebumps along her sensitive skin was tantalizing.  “Gonna keep praising me ‘til I cum deep inside this pretty, sloppy pussy?  God, you’re better than my dreams, Y/N.”

Y/N shivered at all the different sensations coming together to make her start tipping over the edge of another orgasm.  Her face thrashed against the bed as the pace of his thrusts picked up, snapping into her hips so hard that the slapping of skin echoed in his room.  His fingers gripped her hips hard, and she knew she’d be bruised and sensitive the next day, but that somehow made it even hotter.  “Oh fuck…fuck, fuck, Bucky I…ungh,” she groaned as her pussy pulsed around him.  “Fuck me full, honey!  Please!”

“Yeah,” he huffed, the pace getting even faster.  He leaned over and adjusted his feet on the bed, making it so he was mounting her.  He tucked his face into the side of her neck, his heaving breaths heating her ear.  “Take it, doll.  Take all of me like the good girl you are.  And all mine.”  Bucky bit her shoulder, not hard but enough to make her shudder.  “Mine,” he growled around the muscle in his mouth.

Y/N came careening over the edge, cumming so hard around his cock that she screamed and shook violently beneath him.  Her pussy pulsed in waves as the orgasm rolled through her body and to each extremity, her vision going white as her voice was muffled into the mattress.  Bucky clenched behind her, his hips pistoning into her a few times more until he whimpered in her ear and then shoved himself as far in as she could and stiffened.  Another deep hum vibrated through him as he came, and she could feel the warmth increase inside her as he filled her up just the way she wanted.  

It took her a few minutes to come back to herself, but when she did she could still feel him rutting into her from behind, his lips still at her shoulder but kissing and licking at the bite mark he left, and his hands generously massaging over her back, sides and hips.  He gripped his cock between them and squeezed, making sure to get every last drop of cum was emptied into her still undulating pussy walls, her hips twitching periodically.

“Good girl.  You’re such a good girl,” he said, his voice sounding tired.  “Did so good for me, doll.  That was amazing.  Thank you.  Thank you for walking into my dreams.  My pretty dream girl.  Fucking hell…”

She giggled as he turned to his side and pulled her with him, keeping his cock tucked inside her as best as possible as he settled them more comfortably.  “My dream man came to life,” she teased, reaching back and pinching his hip.

Bucky laughed and grabbed her hand, pulling it up to his mouth and kissing her fingers.  “Your dream man.  My good girl.”

She nodded and leaned her head back into his chest, and he kissed her top of her head near her hairline.  “Your good girl.”

@nerdreader

[wittyno]

Where is that Patton Oswalt bit?

Transcript:

And by the way I don't know if you know if you get hung up on Words then you're going to let a lot of evil motherfuckers slip through because evil people learn the correct terms very quickly. I don't know if you noticed that they're the first ones to learn it so they can smuggle their evil shit through by saying everything correctly even though they're hiding really bad shit in it and a lot of times the good guys they fuck up a couple of words but listen to their heart.

All right, I'm going to give you two guys right now one of them is a good guy and one of them is a bad guy. I'm not going to tell you which one. See if you can spot the good guy and the bad guy.

Here's guy number one: "While I happen to be heteronormative and certainly respect people who uh have alternate Lifestyles including gay, bi, lesbian transgender, Omni, or pansexual. I still think that heteronormative uh behavior is a biological imperative for at least for propagating the species and I believe that that does deserve the highest priority. That was Guy number one.

Here's guy number two if a couple of fags want to get married or some dykes want to be man. How the fuck does that affect you asshole? You know, and then the whole... Listen, hey if if there's some tranny out there. It's like hey I don't want to I don't want a dick no more I want a I want a vagina then boom. Guess what? It's a she now or whatever the fuck she it I don't know. Whatever they want to call themselves. That's... it don't affect you so if you see some guy. I don't don't care if he's got a Chooch it looks like a Boris Karlov horror movie. We got a, you got to share the planet with that guy all right or that girl I don't fucking know.

Let they'll tell me . [Applause] Second guy was the good guy who probably looks like an asshole. Probably is wearing you know kind of rednecky shit. The first guy probably is at a nice coffee bar sipping...

"The trannies should be able to piss in whatever toilet they want and change their bodies however they want. Why is it my business if some chick has a dick or a guy has a pie? I'm not a trannie or a fag so I don't care, just give 'em the medicine they need."

"This is an LGBT safe space. Of COURSE I fully support individuals who identify as transgender and their right to self-determination! I just think that transitioning is a very serious choice and should be heavily regulated. And there could be a lot of harm in exposing cis children to such topics, so we should be really careful about when it is appropriate to mention trans issues or have too much trans visibility."

One of the above statements is Problematic and the other is slightly annoying. If we disagree on which is which then working together for a better future is going to get really fucking difficult.

[vaginalvr]

Backstage lovers, nsfw

Spencer Reid x Famous!Popstar!Reader

a/n want to know a secret? famous!reader x spencer are my favorites

cw: Smut, dirty talk, oral sex (m receiving), praise kink, light dom!Reader, mutual consent, slight nerd/popstar contrast kink, fluff before filth

You weren’t used to being nervous.

Sold-out stadiums? You could handle that. Worldwide press tours? Easy. Flirty late-night interviews? All part of the job. But standing in the bullpen of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico, your fingers were twitching around the strap of your designer bag.

“Remind me again why I’m here?” you whispered to your manager, clutching your custom leather jacket a little tighter around your body.

“PR,” she said. “You agreed to do a ride-along for that profile piece in Vanity Fair. It’s edgy. It humanizes you. Makes you relatable. You’ll be shadowing Agent Spencer Reid.”

You blinked. “That name sounds… familiar.”

“He's the one with the PhDs. Total genius. Kinda cute, in that tortured-intellectual way.” She gave you a knowing look. “Be nice.”

Before you could reply, a man approached from the glass hallway — tall, lean, with messy chestnut hair and a nervous frown that tugged at his full lips. His badge swayed on his hip. He looked like he hadn’t slept in three days and had read 20 books in the meantime.

“Hi,” he said, offering his hand, “I’m Dr. Spencer Reid. You must be—”

You grinned. “You can call me Y/N.”

He hesitated. “Sorry, I just… my god, you’re really here.” His voice cracked slightly, like he couldn’t believe you were real. “I’ve seen you on TV before, obviously, but I didn’t think you’d actually be—uh. Never mind. Welcome to the BAU.”

You bit back a smile. “Thanks. So what do I do? Do I get a badge too?”

“You get… coffee,” he said sheepishly. “There’s really not a lot of field work today. I hope that’s okay?”

You tilted your head. “Coffee and a genius? I’ve had worse mornings.”

And just like that, you saw it — the faintest pink flush rising to his ears.

Spencer had a hard time meeting your eyes.

Not because he was shy (well, not just because of that) — but because every time he looked at you, he remembered the one time he watched your music video with Garcia after a late case.

He hadn’t expected to like it. But you had swagger, talent, and this mischievous, sultry charisma on stage that lingered in his head far longer than he liked to admit.

And now you were sitting at his desk, spinning slowly in his office chair while sipping a sugary iced drink Garcia had fetched you. Your perfume smelled like jasmine and something expensive. Your legs were crossed. You caught him staring.

“Dr. Reid,” you said lightly, “are you profiling me right now?”

His lips parted. “No—well, not in a bad way. Just… noticing things.”

You leaned forward, eyes playful. “Like?”

“Like…” He fumbled. “You wore oversized sunglasses in. Possibly to hide fatigue or avoid recognition. You keep shifting your weight from hip to hip when standing, which might suggest discomfort with heels, or a tendency to avoid being too stationary. You’ve looked at your phone seven times since arriving, suggesting either work urgency or social media addiction.”

You blinked. “Okay, damn. You’re good.”

He flushed, clearly regretting the outburst. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“Actually,” you said, standing and stepping closer, “it was kind of hot.”

Spencer froze.

“You—think profiling is hot?”

“Only when you do it like that,” you murmured, eyes dragging down his chest, lingering at his lips. “You’ve got this whole Clark Kent vibe. It’s very underrated.”

You were joking, kind of. Teasing. That’s what you did when you were nervous. But Spencer Reid stared at you like you’d just handed him the moon.

He licked his lips. “Can I confess something slightly inappropriate?”

You raised a brow. “I love inappropriate.”

“I, uh… went to one of your concerts last year. With Garcia. You sang a stripped-down acoustic version of Sweet Devotion and… I haven’t really stopped thinking about it.”

Your heart skipped. “That’s my favorite track on that album.”

He smiled softly. “Mine too.”

For a second, the BAU buzzed on in the background — phones ringing, keyboards clacking. But you were in your own little world, surrounded by bulletins and whiteboards, and the intoxicating idea that this man — this brilliant, awkward, devastatingly endearing man — had been a fan of yours before he even met you.

That alone did something to your chest. And maybe… a little lower.

By the time the ride-along was over, the sun had set, casting amber light through the glass walls. The bullpen had emptied out. You stood by the elevator, debating whether to say goodbye with a handshake or something bolder.

“I had fun today,” you said honestly. “More than I thought I would.”

Spencer pushed his hands deep into his pockets. “Me too. You were… incredible.”

“Not exactly catching serial killers, though.”

“No, but you’re catching hearts,” he said quickly, then winced. “I mean—uh—sorry, that was lame—”

You stepped close before he could spiral. “Spencer.”

He stilled. You reached up, brushing a hand along the collar of his cardigan. He smelled like coffee and something bookish, clean.

“Can I kiss you?” you whispered.

He nodded, breath catching. “Please.”

You kissed him slow — not like the kiss of a popstar who’d spent years posing for paparazzi. It was private. Sincere. Like you needed it. Like he did too.

His mouth was softer than you imagined. He kissed like someone who thought about it too much, like he wanted to memorize you one touch at a time. Your body buzzed.

You deepened it, one hand curling into his curls, the other tugging him gently by the belt loop.

When you pulled away, his pupils were blown wide.

“I—” he cleared his throat. “Do you want to come back to my place?”

You bit your lip. “Lead the way, Doctor.”

His apartment was small and cluttered with books, but it smelled like him and was full of quiet charm. His bed was unmade. His cheeks were flushed as he locked the door behind you.

“Sorry, I didn’t expect—”

You turned and kissed him again, this time pushing him gently against the door. “Don’t apologize.”

His hands finally landed on your hips, unsure at first, then firmer. Your bodies pressed together. You could feel him getting hard through his slacks.

“You’ve been thinking about this since the concert, haven’t you?” you murmured.

He gave a helpless nod.

You tugged his sweater over his head and drank in the sight of him — lean, pale skin, toned in that understated way that came from constant stress and running after unsubs. His chest rose and fell fast.

“You’re so gorgeous, Spencer.”

He laughed nervously. “You’re… you’re you. And you’re here.”

You backed him toward the bed slowly, tugging your jacket off, then your shirt. His eyes widened when your bra hit the floor.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “This is real.”

You pushed him gently onto the mattress, climbing into his lap. “Wanna be even more real?”

He whimpered when you kissed down his throat, grinding against the hard line of him through his pants. His hands gripped your waist like he was scared you'd disappear.

“You’re so responsive,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his jaw, sucking lightly at the hollow below his ear. “Do you always get this worked up from a kiss?”

“Not from just a kiss,” he said shakily. “From you.”

You sat up and reached for his belt. He trembled under you.

“Can I?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

You undid his slacks and tugged them down, revealing boxers that did nothing to hide how hard he was. He hissed when your hand brushed him.

“Sensitive?” you teased.

He flushed but nodded. “Touch-starved, probably.”

You leaned down, kissing a trail down his chest, slow and open-mouthed, until you reached the waistband of his boxers.

You looked up at him. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I swear to God,” he groaned, “if you stop now, I’ll have an actual medical emergency.”

You laughed and tugged his boxers down, freeing his cock — flushed, leaking, longer than you expected (why were you surprised? Of course Spencer Reid was packing). He twitched when your tongue licked a slow stripe up the underside.

“Fuck,” he whispered, fisting the sheets.

You took him into your mouth slowly, letting your lips glide over the tip before sinking deeper. Spencer made the most delicious noises — breathy gasps and soft whimpers as you hollowed your cheeks and swirled your tongue.

“Y/N, I—fuck, that’s so good,” he moaned. “You feel—your mouth is—God.”

You reached for his hand and laced your fingers with his as you took him deeper. He squeezed yours tight, his hips starting to twitch upward.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice broken. “If you keep—oh god—”

You pulled off with a wet pop, wiping your mouth. “Then you’d better fuck me before I make you come in my mouth.”

His eyes went wide with hunger.

“Condoms. Drawer,” he gasped.

You grabbed one, tore it open with your teeth, and rolled it on him. Then you stripped fully and climbed into his lap again.

Spencer looked at you like a man seeing heaven for the first time. You guided him to your entrance, and when you sank down onto him, both of you moaned in unison.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.

You rode him slowly, grinding your hips, watching his head fall back as he tried to keep it together. His hands gripped your thighs, his mouth open, eyes dazed.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered.

You leaned down, lips brushing his. “So are you.”

You moved faster, chasing your own high as he met you thrust for thrust, hips jerking upward as he panted your name.

“I’m gonna—Y/N, I—”

“Come for me, Spencer,” you moaned, clenching around him.

He came hard, with a cry muffled into your shoulder, trembling beneath you. You followed soon after, shuddering as you collapsed on top of him.

His fingers traced lazy circles on your back.

“I don’t know how I’m ever supposed to listen to your songs again without getting hard,” he said.

You laughed against his chest. “Maybe you shouldn’t listen in public, then.”

He turned his head to kiss your hair. “Will you stay?”

You looked up at him, completely smitten. “I think I’d like that.”

A few months later...

The bullpen was quieter than usual — a miracle in itself.

Pizza boxes were stacked on the breakroom table, and the overhead lights were dimmed for the first time since someone brought in birthday cupcakes three months ago. The BAU team gathered in front of the flatscreen Garcia had hacked to stream the Grammys in full HD, popcorn bowls in hand, drinks sweating onto files no one currently cared about.

All eyes were on the screen as a sultry red glow took over the stage.

And Spencer Reid’s heart was hammering against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

“Next up,” the host said, “a nominee for Song of the Year, Best Pop Solo, and Best Music Video — please welcome the inimitable Y/N.”

Garcia squealed. “She’s so stunning it makes me want to cry.”

“She’s insane live,” Morgan added. “We watched one of her music videos last time we were stuck on that Kansas case, remember?”

“I’m still recovering,” JJ joked.

Spencer said nothing. He couldn’t.

Because he wasn’t watching a popstar. He wasn’t watching a Grammy nominee. He wasn’t even watching a global icon.

He was watching you.

The woman who’d spent the night at his apartment last weekend, wearing one of his shirts and eating takeout on the floor. The woman who whispered his name into the dark like a secret and a promise. The woman who hadn’t texted him all day because you’d said you wanted him to see it live.

And now, here you were.

Rising from the center of the stage in a sheer black outfit that hugged your body like sin, bathed in dim lighting and crimson spotlights. Smoke curled around your boots. Your lips curled into a wicked, knowing smile.

The music started low, haunting.

The crowd in the arena screamed.

Spencer stopped breathing.

Don’t blame me Love made me crazy If it doesn’t, you ain’t doing it right Lord, save me My drug is my baby I’ll be using for the rest of my life—

Your voice was low and honeyed, vibrating with emotion, with devotion, and something dark and addictive underneath it all. The band swelled. Your eyes were half-lidded as you walked down the stage, hips swaying with the music, hands curled around the mic like you were praying to it.

Spencer’s fingers twitched in his lap.

He could feel the team reacting around him — catcalls, whistles, gasps — but none of it mattered. Because the way you were singing, the way you moved, wasn’t for them.

It was for him.

I get so high Oh, every time, yeah, every time You’re lovin’ me You’re lovin’ me Trip of my life Oh, every time, yeah, every time You’re touchin’ me—

“I need to know who she wrote this about,” Garcia said breathlessly. “This is giving worship.”

Spencer swallowed hard. He felt like the room had fallen away. Like it was just you and him.

Because you’d sent him the demo of this song months ago. Because you’d played it on his couch with your bare legs across his lap. Because you’d whispered in his ear This one’s yours. Even if no one ever knows it.

And now the whole world was watching you bare your soul, skin glowing under red lights, mouth brushing the mic like it was a lover’s skin.

My name is whatever you decide And I’m just gonna call you mine I’m insane, but I’m your baby Echoes (echoes) of your name inside my mind—

His thighs tensed. His heart raced. He couldn’t look away.

The camera zoomed in on your face, and for a split second — just one beat — you looked straight into the lens and smiled.

The exact same way you looked at him in the morning.

Spencer’s breath hitched.

Then came the bridge.

Don’t blame me Love made me crazy If it doesn’t, you ain’t doing it right Oh, Lord, save me My drug is my baby I’ll be using for the rest of my life—

Your hand slid slowly down your body as you belted, voice raw and holy. You dropped to your knees at the front of the stage and threw your head back on the final note. Smoke exploded around you. The band hit its peak.

And Spencer Reid swore to God he could feel your voice inside his bones.

You didn’t say a name.

You didn’t need to.

Because he knew. You’d told him without telling him. You’d stripped your soul bare in front of the world and wrapped it in velvet and silk and heat. And still, you had kept him yours.

—

When the crowd exploded into applause, the bullpen followed — all except for Spencer, who was still frozen in place, chest tight, pulse erratic.

“She killed that,” JJ said in awe.

“I think I’m pregnant,” Garcia whispered.

Morgan snorted. “She’s something else. Wonder who she was singing to like that.”

Emily smirked. “Whoever it is, he’s probably losing his damn mind right now.”

Spencer coughed. “Probably,” he said weakly.

Garcia turned to him. “You okay, boy wonder? You look like someone just hit you with a freight train of lust.”

His ears flushed violently. “Just… impressed.”

She squinted. “Wait, didn’t you say you met her during that PR ride-along?”

He nodded carefully. “Yeah.”

“You ever talk to her again?”

His mouth twitched. “Once or twice.”

Garcia narrowed her eyes like a cat. “Hmmm.”

He shifted in his seat, trying to look casual while silently praying his arousal didn’t show.

Across the screen, you were accepting your award — glittering and breathless, cheeks glowing.

You leaned into the mic, still panting slightly from the performance. “I want to dedicate this one to someone who makes me feel like that song — completely out of my mind, and totally alive.”

The room howled.

Someone elbowed Spencer. “Dude, imagine being that guy.”

He looked down at his lap and smiled faintly.

“I don’t have to.”

—

Later that night...

His phone buzzed just after midnight.

Y/N: Did you like the performance?

Spencer: You made my heart stop. Twice. Pretty sure it still hasn’t restarted.

Y/N: Good. That was the goal. I want you to hear me every time you think about my mouth.

Spencer: That’s already a problem. And by problem, I mean I’m currently in bed replaying every second and probably not sleeping tonight.

Y/N: Then let me make it worse: I was wearing the perfume you said you liked. The one you said smelled like sex and danger.

Spencer: You’re evil.

Y/N: You love it.

Spencer: I do.

Y/N: I’ll be back in D.C. in three days. I want you naked in that cardigan when I get there.

Spencer: Yes, ma’am.

[bloomseishiro]

Hi! Can I request some BLLK drabbles (with whichever BLLK characters you like) where the boys see the reader in tight clothes for the first time? Like, the reader usually wears baggy clothing or stuff that hides their curves/body figure, so it’s a total surprise! It doesn’t have to be a dress—tight shorts and crop tops work too!

Anyways, I love you and your fics! You’re doing amazing, hunny! 💕 Keep doing what you’re doing—your stories make me smile and feel the thrill!! 💓🩷💗

what a surprise — he sees you in tight clothes for the first time

౨ৎ ft. nagi seishiro, itoshi sae, itoshi rin

a/n. THANK YOU SWEET ANON FOR THE REQUEST!! i had sm fun writing this and ur kind words def made my day ^-^ i chose the three characters i’m most comfy with heh one day i will expand!! >.>

contents. fluff, pre-relationship, timeskip/pro soccer player bllk boys, reader wears a tight dress for rin and nagi’s + crop top/short shorts for sae’s, these are suggestive so rated 16+ pls ! 

NAGI SEISHIRO

Nagi isn’t one to go to parties often. But this one was for Reo’s birthday and you were begging him to go. 

He thought it would be less of a hassle to simply agree with you and make an appearance. Besides, he could always bring his phone and hide in the corner of the room, if needed. 

But when Nagi sees the dress you’re wearing to the party, he decides maybe agreeing to come wasn’t such a bad idea after all. 

“Does this dress make my butt look big?” you ask from his room, popping your head out of the doorframe. 

The two of you are getting ready at Nagi’s apartment, mainly so he can’t flake at the last minute, and he had stepped out earlier to give you privacy while changing. 

At your question, Nagi looks around lazily before his eyes widen slightly at the sight of you. The dress on your body is short and tight, leaving nothing to the imagination when it comes to the shape of your waist and hips. 

Nagi swallows with uncertainty. It’s different from your usual attire, that much even he could recognize. 

“Yes,” he manages to answer your question honestly. 

You beam as if that's just the response you’re looking for. “Great! I was going to wear my usual clothes, but Reo said we should dress nice since his family invited some celebrities.”

Nagi nods in acknowledgment. “Your dress is nice. But your usual clothes are nice, too.”

Hiding a giggle, you tug the dress down so it covers more of your thighs. Nagi can’t help but notice how shiny and supple your skin looks there. 

“Do you like one more than the other?” you ask playfully. 

He shakes his head hesitantly and he feels heat rise to his cheeks. “I like…both.”

“I’ll make sure to mix it up sometimes, then.”

ITOSHI SAE

Sae isn’t a saint. He’s never claimed nor pretended to be. While his focus has always been on soccer, he wasn’t one to turn down one night stands so long as they were conveniently timed for him. 

All that to say, he’s seen plenty of minimally-clad bodies before. But he’s never felt the dryness in his throat that he does now. All from seeing you in those denim booty shorts and cropped baby tee. 

Of course, the ridiculous shirt has, “Make Men Cry” written across your chest, only accentuating the curves you normally kept hidden even more. You may very well be able to reach that goal if you keep walking around like that. 

His face is neutral; only Sae himself feels the slight clench of his jaw as his eyes trail across your figure. 

“Do I look bad?” you blurt hesitantly, tugging at the hem of your shirt that landed just above your belly-button. Your fidgeting only serves to draw more attention to the exposed, soft skin on your stomach. 

Sae blinks slowly. “No. Who said that?”

“No one, but you just keep staring at me…” 

“Not because you look bad,” he corrects. “It’s because you look hot.”

“You think?” you ask shyly, peering up at him through your lashes. “My friend and I went on a shopping spree and I wanted to change up my wardrobe. Just sometimes, at least.”

Sae makes a mental note to thank your friend. “Well, if you need more clothes, you can use my card.”

“I’ll make sure to get more of these cropped tops. Since you seem to like it so much,” you tease.

“For whatever reason, only on you.”

ITOSHI RIN

Awestruck doesn’t begin to describe how Rin feels when he sees you in a silk dress that gracefully falls against all your curves. 

Galas are a pain, a stupid event he would skip if not for his PR team’s incessant prodding, but at least he managed to drag you along with him for this one. 

He didn’t, however, actually expect you to dress the part. He would’ve been fine if you had shown up in the oversized shirts and baggy pants you typically wore, but he was completely caught off guard at the sight of you now.

“Can you help me tighten the back?” you ask bashfully, turning around to reveal the almost-backless dress that held itself together by a few measly strings. “I don’t want it to fall off at the gala…”

Rin’s ears heat up and he mentally slaps himself for picturing that. “Yeah. C’mere.”

You aren’t one to wear revealing clothes often, and this is the most skin he’s seen since he ever met you. His fingers ghost the back of your spine as he fastens the strings into a little bow. His fingers jerk as he skims the softness of your skin and he clears his throat to distract himself. 

“Is this good?” he asks hoarsely. 

You tug at the straps to make sure it’s secure and nod brightly. “Yep! Thanks, Rin. Do you need help with anything? I can tie your tie in return!”

Panicked, he shakes his head and quickly fastens his tie himself. It’s the fastest Rin has ever gotten it done. Once finished, he catches you staring at him with a funny look. 

“You’re acting silly,” you say, sticking your tongue out.

“Sorry. I know. I’m just not used to you looking like that.”

Your gaze meets the floor as you shuffle your weight from foot to foot. “Is it weird?”

“It’s unfamiliar. But you look…” he trails off, cheeks a bright pink. “You look really pretty.”

You blink in surprise and an equally embarrassed look graces your features. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he coughs. “Not that you’re not always pretty. Just…it���s different.”

“Yeah,” you repeat, giggling through the shyness. “Well, if you want to see me like this more often, I guess you have to invite me as your plus one to more of these events.”

“Do you want to attend more of these with me?” asks Rin in surprise. 

“Not particularly,” you admit and Rin scoffs. “But maybe it’s worth it to see your cute reactions.”

His face heats up once more. “Shut up.” 

You laugh at him, placing your hand on your hips and only drawing more attention to your curves. Maybe Rin doesn’t hate galas, after all.

[azonewithu]

Its ok i just haye everyone again. I hot lots of work in a shitty world ive ordered a kilo. Im going back to being Lethal we re likely enemies now. I hate you tv movie bitch assholes. Younreslky arent human once you tske on too nany roles. You no longgee can talk for fear of losing what you have. Or how people look at you. Looknwhet i havevto donEi gs covered in blood heart black. Im cheering for the red wings theyre not in it yhis year do forget hockey. I never really liked thosevtypenof people anyway. Everyone just tries to fit in. Cause sports ste too reptiyive and theyre kind of stupid boring. One a year i need to watch a game of snything. Whiever eins i care not where theyre from nothing. I hate everybidy everywhere so theres nowhere gor me to go. Ill just go home its better there. This place is idiotic snd cruel but you learned thetes bigger fish than humanity in the galaxy like me. And no you never ever had a doecislnllace above other beings in Gids eyes thats a koran fyckn lie fuvk thst rag yoo. Stuff it in ur own ur ass muzzie. We font cste nor do i ever wanna hesr passages for shit. Its s lunatics terririst guidebook to me. Rules too harsh whet muzzie oiece of shit wants to duel? See Emma or sucks to have to cone out and say the truth but i cant lie sboit God. God hates you all now. Thats thevtruth. No one here is kind no one herevis good. I told sn okd lsdy tiday a nice looking kne Gid dedpises this planet hes fone hes tired of propke and hes sent me to kill you all. I said thos to a lil old lady youbkniecehst dhe did sfyer i said utscehet you all deserve. She nodded and dmiled in a funny way. I said do you know already. Youre honna be sll right lady most people no. Yiu lived to understsnd but evrn if ur 22 ignorsnce is nobexcuse. She smiled and put her hand on mine. Good people Emma Watson truly actusl good people im sorry thats realky npt you or I it idbt nor you for sure. But for good people i feel bad for them. Good people suffer yhe most. Evil oeopke these days prosper. So how you doin orospering? Think about that you know nothing about sacrifice. What firvyour career thats not a resl sacrifice. Maybe i shpukd just sacrifice you instead. My troops tecommended thats the beet clurse of scrion to i kill you. I told them unless i say otherwise snyone touches her your ass is universsl grasssss. Youll duffer yhe worst tprture in all history. So theyre chill for now.

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE (2005) + Joe Wright’s DVD Commentary

[no-144444]

꩜summary: he needs to start reading minds...

꩜pairing: george russell x fem! reader

The party was dying down but you’d lost George about an hour and a half ago and Lando was the only other person you even slightly knew there. He was funny, kind of immature and annoying, but he would suffice for the end of the night. You’d wanted to speak to George all night but alas, the second he saw some of his friends he abandoned you by the drinks table, where you stayed until some of the WAGs adopted you into their group for the night. Then you found Lando. 

“So you and George, yeah?” he asked, licking his lips and shamelessly looking down your top. You held yourself back from rolling your eyes. Lando was objectively attractive, sure, but he was frat boy hot, and you went more for… well, whatever George was. You chuckled and adjusted your dress. 

“Yeah,” you shrugged. “Kind of.”

His eyes lit up at the subtle answer. “Wiggle room?” he questioned and you almost laughed in his face at the metaphor he chose. 

“Maybe,” you smirked. “For the right person, of course.” 

George watched from a table nearby, the whiskey glass in his left hand feeling the pressure of his grip. He put it down to stop himself from breaking the damn thing. You were here with him, not Lando. You were his date. You were his. The party was dying down, but he was deadlocked in an argument with Alex about something trivial, but his pride (and the alcohol flowing through his veins) made it hard to concede. He had a very good reason to now, especially when he saw Lando’s hand on your shoulder, looking enchanted by your beauty. You were beautiful. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. You were funny. Anyone who spoke to you knew that. You were ridiculously clever. Anyone who listened to you knew that. 

But you were also his date. And he didn’t want Lando all over you. 

He stalked over in a few large strides, leaving Alex calling his name. “Keeping your hands to yourself, Lando?” he questioned, his tone dry and strict. Lando looked up with a chuckle, removing his hand from your shoulder. George turned his attention to you, a self righteous smirk on your lips. He held himself back from rolling his eyes. “Ready to go, babe?” 

“We’ve only been here two hours?” you feigned surprise. “What’s wrong?”

He gritted his teeth, his jaw tense. “I’m feeling quite tired, thought you might want to come to bed?” 

You pretended to think about it for a few seconds, Lando enjoying whatever he was watching in front of him, a cheeky smile on his lips. You chuckled and sent Lando a look, and stood all the same (like you knew you would), and took his arm. You waved Lando goodbye as George practically dragged you through the foyer. You turned to him. “The petname really drove it home, good work,” you laughed, mocking him. “I think Lando is terrified-”

“What are you playing at?” he questioned as you got into the elevator, dropping your arm. “What the fuck do you want from me?” 

You knew George wasn’t stupid and he’d never actively try to hurt you. He was sweet. Aristocratic. Mannerly. Kind. Very English. You liked him. He just wasn’t exactly tuned into your emotions. Which was fine. You didn’t care. You weren’t even really dating, just messing around. And you’d just made that fact abundantly clear by flirting with Lando right in front of him. 

“Fuck off George,” you huffed, exasperated. You felt bad. You knew you weren’t being fair, but it didn’t exactly feel great to be left alone all night in a room full of people you didn’t know. “I need space, alright?” 

George stared back at you, an angry look on his face, his jaw clenched. “Space from what?” he spat. “Because according to you, we’re not even together right now.”  

“You’re dramatic, Lando’s my friend,” you rolled your eyes, unlocking your door. “You’re making a huge deal out of nothing.” 

“We’re nothing?” he questioned, crossing his arms, following you into your shared hotel room. It was a nice place, big bed, big bathroom sink, nice decor. You liked it. You sat at the vanity and started wiping off your makeup. “So this whole relationship has been a waste for you?”

“What relationship?” you scoffed. “We fuck, we fight, we leave, we call each other again, and it all starts again!”

“I love you!” he shouted, his arms wide. 

“Where?!” you shouted back. He was silent and still, arms crossed once again. His eyes trained on your figure as you stood from your chair, eyes wide and angry. “How? Where? Where is this ‘love’ George? You don’t even know me, you just hear what I say and do it!”

“And what else would you have me do?” he scoffed. “Read your mind?” 

“Maybe you could be a bit more intuitive with my feelings? Maybe notice the fact that when I want ‘space’, I really want you?!” you huffed, turning back to your vanity, processing what you’d just said. “Maybe, don’t leave me alone in a room full of people I don’t know who only ask me if we’re actually dating, and I can’t give them an answer,” you spoke again, but lighter this time. 

He slowly sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I thought it was clear. I thought you knew-”

“Knew what?” you scoffed, standing up and slowly approaching him. “That you loved me? You don’t exactly make it known, George.” 

“I’m sorry,” he huffed, looking up at you. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I just… I need you to see the signs I’m trying to give you. Read between the lines, y’know?” you sighed. He nodded and rested his hands on your waist.

“I’ll try harder,” he promised. “And I want to be your boyfriend, for real. No bullshit.” 

You smiled a real smile for the first time that night. “Yeah?” you questioned. He nodded. “I’d like that.” 

He smiled, standing to his full height, and ducked his head down to kiss you.

navigation for my blog :)

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[konigsluv]

DOMESTIC!Sukuna x Reader

MDNI ꒦꒷ Domestic!Sukuna forgets your birthday, but a surprise picture at work with a 🎀 and donuts makes you forgive him

contains: down-bad Sukuna, dick picture, fem!reader

"Fuck off, Ryomen,"

Sukuna remembers your exact words as you left the house this morning. He had fucked up. He knew all too well.

Sukuna had forgotten today was your birthday.

It was like any other day when the two of you woke up in bed together. He had pressed kisses to the back of your neck to rouse you from sleep, but not once did he whisper the words "happy birthday, baby,"

You had expected anything, just anything. Flowers, chocolates, maybe even a nice diamond necklace, or even better a ring...

But no.

You walked out into the living room to see it the same as it was the night before. Even with the dishes still in the sink that you asked Sukuna so nicely to take care of a day ago!

You didn't even bother giving him a kiss on the way out of the house, or listen to his excuses as you dressed as fast as you could. Sukuna was even baffled that you pushed his hands off of your waist when he tried talking sweet to you. You never resisted his sweet voice...

Now he knew he was screwed.

Especially when you didn't respond to his texts, and ignored his calls. In all, it made Sukuna a little pissed. Not at you though, just as himself for being such a fuck up. Seriously, how bad of a boyfriend was he to blank on your birthday?

"Fuck, please baby, i'm sorry," he growls into his phone as he collapses onto the couch, "just answer me- answer the god damn phone already," he then hangs up, hoping you'll at least listen to the voicemail.

You don't.

You're at work now, staring down at your phone with furrowed brows. The countless texts:

10:23AM || Ryo: baby i'm sorry

10:23AM || Ryo: i'll take you out to dinner, get you something nice

seen 10:23 AM

10:34AM || Ryo: fuck i'm already pissed off, don't ignore me

10:35AM || Ryo: i'm sorry, tell me what to do to make it up to you

seen 10:35 am

You couldn't believe the audacity of that man. For him to get mad?!

After ignoring him, Sukuna stopped spamming you, which made you feel even shittier.

You kind of wanted him to fight for your attention on your birthday, even if you were mad... and weren't responding...

bzz-bzz

You almost ignore the notification from your phone, thinking you should punish him more. Though you couldn't, you wanted to see what else he had to say for himself.

11:14AM || Ryo: i'm sorry baby. I got your present, just forgive me already

*photo attached*

You purse your lips in suspicion, you wonder what he got you that could make up for forgetting your fucking birthday.

Clicking on the photo you immediately turn your phone off at the speed of light and almost fling it across the room.

Was he crazy?!?! Sending that to you at work?!

Your cheeks flush as you whip your head around, wondering if anyone saw your phone screen. Of course Sukuna sent you a fucking picture of his dick.

11:15AM || You: why the fuck are you sending me dick pics at work?!

11:15AM || You: I'd be dead if someone saw that

11:15AM || Ryo: did you see it

11:16AM || You: your penis? yes Ryomen.

11:16AM || You: I know what it looks like.

11:16AM || Ryo: you didn't, open it again

Groaning internally you wondered what he was on about. You glance around once more before walking into the bathrooms and shutting yourself in a stall.

Clicking on the photo again your eyes widened.

It was Sukuna's cock alright but... he had tied a pink ribbon around it in the shape of a bow. And was that a box of donuts?...

11:19AM || Ryo: i'll let you stack donuts on it. I can get those fruit roll ups if you want me to

You huff a sigh from your nose, running a hand down your face as you try to calm your erratically beating heart. This man was going to be the death of you.

After a minute of conflicted emotions and staring at your phone screen, you respond.

11:20AM || You: you're forgiven.

m.list

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LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED

[wendichester]

more jensen drabbles please omg

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ static between us,

summary. they say to never meet your idols but after today, you're certain the saying doesn't apply to jensen ackles.

pairing. jensen ackles x reader genre. fluff ! purely platonic

wordcount. 751

notes / warnings. jensen being an absolute southern charmer ugh

You don't mean to stare.

Well… okay, maybe you do. Just a little. But in your defense, Jensen freaking Ackles is standing twenty feet from you, leaning against the bar like some devil made flesh in denim and leather, nursing a whiskey with that damn grin like he’s unaware of the effect he has on the world.

The radio event had just ended — you’d scored a ticket last-minute, wrestled through a train delay, nearly sweat through your shirt from nerves. But it was worth it. His voice, all low and velvety and raspy from years of laughter and late nights, had filled the studio space like a warm storm. He was funnier than you expected. Gentler, too. Not that gruff grizzly exterior you’d braced for.

And now, here he is. Alone. No publicist, no barricade. Just Jensen, a half-drunk drink, and a very open spot beside him.

You hover. Close enough to smell the cologne but still far enough to bolt. Maybe he’s off-duty. Maybe he doesn't want to be bothered. You should go. Turn around, disappear into the crowd, and—

“Hey.”

His voice breaks through the static in your brain, crackling like an old record.

You blink up. Oh. Oh. He caught you.

He tilts his head slightly, expression easy but curious. “You good?”

“I—I didn’t mean to, uh…” Your voice shrinks to the size of a thimble. You force your limbs to unfreeze. “I’m sorry. I just didn’t wanna interrupt. Big fan. That’s all.”

Jensen softens instantly, like you just gave him a puppy to hold. “You’re not interrupting. Promise.” He gestures to the empty space beside him. “Come on. What’s your name?”

You tell him, and his grin widens. “Nice to meet you. I'm guessin' you were at the show?”

You nod, fiddling with the strap of your bag. “You were great. Really funny.”

“Aw, shucks,” he drawls, mock-sheepish, which should not make your knees weak, and yet here we are. “Thanks, darlin’. I was just wingin’ it most of the time.”

There’s a pause. But it’s a good one. Comfortable. Like the kind of silence that falls between people watching a fire flicker. You wonder if he feels it too, this soft quiet that buzzes beneath the chatter of the room.

He sips his drink. “So, tell me the truth. You were hangin’ back ‘cause you thought I’d be a dick if you came over?”

You let out a short, embarrassed laugh. “Honestly? Yeah.”

He barks a laugh. “That’s fair. I’ve got a real resting asshole face, I’ve been told.”

“Only a little bit,” you tease, before catching yourself. “I mean—uh—not in a bad way—”

He raises his brows. “Oh, no, you’re good. I like a little sass.”

You bite your lip, heart fluttering somewhere near your throat. It’s not flirting-flirting. Not real. Just playful. Kind. Harmless.

The bartender swings by and Jensen orders another drink, then glances at you. “You want something?”

“I’m okay, thanks.” You hesitate, then reach into your bag. “Would you mind…?”

He lights up when he sees the marker and the small photo you’d brought — an old shot of him from Supernatural days, slightly worn at the corners from living in your drawer for years.

“Hell yeah, I’ll sign it. Want me to make it out to you?”

You nod, and he writes your name in big, loopy letters, adding a little winky face below it. “There you go. Now you can sell it for millions someday when I grow a scandal.”

You laugh. “Never. This one’s staying with me.”

He gives you a wink. “Smart choice.”

You linger a moment longer, not wanting to push your luck, but Jensen doesn’t seem in a rush. You talk a little more — about the weather, your train delay, the weird lady who screamed “DEAN!” during the Q&A. He listens, really listens, and makes you feel like the only person in the room. It’s weirdly grounding. Like running into a lighthouse in a city full of noise.

Eventually, someone else drifts close, clearly waiting to talk to him, and you catch the cue.

“Well,” you say, already clutching the photo like it’s something sacred, “thank you. Seriously. For being so nice.”

He smiles, that warm Texas sun kind of smile. “Of course. Thanks for comin’. Take care of yourself, alright?”

You nod, heart full, cheeks aching from smiling. As you walk away, you hear him call after you:

“Hey!”

You turn.

“Cool bag.”

You beam. And maybe—maybe—you’ll never wash your ears again.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[technically-a-kiwi]

UNIQUE unique unique Cosmic doodles

Peppilina

C Pep is thinking "Why me" at this moment

C Pep and Maurice silliness

Pepperman in this Au is not allowed to speak

C Noisette kind of became C Pep's little helper

He gives her nice little jobs, like spreading shooting stars, finding cosmic ingridients and stuff, he knows the world is too cruel for her sweet optimistic mind...

🤙NOISE SWAG🤙

Also I made those photo edits... but... the quality so... eh

I always wanted to make some photo edit with one of my cosmic goobers watching stuff in space, creepy and imposing, but... eh I managed to make it look bad somehow...

And last

Huh, just watch...

[alexabowwow21]

Phandom boy

Danny as Phantom saved Tim's civilian side. Tim had a crush on him ever since.

Danny was not interested in joining anyone. So people left him alone. Phantom didn't want anyone to come to Amity park or places close to it. He said it was not wise and didn't want anyone getting hurt. So Tim didn't get to create an opportunity in peace.

Tim joined a server of Phandom - fans of Danny Phantom. He was so happy reading and enjoying talking to others about Phantom and Team Phantom.

Activities in Spirit roaming the living world grew and Phantom has started to show up more around the living.

Phandom puts a post on the server telling how Team Phantom was talking about needing a good detective to their team that has connections in the living realm.

Guess who has them? Yes you guessed it right!! Red Robin!! A.K.A Tim Drake-Wayne.

You can bet our little smart gremlin applies for the position.

Tim: I was a little too bored lately and can meet my idol too. Yeah sign me up. I should let people know that I am leaving. Let's see, everyone is so busy. Oh well I let them later.

---------------------------------------------------

He did not let anyone beside Tam know later that he left. He, in Tim's style forgot to let people know. It was not that important, so Hups.

Batfam starts panicking. Where is Tim? He is not in his normal places and his teammates can't find him either.

Tam knew, because Tim wouldn't be showing up to the office anymore so, that's all. Tam is too used to Tim's craziness and thinks everyone knows. Color her surprised, when Batfamily is calling her about that dumbass.

Tam: Tim, damn you. How would you forget to let people know about this??? And why is he not answering???

---------------------------------------------------

Tim enjoying the time with Team Phantom. This is the best decision ever!! "I should get a new phone, honestly I didn't know phones can die like that"

"Phantom is so much cuter up close. So handsome and single too." While looking at many pictures of Phantom he took and with Phantom I'd permission.

" Everyone is so kind and welcoming here."

---------------------------------------------------

Team Phantom feeling the peace, because they don't have to do all the crazy work against powerful idiots. They have someone who knows and enjoyes screwing with bad people. Red Robin is perfect and fits nicely here.

[magicalrocketships]

Rivers of Light || Max/Daniel || part 10 ||

(reminder that this in its entirety contains mpreg, reference to giving birth, Max Verstappen's bad dad, past abuse, and on-track accidents.) Cyril's hot wife remains made up (I mean, she may be hot in real life but I don't even know for certain if she exists, therefore this version of his hot wife remains made up).

All previous parts can be found in the masterpost here. This chapter is on AO3 here.

Max hasn't had many people be kind to him since he crashed out of Formula 1. He'd forgotten how it had felt.

Part 10

Bastiaan falls asleep in Cyril's arms after dinner. One minute he's frowning up at him, and the next, his little eyes are closing and he's falling asleep right where he's tucked up against Cyril's chest.

Max contains his jealousy well. Bastiaan's never fallen asleep anywhere other than with him. This whole trip has been full of new experiences for his baby, and he must be very tired. Max would like to fall asleep too, but he hasn't slept through the night in a long time. He's used to it by now, but even being used to it doesn't mean he doesn't wish it was different sometimes. 

That he could, just for once, put the weight down. 

He and Daniel don't stay long after Bastiaan falls asleep. It's late anyway, but his baby stays mostly asleep through having his little hat and sleeping bag put on him, and his mittens tucked down over his hands. He stirs as he's put down in the carrycot, but he's asleep again after Max has shushed him, moved the pram back and forth to rock him a little as Daniel says goodnight to Cyril and Sephine before they turn their attention to Max. He gets kissed on the cheek by both of them. Cyril says he will call when Max is back home, and Sephine says they'll have to have Max and Bastiaan to stay when Max is next in Paris. It's nice. It's kind. It's a lot. Max hasn't had many people be kind to him since he crashed out of Formula 1. He'd forgotten how it had felt. 

It almost makes him want to cry. 

He doesn't. 

He's not sure he can anymore. 

&&&

Bastiaan wakes up an hour after they get back to the hotel, which is about half an hour after Max has passed out in the big bed with the carrycot next to him. When he'd gone to sleep, Daniel was still awake, scrolling through his phone with the lamp on by the little bed under the window. He had refused to let Max sleep there. But when Bastiaan starts to cry, the lamps are off, and Max tries to keep it that way in case Daniel can somehow sleep through his tiny, tearful baby making his feelings known. 

He's not a happy baby. Max cycles through the things he knows to do: nappy change, trying for a feed, nappy check again, a little playtime with his giraffe and his rattle, but Bastiaan doesn't want or need any of it. He's miserable and fierce about it, red cheeked and angry, little cries that tear Max's chest in half. He sadly accepts a feed after about half an hour, and that keeps him quiet for a while, but the moment Max tries to put him back down in his carrycot he's crying again, the saddest baby that anyone has ever seen. Max wants to cry too. He's so, so tired. He hates Bastiaan being so unhappy and not being able to tell Max what he needs. He hopes babies don't get nightmares. Bad dreams are awful enough when you're old enough to understand them. Max kisses his little flushed cheeks. 

"I'm sorry, little baby," Max says, over Bastiaan's exhausted sobs. "I know we're not at home. You've met all these new people today and I think everything smells funny and you don't know where you are. You've been very brave and now you don't want to be anymore, do you? You just want to be asleep but you don't know that you have to stop crying to get that, because you're only little. Such a little baby, my baby Bastiaan." He kisses his hair. Cradles him close. "We're not alone like normal, my baby, and it's not just me you're keeping awake. You made a new friend today, didn't you? And I think he'd like to go back to sleep now. Can we let him? Can we just go to sleep, baby?"

"It's okay," Daniel says finally. "You can put the lamp on. I'm awake."

"I'm sorry," Max says. He sounds desperate because he is. He's so tired. "I don't know why he's so upset. I can't make him stop."

"He's a baby, I think," Daniel says. He switches the lamp on. Sits up and swings his legs out of bed. He's in a t-shirt and his boxers. He'd still been dressed when Max had fallen asleep.

Max is topless because he'd fed Bastiaan, and part of him wants to cover up. He wants to shut that voice down inside of his head that's his dad, that's telling him to be ashamed of feeding his baby, but he's too tired to fight it. He cradles Bastiaan to his chest instead. Kisses his head. 

Daniel looks at him. "Max," he says. "Come on. Take a break. Why don't you give him to me for a few minutes. Go and wash your face or have a shower or something. You look wrecked."

"He's crying," Max says, trying to shush his distraught, exhausted baby, but Max is so, so tired. "I can't leave him."

"You can," Daniel says. "I'm assuming you don't have help in the middle of the night normally. Just let me help this time. Take a break. Go on. Have a shower or something."

"I don't want a shower," Max says. He wants his baby to go to sleep. 

"Honestly," Daniel says. "Give him here. Just for a few minutes."

Max finds himself holding out his baby for Daniel to take. He doesn't want to trust anyone with Bastiaan, but he needs to pee and it would be nice to do that just once without holding a baby in the middle of the night. A shower would be nice too, but it's not shower time. He lets out a ragged, desperate breath.

"Take a shower," Daniel says, as he rocks a crying Bastiaan, cradling him close. "Go on. I'll call if I need you."

"I'll be two minutes," Max says, staring longingly at the bathroom. Back at his tearful baby.

"Take five," Daniel says. "Push the boat out."

Max takes four. He comes out with his underwear pulled back on with a fresh pad inside, and a towel around his waist. His hair's wet and Daniel had been right, it had been good to stand under the hot spray for a minute. Breathe. Bastiaan's still crying but it's not as urgent as it had been before. He sounds so, so tired. Such a tired little baby. 

Daniel's got his phone in one hand and Bastiaan in his other. He's playing a soft little video of baby lullabies and water sounds with a slow animation of little twinkling stars accompanying it. He looks over at Max and winks. Bastiaan's eyes are starting to droop, but he's still crying. He's trying to chew on his fist. 

"Does that mean he's hungry?" Daniel asks. 

Max nods. He holds his hands out, but Daniel shakes his head.

"It's okay. Get into bed and then I'll hand him to you. Do you need anything?"

Max has his water bottle by the bed. He's okay. He drops the towel on the floor and gets into bed. He beckons Daniel over with his baby. 

Daniel tucks Bastiaan carefully into Max's arms, then makes a big show of getting the pillows from the other side of the bed and putting them behind Max to prop him up. It is more comfortable, but it's okay. Max was coping. Bastiaan doesn't need much help latching on, and for a moment there's quiet except for the soft sound of Daniel's lullaby video and Bastiaan's sleepy little sucks. 

"I'll leave it on," Daniel says quietly. "I think it helped."

Max nods. He's so, so tired. 

Daniel takes Max's water bottle and goes to refill it in the bathroom. He brings it back, then goes back into the bathroom to pee. When he comes back out, he sits on the end of Max's bed, by Max's feet. 

"You okay?" Daniel asks. 

Max doesn't shake his head. He hasn't been okay for a very long time, but he's holding on. He's holding on so tight it's making his fingers bleed. 

"I'm fine," Max says. He doesn't look away, not until Daniel does. 

"Think he'll fall asleep?" 

Bastiaan's eyes are already drooping. Max strokes his cheek. His lovely little baby. 

"Yeah," he says. "At some point."

"You're doing great, you know. He's perfect."

Max has been lying for such a long time. One more won't hurt. 

"Everything is good," he says. "Go back to bed."

"In a minute," Daniel says. "When he's sleeping."

They sit there, quiet in the middle of the night, until Bastiaan falls asleep. 

Max looks away first. 

[angelickks]

💿 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝑹𝑼𝑰𝑵 𝑴𝑬¹¹¹

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||

a soundtrack of absolute chaos and filth. lyric-inspired smut drabble collection. pedro pascal! characters x fem!reader nsfw, mdni 18+

main pedro pascal mlist!

𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐀

01. LES — Joel Miller

♬⋆.˚“Girl, I wanna know, are you ready to cry? ʻCause I'm no good.” He tells you he’s bad for you. Then makes you come so hard you forget your own name. emotionally unavailable sex • self-destruction • filthy confessions disguised as fucking

02. OFF TO THE RACES — Harry Castillo

♬⋆.˚“My old man is a bad man, but I can’t deny the way he holds my hand…” He pays for dinner, your shoes, and the bruise on your thigh. sugar daddy dynamics • power play • possessive luxury

03. SHE WILL BE LOVED — Francisco “Frankie” Morales

♬⋆.˚“I’ve had you so many times, but somehow I want more.” He always thinks he’s not enough. So when you show up again, he fucks you like a man starving.

04. NORMAN FUCKING ROCKWELL — Javier Peña

♬⋆.˚“You fucked me so good I almost said ‘I love you.’” He’s chaotic. You’re worse. You fight. You fuck. You stay.

05. TOUCH TANK — Harry Castillo

♬⋆.˚“He’s so pretty when he goes down on me.” The kind of man who tastes luxury and makes you beg for more.

𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐁

06. PYRAMIDS — Din Djarin

♬⋆.˚“You say it’s big, but you take it—Ride cowgirl.” The helmet stays on. You don’t complain.

07. LOVE IS STRANGE — Francisco “Frankie” Morales

♬⋆.˚“How do you call your loverboy? Baby, oh baby…” He’s always at your beck and call

08. FATHER FIGURE — Joel Miller

♬⋆.˚“I’d love to be your daddy. Anything you have in mind.” He’s too old. You’re too eager. It works.

09. BABYDOLL — Francisco “Frankie” Morales

♬⋆.˚“I can’t move on, babydoll.” He begs with his mouth, not his words.

10. DEVIL’S BACKBONE — Joel Miller

♬⋆.˚“I've fallen for someone who's nothing like you. He's raised on the edge of the devil's backbone” He’s bad. You want him anyway.

11. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE — Harry Castillo

♬⋆.˚“Don’t bring me to tears when I just did my makeup so nice.” You look too pretty to cry—but he makes you anyway.

12. ULTRAVIOLENCE — Marcus Acacius

♬⋆.˚“He hit me and it felt like a kiss.” He’s war incarnate. You kneel anyway.

𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐂

13. TOO SWEET — Javier Peña

♬⋆.˚“You’re too sweet for me. I take my whiskey neat.” You’re soft. He’s not. That’s why it works.

14. ME AND MR. JONES(MILLER) — Joel Miller

♬⋆.˚“Nobody stands between me and my man.” You’re his little secret, until you’re the only thing he can think about.

15. SILVER SPRINGS — Marcus Pike

♬⋆.˚“You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you.” You stayed in his sheets. Even after you left.

16. YOU’RE SO VAIN — Jack “Whiskey” Daniels

♬⋆.˚“You’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you.” He’s smug, Southern, and sinfully good between your thighs—and he knows it.

17. THE CHAIN — Clint Flood

♬⋆.˚“If you don’t love me now, you will never love me again.” He says he’s done with you. But God help the man who touches you next.

𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐧' 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬: 𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐧

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐊𝐒