#looks like hes been keeping his body right

[yeyinde]

18+ | noncon. implied kidnapping.

In retrospect, camping all by yourself in a national park teaming with bears was probably high on the list of "dumbest things you've ever done in your life." But in your (shaky) defence—it really wasn't the wildlife you had to worry about anyway, but rather man.

In particular, a man.

That surly, gruff park ranger who happened to look just like a grizzly at first glance. The same one who found you all alone in your pitiful little tent, flashlight clutched in your trembling hands as you stared at him through the crack in the opening, visibly relieved that the thing you heard stomping around outside wasn't a bear, and quickly decided that pampered city princesses ought to be taught a lesson on what survival out here really means.

But he's merciful, he claims, and gives you a headstart to try and escape him (and the thick, unmistakable bulge in his pants, the dangerous look in his eye; naked hunger—that same, dead-eyed thing you'd seen in a big grizzly as he charged an elk earlier in the day) before he takes his prize.

And so, you run.

Except making good decisions doesn't really seem to be your strongest point.

In an instant, something is slamming against your back before you even make it halfway up the hill, pushing you to the ground on your belly. A warm, thick body following down after you. Crushing you into the soil.

You're too dazed by the impact to struggle when your hips are lifted. Pants, panties shoved down. Warm, rough hands cupping between your thighs, groaning at what he finds (all wet for me, mm, sweetheart?), and when you do, finally, begin to struggle you're met with an immovable wall. The strength of a man with more power in the single hand he keeps anchored against the back of your neck than you seem to have in your whole body—

"Don't know a thing, do you, sweetheart?" He growls, pushing your cheek deeper into the softened soil. "Not supposed to run from a bear, love."

Oh. Right.

Before you can squeak out an okay or sorry or please let me go, your knees are shoved wider apart by his thick, hairy thighs as he slots himself between your legs. Mounting his spoiled little prize on the cold, damp ground like a beast.

"Dangerous animals out here," is all he rasps before he's shoving inside of you, groaning about finally claiming the sweet little prey he's been diligently stalking through the park since he first laid eyes on you in the visitors centre. "You don't have a lick of sense in you, do you, sweetheart? No. Didn't even notice me followin' you. You need somethin'—someone—to protect you from dangerous predators, mm. And a firm hand to teach you a lesson."

He pries you open on his fat cock before you can spit out the dirt in your mouth to refute that claim, rutting into you like an animal on the cold ground in the middle of a national park as he makes good on his promise to show you what happens when you try and run from predators. A lesson that tastes like geosmin. Peat. And salty, tobacco-stained fingers. And aches like a broken bone after he set a maddening pace behind you, jerking your body against the upturned soil. Small rocks, and twigs digging into your skin.

When he's finally done, pulling out of you with a bullish grunt and landing a heavy, satisfied slap against the stinging cheek of your ass, he gathers your limp, sore body up into his arms, and brings you back to the lookout tower he calls home (temporarily).

A stop along the way, he assures you before setting out to teach his spoiled city princess more "survival skills"—like how to swallow his cock the way he likes, and how to take him as deeply, and as often, as he wants to give it to you.

(and often really is the foregone conclusion; it's mating season, after all.)

And as he pulls you down to lay against his furry, damp chest, cock softening inside of you (a thing you'll just have to get used to, sweetheart because he has no intentions of pulling out until he's ready to), and starts purring about mates and cubs and how lucky you were that he found you first before anything else had a chance to sniff you out, you think maybe you should have just gone to New York instead.

[pacofprunes]

SQUID GAME CHARACTERS KINKS HEADCANONS

CONTAINS — namgyu x reader, thanos x reader, daeho x reader, semi x reader, myungi x reader

WARNINGS — (fem reader) 18+ content minors dni

masterlist

NAMGYU / PLAYER 124 — dacryphilia, hand over your mouth

dacryphilia — loves the sight of your tears from how well he’s pleasing you. he definitely teases you and will make fun of you for it, but he loves it, don’t worry. after the first time he makes you cry, he decides that anytime you two have sex, he has to make you cry. sometimes he’s a little rougher to obtain this. weather that be by pinching your nipples or biting your neck a little too hard, it doesn’t matter, he has to see those pretty tears.

the sight of his hand over your mouth also just gets him going. it makes him feel like he’s got some sort of power over you and he’s living for it. you just look so pretty as your tears slide over his palm, he can’t help himself.

THANOS / PLAYER 230 / CHOI SU-BONG — chemsex

not really an actual term, but hes a druggie and what’s better than doing drugs while having sex with you? and i don’t just mean popping a quick pill in his mouth, nah. doing lines of coke all over you. snorting that shit off your neck, off your tits, off your ass, everywhere. loves blowing the smoke from his fruity vape right onto your clit and if he’s got a condom on, he’ll lay down on his side and have you snort a line of coke right off of his dick. it’s certainly not safe, but if he’s super high out of his mind, he’s just gonna let you snort the coke off of his dick raw. no condom. loves the feeling of your nose rubbing lightly against his dick and the feeling of the air from your nose. got him cumming without really even touching him that much.

for sure takes a hit of his vape before going into kiss you and then blowing it all into your mouth.

“you’re thanos’s girl, yeah? hah, got two of my favorite things together. drugs and your pretty pretty pussy.”

KANG DAEHO — sitophilia, cockwarming

sitophilia — not into all foods, more specifically, whip cream. god, licking it off your perky nipples and licking it off right above your clit and then dragging his tongue down all the way through your folds? he’s already cumming. which on another note, he loves eating you out. might accidentally overstimulate you if he gets super into it.

he also lovessss cockwarming. just pushing into you, bottoming out completely and being cuddled up close to you, your bodies warmth being shared between each other makes his cock twitch. he loves feeling your warm walls melt and tighten around him every so often. everytime you move to get comfortable, you run the risk of him cumming after only a few seconds. the whole situation gets him painfully hard. there’s times where he can fall asleep with you like that. there’s even been times where you’ll straddle his lap, keeping his dick warm while you two sit in a chair at your dinner table and you’re sitting on his lap and you feed each other. everytime you two laugh at a joke or the goofiness of the situation, it’s causes him to thrust up in you or you to bounce on him, immediately causing him to grip onto your waist and press his forehead to your chest as he takes choked up shaky breaths trying to compose himself. sometimes he can last a long time just staying still, content with letting you just cockwarm him. and other times? he’s a begging mess and just can’t hold on any longer.

“baby, i don’t think i can stay still much longer. let me move, please?”

SE-MI / PLAYER 380 — manhandling, orgasm denial, overstimulation, voyeurism

she likes knowing that your pleasure is in her hands. if you want to cum, it’s not your choice, it’s hers. loves pulling her tongue away from your clit right when she can tell you’re about to squirt all over her face. loves seeing you beg for her to let you cum, and eventually she’ll give in. if she’s feeling a little mean, after she finally lets you cum, she’ll keep her tongue attached to your pussy. she’ll keep on sucking it over and over and she won’t stop until you’re crying out.

“what? i thought you said you wanted to cum, baby.”

voyeurism— sometimes when she pulls away when you were oh so close to cumming, she has you make yourself finish. she watches you finger yourself and rub circles into your clit while listening to your sweet moans. she loves it when you can’t do it yourself and you have to beg her to help you.

she also loves manhandling you. doesn’t have to be extreme either. just holding you down by your hips or her putting you into any position she desires gets her going. she just loves knowing she has all the power and the control over you.

MYUNGI / PLAYER 333 / MG COIN ★ — rough sex, vanilla

i don’t think he’s into anything too crazy. i think he’s going to have very calm more organized and kept together thrusts while he has a nice grip on your hips, but then there’s other times where he’s in a shitty mood or just feeling different and his thrusts are a lot sloppier and a lot harder. his grip on your hips is tighter, almost digging his fingers into you. i also think hes into quickies as well. maybe not so much into them, but he does have quickies quite often with you. sometimes he has fun with it, sometimes it’s just because he has to get his dick wet. i think he’s generally a more tame guy, but that doesn’t make the sex with him bad at all. he knows what he’s doing, and he’s the best at it.

[esote-rika]

to talk is to bare | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: hurt/comfort, fluff Summary: three times you've never felt enough for Spencer Reid—and the three times he rectified it immediately Content: insecure reader, written with early s2 Spencer in mind (glasses!Spencer rawr), reader wears makeup, implied bad relationships in the past, Spencer is just a sweetheart Word count: 2.4k A/N: entry for #lovers1kevent (congrats @mggslover muah) - the lyric prompt for this is “And I knew how you took your coffee and your favorite songs by heart, I read all of your (self help) books so you'd think that I was smart” from enough for you by Olivia Rodrigo. This was supposed to just be pure angst but apparently, I can't write this man as anything other than the perfect boyfriend.

“Well, actually, Dostoevsky intended the book to be a critique on certain schools of thoughts and ideologies, namely...”

You stare at your boyfriend, nodding along as he explains the intricacies and historical context of Notes from the Underground to you. His smile is kind and excited when he stops, looking at you expectantly.

“Right.” the smile on your face isn't forced, per se, but neither does it reach your eyes. How many times has it happened this month? It isn’t that you’re keeping count of all the times he’s corrected you—truthfully, you can’t, because you’ve lost count. And that’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it? The fact that you can’t even keep track of his corrections anymore, because he does it all the time. 

You remind yourself he's not doing this to deliberately make you feel stupid, your memory immediately calling forth all the times you've seen him correct other people — his teammates, the cashier at your favorite bookstore, a random person in the park. It's never pointed, nor is the act laced with anything but genuine, loving desire to share his knowledge. He's not like the men you've had to deal with in the past, the ones who jump at every opportunity to show off that they know more than you, that they're correct and you're wrong.

But this is Spencer. Sweet, wholly inexperienced, awkward. Half the time, he doesn't know how he comes across, and you've been dating him long enough to understand that. 

No, his corrections aren’t the crux of the issue. In fact, it isn’t even him. It’s you, and all the treacherous thoughts running through your mind. This damn book you’d read because you saw a dog eared copy in his satchel one day, pushing through pages upon pages of dense material just to catch up and relate with him, only to still come up short and have yourself be corrected.

The sting is still there, lingering and acrid in the back of your tongue. You cannot pinpoint it yet, this But it's Spencer Reid, so you grit your teeth and remind yourself not to take it personally. The words slip out easily. You could almost believe they aren’t lies. “Thank you for letting me know.”

The beam on his face is a reminder that not everyone is as patient, that he's come to expect looks that range from baffled to downright annoyed. Nobody else allows him free reign to talk like this, long winded rambles that get nipped at the bud with a sharp Reid. He smiles, beams at you, and this time the smile on your lips finally reaches your eyes.

“So what did I get wrong?”

“You weren’t wrong,” he’s pulling you in as he answers, lips finding the underside of your jaw and the bitterness dissipates, sweetens into something that makes your toes curl, “Just a little inaccurate.”

Your body melts into him easily. “You don't have to sugarcoat with me.”

“I'm not, it's literature. You can interpret it however you want, I just thought knowing the rest of the context would help you with your opinion.” he's kissing down your neck, breaths ghosting over your skin as he continues to talk, and you sink into his arms, forgetting why you were even feeling annoyed in the first place.

You’re not sure if you like the color you’ve put to make your cheeks flush. It's always been a point of contention in the past, your exes saying you don't put enough effort in, so this time with Spencer, you try. Even though you're not the best at it, even though you feel a little foolish because it seems a little too bright despite all of your hurried attempts to blend it a little more. But it’s too late to change now. You don’t want to go through the whole deal of reapplying your makeup because that would mean running late, so you ignore it and head to the cafe quickly. 

Spencer isn't there yet. You order your drinks, his black and into which you dump an exorbitant amount of sugar. Memorization is his thing, but you've come to learn a thing or two about him in the time you two are dating.

He's a few minutes late, and when he arrives, Spencer’s eyes lock on you. Or, more specifically, your cheeks.

“That bad?” you tease, standing from your seat and leaning over for a kiss. 

“You don’t have the coloring for that shade of red.”

Your brow knits as you pull away. Attempting to hide the flood of insecurity that swept through your chest, you let out a chuckle. Soft, shaky, and accompanied with a confused, “What?”

“It makes your cheeks look a little inflamed.”

“Oh.” 

Regret fills your chest, settling in your lungs until it’s difficult to breathe. You should have trusted your instincts and scrubbed the makeup off. Shouldn’t have tried something new on the one day the two of you can go out. He’s probably embarrassed by you. How silly, being a full grown woman wearing makeup bordering on clownish. 

He must have caught the hurt in your voice, the way your body deflates because he’s quick to remedy. “Hey, what’s that look for?”

It should embarrass you, the speed at which he picks up on your emotions. But he’s a profiler after all, he’s specifically trained for this, but sometimes you wish he doesn’t use it against you. Gentle hands cup your face. Cold hands, perpetually so until you’ve started keeping them between yours. They tilt your head up. 

“Talk to me.” 

“It’s stupid.”

“Nothing you say is ever stupid.”

You smile, “No, I think we both know that’s a lie.”

He relents. He knows you’re right; there are moments where you don’t make sense. “Not stupid, just…” his eyes roam your face while he searches for the word to use as compromise, as though he’ll find it tucked somewhere in your pretty features, “Lapses in discernment.”

You roll your eyes at his fancy vernacular, the attempt to soothe his mistake. “I think I prefer the layman’s term.” 

Spencer laughs sheepishly, then presses his lips to your forehead, “I’m never using that to describe you.” he murmurs against your skin, and then, “I'm sorry.”

Antarctica could melt from the warmth in your chest.  “You don't even know what you're apologizing for.”

“I upset you. That's reason enough.”

You sigh, pulling him to join you on the plush booth seat you'd managed to secure for your date. “Well, there's nothing to forgive.”

He accepts the coffee you hand him, corners of his mouth curved in a gentle smile. He sips, and you stew in silence, knowing that you shouldn't be leaving him guessing like this. He'd want to know, you can tell by the way he's studying you, the way he wants to examine and turn over your thoughts and reactions like he does with everything else in his life. But he waits, lets you open up if you so wish.

God, he's perfect.

“I was just having second thoughts about my makeup,” you murmur finally, “And you kind of confirmed it. I told you it's stupid.”

“Not stupid at all. I'm sorry,” you wonder if he takes his coffee sweet to match his personality, this asshole, “It was an insensitive comment. And for what it's worth, you look beautiful regardless.”

“Inflamed cheeks and all?” 

He laughs, pulling you to his side, lips firmly planted on your cheek “Inflamed cheeks and all.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have worn the blush after all; you're sure he's making you flush scarlet just by being such a sweetheart.

“Oh Spencer knows her.” the teasing tone in Derek Morgan’s voice normally makes you smile, but something about his tone makes you pause. You stare at the TV, where a new show is running, eyes zeroed in on the blonde actress.

“Spencer knows her?”

“Knew,” your boyfriend supplies, “Very briefly.”

Derek Morgan gives him a knowing smirk that has your stomach churning all the way to the end of the night, when you’re getting ready for bed.

You're in his apartment, in an old pair of his plaid pajamas and a t-shirt that fits you surprisingly well. It always makes you smile, his slight frame, the way you could easily steal his clothes and they wouldn't dwarf you too much. But tonight, Derek's words ring over and over again, bringing forth the image of her—Lila Archer, dazzling, perfectly curvy, an actress on a popular TV series… and apparently, a friend of his. You aren't really sure where this jealousy is coming from. He’s a trustworthy man, and you know he loves you. Still, the image of the beautiful actress persists, even as you climb into bed with him.

He's reading as he usually is, the low lamplight casting shadows over the sharp planes of his face. Without even looking, he shifts the book to his other hand, freeing up an arm to draw you to his body. It's easy, quiet, his heartbeat fluttering beneath your ear as you rest your head on his chest. The exact opposite of your own heartbeat right now.

“What's on your mind?” 

“Nothing.” It should be a sin, the way you keep denying your feelings. But it's just so silly, and you're a grown woman. Jealousy and insecurity shouldn't be consuming you like this, and yet…

“Please don't lie to me,” his fingers are in your hair, tangling deep into the strands and seeking for your scalp. They’re soothing and rhythmic upon contact, lulling your body into a sense of relaxation even though your heart still hammers at your chest.

“Why do you say that?”

“You usually remind me to use the overhead lights when I read.” fingers putting pressure on your scalp, traveling to your temple. He has you in the palm of his hands, “You didn't do that tonight. And your heartbeat's going at an abnormally high rate, even though I'm quite certain you didn't do anything strenuous before coming to bed. What's going on?” 

Damn him and his attention to detail, and the way he’'s learned your little quirks and oddities. He puts down his book and you turn your face to hide into his chest.

You chew on your bottom lip, reminding youself that this is Spencer, he wouldn't judge. “How’d you know her?” your voice is muffled against his shirt, “Lila.”

“We had a case in Los Angeles.” he pauses, as if considering if he should say more. Right. Confidentiality. You nod, accepting his answer.

“Must have been a high profile one then,” you muse, “Or were you just hanging around Hollywood studios with Derek?” It’s an unfair statement, but you can’t help it.

“No, no, it wasn’t like that.” You look back up at him and oh there’s guilt swimming in pools of honey eyes. “I mean, we kissed once, but I swear, nothing beyond that.”

You exhale. A kiss. He's kissed a TV starlet. 

This shouldn’t even be an issue. This is before you were even in the picture after all. It’s not fair to uphold him to some weird standard. You certainly had relationships before him. But none of them had been as stunning as Lila Archer. And if he could have Lila Archer, then what is he doing with you? 

“Hey,” his other hand comes to stroke your cheek, the soft pad of his thumb rubbing small, soothing circles, “Talk to me.”

It's a difficult thing, being mature and communicating when you just want to stew, but god he's so good, you can't punish him for this, for anything. “I thought you said I was your first girlfriend?” you say instead, teasing him.

“You are, but you know, I’ve kissed before, and been on dates—”

“With Lila?”

“No, with JJ.”

Oh.

“JJ?”

JJ? His lovely, warm spring day beauty coworker JJ? He went on a date with her? And kissed Lila Archer. It’s almost ridiculous, thinking about the type of women he's had dalliances with—lithe, blonde, perfect, before he settled with you. 

“Yeah, I took her to a Redskins game,” he says, his hold on your face still light. There's room to move if you want to, space to pull away should you need it and god he's just so perfect.

“You have a type, huh?” it comes out unbidden, sharp but dulled by a bitter laugh.

“What do you mean?”

“With women,” you reply, trying to temper the snappy tone of your voice. It's not fair to lash out at him like this, you know that, yet you can't help it. It's habit at this point, a form of defense that your exes have all been too happy to participate, “I'm the outlier.”

And apparently, he's an outlier too because his voice grows even softer, eyes searching your face with an anxiety that fills you with guilt. “Is that a problem?”

“No,” you sigh, arm draping over his waist and hugging him tight. 

He returns the favor, tangling your legs together until you're a mess of limbs under his sheets. “Then what's wrong?”

“Sometimes I just feel like—like I'm not good enough to be dating you.” there it is, whispered into his chest, striking straight to his heart. “And now, knowing that you could have had all of these — these women who could pass for models—”

“Angel,” the way he says the nickname makes you hide even further into his chest. He closes his arms around you, holding you so tightly it's difficult to breathe, but that's okay. Let him fuse your bodies together, let his breaths be yours too, “That's not true, you know that's not true.”

“Isn't it? You're so — you. Intelligent, well decorated in academia, an an elite FBI unit…”

He laughs, “I’m also an endlessly annoying know it all, I failed my gun license exam more than once, I don't have abs—”

“You don't need abs,” you counter, fingers clutching on his shirt.

“Wouldn't you rather be with a guy with a six pack?”

“I'd rather be with you.”

He gently moves away from you, hands finding your face to make you look at him. “And I'd rather be with you.”

You pout, “You can't use my words against me, ‘s not fair.” 

He laughs again, leaning to capture your lips in the gentlest of kisses, “I want you, I chose you, and I adore you,” he's murmuring between each kiss, hands cradling your face, “And if you have these thoughts again, tell me, so I can keep reminding you just how much I love you.” 

➺ My masterlist | Event masterlist

➺ thank you so much for reading <3

[vrystalius]

Baby fever.

Gong Yoo has forbidden himself to fantasise about a peaceful family life. He does not deserve one, neither does he deserve you as as his partner.

Pairing: Recruiter/Gong Yoo x afab!reader (no pronouns used)

Summary: You’re noticing how your husband has been acting a little distant lately but he keeps acting like nothing is wrong. You decide to confront him.

Words: 1.1k

Genre: angsty fluff

Warning: Pregnancy description, spoilers for his backstory

He mainly married you to keep up his appearances to the public. That’s what he believed your marriage to be in the beginning anyway, but falling for you hit him like a truck Gong Yoo missed to spot while crossing the street. Now he can barely step outside the door without thinking about you, your safety, your cute face, your lips and whatever else there is to possibly think about a person.

Imagining you pregnant was a rather frequent fantasy he had. Not in a perverse way that could make one wonder about how sane he exactly is, but rather about how adorable you’d look when you waddle around the apartment, how it would feel to hold you from behind and lift your heavy belly for you, the sight of new stretch marks decorating your body more and more, listening to you baby’s heartbeat.

Even the unpleasant aspects of a pregnancy seem appealing to him for some reason. Holding your hair during a wave of morning sickness and emptying your stomach’s contents into the toilet, preparing a warm bath for your swollen feet, odd cravings where he can only pray for his child’s health while you inhale your exotic plate with a smile.

While future players of the game slam their dakji square against the one on the floor, Gong Yoo stood there with his arms behind his back, literally drowning in a baby fever. Only the sound of the square hitting the other and failing to flip over unpleasantly ripped him out of the trance, reminding him of his occupation that would make it much harder to have a simple, oblivious and lovely family life.

You noticed how much somber your husband has gotten lately. Sure, he was still affectionate as ever and never failed to bring flowers, chocolate or whatever else you desired, but you could see how something was clearly bothering him. Asking what is bothering him will only result in him using his charming recruiter persona to deflect your worries right back at you, bastard.

One evening, while your legs were draped over his thighs after making yourselves comfortable on the couch, empty take out boxes on the coffee table in front of you. You were the only one paying attention to the TV broadcast though.

Your husband’s fingers slowly traced invisible patters on your thigh while his eyes glossed over nothing.

“You’re so quiet lately. Did something happen at work?” Gong Yoo’s eyes slowly shifted to look at you, his hand coming to a stop on your thigh right above your knee. He leaned his head back against the couch cushion. “I’m just thinking a lot about you lately. You’re quite distracting, you know that?”

Again, he’s deflection your worry and question to turn it right back at you. Unamused, you slid your legs off his lap and lifted yourself from your comfortably lying position. You were clearly unamused and he could tell. A small sigh escaped his lips and he closed his eyes for a moment. “No, nothing happened at work. I’m really thinking about you a lot lately.”

“Then exactly are you thinking about then?” You noticed his eyes trying to shift away from you, anywhere else than to look into your eyes. Your hand gently took his into yours, your fingers interlocking with his. You watched him glance down at your two rings, the rings that symbolise marriage and partnership. He emitted a deeper sigh. “I’m thinking about our future together, I suppose.”

You cocked your head in confusion. “Kids. I’m thinking about kids.” Gong Yoo elaborated. “Our kids to be exact.” His grip on your hand got a little tighter as if you’re about to pull away. Instead, you pulled his hand towards yourself. “So… what do you think?” You mumbled, briefly running your fingers through his hair.

Your husband shrugged, his lips turning into a small frown. “I want them, don’t get me wrong, I just— I don’t know. I’m not sure if I…” He took a deep breath before continuing. “If you want them with me, if I would be a good father… My own father wasn’t the greatest and what if I’m going to be just like him, you know?”

Silence fell between you two, the TV serving as l white noise in the background. An endearing smile broke out on your face as you ran your knuckles over his surprisingly sweaty cheek. Opening up to you takes a toll put of him apparently. His eyes closed shut as you briefly admired his lashes fluttered against his skin. His whole face softened.

“So, firstly, I do want children with you and only you. Remember that.” The cold metal of your ring made Gong Yoo shiver under your touch. Your hand cupped his cheek as he slowly opened his eyes again. “Secondly, you’ll be a good father, someone yours never was.”

Your husband scoffed slightly as a larger smile began to break out on his face. It was a little funny to him how you answered him so honestly and kindly, not even knowing the full story between him and his father and how it ended.

Your words did warm his heart. The fantasy of a perfect life with you didn’t seem so taboo anymore, so distant and unreachable. It felt like it was just a moment away.

Gong Yoo leaned in and placed a lingering kiss on your lips, his lips felt soft and gentle. His warm breath fanned your face as his hand slipped out of yours to cup your cheek and angle your face for his tongue to briefly slip between your lips. Pulling away, his forehead rested against yours as his eyes stared into yours.

“Do you mean that? Are you really sure?” You couldn’t help but chuckle a little at how nervous he really was. “I am as sure as I was when I married you, dear.”

Your husband leaned back in for another kiss, this one was much more brief, teasing almost. “Well would you… like to start trying? For a child I mean.”

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!

As I am posting this I am around 2-3 hours away from arriving at the ski resort. Half of this was written while I was a little nauseous so apologies for any inconsistencies or mistakes as I was in and out of it. The other half was written while I listened to a mix of J-Pop, K-Pop, Hamilton musical, Rap, Odetari. My music taste is quite unique :,) Anyways, I’ll be posting again soon or tonight! It’s going to be either about Thanos or In-ho!

Anyways, make sure to EAT, DRINK and SLEEP enough!!

Take care or yourselves <3

[kisakunt]

HAVE YOU TRIED THIS ONE?

their favorite position!

S. GOJO

yab yum.

Sue him. Gojo is a loud man, and a freaky one too, but God forbid he enjoy a little bit of intimacy. It’s a bit awkward when you first try it; his legs are so long that even criss-cross, there’s a little too much room in between each thigh, once you have yours around his waist and your arms around his neck it’s awkward trying to even get it in, and the rocking is a rough start. But when you perfect it? Gojo is through the fucking roof. Satoru’s eyes hurt like hell, but he loves eye contact during sex and there’s no better time for it than in yab yum. He lets himself go; the closeness between you two, the way he can feel every inch of you, the fact for once he’s not in control. He’s vulnerable, he’s connected, and it feels so fucking good. When he cums, his legs tense a little bit more, making it easier for you to keep up with your pace. He falls apart under you, grabbing your face weakly as his head falls back. Literally perfect position for him.

T. FUSHIGURO

full nelson.

The motherfucker. Toji is strong. He’s a big guy, it doesn’t matter how tall you are or how much you weigh, he can support it. Part of the appeal is how defenseless you are, how much he gets to show off, the fact you’re like prey to him basically. It never goes too particularly deep, so if he’s itching to bruise you, he’ll let go of your legs and have you put your feet on the bed while you lie on him so he can fucking hammer you. But, in the real full nelson, he keeps it up for as long as he can. He knows just how to hit your g-spot with it, he curves to where you clench on him just right in that cute little way you do, he’s mean in the shortness of each stroke. He loves feeling your body go limp on him, he loves watching your head struggle to fall with his arms behind your neck, he loves feeling your ass move perfect against him. He’s got good stamina, too. If you begged and pleaded, Toji could cum quick— but he never would. He likes to torture you with his dick. He likes to make it hurt, make you weak, make it to where you can’t walk for days after, and the full nelson gets you sore fast.

C. KAMO

the hook.

Another intimacy lover. Choso worships you. He loves everything about making love to you. He loves your noises, the way your body folds on itself when he contorts you, how wet you get for him. The hook is perfect. It’s deep and, above all else, he thinks it’s the position you feel most good in. Whenever he can, Choso has each of your legs up on top of each of his shoulders, angled up perfect with you. He likes looking down at you, seeing your face all scrunched up and beautiful. He likes the way you beg for him. He likes how simultaneously close yet far he is from you. And when it gets all too much, he throws his head back and you get to look up at him and watch him fall apart above you. Your moans intertwine, he strokes perfect, and when he’s about to cum, he’ll break position and lower your legs just to wrap his arms around you and pull you incredibly closer.

R. SUKUNA

hands behind the ankles.

The fucking freak. No, seriously, the fucking freak. It doesn’t take him long to suggest— demand— the position to you. Obviously, Sukuna likes control. There’s never been a moment he hasn’t liked control and there’s never been a moment he’s had to worry about not having it. So that’s hardly been any different in your sex life. But when he first pulled out a pair of police grade handcuffs, you laughed— albeit a little anxiously. It’s a fucking workout for you, honestly, to hold yourself up with your legs in the air and your hands cuffed behind them. Sukuna lives for how you’re even more at his expense than you already were. He fits snug in the place between your legs, balls slapping against your lower ass every time he thrusts, pelvic bone meshing with your plush. You’re weak like this, defenseless, a perfect little toy for Sukuna to fuck, and he’d be damned if he weren’t obsessed with it.

[thedanishcatgirl]

The idea that their timid, little, shy, book loving, wizard had a wife was weird enough, but that wasn't the most surprising part. No, that was the fact, that the massive woman stepping through the selfmade entrance, whom presumably must be the aforementioned wife, was a tall fearsome looking fey. Her antlers where sharp, her body looked to be made of blackened branches covered in deadly looking thorns and her furious eyes glowed a fiery red like her hair.

Through the ringing in his ear the bard could faintly hear their wizard calling out to her wife.

"Careful darling we don't want the cage to fall down into the acid!"

The fay woman's only answer was a terrifying growl, but there was no more explosions. Not like that was needed anyway, since the floor was torn up, and massive thorny vines where rapidly growing out from the floor choking any still alive. She quickly walked over to them, took a hold of their cage, and swiftly yanked it free from the chain, then stomped out of the castle with their cage dangling from her hand. As they where carried away he saw the castle was quickly being overgrown with the vines, and he knew for certain that soon all that would be left was a crumbling ruin. This was gonna make one epic song.

Too terrified to speak he decided to shift his focus onto his party. Their wizard was looking concered up at her wife. Their sorcerer had passed out from either his injuries, or their terrifying rescurer. Their rouge was looking a bit too impressed, but then again, she was always addicted to danger. And their ever confident paladin, looked to be locked in a state of shock. He tried to get her to snap out of it, but she was completely unresponsive, so he tried his best to hum a little tune and heal their sorcerer. It wasn’t much, he was afterall not their main healer and not on his a game, but it was enough to get their sorcerer up. He was groggy and clearly still rough, but as soon as he noticed their surroundings, and who held their cage he panicked. Luckily he was out of spells, which rendered him pretty harmless, and a quick calm emotions stopped the worst of it.

"What is happening, where are we and who is THAT?!"

"Calm down she rescued us. Remember wizard said she messaged her wife to come save us? Well here she is I think she decided easiest way to get us all to a safer place was keeping us in the cage."

But their sorcerer just looked confused at him. Perhaps he hadn't fully registered the conversation before, which was certainly a possibility considering he was very hurt. That would mean he had no idea the woman who attacked the castle, and now held their cage was an ally, making this terrifying experience all the more scary. Worst of all their sorcerer was practically a teenager, and the easiest scared of their group, and this had been bad enough to leave their fearless paladin shocked. So he did what he had done so many nights and comforted their sorcerer.

"Shh it's all right we are safe she won't hurt us"

"It doesn't make sense, this isn't right, what are you talking about, wizard can't be married to an archfey, why would someone so powerful care about small insignificant mortals"

Archfey? Fuck he knew she was clearly powerful, but he hadn't realised just how much. But at soon as sorcerer said it, he knew it was true. Maybe paladin knew and at that was why she was so terrified. He didn't know much about archfey other than legends and songs, and those where always about how dangerous and fickle they where. How in all the hells did wizard get to call one her wife?

After a little bit they entered an ancient looking forest, and finally their wizard decided to speak.

"Sweetie, don't you think it's about time you put us down? We are in our forest now, nothing can hurt us here. We would all really love to get out of this stupid cage, and I definitely owe my friends some explanations. They can't really appreciate the beauty of our home like this, and I would hate their first impressions of it being bad."

Gently she sets the cage down, and shrinks to a still tall, but slightly more manageable, size.

"HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I WARNED YOU NOT TO GET OVER YOUR HEAD! You know I love you and support your little adventuring hobby, but you are so fragile, and I wish I could follow you, but my duties prevent that which means I can't protect you, and I hate that!"

Slowly their wizard limped over to her wife, seemingly not concerned at all about the thorns. Unfortunately that exposed just how badly injured she was, which her wife clearly only noticed now.

"HOW DARE THEY HURT YOU LIKE THAT! They did not deserve to die so mercifully!" It was followed by more curses in a language he didn't understand, but the intent was clear as day. The party was too preoccupied with trying not to think about what she considered doing, if that, was merciful in her eyes. It didn't matter what they had done to them, he was pretty sure those screams would haunt all their dreams, as long as they lived.

The wizard didn't look to be the least bit fazed, instead she gently caressed her furious wife, deftly avoiding the thorns.

"Shh it's all right darling, I'm safe now." She said followed by more reassurances, in what he suspected was the same language her wife had cursed in.

As the woman calmed down, they saw her body literally transform along with her mood. Slowly the fire in her hair diminished until it looked more like branches, her eyes changed into a piercing green, her wooden body became brown, the thorns receded and now she was just slightly taller than them. But while it was clear she was calmer now, that fire seemed to be just under the surface, like a forest that had just been ravaged by fire, and only needed a little spark to send it ablaze again.

"Why didn't you message me sooner?" She almost pleaded.

"I'm sorry, I thought we could escape on our own, and didn't want to worry you unless absolutely necessary." He can't help but notice the tears in her eyes. "Also kinda hoped that when I did introduce them to you, it would be a bit less terrifying." She adds with a tiny sliver of humour in her voice.

"Hmm I forgive you my foolish little flower." She says, as she touches her forehead to their wizard's. Apprapo flowers, he noticed that her hair has sprouted leaves and even a few flowers, and her body was being covered by moss and lichen. Hopefully that meant her mood has approved significantly.

Looking at their party he concluded that their sorcerer was hiding behind their rouge, who was trying their best to make him feel protected, and their paladin was still completely out of it, which it seemed their wizard had finally registered, but then again it was probably fair, that she had been to preoccupied with her wife.

"Darling do you think you could help her?" She asked to which her wife responded by gently touching her finger to their paladin and casting, what he recognised as a much stronger calm emotions than his. She wisely took a few steps back letting wizard stand in front as paladin slowly became more aware of her surroundings.

"Hey look at me we are safe now, there is nothing to worry about. There is no danger anymore I promise you."

"But but, that's, they they, danger I can't, I can't protect, I'm, I'm not even, He, you don't"

It was clear that while she was definitely calmer now, she was still very scared, which surprised him, because with the power of an archfey, she could easily have completely overpowered her fear. But perhaps she wasn't gonna just completely charm her wife's friend, which surely was a good sign.

"Shh shh it's alright, I know you're scared, I know you're all scared and we understand that. What just happened was very scary, and I know the reputation archfey have, but please just trust me when I say, that none of us are in any danger."

"You just say that because she has charmed you!" Sorcerer bravely answers.

"I don't think so," you counter. "Why not just charm all of us, or at least charm paladin, which she clearly didn't, since she is still scared. Why be so concerned with wizards safety, and so quick to forgive? I must admit I have no clue how in the hells it happened, but they clearly love each other very much, and she has been nothing but helpful, so I believe wizard when she says we are safe."

At that wizard smiles, clearly pleased she managed to convince someone.

"Maybe we could at least give them a chance. It's not like we have any way of escaping if she is messing with us," rouge tentatively says.

Sorcerer doesn't say anything, but at least he wasn't complaining or actively freaking out, witch admittedly was a pretty low bar, but considering the day they have had, was gonna have to be good enough.

Paladin looked to be very unsure, but maybe it was the calm emotions, maybe her desire to believe her friend, or maybe she was just too exhausted to do anything but listen.

"Well this is my wife Sevanonna. We have been together for almost 20 years, and I love her with all my heart, but despite all my books and her amazing company, I started to go a little stir crazy a while ago, and really missed adventuring, so after a lot of convincing and safety measures, like this ring I used to communicate with her, I left our home and soon found you guys." As soon as she stopped her nervous rant, her wife took over.

"Like you mortals say, if you love someone you let it go, and if they love you they will come back. Not that I ever worried that was the reason she wouldn't return."

"How in the hells did a shy timid little bookworm like you, snag someone so fiercely powerful?" asked rouge, voicing the question he had been too scared to ask.

"Oh she stumbled into my domain on accident in her ever growing search for knowledge, and she was just so sweet and kind and adorable, I couldn't find it within myself to punish her. I was curious and lonely, so we made a very simple deal. I would help her with gaining knowledge, if she would keep me company. As fun as messing with mortals can be, it doesn't keep me entertained for very long, and I don't particularly care for the company of my fellow archfey. We couldn't help but fall for each other, and by now that deal has been null and void for a very long time."

As she spoke, she looked at their wizard with such strong fondness it was impossible not to believe, and he already knew once he had pressed wizard for some more details, he was gonna create the most beautiful love ballad the world had ever seen out of this.

It seemed sorcerer and paladin had decided to very tentatively trust their story as well, or maybe just given up. Afterall they knew rouge was right. They didn't really have a choice.

"Well then show us to your home then. I'm dying to see what kind of fantastical place you live in, if this forest is anything to go by!" He decided to say as a way of lightning their spirits. Rouge ended up carrying sorcerer, who was too weak to do anything but curl up in her, thankfully deceptively strong, arms. And he supported paladin as they walked, to the best of his abilities. Sevanonna seemed to understand, that although she could definitely simply carry them all, it was better to not intervene.

Later that night, or perhaps it was technically the next day, he wasn't sure and didn't really care, he found himself alone with paladin. For while he wasn't the least bit surprised by sorcerer and rouge, palsdin's actions seemed wholly out of character, and he was determined to find out why.

"Hey you all right there?" Paladin turned to look at him with a panicked look for half a second, until it seemed like she remembered who he was. She must have been lost in her mind again.

"I'm, I'm fine." She said with a hint of her usual confidence, although it was clear she definitely wasn't.

"I know you are usually the one who does this, but if you wanna talk about it, I promise to lend an ear and not tell anyone." She looked like she was considering it. "Everyone needs someone to lean on, once in a while. You don't have to be our strong confident leader all the time. I'm pretty sure you would say something like that, if you where me." That last part at least managed to produce a tiny snort.

"I... my mother she, she made a deal with an archfey a long time ago. But she was tricked and understemated the price. She ... it took my youngest sister and when she tried to stop that she," at this point paladin broke down sobbing. He tried his best not to loose it at the sound that felt so wrong coming from her, and decided to rub circles on her back like she usually did. When that didn't help, he decided to stop being her and just do what he was best at, which was performing. So he summoned his dulcimer and started playing a comforting tune, and trying to do his best to put some sort of bardic magic into it.

"I was about the age of sorcerer, and suddenly I was the oldest in our little family. I had to be the responsible one, I had to protect us. That is why I devoted myself to my god, to make sure no chaotic or evil forces would ever mess with those I loved ever again. But not even the gods could stop them from deciding to start their own lives, once they got older. They moved on, and I didn't really fit into their lives anymore. I tried to devote myself even more, and create my own life too. And when I found you it felt like I had a family I could protect again. But I failed." And with that she collapsed and starting sobbing even harder than before. What she said made sense. She definitely was the mother of their group, not just because of her age, and a fiercely protective one at that. That was clearly something she had in common with their wizard's wife. And with that kind of tragic backstory, who could blame her. He could also see why she must have panicked like that when a threatening archfey suddenly appeared, and why she felt like she had failed in protecting them. She couldn't risk trusting that this wasn't some elaborate trick. He probably couldn't do anything about that, but he couldn't let her believe they saw her as a failure.

"No. You have not failed us. We are all still together, surely that counts for something? I can promise you if it wasn't for you, we would have all destroyed each other, or at the very least left. You have always been our glue, whether it was settling differences, or patching us up. You protected us all during that fight, and is the only reason sorcerer isn't dead now. But we are all adults here, or mostly, and you don't have to protect us all the time. Let us protect you too. We are a team, and that means we all have each other's backs. We are all here, we are safe, or at the very least not in active danger, we can rest and recover now, and afterwards we can talk about ensuring it doesn't get so bad again. But we are all alive, and if you hadn't been here, things would have gone so much worse, so cut yourself some slack alright?

"Hmm" was all he got from her before she fell asleep. It was good that she had relaxed enough to get some rest, he just had to hope she had heard his words, and taken them to heart.

An adventuring party is in a cage suspended over acid the wizard clears his throat "I just sent a message to my wife she should be here to save us soon." "Wait your married?" Said the rouge "more importantly what is she gonna." The paladin is interrupted by a massive explosion.

[lechrts]

Tramp Stamp. ✷ Lando Norris

Pairing: Lando Norris x Intern!reader

Summary: When he catches sight of something that he wasn’t supposed to see. Something “so out of character” of you.

Word Count: 1.2k

Disclaimer/s: banter blah blah blah black cat x golden retriever tbh, Idk, flirty lando, Mean!reader because that’s all i know

Vera's Voice! a recycled prompt i had been wanting to use for an original story but i have no time since i cant be free of the shackles i call school and work so i just made it a lando imagine. YUHHHH. + sorry for my hiatus. Wassup. i hope u enjoy ^_^

The McLaren paddock was always buzzing with energy on a race weekend, but you barely noticed anymore. You were too focused on your job—an internship that demanded perfection, efficiency, and an unwavering dedication to details.

Unfortunately, no one seemed to have passed that memo to Lando Norris.

"You’re stalking me," You muttered, flipping through your clipboard as you strode through the garage, dodging mechanics and engineers.

"Following," Lando corrected, strolling beside you with way too much ease. "Completely different."

You stopped abruptly. He stopped too. You shot him a flat look. "You don’t even need to be here right now."

Lando smirked. “Aw come on, not enjoying our quality time?”

"Waste of time, actually." You scoffed, adjusting the clipboard in your arms. Lando gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like you’d just gravely offended him. "Wow. Harsh. I thought we were bonding."

You exhaled sharply, turning back to continue walking, attempting to wave him off. "Leave me alone, I’ve got work to do."

"And I have free time," He pointed out, easily keeping pace with you. "Which means I can spend it however I want."

"You want to spend it being an ass?"

"Of course." His grin was all mischief. "It’s my favorite pastime."

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t slow down, weaving through the garage with practiced efficiency.

Lando, despite having no real reason to be there, stuck to your side like an overgrown puppy, dodging cables and stepping around mechanics with the kind of casual ease that made your irritation flare.

He lived to get under your skin.

"Hmm," He mused, leaning in just slightly, "You should try smiling more. I think it’d be good for you."

You didn’t even glance up. "You should try shutting up more. I think it’d be good for everyone."

Lando let out a bark of laughter. "So mean."

“Well, I’m certainly not trying to be nice.” You glance up, sending him a fake and sarcastic smile before your face deadpanned with cold eyes.

Lando clutched his chest dramatically. “You truly wound me.”

“God, save me.” You muttered, flipping a page on your clipboard.

Lando, of course, was unfazed and continued pressing. “To be honest, I think you secretly like this,” He mused.

You gave him a look. “Like what exactly?” Furrowing your eyebrows, not following where he was going with this.

“This.” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Our little game.”

You stopped so abruptly that he almost walked into you. “What game? You mean me trying to do my job while you act like an overgrown toddler with too much money and free time?”

Lando grinned, rocking back on his heels. “So do you like it or no?”

You let out an exasperated sigh, turning sharply on your heel, and in your haste, your pen slipped from your grip.

It clattered to the floor and rolled just slightly out of reach.

Without thinking, you bent down to grab it.

But. There was a shift in the air. A second of silence too long.

Then—

“Oh.”

The single syllable carried so much smug amusement that your stomach dropped before you even straightened.

You turned slowly, and Lando was standing there, arms crossed, lips curled into a knowing smirk.

His eyes flickered downward—just briefly—before meeting yours again.

"Oh, correct me if I’m wrong," He drawled, "But was that a lower back tattoo?"

Your entire body stiffened.

You knew right then and there that your McLaren issued shirt had betrayed you. Probably riding up just enough for him to catch a glimpse of the delicate little ribbon bow and butterfly inked on your lower back you had gotten back in high school.

Your fingers curled tightly around the pen, knuckles white as if you wanted to shove it into his throat. You fought to keep your face neutral, but the heat creeping up your neck was traitorous.

Lando’s smirk deepened.

You knew you should just ignore him. Keep walking. Act like you didn’t hear. But his tone—so goddamn amused and intrigued—was already sinking its hooks into you.

You straightened fully, lifted your chin, and shot back smoothly, “Maybe don’t stare at my ass?”

Lando’s grin was instant. “Not my fault it was right there.”

"You could’ve looked away."

"But then I would’ve missed the best part of my day," He quipped, eyes glinting with unfiltered delight. "Because never in a million years would I have guessed you had a tramp stamp."

You exhaled sharply, flipping back to your clipboard with forced nonchalance. "You saw nothing."

"I feel like there's a story behind it." He leaned in slightly, eyes practically gleaming. "And now I have to know."

"You have to shut up."

"Make me."

You inhaled slowly, forcing yourself to stay composed. You refused to let him win.

Lando’s smirk widened like he could feel you getting flustered.

"Was it a dare?" He mused.

You ignored him, flipping a page.

"Drunken impulse?"

Silence.

"Rebellious phase?"

You turned sharply. "Lando."

"Hm?"

You briefly smiled, pinching the bridge of your nose. "Shut up."

"Can’t. I’m way too entertained at the moment."

"Oh, of course you would find this entertaining."

Lando grinned. "Come on, just tell me! I’ll drop it after."

"You never drop anything."

He sighed dramatically. "You know me too well."

“Unfortunately."

For a moment, there was silence.

Then—

"You know," He mused, rocking back on his heels, "It’s actually kind of hot."

Your brain short-circuited.

You nearly dropped your pen again.

"What?" You croaked.

Lando shrugged, far too nonchalant. "The tattoo. Didn’t expect it, but… yeah." He smirked. "Bit of a plot twist."

Your mouth opened—then closed. Then opened again. "You—I—what.”

He chuckled, watching your reaction unfold like it was the highlight of his day.

You refused to give him the satisfaction.

So, instead of responding, you lifted your clipboard and smacked him lightly on the arm.

Lando burst out laughing, clutching the spot like you’d actually hurt him.

"You’re an idiot," You muttered, turning away before he could see the hint of a smile threatening to break through.

Lando grinned after you, calling out, "I will get that story one day!”

And maybe—just maybe—you weren’t as annoyed as you pretended to be.

likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated! ^_^ and pls Lmk if you wanna be apart of my permanent tag list

tags! @pedriache @halfwayhearted @wdcbox @freyathehuntress @iovepoem @piastri-fvx

[one-green-frog]

Family Knows Best

Platonic Yandere Batfam x male reader

(I couldnt really find a good gif)

The signs had been obvious. Almost too obvious. But here you were, trapped within the walls of Wayne Manor, surrounded by a family whose love for you was more intense, more consuming, than anything you had ever known. The strangest part? You didn’t mind.

Maybe you should be scared. Maybe you should be fighting to leave. But, really, wasn’t this what you had always wanted? A place where people actually cared about you? Where they loved you unconditional?

It all started with a simple visit.

Damian Wayne had walked into your small pet clinic one late afternoon, accompanied by a boy his age. In his hands, Damian held a tiny duckling, its fluffy yellow body trembling against his hands.

"It was alone," he had said, his voice sharp but carefully controlled. "I suspect its mother is dead. What are the chances of its survival?"

The look in his eyes told you just how deeply he cared and how scared he was for it's survival. He was young, but his concern for the creature in his hands was genuine. You reassured him that with the right care, the duckling would grow strong. You even offered him advice on raising it, though, deep down, you had wanted to keep it for yourself. Unfortunately, due to the lack of space you opted for another option. This boy, Damian Wayne, had probably enough space for the duckling, not to mention the resources he had and most importantly, the heart to care for something so small.

What you didn’t realize then was that your kindness had sealed your fate.

In the weeks that followed, the Waynes began appearing in your life in a frequency that couldn't be coincidence. First, it was Jason Todd, walking into your clinic to ask for advice for a "stray" cat he "found", you later realized that the cat was already part of the family for years. Then Dick Grayson, whose excuses were flimsier—he had seen a stray dog outside and thought he should check if you had seen it, then he lingered in your waiting room, babbling on and on about the most random things. Tim Drake came next, standing awkwardly in your doorway as he asked for information on exotic pets, his eyes scanning every inch of your tiny clinic as though analyzing everything about you.

It felt... odd. Wayne money didn’t typically find its way into the rougher parts of Gotham, yet here they were, weaving themselves into your routine, your space, your life.

Then the flowers started arriving.

Every morning, a fresh bouquet sat at your doorstep—rare, expensive arrangements that made it clear this wasn’t some random act of kindness. No name. No note. Just a silent reminder that someone was watching. At first you thought it was an accident, but the bouquets continued to show up, it made it obvious they were meant for you.

You told yourself you should be creeped out. But no one had ever sent you flowers before. No one had ever gone out of their way to make you feel special. No one would be bothered if you took them into your flimsy apartment. No one would complain and the flowers made your apartment kinder, nicer and just lovelier to wake up to

Then, one evening, Bruce Wayne walked into your clinic.

It was different from the others. The moment he stepped inside, the air in the room shifted. He didn’t rush, didn’t hesitate. He moved with an easy confidence, his deep blue eyes fixed solely on you. His usual playboy smile on his lips that could melt anyone, and yet here he was, looking at you as if you were royalty.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, his voice smooth, warm.

You were frozen in place. The billionaire, the man Gotham worshipped, was standing in your dingy little clinic, smiling at you like you were the most fascinating thing in the world.

That was the beginning of the end.

He returned often. Sometimes he brought gifts, small, thoughtful things that showed he had been paying attention. A book you mentioned wanting to read. A coat after he “noticed” the thin fabric of your usual one. Every gesture was perfectly calculated, yet felt so natural, so effortless, that you found yourself leaning into his presence without a second thought. He came by at the same time everyday and you found yourself watching the clock closely, heart speeding up whenever it was almost time for his visit.

When he invited you to dinner at Wayne Manor, it felt inevitable.

And when he suggested you stay the night after a few glasses of wine? That, too, felt natural. It was late, Gotham is dangerous, not to mention that you didn't want to bother the nice butler.

When you woke the next morning, disoriented but warm beneath the heavy silk sheets, Bruce was already there, waiting with a tray of breakfast. His smile was soft but filled with something deeper, something darker.

“I’m so glad you’re here", he said with the same sweet voice.

Something was wrong. You knew something was wrong. The prince of Gotham not only invited you to dinner, let you stay the night and now he is in the room with a tray of breakfast? It was simply to weird to be true. But he was looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world, and for the first time in your life, you felt seen. You felt like you belonged on this place

So you stayed.

And stayed.

Days bled into weeks. You told yourself you could leave if you wanted to. That nothing was keeping you here. No one really forced you to stay. And yet... you couldn’t leave, it was like i higher force told you that you were right where you belonged, where you were cared for and loved. And then there was the family, so warm, so eager to keep you close. You weren’t a prisoner. Not really.

You were theirs.

Dick was the easiest to get attached to. He was light, warmth, and safety all wrapped into one human.Movie nights with him turned into deep conversations about life, love, and loss, his struggles with relationships, especially with his family since he works outside of Gotham. He would confide in you, let himself cry against your shoulder, and then whisper how much he needed you to stay, how no one had ever made him feel this way before. “You’re the only normal one here,” he would say, his fingers tight around your wrist. “You make everything feel right.”

Jason was different—quiet, intense, always hovering near but never too close. He would accompany you on walks through the gardens, listening more than speaking. When you talked about books, about the things that made you happy, memoriesfrom your childhoos, he would nod along, his face unreadable but always at peace. But you noticed the way he would subtly recommend books you might like, covering it under the guise of "a friend recommended it, but i haven't had the time to read it yet, why don't you give it a try", the way he perked up when you actually listened and bought the book and said you enjoyed it. He was quiet, but you could feel it—the way he held on to every word, the way his presence lingered long after he was gone. His action spoke of how much he looked up to you, a father-figure that he had a normal relationship with.

Tim was an enigma. He barely slept, barely ate, but he always seemed to be there. At dinner. During family time. During late-night kitchen visits where he would sit across from you, a coffee cup in hand, while you ate a bowl of cereal. He would ramble about theories, about mysteries in books he read, some "case" from a the series he watched and though you hardly understood half of it, you nodded along, letting him talk. He needed that. He needed you. A presence that didn't tell him to quiet down, didn't butt in to tell him he was a bit too paranoid.

And Damian? Damian clung to you. Always following you around, like a puppy. It started small—sitting beside you, leaning against you, watching you with sharp green eyes. Then came the possessiveness, the way he would glare at his brothers when they got too close, the way he fell asleep in your bed without asking. Not much time had passed before he called you brother

“I will not betray the honor of being by your side,” he had murmured one night, curled up against you. It was meant to be a statement, not a question.

And then there was Bruce Wayne. The man that looked at you as if you hung the stars. He cared for you like no other, always making sure you were alright. He spent most of his free time with you and he made sure you knew that he appreciated the way you brought the family together. Family time before you would often lead to fights, regret or just utter silence, but with you here, someone so ordinary in a special way the time spent together was peacful. Even Alfred the butler always smiled at you.

At this point you couldn't leave, be it because of you or because of the family that would made sure you wouldn’t.

They weren’t going to let you go. You were part of their family, their brother and son, the light of the manor.

And worse?

You didn’t want to leave.

Because no one had ever loved you like this before. No one had ever looked at you like you were the most important thing in the world. It was sick, it was wrong, it was obsessive.

But it was also love.

And maybe that was enough.

Being a part of this family was probably the one thing in your life that felt right.

DC has a grip on my life rn, so feel free to request something. But other than that, i hope you all have a great day :)

[reiding-writing]

hiyaa, cold reader series is so so amazing i just read it all in one sitting again but i was wondering if you could do one where she's jealous of a woman who starts flirting with spencer on a case maybe? maybe she's pissed because it's "unprofessional" but really she's pissed because he's being flirted with

AS IT SEEMS — SPENCER REID!

a local detective seems to hang on spencer’s every word. the unprofessionalism of it all really frustrates you.

spencer x cold!reader | 3.3k | flangst | cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n — is this… progression?

The flashing red-and-blue lights of the local PD’s vehicles paint shifting patterns across the asphalt as the BAU team steps onto the scene.

The air is thick with the scent of damp pavement and something acrid—gunpowder, maybe, or the lingering remnants of a nearby dumpster fire.

Officers mill about with that particular brand of tension that comes from knowing the FBI has been called in, half-relieved, half-defensive.

You take it all in quickly, the details slotting into place in your mind like a well-practiced routine. The weight of your badge clipped to your belt, the holster pressing against your hip—everything is familiar, grounding. But then she appears.

Detective Elena Foster is sharp-jawed and self-assured, the kind of woman who wears authority like a second skin. Her strides are long, purposeful, the confidence in her posture making it abundantly clear that she knows exactly how competent she is.

And she’s looking at Spencer like he’s fascinating.

You stand slightly off to the side as introductions are exchanged, arms crossed over your chest, expression unreadable. You’re practiced at this—at keeping your face neutral, your tone cool, your presence sharp enough to command respect without ever needing to raise your voice.

It’s always been easy. But right now, as Foster’s hand lingers just a little too long in Spencer’s when she shakes it, something tightens in your chest.

“Dr. Reid,” she says, eyes flicking over him with open appreciation. “I read your paper on statistical anomalies in serial offender data last year—brilliant work,”

Spencer, to his credit, looks momentarily startled. “Oh—thank you,” he says, blinking. “That was actually an extension of some previous research on—”

“That’s impressive,” she interrupts, flashing him a smile. “I’d love to pick your brain about it later, if you’ve got time,”

You watch as her fingers graze his forearm in a way that is entirely unnecessary.

He doesn’t seem to notice, too preoccupied with processing the compliment, his mind already spinning with whatever information he had been about to share. You, on the other hand, notice everything. The deliberate lean-in, the way her voice dips just slightly when she speaks to him, the way her eyes linger.

It’s unprofessional.

That’s what irritates you. Not the fact that her attention is singularly fixed on him, or that he’s being flirted with in the middle of a crime scene. Certainly not that she’s touching him when she doesn’t need to be.

It’s the principle of the matter. This is an active investigation, and Foster should be focused on the case, not Spencer’s academic credentials and whatever else has caught her interest.

Your jaw tightens as you glance toward Hotch, who doesn’t seem to care about the interaction as long as it doesn’t interfere with the briefing. Morgan, beside you, exhales a quiet chuckle under his breath, like he’s picked up on something amusing. You ignore it.

“I assume we have a body to look at?” you say, voice even.

Foster blinks at you, as if only just remembering your presence. You don’t react, don’t shift under her assessing gaze, don’t give her anything to work with. Eventually, she nods.

“Of course,” she says smoothly. “Right this way,”

She turns, and Spencer follows, already mid-sentence about some statistical deviation he had noticed in the case file. And you?

You stay exactly where you are for half a second longer than necessary, exhaling slowly through your nose before following after them.

—

You follow the team through the cordoned-off area, past uniformed officers and the murmuring press lingering at the edges, searching for scraps of information. The crime scene is up ahead—an abandoned warehouse, dimly lit and rank with the scent of stagnant water and decay. It should have your full attention.

But instead, you feel your focus splintering.

Just behind you, Spencer is still speaking, his voice carrying that familiar, eager cadence he gets when discussing something intellectually stimulating. “It’s interesting—well, not interesting in the traditional sense, given the context, but rather statistically significant—that the unsub’s victim selection aligns with a pattern previously seen in—”

“Oh, I love that you talk like that,” Foster’s voice is warm, teasing, admiring. “Most people dumb things down, but you don’t. That’s rare,”

You stiffen.

It’s unprofessional.

That’s what you tell yourself as you watch the way she tilts her head slightly when he speaks, as if absorbing every syllable. As if he’s the most fascinating thing in the room. She leans in a fraction closer—just enough to make it noticeable, just enough to make your stomach twist.

It’s unprofessional, you think again, but the words don’t sit quite right in your mind anymore.

Because the truth is, you shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t be noticing the way Foster looks at him. You shouldn’t be hyper-aware of the way her fingers brush the edge of his sleeve again, so light it could almost be accidental. You shouldn’t be waiting for him to pull back, to shake off the attention like he does when social interaction becomes too much.

Except he doesn’t. He just lets it happen.

And that irritates you.

So you do what you always do when something threatens to knock you off balance—you shut it down.

“Reid.”

Your voice cuts through the air, sharper than you intended. The team stops, turning toward you. Even Foster straightens slightly, blinking at the sudden shift in tone. Spencer glances over, his expression a mixture of mild confusion and concern.

You exhale, tightening your grip on the case file in your hands. “We’re here to solve a murder,” you say, your voice even but firm. “Not to make friends.”

Foster’s eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn’t comment. Morgan, who had been watching the interaction unfold with barely concealed amusement, makes a low sound in his throat—something close to a chuckle. You ignore it.

“I wasn’t aware discussing case patterns was off-limits,” Spencer says, tilting his head. His tone is neutral, but there’s a hint of something else there.

You meet his gaze, keeping your own unreadable. “It’s not,” you say. “Just keep it relevant.”

It’s not a lie. You are focused on the case. You do want to keep things professional. That’s all this is. That’s the only reason your patience is stretched thin.

Except.

Except you can still feel the ghost of Foster’s laugh curling around Spencer’s words. Except your shoulders haven’t relaxed since the moment she touched him. Except your own thoughts are turning against you, pressing in like a vice, asking the question you really don’t want to answer—

If you’re so unaffected, why do you have to convince yourself of it?

—

The investigation continues with the same steady pace, but your attention keeps wandering.

Every time you glance toward Spencer and Foster, you find her leaning in a little too close, her voice a little too sweet as she asks him to clarify some trivial detail. She’s careful—always careful—never quite crossing a line, but the way she speaks to him, the way she looks at him, it grates at you.

The word “unprofessional” loops endlessly in your mind, but each time you tell yourself that, something inside you pushes back.

You’re not jealous. You just want her to focus. This is a case, for God’s sake.

But the more she smiles at him, the more he just stands there, absorbed in the conversation, oblivious to the subtle dance she’s performing, the more that uncomfortable twist in your stomach tightens. Every laugh, every overly familiar gesture, stirs something inside you that you can’t quite name.

You can feel your teeth grinding as they talk, your gaze hardening on the two of them. You’re trying to focus on the case, you’re trying to ignore the nagging irritation building in your chest, but the more they interact, the more annoyed you become.

She’s practically flirting, and Spencer isn’t doing anything about it. Or, if he is noticing, he’s pretending it doesn’t bother him.

But it bothers you. Why does it bother you?

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the evidence bag in your hand, and before you know it, you’re standing too close to them, watching as Foster tries to steer Spencer away from the group to discuss something you know is irrelevant to the case.

It’s not urgent. You know it’s not urgent. But when you hear the soft cadence of her voice inviting Spencer to join her for a “quick chat” away from the others, the words explode out of you.

“Reid.” you say sharply, the sound of his name a snap. The words feel harsh even to your own ears.

Spencer’s head jerks around, blinking at you in surprise. His lips part, but you cut him off again, your voice colder than you intended. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

Foster stops mid-sentence, blinking in confusion at the sudden interruption. Her eyes flick to Spencer, and then back to you. The tension in the air thickens, but you don’t care.

You don’t care.

Except you do. And that makes it worse.

Spencer’s gaze softens as he turns back to you, the furrow in his brow deepening, something akin to concern flashing across his face. It only makes you more frustrated.

“I’m not finished yet,” Spencer protests quietly, but there’s a careful note in his voice, the kind that suggests he’s trying to be diplomatic, to avoid upsetting you.

You blink, realising you’ve taken another step too far. Your heart skips a beat at the softness in his voice, and for just a moment, you feel guilty. He’s just trying to help, trying to be professional. And yet, the only thing you can focus on is her.

You don’t let the guilt linger long. “Then stop getting distracted.” you snap, then force yourself to look away, eyes darting back to the scene as if it somehow holds your attention now. You’re already backing off, leaving the words hanging in the air.

Spencer stares at you for a beat longer than necessary, confusion and concern still flickering in his eyes, but he doesn’t press it. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t question you further. Instead, he shifts back toward the group, muttering something to Morgan about a pattern in the evidence, and you hear the subtle shift in his voice—he’s letting it go.

But you don’t feel relieved.

The knot in your chest tightens again. Why did you say that? Why did you let her get to you?

You tell yourself it’s about professionalism. It’s about the case. You don’t have time for distractions, not when the clock is ticking. And you definitely don’t have time to unravel this feeling that’s spreading through you like an infection.

Spencer doesn’t argue. He doesn’t snap back at you, doesn’t give you the defensive posture that you might expect from anyone else. Instead, he does something that immediately pulls the rug out from under you.

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

For a moment, the world around you blurs, the noise of the crime scene and the murmurs of the team fading into the background. It’s just Spencer’s eyes, filled with something you can’t quite place—concern, maybe, or confusion, maybe a little of both. But it’s soft. Too soft.

Your pulse spikes, and for a split second, it feels like the floor is tipping beneath you. It’s so disarming, the quiet concern in his gaze, and it makes the frustration building inside you flare even higher.

“Are you okay?”

The question is simple, unassuming, and it cracks something inside you. It’s not a challenge, not a reprimand—it’s genuine, and that’s what makes it harder to brush off.

No. You’re not okay.

You’re furious, but you can’t explain why. You’re hurt, but you can’t pinpoint the cause. You’re jealous, and the idea of admitting that to yourself is enough to send your thoughts spiraling. And all the while, Spencer’s standing there, oblivious to the storm building inside you, just waiting for your response.

You can’t look at him anymore.

“I’m fine,” you mutter quickly, not meeting his eyes. You swallow, forcing your chest to loosen, fighting the sudden weight that presses down on your shoulders.

Your words come out stiff, rehearsed, and even to your own ears, they sound like a lie. But you say them anyway. Because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You turn abruptly, your boots echoing on the concrete floor as you walk away, away from Spencer and away from the nagging feeling that he might see through you if you stay.

But you’re not running. You’re not hiding. You’re just… focused.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

As you round the corner, your mind keeps racing, fighting to keep everything in order. You tell yourself you don’t care about the detective’s attention.

You tell yourself it’s unprofessional, it’s inappropriate. And you tell yourself that you’ve seen it all before, that Spencer’s just being Spencer—oblivious to the subtle ways people gravitate toward him.

But none of that feels convincing anymore.

By the time you’ve reached the far side of the warehouse, your hands are trembling slightly. You push them into your pockets, trying to centre yourself. You feel the familiar coldness wrapping around you again, your professional mask sliding back into place like armour. It’s easier this way.

A sharp breath escapes your lips as you lean against the wall, your head pressed back, eyes closed for a moment. Focus.

You force yourself to take another breath. You’re here for the case. That’s all.

But as the minutes pass, the tight knot in your chest refuses to loosen, and all you can think about is the way Spencer’s face looked when he asked you that question. Are you okay?

And, just for a fleeting second, you wonder if he knows more than you think.

—

The rest of the case proceeds, but something has shifted.

There’s an undeniable tension now—both around you and within you. As you walk through the newest crime scene, examining evidence and speaking with witnesses, Spencer doesn’t give you the space you’d expected.

He stays close, hovering just behind you, always near enough that you can feel the warmth of his presence even when you’re too busy to glance at him.

He’s speaking to you more than usual, asking for your input first, even in situations where it’s clear he already has the answers. It’s as if he’s checking in with you constantly, gauging your reaction before making any decisions of his own.

The subtle shift doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Foster, who had been so eager to claim his attention earlier, is starting to back off, visibly frustrated by his sudden disinterest in her suggestions. She tries a few more times to pull him away for a “quick chat,” but Spencer doesn’t respond to her advances the way he did before.

Instead, he looks to you.

“Hey, I think we might need a second look at the victim’s phone records,” he says, voice casual but with an edge of expectation, like he already knows you’ll agree. “What do you think?”

You pause, the request startling you slightly. Spencer doesn’t usually ask for your opinion on the more technical aspects of a case, but you don’t have time to process it. The words come automatically.

“Yeah, definitely. It might give us a window into the unsub’s next move.”

Spencer nods in approval, his face softening slightly as he absorbs your response. But there’s something else there, something unspoken—a quiet acknowledgment.

He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stay close as the investigation progresses, as if he’s subtly keeping his distance from Foster without even addressing it.

You’re still frustrated—at him, at the detective, at yourself—but there’s a tiny, almost imperceptible shift in your chest. That small part of you that feels like you’ve been seen. That he noticed.

Every time Foster attempts to direct him away from the group, Spencer brushes her off with a polite but clear, “I’ll be right with you,” his eyes flicking to you before he moves to stand closer. You don’t say anything. You’re not sure you even want to acknowledge it. But it’s there—an undercurrent you can’t ignore.

Your mind still races with frustration. You can’t shake the gnawing feeling that something’s off, and you can’t decide if it’s the case, the detective, or yourself. But every time Spencer looks to you for direction, every time he positions himself just a little too close, your frustration starts to dull, replaced by something else.

He’s noticing you. He’s listening.

When the team breaks for a quick huddle to discuss their next steps, Spencer stands beside you. Not next to Morgan or Hotch, not pulling away to talk to Foster. He’s deliberately close, his shoulder just grazing yours as he flips through his notes.

“You alright?” he asks again, in that soft, concerned tone that makes you almost uncomfortable. It’s like he’s waiting for you to admit something, like he already knows there’s something you’re not saying.

You want to brush him off, to tell him to stop worrying about you, but the question catches you off guard. For a brief moment, the irritation—toward him, toward Foster, toward everything—subsides, and you're left with something unspoken hanging between you two.

"I’m fine," you mutter again, a little more convincingly this time, even though it’s not true. But you can’t find the words to explain it. Not when you’re still trying to convince yourself that none of this should matter.

Spencer doesn’t push. He just nods, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips before he pulls away to engage with the team, but he keeps an eye on you, always just a little more attentive than usual.

You try to shake off the feeling that this—whatever this is—matters, but it’s hard to deny. The connection between you two is there, unspoken, and for some unknown reason you’re feeling a lot more vulnerable than usual.

And that, more than anything, is what frustrates you the most.

[vmpireslut]

౨ৎ sukuna + sundresses. [true from sukuna;), nsfw, fluff, kinda proof-read:(]

“fucking ouch, sukuna!”

the sharp impact of his slap against your backside causes you to glare at him, your hand gently stroking the heated skin. sukuna simply couldn't resist; it was impossible. you’re wearing that bright yellow sundress that hugs the swell of your hips and pushes your tits up. your nipples peaked from the breeze, it makes him want to bury his face in your chest and bite down.

his jaw ticks. god, he wants to lick you until you're whining. he can’t help the grin that breaks across his face. you look so cute, your lips forming a perfect pout as you shoot him a deadly glare. he draws you in and plants a soft kiss on your nose.

you look even cuter like this; with a smile on your face.

“that hurt.”

"there was a bee there, i swear!"

you huff out a disbelieving sound, but your lips betray you. it's a smirk, one that says, 'oh yeah, and I'm a virgin.’

sukuna doesn't care if you don't believe him, even though he is lying. he grins, moving his hand to cup the curve of your ass, squeezing the soft flesh. he doesn't bother to keep the hunger out of his expression. "you're an ass.” you puff, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

he moves even closer to you, the hand that had been resting on your ass slipping around to your waist. it's a gentle touch, his palm flat against your side and his fingers curling around your hip. when he speaks, his breath fans over your cheek, the smell of your strawberry chapstick wafting through the air.

it's in that low voice of his that drives you wild. "can i eat yours?" his tongue sweeping over your bottom lip, and he hums, pleased, when your mouth opens under his and your hands grip his forearms. your bodies together, your soft tits squishing against his hard chest.

his hands grip you harder, fingers digging into the flesh and he knows it must hurt, but you moan into his mouth and your fingers tangle into his hair, tugging.

sukuna's always loved how responsive you are, eager.

“you’re vile.” you roll your eyes, but they fall closed as his lips press against your jaw. the feeling of them, soft and warm, makes you melt. he drags them along your skin, his tongue slipping out to lick you. you smell like sugar, and he loves it.

“pretty please?”

sukuna begging? oh.

you’d chipped his rough exterior, revealing the soft, vulnerable side he tried so hard to hide. every moment with you peeled away another layer, and he found himself longing for your touch,

from the way you giggled at his stupid puns, to the way you religiously manicured all four of his hands, the way you sighed, it all drove him wild. he was so smitten.

"no freak. you said we could get ice-cream." that being the entire reason you'd even dolled up on the hot summer day. you much rather be curled up in your blanket hoodie watching twilight.

"humph. i know but... fuck you look s'pretty, making me crazy beautiful.” you feel him smile against you, the curve of his lips. he’s always smiling, grinning. always amused by something. you love that about him. he’s the most carefree person you've ever met. ryomen sukuna never worried about anything and you envied that.

he presses another kiss to your jaw, then another. a trail of saliva left on your skin as he sucks a mark onto your neck. you sigh and tilt your head, exposing the length of it for him. you knows you love it, how he nips at the tendon and how his fingers squeeze you.

"s-stop kuna, we're in public."

you're under a tree by the riverside where no one can see, but secretly, the thrill of it makes your stomach flip. he kisses your pulse point, a slow, lingering thing, before he's pulling back. "no fun."

sukuna's cheeks are flushed, his eyes a bit glazed. he wants to devour you. he wants to take you here, right under the tree. wants to bury his face between your thighs and eat you out.

fuck, the thought has his cock hard.

"fine gets go ice-cream you big baby, i’m eating her when we get home.”

and sukuna was a man of his word, gliding his two tongues along the seam of your core, his fingers digging into your ass, holding you still so he could eat you out.

he was relentless in the pursuit of your orgasm, the sounds he made while slurping your wetness into his mouth was sinful and lewd. he groaned, growled and even mewled when your fingers scratched against his scalp. your back was bowed off the bed, head thrown back as he buried his face into your cunt, his eyes open, watching your every expression as he feasted.

he wanted to see you break and he was succeeding. his tongue was long, forked at the ends, hot and slick as it lapped your juices. the pads of his digits were textured in such a way that when they rubbed your g-spot, it made you gush.

you cried out for him, you called out his name and praised him. he was a deity, a king, your everything. he was perfect in his imperfection, his skin decorated in tattoos, his body littered with scars. and when his hand drifted to your neglected clit, flicking the sensitive bud with his middle finger, you fell apart.

and you screamed his name, sobbing his name like a prayer. and when you were left shaking from the intensity, your hands fell to his head, trying to pull him away from your over sensitive bundle of nerves. but he wasn't having it, licking and slurping at your juices, groaning at the taste.

sukuna doesn't stop there, his hands pushing your legs up and back, pressing you into the mattress. he watches you with lust filled eyes, his cock hard and heavy and aching to be inside you.

he likes the sight of you, your face twisted in ecstasy and your body on full display. it’s cruel when he buries four fingers knuckle deep inside you, pumping them slowly, his thumb playing with your bud. you squirm under him, moaning as you claw at the sheets.

“she’s so loud for me.”

you can't catch a break, and soon you're sobbing his name, tears streaking down your face as he curls his fingers inside of you, massaging that spongy spot within you, his knuckles pressed against your g spot.

"mm, so much better than ice-cream."

[holyblonded]

vroom vroom | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, mapi leon x teen!reader, lucy bronze x teen!reader

summary: alexia, lucy, and mapi are tasked with teaching you how to drive

warnings: near death experience in a car, idk about spain’s driving laws but in most states in the US, you get your permit at 15 1/2 and then hold your permit for 9 months and be at least 16 and 3 months before you get you license so this is what it’s based on

notes: in my mind, both keira and lucy are still with barca 🧘🏾‍♀️

“You cannot be serious right now,” you said, staring in disbelief as Alexia secured the bicycle helmet onto her head, adjusting the straps with absolute precision.

“As a heart attack,” Alexia replied, now moving to put on elbow pads.

You turned to Olga, who was sprawled out on the couch, highly amused by the unfolding situation. “Tell her she’s being ridiculous.”

Olga smirked, barely holding back her laughter. “Amor, you are being ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously safe,” Alexia corrected, tapping the side of her helmet with confidence.

Your jaw dropped. “Ale, you’re teaching me how to drive. A car. Not a bike, not a scooter, a car. Why are you dressed like you’re about to enter a roller derby?”

Alexia crossed her arms. “Because the last time I let you sit behind the wheel, you nearly drove us into a bush. I like my life, and I intend to keep it intact.”

“That bush came out of nowhere!” you defended yourself, exasperated.

Olga snorted. “Bushes don’t move, Estrellita.”

You shot her a glare before turning back to Alexia. “Fine. If you’re going to be like this, then I get to wear my own safety gear.”

Alexia nodded approvingly. “Good. I have an extra helmet in the trunk.”

“That is not what I meant!” you groaned, dramatically flopping onto the couch.

Olga was shaking with laughter at this point, wiping her eyes. “You should’ve just taken the lesson, Estrellita. Now you’re both going to look like two children trying to qualify for their go-kart licenses.”

Alexia smirked. “Better safe than sorry.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I refuse to be seen in public with you like this.”

“Too bad,” Alexia said, grabbing the car keys and motioning for you to follow. “Because we’re going. And if you complain, I will make you wear knee pads too.”

You groaned, dragging your feet toward the door.

“Have fun, kids!” Olga called after you, still giggling.

“You have got to be shitting me!” you exclaimed, freezing in place as you climbed into the driver’s seat, only to be met with Mapi and Lucy sitting smugly in the back.

Both were decked out in full protective gear—helmets securely fastened, elbow and knee pads strapped on like they were about to be thrown into a demolition derby rather than a driving lesson.

“Why are the two of you here? And the helmets? Really?” You gestured wildly, turning to Alexia, who was climbing into the passenger seat like she was about to endure the worst experience of her life.

“Because I can’t do this alone anymore,” Alexia muttered, rubbing her temples like she was already regretting her choices.

“The helmets and guards are for our protection,” Mapi chimed in, adjusting the straps on her helmet until they were practically cutting off circulation. “Last time I took you driving, you nearly hit a mailman.”

“In my defense, he came out of nowhere,” you shot back, crossing your arms.

“It was his job to be there! That’s why it’s called mail delivery. You don’t deliver it from the sky!”

Lucy snorted, reaching for her seatbelt. “Yeah, Ale called us in for backup after she told us about the bush incident.”

You groaned, slumping against the wheel. “The bush was literally in the way!”

“The bush was on the sidewalk, Estrelleta,” Alexia deadpanned.

“Okay, whatever. Everybody buckle up,” you muttered, pressing the button to start the car.

“Oh trust me, I’ve been buckled since the moment I sat down,” Mapi said, yanking the belt so tight that it looked like it might fuse with her body.

“Same,” Lucy agreed, giving her helmet a few extra taps. “You can never be too careful.”

Alexia sighed, pressing the bridge of her nose. “Alright, let’s go over the basics again before we even think about moving.”

“I know the basics,” you huffed.

“Oh, do you?” Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Then tell me, where’s the brake?”

You pressed your lips together, staring at the pedals. “Uh, the left one?”

Alexia inhaled sharply, her grip on the passenger-side handle tightening.

Lucy whispered to Mapi, “We are so gonna die.”

“You’ll be fine,” you waved them off. “Alright, here we go!”

And with that, you slammed your foot down.

The car jerked forward like it had just been launched out of a slingshot, sending Mapi and Lucy flying back into their seats with strangled yelps.

“ESTRELLETA!” Alexia screeched, bracing herself against the dashboard.

“BRAKE, BRAKE, BRAKE!” Mapi yelled, gripping the back of Alexia’s seat for dear life.

“I am braking!” you argued.

“No! You’re accelerating!” Lucy shrieked, hands gripping the ceiling as if that would help.

You let out a panicked scream, slamming your foot down on something—thankfully, this time, it was actually the brake.

Everyone lurched forward with a collective oof, and for a moment, there was complete and utter silence in the car.

Alexia, breathing heavily, turned her head very slowly to look at you.

“What,” she said, voice eerily calm, “was that?”

You gave her a sheepish smile. “A test?”

Lucy let out a weak laugh from the back. “Yeah, well, I just saw my entire life flash before my eyes, so that’s fun.”

“I think I had an out-of-body experience,” Mapi muttered, still clutching Alexia’s seat. “I literally saw myself floating above the car.”

“Okay, okay, let’s try again,” you said, clearing your throat.

“God help us,” Alexia mumbled under her breath.

This time, you actually listened to Alexia’s instructions (mostly). The car started smoothly, and for a few blissful minutes, it almost seemed like things were going well.

Until you had to make a turn.

“Turn slowly, slowly—” Alexia started, but it was too late.

You turned the wheel way too fast, sending the car swerving violently.

“SLOWLY, I SAID SLOWLY!” Alexia yelled, grabbing onto the handle above her door.

“WHY IS THIS THING SO SENSITIVE?!” you shrieked back, trying to straighten out.

Lucy and Mapi were screaming in the back.

“ESTRELLITA, I SWEAR TO GOD—” Mapi howled.

“I WANT TO GO HOME!” Lucy shouted.

Somehow, miraculously, you managed to get the car straightened out again. Everyone sat there, breathing heavily.

Alexia had her face buried in her hands.

Mapi looked like she might be reconsidering her entire life.

Lucy was muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

Then, you approached a stop sign.

Alexia exhaled, nodding. “Alright. Good, now—”

But instead of gently stopping, you slammed the brake, sending everyone lurching forward again.

“I SAID GENTLE!” Alexia yelled.

“My bad!” you huffed.

“I HAVE WHIPLASH,” Mapi announced dramatically, rubbing her neck.

“Oh my God, I think my soul left my body again,” Lucy muttered, eyes wide.

And then, finally, you parked.

You leaned back in your seat, exhaling in satisfaction. “I think that went well.”

Alexia turned her head slowly, staring at you like you’d grown a second head.

Mapi and Lucy were both still gripping their seats like they were waiting for the final impact.

“Well?” Alexia repeated, voice dangerously high-pitched.

You grinned. “Yeah! Nobody died, right?”

Alexia blinked. Then she turned to Lucy and Mapi.

“I need strong alcohol,” she announced.

“Agreed,” Mapi and Lucy said in unison.

You pouted. “That’s rude.”

Alexia pointed at you. “You are never driving without supervision.”

“I don’t think my heart can handle another lesson,” Lucy admitted.

“I know mine can’t,” Mapi added, pulling off her helmet with shaky hands.

“Oh come on, I wasn’t that bad!” you protested.

Alexia just gave you a look. “Get out of the driver’s seat before I have an aneurysm.”

With a dramatic sigh, you unbuckled and slid out of the car. “Such little faith.”

As you walked off, Mapi turned to Lucy and muttered, “Next time, we bring airbags.”

Lucy nodded, still dazed. “And a priest.”

[sordidmusings]

!!!OP MANGA SPOILERS DUDE!!!

I can’t stop thinking about Shanks and Shamrock stealing you from each other.

Summary: First is Shamrock, seeing Shanks’ happiness from having you and both wanting to have that for himself and also simply wanting to keep it from the other. Second is Shanks, saving you from being Shamrock’s plaything and inadvertently gaining the same obsession for you. Both must have made the other think you were dead to keep you, because there’s no way they wouldn’t raze the world to get you back if they knew you were out there.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: NSFW themes but no explicit descriptions of sex - more dances around it and focuses more on the acts around it and the implications of those, gn reader

Very yandere style, especially on Shamrock’s part. There’s a place where Shanks could be doing it for the right reasons - maybe on that trip back to Mariejois, he spied on his relatives and saw your mistreatment and just had to save you. Saving you and keeping you just blurred into the same thing because, after all, where are you safer than at the side of the great Emperor?

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

Shamrock doesn’t need to delude himself into feeling like the Good Guy. If he wants something, he takes it. Who’s gonna stop him? It’s his right to have whatever he wants. He’ll just add you to the collection of people he keeps to worship him - and worship him they do. He’s a god amongst men, power and divinity made flesh, a walking idol and altar.

But you don’t. Yes, you wake him before the sun, wash his body with reverence, groom and clothe him, bring him his food and press it to his lips, follow him more dutifully than his shadow, allow him rights to your body night and day, but he can see the rebellion you have stored away deep, where you can wrap your soul in it thick enough to keep even him out. You never truly fought him more strongly than hesitation on orders, but his sight is as strong as Shanks'. He knows you give your love to the little cockroaches causing chaos in the world, praying to them in your heart even when your lips move to speak devotion to him. He wonders how often you pray for Shanks and it makes him angry enough to think of cracking the world open.

He tried breaking you. Shamrock had been raised to meet love with cruelty from his first breath, so it was quite easy. He berated you, isolated you, ran you ragged, but you’d just meet him with outward obedience. He watched as your internal and external worlds grew more dissonant and you got even farther from him. His anger grew such that he didn’t notice the empty pit beneath it.

How did Shanks get your love? He was a jovial fool so he likely showered you in sweet things and affection. He could try that.

But Shamrock wasn’t built for affection. It rang hollow, forced and insincere. Now even that pissed him off. He can do anything, why not this? Why was it so easy for Shanks? He doesn’t care if it was something he looked down on, he needed to be better than everyone at everything. The fear that failing at perfection set in him was something he never wanted to address. He shouldn’t need to; he was born of god’s blood and gods. don’t. fail.

You were more gracious than Shamrock deserved through his attempts. Trinkets were accepted and kept with the utmost care, even when you wanted to smash them beneath your feet. Fingers running over your scalp, a bit too rough to be calming (unlike the ones you missed so so dearly), were accepted placidly even when you wanted to turn and bite at them until you felt crunching bone. Lavish clothes were worn for all to see then later stripped before his eyes. Each time, the urge to scream would lessen as you simply lived somewhere inside of you where this felt Nice. Where you didn’t feel like a fattened pig getting patronizing pets and farcical adoration, all given not for what you are now but for the bacon they’d one day be chewing.

Shamrock got more desperate the more he tried affection. You leaned into his advances with more habit and ease and he found he loved it. He didn’t know if it was because of the novelty of getting closer to his goal of completely owning you or if he genuinely enjoyed the softness. He didn’t care. Either way, he was closer to invading that little place in you kept for yourself, right beyond the love you kept for Shanks. Once he was there, he didn’t care if your devotion was from obligation or love, so long as it all belonged to him.

Or so he thought.

One night, when he was getting his fill of you, it was different. You were different. You didn’t just let him do as he pleased and follow orders; you met him with your own wants and actions. Your hands weren’t just docile, they were seeking. Your breath wasn’t placid, it was canting. Your lips weren’t soothing, they were ravenous. And your voice - your voice. It held him captive in its tones, each one full of praise and pleasure and need. He’d never felt the bloom and rush of adrenaline come to life in his chest like it did when you kissed your way to his ear to rest your temples together and sing your praises right against the shell.

It hit Shamrock that this is what wanted all along - adoration given willingly, not dredged out through fear and necessity. He’d had it offered to him by hundreds and thousands, but none felt as good as earning it from you. Your loving touch had washed the anger straight out of him, exposing the yawning maw of that empty pit in his being. He shook in its presence but then you held him tighter, kissed him warmer, and it began filling drop by drop. He set a promise in his soul to do whatever he could to keep you treating him like this - no matter the cost, no matter the action, no matter the brutality, no matter the humiliation.

What Shamrock didn’t know, was that he didn’t destroy that stronghold in you; you simply enfolded him in it for a short while. You wanted to pretend. You wanted to live in love again, even if just for a bit, even if it wasn’t real.

But you had to be careful.

If you sighed Shanks’ name, you’re sure he’d kill you.

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

While Shamrock’s story was of breaking your will, Shanks' story is of breaking your fear.

Your whole life is built around it. Fear is your drive, fear is every interaction. Fear both steals and drives your breath, fear steals and shapes your every dream. Most of all, fear is home and fear is safety.

Shanks' heart aches at what Shamrock made of you. Is there a person in there beyond the wounded animal? Or are they so far beyond reach they may as well be dead?

Seeing you, a ball of survival instinct made at once of tempered obedience and frantic reactivity, has him even more sure of all his choices to stay far away from the life his blood could afford him. Sure, the world is cruel and has broken many a man in their search for goods and glory and freedom, but not like this. This could only be achieved by a conscious effort hell bent on complete domination, knowledgeable in cruelty and uncaring for suffering.

Shanks is sure that freedom would save you, but freedom doesn't sit so well on you. Freedom is dangerous, freedom is unpredictable. Freedom sets a panic in you just as deep as Shamrock’s cruelty. What if you do something wrong? What if Shanks is testing you? What if you get punished? What if you make it worse?

Despite all of his patience and coaxing, you cling tightly to the devil you know, sinking your fingers in deep enough to bruise you both.

Shanks isn't one to give up though. Especially because instead of annoying him like you both thought this inevitably would, it gives him a new sense of purpose. He's no stranger to being a guardian - if anything it's a role he ends up inhabiting naturally in the majority of his relationships. It's just cranked up to eleven with you.

Shanks lets his crew (and just about only his crew) embrace you in their presence and cheer, loving that it helps some smiles shine more honestly on you. You were taken in readily and easily; Shanks’ crew is well attuned to him and follow his feelings for things like it's second nature. The times they disagree do exist but are few and far between. As Shanks orbited closer and closer to you, one of those cropped up.

Beckman had concerns for your purpose there, your safety, your future. Concerns about Shanks' intent. They only grew when Shanks shut down any discussion on the matter. At first it was waving Beckman off with his easy smiles and promises that he's just keeping you safe and enjoys having you around. That's no crime right? When Beckman presses him to be serious, he sees a crackle of energy in Shanks' eyes that’s saved for their worst enemies.

Beckman backs off. While he still worries for his friend and captain (somethings not right about that unexplainable fervor-), you are not worth making an enemy of him.

Shanks doesn't see the obsession with which he treats you. He doesn't see how not only his habits and his life begin to revolve around you but his heart and mind too. You're his first concern when he wakes and his last wish before he sleeps. You're the rudder steering his decisions, your comfort and well being influencing everything. What influences him most though is the possibility of earning your love and devotion. The idea alone that you could one day turn to him and tell him that he makes you feel safe drives Shanks forward like a wolf snapping at the ankles of a sprinting elk.

Where before he would give you space to learn autonomy, Shanks saves you from that fearful task by always holding you close. You know what you're supposed to do if he has an arm around your shoulder or plops you in his lap; you follow him, you melt into him, you keep him smiling and laughing and happy. It's much nicer than the way Shamrock would hold and direct you - there's never any pain or punishment and there is always reward.

While Shanks doesn't decorate himself in riches, he has more than most lifetimes could accrue. He passes them to you readily, finding a deep-seated pleasure in seeing you dressed in treasures he gave you. While he's happy to see you in anything of his (his heart nearly stopped then burst whenever he managed to convince you to wear his shirts or cloak), the pricy and rare objects being something only he could give you sates him. It shuts up a tiny panicked voice saying that you might leave, that Shamrock may come back and scoop you up and actually win your love this time.

He knows how ridiculous the idea is; your fear for Shamrock is so great he doesn't even know if you have room for hate beside it. But Shanks doesn't care. The idea of you just being gone puts a vice in his chest and a whirlwind in his head and he forgets how to breathe and how to think. It sets a tremble through his bones that reminds him of his worst days - pain and loss and death - and he thinks it's a curse that you both must live with panic beside each other. Now, if you were to live with each other, then surely all you would both know is happiness.

Shanks has won over countless women (and men and otherwise for that matter) so he simply starts using what he's learned to win you too.

Shanks tells you such nice things. He tells you how beautiful you are, how resilient you are, how lucky he is to have gotten you. You don’t believe a word of it even though you can tell he means it. But it’s still nice to hear. Each time you do, it gets a touch easier to pretend he’s not lying. If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Figarlands, though, it's that they’ll chase what they want with all that they have, no matter the cost or consequences. For some reason, he has decided that you are what he wants, so you’ll make it easy and skip all the drastic measures.

Shanks lasts as long as he could stand before he tries getting under your clothes. By the time he folds to his wants, they've grown into a great beast always clawing at his back, weighing him down, making him ache. He'd begun gritting his teeth every time he saw you, flinching at your touch before settling to it, looking away before taking you in, pinching his lips before forcing a smile. It had you terrified.

What did you do wrong? Did he find out how worthless you are? Was he forcing the whole time? Does he hate you now? Is he going to get rid of you? You need to fix it.

Shanks last bit of resolve breaks when he sees you approaching him, shaking in your boots but trying to keep a brave face, and the first bit of determination he's seen in you twists your face in a frown. He's seen the starting pieces of a personality come back to you - intelligence when you help problem solve around the ship, playfulness when you're loose from a night of drinking with the crew, compassion when you sit with anyone who's hurting - but this is your first time taking initiative for a want. And that want has to do with him. Just as it should.

You barely get out a question before he's whisking you away to "talk privately". You barely get through the door to his cabin before his lips are on yours. You barely make it out of your clothes before falling in his bed.

Touch is something you hated for a long time. Touch meant pain and panic. Shanks teaches you that touch means so much more. It started with the casual touch and little shows of affection, but none of that compared to this. Shanks touches every piece of you he can find and finds every way to make it feel good. He's greedy for your body but he's also greedy for your pleasure, gorging himself on it yet never finding his fill. He's domineering in how he moves and bends you to find it, in how he directs you to his whims. It's softened by whispers of love and devotion, sweetened by his flushed face and sweet kisses and shining eyes. It sets your chest on fire, especially when he seeks your praise. He ties his mind to it as a tether to make it through the calamity shredding through him.

You don't care what he asks of you. You don't care what restrictions he sets. You don't care what choices he takes from you. You think this must be what love is supposed to feel like. It wrings tight around you and infects you and helps you forget yourself. Despite the squeeze, there's no pain. There's no fear. Shanks can take care of that for you.

Shanks' fate is set as surely as yours when you admit to him, "I've never felt safe before." Before. He never thought he'd care so much for the word but right now it's everything. It's your first proclamation of love, first admission that you need him.

As much as he'd trap you to his side, you have Shanks bound to yours. He'll bend his future, his needs, his morals for you. He'll worship you like a dying man begging forgiveness before his judgment. Ask anything you want of him and it's yours. Just don't ever ask to leave.

~ ~ ~ ••• ✦✦✦ ••• ~ ~ ~

Thank you for reading the rambles my sweets!! I’m taken enough with the idea that I may have to write some scenes from each of these plot lines. Maybe also reaction for when they find out that the other had taken you. Please let me know if you’re interested as it will make that more likely!

Tag list: @uh-hah @schoute @hannahbarberra162 @feral-artistry @mytanuki-kun

Again, I am redoing my tag list so please tell me explicitly that you’d like to be added if you would! Assumptions make me feel like I am Bothering 🧍‍♀️

Masterlist

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters Receiving a Dirty Picture from You in Public

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

God, I love Marvel Comics...

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

Peter has been through a lot. He’s fought villains, lost people he’s loved, and carried the weight of responsibility since he was a kid. But nothing—not Venom, not Doctor Octopus, not the Green Goblin—has ever hit him as hard as opening his phone and seeing you.

He’s perched upside-down on a fire escape, mid-stakeout with Daredevil, when his phone buzzes. He barely glances at it at first, assuming it’s an update from MJ or the Bugle. But then—his Spidey-Sense misfires. His stomach drops. And suddenly, he’s scrambling so fast that he almost falls off the fire escape.

“...Parker?” Matt’s voice is suspicious, brow furrowing beneath the red mask. Peter clutches his phone like a lifeline, heat rushing to his face, his entire body going rigid. “Uh—nope! Nothing’s wrong! Totally fine! Just, uh—gotta—go!” Before Matt can say another word, Peter web-slings away, heart pounding.

Later, in his apartment, he stares at the image, biting his lip so hard he might draw blood. Then, fumbling with his phone, he types back: You cannot just drop this on me in the middle of a mission. I almost DIED. You’re gonna make it up to me. In person. Immediately.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

Tony Stark is always the one making people flustered. He’s the king of inappropriate timing, the grandmaster of chaos. So when you flip the game on him? When you send him something completely indecent while he’s in the middle of a live press conference? Oh, he is in trouble.

He’s mid-sentence, standing in front of a sea of reporters, when his phone vibrates. He glances at it without thinking, because hey, it might be about stock prices or another alien invasion. But no. No, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

He visibly freezes. Blinks. Blanches. Then—his brain blue screens. The entire room stares as Tony suddenly cuts off mid-sentence, clears his throat, and forces a smirk that’s absolutely not covering up a crisis. “Uh—ladies and gentlemen, I think that’s enough questions for today.”

The moment he’s offstage, he stumbles into the nearest private room, yanks at his tie, and pulls out his phone like it holds the meaning of life. He types back immediately: Oh, now you’ve done it, sweetheart. I hope you’re home right now, because I’m on my way, and I’m bringing consequences.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

Steve is not a prude. He’s been around, he’s seen things. But there’s something about you—about the way you know exactly how to knock the breath from his lungs—that makes him feel like a kid again.

He’s in the middle of a strategy meeting with Sam and Bucky, his shield leaning against the table, when his phone vibrates. He checks it without thinking, eyes flicking down—and then every muscle in his body tenses. His grip on the phone tightens. His ears burn red.

“You good, Rogers?” Bucky gives him a knowing smirk, because he immediately recognizes that look—Steve flustered beyond belief. Steve clears his throat, hard, locking his phone like it’s offended him. “Fine,” he says, voice a little too even. “Let’s, uh—let’s keep going.”

But later, when he’s alone, he exhales deeply, pressing a hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, with slow deliberation, he types: I hope you know what you just started. Because I don’t break my promises, sweetheart. And I promise—you’re not leaving that bed when I get there.

Thor Odinson aka. God of Thunder

Thor has seen battles, has waged wars across the cosmos, has faced monsters and gods. But when his phone pings—when he sees the absolute sin that you’ve just sent him—he forgets how to breathe.

He is in the middle of the Avengers’ common room, laughing boisterously with Bruce and Natasha, when he pulls out his phone. He expects something simple—a text from his brother, perhaps, or a message from Jane. But instead? Instead, he sees you.

The entire room feels it when Thor’s laughter stops. There is a moment—just a beat of silence—before the lights flicker. The air crackles with static electricity. His fingers twitch around the phone, and then, in a low, very serious voice, he mutters, “By the Norns…”

Natasha raises an eyebrow, but Thor abruptly stands, clearing his throat. “I must depart. Urgently.” Bruce frowns. “What? Why?” Thor barely offers an explanation before storming out of the room, typing furiously: You dare tempt the God of Thunder? Very well, little one. You shall learn what it means to summon a storm.

Loki Laufeyson aka. God of Mischief

Loki is the undisputed master of control. He is calm, composed, always one step ahead of everyone else. But when you send him something so shameless, so brazen, in the middle of an important diplomatic event in Asgard—he nearly drops his goblet of wine.

He’s reclining on his throne, listening to some dull ambassador drone on about trade negotiations, when his phone vibrates. He lifts it lazily, expecting nothing of importance—until he sees you.

His entire body goes rigid. His grip tightens around the goblet, the silver denting beneath his fingers. His green eyes darken, and for the first time in centuries, he feels his pulse stutter. The ambassador keeps talking, oblivious, but Loki? Loki is seething.

Later, in his chambers, he lounges on his bed, turning the phone over in his fingers before smirking. Then, with slow, careful precision, he types: You dare tease the God of Mischief? Oh, darling, you are in such trouble. And you know how much I enjoy trouble.

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

Clint Barton is used to chaos. He’s fought alien invasions, taken down crime syndicates, and, most impressively, lived in a house with three dogs and somehow survived. But nothing—not the Avengers, not S.H.I.E.L.D., not even Kate Bishop’s endless sarcasm—could have prepared him for this.

He’s in the middle of a debriefing with Captain America and Black Widow when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it, but boredom gets the better of him. He sneaks a glance, tilting the screen just slightly—and immediately chokes on his coffee.

“Barton?” Natasha’s voice is sharp, her suspicious gaze snapping to him. Steve looks concerned. Clint, on the other hand, is malfunctioning. He quickly locks his phone, pressing it to his thigh like it’s burning him. “Yep. All good. Just… wrong text thread. You know how it is.”

The second he’s alone, he whistles, rubbing a hand down his face before sending a text: You are absolutely trying to kill me, aren’t you? I’m a trained marksman, babe. You know I always hit my target. Hope you’re ready.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

Natasha Romanoff is a professional. She’s endured psychological conditioning, trained with the deadliest assassins in the world, and can lie so well that even she forgets what’s real. But when you send her something so utterly filthy, in the middle of a high-stakes poker game with some very dangerous people—she nearly loses her composure.

She’s holding a perfect poker face, one leg crossed over the other, a cigarette between her fingers (purely for effect). Then, her phone buzzes. She never checks her phone during missions, but for some reason, she does this time.

The second she sees the image, her fingers twitch. She almost fumbles her cigarette. Almost. A single slow breath is all that betrays her before she locks the screen and smirks, adjusting her sunglasses to hide the flicker of heat in her gaze.

Later, after she’s won the game (because of course she has), she finally responds: You must be very confident, sending me something like that. I hope you know what happens when I catch my prey, моя любовь (my love). Because I always catch them.

Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier

Bucky is already always on edge. He spent decades being controlled, his mind fractured, his instincts constantly telling him that danger lurks around every corner. But when his phone vibrates in the middle of a mission briefing and he makes the mistake of checking it—he nearly self-destructs.

He’s sitting next to Sam Wilson, arms crossed, trying to focus on the tactical discussion. Then, out of habit, he glances at his phone. And suddenly? His enhanced heartbeat spikes. His grip on the phone tightens, metal fingers creaking.

Sam immediately notices. “Dude. You okay?” Bucky doesn’t answer. He just exhales deeply, jaw clenching, and locks his phone like it’s personally offended him. “Fine,” he mutters, but the way his throat bobs betrays him.

Later, in the privacy of his room, he leans against the wall, pressing his flesh hand over his face before looking at the image again. Then, he types—slow, deliberate, full of promise: You are playing with fire, doll. And you know I don’t burn alone.

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

Matt has learned to control himself. He has to, considering his senses pick up everything. The heartbeat of a liar, the scent of blood, the whisper of fabric against skin. But when he puts in his earpiece during a stakeout with Elektra and hears you—sultry, teasing, wicked—his composure shatters.

Your voice is a purr, warm and full of amusement, as you describe, in explicit detail, exactly what you want to do to him. Every syllable slides into his ear like a sin, and for the first time in years, Matt Murdock forgets how to breathe.

“Murdock.” Elektra’s voice is unimpressed. “Are you even listening?” Matt clenches his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as he slowly removes the earpiece. “Yeah,” he lies, his voice way too tight. “Loud and clear.” But his fingers twitch, betraying him.

Later, alone in his apartment, he plays the message again. And again. Until his own heartbeat is thunderous in his ears. Then, with a slow smirk, he records his reply—his voice low, gravelly, barely more than a rasp: Angel, you have no idea what you’ve just done. And I promise—you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

Frank Castle does not fluster. He’s a man who’s seen the worst of the world, a soldier who has lost everything. He does not get distracted. But when he’s sitting in the middle of a grimy bar, brooding over a whiskey, and his phone vibrates—everything stops.

He checks it absently, expecting intel from Micro or maybe a warning from Daredevil. But instead, he gets you. And just like that, his grip on the glass tightens. His jaw locks. His entire body tenses, muscles coiled, because you have just sent him something so utterly indecent that he has to set his whiskey down before he crushes the glass.

The bartender notices. “You good, man?” Frank barely glances up, his fingers white-knuckled around his phone. “Fine,” he mutters, voice rough. He shoves his phone back in his pocket and downs the rest of his drink in one go.

Later, in the dead of night, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, before sending a single message: You think you’re real cute, huh? Yeah. Keep that same energy when I get home. See if you’re still smirking when I’ve got my hands on you.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

Marc has lived multiple lives. A mercenary. A vigilante. A fist of vengeance. But the moment his phone vibrates in the middle of a stakeout, and he sees you—he nearly blows his own cover.

He’s perched on a rooftop, watching a weapons deal go down, his mind sharp and focused. Then, out of habit, he checks his phone. His breath hitches. His grip tightens around the device, and he has to physically restrain himself from groaning. Khonshu’s voice rumbles in his mind: "Your mortal desires are distracting, Spector." Marc grits his teeth. "Yeah, no shit."

“Something wrong?” Jake’s voice purrs from inside his head, amused. “She send you something nice, hermano?” Marc rolls his eyes, exhaling sharply before locking his phone. “Mind your damn business.” But his pulse is thundering.

Later, back at his apartment, he leans against the wall, staring at the image before typing: You have no idea what you’ve just done. Hope you’re home. Hope you’re ready.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

Johnny Storm is used to attention. He thrives on it. He’s a celebrity, a hero, a walking flame. But when you send him something scandalous in the middle of a live television interview, even he isn’t ready for it.

He’s laughing, flashing his signature cocky grin at the camera, when his phone buzzes. He checks it without thinking—because hey, it might be Sue yelling at him again—but instead, it’s you. In the filthiest pose imaginable.

Johnny visibly chokes. His entire body tenses. For the first time ever, he forgets what he was saying. The interviewer blinks. “Uh… Johnny?” His brain short-circuits. His face heats—literally. The tips of his ears ignite before he clenches his fists and forces himself to not spontaneously combust on live television.

The second the interview is over, he’s sprinting to his dressing room, slamming the door shut and typing frantically: Ohhh, you are in trouble. You’re really trying to set me on fire, huh? Hope you’re home, babe, ‘cause I’m flying over. Right. Now.

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

Reed Richards is a genius. His mind is constantly working at speeds beyond human comprehension. But when he’s mid-lecture at a prestigious scientific conference and his phone vibrates—his brilliant mind suddenly goes blank.

He absently checks his phone, half-expecting an alert from the Baxter Building. But instead, it’s you. Wearing almost nothing.

For a solid ten seconds, he is frozen. His eyes slightly widen. His fingers twitch. And then, very slowly, he locks his phone and clears his throat. “Ah—excuse me, esteemed colleagues, but I must—um—attend to an urgent matter.”

Later, he adjusts his glasses, staring at the image with a fascinated, almost scientific appreciation. Then, with methodical precision, he types: You are a very distracting woman. I will be conducting an… in-depth study on you as soon as I return. Expect a thorough examination.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

Felicia Hardy is a master of seduction. She flusters men for fun. But when she’s in the middle of a high-stakes casino heist, and you send her something utterly indecent, even she loses her composure.

She’s leaning against the bar, sipping an expensive martini, eyes locked on her mark. Then, her phone buzzes. She lazily checks it, expecting an update from her crew. But instead? Instead, she sees you.

Her eyelashes flutter. Her lips part just slightly. And for the first time in years, her poker face cracks. The bartender—oblivious—raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay, miss?” Felicia exhales, smirking as she locks her phone. “Oh, it’s better than okay.”

Later, she lounges on silk sheets, staring at the picture before purring into her phone: You really think you can tease me, kitten? Oh, sweetheart… you just made a very expensive bet. And I never lose.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

Stephen Strange is not easily shaken. He’s fought cosmic horrors, bent reality, and wielded power beyond mortal comprehension. But when he’s in the middle of a magical duel with Dormammu, and you send him a sinfully explicit picture—he almost loses.

He’s mid-incantation, floating above the Sanctum’s rooftop, when his phone vibrates. Normally, he’d ignore it—except something in the back of his mind tells him it’s you. He flicks his fingers, glancing at the screen—and immediately regrets it.

His spell stutters. His fingers twitch. The fabric of reality briefly warps. Wong, standing below, yells, “What the hell was that?!” Stephen clenches his jaw, locking his phone immediately before snapping his wrist and repairing the timeline. “Nothing,” he mutters. “Absolutely nothing.”

The moment the battle is over, he retreats into his study, loosening his Cloak, before typing: You dare distract the Sorcerer Supreme? You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed, darling. And I do hope you’re prepared for consequences beyond mortal comprehension.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

Namor is a king. He does not answer to anyone. He has waged war against the surface world, stood against the mightiest heroes, and commands the loyalty of an entire empire. But when he is seated on his throne, discussing politics with his council, and his communicator vibrates—everything else becomes irrelevant.

He glances down, expecting a diplomatic missive. Instead, he is greeted by you—a vision of temptation, captured in a way that only he has the privilege to see. His grip on the communicator tightens, his lips parting slightly. The light of the display reflects in his dark, narrowed eyes.

The council drones on, but Namor hears nothing. His golden gauntlets flex, his knuckles tightening as his jaw sets. A slow, deliberate exhale is all that betrays his reaction. But those closest to him—his most trusted generals—see the flicker of something dangerous in his expression. A storm, barely contained.

Later, as he stands upon his balcony, overlooking the endless ocean, he types a single response: You seek to tempt a king, my love? Then be prepared for the wrath of a god. When next we meet, you will drown in my devotion.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

Johnny Blaze has seen Hell—literally. He has ridden across the desolate highways of damnation, stared into the abyss, and laughed. But when he’s sitting in a biker bar, nursing a whiskey and half-listening to some guy ramble about the Devil, his phone vibrates. And when he checks it—he nearly sets the whole place on fire.

The image of you is burned into his mind, seared into his soul. He sucks in a slow breath through his teeth, his fingers tightening around the glass. His knuckles go white. Somewhere deep inside, the Spirit of Vengeance chuckles.

“Something wrong, Blaze?” One of the other bikers eyes him warily. Johnny forces a smirk, setting his whiskey down before he crushes the glass in his grip. “Nah,” he rasps, his voice a little too rough. “Just realized I got… unfinished business to take care of.”

Later, on his Hellfire-coated bike, he sends a text: You got a real bad habit of making me wanna sin, sweetheart. And I promise—I’ll make sure you repent. Over. And over.

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

Eddie Brock has been through hell. He’s fought monsters, been one himself, lost everything, and still kept going. But nothing—not a damn thing—could prepare him for the absolute carnage of getting that picture from you in the middle of a crowded subway.

He’s scrolling through his phone absentmindedly, Venom muttering in his head about wanting tater tots, when the image loads. For a solid five seconds, he is completely still. Then—

“Eddie.” Venom’s voice rumbles, amused. “Your mate is very… bold. We approve.” Eddie, red-faced, slams his phone against his chest like that’ll somehow erase what just happened. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes darting around to make sure no one saw. A teenager across from him raises an eyebrow.

Later, when he’s alone, he finally lets himself look at the picture again. A slow, predatory grin spreads across his face as he types back: Oh, you think you’re being cute, huh? Yeah. Just wait till I get my hands on you. Hell, maybe we’ll even let Venom have a little fun, too.

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

T’Challa is a king, a warrior, a legend. His mind is a fortress, his will unshakable. But when he is seated in the royal palace of Wakanda, surrounded by dignitaries, and his Kimoyo Beads alert him to a personal message—his focus wavers.

He allows himself a discreet glance. And in that moment? His heart skips a single beat. His fingers—steady even in the heat of battle—tighten just slightly around his beads. His expression does not change. But to those who know him well—Okoye, Shuri—they notice the subtlest flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

Shuri smirks. “Brother,” she murmurs, leaning in. “You look… distracted.” T’Challa exhales deeply, locking the message with a casual flick of his fingers. “I am merely… anticipating a conversation.”

Later, when he is alone, he reviews the picture once more, fingers grazing his jaw before he types: You are testing my patience, beloved. And you know I am a man of great discipline. But for you? I am willing to break my own rules. Expect me soon.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

Elektra Natchios does not fluster. She has slit the throats of kings, danced on the edge of oblivion, and played cat-and-mouse with death itself. But when she is sharpening her sai on the rooftop of a New York high-rise and her phone buzzes—her grip falters.

The blade nicks her glove. Barely. But it happens. Her lips part in a slow, dangerous smirk as she tilts the phone toward the moonlight, drinking in the absolute audacity of your message.

“Something amusing?” A voice—a rival assassin, lurking in the shadows. Elektra does not answer. She merely tucks her phone away, standing smoothly, her stance lethal. “Yes,” she purrs. “Something… very amusing.”

Later, as she leans against the window of her penthouse, she finally sends a reply: You are so very reckless, my love. And I do enjoy breaking reckless little things.

[bunny-jpeg]

sinful sentences (ten)

carlos sainz jr - "i want you to be louder, my love."

tags: smut/pwp, intimacy, winter break, sex by the fireplace, isolation, praise & dirty talk, drinking

sinful sentences catalogue

quietness in the mountains. privacy that you and carlos craved. after a whirlwind season that left so many changes, you both wanted peace and quiet. and for you it meant secluding yourself in a private cabin. away from anyone who could bother you.

you enjoyed the peace from the press. carlos enjoyed how much more liberal you were with clothing. especially when the fire in the fireplace was roaring. it was nice to not see you so bundled up when in the cabin. the warmth from the fire allowed you to dress in very little and keep yourself warm. carlos knew it was game over for him when you were in his new williams racing t-shirt and panties underneath.

"carlos." you said as you bent over a little to look further into the fridge, "my love, my sunshine. would you like some wine?" and who was carlos to deny a beautiful woman and a bottle of wine.

you were cute when you were drunk. the two of you alone in the cabin together. your little vacation over the winter season. you were warmed from the liquor and heat in the cabin. carlos eyed your body as you giggled a little at his intense gaze.

"you're looking at me the way you looked at that stew i made." then yelped when carlos laid a hand on your behind, he pushed the shirt up to see your panties. which caused you to yelp a little. he chuckled when he laid a slap on your behind and it made you shudder.

he licked his lips at the sight of the skin exposed. he said lowly, "you are beautiful. look at you, a remarkable woman." he chuckled before he kissed you on the lips. he remained close to you, "you feel as warm as the fire." he said as the fire crackled, "you and i are all alone. just you and i in this little cabin secluded. i can hear your pretty voice as i fuck you."

"carlos." you purred as he traced his hand across your thigh. you leaned in closer and felt the shudder in your body at the feeling of him against you. you could feel his want for you.

"you are so beautiful." he said, his voice tinged with alcohol, "i love you so much." his words made you feel warmed in your core. he pressed further into you, he invaded your space and you felt a sense of love run through you. he captured your lips with his and shivered at the sweet moaning noise you made.

"please, carlos." you moaned when there was a gap in your kisses. there was something about it that simply drove you to heated passion. carlos was a hot man, it was only fair that he made you feel a fraction of his heat. carlos was the kind of lover who made your head spin. you loved him deeply that there was a certain care to his touches that made you feel an even larger heat move through you.

"i want to make love to you in front of the fireplace. i want to feel you up against my skin as i make love to you. see what is hotter, the fire or my lover?" he asked cheekily before he kissed you once more.

wasn't long before your clothes were thrown over the couch and the blankets and pillows were brought to the floor by the fire. the lights were low, the room was warm. there was a fire in your belly as you laid out on the blankets. your head supported by the pillows as carlos' eyes remained on you in a hungry gaze that.

"you look beautiful." he said softly, "the most beautiful woman i have ever laid eyes on." there was something in his tone that made you shift, your face flushed with heat. a want for your lover. he added, "you've stayed through the ups and the downs. and i am thankful." he leaned in to kiss you on the lips.

"how could i not?" you asked, "you've been there for everything. you are mine as much as i am yours. my handsome, handsome man." then smiled into a kiss once more. he pulled away soon after and you kept our gaze on him as he positioned his cock right up against your wet slit.

his dark eyes on your pussy as he sank in slowly. you knew he was keeping an ear out in case you felt any pain. his breathing was sharp as your cunt took him beautifully.

you said softly, "that's it. that feels good. fuck, carlos." you felt the heat in your cheeks bloom as the two of you began to fuck in front of the fireplace. there was something about how he felt between your legs that felt like a slice of heaven. you adored him, loved him so deeply that it felt like it was in your blood.

that it was only right to be with him, to love him. he was your carlos, the man who you stood by through thick and thin. celebrating during the good times, and supportive during the hard times. steady like a rock through it all. team switches, rivalries, victories and losses. hand in hand.

as it should be.

in the low light of the fireplace, the two of you moved against one another. it was hearty thrusts, you held onto him and his hands clutched onto the soft blanket under you. it gave him leverage to hit all the right spots as he made love to you. a week away, tucked away in a quiet little cabin where your priorities started and ended with one another. it was arousing, hot beyond measure.

"how does that feel, my love?" he asked slowly as he moved against you. he could feel the rapid beating of his heart as he stared into your eyes. your eyes were very beautiful, carlos could get lost in them while his hips moved against yours. you two felt like two pieces of the same whole.

you whimpered, unable to form words.

he said softly, "i want you to be louder, my love." and continued his movements, "i know you can use your words. we are all alone, you can be as loud as you want. i want to hear you. those beautiful noises."

you swallowed and exhaled deeply before you said, "please, carlos. more!" and it made a shiver run through your lover.

linked together, partners till the end. he leaned in and kissed you gently on the lips. his movements marginally quickened, he wanted to feel you. all of you. every inch of what he loved and adored. while it wasn't a possessive love, he couldn't help but enjoy the feeling of making love to you. sex was fun with you, the way you felt. the positions you got into. while the vacation was relaxing, it was quite kinky too. but for now, carlos just made love to you in front of the fireplace.

your time away from everything, just to indulge in one another. he kissed you once more and clutched the blanket. he was expecting to apologize for your sore back once you finished. but for now, he just enjoyed the feeling of your bodies pressed together. carlos pressed a few more quick kisses across your cheek and jaw.

you giggled and tilted your head back slightly to give him more room to kiss you. you held onto his shoulders and he sharply exhaled against your neck as his pace grew. your toes curled at the feeling, his cock hit against the right areas. the spots where you could feel a leap in your chest. you let out a small string of curses as he worked himself against you. it felt very good and in an act of intimacy, you two held hands with carlos' hands pinning yours to the blanket as you locked your legs around him.

the two of you moved in a certain sync that only made the pleasure grow between you too. you leaned up to kiss him on the lips as he moved against you. it felt painfully erotic, there was something about his movements that made your head feel like it was spinning. you loved it, just as you loved him.

you kissed once more, the pace was heated. you moaned into the kiss as orgasm washed over you. you clutched onto his hands as he worked your body. his pace continued as he fucked you through your orgasm. you could feel the leap in your pulse at the feeling of him. all of him, it was remarkable. and when the feeling tapered off, you relaxed against the pillow and blanket on the floor. the fire in the fireplace provided a soothing warm as you looked at your lover.

he looked hotter in the yellow-y light. he licked his lips as he continued to move against you. he eyed your pretty, blissed out form as the pleasure moved quicker through him. he panted slightly as he continued to work your body against his. his cock inside of your pussy perfectly. the type of feeling as much of a rush as racing was. he felt right with you the way he felt right in a car.

"i'm coming, my love." he panted out as his eyes closed for a moment as he got lost in the euphoria. the rush of pleasure was a shock to his system as he finished inside of you. the fire crackled as he continued to move up against you.

you moaned once more as he finished. he continued to rock against you. you felt the after shivers of pleasure through your body as you laid there on the blanket. he eyed you closely and smiled a little before he kissed you once more.

"honey."

"my love." he said with utter affection. the name sounded sweet on his tongue. then you two kissed once more. he held you close for a moment and he smiled against your lips. you both felt content.

however when you tried to lift yourself off the blanket, you winced and rubbed your lower back. you looked at him and said, "i'd love to go another round... but not on the floor." you grimaced, "i think i'm too old for the hard floor."

carlos laughed and helped you up. he pressed against you and kissed you. when he parted he held your face and said softly, "anyway i can take you. i'll happily have you."

and you knew that the cabin was going to be pretty warm for the rest of the trip <3

[strwberri-milk]

Okay, okay. This is gonna sound maybe weird depending on how you react, but can you please write something about sylus reaction to mc wanting him to F her with the gun she used to shoot him?😭😭

not really like explicit smut and gun kink under the cut

Sylus definitely thinks you're a freak. He practically purrs at you, tilting your head up as he asks if you really think about something so degrading to get yourself off. You won't really be able to reply for a bit, more so just shocked with how bold he's being about calling you out but you also know that he's totally right and this burning in your gut is really calling for him right now.

His eyes light up, a deep read threatening to consume all of you as he takes it out of the holster. The muzzle of the gun begins to trace along your skin threateningly, your breath halting as he circles you. The cool metal heats quickly as it comes in contact with your skin and Sylus loves how all the words have been stolen out of your mouth from his simply actions.

He's going to make fun of you the whole time. He can't stop asking you what really made you feel this way, why you just seem so desperate for him to fuck you with something he uses to kill. He asks if you like knowing that your life is solely in in his hands right now and you are wholly forced to simply depend on him to keep you alive.

He'll slide his gun between your legs, rubbing up against your heated core as he holds your throat in his hands. He forces you to keep looking at him as he moves the metal against your body, laughing as he feels the slide of his gun against you become easier and easier with each passing second.

When you finally climax over the weapon he'll remove it from between your legs, letting you lean against him as he takes the gun up to his own lips. You can watch as he drags his tongue across the long barrel, smirking at you as he tells you how lovely you taste. Next time if you're lucky he might fuck you with the gun against your temple if you'd like that.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

I Can Be A Virtue

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, light angst, shameless smut (oral both receiving, p in v sex), emotions smut, humor, horniness, light fluff, confessions

Summary/Warnings: You're so careful about keeping your emotions in check with Dean. You make rules, and keep score, and hold yourself together.

But something always has to give.

Author's Note: My cat kept jumping on my lap while I was writing this. I’m gonna call it a blessing. Enjoy!

Word Count: 3.9k

You both always end up back here. Staring at each other in the doorway in silence, until you move aside and Dean walks in.

It’s been like this for years. Silent nods over diner tables and looks exchanged in the rear-view mirror, a knock on the door in the dead of night, and falling into bed without wasted words or time.

It’s safer than passing bodies in random towns, low words exchanged in bars, and a night with your phone face-up on the nightstand in case something goes wrong. You’re both clean, you trust each other with your lives, and you know him better than you know yourself.

But there are rules. 

There have to be rules. 

They keep your foul little heart in check, and they keep Dean in your bed.

One, it’s not exclusive. You’ve made no promises, and neither has he, so—if there’s a night where everything is a little too dark and the other isn’t there—you’re both free to do what you want. You never do—suffocating on the nightmares and moving all the pillows into a shape that could be Dean if you closed your eyes—but you could, and he likely does. And that’s fine. It’s not your place to say it isn’t.

Two, Dean comes to you. He’s allowed to ask, or give a reason, or just walk through your door around three in the morning with hollow eyes and a hopeful expression, but you don’t go to him. You raise your brows in a silent signal that the day for you was long, and you know the night will be longer, and you’d like him there. And then it’s up to him. 

And he always does come. Which is another rule. You’re not allowed to overthink that.

Finally, it can only happen in motels. Dean doesn’t cross the threshold of you bedroom in the bunker, because that’s an invisible line you’re surrounded with barbed wire and electric currents, that—if crossed—will open a point of no return. 

A point where he’ll leave his shirt on the floor and you’ll keep it in your dresser, wearing it when you miss him a little more than you should. A point where, for the next few nights, your sheets will smell like evergreen and spiced aftershave, and you won’t have the willpower to clean them.

You’ll pass your heart into his hands without him ever reaching for it, and he’ll leave you tangled on the mattress alone, your heart vanishing into the hall as he walks away.

But that knowledge of what would happen hadn’t been enough. Dean had knocked on your door, and you’d opened it. He’d looked at you—head hung slightly, hair clearly mussed and spiky from hours of attempted sleep, something heavy in his eyes that you know all to well—he’d never said a word, and you’d taken his hand and pulled him forward.

You should’ve held the line harder. You should’ve said no. 

But you didn’t. 

And now you can’t go back. 

He’s kissing you in the same violently tender way he always does. Holding your face between big, calloused hands, pressing his tongue on your lower lip until you open for him with a moan, and he takes your permission to be everywhere. He tastes like whiskey and something minty, and he’s pulling you half off the ground as he deepens the kiss, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging your hair until you lean back with a moan that he swallows.

You hike your leg up over his hips, and fuck, he’s hard. Pressed right into your core and twitching every time you bite at his lips, groaning down your throat when you scratch at his shoulders and start to grind against him, everything rushing into a white-hot blur of Dean. Walking you backwards to the bed but remaining on his feet, kissing a sloppy line over your jaw and muttering your name like a prayer when you squirm against him.

“Dean,” you tangle your fingers in his shirt, trying to pull him further down. Maybe you’ll just fall to the floor, straddle him, and bounce on his cock until your brain is numb. “Please-“

“I know,” he mutters your name, the kisses turning softer as they scatter over your face, finally landing back on your lips with a low hum. “I’ve got you.”

He’s got you. You nod, your head a little dazed and light, and let Dean take over because he’s got you. He’s big and warm and solid—squeezing your ass with one hand and half petting your head with the other—and he’s nipping at the skin of your throat, and he’s got you.

“Need you to be good for me, baby.” Dean grunts, pressing a kiss that’s a little too gentle—delicate and caring and filled with emotions neither of you are supposed to have—to your brow. “Just- need you. Please.”

It’s a pointless request. He has you. He’s never understood just how careful you have to be around him to not give him everything. And another rule is to never tell him. 

But you’ve allowed yourself to show him. To prove in actions and longing stares he never sees that Dean’s got you. You get him coffee in the morning and buy him snacks on the road without him asking, you always have the right gun out for him on a hunt and figure out exactly what drink he’ll want before he tells you.

So you pry yourself from his hold and sink to your knees before him, holding his heated, darkened gaze as your fingers trace over his belt in another silent question.

Dean tangles his fingers into your hair, his attention pooling right in your gut as he swallows, his voice that impossible low octave that always makes you ache between your legs.

“You don’t have to, sweetheart, I’m here for you-“

“This is for me.” You whisper, palming him over his sweatpants. You can see the outline of his dick, tenting in the fabric, and you only just have enough dignity not to drool. 

Because you trail your fingers over him, he grunts from above you—staring at you with hooded eyes and a clenched jaw—and when you pull down his sweats and boxers he’s beautiful. It’s an odd thing to say about a cock, but it’s Dean’s, and there are no other words that can describe how he’s long and thick, how he curves perfectly to fit into every part of you. How when you swipe your thumb over the red, weeping head of him, he twitches in your hand and tightens his grip on your hair with a grunt.

“Baby, you gotta-“ 

You don’t need to hear the order—or request, but it’s all the same—to take his dick in your mouth, hallowing your cheeks and moaning around him as he sits heavy and salty on your tongue. 

You’ve done this a million times before. You’ll ever get tired of it. How it starts slows, bobbing your head over him at a gentle pace—squeeze the base of his cock in your hand when you suck, your nails digging into his thigh for support—as Dean tugs at your hair and bites down every groan, right up until he can’t. Because you always slow slightly, taking all of him in one movement until he’s bumping your throat and your hand is wandering to play with his balls, and that’s it. You moan around him, something snaps in Dean’s will, and everything shifts just how you want it.

“Fuck-“ He grunts your name, tugging your hair until your gaze is trapped on his, his cock still fully seated in your mouth. “You’re askin’ for trouble-“

You suck on him, swirling your tongue around him best and fluttering your lashes—your smile and eyes a picture of innocence that’s truly undercut by how you’re moaning around his dick—and there it is. 

Dean’s eyes flash, and he tugs you almost fully off, his voice a growl as he takes you in. 

“Look so fuckin’ pretty sucking my cock, sweetheart.” He mutters, and there’s always a low awe to his tone you’ve learned to ignore. “Need some more?”

You flick your tongue over where pre-cum has started leak near your teeth, and you win.

He starts to fuck your face with an abandon, and it’s always so good. Your nails digging into his thighs for support and his head thrown back as he lets go. Shoving you down his cock until your nose is bumping his abdomen and you’re grinding into the air, choking on his dick and basking in every low word of praise and affection that slips through Dean’s mouth.

You don’t think he knows he does that. That he hisses your name when he hits the back of your throat and you gag—running a small, comforting circle on his skin in a silent promise that you’re okay—and mutters good girl, and baby, and so perfect when he pulls you up and slams your down. 

And he’s close. You know he’s close. His movements have become sloppy, and his praise is slurred, and you’re preparing to swallow his release when it comes—maybe letting a little dribble out your lips so he’d know he was there, because it always makes him grin when you do that—but Dean pulls you off with a pop, and you don’t get the chance. 

“That’s enough.” He grunts, swiping his thumb over your lower lip, and when you look back up he’s wrecked. Chest heaving and face flushed, the glint in his eyes almost predatory. 

You know that look. It’s a dangerous promise he always fulfills, that presses your thighs together and makes a little drool escape your lips as you look at him. He’s heavenly, and sinful, and—at least for the rest of tonight—all yours.

It’s pointless to try and move to your feet, but you start to rise anyway. Pushing yourself up on your knees for only a second before Dean is hooking his arms under your shoulders and yanking you upright, tossing you back on the bed with barely a grunt.

You barely get a chance to squeak before Dean’s prowling over you, pushing you down into the mattress with a searing kiss and drop of his hips. Trapping you between the bed and his body, his mouth devouring your every moan and one hand palming at your breast, and flicking a nipple, and fuck, his still-hard dick is pressed right against where you’re aching for him, and why are you still wearing clothes-

“Dean-“ You grind up into him, clawing at his broad shoulders and trying to wiggle enough for some relief. “Dean, I-“

He hums against your mouth, kissing a gentle line over your cheeks and brow. “What’s the magic word, pretty girl?”

“Please,” you whisper, pulling on his hair until he’s risen fully above you. Until he can see how you’re flushed and panting and needy, all for him. “Please, Dean.”

You see that look every time you reach this part of the dance. Eyes a little darker, but filled with kind of a black light that you never see anywhere else but in Dean’s eyes. Shining and illuminating every part of you under his attention, displaying a vulnerable and proud piece of Dean you know he doesn’t mean to show you—and that you don’t fully understand—but you’ll always tend to with care.

You trail your finger over his jaw, offer him a small smile, and you win again. Dean ducks his head to press his brow to yours, running a hand down your body—squeezing your waist and kneading at your hips for a long second before he’s grabbing your thigh and prying your legs apart—and mutters the words that always shatter you just a little.

“Anything when you ask me like that, baby.”

He doesn’t know what that does to you. How it’s the best and worst thing you ever hear, because he does mean in here—in the dark, in bed—but he doesn’t mean it anywhere else.

It’s always a kind mercy, how quickly he moves. Dean presses a delicate kiss on your lips before he starts to move down, sucking and nipping at your throat before marking you on your collarbone, always continuing to move down. His mouth over one nipple, licking and sucking and driving you out of your mind—two broad fingers aways pinching and tugging at the other—before he’s moving over the plane of your stomach, your hips and around to your inner thighs. 

A single finger running over your slit, through your panties, and a mutter of so wet for me, sweetheart before he’s ripping the fabric away and you’re gone.

You’re never fully lucid for this part. It’s something about how Dean does this that makes your soul seep into the whole world, until you’re a little higher than any drug could take you and a little more needy than you’d ever been before Dean. 

Because it’s really just Dean. It’s his tongue plunging in and out of your cunt and his nose bumping at your clit as he drives you right up to the edge and holds you there, his growls and groans that vibrate against your pussy and send shivers through your whole body. His hair that your tug and pull at—it always adds a fervor to his work, and you never miss the way his own hips jerk on the mattress when you scratching at him—and his scruff scratching at your skin in a perfectly torturous way, and his big, warm hands holding your thighs apart as you squirm and roll beneath him.

There’s the tight, warm coil in your gut, set to spring the moment Dean allows it. 

You need it. He’s so good at this, and if you don’t cum now you might start crying.

“Dean-“ You lock your knees over his head, and you’d be worried about suffocating him if it didn’t spur him on. “Shit- I- I’m gonna-“

His mouth moves up to your clit, biting it lightly before he starts to suck, and just as you’re about to scream two fingers push deep into your cunt and crook inside of you.

The coil snaps, and you’d say you’re seeing stars but you’re really only watching Dean. Craning your neck to watch him as he carries you through your orgasm, his focus almost pious. It’s never until you’re shaking and whining his name that he rises up with your arousal shining on his chin and moves back up over you.

He pauses though. He always pauses. Runs one hand over his jaw as the other massages your thigh, gathering your release on his fingers before licking half of it off, then moving.

Holding himself over you as he presses those fingers between your lips, watching with gleaming eyes as you open for him, moaning and holding his gaze as you suck on his fingers. 

“Good girl,” he mutters, and you make maybe the most pathetic sound you’ve ever heard as he moves his knee between your thighs. “Ready for the main event, baby?”

He pulls his hand away to hold your face, and you roll your eyes.

“That’s such a dumb thing to call it, Dean.”

He shrugs, and his grin is the charming, boyish one he gives you in the daylight. It’s a little painful. 

“I don’t hear you complaining, sweetheart-“

“I’m complaining right now-“

“Maybe, you little brat.” He winks at you, pressing his knee further into your overly sensitive core, and it’s amazing you don’t burst into flames. “But you seem to like it.”

“No,” you whisper, your voice less commanding and powerful than you’d usually like. “I like it when you fuck me-“

You’re three for three, because Dean crashed back down to you, the kiss deep and bruising and all spit and teeth. 

But the victory is short lived.

Because Dean mutters something along the lines of there’s that sass I love—you’re not sure, you hear the word love and a fuzzy and hazy feeling like being drunk washes over your brain—and starts to really, properly fuck you.

You know why he calls it the main event. Because it doesn’t matter that you gave him that blowjob, or he ate you out, or you got his control to break just a little further. He always wins it all because he fucks you, and you’re ruined just a little bit more every time.

He fills you up right. Fits into your cunt perfectly and always hits that impossibly deep spot, moving at the exact speed your body craves in the moment, kissing all the right places to pull a moan of his name from your mouth, saying the exact thing you need to be putty in his arms.

“Feel so good, baby. Always so fuckin’ tight, taking my cock so well-“

“Dean-“ You moan, burying your face in his neck as he rolls his hips, you squeeze around him, his cock jerks inside of you. “Fuck- You’re- You’re so big-“

“I know, pretty girl.” He hums, slowing the pace until it’s almost painful. “But you’re doin’ so good. Holding on and moaning all sweet, lettin’ me take good care of you-“

You whimper when he hits that deep spot again—slamming slightly harder than before and wrapping a hand carefully around your neck—and he chuckles.

“There you go,” he grunts your name, and you’re really, truly cockdrunk by this point, so you just squeak. “This pussy was made for me, shit- So-“ His thrusts stutter slightly as you wiggle from the praise. “Perfect, always perfect, all whiny and desperate for my dick, always moanin’ my name-“

You scratch at his back and his pace picks up, the mattress creaking beneath you.

“God, baby, no one else fucks you this good, do they?” He slams into you, his voice lowering to a growl. “Never this good for anyone else, never so fucking needy-“

You choke on a moan, shaking your head desperately. “Only you, fuck-“ You gasp as he slams back into you, tipping your chin back with his hand to kiss along your throat. “God, Dean- It’s just you, there’s nobody else-“ 

He freezes, and you’re a little too drunk on his everything to realize what you’ve just said.

“Just me?” 

You blink at him, and realize he’s moved to hover barely an inch above you, his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them and voice almost… nervous. 

“There’s- you don’t fuck other people?” 

If you had your mind in your own control, you’d shrug him off. But you can still feel Dean deep in your cunt, pressing right against that deep bundle of nerve only he knows how to hit every time, and all you can do is nod. 

“Yeah.” You whisper, unable to break his gaze. “Just you.” 

There’s a long second of silence as Dean scans over your face, and you think he’s trying to work out if you’re lying. You’re not. 

You can see the exact second he believes you. His face splits into a heartbreakingly wide grin, and it’s all affection and joy, and you’re not really sure this isn’t a dream.

“Good.” He mutters, his lips ghosting over yours as he swivels his hips, drawing a high, long whine from your chest. “Cause it’s just you for me too.” 

You frown, opening your mouth to demand elaboration, but then he starts to move again, and you forget every word but Dean.

This is brutal. Feral and animalistic and rough, but still so caring because when you make a high noise of need his hand moves to your clit and he starts to rub small, furious circles until you’re strangling his cock in your cunt and gasping his name in his ear.

“Dean-“

“That’s right,” Dean grunts your name, hauling you up into his lap and pinning you to his chest, never once breaking his jackhammer pace. “Say my name, sweetheart, fuckin’ scream it until everyone knows who’s wreckin’ you-“

It doesn’t matter that no one’s in earshot but poor Sam—who is already tragically aware of the you and Dean situation—because Dean’s voice is fully in the shit, baby, you’re so tight and I’m drunk on this pussy drawl, and he’s being possessive.

Therapists say that shouldn’t be hot.

Therapist have never had Dean Winchester slamming into their dripping pussy and calling them good girl, his muscles flexing around them as he holds them to his massive chest, his mouth sucking marks on the soft skin of their throat as he grips their neck.

You have that.

So you scream Dean’s name, thrown your head back, and let him carry you fully over the edge.

You hadn’t been seeing stars before. You’d really just been seeing Dean. Glowing below you as he cums with a roar of your name, his release coating your fluttering cunt and dripping down your inner thighs. 

He kisses you when he comes down. Right between your eyes as he brushes hair from your face, pulling you off of him with measures movements and setting you gently back down on the bed.

And he stays.

Dean shuffles to grab a warm, damp towel from your bathroom and returns to the mattress, cleaning the mess between your legs as he’s always done before. 

And then he crawls into bed at your side, pulling you over his chest and holding you at your hips, drawing firm and careful pattens only he can see on your skin.

He’s not supposed to stay after. That was another rule.

But he does. 

And you think he’ll stay a little longer. Basking in a warm light you’d never allowed yourself to feel for too long, that he seems to be drunk on too. 

Staying in each other. More than just a body. Longer than until the pain is gone. Until you’re breathing him in more than air, and his heart has fallen into a steady time with yours. 

Until staying doesn’t feel like a line you’d crossed, but an invisible barrier you’d created dying a happy, easy death as everything is reduced to Dean once more. As his everything seems to become you.

“You know, I always get to cum twice,” you mumble, tracing your fingers over the constellation of scars on his chest. “Seems unfair.”

Dean chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I mean, I don’t think it’s something broken enough to be fixing-“

“What if we do the car thing you’re always trying to talk me into?”

Dean’s whole body tenses at your words—his cock jumping back into attention against your thigh—and his voice goes hoarse.

“You’re serious?” - You hum, nodding, and he shakes his head a little. 

“You said you’d never do that- You told me you’d cut off Sammy’s dick-“

You lean back, raising your brows. “You remember the threat?”

“It was a real weird one, sweetheart-“

“It was effective.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “Guess so, yeah. But I still don’t-“

“It seemed- It was too much.” Your voice is barely a whisper, but you manage to keep it steady. You’ll have to keep it steady, if you’ve read this all wrong and you’re about to be shot down. “Too real. I loved you, and doing that would- That would be it.”

Dean’s eyes flash at your semi-accidental confession—you hadn’t meant to, but it had slipped out and you’d had no will or resolve to stop it—and his hand squeezes on your waist, his words impossibly careful. 

“I- I didn’t-“ He swallows, taking your chin in one hand and using it ensure you hold his gaze. “You’re it. For me. Understand?”

“Yeah.” You whisper, offering him a small, soft smile. “I do.”

End Note: Even when he doesn’t make a physical appearance in the fic, Sam’s never safe.

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