#look at me doing something with a background

[barnesonly]

Unspoken

bucky barnes x reader

summary: You and Steve share a steady, unshakeable friendship — nothing more, nothing less. But Bucky’s feelings for you have been quietly growing since Germany, and a mission where you and Steve get a little too close sparks something he can’t ignore.

word count: 4872

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, dirty talk, PiV, unprotected sex, shower sex, breeding.

A/N: requested by this anon, hope I met your expectations!

The explosion rattled your bones.

Chunks of concrete crashed behind you, and the stale air filled with smoke and ash. You coughed into your arm, stumbling forward through the haze as gunfire cracked in the distance.

A firm hand caught your arm before you could fall.

“Whoa—got you,” Steve said, steadying you as the floor trembled beneath your boots.

You wheezed out a breath and clung to his arm just long enough to get your footing. “Jesus, Rogers. Tell me again why I volunteered for this mission?”

“Because you like saving my ass,” he said, smiling through the dust. “And you owe me one after that blown recon op in Munich.”

You let out a dry laugh. “That was your fault and you know it.”

“Still counts.”

His hand slid off your arm as you both started moving again, weaving through the half-collapsed corridor. You kept pace easily — you’d run dozens of ops with Steve before. He was your comfort zone in the field. The guy you’d banter with between gunshots and lean on when everything went to hell ever since you joined S.H.I.E.L.D. He was like an older brother. Loud, loyal, and irritatingly heroic.

“You alright?” he asked, glancing at you sideways as you reached the breach point.

“Fine. Just crispy around the edges.”

Steve chuckled. “Same.”

Across the compound, hidden in the smoke and ruin, Bucky saw it all.

You, brushing soot off Steve’s shoulder with a huff of breathless laughter. Steve flashing you that boy-scout grin. The way you elbowed him — friendly, easy, close.

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened beneath his tac gear. His eyes tracked every step the two of you took, the curve of your lips when you smiled, the way Steve’s hand hovered protectively near your back like he’d done it a thousand times before.

There was nothing flirtatious about it. Bucky knew that but it didn’t matter.

Because it wasn’t him.

Bucky didn’t say a word the whole ride back. Steve tried once — something about intel cleanup, maybe a joke — but Bucky just grunted and leaned back in his seat, arms folded across his chest like a shield. He didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you, either.

Not because he didn’t want to. He wanted to more than anything. But looking at you felt dangerous right now. Like he’d let something slip. Like he’d do something stupid.

You were sitting beside Steve. Not close, not touching, not whispering. Just talking. Casual. Comfortable.

And the entire situation wasn’t your fault. You hadn’t done anything wrong. Bucky knew that.

But knowing didn’t change the way his stomach clenched when you laughed — not loud, not flirty, just a soft sound that still somehow made his teeth grind.

You didn’t even know. You didn’t know how long he’d wanted you.

How it started back in Germany — when you showed up at that god-awful warehouse where Steve had hidden him away before the airport fight. You were new to the team then, still rough around the edges, still learning the weight of the world on your shoulders.

You walked into that room like it didn’t scare you. Like he didn’t scare you. Everyone else flinched when they saw the metal arm. You didn’t.

You sat on the dusty floor next to him while Steve paced in the background, asking if he was okay, if he needed food or air or time. You asked him if he wanted to talk. You handed him a protein bar. You didn’t stare at the scars.

You didn’t treat him like glass.

And that—God, that was it.

He’d been gone for decades, a ghost in his own skin, and you looked at him like he was human. That was all it took. One stupid granola bar and a smile and he was yours.

He’d been nursing that crush ever since. Quietly. Pathetically.

You made it too easy. You treated him like a person, and he followed you like a dog.

But he never said anything. Never acted on it. He figured it would pass eventually — the ache, the want, the way his eyes tracked your every move like a fucking live wire. He thought if he stayed silent long enough, it’d burn out on its own.

It didn’t.

It just got worse.

Every time you touched someone else, it flared. Every time Steve made you laugh, or Sam tossed you a wink, or even Natasha slung her arm around your shoulders during post-mission drinks — it twisted something inside him.

Something ugly.

He hated it. Hated himself for it. For wanting something soft and normal when he knew he wasn’t either of those things. For feeling jealous like he had any right to be.

You weren’t his.

But today, watching you with Steve — seeing how natural you were together, the way you looked at him without thinking — it had broken something.

He’d barely been able to stay in his seat.

Even now, he could still see your hand on Steve’s chest. Could still hear the way you’d laughed — easy, familiar, like Steve was yours.

The thought made him sick.

Because for all the noise in his head, Bucky Barnes knew one thing: He wanted to be the only one who made you laugh like that.

———

The mission was over. Your body ached, your head was pounding, and all you wanted was a hot shower and ten hours of sleep.

The compound was quiet by the time you made it in. Just the soft hum of lights and the distant drone of Sam bitching to FRIDAY about his “unfair” share of the cleanup detail. You smirked to yourself as you slipped out of your tac vest, wiping dried blood off your neck with a towel from the med station.

“Rough one, huh?”

You glanced up — Steve again, leaning against the corridor wall with two water bottles in hand. He tossed you one. You caught it easily.

“Thanks,” you muttered, cracking the seal. “Next time remind me not to follow you into any building marked ‘abandoned missile silo.’”

Steve grinned. “You love the chaos.”

You rolled your eyes, bumping his shoulder as you passed. “I love not being blown to hell.”

He laughed and followed behind you, chatting casually. Debrief notes. Intel scraps. Something about a weapons crate Tony was going to lose his mind over. You half-listened, too exhausted to give him your full attention.

You said goodbye to Steve and turned the corner toward the east wing and nearly ran into a wall of solid muscle.

Not exactly a wall.

Bucky.

He was just standing there — tactical gear half undone, sweat still clinging to his temple, soot smudged across the sharp line of his jaw. He hadn’t even showered yet, and somehow he still managed to look like something out of a noir film — all shadow and coiled silence.

You blinked. “Jesus—how do you move that quietly in boots?”

His lips twitched. “Super soldier perk.”

“Creepy perk,” you muttered, but your smile softened it. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away — just stared at you. Not in a rude way. Not exactly. But like he was seeing something that didn’t quite belong in this world. Like you’d glitched the matrix.

Your hair was still dusty from the mission. There was a small scrape on your temple. Your mouth was chapped. And you still somehow looked soft — kind. Warm in the way war-hardened people rarely stayed.

“I’m fine,” he said finally, voice low. “You?”

You gave him a tired shrug. “Still standing.”

He gave a small grunt, and your eyes fell on the metal arm hanging at his side.

Without thinking, you reached out and nudged his elbow — a gentle, friendly bump. “You came in fast at the end there. That last guy had me pinned, you know.”

His mouth twitched again — not quite a smile, but close.

“Didn’t like the look he gave you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? He was trying to kill me.”

“Still,” Bucky muttered, voice quieter now. “Didn’t like it.”

There was a pause — one that should’ve felt awkward, but didn’t. Just thick. Heavy with something unspoken.

You bumped him again, softer this time. “Well… I liked the way you got between me and the bullet. So. Thanks.”

That did it.

His heart kicked once, hard, right in his chest. You were already turning to leave, brushing past him with a casual wave, like you hadn’t just set his whole damn nervous system on fire.

“Go shower,” you said over your shoulder. “You smell like smoke and brooding.”

You turned to leave and Bucky stood there for a long, long moment — head tilted slightly, lips parted, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

He ran a hand over his face.

God, he was so gone for you.

He watched you disappear down the hallway, your silhouette framed in the warm light — hair flowing, shoulders slack with exhaustion, still so effortlessly radiant even after a mission, your hips swaying with that careless kind of grace that drove him mad. You didn’t even know you were doing it — didn’t know the way his eyes followed every step you took.

You didn’t even look back.

You never did. Not like that.

He exhaled slowly, jaw working, chest tight. He’d told himself not to feel like this. Not about you.

But God — it was impossible.

You’d teased him gently, like always. Thrown him a smile and a careless jab about the way he smelled. — He should’ve laughed. Instead, he stood frozen — throat tight, jaw clenched, something unholy clawing its way up from his chest — You never meant anything by it, and still… it stuck in his there like a thorn. Not in a painful way. Just in that quiet, aching way that reminded him he wasn’t built for things like this. Like you.

He’d tried so hard to be patient. To keep things light. Friendly. Safe. You were sweet to him — always had been — but you never looked at him the way you looked at Steve. And maybe that shouldn’t matter. Maybe he had no right to want more.

But he did.

He remembered Germany — how you’d offered your hand to him like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like you wanted to know him. He remembered the fight on the airport — the dirt on your cheeks, the fire behind your eyes and every moment you hadn’t hesitated to stand between him and danger.

You’d smiled at him.

You’d made him feel normal.

And now, months later, that feeling hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had carved out a permanent space inside him. He liked the way you talked to him like he wasn’t broken. The way you made the world feel quieter just by being nearby. The way your laugh made something behind his ribs loosen.

He didn’t know what this was. But he knew it was more than just admiration. It had grown roots.

And tonight — after seeing you so close to Steve, the way your hand had lingered on Steve’s chest, the way he had touched your waist — something in Bucky cracked a little.

Not with jealousy. But with fear.

What if he was too late?

You’d thanked him tonight. Nudged his arm. Smiled at him like he was more than just a weapon. Like he mattered. And it overwhelmed him, because you didn’t even realize what you were doing to him.

And maybe it wasn’t enough anymore — watching you from a distance. Smiling back like it didn’t hurt. Pretending he didn’t want more.

Maybe it was time to say something. Before someone else did.

Before he missed his chance.

He didn’t even think. Just turned and walked — quiet and certain — toward your door.

———

You just stepped into the shower , steam curling in the bathroom when you heard it — a quiet knock.

Your hair was damp, clinging to your neck. Warm droplets ran down your back from where the towel didn’t quite reach. You tightened the knot at your chest with one hand and padded barefoot across the floor, thinking maybe Nat had come to scold you for leaving your boots in the common room again.

You opened the door and froze.

So did he.

“…Bucky?”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, eyes dark and wide, like you’d knocked the breath out of him. His knuckles were still half-curled from the knock, like he hadn’t expected you to actually open it.

Or at least, not like this.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, one hand flying to your towel instinctively, even though it wasn’t going anywhere. “I was just about to shower. What’s—um—everything okay?”

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His eyes darted up to meet yours — polite, panicked — but they didn’t stay there.

They couldn’t.

Not with the way your bare shoulders glistened with steam. Not with the way that towel clung to the curve of your hips. Not when you were standing there, soft and flushed and so damn close, looking at him like he hadn’t just nearly lost his mind over you ten minutes ago.

“I—” His voice cracked, and he cleared it quickly. “Sorry. I should’ve… waited. Or come back.”

You tilted your head. “Come back for what?”

He hesitated.

And then… he exhaled. “I needed to talk to you.”

Something in your chest fluttered — nerves, maybe. Or just curiosity. Because Bucky didn’t usually come to people’s rooms. Didn’t usually ask to talk.

You took a small step back.

“Well,” you said, voice lighter now. “You can talk while I find some clothes. Just, uh—don’t have a heart attack or anything.”

That almost pulled a laugh out of him.

Almost.

Instead, he gave a tight, shaky nod, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

The click of it echoed louder than it should have.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t move toward you. Just stood near the door with his hands curled into fists at his sides, jaw tense, like he was trying very hard not to look at you again.

But he was failing.

And you could feel it — the weight of his stare trailing your bare skin like a phantom touch.

You turned slightly, pretending to dig through a dresser drawer for something to wear. “So… what’s up?”

“I couldn’t keep it in anymore,” Bucky said quietly.

You froze — one hand still hovering over the open drawer, a cotton shirt limp between your fingers. The steam in the room had started to fade, but now it felt thick again. Dense with something unspoken.

You turned slowly. The towel was still wrapped around you, clinging to your skin. But for the first time tonight, you forgot about it. Because Bucky wasn’t looking at you like you were half-naked.

He was looking at you like he was breaking.

Like something inside him had finally snapped loose and he didn’t know how to gather it back together.

“I tried,” he said, voice raw. “Tried to keep my distance. Be your friend. Be… normal. But I can’t—not when I care about you the way I do. Not when I see you and Steve laughing and feel like I’m the only one on the outside of something I don’t know how to reach.”

Your heart squeezed. Hard.

“Bucky…”

“I don’t think you even realize,” he said, stepping forward just once — not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could see every flicker of fear in his eyes. “Back in Germany, when you first looked at me like I wasn’t dangerous… like I was just a guy you were glad to meet. No one’s looked at me like that in a long time.”

You swallowed thickly, towel knot digging into your chest with the pressure of your breath.

“I remember,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes locked on yours.

“You changed something in me that day. And ever since, I’ve been trying to figure out how to unfeel it. How to be near you and not want more. But I can’t. I don’t want to anymore.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Not awkward. Just full. The kind of silence that held years of hurt, months of closeness, and one aching truth suspended in the air.

Then—softly—you asked:

“What is it you want, Bucky?”

He exhaled like it hurt. Ran a hand over his mouth, his brow. Like saying it out loud might wreck him.

“I want to know if you ever look at me the way I look at you.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Not because you didn’t want to — but because the words caught in your throat. His confession settled over you like a warm ache, pulling memories to the surface. His quiet kindness. The way he always walked on the side of traffic. How he let you tease him and never pushed when you pulled away. How his eyes always found you in a room, even when you didn’t notice.

You looked at him now — really looked — and saw the worry bleeding through every line of his face. His shoulders were tense like he expected you to walk away. And it hit you like a wave.

You’d liked him all along.

You’d just… never let yourself admit it.

“I didn’t know,” you said softly, stepping forward. Your fingers clutched the towel tighter, not out of modesty, but nerves. “I didn’t let myself think about it. About being with someone.”

His brow furrowed. “Why not? I mean... I'm sure guys are all around you.”

You gave a small, breathless laugh. “Because wanting someone feels dangerous. It always has. Letting someone in, letting them matter… it means they can hurt you. And I didn’t think I could handle that.”

He didn’t speak. Just listened. Let you breathe through it.

“But then you came along,” you whispered. “And you never asked anything of me. Never rushed me. Never made me feel like I had to give you more than I had.”

You looked up at him then — at those soft, uncertain eyes, the way his arms hung at his sides like he was holding himself back. Always holding back.

And you felt it break open inside you.

“I think I’ve liked you for a long time, Bucky,” you said. “I just didn’t know I was allowed to want this.”

For a second, he didn’t move. Then, slowly — carefully — he reached out, fingertips brushing your forearm like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched too much.

“You’re allowed,” he murmured.

You stepped into his space, towel and all, heart thundering like it hadn’t in years.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

Your fingers reached for his wrist first, light and trembling, grounding yourself in something solid. Then he cupped your face, slowly, reverently — metal fingers on one side, warm flesh on the other. You leaned into the touch without thinking, eyes fluttering shut.

Then he kissed you.

It was gentle at first. Careful. Almost scared. Like if he went too fast, it would all disappear.

You made a soft sound against his mouth — not quite a gasp, but something between surprise and relief. Your hands slid up his chest instinctively, feeling the taut muscle beneath his t-shirt, the way his heart pounded hard and steady under your touch.

He pulled back for just a breath, forehead resting against yours. His voice was raw.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast.”

You shook your head. “No. Don’t stop.”

That was all he needed. The second kiss came deeper — hungrier. His hands cradled your waist, pulling you flush against him, towel and all. You opened your mouth to him without hesitation, letting his tongue slide over yours as the air between you grew hotter, heavier.

You felt his breath catch when your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, palms dragging over the hard plane of his stomach. His body shuddered, like he’d been holding back too long.

And then his grip tightened — not rough, but needing — and he pressed you back, gently walking you toward the bed, mouths never parting.

Your towel loosened with the movement, and you felt it slip.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look down as it hit the floor — and when he looked back up at you, eyes blown wide with heat, it wasn’t just desire you saw there.

It was awe.

Like he’d waited his whole life for this moment.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You’re—”

You kissed him again, hard.

And he caught you, hands spanning your back, fingers dragging over bare skin like he wanted to memorize every inch. His lips moved down to your jaw, then your throat, teeth grazing lightly, making you gasp.

“Bucky—”

His voice was a low growl against your skin. “You're so beautiful. All of you... God, I’ve thought about this,” he breathed, kissing a path down your collarbone, “for so long.”

You arched into him, pulling at his shirt, breathless. “Then take it off.”

He did — in one quick motion, tossing it aside. His body pressed to yours, skin to skin, heat rolling off him in waves. You dragged your hands down the lines of his back, felt the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

He bent to kiss you again, slower this time — like he wanted to feel every flicker of emotion behind it, to brand the taste of you into memory.

But when your hips rolled into his just slightly, instinctively, something inside him snapped.

Not rough. Not careless. Just urgent. His mouth tore from yours and moved to your ear, voice hoarse, breath ragged.

“Wait,” he murmured, arms tightening around you.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “What is it?”

He exhaled hard, like he was trying to ground himself — and then, suddenly, he was lifting you off the floor. You gasped, arms flying around his shoulders.

“Bucky—!”

“I’ve got a better idea,” he muttered, lips ghosting over your cheek.

“What?” you asked, half breathless, half laughing.

His grin was crooked and dark, eyes glinting with wicked intent.

“You were about to shower, weren’t you?"

Your stomach fluttered. Heat coiled low.

And then he was carrying you to the bathroom like you weighed nothing, your bare body pressed against his chest, the door shutting behind you with a soft click.

Steam still lingered from your earlier attempt, fogging the mirror. He set you down gently, and you barely had time to speak before he was tugging off the rest of his clothes with shaking hands — his eyes never leaving yours.

Then came his boxers.

He hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband and paused — just long enough for your eyes to drop, anticipation coiling tight between your thighs.

And when he pushed them down…

God.

You knew he’d be big. You knew. But it still made your lips part in a silent gasp, heat rushing to your face, to your core, as his cock sprang free — thick, flushed, already dripping with precum, heavy against his thigh.

Bucky’s mouth quirked, barely a smirk, but his eyes stayed locked on yours like he was watching your every breath, every flicker of reaction.

You stood still for a beat, watching him, your eyes drifted back up — the way his chest rose and fell, the scar beneath his collarbone, the tension in his jaw — like he was trying not to devour you.

You stepped back into the shower first, letting the water wash over your skin again, warm and welcome. Your breath hitched as you turned, watching him follow.

Bucky stepped in behind you, quiet for a moment. The water slid over his chest, down the ridges of muscle and old wounds and memory. His metal hand flexed at his side. Then he looked up at you.

“Come here,” you said softly.

He moved toward you slowly, almost hesitantly, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. His hands found your hips under the stream, thumbs brushing your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said again, like it hurt to admit.

Your fingers reached up to tangle in his damp hair. “You make me feel like I am.”

His forehead pressed to yours.

And then he kissed you again — deeper this time, wetter, the rhythm of it syncing with the falling water. His hands roamed more freely now, down your spine, up your sides. He held you like he didn’t know where to start, like every part of you deserved to be touched.

The heat between you built slow and steady. His mouth trailed to your jaw, then your throat, tasting droplets as he went.

“I’ve got you,” he breathed, pressing you gently back against the tile, your skin arching into the chill as heat rolled off him in waves.

The water hit your shoulders, cascading down your chest, but all you could focus on was him. The slick drag of his palms across your ribs. The weight of his body slotting perfectly between your thighs.

His hands gripped the underside of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, the feel of his cock heavy and hard, brushing right where you needed him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You’re so soft. So fuckin’ warm—”

You pulled him down into a kiss, all tongue and teeth, water pouring over both of you as your hips shifted against his. His cock slid against your slit, teasing and hot, the slickness of the shower only making it worse — better.

“Bucky—please,” you gasped, biting his lower lip.

His head dropped to your shoulder, panting.

“You want it, baby?” His voice was low, filthy. “Want me to fuck you right here? Let the whole damn compound hear who you belong to?”

A needy whimper left your lips before you could stop it.

“Yes. Please. Do it.”

He didn’t wait another second. With one thrust, he buried himself inside you — deep, thick, stretching you so perfectly your breath left your lungs. Your head hit the tile with a soft thud, eyes flying open with the sudden, glorious pressure.

“Oh my—fuck,” you choked, clutching at his shoulders.

“Jesus, you feel so good,” he growled, thrusting again. His hips snapped forward, water dripping from his hair as his mouth crashed against yours. Each roll of his hips dragged a desperate sound from your throat.

The way he filled you — every inch, every grind — was possessive, intimate. He wasn’t just fucking you. He was claiming you.

“You hear that?” he rasped, slamming into you harder now, the sound of wet skin and moans echoing off the walls. “Let ‘em hear it. Let ‘em know this pussy’s mine.”

You cried out, nails digging into his back.

“Yes, yes—it’s yours, Bucky—”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he groaned. “You take me so well. Look at you. Fuck.”

He reached down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. You jerked, the sensation sharp, delicious, your orgasm already building tight in your belly.

“Come on,” he whispered against your ear, filthy and sweet. “Come on my cock. I know you want to.”

His thrusts grew faster, rougher — perfect. Your head dropped back as the pleasure overwhelmed you, and when it hit, it hit.

Your orgasm ripped through you, sharp and blinding, your whole body clenching around him as you screamed his name. Bucky groaned, stuttering inside you, barely holding himself back.

“Fuck, fuck—gonna come—”

“Inside,” you gasped, barely coherent. “Want it. All of it—”

He cursed, hips slamming deep one last time before he came with a raw moan, spilling inside you as he pressed his forehead to yours, panting.

The water poured down over you both, the heat misting your skin, but neither of you moved.

Bucky stayed pressed to you, forehead resting against yours, his hands cradling your hips like you were something fragile — something his. His breathing was still heavy, chest rising and falling against yours, heart pounding like it didn’t know how to calm down.

You leaned in first, brushing your lips over his. Soft. Barely there.

But he kissed you back like he needed it — like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Slow, warm, reverent. His metal hand came up to cradle your cheek again, thumb stroking water away from your temple.

You sighed into it, into him, fingers drifting over the wet lines of his back, the ridges of muscle that had just held you so tightly.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the rush of water.

You smiled faintly. “It is.”

He kissed you again — slower this time, like he was memorizing it.

Then he pulled back, just enough to smirk, eyes gleaming through the steam.

“Wanna go again?”

You blinked, caught between a laugh and a moan, your thighs already pressing together in anticipation.

“Here?” you breathed.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear.

“Unless you want me to carry you to bed this time…”

You flushed hot all over, biting your lip as heat pooled between your legs all over again.

“…or the counter.”

[zoi-no-miko]

It's not that Ben hates opera. He's firmly of the opinion that every genre of music contains its good and bad. The times they've taken Daniel to the Met have - with the exception of the appropriate-but-terrible atonal droning of The Handmaid's Tale - been a delightful evening of music and performance.

He just doesn't... love opera. It's too much drama and production to be soothing background music, and when he wants to sit down and listen to something, his heart almost always goes to rock 'n roll. Part of it also might have to do with too many winter Saturday afternoons at home as a child, cooped up while his mother listens to some weekly opera radio show. Too many times the sound quality of old recordings was too jarring to ignore in favor of the performance, grating against his nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

He doesn't love opera. But Daniel does, and he loves Daniel, so Ben has worked on quietly accepting the times when his lover chooses the music, or at least learning to vaguely tune it out.

What he doesn't expect is to come home from work to find both his husband and Daniel's sitting in front of their very expensive sound system, openly weeping as a soaring soprano trills from the speakers.

It's immediately obvious that it's a live recording, and Ben winces before he can school his expression, though neither notice. John smiles widely despite his tears and waves him over while Larry grabs another kleenex off the coffee table. "Ben! Isn't it exquisite?"

"She's amazing," Ben agrees, because despite the questionable recording quality, he can tell that the soprano has incredible skill, and the music is nice. "What... is it?"

"La Divina!" John flops into the back of the couch with a dramatic sigh of bliss, covering his forehead with the back of his hand.

"John asked me to help try and track down something special and rare for Daniel's birthday," Larry explains as Ben sits down beside him, handing him the CD case. "I have to admit... after watching that Angelina Jolie movie I'm kind of a fan."

Ah. Maria Callas. The CD he's holding is some kind of live performance of Nabucco in Mexico.

"She does things with her vocal chords that most people can't even do with - " John waves a hand in the air - "their pussy!"

Ben opens his mouth to question the statement, then thinks the better of it.

"We should watch that movie again," Larry muses. "At home this time, with the surround sound. The cinematography was exquisite."

"Oh yes," John agrees. "He'd love that. God, this is beautiful. We need to find more of this." He closes his eyes in pleasure as Callas's voice jumps an octave with effortless ease, soaring through notes faster and higher than should be humanly possible before the aria finishes with a triumphant flourish from the orchestra.

John gives a pleased hum, silent for a moment as the notes fade. Then he looks over at them. "Hey. Do you think we could ever figure out how to time travel?"

"No!" Ben says immediately, as Larry shakes his head wildly.

"Oh god don't do that. The implications - no. No."

John pouts. "But if I figured out some way to never - "

"Please do not fuck our timeline, kitten. Promise me."

"Okay, okay," John sighs, though Ben can see his mind still working.

"Maybe we can find some live video recordings? Or there must be a museum to her somewhere, right?" he offers weakly.

"Oh yes. In Athens? We haven't done Athens. We should do Athens."

"Alright," Ben agrees, and quietly resigns himself to a LOT more opera in his life going forward.

~~~

What most people think the challenges of polyamory are: jealousy, lack of commitment, insecurity.

What better-informed people think the challenges of polyamory are: calendar management, social stigma.

What the challenges of polyamory actually are: when your husband and your lover bond over classical music, and your lover suggests to your husband that he would really enjoy Stravinsky. And it turns out your husband does really enjoy Stravinsky, but unfortunately with the exception of the opening bit of Firebird, which is OK, you fucking hate Stravinsky. And the background music of your life is Stravinsky for months on end because your husband loves Stravinsky now. So even when the three of you meet up together it turns into Stravinsky Fan Club Time. Plus a third wheel of you.

[mingyuonlyfans]

new study habits

featuring: Tutor!Mingyu x Horny, bimbo-ish!Reader

genre: smut, public exposure (sucking and fucking in the library), porn absolutely no plot.

note: HEAVILY inspired by this audio (augustinthewinter 🔛🔝). gyu is a nervous little nerd, you're horny and feral. would be a shame if something happened in this little corner of the library.

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“So, you need to ace two midterms to bring your grade to the goal we set at the beginning of the semester.” Mingyu tells you matter-of-factually, genuinely concerned that you’d forgotten your own goal. He continues speaking, telling you the outline of the unit you’ll be studying while you nod along almost mindlessly. Well, totally mindlessly– but it’s not your fault!

You see, when one of your friends suggested you get a tutor– to which you desperately agreed– you didn’t exactly expect the one you’d get.

Mingyu was all shy, kind smiles and polite, appropriate behavior when he first met you– until now, actually. He still can’t seem to sit so closely next to you without being nervous, nor accidentally touch you by grazing his hand against yours or his thick, meaty thigh against your own without his breath hitching and that adorable pink dusting his cheeks. He also seems to have trouble keeping his eyes off you, specifically how good your chest looks in those cute tops you’re always wearing, but he’s quick to avert his gaze and continue teaching you.

And now...Well now he’s just a blur of pink hearts in your eyes and his voice is just a nice soothing hum in the background while you admire him when you should really be listening to whatever he’s saying beside you.

It would be a bold-faced lie to say you didn’t have an inkling of a crush on him. Yeah, sure, he’s a bit nerdy, losery, really– but god, would you look at that face and those arms and that goddamn body? It doesn’t help that he chose to wear a deliciously-fitting black polo shirt and some black jeans today, topped off by those delicate metal-framed glasses framing his beautiful face.

Who the hell could focus on studying with that?

You absolutely cannot, and Mingyu can easily tell. So, in a last ditch effort to maintain his composure (because god, you look so cute with that little smile on your face and your eyes all glazed over), Mingyu clears his throat and scoots closer to you, closer than he’s ever braved. He taps your shoulder twice to get your attention before sighing, “Y/N, are you even listening to me?”

You nod, blinking innocently at him, “Uh-huh, I have to... pass two midterms and all that.”

Mingyu clicks his tongue, bringing up a hand to run through his hair. The action makes you clench your thighs and lick your lips; Mingyu notices this but only shakes his head in frustration. His voice drops, deep and husky and making goosebumps on your skin rise in its wake. “Ace. You have to ace these midterms if you want to even make a dent on your average.”

You remove your cheek from resting on your fist and use that same hand to pat his. You croon, voice sweet as you stroke that large, veiny hand of his, trying your best not to think about what he does and can do with it  “I know, gyu, I know. Do you not have faith in me or something? Why are you so tense, baby?”

There he goes again, breath hitching at your touch and the pet name. Now it’s his turn lick his lips, eyeing your own before flitting up to your eyes. You were fucking batting your eyelashes at him and Mingyu felt like he was gonna combust.

“N-nothing, I’d just really hate for all this studying to be for naught.” That makes you giggle. Mingyu isn’t sure why but it does and suddenly his pants are tightening around him. He clears his throat again, fixing his unmoved glasses. He watches you with wide eyes as you lean forward, your low-cut top doing nothing to hide your cleavage, some lace peeking out.

“Eyes up here, babyboy,” You lift his Chin up with a finger, smirking at his flustered state. Your other hand finds his thigh, the thick and firm muscle tensing underneath your touch. Batting your eyelashes at him, your smile turns sweeter. “Do you think I'm pretty, Gyugyu?”

Mingyu blinks up at you; he processes your words rather slowly. He opens his mouth to answer but you’re already pouting by then, puppy-eyes making his chest warm and his heart flutter. As if on instinct, Mingyu’s hand reaches out to get a hold on your waist; Your eyebrows raise at his sudden confidence. “You are-! No, I mean I do! Wait-”

He cuts himself off with a gasp; in his ramble-y haze, he didn’t notice your fingers unbuttoning his pants and unzipping it. His heart hammers against his chest as he watches you palm the growing bulge in his underwear, but a rustle from a few shelves over startles him.

“Y/N, someone will see-!” you shush him with a kiss, and Mingyu has to bite back a moan when you slip your hand into his underwear, hand wrapping around his fully hard cock and using the precum leaking from his tip.

It’s like he’s in a haze, all logic thrown out of the window. His hand travels from your waist to your thigh, sneaking past the hem of your skirt. He squeezes lightly; you respond with a kiss to his jaw, whispering lowly, “it’s okay, baby, Don’t worry.”

You rest your head against his shoulder, muffling yourself against his shirt when he squeezes your thigh once again, firmer and closer to where you needed him most this time. Gyu presses the pads of his fingers against your clothed heat, gasping when wetness seeps through the cotton. “you’re so wet,” he whispers, breath hot on your ear.

Smiling against his neck, you start to pump him faster, loosening your grip when you go up and tightening when you go down. His low whines are music to your ears, but you can’t have him being noisy so you shift yourself and capture his lips with yours.

Mingyu moans into the kiss as you continue pumping him, now emboldened to push your panties to the side and push a finger into your tight heat. He feels your wetness gush out, the palm of his hand getting stickier and warmer. His thumb finds your clit and rubs it as he pumps you, adding a second finger when you start to rut against him. Gyu shifts in his seat; He brings his free hand into the mix, thumb leaving your clit before quickly replacing it with said free hand’s fingers.

You jump at the contact, moaning against his lips when he quickens his pace. Heat pools in your abdomen, toes curling at the stimulation you’re receiving– you know you’re not too far from your orgasm. So you stop, completely pulling away from Mingyu before standing up.

He watches in bewilderment as you swing one leg over his lap, effectively straddling him. His hands find your hips, stopping you from lining up his leaking cock from your entrance. Mingyu nervously looks around. “W-we might get caught, Y/N-”

You react quickly. A pout once again finds your glossy lips and your eyes widen innocently, eyebrows knitting together to top off the look. Your arms circle around his neck and you arch your back, pulling his face until it’s almost mushed against your tits. “Just trust me, Gyuyu. Please? I need you so bad, babyboy.”

Again, all logic is thrown out the window. Mingyu simply cannot deny you, not when you look so cute and your cunt’s literally dripping on his dick– he can feel how wet and warm you are and it’s just fucking with his nerdy, pretty head. When is he ever gonna get laid like this again?

“Do you have a condom then? I’m clean but-” he really wishes you’d stop interrupting him, but he doesn’t complain.

“We don't need one, Gyugyu,” you hum before pecking his lips. “I'm clean and on the pill... and I just really want you to fill me up with your cum already.”

With a nod, he lines himself up with your entrance and pushes you down onto him. Mingyu watches as you throw your head back, eyes rolling to the back of your head and your mouth opening as you take all of him. Looking down, he sees how your cunt stretches to accommodate all of him, your tightness hugging him so snugly that he wonders how you’re supposed to bounce on top of him.

His dark jeans turn even darker as it’s soaked up by your juices, but he can’t even think of complaining. Not when you’re pulling him even closer, his face now buried into your cleavage. His glasses pressing against his face would usually be so uncomfortable if his dick wasn’t getting sucked in so good by your walls. You start moving your hips, swiveling and stretching yourself even further– Mingyu feels your chest vibrate with the noises you’re trying to hold in.

You finally start bouncing, and Mingyu understands why you basically trapped his face between your tits. You’re fucking gripping him, soaking him, and just fucking him so good he can already feel his abs contracting as his orgasm builds up. If your tits weren’t muffling him and reminding him to be quiet, he’d be babbling and whining so loudly you’d be caught in no time. Mingyu knows he won’t last long with how fucking good you feel around him.

You can feel him twitching inside you and tensing up underneath you. He has an iron grip on your hip; You Don’t need him to tell you that he’s close. The mere thought of Gyu cumming inside you has you grinning, eyes rolling to the back of your head as the blunt head of his cock nudges at the spot that has your toes curling in bliss. In your haze, you pant out to him. “Touch me, Gyu. F-fuck, please.”

His fingers find your clit, rubbing the nub quickly. Mingyu stifles a groan when you clamp down around him. He barely processes as his orgasm washes over him, his cum filling you up with every spurt.

The feeling of his release inside you combined with his frantic rubbing on your clit triggers your own orgasm. Your body stills on top of him but your mind and your mouth, in your haze, ramble on lowly. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Hah, that’s it, cum inside me, Gyu. Fuck me so fucking full of your cum, oh god. So full, ngh, so fucking full...”

Gyu holds you against him as you calm down, slumping your body against his and your head resting on his shoulder, absentmindedly peppering his neck and cheek with kisses. “Gyugyu...” you mumble, head filled with cotton and hearts swimming in your eyes as you look up at his side profile. “Gyugyu, I think you’re pretty too.”

He rubs your back soothingly, a nervous chuckle leaving his lips and the red on his cheeks deepening. “Thank you, Y/N.” he pulls away slightly to look at you, stricken by your afterglow beauty and the way you’re looking at him so fondly. “D’you... Do you think you’d focus better if we studied at your place?”

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inbox is open <3

[ineedpaigebuckets]

i feel like u need to give us a fic in order for us to survive the news.

if you're not okay i'm not okay

“if you’re not okay, i’m not okay.”

it started with the concussion.

nothing dramatic. no bloody nose, no stretcher, no crowd going silent the way they do in movies. just a bad fall during a game, head hitting hardwood, the familiar thud that sent a jolt up every teammate’s spine. paige laughed it off at first. of course she did. waved off the trainer, stood up a little wobbly but smiling. said she was fine. said she was always fine.

but by the time she got back to her apartment that night, her head was spinning, and the light from her phone made her squint. she texted azzi something stupid like “u ever feel like your brain is soup?” and then followed it up with “jk. i’m okay.”

azzi had called her immediately. the second she saw the message. her voice was calm, soft, but her eyes were already scanning every inch of paige’s face through the screen, trying to read between the lines. paige had dark circles. her voice was thinner than usual. she kept forgetting what she was saying mid-sentence. she blinked too slowly.

“baby,” azzi had whispered, “you don’t look okay.”

but there wasn’t much she could do. not from the other side of the country. not with uconn basketball holding her hostage in a summer training program that had her up at 5am every morning. she told paige to go back to the team doctor. made her promise to rest, to hydrate, to text someone if things got worse.

they facetimed every night.

and it was fine. it was. paige made jokes. azzi laughed because she wanted to believe them. they fell asleep on the phone more nights than not, azzi whispering lullabies and empty threats if paige dared to get up without telling her. and every night, paige swore she was getting better. every night, she said, “you’re doing enough. i promise. you don’t have to worry about me.”

but then came the fever.

a dull ache in her bones. sweat on her sheets. a cough that wouldn’t quit and a headache that made her cry when she moved. paige tried to wait it out. she tried so hard. but that morning—sick and aching and dizzy—she hit the facetime button and waited, her whole body trembling under the blanket she’d pulled over her head to block out the light.

it rang twice before azzi picked up.

and the second her face appeared, paige lost it.

not a dramatic sob, not some loud collapse. just a quiet kind of breaking. red cheeks. tired eyes. lips pressed together in a desperate attempt to hold everything in. her voice was nearly gone.

“azz,” she whispered, and that was all it took.

azzi’s heart split open on the spot.

she sat up in her dorm bed, blinking fast, already reaching for a hoodie. “what’s wrong? paige. what’s wrong.”

“fever’s up,” paige choked out. “can’t eat. it’s hard to— it’s hard to think. and i— i just… i don’t know what to do.”

and azzi was already moving.

she didn’t ask questions. didn’t pause. didn’t wait for her coaches to give her clearance. she booked the flight with trembling hands and packed with tears streaming down her face. texted her mom, her trainer, her roommate, anyone who needed to know. and then she was gone.

on the plane. in the air. praying, begging, bargaining with whatever would listen. let her be okay. please. please just let me get there in time.

⸻

the apartment was dark when she finally got there.

quiet, too. no tv, no music, not even the usual hum of something left on in the background. azzi let herself in with the key paige had given her months ago — “just in case,” paige had said, smiling, like the idea of azzi not being near her was a joke.

but now azzi was here, and paige wasn’t smiling.

she was curled on the couch, curled so small it made azzi’s stomach twist. cheeks flushed, body too still. and when she opened her eyes at the sound of azzi’s voice — “paigey? baby, i’m here” — she didn’t even try to sit up.

“you came,” she breathed, as if she couldn’t believe it.

“of course i came.” azzi dropped to her knees, unzipping her bag with one hand, pressing her palm to paige’s forehead with the other. “jesus. you’re burning up.”

paige didn’t answer. just closed her eyes again. let azzi lift her head and pull her into her lap. and for a second, neither of them said anything. the silence wasn’t empty — it was full. full of love. full of fear. full of the weight azzi had been carrying since the first i’m okay that didn’t sound okay at all.

“i’m so sorry,” paige whispered. “i didn’t want you to worry.”

“you’re insane,” azzi whispered back, brushing sweaty hair off her forehead. “if you’re not okay, i’m not okay.”

she meant it with her whole chest.

⸻

the next few days blurred.

azzi was everywhere, all at once. pressing cold cloths to paige’s skin. coaxing her to drink water. holding her hair back when she got sick. whispering nonsense stories when the fever made her cry. curling behind her on the couch and holding her through every shaky breath.

when paige couldn’t sleep, azzi read out loud. when paige could barely talk, azzi filled the silence with love. and when paige had a panic attack because the room started spinning again, azzi didn’t flinch — she just held her tighter.

“i’ve got you,” she said, again and again. “i’ve got you, baby. you’re okay. i’m here.”

she didn’t leave the apartment for four days.

she wore the same hoodie and sweatpants, her hair in a bun, her phone barely charged. she ignored every text that wasn’t from the pharmacy or paige’s doctor. and even when paige started to feel better — fever breaking, color returning — azzi didn’t stop watching her like she might disappear again.

“you can sleep, azz,” paige whispered on the fifth night, her voice steadier. “i promise i’m okay now.”

“i’ll sleep when you’re back to being annoying.”

“rude.”

“you love it.”

paige smiled, and it was soft. real. her fingers reached up to cup azzi’s cheek. “you saved me.”

“you scared me,” azzi admitted, blinking back tears. “like. really scared me.”

paige leaned in, nose brushing azzi’s. “i don’t ever want to do that again.”

“good,” azzi whispered. “because next time? i’m moving in.”

“next time?”

“just in case.”

and then she kissed her. slow and gentle. feverless now, and warm for all the right reasons. and when they fell asleep that night — limbs tangled, hearts finally quiet — paige’s last thought before slipping under was i never want to be taken care of by anyone else ever again.

and azzi’s last thought was i never want to stop taking care of you.

not even for a second.

it’s morning, finally. like, real morning. not that grey hazy early kind where nothing feels right. it’s golden now — the sun’s low and warm and spilling through the windows, catching on the corners of the couch, the mug on the coffee table, azzi’s curls against the pillow.

paige blinks slow. her head doesn’t hurt.

and that alone almost makes her cry.

she stretches, gently, cautiously, like her body’s something she doesn’t quite trust yet. her muscles ache — the kind of ache that says you’ve been still too long instead of you’re about to collapse. and when she turns over, azzi’s still there, curled into the edge of the couch like she’s been standing guard.

blanket kicked off. hoodie riding up. mouth parted. hand still curled in a loose fist like she fell asleep mid-word.

paige smiles. it’s weak, but it’s real.

and it lasts all of four seconds before azzi stirs, eyes fluttering open with that weird sixth sense she always has — like her body just knows the second paige’s changes.

“hi,” azzi mumbles, sleep-heavy and raspy.

“hi,” paige whispers back.

they look at each other.

paige lifts one hand and places it over azzi’s. “i’m okay,” she says, just to see it. just to say it.

and the way azzi exhales — long and relieved and just a little watery — it’s like she’s been holding her breath for days.

“you better be,” she says, voice thick. “because you scared the absolute hell out of me.”

paige grins. “you said i couldn’t be annoying again until i felt better, so.”

azzi narrows her eyes. “i meant like. one sarcastic comment. not going back to flirting like you didn’t just have a fever of 103 and cry in my arms.”

“i did not cry.”

“paige. you sobbed and told me you wanted to be reincarnated as my dog so i’d have to feed you forever.”

“…okay, yeah. that does sound like me.”

“you’re such a menace,” azzi mutters, pressing the back of her hand to paige’s forehead anyway. “still a little warm.”

“can i have juice?”

“you want juice?”

“i want juice and for you to lie next to me while i sip it and pretend we’re in a romcom recovery montage.”

“you’re impossible.”

“and cute?”

“don’t push it.”

but she’s already getting up.

azzi pads into the kitchen like she owns the place — which she kind of does now, let’s be real — rummages through the fridge and pulls out the apple juice she bought on night two. pours it into one of the fancy cups paige only ever uses when azzi’s over. adds a straw.

by the time she comes back, paige has shifted into the corner of the couch and opened her arms.

“you need to hydrate to heal,” azzi says solemnly, handing it over like a nurse in a drama.

“you need to marry me,” paige says back, sipping with wide eyes.

“you can’t just almost die and then be cute again like it’s nothing.”

“can and did.”

azzi groans but climbs into her arms anyway, burying her face in paige’s hoodie. “do you know how awful it was, watching you be that sick? do you know what it felt like not being able to come until it got that bad?”

“i do now,” paige whispers. “and i’m sorry. i shouldn’t’ve waited that long.”

“no,” azzi says quietly, “but i get it.”

“i didn’t want you to drop everything.”

“you’re everything, though.”

and it hangs there for a second.

soft. warm. serious.

paige feels her throat tighten, and this time it’s not from coughing. she presses her forehead to azzi’s. “i love you.”

“i know,” azzi says, smiling, eyes shining. “i love you too.”

they stay like that.

azzi in her lap. paige sipping slowly. the heat of the fever replaced by something gentler — something that wraps around them like a blanket and doesn’t ask for anything in return.

⸻

that night, paige brushes her teeth without getting dizzy.

azzi watches from the doorway like a proud mom. “look at you. vertical.”

“look at you, admiring me like i didn’t almost throw up on your shoes three days ago.”

“i would’ve caught it.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“i’m in love.”

they climb into bed together for the first time since the fever broke. no couch. no medicine timers. just soft sheets and paige in a fresh hoodie and azzi curled up beside her, one hand resting right over paige’s ribs.

paige is warm now. and pink-cheeked. and teasing. and alive. and azzi’s finally, finally able to breathe again.

and this time, when they fall asleep, it’s not out of exhaustion.

it’s just peace.

[demie90s]

you are so quick and write so good omg😭 can you do ucoon team x reader where reader feels left out but doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, kinda angst to fluff

Left Out

UConn X Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Reader’s been feeling left out—group chats she’s not in, inside jokes she can’t follow, moments she’s not part of.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Angst to fluff, team love, found family

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Emotional hurt/comfort, mild language, vulnerability

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~0.6k

It’s hard to explain what it feels like to be alone in a group. Like, actually alone. Not “I sat in the back of the van” alone. Not “they forgot to tag me in a story” alone.

I mean the kind of alone that makes your chest burn. I’m on a top-tier team. UConn. We win. We shine. We smile.

And I still feel like I could vanish and no one would notice for a full damn week.

They’re not mean. Not bullies. They’re just… them. Paige and Nika with their sister-like banter. KK bouncing around with Jana and Ice. Azzi always paired off, always soft, always taken.

I laugh when they laugh. Nod when they talk. I’m in the room. But not of it. And that’s what kills me. Because it’s not that they don’t like me. It’s that no one chooses me.

Not for movie nights. Not for study groups. Not for 2 a.m. “you up?” texts.

No one says “Come sit next to me.”

No one grabs my jersey and whispers, “Ride with me today.”

No one notices that I haven’t spoken in hours.

I started keeping tally. Sick, I know.

Three days in a row they went out for food after practice. I wasn’t invited once.

Seven inside jokes this week. I understood one.

Four separate group chats. I’m in none.

So I stopped trying. I started showing up late and leaving early. I let my headphones fill the gaps. I clapped from the bench like my hands didn’t ache to be held.

And one day—bad practice, worse mood—I walk into the locker room and they’re howling. Loud. Eyes-watering, bent-over, gasping laughter.

I pause, waiting for someone to look up. A nod. A wave. A “Hey, Y/N—come hear this!” Nothing.

I change in silence. Sit on the edge of the bench. Watch them from ten feet away like I’m behind a glass wall.

I smile. I fake a laugh. I pretend I get it. Because it’s better than them knowing how empty I feel. But when practice ends and the room clears, it’s Azzi who lingers. Then KK. Then Paige.

“Yo,” KK says, cautious. “You good?”

I shrug. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You’ve been tired all week,” Azzi says gently. “And quiet.”

Paige sits across from me, eyebrows low. “Did we do something?”

My jaw clenches. I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to sound pathetic. But I do.

“I just feel like background noise,” I whisper. “Like, y’all are a team. I’m just… here. A jersey. Not a person.”

The silence is brutal. Like I said something too raw for them to handle. Then Paige breathes out, like she just got punched. “Damn. I didn’t know.”

“I know,” I mumble. “That’s the problem.”

Azzi walks over—slow, unsure—and sits beside me. “I’m sorry. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That you were shy. That you needed space.”

“I needed someone to notice.”

KK mutters, “Shit,” under her breath and pulls out her phone.

Next thing I know, I’m getting added to every group chat. Then Nika bursts in, confused, holding snacks. “What’s going on?”

“She thought we ain’t love her,” KK says, and Nika drops the snacks and wraps me in a hug so tight I actually yelp.

Paige kneels down and looks up at me, serious. “You’re not background. You’re part of this. You always were. We just got selfish with each other.”

Azzi squeezes my hand. “We’re gonna fix it.”And they do.

It starts with seats saved for me. Late night texts. Hugs that linger longer than before. Jana tapping her lap like it’s mine by default. Tru Fru dropped in my bag. A chorus of “Where’s Y/N?” anytime I’m gone too long.

I didn’t need the whole world. I just needed someone. Now I have a team. And this time, they’re facing me when they laugh.

[yoongleboonglepie]

This is an important post to read if you're a fanfic writer, and while I usually dont reblog stuff on this account I want to put something out there for my readers.

So as a note to my readers: I know there's a couple scenes where I used the term red that I already have in my writing schedule to edit as I go through and fix some of my earlier writing, so I'm 100% aware of that one and will be shifting it as I'm still slowly going back through some of the earlier chapters!

BUT if you're ever reading something in my story about physical features (save for certain aspects like technically the reader is written as plus sized in my mind but even then I barely mention it and I used to tag it as such), please dont hesitate to DM me (if you want to, you absolutely do not have to) or send me an ask and be like "hey, this pulled me out of it because xyz." And I'll see what I can do to rewrite it/expound on it. Again, do not feel obligated in anyway - but just know if you want to, I will absolutely not be mad or get sassy with you or anything. When I read through I try to catch them myself.

Usually I already try to use terms applicable to a variety of features, to the point where I actually have photo references for all of the ways I can picture reader and the family members. None of the family past the first/second generation has a set look in my mind, and I have rotating reference photos that I hold up next to eachother to make sure descriptions can be interpreted in multiple ways.

While I do write readers with some character specifics because those are personally my favorite x reader stories to read (has a life, a specific place they live, friends/family/aspirations that are story relevant etc) I also am aware thats not everyones cup of tea!

But I want to elaborate on some of the small things I do as an author to try my best to make it more inclusive for if you're a writer reading this like "well wtf do I write then??" Because it shouldnt only fall on the people affected to hold our hands through it. As someone who is also left out of a lot of x readers for other reasons I get tired if explaining it, and I imagine thats how they feel as well).

- for blushed, I like using " ____ cheeks glowed" So this one comes from my painting/drawing background actually. My best friend in the entire world is black, and often times when I write I think of her as one of my muses (She knows this and is perfectly fine with it lol). If what I'm writing can't apply to her, I back up and try again. When she's flustered or embarrassed, her cheeks/ears at the tips can develope a pinkish hue, but usually they almost look like they're glowing if that makes sense! Whether its you can see the physical reaction of embarrassment really radiating from her face in her smile and her eyes, or if her skin does darken or have a shift in color; to me she "glows" with embarrasment in her complexion and her features.

Sometimes I do still use blush, because I never associated blush with only the color pink and red. I associated it as someones face displaying a flustered state through heat and color shift. If its on a huge make up blush set, I always included it. However it's important to note how a reader can interpret it, and this was a great reminder for me to keep that in mind. That's why looking at feedback like this is important, because it reminds us that somethings may not be interpreted in the way we interpret them, and it's good to be mindful of that.

-Use action to depict how your reader is feeling! Make your reader stutter, make their skin feel warm, make them fidget with something (that isnt their hair pls). Make their eyes widen, or their heart race! Get creative with it! Imagine the sensations you feel in those moments, not so much how it looks, and this goes for all situations. And if you cant pull from your own experiences, watch films, look at art, and read creations of people who are different from you.

-This one is so important and I can not stress it enough: Look. Up. References!! This is a bit contradictory, but you're reader can't just be an empty shell - if anything that makes it worse in my opinion. Because usually the empty shell people think of is just white, thin, with character traits rooted in patriarchal ideals. Look up photos for how you'd envision the reader as different people with ranging skintones, ethnicities, and sizes, and get comfortable with all of them. Because it is just simply not an option for none of them to be a possibility. If one of those people can't relate to a physical interaction, try and avoid it if you can. I view writing as I do painting, you have to observe or live what it is you're writing about in order to have the best shot at express your ideas.

-be open to exploring changes and bettering your writing. I'm not at all saying I'm perfect, and have definitely slipped up here and there. But If you aren't even trying in the slightest to improve, then label it a self insert because its really about you as the reader.

-if you really feel weird making it so physically loose, give the reader a stronger character profile. Personality traits dont have a set look. Aspirations and likes dont have a look. I personally hate bland x reader stories where they have no set or distinguishable character and its all "your favorite x. Your dream job" etc. It makes the story boring imo. (But again, thats my preference, I like a lot of world building). I can easily slip myself into different jobs, or living situations, personalities or lifestyles without any issue because its literally like playing pretend and it doesnt change the fundamental look of who I am. And I like doing that. If you want to be more creative with your environment and traits, do that instead of focusing on physical. There are plenty of readers that like creative world building!

-make sure there is a way for someone not white to exist in your story, i.e don't completely lock them out. For example, though my story features a last name (since it's story relevant), I NEVER mention distinguishing features of family unless they are front first/second generation. I try leave plenty of room open for interpretation for the physical look of a family member of the last 3/4 generations, and I work on collecting photos into my private family Pinterest board of a large variety. (If anyone would want to see them or see the different ways I picture certain characters, I'd be happy to unlock it, I just didn't know if anyone would care).

I even almost left a lot of them nameless, but story wise that just wouldnt have worked. So I googled the area my story takes place in, aka, 1880s-present north eastern US, and sifted through common names for different populations and tried to find matches. (For example off of the top of my head: Patti, Margaret, Duane, Leon, Mariah, etc were common names across the entire US for each of their respective times, not just white people).

-and last but not least, don't keep yourself from trying because its hard and youre scared to fuck up - because you probably will (I know I definitely have). But your fear isn't an excuse to perpetuate exclusion. If you're really still lost, read fanfic/actual books written by authors that are different from you. Get comfortable putting yourself in other people's shoes like they have to all of the time.

Like I said, I'm far from perfect, and I'll fuck up sometimes for sure and have. But I'd rather try than not try at all. And honestly? Its more fun as a writer to come up with solutions, or find new ways to express things. It makes me a better writer.

I love all my readers and I hope you are all having a lovely day. As per usual, sorry I rambled out my thoughts to the void LMAO.

~Delyn

Oh my fucking god, how hard is it to use flushed cheeks instead of blushed cheeks in fanfiction. No, they didn't develop a dusting of light pink. No, I didn't turn red. I'M FUCKING BLACK.

I don't mean to be rude, but I don't know how many times dark readers of color have to make posts like this, dude. Physical descriptions, dynamics with hair...come on.

I've seen it in way too many times now, and I'm going to start calling it out every time I see it in fanfiction. There are no more excuses. It can't be x reader if it only applies to those of lighter complexions.

And for writers of smaus or text fiction, or even those making headers: If you have pictures in them, why do they only ever have white or extremely pale women in those with pictures, unless they are especially made for black people or another specific group?

Use general headers with photos that don't include people for your content. Try to use *image insert* if the reader is sending something made to include a picture of them.

Make it general!! It's for a general audience!!

I get it, nine times out of ten, you're imagining yourself in these scenarios and then writing them. So if you're someone who is lighter, it's easy to have slip ups. BUT, it's not difficult whatsoever to make general content.

Because, let me tell you, it sucks as a POC to look at content and think, "Oh well, this wasn't made with people who look like me in mind, and it's obvious."

We're not asking for anything big. So stop making us beg for it.

[hearts4hughes]

https://www.tumblr.com/hearts4hughes/785288931630530560/send-in-some-exbfrafe-and-bsfrafe-requests

Calling exbf rafe to tell him good night like the TikTok trend, you know he will eat that shit up!! He will be trying to play it off cool but blushing really and taking that as a sign she wants him back,

you’re curled up in sarah’s bed, legs tangled in a thrifted blanket that smells like lavender detergent and your childhood secrets. her room’s glowing with that late summer golden ligh—windows cracked open, cicadas humming, a forgotten candle flickering in the corner. both of you are belly laughing, the kind that makes your stomach sore and eyes watery.

you’re scrolling through tiktok, passing the phone back and forth like a shared lifeline. somewhere between a “get ready with me” and a recipe for baked feta pasta, you see it. it’s a video with two girls, similar to you and sarah, laying down and giggling while one calls their ex to say ‘goodnight’.

you freeze, thumb hovering over the screen. sarah looks up from her bag of pretzels, face already twisting into a mischievous grin. “oh! you have to do that to rafe.” a giggle leaves her lips at the mere thought of torturing her lovesick brother.

you scoff, but you’re already smiling, and chuckling at the possibility. “what? no. that’s evil.”

you and rafe had broken up two months ago, after two years of being tangled up in each other. it hadn’t been ugly, not exactly, just…inevitable in that slow, splintering way. like something sacred wearing thin at the seams. it wrecked him anyway. left him half-alive and mean about it, walking around like he didn’t bleed for you, like he wasn’t still sleeping in the hoodie you left behind. no one really talked about it, but everyone knew—rafe cameron hadn’t been the same since.

“exactly,” she says, beaming. “and besides, he’s so not over you.”

you roll your eyes, but your heart’s beating faster. you grab your phone anyway. “you’re insane,” you mutter, voice breathless with laughter.

“and you love it,” sarah sings, flopping back onto her pillows. “now shhh. put it on speaker.”

your fingers hover for half a second too long over his name before you press call. the phone ringing bounced through the walls of sarah’s bedroom. he picks up on the third ring.

“hello?” his voice catches halfway through the word. it’s low, hesitant, not quite put-together. there’s a pause, and some ruffling in the background. he’s grabbing for a shirt or maybe a recording device to document that this actually was happening.

you swallow a giggle, face already warm. “hi, rafe,” you say like sugar. “just calling to say goodnight.” he’s on the other line flushed, and trying to figure out if you’re serious or if this is a dream.

“uh…” his voice shifts, softens. you can hear the way he bites back a grin.“okay? sweet dreams, baby.”

your eyes widen. sarah clutches your arm like you’ve just won the lottery. “goodnight,” you say, voice a whisper now.

“night,” he murmurs back. then, like he can’t help it, he murmurs, “call me tomorrow?”

you hang up before you can say yes. you toss the phone onto sarah’s floral comforter like it’s radioactive, then bury your face in one of her overpriced anthropology pillows and scream loud enough to rattle the fairy lights above her bed. your face is tomato red, ears hot, skin warm to the touch. you can still hear his voice in your head, syrupy and low.

sarah’s shrieking, “baby?! oh my god, he’s still in love with you.” she barks out laughter until her body can’t hold itself upright. she falls onto the bed beside you, clutching her stomach.

on the other side of the line, rafe leans back in bed like it’s no big deal. as if his pulse isn’t sprinting and his ears aren’t burning. he tosses his phone onto the side table, arms crossed behind his head, smug little smirk tugging at his mouth.

she wants me back so bad, he thinks, biting back a grin.

but his cheeks are pink, and his heart’s thudding out a rhythm he hasn’t felt since you used to sleep in his shirts. he tries to play it off, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he’s already moved on. but three seconds later he’s picking up the phone again just to check if you texted. just to look at your name one more time.

taglist ~ @ren-ni @bungurus @kayperrysinging @cupids-diner @mojitrvo @babygirlboeser @makiplan @ladyatwalmart @qversazex @favbrnette @nothingtosee333her @soft-starr @f10werfae @bibissparkles @brennanyay @grungefck @kravinoffswife @restinpaece @illumoria @meetmeintheemeraldpool @miaaaoa

[dontrllycaretbh]

Title: Heat of the Moment

After a long day, Paige dozes off on Azzi’s thigh, murmuring half-asleep confessions about how beautiful she is. But when Paige stirs awake and realizes what she’s said out loud—she doesn’t pull away. In fact, she leans in closer. And Azzi isn’t about to let it slide.

The living room was quiet, lit by soft golden light spilling in through the blinds. Some indie playlist played low in the background, mostly forgotten. The TV was on mute—neither of them had touched the remote in over an hour.

Azzi sat on the couch in a hoodie and shorts, long legs stretched out, one hand resting on the armrest and the other trailing lazily through Paige’s hair. Paige had claimed her usual spot—head resting on Azzi’s thigh, arm curled loosely around her waist. She was warm, still, and had gone quiet long ago.

Azzi figured she was asleep.

That is, until Paige murmured:

“…so unfair how hot you are…”

Azzi blinked, eyes drifting down. Paige hadn’t moved, but her lips had definitely parted. Her voice was low, lazy, like her thoughts were slipping past her mouth before they fully formed.

“…like, literally ridiculous,” Paige added softly. “Can’t even focus when you wear those shorts.”

Azzi raised a brow, very still now. Her hand paused in Paige’s hair.

She waited. Paige sighed and shifted a little, burrowing closer into her lap.

“Face like that and arms like that… god.” A small huff. “You do it on purpose. I know you do.”

Azzi bit her lip, grinning. “Do what on purpose?”

Paige stirred slightly, and this time, she blinked her eyes open—slow, sleepy, unfocused. Her gaze flicked up and met Azzi’s.

Instant horror.

“Oh my God.” Her voice cracked. “Was I—? I was talking, wasn’t I?”

Azzi nodded slowly, lips curled into something far too smug. “Oh yeah.”

Paige groaned, dragging a hand over her face. “Please tell me I didn’t say anything too wild.”

Azzi shrugged. “Just that I’m hot. That my face is illegal. That my arms apparently ruin your concentration.”

Paige groaned again, but didn’t move—didn’t leave the safety of Azzi’s lap. Instead, after a beat, she exhaled hard… and curled closer, hiding her face entirely against Azzi’s stomach.

Azzi’s hand moved gently to the back of her neck.

“Comfortable?” she teased.

Paige’s voice came out muffled: “Uncomfortably turned on, actually.”

Azzi’s hand froze.

A pause. Then—

“I mean,” Paige added quickly, “not like right now, like, I’m chill, I’m just saying—like, in general. Hypothetically. Sleepy honesty, whatever. Don’t judge me.”

Azzi smiled slowly, her voice lower now. “Who said I’m judging?”

Paige finally peeked up at her, eyes a little glassy, still half-asleep but far too aware now. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Azzi leaned down, her lips ghosting close to Paige’s forehead. “You’re lucky I like when you can’t keep your mouth shut.”

“Dangerous sentence,” Paige whispered, grinning.

Azzi laughed, threading her fingers gently through Paige’s hair again. “You started it.”

Paige shifted slightly, her hand sliding along Azzi’s thigh, slow and deliberate. She looked up again, eyes darker now, a teasing glint under heavy lashes. “Guess I’ll have to finish it.”

Azzi raised a brow, her tone playful but loaded. “Oh? You awake now?”

“Very,” Paige murmured.

Azzi didn’t look away. “Good.”

[strnilolover]

⌗ . . . FIVE MINUTES AND A HAIR TIE

WARNINGS : SMUT. ORAL (m & f receiving). SUB!BSF!CHRIS. SWITCH!BSF!READER. TEASING. BEGGING. and more?

you and chris had been best friends for years—it getting to the point where your parents started keeping chris’ favorite snacks stocked in the kitchen. and chris having his own whole drawer in your bedroom full of his things. and vice versa.

today was no different from any other—or that’s what you had thought.

chris was sprawled across the edge of your bed—his back against the mattress as his legs were sprawled out around. it was a quiet evening, just the two of you. your lights were dimmed and your shared playlist hummed low in the background. you were curled up at the head of your bed in an old hoodie, scrolling mindlessly, and he was doing the same, phone held over his chest as he kept yawning but refused to go home.

it was comfortable silence. that rare kind that only came from years of being close and being able to just do your own thing in the presence of someone else. it was the kind that made you wonder sometimes what was going on in his head when he looked deep in thought.

chris suddenly snorted loud—drawing you from your spacey thoughts as you just stared at your phone. your brows furrowed and you looked up, curious. “what?” you said, a little breathless from being startled.

he just grinned and flipped his phone around, showing you a screenshot of a tweet. It was a picture of some jawline-blessed actor, captioned:

“Give me five minutes and a hair tie PLEASE.”

and you couldn’t help but crack a grin, letting your head fall back slightly. “that’s like a universal girl language right there.” chris snickered, shaking his head at your words. “it’s such a lie though. like—c’mon, there’s no way half of y’all could make a guy cum in five minutes. and definitely not just with your mouth.” he said, continuing to shake his head in disbelief.

You raised a brow, quirking a smirk and tilting your head at him. “oh yeah?” you mused, watching the way the thought about it for a second before nodding his head. “yeah,” he said, full of himself now. “you act like just putting your hair up makes you dangerous. please. most of y’all couldn’t even handle it.”

that sentence got your attention. you pursed your lips—locking your phone and setting it aside. chris blinked when you started to sit up straighter, now starting to notice the way your attitude has changed. “what?—why..why’re you looking at me like that?”

you tsked softly, shaking your head. “you really think that?” you asked, almost curious. “you think I wouldn’t know how to handle it? hm?” and he scoffed, though it wavered a little when your legs swung off the bed and carried you to kneel on the floor down between his own.

“wait, wait—what are you doing?” he asked, his phone now forgotten beside him—your actions getting his full attention. slowly you reached down, grabbed the hair tie from around your wrist, and started pulling your hair up into a messy ponytail. eyes locked hard onto his.

“give me five minutes and a hair tie,” you murmured. “that’s all I need.”

chris’ body went still—you could see his throat bob as he swallowed, the cocky smirk flickering like a faulty light. “wait—are you—are you serious right now?” you leaned up swiftly, your lips barely brushing against his ear. “only if you want me to be.”

there was silence—like the situation had finally caught up to his brain. you guys were best friends—this was something that you shouldn’t be doing. but god—there’s been times he’s thought about how your mouth would feel against him. always whispering apologies to your name when he’d jerk off in his bedroom.

and now?

now he’d have the chance since you were offering—he just hopes it doesn’t ruin anything.

the silence stretched before chris began to speak. “yeah,” he breathed, voice cracking just a little. “yes, okay. please.” he let himself relax slowly to your touch on his thighs, body melting. his sweatpants were already betraying him, his bulge heavy and obvious through the fabric.

you smiled up at him, giving him a small nod before your hand slowly trailed along his thigh before you reached his bulge, palming him through the fabric and laughing under your breath. “y’so easy.” you taunt, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth as you watched him.

he whimpered as your hand snatched into the waistband of his sweats. you gently gave chris a few taps, telling him to lift his hips. which he quickly obliged to. slowly, you tugged them down and his cock sprang free—tip already flushed and leaking like he’d been thinking about this way longer than he really should’ve.

before you went any further though, you leaned up and snatched his phone—the screen still opened to that stupid little post. you smirked at it before swiping the app away and opening the clock app.

your fingers worked quick to open the stopwatch, placing his phone back down next to him on the bed before you pressed the start button.

you didn’t waste time—your other hand came up and wrapped around his length, giving him a few small pumps that already had his head kicking back. you watched him with hungry eyes, keeping them connected to his as you lowered yourself. your tongue poked out and licked a slow stripe up his shaft—starting from the bottom. when you reached the top, you flicked your tongue against the slit, and smirked when his hips jerked.

chris was wide-eyed, one hand clutching the sheets on the bed next to him, and the other was gripping the base of your ponytail before he even realized he was doing it. “f-fuck.” he whispered, his head tipping forward—eyes quickly connecting with your own.

and that’s when you sank down to the base of him with out warning—his cock completely filling your mouth.

his whole body tensed, eyes rolling into the back of his head as you bobbed your head up and down on him. the hand in your hair tightened just slightly, and you could feel the way he twitched in your mouth. “mmf—fuckfuckfuck.” he whimpered.

you kept the pace slow at first—enjoying the power shift between the two of you. he’d been so smug, so sure of himself. but now he was trembling, his lips parted like he couldn’t decide whether to curse or cry. your hand was wrapped around what you couldn’t fit, twisting in rhythm with your mouth.

you couldn’t help how wet you were becoming just from his reactions to your mouth. you were content having him in your mouth, letting yourself get lost in the feeling. chris choked out a gasp when you moaned around him—the vibrations making his high approach quicker. “jesus—shit—you’re good at this.” he breaths, trying not to sound so whiny and desperate.

you liked how easily he was giving into it—letting the pleasure take over him. gently you pulled off with a pop, your eyes gleaming up at him.

“y’still think we can’t do it in five?” you asked teasingly, letting yourself hand give his cock a small squeeze, the action making his moan. he shook his head, his hips slowly starting to fuck his cock into your fist. his voice was barely a whisper. “i was wrong—fuck—I was so wrong.”

you hummed in approval to his confession, leaning down and spitting on his tip—watching the way it trailed down before you licked it up. when you reached his tip, you wasted no time in taking him deep again, rougher this time. faster. you let him feel your teeth just barely—just enough to make him twitch. his hand tightened in your hair again and his hips bucked up, trying to fuck your throat. but you weren’t having none of that, so you pinned him with a warning glare and he froze.

you pulled away from his length just long enough to speak. “don’t move unless I say so.” you murmured. he nodded fast, breathing ragged. “okay. okay, i—i won’t. please don’t stop.”

“good boy.” and with that, you kept going. sucking, slurping, making it so fucking messy. his cock was red and slick, and the little noises he was making were insane—tiny whines, like he was embarrassed to be enjoying it that much.

“fuck, i’m gonna—i’m gonna cum—” he gasped, trying his hardest not to move his hips from up off the bed.

you didn’t stop.

“can i—” he whimpered. “please, can i cum in your mouth? please let me, i’m so close, pleaseplease—” you moaned at that, nodding your head the best you could with it stuffed full of him. chris sighed in relief before you felt him twitch more in the back of your throat—his body tensing under yours before he let himself go.

he came hard—his whole body was shaking as he spilled into your mouth. thick, white ropes of cum hit the back of your throat. but you didn’t pull away. you sucked him through it, tongue swirling around his cock as he cried out from how sensitive he quickly became.

when you finally did pull off, you looked up at him with wet lips and a smug smile. you broke eye contact with him after that, your hand reaching for his phone on the bed and pressing stop on the stopwatch.

you grinned, turning your gaze back to him as you held up the phone for him to see. “four minutes and seventeen seconds.” you said, licking a drop from the corner of your mouth.

chris stared at you like you were a fucking goddess. “I hate you.” he groaned—but really—he didn’t. it was the best head of his life, but he wasn’t gonna tell you that.

you giggled, rolling your eyes slightly as you reached for a tissue. “you’re welcome.” you said as you brought the tissue to his spent cock, slowly wiping up whatever was left over, listening to the way he hissed and whined when your touch was too firm.

when you were finished, you threw the tissue in the trash can next to your bed—quickly helping him get his sweats back into place on his body before you climbed up onto the bed yourself again.

it was silent for a long while—surprisingly it was comfortable, like you just didn’t give your best friend head in your bedroom for the first time. you both sat there on the bed next to one another, you were staring at your phone now and chris was laying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

he was finally the one to break the silence. “let me do it too.” he muttered, and you looked at him, arching a brow. “what?”

“i said let me do it too.” this time he was louder, turning over onto his side to face you. “I’m saying,” he said, crawling over the bed now, sitting next to you. “that if i went down on you, i could beat your record.”

you blinked at him slowly—like you weren’t sure if you were hearing him right. but then you grinned. “you wanna try? on me?” and chris suddenly looked nervous, like he couldn’t believe he had actually said it to you. but under it—there was something deeper. determined. and hungry. “only if you’ll let me.” he muttered, watching you.

you leaned forward in his direction a little, watching the way his throat bobbed as you got closer. “alright, baby. let’s see what you can do hm?”

and so you moved yourself, letting your body lay flat on your bed, practically laying on chris’ body before he moved himself. with your phone in hand, you opened the stopwatch just like you did earlier. you let yourself get comfy, your eyes peering up at chris as he just stood there for a moment.

you arched a brow. “gonna come here or what pretty boy?” you teased, lifting your other head to beckon him closer. he breathed out a shaky laugh, shaking his head as he came closer to you. he knelt between your legs almost like it was instinct now before his hands wrapped around your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the bed.

chris peered up at you with his big blue eyes, almost looking a little embarrassed. “i don’t have a hair tie.” he muttered. and you couldn’t help but to smirk at him. “that’s okay. i’ll hold your hair back for you. maybe even give it a little tug.” you said, tugging his hair gently.

he whimpered softly at that.

you chuckled, tugging his hair again to get him to look at you. when his eyes met yours, you made a gesture down, and it didn’t take him long to get the hint. so he quickly leaned forward, his fingers coming up to undo your shorts before hooking his fingers into the loops. he tugged them down quickly, discarding them on the floor by him.

you smiled down at him, and slowly let your legs spread, showing off your pretty pink panties. you threaded your hand back into his hair, giving it yet another small tug. “you can start when I press this, okay? and you held the phone in front of him.

chris just nodded eagerly, his body already leaning forward—his nerves from just a moment ago already seeming to disappear.

and so you took that as your queue to hit start. and when you did? oh he was already gone. it was like his brain autopiloted to what he wanted most—you.

chris leaned forward, one hand coming out to rest on your thigh, opening you more as the other moved your panties to the side. and when he finally saw the sight of your bare pussy in front of him?—he leaned forward and licked a long, teasing stripe up your folds—just enough to make you gasp—then he got serious. his tongue flattening, dragging up and down, slowly. the pressure was perfect, his mouth so messy and wet against you.

your free hand gripped the sheets, the other gripping his hair tighter. “fuck, chris.” you moaned, letting your head tip back at the feeling. he couldn’t help but moan against you like that was praise.

suddenly, he pulled away—you both whining at the loss of one another. you were confused, tipping your head back up to watch him, to say something. but chris quickly reached up and grabbed the waistband to your panties before you could say anything and began to tug them down your legs until they were completely off of you. he threw them somewhere—he wasn’t really sure, he was just too eager to have his face buried in your pussy again.

when he dove back down, one of his hands came up to press on your lower stomach to hold you still, while the other gripped your thigh again to keep you spread open. and that’s when he started using his tongue in tiny maddening circles on your clit and you threw your head back once more.

though at some point he began to stray, moving his head lower and lower, wanting to fuck you with his tongue. so you put your hand on his head to get his attention. “c’mere—hold your tongue right there—” you said breathlessly, now threading your fingers into his hair and tugging him into the exact angle you wanted. and when his tongue met that spot, you moaned softly. “yeah, baby. just like that.”

he whined. it was the kind of sound that let you know he loved being told what to do—being bossed around.

he was so messy and sloppy with how he ate you out—but you didn’t care. it felt so good. his tongue stayed right where you wanted him, his fingers digging into your skin wherever they were planted at on your body as he lost himself in you.

you could feel the way your body began to tense, the band in your stomach beginning to grow tighter the longer he works you.

you started gasping when your release got closer and closer. your hips twitching, trying not to grind too much on his face. chris was switching between slow drags and fast flicks of his tongue, practically drooling all over you. and when you glanced down and saw the shine all over his mouth and chin, you almost lost it.

your thighs started to shake, trying to close around him but they couldn’t, not with his grip on one of them. “chris—baby—fuck, m’so close!” you cried out. he grunted into you, his tongue beginning to move even faster than before.

you guys had lost track of the time by now, not even sure how long it has been since you started. had it been long? or not at all?

you didn’t know—your brain was mush, not focusing on anything else except for the way chris’ mouth felt against you. your body began to arch—voice cracking as you suddenly came when he gently sucked your clit into his mouth. your thighs trembled more around his head as wave after wave came crashing over you.

but he didn’t stop—he slowed down and kept his tongue moving through it. moaning into your soaked folds like he was addicted to you and the way you tased. sucking your clit softly into his mouth over and over against as your back pressed to the mattress.

when you finally came down, your body began to twitch at the oversensitivity of his mouth attached to your clit. slowly sucking on it and running slow flicks at the nerve. you hissed, grabbing his hair and pulling him away. he whined at the loss of your taste, his face absolutely soaked with your release and juices.

you just grinned down at him, your body now beginning to feel tired before you looked over at your phone next to you. though, chris eyes must’ve followed yours.

the stopwatch ticked : 4:01

you turned your gaze back to chris, watching the way he smirked, letting his own eyes flick to you as his hand came up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “told you.”

a/n : i’ll be nice now and give you guys this :)

[peaktora]

𝐄𝐗 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐓 ˚◞♡ ⃗ satoru gojo

𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙬 ┊your and your ex know each other best. and even after your breakup, your ex remains the first person you want to contact when something bad happens.

𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 ┊2.5k words. plot was inspired by @/creativewritingprompts on tumblr. if it wasn’t clear, satoru’s your ex boyfriend and he’s absolutely whipped.

𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚.┊for 30 mins i had to actually do research just for this oneshot .. everyone clap it up ! you learn smth new everyday

by the way, it’s been what, a year since i’ve posted a fic? man time goes by. forgive me with this beauty

at first, satoru barely registers the buzzing of his phone. he thinks it’s part of a dream—some annoying background noise bleeding in. but after what he assumes is two whole minutes, the sound doesn’t stop.

he groans, pushing his head further into his pillow as if that’ll make it go away. it doesn’t.

with a sigh, he throws out an arm to his nightstand, blindly groping everything in reach. his fingers brush against a bottle but by the time he realizes that’s what it was, it was already tipping. of course. just his luck. he helplessly listens as it hits the floor.

“god,” he mutters to no one, huffing out a breath through his nose.

his hand continues searching until it finally gets ahold of his phone—one that is still vibrating. he drags it to his ear. he’s not even sure he pressed the right button before he mumbles, “hello? who ‘s this?”

from the other end of the phone, he hears the rush of traffic—cars speeding by, horns blaring. he winces at the noise, then blinks slowly at the screen. it takes time for his eyes to adjust to the light, but when they do, the words ‘no caller ID’ glare right at him. he sighs, lifts the phone back to his ear, and now a little more alert this time, asks, “hello?”

it doesn't get him a response. from the other side of the line he could hear a few noises, ones he couldn’t decipher. satoru has always been one for pranks but if this was a prank, he wouldn’t be a happy participant. hell, do they see how late it is?

he sighs, “hello?” he tries again. yet, no answer. frustrated, he runs his free hand across his face, “look, it’s too late for all this. whoever this is, listen, i don’t have time for games. calling people at two in the morning isn’t some fucki—“

he said this to get an answer, so he could finally go back to bed. but what cuts him off makes a part of him hate himself for saying it at all.

the words that come through are barely more than a whisper, muffled and shaky, yet there’s no mistaking who they belong to. it’s a voice he hasn’t heard in months, but the moment it reaches his ears, it instantly makes his throat grow dry. it’s achingly familiar. the vibrations, the way the words rolled off the toungue, the way they were uniquely pronounced—he couldn’t forget it. how could he forget it?

he was so busy in his head that he failed to properly process your words. “i’m sorry, what?” he asks.

“satoru… im serious, alright? i’m not joking. i didn’t even want to do this because i know we’re not on speaking terms—and you—okay—i’m sorry for waking you up in the middle of the night, but… i just—i really need your help.”

a knot forms in his stomach. he recognizes that tone all too well—the tremor in the voice, the hint of desperation—the fear. all signs of a persons breaking point.

someone on the verge of tears. while he would be concerned about anyone having that tone, he’s even more concerned when he knows the owner of it is you.

at the realization, he sits up, voice gentle as he murmurs, "hey."

you left out a long breath before saying, "hi.”

“what’s going on?”

“alright, so," you begin and satoru genuinely tries to listen. he’s hanging onto every stutter, every inhale and exhale. but as your words continue to come through the phone, they begin to mush together. then, a change in your voice grabs his attention. the once steady rhythm of your voice is now replaced by soft sniffles and tremors.

he swears that even now, your cries will be the death of him.

his words pour out in a rush, "hey, hey, i'm here. it's okay, i'm here. okay? i'm here, sweetheart." the nickname rolls off his tongue so naturally, and he hopes you find it comforting instead of bothersome. "but i need you to take a moment and breathe so i can understand what you’re saying ‘kay? to help you, i need to know what's going on."

you sniffle and he hears the sound of a car door opening and closing. he hears shifting, and he knows that if you saw him leaned over his phone right now, desperately straining to hear something—anything, for a explanation, you'd laugh.

god, he wishes he could make you laugh right now.

“you still there?” he asks.

"yeah," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. you sigh, "i know i said it earlier but ‘m sorry for waking you up."

“i was already awake.” it’s a clear lie and he knows it. he even knows that you know it. but for the sake of the situation, you both choose to ignore the comment.

you clear your throat before explaining, "my car broke down on the side of the road, and, well—i don't know what to do." the sound of your laugh fills the silence, but it’s not the joyful kind that satoru craved. it was almost pitiful. "i remembered you're good with cars, so i thought, y’know—hey, maybe satoru could help me out."

fuck.

hurriedly, satoru throws the sheets off himself. he rushes off the bed and puts the phone on speaker, "where are you right now?" he asks, setting the phone on his nightstand. suddenly, the room around him is a blur of movement. he throws on a random pair of sweatpants from the floor before grabbing his wallet.

“im pretty sure i’m on Highway 121… just a few miles outside of town. its pitch black out here, and id be lying if i said i wasn’t a little scared. if i even say out loud that i’m alone, i think i might just have a panic attack.”

he snatches his phone from the nightstand and rushes down the stairs to the front door, "alright, i’m coming. just stay where you are, and i'll get there as soon as i c—shit."

“you okay?”

"yeah, i just forgot ab—well—it doesn't matter," he adds, running back upstairs to get his keys. "just stay right there, promise i’ll be there as soon as i can."

“i mean, not like i’m going anywhere,” you snort. “can’t teleport, and my car decided to die on me, so…not going anywhere fast.”

“you could always walk home,” he teases. “get some steps in.”

“oh, right, so i can get kidnapped? that’s your plan? yeah, bet you’d love that, huh?”

his voice drips with mockery, “you gettin’ snatched up would ruin my night. who else do you know that’ll call me at this time just to give me a chance to show off?”

it’s been months, but he still knows you. both how to get under your skin—and make you smile. even without being able to see you, he knows you’re fighting against the twitch of your lips that so badly want to twist into a smile.

“a real tragedy,” you say, tone flat and deadpan. it’s a useless effort, because he catches the underlining pleasure you feel in your voice.

the silence that follows hangs in the air for much longer than satoru expected.

he clears his throat. “‘m on my way. or, actually not just yet—“

he’s cut off by the long, deep groan that give him.

“jus’ give me 5 minutes okay? need to grab some tools..keep your hazards on so other people can see you. let’s prevent an accident today, yeah?”

“i will,” you say, and he hears the soft click on the other end. “just don’t be swerving on the road. i know you’ll be in a rush to get to me, but you can’t be my hero if you crash on the way.”

“and what makes you assume that i’d be risking my life just to get to you, hmm?”

“because i’m stranded. alone. on the side of a creepy highway.”

“you’re not really alone. in theory, i’m there. right there in your heart.”

you groan, “ugh, you’ve always been so corny.” but you can’t help laughing.

he smiles at the sound, happy that at least one goal was accomplished.

it's quiet for a moment. just the clanging of his tools filling the call until he calls out your name.

“yeah?” you reply.

“you okay?”

“yeah i’m fine…and satoru?”

“hm?”

“thanks for still showing up for me.“

he’s glad you can’t see him right now—especially with the way he’s smiling like a complete idiot. “‘s nothing,” he says, trying to sound casual. “you don’t have to thank me.”

there’s a quick shuffle on your end, then your voice, quieter now, says “alright, well… i’ll see you soon, yeah? bye—”

“woah, woah, what are you doing?”

“…hanging up? i did say that i’ll see you soon.”

he hesitates, chewing his lip before murmuring, “just… stay on the line.

“what—“

“stay here with me on the line, c’mon now it’s a safety precaution.”

“my phone won’t even last another 15 minutes. it’s on eleven.“

“i’ll make sure to be there in 10. but i need you to stay on the phone with me until i get there, ‘kay? i need to know you’re safe.”

he hears you shuffling around once more, but you don’t give him a response. it’s only when he calls out your name that he hears a, “fine” from you. “but if you’re not here by the time my phone says—what? 5 percent? i’m calling the tow truck people to pick me up.”

he laughs, “deal.“

true to his word, satoru shows up in ten minutes on the dot. granted, he completely ignored your advice—swerved down every street he could and definitely didn’t take it slow because if he did, it would’ve took him 20 minutes to get there and no 10. so instead, he sped down the shoulder in silence, driving like he had something to prove. illegal? yes. reckless? absolutely. but he made it.

he spots you before he spots your car. at the sight of his own car, you get out and lean against your car hood. you cross an arm over your chest, and gaze at the cars speeding past.

before he turns off his car, he gives himself a quick look in the rear view mirror and runs a hand through his hair, giving it a light fluff. nothing too fancy, just enough to look more put together. besides, first impressions matter—and while it wasn’t his first time meeting you, it was the first time he’d seen you in a while.

as he steps out of the car, he tugs a little tighter at his jacket. it cold, he notes.

“ten minutes,” he smirks as he approaches you. “i should get a medal or something.”

you turn his direction, giving him a look over. “you just don’t listen, huh?” a light smile makes its way across your face. “pretty sure you broke, like—three laws to get here.”

he shrugs. “emergencies don’t care for the laws.”

you hum. “i guess not.”

there’s a pause before he says, “you look gorgeous.”

fuck. it slips out before he can think better of it—too soft, too real. he watches as your eyes flicker to the ground, like it might offer you an escape route. you don’t answer—not really—and that silence hurts more than a shutdown. it twists something low in his chest, because if you were going to say he shouldn’t have said it, at least that would’ve been something. they say something is better than nothing. but instead, you just look away, and somehow, that’s worse.

he clears his throat, glancing down, pretending like he’s just now noticing the outfit you’re wearing. it’s classy. fitted to your figure. a sleek black dress that hugs your shoulders just right.

“were you—” he nods at your clothes, and he hopes he sounds more casual than he actually is. “going out somewhere?”

“coming from somewhere,” you correct. you hesitate to add on. but once you do, you don’t stop. “a date—it was terrible. he wasn’t a gentleman at all. can you believe he didn’t even offer to open the door for me?”

he gives you a half smile in return. “guess i really screwed up your night, huh?”

you smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “you have a knack for timing.”

and neither of you say the obvious—that he doesn’t have a right to care where you were going or who you were going with.

but it doesn’t stop him from wondering.

you sigh before pushing yourself off the hood of your car. “it just… died. no warning. nothing. just gave up on me.”

“oh, the nerve she has.”

satoru pops the hood. he leans in and checks the simple things that break. but he already has a gut feeling, and sure enough, it hits him the second he reaches for the belt.

snap.

cut.

clean.

“it’s the serpentine belt,” he says.

you take a look over his shoulder. “the what?”

he points at the engine. “the long thing that makes the rest of the car actually work. the alternator, steering, water pump—you name it but when the belt goes, everything goes.”

“but you can fix it, though, right?”

you ask him so naturally. as if things are still as simple as they used to be.

it sings. it stings even more when he know he won’t be able to fulfill your expectations.

he straightens up, brushing his hands down his thighs. “i can’t tonight. i don’t have the tools… or the belt. i got to go head back, grab a bunch of car stuff you definitely don’t want the names of, and come back.”

you nod, but he sees it—the disappointment you try to blink away. he hates that he notices it. hates that he still cares so much.

“i’ll come back her the morning,” he says. “but your car’s toast for the night.”

you roll your eyes. “still dramatic, huh?”

“ugh, still a party pooper.” he playful pouts. “you do a bad job at actin’ like you don’t appreciate my jokes.”

“oh please. you’re not even that funny.”

for a split second, it’s like no time has passed. like this is just another night. another joke. another moment where maybe, maybe, things could’ve turned out different.

“yeah…” he mumbles. “you got someone you can call? for a ride?”

“oh i’ll figure it out.”

he hesitates. “i know your place is far and you look pretty tired so—i can drive you back to my place. y’know, if you want.”

you give him a look. one that he can’t decipher. “that a good idea?”

“maybe not.”

another pause.

“but the offer still stands,” he adds.

you sigh, rubbing your temples. “god, i forgot how annoying you get when you’re trying to be nice.”

“and i forgot how stubborn you can get when you need help.”

you laugh, “touché.”

“lock your car door, make sure you got everything valuable incase someone breaks in.” he nods his head towards his car. “and c’mon.“

you don’t bother protesting. “yeah, okay.”

satoru makes his way to his car. you turn to go to your own car, then pause in your tracks.

“satoru,” you call out.

he turns around.

“…thanks again.”

he nods once. “anytime.”

and just then, satoru allows himself to believe that maybe some broken things aren’t meant to stay broken.

even if it’s just for tonight.

[strawberry-nugget]

Summary: You ask Katsuki to make you eggs

Tags // Warnings: Fluff, comfort, a little bit of insecure Katsuki. All characters are 20+

Paring: Bakugo Katsuki x reader

“Katsuki, please please please can you please fry some eggs for me? Pleeeease?”

Katsuki blinks his eyes into yours like he’s got a tick. Nose scrunched, brows furrowed and lips pressed and pulled in a frown so deep— his stink face is immaculate, always has been. However the confusion lies as to why it’s directed to you.

Your expression is quite on the contrast of his. Pursed out pouty lips, nostrils flared and dragged downwards by your pout, eyebrows looking like they’ve taken a turn downwards and eyes so big and gleamy, like you’re seeing stars.

Katsuki shakes his head and one hand covers his eyes, the pads of his fingers rubbing at his temples a little too hard.

When he came home from his shift fifteen minutes ago, you were simply sprawled on the couch, watching one of your shows. He had just managed to get out of the shower with the towel still on his head when he found you in the kitchen; one hand holding two eggs, the other holding a pan and the annoying repeating sound of the voice of a TikTok cook in the background talking about how easy it is to fry eggs.

Katsuki knows you’re scared shitless of frying your own eggs. He also knows you’d never ask him to cook anything for you—you’d only let him cook for you if he absolutely wanted to or had enough energy for it. So if you’re asking it means you’re craving and Katsuki would never say no to whether you begged for it or not.

In guttural essence, his expression isn’t a reaction to the fact that you’re asking for something. It’s a reaction of the fact that you've said please so many fucking times.

And yes, even though he loves hearing you beg like this it’s only ever in the context of the baby making process—not this one.

Wait, has he done something wrong to upset you? Nooo, it can’t be, right? No actually, never mind scratch that, he's gonna push that thought aside and make you your eggs, because your face right now is too cute to be real.

“Whatchu have to beg for like that, babe? ‘Course I’ll cook eggs for you”

Your cheeks are immediately trapped between his thumb and pointer and your pout furthers forward him. Katsuki gives you an awkward, pressed-lip smile as he squeezes your face twice.

Aw you look so cute, why is he in his head so much!?

“Oh thank you Katsuki” you jump in joy, inching in closer so you can kiss his cheek with the eggs and the pan still in your arms. Katsuki has to hide the fact that his cheeks and ears are burning at this simple, little peck “you always make them perfect and im scared to do it myself”

Normally, he’d whine, tell you they’re just eggs that they can’t hurt you and you shouldn’t be afraid of them. But today he just takes the eggs and the pan from your hands and sets them on the stove. Today he kisses your cheek back. All sloppy, just how he likes it.

But as he settles for pouring some oil onto the pan and turning the stove on, he remains somewhat bothered, when he knows he shouldn’t be.

He just… doesn’t like the fact that you thought you had to beg for him to make your eggs. You never ask him to do things for you! Like the time you fixed the kitchen sink pipes by yourself, or the time you bought a whole ass new bed and had it set and made by the time he came home from patrol. Or the time you installed all the at home gym equipment by yourself, or—or. How he comes home to his favourite food always being made and served at the table!

He secretly gets so jealous every time he listens to Kirishima mumble about how he does these things for his girlfriend despite also working full time as a hero!

It’s unfair, you don’t have to beg him to cook you eggs, he would get down on his hands and knees and swipe the floor clean if you told him to.

Yet, you hop on the counter —keeping a safe distance from the pan— and sway your legs back and forth for a few seconds, your face incredibly love sick as you watch Katsuki rampage through the fridge to pull out an avocado, some cherry tomatoes and some orange juice.

Though, to you Katsuki looks rather… quiet. 

The little towel bundle he has on his hair hasn’t moved an inch further than the ones you make would do; your heart tugs at the way the edges rest behind his ears, making them protrude and fold outwards—so so cute. But normally he would have tossed the towel by now, he would be whining about how his ears hurt. And he definitely isn’t. He’s way too focused on watching the oil heating up in the pan.

You hop off the counter, ignoring the suspicious little look Katsuki throws over his shoulder as you creep toward him. He’s hunched ever so slightly over the stove, brow furrowed like he’s concentrating way too hard on something as simple as frying an egg.

You slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades and giving him a slow, sleepy squeeze and just a teeny tiny kiss on his spine.

“I know you’re so tired from working baby, im so sorry” you whisper “but I’m really craving eggs, I’d make them on my own if I wasn’t scared of the whooshing sounds and the hot oil splatters”

“Hm” he grunts and you don’t see it, but he’s pouting as well.

Because why the hell are you apologising right now? 

“Katsu,” you mumble, your voice muffled against his shirt. “Why’re you being weird?”

He tenses a little in your hold, like he’s been caught. “M’not bein’ weird,” he mutters.

“You’re definitely being weird,” you hum, squeezing tighter and rocking left and right on your heels, swaying him with you.

He exhales hard through his nose, setting the spatula down with a little clatter and resting his hands lightly over yours where they’re wrapped around his middle.

He turns in your arms then, finally facing you fully. You barely have time to look up before his hand is cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His face is closer now, expression a little bashful but full of warmth.

“I like takin’ care of you,” he says quietly, eyes so kind and yearning. “More than anything. Hear me?”

You lean into the touch, smiling so sweetly it nearly makes him combust.

“I know you don’t want a man to do shit for you, but you take care of me a lot. I wanna take care of you too”

He sighs, then covers your hand where it rests over his back with his own. His thumb brushes slowly across your knuckles.

“You shouldn’t have to beg for shit like this,” he mumbles. “Just—made me think. That’s all.”

You lift your head a little. “Think about what?”

“You don’t ask for anything. Ever. You do a million things on your own and never expect help. Then you give me the biggest puppy eyes just to make eggs.” His voice dips, like he’s embarrassed by even saying this out loud. “Makes me feel like I’m not doing enough for you.”

You’re quiet for a beat, just holding him tighter.

“Katsuki,” you whisper. “You do so much for me. Every single day. Just ‘cause I don’t ask doesn’t mean I don’t see it.”

He shifts again, a little awkward. Like he wants to believe you but doesn’t know how. His brows furrow and he pouts, ever so slightly. But you can read him! He isn’t slick at all right now!

“Katsuki- what, oh my god!” You laugh and laugh right into his face, cracking the seriousness of the moment, in an attempt to cheer him up. It’s inevitable for him to not get in his head and frown over something ever so small and silly. You love him for that, honestly. You understand exactly where this stems from and maybe, you were a little bit dramatic when you asked for the eggs. You understand how it contradicts with how mushy you are right now.

“I was just being cute! I just want boyfie-made eggs babe, no need to be insecure because of this”

“I know you were bein’ cute,” he grumbles, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles. “That’s the problem.”

You blink, confused.

“Since when is me being cute a problem?” you ask, looking up at him, lips all pouty again.

He groans like you’ve personally tried to end his life. You know he's gonna circle the same issue just for a little more and you’ll let him. He deserves to feel reassured as well. Heavens know he always reassures you.

“It’s not—fuck, it’s not a problem, alright?” he says, tilting his head to glance at you from the side. His expression softens the second he meets your eyes. “It’s just… you asked so sweet, like you really didn’t think I’d do it unless you begged or somethin’. And that’s what’s weird.”

You go quiet, hugging him tighter, your hands bunching slightly in the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Katsuki,” you whisper, cheek pressed to his chest again. “I know you’d do anything for me. That’s why I asked. Not ‘cause I thought you wouldn’t. I just… I wanted to be a little spoiled today. By you. And I like whining”

He stiffens again for just a moment—then melts.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in close as he leans back into you just a little. His voice is low, rough at the edges, but gentle.

“You don’t gotta do that whole act, baby. You could walk up to me and say, ‘Hey, bitch boy, make me eggs,’ and I’d still do it.”

You giggle into his chest, and he lets out a soft breath that’s dangerously close to a laugh.

“I wouldn’t call you bitch boy. But I do like acting all dramatic,” you grin, lifting your head to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “And I like when you take care of me.”

“I like takin care of my girl,” he says quietly. “I don’t like you lifting a finger to do anything”

You lean into the toucht and his heart catches dangerously in his chest.

“Then shut up and make me my eggs, bitch-boy” you laugh and move your hand inside his vicious grip to slap his ass playfully.

Ughhhhh he just loves you so much.

That gets a real laugh out of him, bright and short and perfect. He kisses your forehead, then your nose for good measure. Then both of your cheeks.

Then, Katsuki turns back to the stove, cracks the egg over the pan—and the sizzle that follows is absolutely vicious. You flinch immediately.

“Jesus!” you squeak, clinging to his back like the egg just pulled a knife on you. “Why does it sound like that?! That’s not normal!”

“It’s a hot pan, dumbass.” Katsuki snorts, taps your thigh just enough to signal you to jump, climb his back like he's gonna give you a piggyback ride. You do without hesitation.

“It sounds like it wants to fight me.”

“It is fightin’ you. It knows you were too scared to fry it yourself.”

“I was right to be scared!”

He shakes his head, shoulders shaking with laughter as he calmly adjusts the heat. You peek over his shoulder with wide eyes, cautiously watching the egg cook like it might jump out of the pan and chase you.

But you don’t let go of him—not even when he shuffles slightly to flip it. You just stay latched onto his back like a little backpack, whispering commentary about the egg’s anger issues.

“That egg’s got beef with me,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes. “I felt it in the vibes.”

Katsuki lets out a wheezy little laugh and reaches back to squeeze your thigh where it’s curled around his hip. “Yeah? Then it better square the fuck up, ’cause I’m not lettin’ it lay a hand on you.”

You gasp dramatically. “My hero!”

“Damn right.”

The sizzling starts to die down as the egg firms in the pan, and your grip around his neck loosens just a bit, your head growing heavier where it rests on the slope of his shoulder. Your arms are still draped around him, but now they’re more relaxed, less clingy—just naturally wrapped around the person you love the most.

A moment later, you let yourself slip down from his back and he groans at the action like youve slipped away far from his grasp.

Katsuki carefully slides the eggs onto a plate, then adds the little tomatoes he sliced and the avocado he fanned out like it’s a competition. The orange juice is already poured. He even put a sprinkle of chili flakes on top, just the way you like.

You blink sleepily as he turns to you, one brow raised, holding the plate like he just wants to kiss you stupid. And you let him, mushing his head with yours, smooching your lips onto his with soundly mwah-mwah-mwahhhhs!

You laugh, grabbing the towel still perched on his head and yanking it with both hands. It flops forward and hits him right in the face.

“Hey—!” he tries to protest, muffled under the fabric.

You wiggle it like you’re wringing out a dishcloth. “Why is this still on your head, huh? You tryna give yourself cauliflower ears again?”

Katsuki finally yanks it off and throws it on the counter, grumbling like an old man. “It was warm, okay?”

You gasp. “You were being cozy! You softie!”

“Shuddup!” He whines, that cracked out yearning thing that you adore “sit down and eat your eggs!”

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

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[bones4thecats]

Hello! I saw that request are open again and i really want to request headcanons from twisted wonderland!

I wanted to ask for headcanons of malleus, sebek and leona with a significant other with the personality and background of elsa! I mean, s/o is really introverted, shy, studious and prim but also has so much fear of their powers due a traumatic event in their lives and have problems with let go all the pressure and fear they have but eventually learn how to control their power better.

I hope this is not such a heavy request and youre free to decline this! I hope youre doing well in real life!

↳ Conceal, Don't Feel.

A Twisted Wonderland × Elsa! Reader.

Requester: @ultravioletqueen.

Characters Included: Malleus Draconia, Sebek Zigvolt, and Leona Kingscholar.

Possible Trigger Warnings: Accidental physical harm caused from sibling to sibling, mentions of parental death, attempted murder, and isolation.

●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●～●

🐉 Malleus uses magic in a lot of his daily activities. It's practically in a fae's DNA to use magic often. But, for you? You despised using magic. More specifically, you hated using your magic. 🐉 Your boyfriend noticed your hesitation to use your unique spell to defend yourself against an attack sent by Lilia in a spar. His green eyes widened and pupils narrowed when you flinched and jumped away instead of blasting back.

🐉 He asked what it was all about, and was shocked to hear you were told to suppress your magic due to its strength and danger against your younger sibling. 🐉 Malleus hugged you from the side and asked if you believed him to be dangerous because of his own magical prowess. You jumped and looked at him shocked, yelling a no and an explanation on why you knew him to be safe, not a monster. 🐉 When you finished, he smiled at you. "How am I not a danger, yet you are?"

⚡ Sebek was sort of scared of you at first. When you arrived at Night Raven College, your magic was still a little stray and was heavy dependable on your emotions. Let's just say hiding it all and then releasing it wasn't a very good move. ⚡ He and you began dating after your own overblot. It seemed impossible to many, as you were a first year, and your magical capabilities should have been below a second year's. But, it happened, and the world around began to freeze over. ⚡ Sebek's eyes were teared up when you began to scream in pain, ice overtaking your form. Your fingers were like icicles and your pupils snowflakes. He screamed for you to listen to him and not the thought in your mind. ⚡ "Your strength is not something to be scared of! Being strong is something you should take pride in! Your magic is beautiful, not monstrous!" He began to walk through the raging storm, leaving the sights of his fellow first years as he called out to you. ⚡ "Please- just come back to us! Come back to me! I love you!"

🦁 Leona and you had very different views on magic. He found it to be useful in multiple ways. You found it to be troublesome and something that would only tear people apart. 🦁 Maybe that was because it tore you and your younger sibling apart. 🦁 He knew you and your sibling had a harsh relationship, even harsher than he and his brother. You and they used to be very close; playing around anytime you got the chance. But, after you accidentally blasted them with your magic, you isolated yourself. 🦁 Leona tried getting you to contact them more, as you tried getting him to contact his brother more. But, he always failed. Eventually, he caught your sibling walking around campus, asking for you. 🦁 He was unsure if you wanted to see them at the moment, so he messaged you. When you told him to keep them away for now so you could get ready, he said he'd get Ruggie on the case. 🦁 While Ruggie busied your sibling, Leona sat in his room with you beside him. You were sobbing into his chest, while he just held onto you like a pillow. 🦁 "Don't worry, Frosty. I'm right here."

🌊 Copyright © 2025 by Bones4thecats on Tumblr. All Rights Reserved. 🌊

[nurse-floyd]

Looking Out

Request by my lovely @vroomvroomcircuit <3 "I demand some Max Verstappen whump fluff with reader being the whumpee, please 🥺👉🏻👈🏻"

@vivwritesfics @scuderia-piastri @ladyliberty6 @ice-man-goes-bwoah

It wasn’t uncommon for your old karting injury to flare up, especially when it was rainy or when you were travelling to and from races with Max. The triple header had been killer and you had only just survived 2 out of 3 of the races. Still, no matter how hard it hurt you weren’t going to let it ruin Max’s focus. 

Max however, knew just how much you were struggling and how stubborn you were. He knew you had probably not even admitted to yourself how much pain you were in. Instead you chose to just ignore it and continue on. Max decided to stay quiet, he knew you’d come to him when you needed and until then he just decided to watch from afar and be ready for the eventual breakdown. 

By the time you’d spent the day with him in the paddock while he fulfilled his media duties he could see the way you were limping. Still, you had a smile on your face as you spoke to his engineers and joked with Yuki. 

Max came over to where you were standing, pulling you into his side for a hug. “You okay, schatje?” He placed a kiss on the top of your head and you found yourself leaning into him a bit more to take pressure off your leg.  

“Just tired,” you replied. 

He looked at you a little longer, giving you space if you wanted to tell him what you both knew was wrong but you stayed silent. 

“Why don’t you sit? Me and Yuki need to do some filming for socials then we can go back to the hotel.” 

You smiled and agreed, waving goodbye to the pair as someone hauled them off to do some weird or funny challenge you no doubt would find on TikTok the next morning. 

By the time he was done you were in agony. Max led you to the car, silently opening the door for you to climb in. You loved his sports cars but with how low to the ground this car was, you weren’t sure how you were ever going to get out. That was a later problem though. Max climbed in and you set off towards the hotel, the only noise being the quiet hum of the radio playing softly in the background. 

Max was first out of the car. He waited a moment for you to follow. Maybe when you realised you couldn’t get out of the car you’d finally admit something was wrong. He didn’t want to play it this way, but it was the only way he was going to get it out of you. After about 30 seconds the passenger side door opened and Max leaned his head in. 

“You going to admit your legs been hurting all day now?” 

You didn’t turn your head to look at him, instead your top lip wobbled and you turned to him with tears in your eyes. You turned the rest of your body to him, holding your arms out and making a grabby motion with your hands. 

You looked pathetic. 

Max thought you looked adorable. 

He let out a small laugh before bending down, “put your arms around my neck.” With your arm looped over his neck, you allowed him to easily pull you to your feet. “Let’s get you inside.” 

With your arm around his neck and his arm around your back you let him take your weight as you hobbled into the hotel. 

“Let’s get you sat down, I’ll order us room service,” Max says as he guides you towards the plush sofa. He helped take off your shoe and propped your foot up on a pillow on the coffee table. 

Max wished he could take away your pain more than anything. He made the phone call, putting in both your orders for dinner before he made his way into the bathroom. He grabbed the bottle of painkillers from your toiletry bag and came over with a bottle of water. 

“Here, I know you’ve been in pain all day. You don’t have to hide it anymore.” 

Almost as if he’d given you permission, you sagged into the cushions and let out a shaky breath, “thank you, Max.” 

“Why didn’t you tell someone? Or me? We could have got you a ride back to the hotel. Before it got to this point,” he asked softly. 

You shrugged. If you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t know why you waited so long. Maybe you didn’t want to feel like a burden, didn’t want to admit it and bring up the feelings the crash still had hold of you all these years later. 

“You’re not a burden, schat.” Max could tell exactly what you were thinking just by the look on your face. “You shouldn’t hide this from me. Let me help.” 

Your top lip began to wobble again. Max wasted no time in pulling you into his arms and the damn broke. After a while your sobs turned to quiet sniffles and Max stood up, offering you a hand. “Come on.” 

He led you towards the large king size bed, pausing at the side as he unbuckled your belt and pulled down your jeans slowly. You sat on the edge of the bed as Max helped to swivel your legs around, stopping to quickly fluff the pillows before easing you back. 

“Let those pain killers work. I’ll be back in a second.” 

Max returned with a tube of warming lotion, one you knew he and his physio swore by after a tough session in the gym or a tough race that left his muscles aching. He squeezed a small blob onto the palm of his hand before he began to gently rub it into your knee. 

You groaned in response as you felt his thumbs dig into the tender muscle surrounding the area. The combination of pain medicine, warm gel and Max’s touch all help to ease the pain. 

“Maxie?” 

Max looked up, a small hum coming from his lips. 

“Thank you, baby.” You sank further into the pillows and let out a sigh, finally allowing yourself to relax for the first time all day.

[berryispunk]

More Than This

pairing: Frankie Morales x f! reader

tags: friends to lovers, (mutual) pining, failed date trope, Frankie being the consent king, car sex, unprotected PiV, Frankie talks you through, no physical description of reader despite having hair and wearing a dress, kissing, first time, swearing, banter

summary: Two longtime almost-somethings finally cross the line in the front seat of a truck, laughter still on their lips and feelings too big to name.

word count: 4,1 k

You bought a dress for that date—maybe that was your first mistake. You hate dresses. You’ve never felt comfortable in one. The last time you wore one was to a friend’s wedding, and your best friend Frankie had joked, “Geez, hermosa. You look like someone stuffed you into a suit made of glass.”

You shot him a venomous look, so he added, “You look really beautiful, though.”

And you hated how that made your cheeks burn.

Now you’re standing in front of the mirror. The way-too-expensive dress hugs you in all the right places, the color flattering your skin and eyes perfectly—and yet, you’ve never felt more costumed than you do right now.

You sigh at your reflection and mutter, “What am I even doing?” before swiping on some lip gloss—not just pretty, but one that actually tastes good. You wanted to play it safe. You wore the dress, put on the light makeup you rarely touch, even tamed your wild waves into a half-up, half-down situation.

And for a fleeting moment, when you really look at yourself—setting aside the years of low self-esteem and doubt—you think you might actually look… decent.

You give yourself a final, uncertain nod before grabbing your purse and heading out, the apartment door clicking shut behind you.

An Uber ride later, you’re standing in front of the Italian restaurant he picked. Fancy outdoor seating, cozy fairy lights, the kind of place where the pasta costs more than your weekly paycheck. One look at the menu outside tells you he either wasn’t messing around—or he thought spending big would guarantee he’d get you into bed.

It’s already dark. The city hums around you. Every time the restaurant door opens, you catch laughter and the clink of glasses.

Ten minutes pass. You check your phone. No message.

Twenty minutes. You call him. Straight to voicemail.

Thirty minutes. That’s when it sinks in.

You’ve been ditched and your shoulders slump in defeat. Of fucking course this happened.

Like the universe saw you trying and decided to point and laugh.

Almost on instinct, you dial Frankie's number.

It’s Friday night—his usual night out with the guys—and you’re not even sure he’ll pick up. But he does, after just three rings.

“Hey,” he says, his voice warm through the speaker. There’s muffled chatter in the background.

“Hey, sorry. I know it’s your night with the boys… I just—” You exhale. “I got ditched.”

There’s a pause. Then he mutters, “What an ass. I’m sorry, hermosa.” And it’s sincere. You can picture his brown eyes soft with sympathy, his brows furrowed.

“Well… it is what it is, I guess. It’s just… I’m standing in front of this way-too-fancy Italian place, all dolled up and totally stood up.”

“You got dressed up for a guy who didn’t even show? Didn’t even have the balls to cancel?”

“Guess so,” you say with a shrug he can’t see.

He scoffs. “Where’s this fancy place?”

“Downtown. You know—the neighborhood with all those restaurants that are way out of our league. It’s next to that sushi spot where you order everything on a tablet.”

“Oh!” He laughs. “Are you sure you’re not in a parallel universe?”

You smile despite yourself. “I don’t know… are you still a pilot?”

That earns a deep, rumbling laugh—the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. That sound alone fills your chest with something warm and familiar.

“Guess I am. You want me to come pick you up in the chopper, or is my truck good enough?”

“Betsy’s more than good enough,” you say, your mood already lighter.

“Give me twenty. You have a jacket?”

“Yes,” you lie.

“I’ll spot you easily. You’ll be the one in the dress,” he teases. “Can’t miss you.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

He whistles low. “A dress, even? Damn. You really went all in.”

“Shut up.”

“Nah, no bad words now or I’ll make you call another Uber,” he threatens playfully.

You grin. “Drive safe.”

“See you soon,” he says, and the line goes dead.

For a moment, you press your phone to your chest, eyes closed, letting that feeling settle inside you—just for this little fragment of time.

--

It takes just under twenty minutes like he promised, and when his truck pulls up to the curb, the window rolls down and Frankie leans across the seat.

“Damn,” he whistles low, eyes trailing from your heels to your half-done hair. “You clean up scary good, hermosa.”

You shoot him a look as you climb in. “Don’t start.”

He grins but dials it back, sensing the edge in your voice even if you’re trying to hide it. His truck smells like leather, old cologne, and the gum he always chews when he’s trying not to smoke.

“You wanna just head home?” he asks after a beat, voice gentler. “Or… we can still go in. Use the reservation. What’s the guy’s name?”

You blink at him. “You’d go in there like that?”

Frankie looks down at his faded pale blue t-shirt—the one you love, the one stretched snug over his broad chest and shoulders like it was made for him. His jeans are dark, casual, ripped at the knee. His old cap sits low over his curls. Sneakers just a little dirty from god knows what.

He shrugs. “I look like money, baby,” he says, smug. “Just… not in the wallet.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself.

“His name’s Ethan,” you mutter.

“Ethan,” Frankie repeats, exaggerated and dramatic. “Yeah, no way that guy wouldn’t ghost someone. Let’s go ruin his night by enjoying his reservation.”

You snort as he hops out and jogs around to open your door. He offers a hand with an exaggerated bow and a ridiculous accent. “Madam.”

“Stop,” you laugh, slapping his hand lightly, but he just grins and tugs you out anyway, hand lingering at the small of your back as he guides you toward the host stand.

Inside the fairy-lit patio, Frankie squares his shoulders. “Reservation for Ethan,” he says with a deadpan face that makes your lips twitch.

The hostess glances down at her list, then smiles. “Right this way.”

You both follow her to a small table tucked under a string of lights. Frankie steps ahead and—without missing a beat—pulls out your chair and gestures with a grand flourish. “After you, my lady.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you sit. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’m your idiot tonight.”

He settles across from you, slouching just a little, his cap still on like this is some burger joint. You’re surrounded by people in collared shirts, dresses with price tags that probably have commas. And yet somehow, Frankie is the one you’d bet on if things went south.

The menus arrive. You both open them—and his eyebrows immediately shoot up.

“Thirty dollars,” he says in disbelief, leaning across the table, voice lowered like he’s sharing government secrets. “For garlic bread. What’s it made with? Gold?”

You snort, covering your mouth, and suddenly the ache in your chest feels a little lighter.

You murmur, “It’s probably infused with unicorn tears or something.”

He nods sagely. “That tracks. Comes with a side of pretension and a tiny napkin you’re afraid to use.”

You’re smiling before you realize it, teeth and all. He catches it, and something shifts—just for a second—in the way he looks at you. His eyes linger. Not just at your face, but at you. At all of you. And for a breath too long, it’s quiet.

Then he clears his throat and leans back, casually flipping the menu like he didn’t just undo your whole night in a single glance.

“Alright, what’s the cheapest thing on here that won’t make me regret being born poor?”

--

By the time the plates are cleared, your shoes are kicked off under the table and Frankie’s halfway into a story about one of his army buddies who tried to use a drone to deliver flowers to his long-distance girlfriend and nearly took out a neighbor’s cat.

You’re wheezing, head in your hand, tears prickling your eyes from laughing. “Stop, stop—I can’t breathe.”

Frankie just grins, legs stretched out lazily under the table, wine glass in hand. “I swear on Betsy’s rusty tailpipe. Dude duct-taped a bouquet to the drone. Thing went rogue. Looked like an airborne threat. The girl screamed and hit it with a broom.”

You lean back, the last laugh still stuck in your throat, and you shake your head with a sigh. “God. Why do I always feel better after talking to you?”

He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t answer. He just watches you. And it’s not playful now—it’s quiet. Steady.

You glance away quickly, your skin heating under his gaze, needing to shift the air between you.

“Alright, change of subject,” you say, reaching for your water like it might save you. “When was your last fancy date?”

Frankie leans back, sipping the last of his wine. He takes his time answering, eyes drifting somewhere just past you, like he’s thinking about it.

Then, without looking away, he says simply, “This one.”

Your fingers freeze around the glass.

You blink. “This—Frankie, this isn’t a date.”

He shrugs, casual. “Pretty much is one. Look around.”

And you do. The candlelight. The wine. The faint hum of music and laughter around you. The tiny table you’re leaning across like it’s just the two of you in the world.

You shake your head, trying to fight the grin creeping up. “You got me there.”

His answering smile is slow, a little smug, all charm with a flicker of something else underneath.

He tilts his head. “You think there’s a chance for a second one?”

You inhale too fast and almost choke on your drink. Frankie reaches across the table immediately, laughing as you sputter and wave him off, your face burning hotter than ever.

“Oh my god,” you manage once you’ve recovered, wiping at your mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”

He just watches you with that same look—the one that sees more than you want to admit. Warm and focused, like he’s waiting.

And suddenly, your heart won’t stop pounding.

--

The ride back is quieter than usual.

Not awkward—never awkward with Frankie—but different. The kind of quiet that hums with unsaid things, like the air’s tuned to a frequency only your heart can hear.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, other draped over the center console, fingers tapping softly to some old Eagles track playing low from the speakers. You’ve ridden shotgun in his truck more times than you can count, but tonight—even barefoot and with your heels kicked off in the footwell—something about the way your knees brush when he turns, the way the city lights catch the profile of his face, it all feels sharper.

Like you’re suddenly aware of everything.

He pulls up in front of your place, kills the engine, and for a moment, neither of you move. The sudden silence makes the air feel heavy. Dense.

“Thanks,” you say, soft, fingers curling around the strap of your purse but not moving to open the door yet.

He nods, eyes on the windshield. “Course.”

Another second passes. Then another.

And then he turns to look at you—and it’s different than before.

No grin. No teasing smirk. Just that steady, unreadable look that pins you in place. His eyes flick down, just once, to your lips, then back up. And something in your stomach flips so hard it feels like free fall.

You swallow, suddenly unsure where to look. “You okay?”

His voice is low, almost rough. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect this night to feel like this.”

You blink. “Like what?”

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, then shakes his head. “Like I don’t wanna say goodnight.”

Your pulse trips. He’s still looking at you—calm, unhurried, but there’s something behind his gaze. Intent.

“Frankie…” you start, but you don’t even know what you’re going to say.

He leans in slightly, enough that you can smell the hint of wine on his breath, see the way his eyes search yours.

“Can I…” he pauses, and his voice drops even softer, “Is it okay if I kiss you?”

You freeze.

Not because you don’t want it.

Because you do.

And that terrifies you a little more than being ditched in front of a five-star restaurant ever did.

But you nod, just once.

And that’s all it takes.

His lips brush yours first—barely there, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. A whisper of warmth. A test. But when you don’t pull back, when you lean into it instead, the kiss deepens—slow, searching. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. Like this isn’t the first time he’s thought about it.

You feel the heat of his palm as it lifts to your jaw, thumb grazing the line of your cheek. The rasp of stubble on his face against your skin. The warmth that blooms in your chest, low and deep, and spreads like fire in your veins.

And then the kiss shifts—gentle becomes hungry, careful becomes aching. His breath catches when your fingers twist into the front of his shirt. You feel the hitch of his chest under your palm, the subtle tension in every muscle of his body.

That’s when it hits you.

That pang of fear—sharp, cold, and sudden. Like a crack down the middle of something you didn’t know was fragile.

You pull back just enough to speak, lips brushing his. “I don’t… I don’t want this to mean nothing.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the space between you like glass. “You’re too important to me for that.”

His eyes flicker open, dark and burning, but there’s something wrecked and tender there too—like he’s holding himself together by a thread.

“It could never mean nothing,” he says, voice tight with restraint, “not when it’s you.”

And before the moment can shatter under the weight of what’s unspoken, you’re already moving. Climbing into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, your dress hiking up around your thighs. His hands go instinctively to your hips—hot and sure—steadying you as your mouth finds his again, desperate and deep.

You grind down without thinking, seeking friction, seeking him, and the groan that tears out of his throat nearly undoes you.

“Fuck…” he hisses, jaw tight as your hips roll again. His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into the soft curve of your sides through the thin fabric. You can feel everything—the hardness beneath you, the heat between you, the way his self-control is hanging on by a thread.

“I won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with…” he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot and ragged, voice thick with restraint and want. 

But then his hands slide up, just slightly, thumbs brushing the edge of your panties. He swallows hard, eyes searching yours with something devastatingly tender.

“Do you really want this?”

You cradle his face between your hands, feel the roughness of his jaw, the tension in his throat, the question caught in his breath.

“Yes,” you breathe, sure now, all fear swallowed by the way he’s looking at you.

And that’s what breaks him.

His mouth is on yours again, all hunger and heat, and the next moment, his hands are under your thighs, pulling you closer, deeper, like he can’t stand a single inch of distance between you. Your hips move in rhythm, desperate and dizzying, your moans muffled by his mouth, and it’s not soft anymore.

Your fingers fumble impatiently at the zipper of his jeans, and he lets out a low breath as he lifts his hips to help, the moment messy and rushed but needed. You manage to drag the denim and his boxers down just enough to free him, and then—

slap—his cock springs up, thick and flushed, hitting against the flat of his stomach just below the soft trail of hair leading down his torso.

Your breath catches. Eyes going wide.

“Where were you hiding this?” you laugh, half breathless, half shy, and more than a little dazed.

He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, cheeks flushed, grinning in that way that makes your stomach flip.

“Are you for real right now?” he laughs, incredulous, but there’s something in his tone—relief, maybe, or just the sheer sweetness of the way your wonder makes the moment lighter. Less about desperation, more about this. You and him. Real and present.

Your hand wraps around him and he sucks in a sharp breath, hips twitching under you. He’s hot in your palm, heavy and pulsing with need as you stroke him slowly, dragging your fingers down his length and then back up again.

His other hand slides down to your thigh, then under, gripping the soft swell of your ass like he’s grounding himself. You shift above him, and your soaked panties brush against his tip, dragging a choked sound from his throat.

“Fuuuck…” he groans, low and raw, head tipping back against the headrest as his grip tightens. “You’re killing me…”

But it’s you who feels undone—your whole body humming, skin oversensitive, panties damp and clinging between your thighs. You grind again without meaning to, searching for the friction, and he meets you there, hips bucking up with a groan, one hand guiding you, the other gripping your ass like he never wants to let go.

You can feel the heat of him against your soaked center now—barely held back by the thin fabric. The way he twitches under your touch. The way your own body aches to take him in.

And still, even in all of it, the need, the panting want, there’s something tender under it—his eyes locked on yours, wide and wanting, asking silently even now:

Are you sure? Are we really doing this?

Your answer is a kiss—slow, deep, reassuring. And the way he sighs into your mouth, the way his body melts just a little even in his tension, tells you everything.

You lift your hips just enough to reach between you, pushing your soaked panties to the side, and you both shudder at the touch—his head falling back for a moment again, jaw tight, eyes nearly fluttering shut.

"Jesus," he murmurs, voice barely there, breath hot against your cheek. "You’re—mierda, you’re so wet."

Your hand guides him, the thick head of him slipping through your slick folds, not quite inside yet. You’re both holding back. Just for a beat.

And then, slowly, you sink down onto him.

The stretch pulls a gasp from your lips—burning and full, inch by inch, your body molding to fit him, claiming him. His fingers dig into your hips, breath caught in his throat like he’s trying not to come undone too fast.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, shaky, already trembling around him as he fills you completely. You feel split open, raw, but not in a way that hurts—in a way that feels real. Like nothing else has ever quite touched you like this.

He exhales your name like a prayer. Like maybe he’s been saying it in his sleep.

“You okay?” he breathes, voice strained, forehead pressed to yours.

You nod, unable to speak at first. The only sound you can make is a soft whimper when your hips shift and he grinds up into you. You're so full it makes your thighs quake, your pulse hammer in your ears.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, wrapping an arm around your back to pull you closer, his other hand cradling your jaw like something precious. “You feel—shit, baby, you feel so good.”

It nearly unravels you the second his baby hits the air. It’s not like he’s never said it before—he has, usually with a smirk or in some over-the-top teasing way. But not like this. Not in that breathless, low voice that sends a flush up your neck and down your spine. You never thought you’d hear him sound like that—raw, wrecked—and more than that, you never thought you’d see him like this.

You start to move again, slow and searching. Your hips roll in a rhythm that’s less about pace and more about feeling—chasing heat, chasing closeness. Each motion builds something between you, heat coiling low in your belly, the drag of him inside you sending flickers of pleasure that grow brighter with every pass. He meets each shift of your hips with a steady thrust of his own, syncing to your rhythm like second nature—like there’s no space left between you, like you’ve both forgotten where one ends and the other begins.

You tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, breathing his name, and he groans into the skin of your throat, lips ghosting kisses over every inch he can reach. So soft and loving it makes your heart ache. 

The car creaks faintly with every shift of your bodies, and the windows are fogged up completely now—your own little world, sealed off from everything but the heat between you.

He’s panting by now and when he thrusts up just a little harder, hitting that spot that makes your breath catch and your nails dig into his shoulders, he mutters, “That’s it… just like that, hermosa, ride me just like that. You’re so beautiful like this.” 

It’s not just sex—it’s something else, something deeper. It’s the way he watches you like you hung the stars. The way your body responds to his like it’s been waiting all this time. The way you already know what each other needs.

As the pressure starts to crest in your core, your moans grow more desperate, head falling back, hips moving faster—he grips your ass tighter, guiding you, grounding you even as you fall apart. “Frankie—” you gasp, the way his name sounds half like a sob, half like something sacred.

“I know, baby, I know,” he groans. “Let go. I’ve got you, promise.”

And you do—coming with a cry, pulsing and clenching around him, and the feeling of you unraveling is what finally tips him over the edge too. He buries his face in your neck and lets go, warmth spreading deep inside you as he spills, every muscle taut, breath coming in short, reverent gasps, holding you tight.

The only sound left in the car is the soft panting of your shared breaths, the thudding echo of your hearts trying to slow down.

--

After a few steadying breaths, you lift your head and look at him—really look at him. His cheeks are flushed, beautifully pink, his hair wild and damp with sweat, a few strands stuck to his forehead. You’re sure you’ve never seen anything more devastatingly handsome. He’s watching you too, eyes gentle and searching. One of his hands rises to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear, and you lean into his touch without thinking.

Then—just a beat later—he laughs. Soft. Unfiltered. And it startles you a little, the sound tugging a smile from your lips that quickly grows into a laugh of your own. You're still joined, and the movement makes everything shift, drawing a shared breathless sound between you. It’s ridiculous. Intimate. Familiar in a way that makes something tight in your chest loosen.

You’ve laughed together a thousand times before. But this? This feels different. Like the echo of something that matters.

“Well…” he murmurs, his hands sliding back to your thighs, thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles into your skin, “that wasn’t exactly how I pictured our first time.”

You smirk, still a little shaky. “You pictured having sex with me before?”

He grins, all faux innocence and flushed cheeks. “Maybe…”

You raise a brow, clearly not buying it, and he catches your look, chuckling as he adds—almost sheepish—“Think next time we could do this at mine or yours? Might be a bit more comfortable than Betsy.”

You nod, no hesitation. “Next time,” you say, “I want you to take me out first. But not to a fancy place like tonight. Something more us. Okay?”

His whole face lights up like you just gave him the best news of his life. “Okay,” he says, beaming.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist

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[demie90s]

Hello can you do Juju x R where they’ve always been best friends since they were little. Everybody is convinced that they are dating, but they always say they’re not… until something gets caught in the background of Dom‘s live

Not Dating

Juju Watkins x fem!reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: We’ve been best friends forever. Everyone swears we’re dating—we always say we’re not. Then Dom went live, and something caught in the background. Let’s just say… the internet had a field day.

Warnings: Friends to lovers, public outing, background kisses, playful denial, soft chaos

Word count: ~ 0.5k

It was always me and Juju.

Back to backyard hoops, hide-and-seek in her grandma’s yard, pool days, party nights, game days. Wherever she went, I wasn’t far behind. People swore we were dating by middle school—hell, even our coaches gave us the “no PDA” talk in tenth grade.

But we always laughed it off.

“Nah, that’s just my best friend.” “Ew, never.” “Y’all read too deep.”

And somehow… it always worked. Until Dom went live.

It was post-practice, late night. Everyone was lounging. Juju had just showered, hair wrapped up in a towel like a crown, skin glowing, hoodie hanging off one shoulder. I was in the kitchen grabbing snacks. Dom was on the couch, half upside-down, scrolling through filters and yelling at Vic who was already cracking herself up in the background.

Viv: “LOOK at this! Why I look like a boiled peanut?”

Dom: “Girl, that’s just your head.”

The comments were going crazy, all caps, emojis flying. I walked past the frame, said something slick about Dom’s socks not matching, and Juju—halfway into detangling her hair—just smirked and shook her head.

“You don’t even know what you talkin’ about,” she called toward me.

I leaned against the bathroom door while she sat at the counter, towel now off, curls falling down her back. We weren’t even thinking about the live. I was watching her comb her hair like I hadn’t seen her do it a hundred times. She was talking about how tired her legs were. I was talking about how that one assistant coach needed to shut up with all his sideline hollering.

Normal. Easy.

Dom in the background still narrating her own life: “Y’all, Juju over there pretending like she’s not vain. She been in the mirror for twenty minutes. Look at her.”

Viv: “She been fine, let her detangle in peace.”

Juju laughed soft, rolled her eyes, and kept brushing.

And then—without thinking—I walked in behind her. Slid my arms around her waist. Rested my chin on her shoulder. Kissed her cheek. It was cute.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just leaned back into me like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I whispered, “This so lightskinned.”

She said, “Shut up’.” I grinned. And that’s when Dom turned the camera.

Dom: “WAIT—WAIT—WHOA WHOA WHOA—UH UH UH—“

Vic: gasping “OH. OH SHE KISSED HER. SHE—DOM, REWIND THAT—“

Chat blew up. Caps. Emojis. “I KNEW IT!!!” “STOP PLAYINNNN” “EXCUSE ME????” “THE WAY SHE JUST—” “PAUSE.”

Dom was on the floor SCREAMING, laughing so hard she dropped her phone. Viv’s voice went high-pitched like she just saw Beyoncé walk in.

“Y’ALL BEEN DATING THIS WHOLE TIME?!”

Juju looked me dead in the eyes. I looked back. She said nothing. Just smiled that famous juju smile. I shrugged.

Dom still yelling in the background: “Y’ALL BEEN LYIN’ FOR YEARS! I NEED AN OFFICIAL STATEMENT—A PRESS CONFERENCE—A SOFT LAUNCH POST—SOMETHING.”

But we just kept doing what we always did. Juju brushed through another curl, leaned her head against mine, and said under her breath— “so damn extra”.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @zizi-bee-yapping @kaliblazin @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey

[ineffably-queer-book-lover]

Inconspicuous Meeting (ca. 2013)

“In the background Crowley and Aziraphale met on the tops of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts, compared notes, and smiled.”

Good Omens (by Terry Pratchett and that other guy) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So, I've been thinking about S3 (as one does) recently (all the bloody time) and wondering about some potential inconspicuous (or so our Ineffables probably like to think) collaboration of these two idiots to avert the End of the World™️ (again!).

Please keep in mind that I try to stay spoiler-free for S3, so if you already know something in that vein, please don't mention it here! Thank you. 😘

Anyway, these musings reminded me once again that my LEGO babies have wanted to do a little reenactment of that famous bus ride scene from S01E01 for ages! I've been designing and collecting various parts over a long time, but never got around to actually make all the necessary modifications to my London bus to set the scene up. Until today. Wahoo! 😊

I'll add a little BTS shot of their outfits and accessories. This is one of my all-time favorite Crowley looks that really would have deserved more screen time! Rawr. I'm also amused by all the little references in Aziraphale's copy of his celestial observer (rare old books, a serpent statue, a new galaxy, lol).

Psst, I'm aware that Crowley's sunglasses aren't exactly a perfect match, but they're the closest I have, so please just enjoy Aziraphale's most nice and accurate reading glasses instead! 😉

I'm just happy to have accomplished this little photo shoot this weekend, because there are a couple of very busy weeks/months coming up and I just wanted to have a bit of fun with my LEGO babies before those taxing times. Also, I'm still waiting for some custom printed parts for my 1960s Ineffable Wives. Fingers crossed they'll turn out well. 🤞

Tagging all you wonderful people again, but please let me know if you want to be added to or removed from the list! No hard feelings, promise!

@di-42 @snognes @ineffablepretzel @phoen1xr0se @thatineffablewitch @ineffablyruined @lickthecowhappy @caminholonge @gallup24 @tickety-boooo @waitingtobebroken @ineffablecrow @neversam23 @juliette-tango @crowleysgirl56 @hellsgardener01 @lookingatacupoftea @the-oak-branch-nebula @just-sauntered-vaguely-downwards @lutraslutra @fumblingbuffoon @naturallyteal @noxnightingales @bl0ndwave @faeriedays @vidavalor @inezrable @simonezitrone79 @confusedtoadsworld @darlsbardlife @imfruity5432 @ineffable-xenanigans @handyowlet @ineffablequeermoony @fellshish