#minor spoiler but ruin Knows something's up

[buckyys-babydoll]

Behind the bite and sharpness

Pairing — John Walker x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary — Teasing. Tension. Hate. Or something much deeper. Something more soft, more caring. Something like love.

Warnings — Minors DNI, kind of enemies to lovers, kind of friends with benefits, fuck buddies with feelings, tiny thunderbolts spoilers [only mentioned the team], lot of teasing, rough!John turning soft, smut [unprotected p in v, rough sex, name calling, oral (male!rec), deep throating, ball worship, spanking, teasing, degradation, edging, anal play, fingering, creampie], aftercare, fluff, love confession

Wordcount — 4.918 Words

Authors Note — John Walker? How did this happen? Actually, I don’t know. @daydreamgoddess14 reblogged the fics. And somehow, I ended up being interested. Still a bit of a hate/like thing, so here some roughness with fluff. Entry for @ramp-it-up’s 5k praise challenge. [“You're doing so well, sweetheart. Let go. I've got you.”]. Divider made by me. Beta’d by @thevillainswhore my love!❤️❤️

Meetings. More meetings. And so much boredom.

Only to talk about the mission reports of the last mission. Or get through the plans, yet once again, for the next mission.

You know the mission. You know the location. You know the plan.

And yet, you’re listening to another lecture of Ava, or Alexei. You're not sure, they both argue back and forth about the locations.

You slide back in the chair, running your hands over your face. Leaning your head back, you stare at the ceiling. You connect the dots in the white boards above you, grinning when one of them looks like your worst enemy’s face.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Bucky’s loud groan. He's pouting at a paper before Ava snatches it out of his hand and wiggles it in front of Alexei’s face.

Such a chaotic team, but it’s your team. Mostly lovely, mostly weird, but always special in their own way.

Your eyes scan over the three before they settle on Yelena and Bob. A paper, probably one Ava and Bucky are looking for later, has now countless smiling faces and little figures on it.

You should start putting empty sheets on the desk so Yelena can draw without ruining mission reports.

Bob smirks as he points at a smiley and whispers something to Yelena. You grin as he draws a small blush into the face of the figure on the paper.

Then your eyes roam further toward the guy sitting opposite you. Your worst enemy, who has this shit eating, wide grin plastered all over his face.

That shit eating, annoying fucking grin.

Sometimes you would like to punch it off his face. Just to see his widened blue eyes when you catch him off guard. And to feel the satisfication when his punch lands in his face to wipe away the annoying grin.

John leans relaxed back in his chair, watching you intensely like you’re the only two people in the room.

Dick. Bastard. Idiot—

Your phone buzzes and you narrow your eyes. All your friends — and John — are in this room, who else would message you?

While the blond haired keeps his eyes on you, you look down at your phone, groaning in frustration when his name appears on your screen.

His name. And a message.

Such a basta—

Another message.

Your face shoots up, glaring at the agent with narrowed eyes. And he grins. Just like he always does.

Pathetic. Disgusting. And so fucking annoying.

He knows what he’s doing. You know it too.

You can feel the anger in your bones. The tightness in your muscles. Because he knows so damn well how to rile you up.

But not with you. Not. With. You.

Your face drops to your phone again and you swipe to open the message he sent you.

John: I don’t know one thing I like about you.

John: Thought about it. Spent the last half an hour thinking about anything I might like about you. Found nothing.

You growl, quietly so no one can hear it. Your jaw clenches slightly as you grit your teeth.

And ohhh, he has so much fun. Leaning further back he spreads his legs and looks down to type another message.

John: Guess you're just not like-able enough for me.

The audacity. He's such a huge dick. Unfortunately, he has a dick just as big as his ego.

And sometimes, it excuses his behavior toward you. But most of the time, it's just hate and riling up one another.

Then a grin forces its way on your face, curling your lips upward.

He thinks he’s able to get under your skin. But you can be just as annoying like him.

You: Tell me more.

John groans, frustrated. This wasn’t exactly his plan. But he wouldn't let you know that he isn’t sure how to handle the situation.

John: This isn’t sexting.

You: Oh, I know. It’s even better than sexting.

You: Though, I thought you liked when I screamed your name when I came all over your cock. Cumming hard inside of me to my moans, because you hate them so much, good to know.”

You grin. You got him.

The room is quiet by now, everyone staring at you and John, watching your interaction.

While you feel satisfied with yourself, John tries to come up with another thing to say to make you go crazy.

But he won’t find anything. Because you're ready to defend yourself from every attack from him.

Only when Yelena clears her throat does your head snap toward the team. They are all looking with narrowed eyes or raised eyebrows at you.

“What’s going on between the two of you? Need to breath some fresh air or is that tension between you supposed to ignite a flame?” Yelena asks with frown.

Tension? Flame? Definitely not what you would call that.

It sounds way too much like hot tension instead of maddening tension.

“Yeah, John, do you need some fresh air?” You grin, leaning over to rest your arms on the table and get closer to him.

Johns expression changes from surprised to angry. Rolling his blue eyes, he pushes the chair back with such force it falls backward and lands on the ground with a loud thud.

His eyes are locked with yours, daring you to move your ass as well. To follow him outside.

“Yeah, maybe I need some fresh air,” he growls before he turns away and walks out of the room.

You grin, leaning back. You won that one. Once again.

The team gets back to talking about the reports and you keep replaying John’s angry gaze in your mind. He’s kinda hot when he looks all mad.

The furrow of his brows, the pursing of his lips. And then the way he clenched and unclenched his hands and jaw. Almost delicious, if he wasn't such a dick.

John: Thinking you won?

John: Silly little girl. Try again.

You growl, getting up as well before rushing out of the room. You ignore the others’ confused gazes, whatever’sgoing on between you and John they don't really get it.

It’s like a hate-love relationship. With more hate than love. And more teasing than anything else.

You slam the door shut, looking through the floors to find the blond haired man.

Now he did it. He got under your skin. Riled you up. And you let him.

Oh, damn. Yes, you let him. Because that’s when the fun begins.

Before you get far through the floor, you notice the idiot leaning against the wall. His arms crossed in front of his chest as he tilts his head to look at you.

“Oh, found me!” He laughs as you stalk over to him with a frown.

“You’re not as invisible as you wish once I kick your balls,” you mutter as you stop a few feet away from him.

John laughs. Like it's amazing what you say.

You're threatening him and he's acting like you told him a joke.

“Can you even reach them with your tiny, baby legs?” John mocks you.

Something inside of you snaps. Anger. Anger from so much teasing bubbles over.

You lift your leg, about to kick his balls. Just before the tip of your foot hits him, his hand snaps toward your leg. Fingers wrapping tightly around your ankle and holding it in place.

You growl, wiggling and pulling to get out of his grip. But he’s stronger. So much stronger, fingers digging into your flesh.

“Think you’re a smart girl?” He asks, his eyes darken and his smirks vanishes for a moment.

Is he about to give up and stop teasing you? Did you get too close to him, and now he’s all scared of a woman?

You’re about to grin when his hand lets go of your leg, but wraps around your neck instead. He does that with such force, your breath hitches as he’s pushing you back. Your back hitting the wall with a thud, pain shooting through you.

A sound between a moan and a whine slips past your lips. Join’s body warm and strong against yours.

He’s so tall. So muscular. And he smells amazing.

Sweet. Musk. Just so good, you might just give in and lean into him.

His fingers tighten around your neck, probably leaving marks where he digs his fingers into your skin.

“Brat,” he growls, smashing his lips against yours.

The kiss is rough. It's almost hurtful but it's what you both need.

Roughness to get relief for all the tension.

His tongue swipes over your bottom lip, demanding access. He doesn’t ask. Not when he has you pinned against the wall. When he has you at his mercy.

Your lips part slightly, but the grin that tugs at your lips makes him pause.

“You little whore, bite me and I will fuck your ass raw,” he growls against you before he pushes his tongue between your lips.

It’s tempting. Too tempting.

And it’s not like you’ve never had anal sex with him, but you’ve never had it bare without preparation. And he's a man of his words.

John doesn’t just threaten you. He will do it. And you know he will split your ass open.

“Not so brave anymore, brat?” He chuckles as he pulls back again.

Your eyes are widened, your lips swollen from the kiss while you look at him with a mixture of want and stubbornness. You won’t let him break you that easily, he can threaten you all he wants, but you will wiggle your way through to rile him up until he breaks.

“Maybe you should put me over your knee and spank me, Daddy,” You whisper, using the nickname just to annoy him. Because it makes it so hard for him not to do it.

It would be so easy to bend you over his lap, pushing your pants down to spank your ass sore. In front of everyone’s eyes. Naked. Vulnerable until you beg him to stop and apologize.

But he doesn't. It’s tempting. But having you in his bed, whinging because his cock is too thick for your cunt, is even better for him. Forcing every inch into you, slowly to let you feel every little bit of his cock.

He feels his cock harden in his pants, almost bursting the fabric.

John just wants to bury his dick in your warmth, fuck the anger out of both of you, just like he always does.

But for now, he’s planning to rile you up some more.

“That’s what you like, filthy whore? You're such a fucking slut,” he growls, his fingers around your neck tightening.

“And you fucking love it, bastard,” you growl back and wrap your hands around his arm that’s still holding your neck.

“I do, whore.”

With that he lets go of your neck and grips your hips instead, lifting you up. Your arms and legs wrap around his body immediately, rubbing against him to gain some friction between your legs.

“Fuck you’re—” he slaps your ass harsh, shutting you up before you can tell him how hard he is.

John’s cock is pressing against you, with every step he takes, his dick shifts between your legs. A moan leaves your lips as you kiss him, hard. Rough.

Theres no softness. Not after all the teasing. Not after all the madness you cause one another.

“I hate you,” you mutter when John opens the door to his bedroom. With his foot, he kicks it shut behind you.

You hate him. You love him. And you just want to feel him.

“You sure fucking do,” he groans against your lips. “Do you think I care? I don’t when you scream my name like the slut you are. Spreading your legs for someone you hate so much, huh?”

John walks over to his bed, throwing you down on it. You’re bouncing on the bed when he unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down and stepping out of them.

With a shit eating grin he grasps your ankles and pulls you to the edge of the bed. You slip off it, kneeling down in front of him while you look at him with doe eyes.

“Don’t act all cute, slut,” he huffs, freeing his cock from his boxer briefs.

You're swallowing down the moan that threatens to bubble up your throat. His cock looks delicious, thick and veiny. The tip is leaking pre-cum and you’re leaning closer to kiss away the drop of his arousal.

John wraps his hand around your hair, pulling your head back until you look up at him. With a smirk plastered on his face, he forces your mouth open with his free hand to spit into your mouth.

“Hold it,” he growls, grasping his cock and slapping it against your cheek, then he brings it to your lips and pushes the tip in between them. “Now swallow.”

And you do, swallowing around his tip. John grunts, rutting his hips to push more of his length into your mouth.

A dangerous glint is visible in his blue eyes. You know what it means. He always has that glisten in his eyes before he’s making you gag and choke on his cock.

He keeps sliding deeper until he reaches the back of your throat. Your eyes widen, you knew it, and yet you didn’t relax enough.

Gagging around his thick girth, he chuckles low in his chest.

Johns hand is still tightly wrapped in your hair, pulling you closer until your nose is pressed against his belly, his balls flush against your chin and his cock in your throat.

“Fuck, look at you. Swallowing cock like your made for it,” he groans, keeping you in place for a moment.

Your fingers reach up, digging into his thick thighs. The oxygen leaves your lungs slowly, leaving you breathless.

“You know the rules. Mine to play. Too much and you tap my thigh twice. If you don’t, I will choke you like the whore you are for me,” John mutters.

For the first time since the meeting, his voice holds a hint of softness and concern. He doesn't want to push you beyond your limits, just to your limit.

You nod as best as you can, swallowing around his cock. John pulls back slightly, allowing you to breathe for a moment.

You’re panting, lungs burning, but you’re already leaning closer to have more of his cock down your throat. His cock twitches slightly when you run your tongue over the tip.

Then he pushes you back on his cock. His eyes focus on you as he drags his shaft over your tongue.

He loves that view. You on your knees for him, almost drooling over his cock. He loves to feel your throat constricting around his length.

“Breath through your nose, baby,” he mutters, his voice soft for a moment before his demour changes back to the roughness.

He keeps you on his cock, only letting go when he feels your nails digging painfully into his thigh.

“Don’t ya want to give my balls some attention too?” He chuckles, pulling his cock out of your mouth. “C’mon, I know you love sucking some balls.”

You moan, kissing along his shaft. Your hand wrapping around his dick, you lift it enough to reach his balls, taking them between your lips and suckling softly.

John groans, grinning down at you. You’re stroking his cock in the same rhythm you suck his balls. Slow. Steady. But so intense.

Keeping the motions and the pace for a while, you keep holding John’s expression. It’s not as angry anymore, more soft. And somehow it bothers you.

You’re not up for some love making at the moment. You need it hard. And you know how to get him to do it rough.

Your arousal is soaking your panties, your thighs pressing together in need.

With your teeth, you graze along his balls, making him hiss when you’re too close to biting him. He pulls you away from his cock, his expression hardening as he glares down.

“You fucking whore. Biting my balls? You need it rough but you can’t ask for it, can you slut?”

Shit. He looks right through you. And yet, he does exactly what you wanted him to do.

John pulls you further back, his hand sliding from your hair to your neck before he pulls you up. With a tilt of his head, he leans closer to your ear.

“Get undressed,” he commands, pulling back to get rid of the rest of his clothes too. His eyes never leave you, not when you're kneeling with widened eyes and not when you get up to do as you’re told.

A pleased smile tugs at his lips. You’re gorgeous. But he’s still mad. And he won’t halt unless the safe word slips past your lips.

He will ruin you. Fucking ruin you, until you’re a begging and whining mess underneath him. And he will enjoy every second of it, watching you take his cock. Watching you writhe in pleasure—

“You gotta stare all night, perv?” You grumble with a chuckle.

John groans, shaking his head as he takes a step toward you.

You want to play games? He will play with you.

His hand wraps around your neck, turning you with such force that you fall forward the moment you’re close to the bed.

Your arms give up and you’re leaning with your upper body on the bed, while your ass is on perfect display for the blond haired man.

“What did you just call me?” He growls, spanking you hard.

A moan slips past your lips, your head pressed into the mattress as his hand comes down on your ass once more.

“C’mon, tell me. Running your mouth and now the cats got your tongue?” He laughs behind you, his calloused hands running up and down your back. “You’re stunning.”

“And you’re lazy, grandpa,” you smirk, wiggling your ass. It only earns you another spank, but at least it's worth it.

John mutters something under his breath, spreading your ass cheeks and running his thumb over your puckered hole.

You shiver, jerking forward when he adds some pressure. A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, he would have so much fun fucking your ass raw, but he doesn’t.

Not when you’re pussy is on full display, wet and dripping for him.

“You’re such a whore, dripping down your legs,” he mumbles, thrusting two of his fingers into your cunt.

You moan, arching your back to push against his touch. His calloused fingers thrust as deep as they can go into you. With a curl of them, he immediately hits your spongy spot.

“Fuck!” You whimper, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers when he stops his movements.

Idiot. Fucking idiot.

He knows how to keep you on the edge. To please you. And yet, he keeps teasing and edging you.

Before you can protest about the lack of penetration, his fingers are pulled out of you. A whine works its way up your throat.

John has you exactly where he wants you. On edge. At his mercy. Needy. Whining. And so desperate for him, for his cock.

“Say please,” he says, wrapping his hand around his shaft as he strokes himself a few times.

John’s free hand is on your back, keeping you down and pressed into the mattress.

“Fuck yo— FUCK!” You moan when he thrusts into you without warning or hesitation. His balls slapping against your clit when he bottoms out immediately.

“Shouldn’t run your mouth like that if you don’t want to be fucking destroyed,” he mutters, pulling his cock out of your cunt before pushing back in with even more force. “That’s it, take my dick like the slut you are.”

You grin, fingers digging into the sheets as he keeps fucking you roughly. Luckily for you, not rough enough to vanish the attitude.

You purposefully clench around his cock, making him groan. His hips stutter mid movement before he builds up his pace again.

“Anyone could take your tiny cock, idiot,” you mutter, knowing full well that his cock is above average.

But the tiny bit of control you have about him while he pounds into you needs to be used.

“Even my ex had bigger fingers than your coc—”

Another spank before his hand moves around you. Running his fingers through your folds and pinching your clit harshly.

John laughs when your hips buck forward. He knows you’re pussy is stretched out a lot around his cock already. But you want to see how much he can fit into your hole? He will show you.

“Yeah? His fingers were bigger,” he grunts, slowing his thrusts. “Then there won't be a problem if I stuff your pussy with my cock and my fingers.”

You shake your head. Definitely not a problem!

John’s free hand moves to your waist, gripping it harshly as he pushes a finger into you, next to his cock.

His cock can be a struggle if you aren’t warmed up. But with his fingers, it feels like it's burning already.

You moan, trying to move away from him, only to be pulled back harshly. His balls slap against your clit once more, making you whine.

It’s overwhelming. The stretch. The sensation. The soft burn. And the pleasure.

“Gonna take another, whore?” He mutters, leaning over you to place a kiss between your shoulder blades as his hip movements stop.

Your face is pressed into the mattress, unable to speak so you just nod your head.

It’s so good. Too good. And yet, almost too much.

John adds another finger, feeling you clench even more around him. “You need to relax, or i’m gonna hurt you.”

You growl, he shouldn’t he so soft. He should pound into you and ruin you.

But at the same time, your heart flutters at his concern. It’s always the edge of softness, even when he’s practically ruining you with his cock.

“With your tiny—” You get interrupted when he pulls back to thrust into you.

Idiot. Shutting you up like that, such a dick move.

“Yeah, is it? Your pussy feels like i’m ripping it apart, sure you can take another finger?” John teases, knowing you could take another one. But not without struggles and a lot of lube.

You whimper, nodding your head. But instead of adding another finger, he pulls them out and brings them to your puckered hole instead.

“Maybe I should punish you instead,” he huffs, circling the ring of muscle while his pace picks up again.

The sound of skin slapping against skin and both of your moans fills the room. Sweat forming on your skin, your body shaking as he adds some pressure until his digit slides into your tighter hole.

“Oh! JOHN, please, fuck…” you whine, unsure if you want him to continue or stop.

It burns. But it burns in such a wonderful way.

He keeps his index finger inside of you, pumping it back and forth in the same rhythm he fucks you cunt.

The coil in your stomach tightens with every of his strokes. He’s hitting all the right parts, making you see stars.

You're babbling, fingers clenched into the sheets while he uses you like a toy for his pleasure. Another finger prods at your puckered hole, slipping in next to the other.

“You better not cum without permission, brat,” John mutters, having you stupid for his cock.

You're shivering, legs shaking as your orgasm approaches. You want to say anything, want his permission to come but the only thing that leaves your lips are whines and moans.

“Oh, such a dumb little thing, can’t even ask to come anymore?” He mocks you, but there is no bite, no sharpness in his tone anymore. “Shhh, come on, baby, tell me what you need.”

You whimper, clinging tighter to the sheets while your pussy is clenching around him, almost causing him to stumble over the edge.

John pulls out, his fingers, then his cock, leaving you empty and your hole gaping for him. Another pitiful and almost pathetic whine makes its way up your throat.

“I know. You're being so good, baby, c’mon, turn around for me,” he says softly, his fingers gripping you by your hips to help you turn around. John helps you move further onto the bed before he crawls onto it between your legs. “Spread them for me, can you do that, precious?”

You nod, looking at him with a fucked out expression. He smiles softly and guides his cock back to your entrance, slowly pushing into you.

Your fingers reach out, trying to tangle in his hair, but you end up hugging his neck.

You feel like you’re flying. And yet, so out of your mind.

John strokes a few strands of your hair out of your face and tucks them behind your ear, smiling softly at you.

He’s thrusting back into you, slow and soft until he bottoms out again. He knows he could come just like that, but he needs you to come for him first, or at least with him.

“Come on, come for me, baby,” he mutters, rutting his hips enough to cause friction, but not enough to move his hips away from yours too much. “You're doing so good, such a good girl.”

His heavy body is trapped above yours, holding you down and offering you grounding. You nod, eyes locking with his, then they move down to his soft lips.

You want to feel them. You need to feel them to reach your orgasm.

It's almost like he can read you like an open book. John leans down, his lips pressing a chaste kiss to the tip of your nose before he seals your lips with his.

He’s so soft. Such a diffrence to the earlier roughness.

John's tongue moves softly against yours, seeking entrance and you allow him.

After a moment he pulls back again. His cock twitching and he’s close to the edge himself, noticing your dazed look.

A soft smile forms on your lips as he leans his forehead against yours. “Come?”

“Yes, precious. You're doing so well. Let go, I’ve got you,” he mutters before he speeds his thrusts up. Only a bit. Only enough for him to hit your sweet spot a few more times.

You nod, squeezing him hard when your back arches and the coil in your stomach snaps. Panting and moaning underneath him, you dig your nails tightly into his neck.

“P-please, p-please,” you whimper, rocking against him.

It’s all John needs for him to stumble over the edge, his cum shooting into you, painting your walls with his seed.

John’s movements falter though. He’s fucking you through your orgasm until he stills, his cock still deep inside of you, his body pressed against yours as you hold onto him.

“Still hate you,” you grumble, still somewhere between fucked out and clear in your mind.

John laughs, not mocking or anything. He laughs, wholeheartedly and sweet.

His eyes crinkle slightly and with his sweaty blond hair sticking to his forehead and pink cheeks, he looks so soft. So familiar. So like home.

Like the home you didn't know you're looking for in a person. Especially not in John. But there he is, pushing and edging you in every way he can. Just to be pulled toward you in the most beautiful way.

“I know you don't, actually you love me,” he mumbles, kissing your forehead softly. He still doens’t move off of you, knowing you need the closeness, the weight to calm down.

“I might do,” you giggle, closing your eyes. You take a deep breath, taking in his musky scent.

It’s warm. Surrounding you like a warm blanket on cold days.

“I know you do, you know why?”

You shake your head. You might know. But you're not sure and somehow, you wanna hear it from him.

“Because that thing between you and me, it’s more than just hate sex. It’s more than fucking,” he mumbles, his fingers running up and down your sides.

His touch is soft enough to feel good, but not enough to tickle.

“And because I like you. Actually, I more than just like you. I love you, brat,” he whispers against your lips.

“I love you too, idiot,” you mumble, leaning up to kiss him softly again. His lips are warm, tasting so sweet that it makes you want to keep kissing him until you’re both breathless.

Or you will just keep him tightly against you in bed for a lot of kisses and soft touches. John’s blue eyes are locked with yours as he chuckles softly, ready to keep teasing you. Even if it’s kissing you all over your face. Except your mouth.

“Don’t you dare, I will turn us both and kiss you until i’m satisfied,” you threaten with a giggle, your fingers digging into his neck to pull him closer to you.

And he budges, your faces only inches away from one another’s.

“Let's find out if you manage to turn us both,” he laughs, closing the distance between your lips.

He’s right. There is more. So much more. You haven’t said it out loud before he just did. But you both knew, there was always something deep behind the facade of hate and madness. Love. Deep and true, and so damn beautiful.

@armystay89 @rogersbarber @firelilyfox @starktonyx @gabby10100 @fire-joestar

[indecisiveavocado]

TOP [MOST UPVOTED] 5 REDDIT POSTS OF R/JEWISH THIS...

DAY: 1) Boulder councilperson refuses to condemn bombing cause it doesn't say 'anti-Zionist' (paraphrased) Most upvoted comment: " “I cannot sign a letter that equates the calls for a ‘Free Palestine’ with antisemitism." Well maybe if people weren't lighting Jews on fire while yelling "free Palestine" people wouldn't be making that equation".

2) I wish they would just admit they hate Jews. Comment: "They have a self image of being friendly to minorities and pointing a finger at the other side as the "biased side". They won't admit their antisemitism to you because they can't really admit it to themselves"

3) How young Jews are being lied to at Jewish events on Harvard's campus. Top comment: Discussing 'as-a-Jew' "Jews"

4) Antisemitic slur directed at a guy during a fucking Pizza review (paraphrased)

5) (paraphrased) Kevin Youkilis calling out AOC.

Worth noting, #6 is "scared to raise my daughter in this world".

WEEK

According to Reddit, absolutely nothing happened 13 hours ago. Top comment: "This is basically the last straw for me". Poster has more respect for Nazis cause they at least straight-up admit it. Other comments, "History is fully repeating itself, maybe not as bad as 80 years ago, but something is brewing and I'm getting fuckin scared", "The veil is off. We’re so hated. The silent majority couldn’t give two shits if we all died. Shavuot sameach. Give a Jew a hug. We got each other. Fuck everyone else.", "This narrative drives me crazy. Sure, but MOST of us are Zionists and probably not THEIR definition of a Zionist… but only for us Jews do they get to lecture us what antisemitism and Zionism is. Imagine if a bunch of people went around explaining to other minorities what racism is and then denied their own experience with it?"

Cleaning the stumble stones in Amsterdam [someone spray-painted over memorials to those killed in the Shoah in Amsterdam, calling them 'propaganda']

Colorado police responding to an attack at Pearl Street, multiple injured. Top replies, comment that it wasn't a protest (as if that would justify it); commenting that none of that person's "friends" (they used those quotes) before Oct 7 would comment on it;

[FBI statement on Colorado attack]. Top comment, "this is what globalize the intifada looks like". Other highly upvoted comments: encouraging Jews to move to Israel cause yeah they might happen but people won't excuse them; "when will all of this wretched madness end" post (longer than that)

Thom Yorke statement on I/P (paraphrased). Top comment, roughly: "if someone's take isn't just 'genocide' I'm pleasantly surprised".

THIS MONTH:

How did we GET here?? Text of post, "How could we NOT have?". Picture of Sarah and Yaron z"l. Top comment basically "Reddit not doing shit about antisemitism". Other highly upvoted comments saying this is what globalize the intifada looks like; regression to the mean

I'm a Jewish humanitarian worker, and the Gaza war has ruined me. The worker was working to provide aid to Gaza, by the way. Top comments, encouraging them to write an article about it,

Eurovision results: we are not alone

I am wearing my "curb your antisemitism" shirt to a music festival because IDGAF anymore.

How to deal with antisemites 101. [Spoiler: it's planting trees with the JNF in their name]

So yeahh antisemitism exists.

I don't know about the discussion, it's probable @gingerswagfreckles was just discussing the default page at the time which changes a lot more, but it definitely doesn't sound horribly unlikely.

I just want all the gentiles who are continuing to ignore the ongoing onslaught of hatecrimes against Jews to know that all the top voted posts on r/Jewish right now are about whether or not Jews need to be fleeing the country yet.

[belit0]

College boy hcs for obito, shisui and itachi pleaseeeeee

This is out of the HS AU and the Mafia AU, different universe,

DIFFERENT UNIVERSE!!!

Obito

Major: Education or Psychology. Not because it was a lifelong dream, but because he had one good professor and suddenly wanted to be that for someone else.

Has zero sense of time. Shows up late, coffee in one hand, charger hanging out of his hoodie pocket like a tail.

Carries emotional support snacks everywhere. If you look remotely upset, he's offering you a half-crushed granola bar from the bottom of his backpack.

Somehow always involved in campus drama even though he tries to stay out of it. “I swear I was just getting some papers and suddenly there was a breakup happening.”

Stares off during class with the kind of intensity that makes you think he’s solving an emotional crisis. He’s actually thinking about whether fish get bored.

Gets crushes like they’re seasonal allergies—but he’s painfully loyal once it’s real. Has a sixth sense for when you’re stressed, but will offer help in the most awkward way possible.

Very warm, very physical. Leans on your shoulder while texting. Hugs like he means it. Has no idea how charming that is.

Shisui

Major: Political Science, minor in Sociology. He runs for every student election and actually wins because people like him.

Speaks well, dresses well, somehow looks good in those dumb free orientation T-shirts.

You’re never sure if he’s flirting or just being nice. Spoiler: it’s both. Always both.

The guy who gets roped into every group project because “he’s reliable.” Secretly resents it but shows up every time with color-coded notes.

Would bring you coffee without you asking and act like it was no big deal. Meanwhile, he’s been memorizing your order since week two.

Is alarmingly perceptive. Will call you out gently for not sleeping enough. Offers to quiz you for an exam and somehow makes it fun.

Never brags about anything, but his name gets dropped a lot. “Shisui helped me pass stats,” “Shisui got our club funding,” “Shisui knows a guy.”

Smiles with his whole face. Shrugs off compliments but gets a little quiet if you really mean it.

Itachi

Major: Philosophy or Literature. People either worship him or are scared of him. Often both.

Speaks in complete sentences. Has a notes app full of existential questions and grocery lists.

Shows up to class early and leaves last. Somehow never makes a sound opening his laptop.

Always looks like he just came back from an all-nighter. He did. But he also read three novels and wrote a paper that’ll ruin the grading curve.

Not on social media. When asked why, he says something cryptic like, “Too loud.”

If you sit next to him, he’ll let you copy his notes but won’t say much. Then you’ll get a book recommendation in your locker the next day.

Makes dry jokes no one catches until three seconds later. Occasionally says something deadpan that has people wheezing.

Surprisingly polite. Opens doors, hands back your pen, thanks the barista. Doesn't make a show of it—just quietly decent.

If he likes you, he won’t flirt. He’ll just... start showing up more. Your favorite café. Your favorite spot in the library. Then maybe one day he’ll say “You seem tired. I brought tea.” and that’s that.

[error-dark]

I am a bit terrified that my silly little au may be accurate to canon...

I am not prepared mentally and emotionally for what Ruin would do to Solar!

I am not prepared for Bloodmoon facing Ruin!

I am not prepared for Ruin gonna try to take Solar away from Bloodmoon!

I-

[em1i2a3]

Spanish Sahara

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: After a rough week at the Thunderbolts Compound, the team goes out for some drinks to wind down and enjoy themselves.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and other characters from the movie are in here. Fluff, and Smut are the main warnings here, Bob and Reader have an established friendship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, …Something involving a mirror, Very light choking, Oral Sex (f! And m! receiving), Fingering, Swallowing, Bob is a frickin softie as usual because that’s hot but he definitely has his moments in this, Overstimulation, Teasing, Aftercare to the max because being taken care of after hot sex is…Wheew lol. I don’t think I missed anything

Author’s Note: I saw a lot of people requesting more smut and I thought as a nice little break from the super long fics that I’m working on (that request box has a lot of them and I’m chipping away at it as much as possible!) I’d write a nice little one-shot for y’all to celebrate a random Friday in May 😂 enjoy!! (Side note, I also had a funny little ask about how I name my posts lol, I literally just picture the songs in what I’m writing, the title changes like three times by the time I post it lol)

Word Count: 13,796

The bar was loud, crowded, and hazy with cheap smoke and too many conversations happening at once–but Bob was only paying attention to you, and attempting to look normal in his surroundings, which was always a complicated feat for him.

You sat across from him in the booth, your body framed in golden lamplight and neon beer signs like some half-lit portrait in an art museum. You looked too good to be real–flushed with warmth from your second tequila pineapple of the night, bare-legs crossed just enough to make his brain short-circuit, lips glossed a cherry red like you’d done it just to ruin him.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, he thought you had.

The others were scattered across the bar like background noise–Ava and Yelena flanking the bar with their usual chaotic grace, Walker and Alexei pounding back shots and shouting about God-knows-what, and Bucky leaning over the pool table, unknowingly feeding lines to a group of women who didn’t care if he could shoot or not.

But Bob hadn’t looked away from you in nearly half an hour.

Not when you uncrossed and re-crossed your legs beneath the table, the movements slow and fluid, like you wanted to give him something to look at. Bob’s eyes had followed the motion instinctively–drawn to the soft slide of skin, to the way your thighs shifted beneath the hem of your black tailored shorts. They were high-waisted and fitted, hugging the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, cinched with a single gold button that glinted every time you moved.

You’d paired them with that wicked bodysuit–the one that clung to your body like second skin, high-cut at the hips and daringly low in the front, just enough to frame the soft curve of your cleavage without giving away too much. It was backless, sleeveless, and made of some silky, matte fabric that shimmered faintly in the bar light. You wore it like armor, like a challenge.

Your legs were bare, golden under the dim glow, crossed at the knee with one foot tucked behind the other–long, lean, and deliberate in how they were presented. Every detail about your look tonight felt curated–not in a fake way, but in the kind of way that said I know exactly what I’m doing to you. And Bob? Poor Bob looked like he was under your spell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Every time your drink got dangerously low and you leaned forward–elbows resting on the table, cleavage pressing softly together–you dragged the last sip from your straw with a slow, teasing pull that made something in him twist. He watched the way your lips curled around it, how a single droplet of condensation slid down the side of the glass and clung to your fingers. He was transfixed.

You laughed at something the waitress said–he didn’t even register what–and it echoed in his chest like a bell. That sound always got to him.

And tonight, he wasn’t hiding it. Not well, anyway.

His eyes kept drifting–over your mouth, the curve of your collarbone, the smooth stretch of your exposed shoulders, down to the shadowed dip between your breasts. Then he’d catch himself and flick his gaze up like he could undo what he just saw. Like he was trying to remind himself that he respected you too much to stare, even though he’d been staring for months.

He was trying so hard to be polite. His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers tangled and twitching like they were holding back something much stronger than impulse. His posture was rigid, like his own body was betraying him one muscle at a time.

He was always like that around you–reserved, yes. But it wasn’t just shyness. It was respect. Fear. Like every thought he had about you was too big to name out loud. Like if he touched you, he’d never forgive himself for crossing that line.

But he’d already crossed it, hadn’t he? Not physically–but emotionally, because Bob Reynolds had been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you knew it.

You saw it in the way he always noticed when you were tired after a mission, the way he made you tea without asking, or stayed behind in training sessions he wasn’t even involved in just so you’d have someone to spot you. You saw it in the way he flinched when someone else made you laugh, or how his voice went into a cracked whisper only when he said your name.

He was putty in your hands. And you loved it. Not because it gave you power–but because he let you have it. Because he trusted you with it.

And as much as the friendship meant to you–deeply, intimately–you’d stopped lying to yourself months ago. Your brain was always a few steps ahead, mapping the timeline of how you’d get from here–from this bar booth and his helpless eyes–to there. To a place where Bob Reynolds was no longer just your best friend, but something closer. Something that meant yours.

So you didn’t say anything. You just watched him.

Watched how his breath caught every time you shifted. How he wet his lips nervously when you leaned forward. How the pulse in his neck jumped like he could feel your eyes on him.

His fingers twitched again, folded too tight in his lap. You followed the motion, noted the way his knuckles went white.

There was a sheen of sweat on his temple now–barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, which you were.

And poor Bob didn’t even realize how obvious he was.

So you decided to make it worse for him.

You slipped off your shoe under the table and slowly–very slowly–ran your foot up the length of his shin. A gentle drag, barely a touch, but intentional. Controlled. The kind of touch that said I see you. And I want you flustered.

Bob jolted like you’d zapped him with a live wire.

His leg knocked the underside of the table with a hollow thunk, and his hand shot out, sloshing his Coke Zero just short of the edge. His knuckles were white around the glass. His jaw dropped slightly like he meant to say something but forgot what language was.

His cheeks–already pink from the warmth of the room and the low buzz that he was getting from just being around you–flushed deeply, the color spreading up his neck and painting his ears red. You swore even his throat blushed. He pushed his light brown hair out of his face nervously, like he was afraid it would cloud his vision of you.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Cold in here?”

He blinked like he’d just come out of a trance. His lashes fluttered rapidly over wide blue eyes–those eyes, impossibly pale and clear, glassy with surprise and something raw beneath it. Want, maybe. Or fear.

“Y-Yeah,” He stammered, voice cracking slightly. “A–A little drafty.”

“Mmm.” You stretched in your seat, arms rising lazily above your head, making sure the movement pulled the neckline of your bodysuit lower. The fabric shifted with you, stretching softly across your chest, exposing a bit more of the delicate skin he’d been trying so hard not to look at.

His gaze dropped like he didn’t even mean to let it.

And then he swallowed–hard–his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat.

But Bob didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His breathing had gone shallow, his tongue caught against the roof of his mouth like he’d forgotten how to form words. He looked like he was choking on air.

You didn’t let up.

Your foot moved again–slow, deliberate, and this time it brushed higher, just right on the inside of his thigh, where the heat of his body was more noticeable. Where he was trembling.

His breath hitched instantly, and a soft, involuntary sound escaped him–a sharp exhale, half-panic, half-arousal. His fingers dug into the wooden edge of the booth like he was bracing for impact.

You leaned forward again, closing some of the distance between you, letting your arms rest on the table and your chest push together ever so slightly in the low light. He couldn’t look away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all night, Bob,” You said, your voice velvet-soft, the tone curling up his spine.

His head snapped up like you’d struck him–eyes wide and wild with guilt, pupils dilated in the low light. His brows pinched upward with alarm, his mouth parting in a panicked breath.

“I… I didn’t mean to–” He rushed out, but it came out broken.

You reached across the space between you, wrapping your hand around his wrist before gently cutting him off

“I want you to look.”

He froze.

His whole body went still, like he was afraid to breathe. His eyes–so ocean-bright and boyishly soft–flicked over your face with disbelief, feeling your thumb run over the exposed skin of his wrist.

You smiled at him again, slower this time. Not to tease. But to reassure.

“I like that it’s you,” You said, your voice dipping into something quiet and unshakably sincere.

He blinked, slow and stunned. His lashes cast little shadows under the low-hung light, and you saw the exact moment something cracked in his chest.

“You’re the only one,” You continued, “Who’s never looked at me like I’m a game to win. Or a body to take. You look at me like I’m something you’re afraid to break. Like I’m something you cherish.”

His lips parted again–slightly dry, slightly trembling.

And you saw it. The shimmer in his eyes. That wide, overwhelmed expression he wore when you said something that hit too close to the truth. He looked like he might cry. Or faint. Or bolt. But instead…He stayed.

Frozen, but present.

You reached for your drink again with your free hand and took the last sip, dragging the straw into your mouth with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.

Bob’s eyes tracked every inch of the motion. You could see the subtle twitch in his jaw, the little hitch in his shoulders, like he was physically holding himself back.

Then you licked a drop from your bottom lip.

And that did him in.

His breath faltered again, and his eyes–so blue, so open, so obviously in love with you–looked at you like he’d forgotten where he was. Like the world had narrowed down to just your lips, your voice, your body framed in shadow and gold light.

You tilted your head, gaze gentle now. That look you always gave him when he was spiraling. When he needed to know he was safe. That he was wanted.

He looked like he didn’t deserve it.

But you knew better.

And finally, after a long, shaky breath–his lashes fluttering like he was about to pass out—he leaned forward.

His voice barely rose above the din of the bar, cracked and breathless and close enough to touch.

“I…I think about y–you.”

The words came out like a confession. Like a sin.

He didn’t stop.

“More than I should,” He said, gaze darting to the table, then back up again like it physically hurt him to hold your eyes. “More than…What’s okay.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t interrupt. You let him say it.

“I just…” His throat worked again. “If I ever got to touch you–I don’t think I’d want to stop.”

Your chest ached at how sincerely he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about sex. Like it was everything, like it meant everything.

Your hand on his wrist slid down so your palm was over his, feeling the warmth of him–the quiet trembling, the softness of his skin.

“Bob,” You said softly. “What would you do if I didn’t want you to stop?”

His lashes fluttered at you–confused, hopeful, scared–but he didn’t pull away, not like he would normally. If anything, he leaned in like you had said something that brought him closer.

Your hand stayed where it was, palm against palm, but your fingers began to move–softly tracing the lines in his hand like you were reading him. Like you were studying a map only you had permission to follow. You let your fingertip trail along the length of his lifeline, then up the curve of his thumb, dipping gently between the web of his fingers. He flinched–barely–but you felt it. Saw the way his breath shuddered quietly through his nose, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted so badly to close around yours but didn’t quite dare.

He was holding himself back.

Even now, even here.

Your gaze lifted, meeting his–they were wide and glossy, pupils blown wide now, eating away at the blue, and there was something deeply aching in the way he looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every second of this moment in case it vanished.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You murmured, your thumb ghosting over the calloused edge of his ring finger. “Like you’re not allowed to want this.” Bob swallowed hard–again. It was the only thing he could do that didn’t give him away. His breath stuttered. His fingers twitched. His mouth opened like he might say something, but no words came.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever prayed for and was terrified to touch.

You watched the war inside him–want versus restraint. It played out in the flicker of his lashes, the shake in his hand, the tension braced through his shoulders like he was trying to keep himself from combusting.

So you let go of his hand, and moved your foot away from his inner thigh.

For a heartbeat, his face dropped–just a flicker of devastation in his expression.

Until you stood up, and moved around the table.

Bob’s head turned like he couldn’t believe you were really coming to him, like some part of him had convinced himself this was all a hallucination brought on by too many Coke Zeros–cause he couldn’t drink–and too many nights thinking about your hands, your mouth, and your voice in his ear. But then you slid into the booth beside him, your thigh pressing flush to his. He was still frozen, spine straight, hands in his lap like they might betray him if he moved them. Your perfume radiated off of you, the one that you always modestly sprayed on yourself, the one that he loved sneaking in your room to smell when you weren’t at the compound or out on a mission–the one that smelled like sugar, berries, and ripe oranges, like a succulent dessert…Made just for him.

You leaned in slowly, brushing your arm against him. You didn’t have to look at him, you didn’t have to…You knew he was already looking at you, or trying to look at you.

When he was finally able to feel your hot breath curl over his cheek he could immediately smell the pineapple juice on your tongue. It made him want to lean in right then and there just to get a taste, just to suck the essence off of it, to drink from you, but he needed to hold himself back, to stay in control of himself before he did something prematurely.

Then–with the grace of an angel–you reached up and touched him.

Your fingers found the side of his jaw, the pads of them smoothing against his freshly shaven cheek, tilting his face gently toward you. He followed the motion like a man possessed–like you had pulled him by a leash tied to his soul. He closed his eyes at the sensation, parting his lips slightly to take in a small breath–a quiet plea.

Slowly, you leaned in, your mouth resting just close enough to graze his ear, and you whispered–low, and sultry:

”Every time I touch myself, I imagine it’s you…” Bob shattered. A noise escaped him–broken and breathless. A half-gasp, half-whimper that he couldn’t contain if he tried. His body went tense beside you, his thigh flexing under yours, his fingers twitching like they were about to snap.

But you didn’t stop there.

“I imagine your fingers,” You murmured, your lips brushing his ear, “Big and clumsy and desperate, the way they always look when you’re nervous. I imagine them moving inside me while I ride your hand, while I beg you to kiss me like you mean it.” Bob exhaled–hard. His jaw clenched under your touch, his breath fogging hot against your forearm. You could feel how close he was to breaking–how close he was to falling apart in front of a whole bar full of people he couldn’t even look at in the eyes. Your fingertips moved slowly across his cheek, your nails didn’t scratch–they ghosted, mapped, and worshipped. You traced the slope of his cheekbone, then slid down to the soft dip beside his mouth, like you were learning his face the way others learn scripture.

Bob was unraveling. Every word from your mouth was gasoline on the fire he’d been trying to smother for months. His breath caught in his chest like a prayer that didn’t know how to end, and he stared at you—lips parted, lashes trembling–like he couldn’t tell if this was heaven or the moment before he burned.

And then your other hand came to rest on his shoulder, grounding him–and pushing him closer to the edge all at once.

He was breathing too hard now. Too fast. His chest rising in shallow, shaking swells. And all he could do was sit there, hands fisted in his lap, as you leaned in and whispered into his ear again–closer this time, like you were whispering to his soul.

“I think about tasting you,” You said softly. “So achingly slow, until you lose your mind.”

Bob’s knees went weak beneath the table. He didn’t even know how he was still upright. The only thing keeping him tethered to the earth was the press of your thigh against his, the weight of your palm on his shoulder and face, and the sound of your voice curling into his bloodstream like silk-wrapped sin.

He tried to speak–tried to gather some string of thought that could resemble language–but all he managed was a broken, desperate breath. “I–” He rasped, his voice shredded at the edges.

But you didn’t let him finish.

You shushed him. Gently. Sweetly. Your thumb swept across his cheek.

“Don’t,” You murmured, so close your lips touched his ear, “Don’t talk. Just feel it.”

And God, he felt it.

Every molecule of you.

The heat of your breath melting against his skin. The sweetness of your perfume, dizzying and intimate. The way your hands touched him like he was more than a body. Like he was a secret. A sacred thing you’d been aching to unwrap.

His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to move, to reach for you, but he didn’t dare–not unless you asked for it. He’d give you anything, everything, but he didn’t want to take a single thing you didn’t offer first.

Still, he couldn’t help it–his head tilted toward your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in something so tender it almost hurt to witness. His throat flexed as he swallowed another breath that wouldn’t steady.

You moved even closer–until your mouth nearly brushed his. Until the distance between you was a lie.

“I want to make you lose control,” You whispered. “I want to feel how much you’ve been holding back.”

That did it.

Bob’s whole body trembled under your hands–his restraint hanging by a thread, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to whimper. He turned his head slowly, just enough to look at you, and his eyes–those soft, wrecked, worshipful eyes–were completely undone.

“Y-You don’t know what you’re d-doing to me,” He breathed, but you smiled, soft and knowing.

“Then maybe we should go back to the compound so you could show me.” You whispered back, your thumb stroking the corner of his mouth like you’d been dying to touch him there. Bob’s breath hitched.

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath your thumb like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to shape it into a sentence. His brow knit–tight, anxious–as if he were on the edge of a precipice and could already feel the wind pulling at his shirt.

“I…” His voice cracked. He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing your palm, but his eyes–those trembling, desperate eyes–held yours like you were the only thing anchoring him to the floor. “I don’t… know w-what happens if I lose control…I h-haven’t had s-sex since before the S-Sentry serum…”

Your chest softened at the vulnerability in his tone–raw, boyish, torn straight from the deepest part of him.

“I’ve felt it before. The…Shift. T-That moment before it gets too much.” His throat worked hard around the next words. “The Sentry, he–he comes through w-when I feel too much. When I want too much. A-And I want you so badly it terrifies me.”

Your thumb stroked over his jaw again, slow and reverent, like you were trying to soothe the trembling just beneath his skin. He didn’t pull away.

“Bob,” You whispered, voice like velvet heat, “I’m not scared of him.”

His breath caught, but you didn’t stop.

“I don’t care if the Sentry shows up. I don’t care if he tries to carry me off into the sky or crack the moon in half because I kissed you too hard.” You smiled gently, your nose brushing his. “Because it’s still you. All of it. The fear, the ache, the power–none of it changes the fact that it’s your heart underneath. And I want all of it. I want all of you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes wet. His chest heaved like he’d just exhaled something he’d been holding in for years. Like you’d opened a dam inside him and now he couldn’t stop it–he didn’t want to anyways.

“Y-You don’t know w–what that means to me,” He whispered, voice trembling like glass on the verge of breaking. “To not be t-the golden boy in your eyes…To just b-be me.”

You leaned in then–so close he could taste your breath, taste the sweetness of pineapple and something far more sacred.

“You were never a monster,” You said, lips brushing his. “You’re the kindest thing I’ve ever touched.”

And that broke something open in him.

His shoulders sagged forward, like a weight had slid off them, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands finally–finally–lifting from his lap to ghost up your sides, hesitant and aching. You felt the way they trembled as they settled on your waist, as if touching you too firmly might shatter the moment.

But you didn’t shatter. You melted. Right into him.

“Take me home,” You whispered, your hand curling around the back of his neck. “And let me be yours.”

Bob let out a shaky breath–half-sob, half-surrender–and nodded.

“O–Okay…”

—————————————

The moment the two of you stepped out of the elevator and the doors slid shut behind you, the weight of what was about to happen descended over you like dusk spilling into a quiet room–slow and golden and thick with gravity. It wrapped around your shoulders, soaked into your skin. Each step down the quiet hallway felt amplified, padded in the hush of possibility. The compound, usually so full of voices and footfalls, now felt sacred. Empty in a way that invited something tender to unfold.

You glanced over at Bob beside you–his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff beneath his shirt like he didn’t know how to hold his own body anymore. His eyes flicked toward you, then away again. You could see it in the twitch of his fingers, in the slow rise and fall of his breath: he was fighting the urge to run and the urge to fall into you all at once.

“Whose room?” You asked softly, your voice barely more than a breath as you stopped just shy of your doors, which were across from one another.

Bob turned to face you, and for a moment he just looked at you. Really looked. As if the question was too big to answer all at once. But then he shook his head and murmured, without hesitation, “Yours.”

Your brows lifted a fraction, surprised by the immediacy of it.

His voice came again, quieter now, barely able to hold its own weight: “I want to be surrounded by everything that’s you.”

And God, he meant it. You could see it all over his face–that quiet, overwhelmed awe. That whisper of longing woven into his breath. Like being near you wasn’t just about want–it was about safety.

You opened your door with a hush of hinges and warmth poured out–soft and golden like it had been waiting for you both. Bob hesitated on the threshold just for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into something so intimate. But you reached back and curled your fingers around his, pulling him through gently, and he followed without a sound.

Your room welcomed him like a heartbeat.

The lights were low, softened to a muted amber by the shade of your bedside lamp, and the shadows cast across the walls were familiar, worn-in. The kind of quiet you could only earn by living in a space long enough to leave parts of yourself tucked into the corners.

There were little signs of you everywhere.

A cardigan draped over the back of your chair, still shaped by your shoulders. A couple mismatched mugs on the windowsill, half-full of dried flowers and pens that had long since run out of ink. A battered paperback with your thumb pressed into the spine, abandoned on the edge of the bed. The faintest scent of that sugary sweet skin-warm perfume. He could taste it in the silence.

And then there was the window.

It stretched across nearly half the far wall, a wide mouth of glass looking out over the city, where the skyline pulsed like a living organism–silver and gold lights blinking in lazy succession, cars reflecting off the windows threading down the streets like blood through veins. Bob walked toward it like he was drawn by gravity itself, like it called to the aching part of him that had spent too long looking at the world from above and never this close.

His reflection caught in the tall mirror near the bed–a fractured echo of himself, backlit by the skyline, a man made of longing and light. If he laid down, he realized, he’d be able to see you both in that mirror. Your bodies. Your faces. The way you might look reaching for each other.

He swallowed hard.

Behind him, you closed the door.

The soft click of it sealing shut sent a shiver down his spine–final and quiet and full of promise. He turned toward you, and that’s when he saw you undoing your leather jacket, slow and unhurried. The matte black of it peeled away from your shoulders like a second skin, and the way you moved–fluid, unfazed, and sure–made the air around him feel charged, like static clinging to cotton.

You stood in front of him now, illuminated by citylight and the low lamplight behind you. The bodysuit clung to your frame, catching the warm glow across your collarbones, your throat, the tender curve of your chest. You shrugged the jacket the rest of the way off, and it hit the floor with the softest thud.

Bob was frozen in place. Watching you like a man watching lightning hit the ocean.

He looked around your room again, slower this time. You saw it in his eyes–how he drank in the soft mess of your sheets, the collection of little rings in a porcelain dish, the stack of notes taped to your wall with scribbled to-dos and song lyrics and scraps of thought. It was chaotic and real and you, and he loved every single thing about it.

You were standing so close now that he could feel the warmth radiating off of your skin. The glow of your room wrapped around the two of you like a whispered secret.

You tilted your head slightly and whispered, “You okay?”

And Bob–whose hands were clenched at his sides, whose chest was rising like a tide he couldn’t hold back–nodded, barely. His voice was a whisper scraped raw:

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever been t-this okay.”

Your smile broke like a sunrise, and you reached up for him, touching his face. Just your fingertips at first, featherlight against the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing along the corner of his mouth like it was something precious to you. Bob’s breath stilled at the contact, lips parting slightly, his chest fluttering with anticipation. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth, even though he was burning up as he stood in front of you.

You pulled him gently toward you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t desperate. It was something softer—something built from all the times you’d brushed hands in passing, or caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was built from every whispered laugh, every longing silence, every moment the world made you ache for one another without saying a thing.

And now it was here. Finally.

Bob bent to meet you, slow and hesitant, his breath brushing yours like a question. Your noses bumped slightly, awkward and tender, and he let out the smallest nervous laugh—one you swallowed as you tilted your chin and brought your lips to his.

The first kiss was a hum. A hush. A held breath.

His lips were soft, unsure at first, warm and slightly parted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to kiss you back–until he did. Until he melted into it. You felt the exact moment the tension in his shoulders unraveled, when he stopped hovering on the edge and let himself fall. His arms came around your waist–slowly, carefully–as if he was still afraid to hold too tightly.

But he did hold you.

God, did he hold you.

One hand splayed wide against the small of your back, the other settling higher, thumb grazing the edge of your exposed skin where your bodysuit dipped low. His palm was hot. Too hot. Like he was burning just from touching you, and yet couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The feel of your skin against his fingertips made his knees go weak.

You kissed him deeper.

Not rushed, not rough–just more. More pressure. More presence. You tilted your head and sighed softly into him, and Bob exhaled like you’d opened a door in his chest he didn’t know had been locked. His mouth was gentle but eager, tasting you in little swells, lips moving with hesitant gentleness as if trying to memorize the shape of you. He breathed you in like you were air after drowning.

You pulled back slightly–not apart, just enough to rest your forehead to his. The two of you stood there in that golden hush, breathing each other’s breath. Bob’s chest rose and fell against yours, and you felt it–every tremble. Every ounce of his restraint.

He looked at you with eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips flushed and glistening from your kiss–and from the remnants of your lip glass–the faintest tremor in his breath like he couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

Your voice was soft, just above a whisper. “Still okay?”

He let out a broken laugh–full of wonder, full of you–and nodded.

You leaned in again–gentler this time, slower–not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to savor the way his breath hitched when your lips brushed his. You wanted to draw it out. To feel every shiver he tried and failed to suppress.

Bob met you halfway with a soft, aching sound–something between a sigh and a whisper of your name. His hands flexed slightly at your waist, his fingers pressing just a little deeper into the curve of you. You felt how he trembled. Not because he didn’t want this. But because he wanted it so much he was afraid he might burst.

You kissed him again–deeper, slower this time, mouth parting just enough to taste him. His lips were warm and sweet with nerves, and he kissed like someone who had thought about this a thousand times but never believed it would happen. There was a reverence to it, a hush in the way he moved his mouth against yours, like he was still halfway convinced he might wake up at any moment.

Your hands left his face, drifting down–slow, steady, and full of quiet intention. You traced the slope of his neck, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse, then down the broad plane of his chest. You felt every breath he took, shallow and aching, beneath the soft cotton of his sweater.

Bob, always layered like he needed something between himself and the world, was wrapped in a slightly oversized charcoal crewneck, its fabric thinned from wear and faintly scented like detergent and something uniquely him. Beneath it, you could feel the ridges of another layer–a t-shirt, soft and well-worn, probably one he slept in or hid in on quiet mornings when the world was too loud.

You slid your hands beneath the hem of the sweater and pushed upward, your palms skimming the warm skin of his stomach as the fabric lifted. Bob made a quiet, broken sound into your kiss–like the feeling of your hands on his skin short-circuited something vital inside him. He froze for a moment, his breath catching like he wasn’t sure he could survive the sensation.

You pulled back just far enough to speak, your lips brushing his. “Can I?”

His nod was immediate. Frantic. “Y-Yeah. God, yeah.”

So you tugged the sweater up slowly, watching the way his arms lifted, watching the exposed inch of his abdomen rise with it–the pale skin dusted with soft little beauty marks, the gentle definition carved by years of holding tension. As the fabric cleared his chest, he flinched slightly, sucking in a breath like cold air had touched him, though your hands were warm.

He helped you the rest of the way, dragging the sweater and t-shirt off over his head with trembling fingers, slipping away like the last layer of armor. And then he was bare from the waist up, bathed in citylight and lamplight, all golden and blushing and unsure.

He stood there, chest bare and breathless, as if you’d peeled back the sky and found the sun trembling underneath.

Bob’s body wasn’t sculpted in the way of soldiers or statues. It was something softer, something more human. But there was strength in it, undeniable–earned. It was the kind of build that came from holding onto things that were out of his control. Broad shoulders that carried guilt and gentleness in equal measure. A solid chest dusted with faint hair and the occasional mark of time–tiny clusters of faded scars, blemishes, and bruises the world had forgotten but his skin remembered.

His collarbones were sharp under the golden lamplight, framed by muscle that swelled and dipped like lines in a poem you wanted to memorize. His arms, strong and thick, looked like they were made to hold someone through the storm–and right now, they twitched faintly at his sides like he didn’t know how to be held himself. There were scattered freckles on his biceps, a pale crescent scar on one rib that curved like the moon, and small, raised knots near the shoulder from training or trauma–you weren’t sure which. Maybe both.

He looked like a map of ache and effort and quiet resilience.

And you adored every inch of him.

You stepped forward slowly and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest–just over his sternum. His breath stuttered at the contact, sharp and startled, like he’d never been kissed there before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe no one had thought to.

You trailed your fingers down the plane of his stomach, the muscle there tense and trembling, then lower–toward the waistband of his pants. They were a pair of charcoal slacks, slightly loose around his waist, cinched just right at the hips, but soft and comfortable like he’d chosen them to blend in. Like he’d never expected to be undressed in them.

Your fingers hovered over the button, and you looked up at him. Bob nodded once–barely, but enough–and you slipped the button free. His breath hitched, and his hands flexed at his sides again like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. He looked dazed–like he was being unwrapped for the very first time, and the air itself might sear him.

The fabric fell down his thighs with a soft whisper, pooling at his feet, before he moved out of them, kicking his shoes off in the process.

Bob stood in front of you in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, backlit by the shimmer of the skyline and the amber hum of your bedroom lamp. His chest rose and fell like the sea—steady, but stirred by undercurrent. His eyes hadn’t left you since you touched him. Not once.

And now, it was his turn.

He lifted his hands slowly, reverently, like he was reaching out to something holy. His palms hovered over your hips, not quite touching, until you gave him the smallest nod. That was all he needed.

His fingertips brushed the waistband of your shorts, undoing the golden button in the front of them.

You kicked off your shoes, one at a time, and let the silence stretch between you as he hooked his fingers through the belt loops–slow, hesitant, like he was afraid of doing too much too quickly. He eased them down your legs inch by inch, watching the fabric surrender to gravity. You stepped out of them delicately, and for a beat, he just stood there, looking at you like he didn’t know how to survive the sight of you standing in nothing but that black bodysuit and a pair of simple underwear.

He swallowed hard.

His hands returned to your sides, smoothing over the dip of your waist where the fabric clung tight. You watched his throat flex as his eyes flicked over you—your curves, your bare legs, the way your body caught the light like it had been painted for his gaze alone.

When he moved to the clasp of your bodysuit, his fingers trembled. You could feel it. The concentration in him. The hesitation. Like he was unhooking something precious, something secret.

You reached up and touched his jaw gently. “It’s okay,” You whispered.

And Bob, poor, wrecked Bob, nodded like he needed your permission to breathe.

The clasp gave with a soft snap. The bodysuit loosened instantly, slackening at your shoulders. His eyes met yours again, searching, silent, and then he helped ease the fabric down your arms, over your chest–slowly, like he was undressing a memory he wanted to savor for the rest of his life.

You stood there, bare from the waist up.

Bathed in citylight and lamplight. Breasts soft and exposed, skin flushed and dappled in gold. Your breath was steady, open, trusting.

And Bob… Bob stared like he’d never seen anything so sacred. His lips parted. His chest rose, shallow and quiet, as his eyes drifted over every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your sternum, the soft line of your stomach. His hands didn’t touch right away. He just looked. Like the act of looking was too intimate already.

But when he did touch you–finally, gently–his hands moved with such aching care. They rose to cradle your waist, thumbs brushing just below your ribs. You watched his pupils expand, the breath he tried to hold leaking out of him in slow, reverent exhales.

“You’re…” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he didn’t have to.

You stepped into him again, bringing your bodies closer, the warmth of his skin against yours. Your breasts brushed his chest and he nearly gasped, his head dipping low, lips brushing your shoulder like he needed a place to put all this overwhelming wonder.

Bob’s lips were trembling against your skin before you even realized he’d moved. Gentle, searching–he kissed the place where your shoulder curved into your neck, just beneath your collarbone. His mouth was warm and wet, like each kiss was a vow he didn’t know how to speak aloud. He moved slowly, dragging his lips along your skin like he was painting devotion in brushstrokes–across the dip of your clavicle, up the slope of your throat, back to your jaw.

You let out the softest sigh. A sound full of breath and want. It made him shudder.

Your hand slid into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, guiding him until his lips found yours again. This time the kiss felt hungrier–not in haste, but in depth. In need. Like the space between you could never be close enough. He kissed you with a kind of desperation laced in awe, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. And maybe you felt the same way, because your heart was stammering against your ribs, and the heat blooming between your thighs was dizzying.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look into his eyes–flushed and wide and soft around the edges, pupils blown so far they nearly swallowed the blue whole.

“Come here,” You whispered, voice like silk unraveling in candlelight.

You took his hand and led him gently around the side of your bed, the sheets still rumpled from a day that no longer mattered. The mirror caught both of your reflections in passing–your bare back, his bare chest, the golden curve of lamplight gilding the two of you like you were something from a dream neither of you dared name.

“Lay down,” You said, and Bob obeyed without a word. He eased himself back across the mattress, exhaling like the air had been caught in his lungs for hours. The sheets crinkled beneath him, warm with your scent, his chest rising in uneven waves as he stared up at the ceiling like it held some sort of answer for how to survive this moment without coming apart entirely.

You climbed onto the mattress after him—slow, certain, fluid like breath moving into lungs. Bob turned his head just in time to see you crawl toward him, and God, the look on his face—pure wonder, trembling with reverence—made your heartbeat skip off rhythm.

You straddled him gently, knees bracketing his hips, your hands finding their way to his chest again, palms splayed flat over the warmth of him. You felt the stutter of his breath beneath your touch, the tight coil of tension building under your thighs.

He looked up at you like you were everything.

You bent down and kissed him again—deeper this time. Your lips claimed him slow and full, your mouth parting just enough to taste his sigh as it melted into yours. One of his hands slid up your thigh, barely daring to grip, while the other cupped your hip like he was anchoring himself.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard and hot, nestled beneath you. The growing swell of him pressed against the soaked fabric of your underwear, separated from your heat only by the thin stretch of your panties and his boxers. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound involuntary, and it made your whole body pulse with want.

You rolled your hips forward–just once, a slow grind–and Bob gasped. His head tipped back, throat arched, lips parted as his eyes fluttered shut. His fingers tightened on your waist as if bracing against the force of it.

You did it again–deliberately, letting your clothed center slide against the length of him. The friction was hot, barely enough, almost unbearable in its precision. You could feel the tremor in his thighs, the desperate way his breath stammered in his chest.

“O-Oh m-my,” He whispered, almost like a prayer. “You’re…Oh God–”

You smiled softly against his cheek, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You feel that?”

He nodded, barely, eyes dazed.

“I’m soaked,” You whispered, dragging your hips once more, pressing down just enough to make him bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut, “And it’s all for you…” You kissed the line of his jaw And then you started to move down.

His hands twitched when you kissed his throat—soft, slow, trailing heat with your mouth as you shifted backward, kissing lower, following the pulse at his neck to the center of his chest. You paused there, pressed your lips to the spot where his heart beat fastest.

He stared down at you, dazed and helpless and holy.

You kept going.

Kissed his sternum. The soft dip beneath it. The slight rise of his stomach where the muscles tightened beneath your breath. Your mouth was tender, open, slow as silk. You licked a soft line down his abdomen and felt him shiver violently. His hands moved into your hair without thinking, not pulling–just holding.

Just needing something to hold.

You reached the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and looked up.

His lips were parted, his cheeks pink with heat, his pupils huge and swallowing. He nodded without needing to be asked, lifting his hips slightly as you hooked your fingers into the band and drew it down—inch by inch, like you were unwrapping a gift meant only for you.

Bob was flushed, hard, and trembling. His cock stood against the plane of his stomach, thick and aching and already leaking from the tip. You watched the way it twitched when the cool air touched it, watched how he tried to stifle a gasp and failed.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, like it physically hurt. “I don’t–I don’t even k-know what to do with myself–”

“You don’t have to do anything,” You murmured, pressing a kiss to the sharp line of his hip. “Just let me take care of you.” His breath hitched–shallow and wild–and his hands gripped the sheets.

And then you bent your head.

And licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the length of him–base to tip.

Bob choked on a gasp, hips jolting before he stilled himself with sheer force of will. His hands flew to his forehead like he was trying to cover his eyes, but he couldn’t stop watching.

You flattened your tongue along the underside of him again slowly feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the way his breath hitched like it was caught in the delicate space between need and disbelief.

His hand found yours blindly–grasping, desperate for something to hold on to. You laced your fingers with his without hesitation, anchoring him as you opened your mouth and took him in.

The weight of him on your tongue was dizzying, intoxicating. He was warm and already leaking, the taste of him faintly salty as your lips sealed around him and began to move–slow, deliberate strokes of your mouth, your hand curled around the base of him in rhythm.

“Y-you’re…” His voice broke, breath catching, almost like a sob. “You’re really… Oh…”

The sound he made when you took him deeper went straight to your core. It was soft, wrecked–an overwhelmed whimper that made your thighs clench and heat spill low in your belly. You moaned around him, low and throaty, and he gasped your name like it physically stunned him.

You glanced up through your lashes and saw him–his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in disbelief. His free hand was fisted in the sheets now, his chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

You hollowed your cheeks and twisted your wrist just slightly, dragging your mouth back and then sliding down again, slower this time. You could feel every tremor in his thighs, the way his hips flexed involuntarily and then stilled, fighting the instinct to thrust. He was trying so hard to be good for you. To be still. To savor.

You let your hand drift lower, stroking him in time with your mouth, the slick sounds of your lips meeting his flushed skin only driving you further into the heat building between your own legs. You could feel how wet you were through your panties—soaked from the way he whispered your name, from the way he whimpered when you gave him just a little more.

“Oh,” Bob whispered again, breathless. “You feel so good. I don’t… I didn’t... I…” You moaned softly again, taking him deeper, loving the way his voice cracked, the way his fingers squeezed yours like he was hanging on by a thread.

And you didn’t stop.

You licked and sucked and worshipped him, letting the tension build, letting him teeter right there on the edge. His legs were shaking now. His hips stuttered once, and then again.

“I—I think I’m gonna…” He gasped. “I don’t know if I can…P-Please don’t stop—please—please—”

You didn’t.

You kept going. Swirling your tongue around the tip, easing him deeper again, moaning softly just to feel the way it made his whole body jolt.

He came with a sound like he was breaking—high and soft and breathless. A shattered gasp of your name, followed by a long, trembling whine as he spilled into your mouth.

You swallowed it all. Every last drop.

And even then–you didn’t stop.

You licked him gently, slowly, carefully–savoring him through the aftershocks. His body twitched beneath you, overstimulated and undone, his voice going quiet and airy.

“I-it’s too much,” He breathed, eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “Oh God—it’s so much…”

You finally pulled back, lips glistening, your breath ragged. You kissed the inside of his thigh tenderly, then wiped the corner of your mouth with your fingers and gave him the softest smile.

Bob looked at you like you’d just handed him a piece of the universe he never thought he deserved.

You crawled back up the bed and laid beside him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder, letting your hand fall to the center of his chest. His heart was pounding beneath your palm, like it had forgotten how to slow down.

He turned to face you.

And then he kissed you–without thinking, without pause.

His mouth was hungry, lips moving against yours like he wanted to pour his gratitude and longing into every stroke of your tongue. You let out a soft hum into the kiss, and his hand found your waist, curling around you like he needed you against him. All of you. Bob kissed you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand tightened at your waist as he deepened the kiss, his mouth warm and earnest, his tongue slow against yours—like he was trying to memorize the taste of your breath and the taste of himself on your tongue. Then he shifted his weight just slightly, moving over you, and your body followed without hesitation.

He rolled smoothly, gently, so that your back met the mattress and his body hovered above yours. His thigh slid between yours, his chest flush to your own, and his face hovered just inches from yours–eyes wide and wild with something more than lust. Something closer to awe.

You let out a surprised giggle, breathless beneath him, one hand slipping up to brush back the messy strands of his light brown hair. It stuck up in every direction from your earlier touch, and now it framed his flushed face like a halo that couldn’t decide if it belonged to a saint or a sinner.

He gave a small, dazed laugh too, his lips curving in wonder as he looked down at you.

And then he murmured, soft as velvet:

“It’s your turn.”

His voice sent a shiver straight through you–because it wasn’t just desire in his tone. It was reverence. Like this was sacred. Like you were sacred.

He dipped his head and kissed your throat, slow and sweet, and you tilted your head to give him more. His hand slid up your side, warm and sure, until it cupped your breast. He paused there, looking at you–asking, even now. Even after everything.

You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

And Bob leaned down to worship.

His mouth wrapped around the swell of your breast, lips so soft, tongue teasing the peak until it pulled a soft sound from the back of your throat. He groaned at the noise, like it physically did something to him. He kissed across your chest–open, adoring–then sucked gently at the other nipple, swirling his tongue in slow circles until your fingers curled in his hair. You felt his teeth graze the sensitive skin just around your nipple–just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips twitch slightly beneath him.

You gasped, soft and surprised, and his mouth pulled back with a small, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and then he exhaled slowly–cool air brushing across the nipple he’d just teased, and your whole body shivered in response.

Bob chuckled under his breath–low and breathless. Not cocky. Amazed. Like your reactions lit up something inside him he never even knew he needed.

Then he kept going.

His lips traced a winding path down your body–each kiss like a benediction pressed into skin. The slope of your ribs. The softness of your belly. The place just beneath your navel where you felt everything coil tight with anticipation.

You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up, thighs falling open to make space for him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. The fabric was soaked with you–already clinging, already begging to be removed. Bob looked up once, eyes wide and full of silent question, fingers brushing your hips.

You nodded. Your breath was caught somewhere behind your teeth, but your legs were already parting further, your spine already arching to help him slide them down.

He pulled the underwear off slowly, taking his time with you, watching the way the fabric peeled away from your slick heat. Your body practically glistened in the amber light, folds swollen and flushed with need. He swallowed thickly, the sound audible even in the hush of your room, and let the underwear fall to the floor like a silk offering.

Bob settled between your thighs like he’d found the center of the universe.

His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin as he leaned forward, mouth trailing open kisses along the tender flesh–first one thigh, then the other. You twitched at the contact, gasping as his lips dragged up the curve of your leg, warm and wet and wanting. He paused just at the crease where thigh met hip, and then–without warning–bit gently, sucking until the skin flushed pink and bloomed with a bruise.

Bob smiled into your skin. “S–Sorry,” He murmured, clearly not sorry at all, his voice thick with breath and worship. “N–Needed to leave s-something to remember me b-by.”

And then–finally–he kissed your core.

His tongue swiped through your folds in one long, slow motion, and your whole body jolted like he’d reached inside your chest and rung out your soul. You felt the flat press of his tongue against your clit, the deliberate drag upward, the way his lips wrapped around you and sucked–soft, rhythmic, maddening.

Your back arched off the bed.

Your hand flew down and found his wrist–one of the hands bracing you open–and you held onto it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself to the feeling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, warm and grounding, fingers spread wide over trembling muscles.

He licked you again–deeper now. More intentional. His tongue moved like he was mapping you, learning every reaction, every twitch, every soft cry like it was sacred text. He flicked the tip of his tongue in slow, focused circles, then flattened it again, pressure building just right, just there–

“Fuck—Bob,” ¥ou breathed, voice high and frayed. “Jesus Christ…”

He moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending another jolt through your spine.

And then you tilted your head back.

The mirror caught everything.

Your body sprawled across the bed–glowing, undone, your knees spread wide and your hair wild pointing every which way. Bob’s shoulders bracketed your thighs, his face buried between them, dark hair mussed and damp with sweat and your slick. You saw the way your stomach rose and fell beneath his hand, how your hips bucked slightly with each flick of his tongue.

And then–God–

You looked down at him.

And he was looking up at you.

Eyes glassy and wide, pupils blown with hunger. His mouth was still moving, still lapping at you with slow swirls–but his gaze stayed locked on yours like it anchored him. His brow was pinched in concentration, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening.

It was intimate in a way that felt deeper than skin. Like he was beholding you, not just touching you. Like the act of pleasuring you was its own kind of worship–and he couldn’t look away from the way your body bloomed beneath him.

You whimpered, your hand tightening around his wrist.

He groaned softly, and the sound reverberated through you.

And then–without breaking eye contact–he slid two thick fingers inside you.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent gasp, spine arching. The stretch was slow, sweet, perfect. He curled them just right, finding that place inside you that made your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

“Y-Yeah,” he rasped against your core, voice hoarse, lips brushing your clit between licks. “There. T-That’s it, I–I feel you…”

You clenched around them while his tongue kept moving—never stopping. His fingers pumped slow and deep, curling with every pass, and your legs started to shake.

The sight in the mirror was unholy–your head thrown back, his mouth buried between your legs, fingers working you open while your body writhed beneath him.

“Bob—Bob I’m gonna—”

“I–I know,” He whispered. “I’ve got you..Y-Y/N.”

With a sharp cry and a desperate buck of your hips, you came–shattering like glass under floodlight. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hand crushing his wrist as you pulsed around him.

Bob didn’t stop until you whined, breathless and broken, hips twitching from oversensitivity. Even then, he pulled back slowly, mouth flushed, chin slick with you. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh, and looked up at you again.

Completely wrecked.

Completely in awe.

You let out a laugh of disbelief–shaky, breathless, still caught in the afterglow of everything Bob had just pulled from you. Your body was humming, twitching with sensitivity, your thighs trembling around nothing now as he lifted his head from between them.

Bob looked like he had just witnessed a modern day miracle, a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

Then he started to move slowly, crawling back up your body on his elbows, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses into your skin as he went. The curve of your hip. Your stomach, still fluttering beneath the aftershocks of your orgasm. Each kiss was a brushstroke of heat and devotion, like he wanted to taste every inch of what he’d done to you.

When he reached your chest, he paused, nuzzled into the soft swell of your breast and pressed the gentlest kiss there too. Then higher–your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your jaw. You turned your head slightly and met him as his mouth finally reached yours again.

The kiss was warm, a little messy, but full of affection. Your taste was still on his lips, and he didn’t hide it–he kissed you like he wanted you to know he’d savor every drop.

“Y-You’re unreal,” He mumbled against your cheek. And then he gave a shy, breathless laugh. “I think I–I forgot how to breathe.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through the soft mess of his hair, and he leaned into the touch like it grounded him.

“I’m already ready again,” He admitted sheepishly, pressing his forehead to yours. You felt it him hard and warm again between your thighs, flush against your soaked center. Your breath hitched.

But then Bob hesitated. You felt it in the shift of his weight, the tremor in his next breath.

“We could leave it at that for tonight,” He said softly. His voice was a whisper of restraint, even though his hips twitched against yours like his body was begging him not to stop. “If you don’t want to have sex—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him–deep and sure and full of heat.

When you pulled back, your voice was firm and breathless. “I want you.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, lips still parted in surprise. “S-Should I run and grab a condom?” You tilted your left arm back slightly, resting it behind your head on the mattress, and with your free hand, pointed to the small, barely visible scar just beneath the skin of your inner arm.

“Implant,” You said softly. “We’re good.” His breath caught audibly and his hand hovered near your arm for a second, then settled gently over it–thumb brushing once over your skin.

“Y-You’re sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t bear to assume. Like he was terrified of doing the wrong thing when he finally had the chance to do this right. You nodded, soft but certain, caressing his cheek gently.

”I’m sure.” Bob exhaled like it physically knocked the air from his lungs. Then he kissed you again–and this time, it was different.

There was no hesitation. No soft buildup. Just need and wonder colliding all at once.

His mouth crushed against yours, urgent and hungry, and you met him just as fiercely. Tongues brushed and tangled in wet, open kisses, teeth grazing lips, breath caught between mouths like smoke. You could feel the way he breathed you in between every kiss–little shaky exhales pressed into your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth–as if you were the air keeping him alive.

“God, y-you taste like heaven,” He murmured hoarsely into your mouth, and then kissed you again, harder.

You moaned against his lips, your body arching into his, and he groaned right back–his hand sliding from your hip to the side of your neck, fingers splayed out over your pulse point like he needed to feel the rhythm of you.

The head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance–hot and heavy and trembling with anticipation–and he froze just a moment, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were blown wide, lips flushed, chest rising and falling like a wave cresting.

He lined himself up with a breathless stammer of your name, “J-Just tell me i-if I do anything wrong okay?” You nodded–soft, breathless, legs flinching around him slightly as he started to push in–inch by inch. Your mouth dropped open around a gasp.

”Oh–“ You breathed, hips twitching up towards him, “Bob…” He bit his bottom lip hard, trying to hold it together, closing his eyes at the sensation of you slowly taking him in.

“You’re s-so warm,” He choked out, “I can feel all of you, I–”

And then he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, both of you trembling.

You were wrapped around him, stretched and full and gasping through the intensity of it, and Bob just hovered there, buried deep, his forehead resting against yours like he needed the anchor. You cupped his cheek, kissed him once–soft, shaky–and whispered,

“I need you to move…” He nodded at your request, dragging his hips back only to press in again with a quiet groan that vibrated against your chest. His thrusts weren’t rough—but they had weight. Depth. Like he couldn’t help but want to be as far inside you as he could get.

Each time he rocked forward, your bodies met with a soft, slick sound, heat rising like steam between your tangled limbs. He kissed you through it, messy and desperate, lips parting and pressing and dragging over yours like he never wanted to come up for air. You kissed him just as hard–your tongue sliding against his, teeth nipping his bottom lip, your hands gripping his shoulders like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Your fingers tangled into the back of his hair, tugging gently–not to pull him closer, but to hold. To ground. The strands were damp with sweat and heat, and he gasped into your mouth when you did it, his hips stuttering in response.

Bob groaned low and soft, the sound caught between reverence and ache. Then his hand slid up, warm and sure, and cupped the side of your throat—not tight, just enough to feel the flutter of your pulse beneath his palm. His thumb tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze back to him.

“L-Look at me,” He breathed, voice ragged with want. “I…I need to see you.”

You did. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed and heated. You were so open for him, so undone and radiant in the lamplight–and it broke something in him, seeing you like this, needing him like this.

Then he hooked his arms under your knees and lifted.

The change in angle dragged a gasp from your throat so sharp it bordered on a cry. He slid deeper—so deep it felt like he was in your chest, like he was part of the ache and the breath and the heartbeat of you. Your mouth dropped open around a broken moan, and your eyes went glassy.

“F-Fuck,” You choked, your head falling back. “Bob–oh my God–”

Bob whimpered softly, overwhelmed by the sound of his name on your lips, by the clench of your body around him. His breath was hot and frantic, his face flushed and slack with awe.

“You feel…” He started, then trailed off, swallowing hard. “You feel s-so good–so warm–you’re perfect, I–” He kissed your cheek once. Then again. Then again, softer each time, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t know how else to worship you.

And then, he saw it.

The mirror.

The two of you–tangled together, sweat-slicked and flushed with heat, your body curled around him like it was built to fit. His eyes snapped to it–and for a moment, he just stared. Breathless. Dazed. He could see the way your hands gripped his shoulders, the way your breasts bounced softly with each deep thrust. The sight of it–the raw, real closeness–wrecked him.

Your gaze flicked over his and followed where he was looking and you caught the reflection too.

“I want to watch us,” You whispered, breath ragged and full of heat. “Please.”

Bob’s breath caught hard. His hips stilled, his eyes wide, his mouth parting with something like awe and disbelief.

“Y-Yeah?” he stammered.

You nodded.

That was all it took.

He pulled out slowly–deliberately, as if the act of leaving your body was a loss he needed to mourn–and helped guide you onto your stomach, careful even through the haze of want. You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes fixed on your reflection, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten.

He moved behind you, one knee between yours, and dragged his hand down the length of your spine in one long, aching stroke, watching goosebumps rise on your flesh before peppering a few kisses along the bare skin of your back. Then he gripped your hips and lined himself up again.

The first thrust back in was brutal in its beauty.

You let out a ragged groan–half gasp, half cry–as he sank back into you. The angle was different now. Deeper. Fuller. It felt like he was rooted inside you, like he could reach the very center of you.

Bob’s groan was wrecked.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “You’re so…This is…Y-You’re tight–so deep, I—”

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, and you felt the press of his mouth against the side of your neck–just beneath your ear. Then his arm slid around your neck from behind, not choking, not tight—just holding. Anchoring. His breath spilled hot across your skin, and he kissed your jaw again, reverently, trembling against you.

Your eyes locked in the mirror.

You. Spread out. Eyes heavy, mouth open, skin flushed and glowing. Bob–bare and trembling behind you, lips parted, face slack with wonder, arm curled protectively around you like he was trying to keep you from slipping away.

The reflection made your breath catch.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt.

“I’ve n-never…” He choked out, hips still rolling slow and deep, “Never seen anything so beautiful—so fuckin’ real–“ Your breath stuttered, your chest dragging in air like your lungs were trying to keep up with the sheer intimacy of his voice in your ear, his body inside you, the way his eyes stayed locked to yours in the mirror.

And then you turned your head.

Just a little.

Enough to find his lips.

Your mouths met in a kiss that shattered the edges of everything soft and safe. It wasn’t delicate this time. It was molten. You sucked gently on his tongue when he pushed into your mouth, and the noise Bob made was nearly inhuman–a muffled, desperate moan swallowed by your kiss.

The arm around your neck tightened just slightly, his palm flattening against your shoulder to hold you a little closer. He kissed you like he needed your breath to survive, and with every stroke of his tongue against yours, he thrust a little deeper, a little harder, losing the last shred of distance between you.

The sounds filled the room now.

Slippery, wet, rhythmic. The soft slap of skin meeting skin. Your gasps–broken, high, open. His moans–low, breathy, whispered things like “fuck” and “please” and your name like it was a prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud until now. The creak of the mattress. The rustle of the sheets. The hum of the city just outside the window, as if the whole world had gone quiet to listen.

His hips were moving faster now, not pounding but full of momentum. Urgency laced with awe. You felt every inch of him with every push, your body keening beneath him, his cock dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again.

And still–his mouth kept finding yours.

Messy kisses. Tongue and teeth and hot breath shared like something sacred. You whimpered into him, and he swallowed it, moaning in return, his pace growing more erratic with each roll of his hips.

“G-God,” he gasped into your mouth. “You feel so–so perfect–I c-can’t–” He pressed his forehead against yours, sweat-slick and shivering, his voice unraveling into something raw. “I’m gonna–Y/N–I c-can’t hold back–please come with me–please–”

You nodded, frantic, the pleasure building low in your spine like a storm. Your thighs trembled, your mouth fell open, and you barely managed a whispered, “Yes–yes, I’m close, Bob, I’m right there–”

His arm tightened around you again, holding you together as he watched your reflection–watched your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter shut, your body writhing beneath him.

“I see you,” He whispered. “I see you, I’ve got you, just–just let go, I’m right here–”

You did.

Your orgasm hit you so fast it felt like your entire body was going to give out. It was brilliant, consuming, and it had every nerve ending singing with heat. Your body pulsed around him, clenching and fluttering in frantic waves, and the cry that tore from your throat was almost too much to bear.

Soon after Bob twitched deep inside you, thick and hot, and you felt him spill–pulse after pulse of heat filling you, his hips jerking in short, erratic thrusts as he buried himself as far as he could go. His moan was wrecked–raw and full–and it tumbled from him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. It wasn’t loud. It was low. Shaky. The sound a man makes when he’s completely undone. A whimper edged with disbelief, like he was giving you the very last piece of himself.

And just then–like the world exhaled around you–you heard it.

A faint, hairline crack.

Barely a sound.

Your gaze flicked up, dazed and hazy through the aftermath, and there it was: a thin fracture running across the mirror. A small, pale lightning bolt etched in glass, splitting right where your bodies met in reflection.

You blinked.

And then you tightened your hold on him.

Your hand clutched at the arm that held you–his forearm still locked gently around your chest–and your other reached blindly to touch his shoulder. You turned your head just enough to feel the hot tremble of his breath against your skin, the way it stuttered and hitched through parted lips still struggling to return to earth.

His entire body was shaking against yours. Not violently–just overwhelmed. The way a dam trembles after it’s burst.

“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the edge of his cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He moaned again–quiet this time, muffled against your skin, and full of something so deep it almost hurt. His arm loosened slightly from around your neck and slid lower, wrapping fully around your torso as he exhaled one long, shivering breath. His body collapsed slowly over yours, his chest pressed against your back, both of you trembling, covered in sweat and each other.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t–not yet.

You could still feel him twitching softly inside you, still half-hard, still pulsing faintly from the intensity of it all. His cum was already starting to leak back down between your thighs, warmth slicking your folds, but neither of you moved to clean it up. Not yet.

He kissed your shoulder.

Then your neck.

Then the curve of your spine.

Each one slow and breathless. A vow, a thank you, a grounding touch.

You tilted your head back toward him, catching his lips with your own. The kiss was soft now. Lingering. Your mouths moved lazily together, wet and tender and full of exhaustion.

“Jesus,” He whispered against your mouth. “I–I didn’t mean to… I think I…”

“I know,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the damp nape of his neck. “I saw it.”

His breath caught. “I–I cracked the mirror, didn’t I?”

You nodded once, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Just a little.”

A silence stretched between you, warm and golden and full of breath.

Then he laughed–quiet and stunned–and buried his face into your shoulder again.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered. “I–I didn’t mean to lose control.” You let out a soft sigh.

”It’s okay Bob…You were overwhelmed and feeling good…Let’s just hope Sentry is the one that gets seven years bad luck.” You both laughed–low and loose and breathless, the sound catching in the honey-thick air between your bodies. Bob’s chest vibrated softly against your back as he let out another stifled chuckle, nuzzling his nose into the space just beneath your ear.

“Only you,” He murmured, his voice warm and worn down, “C–Can make light of me literally c-cracking your mirror mid-orgasm.” You tilted your head slightly, grinning despite the ache still thrumming between your thighs.

“I mean… If you’re gonna break something,” You said, glancing back at him with a playful glint in your eyes, “At least it wasn’t my pelvis.”

That made him snort and he buried his face deeper into your shoulder, completely wrecked by laughter now. You felt the full ripple of it through his chest, the way his arms tightened around you just a little as if he could keep this moment stitched to the skin.

You turned your head, kissed him again–slow and sweet. No rush. Just the warm slide of lips and breath. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as he kissed you back with the kind of quiet that said I never want to stop doing this.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, his voice rough with affection. “I should, uh… I should pull out.”

You nodded softly. “Okay.”

He moved slowly, gently easing out of you with a quiet gasp at the sensitivity. You both hissed a little–his from overstimulation, yours from the sticky stretch of release leaving your body. He lingered there for a beat, fingers brushing your hip, as if he hated the idea of not being connected to you anymore.

He stayed close even after he pulled out, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, the other brushing your hip like he needed to reassure himself you were still there. The room was warm, quiet, the mirror fractured but the world around you whole.

“W–We should get cleaned up,” He murmured, his voice still dazed but laced with care. “D–Do you wanna…Maybe shower? With me?” His fingers twitched gently where they touched your side. “Only if you want to. I just—I don’t really wanna let you go yet…”

Your heart melted.

You turned slowly beneath him, shifting onto your back so you could face him fully. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends, cheeks still flushed, lips swollen. But it was his eyes that undid you. Wide and soft and full of affection. Still a little glassy. Still glowing slightly from the shock of Sentry.

“Of course,” You whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair, a soft blush rose to his cheeks, as you leaned up to kiss the tip of his nose, “I kinda wanna be held under hot water for like…An hour. Minimum.”

Bob gave you the softest grin. “I-I can do that. I’m good at holding.” His tone was still tentative, but there was pride there too. A glimmer of purpose. “You’ll be the cleanest, most held person in the entire compound.”

You sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the soreness blooming in your thighs and core. Bob immediately reached to steady you, his hands finding your waist, his brows pinched in concern.

“I’m okay,” You promised him with a soft smile, “Just a bit sore.”His ears turned red.

“S-Sorry.” He whispered.

“Don’t be,” You said gently, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “I liked being yours.”

His breath caught at that, his hands tightening gently on your sides. Then he kissed you–slow and soft and grateful. And when you pulled back, his hand brushed along your arm as he helped you out of bed.

You led the way to your en suite bathroom, flicking on the light that glowed soft and golden. The room was warm, fogged slightly from earlier use, and your spare towels were already folded neatly on the rack. You reached for two, tossed one onto the nearby counter for later, and handed Bob the other to keep nearby.

He looked at it like it was some sacred token.

You turned the water on and waited for it to warm while he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist and nuzzling the back of your neck.

“I could get used to this,” He whispered.

“What, showering?” You teased, smiling as you leaned back into his chest.

“No,” He said, shaking his head slightly. “Just…Being with you. Like this.”

You turned in his arms, heart thudding, and kissed him slow and sure. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The water turned to steam.

You stepped in first, guiding him in with you. It was small, a bit cramped–but it didn’t matter. You made room for each other. Bob pressed close, arms winding gently around your back as the water poured down over you both. His mouth found your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, peppering you with soft, adoring kisses as the heat melted the soreness from your limbs.

He helped you wash your entire body. His fingers in your hair, gentle and careful as they massaged your scalp with your favorite shampoo. His palms smoothing body wash over your skin like you were something precious and breakable, his lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds just to stay close.

You did the same for him, trailing your hands down his chest, watching the way he shivered beneath your touch even now. You cleaned him carefully, quietly, the lather sliding down both your bodies in pearled rivulets. Every time you looked up at him, he was already looking at you. Eyes soft. Lips parted. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

At one point, you turned under the spray and leaned your back into his chest. Bob immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush to him beneath the stream of water. His chin came to rest atop your head, his breath steadying.

“I—I feel like I’m gonna cry,” He admitted quietly, after a long silence.

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “Why?”

“Because…” He swallowed. “B-Because I’ve never felt this safe. And that’s… Not something I ever thought I’d get.”

You reached up, touched his jaw, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Then I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”

His arms tightened around you, and he let out a long, trembling breath.

“Promise?” He whispered.

“Always,” You said. And meant it.

In the shower’s warmth, with your bodies tangled and your hearts steadying into one rhythm, nothing else in the world existed.

Just you and Bob. Soft skin. Steam. And the quiet knowledge that everything had changed.

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSWEET GIRLㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Batboys x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : How Do They Eat That Kitty?

☆⁠ CHARACTERS : Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Damian Wayne.

☆⁠ NOTE : Minors DNI. Damian is an adult. English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

— BRUCE WAYNE ⋆

Bruce eats pussy like it’s a goddamn art form—he’s precise, calculated, and maddeningly patient. He starts slow, always. Those big hands spread you open, thumbs keeping you vulnerable as he just looks at you, like you’re a meal he’s been starving for. Then, his tongue starts, slow and flat, dragging up from your entrance to your clit in one smooth stroke that has your breath catching. He doesn’t rush, not at first—he builds you up so slowly that you’re practically begging him to stop teasing. When he gets serious? Oh, you’re fucked. Bruce focuses entirely on your clit, his tongue pressing firm and circling in ways that have your thighs trembling. He slides two fingers inside you, curving them just right to hit that spot, and he watches you. His dark eyes stay locked on your face, reading every reaction like he’s solving some complex puzzle. And god, he loves control. If you try to squirm or close your legs, he growls, low and dangerous, “Stay still, or I’ll stop.” Spoiler: he never actually stops, but the threat alone keeps you in place. When you cum, he doesn’t let up. His tongue keeps working you, dragging you through wave after wave until you’re crying out his name, completely wrecked.

— DICK GRAYSON ⋆

Dick? He’s a pussy-eating legend. You know how some people enjoy it? Dick fucking loves it. He dives in like it’s his favorite thing in the world, his hands gripping your thighs to pull you closer, his face buried between your legs as he moans like a man possessed. He’s messy about it, too—his tongue is everywhere, licking and sucking on your clit like he’s trying to ruin you. But Dick knows exactly how to build you up. He’ll start with long, teasing licks, making you squirm and whimper, and then he focuses entirely on your clit. His tongue moves in quick, flicking motions, switching it up with soft sucks that send shocks through your entire body. And he’s loud. He moans into you, murmuring things like, “You taste so fucking good,” and “I could stay down here all night.” His fingers? Fucking perfect. He slips two inside you effortlessly, curling them up in time with his tongue until you’re sobbing from the intensity. And Dick doesn’t stop when you cum. Nope. He keeps going, even as you’re begging him for mercy, his grin widening against your skin because he knows he’s got you falling apart.

— JASON TODD ⋆

Jason eats pussy like he’s got something to prove. There’s nothing soft or sweet about it—it’s raw, filthy, and absolutely fucking primal. He doesn’t even bother teasing you. The second your legs are open, his face is buried between them, his tongue lapping at you like he’s starving. His grip on your thighs is bruising—he keeps you pinned in place no matter how much you try to squirm. His tongue is relentless, focusing on your clit with harsh flicks and sucks that have you seeing stars in seconds. Jason’s all about intensity—he groans against you, low and rough, sending vibrations through your body. And when he slides his fingers inside you, It’s game over. He pumps them hard and fast, curling them to hit that sweet spot over and over until you’re screaming his name. Jason loves watching you lose control. He’ll pull back just enough to smirk at you, his lips and chin soaked, and growl, “C’mon, baby. Let me hear you.” And when you finally cum? He doesn’t stop. He forces you to take every second of it, holding you down as he works you through the aftershocks, leaving you completely wrecked.

— DAMIAN WAYNE ⋆

Damian is precise. He approaches eating pussy like a challenge, determined to reduce you to nothing but gasps and moans. He starts slow, dragging his tongue through your folds with maddening patience, watching your every reaction. His hands hold your thighs apart, firm but not rough, keeping you exactly where he wants you. Once he finds what works, Damian locks in like a man on a mission. His tongue circles your clit in perfect, rhythmic motions, alternating with soft flicks that have your back arching off the bed. He doesn’t get messy—everything he does is intentional, calculated, and devastatingly effective. His fingers join the party soon enough, sliding inside you with ease, curling up to hit your G-spot with every stroke. Damian’s all about control. If you try to move, he tightens his grip, growling, “Stay still. I’m not done with you yet.” He’s also vocal in a way that’s almost mocking. “Look at you. Falling apart for me already.” And when you cum? Damian doesn’t stop. He keeps going, overstimulating you until you’re trembling, tears streaming down your face as you beg him to let you breathe. He’ll finally pull back, wiping his mouth with a smug smirk, because he knows no one else can make you feel like that.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[witchywithwhiskey]

what good girls get after movie night

pairing: bucky barnes x female reader

summary: movie night in avengers tower gets interesting when you and bucky barnes test the limits of your secret relationship.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), thunderbolts* spoilers, smut, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, vaginal fingering, edging/orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, come eating, semi-public fooling around (under a blanket during movie night), 'need to be quiet so we don't get caught' trope, sneaking around/secret relationship, dirty talk, light degradation, praise kink, teasing, biting, pet names (sweetheart, baby), established relationship, both bucky and reader are members of the new avengers—let me know if i missed something!

word count: 3.1k

a/n: here's my first ever entry for @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event!! idk yet how many weeks i'll be able to write for, but i'm gonna try to do a couple at least. and to start us off, we've got a very dirty Bucky Barnes and some New Avengers tower shenanigans 😅 hope y'all enjoy! ♡

prompt: “Mind your own damn business.” | [Secret Sex/Relationship | Embarrassment | Denial]

It was movie night in Avengers Tower—or rather, New Avengers Tower—and you plopped down in one of the end seats of the overstuffed couches in the lounge. 

You always made sure to show up early so you didn’t end up crammed between John Walker and Ava Starr. Their bickering could ruin any movie.

Sure enough, the pair entered the lounge not long after you, arguing about who won some sparring match during their training that day, and whether it was cheating for Ava to use her powers. She was threatening to phase into his room and stab him while he slept as they took their seats on another couch. 

You breathed a sigh of relief that they weren’t sitting near you. The seat next to you was still open, and you had hopes for who would take it—though you tried not to look hopeful as the others filtered in. 

Alexei Shostakov, Yelena Belova and Bob Reynolds entered the lounge a few minutes later. Yelena flopped down on the floor, while Bob sat on the couch closest to her, the two of them having a conversation that was much more civil than the continued bickering between John and Ava, which had devolved into threats of bodily harm.

Alexei went straight for the remote to the massive TV before settling into the lounge’s only recliner armchair. Everyone had long ago agreed that was always his spot because he fell asleep five minutes into the movie and snored like a fighter jet mid-battle.

Just before Alexei hit play on the movie, Bucky Barnes slipped into the lounge and took the empty seat next to you. Immediately, your heart began to beat a little faster, and you tried to hide your joy as you looked around at the others on the team.

You’d spent hours wondering whether everyone else knew you and Bucky were sneaking around together, trying to keep your relationship secret so it wouldn’t get back to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Neither you nor Bucky knew how Val would react, and you both figured it was easier not to find out. 

That night, no one was paying you and Bucky any mind—Yelena was snapping at John to shut up while Alexei’s recliner creaked loudly as he settled into it. You figured they either hadn’t noticed how close Bucky was sitting to you, or they didn’t care. 

Knowing The New Avengers as you did, you truly couldn’t determine which was more likely to be true. 

Finally, the movie began. The sound was turned up to a nearly deafening level, and you let your worries about what the team did or didn’t know fall away. 

A few minutes in, Bucky grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and he casually tossed it over the two of you. When you looked at him and caught his eye, the ghost of a smirk danced at the edge of his mouth, and you shot him the barest smile in return.

Glancing around the room, you made sure everyone was engrossed in the movie before curling into Bucky’s side. You threw your legs over his thigh while his metal arm wrapped around your shoulders, tucking you into his body. 

Ducking your head, you hid a pleased smile as you got comfortable. Your body relaxed into Bucky, your fingers holding the blanket up to your chin so it covered as much of your entwined limbs as possible. 

Snuggled up with your secret boyfriend, you settled in to watch the movie in peace. But Bucky had other ideas.

While everyone else was focused on the TV, Bucky shifted so he was curled more around you, his hand slipping onto your knee beneath the blanket. 

Just that touch had tingles of warmth dancing up your thighs to settle heavily between your legs, your body already beginning to crave Bucky’s. But with the team littered throughout the room, you did your best to ignore your reaction to Bucky’s touch. 

Then, oh so slowly, Bucky began to slide his hand up your thigh. His palm was blazingly hot through the thin cotton of your leggings, teasing you with his heat when you truly wanted him to be touching your bare skin. 

The higher his hand got, the less you could ignore it. Especially when his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thigh, earning a choked whine from you. 

“Bucky,” you gasped on the softest exhale you could manage, well aware that there were two other super-soldiers in the room. No matter how loud the TV was, there was always a chance someone would hear you, or—god forbid—sense you another way. “We can’t.” 

Lifting your head, you looked around the lounge with quick, sharp eyes. 

Thankfully, Alexei was already asleep, the loud rumbling of his snores drowning out the quieter moments of the movie. Bob looked totally engrossed in the TV and Yelena was playing with one of her knives while she kept an eye on Ava and John, who were bickering again, though about what you couldn’t tell.

“Shh, sweetheart, watch the movie,” Bucky murmured teasingly in your ear, clearly having done his own sweep of the room and noting that no one was paying any attention to the two of you. 

Bucky took advantage of the team’s distraction to slide his hand even higher up your thigh, until his big palm was cupping your pussy through your leggings. It was all you could do to bite down on your plush lower lip and hold back the sharp gasp that wanted to escape. His hand was so big and it felt so good pressing between your thighs.

A smirk slashed across Bucky’s face, his hungry eyes watching your expression closely so he could devour each and every one of your reactions. He pressed his fingers into your throbbing slit, watching as your lips dropped open and your eyes went hazy from the pleasure pulsing in your pussy.

He kept rubbing your cunt, and you knew the moment he realized you weren’t wearing any panties under your leggings because a soft growl rumbled in his chest. You’d already soaked through your leggings, and you were certain his fingers were growing wetter and wetter with every swipe of your pussy.

“You’re such a little slut, baby,” Bucky purred, ducking his head so his mouth was right against your cheek. You could feel the rasp of his stubble against your skin, and you squirmed on his lap, trapping his hand between your thighs, which only made him chuckle. “You wanted this, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

His words were so condescending and filthy, they had your heart racing in your chest, battering against your ribs. Embarrassment heated your cheeks, but you didn’t protest Bucky’s accusation—because he was right. You had foregone wearing panties hoping it would give Bucky easier access to do exactly what he was doing.

“You wanted to fool around during movie night, didn’t you, baby?” Bucky murmured, his impish grin pressed into your cheek. “You wanted me to rub your bare pussy through your leggings while the rest of the team are right here.”

It was so dirty, what the two of you were doing, but you didn’t want to stop. So even though his last words weren’t a question, you nodded. You lifted your eyes and looked at Bucky from under your lashes, letting him see all the naked desire in your expression. 

Bucky’s grin widened, turning wolfish and hungry as his eyes sparkled in the dim blue light of the TV. His hand rubbed your pussy harder, thumb pressing tight circles into your clit, dragging you tenaciously toward the edge of your release. 

“They could catch us at any second,” he warned, his voice still low enough that only you could hear. “And then they’d know just what a filthy little slut you are for me, huh?”

“Bucky, please,” you rasped on a stifled sob, turning your head and burying your face in Bucky’s neck. Your shoulders trembled, fingers curling into fists as you clung to his t-shirt. The pleasure rolling through your body was made even more overwhelming by the need to keep quiet.

“Don’t worry, baby, I won’t let them catch us,” Bucky rumbled soothingly, his hand between your thighs slowing to draw out your pleasure. “You just be a good little slut—stay quiet and let me play with your sweet, greedy cunt during the movie.”

“Yes, sir,” you whispered into Bucky’s neck, pressing a kiss to his skin as you spread your legs wider for him beneath the blanket.

“Good girl,” he cooed against your temple, making you quiver from the pleasure. 

For a long while, Bucky rubbed your dripping cunt through your leggings, getting the fabric soaking wet while stoking your pleasure to a constant, burning heat. He was merciless, playing with your clit and your puffy pussy lips as if trying to get you to slip up and make a sound.

For your part, all you could do was try to be good. You muffled your moans in the warmth of Bucky’s neck, huffing out soft mewls and breathless whimpers that were drowned out by the movie playing on the TV and Alexei’s snores.

When you thought Bucky was going to edge you like that for the entire movie, he pulled his hand from between your thighs. Without warning, everything sharpened around you, your mind surfacing from the haze of constant pleasure.

Despite the reprieve from his torture, you nearly whined at the sudden loss of Bucky’s touch. Your fingers curled tighter in the soft cotton of his t-shirt and you were about to say something—but then he hooked his fingers around the waistband of your leggings and slid his big hand inside.

Bucky’s warm, calloused fingers pushed between the messy, swollen lips of your pussy, and the feeling was so good—so filthy and exquisite—that you were nearly helpless to it. At the last second, you ducked your head and sank your teeth into the hard muscle of his pecs to stifle the moan that demanded to spill free.

A grunt came from Bucky when you bit him, and you lifted your head in time to catch him glancing furtively around the room. When it was clear that everyone else was distracted by the movie or each other, you both breathed a sigh of relief. 

Bucky’s fingers, which had stilled against your pussy, slipped deeper between your thighs. Two pushed into your hole, spearing you open and sinking inside you to the knuckle. They stretched you deliciously, stroking against your sensitive inner walls, and for a moment, you forgot yourself.

“Oh god, Bucky,” you breathed on a sigh of delight, pushing your face into his neck in a belated attempt to muffle your sounds of pleasure. He smelled like salt and leather and you wanted to lick him and moan with abandon.

“Shh, ya gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” Bucky chided you, his tone warm with affectionate teasing. “You don’t want anyone catching us, do you?”

Pleasure was throbbing through your body, so sharp and insistent, you could hardly bring yourself to care about getting caught anymore. You just wanted some relief—you wanted to come.

“Need you,” you whined as quietly as you could manage. “Please,” you begged pitifully, tugging weakly on Bucky’s shirt, as if that would sway him toward giving you what you wanted. 

A reprimanding growl rumbled in Bucky’s chest and when he spoke, his mouth brushed against your ear, his words filling your head. 

“If you can be a good girl and be quiet for the rest of the movie, I’ll take you back to my room and show you what good girls get,” he said, and then, as if deciding to make his point even clearer, he went on. “Good girls get to come on my big, fat cock while I spill my seed in their greedy, hungry cunt.”

His words were a lightning bolt straight to your pussy, and you nearly moaned again. You had to bite down on the base of Bucky’s throat to stifle the sound, and as soon as it passed, you pulled your mouth away to respond.

“I can be good—I can be good, I swear,” you promised in a rushed babble, a whine in your tone as you nodded your head against Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Good girl,” Bucky purred in your ear, his metal arm tightening around your shoulders and tucking you deeper into his chest. All the while, his fingers fucked your dripping hole slowly, torturously, ramping up your pleasure before easing you back down.

Bucky brought you to the edge three more times before the movie ended, rumbling in your ear to be a good girl and not come on his fingers so he could reward you later. It was a near thing each time, but you managed it, your body trembling more and more beneath the blanket concealing your bodies.

He’d let you wind down after each edge while he slipped his hand from your leggings and licked your desire from his fingers. His eyes would glimmer with barely leashed lust as he held your gaze, making you watch him taste you while you quivered in his arms. Then he’d start the process all over again.

By the time the movie was over, you were wound so tight, you knew you’d explode the second Bucky slid his cock into your aching, hungry cunt. And you couldn’t wait another minute for that release. 

The second the credits began to roll, you yanked Bucky’s hand from your leggings, the super-soldier letting you free his fingers with a low chuckle. Then you tossed the blanket off your overheated bodies and hopped up, heading straight for the door with Bucky hot on your heels.

“Where are you two going?” John called as you tried to make a hasty escape, drawing all eyes to you and Bucky. “Don’t tell me you guys are tired already, we only watched one movie! Bucky might be ancient, but what’s your excuse, rookie?”

“Mind your own damn business, Walker,” you snarled, hurling the comment over your shoulder as you picked up your pace. 

You didn’t care anymore if the team knew about you and Bucky and what you got up to when you were alone in the tower. All you could think about was the pounding pulse between your thighs and your need for release. 

Looking over your shoulder, you caught Bucky’s eye, and he looked just as desperate and hungry as you felt. With a jolt of understanding, you realized he didn’t care if anyone else knew either, and the thought made you smile happily at him. His wolfish grin answered you and urged you on.

As the two of you retreated from the lounge, you heard John whining to the others, “What’d I say?” The last thing you heard was everyone else—save for Alexei, who was still asleep in his chair—laugh at him.

Once you were out of sight of the team, Bucky hauled you over his shoulder and took off. He jogged through the winding hallways of the tower until he got to his room. There, he pushed quickly through the door and locked it behind him, before tossing you down on the bed.

“Leggings off now, unless you want me to tear them off you,” Bucky growled, already yanking his clothes off. 

You grinned at his impatience, as if he wasn’t the one who’d tortured you for the last two hours by edging you during movie night. But you decided to save your teasing for later, because you wanted him too badly to say anything. Instead, you just tore of your own clothes as quickly as you could.

Then Bucky was on you, his hips bullying between your legs, his cock smacking against your wet, needy pussy. Your thighs spread wide to welcome him into your body, your lips parting on an obscene moan when he crushed you into the bed with his heavy form. 

In one thrust, he was inside you, and you let loose an uninhibited scream of pleasure that filled his room, bouncing off the walls and shattering the stillness of the night. 

Just as you’d predicted, you came the moment Bucky slid home inside your pussy, your release helped along by the way he was grinding the base of his cock into your clit. He knew exactly what he was doing, pushing you over the edge with relentless efficiency. 

And you were helpless to it. The pleasure coursing through you, crashing over you in blissful waves had you trembling and whimpering beneath him, riding out the overwhelming release with your thighs wrapped tight around his waist.

“That’s it, sweetheart, you’re coming like a perfect little slut on my cock,” Bucky praised you, brushing kisses to your cheeks before capturing your lips in a filthy kiss. “You were such a good girl, so quiet and perfect for me while I played with your pretty pussy.”

Bucky started rolling his hips, thrusting into you with deep strokes of his cock, filling you up over and over again. You could feel the twitching and throbbing of his hard length, but he didn’t let up, just set a brutal pace, pounding into your cunt. Before your release had even fully subsided, he was urging you toward another.

Gripping your jaw in one hand while he braced himself on his metal arm, Bucky held your face still, his eyes locked on yours. There was a promise of pleasure in his feral gaze, in the slash of a smirk on his face, and you couldn’t help the eager grin that pulled at your lips at his next words. 

“Now it’s time for me to show you what good girls get after movie night.”

Bucky Barnes was a man of his word, and show you he did. He fucked you long and hard, making you come so many times you lost count, until the evidence of your pleasure was seen in the uncontrollable quivering of your exhausted thighs and the amount of come—both his and yours—making a mess as it spilled from your body. 

Meanwhile, the rest of the New Avengers team gave Bucky’s room a wide berth for the night. They all had a good idea about what the two of you got up to when you slipped away from the others to be alone; they all knew about your “secret” relationship and your not-so-secret cuddling during movie night. (Thankfully, that was all they knew about.) 

Well, everyone knew about you and Bucky Barnes except John Walker. But he was always the last to figure out anything. 

All told, it was a pretty standard movie night in the New Avengers Tower.

thanks for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

[delicatebarness]

You Need Me Now? | Prologue

Summary: Three years after her father's death, the eldest Stark daughter was finally starting to get her life back. But now, everything is about to change when the last man her father would have approved of asks for a favour.

Warning: This series will be 18+, Minors DNI | MCU Spoilers | Mentions of Greif & Parent Death | Alcohol Use | Smut | Political Tension | Subtle PTSD Themes | Friends-With-Benefits Relationship | Secret Relationship

Word Count: 1297

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

A/N: I've been thinking about this since Brave New World, and I'm glad I finally feel like writing here again! - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue; this is just as much yours as it is mine. - B

You Need Me Now: @carrotlove | @seenthroughmia | @stell404 | @imaginecrushes | @lilulo-12 | @sebbymybaby21 | @rattyfishrock | @danzer8705 | Let me know if you want to be tagged for this series. However, I can't guarantee how often it'll be updated.

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick | @sapphirebarnes | @rach2602 | @thetorturedbuckydepartment | @lanabuckybarnes

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Spring 2027–Manhattan, N.Y.C.

New York hummed beneath you—somewhat quiet, for once.  From your apartment, the city looked almost peaceful. Rare. But peace was never built for you. Or him.

Bucky’s chest was warm against your back, bare skin pressed together and covered by silk sheets. Your chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. You could hear the soft click of his vibranium arm settling as he raised it, resting it behind his head. 

“You’re thinking too loud,” Bucky murmured, voice gravelly from your shared lack of sleep. Neither of you got any of that when together. 

You turned over, pulling the sheet higher over your chest. Not that there was any modesty left between you. “It’s my apartment. I’m allowed to think as loud as I want.” 

He chuckled. A smile spread over his lips. One of the rare, real smiles. It reached his eyes. “Typical Stark,” he said, his fondness and exasperation blending together in a perfect balance. 

Propping yourself up on an elbow, your eyes scanned his face. Your fingers traced gently along the faint bruising on his collarbone. The tension in his shoulders from a recent fight still lay dormant in his muscles. 

Yet, somehow, he was here. With you. Again.

“I thought you were in D.C.,” you whispered.

“Campaign’s in full swing,” he replied, curling his right arm around you, letting his fingers trail along your neck and shoulder. “But I needed a night away. Somewhere quiet.”

You arched an eyebrow at him. “So naturally, you came to a Stark?”

The ghost of a grin tugged at his lips, leaning up on one elbow to match you. “Well, I wouldn’t say I was here for the quiet, exactly.” 

A low, tired laugh fell from your lips. “Of course not.”

This thing between you started a couple of years ago—the night of your father’s funeral. Too much grief. Too much whiskey. Too much Asgardian mead for Bucky. Years of unresolved tensions, avoidance, and a very complicated history were forgotten about that night. A night neither of you spoke about, but never stopped repeating. 

And no one knew. 

Not Pepper, not Sam, not even F.R.I.D.A.Y.

That was the agreement. No strings. No press. No fallout. But you were never very good at following orders. Even ones you set yourself.

Bucky was quiet at that moment. Then, his fingers moved down, tracing the curve of your arm. Slow and deliberate. “I need something.” 

Your hand stilled on his chest. Your breath hitched in your throat, and you locked your gaze with his. “Let me guess—is this where you say ‘from you’ and ruin the night?”

His expression gave you nothing. “I need your endorsement.” 

Silence.

You sat up, the silk sheet falling from your body. Your back was now turned to him as you reached for the glass of water on your nightstand.

“You’re serious.” 

“I wouldn’t bring it up if I weren’t, Stark.”

“You know what that would mean,” you said with a sigh. “The eldest daughter of Tony Stark publicly backing the Winter Soldier for Congress? The country would lose its mind.” 

“I’m not running as the Winter Soldier,” he retorted. “I’m running as James Barnes. And I’m trying—I’m trying to do something good.” 

“You already are doing something good,” you replied as you finally turned to face him again. “This isn’t a mission. It’s politics, Bucky. If you want my name on your campaign, you’d better be ready for your safe place to no longer be safe.” 

He held your gaze, steady. “I don’t want your name. I want your support.” 

This shouldn’t matter. The two of you weren’t real, not like that. This was supposed to be uncomplicated.

But at some point in time, Bucky had stopped calling before showing up. And you stopped caring.

You sighed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“I know.” 

For a moment longer, you studied him. Then, leaned forward, swinging your leg over his body to straddle his waist. Your lips brushed against his. “I’ll think about it.” 

Bucky’s hand reached for your cheek, pulling you even closer, pressing his lips hard against yours.

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Three Weeks Later—Washington, D.C.

You shouldn’t have worn black. The dress clung to your body—cinched at the waist, sleeveless, and elegant. Pepper had referred to it as ‘Power Dressing’. Bucky, however, muttered, “A distraction,” into your neck the night before.

Now, you were standing at the Stark Industries podium. It was sleek and modern. Unmistakable Stark. Glass and steel glowed with the subtle golden accents. The company’s logo is etched on the front. 

You stood centre-stage. Half the country was watching you. Flanked by banners, journalists, and cameras already trained on you. Your curled fingers gripped tighter around the edge of the podium. 

Your heart hammered against your chest.

Your eyes flickered briefly toward the crowd.

Bucky was standing just to the left of the pavilion. Dressed in a pressed navy suit, hair pulled back neatly. And his jaw set tight. He looked every inch the part of a reformed soldier and future congressman hopeful. He was composed. Polished.

“Thank you all for being here. I’ll try and keep this brief,” you said, your voice steady, smooth. Cameras clicked. Murmurs rippled through the press. “I’ve spent the past few years trying to honor my father and his name.” 

The words rolled off your tongue like you spent hours rehearsing them. You didn’t. Not really. You practiced with Bucky’s head between your thighs, his hands on your hips. Your hands in his hair, and his half-wrecked voice mumbling: “You don’t have to do this. But if you do—I’ll owe you.” against you.

“My father believed in progress. In pushing forward, even when the world pushed back. Since his passing,” your gaze flickered to Pepper, watching with Morgan by her side. She gave you a supportive nod.

You took a breath, continuing. “Stark Industries has grown, shifted, and adapted. Just like the world we call home. But, we’re not done yet.” 

You paused, your eyes now locking with Bucky’s, and your mouth curved. Not into a smile, but something close enough. 

“I believe in redemption, second chances. I believe in making the world better, not just with innovation, but also with integrity. Which is why today, I’m not here to announce a product. I’m here to endorse a person.” 

You let the words hang in the air, taking a moment for yourself. The crowd was quiet, like the hum of an arc reactor. Powerful. 

“A man who has rebuilt himself, little by little. He knows the weight of his history, and carries it anyway.” Your throat tightened, and you let it. “I trust him. Not just with a vote. But with his second chance. With a future. With the city of New York and Brooklyn.” 

Another pause. Only this time, it wasn’t for you. Or the press. Pepper, or Morgan. It was for Bucky. 

Because he needed to hear you. 

“I am proud to be officially endorsing James Buchanan Barnes for Congress.” 

The crowd erupted in front of you. Cameras flashing, journalists shouting questions, Americans surprised. Somewhere, you could already hear someone announcing: “The Iron Princess sides with Reformed Assassin.” 

You didn’t flinch.

No matter how much you loathed being called ‘The Iron Princess’.

Behind the crowd, Bucky’s gaze never left yours. Giving nothing to the cameras. No smile. No smirk. He stayed quiet. 

You hadn’t just given him your name.

You gave him a chance. 

“You know they’re going to twist it all, right? You back me, and they’ll come for you.” More of his words from the previous night echoed in your mind as you watched the public reaction.

You didn’t care then, and you don’t care now.

You chose him.

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Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

Remember, I have a praise kink; I need validation and attention to survive. Please leave feedback. ♡

[pukefactory]

hii!! ik you’ve already done MANY of these, but can you do another salesperson ENA x reader? It can be any scenario , i rlly wanna know what u come up with :D Also, I rlly like ur writing keep up the good work !! (also ty 4 being the first person ive seen 2 make a dream bbq ena x reader lol)

Author’s Note

Thank you for your kind words, friend! I couldn’t think of a specific scenario, so I put together a collection of small moments that will hopefully be entertaining.

- COMET

•☽────✧˖°˖ CLEAR SKIES ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation of Random Headcanons Featuring Salesperson Ena X Reader

★ Character(s): Salesperson Ena (Ena: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ You made the fatal mistake of showing even mild interest in whatever it is Ena is selling today. Now you’re being followed through the casino, the market, the lonely door, as Ena flips between her red and pale yellow sides, alternating between an enthusiastic business pitch and aggressive interrogation. “Are you seriously passing up this once-in-a-lifetime investment?!” she demands, and before you can answer, the red side leans in, grinning. “Or perhaps… could we negotiate an exclusive partnership?”

☆ Ena decides you’re her new business associate, whether you agreed or not. You now have a clipboard, a suspiciously empty briefcase, and a list of names to track down. What’s being sold? She won’t tell you. “Would ruin the mystique, dear associate! GØD frowns upon spoilers!” But based on the transactions she’s making, you’re 75% sure this is a pyramid scheme. The 25% uncertainty is because you did see one of her customers float away after shaking her hand.

☆ In a casino full of existential horror and sentient human legs, it’s Ena’s personal mission to drag you into the most absurd bets possible. “I wager my entire life savings that I can swallow this dice whole!” she announces to a horrified crowd. When you try to stop her, she spins dramatically, gripping your shoulders. “Darling. Do you believe in me, or not?”

☆ It’s well past midnight, and you’re seconds away from sleep when Ena shakes you awake. “I have a business plan,” she declares. “We buy a haunted mansion, rent it to the emotionally unstable, and profit from their misfortunes!” You groggily tell her this is not how rental properties work. She immediately flips to her Meanie side. “Then you come up with a better idea, genius!”

☆ Mid-conversation, Ena sometimes freezes. Not in a normal way, but in a glitchy, geometric way—like her code is trying to process something too big. “What if I’m just a character in a vast, incomprehensible narrative, doomed to never truly exist beyond my roles?” she asks, unblinking. Then, without missing a beat, she slaps a business card into your hand. “Speaking of roles! You’d be perfect as our company’s new financial advisor!”

☆ Ena thinks she’s helping. She’s not. You find someone attractive? Ena is instantly at your side, loudly pitching you like a limited-time offer. “You see, this lovely entity comes with many benefits! Great conversational skills, a solid survival rate, and—get this—a sense of humor! A rare find in today’s market!” You have never been more humiliated. Ena, meanwhile, is writing down notes for her next attempt.

☆ You complain about a minor inconvenience, and Ena immediately suggests the most dramatic, legally questionable solution. “Your neighbor is too loud? What if we relocate their entire apartment? Quietly, of course. No one would notice, yes?” You tell her this is not how laws work. She squints at you, thoughtful. “Hmm. Sounds like a you problem.”

☆ Ena has a tendency to give things away. Not always hers, either. You’ve seen her hand off priceless artifacts, other people’s hats, and one time, your entire coat to a complete stranger. “It’s called networking, darling! One day, this connection will be invaluable.” (This person never appears again.)

☆ Ena doesn’t say she likes you. Instead, she keeps offering you deals. Discounted scams, highly illegal bargains, exclusive investment opportunities. “Normally, I’d never offer such a valuable package to an ordinary customer,” she croons, spinning on one foot. “But you, dearest associate, are special.”

☆ Sometimes Ena takes your hand and pulls you into a place that shouldn’t exist—a marketplace built from fractals, a forest of mannequins that whisper stock market predictions, a hallway that loops in reverse if you walk forward. “Business never sleeps,” she tells you, smiling. “And neither do the possibilities!”

[reveluving]

till kingdom come; bucky barnes x reader

summary: the missus comes home to her two, oddly identical needy sweethearts.

warnings: implied s~mut (minors DNI!), sweet & touchy Bucky (established relationship), Reader can be an Avenger/with a Z or a standalone vigilante (also your choice if she has powers or not!), loads of Alpine moment because we love the dear girl, loads of bantering, not much Thunderbolts* spoilers I think!

a/n: brought to you by @navybrat817 because 'a kindred spirit' just warmed my soul from the inside out, and this was kinda inspired by her fic, was gonna make it a s~mut but I blanked out at the end. STILL, I am so willing to hear all the spicy details you might've imagined them doing (literally desperate), so don't be shy on me!! please enjoy, take care & don’t forget to leave some sugar! ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ

fancy reading something new? check out my full m.list!

» implied s~mut includes: desperate & touchy Bucky tearing your top off and touching your tits, because he needs you so :((

'The sight that never failed to cause a stutter in his heart, the butterflies in his stomach, however one could describe their beloved, even if words failed to express their very being.' ;

Seeing Alpine after a day's work, or in this case, weeks' worth of work, was always a soothing balm to your soul, and the same could be said for the white feline.

Her tail standing up straight, almost doing her little signature 'tippy-taps' on the foyer floor as she greeted you at the door, staring up at you with her bright blue eyes.

"Hello," You greeted with a lilt upon closing the door behind you, placing your bag down to lift the sweet girl in your arms, "How's my silly lil' girl?" 

Alpine let out a little 'mrrp!', kneading at your top.

“Yeah? Were you behaving for daddy dearest?” You asked with the name you knew Bucky pretended not to like, as if you wouldn't catch the little tug at the corner of his lips each time you would use it.

Alpine tilted her head, the cutie, as if taking a playful offence for even asking her that.

“You're right, you're always behaving, aren't you? Unlike him.” You teased, bringing her close to your face.

Immediately, the sweet cat nuzzled into your face like it was her only chance. Purring up a storm and tickling your nose to ensure you really had her scent, especially considering how long you have been away.

“Oh, I know, I missed you, too,” You cooed, nuzzling back and letting the ball of fluff heal you inside out with her motorboat purrs the same way you would ease her mind with your presence, “Sweet girl, best girl!”

You both are.

Bucky thought to himself, having heard your return, your little tease of calling him ‘daddy dearest’, and your little reunion of snuggles and kisses with the feline.

As much as it pained him not to move from the kitchen to shower you with all the love and yearning he had within him, no matter the number of calls you had had, Alpine was faster, taking advantage of him, also putting away the confidential documents here and there as he ate.

One could say she technically cheated, having waited in the foyer for your return after overhearing Bucky's call with you.

In her mind, Bucky's mood lifting and eyes lighting up more than the usual calls he has had equals her mother's return. 

Smart kitty, after all.

And, well, who was Bucky to get in the way of his favourite girls’ reunion?

Not especially with the airplane ears and the swipes of her paws at him at every given moment, the man she was adopted by was nowhere close to you. 

She, for the most part, was being playful, but one could also say she made a good argument with her occasional crab walking at him for ‘ruining the moment’.

“Alright, pretty girl, let's go see how he's doing. Lead the way!” You placed her down, and like a soldier on duty, she took the lead, striding into the kitchen where Bucky was.

There, entering through the doorway after the feline, was none other than the woman of his life. 

The sight that never failed to cause a stutter in his heart, the butterflies in his stomach, however one could describe their beloved, even if words failed to express their very being.

“Congressman Barnes.” You smiled in a faux sickeningly sweet manner, playfully fluttering your lashes at the man who had taken his suit and dress shirt off, leaving him in his undershirt and slacks.

He fondly scoffed, but his legs were moving, crossing the room and pulling you to his chest with his right arm.

“Hi.” You greeted once more, unable to help the chuckle that left your lips, granting you the sight of him softening more than he already had when you walked in, smiling down at you.

“Hi, yourself,” He responded, his voice low like it was intimate, and truth be told, it was. Always been, be it at home or in public. It was always just you and him, “Al first, huh?”

“She was at the door first.” You justified without missing a beat.

“Heard our call, she knew.” He argued, having the audacity to pout, even if it was subtle.

“Excuses, excuses.” You tutted, “And I called you. Guess she missed me more.”

He shut you up by latching his lips onto your neck, forcing out a giggle that bubbled in your throat shortly after a gasp.

“Buck, c’mon, I need a shower!” You wiggled, finding it impossible even for a man who didn’t have his Vibranium arm at the moment.

“Excuses, excuses.” He echoed, and you could practically feel the smile against your shoulder as he tickled your skin with his heavy stubble.

He peppered your skin with kisses, from your shoulder up to your neck and jaw, before tilting your head up, caressing your chin as he stared down at you with a loving look.

Returning the smile, you kissed his thumb, moving off his hold when he had loosened a tad despite his huff of protest. Opening the dishwasher, you reached for the Vibranium arm and then the clean kitchen cloth with the other hand.

“I sincerely hope you cleaned all the gunk or dirt out before you decided to use our dishwasher like a laundry service.” You jested, wiping off the extra condensate before helping him put it on. He let you, his heart fluttering each time you did without question, before giving the limb a good swing.

“Sounds like someone doesn’t have good faith in me.” He mused aloud, taking the opportunity to pull you in once more.

“I’m just reminding.” You shrugged, lightly drumming your fingers on his clothed chest.

Truly, besides the… Odd events with the ‘Avengerz with a Z’, there was never a dull moment with you, in or out of gear.

“Sure,” Resting his forehead against yours, one arm around you and the other rubbing up and down your back, he murmured, “And for the record, I missed you more.” 

Oh, and Alpine took offence to that. 

Clearly, given the immediate ‘airplane mode’ in her ears as she listened on and stayed around on the kitchen island near the spread of Mexican food takeaway, but the feline of mischief had a plan.

She toddled out of the kitchen, and you both knew she was up to something. You and Bucky shared a look, and while it took a moment, the second he heard a rustle of clothes in the laundry room, he stiffened.

“Al, Al–!” He began, panic beneath the firm tone, only to shut up when she returned. returned with the pristine white dress shirt he had tossed in the laundry basket after a little accident.

“Bucky! Again?” You gaped, reaching for the shirt to inspect the stain near the buttonholes, “First pizza, now, what tacos?”

He dared to give you what one would’ve described as a meek, ‘boxy’ grin.

“I–It just happened,” He reasoned lamely, though it was mostly true, “When you called.”

“Which… was an hour ago.” You raised a brow. 

Well.

“I was going to get it off, honest,” He persisted, playfully narrowing his eyes at Alpine, who, in her feline way, looked all too proud to throw him under the bus, “And the call was forty-two minutes ago. I counted, and I got most of it off under running water.”

You weren’t sure why it dawned upon you then, but it did, adding, “Your arm’s not in the dishwasher because of work.”

But because of the damn sauce.

“Bucky!” You playfully nudged his side, your smile widening because you knew you had him figured out, all thanks to his ‘trusty sidekick’.

“I had it under control,” He groaned, but despite it all, he knew that you knew he would’ve gotten it taken care of. You just love to give him shit, the same way he loved pretending to whine and give faux, lame excuses to see you smile, and when he did see it, he squeezed you tighter, closer, “I’m doing my best ‘round here.”

You snorted, watching him reach for a nacho, loaded with proteins and fat, all the good stuff for nights like these.

“Open.” He commanded, his tone lighter, just like his demeanour since you were back home.

“Is this bribery?” You grinned.

“Would you say no to this bribery?” He argued back with an equally lighthearted tone.

Touché.

You shared a laugh, having a little dinner party with the three of you, your own family, each of you deserving one another like the next. Food was leagues better than what you had to settle for, given either a time crunch or lack of accessibility, your not-so-humble abode was still the embodiment of warmth and homey, and nothing could beat the company you could come home to.

Like Bucky, Alpine remained glued to your side, taking little chances to paw at your hand for a pat or a kiss on the head, and when the reunion dimmed down, she figured she was satisfied with all the attention she received from you, akin to making sure you were truly alive and well.

Bucky insisted on getting the dish washed and the laundry cleaned up, both his stained dress shirt and your set of clothes from your trip, considering you had just returned after a few long weeks. How you were able to convince him otherwise, opting for the laundry while he dealt with the dishes, was beyond him, but you always had a way to do so.

You carried Alpine to the cat tower in the living room, giving her a few last goodnight kisses before watching her curl up in a ball.

Not too long after, you carried your bag, along with Bucky's shirt, to the laundry room, your senses immediately met with the familiar scents lingering. The warm white light only added to the calming feeling as you separated the necessary, opting to wash the lighter ones first in hopes that the stain would be gone as much as possible.

In the midst of your little chore, you heard footsteps approaching. You weren't alarmed—they were familiar—nor did you turn around as Bucky embraced you from behind.

His hands roamed ever so slowly, nosing the sensitive area between your neck and shoulder.

“Might wanna take these off…” He murmured, tugging at the hem of your top.

You chuckled, not fully realizing the sheer desperation within him, “In a bit, Buck.”

But, oh, he was insistent.

“Take it off.” He muttered against your skin once more, his hands slipping under your top.

Your breath hitched, turning your head to see his eyes fluttering closed, breathing in the scent of you. Suddenly, you were just aware how… Needy he seemed.

When he looked up at you through lidded eyes, he slowly leaned in, capturing your lips with his for a kiss. Gentleness belied his desperation, though, in all honesty, he wanted you to know.

“Take it off.” He repeated against your lips, feeling you jump a tad when his metal arm brushed along the warmth of your tummy, and suddenly, he shoved your bra over your breasts, squeezing your tits in a way that was a shy away from being rough.

Brazen.

In need.

“Off, or I'm taking it off you.” He ordered this time, despite keeping his voice low, and that made the tension all the more heady.

But before you could even come anywhere close to your senses, you gasped at the unmistakable rip before the top lay torn on the floor. He turned you around, forcing you against the washing machine to meet his gaze once more, unyielding as though he had one thing and only one thing in mind.

Leaning once more, he brushed his stubble along your cheek, taking his time dragging his hands up your back before unhooking your bra.

“I said to take it off, didn't I?” He tutted, feigning disappointment as he tossed the undergarment to the laundry basket, “I'll get you another one. I'll get you plenty.”

He had the means for it, and God forbid he didn't because he'd still find a way to do anything for you.

“What do you say we… Turn in early tonight, get you cleaned up, changed…” His lips paused at your cheek, as if he just thought of something, “Or don't. Wouldn't mind you in nothing in bed either. Just wanna take care of you…”

You could only rest your hands on his chest, toying with the soft cotton beneath your fingers, “You want that? Take care of me?”

You could've sworn he hid a growl at that. 

Wanted? He needed to take care of you.

“I want nothing more.” He replied, his hands descending to your rear and feeling you move closer at the gesture.

And who were you to deny him that?

˚ · . f i n . · ˚

» a/n: also, i am just learning that an undershirt is more or less the US counterpart of a singlet sooo yeah ;; gorgeous divider by @firefly-graphics ♡

[allurer23]

TURN THE PAGE TO US

YOU ANNOTATED MY SOUL

In Focus: Mark Lee × Reader

Synopsis: You and Mark Lee: two English Lit majors, one department, zero peace. You can quote The Waste Land by heart, and so can he—but your shared talent for verse usually ends in verbal warfare. Forced to co-lead a competitive research project, Mark’s infuriating intelligence and maddening focus drive you up the wall. Yet, rivalry softens into playful banter, and late study sessions stretch longer than expected. Turns out, the line between rivalry and something softer is written in pencil���easily erased, effortlessly rewritten.

Warnings: Rivals to lovers, Explicit sexual content / verbal kink, Mentions of sexual tension, arousal, and suggestive dialogue, Dom/sub implications (voice kink, praise/degradation mix), Consensual power play, Intense academic rivalry dynamic, Emotional repression / internalized longing, Some strong language (casual swearing), Alcohol (minor party scene), Academic stress / intellectual elitism, Brief reference to being interrupted post-kiss, Heavy use of literary references / sarcasm / metaphor, No actual smut scenes occur, but it’s very hot

Author’s Note:

This is the first footnote in TURN THE PAGE TO US—because nothing screams ‘healthy coping mechanism’ like falling for the one person who annotates your entire existence.”

I didn’t mean to write something this long, but apparently, Mark Lee + academic rivalry + literary thirst = me losing all control. This ended up way longer than planned, and I still haven’t finished it—so I’m posting it in two parts.

This is Part 1, guys

You can read Part 2 here

This is for the girls who annotate their fantasy smut and the guys who smell like books and think arguing about Kafka counts as foreplay. This fic is messy, wordy, and borderline unhinged in the best academic way. To everyone who's ever caught feelings during a debate—this one's for you. Engagement means the world: likes, reblogs, comments, screams in the tags.

Please be 18+ if you’re reading.

"You underlined metaphors. I read between the lines. Somewhere between ink and irritation, we annotated each other."

Third coffee of the day. And I hate coffee. It tastes like existential dread steeped in burnt hope. But like Gregor Samsa waking up as a bug, I didn’t choose this life—I just…adapted. Caffeine is my metamorphosis.

Sips, grimaces, and watches Mark Lee walk in, perfectly on time, of course.

And there he is. Mark Lee. Human punctuation mark. Probably thinks the sun rises because he quoted Woolf at it. He writes like he’s got a personal vendetta against mediocrity and walks like he’s never been told he’s wrong. Spoiler alert: I’ve told him. He didn’t listen.

The academic rival I never asked for but somehow ended up stuck with since freshman year. Ever since our first clash over whether The Waste Land is genius or just a fever dream with footnotes, it’s been intellectual warfare. I don’t know why, but every time I see him, I feel this irrational irritation—like my brain knows it’s about to be challenged, and my ego's already rolling up its sleeves.

And of course, can't forget to mention his group. The ever-infamous Dream boys. The campus golden group. Seven of them, like some mythological fellowship but with more hair gel and less emotional regulation. A cocktail of charisma, chaos, and misplaced confidence.

Professor Jung walked into the classroom with the kind of smile that only meant one thing: chaos was coming. Not the scream-and-run kind. The academic kind. The kind that ruined friendships, ignited crushes, and made someone cry in the hallway after overanalyzing Jane Eyre.

“Let’s start today with a wonderful question,” he said, practically rubbing his hands together like a Bond villain with tenure. “Fate versus free will in literature.”

Of course. Of course. The kind of question that turns polite English majors into caffeinated gladiators wielding highlighters and wounded pride.

“Think Kafka’s labyrinths of absurdity or Austen’s cages of etiquette,” he continued, eyes gleaming like this was the TED Talk he'd been preparing his whole life for. “Who really writes the story—the characters, or some invisible puppeteer called fate?”

Naturally—and I mean this with every ounce of disdain in my soul—Mark Lee’s hand shot up. Instantly. Like he had been waiting for this moment since the womb. Like fate had chosen him, which is ironic, considering he clearly sides with it.

He wore that insufferable smirk—the one that made girls sigh and me want to throw a Norton Anthology at his face. His glasses glinted like they were part of some book-boy cosplay, which, tragically, only made him hotter. Tragic for me, I mean. Not the population of people who thirst after tortured literature boys who quote Woolf on first dates. (Yes, he did that. I overheard. He used To the Lighthouse. Someone really should’ve drowned him there.)

I raised my hand too. Because if Mark Lee was jumping into the ring, I was showing up with verbal brass knuckles and annotated Kafka.

We both started speaking—of course—and Professor Jung smiled like his plan to cause chaos was going exactly as intended.

“Y/n, go ahead,” he said. And I did. With glee.

“Fate? Please. That’s just what authors use when they don’t want to admit they wrote themselves into a corner. The Trial isn’t an ode to inevitability—it’s a primal scream from a man being smothered by bureaucracy and desperately trying to claw meaning out of the absurd. Free will exists. It's just ugly and panicked and gets drowned in paperwork.”

Mark’s smirk—God, that smirk—deepened. Probably because he thought he was about to say something clever. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t.

“Delusional,” he said, all smooth confidence and unjustified cheekbones. “Austen’s characters are textbook fate victims. Emma? Lizzie? They ‘choose,’ sure but only within the bounds of societal programming. It's not free will, it’s conditioned responses. Fate, just wearing a petticoat.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my ancestors. “You’re reducing character arcs to algorithms. Emma isn’t doomed—she’s flawed. And she changes. Growth is a choice, Mark Lee. Free will is messy, but that’s what makes it beautiful. Fate is a cop-out for people too afraid of consequences.”

He leaned back like he was lounging in a coffee shop, not verbally brawling in front of thirty people. “And yet the greatest tragedies rely on fate. Romeo and Juliet, Gatsby… Doomed from the start. Fate is the poetry of inevitability.”

I gave him a smile that could peel paint. “And maybe you just like sounding poetic while ignoring the fact that most tragedies are people screwing up, not the stars aligning. Gatsby wasn’t doomed. He just made garbage decisions and idealized a girl who liked shiny things.”

He adjusted his glasses like he was preparing to deliver an epiphany. “So you’re saying free will is just people being dumb?”

“Exactly,” I said, triumphantly. “Free will is people being dumb, brilliant, selfish, selfless, human. Orwell’s 1984? Winston tries. He chooses resistance. That’s the whole point. Even a doomed choice is still a choice.”

Mark tilted his head, all faux-curious. “And he’s crushed. Crushed by the inevitability of the system. Free will doesn’t win. Fate does.”

I could practically hear the air crackling. Our classmates were silent, hanging on every word like this was a courtroom drama and someone’s scholarship depended on it. Maybe mine did.

Professor Jung finally clapped his hands, grinning like a man watching two tigers fight over a Shakespearean soliloquy. “Exactly what I wanted. Good. Very, very good.”

I slumped back in my seat, heart thumping, and glared at Mark’s profile. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. His smirk. His glasses. His perfect posture, like he didn’t just ruin my blood pressure for the day.

After the verbal warzone had been declared over by Professor Jung, I packed up my notes with all the casual serenity of a boiling kettle. Mark was still smugly tucking his glasses into his collar like he hadn’t just played devil’s advocate for fate, of all things. Fate. I mean, who chooses to side with destiny in 2025?

“Y/N and Mark, please stay back,” Professor Jung said, just as I was plotting the most satisfying way to avoid him for the rest of my life.

I glanced sideways at Mark—or as I affectionately referred to him in my mind, the walking thesis footnote of my irritation. His brow arched, clearly intrigued, and I hated that it looked good on him. Could someone’s face be grammatically correct? I didn’t want to talk about it.

Once the last student dragged their bag out and the door clicked shut behind them, Professor Jung beamed like he’d been waiting to drop a literary bomb.

“I like the way you both think,” he began, steepling his fingers like some benevolent academic overlord. “You don’t just read literature—you wrestle it. Respect it. And occasionally stab each other with it.”

I said nothing, just nodded politely while standing as far from Mark as physically possible without flinging myself out the window.

“There’s an international literary conference hosted by the University at Veritas,” he continued. “It’s prestigious, competitive, and… paired.”

Mark straightened beside me like someone had just offered him a sonnet and a scholarship. I, on the other hand, was already sensing doom wrapped in MLA format.

“It’s on the notice board, but I’m telling you two specifically,” Professor Jung went on, smiling that same evil-genius smile he’d worn this morning. “Because I think—no, know—that if you teamed up, your chances of getting accepted are incredibly high.”

My brain short-circuited.

Team up?

With Mark fate-is-a-poem Lee?

We’d kill each other before we even chose a font.

“That’s… very kind of you, Professor,” I said, my voice politely strangled.

Beside me, Mark let out a soft, amused hum. Like a man already composing the opening paragraph of our academic obituary.

“I’m in,” he said. Instantly. No hesitation. Of course.

I looked at him like he’d just offered to co-author my nightmare.

“I mean,” he added, shooting me a sideways glance that felt like a challenge dressed as a compliment, “if Y/N can handle it.”

Handle what? His metaphors? His smugness? His perfectly organized notes that somehow always smell like cinnamon and ink?

“Oh, I can handle it,” I said sweetly, a dangerous smile curving on my lips. “Just don’t start talking about Austen like she’s a 19th-century NPC again and we’ll get along just fine.”

Professor Jung clapped once. “Perfect. Submit a proposal by next Friday. Surprise me.”

As we stepped into the corridor, I could already feel the words crawling up my throat like they were too irritated to stay inside.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” I muttered. “This isn’t a prize. It’s community service.”

Mark had the audacity to laugh. “I don’t know, I think we might actually work well together.”

I stopped walking. He did too, turning slightly with that same irritating eyebrow tilt like he thought this was a scene from some academic rom-com. It wasn’t.

I crossed my arms. “Meet me at 4 p.m. in the book cafe outside campus. We need to figure out a topic before your ego writes a paper all by itself.”

He gave a mock salute. “Wouldn’t dream of being late.”

Then he walked off, all easy strides and unbearable confidence, like we hadn’t just declared a ceasefire for the sake of intellectual dominance.

I stared after him, jaw clenched.

This was going to be a disaster. A well-researched, peer-reviewed, highly-cited disaster.

I walk toward the field where my so-called friends are lounging like overfed cats under the sun. Chenle’s playing basketball, all fluid limbs and annoying laughter. The rest? Already grinning like they know something I don’t. Which is impossible. Unless…

“Hey, Mark Lee,” Haechan calls, eyes glinting like he’s logged into my brain. “You look like someone tore your ego again today. Was it our Lit Queen?”

I flop down onto the grass beside them with the dramatic energy of a tragic Greek hero. “Today’s topic was free will vs. fate in literature,” I mutter, tugging blades of grass like they personally offended me. “Obviously, I sided with fate—because hello, I’m not naive enough to believe I have control over anything in life—but now I don’t know if I won or if she did or if I just got verbally suplexed by a girl in winged eyeliner.”

Haechan snorts. “Verbal suplex. That’s a new low, even for you.”

“It’s like she thrives on chaos." I continue like a man possessed. "The moment the professor mentioned fate, her eyes lit up like she was summoning literary demons just to argue.”

“She probably lives in hell, Mark. Maybe she’s just giving you directions,” Renjun says without looking up from his notebook.

“The worst part isn’t the debate,” I mumble. “It’s the fact that I’m teamed up with her. For the inter-college conference.”

That gets them. A collective gasp like I just announced I’m marrying her tomorrow.

“Oh,” Jaemin says, eyes wide. “You mean her? The girl who corrected Professor Kim when he misquoted T.S. Eliot?”

“She’s the same one who once sent Sunwoo a list of grammar corrections when he asked her out,” Haechan adds, cackling. “Imagine trying to flirt and getting a red-inked Google Doc back.”

“She brought up Plato at that party last week,” Jeno says, shaking his head. “And they were literally talking about their dating lives. I think someone asked what her type was and she went ‘philosophically or emotionally?’”

Chenle jogs up just in time to drop the final blow. “Rumor says she turned a guy down by sending him a bibliography on why she’s emotionally unavailable.”

“A bibliography?” Jisung blinks. “Like… with citations?”

“I think there was APA and MLA formats involved,” Chenle grins.

I sigh, dragging my hands down my face. “You guys don’t understand. I notice… things now. Like—like the way she rolls her eyes every time I speak. Which is always. She does this dramatic slow blink and I swear, I hear ‘disappointment’ in 4K.”

“She probably keeps a thesaurus in her bag just to judge your vocabulary,” Renjun mutters.

“And the eyeliner,” I continue like I’ve lost control of my mouth. “You know? That perfect little wing at the corner of her eye? Like she’s ready to slice me with it.”

“Oh my god,” Jaemin groans. “He’s noticing eyeliner. This is terminal.”

“She bites her pen when she’s thinking,” I say, ignoring them all now. “Like the cap is a life-or-death decision. And when she drinks coffee, she winces. She hates it. I know she does. She drinks it like it’s a punishment, not a preference. That’s not someone who likes caffeine. That’s someone who’s forcing herself to function in a coffee-drunk world.”

“You’re in deep, man,” Jeno laughs, clapping my shoulder. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

“I am not—” I stop, because, okay. Maybe I am. Maybe the worst part isn’t even being teamed up with her. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t stop thinking about how her voice sharpens when she’s passionate about a book. Or how her handwriting looks like it belongs in some old library archive. Or how her smirk makes me want to argue with her just to see it again.

“She’s going to destroy me,” I say aloud.

“She already has,” Haechan smirks. “And we’re just here for the literary funeral.”

I walk into the book cafe and spot Mark Lee instantly—half-slouched in a corner booth, dressed like a Pinterest board for "hot literature major energy" and scrolling through his phone like he hasn’t been waiting here early on purpose.

He looks up the moment I sit across from him and slides a caramel frappuccino toward me like it's a peace offering.

“I don’t drink frappuccinos,” I say, pulling out my laptop and notebook. “Especially not ones pretending to be desserts.”

“You should,” he says smoothly, “it’s better than wincing like you're in physical pain every time you drink coffee. Just spare the Americano your judgmental stare.”

He says it like he’s read the last ten pages of my life.

Which is the worst part.

Because he kinda has.

“I’ve already chosen our topic,” I announce, ignoring his smirk. “‘The Quiet Catastrophe: Literature as a Witness to Absurdity and Human Frailty.’ It’s in line with the conference theme and—”

“Of course you chose that,” he cuts in, leaning back like he’s bracing for impact. “Tell me, what’s your word count goal this year for Kafka-Dostoevsky Existential Crisis Essays? A hundred thousand?”

I glare. “It’s a strong theme.”

“It’s a recycled theme.” He raises an eyebrow. “I'm just saying… have you considered that Franz and Fyodor might want you to move on?”

I open my mouth, then close it. Because damn it, he’s not wrong.

“I was thinking,” he continues, voice casual but eyes very not, “what if we pitched ‘Ink as Ammunition: Literature as Resistance in Postcolonial and Feminist Texts’? It’s bold, fresh, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll meet authors who don’t end their novels in total despair.”

I hate that it’s a good idea.

I hate that my face reacts before my pride does—because he sees it.

His smirk deepens.

“I don’t want to waste time arguing,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “So fine. We’ll go with your idea.”

“Wow.” He places a hand over his heart dramatically. “Mark this day, for she has spoken the word: fine.”

We fall into a silence so deep it might as well have its own heartbeat—the kind of silence that says.

I catch his brown eyes catching the light every time he lands on a good point, like he’s just uncovered some secret cheat code for the paper. His eyebrows furrow into that “serious genius” crease, and of course, his damn glasses betray him by slipping down his nose as he leans in to sneak a peek at what I wrote. The way he pushes them back up with one lazy finger? Too casual, too precise—like he knows exactly how distracting he looks.

Focus, Y/N. Focus on the paper, not the guy who plays basketball to ease his tension and somehow looks like he just walked off a runway. And yes, he looks damn hot when he plays, but this is strictly an academic observation, no judging.

Mark’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Handmaid’s Tale?”

I nod, trying not to make it obvious that I’m really thinking about how his hair falls perfectly messy when he pushes it back, and how the sleeves of his shirt roll up just enough to make me wonder if he knows the effect he’s having.

“What’s running around in that head of yours?” he asks, eyebrow raised, suddenly silent like he’s waiting for some grand revelation.

Definitely not how good you look right now.

"Oh nothing"

“And seriously,” he adds, eyeing my pen like it’s a secret weapon, “you should stop chewing on that thing. I know you’re hunting for a sentence to obliterate me with.”

“I’m not,” I snap, yanking the pen away like it’s a live bomb.

We’re both silent for a while — a rare event, considering we usually argue over everything from font sizes to who gets top billing on the title page. But right now, it’s just the clack of keyboards and the soft hum of the café.

“I don’t like this,” he says suddenly.

I glance up. “What, being productive?”

“No. You being quiet. It’s weird. It’s like I’m watching a thriller with no plot twist. Where’s the snark? The dramatic sighs? The eye rolls?”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m saving all my energy for the bibliography.”

He grins. “Oh, I get it now. You’re lulling me into a false sense of security before you hit me with the footnote from hell.”

I sip the Frappuccino — the one I swore I wouldn’t drink. He notices, of course.

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s tolerable.”

“You say that about everything you like. Just admit you love it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That line working on anyone else?”

He leans back, smirking. “Only the ones who can spell ‘conscience’ without autocorrect.”

I can’t help the laugh that slips out. He notices that too.

“You laughed,” he says like he just won a bet.

“Congratulations. What do you want, a trophy?”

“No, just acknowledgment. It’s rare. Like finding a happy ending in an existential novel.”

I grin. “You’re really trying to make metaphors happen today, huh?”

He shrugs.

We fall back into silence.

Two weeks had passed since our abstract got the green light from Mr. Jung. Since then, it felt like we’d been living in a war zone—bickering over everything from fonts to spacing, to whose point held more weight. Every tiny detail turned into a battlefield.

“I’m taking you to the party,” Giselle declared, even though I was standing right next to her.

“I’m not coming,” I replied, flipping through Onyx Storm. Honestly, can you blame me? The ending was right around the corner.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m taking you. That’s not a request, Ms. Litlady. And please, don’t start in on Plato or whoever. People are still talking about that.”

“They asked me a question,” I shrugged, marking my page before closing the book. “I just answered.”

“It’s a party, not a philosophy lecture. Dress up and come with me. Jungwoo’s picking us up.”

“It’s not like I hate parties.”

She grinned. “Exactly. You like parties—you’re not one of those typical bookworms who lock themselves away all weekend.”

“Yeah, well, I like finishing Onyx Storm more.”

“Whatever. You can finish it later. You’ve been working on that paper with your academic rival nonstop. You need a break from that hot nerd.”

“He’s not hot. More like a mosquito buzzing in my ear and I'm just tolerating him.”

“Speaking of that hot nerd, only you can hold a conversation with him. I heard Jia finally snagged a date with him last month, and he went on about the Renaissance and its impact on literature, the printing press, the first Bible—all that jazz.”

A small smile spread across my face. “That sounds exactly like him,” I said, walking to my closet.

“The red one or the black one?” Giselle asked.

“I like the red one. It looks good on you.”

“Done and done.”

The music was loud, the air smelled like cheap cologne and spilled cider, and the lights were dim enough to make everyone look ten percent more attractive than usual—which meant nothing to me, obviously. I was here for a drink and maybe a reason to leave early.

Then she walked in.

Giselle first—grinning, glossy-lipped and glitter-eyed. Jungwoo next, bouncing like the Labrador he was. And then her, in black. Not the mournful academic black we lived in, no. This was dangerous black. Skin, collarbone, the glint of a necklace that caught the light every time she tilted her head and laughed.

And she laughed.

At him.

Jaehyun.

The golden boy. Soccer star. Her brother’s best friend. The type of guy who didn’t have to work for charm—he just breathed and people adored him. She was leaning in, brushing his arm, and throwing her head back like he’d just told the best joke in the world.

I hated it.

I didn’t even know what he said, and I hated it.

Haechan appeared next to me with a red cup and a knowing look. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re glaring.”

“Same thing.”

“She looks good tonight,” he said. “Not that I noticed. I mean, Jaehyun noticed. And half the team. But not me. Just saying.”

I rolled my eyes, took a swig of something that burned, and tried not to look back. Failed.

“She laugh like that with you during group projects?” Haechan smirked, the devil in a hoodie.

“She doesn’t laugh with me. We argue.”

“And yet,” he drawled, “here you are. Third drink. Sixth stare. First stage of denial. Classic.”

I turned away. “Shut up.”

“She’s just talking to Jaehyun, man. Your crush is allowed to talk to people.”

“She’s not my—”

I paused.

He grinned.

I hated him.

____

I walked into the room after attending a call from Renjun. She was laughing again. That sharp, carefree kind of laugh that somehow always managed to echo over the music. And of course, it was Jaehyun standing next to her. She tilted her head slightly when she laughed, like whatever he said was the cleverest thing she’d heard all night. Whatever.

I made my way to the bar. Not toward her — just the bar. The fact that she was already there? Unfortunate timing.

I stepped into the space beside her, nodding at the bartender. “You do remember our submission’s due next week, right? Or is your strategy just charming Jaehyun into doing it for us?”

She turned toward me, a slow, amused look crawling up her face. “Mark Lee at a party and talking about work? I’m shocked. Blink twice if you’re being held hostage.”

I grabbed my drink. “I just figured your attention span might need the reminder.”

Her smirk widened. “Worried I’ll outshine you again?”

“Again implies it happened once.”

“You’re right. But let’s not forget all those other times I accidentally outdid you — it’s kind of a pattern by now.”

I took a slow sip. “Delusions are getting bold these days.”

She laughed under her breath. Not the same kind of laugh she gave Jaehyun. This one had teeth. “The cafe’s closed tomorrow,” she said, casually, like it was no big deal. “So if you want to get this done before the deadline, you’ll have to come to my place. I’ll text you the address.”

I raised an eyebrow, letting a beat of silence stretch before answering. “You sure your Wi-Fi can handle all that ego in one apartment?”

She looked at me over her glass. “Guess we’ll find out.”

And just like that, she turned back to her conversation — not sparing me a second glance.

Fine by me. I got what I came for. A drink. And a reminder that this partnership was going to be the end of one of us.

Probably her.

___

She said her place. Her place. I didn’t ask questions—just said yes like a man trying to win a debate by proximity.

But now I’m standing in front of her door with a backpack full of citations and a mouth that can’t stop thinking about hers. This isn’t about the paper anymore. Not really.

She’s let me in—literally. And I don’t know what I’ll do when she forgets I’m the enemy and starts looking at me like I’m something else entirely.

He stepped into my apartment like he owned the place, tossed his bag onto the floor beside the low table in the hall, and sank onto the opposite side without a word. We didn’t need pleasantries—not in our world of rivalry laced with disdain.

I shouldn’t have said my place. I could’ve picked the library. A cafe, The quad. Literally anywhere that didn’t have soft lighting and shelves full of books that double as secrets and i didn't realise it tho.

But the way he looked at me—like he knew something I didn’t—made my mouth move faster than my brain. And now we were meeting in a space where my defenses didn’t work.

My apartment wasn’t neutral territory. It had favorite pens and worn notebooks and a bookshelf I’d never let anyone touch. Not even the friends who knew what I read when I wasn’t trying to impress professors.

He pulled out his laptop and the familiar clack of keys filled the silence as we settled into rhythm, working through the final citations. I was focused, eyes scanning a paragraph on postmodern consumption—but I felt it the moment his attention drifted.

Not to me. Not yet.

His gaze had shifted—toward the corner.

Bookshelf.

I followed it too late. He was already rising, curiosity pulling him like a magnet to the shelf I usually guarded with selective disclosure. His fingers grazed the spines, pausing over a particular set of titles that didn’t exactly scream Kafka.

Twisted Love. Fourth Wing. Iron Flame. A Court of Thorns and Roses.

I didn’t have to look up to know the smirk forming on his lips.

“Interesting collection,” he murmured, voice laced with something that wasn’t entirely mockery.

I turned my face toward him slowly, schooling my expression into bored defiance. “It’s called research,” I said coolly, though I could feel the heat creeping up the back of my neck.

He pulled a book halfway out. “For our project?” he asked, taking a step closer.

“For the sake of literature as a whole,” I countered, folding my arms across my chest.

Another step. “Didn’t know you were into… dragons, morally grey men, and explicit tension.”

I didn’t move. “Didn’t know you had time to read spines while pretending to be better than me.”

That earned a short laugh, rough and low. He closed the distance until he was standing right beside me, the book still in his hand, his fingers brushing the edge of the cover like it was a dare.

“I guess I underestimated the kind of stories that get your attention,” he said, his voice quieter now, deeper.

I tilted my head. “And I overestimated your sense of boundaries.”

His gaze flicked to my lips for a fraction of a second too long before settling back on my eyes. “So… which one’s your favorite?”

I reached out, plucked the book from his hand with deliberate slowness, and placed it back on the shelf.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I said, and turned back toward the table and settled into the chair.

I could still feel his stare on my back. Heavy. Unspoken.

The citations could wait a few seconds more.

He didn’t come back right away.

I could feel him still standing there. The air around the bookshelf was thick—static, electric. His presence dragged across my skin like a storm waiting to break.

And then he came back after grabbing another book from my collections.  Not quietly. Not carelessly.

He sank into the chair like he owned it. Like he owned the moment. Like he’d found a secret and was now deciding just how deep he wanted to bury it in me.

No glance at the screen.

Only me.

His eyes were darker than before. Focused. Sure.

“Research purposes, huh?”

Low. Laced with something that tasted like trouble.

I didn’t flinch. “You know—methodology, citations, critical discourse—”

“You mean your collection over there?”

He jerked his chin toward the shelf. “Looks a hell of a lot more like late-night escapism than anything academic.”

My throat tightened. “You’re making assumptions.”

He smirked. “Am I?”

Then he leaned in. Slow. Measured. His voice dipped into something filthy and deliberate.

“You’re the girl who quotes Barthes in class, who sighs at Kafka like he ruined you—but you’ve got a whole row of books with titles like Thorns and Temptation, Credence and Twisted series.”

I blinked.

He didn’t stop.

“Let me guess. The main guy’s always a tortured immortal. Says he’s a monster. Calls her little mortal, my mouse, my princess or butterfly, before bending her over a throne.”

“That’s not—”

He cut in, brutal and soft. “You like that shit.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

“And I bet you read it one hand on the page, the other under the covers, acting like you’re too good for it. Telling yourself it’s just fiction. Just tension. Just... literary curiosity.”

He grinned. Dark. Triumphant.

“But you keep going back to the same scenes, don’t you?”

I crossed my arms. “So what if I do?”

“So nothing.” He shrugged. “Except you walk around like your head’s above it all. As if you wouldn’t come apart if someone actually pressed you up against a wall and whispered the things you pretend you hate.”

He was too close. I could smell his cologne—woodsy, dark, intoxicating.

“You think that’s all it takes?” I tried to say it steady, but my voice betrayed me. Too tight. Too breathless.

He tilted his head, eyes on me like a predator amused by how long his prey thought it could pretend.

“No,” he said. “I think you want someone who gets it. Someone who won’t judge you for reading smut dressed in metaphors.”

His hand reached forward. Not touching. Just close. Suggestive.

“I think you want someone who’d highlight those lines with you. The ones where she begs. Where he growls. Where the line between danger and desire blurs and she likes it.”

I felt heat rush to my face. My stomach twisted. My legs didn’t move.

“And I think,” he continued, “you’ve spent so long playing the good girl with her annotated classics and tragic quotes... you’ve forgotten how much you crave someone seeing you. Really seeing you.”

“You don’t know me,” I whispered.

“I do now.”

His voice was a promise. A threat. A challenge.

“And you know what’s wild?”

He leaned in just enough to ghost his lips near my jaw. “I’m not judging you. I’d read them with you. Out loud. Every filthy line. Make you admit which parts made your thighs press together. Make you say it—this one, this is the line that made me want to be ruined.”

My breath shuddered.

His knee slid against mine again. Pressed there. Solid. Heavy.

“You still gonna act like you’re above it?” he whispered. “Or are you gonna let me peel that good girl persona off you page by page?”

I didn’t answer.

Because if I did—I wasn’t sure if I’d stop.

Because the thesis wasn’t the only thing unraveling.

I was.

And God, maybe I wanted him to keep pulling.

He didn’t pull away.

He leaned closer.

Still no contact—just his presence, thick and heavy and humming with a kind of heat that felt almost unfair.

“You’re really going to sit there and act like your thighs haven’t been pressed together for the last five minutes?” he murmured, voice low, velvet over something razor-sharp. “Like you’re not wet under that skirt and trying not to squirm in your seat?”

I raised a brow, careful. Steady. “You always talk like this during research sessions? No wonder your GPA’s hanging by a thread.”

He smirked. “Cute. Deflecting.”

He dragged his chair an inch closer, the scrape of wood jarring in the silence. His knee bumped mine. Intentional. Firm. And then his fingers tapped the table, slow and steady, inches from where mine rested.

“You know the parts you reread the most?” he said, gaze dropping to my mouth. “The ones where he doesn’t even touch her yet. Just tells her what he’s going to do. How he’s going to make her lose control.”

“Sounds like someone’s projecting,” I said coolly, even though my pulse was sprinting and I could feel the heat crawling up my throat.

He leaned in further, his breath brushing my cheek like a secret I wasn’t allowed to hear.

“I bet you love the build-up. His mouth at her ear. The words he says when no one else is listening. You’re already soaked for me, aren’t you? Look how easy it is to make you squirm.”

I didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Because if I did, he’d know.

“You act like you’re above it,” he said, voice going lower. “Like none of it gets to you. But I see the way you shift in your chair. How you stopped breathing when I said ‘wet.’”

I scoffed, leaned back just a little. “You’re giving yourself too much credit.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine. “Want me to read aloud your favorite passage? The one where she’s told to shut up and take it? Where he pins her wrists and tells her, You’re not going anywhere until I’ve ruined every part of you?”

I stood abruptly.

His eyes tracked every inch of the movement like a dare.

I didn’t speak. Just reached for the book near his elbow—my copy, spine cracked, pages dog-eared and traitorous—and walked to the nearest bookshelf to shelve it. A small act. Simple.

But it was enough.

He was behind me in seconds. Catching my wrist to turn me towards him.

His hand landed on the shelf above mine, boxing me in. His body close. Too close. Heat radiating from his chest to my neck, not touching, but god, it felt like he was.

“You’re not fooling me,” he said, voice dark against the shell of my ear. “You can act cold all you want. Witty. Detached. But you’re the kind of girl who reads the dirtiest pages twice, then closes the book just to sit there and feel it.”

I gripped the spine of the book tighter.

“You want someone to make it real,” he said. “To tilt your chin up, press their mouth to yours, and say, Don’t run. Take it.”

My chest rose too fast.

“You’d hate how much you’d love it,” he whispered. “How fast you’d fall apart. How easily you’d beg when I tell you, Keep your eyes on me while I make you mine right here.”

I should’ve told him to back off.

Should’ve moved. Should’ve breathed.

Instead, I froze.

And that’s when he kissed me.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d waited too damn long and couldn’t hold it in any longer.

His hand slid to my waist, dragging me closer. His mouth crushed mine, no hesitation, no apology. Just fire and hunger and everything we’d been pretending not to want.

I gasped against him, hands fisting in his shirt as his body pressed against mine, pinning me lightly to the shelf.

He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating between us, his mouth moving over mine with brutal precision. Tongue teasing. Teeth grazing. Every second pulling me deeper, tighter, unraveling something I hadn’t even realized was wound that tight.

The book fell from my hands, hit the floor with a thud I barely heard.

“You feel that?” he breathed against my lips. “That spark when I touch you? That ache? You think I can’t tell how wrecked you are right now?”

He kissed me again, slower this time, more purposeful. Like he wanted me to remember it later—alone, frustrated, aching.

“I could fuck you with just my voice,” he whispered, mouth trailing to my jaw. “And baby—don’t lie—you’d let me.”

The bell rang.

Sharp. Final. Echoing down the hallway.

“Y/n?” My brother’s voice, too close.

I jerked back, panting.

His eyes were wild. Lips swollen. Still breathing hard.

I wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand, heart pounding out of rhythm. He didn’t say anything. Just watched me.

“Y/n?” Louder now.

“I’m—coming!” I shouted, hating how wrecked my voice sounded.

I didn’t look at him as I turned.

But I felt his stare all the way to the door.

And long after I left, his kiss still burned like it hadn’t finished yet.

“The problem wasn’t that he kissed me. It was that I kissed him back.”

or

“We were supposed to write a paper. Not rewrite every boundary I ever built.”

___

Author's note:

Well, if you’ve made it this far, congratulations—you survived Part One of You Annotated My Soul without throwing your device across the room. This story is basically my caffeine-fueled brainchild, packed with all the awkward academic tension, chaotic vibes, and just enough cursed chemistry to keep you hooked. If you liked the drama (or even just the mess), drop a comment or reblog—it’s like digital high-fives that keep me writing.

Part Two is brewing, and spoiler alert: that kiss? Just the appetizer. Stay tuned for the main course.

Thanks for sticking around—and try not to ship them too hard.

Now, I see this fic is not that long.

[0ogiebo0gie]

⟡.·:̩̩̥͙✧ military grade lust ✧:̩̩̥͙·.⟡

('Fun' with Leon through the years)(x gn!Reader headcanons)

Minors DNI !!

WARNINGS: Smut, mention of BDSM, (VERY small) mention of Weapons, Breeding kink, light degradation.

I've kept this pretty GN, there's a small mention of getting you preggers, but take it with a grain of salt, bcs we all been tryna get this man preggers.

Also all art is drawn by moi! 🤪😩

As Leon S. Kennedy aged — in muscle, experience, and just a bit of emotional damage — his tastes evolved right alongside him. By the time he’s made it through the worst the world can throw at him, the usual stuff just doesn’t cut it anymore. He needs something a little… more. And lucky you — you’re exactly his type at every stage.

You can trace it in the way he touches you — how it shifts from hesitant to practiced to downright filthy. Every version of him wants you, but they all want you differently. So here’s a little journey through the years.

Name: Leon .S. Kennedy

Age: 21

Favourite Position: Missionary, standing

Favourite Location to Release: Your stomach

He’s nervous — not because he doesn’t want it, but because he really does. And he wants to do it right. Every kiss feels like a question, every touch followed by a breathless, “Is that okay?” He’s all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, looking up at you like you’re something sacred — like this is the only good thing he's had in days, and he’d rather die than mess it up.

He listens so well, too. One moan, one hitch in your breath, and he’s immediately repeating whatever made it happen. He’s inexperienced, sure, but he makes up for it in enthusiasm — always watching your face for approval, murmuring “you feel so good” like a prayer, hands trembling just a little as they explore. You could ruin him with just a look, and he’d thank you for it.

He kisses like he’s scared you’ll disappear — slow at first, reverent. Like every brush of his mouth is him trying to memorize you. His hands shake when they touch skin, but it’s not fear. It’s adrenaline. Want. Awe.

"Am I doing okay?" he whispers against your throat, voice breathy, lips still grazing your skin. He’s flushed and fidgety, hips rolling against you with the kind of desperation he doesn’t know how to hide. “Tell me if you like it—fuck, please—tell me I'm making you feel good.”

And the second you do — the second you breathe a quiet yes or tug his hair or beg him not to stop — something snaps in him. Not in a scary way. In a hungry way.

He straightens up, eyes darker now, mouth kiss-bruised and slightly parted. The rookie you were guiding seconds ago is suddenly in charge, and you realize he was holding back. All that sweetness? Still there. But now it’s laced with purpose.

He talks you through it the whole time. “You’re doing so good for me. God, you’re perfect.” He’s whiny when he gets close — almost trembling — and he begs to finish, like you could ever deny him. And when you finally give him that last little “yes,” he groans like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear it.

Praise him and he’ll melt, all flushed cheeks and bashful grins, hiding his face in your neck as he keeps going. But what really gets him? When you can’t say anything at all. When your head’s thrown back, fingers tangled in sheets or in his hair, mouth open in a breathless, choked little whimper — that’s when he really starts showing off. He’ll chuckle softly, voice low and hungry. He doesn’t just touch — he listens. Learns every hitch in your breath, every twitch in your hips, until he has you unravelling around him with nothing more than a whisper “Is that good, baby? Am I making you feel good?”

Spoiler: he always is.

You never would’ve guessed the kid fresh off his first shift could fuck like that. But then again, you were his first everything. Of course he wanted to make it unforgettable.

509 words

Name: Leon .S. Kennedy

Age: 27

Favourite Position: 69, Doggy

Favourite Location to Release: Down your throat

By now, he’s tasted blood and gunpowder more times than he can count. The world’s burned around him more than once — and if he’s being honest, the only thing that still feels real is you.

This Leon doesn't ask permission with words. He reads it in your breath, your pupils, the way your thighs shift when he looks at you a certain way. The sweetness is still there, buried under calluses and scars, but it’s different now. Rougher. A little greedy.

He likes control — but not to own you. Just to unravel you. To see what you’ll give him when you stop pretending to be polite.

He always has either cuffs or rope on hand. “Just to keep you still,” he murmurs, voice dark with amusement as he clicks them around your wrists. And he doesn’t even get inside you before he’s between your thighs, groaning like you’re his last meal. He lives for it — the mess, the noise, the way your legs shake against his shoulders. He palms himself through his jeans while he does it, that worked up just from hearing you moan his name.

And when he’s the one in your mouth? Oh, he’s ruined. Hand on your head, hips trembling with restraint, eyes locked on you like you’re holy. “Yeah, just like that,” he pants, voice tight. “God, you’re gonna kill me.” But he’s still a giver — always has been — so the second you shift toward a 69, he dives back down, already drunk on you.

It’s dirtier now, wilder. Sometimes he takes you outside — against a tree, in the backseat of a government-issued car, anywhere you’ll let him. Not for the thrill, but because he can’t wait. He’s too used to running out of time.

His praise is still there — but it’s changed. It comes out rough, filthy, just a few decibels above a growl. “That’s it. Fuck, look at you. Taking it so well. My good little slut.” The kind of praise that makes your cheeks burn, makes your thighs twitch. He doesn't just tell you how good you're doing — he shows it, grabbing your hips like he's afraid you'll slip away, fingers digging into your skin just shy of bruising. Splaying his hand across your stomach, your chest, your throat — anywhere he can touch, claim, hold.

He’s all muscle and motion now, and when he’s inside you, he moves like he’s trying to fuck the bad memories out of himself — or into you. Like maybe this is the only place he still knows what he’s doing.

But even when he's taking what he needs, he still needs you. You hear it in the way he pants your name, the way his voice breaks just a little. He still begs — only now it's deeper, rougher. “Please—please, make me cum. Need it, baby, fuck—” It’s desperate and unfiltered, and it makes your head spin.

And when you do? He loses it. Grunts, gasps, clutches at your waist like you’re keeping him alive. Bites into your shoulder just to muffle the sound he makes when he finishes — a cracked, open thing that sounds like he’s been holding it in for years.

He'll call you his favourite mess when it’s over. Run a hand down your thigh, still panting, and mutter something like, “God, look at you. So fuckin’ good for me. Think I might need another round.”

You always say yes.

Afterward, he’s quiet. Almost soft. Kisses your wrists when he takes off the cuffs. Buries his face in your neck and just breathes for a while. Because if he’s honest, touching you is the only time he doesn’t feel haunted.

618 words

Name: Leon .S. Kennedy

Age: 36

Favourite Position: mating press, horizontal cowgirl

Favourite Location to Release: Inside you

There are two sides to him now — take and give — and there’s no telling which you’ll get until your knees are already hitting the floor.

When he takes, he takes. Permission isn’t part of the equation anymore — it’s a look, a click of his fingers, a soft-spoken order that leaves no room for “no.” And if you hesitate? He’s already got you pressed to the wall, whispering filth in that sugar-slick voice of his — calling you his "dirty little slut" like it’s a compliment, tracing reverent fingers down your spine as if to bless the bruises he’s about to leave.

Blindfolds. Rope. That paddle you thought was a joke the first time he pulled it out. And his hands — God, those hands. He loves using them, whether it’s to spank you until you’re squirming or to keep your hips perfectly still while he ruins you.

He’s a menace with a mission, and when he’s in this mood, nothing — not location, not consequences — is enough to stop him. He’ll spread your thighs open in the backseat of a moving car and say, “You knew what this was when you wore that.” He’ll put his hand between your legs at a restaurant and dare you to stop him. On missions, you’re lucky if he waits until after the danger’s passed — and even then, the adrenaline only makes him rougher.

But when he’s giving? You still don’t get mercy — only more of him. He’s insatiable, a machine wound tight and built to worship, except his version of worship comes with overstimulation and filthy, breathless praise. His focus shifts, but the intensity never drops — he just channels it into you instead of himself.

And you don’t just finish. You shatter. Over and over again. He makes it his goal to watch you fall apart, to feel you shake, cry, beg for him to stop and then beg for more in the same breath. It’s fingers, tongue, toys, that cock he never shuts up about — because yeah, he’s into breeding now. He wants you full, dripping, stretched and shaking while he tells you how good you take him.

“That’s it, baby. Milk me dry. You’re my perfect little cumdump, huh? Gonna fill you up ‘til you can’t think straight. Gonna fuck a baby into you, yeah?”

He says it like it’s the truth. Like you were made for it.

And just when you think he’s had his fill, when your body’s wrung out and your voice is gone — he cracks. Just a little. A sound slips through, high and strained, a ghost of that younger whine you used to know. And somehow that’s what breaks you most of all.

Afterward, he’s rough in a different way — wiping you down with calloused hands and murmuring soft things into your shoulder like he doesn’t mean for you to hear them. He still grips you tight, even then. Still marks you like he’s scared to let go. But he holds you through the ache, through the aftershocks, through the mess he made of you.

And in the morning?

He starts again.

531 words

Leon Kennedy has always been a man of service — it’s in his blood, his bones, his goddamn reflexes. Whether it’s saving the world or making you see stars, he does it with the same kind of burning devotion, the same stubborn tenacity. And maybe he’s changed over the years — hardened in some places, sharpened in others — but that fire? That relentless need to make you feel everything? That’s eternal. From shaky hands and stammered praise to whispered filth and bruising grip, Leon’s always known how to touch — how to worship. And if you’re lucky enough to be the one on the other end of all that focus? Well. Let’s just say, you’ll never forget the way he says your name when he falls apart.

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

a/n- 3.5k: boothill comes back to you for a tune up, but instead of his body, it's his heart that needs tending to after you scare the hell out of him [minor boothill story spoilers if you're not caught up on that jazz, but nothing major!]

warning(s)!: boothill is implied to have an artificial tech!eye and he takes it out (not descriptive tho!)

the last time boothill saw you, he was in for a cooling agent refill. it was also during that last visit when he saw that you had fixed up the small robot he had picked up on a distant planet and brought back as a gift. with your affinity for tinkering with things, he knew you'd like it. and he wasn't wrong.

it's been a month, maybe, and while that shouldn't be considered a very long time away considering his goal steeped in revenge would eventually require him to be gone for far longer- or even not come back at all- he damn missed you.

that, and the censor inside his eye has been on the fritz and well... if he can't see, he can't exactly shoot straight. he didn't need to be discharging bullets like a psychopath- he's a galaxy ranger, not some low-ringed IPC lacky who's a bit too trigger happy.

luckily, his eye wasn’t so fudged up that he couldn't see at all. the world around him was all blurs if he moves to quickly, but given the time to adjust, he's able to more or less make out what was in front of him. just don’t ask him to read anything... not that he was stellar in that department to begin with. it's like the crosshair infused with his artificial eye was out of focus or something.

boothill knows the path to your shop- that acts also as your home- like the back of his hand. someone could pluck his eye right out of his head, yet he'd still navigate his way to where you are. it was one of the few roads he has taken time and time again. he hope's it'll stay a place he can keep coming back to in health or otherwise.

stepping off his small, single-man ship after landing it near the junkyard you usually dig around in, he stumbles out of it onto the ground with a censored curse. he wishes he could land the thing closer to your shop, but he had once come in with too much a gusto and scorched a section of your lawn. once was all you needed to prohibit him from landing anywhere near the building again.

the walk from junkyard to the shop wasn't a treacherous one, hardly even a workout. still, the back of his neck just at his hair line breaks out into a cold sweat. it isn't brought on by exertion, but by the engraved instinct that something... wasn't right. something in his gut was telling him something was wrong.

boothill's learned to trust his gut.

his leisurely pace picks up to a more urgent gait and he can smell the 'something wrong' before his unfocused eye can try and see it.

it smells like smoke.

his steps falter at the disgustingly familiar scent- the smell that brings back memories he forces himself remember. memories that push him towards his goal of revenge- his goal in finding oswaldo. memories of his ruined home. he swallows thickly but it does nothing for his throat that's sudden too dry.

boothill hated fire. he's hated fire since his original name died with his family... with his daughter. since he chose to become "boothill" altogether he's abhorred fire.

he's familiar with fire. with its destruction. with its color. with its smell and heat and ruthlessness. its lack of mercy and greedy nature to swallow up anything in its path that can scorch.

the billows of smoke he could barely make out once his long, mechanical legs took him running to your shop could only be explained by fire. where was it? was it large? contained? were you inside? were you hurt? the cowboy didn't see any flames from outside, so it must not be that bad yet. you're fine. you're fine. you have to be.

all formality is left at his heels when he barges through your shop's doors. there's not much smoke in front of the shop when he enters.

"y/n! are you in here!" you don't respond to his shouts. "fudge!" god, boothill wishes he could properly curse right now. screw his synthesia beacon to hell.

the dim lights make it harder to navigate the area around him with the addition of his already busted vision, but just like the path leading him here- boothill is familiar with the inside of your home. he could walk it blindfolded and deaf.

boothill follows his nose. the smell of smoke got stronger the further back into the shop he goes. the ranger starts hearing commotion along with his narrowing down of where the fire was coming from.

clanging. some bangs. you're coughing. you're cursing.

boothill pushes open the metal door that leads into the main workshop with his shoulder. the room is always filled with all sorts of scrap metals, wiring, wielding tools, normal tools, and all sorts of other gadgets and knobs that he's sure you keep cluttered in different drawers and corners.

the smoke he saw outside floods the workshop, filtering out through the windows you had thrown open and up the chimney you don't ever use unless you need to melt down metal. the grey, sooty gas lingers high towards the ceiling. wafting around his head as soon as he enters the workshop, causing him to choke on it before his mechanical insides whirl into filtering it all out of his system.

sometimes being mostly robotic had it's perks. not choking to death on smog was always a plus.

"sugar!" he calls that familiar endearment over all the noise you're causing. the normally sweet, yet playful, nickname he's been calling you since he discovered your unbelievable sweet tooth feels sour coming out of his mouth this time. your coughing is muffled, and he can only assume it's because you're covering your mouth with a cloth or something. you better be, he hisses internally to himself.

"boothill?!" your shock is as muffled as your cough. "hold- gahk! son of a- hold on a second!" he can hear you rushing around the shop's concrete floor. "ore, did you get to the switch!" you direct your attention away from the unanticipated arrival of boothill. instead, you steer it towards the aforementioned, small robot you refurbished into new, mech-life. you had named it ore after the piece of unknown gem used as his power source.

small beeps of affirmation filter through the soot and smoke and you cough three more times into the cloth you're holding over your mouth and nose.

"flick it left!" you instruct ore. another set of beeps before the shop is bombarded with a force that's almost enough to knock boothill off his feet. the smoke was gathered quickly into a vacuum of air that soon collected all of it up then sequency shot it up and out the of chimney.

the room was basically clear now. all that's left after ore flips the switch back to the right to halt at vacuum assault is the mist of remnants that would soon find their way out the windows you intend to keep open for a good, long while.

you lower the rag from your mouth that had been used to keep smoke from invading your lungs and grimace at it. you had been previously using that rag to wipe oil from a machine you were working on. the very same machine that you had kicked a bit too roughly, causing some faulty wiring inside to shift and ignite. that bucket of broken bits was what led to this predicament in the first place!

finally, you look towards boothill. you hardly get a chance to acknowledge him properly since the moment you turn towards the doors he had come through; he was already at you.

crossing the room with urgent, quick strides, his metal arms clad in his cropped jacket and hanging red scarf wrap around your shoulders. one of his hands push against the back of your head and he doesn't care if the threads of your hair tangle into the groves of his fingers. his chin drips to rest his cheek against your crown.

his head dips so low, cheek and face pushing against your head so closely that the brim of his cowboy hat dents against your skull before falling off to the floor. it falls upside down with a soft thwomp and he can't seem to care.

"hey," you whisper in shock as you curl your arms upwards, bringing your hands to rest concerningly against his shoulders. his scarf was soft against your palm. your fingers thread through parts of his long, white and black hair that rest over his hunched back.

you've never seen him like this. not ever. you were certain that if he were completely human with a full body of flesh and blood, he'd be shaking like a leave. "boothill," you call, trying to get him to hear you.

he doesn't answer you. not verbally.

boothill shakes his head in two small shakes, somehow pushing his cheek further against the top of your head. he was taking deep breaths, taking in the smell of oil and rust and work that you always seem to be coated in. the arm around your shoulders holds you hostage and the one behind your head doesn't let your face pull even a single inch away from his neck where he keeps you.

his eye is still blurry and he still can't see properly. he needs to keep you against his body so his censors can make sure you're alive.

boothill can't 'feel' anything anymore from the neck down. the metal frame he calls his body is just that- metal. a shell that doesn't allow him to feel pain externally. so, he needs to anchor your body to him, so that all his internal do-dads can verify to his malfunction vision that you were okay.

you don't know how long boothill keeps you still like this. you don't keep track of the time. ore beeps confused and concerned once it finds its way back to the nearest tabletop closest to both of you. it's digital face with two oval, pixeled eyes that slice in half like a cartoon character's paint the expression clearly. there's even a small dash of pixeled sweat at the corner of it's 'face' that shows just how distressed it is.

eventually, boothill uncurls his arms from you, and you wince at the small strands of your hair that do end up snagged in his hands and knuckles. when you finally get away enough, you look up at him.

his face is down turned and anxious. there's a cold sweat on his cheek that's come from his hairline and slides past his ear (did he still have sweat glands?). he looks empty without his hat on, even though you should be good and well used to the sight. he often gives it to you to wear when he comes by- for whatever reason.

looking at him longer, you notice something off. with squinted eyes, you reach up and touch his cheek.

"hey, is your eye-" the cowboy jolts at the feel of your hand against his flesh and you wonder if he's sensitive to skin-to-skin contact since this small space is all he has left to experience the sensation. you go to pull your hand away, not wanting to make him uncomfortable.

boothill feels you pull away and quickly stops you. his metal palm that's still warm with the heat of your body pushes against the back of your hand as he leans his face into your warm, soft palm. his bullet earring is cool against the tip of your fingers that he isn't engulfing with his hand. the eye you're so used to looking at shuts at the sensation.

"boothill?" you try again now that you've both had time to calm down. you really have never seen him act like this way. was this really the same haughty, galaxy ranger who waltzes in every few months or so because he keeps jamming his arm gun, or running low on coolant, or just to bug you?

"the fire," he says. you look behind you at the scorched pile of metal that was the sole perpetrator for the whole kit and caboodle. "are you hurt?" the synthetic twinge to his voice is more noticeable when he speaks lowly you notice.

you shake your head before answering. "no. i'm okay."

"swear it." he doesn't ask.

"i swear i'm not hurt. i didn't even inhale all that much smoke." your thumb skates under his eye as he reopens it. you almost go to your toes to look closer at it. it looks different than usual. like something about it is... wrong? "is your eye okay?"

"what caused the fire?" he completely ignores your question in lieu of his own and if he wasn't so distraught right now, you would've let him have a piece of your mind. but you don't. you can circle back around to his eye once he feels satisfied.

"an old rig i found in the junk yard. i thought if i could fix it up, it'd make a decent heater for the winter months. but, i messed it up and it blew up in my face." you pout at the loss of a project since you weren't willing to go through another fire 101 lesson any time soon. you'd dissembled the hunk of junk and place it back in the junkyard where you found it.

"so that's what is was," he sighs. hearing your explanation, his shoulders deflate, and you swear you hear his body hiss out tension. "dadgummit," he curses. "scared me shirtless. don't do that, sugar." he was calming down. thank goodness.

"sorry about that," you chuckle humorlessly, "i wasn't expecting you, so i'm sorry you had to see that."

you don't know much about boothill's past. he's told you bits and pieces, but you've never take the initiative to actively pry into it. you can tell it hurts him to recall, so you just leave it be. you know he doesn't like fire. he hates the ipc- some guy named oswaldo you think it was? he lost his family on his home planet. that's the extent of the man before 'boothill' you know for the most part.

but you were able to put two and two together. the idea of someone dying and homes being scorched must scare him.

you pull you hand from his cheek and raise it so your fingers invade the right side of his hairline. the black curtain of bangs shift with your movement as you comb through the treases once, then twice before dropping your hand again. his bangs return to their black cloaking nature to his face's right side.

"it's all okay now. isn't that right, ore?" you look over your shoulder to your small assistant robot. its concerned expression it has been favoring shifts into jolted delight as its square head nods with a series of affirmative beeps. a bright green, pixelated thumbs-up pops up on its face before disappearing into curved eyes that blink open reassuringly.

you take both of boothill's arms gently and lead him to the small sofa that's full of mismatched patches of fabric from all the patching up and repairing it's needed over the years. you let him sink into the cushions first before following, you knee touching his.

your hands find themselves in your lap, finally disconnected from boothill and he's just about sad over it. but, he was calming down. and he didn't need to cling to you like that- honestly, he's almost embarrassed over it. acting like a scared dog like that? god, he wishes he could overheat into a full system meltdown.

"feeling better?" you ask. he takes a deep breath and can taste the lingering smoke in the air. still, he nods.

"yeah," he sighs. "yeah, i am." the sound of small metal taps rush around before coming closer. looking down, ore had taken it upon itself to jump from the worktable to the floor. grabbing the brim of boothill's fallen hat, it began the mission of dragging it all the way back to its rightful owner. ore's digital eyes curve up again when boothill and you look down at it from the sofa.

you chuckle before leaning down and offering your hand with your palm up. ore steps backwards up your fingers, dragging the hat that is five times its size and hanging onto the brim as you lift it and the hat into the air. ore offers the hat back to boothill with a smile he can see better now that the little guy is closer to eye level.

the galaxy ranger accepts his hat back, flipping it over and dusting the top of it off. he didn't need his eye to work to know it was probably covered in dust from ore dragging it across the concrete floor you most certainly haven't swept yet.

"thanks, lil buddy." ore chirps happily at the praise.

you lift your arm to let ore rest on your shoulder where it takes the small carabiner you fashioned onto a small guard you wear in the shop and clasps it to his back. you made this so the robot wouldn't constantly be falling off your shoulder since it often makes itself comfortable there.

"so," you clear your throat, "about your eye." you try and get down to business now that the situation has passed. "does it need refocused?"

"sure does." if memory serves, you have a machine for autofocusing equipment around here somewhere. you lean over the back of the sofa, snagging your laptop you keep behind it on a roll away desk that way it doesn't get harmed by all your other tools or dirty by a strong pump of oil or something.

you unclasp ore from your shoulder carabiner. "could you go and find the adjustment scanner? i think it's in the toolbox drawer, top right. if not there, try two rows over." ore chirps and slides down your arm to your lap, then down your leg to the floor.

boothill can't see but can hear the little metal steps run off across the room.

"how does it get onto your tables?" he's asking partially to fill the silence, but also because he's genuinely curious. "figured you'd be cartin' the fella around everywhere."

"i usually do," you admit. "but, i did install small pully lifts with extra wiring and metal pieces i had laying around." you open your laptop and open the screen to unlock the device. "once on one of the metal pieces, ore can pull himself up manually with the designated wire."

the man chuckles at the image of you macgyvering something like that up. "you're dang cute," he chides. he can imagine you sitting on the floor, eyes squinted and leaning in so far, your spine would scream while installing those things. you don't respond. you usually don't to his passing words of flirtatious intention. whether deliberately or obliviously, he doesn't know.

soon, ore returns and hands you the piece of tech you need. hooking the scanner into your laptop, boothill can hear it whirring as the fan of your laptop kicks on to prevent any overheated crashes.

"alright," you let ore back on your shoulder and the robot hooks itself on safely via that carabiner. "let's see what's wrong."

you stare at boothill's unfocused eye. boothill looks back at the blurry image of you. you huff after a solid fifteen seconds of still silence.

"if you expect me to pop your eye out myself, guess again cowboy."

for the first time since he got there, boothill barks in laughter. oh what a mental sight that would be! it's slightly horrifying to picture having the person he's so infatuated with pluck out his eyeball thought.

boothill turns his back, a series of hisses and deep breaths later, he turns around and with his empty eye socket closed, offers you the tech eye he was installed with when he underwent his initial cyborg transformation.

it took 20 minutes and some light jabs from you- 'how did you uncalibrate it this badly?'- before the scans show a recalibrated and refocused eye. you hand it back to him before he's reconnecting it with his socket. the wires hiss and attach into place nicely.

"now that's better!" he cheers when he blinks and is able to see clearly again. he looks at you for the first real time in a month and he's never been happier to see the soot covering your nose and cheeks. oh, you're too cute.

the hat he's kept on his lap the whole process is relocated to your head the moment he could see your face and recognize it again. it plops over your skull and you sigh as- once again, he's making you wear his oh so precious hat.

"if i ask," -you flick the brim of his hat on your head- "will you tell me why you insist i wear this thing every time you're here?"

"nope," he pops his p before lifting his arms to rest his elbows on the back of your sofa. finally getting comfortable. he stares up at your ceiling. "it's a secret."

the fire made a sooty mess up there. it'll be a bitch to clean no doubt.

the hatless cowboy chuckles to himself as he hears you huff with an eyeroll. "naturally."

a/n pt.2: okay wow. this got a bit outta control. whoops? also, i didn't want to gender Ore so hopefully reading the lil guy as 'it' isn't as confusing as i think lol

[lupin-et-rose]

BSD Brainrot (Pt 1.5)

Part 1 Continued

(AKA Brainrot 1 & 1/2)

BSD Boys x F!Reader

Kunikida & Poe (separately—this time with feeling)

Because gods help me these fuckers have me in a chokehold and I cannot be stopped

Minors DNI 18+ only

WARNINGS: Sexual references, cursing. Much stronger dom/sub scenarios, dialogue, dynamics and similar BSDM/NSFW themes than was featured in previous parts.

*** Viewer Discretion is Advised***

Kunikida

(Using a different gifs between posts for the sake of my own sanity…at least what’s left of it).

Listen—if you really want to see him short circuit? Come to him with your planner filled out, tasks checked off, deadlines met. He won't even wait until you get home. You're getting pinned against his desk, hands braced on your hips like he's trying to decide between praising you or ruining you. (Spoiler: it's both.)

He's methodical about your pleasure. He plans it out, writes it down in that damn notebook like it's an experiment.

“Three orgasms before I even fuck you. That's your reward. Do not beg me to come early-I'll stop. and make vou earn it all over again.”

He doesn't fuck you to lose control-he fucks you to teach you control. The kind that leaves your thighs shaking while he's telling you, calmly, lovingly, that he'll keep going until he decides you've learned your lesson.

And if you try to top him? If you think being a little tease, climbing into his lap while he's doing paperwork, will get you in charge? He'll just hum and let you think you're winning for exactly twenty-two seconds-before he flips you over his desk and folds your wrists behind your back.

"You really thought l'd let you take control without earning it?"

You think it's funny to steal his notebook while he's in the shower. You prance around the apartment holding it hostage, flipping it open dramatically like

“Oh wow! Is this a bullet-point list of sex positions?? Kunikida, you dog—!”

You don't get to finish the sentence. You're already over his lap before you even realize he's behind you, his voice low and deadly calm:

"Put. It. Down."

He warns you, so many times:

"If you keep acting like that, I'll make good on my threats."

And when you grin at him and say; "

“Oh no, what are you gonna do, Kunikida? Lecture me~?"

You don't realize what you've signed up for until you're face-down, ass up, wrists bound with his tie, and he's growling about how

"Disrespect has consequences, sweetheart~."

You'll learn fast: he loves giving you rules. Curfews. Outfits.

"You can touch yourself tonight, but no cumming. I'll know if you did."

And of course—you break the rules. Because you want him to lose it.

Which he does. Calmly. Cruelly.

"Since you have no self-control, I'll do it for you. Hands above your head. Legs open. And don't you dare try to cum again until I say."

•He punishes precisely. No shouting. No chaos.

Just sharp, deliberate touches and the slow unraveling of your composure.

And he never lets you forget why you're being punished.

"You were a brat today because you wanted this," he murmurs against your skin, dragging it out. "You wanted me to fuck you like this. Wanted to be punished. So here you are, darling—getting exactly what you asked for."

He's nothing if not principled. And that extends to your punishments.

Every rule broken is noted, sometimes literally. He'll keep a quiet tally in his notebook, and when the number reaches a certain point? You're sat down and told what you've earned —in graphic detail.

"This isn't just punishment, love. This is correction. You will learn your lesson. And I'll make sure you enjoy every second of it. That's the problem with you-the little brat in you likes this too much."

And yet—he listens so closely. Watches your breathing. Your eyes. He notices everything.

The shift in your breath. The way your fingers twitch. The way your voice trembles even before you safeword

And the moment something feels off-your pleasure starting to dip into discomfort, or even just emotional overload—he immediately pulls back.

"Eyes on me. Are you with me?" he asks, voice suddenly so gentle.

The second you start to truly tremble beneath the surface, when you whisper out "yellow" with a crack in your voice—he stops like he's been shot.

No hesitation. No frustration. He just wraps you up and holds you, hand rubbing soothing circles on your spine as he whispers;

"Thank you for telling me. You're safe. I've got you."

And when you nod, blinking back tears, he kisses your forehead like you're made of glass.

“That's enough for tonight, sweetheart. You've done more than enough."

He'll ask again once you're grounded:

"Was it the intensity? Something I said? Did you feel safe?"

Because he needs to know—not just to get it right next time, but because he refuses to be the reason you hurt in the wrong way.

And if you break down mid-scene-not from pain, but from the overwhelming release of emotion? He'll cradle you through it.

"I've got you. Let it out. You're okay. I'm right here."

You're pulled into his lap, his lips brushing your hairline while he rocks you like he can physically soothe the ache out of your bones.

The notebook is closed. The punishments are done. And for the rest of the night, you are cared for like you're sacred.

—It's rare. It's so rare for him to slip up, to show need before you've earned it.

But when he does—when his voice cracks during praise, when his forehead presses against yours as he breathes;

"You have no idea what you do to me"—you get to see the man behind the discipline.

And for a moment, he is the one trembling.

Sometimes it hits him all at once-usually when you give in fully, obedient and trusting and so willing. And he'll lose his rhythm, just for a second.

"You're... fuck. You're perfect. I don't deserve—“

You have to kiss him quiet. Show him, without words, that you want him in this space, in this softness. That you see him.

And if he lets himself cry? Just a tear or two, nothing dramatic-he'll apologize for it later. But in the moment, all he can do is hold you tighter and whisper;

"Thank you. Thank you for trusting me."

Sometimes, when you've proven your obedience-when you've earned it—he relinquishes control with a sort of quiet awe.

Like the idea of handing the reins over to you terrifies him, but he trusts you anyway.

He sits on the edge of the bed, stiff with anticipation, eyes flicking up to yours.

"You have control tonight. Use it well."

And oh, the way he breaks when you start slow-kissing down his chest, undoing his belt like it's the most delicate thing in the world. He grips the sheets like he's dying, all quiet gasps and bitten-off moans.

"Don't stop. Please. /—fuck—I need you to keep going."

There's a reverence in the way he submits-like giving up power is more vulnerable than taking it. He murmurs things he'd never say otherwise.

"You're so good to me."

"I'm yours, tonight."

"Tell me what you want—I'll do anything."

And afterward, even if you had control, he still insists on caring for you. Fetching water, running a warm cloth over your skin, whispering praises like prayers.

Because no matter who's in charge in bed-he loves you like you're the only rule he'll ever break.

In the aftermath, when everything settles - whether you were in charge or he was - Vulnerability lingers. Your muscles ache. Your mind's quiet. And he's still watching you like a soldier standing guard.

It always starts with the silence. Not awkward—safe. Full. The kind of silence that makes you feel held, even before he's touched you again.

He exhales like he's been holding his breath the whole time.

Then he speaks: "You were perfect."

Not good, not compliant—perfect. Like you were never meant to be anything else.

He won't leave your side. Not even for a second.

"Do you want water? Blanket? Touch?" he asks softly. "Say the word and it's yours."

He's meticulous in aftercare. He's got water waiting. A warm towel. Maybe even a lavender-scented balm he picked up weeks ago just for you.

"This might sting a little," he murmurs, carefully cleaning you up, even if you're too dazed to respond. "But I'll be gentle."

And he is. God, he is.

But he's also...stupidly soft after. Like, kisses to your temple, warm baths drawn with precise care, notebook closed for the night. He calls you "sweet girl" in a voice so tender it makes you ache worse than the bruises on your thighs.

He asks, every time, if you're okay. Not just physically-but emotionally.

"Did I push too far?"

"Did I take care of you the way you needed?"

And he listens to your answers like they're sacred texts.

He runs you a bath if you're up for it-joins you if you ask, but otherwise sits close by.

Book in hand, towel over his lap, always glancing up to check on you.

(He absolutely has a whole page in his notebook dedicated to "Aftercare Notes." If he notices a product worked well or something helped soothe you, it gets logged with clinical precision.)

And when you're wrapped up in blankets, limbs sore and mind foggy, he'll hold you in his arms like a lullaby. Fingers brushing over your shoulder, your hip, your hair-grounding you.

"You're safe now," he whispers. "You did everything I asked. You were so good for me."

And if you cry-whether from subdrop, or tenderness, or just sheer emotional weight— he doesn't flinch.

He pulls you into his chest, hand gently stroking your back

"It's okay. I've got you. Let it out, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

Yet even then—as wonderful as he is—sometimes Kunikida needs reassurance too.

He won't say it outright, but he'll linger. Touch your hand. Let you see the way his shoulders have dropped.

His forehead presses to yours. His voice is low, hoarse from earlier, but soft enough to be a balm:

“I know I can be... intense. But I swear, / would never give you more than you could handle. And if I ever do—tell me. I'll stop. No hesitation. Your comfort comes first, always."

And when you curl into him and whisper:

"You did so good, Kunikida…”

He melts like wax in your arms.

Eventually, when the world rights itself again, he lies with you in bed, tracing lazy patterns on your skin. Sometimes he reads aloud to you until you drift off. Sometimes he just hums.

And sometimes-rarely—he confesses.

"You're the only person I trust with this part of myself."

You're too sleepy to answer, but he doesn't need you to. He kisses your temple and tucks the blanket higher.

"Sleep, my love. I'll be here when you wake."

***

Poe

He tries to dominate exactly once—murmuring something about being “in control tonight,” voice all low and serious—and you nod sweetly.

Poe tries to be commanding, bless his heart. Will sit on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, voice trembling as he says something like;

“Take your clothes off. Now.”

But his hands are shaking. His voice cracks on “off.” And when you reach for the buttons, he has to look away like he’ll combust if he watches too closely.

Let him talk. Let him settle between your legs like he’s in charge.

And then? You tug gently on his curls and he moans. You lean in close, lips brushing his ear.

“Oh baby~. You really thought that was going to work?”

He whimpers. Folds. Immediately.

His hands shake when he touches you. Not from fear—from how deeply, devastatingly overwhelmed he is by the privilege of it.

The moment you praise him—call him “good boy,” stroke his cheek, moan his name—he’s gone. Eyes fluttering, thighs trembling, hands clutching the sheets like he’s bracing for death by affection.

He’ll be whispering things like “you’re divine” and “please, let me—” while trailing kisses down your stomach, like he’s worshipping at an altar.

He gets so shy about his noises, too—tries to cover his mouth or bury his face in your neck. But you don’t let him. You make him be loud.

“I want to hear everything, Edgar. Don’t you dare hide it from me.”

And the way he melts under the command—he whines like it’s physically painful to obey, but he does it anyway, breathy and broken and so, so pretty.

Oh, and his hands? Clingy. Desperate. Always seeking contact. He’ll grip your hips like a lifeline, run trembling fingers through your hair, paw at your thighs when he’s too wrecked to form words.

He wants to touch you constantly but never assumes he’s allowed to unless you guide him there.

His body betrays him constantly. His nipples go hard the second you breathe on them. His hips rut up against you even when he’s trying to stay still.

And the second you pinch or rub his chest while riding him?

Gone. Feral. Clawing at your back, keening your name like a prayer he’s too sinful to speak aloud.

•And when you edge him—deny him, whisper “not yet” with a wicked smile—he sobs. Sobs. Hands balled into the sheets, back arching as he pleads with you, voice wrecked:

“Please—please let me finish—I can’t—I need—please—”

He wants to be good. Wants to show you he can take more.

But by the third orgasm, he’s incoherent. Whimpering, writhing, tears slicking down flushed cheeks as he babbles nonsense into the sheets.

And you just coo at him. “You can give me one more, Poe. Can’t you? Be a good boy for me.”

He nods like he’s possessed. “Yes—yes, anything—please—”

He lives in his head—lost in stories, fantasy, control through words. But the second you take that control from him? Strip it bare? He’s nothing but yours.

You pin his wrists. Blindfold him. Whisper filth into his ear while dragging your nails down his chest.

“Where’s that sharp little tongue now, darling? Oh? Too full of my fingers to answer?”

You make him wait.

Not just for sex—no, no. You have rituals.

He kneels by the bed, hands resting obediently on his thighs, eyes downcast, trembling slightly in anticipation.

You light a candle, take your time undressing. Speak to him in soft commands:

“Count your breaths. Keep your hands to yourself. You’ll get your reward when you’ve earned it.”

He nods, wide-eyed, aching already.

“Yes, ma’am.”

One time — oh, you’ll never forget this — the first time you gave him just a taste of humiliation. Just to test the waters, see if he was comfortable with it.

You pressed a boot to his chest while he lies beneath you, panting.

“You look so pretty like this. Ruined. Blushing. Desperate.”

He moans like it hurts.

And if you call him pet names with a sharp edge—“Pathetic little thing,” “My sweet mess,”—his entire body shudders.

Not from shame—but because he loves being reduced to your precious plaything.

You tease him mercilessly—licking, sucking, touching, but never letting him have what he wants.

Until he’s begging for permission. And when you finally grant it?

You do it with a whisper in his ear:

“Come for me, Edgar. Let everyone know who you belong to.”

And he does—loudly, body arching, every muscle trembling with surrender.

In the wake of it all…He is so reverent in the way he touches you.

His fingers tremble slightly every time he lays a hand on your skin, as if he’s afraid he’ll break you.

“You’re… you’re divine,” he whispers. “I—I do not deserve to be touched by you.”

(You reassure him. And he nods, a little dazed, like he’s still not sure he believes it.)

He loves being taken care of—but never expects it.

When you guide him into your lap, run your fingers through his hair, murmur that he’s safe and good and yours—he goes pliant like a cat in a sunbeam.

He’ll press kisses to your collarbone, your wrist, anywhere he can reach.

“I am… grateful,” he breathes, half-asleep against your chest. “I never imagined I could feel so… wanted.”

He asks permission for everything. To touch you. To kiss you. To undress. Not because he thinks he has to—but because it brings him peace to hear you say yes.

And every “yes” you give is met with a trembling “Thank you.”

Always. Always thank you.

He adores being guided. If you straddle his lap and tell him;

“Hands behind your back, eyes on me,”

He obeys like it’s gospel.

You can see the way his chest rises, his lips part in awe, the softest moan slipping out just from the intimacy of it.

“You’re everything,” he murmurs, voice cracking.

When you top him gently—slowly grinding, hands holding his—he’s stunned into silence. Not from discomfort, but because he doesn’t know how to express that much love all at once.

You cup his face, whisper “I love you,” and he shatters. Cries, even, if he’s feeling especially soft.

“I love you, too. More than I have words for.”

He holds your hand afterward like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence.

And later, when you’re both curled up under the sheets, he’ll rest his forehead against your shoulder and quietly admit:

“I didn’t think someone like you could ever want someone like me.”

You hush him, press a kiss to his temple. He closes his eyes and lets out a breath that sounds like relief.

He is a simp. A servant. He memorizes your coffee order, your preferred bath temperature, the rhythm of your breathing when you’re happy. He wants to be the reason you sigh with contentment.

And he will cry—happy, overwhelmed, aching with love—if you ever look him in the eye and say:

“Edgar, you’re mine. I don’t want anyone else.”

[harzilla]

Contains very minor spoilers for book 7(mentions Malleus' unique magic)

I keep thinking of the idea for a fic where, post book 7, Malleus shows up back to Ramshackle. Yuu is sitting outside on the porch just watching the stars and when they see Malleus, they're not really angry at him, but they seem to be just exhausted and sad. They invite him to sit with them and for a bit they're both silent until Yuu starts talking. Talking about the moon and the stars. How they're so similar to home but everything is different. How no matter how hard they try they can't recognize a single constellation.

The conversation turns to Yuu asking if Malleus every really thought of them as a friend, and if he did, why did he never think to tell them how he felt? With all the other overblots, they weren't friends with any of them before they overblotted. But Malleus was different, they were friends first. That maybe if Malleus had said something, maybe they could have helped him through his feelings and somehow prevented his overblot.

Yuu asks if Malleus would like to see what they truly desire, and ask him to use his UM on them as long as he enters the dream with them.

They slip into the dreamscape and Malleus finds himself in an unknown room. He soon realized that, they're back in Yuu's world, in their bedroom. He fills a sense of disappointment because he still thinks that Yuu wants to leave him. But Yuu takes him to their family, and the family is really nice to him. They're so happy they finally get to meet one of Yuu's friends. He sits down at the table and it's nice. The family is asking him questions, cracking jokes, everything feels so normal. He's not being treated like a prince, nobody is acting scared of him, it's feels.. nice.

Yuu takes him to different places around town. The park they played at as a little kid, the lil mom and pop ice cream shop, and the hill where they like to watch the sunset.

The two sit and watch the sunset, and talk about the fun they had and Yuu goes quiet, and talks about how when they first arrived in Twisted Wonderland, they just wanted to go home, but the longer they stayed there, the more they would think how much they'd miss everybody. Like who would take care of Grim? Who would help Ace and Deuce study for history of magic? Who would keep fixing up Ramshackle? And who would be there to listen to Malleus when he takes his late night walks to admire the ruins and gargoyles?

They've been in Twisted Wonderland so long now, they don't know if they could leave but it hurts so much because they want to see their world again, the family and friends back there. Is it selfish of them to want both?

As they sit together, Malleus asks them if they'd like to continue the dream, and Yuu tells him, no, because no matter how much reality hurts, they still wish to live it. Besides, how would they make sure the school doesn't fall apart if they were gone?

The dream world begins to fall apart and as it all begins disappearing, Yuu tells Malleus that it's time for them to wake up.

The two awaken from the dreamscape, and Yuu's been crying in their sleep. Yuu thanks Malleus for allowing them to go home again, even if it was just a dream.

The two sit in silence for a moment until Malleus apologizes for what he did to them, how he hurt them and hadn't considered how they felt. Yuu that they accept his apology, but they're still mad at him. But as long as they're still here, he has a chance to make things up to them, and if they can find it in their heart to work things out with the other overblots, then they suppose they COULD give him a chance as well.

They hold out their hand to him, and as long as he promises to talk to them first about things that are bothering him, instead of just deciding what's best. They want him to think like a friend, and not a prince because to them, he's Tsunotarou first, and Malleus Draconia, future King of Briar Valley second.

Malleus smiles before he agrees, taking their hand. The two make a promise together. To be better friends to each other, and no matter how much or as little time together they have, they'd be friends.

[thegoldencontracts]

He Is...

Summary: In another universe, your boyfriend is a bit... Odd, to say the least? Why do you stay with him? U-uh, because canon said so (ortho is just platonic ofc)!

Notes: Pure crack based off of popular fanon things that I honestly don't find accurate. No hate, just a bit of joking. Minor spoilers. Also, if you're touchy about popular fanon headcanons you have, you might want to avoid this post. I have no hateful intentions, but I understand it may be take that way. As always, I am open to constructive critiquing and discourse.

Riddle is going to collar you if you so much as breathe wrong. He does absolutely nothing nice for you. But then when you want to leave him, he breaks down crying...? Weird.

Trey is disturbingly obsessed with teeth, but he's completely perfect other than that. Literally perfect. No, really.

Deuce is incredibly dumb and well-intentioned. He's never done anything wrong in his life! Biker gang? What biker gang? You're just hallucinating.

Ace is an absolute asshole. He's never apologized for anything in his life. Just- a complete douche, somehow.

Cater is incapable of speaking on anything other than pure slang. You tell him you're going to break up with him, and he just says "yikes". Who does that?

Leona is literally the worst person you have ever met. Depression? What depression? He's just lazy! But yeah, he's the scum of the Earth. Trust. At least he respects women?

Ruggie is communist. You don't know where it came from, but he is. But he's also a scammer. Yeah, good luck.

Jack is a tsundere... You thought there was something else? No, that's it. He's a tsundere. He's cute, though.

Azul is a little baby boy. He's just that same little octopus he was. Scams, contracts, business? What are you talking about? He's just your little baby boy who'll break down crying if you don't tell him you love him every five seconds!

Floyd is a serial killer. What do you mean he's only seventeen? He's a serial killer! He kills people. That's right, he kills them. He's a merciless, remorseless killer.

Jade is completely sick and twisted. He'd kill you for a single corn chip, and he's never felt any emotion other than schadenfreude in his life. He's not seventeen, he's, uh- he's been lying to you! He's actually a demon who thrives off of souls (and being one hell of a butler).

Kalim is nice. He's also an idiot. That's right, this man has literally never had a critical thought in his life! Can you believe it? He's never had any hardships, either. Poisoning attempts? What poisoning attempts? There's nothing to see here!

Jamil is an asshole. There's no justification for it. His life was so amazing, it's not like he was basically a slave or anything. Why couldn't he just talk to Kalim before going through with his plans? It's literally that easy!

Vil is a mean girl. That's right. He's selfish, manipulative, and lazy! What do you mean 'he wants people to work and be the most beautiful they can be'? He's just a mean girl, guys. Nothing more to it. And I can't believe he ruined Rook! It isn't like Rook chose to move into Pomefiore or anything!

Rook is creepy, and a stalker, and an irredeemable piece of shit. You see, he used to be a shining beacon of perfection in Savannaclaw, but then the EVIL Vil had to RUIN him! The horror! He was so happy there, too! Everyone knows that dull, lifeless eyes are the number-one sign of happiness!

Epel is a perfect, dainty little boy who can do no wrong. He's just- a shining beacon of dainty and perfect ideals. So fragile. So perfect. So helpless. He has absolutely no autonomy. Trust me on that. Just a perfect little angel boy.

Idia is an unhygenic, depressed softie. He's never showered in his life! It's not like STYX had a lot of focus on systematic hygiene that Idia's used to or anything! And he's never looked down on others in his life! You can trust me on that!

Ortho is a kind, soft little robo-boy who can do no wrong. That time he tried to fire a laser beam on the school? Ignore that, he's just a little baby!

Malleus is sooo in love with you. No, he's not acting oddly due to being unused to friendship, he's in love, damnit! He's in love! He's making this an otome!

Lilia is a dad. And he thinks you should get together with Malleus. Really, he's just there to set you up with the dragon man!

Silver is the perfect, most noble and well-liked gentleman. Awkward? Unused to people wanting to hang out with him? Nope, none of that. Just perfection here!

Sebek is the scum of the Earth. Why, you may ask? Simple! He's loud and arrogant. I don't know why he hates humans so much, really, it's not like he's dealing with internalized species-ism or anything...