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abbotjack · 27 days ago

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Abbott with a ‘sir’ kink just feels right

(ps love your writing)

Oh absolutely—Jack Abbot with a ‘sir’ kink doesn’t just feel right—it explains so much. Man spent years in the military, still walks like command never left his body, and the second you call him "sir"? His jaw ticks. His breath catches. The air shifts. This is very him—and very you, ruined by him. 18+ ONLY. Do not interact if you’re a minor.

warnings/content: sir kink, emotionally repressed man finally losing control, rough sex, power dynamic tension, mentions of military trauma and death, alcohol (beer), reader is a fourth-year resident, Jack is Not Gentle™ p.s thank you so much to everyone who’s left kind words about my writing lately. it means more than you know <3

You weren’t supposed to be on shift. Memorial Day, supposedly protected on the schedule. But half the roster called off and you got the text at noon from Dana: we need you.

Jack was already in the trauma bay when you walked in—sleeves stained, voice low and clipped, the kind that made everyone fall in line without thinking. He didn’t say a word when he saw you. Just handed you a pair of gloves.

Now it’s past midnight. You’re outside the hospital, undershirt sweat-stuck to your spine. You could’ve walked home—it’s not far—but when Jack mutters, “You need a ride?” with his keys already in hand, you don’t say no.

His truck smells like unscented soap, clean cotton, and the faintest trace of leather—lived-in but scrubbed down, like everything else he keeps close. There’s nothing on the seats. No wrappers. No dust. Console organized, glove box latched. The kind of vehicle that’s been through things but still runs quiet—because he keeps it that way.

There’s a trauma kit in the backseat. You know without asking. Probably an extra pair of scrubs folded under it. Probably gloves in the door pocket, a stethoscope stuffed between the seats.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, wrist loose, posture upright. No music playing. Just the low, occasional murmur of the police scanner tucked under the dash.

He doesn’t talk while driving. He doesn’t fill silence for the sake of it. Jack Abbot isn’t wired for background noise. He reads intersections like patients—measures, anticipates, adjusts. Everything he does has a reason.

Even the way he glances over at you at the red light, like he’s making sure you haven’t slipped out of his orbit yet.

“You eat today?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.

You shake your head. “When would I have?”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just lets out a breath through his nose, turns the wheel one-handed.

“You’re coming back to mine,” he says.

Not a question. Not even an offer.

Just... routine.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

You’ve done this enough times to know there’ll be cold beer in the fridge, maybe leftover pasta—if Robby didn’t steal it last time he dropped by. Jack won’t say a word when you kick off your shoes at the door like you live here, too.

The house is dark when you step inside, but it smells like cedar and clean soap and something warmer beneath it—wood polish, maybe. His kind of clean. The kind that comes from knowing where everything belongs and putting it there, every time.

He moves through the space like it’s muscle memory, like the floor was built to match his stride. The quiet step of his prosthetic against the hardwood is as familiar to you now as the creak in the cabinet hinge he still hasn’t fixed.

“You want one?” he calls from the kitchen, already pulling open the fridge.

You murmur a quiet yeah and drift in, leaning your hip against the counter as he cracks two beers open. He sets one in front of you without looking. The cap lands in the little dish on the windowsill with a soft clink—just like all the others piled inside it. A dozen, at least. Maybe more.

The house is nice. Not just for a guy like him, but nice by any standard. Exposed beams. Matte black fixtures. Shelves that look like they belong in a magazine but you know he built them himself. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t need decorating because it was built right the first time.

You take your beer and head into the living room. Sit where you always do.

He follows, lowering himself into the armchair across from you with practiced ease. Weight shifts left, then the soft tap of his prosthetic finds the floor. You know the rhythm of how he moves—how he balances, how he settles. He doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t explain it. And you’ve never needed him to.

You glance at him.

“What,” he says.

“You always sit like that,” you reply.

He arches a brow. Not challenging—just neutral.

“You lead with your left,” you clarify.

“I don’t think about it.”

You nod. “Yeah. I know.”

You both sip in silence for a while. There’s a radio scanner in the corner near the window. It’s on, low. Something crackles and fades out.

“Why do you always work Memorial Day?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Don’t like being told to take the day off.”

That makes you smile. “So, spite.”

He doesn't smile back, but his voice shifts just enough to tell you it landed. “Something like that.”

You stretch your legs out. Rest the bottle on your thigh. “You ever miss it?”

Jack looks at the wall behind you—not through you, just past. Not escaping. Recalling.

“No.”

You wait.

“I miss the parts that made sense. Waking up every day with a mission. Knowing the rules. Knowing what mattered.” He looks at you. “But I don’t miss the heat. The sand. The sound a man makes when he thinks he’s going to die.”

You nod, slow. He’s not looking for sympathy. You don’t offer it.

You shift a little on the couch, not even thinking before you say, “Do you miss the authority? Like... being called ‘sir’ all the time?”

He glances at you. Not sharply. Just long enough to let the question hang.

Then he looks away again. Back to the bottle in his hands.

“I miss not having to explain myself,” he says. “That’s about it.”

You smile a little, trying to cut through it. “Well, you’re still kind of terrifying when you want to be.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.

You tip your head toward him. “Sir.”

Just a murmur. Barely there. But he hears it.

He stills.

Doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t answer.

He just... sets his beer down.

Carefully. Quietly.

Jack leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s walking himself through something he already decided an hour ago.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

He holds your gaze, steady. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t move.

Just waits—like he’s giving you a last chance to pull back, even if part of him knows you won’t.

And when you don’t—when you just sit there, breathing quiet and not taking it back—

He stands and crosses the room—measured, quiet, with that same deliberate ease he always has right before everything changes.

You set your beer down without thinking.

When he stops in front of you, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch you.

Just looks at you.

You’re still sitting, hands loose in your lap, heart loud in your chest. You tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

“Still sure?” he asks.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in—both hands coming to your face, one curling against your jaw, the other threading into your hair—and kisses you like he’s been trying not to for a long time. His body tilts over yours, braced, sure.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rough. It’s need—heat, breath, a scrape of teeth. You tilt into it, fingers catching the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself like you’re afraid he might pull away.

When you stand—rising into him—it’s instinct, seamless. That’s when his hands find your waist, gripping like he’s finally letting himself touch what he’s wanted all along.

“You want this?” he asks, breath hot against your cheek.

You nod, already breathless. “Yes.”

He steps back—not far. Just enough to let you follow.

You do.

No words. No second thoughts. Just the sound of your breathing and the quiet creak of floorboards beneath his steps.

The bedroom is like the rest of the house—dark, clean, minimal. Black sheets. Hardwood floors. A space that’s only ever held him, until now.

The door barely clicks shut before he’s already working your pants down—no fumbling, just intent. Mouth on your jaw, breath hot and uneven as he pulls them past your thighs.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he says, almost under his breath.

You do. Of course you do. Every look, every shift in his voice, every beer he handed you with his jaw clenched too tight.

You step out of the last of your clothes. He does the same—fast, practiced, stripped down to nothing but need.

He backs you toward the bed, then pushes you gently by the hips. You go easily, falling back onto the sheets, legs parting before you even think about it.

Jack stares.

His body over yours—solid, scarred, familiar—but his face?

Wrecked.

“This,” he says, low, like he’s not even speaking to you, like he’s talking to the version of himself that told him not to touch you. “This was always gonna happen.”

Then he’s on you.

No teasing. No delay.

Just his mouth, hot and heavy between your legs, tongue dragging slow and purposeful until you’re arching off the bed with a sound you barely recognize as yours.

You grip the sheets. His shoulders. Anything.

He doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even look up.

Just groans low into you like he’s addicted to the way you fall apart under his hands.

You’re already shaking when he pulls back, mouth wet, chest rising.

“Turn over,” he says, voice wrecked.

You hesitate just a beat—enough to see the way he breathes when you do it. When you shift onto your stomach, hips lifted, arms bracing.

You hear the sound of the condom, fast. Efficient.

And then—

Jack’s hand on your lower back. Steady.

And the way he slides into you? Slow. So deep it knocks the air out of you.

He curses under his breath. Grips your hip with one hand and the back of your neck with the other—not to force you down. Just to hold you there. Like he needs you solid. Still.

You moan into the mattress. He groans above you, pace already building.

Every thrust is measured. Heavy. Earned.

“Fuck, you feel—” he breaks off. “I can’t—Jesus.”

You push back into him, and he snarls something low and wordless. One of his hands slides around to your front, fingers finding you again.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Right fucking now.”

And you do.

Hard.

So hard your voice breaks.

He groans—sharp, wrecked, desperate—and follows you over the edge with one last thrust, hips grinding against yours as he comes with a sound that tears right through your spine.

You both collapse, tangled, shaking, breathless.

Nothing moves for a long time.

You stare up at the ceiling, lips parted, chest still rising and falling.

Then, quiet—almost lazy—you murmur, “I guess I should start calling you that more often.”

Jack doesn’t lift his head, but you can feel the tension in his body change. Loosen. Settle.

“You do that,” he mutters, voice half-buried in your neck, “and I’m not gonna make it to shift tomorrow.”

You turn toward him, drape an arm across his chest, skin still hot against yours.

“Guess we’ll test that theory.”

Jack exhales, something low and rough in his throat—just close enough to be a laugh.

#anon request #request #the pitt #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #dr abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #smut #the pitt hbo

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wintersera · 5 months ago

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heatstroke || omega!winter x alpha!reader

notes: i’m back after a long ass time HIII saw these pics and i had to cook something up really quick… like lord, PLEASE LORD TAKE THE WHEEL

cw: omegaverse, g!p reader, alpha reader, omega minjeong, breeding kink, biting. one mention of weed

wc: 2.9k

it’s the third day in a row where minjeong invited you over to her house in the countryside. blades of grass rustling in the late afternoon breeze while the sun still beamed brightly in the cloudless sky.

you sat outside the house, sitting on the cool wooden porch as you stared out into the distance, contemplating the last minute choice of staying over at your friends house.

this week's forecast showed a constant 35 degrees celsius and above— 95 fahrenheit and above if you’re american, across the board. the humidity didn’t help either. it felt suffocating to even move around given that the humidity felt like it had raised the temperature up way more than it should have.

you would hate it less if there were ac, but since you were staying over in her small traditional house, you had no other choice than to deal with the excruciating sun rays beaming down on your exposed skin.

sat in a simple thin tank top and short shorts, you lift up the fabric of your top, flapping it around to generate some sort of cool breeze.

as sweat dripped down your face, minjeong appeared behind you, also dripping with salty sweat down from her forehead all the way to her chin “here” she tossed you a cold beer without much care. she knew you’d catch it anyway.

“didn’t you say your fridge broke down?” the cold metal pressed against your nape felt blissful in these times. you rubbed the can all over your body before it unfortunately warmed up from both your body temperature and because of how you were sitting out in the blistering sun.

“i ran over to the vending machine down the street” minjeong sat fairly far away from you on the porch. not because she didn’t like being near you, but because somehow you were quite literally a walking heater “there was a whole line of people” the girl chuckled, popping open the can she got for herself “almost all the drinks ran out, it was crazy y/n. you should’ve seen the old lady scolding this guy for buying, like, ten drinks”

the burn of the alcohol slid down your throat. it almost sort of tasted sweet in a way, but still, it was beer, and beer was annoyingly bitter on your taste buds “i’d honestly do the same if i was there” though it was downright disgusting, the slight coldness made you chug the entire can in one go “why are you wearing that big ass long sleeved shirt, minjeong?”

“i told you~” the shorter girl whined “the electricians won’t be coming soon, so it fucked up the neighbourhood and no one has working outlets anymore”

“you don’t have any spare clothes laying around then? might as well take it off”

“yeah, no i don’t…and no, y/n. i’m not taking it off” she retorted back with an attitude “oh crap, i almost forgot to give you this” minjeong laid down to reach her bag, conveniently having stored a few ice packs in there, and took out two pre packaged ice cream cones. one strawberry, and one plain vanilla.

“yours is definitely vanilla, right?” knowing her tastes, your hand instinctively reached out for the strawberry flavoured ice cream cone. due to the heat, the cream had leaked a little bit out from the wrapper, but i guess that was to be expected anyway.

minjeong nodded, her back still against the now warm wood of the porch, unwrapping the ice cream and taking a few kitten licks.

the both of you sat in a comfortable silence for a while, watching the birds fly around whilst the cicadas buzzed loudly in the background.

“ah—“ minjeong’s little squeak caught your attention briefly, then you were back to watching the birds fly around in the sky. a few pigeons and crows flying by, nothing too out of the ordinary.

“nooo~ i’m all sticky now” you take a glance once more, then your attention returned back to the blue sky, spacing out all over again, but before you could even utter anything snarky about minjeong dropping her ice cream on herself, your head whipped around to do a double take. melted ice cream stained her last clean shirt she had, with no other choice she had to deal with the sticky fabric or just take the whole thing off.

for a second, your eyes caught a spot dribbling down her fingers and onto her wrists. her plump lips parted open for her tongue to dart out. cheeks reddened at the sight of her licking the melted… white cream…

“you know you could—“

“i’m not taking it off. it’s too embarrassing” she definitely could, after all it wouldn’t bother you all too much. you’ve seen people naked. it wasn’t that big of a deal.

“eh… too lazy to move” whilst sprawled out on the floor, her hand pulled up her shirt a little more “ahh~ that feels so much better” toned midriff exposed to the golden sun rays, the reflective light bouncing off her smooth and silky skin.

“whatever floats your boat, i guess” actually, maybe this was bothering you a little more than you had anticipated.

besides the outrageous heat, there was another issue you had that was on your mind.

although you were long term friends with minjeong, probably since you met her in highschool, you had always told her, and the people around you, that you were a full fledged beta. nothing more, nothing less.

god knows how she would react if she had found out you were a pure blooded alpha.

speaking of… you began to feel a little strange “mmm… something smells nice” images of minjeong flashed in your mind. her exposed milky thighs, that oversized shirt she pulled up to show her huggable waist and tummy, melted ice cream on the corner of her lips, and how she was so vulnerable sprawled out across the floor.

shit. oh shit… she looked way too good. so good that you could easily pick her up and do whatever you want with that petite and fragile body of hers.

before you knew it, your cock started to strain against your shorts. uncomfortable, you shifted as you sat in a less revealing manner, taking the ice cream to your lips to calm the heat rushing to your face.

now is not the time for an unexpected rut. fuck. “i’m gonna head to the bathroom real quick” it took a lot of mental strength to avoid gazing at minjeong… a lot of mental strength considering you were covering up your horrendously hard dick as you rushed past her.

“where… where is it—“ usually you had a couple rut suppressants laying around in your pockets, if not, then your bags. and if it wasn't in either, you’d run to the local pharmacy to buy a fresh set of both suppressants and scent blockers. but unlucky you had to be in the middle of the fuckass countryside with a pharmacy that sells neither.

minjeong’s scent was getting stronger, heavier. a pinch of spiced apples wafted into the bathroom unexpectedly. intoxicating. it wasn’t like she was in heat, that’s if your scent didn’t occupy her nostrils by now.

to distract your mind from plunging further into the pit of no return, or rather fantasising about plunging into minjeong’s soft thighs to bury your face right into her pussy, a cold splash of water to your face would do the trick. hopefully.

the faucet was pretty much shut tight, and living in the city for pretty much your whole entire life, you would rather stay hot and bothered— both ways, than to go out and douse yourself with cold water from the hose.

defeated, you walk with your imaginary tail between your legs, eyes averted from minjeong as you sit somewhere else in her house. preferably the furthest room away from where she was laying down.

minjeong, however, followed behind you “do you smell something weird? it smells like cedarwood and a little bit of tobacco” you froze in place for a second. maybe you should straight up tell her the truth. better off than losing your composure and submitting to your instincts in front of her.

she sat close to you despite the suffocating heat. being this close in proximity… her scent was stronger than ever. your cock throbbed in your shorts as she inspected you with curious eyes, her concentrated face wrangling in more indecent thoughts as the seconds flew by “must be someone smoking a blunt out there…” you gulped nervously.

what an obvious lie you told. she rolled her eyes at you, lightly hitting you across the shoulder with a small, amused laugh “we’re in south fucking korea, y/n. i doubt someone is openly smoking weed out in the streets” which was true god damn it.

heart drumming loudly in your chest, your eyes zeroing in on minjeong’s body, every shred of composure seemed to crumble once she checked your temperature with her shockingly cold hands “don’t…” you huff, grabbing her wrists gently “i’m okay”

“you don’t seem okay. you’re showing signs of heatstroke” to be honest, that might be the case as well, but you doubt it was heatstroke given the fact that you were obviously flustered and hot by her sudden approach “crap, and almost everything in this house is broken— y/n, come here”

“mmm…” without any access to cold water, and the cold drinks already gone alongside the ice cream, you had no choice but to suffer in silence. that is until minjeong pulled on the ends of your top. again, that rich spiced apple scent…

“take it off, it’ll be cooler for you” seeing her tiny hands on your top, sliding it off gently with her glossy eyes carefully wandering all over you shattered your last wall of composure.

you rolled minjeong over the futon mattress, her puppy dog eyes staring holes into your face “y-your scent. it’s just way too strong, minjeong” without further ado, you dived into minjeong’s neck, breathing in her delicious scent as you nudged your covered bulge against her clothed pussy.

“i knew it” a soft moan escaped from her lips, the friction between the two of you becoming hotter and hotter with each grind of your hips “you’re way too obvious”

“shut up…” the sliding door was still open to the outside, it would be risky to carry on what you were doing, especially knowing how your scent was particularly stronger in comparison to other alphas. but really, who cares? “is this even okay with you?” albeit concerned, your teeth still grazed her neck gently, kissing and sucking her skin in a way to not so permanently mark her up.

“why else do you think— mmm… that i’ve been inviting you around so often. just… hurry up. you’re triggering my heat” her words alone made you ecstatic. to be fair, you were pent up lately. you continued to rut into her, holding up her thighs as your bulge was threatening to burst through your shorts. in due time, slick began to drip from her hole, dampening both your shorts and her panties.

“can i let loose?” you were already sliding off her panties, following the removal of yours straight after. minjeong’s legs spread wide open for you, her pretty pink folds slathered with her slick, and her puffy clit that looked so sensitive to touch. she stared right into your eyes and gave you a nod of approval.

you manage to push yourself all the way inside of her tight pussy, molding her walls to accommodate the size of your girthy cock. minjeong wrapped her arms around your neck, her nails digging deep and breaking the skin on your back, only making you push as deep as you can in return. her wetness made your entry much easier than you had thought. she just looked way too tiny to take your entire length. this girl was just full of surprises.

sooner or later you would give into your biological urges, and so would minjeong. you could feel it now actually. the primal desire to breed her until she would bear your pups, the need to mark her, to make her yours. you could feel your rationality being thrown out the window, replaced by pure animalistic lust “je..jesus christ, so fucking thick…”

minjeong tried to gather what was left of her scattered thoughts into coherent sentences, but the way your cock filled her up rendered her speechless. you hadn’t moved at all, and yet she was digging her claws into your back as if you were slamming your hips into her.

“i haven’t even moved yet” you chuckled, moving your hips slowly to test the waters. her warmth coated your entire length, feeling as you were melting by simply being inside of her.

testing the waters was not enough for you, you craved for more. a rougher and faster pace would suffice, but you didn’t know if minjeong could handle you that well. after all, the two of you never fucked before.

no, it really wasn’t enough. you had to fuck her hard whether or not she was prepared “gonna… go rough” hands on each side of her waist, using her body, you pushed and pulled her onto your cock. you met with each thrust, burying your tip further and further inside with as much vigour as humanly possible.

buried between the crook of her neck, your lips feverishly pecked at her skin once again, savouring the salty taste of her sweat on the tip of your tongue all while inhaling her addictively sweet and rich scent. all for you to keep for yourself.

on the other hand, minjeong was fairly inexperienced. her thighs began to slowly close, but with your strong grip, you kept them wide open for you to easily slide in and out of her pussy “mi…njeong” you call out to her as you push down on her tummy, locking eyes with the teary eyed girl “g-get on top of me”

you leaned back onto the futon mattress, straightening minjeong’s back as she straddles your lap. the position you were in made it possible to go as deep as minjeong wanted to go, but that didn’t mean she was in control.

“s’too… too big” strings of slick dripped down her thigh, pooling onto your pelvis. you paid no mind to the mess, rather, you encouraged it even further by toying with her overly sensitive clit “f-fu..ck— oh my god, y/n”

every moan urged you to play with her more. not one, but two fingers rubbed circles against her clit, collecting her slick time to time before going back in to do the same motions. it was a win-win situation. each circular motion caused her to clamp down hard on your cock.

but still, it wasn’t enough for either of you.

changing position for possibly the last time, minjeong laid flat on her stomach, as you pound her pussy from behind. with each thrust, the sounds of your hips smacking into her ass sounded throughout the room, and possibly bleeded out onto the empty streets of the village, disrupting the neighbourhood with your moaning and groaning, and minjeong’s cries of pleasure too.

poor minjeong couldn’t speak properly. words she wanted to moan, came out as garbled nonsense, cries and whines too as your relentless rhythm fucked her until she couldn’t even think properly anymore.

at this point, the room was steaming. the scent of you and her mingling with the sweat formed from the intensive heat outside, and the heat generated between the both of you. to say the least, the room reeked of sex.

messy and rough sex.

seconds into kissing her nape, you could feel the tightening of minjeong’s cunt restrict the movement of your thrust, making it a lot more difficult to catch your high, yet somehow the grip brought you closer towards the limit.

now, you could see minjeong clawing into her mattress, scratching the fabric that held all the foam together. her breath became jagged, grunting and groaning harshly till her voice became hoarse with how much she was calling out your name.

“god… i’m gonna— fuck, y/n i’m cumming, i’m gonna cum” claws ripping the linen fabric of the mattress, minjeong lets out a high pitched whimper, her body convulsing as you thrust relentlessly into her.

quickly, your sharp canines sank into her nape by instinct as she came, lessening the pain for marking and replacing it with searing hot pleasure.

still, with you still raring to go, you kept on going until you couldn’t last much longer either. your grip of minjeong’s ass as you pounded harshly into her overstimulated pussy was the final straw. your knot swelled eventually, locking the two of you in place as thick strings of semen poured into her, filling her up to the brim.

laid on top of minjeong, your breath slows, and so does hers “s-sorry… i didn’t mean to claim you” you say, yet your actions speak otherwise, inhaling in her scent to calm yourself down from the intensive orgasm “it’s kind of your fault though. teasing me with that ice cream and that shirt”

“to be honest, i just wanted to see how far you’d stick with that whole beta persona” minjeong huffed into the pillow, stroking your arm as your knot began to lessen, semen now oozing out from her hole “so worth it actually…”

“yeah, but now you’re gonna bear my pups now…” you huff into her neck.

“so worth it” now that your knot began to shrink in size, minjeong turned around, gazing longingly into your eyes with a look you’ve never seen from her before “that just means that you’re gonna be stuck with me forever now, right?” she smirked, placing a sweet kiss on your lips.

“mmm, yeah i like that thought”

#wintersera #g!p reader #aespa smut #aespa winter smut #aespa x reader smut #kim minjeong smut #aespa x fem reader smut #kim minjeong x fem reader #aespa winter x fem reader #girl group smut #omegaverse smut #kpop smut

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syrecjh · 2 days ago

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─★°🦋⋆ For You, He'd Say It

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

Lunch tasted different without you.

Not because the food changed—same bento, same spice, same everything—but because you weren’t there, waving your chopsticks at him like drumsticks and teasing, "You ever eat anything that doesn’t burn your mouth?”

He’d grunt. You’d laugh. He’d shove his leftover karaage your way and act like he didn’t care when you took it.

But today, your seat stayed empty.

You sat with Midoriya’s group across the room, laughing too loudly at a joke he didn’t hear—and didn’t care to. You didn’t even glance his way.

And Bakugo felt it.

He felt the absence like a weight pressing into his side.

Usually, you were the one who got there first. Usually, you were the one talking. Usually, he was the one pretending not to listen.

But not today.

Bakugo didn’t need to retrace what happened that morning. He already knew. During training, he’d been sharp—not in the good way. You’d offered him advice, something small, something he should’ve brushed off. Instead, he snapped. Not loud, not cruel—just clipped and cold.

You’d blinked. Nodded. Walked off.

And now, here he was, surrounded with his friends, the bakusquad yet he feel alone with food that didn’t taste like anything.

Everyone around him must’ve assumed he was sulking over a failed move or a missed target.

But this?

This wasn’t about training.

When the bell rang, he didn’t move, he stayed behind. He didn’t go with the group. He waited. Just sat there, elbows on the table, staring at a lunch that hadn’t been touched. Eventually, he stood up and stuffed his hands in his pockets, shoulders squared like he was heading into battle.

You stayed back to clean up. Slow, silent. The wrappers crinkled in your hands as you tossed them into the trash.

He walked over, stopped just a step away. Not too close. But not far enough to be mistaken.

“…You mad at me?” His voice was low, cautious.

You didn’t jump. Just glanced at him, unreadable. “What?”

“You didn’t sit with me.”

You blinked once, then shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.”

His jaw twitched. “Tch.” He looked to the side, fingers curling in his pocket. “I know I was an ass earlier.”

You didn’t reply.

“I shouldn’t’ve snapped,” he added, quieter. “You were just tryin’ to help. I was already pissed and I took it out on you.”

Still nothing.

So he shifted, glanced at you again, and then—finally—spoke the words like they had weight.

“…I’m sorry.”

You froze. For a second, the world did too.

“…What?”

“I said I’m sorry, dammit.” His voice cracked on the edges, but not with volume—just honesty.

The breeze picked up. He tugged at his sleeve again. Something to do with his hands.

“I suck at this kinda thing,” he muttered. “You know that. But I don’t want you thinkin’ I don’t care. ‘Cause I do. I care a hell of a lot.”

That’s when your shoulders dropped. Just slightly. Like you’d been holding up a wall, and it finally gave out.

“I’m not mad,” you said quietly. “Just hurt.”

He nodded. Once. “Yeah. I get it.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder—not dramatic, not romantic. Just… real.

And it knocked the air right out of him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second.

Then he relaxed.

Just a little.

You didn’t need some big apology. Didn’t need a scene.

You just needed him to see you.

And he did.

“So…” you murmured, voice lighter, “You gonna share your side dish tomorrow, or what?”

He huffed. Almost a laugh. “Not the spicy one. That’s mine.”

And that was that.

Bakugo doesn’t apologize often.

But when he does, it’s because he means every damn word.

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airaatsu · 4 months ago

Note

Heyy could you maybe write smut about min-su x fem!reader x se-mi? Where maybe Thanos like made fun of him before for being a virgin, and min-su now feels insecure so reader and se-mi decided to comfort him and it ends w them having a threesome?

No pressure if you don't wanna write/don't feel comfortable!! Have a good day/night ! :)

«—Se-mi x Fem!Reader x Min-su—»

⁍A Helping hand⁌

Summary: Minsu is getting bullied by Thanos and his lackey about being a virgin. Now it's up to you and Se-mi to change that;)

A/N: I wrote this in a hurry, so please tell me if there are any errors in my writings! This is also going to be the first fic I post here, so enjoy!<3 (ALSO! I got the MDNI banner from cafekitsune! Many thanks♡♡)

Warnings: NSFW, oral(fem receiving), p in v, quickie in the bathroom, SMUTTTTT

“Min-su.” Se-mi called. You both walked back to your corner of the place after receiving dinner from the guards. “What’s wrong?” You asked, taking a seat beside Min-su, who just stared down at the food placed on his lap. He looked a bit more down than usual.

“What, did one of those assholes over there pick on you again?” Se-mi nodded her head in the direction where Thanos and that annoying lackey of his are before taking her seat beside you, taking a bite on her bread with a slight frown on her face. Her frown only deepened when he didn’t respond, she was about to stand up and have a word with the two if You hadn’t held her back.

“Hey, calm down.” You let out a sigh before turning to face Min-su. “Alright, what happened? What did they do now?” You asked, letting go of Se-mi’s arm once she sat back down beside you. “It’s alright.. they didn’t do anything.” Min-su replied, opening the plastic wrapper of the bread before taking a bite.

“Then what?” Se-mi looked like she was getting a bit impatient, she was practically shooting daggers at Thanos and Nam-gyu. Flipping them off whenever they looked her way. “They know I’m a virgin..” Min-su whispered, his shoulders tensing up a bit now that he confessed what was bothering him. “Okay.. and?” You followed, raising a brow at him. “Nothing’s wrong with being a virgin, Min-su. The only people who worries about that kind of thing are those brainless idiots back there.” Se-mi added. Pointing at Thanos and Nam-gyu, who seemed too engrossed with their conversations to notice..

“They said I would die being a virgin, especially in this place.” Min-su continued, now fidgeting at his the end of his jacket sleeves. You and Se-mi shared a look before a small smirk formed on your lips. “We can change that.” Se-mi smirked, finishing her own juice box with one go. “W-What? What do you mean?” That seemed to catch his attention enough, staring at the both of you with wide eyes. You could tell how surprised he is. “Well... How about this.” You leaned in closer, your breath tickling the skin of his neck. “Meet us at the bathroom later when the lights turn off. M’kay?” You leaned back, chuckling at how adorable he looked right now, all flushed and flustered. “You okay there, Min-su? You look as red as a tomato.” Se-mi teased, her smirk turning into a grin.

After that exchange, time flew fast, before you know it, you’re already stuffed in one of the bathroom stalls. Sitting on Min-su’s lap, for someone who seemed so timid all the time, You never knew how strong his grip could be. His hands were firmly holding you by your hips, keeping you seated on his cock while he sat on the closed toilet seat. You would’ve teased him by now, how he looked so adorable even like this, whimpering at the slightest movement and touches if it weren’t for Se-mi who has you moaning and gasping, she was kneeling down between your legs. Keeping your legs open with her hands on your thighs, sucking and licking your overstimulated clit in a way that has you coming over and over. Pair that with Min-su being inside you, thrusting up into your tight heat while those adorable whimpers left his lips.

“She feels good, doesn’t she, Min-su?” Se-mi pulled back, replacing her lips with her thumb. Rubbing you sensitive bundle of nerves while Min-su continued to fuck you. His head buried in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent while also trying ro suppress his own noises. “Look at you, we’d have our own mini waterfall by now from how wet you are.” Se-mi laughed, pulling her hand away just when your about to cum again before standing up. Making you whine out. “Se-mi.. w-why—” “Shh, don’t worry, princess.” She cut you off, letting her pants fall on the floor, pooling down at her feet. Her hand ran through your hair before stopping on the back of your head, gently guiding your head towards her crotch. “What are you waiting for, princess? Go ahead and suck like a good girl.” She smirked, placing her right leg on your shoulder to give you more access. Too fucked out to say anything, you just complied, pressing your lips on her pussy, your hands eventually finding their way on his hips, holding them to keep you steady on Min-su’s lap. You sucked and licked, practically making out with her pussy. Your eyes rolling in the back of your head whenever Min-su would hit that spot inside you with his cock. Moaning into her pussy, sending vibrations through her, making Se-mi moan out as well.

“T-Tight..” Min-su whispered, groaning into your neck as he continued to thrust up into you. “Hm? You like it when it’s the two of us, huh, Princess?” Se-mi cooed. Biting her lower lip, sucking in a breath as she grinded against you faces. Bucking her hips against your lips. You couldn’t do anything but moan and whimper, you didn’t think having a threesome with both Se-mi and Min-su would feel this good.. this experience just proved you wrong. Min-su’s cock felt so good inside you, hitting that sweet spot over and over.. it made your brain turn into mush, and with Se-mi grinding into your mouth like this, it made you see stars. “Fuck, yeah, just like that.. you’re doing so good, Princess.. just a bit more.” She murmured.

“’m gonna cum..” Min-su whimpered, his thrusts getting more erratic, “M-Me too.” Se-mi breathes out. And with a few more thrusts. You were cumming on Min-su’s lap. Making a mess on his cock. Moaning softly when you felt his warm seed fill you up. His dick twitching inside of you. While Se-mi came on your mouth, making a mess on your face. Well, you looked and is too fucked out to even care.. let’s just hope the guards or other players won’t find this mess you made in this stall.. the guard standing guard outside probably already heard your shameless moans and groans. Oh well, not like they’d care.

What’s important now, is that Min-su is no longer a virgin, no reason for Thanos and Nam-gyu to tease him now.^^

#squid game x reader #se mi x reader #min-su x reader #airaa.writes

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pathologicalreid · 5 months ago

Text

card trick | s.r.

in which you broach a subject with Spencer that you're sure will be a dealbreaker - you don't want kids

margovember

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: flangst content warnings: child-free by choice, magic tricks, selfishness (like. reader thinks she's selfish), chemist!reader word count: 1.08k a/n: this was lowkey hard to write because i do in fact want kids myself and i'm such a dad!spencer truther. but there was some fun within the challenge!!! ily <3

“Do you want to talk about it?” Spencer asked, watching as you braced yourself against the wall and kicked off your shoes, nudging them in the hallway until they were in place.

You hummed in response, “About what?” You inquired casually, proceeding to hand your coat on the rack and pull the sleeves of your sweater down. Avoiding his gaze, you bulldozed through to the kitchen, searching through the cabinets for an appropriate mug to make tea in.

He followed you to the kitchen, grabbing a mug and holding it out for you to take. You didn’t live here, but you knew your way around so well that someone might’ve gotten that idea. “Whatever it is that made you get so quiet tonight,” Spencer prodded, leaning over the kitchen counter and propping himself up.

Filtering through his tea collection, you faltered for a moment before continuing, picking a chamomile tea bag and flicking on the electric kettle. The two of you had just gotten back from dinner at Rossi’s, your second one since you and Spencer had started dating, where you watched Spencer spend hours doing magic tricks with Henry and Jack. You shook your head, watching the water in the kettle as it began to boil.

“Are you feeling alright?” Spencer asked, wondering if you had a physical ailment that was causing you to shut down. He had picked you up straight from work, maybe you were just exhausted.

This time you nodded, opening the wrapper for the tea bag and tossing the foil in the bin, “Yeah, long day,” you admitted, “Did you want tea?”

Spencer was quiet for a moment, watching as you instinctively grabbed another mug and prepared a cup of tea for him as well. It was starting to get chilly outside, so a warm tea was likely to have healing properties, “Have I done something?”

Now, you ignored his question, grabbing the mugs and bringing them over to the coffee table. You sat on the couch, nestling yourself into the corner and pulling a knit blanket over your lap. In your periphery, you watched him sit on the opposite side of the couch, and it was beyond your control when you finally spoke up, “Do you want kids?”

“I’ve never really given it much thought,” he responded, and you nearly flinched at his answer, convinced he was lying to save your feelings.

You shifted on the couch, staring down into the murkiness of your tea, “What does that mean?”

He pressed his lips in a thin white line for a moment as if he were considering his options, “I’ve never really been in a relationship where that was a discussion to have, so I’ve never done an in-depth evaluation of whether or not I want kids of my own.” He set his mug down on the coffee table and turned to you, “But I take it you have.”

Slowly, you nodded, skimming the handle of your mug with the pad of your thumb, “I don’t want kids,” you whispered, closing your eyes as soon as the words were out there.

Spencer was quiet, and you were afraid that the finality in your voice would be the reason you lost him forever. No more BAU family dinners at Rossi’s. No more phone calls seeking help on a case. No more whispering nonsensical science puns to each other in the middle of the night when you should be asleep. You were surprised when he answered, “That’s okay with me.”

You lifted your head, craning your neck to the side so you could determine whether or not he was messing with you. Instead, earnest brown eyes stared back at you, “It is?”

He shrugged lightly, “Admittedly, I’m not too fond of the idea of choosing between a family and the BAU. I’ve seen enough wedges driven and bridges burned to know that that’s not something I want to experience first-hand.”

“It’s just never felt like the right thing for me,” you elaborated on your own feelings, still not convinced of his. “Sometimes I… I think I’m too selfish to be a mother,” you confessed, setting your mug down and pulling your knees to your chest. “I see people around me and the things they sacrifice for their children, and I don’t think that could ever be something I do, Spence. It’s not in the cards for me.”

Cocking his head at you, Spencer studied you for a moment, “If you don’t want to be a mother, then you don’t have to.”

Your eyes burned fiercely at his words, so shocked by his response to what had sent previous boyfriends running for the hills. “I think maybe you should take some time to think about this because you said you never have before,” you advised him cautiously, setting your chin on your knee.

He shook his head dismissively, “I don’t need to think about it. If it’s a choice between you and some hypothetical children, then it’s really no choice at all.”

Closing your eyes, you let tears fall freely down your cheeks, “I just don’t want you to wake up someday and resent me for not giving you children. I don’t want you to roll over in bed and think about how I’ve somehow failed you.”

It was that statement that prompted Spencer to reach out to you, he tenderly looped an arm around your shoulders and pressed a kiss to your temple. “I could never resent you for making a decision about yourself like that, do you understand?”

“You’re just so good with them,” you bemoaned, recalling the flashing images of Spencer doing card tricks for the kids and refusing to reveal his secrets to them.

Spencer smiled softly at you, “It’s easy when you don’t actually have to do the raising of the children. I’m more than comfortable with my title of godfather and uncle.”

“But what if you need more?” You asked desperately, still horrified by your hypothetical day where Spencer wakes up with hate in his heart.

His other arm looped around you, pulling you closer to him, “Trust me when I say this: you are more than enough for me.” He squeezed you gently, “I can be good with kids and be perfectly content with never having any of my own. Those two things can coexist.”

Nodding absentmindedly, you leaned your head onto his shoulder, “Thank you,” you breathed, silent tears still streaming down your cheeks only to be swept away by your boyfriend’s deft fingers.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds angst #spencer reid fic #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #written by margot #chemist!reader #margovember

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please-destroy · 5 months ago

Text

Chin Up

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word Count: 3.4k

When you first met Natasha, she had blue hair.

She was awkward, limbs growing faster than she knew what to do with. Still skinny enough to be drowned by a band t-shirt that needed the sleeves rolled up.

You were the new kid at school. You were even more awkward.

On your first day, you saw her sitting alone at lunch. The cafeteria was overwhelmingly busy, seats at every other table were being fought over. You tried to keep your chin up as you walked the length of Natasha’s otherwise empty table, sliding onto the stool across from her.

Natasha’s head snapped up from her book at your arrival. It was a beaten up paperback, spine folded back on itself.

‘Any good?’ You asked cheerfully, if a little desperately. Just one friend. That’s all you needed. The other children made wide berths around you in the corridors, as if you were more alien than stranger.

Natasha seemed frustrated by your inquiry. She closed her book quickly and stuffed it back in her bag. She stared down at her half eaten peanut butter sandwich, purposefully avoiding your nervous smile.

You didn’t know what you’d done wrong.

‘Sorry.’ You muttered, heat flaming your cheeks.

You started to bounce your leg anxiously under the table. You picked at your own sandwich. You weren’t hungry, but you didn’t want to look even weirder than you already were.

A lump caught in your throat as you looked across the rest of the cafeteria. You felt jealous of the easy banter between the other large groups of students. You wished that it could be you. That you could fit in, just this once.

‘Sometimes they steal my books.’ Natasha said unexpectedly. Her voice was carefully even. She tightened her loose grip on the strap of her backpack.

You glanced back out at the sea of students. Their playful banter had a mocking edge to it that you hadn’t noticed before.

‘That sucks.’ You answered fiercely.

Natasha rolled her eyes casually, taking another bite of her sandwich and retrieving her book again. You took a deep breath, settled by her returned nonchalance.

You felt hungrier and refocused on your lunch. As you ate, you zeroed in on a group of girls across the room. They were laughing as they ripped pages slowly from another beaten up book. Your mouth opened in shock.

‘They’re the worst.’ Natasha spoke up again, casually following your gaze. Her tone was dismissive.

You didn’t speak. You stared at your fingers as they twisted together atop the laminate table. Anxiety rolled through you.

So far, none of these kids seemed to like you. You weren't even sure that you wanted them to. The next few years of education stretched before you ominously.

Suddenly, you felt a plastic wrapper graze your forearm. You startled and looked up. Natasha pushed the chocolate bar across the table with her fingertips.

‘My mom always packs two.’ She informed you with a shy shrug.

One of the kids at this school liked you.

You smiled again.

‘I like your blue hair.’ You blurted as you took the chocolate bar.

Natasha’s cheeks tinged pink. You caught the way she lifted her chin up when she next met your eyes.

‘Thanks.’ She mumbled, awkwardly offering out her hand to shake. ‘My name’s Natasha.’

Natasha was your first friend. For a long time, she was your only one.

Then, one day she was no one at all.

You didn’t see her again until 2012.

When your best friend had first gone missing, the stories that swarmed the neighbourhood were unbelievable.

There had been no warning from the family. No phone number, no forwarding address.

The first rumour was that loan sharks were after Natasha’s Dad.

Then, men in suits came knocking on the neighbours’ doors. The rumours shifted to something more criminal; money laundering, fraud.

Bullies at school laughed at you. The joke was that you’d somehow scared off the second weirdest kid in school. You grieved Natasha’s disappearance alone.

You sat through classes silently, dreaming up a hundred reasons to justify why Natasha might leave you behind in a place like this.

Nothing could have been more far-fetched than the truth.

A super spy.

You were watching the live news broadcast when New York was attacked. Everyone was.

You stared at raw footage of an alien race invading the planet. Nothing could be more shocking, you thought. And then, you saw the Avengers.

Natasha did not look the same.

No more awkward and gangly; no more blue hair.

It was the familiar tilt of her chin as she stared up at a passing spacecraft that jolted your memory.

You knelt in front of your TV, trying to get closer to the impossible picture.

Two days later, the city officials held a large press conference. It was hosted on the first floor of the new Stark Tower. Steve Rogers and Tony Stark were in attendance.

Tony Stark called her ‘Red’ off-handedly.

That’s what gave you the idea.

There was nothing else you could think to do anyway. Natasha Romanoff had the shortest Wikipedia entry you’d ever seen.

You addressed a letter to Stark Tower in the hopes it might reach her. It was beyond a long shot, but you had to try.

It was hard to explain the national feeling of adrenaline that lingered after the attack. It almost seemed like sure fate that Natasha would reply. Aliens were real and Earth had won. Impossible odds were being beaten all the time.

It was not that easy. It took six months for you to hear a response.

Your phone buzzed in the middle of the night with a text.

Despite the late hour, the message was carefully constructed.

You used to be able to read Natasha’s nervousness a mile off. When her Dad called her home early. When the teacher called her out for exceptional work in class. When you asked her favourite Christmas present and she stumbled over the answer.

‘Thanks for reaching out.’ She began, formal with her friendliness. ‘I do remember you and I appreciated your letter. We should catch up soon.’

The text sounded distant, but you felt certain that she wouldn't have sent it if she hadn’t wanted a response.

You tried to picture the woman that you’d seen on television, but all you could think of was the blue haired girl.

Despite everything that had happened. Natasha was still Natasha.

You called her.

She answered after two rings. Vindication rippled over your skin, you were right.

‘Hi.’ Natasha breathed out.

Her voice rasped unfamiliarly.

Your heart twisted as you heard all the years that had passed.

Natasha Romanoff was an adult now.

‘I’ve missed you so much.’ You told her before you had time to think.

You heard her muted surprise in shallow breaths.

‘I missed you too.’ She murmured after a moment. There was a pang of emotion in her voice, you could feel it down the phone. ‘You were my best friend.’

Your stomach swooped strangely at her words.

You tried to play off the feeling. You sighed with mock dramatics.

‘Now you prefer the Hulk right?’ You teased.

‘Oh yes.’ Natasha hummed, picking up the easy pattern of your teenage conversations. ‘He’s much better company.’

You talked for twenty minutes, mixing nostalgia with light inquiries about her new life.

Before the call ended, Natasha invited you to visit her in New York.

It was an easy answer to give.

When you hung up the phone, you held it close to your chest for a moment. The room was beginning to grow light with the dawn outside.

Natasha was not an awkward teenager anymore.

She waited for you in the entrance of Stark Tower, dressed casually in leggings and a hoodie.

It was unnerving. She was almost familiar to you.

Your eyes met as you entered through the glass front doors.

Natasha hugged herself, playing with the grey fabric of her hoodie.

You remembered the nervous gesture. You wondered if she still had the habit, or if she’d just remembered it because of you.

You sensed her uncertainty as you got closer. You opened your arms for a hug and she looked grateful for the direction.

She fit perfectly.

Your eyes filled with tears as her arms tightened around you.

When Natasha pulled away, she gave you a confused look.

You shook your head, swallowing down the lump in your throat.

‘I always hoped you were okay.’ You mumbled, wiping your cheeks, embarrassed at how quickly you’d gotten emotional. ‘Fuck, I’m so glad you’re alive.’

Natasha’s eyes shuttered with a sudden blankness. She tried to shake it away too.

‘No-one’s ever said that to me before.’ She murmured under her breath, before leading you back to the Tower’s elevators.

You pondered her words during the silent elevator ride. Natasha’s life was clearly full of danger. She was on the front line of extra-terrestrial defence. She’d fought monsters on live tv.

You thought of the fake American Mom and Dad you’d been introduced to. You thought of the little sister, who had seemed so devoted to Natasha.

Now no one was waiting for Natasha to come home safe.

In the elevator you took her hand, squeezing it gently.

Natasha looked at you, eyes crinkling with simple happiness. She squeezed back.

‘Red hair suits you.’ You commented. ‘But, I preferred the blue.’

Natasha rolled her eyes with mock exasperation. The elevator doors opened.

The space was obviously built to be a common area, but it was empty now.

Natasha led you right through the middle of it.

You entered her room, following behind her. You stopped in the doorway, trying to take it in.

As a teenager, Natasha’s bedroom had been wall-to-wall with bright posters. In contrast, this room seemed almost clinically blank. A single piece of understated art hung on the far away wall. The bedspread was pristine white, like a hotel.

Your eyes clung to the only piece of personality in the room. A stack of CDs and a CD player lay on the hardwood floor, next to the largest window you’d ever seen. You recognised the top CD’s cover art immediately; Nevermind by Nirvana.

You looked at Natasha in surprise. It had been her favourite album when you’d last known her.

Natasha met your gaze readily. There was a glint of defiance in the tilt of her chin.

‘Oh, so you still have good taste.’ You grinned.

There was a pause. Natasha’s lip twitched with the start of a smile. Then, she hugged herself again.

‘I loved those songs.’ Natasha whispered, and her sudden fragility startled you. ‘It was the best time.’

Her eyes were careful, but you felt the emotion hiding in them. You moved forward again, hugging her instinctively.

‘The best time.’ You agreed quietly.

You spent the afternoon listening to the album, then another one, then another. The CDs were well played. Sometimes the disc would catch for a moment, but the song would always persevere.

You didn’t feel the need to talk.

Natasha sprawled out on her bed, head cupped in her hands as she faced you. You sat on the windowsill next to the music, leaning your head against the side and watching her in return.

You exchanged smiles back and forth. You exchanged memories of the songs with just a twitch of an eyebrow or the quirk of a lip.

Natasha’s finger tapped at the side of her jaw absentmindedly.

Eventually, time moved on. When one album finished playing, Natasha swung her legs over the side of her bed and stretched casually. You didn’t believe the nonchalance for a second, sure that such a smooth gesture must take forethought.

‘Dinner?’ She asked and you nodded with a smile, ready and terrified to meet her roommates.

Captain America offered you a bowl of pasta.

The weirdest day of your life only got weirder. The other Avengers were sitting around watching a large flat-screen television. Natasha picked her feet up as she stepped around their legs, heading to the furthest away sofa.

You followed behind her, muttering quiet hellos in answer to the openly curious stares of Iron Man, Hawkeye and Dr. Banner.

Natasha tucked her legs underneath her as she sat in the far corner of the sofa.

Automatically, you followed a habit that had been established years before. You threw yourself casually into the space directly next to her. Your fork snuck over to her bowl of pasta, stealing a piece. You tasted it and grinned.

‘Yours is always better.’ You complained, watching as Natasha stuck her tongue out in response.

You only remembered your audience when Tony Stark cleared his throat.

‘Did she tell you that she’s a ruthless assassin.’ He stated loudly, receiving a not-so-subtle elbow jab from Captain America.

‘What?’ Tony retorted, rubbing his side pointedly. ‘She’s never brought a date home before. And there must be a reason she’s called the Black Widow.’

You watched Natasha from the corner of your eye; the sudden embarrassment spilling over her face. The shame that lingered for a split second.

‘Not all names are literal.’ You answered bitingly, feeling an old defensive urge flaring. There had been enough bullies going after Natasha when you were at school. ‘We don’t call you Micro-Penis Man, do we?’

Hawkeye snorted with laughter, Dr. Banner’s lip twitched.

‘Clever.’ Tony drawled sarcastically.

You ignored him, turning back to Natasha instead. Her expression was unreadable as she searched your face. You didn’t know what she was looking for.

You sat in silence for the rest of your meal, watching the generic movie on screen instead of engaging in more awkward conversation. More than once though, you felt the curious stares of the others lingering on you.

As soon as you’d both finished eating, Natasha led you back to her room. This time, the air inside felt different. You caught the loosening of her shoulders, her subtle relief at returning to her own space. She threw her hoodie on top of her bedspread.

You glanced back around the room, realising abruptly that the minimal design wasn’t meant to feel clinical. It was more reminiscent of a spa.

You caught Natasha’s attention and gave her an encouraging smile.

‘Nice digs.’ You commented, raising your eyebrows.

Natasha laughed once, voice so much richer than you remembered. She ran her fingers through her hair. Your eyes caught on the muscles flexing in her bare arm.

‘It’ll do.’ She shrugged teasingly. ‘It’s nicer than Ohio.’

You sniffed dramatically. ‘Less alien attacks in Ohio.’

‘Just Russian infiltration.’ Natasha countered dryly. A tension shivered through you as she finally acknowledged the unspoken. The childhood friendship that had brought you here and the lie at the centre of it.

A burning sadness bubbled up inside you. You could taste it burning your throat. Your eyes pricked suddenly with tears.

Natasha stared at you with confusion and something akin to fear.

You moved toward her, watching as she resisted an urge to step further back. You took her hands in yours. You blinked and for a moment, her hair was blue.

‘I’m going to say this wrong.’ You explained ruefully, holding her wide eyed attention. Her palms were warm, soft and familiar.

‘I’m on your side.’ You promised clumsily. ‘Even if you decide to join the aliens. Even if you don’t want it. You didn’t stop being my best friend.’

You waited for an evaluating stare, a moment of hesitation.

Instead, you felt the soft push of Natasha’s head pressing against your shoulder. Her body moved flush against yours. Your arms slid around her back. You felt the curve of her spine beneath her clothes. The thud of her heart, hidden within a ribcage.

‘There’s a spare room ready.’ Natasha murmured at last, words muffled. ‘But maybe you can just stay in here.’

Natasha held her chin high as she took a step back, regarding you expectantly.

A wide smile broke out on your face.

‘A sleepover? On a school night?’ You teased, enjoying the way your acceptance brightened Natasha’s countenance too.

You changed into your pyjamas in Natasha’s ensuite bathroom. You brushed your teeth and stared at yourself for a few minutes in her large mirror.

You wondered how different you must look to her now. If she noticed all the traces of growing up laid out on your skin.

Natasha was beginning to feel eternal.

You left the bathroom and froze almost immediately in your tracks.

Natasha was standing beside her bed, putting on her pyjama top. It was halfway over her head and her bare back faced you.

You couldn’t stop your sharp intake of breath.

Scars littered her soft curves.

Harsh, deep welts that hurt to look at. Her skin was mottled in places, coated with different shades of injury. Some scars were older, but others seemed painfully new.

They criss-crossed into a brutal painting, brushstrokes feverishly ripped across her skin.

A sharp sense of outrage was already burning through you. A need to fix what had already been done.

Natasha had already pulled her top down calmly, turning to face you with steady resolve.

‘I’m not ashamed of them.’ She said with simple directness.

Natasha kept her chin up as you walked closer to her. You noticed the slight tremble in her jaw when you were inches from her. She held her arms still at her side and you wondered if she was resisting the urge to hug herself. Defensiveness rippled through her. A readiness to hold onto her dignity.

You had seen that stance many times before, in the high school cafeteria.

For the first time, you realised that Natasha did not remember you like you remembered her. She could not recall the simplicity of teenage drama and stupid crushes.

A lifetime of trauma sat between you. There was no before or after with Natasha. She’d had scars long before she’d had blue hair.

There were no words for your new understanding. Your chest squeezed with something like love or sadness.

‘I know.’ You answered her at last. You shrugged helplessly. ‘I just wish I’d been around.’

You touched Natasha’s face without thinking, a careful stroke along her cheek. Your fingers reached her hair and you touched a piece of it reverently. When you looked back to her face, Natasha’s eyes were closed.

Your kiss was feather light. Your lips barely brushed hers. The taste of her stained your mouth anyway. You felt yourself reorientate like a compass finding North.

Natasha’s eyes fluttered open, her smile was shy. You still saw the fear lingering at the edge of everything. You chose not to mind it.

You slept in the same bed that night. Natasha held your arm lightly between her own.

Her even breaths lulled you with their gentle rhythm. Loose strands of her hair tickled your clavicle.

You stared at the ceiling and thought about intimacy. About love and friendship.

The lingering tattoo of Natasha on your lips was spreading through your veins now.

At 3am, an alarm sounded.

Sudden and pounding, it echoed from the ceiling. A droning tempo that had you scrambling to your feet.

Natasha grabbed your arm tiredly, halting your sleepy confusion

‘Avengers alarm.’ She informed you, her voice crisp and clear. You felt like you’d barely blinked before a dressed Natasha Romanoff was walking out the door.

All the words you wanted to say were still on your tongue.

Seven hours.

Seven hours spent pacing the common room. Watching an unhelpful news broadcast and hoping the building’s AI system might finally tell you something useful.

Seven hours imagining the worst. Seven hours praying for her to come home.

When the elevator doors opened at last, you were beside yourself.

‘Thank God.’ You muttered as you hurried forward, pulling Natasha into a tight hug. You breathed her in. ‘Thank God.’ You repeated, more for yourself than for her.

When you let her go, Natasha took a moment to look at you properly.

‘You waited.’ Natasha commented slowly, her gaze never wavering.

You nodded silently, a lump caught in your throat. You couldn’t understand her expression. You didn’t have time to think

Her hand touched your waist. With one finger she reached over, tilting your chin towards her.

She licked her lips, full of intention.

Her mouth pressed softly against yours.

You were a compass and she was North.

When you fell in love with Natasha, she had red hair.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff #avengers imagine

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vorteckpackagingmachinery · 1 year ago

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#pallet stretch wrap #sleeve wrapper #automatic pallet wrapper #taping machine #machine packaging companies #packaging machine #packaging machine suppliers #packaging and machinery #packaging machinery equipment #stretch film wrapping machine dublin #stretch wrapped pallet dublin #wrapped pallet dublin

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kirbysdreamlandd · 4 months ago

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fanfic from the hot ones video when he’s showing around his house and then he accidentally walks in and readers asleep and martin’s filming like oh😅😅😅 whoops guys LMFAOAOA

࿔Hot Ones

Hamzah X Y/N (GN)

Fluff, SFW, Smooching, One-shot

“So, yeah. This is my lovely office.” Hamzah clasped his hands together and smiled at the camera, his voice full of mock pride.

Martin panned the shot, slowly revealing the full extent of the room. The cluttered desk, the half-filled water dispenser, the messy bed—but he suddenly stopped.

“Oh, and what is that?” Martin asked, shuffling closer to zoom in on the side of the bed.

Hamzah craned his neck to look over Martin’s shoulder, his face falling as the recorder’s screen framed a blue, square-shaped transparent wrapper sitting on the nightstand.

Instinctively Hamzah swung an arm out, shoving the camera away so hard it made a loud thud along with a slap on Martin’s hand.

“Ow, dude!” Martin whined, fumbling to keep hold of the camera as it nearly slipped from his grasp.

Hamzah’s face turned an alarming shade of red, his eyes refusing to meet Martin’s as he muttered, “Anyway, guys,” and quickly turned on his heel toward the gaming desk. “This is where I do a lot of my work.”

He kept his back to the camera, rambling about the standing desk and his computer, giving his cheeks a moment to return to their normal color.

“Guys, Hamzah was hiding—” Martin started, his teasing tone immediately ticking Hamzah off. “—a furry costume under the bed.” He finished, Hamzah’s widened stare stopping him in his tracks.

There was a beat of silence as Hamzah stared him down, his lips twitching as if he were trying to hold back a smile. Finally, he sighed dramatically and threw his hands up. “Alright, you got me,” he said, his tone suddenly over-the-top serious. “I guess the truth is out.”

Martin’s laughter escalated, and he zoomed in on Hamzah’s mock-defeated expression. “Yeah? What kind of furry are you, then?”

“A wolf, obviously.” Hamzah said, crossing his arms as he leaned against his desk. “Lead of the pack, they all follow me. It’s a lifestyle, not a choice.”

Martin nodded, the camera now drifting over to a collection of framed AI-generated art hung haphazardly on Hamzah’s wall.

“So, uh… is that it? Are we done with the tour?” Martin asked, raising a brow as Hamzah glanced around the room.

“Not yet!” Hamzah said, perking up as if struck by inspiration. “We still haven’t shown you the bedroom. Let’s go.”

The camera panned over the surprisingly clean room—a tidy desk in the corner, a mirror mounted neatly on the wall, and then…

“Oh!” Hamzah froze mid-step, his hand glued to the handle as his eyes landed on you, sprawled out on the bed. The blankets were tossed aside, and you were snuggled deep into his beloved Playboi Carti hoodie, the oversized fabric practically swallowing you as you slept peacefully.

Martin leaned behind Hamzah, while he lowered the camera. “Uh oh.” he whispered.

The creak of the door opening and Martin’s voice stirred you from your sleep. Your eyes fluttered open groggily, your head lifting just enough to see the doorway—and the unmistakable sight of Martin holding a camera.

“Martin—?” you mumbled, still half-asleep as you scrambled to sit up from the compromising sleeping position you were in.

Martin mouthed a “Sorry” as he exited the room while Hamzah walked over, now standing beside you by the bed. His posture was stiff, as if bracing for the worst.

“I’m so sorry,” Hamzah started, his voice unusually quiet, his eyes darting over your body nervously. “We were filming and… I forgot you were asleep here.” He tugged at his beanie, his eyes filled with a worried, apologetic expression.

You wiped the sleep from your eyes with the long sleeve of the hoodie, trying to collect yourself. “It’s fine” you muttered, still half-dazed, your voice raspy from sleep.

As your vision cleared, you noticed something odd. A slight tinge of red lingered in Hamzah’s pupils, and his lips seemed oddly swollen and glossy. You furrowed your brows, leaning in closer to get a better look, and then instinctively reached out, grabbing his face to level with yours.

“What the hell happened?” you asked, a little alarmed, your voice a mixture of concern and confusion.

“What?” he stammered, clearly caught off guard by your sudden move. He wiped his lips quickly, but it only made it worse. “No, it’s—uh, I’m fine.”

You furrowed your brows even more, a growing sense of worry creeping into your chest. “Hamzah, you look sick. What’s going on? Do I need to call somebody?”

Your head turned, frantically scanning the room as your heart raced to find your cellphone. You were already reaching for it, about to call someone, when you felt Hamzah’s hands gently hold your wrist, pulling you back to his side.

With his face still in your hands, Hamzah couldn’t help but smile, a flutter of warmth filling his chest as he saw the genuine worry etched on your face. “It’s the spicy wings, babe.” he said softly, his voice slightly strained as he cleared his voice.

Your face relaxed as an exasperated sigh escaped your lips. You took in Hamzah’s face once more, the swelling on his lips and the unshakable calmness in his demeanor finally making sense.

“We were doing Hot Ones.” he said, his voice still carrying a bit of a raspy edge as you gently brushed an imaginary piece of dust from his face.

“That means you’ve got more suffering to go through?” you whined, your shoulders dropping with disappointment.

“Not as much suffering as you put me through.” he teased, an exaggerated sarcasm in his voice. “This is what I get for marrying my ball and chain.”

Before you could throw him the usual annoyed look, he grinned and leaned in closer. You didn’t even have time to protest before his lips pressed softly against yours. The slight swell of his lips was tender against your own. The saliva that had gathered in Hamzah’s mouth from the spicy food mixed with yours, making the exchange even more slippery.

“Tell me when you’re done swapping spit!” Martin’s voice rang from the other room, making you both instinctively pull away, trying to hide your smiles. “We’ve got more wings to try.”

Hamzah scoffed, amused, before using his hands—resting on either side of you—to push himself up.

He murmured a soft “Love you” before walking out of the room, closing the door behind him with a gentle click. You sat on the bed, the quiet stillness surrounding you. The only thing left of Hamzah was the lingering scent of his cologne that clung to his black hoodie.

You closed your eyes for a moment, savoring the moment. You felt a slight sting on your tongue, a reminder of Hamzah’s spicy kiss still lingering in your mouth.

A/N: yaaaaaallll this was written in 2 hours, I had such a writer block in the beginning (what’s new?) but it didn’t turn out as bad as i thought. Hope you enjoyed 💙

#hamzah #hamzah fluff #hamzah the fantastic #slushie #slushynoobz #hamzah x y/n #hamzahthefantastic x reader #hamzah fic #out of character.

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suunani · 29 days ago

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bet you won’t ( lee heeseung )

you show heeseung exactly what happens when he dares you to kiss him.

❛ content 1.5k words, top! male reader, bsf! heeseung, sexual tension, college au, suggestive themes, profanity, detailed rough kissing scenes, heeseung being manhandled.

you and heeseung had a long history of testing each other’s limits.

it started when you were kids — who could jump from the highest ledge, who could hold their breath the longest, who had the guts to steal snacks from the convenience store without getting caught. and as you grew older, the dares evolved into riskier, more reckless things. sneaking into concerts without tickets, downing questionable mixes of alcohol, going to a tattoo shop at 2 a.m just to see who would actually follow through.

the rule was pretty simple : never back down.

tonight, that rule had led you here, sprawled across your couch with empty soda cans and snack wrappers littering the floor, both of you running out of dumb dares but still itching for one last push.

then heeseung, with that lazy smirk that always meant trouble, turned to you.

“i bet you won’t kiss me.”

it was so casual, so offhanded that for a second, it almost didn’t register.

but then you saw the way his fingers twitched against his thigh, the almost imperceptible way he wet his lips after he said it. he was still grinning, but there was something in his expression that gave him away.

he expected you to laugh. to call him an idiot. maybe shove his shoulder and move on.

instead, you leaned in. “oh yeah?”

that flicker of hesitation returned, but he doubled down, arching a brow as if daring you to take it further.

“yeah.”

fine. he wanted to play? you’d play.

in one smooth, deliberate motion, you grabbed the front of heeseung’s hoodie, fisting the fabric tight in your hands as you yanked him forward. hard.

he gasped, stumbling a half-step, caught completely off guard — but not fighting you. not resisting. his hands flew up instinctively, more out of shock than anything else, but he didn’t push away. didn’t even try.

and then your mouth was on his.

you didn’t kiss him. you took him — lips crashing into his like a fucking storm, teeth catching on his lower lip before you pushed past, tongue hot and demanding as it swept into his mouth. this wasn’t some teasing little dare, some flirty back-and-forth.

if you were gonna do this, you were doing it.

heeseung barely had time to make a sound before you were crowding into him, walking him backward until his knees hit the edge of the couch and he dropped down with a surprised grunt. you followed immediately, crawling into his space, straddling his lap with zero hesitation. your hands gripped the sides of his hoodie again and you yanked him forward by it, using the leverage to tilt his face up and kiss him deeper.

you could feel the shock bleeding out of him, replaced by something hotter, needier. his lips parted with no resistance, and the second your tongue slid against his, he let out this sound — soft and wrecked and breathless — that punched straight through you.

that sound made your grip tighten.

one hand fisted in the back of his hoodie, dragging it up so your palm could settle between his shoulder blades. the other slid to the nape of his neck, fingers curling into his hair as you held him there — forced him to take every second of your mouth, every bit of heat you were pouring into him. he gasped again, thighs spreading slightly beneath you, like his body had given up on playing hard to get and was begging to be claimed.

his hands clutched at your arms, fingertips digging into your sleeves like he was grounding himself — like he needed something to hold onto or he’d fall apart completely. you felt the tension rolling through him, the way he was fighting to keep up, lips moving with yours as his chest heaved under you.

you pulled back enough to breathe. not far. just an inch.

his face — flushed, dazed, pupils blown wide — wrecked. his chest was rising and falling like you’d stolen the air right out of his lungs.

you smirked.

“still think i wouldn’t do it?” you asked, voice low, just a little rough, still catching your breath.

heeseung swallowed thickly. his lips were red, wet, slightly parted. “holy fucking shit.”

“that all you got to say?” you murmured, dragging your thumb slowly across his cheekbone, then down to his jaw, tracing the sharp line before gripping his chin and forcing his eyes back on yours.

he blinked slowly, like he was still trying to process it, then let out a breathless laugh.

“i mean… i wasn’t expecting that.”

you hummed, leaning in closer.

“bet you weren’t expecting to like it either.”

that hit. you felt it in the way his fingers twitched against your arms, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed again. he didn’t answer. didn’t pull away.

instead, his gaze flickered back to your mouth; fleeting, but obvious. and you caught that. and you weren’t about to let it slide.

heeseung had started this game, but now you were running it.

in one swift motion, you grabbed both his wrists and shoved them up, pinning them to the cushion behind his head as you pushed him back into the couch. his breath caught, eyes wide, but holy fuck — he looked so good like this. flushed. breathless. helpless.

trapped under you.

“heeseung,” you growled, voice dropping. “you wanted me to do it, didn’t you?”

“i—” his voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.

“you don’t get to play dumb now.”

your grip on his wrists tightened, knuckles flexing, and you leaned in — mouth just hovering over his, close enough to feel the heat of your breath. his lips parted, waiting, but you didn’t give in. not yet.

“you dared me because you wanted it. wanted to see if id actually do it,” your nose brushed against his. “and now you don’t know what the fuck to do with yourself.”

he was breathing hard, chest rising fast, back arched slightly under your weight. but he still didn’t tell you to stop. if anything, he arched closer. his fingers curled helplessly in your grip, like they were aching to touch you but couldn’t. you weren’t giving him the chance.

you kissed down his jaw, hot and slow, dragging your teeth lightly against his skin before biting just enough to make him jolt. he tilted his head to the side — gave you access, gave you everything.

“say it,” you murmured, lips brushing over the spot just beneath his ear. “fucking say it.”

“fuck,” he gasped, barely audible. “you win.”

that was all you needed.

you devoured him.

crushed your mouth to his, harder than before — rough, messy, all teeth and tongue. he moaned into it, the sound shooting straight through your spine. you bit at his lip, then sucked it between your teeth, tugging until he gasped, his hips jerking under yours.

you finally released his wrists, and he didn’t waste a second. his hands flew to your shoulders, gripping like he didn’t know what else to do — like he needed to hold onto you or he’d lose it.

and then you grabbed him.

fingers digging into his thighs, you yanked him closer, grinding down against him with slow, brutal intent. he choked out a noise — loud, desperate — as his hands clutched at your hoodie, knuckles white.

you kissed him again, rough and wet and fucking hungry, and his body just gave.

his thighs trembled under your grip, chest pressed flush to yours, lips working against yours like kissing you was the only thing keeping him alive.

your hands slid under his hoodie, pushing it up, palms splaying over hot skin. his stomach flinched at your touch but he didn’t stop you. you traced every inch, every dip and line, fingers dragging over his ribs, up his back, possessive and firm like you were learning him.

claiming him.

“heeseung,” you said again, voice rough and low, lips ghosting over his flushed skin.

you sucked at the base of his neck, then moved up, leaving a trail of heat behind. “say it again.”

he whimpered, legit fucking whimpered, hips twitching under you.

“do it again,” he whispered, wrecked. “i dare you.”

you laughed and then grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look at you, and kissed him so hard his head tipped back.

because you never turned down a dare.

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tosomeonessomeone · 2 months ago

Text

there you are.

words•5.2k /pairings・Lee know x Solo mom reader / genres・fluff, humor / warnings・ MDI, intercourse

You shifted Rio’s warm weight on your hip, his little fingers crumpling the orange-cat drawing he’d clung to all morning. “Mama, *pleeeease* can we get one?” he whined, burying his face in your shoulder. His plea was sugar-coated, sticky as the juice stain on your sleeve from breakfast—the third shirt this week. At 30, solo motherhood meant your world spun to the rhythm of daycare alarms, client deadlines, and the perpetual tang of spilled apple sauce. But Rio’s eyes—wide as the cartoon kittens he’d scribbled—melted your resolve. “We’ll *look*,” you relented, steering the stroller toward *Whisker Haven*, its address hastily scribbled on a Post-it from your coworker. *Just looking*, you told yourself. *No commitments*.

The shelter hummed like a living thing. Cedar chips and lavender cleaner mingled in the air, punctuated by trills and mews from wall-mounted cages. Rio squirmed free before you could unclip him, darting toward a sunlit playpen where a lanky volunteer knelt, tousled chestnut hair catching the light. His hands moved with practiced ease, flicking a feather toy just out of reach of a speckled kitten. “C’mon, little warrior,” he coaxed, voice low and playful. “Jump higher.”

Rio crashed into the scene like a tiny tornado. “Hi!” he announced, planting himself beside the stranger. The man glanced up, and your breath hitched—not at his sharp jawline or the faint scar threading his brow, but at the way his smile transformed his face. Crow’s feet crinkled, warm as summer honey.

“Hey there, adventurer,” he said, tilting his head to match Rio’s height. “I’m Minho. Wanna try?” He offered the feather wand, handle first. Rio seized it with a warrior’s cry, sending the kitten pouncing.

Minho rose, brushing cat hair off his jeans. His gaze found yours, steady and curious. “He’s a natural,” he said, nodding toward Rio, who was now giggling as the kitten batted his shoelaces. There was no pity in his tone, no *single-mom radar* flicker—just genuine warmth. You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of your faded jeans and the granola bar wrapper peeking out of your tote.

“Thanks,” you said, softer than intended. “He’s been… obsessed.”

Minho crouched again, steadying Rio’s grip on the toy. “Obsession’s good here,” he replied, glancing up through his lashes. “Means he’s got passion. And good taste.”

The kitten leapt, landing in Rio’s lap. Your son’s squeal of delight echoed off the walls, and for the first time in weeks, you felt your shoulders relax. *Just looking*, you’d said. But as Minho’s laughter tangled with Rio’s, something fragile and hopeful stirred in your chest—a feeling you hadn’t dared name in years.

Weekends bloomed into a rhythm of shelter visits, the three of you falling into a routine as comfortable as an old sweater. Minho became a fixture in your Saturdays, his patience with Rio as endless as his cat trivia. He taught your son to cradle kittens like clouds, guiding his small hands with a steadiness that made your throat tighten. “Support their paws, buddy—like they’re holding tiny secrets,” he’d say, and Rio would nod, solemn as a scholar.

You learned Minho was 26, a grad student in animal behavior who spoke of feline body language like it was Shakespeare. “Cats arch their backs not just to scare foes, but to feel bigger when they’re scared,” he explained once, demonstrating with a theatrical curve of his spine that sent Rio into giggles. But it was the slow blinks that undid you—the way Minho would lock eyes with a wary cat, lids drifting shut in a languid Morse code. “They’re saying, ‘I trust you,’” he murmured to Rio during one lesson. Then, glancing at you across the playpen, he repeated the gesture, slow and deliberate. Your cheeks burned. *It’s just a demo*, you told yourself, even as your pulse skittered.

One rainy afternoon, the shelter emptied early, the patter of droplets harmonizing with the kittens’ purrs. Rio dozed in his stroller, thumb tucked in his mouth, worn out from chasing a energetic tabby. Minho appeared beside you, two steaming mugs in hand. “Matcha latte,” he said, voice low to avoid waking Rio. “No sugar, just like you mentioned last week.”

You blinked, startled he’d remembered your offhand comment about hating sweet drinks. His fingers grazed yours as you took the mug, calloused from scrubbing litter boxes yet impossibly gentle. The silence between you thickened, charged like the storm-heavy air.

“He’s lucky,” Minho said suddenly, nodding at Rio. “Not every kid gets a mom who works two jobs *and* lets him turn her kitchen into a cat art gallery.”

Your grip tightened on the mug. He knew. Of course he did—you’d confessed it weeks ago, that offhand moment when he’d asked about Rio’s father. But hearing him acknowledge it now, without a trace of pity, unraveled something in you.

“Some days, it doesn’t feel like enough,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could cage them. “The deadlines, the daycare bills… What if I’m just—”

“Enough.” Minho’s interruption was soft but firm. He stepped closer, the scent of matcha and cedar enveloping you. “You’re *everything* he needs.”

Tears breached your lashes before you could stop them. You turned away, but Minho was already there, offering a tissue printed with a grinning cat and the pun *“Hang in there, paw-some human!”* A wet laugh escaped you. “Do you stock these for all the crying women who wander in?”

“Just the ones who pretend they’ve got it all figured out.” His smile was tender, a silent invitation to lean in.

Outside, rain drummed its approval. Rio sighed in his sleep, Tofu—the tabby he’d claimed as his soulmate—curled at his feet. And in that fragile, honeyed moment, you let yourself imagine: Minho’s hand brushing yours not by accident, his slow-blink smiles reserved just for you, weekends that stretched into years.

The rain softens to a whisper as Minho leans against the adoption desk, his gaze steady on yours. *“You know,”* he begins, tracing the rim of his mug, *“I started volunteering here after my sister’s cat, Mochi, passed. She’d had him since we were kids.”* He pauses, a shadow flickering in his eyes. *“She’s in remission now, but back then… the shelter was the only place that didn’t feel heavy.”*

Your breath catches. This is more than he’s ever shared—a fissure in his usual playful armor. *“Minho, I…”*

He shakes his head, smiling faintly. *“Don’t. I’m not fishing for sympathy. Just… you should know I’ve seen how love can be a lifeline. Even the furry kind.”*

The admission hangs between you, raw and real. You glance at Rio, his lashes fluttering in sleep, then back at Minho. *“After Rio’s dad left,”* you say, the words tasting less bitter than usual, *“I almost gave up freelancing. Too unstable. But then Rio drew his first cat—a scribbled blob with fangs—and I thought…* Okay. We’ll build a life where he gets to keep that joy.”

Minho’s thumb brushes your wrist, fleeting. *“You did.”*

A kitten mews from a nearby crate, breaking the tension. Minho chuckles, scooping up the bold calico intruder. *“This is Soybean. She’s a door-dasher—escapes every chance she gets.”*

*“Like someone else I know,”* you tease, nodding at Rio, who’s begun snoring softly.

Minho cradles Soybean against his chest, her purrs a rumbling echo of his next words. *“When I’m with you two… it feels like I’ve found something I didn’t know I was searching for.”*

Your heart stammers. *“Minho—”*

*“Not asking for labels,”* he interjects, setting Soybean down. *“Just… want you to see what I see. A woman who paints worlds for a living, raises a kind-hearted kid, and still makes time to laugh at my terrible cat puns.”* He gestures to the tissue still crumpled in your hand. *“That’s not surviving. That’s* thriving.”

The shelter’s clock ticks, loud in the silence. You step closer, until the steam from your mug curls into his. *“What if I see you too?”* you whisper. *“The guy who teaches kittens—and single moms—how to trust again?”*

His slow blink is answer enough.

The adoption day arrives, and Tofu—now lord of Rio’s sock drawer and ruler of half-eaten goldfish crackers—officially becomes family. When Minho shows up at your apartment with a cat tree taller than Rio, your son erupts into a frenzy, launching himself at Minho’s legs. “Hyung! Tofu needs a *castle*!”

Minho laughs, setting down the box with a thud. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms still scratched from last week’s kitten wrestling match. “Every queen deserves a throne,” he says, winking at you. You cross your arms, feigning suspicion. “And you just *happened* to have a cat tree lying around?”

“I’m full of surprises,” he says, tossing Rio a package of felt mice to “test” for Tofu. For the next hour, you watch Minho assemble the tower with the precision of an engineer, indulging Rio’s demands to add “secret tunnels” (a cardboard tube) and a “treasure box” (your old sunglasses case). Tofu watches from the couch, her crooked tail flicking in approval.

By sunset, the living room is a jungle of scratching posts and dangling toys. You order pizza, and Minho stays—not because you ask, but because Rio tugs him to the table with sauce-stained hands. “You *gotta* try the pepperoni, hyung! It’s Mama’s favorite.” Minho’s knee brushes yours under the table, lingering a beat too long.

Later, after Rio’s bedtime stories (*“Again, Mama! The one with the space cat!”*), Minho hovers at the door, his usual confidence fraying. “The shelter’s fundraiser… I’d like you both there. With me.” He hesitates, fingers drumming his thigh. “Not as volunteers. As… my date.”

Your pulse stutters. *Date*. The word feels too big, too bright for your cluttered life. But Minho’s gaze is steady, his vulnerability disarming. “Okay,” you whisper.

The fundraiser glows with string lights and the murmur of well-dressed attendees. Rio, in a bow tie that keeps slipping sideways, drags you and Minho to a photo booth plastered with cat-ear headbands. “Family picture!” he declares, shoving a pair of cardboard whiskers at Minho. You freeze, but Minho just grins, clipping the whiskers to his hair. “Your majesty,” he says, bowing to Rio.

The camera flashes: Minho’s arm around your waist, your head tilted toward him, Rio mid-laugh with frosting smeared on his chin. When the strip prints, Minho tucks it into his wallet, his ears pink. “For luck,” he mutters.

You escape to the garden when the crowd swells, Rio asleep in your arms. Cherry blossoms drift around you like confetti. Minho brushes a petal from your hair, his voice soft. “I know I’m younger. I know your world is… *a lot*. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Your throat tightens. “Why?”

He steps closer, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Love isn’t about age,” he says, nuzzling your temple as Rio’s breath evens against your shoulder. “It’s about who stays.”

The kiss is gentle. When you pull back, Minho’s forehead rests against yours. “I’m not asking for a spotlight,” he whispers. “Just a corner of your chaos.”

You laugh, tearful, and his mouth finds yours again. *Chaos*, you think, as Rio snores and Tofu bats at a falling blossom. *Maybe chaos is where love grows best*.

As you and Minho lingered under the cherry blossoms, Rio’s frosting-smeared face pressed against your shoulder, the night felt suspended in time—soft and hopeful. But then a voice cut through the quiet.

“Minho! There you are!”

A woman in a sleek black dress approached, her heels clicking sharply against the garden stones. She was familiar—a longtime donor, maybe, or a board member. Her gaze flickered to Rio, then to your intertwined fingers, before settling on Minho. “We need you inside. The press wants a quote about next year’s expansion.”

Minho hesitated, his hand still warm on your waist. “Give me five minutes, Soojin.”

Soojin’s smile tightened. “Now, Minho. This is the *real work*.” Her emphasis lingered, a blade thinly veiled.

You stiffened, shifting Rio higher on your hip. “Go,” you said, too quickly. “We’re fine.”

Minho searched your face. “I’ll be right back.”

But he wasn’t.

Minutes bled into an hour. Rio grew restless, tugging at his bow tie, while you paced the garden path. Laughter and clinking glasses spilled from the venue, a world away from the sticky reality of motherhood. When Minho finally reappeared, his tie loosened and hair ruffled, Soojin trailed behind him, her laugh sharp as champagne bubbles.

“—such a *natural* with the donors,” she purred, patting his arm. “You’ll go far, if you stay focused.” Her eyes slid to you, polite but dismissive. “Goodnight.”

Minho reached for you, but you stepped back. “You should get back,” you said, voice brittle. “The *real work*.”

He flinched. “That’s not what I—”

“It’s fine.” You adjusted Rio’s blanket, avoiding his gaze. “We’re used to being an afterthought.”

The words hung between you, cruel and untrue, but fear had already coiled around your heart. Minho’s jaw tightened. “You think I’d choose *that* over you two?”

You didn’t answer. Rio whimpered in his sleep, and you turned toward the exit.

“Wait.” Minho caught your wrist, his voice raw. “I’m not him. I’m not going to vanish because something shinier comes along.”

Tears blurred the fairy lights. “How do I know that?”

He stepped closer, his thumb brushing your pulse point. “Because I’m asking you to trust me,” he whispered. “Even when it’s hard.”

The gulf between you trembled, fragile as a spiderweb. Then Rio stirred, his small hand patting your cheek. “Mama, go home?”

Minho released you, his eyes shadowed. “Let me drive you.”

You shook your head. “We’ll take a taxi.”

The ride home was silent, Rio’s head heavy on your shoulder. As you tucked him into bed, Tofu curled at his feet, your phone buzzed.

**Minho:** *I’m here. However long it takes.*

You didn’t reply. But you didn’t delete the message either.

A week of silence. Seven days of Minho’s unanswered calls piling up like unread apologies, and Rio’s relentless questions chipping away at your resolve. *“Did Minho-hyung get lost? Is he mad at us?”* You’d deflected with hollow excuses—*“He’s just busy, sweetheart”*—but Rio’s crumpled frown mirrored the guilt gnawing at your ribs.

On Saturday morning, you flee to the park, pushing Rio’s stroller through the fog-thick air. Tofu peers from the basket, her tail flicking like a metronome counting down your dread. The lake glimmers ahead, its surface still as held breath. Rio babbles to Tofu about turtles, unaware as you round the bend—and there he is.

Minho slouches on a bench, his hoodie sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms still marked with fading kitten scratches. A paper cup sits abandoned beside him, steam long gone. His gaze is fixed on the water, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying the sky. You pivot sharply, but Tofu leaps from the stroller with a yowl, darting straight to him.

“Y/N.”

His voice is sandpaper-rough, and you flinch. Rio twists in his seat, squealing, *“Hyung! Mama, look—it’s Minho!”*

You fumble for Tofu, but she’s already in his lap, kneading his thighs like dough. Traitor.

“Hey, troublemaker,” Minho murmurs, scratching her chin. His eyes lock onto yours, shadowed and sleepless. “Missed you.”

Rio tugs your sleeve, lower lip wobbling. “Mama, *please*.”

You crouch, adjusting his scarf to avoid Minho’s stare. “Stay here with Tofu, okay? Just for a minute.”

“But—”

“*Please*, Rio.”

He nods, solemn, and you rise on unsteady legs. Minho meets you halfway, the morning chill sharpening the lines of his face.

“You’ve been ghosting me,” he says, voice low.

“I’ve been… figuring things out.”

“By shutting me out?” He steps closer, Tofu pressed to his chest like a shield. “Talk to me. *Please*.”

The plea unravels you. “What’s there to say? You saw how Soojin looked at me—like I was a *distraction*. And I can’t—I won’t be the thing that holds you back from—”

“From what? Schmoozing donors?” He laughs, bitter. “That’s not me, Y/N. Never was.”

“But it’s part of your job! Your *future*—”

“I quit.”

The words hang between you, brittle as ice.

“What?”

“Donor relations. Events. All of it.” He sets Tofu down, his hands trembling. “I told them I’m sticking to the cats. And the kids. And… you.”

Your breath hitches. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I did.” He swipes a hand over his face. “Because I’d rather mop piss puddles every day than lose you two.”

Rio’s laughter floats over, Tofu now chasing a leaf he’s waving. Minho’s gaze softens. “I’ve been here every morning. Hoping you’d come. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”

Tears blur the fog-drenched trees. “I’m scared,” you whisper.

He reaches for you, pausing just shy of your cheek. “Let me be scared with you. Let me *help*.”

You lean into his touch, his palm warm against your skin. “What if I break?”

“Then I’ll put you back together.” His thumb brushes away a tear. “However many times it takes.”

Rio crashes into your legs, Tofu circling his ankles. “Group hug!” he demands, arms stretched wide.

Minho scoops him up, your little trio—*family*—colliding in a tangle of limbs and purrs. The fog lifts, sunlight spilling gold across the path ahead.

The click of Rio’s bedroom door echoes like a held breath. You retreat to the kitchen, hands trembling as you fill the kettle. Moonlight spills through the window, silvering the mugs you set out—the chipped one Rio painted with paw prints, and Minho’s favorite, striped like a tabby’s fur.

Footsteps pad behind you.

“Need help?” Minho leans against the doorway, sleeves rolled up, shadows pooling under his eyes.

You shake your head, but he steps closer anyway, his warmth a quiet challenge to the distance you’ve carved. The kettle whistles, sharp and urgent.

“Why’d you really quit donor work?” you ask, pouring hot water too fast. It sloshes, scalding your thumb.

Minho catches your wrist, guiding the kettle down. “Because I finally figured out what matters.” His thumb brushes the burn, soothing. “Saw my dad chase promotions my whole childhood. Missed every school play, every birthday. I swore I’d never be that guy.”

You stare at the steam curling between you. “And us? Are we just… another promise?”

He turns your hand over, tracing the lines of your palm. “You’re the reason I keep them.”

The confession hangs, fragile. You pull away, busying yourself with tea bags. Chamomile for him, earl grey for you—he’d remembered.

“I keep waiting for you to realize this is too much,” you whisper. “A single mom, a chaotic kid, a cat who hates your shoes—”

“Y/N.” He steps into your space, the counter’s edge pressing into your back. “You think I don’t know what I’m signing up for? I’ve seen your late-night panic over daycare bills. The way you cry when Rio draws family pictures with *three* people now. Hell, I’ve scrubbed puke off my favorite jeans thanks to Tofu’s hairballs.” His voice cracks. “I’m not here for *easy*. I’m here for *you*.”

Tears blur the mugs. “What if I’m not enough?”

He frames your face, calloused palms anchoring you. “You’re everything. The deadlines, the mess, the *fear*—it’s all part of you. And I want all of it.”

Your breath hitches. “Even when I push you away?”

“Especially then.” His forehead rests against yours, the tea forgotten. “You don’t have to be brave alone anymore.”

The admission unravels you. “I don’t know how to do this,” you rasp. “To trust someone to… stay.”

Minho’s thumb catches a tear. “Let me show you.”

Outside, rain begins to fall, tapping a rhythm against the window. The first brush of Minho’s lips is tentative, a question whispered into the fragile space between your breaths. But when your fingers fist in his hoodie, tugging him closer, the hesitation shatters. His hands slide from your face to your waist, lifting you onto the counter with a ease that steals your breath. Tea mugs clatter forgotten as he steps between your knees, his mouth slanting over yours with a hunger that mirrors the storm outside.

This isn’t the careful Minho who blinks slowly at skittish kittens. This is wildfire—calloused palms skimming your ribs, teeth grazing your lower lip, a groan rumbling deep in his chest when you arch against him. His hoodie smells like cedar and the faint musk of the shelter, a scent that’s become as familiar as your own chaos.

“Minho—” you gasp, breaking the kiss, but his name is a plea, not a protest.

He stills, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, but his thumb traces the hammering pulse at your neck, betraying his own unraveling.

You don’t. Instead, you knot your hands in his hair, dragging him back. The counter digs into your thighs, the cold edge a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth. He kisses like he’s memorizing you—the sigh you stifle when his tongue flicks yours, the hitch in your breath as his hands slide under your shirt, branding your skin.

Minho guides you through the darkened hallway, his steps careful and measured despite the desire thrumming through his veins. Your bare feet pad silently across the wooden floors, past Rio's room where soft snores filter through the crack under the door, and Tofu's favorite sleeping spot by the window.

His hands never leave your body - ghosting over your hip, tracing the small of your back, fingers intertwined with yours as he leads you to your bedroom. The door clicks shut behind you with barely a whisper, and suddenly the air feels charged, electric with anticipation.

Moonlight spills through your curtains, painting Minho's bare chest in silver shadows as he backs you toward the bed. His movements are controlled, deliberate - every touch calculated to keep quiet. When your knees hit the mattress, he catches you before you fall, lowering you to the sheets with such care that your heart swells.

"Shh," he breathes against your ear when the bed frame creaks slightly, his warm weight settling over you. His fingers trail down your sides, hooks in your belt loops. "We'll have to be very, very quiet."

The challenge in his whispered words sends a shiver down your spine, especially when his teeth graze your earlobe, testing just how silent you can stay.

Minho's fingers tremble slightly as they work at your jeans button, his usual confidence wavering as moonlight reveals the vulnerability in his eyes. When you reach to help, he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm.

"Let me," he whispers, "I want to remember every second of this." His hands slide your jeans down with aching slowness, but you notice how he hesitates at the scars on your thighs, the stretch marks mapping your hips. Before self-consciousness can take root, he's tracing each mark with reverent fingers, then following with his lips.

"Beautiful," he breathes against your skin. When you start to protest, he silences you with a deep kiss. "Every inch of you."

You reach for his belt, but notice his own moment of hesitation as your fingers brush his stomach. This confident man who spends his days wrangling large dogs suddenly seems unsure, and you remember the burn scars he usually keeps hidden under long sleeves.

"You don't have to—" he starts, but you quiet him by pressing kisses along the scarred tissue of his right arm, feeling his breath catch. Your fingers work his belt open as your lips trace each mark, each imperfection that makes him perfectly him.

Soon you're both down to underwear, skin against skin, every touch electric yet tender. His fingers trace the curve of your breasts through your bra, while yours map the hard planes of his chest, both of you learning each other's bodies with wondering hands.

"You're sure?" he asks, thumbs hooked in your panties, waiting for permission despite the obvious desire straining against his boxers. His eyes hold yours, dark with want but soft with something deeper.

You nod, lifting your hips to help him slide your panties down your legs. His breath catches as he takes in your naked form, illuminated by moonlight. Your instinct is to cover yourself, but the raw adoration in his gaze holds you still.

Minho trails kisses up your inner thigh, his touch growing bolder as your breathing quickens. When his tongue finds your clit, you have to bite your lip to stay quiet. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he works you with his mouth, each stroke of his tongue deliberate and precise.

You reach down to tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. His responding groan vibrates against you, sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Your other hand fists in the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as the pressure builds.

"Minho," you gasp, barely a whisper, "I need you. Please."

He crawls up your body, kissing a path from your navel to your breasts, then capturing your lips. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he positions himself between your thighs, the hard length of his cock pressing against your entrance.

"I adore you," he breathes against your mouth as he slowly pushes inside, stretching you deliciously. "Gosh, I adore you so much."

Your bodies move together in the darkness, finding a rhythm as natural as breathing. Each thrust is measured, careful not to make the bed creak, but the restraint only makes it more intense. His forehead presses against yours, sharing each shaky breath as you climb toward ecstasy together.

Minho's thrusts grow deeper, more urgent as your walls clench around him. His cock fills you perfectly, hitting spots that make you see stars. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, changing the angle until he's grinding against your clit with each movement.

"Fuck," he pants against your neck, struggling to keep his voice down. "You feel amazing. So tight, so perfect."

Your nails dig into his back as the pressure builds, every nerve ending on fire. The familiar coil of heat in your belly winds tighter and tighter. Minho seems to sense how close you are - his fingers find your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

"Come for me," he whispers, his voice rough with need. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

The combination of his words, his touch, and the delicious stretch of him inside you sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around him as you bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cries.

The feeling of you coming undone triggers his own release. His hips stutter, losing their rhythm as he buries himself deep inside you with a muffled groan. You can feel his cock pulsing as he fills you, his whole body trembling with the intensity of his orgasm.

For several long moments, you lie there tangled together, hearts racing, bodies slick with sweat. Minho peppers soft kisses across your face - your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose - as if he can't bear to stop touching you.

Minho chuckles softly against your neck, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your hip. "You know," he murmurs with a playful nip at your earlobe, "if we keep this up, Rio might get that little sister he's been begging for."

Your laughter bubbles up, soft and intimate in the darkness. "Only you would think about making babies right after our first time," you tease, turning to face him with a grin. Your fingers trace the smile lines around his eyes, memorizing how he looks in this moment - hair mussed from your hands, lips swollen from kisses.

"Hey, I'm just being practical," he defends playfully, pulling you closer. "Rio's been asking for a playmate ever since he saw Mrs. Kim's new baby. And Tofu could use another human to train."

You snort, burying your face in his chest to muffle the sound. "Of course you'd bring the pets into this conversation," you whisper. "Such a typical shelter worker."

"Speaking of," he murmurs, his hand sliding down to cup your ass, "we should probably practice that baby-making technique a few more times. You know, for science."

Three years later, sunlight drips like honey through the windows of your shared home, gilding the mosaic of chaos and love that is your life. Minho stands at the stove, spatula in hand, crafting pancake dinosaurs with the precision of a man who’s learned to find art in the messy. His free hand rests on the curve of your belly, where your daughter kicks impatiently, as if already eager to join the fray. “Princess Appa’s practicing her roundhouse kicks,” he teases, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

Under the table, Rio—now six and savant of all things glitter and mischief—huddles with Tofu, their whispers punctuated by the crinkle of a manila folder. You bite your lip, heart swollen, as he peeks up at you. *“Now, Mama?”*

You nod, tears already pricking your lashes.

Rio scrambles out, folder clutched to his *Star Wars* pajamas, and tugs Minho’s apron with the gravity of a diplomat. “Appa! Father’s Day present!”

Minho grins, flipping a T-Rex onto a plate. “Let’s see it, space ranger.”

Rio thrusts the folder forward, its cover a masterpiece of sticker explosions: cats in rocket ships, a lopsided family portrait labeled *“ME, MAMA, MINHO, TOFU & BABY SIS,”* and a glitter-glue galaxy that glints in the light. Inside, the adoption papers gleam, their legalese softened by Rio’s crayon scrawl: *“PLEEZ BE MY REEL DAD”* looping across the top.

Minho freezes. The spatula clatters to the floor.

“Mama did the grown-up words,” Rio explains, bouncing on his toes, “but the *‘forever daddy’* part is *mine*! And Tofu helped!” He points to the corner, where a smudged paw print is stamped in purple ink.

Minho sinks to his knees, the linoleum cool against his palms. He stares at the papers, then at Rio’s hopeful face—so like your own—then at you. “You… you’re sure?”

You crouch beside him, Tofu weaving figure-eights around your ankles. “We’ve never been surer of anything.”

A tear splashes onto the folder, blurring the “DAD” in Rio’s title. Another follows. Rio’s eyes widen. “Did I spell it wrong?!”

Minho drags him into a hug, laughter and sobs tangled in his throat. “It’s perfect. *You’re* perfect.”

Later, after pancake dinosaurs fossilize and the notary—a friend from the shelter who’d arrived with confetti and cat-shaped cookies—witnesses the signatures, Minho sits on the porch swing, Rio sprawled across his lap, sticky with syrup and dreams. Your daughter pirouettes beneath your skin, and Minho presses his palm to your belly, his thumb brushing the spot where her foot jabs. “Hey, little comet,” he murmurs. “Your brother’s already plotting your first mission to Mars.”

You lean into him, the adoption papers now framed beside Rio’s first crayon cat drawing. Tofu’s paw print is immortalized in gold ink beneath your signatures—a family relic. “Think she’ll survive the chaos?”

Minho’s slow blink is a language only you know. *I love you. I’m here. Always.* “She’ll be the chaos queen,” he says, grinning.

And when she’s born—on a tempestuous night with Minho reciting cat facts as a breathing coach, Rio “assisting” with a toy stethoscope, and Tofu yowling backup vocals—you’ll finally understand: family isn’t found in the quiet. It’s built in the storm, one paw print, one pancake, one *“forever daddy”* at a time.

#Spotify #skz #skz x reader #skz imagines #skz smut #lee know #lee minho stray kids #lee minho x reader #lee minho smut #lee know imagines #lee know fluff #lee know x reader #lee know stray kids #stray kids minho #stray kids #stray kids fluff #straykids #stray kids smut

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hellsburners · 22 hours ago

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bad idea (forget about it)

summary: bucky's pr manager is pissing him off. pairing: bucky barnes x male reader word count: 1.1k warnings: 18+ warning, gay smut, top bucky barnes a/n: thunderbolts kick sorry will work on requests now

masterlist

The laughter and chatter deafened as you went deeper into the dim hallway.

You received a single text message from your boss demanding you go to the fourth room in the east wing. Loud thumps from your chest made you feel like it would sink through the floor while you tried to look for the room.

You checked yourself on the camera app from your phone, checking to see if your hair was tousled or your tie loose. Sweat dripped down your temples despite the cold manor, your feet ached inside expensive leather shoes, and your neck chafed from the tight collar.

The door creaked open when a cold metal hand pulled you in.

His blue eyes were dead set on yours, his hands pinning you on the old wooden door. Loose locks of hair fell on his face, his breath smelling of wine.

“I hate it,” he said, his hand on your shoulders, the grip tight but not painful—just enough to put you in place.

“Hate what? ”

“Whatever I saw earlier,” he lets go, smoothing his hands on his thighs. “Torres is flirting with you.”

“He was not flirting with me,” you said, folding your arms.

“Yes, he was! His thick brows furrowed while he copied your stance”. His suit jacket was lying on a sofa, his sleeves folded up, revealing his toned arm and the vibranium arm on the other.

Bucky was dumbfounded; he took his right hand and smoothed it across his stubbled face.

“If he did, so what? ”Your voice is getting higher. “And for your information, he asked me out and—”

His palms reach for your cheeks, pulling you into his warm lips. The kiss was deep, his tongue meeting yours. His metal arm wrapped around your waist, pinning you to his.

He pulled away to take a long breath, your wanton lips coming back as you pulled his face back in. He pushes you deeper against the door, his knee spreading your legs apart. You pull his shirt, palming the hard muscles of his abdomen.

“Jealousy is a good look on you, Sergeant Barnes,” you tease. He grunts before pulling your tie, ripping open your shirt and your pants so he can access your bare skin. Your skin felt like it was burning from each touch Bucky did, his metal fingers toying with your nipple, while the other reached down to grab your ass.

You unzipped his pants to touch his hard cock through his black boxers; it was thick and heavy, the tip warm and wet from precum. You stroke his erections as he starts to trail kisses on your neck, making you moan. He pulls your suit jacket off and tosses it aside, the buttons popping and flying off as he takes off the remaining clothing you have. Bucky takes a condom from his pocket and puts it against your lips. “Bite on this—and shut up.”

He spins you around and positions your hands against the door, your back arched. He pulls your pants and boxers down to your ankles before slapping your ass. You whimper in response as he places his face between the two mounds. He licks and teases your hole, making you moan loudly, your knees buckling from the intense pleasure.

Bucky stroked his wet cock, dripping more and more precum as the tension increased. You could feel his metal finger tracing the perimeter of your hole and slowly pressing in. “Suck,” he said, taking the condom from your mouth before presenting his metal hand. You suck and licked on his finger, covering it with saliva. He pressed the wet digit into your aching hole, and you covered your mouth to try to stifle the lewd sounds coming from your mouth.

“Now you know how to shut up? ” he said, curling his finger to toy with your weakness. He made a pulling gesture that made your body so weak from the pleasure your cheek pressed onto the door from the lack of balance and strength.

He rips the condom wrapper open and places it on his aching erection; he also takes a lube packet and slathers it all over the pink rubber. He takes his well-lubed hand to stroke your cock; you could only curse his name in response. With the other hand, he guides his cock into your hole, slowly stretching you open.

Bucky sheathes himself deep into you, the skin of your ass meeting the base of his cock. He hugs you with his arms, with his neck nestled into the corner of your neck. He starts to fuck you with his slow strokes, making sure he isn’t hurting you.

“I’m jealous,” he said in between grunts. “So fucking jealous.”

He quickens his pace, the stroking on your cock going faster and tighter. The room filled with the sounds of skin hitting skin and wetness moving. “I didn’t mean to,” you said, tears and sweat falling down your cheeks.

“I know,” he said. His kisses were deep and made light marks. “I can’t control how I feel; I want you so badly.”

“Then have me, Bucky,” you said, eyes rolling back from the pleasure. “I’m all yours.”

Bucky pulls you out and spins you around; he gestures for you to remove your shoes and the rest of your bottoms. He picks you up with his immense strength and fucks his cock back into you. You were suspended on the door, his sheer strength carrying you through each thrust. With your arms wrapped around his neck, you kissed him with so much want and need you forgot everything that occurred before this.

The door creaked as the old brass hinges bent from the force Bucky was putting against it. Cracks formed around his metal hand, forming a print on the door. “The door—” you said, worried it might break before you do.

You both moved to the sofa; you straddled his thick thighs and took charge in the thrusts. His mean demeanor was gone, replaced by a softer, more craving, and tamed one. You pulled on his long hair so he would look up at you; pale blue eyes against long lashes left you in a deep trance as you both became more untethered to rationality and deeper into your desires.

Bucky matched the pace of your ass to his hand; the synchronous motions drove you closer to your climaxes. You stared at each other as if knowing what was to come. He pressed one last kiss to your lips as you both moaned against each other as he finished inside you while you covered his abdomen with your cum.

You froze with your neck resting against his shoulder, arms and legs weak. A faint light emanates from your smartwatch with a ding. A thread of messages flooding the screen.

“So, are you going on that date with him? ” he said, biting his lip from the timidity.

“Buck—you’re literally still inside me.”

end.

if you likes this fic go check out some of my other stuff! want to request? don't be shy to send one! Also do tell me if you want to be on a taglist?

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x male reader #bucky barnes x male reader smut #thunderbolts #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts smut #sebastian stan #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic

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misspygmypie · 8 months ago

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Spring Rolls For Lando

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader, Max Fewtrell x reader (besties) Words: 1620 Summary: Y/N’s attempts to make spring rolls for Lando to make him feel better and Max saves the day. Masterlist

Please do not repost, thank you, and leave some feedback :)

Y/N stood in the kitchen, feeling increasingly overwhelmed as the ingredients piled up around her. She had watched countless YouTube videos and read recipe after recipe but nothing had prepared her for the chaos unfolding before her eyes. The rice paper wrappers kept tearing, the vegetables were unevenly chopped and the dipping sauce didn’t taste anything like it was supposed to.

Max Fewtrell was leaning against the counter, watching his and Lando's best friend, trying his best to hide his amusement. "You sure you don’t want to just order these? I can make the call in two seconds."

"No, Max," Y/N replied, her voice wavering as she struggled to keep her composure. "Lando loves these and after the weekend he had I really want to do something special for him. He’s always so supportive of me and I want to be there for him too."

Max noticed the slight tremor in her voice and softened his tone. "I get it, Y/N. But… you look like you’re about to have a meltdown. Are you sure this is worth it?"

Y/N swallowed hard, feeling the pressure building in her chest. "I just… I just want it to be perfect. He deserves something nice after this race I thought this would be easy, but…" Her voice cracked and she blinked rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Max’s grin faded as he realized how upset she was. He moved closer, gently taking the knife out of her hand before she could accidentally cut herself. “It’s okay. It doesn’t have to be perfect."

Y/N shook her head, her frustration spilling over as tears welled up in her eyes. "But everything is going wrong, Max! The wrappers keep tearing, the sauce tastes awful and I’ve made such a mess. I just wanted to do something nice for him and I’m screwing it all up!"

Max quickly wrapped her in a hug, rubbing her back soothingly. "Shh, it’s okay. You’re doing great, Y/N. You’re trying and that’s what counts. Lando is going to appreciate this no matter what."

Y/N buried her face in his shoulder, trying to calm down. "But what if he hates it? What if it just makes him feel worse?"

"There’s no way he’s going to hate it. He cares about you and he’s going to see how much effort you put into this. Trust me, it’s going to cheer him up."

She sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "I just don’t want to let him down."

"You won’t," Max assured her. "Besides, if the spring rolls don’t turn out, we’ll just distract him with something else. Like ordering pizza. That always works."

Y/N managed a small laugh, feeling a bit of the tension release. "Thanks, Max. I’m just… I’m so bad at this and I wanted it to be perfect."

Max smiled and gently wiped away a tear that had escaped down her cheek. "Perfection is overrated. And honestly, it’s pretty amazing that you’re doing this at all, considering how much you hate cooking."

Y/N sniffled again, finally allowing herself to smile. "Yeah, I guess I don’t have the best track record in the kitchen, do I?"

"Not exactly," Max teased, "but that’s what makes this so special. You’re doing something outside your comfort zone because you care. And that’s what’s going to mean the most to Lando."

After calming Y/N down Max glanced at the mess on the counter and rolled up his sleeves. "Alright, let’s do this together. We’ll make these spring rolls the best they can be."

"You’re going to help? I thought you were just here to laugh at my misery,” Y/N looked at him, surprised.

"Laughing was fun but seeing you this upset isn’t. Let’s turn this around."

With Max’s help, the kitchen felt a lot less chaotic. He took over the trickier parts, like handling the delicate rice paper wrappers, while Y/N focused on chopping the vegetables, much more evenly this time under Max’s watchful eye. They worked together, laughing as they went and slowly but surely, the spring rolls began to take shape.

"This isn’t so bad when you’ve got someone to help," Y/N admitted as she watched Max expertly roll up another spring roll. "I might actually survive this."

Max grinned. "Teamwork makes the dream work, right? Plus, I’ve made these a few times before, so I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve."

"Of course you have," Y/N said with a smile, shaking her head in mock exasperation. "Is there anything you haven’t done?"

"Cooking is all about confidence," Max replied, handing her a finished spring roll to place on the plate. "And a little bit of improvisation."

Soon, they had a plate full of neatly rolled and fried spring rolls that looked almost professional. Y/N couldn’t believe it. "We actually did it," she said, a mix of relief and disbelief in her voice. "These look so much better than the ones I tried to make on my own."

Max gave her a playful nudge. "See? Told you it would be fine. And look, no tears and no fires. I’d say that’s a win."

"Thanks, Max. I couldn’t have done this without you."

"Anytime," Max said with a grin. "Now, let’s get this place cleaned up before Lando gets home and thinks we fought a war in here."

They quickly tidied up the kitchen, hiding the evidence of Y/N’s earlier disasters. Just as they finished they heard the front door open. Lando was home.

Y/N exchanged a quick, nervous glance with Max who gave her a reassuring nod. She took a deep breath as Lando walked into the kitchen, looking tired but happy to be home.

The moment Lando saw the plate of spring rolls on the table, his eyes widened in surprise. "You made spring rolls?" he asked, almost shocked. "They look… amazing!"

Y/N blushed, feeling a mix of pride and relief. "Yeah… well, Max helped a lot."

Lando turned to Max, raising an eyebrow. "You helped?"

Max grinned and shrugged nonchalantly. "What can I say? I’m a man of many talents."

Lando shook his head in disbelief, a smile spreading across his face. "I honestly didn’t think you’d be able to pull this off. Not after last time…"

Y/N laughed, feeling the tension finally lift. "Yeah, it was touch-and-go for a while there but Max saved the day."

Lando walked over to the table, picking up one of the spring rolls and examining it with curiosity. "These look perfect. I can’t believe you guys actually did it."

Max leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms with a satisfied smile. "I told you, teamwork makes the dream work."

Lando took a bite of the spring roll, his eyes widening in surprise and delight. "These are really good!" He turned to Y/N, his expression softening. "Thank you, Y/N. This really means a lot."

Y/N smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. "You’ve had a rough race and I know how much you love these."

Lando reached out and pulled her into a hug. "You’re the best, you know that? And Max," he added, glancing over her shoulder at their friend, "you’re alright too."

Max chuckled, waving off the compliment. "I try."

As they sat down at the table Lando couldn’t stop smiling. The spring rolls were more than just food, they were a reminder of how much Y/N cared about him. He picked up another one, savoring the taste, and looked over at her with a softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there earlier.

"You know," Lando said, his voice thick with emotion. "I’ve been feeling pretty low after this weekend and this… this is exactly what I needed."

Y/N smiled, her heart swelling with warmth. "I'm just glad you like them, I was worried they'd turn out horrible."

"They’re perfect," Lando reassured her grabbing her hand, his gaze never leaving hers.

Max, who had been watching the exchange with a smirk, finally chimed in. "You know, Lando, this whole thing was Y/N’s idea from the start. She was determined to make these for you, no matter what. I was just here to stop the kitchen from burning down. She even got a bit emotional when things weren’t going right."

Y/N shot Max a playful glare but Lando’s expression softened even more. "You really did all this… for me?"

Y/N nodded, feeling a bit shy under his intense gaze. "Of course, I did. You mean a lot to me, Lando. I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing after the weekend you had."

Lando let go of her hand, but only so he could pull her into a tight hug. "Thank you, Y/N. For everything. You always know how to make me feel better, even when I don’t deserve it."

Y/N hugged him back, resting her head on his shoulder. "You always deserve it, Lando."

Max watched them with a grin, leaning back in his chair. "Well, I’d say my work here is done. You two are disgustingly cute, you know that?"

Lando laughed, finally releasing Y/N but keeping one arm around her shoulders. "You’re just jealous, Max."

Max pretended to think about it for a moment before shaking his head. "Nah, I’m just happy I got a free meal out of it."

Y/N rolled her eyes but she couldn’t help laughing along with them. Lando kept sneaking glances at Y/N, his heart full of appreciation for her. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have someone who cared about him so deeply, someone who would go through so much effort just to see him smile.

________

AN: Something not Noah/Lando related for once lol I just had to write a little comfort piece, he looked so sad in the cool down room 😥

Taglist: @barcelonaloverf1life

#lando imagine #lando norris imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #lando norris x reader #ln4 x reader #lando x reader #max fewtrell x reader #lando fluff

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thebigbiwolf · 2 years ago

Text

Spittle - Part 1/2

Summary: The chocolate seems innocent enough - if you look past the Infernal writing on the wrapper, and with so few pleasures in the wilderness, you all but jump at the chance to sneak yourself a small treat.

Unbeknownst to you, the bar is infused with succubus spittle. Just one square is rumored to contain enough potency to send a mortal into the throes of ecstasy.

This is what happens when you eat half the bar.

Fic Tags: Sex Pollen (kinda), aphrodisiacs, succubus magic, a bit of dom!Astarion, unprotected piv, overstimulation, he talks you through it (iykyk), more tags will be added later.

Fic Warnings: Explicit Smut (18+ MDNI), Dubcon (if you squint), Language, No use of Y/N, magical influence

Read on AO3: Here

A/N: Remember the dead spider? I remember the dead spider. Anyways, the reception I've been getting on Starvin', Darlin' has me wanting to thank everyone with a one-shot. This got away from me so I went ahead and split it into two parts.

I've never written anything like this and it was significantly more difficult than a multi-chapter fic. I hope everything comes across the way its supposed to! And a huge thank you to my beta @imaginarydromedary for...you know... encouraging me to post this, despite everything.

From what you could tell, there wasn’t much to the apothecary.

As you push open the dilapidated doors, your first thought is to search for supplies - anything that could help if things went south on your way to the goblin camp.

Dried herbs hang from the rafters beneath a thin veil of cobwebs, filling your lungs with a pungent clash of scents. Empty bottles lined the shelves along the wall, caked in several months worth of dust. Large chunks of the building were missing where stone met splintered wood, some areas almost entirely overtaken by greenery.

You step over broken shards of pottery, scanning over the floor and countertops for something - anything that may be of use, but to your disappointment, it seems like the shop was entirely ransacked long before your arrival.

You sigh deeply, knowing you’ll likely never hear the end of this from your companions. It was your idea to search the village. You were the one who suggested taking out the goblin scouts, exerting everyones’ energy, and now you’re afraid you’ll have very little to show for it.

You catch a glint of gold, an object reflecting the sun's rays beneath a pile of rubble. You kneel down to brush away the surrounding debris, thankful for even the smallest promise of coin before your hands catch on… some sort of serrated edge?

You pull at it, and it easily comes loose. It's a thin, rectangular block, just barely larger than the length of your hand. You wipe away some of the dirt with your sleeve, revealing an intricately designed foil wrapping underneath.

As you speculate what this might be, you hear footsteps approaching from behind, light and familiar. You turn to face the elf with a smirk.

“You’re supposed to be the stealthy one.” You chide at him, playfully, “Or has my blood put a little skip in your step?”

Astarion scoffs. “I’ve been here the entire time, watching you fumble around in the dirt.”

Crimson eyes study you, then the object you’re holding. He places his hands on his hips, head cocked to the side with a raised brow. “Is that what you’ve dragged us all the way here for?”

“First of all,” you waggle a finger at him, “You’re especially grumpy when you’re tired. I’ll have to make a note to prioritize your beauty rest. Second, I haven’t finished looking around, but check this out.”

You hand the bar to him as you stand. The cool skin of his fingers brush against your own, and you’re irritated with the way your heart skips at the brief contact. Why did the one man you found attractive in your camp have to be such a primadonna? And such a huge pain in the ass?

Astarion’s eyes scan over the textured paper with suspicion, angling it towards the light to get a better look. The golden wrapping is stamped with an image of red lips On the back, letters twist and curve in a language you don't recognize, following a single circular pattern where they meet in the center. You’ve never seen anything like this, neither in your travels, nor within the city walls of Baldur’s Gate.

“Where did you find this?”

You shrug, then point to the pile next to you. “It was buried right there.”

He silently stares at the foil, mouth pursed, until your patience begins to wear thin.

“Well, can you read it or not?”

His nose scrunches. “Of course I can’t read it. It’s written in Infernal.”

That’s… odd. Why would an ordinary apothecary sell goods made by devils? Or, worse, for devils. Unless, of course, it was some sort of marketing trick, perhaps a play on the phrase ‘sinfully sweet’, or some other cringeworthy branding.

You take it back, turning it over in your hands before tearing at the corner of the wrapping. It's sectioned into dark, rich squares, and smells indisputably like chocolate.

“It looks like candy.”

“An excellent observation.” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now, can we go? We’ve spent more than enough time here already.”

You roll your eyes and stuff it into your bag, setting off for camp, vampire in tow.

–

During dinner, you decide not to tell the others about what you found, knowing Astarion’s likely already forgotten the event. You set down your empty plate, thanking Gale for tonight’s meal. He smiles at you and bids you goodnight as you excuse yourself to your tent.

You pick up your rucksack, thinking fondly of the dessert that awaits you inside. Having lived at the beck and call of your companions for weeks on end, you can’t help but smile at the idea of selfishly indulging in a small treat like this.

You tear open the rest of the wrapping and snap off one of the squares, immediately popping one into your mouth. It melts - buttery in texture, with a smokey, slightly bitter flavor. You can’t remember the last time you’ve eaten something so rich. Maybe weeks of the same rations have made you easier to impress, but this felt especially notable.

As you break off a second piece, a strange tingling sensation begins to spread across your lips - a pleasant buzzing that starts at your neck and spreads down through your chest.

Strange, but not entirely unwelcome. You’ve heard of such inebriating chocolates, ones laced with alcohol or species of flowers that numb one’s senses for a short while. All harmless, of course, and you don’t have watch tonight. You may as well enjoy yourself. If worst comes to worst, Shadowheart is just outside with an assortment of spells and potions. Always better to ask for forgiveness.

It only takes you minutes to finish half the bar. You set the rest next to your bedroll for later and turn to blow out your candles, enjoying the lingering physical effects of the chocolate. Your skin feels flushed and delightfully warm as you settle down for the night.

When sleep finally takes you, it's dreamless, at first. Your consciousness sways, floating in an empty abyss, until colors begin to bleed onto the blank canvas of your mind.

A trickle of red morphs into the shape of familiar eyes, piercing you with their intensity..

Droplets of white spatter over a dark background, diffusing, blending into whisps. They curl and twist before settling into soft, coiffed fibers.

Hair , you recognize immediately, his hair . His eyes.

Astarion.

His image fully takes form, as if it had been waiting for you to make the connection before entirely revealing itself.

He reaches out and seizes you, grabbing painfully at your hips as you crash into his body, hands exploring you - tight, possessive, squeezing at every inch of exposed skin before settling on the curve of your ass. He digs into your flesh with the blunt edge of his nails.

His lips press hot, wet kisses to your throat, mouthing just below the ear, before dragging his tongue along your nape and sucking, hard . You whine at the pressure, eliciting a grin from the elf, so characteristically pleased with the pathetic little noise he’s managed to pull from you.

“You thought sleeping would allow you to escape this - to escape me , unscathed?” He growls against your skin, his voice almost unrecognizable - as if it’s layered beneath a lighter, somehow more arrogant, feminine one.

“No, no, no. Wake up, darling. You’re in for a very long night.”

–

You startle awake, gasping - loud, labored breaths struggling to make use of the unbearably thin air. The edges of your tent bleed in and out of focus, spinning at a nauseating pace as you attempt to recollect yourself.

You wipe at the sweat collecting on your brow, the muscles of your arm heavy and aching, and find that your skin is absolutely drenched.

Hot. Why is everything so hot?

It's as if you're being cooked alive beneath your blankets, strangled beneath the furs. You throw them off; normally soft to the touch, the fibers now only worsen the prickling beneath your skin.

Could this be some sort of illness? A fever?

No, this doesn’t make sense. Everything feels off.

Fleeting thoughts of Astarion cross your mind - quick flashes of a sinful smile that was not his own.

It didn’t quite match the one you’d silently come to admire, and now that you think of it, the hunger in his gaze was much too intense for the reserved elf.

His hands, his mouth, the way he touched you -

Your abdomen cramps, bringing your thoughts to a screeching halt.

A stabbing, visceral pain; a knife plunging into your organs. It overwhelms you, forces your body to curl into itself. You hold your pelvis, grunting, and grasp at your sheets. Tears sting the corner of your eyes.

This is - well, you have no idea what this is.

You can’t think past the pounding in your head, the throbbing in your midsection. You're compulsively twisting, writhing, begging the gods for some sort of reprieve, but it's then when you make the most mortifying discovery of the night.

You’re soaked .

N ot just your smallclothes, which may have been understandable given your strange dreams, but through your damned pants. Not even the sheets were spared.

“What in the hells…?”

You run your fingers over yourself, only intending to confirm the horrifying reality of your situation - that this is not, in fact, some sick, perverted nightmare, but the lightest touch sets off every nerve.

You wail at the sensation: one massive wave of bliss giving way to several small jolts of pain.

Pleasure to the point of agony.

The shock of the sudden orgasm courses from your sex through every limb, clenching and releasing pitiful, warm slick. It leaks freely out of you into your already thoroughly ruined underwear.

Your heart pounds. You stay like that for what feels like a lifetime, toes curled, limbs twitching, waiting for your body to settle.

After a minute or so, your breathing evens, and the thick haze surrounding your thoughts begins to lift just slightly, along with the suffocating heat.

But something within you knows this isn’t the end - knows this isn’t enough . A desperation lurks beneath the surface that you can’t quite name. It screams at you. You need more.

‘Aw…’ A familiar, feminine voice prods at your mind. You quickly recognize her, the woman from your dreams who wore Astarion’s image.

‘All alone, are we? Empty and needing to be filled? Doesn’t that hurt?’

It does. It aches unlike anything you’ve ever known. The lingering buzz of your orgasm just barely quells the worsening cramps, and they’re beginning to rear their ugly head again not minutes later.

You choke out a sob. “Wh- why are you doing this? What do you want?”

Sharp, wicked laughter fills your head, echoing off the walls of your skull. ‘I’m not doing anything, dear. Just enjoying the show.’ She hisses, ‘I told you, it’s going to be a very long night.’

You must be hallucinating. This fever - whatever this is, is simply cauterizing your senses, or possibly interacting with the tadpole? But the tadpole doesn’t speak, not like this. Never so clearly. Not with words.

Think, please. There has to be a reason this -

“Is everything alright?” Shadowheart raps on the canvas of your tent. “I heard a yelp. Are you hurt?”

Shit.

‘Ooh, this one might do!’ You feel an unwelcome… eagerness flood you.

No. No. Absolutely not.

You try not to panic.

Under no circumstances should she or anyone else come in here.

The best strategy may be to ignore her - pretend you’re still sleeping. It seems like a good plan, but before you have a chance to follow through with it, another sharp contraction hits. This one is somehow even worse than the ones before.

You pull your sheets up to your mouth to stifle your whine, but the half elf’s ears are sharper than most. “I’m coming in.”

She opens the flap to your tent and gasps when she sees you there - skin flushed pink, doubled over and covered in sweat.

“Gods, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” Her hand reaches out towards you.

Without thinking, you swat it away with your own. Your skin tingles at the contact, and the essence of a smile crosses over the threshold into your mind. The intruder giggles with satisfaction.

“Don’t,” you plead, “Don’t touch me.”

She scans over you, taking in your humiliating state. Her face twists with concern. “I need to know if you’re feverish. Please. You look awful.”

‘Well, I think you look delectable.’

You groan.

At this point, you know it’s no use fighting this thing on your own. You go back and forth on whether you want to tell her the whole truth, about the voice in your head and its influence on your body, but the idea mortifies you into silence.

Regardless, a cleric is likely your best chance of fixing this literal mess, so you nod, close your eyes, and brace yourself.

Shadowheart’s palm meets your forehead. It’s somehow worse than you anticipated. Even the simple, chaste touch sends you reeling, as if her soft hands are caressing your entire body. Flashes of heat wash over you, burning your skin, threatening to pull you back under another wave of ecstasy.

It’s too much. You try your hardest to suppress a moan, but the muffled sound manages to escape from between your tightened lips, pitiful and broken.

The disembodied voice squeals with delight.

She quickly retracts her hand, clearing her throat. “Apologies. I can confirm your temperature is… elevated, but the rest…” She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

You want to scream, cry - anything to release your frustration, but you keep your mouth shut, not wanting to risk making any more unsavory noises.

“I believe I can give you some relief by treating the fever, but I’ll have to consult the others on the rest. This doesn’t look like any ordinary sickness.”

Consult the others? No. Gods, no. Nobody can know about this. Is she mad?

You intend to protest, beg her not to share this with anyone, tell her whatever death awaits you on the other side of this would be preferable, but she’s speaking an incantation before you have the chance.

A bright, green aura envelopes you, cooling your skin and ever so slightly easing the cramps. With the pain dulled, it's as though you can finally think again.

You want to laugh. This situation is so utterly ridiculous that you’d find it hilarious, were it anyone else, but with the modicum of relief comes exhaustion - eyelids heavy, vision blurring with weariness.

“Get some rest. We’ll figure this out.”

Her reassuring words are the last thing you hear before you’re overcome by darkness.

#bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion fanfic #astarion x reader #astarion x you #baldur's gate 3 #astarion acunin #posting this was like pulling teeth im gonna disappear for a while #my fics #spittle

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