#many thoughts head overflowing

[babybison]

The agreement doesn't prohibit me from banging you until you forget about other men.

[effervescent-fool]

can i ask, who is the other person in the 1am excerpt? because i assumed it would be merlin which is also what prompted the wyatt comparison, as (and you might have found this out already) it is commonly thought to have been written about anne boleyn, second wife of henry viii, and, like caesar's deer, she is his property and wyatt (or the speaker) can't attempt anything with her. and obviously the whole dynamic with merlin and arthur and destiny and the two sides of the same coin and merlin also being arthur's servant...obviously he's not arthur's property but idk that was something the just really struck me

anyway. enjoy your insanity 😈

YEAH NO THESE ARE MY THOUGHTS EXACTLY. IM LOSING MY MIND. you were correct in your assumption. the more I read into this poem the more insane I get.

[ozzgin]

Yandere! House Monster x Reader (II)

It’s officially a smutty sitcom: you, the oblivious gamer boyfriend, and the tentacle monster lurking in dark corners.

[First part]

Content: gender neutral reader, monster smut

Do monsters have a sense of humor? This creature seems to be greatly amused by the little "game" you've devised behind your boyfriend's back. Although you don't have much input in the affair, and most of the time you're merely a witness to the events unfolding before you (or in you).

First, there's the mild, inoffensive annoyances. "Babe, did you see my controller? I swear I left it on the couch". Some pranks are harder to swallow than others, such as the occasional lack of Internet. You know exactly when it happens, because you can hear your boyfriend's enraged shouts and rattles. It's always during important matches. No one knows why it happens. The repairmen who cross your threshold can only scratch their heads in confusion, confessing that nothing is out of the ordinary.

Then, the unfortunate coincidences. "How about we have some fun after my game?", the boyfriend will suggest with an anticipative grin. Alas, moments after he stands up, he is overwhelmed by a nauseous feeling. His stomach twirls and throbs, and he curses under his breath. "Some other time, perhaps", he concludes begrudgingly. You see, the creature is very possessive. The only thing that has saved your beloved partner from being torn to shreds already is his crassly comical obliviousness.

The mischief aimed towards the boyfriend is, however, a secondary source of entertainment. Nothing could ever come close to spending time with you. Yet another irony to this ridiculous situation: you haven't been caught yet, despite the rabid clinginess of the tentacled monster.

It just loves surprising you. For example, when you exhale dramatically at the end of the day, relaxing in the bathtub and enjoying your peace. Just as you hear an impatient knock on the door, you notice a familiar dark tendril slithering its way out of the water. You won't be leaving the bathroom anytime soon. "Did you steam yourself over there? You look like a lobster", the boyfriend will remark with a raised eyebrow upon seeing your panting, feverish face. "Y-yeah, I guess so." You limp outside, struggling to hold the towel around your body. Or more specifically, around the many marks left on your skin by hundreds of suckers.

In fact, its shamelessness reminds you of a poorly written erotic scenario, the likes you'd see on some adult website with a clickbait title. How would you name this current setup? You grip the edge of the table, pursing your lips to prevent any moans escaping your mouth. Your boyfriend is, once again, scrolling on his phone, indifferent to your presence. The water boiling on the stove drowns the wet, slippery sounds of the appendages pumping in and out of you underneath the table. “You might want to give it a stir in a moment, or it’ll overflow”, the boyfriend remarks without lifting his gaze. You mumble in agreement, slapping a hand over your mouth. You’re at your limit.

One may be tempted to ask, is this entity bound to its house? You pondered the same question until your recent IKEA visit. You and your boyfriend had been looking for a new wardrobe. "What do you think of this one?", you asked, closing the door and turning around. Your eyes scanned the empty model-bedroom. The jackass had wandered ahead without you. You sighed and were about to go find him, when a cold grip suddenly tightened around your wrist. You winced and snapped your head back. Thick tendrils had made their way out of the closet, tugging you to join them inside. So it can follow you around, you thought, climbing into the cramped space. Between the silent whines and breathy begging, an idea emerges from your dazed mind. New hypothetical video title: mercilessly molested in the IKEA store by monster partner.

[readwritealldayallnight]

“But what if you hate it?”

“I can tell ya I wouldn’t, because it’d be yours.”

“Okay but what if you actually do really hate it, and you can’t tell me because you just said that?”

“Love, ya don’ have to do this. I didn’t wan’ this to stress ya-”

“No! No, Simon I want to do it. It’s such a sweet idea you had, I’ll do another one.” You finally decide, putting the pen back to paper, unable to bring yourself to actually draw.

“Could always take any o’ the ones from the bin.” He offers, nodding his head over towards the overflowing waste basket surrounded by crumbled up pieces of paper, evidence of your many previous attempts.

When SImon had brought up the idea of you drawing something for him to add to his sleeve to represent you, you’d jumped at the opportunity, loving the idea. However, you’d all too quickly discovered that you were having issues committing to the idea of what to draw, and Simon was refusing to offer any ideas, wanting the idea and design to be entirely yours.

Appropriate to his call sign, your first instinct had been to try drawing different versions of ghosts, but each one felt too cartoony, too childish, and you passed on that idea.

Then you thought you would draw your own little skull, something that could more easily be incorporated into the images and not be totally out of theme. But the next issue to come to light though, was when the connection between you brain and your hand apparently forgot entirely how to draw a skull, and you hated everything that came up on paper.

“S’that a lightbulb?” He’d asked at one point, and the skull idea was quickly out the window too.

From there, you were worried he wouldn’t like any of your drawings, as you couldn’t bring yourself to like any them either. You’d both agreed to put a pin in it for the time being, and as the weeks passed, you nearly forgot about his request.

That was until, he came home with a plastic wrapping around his forearm.

“You hurt?” You ask him, immediately spotting the darker bandages peeking out from the edges of his sleeve as he removes his jacket.

“Nah, just got somethin’ done.” He replies, sauntering over to you, slowly folding up his sleeve to reveal more of his pale skin.

“Huh?

Instead of answering, he carefully unravels the outer layer of bandages, before slowly peeling back the bandage to show you the skin underneath, an overly pleased grin stretching across his face, chuckle bursting through as your stunned gasp echoes through your shared flat.

Forever on his skin, Simon has tattooed something you’d drawn in the first birthday card you ever gave him. In your handwriting, he can always glance down at himself and see both your and his initial with a plus sign between them, surrounded by a little heart with an arrow going through it. When you’d drawn it for him, never in a million years had you thought he would be etching the corny doodle onto himself permanently, but now, that same doodle is his favourite thing to look at when away on deployment.

[corinthianism]

SOMETHIN' STUPID || VIKTOR

pairing: viktor (arcane)/fem!reader additional tags: viktor's pov, viktor is a certified yearner, maybe ooc, unrequited love that's actually requited, no physical descriptions for reader other than having dainty fingers and being shorter than viktor, hopefully correct use of czech pet names, barely proofread synopsis: the ever-brilliant viktor finds himself drowning in feelings for his colleague, so what does he do? bury them, of course.... until he learns that love is not something you can just ignore.

author's note: hello everyone! it's been a long, long while since i've written anything so i thought i would try and see if the ol' writing machine (aka my brain) still works lol. this is more of a blurb than anything so please go easy on me. also trying out something new by writing in present tense (lmk if it flows well!) viktor might be a little ooc but i'm still trying to fully understand him. hopefully my characterization of him in future fics (if any) will be more faithful to the viktor you're all familiar with. anyways, enjoy 2k words of viktor yearning like CRAZY 🫶🏼

Viktor doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. How many more times would your eyes meet from across the room at one of those parties he never really wanted to attend in the first place? How many more times would your fingers brush in the early morning, when he accepts the steaming sweetmilk that you so kindly got for him? How many more times would your laughter intermingle softly late into the night, when exhaustion took over and your writing started to look more like chicken scratch rather than letters?

He might just go insane.

How was it possible to want someone this much? Maybe he’s experienced something like this before, in tiny amounts, for people he hasn’t thought about in years. Deep down, he knows that even if he added all of those fleeting romances together, it would still only be a fraction of what he feels now. For you.

He can’t pinpoint that exact moment in time when everything changed. There were definitely a few of those moments that stood out more than others, but none of those instances were the catalyst for whatever this is. But they certainly don’t help his case.

A few words of encouragement.

A book recommendation.

A smile— so soft, so intimate, he briefly allows himself to believe that it was meant just for him. Something precious for him to keep, to be his and his alone.

In the dim light of the lab, he finds you asleep on your desk. The humming glow of the hex crystals leaves you blanketed in a gentle blue. He’s heard tales of this before, from when he bothered to listen to such things. It would happen just like this, they said: his heart would beat so fast, it threatened to leave his chest entirely. His skin would burn with something unmistakable, a feeling that left one in a state of simultaneous confusion and clarity.

He feels it all now and he finds it polarizing. It’s too much and not enough. He chases and runs away from it at the same time. A part of him wants it to stop, to go away and leave him forever for the sake of ending this game he’s painfully losing… but a greater part of him hopes that it will grow and grow to the point where maybe you’ll notice and do something about it. His palms get a little sweaty just thinking about making the first move. Symptoms of a lovesick fool.

The soft sound of your breathing quiets the pounding of his heart, prevents the wretched feelings from overflowing and spilling everywhere. Even if it was just for tonight. Tonight, he keeps his lips sealed, fights to keep himself from reaching for you. It would be unbecoming of him.

His eyes land on you again, observing how your head rested on your arms. Understanding hits him then, why you’re so bothered by seeing him stay at the lab so late that he ends up falling asleep. That position couldn’t have been comfortable. Of course, he knew that from experience, but it’s your comfort he’s thinking about right now. He wonders if this is what you felt whenever you woke him up and implored him to go home.

Surely not.

No, he can’t wrap his head around you possibly viewing that act the same way he does. Not when he wants to bottle this moment, wants to capture the preciousness of seeing you like this. It just can’t be the same.

So can you really blame him if when he finally rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you gently, he lets it linger there for just a little longer? An infinitesimal piece of time that he claims for himself. He never thought himself to be the sentimental type, but he cherishes it all: he cherishes the way you blink slowly as you returned to the waking world, and your tired murmur of his name that makes his chest tighten.

It’s just a wisp of a moment, never really tangible enough for him to hold in his hands, but he cherishes it all the same. It’s burned in his memory, in his very being, the same way everything else about you is. Every piece of you that you so generously gifted him.

“You should go home, darling.”

The word slips past his lips before he could even think about it. But he allows himself this one indulgence. He can’t help it. He’s always been a bit greedy.

“What time is it?” you ask.

“Far too late for you to be here,” he answers.

You huff out a breath of a laugh, “That’s rich coming from you.”

He finds himself smiling. How does someone manage to be so endlessly endearing without even trying?

It takes an embarrassing amount of effort for him to pull back his hand from your shoulder. Had you been more awake and had the room been brighter, he might’ve schooled his expression into something more neutral. Something to hide the unbridled adoration in his eyes. He doesn’t do that now. With the shield of darkness to protect him, he lets the mask come off. He lets his affection for you wash over him in waves. It would’ve been liberating, if it wasn’t for the tiny detail that that affection was unrequited.

Still, he says your name with utmost care. “You must go home and rest.”

To his surprise, you listen. You mumble a tired "okay” and gather your belongings, slipping on your coat. “You should go home, too, Vik.”

“I will. Soon. I just need to finish a few things.”

Your face twists into a frown, “No, you’ll do that tomorrow.” Before he can interject, you speak up again, “Just… come with me? It’s late and I don’t want to walk home alone.”

His brain refuses to reconcile with what his eyes see: the trepidation written all over your features, the way you clutch the lapel of your coat just a little tighter. He knows it’s a trap, you just want to get him out of the lab but how could he possibly reject the promise of a few more minutes with you? The chance to pretend, even if it’s just for those precious few minutes, that he was taking you home as someone more than a colleague? More than a friend? Only a fool would say no to you. Or perhaps he was a fool either way. He really must be going insane.

He says yes almost instantly.

It’s cold in Piltover tonight. It makes his bad leg ache more than it already does, and so his strides are a bit more careful. He doesn’t say anything about how you also slow down to match his pace but he appreciates your considerate gesture nonetheless.

The moon hangs in the sky big and bright, making everything around you seem softer. It’s picturesque. Almost romantic. He tries his best not to entertain that thought for much longer. Instead, he focuses on what you say to him so he could ignore the traitorous thoughts his mind conjures up and the way his knees were protesting because of the cold.

Conversation with you is easy— terrifyingly so. It was one of the first things he noticed about you when you first met.

Early on in the process of finding sponsors and securing funding, him and Jayce quickly realized that they needed help. Yes, Jayce is a friend of the Kiramman family. Yes, Viktor is Heimerdinger’s protégé, but they’re academics. At the end of the day, Jayce’s warm personality could only do so much when he was still greatly inexperienced with navigating these more political spaces and for all of his experience and perceptiveness, Viktor knows he’s no good at sweet-talking sponsors, either.

Enter, you.

Caitlyn Kiramman was the one to recommend you, her former tutor. Jayce was quick to back her up, remembering that you were also Academy alumni; a particularly strategic businesswoman. Viktor was hesitant at first, knowing that a third party could complicate things. Hextech was born out of the dream to help people. He worried that bringing business and politics (even though he knew it was necessary) into the mix would warp Hextech into something it wasn’t. Jayce convinced him to take a gamble, and it seemed that the potential of Hextech was enough to bring you back to Piltover from your travels across Runeterra.

It took him a while to warm up to you. You weren’t nobility, but most definitely well-off. Even more so after your years as a business consultant to organizations all over the continent. He respected you, sure, but Viktor had a hard time trusting someone who was so… privileged. How could you possibly understand how important it was that Hextech remained a beacon of hope for the less fortunate? Perhaps it was naive of him to think that way, as much as he hated to admit it.

But true to your reputation, you delivered exactly what they needed. You bridged the gap between Viktor and Jayce’s hopes for Hextech and the support they needed from sponsors, protecting them and their inventions from being taken advantage of.

Suffice to say, you earned his admiration.

Never in a million years would Viktor imagine that you would captivate his entire being, too.

It was daunting. Scary, really. Especially now that he’s beginning to understand the full extent of his affections. Years and years of burying that softness from his youth deep beneath the armor of his intellect— all that hard work diminished by a pretty girl. Gods, he really is just a man. Not even that. With you, he feels like a highschooler with a crush. It’s painful. Downright humiliating. But he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not when you link your arm around his, laughing at something he said. Was he really that funny? Probably not. He’s just happy to make you laugh.

“You don’t have to be nice about it. Salo is a grade-A asshole,” you grinned. “We both know it. If I have to spend another dinner with him present I might actually stab a fork in my eyes.”

He smiles, “Ah, but that wouldn’t save you from his incessant chatter.”

“I’ll stab the fork into my ears too."

“I might just follow after you,” he hums, “you’ll have to check if it works first, though.”

Your friendship blossomed when your visits to the lab became less for work and more for leisure. You wanted to visit, wanted to learn more about what he and Jayce were working on and why. Everything after that was just dominoes. You, with all your fiery passion and sharp wit, have become a permanent fixture in his life and now? He could hardly imagine life without you in it. You're one of his dearest friends and, much to his dismay, that makes his current predicament even more challenging than it already is.

Before he knew it, the two of you were standing in front of your apartment building— one of the most luxurious in Piltover. He could only imagine how much it cost, though he knew for certain that your penthouse probably barely made a dent in your wealth. He’s gotten somewhat used to your differing lifestyles, but he’s never completely able to not marvel at it. A gust of wind kissed his skin once more as he turned to look at you.

“This is me,” you say, gloved hands in your pocket and your lovely, lovely face framed by your hair and ruby red scarf. He recognizes it as the gift he gave you a year ago now. A spur-of-the-moment purchase on one of the rare occasions he was actually outside Academy grounds. He remembers thinking that the color would look nice on you. He was right. He finds himself holding onto the seconds before he has to go. “Thank you for walking me home, Viktor.”

“Of course,” he nods but the calmness of his voice don’t match the way his eyes bore into yours. “It’s only proper.”

“Proper?”

“Yes. Proper. I am a gentleman, after all.”

His accent comes out thicker, emphasizing the words more than he means to.

“I didn’t take you for someone who cared much about propriety,” you tease.

“Is it because I’m from the undercity?” he deadpans and he relishes in the look of horror on your face that replaces your grin.

“What? No!” you exclaim, smacking his arm when you realize he’s just joking. “You. Are. Impossible.”

A laugh bubbles out of his chest, “Oh, that’s cruel. You would hit a defenseless man? How heartless.”

“Shut up. That cane of yours is a weapon of war. Don’t think I haven’t seen you smack Jayce with it.”

“If I hit him with it, he probably deserved it.”

“Poor Jayce,” you laugh as well. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Viktor smiles.

“I do not think you could even if you tried, lásko."

He freezes and so do you. The laughter—the music—that you shared for the briefest of moments was thoroughly snuffed out, leaving you both in a silence that threatens to swallow him whole. He didn’t mean to do that. He didn’t mean to speak so gently, but there is not a part of Viktor that could withhold this sincerity from you. Specks of the truth, of the confession he’s barely managed to wrangle into submission and lock away somewhere dark and unreachable.

He pulls back on instinct. He’s shown too much, said too much. You don’t move. He is petrified.

Your eyes widen and he sees his reflection in them, staring back at him. This is it, he thinks. He’s crossed the line and he’ll have to deal with the crushing blow of your rejection.

You manage to compose yourself and what you say next is… well, unexpected. Your tone is light, clearing the air and allowing him to breathe again.

“Do you say that to every woman or am I a special case? I’d hate to be part of a roster.”

He’s taken aback, but he feels a weight lifted off his shoulders. You are a miracle in his eyes. Washing away his worries with a kind smile and a few choice words. He laughs again and this time, he doesn’t stop himself from speaking the truth. It’s now or never.

“Surely you know by now that you are singular,” he whispers, his accent a pleasant drawl in your ears. He takes a step forward. It is gravity that pulls him in, not the Earth’s, but yours. A force that he can’t help but be drawn to. Not that he would ever dare to resist it now that his fear has shrunk down to something a little less debilitating.

His face is inches from yours. You don’t move. He gets a little braver.

“I do not appreciate your implication that I would pay attention to anyone else,” his voice is low, honest. “As if anyone could compare to you. As if you don’t hold my very being in the palm of your hand. Miláčku, I adore you. Don’t you know that?”

There is a hint of pleading in his tone, begging you to understand the full scope of his feelings from those few words so that he wouldn’t unravel before you, a bundle of nerves and petals the same shade as your scarf.

“Say something. Please,” his fear rears its ugly head once more. “Say the word and we’ll pretend this never happened. I will remain your colleague and nothing more. A friend, if you would allow it.”

“What if I don’t want that?” you ask, your own voice a little shaky with uncertainty. Maybe it was also fear. That, he’s not quite sure.

Viktor doesn’t fully trust what he’s hearing, thinks it to be a figment of his deluded imagination, but his heart is screaming at him now to push forward.

“What is it you want, lásko? Tell me and it shall be yours.”

You're almost breathless when you finally respond, “You. I want you."

The world stills. Time itself screeches to a halt. There is only you and him, together in this moment that he knows will be woven into the threads of his soul. He has never known euphoria quite like this. He can’t name it yet, doesn’t know if this is love. He can only hope that it will be.

When he looks into your eyes again, he does not see his own terrified reflection. He just sees you. And the sheer intensity of your gaze that rivals his own. Have you always looked at him that way? Was he just too blind to see it?

“Do you mean that?” he finds himself asking. He has to— has to make sure that this is real.

You smile again, dainty fingers intertwining with his. It is a gentle smile, a hopeful smile that answers his question before you even open your mouth.

“I do,” your voice is so gentle and yet it squeezes his heart. “I’m yours, Viktor, if you’ll have me.”

He brings your knuckles to his lips, places a reverent kiss on them like you’ve given him the world. In a way, that’s exactly what you did. Maybe his lips were always meant to be on your skin, worshipping you like the goddess you are. It feels too natural for it to mean anything else.

And for the first time in a long time, he allows himself to hope.

“I would love nothing more.”

[misswynters]

Babydoll

short drabble

featuring. Sylus x pregnant!reader

synopsis. In which you have no limit in what you can spend on your upcoming bundle of joy while sylus is with you. But you couldn’t help but feel guilty. Your hormones getting the best of you. As usual.

Ah yes, the bustling mall on the edge of Linkon City. It glowed with vibrant holograms and warm neon signs, a mix of advanced technology and a touch of unique charm. Stores, boutiques and stands stretched as far as the eye could see, overflowing with goods from every corner. In the midst of it all, Sylus walked beside you, his casual tall stride alongside the protective glances he constantly threw your way. Your hand rested on your growing belly, the weight of everything making you smile.

A vendor called out, advertising handwoven blankets from a distant place, and your attention immediately locked on the soft, pastel-colored fabrics. There was pink, blue, purple, red. So many colours to choose from!

Sylus noticed your gaze and stepped forward, his commanding voice polite but firm as he negotiated the price. The vendor, who was flustered but eager, handed over the bundle of blankets. Sylus passed them to the assistant he had brought along. The pile of bags they carried had grown considerably since you arrived, each one filled with items you had excitedly picked out for the baby. Sylus’s patience never wavered, though his dry humor shone through when he teased, “Planning to furnish the whole city, love?”

Amid the joy of shopping, a flicker of self-consciousness crept into your thoughts. As you admired a delicate mobile adorned with tiny stars, you hesitated, the weight of your spending habits pressing down. Sylus noticed immediately, stepping closer and wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders. “You’ve gone quiet,” he said softly, his brow furrowing. You turned to him, biting your lip. “It’s just… I’m spending so much,” you admitted, your voice barely audible over the marketplace’s din. “I don’t want to waste your money.”

Sylus’s laugh was warm and genuine, a sound that melted your worries. “Is that what you’re worried about?” he asked, stepping in front of you and tilting your chin up so your eyes met his. “You’re not wasting anything. Every single credit is worth it to see you this happy.” His tone softened further, his gaze never leaving yours. “You’re giving me the greatest gift anyone could ask for, our baby. If all it takes is a little shopping spree to make you smile, I’d do it a thousand times over.”

Tears pricked your eyes at his words, and you leaned into him, your forehead resting against his chest. “So nice…,” you whispered, your arms wrapping around his waist. He held you tightly, his hand resting gently on your belly. “Not possible,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you and the baby have everything you need.”

Back at your home, the nursery quickly came to life as you unpacked your treasures. The walls, once bare, now held shelves lined with soft toys and colorful decorations. Sylus stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a soft smile playing on his lips as he watched you arrange the room. “I think you missed your calling as an interior designer,” he joked, stepping inside to help hang the starry mobile you’d picked out earlier. You laughed, shaking your head. “I just want everything to be perfect.”

Sylus wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. “It already is,” he said quietly, his voice filled with emotion. You turned in his arms, your hands resting on his chest. “Thank you, Sylus,” you said sincerely, your eyes searching his. “For everything.” He leaned down, brushing a gentle kiss against your lips. “You never have to thank me,” he replied, his hand moving to rest protectively over your belly. “This is my family we are talking about. I’d do anything for you both.”

For a split second, as you were surrounded by the warmth and love. Only leaving the promise of a bright and beautiful future.

[the-muppet-joker]

"Are you ready for your hormones, Kermit?"

Kermit was sitting on his lover's lap; they had been enjoying a nice evening in before his Clown Bride had interrupted their comfortable silence. He looked up in confusion.

"B-but Joker, I'm not due for my T shot for another week..."

Joker chuckled darkly. "You misheard me, darling," she murmured, "I said, Are You Ready For Your Whore Moans?"

♤♡◇♧

Kermit whimpered softly as he felt the long fingers of his lady love dance around his small, muppet frame, like elegant white spiders. She traced the edges of his quivering muppet hole and chuckled darkly, the rich velvet of her voice rolling through him in a shuddering wave. He was tied up, of course-- bound with one of the many handkerchiefs she had pulled from the sleeve of her suitjacket. Clowns are so fucking good at bondage, Kermit thought, but his thought was cut off sharply by Joker scissoring her fingers into the depths of his hole, clearly savoring the squelching of the wet felt.

"AHhhnnn~" Kermit moaned, like a slut.

"Gods, you moan like a slut," Joker chuckled darkly.

Joker was usually so difficult to read with her permanent killer smile, but it was clear how affected by the muppet's display she truly was. A shuddering, breathy quality had taken over her voice, causing even her signature laugh to waver as she explored her lover's Hole.

"Are you ready for the Whole Clown, my love?" Joker chuckled darkly.

Kermit flailed his arms, howling in anticipation. He was ready for the Whole Clown.

Joker leaned in close, gripping Kermit's felt sides, and growled into the side of his head where she presumed his ear to be (frogs do not have easily visible ears, but that does not mean they cannot hear you. They are listening. They are listening):

"Are you ready for me to fill up your Mussy?"

Kermit shuddered in arousal. "My what?"

"Your Mussy," Joker chuckled darkly.

Kermit stared at her.

"Muppet Pussy," she clarified. "I'm going to fill it with my Clock."

Lifting up Kermit, she lined up his entrance with her clock.  "That's Clown Cock," she chuckled darkly.

"Yeah, I got that--" Kermit began to say before being cut off by his own wanton moaning as Joker pulled him down onto her Whole Entire Clown and shook him up and down and up and down-- Egad! He was Bouncing On That Thang. Bouncing and moaning and squelching and shaking and crawling and growling sinisterly and screaming in absolute muppet pleasure as his arms flailed and shook in the air without control. Joker darkled chuckly.

"Fuck," she moaned all sexy, "I'm going to do my Joker Cum Blast."

"YES!" Cried Kermit, "PLEASE FILL ME UP WITH YOUR JOKER CUM BLAST!"

And she did.

She came inside his hole with chuckles, dark

The Joker's seed did Blast, til overflow

The Muppet bit her neck, it left a mark

And yet, the cum pressed on, it did not slow

A power hose of cum unleashed inside

Dear Kermit, pouring from his Mussy, green

Her Joker Blast had filled her up with pride

While Kermit's insides filled with cum, unseen

The floor, the walls, their skin, their clothes, their hair:

All cummied on, remained the loving pair ♡

[serqphites]

nothing hurts me more than seeing ellie be written as a stone cold cheating dom who is really rough and mean to her gf, and honestly just lacks personality in general?? let’s not forget that ellie is just a girl who needs her girlfriend!!

18+, mdni, strap-on sex (e! reviving), teeniest bit of angst? oral mentions (r! receiving)

·········⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆·········

gf!ellie who sometimes just wants to be the little spoon! she’s sooo nervous about it for no reason. you’ll obviously poke fun at her for it, reassuring her that it’s not a big deal, but she’ll still never outright ask you to spoon her.

ellie had been hesitant to let you roll away from her tonight, you’d offered her the comfort of spooning you to which she kindly denied with a gentle smile and a shake of her head. figuring it wasn’t that much of a big deal, you said goodnight like normal and i turned away from one another (touching butts as usual). after laying there for a few minutes, the sound of what you can only assume is teeth chattering begins to fill the quiet of your shared bedroom. is that ellie? the thought lingers for a moment until the feeling of ellie’s little butt wriggling against your own drags you from your mind, causing you to look back over your shoulder at her curled up frame in the darkness. “you okay els?” your voice is a gentle whisper, ellie nodding in response to your question before she responds back, her voice too barely above a whisper. “i’m jus’cold” your arm is draped over her waist in seconds, your front pressing up against her back as your face nuzzles into the back of her neck. what ellie wants, ellie gets.

gf!ellie who sometimes just needs a hug. :(

patrol can get overwhelming for her sometimes, exhausting her body and mind to the point she can’t even speak coherent words as her bottom lips quivers, her fingers coming up to pinch her baggy eyes as if to close the dam threatening to overflow. “oh el’s” you coo, reaching out for her just as she crumbles into your arms.

gf!ellie who can never shut up about you. constantly telling jesse about how much of a dork you are and how you “match her dorkegy” (dork energy). poor dina has to always give her advice on how to make you feel better after she’s accidentally upset you for the 2948593923th time, like i said she is just a girl!! joel is usually the one asking ellie about yourself, always wanting to know what the two of you have been getting up to because isn’t he just so dndosjrnd???

gf!ellie who just wants to hold your hand while her tongue sends you to heaven and back. every time you moan her name or just make a noise she likes, squeeze. ellie lovessss squeezes. your hand? she squeezes i. love. you. whenever she can’t say it. your thighs? she can’t keep her hands off. your cheeks? you’re too cute that’s not her fault??

gf!ellie who sometimes just wants you to fill her up with your dick strap.

ploughing into her from behind, ellie propped up on her elbows with her head held low, her pretty whimpers and groans egging you on. “takin’ me s’good el’s, how’s it feel hmm?” you can’t help but poke fun, enjoying the role swap a little too much. “feels s- fuck” poor girl can’t even speak, her words falling apart in the back of her throat. how did you let her do this to you so much? you’ve only just started and she’s just about ready to have a warm bath and watch one of the many movies from her very proud collection.

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[cadelinhadaromanoff]

𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

Sumary: When Natasha finds herself missing your presence, she realizes just how much her life has changed. What once felt like an afterthought now feels essential. She never imagined how much she’d come to need you, and how much better life is with you by her side.

Paring: Natasha Romanoff x Reader, Natasha Romanoff x Platonic!Avengers

Word count: 7410

Warnings: A very soft Natasha, bad Mood, Dry jokes, saudades. +18 content.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Author’s Notes: Part three is finally out!! Thanks for all the love you guys are sending to this work. Feel free to send me an ask so we can talk about our mini family—please do, I’m dying for this 😭😭😭

゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂃𓈒𓏸 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᥫ᭡ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ༝ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 🍼 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ୨♡୧ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᡣ𐭩 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ꩜　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ✧ 　　 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚　　 ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ୨୧ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ 　　 　˳ 　 　⸝⸝⸝♡　　⁺　　୨୧　　　₊　 　 ˚₊

There were worse things than waking up happy. Natasha just wasn’t used to this version of it—the soft kind. The kind that came in slowly, quietly, like sunlight slipping through half-drawn curtains. It didn’t blaze or demand. It settled.

You’d already come and gone that morning—something about Stark needing a schematic review—but you’d left behind your usual trail of affection: still-warm coffee in the red mug she always pretended wasn’t hers, a brown paper bag with her favorite pastry, and the faintest trace of your perfume clinging to the pillow beside hers. She didn’t need any of it. She wasn’t the kind of woman who needed. But damn if it didn’t make her want more.

Ana was still asleep in her little bed across the room, curled under the corner of Natasha’s old hoodie, breathing soft and even. Natasha sat at the table barefoot, coffee in hand, half-smiling to herself without realizing it. This wasn’t a fairytale. It was better. It was real.

You hadn’t said anything official, neither had she. But somewhere between the flowers once a week and the lazy mornings on her couch with your head in her lap, something had clicked into place. A silent agreement. You were hers. She was yours. And neither of you were going anywhere.

You were at her apartment almost every day now. Sometimes just to nap. Sometimes just to exist in the same space. But most nights, after Ana was asleep, it turned into something more—long, drawn-out kisses on the couch, tangled limbs in the low glow of the TV, your mouth on her skin like you were trying to learn her by heart. Natasha didn’t let many people get close. But you didn’t try to break her walls down. You just made her feel safe enough to lower them on her own.

There were still moments when it hit her hard. When she’d glance across the room and see you with Ana—sharing snacks, playing with puzzle pieces, carrying her on your hip like she belonged there—and Natasha’s chest would tighten in a way that almost hurt. Because this wasn’t a dream. This was real. And somehow, it was hers.

She’d never imagined she’d get this. Not the child. Not the quiet mornings. Not you. And yet, here she was. Drinking her favorite coffee, in her apartment that didn’t feel lonely anymore, with the sound of her daughter breathing peacefully in the background and the ghost of your kiss still lingering on her lips.

Natasha Romanoff, international spy, ex-assassin, former Avenger… was in love.

And for once in her life, it wasn’t complicated. It was just right.

Natasha had never planned on falling in love. Especially not with someone younger. Much younger.

She told herself that in the beginning. Repeated it like a prayer, like a defense: you were twenty-three. Brilliant. Reckless. Overflowing with the kind of fire she thought only existed in people who hadn’t been broken yet. And yet—you chose her. You chose them.

You stayed. Through all the chaos. Through Ana’s tantrums and midnight wake-ups. Through Natasha’s silences, her scars, her tendency to shut down instead of open up. You brought flowers when she was having a bad week and didn’t want to say it out loud. You brought chocolate when Ana was teething and neither of them had slept in two days. You brought yourself—unapologetically, completely.

The first time you left, Natasha barely flinched.

Three days. That was the length of your mission. A simple extraction, routine enough that even Fury hadn’t been concerned. She hadn’t made a big deal of it—kissed your temple before you left and made some half-hearted joke about bringing her back something interesting. And that was it. She’d spent the first evening watching cartoons with Ana curled up on her chest, the second one organizing files in the quiet of her room, and by the third morning, you were back, carrying pastries and that tired grin you always wore when you pushed yourself too far.

She remembered thinking it was fine. She didn’t miss you. Not really. Not in any way that was abnormal.

But then it happened again.

A month later, another three-day mission. Longer distance this time. Minimal contact. She told herself it wasn’t a big deal again. She’d survived years without attachment—three days without you shouldn’t even register. And yet…

This time, there was a shift.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing worth naming. But the silence felt heavier at night. She lingered longer by her phone, her thumb hovering over your name more often. She still had Ana—her anchor in everything—but there was an odd, persistent restlessness underneath her skin. She snapped at the coffee machine one morning when it jammed. She cursed a little louder when she stubbed her toe. Nothing big. Not enough to call it anything.

She didn’t realize it for what it was. Not then.

She thought she was just tired. She told herself she’d been too used to sharing space with you, that maybe you’d spoiled her by being around so much. That was all. Nothing serious.

But then came the third time.

Present day. And this time?

It was bad.

You were gone. Again. And everything felt off. Off-kilter. Wrong. The apartment felt colder, and Ana—sweet Ana—was crankier than usual, refusing naps, pushing her food around on her plate, clearly missing you in her own small way. Natasha tried to hold it together, but this time it wasn’t just silence—it was absence. It was the absence of your coffee cup in the sink. The lack of your music humming from the bathroom. No sarcastic quip about her black ops hoodie or shared glances over Ana’s head when she did something ridiculous.

Natasha was fraying. Worse—she knew it.

And she hated that awareness.

She tried to channel the frustration into something useful. Clint had agreed to run combat drills with a new batch of recruits, and Natasha threw herself into it with the kind of sharp, violent precision she hadn’t leaned on in years.

She didn’t hold back.

The gym floor was already slick with sweat, and the sound of fists hitting pads echoed like thunder between the high ceilings. The new recruits—bright-eyed, fully trained, and supposedly ready for fieldwork—were scattered across the mats like a massacre had just taken place. Natasha paced in front of them like a wolf in black leggings, half-sane from too many hours of sleep deprivation and too few texts from you.

“Again,” she ordered flatly, and a collective groan rose from the group.

One of the girls—Elena, maybe? Or Eliza? Natasha didn’t bother remembering—wobbled to her feet and tried to correct her stance.

“You’re favoring your left. You do that on a mission, you’ll lose a kneecap.”

“I—uh—okay, Agent Romanoff.”

“‘Okay’ isn’t gonna regrow your kneecap, sweetheart.”

Clint snorted from the corner, arms crossed, chewing on a protein bar like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week.

“You know,” he said casually, “some people call this mentoring.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow, looking entirely unimpressed. “Some people have standards.”

Clint raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, no judgment. I just don’t think Stark’s daughter would’ve survived your version of boot camp.”

“She wouldn’t have whined this much,” Natasha shot back, already circling the next recruit—tall, cocky, abs for days, too much gel in his hair. She jabbed at his shoulder with two fingers. “You flinch like that again, and I’m gonna have Steve run you through shield drills until you cry.”

“I—I’m not flinching.”

Natasha stared him down. “You blinked when I said ‘Steve.’ That counts.”

Clint laughed outright now, leaning against the wall. “You’ve been extra scary lately, Nat. Should I be worried?”

“Just bored,” she muttered, even though they both knew that wasn’t the truth.

“Bored?” Clint raised a brow. “This is your version of bored? I can’t wait to see what happens when you’re in a bad mood.”

She shot him a dark look that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Keep talking and I’ll put you on the mat.”

“Oh no, anything but that,” he said, hand on his heart, mock-fear in his voice. “Whatever will I do if my bestie breaks my spine in front of Gen Z?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barton. I’d let one of them do it.”

One of the recruits whispered, “We can hear you,” and Natasha turned just enough to give them a slow, feral grin.

“Good. Maybe it’ll motivate you.”

They looked like they wanted to cry, She didn’t care.

Because if she stopped moving, stopped teasing, stopped being this barely tethered version of herself—then maybe the ache in her chest would start catching up.

And she couldn’t afford that.

Not yet, You were still gone.

Natasha Romanoff was a force in the training room. Everyone knew that. But even she had her rhythms — the way she sized someone up, tested their footing, let them learn through a bruise or two without destroying what little confidence they had. But not today. Today, she was sharp. Clinical. Unforgiving. Every correction came with a hit, every mistake was pointed out with the flick of her staff or the slam of a mat.

By the end of the session, half the recruits were limping and the other half were trying not to look like they were on the verge of crying. They weren’t rookies. All of them were somewhere in their early twenties, eager and just green enough to think they had something to prove. Normally, Natasha would break them down with precision, then build them back up.

Today, she left them scattered across the floor like discarded chess pieces.

“Alright, go,” she finally said after a bit more of torture, waving a hand like she was shooing pigeons instead of a group of elite S.H.I.E.L.D. trainees. “You’re all free to cry in the showers. Debrief’s in two hours. Don’t be late or I’ll actually try.”

The room cleared out faster than a fire drill.

Clint, who’d spent most of the session leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his mouth shut, finally raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” he said. “That was brutal.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “They’re fine. They signed up for this.”

“They signed up for basic tactical sparring, not full-contact therapy.”

She gave him a look, but there was no venom behind it.

Clint stepped forward and offered her a bottle of water, which she took without a word.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on or should I wait until you start decapitating punching bags?”

“I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired. This is different.”

She stayed quiet. Long enough that Clint didn’t think she was going to answer. Then—

“I’m not used to being alone anymore.”

That surprised him. Not the words, maybe, but the way she said them. Flat. Matter-of-fact. Like it was a diagnosis she didn’t quite know what to do with.

“I mean, I can do it,” she added quickly, like that mattered more. “I’ve done it most of my life. I know how to keep Ana on routine, I know how to make sure the bills are paid, I know how to function—”

“But you’re not sleeping.”

Natasha glanced at him.

“I know that look,” Clint said. “You’ve got it under control on the outside, but inside you’re counting every creak in the apartment.”

She didn’t answer, which meant he was right.

He softened his tone a little. “This the third time?”

Natasha nodded. “First time was fine. Just a three-day recon. Ana missed her, I missed her, but I kept busy. Second time was about a month later. Same length. But it hit differently. I was irritated all the time, couldn’t explain why.”

“And now?”

“I’m snapping at everyone,” she muttered. “I haven’t been able to fall asleep without checking the door three times. I wake up every hour thinking I heard something. My body feels like it’s stuck in defense mode.”

Clint tilted his head. “She make you feel safe?”

Natasha let out a dry laugh. “Isn’t that ironic?”

Clint smiled gently. “Maybe. But not surprising. You’ve spent your whole life being the safe one. The one with backup plans and exit routes and eyes on every angle. No one ever stuck around long enough for you to want safety.”

She didn’t deny it.

“I didn’t even notice,” she said after a moment. “That it was happening. I just… slept better. I rested. When she was around, I wasn’t bracing all the time. I started drinking my coffee while it was still hot. I didn’t flinch every time Ana made a noise in the middle of the night.”

“Must be weird.”

“It’s terrifying,” Natasha said, but there was a hint of a smile there now. “Because I didn’t think I was missing anything. I wasn’t unhappy. I had Ana. I had work. Everything was fine.”

Clint didn’t interrupt. He could see the thoughts still arranging themselves behind her eyes.

“She’s young,” Natasha said eventually. “Bright, loud, stubborn. She walks into a room and everything wakes up. And then… when she leaves, it’s like the apartment forgets how to breathe.”

Clint grinned. “Wow. You’re really down bad.”

She smacked his arm.

“I’m just saying,” he teased. “That sounds like someone who’s trying real hard not to use the word love.”

“I’m not saying it to you.”

“But you’re saying it.”

Natasha looked away, then back, then sighed.

“She’s only been gone for a week” she muttered. “And I already feel like my skin’s too tight.”

“Yeah,” Clint said softly. “That’s love, Nat.”

She didn’t reply. Just stood there with her arms crossed, jaw tight, like she was trying to keep the storm in her chest from spilling out across the floor.

And Clint didn’t push her.

Because he knew her. And she’d say it when she was ready. But until then, he’d be there. And maybe, if the world played fair for once, she would be back soon too.

She just left without saying a word to him and wandered to the kitchen, chasing the illusion of calm in a cup of coffee. A desperate attempt to reset, to claw her way back to something that resembled her usual mindset. Useless? Absolutely. But still a valid attempt.

She used what little spare time she had to chip away at the paperwork piling up on her desk, going through the motions while her brain begged for a break, but she couldn't bring herself to stop

When the clock finally pushed her toward the inevitable, she made her way to the meeting room. It was still quiet—mercifully so—and she let herself enjoy the silence for what it was: the last moment of peace before the incoming storm of idiocy.

Clint arrived not long after.

“Ready to deal with them again?” she sighed, barely turning her head to look at him. “It can’t get worse, right?”

It did.

After snapping through training drills and watching half the recruits nearly cry from a simple sparring critique, Natasha thought she’d reached the peak of her frustration. She thought the fire had burned out enough that she could sit through something as low-stakes as a mission planning session without needing a punching bag. She was wrong.

They were in the meeting room, a stack of files spread across the table, and the only thing more painful than their blank stares was their awful strategy logic. It wasn’t even an actual op—they were just meant to propose a plan, something clean and professional, basic protocol. But somehow they managed to turn it into the most chaotic, disjointed mess she had seen since Clint tried to microwave a steak.

One of them suggested a twelve-person infiltration team for a two-man job. Another thought a decoy explosion in a civilian area was a “good distraction.” Natasha stared at that one for a long time. Said nothing. Just let the silence hang until he cleared his throat and tried to backpedal.

It was hell.

They were hell.

And the worst part was, she couldn’t even find the energy to get mad anymore. She just wanted to be anywhere else.

She found herself thinking about your hands.

How they moved when you spread files across her table. How you always started a plan from the middle and worked backwards like it made more sense that way. How your theories were messy, but your execution was precise. How your dumb croissants always left flakes on her floor, but your coffee? Always perfect.

God, she missed you.

These newbies were making her feel ancient.

And somehow… you never did.

Which, in that moment, made her realize something even worse, She wasn’t just used to your presence. She had started to rely on it.

And now? With your chair empty across the room and a dozen voices talking over each other like toddlers playing spy?

She’d never wanted to quit a debrief so badly in her life.

She sat back in her chair, arms crossed, lips pressed in a flat line as she watched one of the recruits confidently draw a completely backwards tactical map on the whiteboard. The entrance and exit points were the same. The safe zone was placed inside the potential combat perimeter. And their plan to extract intel involved “grabbing the briefcase and hoping for the best.”

Natasha blinked. Slowly.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t laugh.

She just watched. With the dead-eyed stare of someone whose soul had left her body approximately five minutes ago.

Clint was sitting to her right, trying—and failing—to stifle his amusement. She caught the edge of his grin in her periphery and didn’t bother to hide the glare she shot back.

“You’re enjoying this,” she muttered under her breath.

“Immensely,” Clint whispered, taking a casual sip of his water. “This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

She let her head fall back against the chair with a quiet groan. “I’ve trained toddlers with better tactical awareness.”

Clint chuckled. “You did train a toddler. Yours has better instincts than these guys.”

She exhaled sharply, the corner of her mouth twitching despite the ache behind her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

They watched another recruit stand up to add on to the plan, immediately contradicting the first half of it. Natasha let her eyes close, counted to ten, reopened them, and still nothing made sense. The files were sitting right there, everything they needed laid out in plain detail—but they weren’t reading, they weren’t thinking, they weren’t you.

You would’ve solved this in five minutes flat. Coffee in one hand, smug grin on your lips, and a completely insane but functional plan in front of her before she could even finish skimming the brief. You made chaos look elegant.

And you were so damn good at what you did.

Not just in the field. But with Ana. With her. With everything.

She missed the way you filled the space beside her. Missed the balance of it. The peace of knowing you were close enough to lean on, even when she pretended not to. She hadn’t realized how much calmer she’d become until you left—and now every breath felt too loud. Every second dragged.

You made things quiet. Inside her head. Inside her chest.

And without you there, she felt like her entire body was clenching around silence. Like she couldn’t relax. Couldn’t trust the stillness.

The room buzzed with voices again, someone suggesting parachutes in a low-rise recon op. Natasha stood up sharply, scraping her chair back.

“All of you,” she said flatly, “out.”

A beat of silence. Then chairs shifting, people scrambling, a few mumbled apologies.

Clint didn’t even try to hide his laugh now.

“You’re brutal.”

“They were parachuting into a building with three floors, Barton.”

“Bold,” he agreed, nodding.

Natasha rubbed her temple, tiredness dragging across her features like the weight of three sleepless nights. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the table, at your empty seat, at the untouched coffee cup across from her that she’d placed there without thinking.

And Clint watched her. Quiet now.

“You okay?”

She let out a breath. “No.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he waited.

“I’m tired,” she said, not looking at him. “Not physically. Not really. Just—on edge. All the time. Like I’m waiting for something to go wrong and I don’t even know what it is.”

Clint watched her carefully, but she didn’t return the look. Her fingers tapped against the file in front of her, slow and bitter. She wasn’t trying to sound dramatic. She was trying not to sound like she was one sleepless night away from losing it.

“And don’t start with the maybe-you-just-need-a-break crap,” she added, her voice dry as dust. “I swear to God, Barton, if one more person tells me to go meditate or do yoga, I’ll throw someone off the balcony just to feel something.”

Clint raised his hands, surrendering with a little whistle. “Wasn’t gonna say a word.”

“Good.” She closed the file with a hard snap. “Because the only thing I’m doing is going back to my apartment, taking a damn hot shower, and snuggling with my daughter until the tension in my spine lets go or I pass out trying.”

“You sure you don’t want to join the rookies for round two?” Clint teased, watching her sling her bag over her shoulder with the kind of aggression that suggested something—or someone—was about to be strangled.

Natasha shot him a look that could peel paint. “Those idiots wouldn’t know a mission plan if it hit them in the face with a blueprint and a crayon.”

“Sounds like a no.”

“It’s a hell no.”

She pushed the chair in with a sharp movement and started toward the door. She was already picturing it—Ana’s small body curled under her arm, the smell of baby shampoo still lingering in her hair, the weight of something real and safe grounding her. The apartment would be warm. Familiar. You wouldn’t be there, but Ana would. And maybe that would be enough to stop her from unraveling further.

“I’m going to go cuddle my toddler,” she muttered as she walked away, mostly to herself. “In an attempt to soothe my fucking nerves before I kill someone.”

“Love that for you,” Clint called after her, smirking. “Tell Ana I said hi.”

But she didn’t answer. She just kept walking—jaw clenched, back stiff, heart pounding louder than it should.

And maybe that was the part that scared her the most.

It was getting harder to calm down without you.

She should’ve gone to her own apartment. She meant to. But in the elevator, her finger pressed your floor instead of hers. She stared at the button, thought about fixing it—and didn’t.

It wasn’t on purpose. Just muscle memory, maybe. Or something quieter. Something she wasn’t ready to name.

She ignored the unspoken rules of social decency—the ones about personal space, about waiting until you’re invited, about not letting yourself into someone else’s apartment when they’re not home. But rules had never done much for her. Not when her chest felt like it was pulled too tight, not when every inch of her skin ached to be somewhere that felt less.

So she walked in like she belonged. Because maybe she did.

The scent hit her first. Your perfume, soft and clean, still lingering in the air like you’d left only minutes ago. Her shoulders relaxed before she even realized it. The knot in her back didn’t go away, but it loosened, just enough for her to breathe. She scoffed under her breath, irritated with herself. This is ridiculous.

She wasn’t supposed to be the kind of woman who felt safe just because of a smell. That was something for romance novels and bad TV dramas. And yet here she was, sinking into it like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Pathetic.

But she didn’t leave.

Instead, she walked to your bathroom, peeled off her clothes, and stepped into your shower. The water pressure was—of course—better than hers. Much better. The kind of steaming hot that instantly blanketed her skin, wrapped around her ribs, and made the world feel like it could fade for a few minutes. She let her forehead press to the tile and made a mental note: Have her install one of these in my apartment. Perks of being your… something.

Natasha let herself fold. The heat hit her hard, softening the edges of her muscle, but not the ache underneath. That, only you could reach.

She braced a hand against the tile, eyes shut, water cascading over her back. Her other hand moved across her body, every touch of her own hands washing away the grime taking deep sighs and low whines come out of her mouth... she is a needy mess. the week, the endless static of a life too sharp lately. But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t you.

Her fingers stilled at her collarbone, and all she could think about was your hands—gentler than she expected, steady, unhurried. The way you touched her like you had all the time in the world. The way your thumb had traced her hipbone once without even noticing, and it had made her breath catch like a damn teenager.

She wanted that.

God, she wanted you.

Not just your mouth or your body or the heat of your skin against hers—though she wanted that too, badly—but the presence. That anchoring calm you carried, the ease in your laugh, the way you never flinched when Ana clung to your chest or Natasha woke up gasping in the middle of the night. You were steady. You were safe.

And she missed you like hell.

The water rushed down her back as her palm curled against the tile. Her breath hitched—not from the steam, but from the ache in her chest. This wasn’t just about the day. Or the week. This was you, absent in a way she hadn’t let herself admit she wasn’t handling well.

She needed your hands. Your weight behind her. Your mouth pressed to her shoulder whispering sweet things on her ear... bringing her to a lazy orgasm, your fingers trusting inside her exactly how she likes it, that type of orgasm that made her bones melt. She needed to feel claimed—wanted—in the way only you managed to make her feel.

She let the water run until her skin turned pink and her legs felt a little less steady. But not weak. Just—softer.

She wrapped herself in your towel, tucked her hair behind her ear, and looked at her reflection. She felt ridiculous—needy in a way that made her wince. Two years spent living something close to celibate, and now she couldn’t make it through a week without you.

“Pathetic,” she muttered under her breath. And yet, she didn’t leave.

She wasn’t ready to leave.

Not when everything in this apartment smelled like you.

Not when your presence lingered in the sheets and the steam and the air she breathed like a promise.

Not when her skin still craved you more than the water could soothe.

Wrapped in your robe—still warm from where it had hung by the bathroom—Natasha felt like she was wearing a secret. The collar smelled like you. The sleeves hung past her wrists just enough to feel wrong on her body and right in every other way. The plush fabric swallowed her frame, soft where her skin was still pink from the shower, grounding her like only you managed to do.

She padded barefoot into your bedroom, towel-drying her hair lazily as she reached for your phone. You weren’t home, but she didn’t need permission. Not anymore. Not after the way you’d held her the last time she’d fallen apart. Not after the way your hands had memorized her.

She dialed the tower’s daycare.

It rang twice before someone picked up. “Hello—Avengers Tower Child Services, this is—”

“I need Ana.”

There was a pause, just long enough to signal the woman on the other end had recognized her voice. “Oh—are you coming down to pick her up?”

“No,” Natasha cut in, her voice low and dry. “Have someone bring her to Ms. Stark’s apartment.”

Another pause. Sharper this time.

Natasha didn’t usually pull rank. She didn’t like making people uncomfortable if she could help it, didn’t like reminding people of who she was unless she had to. But today? Today she didn’t give a fuck.

The silence on the other end of the line cracked into a gasp—the kind someone makes when they choke on air but try to hide it. “Ms. Stark’s apartment?” the woman repeated, barely managing to keep her voice steady. “But she’s—uh—she’s currently away on mission—”

“Exactly,” Natasha replied, cool and calm as ice. “I’m in her apartment.”

She hung up before the woman could recover, before she could come up with something else polite to say. The truth was already in the air. No taking it back now.

And maybe Natasha liked that a little more than she should.

Still barefoot, she wandered into your kitchen and opened the cabinet where she knew you kept the coffee mugs—second shelf, left side, tucked behind that one chipped one you never threw away. She picked your favorite, poured the last of the hot brew into it, and cradled it between her palms like it might warm her deeper than the robe already had.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing a pair of your pajama bottoms—soft, a little too big, cinched at the waist with a lazy knot. your robe, draped over it. She smelled like your shampoo. She moved like someone who belonged in your space.

When the elevator dinged, she didn’t rush to meet it.

She walked slowly, casually, letting the scent of your coffee cling to her like another layer of you. She opened the door just as the delivery woman was adjusting Ana on her hip.

And the look on her face?

Priceless.

Natasha didn’t smile. Not really. But her mouth did twitch in a way that let the woman know she’d seen it. That she understood exactly what this looked like. And that she wasn’t about to explain herself.

She reached for Ana, who immediately threw her arms around her mother’s neck, cheek pressed into her shoulder with a tired little sigh.

“Thank you,” Natasha said, expression unreadable but voice polite.

The woman mumbled something in return, eyes flicking once more to Natasha’s clothes—your clothes—before she stepped back into the elevator.

And that was that.

Natasha smiled to herself, something smug curling in her chest, her mood instantly lighter—as if claiming you, even in a silent, indirect way, had flipped a switch in her head. The robe still smelled like you. The coffee was yours. The space was yours. And now, so were they.

She looked down at Ana, who was content and warm in her arms, still sleep-dazed with her cheek pressed to her shoulder. “Mama made it pretty clear,” Natasha murmured, voice full of dry satisfaction. “She’s ours.”

Ana made a little sound—a soft gag, half-laugh, half-yawn—like she agreed in her toddler way, and Natasha huffed out a quiet chuckle. “Exactly,” she said, brushing her lips over the crown of Ana’s head. “I didn’t even have to say it out loud. That poor woman nearly fainted.”

Ana mumbled something incoherent and tucked herself in tighter, her small fingers wrapping into the edge of Natasha’s robe.

Natasha carried her toward the bedroom, her hand cupping Ana’s back instinctively. She still had her coffee in the other hand, warm and familiar. “You know,” she said softly, talking more to fill the quiet than anything else, “you and I—we make a good team. I don’t even have to say what I want, and you go ahead and make me look all possessive.”

Another little sleepy gag came in response, and Natasha smirked.

They reached the bed.

It was still unmade from your morning rush—covers half thrown back, your pillow slightly indented. Natasha settled in like muscle memory, stretching out with a soft sigh as she adjusted the blankets over them both. She took one last sip of coffee before setting the mug on your nightstand.

Ana curled on her chest, tiny limbs draped naturally over her like she belonged there. Natasha’s hand moved up and down her daughter’s back in a rhythm she didn’t think about.

Everything smelled like you.

Everything felt like you.

And wrapped in your robe, in your bed, with Ana’s heartbeat against hers, Natasha let herself close her eyes for the first time that day and just breathe.

This—this was hers. And she wasn’t sharing.

Ana fell asleep fast—unfairly fast, in Natasha’s opinion. One minute she was blinking slow against her chest, the next, completely knocked out, tiny fingers still curled in the fabric of Natasha’s borrowed robe.

Natasha looked down at the peaceful little traitor and sighed through her nose. “Such a simp,” she muttered, mock-scolding, brushing her knuckles gently against Ana’s red hair. “You know that, right? One whiff of her and you’re out like a light. No standards.”

Ana didn’t respond, of course. Just let out a soft snore, drooling slightly onto Natasha’s chest.

“Gross,” Natasha added affectionately, then shifted with a little grunt of effort, sliding out from under her daughter with the practiced ease of a mother who’d done this dance too many times. She tugged the robe off her shoulders, tossing it to the chair by your desk, then pulled the duvet up to cover them both. It smelled heavenly. Like you. Of course it did.

She rolled her eyes—at you, at herself, at this whole situation she never thought she’d be in.

“Great,” she muttered as she settled in beside Ana again, tugging the duvet tighter around them. “She has turned both Romanoffs into complete idiots. Well done.”

The bed was warm. The room was quiet. Ana’s breath was slow and steady, pressed into her side now. Natasha tucked her arm around her daughter and let herself relax.

It didn’t take long before she was out too.

Simp, indeed.

It was, without a doubt, the best sleep she’d had all week. No tossing, no restless half-wakes at every small noise. Just warmth. The kind that wrapped around her bones, settled into her skin. The kind that whispered safety without needing to say a word.

Natasha was sleeping like a log, dead to the world. But even as she stirred, something felt different. Not wrong—no, not at all—but new. Or rather… familiar in a way she was beginning to crave.

There was an extra weight draped over her waist. Not heavy, but grounding. And then the scent—yours—undeniable, curling around her like a second blanket. It was the only reason she didn’t jolt upright like usual, the only reason her muscles stayed loose instead of tensing on instinct. She blinked, adjusting to the low light filtering through the room, and looked down.

Your hand.

Delicate, sure. But firm in its claim, wrapped around her as if she were something fragile and rare, something to be protected. Treasured. As if you knew what she tried to hide and wanted to shield her from it anyway.

She didn’t know how to breathe for a second.

She didn’t feel weak. She didn’t feel small. She felt… like yours.

Carefully, quietly, she rolled onto her side, slow enough not to disturb Ana, still asleep by her side. Her eyes met yours. Warm. Soft. Tired in the same way hers were.

You leaned in first. Or maybe she did. It didn’t matter.

Your lips brushed hers in a slow, unhurried kiss—lingering just a second too long to be casual, just deep enough to say I missed you without either of you needing to say a word. There was something sacred in the silence. Something steady in the pull between your mouths.

Longing and relief, tangled together in the stillness.

The kiss faded slowly, not because either of you wanted it to, but because the moment demanded breath—words. Familiar rhythm. Something to tether the weight of the morning to something more manageable. You stayed close, noses brushing, your hand still resting over her waist.

“God, you look terrible,” you whispered, the corners of your mouth tugging into a sleepy grin.

Natasha let out a soft huff of amusement, half-heartedly rolling her eyes. “Thanks, printsessa. Nothing like brutal honesty to start the day.”

You blinked at her, incredulous. “Day? Darling, it’s fucking 22:00. How did you manage to destroy your biological clock like this?”

You brushed a strand of her messy red hair off her cheek, your fingers deliberately slow, teasing. “No, really. Hair like a bird nest. Dark circles. You look like someone tried to cosplay insomnia.”

She smirked, biting back a laugh that might wake Ana. “I’ve been busy not murdering anyone this week, thanks to someone disappearing again.”

“I was working,” you said, mock-defensive, shifting just a little so your leg hooked around hers. “Some of us have very important things to do, you know.”

Natasha scoffed. “Right. And I’m sure the fate of the world depended entirely on your ability to drink five espressos and ignore my texts.”

You grinned, nose brushing her temple. “Six espressos, actually. And I wasn’t ignoring. I was… emotionally unavailable.”

That earned a soft laugh from her—real and unguarded. She tilted her head back just enough to meet your gaze fully, her expression still dry, but touched with affection. “You’re insufferable.”

You grinned wider. “And yet here you are. Wrapped in my sheets. Wearing my clothes. Sleeping in my bed.”

She pressed a quick kiss to your chin, her voice lower now, almost fond despite her teasing. “Yeah. Must be losing my edge.”

You pulled her closer again, arms snug around her waist. “Nah. You just found better edges to soften against.”

She didn’t say anything. Just let herself melt into you, breathing easier than she had in days.

She was quiet at first, her body still heavy with sleep as you brushed your fingers lazily down the slope of her waist. Her hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions, eyes half-lidded and unfocused as they slowly adjusted to the light.

You let your hand slide up, resting it on her ribs. “A little bird told me you weren’t exactly… thriving this week.”

She stilled slightly. “Clint?”

“Mmhmm. Said you almost impaled a trainee for calling you ma’am.”

“They earned it.”

You grinned. “You told one of the analysts she had the tactical sense of a door.”

Natasha grunted.

You snorted softly. “You’ve been stomping around the tower like a sleep-deprived dragon.”

There was a long pause before she finally sighed, low and quiet. “I don’t sleep well without you.”

You didn’t tease her for that one. Not this time.

Instead, you shifted closer, curling around her a little more, letting her breathe you in. Her shoulders softened. Just a little.

“I mean, if this is you at thirty-three, I can’t imagine the chaos when you’re sixty,” you said gently, your lips brushing her hair. “You’ll be throwing people out of windows for breathing too loud.”

Natasha let out a tired, amused sound. “That’s optimistic. I’ll be worse.”

You kissed her jaw. “Cute.”

“I’m not cute.”

“You’re so cute when you’re cranky and secretly in love with me.”

She turned her face into your neck, mumbling something unintelligible, but you could feel the smile there.

Natasha was still tangled in the last traces of sleep, Ana’s little body sprawled by her side, her scent mingling with the faint sweetness of your perfume that lingered on the pillows. The calm wouldn’t last, she knew that. It never did. But for now, she allowed herself to rest in it—until you stirred beside her and she felt your fingers brushing her side softly.

“I have some news,” you said, voice low and close to her ear, carrying the weight of something important, but softened with warmth.

Natasha’s body tensed the smallest bit. It was instinctive, like a defense mechanism. That tone—it meant change. She shifted, careful not to wake Ana, and met your eyes. “What kind of news?”

You sat up slightly, propping yourself on your elbow, and smiled. “Good news, I swear.”

Still, she didn’t smile back. Not yet. She just waited, studying your expression. She’d learned to read people deeply, and you—God, you were the only person who ever made her forget how.

You reached up, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. “Fury said I’m not necessary here in the Avengers anymore, so I can go back to England.”

Natasha blinked, just once—but it was enough. That word again.

England.

It was always there—hovering like a shadow behind your name, your work, your laughter. The place that could take you back. The place that wasn’t here.

Her throat tightened just a bit. “So… you’re leaving?”

You heard it. You always did. The tension behind her words. The shift in her breathing.

You leaned closer, your forehead nearly touching hers. “But I’m also not necessary in England either. So I chose to stay here.”

Natasha blinked, unsure. “Wait, what?”

“I said I had good news,” you cut her off gently, your thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “You’re looking at the newest member of the Avengers. Apparently one Stark wasn’t enough, so now they get to deal with two.”

That earned you a blink of surprise—and then, slowly, a breath of relief. Natasha didn’t smile, not quite. But the way her shoulders eased, the way her fingers curled slightly tighter around Ana, spoke volumes.

Still, you could tell her mind was spinning.

“So… you’re staying here?” she asked quietly, as if she didn’t quite trust the answer yet.

You nodded. “Fury said I could go back if I wanted. But I don’t. I want this. I’ll be living here. In the Tower. With you. With Ana.”

And that was the moment everything shifted.

You weren’t just dropping in and out of her life anymore. You weren’t a fleeting miracle or a reprieve between the chaos. You were staying. Permanently. Part of the team. Part of them.

A breath she didn’t know she’d been holding left her lungs all at once, and she couldn’t help the way her hand slid up to cup your cheek, holding you close as if anchoring herself to reality.

“You’re serious?” she asked.

You grinned. “Completely. They’re stuck with me now.”

She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head slightly. “Poor bastards.”

You tilted your head. “That wasn’t very supportive, Romanoff.”

“Oh, I’m supportive,” she said, leaning forward to kiss your jaw. “I’m just also a realist.”

You chuckled, but even you couldn’t hide how full your chest felt—because you knew. You knew what this meant to her. To all of you.

“I missed you too, you know,” you added after a moment, a little softer now. “Don’t think you were the only one close to losing your shit. They paired me with this guy in his thirties—had more field experience than me but didn’t even know how to operate an advanced interface system. Almost blew up the whole thing trying to sync it.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “At one point I had to take over and told him to step back before I sent him to basic training again. I’m pretty sure I growled.”

She smirked, drawing circles against Ana’s back absentmindedly. “Sounds like you were channeling me.”

You smiled and leaned down, resting your forehead against hers. “I think I just missed home.”

That word hit. Home.

And somehow, this—you, her, Ana, this bed—had become exactly that.

Natasha sighed, curling her fingers in the hem of your shirt. “Well… I hope you like shared showers and stolen hoodies.”

You chuckled. “It’s part of the contract.”

She smiled against your mouth. Finally. And maybe this wasn’t perfect. Maybe the world would keep throwing chaos their way. But at least for now, there was one solid truth Natasha could finally hold onto:

You were home. And you weren’t going anywhere

[moonlight-prose]

SWEETNESS OF THE DAMNED

a/n: this was a quick drabble at first, but somehow turned into an allegory for persophone and hades. which isn’t surprising for me given that i’m already plotting october fics. logan isn’t a monster in this, nor is he a vampire even though the vibe and title may give that off. i just really love gothic vibes in everything i write so who better to give it to than old man logan.

summary: when night falls and wine overflows in glasses of crystal, logan finds his home in between your thighs.

word count: 1.2k+

pairing: old man!logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, p in v sex, alcohol consumption, allegories for persephone and hades, biting, scratching even though he heals, cumplay, overstimulation, squirting, dirty talk, older logan is so filthy i’m blushing.

The acrid embers of the fire burned your nose the deeper your breaths became. Red wine remained chocolatey and bitter on your tongue; the dinner you tried to eat quickly was now forgotten in favor of something else. You thought you could smell the cigar he smoked on the porch an hour ago on his bare skin. You couldn't.

Not when his fingers dug into your hips, lips pressed against the shell of your ear. He grunted with each slap of skin. The wet slick of how he pounded into you echoed loud and bright in the cabin.

You would have been embarrassed if it weren't for the sounds he let out. The way his eyes fell shut the closer you got to that fiery peak.

"C'mon baby," he sighed, ragged and needy. "I can feel ya."

Wine had gone to your head the second he poured you a third glass. Your red dress of crushed velvet lay in a heap on the floor. A pair of his jeans and a shirt beside it. The soft fabric of his flannel was smooth beneath your knees where he dropped it. Careful to keep your skin from going raw as he took you before dinner could even finish.

The alcohol is what brought this night to an early conclusion.

You already knew it would happen. Hoped for it on long days with hours that stretched for miles. Ached for his presence when you curled up in bed—the scent of his body still stuck on the cotton sheets. Logan promised to give you everything with a soft kiss at the door, his fingers gripping your chin to hold you there a minute longer. To slip his tongue past your maroon painted lips and lick along your teeth.

"'S too much," you garbled.

He laughed as you clenched around his leaking cock—tearing a deep moan from his chest. The heat of his body burned its way into yours where the fireplace couldn't reach. Each muscle and ridge along his stomach pressed into your back—his hips strong enough to break you slowed into punishing thrusts that bounced you on his thighs.

Time didn't exist; seasons began to blend into one.

The both of you resided where spring met summer and the shadow of night met fall's full moon. You wore a crown of wilted flowers—red spilling over your hands from where he asked you to bite into his skin. This was your damned hour. Your time of need.

You were the other half of an already broken soul, and he found that in your absence he couldn't hold it together for quite as long.

"You feel that?" His hand cupped your cunt—fingers spread around where he ended and you began. "She's leakin' for me baby."

"L-Logan," you gasped your throat thick with too many emotions.

The slow grind of his hips into yours sent your body hurtling towards yet another release. Your stomach was sticky where his other hand pressed - already coated in the three before. Holding onto the fraying pieces of your mind proved to be difficult when his teeth latched onto your shoulder. His fingers drew a shape around the edge of your throbbing clit.

His initials.

"You want another one don't ya honey?"

Yes. No. Please never fucking stop.

Instead all you could get out was a whine of his name. Your back arched into his hold, head pressed hard against his chest, as you fought to keep up with him. To grind against his lap and feel the drag of his cock along your walls.

"Yeah. You do," he murmured against your ear. "She wants to be good for me."

Down in the base of your stomach you felt the familiar pull of bliss begin to draw tight. You knew what came next. The rush of mind numbing pleasure trickled into your veins. Slowly drawing you higher with each stunted thrust—each echo of his fingers toying with your stretched cunt. You could count the seconds until it finally burst.

"I'm gonna–" The breath caught in your throat, hands clasping around his wrists as something shifted. "F-Fuck. Logan I'm–"

"Fuck yeah ya are," he grunted into your neck. "Gonna lick you clean after this. Get my fuckin' dessert."

His cock pounded deep against your walls, fingers pulling up the hood of your clit to circle rapidly against nerves that were already shot. And you sobbed his name. Your nails drew red angry marks on his arms that healed moments later; your body too fucking rigid and too hot to process what the fuck he was doing.

Elysium and the River Styx were ripping you apart. As if you were being pulled in two very different directions.

A clatter echoed beside you when he reached for your glass of wine, still stained with the now faded red of your lipstick. You felt his thigh shake—his cock twitching in the heat of your body. You wondered if this is what it felt like to burn alive. The sweet aching bliss of being held by your lover as he drowned you in the fire. Would this be how he took you to the Underworld?

The cold wash of wine spilled along your body as he poured out the remainder of the glass. His tongue quickly dragged across your blistering skin—drinking the cabernet off your body with a raspy groan of your name.

"'M almost there." He gripped the back of your neck and yanked you back with a kiss. His tongue plunging into your mouth—sharing the wine as his fingers pressed hard and fast against your swollen bud. "Give it to me huh? Fuckin' cum on my cock."

Your release ripped through your body with a scream. The echo of his name came back to you eventually, yet you couldn't figure out if you were the one saying it. With your nails piercing his skin, he felt you gush, choking his cock and milking him dry. A splatter of something wet landed on his thighs as he wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you still.

To bury himself as deep as he could go and finish with a blissful ragged groan against your shoulder. Wave after wave of ecstasy washed over your spent body and you felt him fill you until it began to leak out. Coating the inside of your thighs.

"Are you breathing?" he chuckled, lips sliding along your neck to find your mouth.

You answered with a whimper. Which proved enough for him.

The stickiness of the wine began to dry against your bare body while his fingers dragged through the mixture of your cum that stuck to your thigh. He sighed—content and warm—as he lowered himself to the floor. His back pressed against your clothes and softening cock still buried in your dripping cunt.

"Speak to me bub." His fingers tapped your cheek, nose nudging against your jaw. "I can't have killed ya."

"You almost did," you mumbled, barely able to open your eyes.

Exhaustion sunk right down to your bones the longer you lay there wrapped in his arms. You knew the both of you should shower. Clean up and actually eat something in its entirety this time around. Logan would say the same if it weren't for the comforting press of your weight against his body. He cupped your breasts, thumbs toying with your peaked nipples, and kissed you with a sigh.

The both of you should say something to get the other moving. Yet neither of you did.

Instead you were met with silence and the crackle of the fire. Time, now a nonexistent variable to a night spent in each other's arms.

[strwberri-milk]

I need to know your thoughts bc I love your writing sm 😩🥹 but who’s the most to least likely of the LAD men to give in if you beg cutely to them hehe ✨

honestly i need you to undesrstand this. if you so much as *look* at something you want he WIll give it to you. Unless he's zayne or sylus. theyre a little mean sometimes this might not be what you think but this is how i saw the scale in my head so :D

Rafayel is devastated for you. You can just. Breathe at something you want and he's already got it for you. Even if he's mad at you if you just shove your phone in his face of something you want he'll just hand you his card.

Caleb is a very close second. The only reason why he's second is because he'll be mean to you and sometimes say no if he thinks you've got too many of one thing but that is *very* rare - you'd have to be overflowing with them for him to get to that point.

Xavier is here only because he's neutral. He'll buy you anything you want but he doesn't really react. Just gives you the money and off you go. Begging cutely doesn't change anything about how he'll buy it.

Zayne loves it when you act cute but it doesn't always make him buy you something. You have a solid 70/30 with him. It increases your chances but there are still high enough changes that he might say no.

Sylus loves it when you act cute as well but he's more likely to say no if he thinks you can do better than what you want. Or he's already bought it for you and he's saying no because it's already waiting for you at home. Acting cute doesn't change the liklehood of him buying you something though so he's also immune like Xavier with a higher chance of denial for some reason or another than Zayne.

[mayasaurusss]

I love your writing.Pls, can u do jinx gets reader to try out a lingerie 🙏

It fits you just right

Contains: suggestive themes but not exlicit smut, soft Jinx.

"Babyyy, I've got you something!" Jinx's loud voice echoes inside her hideout, catching your attention.

She has been gone for a couple of hours at least, having told you that she was going to do some of her usual mischief in Piltover. You bet she painted that town blue from head to toe.

She walks in on the helix, humming a made up song and carrying big patched sacks on her shoulders.

You get your from the couch and push away the book she so kindly took -stole- for you, following her small bouncing with your eyes. "Jinx! What have you..." she throws the bags on the ground just before your feet, their contents spilling all over the floor.

Trinkets of any type, scraps of dull metal, old cupboard sweets and clothes overflow from the linen sacks, tinkling resonating inside the room. You marvel at the many trinkets she got, turning over their glass shells and admiring the many colors reflecting on their metal surfaces. "Jinx!" you say while stuffing your hands inside the creases of a brand new coat, "where have you gotten all this stuff?!".

Her silence is enough to make you understand what she did before she even opens her mouth. "What?! They took everything from us, I'm just repaying them the favor" she moves around you and watches as you intently examine every object she took -stole, again-.

"I told you to me and to me again, you gotta stop steal-" you are rudely interrupted by her exasperated voice, "Yeah yeah I get it! I know".

Silence fills the space again, something that doesn't usually happen while Jinx is there. You look up to see her usual pale skin tone replaced by a faint pink. Her bottom lip is pressed beneath her teeth and her eyes avoid yours. You can already feel a bit of annoyance at her almost childish ways taking their place on the sides of your brain, "What is it?". A small choked sound comes from Jinx's throat, she rocks in the balls of her feet for a moment before you see her taking in a deep breath, closing her eyes and pushing a paper bag towards you. You blink your eyes a few times, surprised by her, before you take the paper bag and open it.

Inside it sits a small brown packet. The way it's nearly stored gives away that whatever is in there must be special to Jinx's standards. The brown paper is adorned with Jinx's signature drawings, colorful traces of crayons depicting small characters -mainly you two holding hands- , scenarios and hearts all over it. A pink ribbon ties everything up, completing the picture.

"Jinx, what is this?" you ask her, earning a whine from her blushing figure. "If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise, no?".

She watches in anticipation as you unite the ribbon, carefully peel the paper back and...

A set of lingerie sits in front of you, all embroidered and neatly stored. "Do you like it? It's even in my color..." Jinx's words make you realize that the set is a deep navy blue.

You snort at her words. "Really? You steal a pair of lingerie and your first thought is to search for blue ones?" she would have reacted shyly if she hadn't seen the playful smirk on your lips. "I-I mean... It's important, you know?" you walk closer to her, making sure to sway your hips as you do.

"Why? You like seeing me all pretty for you, in your favorite color?" as if she wasn't red already, blood starts to pump even faster into her veins, making her look like a tomato.

"Y-yes I do! N-now put these on!" she roughly shoves the pair against your chest, much to your amusement. "Alright, just wait here, cutie" the way your voice drags over the last word makes something inside of Jinx move, pumps blood in her heart and in her hips.

A few minutes pass by, Jinx's mind already finding new things to think about, when she hears your sing songy voice "Cominggg".

A gasp leaves her when she sees you wearing the lingerie on your skin. It's just perfect, emphasizes every curve of your body, every scar, mole or freckle visible through it: and most importantly, it's her color.

"Wow..." Jinx sits up from the couch, reaching her hand to touch your shoulders, then traveling to grab at your hips. "It fits you just right..." her eyes are glazed and cheeks pink as the ribbon she used to tie your little present up.

"Sooo? Do you like it?" you let out a gasp as her grip on your hips tightens, making you suck in a sharp breath. The way she has you at her mercy makes something pull at your heart strings.

And Jinx? She looks like an absolute mess. Pretty flushed cheeks, eyelids heavy with desire, mouth open and heart full of desire. "Like it? I fucking love it" her nose presses against the cease of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. "You look so good in this..." she starts to press kisses, electric against your skin. "How did I ever find someone as perfect as you?" her words come out as hot as molten lava, as sweet as honey.

"Jinx..." your breaths are heavy against the unnatural cold of your home. Jinx slides her hand up to your neck, hugging you closer to her. All her newfound confidence suddenly blurs and you can feel her heartbeat through her chest on yours. Again, that shyness she harbors for you and you alone resurfaces, making her look so small against your body. She pushes her lips outwards, pouting a bit before she asks something of you.

"Could we...you know..." her voice is hoarse, creacking here and there. Deep violet eyes stare at yours, assessing if you understand her and silently waiting for an answer. "Could we...what?" you already know what she wants to ask you, but you are having far too much fun teasing her. Her eyes widen for a moment and she swallows hard, before looking at her boots. "You know...you know what I mean...".

You still aren't satisfied with your teasing, waiting for her to admit what she truly wants with words instead of embarrassed chocked sounds. "I don't think I do" that dumb smile of yours only makes Jinx feel more and more embarrassed, tempted by your lips but pulled back by her shyness. She can't do it anymore. With an exasperated whine, Jinx strengthens her grip on the back of your neck and pulls you down towards her, kissing your lips fiercely.

The kiss is all teeth and tongue, all sighs and touches, leaving you breathless and yearning for more. You pull back from her, lips wet, feeling blood rise up from your veins into your cheeks. "Woah...I guess that was enough" you say, giving her a knowing smirk and earning a sigh from her, before she brings you back to her lips. "Oh shut up toots".

[jinxvex]

can we get jinx w a very doting gf :3

♱ gf!jinx x doting (affectionate)!reader ♱

yes!! i love this request! 🖤 oneshot vibes fr!

cw: a bit angsty at first, little snippets of act 1/season 2,SFW & NSFW!!!, smutty drabble at the end, jinx pushes you into a wall once, you're very affectionate (obv), kissing, hugging, dirty talk, tribbing, praise, dom-ish!jinx & sub!reader, etc etc

wc: 1.4K

jinx had nothing; no one.

not after the her attack on piltover.

her unhinged, yet powerful act of rebellion ultimately caused a war between the city of progress and the dangerous underground city of zaun.

and had forced her into hiding…

i mean, what was worse? being caught by the stuck-up, zaunite-hating, piltie goons who murdered her mother and father or being alone?

she often contemplated that question.

she contemplated her future.

was any of it worth it now that her sister wanted nothing to do with her? now that she’s laid her adoptive father to rest in the contaminated murky river? now that she has a bounty on her head?

she wasn’t sure.

she wasn’t sure if anyone even gave a damn about her or whether she lived or died.

“it’s all just… pointless!” she replayed on a loop in her head, the place that has always been too loud and too daunting for her comfort.

jinx was alone.

well, until she met you.

as jinx sneakily roamed the dark and dingy alleyways of zaun in her not-so-discreet disguise, she was met with (almost) complete and utter silence. which casts an eerie feeling of unfamiliarity within her bones.

the lively (although still dangerous) streets of zaun were usually bustling with people. drunks, shimmer addicts, salesmen, crooks, and goons alike typically overcrowd every inch of the sunken city, which used to allow her to go wherever she pleased without anyone noticing her.

since the enforcers started raiding the city and imprisoning the people of zaun, a petty punishment for her own wrongdoings, many zaunites didn’t feel safe. they opted to stay inside, shut themselves out, and draw the blinds closed to prevent them from being taken too.

as jinx continues to walk towards her destination, “home”, a wave of loneliness washes over her, a feeling she so desperately had attempted to rid herself of for years.

she isn’t inclined to speak, though. not out loud to empty space or to the voices. maybe she’d save that for home.

as her head is angled downwards, looking at her dragging feet, she turns another corner in order to make her way back to her humble abode.

and all of a sudden, she bumps into a hard, human-shaped object? as she backs up menacingly after plummeting into something, she slowly brings her head up and is met with the sight of… you.

“a girl?” she exclaims in her head.

“a pretty one.”

“does she live near here?”

“wait! does she know who i am?”

“is she here to kill me? take me away?”

“no. no! i can’t let her.”

“not now…”

“damn it!”

her thoughts overflow with endless possibilities and scenarios that cause her to grip your shoulders and harshly back you up into the hard surface of a cement building without warning.

you gasp loudly, but as you bring your hands up to fight back and protect yourself from whatever is about to come, your moments are suddenly still.

as you look into her pinkish, vibrant eyes, you’re met with fear. you’re met with anger, loneliness, and suffering, which prompt you to freeze. her face is littered with fresh cuts, scrapes, and scars. your heart squeezes in empathy as you look into each other's eyes—jinx not even having the energy to reach for her gun out of concern for herself.

“you’re hurt.” you mutter softly. your caring nature immediately wanting to help her. jinx. and yes, you know of her. that doesn’t matter to you now.

her eyes still gaze into yours, even as she removes her hands from your shoulders.

“yeah, tell me ‘bout it, sweetness.” she laughs almost mockingly, not towards you, but at herself.

“want me to clean that up?” you point your chin up at the wounds on her face.

she blinks at you incredulously before allowing a smirk to grace her features for the first time in what seems like forever.

“damn! take a girl out to dinner first, babe.”

you smile.

… ( mini time skip!! a couple months)

jinx wasn't used to physical and emotional affection. love. let alone romantic gestures. silco looked after her but struggled to give the affection a parent would once he took her in all those years ago.

at first, she was incredibly taken aback by your willingness to help her even though you knew who she was. you knew who she was and still allowed her to lead you back to her workshop to patch her up. after that day, spent cleaning her wounds, you never left.

she was enamored by you.

by your ability to love.

you were moderately affectionate in the beginning, but as the weeks passed, your excessive praise and doting intensified. at first, it was lingering touches on her face after you insisted on "checking" her facial bandages. then it was moving her hair out of her face and caressing the sides of her head when she's in an episode.

once you started coming up behind her as she was working on her gadgets to link your arms around her waist and lay your head on her shoulder, she was hooked on you.

she did initially flinch and curl out of your touch, but as she took in your scent and realized it was you, she relaxed. she accepted you.

...

"just me!" you exclaim happily as you nudge your face into her neck, and she softly gasps when you give her small, gentle pecks.

"hmmph! you're too sweet to me, buttercup! scares me sometimes..." she fluctuates the tone of her voice from happy to unsure and back to happy again.

one thing she is sure of, though, is her love for you.

as you peer up at her from the side of her neck, you tighten your arms around her, "you deserve it. all the hugs, kisses and love!"

you both never felt a need to verbally establish a label on your relationship.

the night you took each other's first kiss, there was a mutual understanding. you were hers, and she was yours.

when she's with you, the voices quiet, and the visions aren't as prevalent anymore. she feels safe. not just because she's in hiding, still successfully dodging piltover, but because you're there.

although that is the case, you still make her crazy for you.

your unconditional affection ignites a fire inside her that loving you could only put out.

...(nsfw incoming!!)

"s-shit, babe! fuck!" her voice echoes throughout the seemingly endless depths of her workshop as she circles her hips and drags her wet cunt against yours.

your moans and little "oh my g-god!'s" adding to the music that is your pussies grinding together to make filthy sloshing noises.

"fuckin' pussy is so so good, bunny! pl-eease!" she begs you, although she's the one above you, her hand pushing one of your legs up to rest on her shoulder and her other hand pressing your leg down onto the couch. her ass is perched on your upper thigh to allow her to buck her hips up into your cunt as close as she possibly can.

"yes! yes! more, baby! you feel so good!" you babble as you lay back, looking up at her through your eyelashes. she's sitting right side up as she continues to hump your cunt with her eyes glued shut in concentration.

she can feel every pulse, every throb of your heat as she chases her high, and it affects her deeply.

"you're perfect, y-you know that?" you question. "fucking perfect. i love you so much!" she almost stills. that "perfect" word causes her heart to beat out her chest. she slows down slightly as she opens her eyes and looks down at you, looking back at her lovingly.

now inspired by your praise, she then speeds up, even faster and rougher than before.

"yeah? yeah? 'm perfect, baby? you loveee me?" she asks you mockingly as she stares into your eyes.

"yes! you feel so good. so perfect! fuckin' love you! need ta' cum! you scream out.

"mhm! thought so. then show me how good you're feelin' and cum all over me." she demands of you. "make a mess on this pussy, toots."

she lets out a "give me that shit, baby" and a "need my sweet girl to cum, so fuckin' nice to this pussy" to urge you on.

"fu-uck! right there! i'm cumming!"

"shit, me too!"

...

as you both come down from your high, she eventually lets your leg down and sits you upright to hug you tightly.

she feels so appreciated, so loved in the moment that she cups your jaw with her shaky hands and kisses you hard.

"i love you, hon. you're so..."

"i love you too, pow."

...

and y'all live happily ever after, and the events of act 3 NEVERRR happen!!! 😜🥳‼️

[devilander]

a mirror in half-light

18+ 1.5k. homelander x supe f!reader. blood, dirty talking, cunnilingus, use of telepathic powers, acts of violence mentioned (not between reader and HL)

From someone so concerned with shielding his mind, Homelander quickly comes to appreciate your telephatic powers and how useful they can be. Especially during a boring Seven meeting.

prompt sent by @infinetlyforgotten, thank you so much 🤍

When you were first introduced to the Seven, many, including your new colleagues, compared you to Mindstorm. Sure, there were some similarities—the ability to see a person’s thoughts or to project specific images. But that’s where it ended. 

The ace up to your sleeve, which distinguishes you and earned your supe name as Quickstep, is both your telepathic precognition, giving you leverage in hand to hand combat, and your crown and glory—possession. Supe or non-supes, all could have their minds hijacked by you; an ability Vought decided not to publicize. 

Your fellow partners in fighting crime knew, though; and from day one you could feel Homelander watching you with suspicion, a stare so filled with distaste your knees almost buckled. 

Seeing you in a corridor, Homelander signaled for you to approach.

“Quickstep,” he sneered, invading your personal space until he towered over you and your neck ached from looking so high up. “If I catch you using your little powers on me, be sure I’ll crack your spine. It’ll be easier than stomping on an ant. Got it?” His sudden artificial smile did nothing to lessen the weight of his words. 

Homelander was your hero, always, since childhood. Not only that, ever since you saw him for the first time, the shining blue eyes, the softness of his blonde hair, that commanding voice... You were a goner. And he most certainly knew. The disappointment almost, almost broke your heart. 

Little by little, however, with the unspoken promise you wouldn’t pry on his mind, you’d grown close. Partners in fighting crime, yeah, of course, but you had his back, no matter what. 

In one of your missions together, Homelander smeared in an innocent’s blood from head to toe, your first instinct was to help him—clean the mess. And you couldn’t lie, him in his violence and brutality did something to you. 

“Hey, you,” you murmured. “Let me help you, okay? Let me take care of it. Let me protect you.”

Surprisingly, he acquiesced. It took no more than minutes to possess the mind of some poor bystanders, having them fight and commit atrocious acts; they wouldn’t know what came over them and Vought would be too happy not to disclose. In quick action, the narrative changed; from rabid supe, to terrorist crowd. 

Later, you found yourself in his penthouse, in his bathtub, naked and cleaning the gore as he squeezed your waist. When you sealed your relationship with a bloodied kiss, you knew there was no turning back—and you loved it. Loved his quirks, his humor, his beautiful nose and soft hair, loved his flaws and all that came with it. Loved the tie that bound you forever. 

“I love you. I love you so much,” you whispered in his ear as you lay in his bed, a few hours before your meeting with the rest of the Seven. “I ache for you all the time. It overflows, sometimes.” You giggled, remembering when your desire burned you so passionately, so intensely, your mind had one focal point: Homelander and what he could do to your body. Without realizing, all your wants and needs were suddenly projected on his mind.

In the first time, you were fearful he’d throw a fit, but he simply grinned devilish at you. 

“Wow,” he laughed. “If I’d known more about your dirty little mind I would have put it to use a long time ago, babe.” 

After that, it became a fixture, in bed, in daily moments where voicing your thoughts wasn’t an option, or in missions when silent communication was useful. And bit by bit, he delighted in it, veritable proof of your devotion and love.

As it were, in this stolen moment, cuddled in his bed, he answered. “And I love you, my darling, My own mirror.” He nuzzled your neck. “No need to scream in my mind, I’m gonna eat your pretty pussy until you beg me to stop.” 

“I’d never,” you said breathily. 

Slowly kissing from your collarbone, to your stomach and thighs, mischievously looking you in the eye as he bit and kissed and licked everywhere around your cunt. His strength was enough to keep you in the exact place he wanted. Such a delicious torture. 

Finally he turned his attention to your clit, dragging his tongue over it in elaborate patterns—he was relentless, and you both moaned at the contact. You were loud, thrashing and screaming at the slightest touch, but only for him. He played your body perfectly. 

Your hands found his hair, soft to the touch, and yanked, wanting him closer and he groaned—the vibrations going straight to your core. Soon he started tongue-fucking, just as you liked it, going deep and slow, alternating to trace your slit from your asshole to your clit; not one part of you ignored. 

“Fuck, you taste so good. You’re fucking made for me, your pussy is mine, mine, understand that?”

“It’s yours! It’s all yours. Please, Homelander, please—”

“Please what?”

“Let me come, let me come in your mouth, I want to feel you.” It was all too much, the mess his tongue made, the wetness running down your pussy and dripping in the mattress.

Moaning, he plunged two fingers deep inside you, as he squeezed your ass, bringing you even closer. You cried from the pleasure he woke in you, and even in this madness you caressed his hair, closing your legs until he was in the position you liked most: with a perfect view of his face, his soft locks, his bright eyes. 

He smirked, squeezing you tighter, until you no longer touched the bed, and he slapped your ass so hard your whole body trembled. 

“Like that, princess? Like when I do whatever the fuck I want with your sweet body? Now show me. Show me what you want.” 

You complied instantly. 

You imagined him feasting on your pussy, licking it all until his spit and your slick became one and the same. His fingers marking your ass, your thighs; biting so deeply even your invulnerable skin would cleave to his superior strength. You wanted his tongue deep inside you, for yours on end, fucking your pussy so good your legs would spasm and you would scream for all the Tower to hear, pussy clenching just the way he liked. You wanted it all—Homelander slurping on your clit and swirling his tongue, making you squirt and swallowing it all, leaving his chin a beautiful fucking mess. 

In the aftermath, body boneless and exhausted, you wanted his fingers, for him to drag it all over your juices and make you swallow and gag on it. Then, in a little tenderness, he'd give you a breathtaking kiss, further proof of your intimate lovemaking. 

As you projected all of this on his mind, his smile grew bigger, more wicked. And you knew he'd deliver it, or even more. 

“You really are such a slut.” You giggled; it was all in the game.

Later on, as all the Seven were debating their latest terrorist attack, and what plan they'd need to put in action, all you could think was Homelander. His hands on you, his tongue lapping at your clit and his disheveled hair—which, you noticed, he didn't fix for the meeting. It wasn't fair, he was too mean at taunting you.

You couldn't keep your eyes off of him and he knew. Flashes of your morning together ran through your mind. No matter how satisfied you'd been, you wanted more, again, all the time. You wanted his kisses and devastation, his head between your legs and his mouth both teasing and giving you the most world-shattering pleasure. 

You wanted to caress his hair, your newfound obsession, while he fucked you, hiting that sweet spot and filling you up with his come.

In your daydreams, you tuned out from the conversation, and like being burned you found Homelander staring straight at you, an expression oh so familiar. Unintentionally he'd become the spectator of your fantasies. 

Rising from his chair so quickly you barely caught it, Homelander said, “That's enough for today. I have other things to take care of. Quickstep, you stay.”

Whispers of complaint were quickly shut down, as Homelander glared at them until each and everyone left the room.

“Well, well, seems like someone is still wantin' for more.”

He laid his hands on your chair, then turned it so you were face to face. 

“I couldn't help it,” you smirked. “I can't get enough.”

“But that's not fair, don't you think?" He clucked his tongue. "It's your turn to please me.” He pulled you from the chair, and manhandled you until you fell to your knees with a thud. “Now, princess, get to work.”

[forlix]

· . ˚ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲'𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

— the moments in which the members of stray kids realize how they truly feel about you.

words・1.4k / pairings・ot8 x gn!reader / warnings・depictions of conflict and anxiety in hyunjin's and han's / genres・domestic fluff, smidges of hurt/comfort, established relationships

a/n・thought i'd try out a new fic format :-) i had so much fun writing these and hope you like reading them just as much. any and all feedback is appreciated, as always!

chan is in a heated staring contest with his notepad when the door opens, and he knows that it’s you who comes in, but his head is miles away, tangled in an amalgamation of syllables and rhythms. he goes on to forget that you’re here for a short while, poring over the unfinished lyrics in front of him with undivided focus. that is, until he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder.

you’ve just pulled a chair up next to his desk. “lemme see,” you say, gesturing to the notepad. there’s a surprised pause, and then chan places it in your hand, scoots closer to you.

you spend the next two hours talking him through his block, but there are periods when you fall silent to brainstorm or to write something down, and chan takes those quiet opportunities just to look at you: wearing one of his old t-shirts, your hair still damp from your shower, completely concentrated. and he knows, then, that he wants to marry you.

minho doesn’t realize he loves you in a singular moment. rather, he has a faint inkling for some time, and then the rug is randomly pulled from beneath his feet, and all of a sudden he can’t remember a version of his world that didn't have you at its center.

there are times when he’s especially aware of his feelings, though. like when he throws a witty remark in your direction and your retort comes back twice as sharp. when your eyes and smile light up like lanterns as you talk to him about your passions. when one (or all) of his cats hover at your side as you go about your day. when he returns home after a grueling practice and you’re there to offer him your comfort, no matter his withdrawn demeanor or sweaty skin.

he is a quiet lover, and sometimes he worries that he’s too quiet, that you have no idea what’s going on inside him every time he looks at you. but words have never really been necessary with minho. you know. you just do.

changbin is greeted by a chilly breeze when he emerges from the gym, and he silently chastizes himself for forgetting to bring an outer layer yet again. but the temperature moves to the back of his mind when he spots you, waiting on the sidewalk, as you said you would. a familiar grin breaks across your face when you see him, and he feels its shape against his lips when he runs over and kisses you, in lieu of hello.

“what are you feeling for dinner?” you ask once he’s pulled away, and he realizes that you’ve pressed something to his chest: one of the hoodies that he keeps at your place, still soft and warm from just coming out of the dryer. and boom—the epiphany hits him, instantly and unequivocally.

he is dumbfounded for a moment, just processing the newfound discovery; and then, out of nowhere, the two of you say the name of the same restaurant at the same time. he swears he never believed in soulmates until he met you.

hyunjin has always held so many emotions in his heart so fervently, to the point that they sometimes overflow in the form of words that he doesn’t believe, in a tone that he doesn’t intend. and it happened again today, when he spoke to you the wrong way in a moment of pure impulse, and the surprise on your face morphed into poorly-disguised hurt.

a few hours later, the weight of his actions sits heavily on his shoulders. when he lifts his phone to call you, his hands are shaking a little, and a breathy apology spills from his lips the moment he hears you on the other end: “i’m sorry, angel. i’m trying, i promise. i really am.” to which you answer, “i know, hyune. i forgive you. we’ll keep trying together, okay?” and your words pull his heartstrings in a new direction entirely.

he asks if he can come over, you say yes, and he tells you he loves you as soon as you open the door. he’s done hiding his heart from you.

jisung’s contagious grin and raucous cackle come easily to him for the most part, but there are times when he forgets how it feels to laugh or to breathe, times when he wants only to hide from the world and all of its scariest parts. and when you see his figure in the doorway tonight, his face cast in a nameless shadow, his shoulders sunken in quiet defeat, you understand immediately that this is one of those times.

“do you wanna talk about it?” you ask as he approaches you. silently, he shakes his head: not tonight. but his body language asks for what he cannot verbalize. you extend your arms toward him, and he buries himself in them the second he’s close enough to, his face nestling the crook of your neck, the tension in his limbs melting at your gentle touch. you stay there for a long time, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades, coaxing him back to the ground, back to you.

wherever he chooses to hide, he thinks he’d like to take you with him.

when felix opens his eyes, the space in the bed next to him is empty, and the faint scent of flour and sugar wafts through the gap beneath his door.

he gets to his feet, throws on some clothes, and wanders in the direction of the smell, rubbing the sleep from his eyes—and the sight that awaits him makes him wonder if he’s still dreaming. you’re standing at the stove, still in your pajamas, hair slightly disheveled from your rest, and there are pancakes in the frying pan before you; sliced strawberries on the cutting board next to the stove. and the look of sheer focus on your face, as if staring at the pancakes will cook them faster, absolutely destroys him. (and he knows in that moment that he wants to wake up to you for the rest of his life.)

with an enamored smile, he wraps his arms around your waist, pulls your back to his chest, and presses a light kiss to the nape of your neck. “morning, beautiful,” he mumbles sweetly. “how fucking lucky am i?”

being around you makes seungmin feel like a kid with a crush. he smiles brighter and laughs louder. he opens like a lotus in bloom when you say his name. the floaty sensation he gets when you kiss his cheek or hold his hand persists for hours afterward—and none of it makes any fucking sense to him. it’s not that he doesn’t believe in love, but he’s never believed that love could feel like this, straight out of a sonnet.

now, your head is on his shoulder, your body rising and falling in your slumber. seungmin looks at your interlocked hands where they rest on his knee, and at the current track displayed on his lockscreen: “still” by day6, a song about losing and loving, about regret and reminiscence. those bright days between us are over, the lyrics go, and he makes a silent promise to your sleeping form that the bright days between the two of you will never end.

the word "love" still doesn't cross his mind, but it is etched all over his face, and carved into his soul.

you and jeongin are telling each other about your days over dinner when your phone lights up with an incoming call, and he nearly spits out his mouthful when he sees who it’s from. for a few seconds, the two of you just stare at each other in flabbergasted silence. but then, you raise your phone to your ear: “hi, grandma! to what do i owe this pleasure?”

and the voice of his grandmother comes back through the receiver. she tells you that she’s just gone on an evening walk and found herself thinking of you, so she wanted to see how you’re doing; if you’re taking care of yourself. you rush to thank her, looking entirely flustered, and a bit like you’re about to burst into tears.

with that, the two of you launch into chatter about everything under the sun: grocery store discounts, the recent humidity, jeongin’s bad habits, you name it. and it finally dawns on jeongin how inextricably embedded in his life you have become—and that he doesn’t want it any other way.

𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · all works are pieces of original writing and all characters and relationships are purely fictional. please do not repost or reuse for any reason.

[bucks-babe]

Slip Up

Pairing: Notsovirgin!Bucky x f!reader

Summary: While having fun with your boyfriend, an accident occurs, leading to another first for Bucky 

Warnings: Wrong hole, Bucky cums so much, squirting, Bucky is a sweet boy, unprotected p in v, anal, anal fingering, dirty talk, small mention of prostate cancer (Like one line), Bucky is an innocent baby, anal to vaginal fingering (DON’T DO THAT), Bucky calls reader a whore once, but it’s sexy, overstimulation?, daddy kink (I can’t help myself), Bucky is becoming a dom??, no crying during sex (I know, shocker) 

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Part of the Virgin!Bucky series. It can be read as a stand alone as well. But you shouldn't read it alone because it's filthy! And it's worth it to see Bucky becoming more and more a lover of Sex! Beta read and idea from the incredible @buckys-wintersoldier Blame her for the filth you are about to read. She’s the one who put this idea in my head. I can’t be held responsible for the feelings you experience. However, any and all mistakes are my own. But you wrote that!!!! A lot of filthy ideas which dropped my jaw and let my pasta almost fall out of my mouth!

You and Bucky have been fucking like rabbits ever since the day he lost his virginity to you. He was addicted to the feel of your tight cunt wrapped around his cock, never lasting more than a few minutes, but able to keep going thanks to the serum coursing through his body. He wonders if he will ever be able to last longer. You say you don’t mind that he can’t control how fast he cums, but it doesn’t make him feel any better that he can’t.

Even with that thought nagging at him all the time, the moment he enters you his mind goes blank, only able to think about how wet and tight you are. Never experiencing anything like it before. Almost every night you have to change the sheets, the sheer volume of his cum too much for your body to handle; however, that doesn’t stop you from fucking him every damn day, waking him up with blowjobs when he has morning wood, or the way you beg for him to cum in you just one more time.

Bucky understands now. He understands why people go so crazy over sex. The pleasure you give him makes him weak in the knees, not a single thought in his head, only the urge to fill you up over and over again. 

That’s how he ends up in bed, railing you. Legs thrown over his shoulders taking his brutal assault. He’s gotten more confident each time he fucks you. He may not last long, but he makes up for it with how many times he can cum and keep going. The both of you writhing in pleasure, him drawing seven orgasms from you already, eating your pussy for over an hour. 

He wasn’t too far behind, cumming inside of you three times and once down your throat. The sounds of your fucking is louder than ever, your squirt mixed with his excessive loads making you wetter than ever. “Fuck, doll, this pussy is so fucking wet, filled up with my cum. So fucking dirty, letting me use you like this, fucking you like a damn toy. God, my cock is so fucking sensitive, gonna blow again. Yeah, you want that? I bet you do, you dirty whore.”

One thing that Bucky has found out he really loves is dirty talk and degradation. He loves when you do it to him just as much as doing it to you. It makes his cock somehow even harder. Each push of his hips is met with a harsh slap of his thighs meeting your ass and the vulgar sound of the excessive wetness of your pussy.

“Shit, doll, gonna cum. Gonna cum so goddamn much, make this pussy overflow. Shitshitshit, fuck, m’cumming.” His balls pull up, forcing so much cum out of his cock that he swears he’s about to pass out. His eyes roll to the back of his head when he feels you squirt all over him, another wave of cum bursting from him. The force of your orgasm pushes his cock out, but Bucky was brainless now, having cum so much he was losing control of his body.

His hips never stopped moving, almost not noticing that he wasn’t in your pussy anymore, too lost in his own pleasure, cum still flowing from him. He tried to put his cock back in, needing to keep you full of his cum, but the amount of cum and wetness made a slippery mess. At the next thrust of his hips, his cock slides down, not entering your welcoming pussy, rather trying, and failing to enter your ass.

Your hole tight and unwilling to stretch on such short notice takes your breath away. The pain is instant, shooting from your hole all the way up your spine. “FUCK!” You push Bucky off of you with so much force he almost falls off the bed. Curling on your side, you try to gasp for air, the pain knocking the wind out of you. 

Bucky is knocked out of his stupor, cock immediately softening when he sees how much pain you’re in. “Doll, what happened? Are you okay?” Ice drenches his spine. He barely started having sex and he’s already hurt you. Everything was fine seconds ago and now you’re curled up in the fetal position gasping for air. 

“I’m okay, Bucky, I’m okay.” It comes out breathy but you try to compose yourself for your boyfriend’s sake, needing to comfort him, letting him know he didn’t do anything wrong. You roll over looking at Bucky who looks like a kicked puppy. 

“What did I do?” His voice is thick with unshed tears. You’re the last person he ever wants to hurt. You motion for him to come closer to you. At first he hesitates, not wanting to accidentally hurt you again, but you insist so he follows.

“You tried to go in the wrong hole, sweetheart. That one doesn’t open up as easy.” He whines. Bucky can’t deny that the thought of his cock in your ass hadn’t crossed his mind more than once. But he couldn’t ever find the confidence to ask you. Of course he knows that you would never judge him, but he didn’t know that he wasn’t the only one who was interested.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, doll.” You cut off the rest of his apology, not wanting to hear him talk badly about himself. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart. A lot of people do that, they just have to prep for it.” That gains Bucky’s attention. Other people want to do the same thing as him? 

“I-well-they do?” Bucky can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. He was terrible at having any conversations about what he wants to do in the bedroom, too afraid to ask.

“Yes, they do. If you want we can try it too. We just need to have some prep beforehand, so you’ll fit inside of me and it won’t hurt.” 

“It hurts you?” There was no way that Bucky would do anything if it would hurt you. He gets off on your pleasure just as much as his own. Why would anyone want to do something that hurts their partner?

“Not when I’m prepared. You have to work that hole open because it’s not usually meant for that kind of stuff. It’s supposed to feel good for the both of us.” That makes his cock twitch. The feeling of your pussy is so different from the feel of your mouth. They both drive him crazy, but the thought of what your ass would feel like has his cock rock hard in a matter of seconds.

“Can we, uh, can we do that?” His cheeks were on fire, never having been so embarrassed to ask for something in his life. He buries his head in the crook of your neck, not wanting you to see his face. The sound of your giggle makes him curl further into you, feeling the vibrations through his chest.

“Of course we can, sweetheart. I’ll show you what to do, talk you through it.” It soothes Bucky, knowing that you’re there to guide him. To show him how to please you. He has no clue what he would do without you.

“Have you done this before?” Bucky knows he has no right to be jealous of any of your exes when he is the one who gets to be with you, but the image of someone else taking that hole annoys him.

“Only by myself, but I’ll show you how to start.” Gently, you push Bucky off of you, making him sit up on the bed. He stares down at you with so much love you almost just beckon him back to you, wanting to keep him in your arms forever. Nonetheless, you spread your legs, showing him your swollen, cum filled cunt.

You see Bucky’s cock bop with a pulse of arousal at the sight. “Oh, I almost forgot.” Bucky watches as you flip over, ass up in the air causing him to moan. You glance back at him with a smirk, but continue on your mission. Opening the drawer to your bedside table, you pull out a bottle of lube, tossing it to Bucky who easily catches it.

“What is this? What’s lube?” You move back into your original position, drawing Bucky’s attention away from the bottle. 

“Well, you gotta get in there somehow. It makes everything slicker, less painful. Open the bottle, sweetheart and put it on one of your fingers. Then I want you to circle my hole with it.”

Bucky whispers a quiet, “oh fuck, that’s so fucking hot,” underneath his breath before popping the cap to the bottle open and putting a generous amount on his finger before bringing it to your rim, circling it just like you said. 

“You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart. Always listen so well to me.” Bucky’s hips jerk involuntarily at your praise, wanting more.

“Can I put one in now, please?” Oh, your baby was desperate. You look right into his eyes and nod, letting him know he can. “Shit, you’re so tight.” You only gasp, the feeling of his finger inside of you is so much different than your own. He slowly pumps his finger in and out, curling it to find your spot. His brows pull together in concentration, not being able to find it. He has to put his ego aside and ask for help, he knows it. “Doll, can you show me where it is?”

“There’s no g-spot in my ass, sweets.” This stops his finger, his head immediately falling, not wanting to look into your eyes. He knows men have a prostate, it was a whole deal back in the day with men getting cancer. So why didn’t you have one?

“But, what about your prostate?” The poor thing. You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing. He doesn’t know any better and he just wants to make you feel good. The last thing you want to do is make him feel bad for something he didn’t know. 

“Oh, sweets, women don’t have them, only men do.” This was a very awkward conversation to have when Bucky’s finger is still in your ass, just sitting there unmoving. Bucky bites his bottom lip, avoiding eye contact with you. Why can’t he do anything right? First he tries to spear you with his cock in your ass and now he is trying to find a damn prostate that you don’t even have.

“M’sorry, doll. I didn’t know, I just thought everyone had one.” Bucky feels the blood slowly leaving his cock from the mortification. You felt your face heat up too, the pressure of his finger a constant reminder that he was inside of you. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart, just move your finger like you would your cock. All you have to do is be gentle and you’ll get the hang of it.” When he finally looks up at you he has the sweetest pout on his lips. Keeping eye contact with him, you trail your hand down your body, meeting his hand where it resides inside of you. Wrapping your hand around his, you guide his movement, slowly trusting his hand until he starts to move it on his own.

“It feels so tight. How am I going to fit in there?” Just the thought of his cock in the hole that is struggling to accommodate one finger has the blood rushing right back into his dick. 

You let out a small moan, enjoying the feeling of Bucky’s finger, much better than your own. “You can add another finger, sweets, just be gentle.” Bucky’s breath hitches, cock desperate to be inside you, but he knows he has to wait. He brings his middle finger to your hole, rubbing it the way he did the first; his first finger still inside you. After a few seconds he gingerly pushes his second finger in, extremely aware of the stretch around his digits.

“Oh fuck, want to feel you around my cock so bad.” Bucky knows that as soon as he puts his cock in you he’s going to cum. It took so long for him to not cum immediately when he’s in your pussy. Even so, he still can’t last more than a few minutes. It’s still a shock to him that he didn’t bust as soon as you took him in your mouth for the first time.

Bucky keeps up the pace with his fingers, ignoring the ache in his cock. When you tell him to add another he eagerly does so, wanting to stretch you out as fast as possible while keeping you comfortable. You see his hips jerking, trying to find relief from the pressure building up in his balls.

“Spread your fingers for me, sweets, stretch me out for your fat cock.” The whine that leaves Bucky’s lips has your cunt throbbing and your ass clenching around his fingers. He does what you say, like he always does, and the moan that leaves the both of you is salacious. “You like that, huh? You like the thought of your fat cock in my ass, sweets?” Bucky can only groan, frantically nodding his head, his dick somehow getting harder.

“Please tell me you’re ready. Need my cock in you so bad, doll.” He looks like he could cum just from the sight of his fingers in your hole. You take pity on him, not being able to stand the thought of him not being inside you any longer.

“Yeah, sweets, just need more lube.” As quickly as he can while still being tender, he removes his fingers and desperately searches for the bottle, squirting more than enough on his cock. Skooching closer to you, he spreads your legs, lifting you up so he can stare at your stretched hole. He places your legs on top of his thighs, looking at you for confirmation before grabbing his cock and lining it up with your entrance.

Slowly pushing in, he can feel the resistance of your ass, yet it was still so welcoming. Bucky’s eyes roll back, his metal hand wrapping around the base of his cock, trying to stave off his orgasm. “Doll, I can’t, fuck, it feels too good, I- oh fuck, m’cumming.” Bucky only had the tip of his cock in your ass. He was vaguely aware that he shouldn’t push the rest of his cock into you so the hand holding the base of his cock moves up his length, jerking his cock to help ride his orgasm out.

“Fuck, sweets, I can feel you filling up my ass. You’re going to make me leak all over the bed.” This only makes Bucky whine more, hips jerking slightly, still trying to stop himself from slamming the rest of his cock inside, but the feeling of his cum shooting in your ass it too hot so you move your hips, trying to take more of his cock, while he’s still cumming inside of you.

“Ohhhh fuuuucck, that’s so good, so fucking good, want to stay inside you forever, keep this tight ass wrapped around my cock all the damn time.” More cum shot out of his cock with renewed vigor. Bucky thought he was about to pass out, fighting off the feeling because there was no way he could miss a second of being inside you. 

His head was thrown back, not able to control his head. You felt your pussy throb, slick leaking down to where his cock rests in your hole, clit pulsing, hard and begging to be touched. You couldn’t help yourself, rocking your hips, fucking yourself on his cock that was still hard but not shooting his load anymore. “You’re so fucking big, sweets, stretching me out so much, never felt anything like it before.” It wasn’t a lie, it never felt like this with any of your toys, the fact that Bucky’s load was supersized doing nothing to quell your arousal.

“Bet I could feel myself if I stuck my fingers in your pussy. Massage my cock through your walls. Bet you would like that, wouldn’t you? Yeah, I think you would.” Bucky had no room to talk about how needy you were when he busted as soon as his tip was inside of you, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care when you’re already cock drunk just from the few shallow thrusts of your hips.

All you could do was moan and nod your head, wanting to feel him everywhere. Bucky had to use his flesh fingers, needing to feel his cock through your pussy. Without preamble, he pushes two fingers into your pussy, immediately curling them to feel his cock through your thin walls. “Fuck, doll, you’re so fucking perfect, taking my cock so well.” 

He couldn’t hold out any longer, pulling his hips back just to slam them back in, the sound of your leaking slick mixed with all the lube around your ass made a sinful sound. Just that one thrust knocks the wind out of the both of you, only to catch your breath to wantonly moan. “How does it feel, doll? How does my fat cock feel up your tight ass?” The slapping noises only got louder with each thrust, each harder than the last. 

“So good, daddy, so fucking good!” Bucky’s hips stutter, cock aching to cum, but he can’t, not yet.

Your moans mixed so sweetly with Bucky’s whines and groans. His fingers rubbing his dick every time he pushes back in. “You’re gonna make me cum again. Need to feel you milk my cock. Need you to milk daddy’s cock for him.” You shake your head, not able to process the pleasure he’s giving you, having already had seven orgasms. “Yes, you can, doll. I need it, need it so fucking bad.”

With his fingers still thrusting in your pussy, his metal hand comes down to rub your clit. Your hips jerk, trying to get away from the cool metal but you have nowhere to run. He fucks you even harder, urging the cum from his balls. You don’t even feel the coil tighten in your belly, overwhelming pleasure sneaking up on you. 

You can’t even scream, eyes rolling back, somehow mustering up the strength to push his hand away from your clit. With your ass clenching so hard around his dick, he can’t hold out any longer, cumming in your ass. He feels the wetness of your squirt push his fingers out, wetting his stomach and making his thrusts just that much easier. 

His orgasm is just as silent, knocking the words right out of him. He can’t even breath, veins in his forehead bulging, face turning red. This one doesn’t last as long, his balls being drained from all the cum he’s shot out in the past hour. Right before Bucky passes out, he sucks in huge gulps of air, trying to come back down to earth. You both lay there, eyes dazed, looking at nothing, covered in cum, lube, and squirt. Neither of you care, you couldn’t even if you tried. You’re the first to speak, voice hoarse from all the screaming you’ve done.

“We’re going to do that again.”

Bucky can only get out one word, “yeah.”