#something totally out of my usual content

[444eggnog]

A Sin With My Name On It

✍︎: this is my way of apologising for ruining lando’s foolproof plan in Car Fun, lol. i’m still pretty new to writing smut, so please feel free to share any thoughts or suggestions. seriously, let me know if there’s anything you think I should change. i’m really fighting the urge to just post all my drafts at once; i feel like once i do, i’ll finally be able to breathe. AND! thank you so much for the amazing support on my previous lando au, it genuinely blows my mind that it got so much attention. as usual, i hope you enjoy dj lando ♡

masterlist ! ☻

content: smut, shitty boyfriend, cheating (somewhat reasonable… jk) *i am in no way condoning cheating, nor do i think lando’s the type to do such a thing (i love him with my whole heart). this is purely fictional, only for the plot!*

pairing: dj!lando x reader in a toxic relationship

wc: 5.1k

She tasted like heaven. And he had no plans of repenting.

The bass rattled the floor, even behind the booth. Lando adjusted his headphones with one hand and glanced across the club, scanning the crowd the way he always did in his downtime between transitions.

He caught sight of the other DJ, if you could even call him that, the guy barely blended tracks, he just hit “play” on his setlist and smirked. Tonight, he was doing what he did best: leaning too close to a girl at the bar, whispering something that made her giggle as he offered her a drink.

Lando’s brow lifted. Doesn’t that guy have a girlfriend?

He couldn’t let it go. Even as the lights swept across the room and the next song came in, he kept glancing over. It wasn’t subtle. The hand on her lower back. The smile.

Finally he turned to the bartender, a guy he knew well enough to ask mid-song. “Oi, he’s taken, yeah?” The bartender snorted. “Been with his girl for like a year. Don’t know how she puts up with it. Dude’s a walking red flag.”

Lando shook his head, letting out a humorless laugh. Obvious cheater. And she can’t even see it.

But that was before he saw her. Really saw her.

She walked in a little later than usual, he remembered the bartender mentioning she often showed up late, after work maybe. And when she did, it was like the club lights dimmed just for her.

Low-cut, V-neck halter top, backless, all slinky black fabric that left nothing to the imagination if you let yourself imagine. Which he did. Unapologetically. Low-waisted black jeans that hugged her hips like they were in a fight not to let go. Winged eyeliner that made her eyes sharp, dangerous even in the dark. Brown lip gloss that glimmered like something you wanted to lick off.

Jesus.

He adjusted his mixer, pretending to be busy, but he watched her head for her boyfriend. That smile she gave him. Like she was happy to see him. Like she didn’t even notice the other girl had been in his lap five minutes ago.

How the fuck does a guy cheat on someone who looks like that?

He bit back a scoff. She’s showing up like it’s Fashion Week and he’s dressed like he’s laying bricks. Timberland boots. At a club. Yuck. 

He shook his head again, this time for himself. Pathetic.

He watched her wrap an arm around her boyfriend. The other DJ barely glanced at her, tapping a button on his controller without even returning the hug properly.

She deserves better. Way better.

─── 🏁

Lando wouldn’t admit it out loud. Hell, he barely admitted it to himself.

But for the next few days, he found himself checking the club’s DJ schedule the second he clocked in. Just a quick glance. Nothing suspicious. Totally professional.

If that DJ was on the lineup, Lando would roll his eyes, mutter something like “of course,” and mentally brace for a long shift of watching him flirt with half the female clientele.

Not that he was watching for him.

Okay. Maybe he was checking if she would be there.

Which was stupid. He didn’t even know her name. Not officially, anyway. The bartender had mentioned it once, but it got drowned out by the bass. And Lando was too proud to ask for it again.

So he just waited.

And when she did show up?

Jesus Christ.

He’d be behind the decks, fake-focused on his mixer while she walked in like she owned the damn place. Every time.

Low-cut tops in every possible color, backless halters tied so dangerously loose it made him worry for her sanity and his. High-waisted jeans one day, a tiny skirt the next. Always with that sharp eyeliner and glossy brown lips.

It was like watching temptation itself cruise through the door and toss him a casual wave of indifference.

And Lando was not indifferent.

He’d see her slip over to her boyfriend whose entire personality was apparently cigarettes and Axe body spray and Lando would fight the urge to gag.

How the fuck did he pull her?

That question haunted him.

It annoyed him so much he started making a game of it.

He’d accidentally bump into her at the bar. Twice. Maybe three times.

“Oops, my bad,” he’d say, offering that stupidly charming grin he knew worked on most girls. “You alright?”

She’d smile back, polite. Slightly surprised.

“Yeah. All good.”

All good.

Right. Even though her boyfriend was currently ignoring her to hit on someone in the VIP booth.

Lando leaned on the counter, pretending to order a drink. “Your boyfriend always this... friendly with the clientele?”

She blinked. Her expression tightened. “He’s just being nice.”

He snorted. Didn’t bother hiding it. “Yeah. Super nice. Makes everyone feel special. Real public service.”

She didn’t even have a comeback. Just rolled her eyes and turned away.

But he caught it. That tiny flicker of embarrassment.

Later, he’d lean over to the bartender. “Smells like cigarettes and what? Axe? Guy’s a walking fire hazard.”Bartender cackled. “You’re terrible.” Lando shrugged, eyes still on her across the floor. “Can’t figure out how she hasn’t ditched him yet. It’s a damn mystery.”

He tried to convince himself he was just curious.

He was a DJ. He noticed people. It was his job.

But his gaze always slid back to her.

How she smiled when she talked, even when she looked tired. How she pulled at her top like she was nervous it might slip but wore it anyway. How she leaned over the bar to talk to the staff like they were old friends.

He knew what she looked like.

But for the first time in days, he realized he was starting to learn who she was.

And the worst part?

He liked her.

He really, really liked her.

─── 🏁

She wasn’t stupid.

That was the part that stung the most.

She saw him. Every single time.

Her boyfriend had this routine down to an art: lean over the bar, smile that crooked, lazy smile, whisper in some girl's ear just loud enough to make her giggle and flip her hair. Offer a free drink like it was a promise of something more.

It bothered her. Of course it did.

She just refused to admit it.

She'd stand there, arms folded, pretending she wasn’t watching. Pretending she didn’t hear the bartenders whispering about “the third one tonight.”

God, it was humiliating.

But she was too damn proud to show it.

Because once, back when they first met, he was the first guy to ever make her feel wanted in that all-consuming way she thought she deserved. The kind who said she was the hottest girl in the room and treated her like it.

Maybe she’d just gotten addicted to that feeling.

Or maybe she was too stubborn to admit she was seeing him through rose-colored glasses she refused to take off.

And for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why she kept showing up for this.

Actually, scratch that.

She knew exactly why.

Because every time she walked into that club, there was another DJ behind the booth who actually seemed to see her.

Not in the lazy, grabby way her boyfriend did.

But in this sharp, amused, way-too-observant way that made her feel like she was on display even when she was fully dressed.

Which she rarely was, let’s be honest.

She liked her clothes tight and her tops low. Tonight was no different; a deep V-neck halter that was practically begging to fall open if she breathed wrong. Paired with jeans that sat so low on her hips she kept checking they were still on.

She knew what she looked like.

So did he.

Lando.

God, even his name was infuriatingly hot.

Those eyes, bright, almost obscene green even under the shifting club lights, tracked her like he was a predator and she was something he was starving for.

He always seemed to be there.

Passing behind her at the bar, brushing her lower back with his hand like it was an accident, except it never felt like one. “Careful there,” he’d murmur, voice low enough to make goosebumps rise on her arms. The way he’d squeeze her waist just slightly before letting go.

He always smiled when she jumped at his touch. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

And fuck, she hated how much she liked it.

He was worse when he talked.

Dry. Cutting. “Oh, your boyfriend’s working hard tonight. Think he’s got the whole bar covered?” Or his personal favorite, always with that lazy smirk: “Gotta admire a guy who can multitask. DJ set and an afterparty sign-up sheet. Respect.”

She’d scoff. Roll her eyes. But inside?

She felt it like a hook behind her ribs, tugging her closer to the edge of something dangerous.

Because he wasn’t subtle. Not at all.

He looked at her like he was imagining what she looked like out of those clothes. Like he could already see it.

And worse?

She let him.

Let herself imagine what those fingers felt like if they weren’t being polite, weren’t resting feather-light on her hip just to pass by.

What that mouth would feel like on her neck, lips, anywhere, and every where.

What those eyes would look like when he was above her, under her, anywhere he wanted.

It was pathetic.

But the thing that burned most?

She didn’t even know why she put up with her boyfriend anymore.

Because every time she walked in here, she caught herself wondering how long she’d have to keep lying to herself before she did something she couldn’t take back.

Something she desperately wanted to do anyway.

─── 🏁

Lando pushed the back door open, letting the muffled thump of bass spill out onto the pavement before it swung shut behind him. The air outside was damp, cooler than the sweat-soaked, neon-blasted club interior. He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

He’d needed to get out of there for a minute.

Partly to ditch the girl who’d practically climbed into the booth with him, way too handsy for his taste, her acrylic nails tapping on his shoulder, her lips brushing his ear. He’d peeled her off with a smile that wasn’t quite polite.

Mostly, though?

He was looking for someone in particular.

He didn’t know when he’d gotten so predictable. He just knew he was hoping he’d catch her slipping out for air, maybe leaning against the brick wall checking her phone, rolling her eyes at her idiot boyfriend, looking stupidly gorgeous while pretending she didn’t know he was watching.

And tonight, lucky him.

She was right there.

Except she wasn’t smiling.

No, she was furious.

He froze halfway down the steps, heart tightening when he realized what he was seeing.

They were arguing. Loud enough that he could hear them over the echo of the club’s bass vibrating the door.

Her boyfriend’s voice was sharp, cruel. “I’m sick of this. Sick of you showing up every fucking night like you own the place.” Her jaw was clenched so tight he was surprised she could even talk. “Oh, I’m sorry, is my support suffocating you?” He barked out a laugh, ugly and humorless. “Yeah, actually. It is. Jesus, get a fucking hobby.”

Lando’s hands curled into fists in his jacket pockets.

He shouldn’t be listening.

It felt like intruding. Like he was spying on something private.

But he couldn’t look away.

Not when she was blinking back tears so furiously she smudged her liner with the back of her hand, trying to look angry instead of gutted.

Not when he got a good look at what she was wearing tonight.

A black dress, tight, thin straps, lace at the neckline that hugged her chest in a way that was almost unfair. She looked like sin bottled and labeled for him only, not that he’d ever admit that out loud.

But right now?

She looked miserable.

He watched as her boyfriend threw his hands up in exasperation. “Whatever. I’m going home. Do what you want.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard they nearly disappeared in her head. “Yeah, fuck you too.”

He stalked off down the sidewalk without another word, disappearing around the corner.

And she just stood there.

Arms crossed. Chin up.

But her chest was rising and falling too fast.

Lando swallowed hard.

He should go back inside. This wasn’t his business.

But his feet had a mind of their own.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he was already moving toward her, boots crunching on loose gravel.

She didn’t see him at first, too busy glaring after her boyfriend’s retreating silhouette.

He cleared his throat softly. “Hey.”

She turned, startled. Eyes rimmed red but blazing.

Lando hesitated for half a second, this wasn’t his fight, he knew that.

But fuck it.

He kept walking until he was right in front of her. Close enough to see the way her dress quivered at her rapid breathing.

Close enough to smell her perfume: sweet, musky, like warm nights and bad decisions he was dying to make.

He didn’t know what he planned to say.

But he knew he couldn’t just leave her standing there alone.

─── 🏁

She didn’t cry.

She wouldn’t. Not out here.

Not where everyone could see her, where he could see her.

Her boyfriend’s words still rang in her ears, ugly and sharp: “Get a fucking hobby.”

Like showing up to support him, to just be near him, was somehow a burden. Like caring too much was something to be embarrassed about.

She stared out at the street, arms crossed so tightly over her chest that her fingernails dug into her skin. She blinked fast, trying to stop the tears away before they could fall. Her throat ached from holding them back.

She heard footsteps before she saw him.

Soft crunch of gravel. A subtle exhale.

Her heart sank. She didn’t want a pity speech. Not from the bartender, not from a bouncer, not—

“Hey.”

Her chest tightened.

Of course.

She turned. And there he was.

Lando stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jacket, eyes steady on hers. His green eyes looked almost golden under the glow of the overhead light. He looked calm. Too calm, like he didn’t just walk into the middle of a mess she’d tried to keep quiet.

She straightened her shoulders. She hated being seen like this.

She hated that it was him seeing her like this.

Because the second he looked at her like that concerned, quiet, maybe even a little protective, she felt herself splintering all over again.

“You alright?” he asked, voice low.

She gave a breathy, sarcastic laugh. “Peachy.”

He didn’t smile. Just stepped closer. “You shouldn’t stay out here alone.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

He nodded once. Took another slow step forward. “Let me drive you home.”

Her pulse kicked up.

She opened her mouth to say no. The word was right there.

But it caught on the back of her tongue.

Not because she didn’t want to accept.

But because she wasn’t sure what would happen if she did.

A tight car. A long drive. Just the two of them.

His hand on the gearshift. His eyes flicking over to her every time the streetlights passed.

What if he touched her again? Casually. On the thigh. On the waist. The way he always did when he passed her in the club, just enough to make her breath catch.

What if she leaned in?

What if she did something stupid?

She looked away, jaw tight. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” he said gently. “And it’s late.”

She didn’t respond.

“Come on,” he added, softer now. “Just a ride. That’s all.”

She looked up at him again. He wasn’t pushing. His face was open. Calm.

But those damn eyes…

She was tired. Humiliated. And cold.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He didn’t say I told you so. Didn’t smirk. Just nodded once and turned toward the parking lot.

And she followed knowing full well she wasn’t just getting in a car.

She was stepping over a line.

And praying she had the strength not to cross the next one.

─── 🏁

Lando unlocked the car without looking at her, letting her slip into the passenger seat in silence. The door shut with a dull thunk.

It felt too quiet after the pounding club.

He started the engine, glancing at her for the first time since they left the sidewalk.

She was turned toward the window already. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on nothing.

He waited for her to say something. An address. A neighborhood. Anything.

She didn’t.

Just kept breathing in these shallow, shaky little sighs that fogged the glass.

So he put the car in gear and drove.

It wasn’t like he had a plan. He just needed to get her away from there. Away from him.

He swallowed, stealing another glance at her.

She looked like sin in that stupid dress.

Thin straps biting into her shoulders. Lace hugging her chest so tight it moved with every ragged breath. Her thighs pressed together, shifting every time the car hit a bump.

He shouldn’t be looking.

God, he shouldn’t be thinking anything right now.

She’d just been crying. She was humiliated. Furious.

But his eyes kept sliding down her legs anyway. Watching the way her knees brushed together, like she couldn’t quite get comfortable. Like they were begging to be pulled apart.

He gripped the wheel harder, knuckles whitening.

Stop. Jesus, stop.

She sighed again, this tiny, frustrated sound. Her lips parted, glossy even in the dull streetlight.

He could almost feel them.

He flexed his fingers on the leather.

It was wrong.

So fucking wrong.

She was fresh from a fight with her boyfriend, her ogre-looking asshole of a boyfriend, he reminded himself.

But still her boyfriend.

She wasn’t his.

Didn’t matter how many times he told himself she deserved better.

Didn’t matter how many times he’d imagined her smiling for him instead.

He cleared his throat, voice rough. “You gonna tell me where to go, or am I just driving till we hit the ocean?”

She didn’t move for a beat. Then turned her head, eyes a mess but sharp. “Just drive.”

It wasn’t said kindly.

But it wasn’t leave me alone, either.

He swallowed. Nodded once.

He drove.

And the whole time, he tried not to think about pulling over, reaching across the seat, grabbing her face and kissing the fight out of her.

Tried not to think about undoing her seatbelt so he could drag her onto his lap and make her forget every cruel word that asshole had ever said.

Tried not to think about how badly he wanted to show her exactly who she really deserved.

He failed spectacularly.

But he kept driving anyway.

Because for tonight, that was enough.

─── 🏁

She didn’t even know where they were.

She’d told him to just drive, and he had.

No questions. No lectures. Just silence, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional squeak of the wipers brushing away the city mist.

She watched the streetlights blur past. Orange and white. Warm and cold.

But she wasn’t really seeing them.

She was too busy trying to hold herself together.

Her arms were wrapped around her own waist, squeezing tight. She could feel her heart in her ribs, fluttering wildly, embarrassingly desperate.

She could smell him. Even over the cheap car freshener. That stupid masculine cologne that clung to his jacket.

She felt the heat radiating off him every time they hit a stoplight and he glanced over.

He was so close.

Too close.

She swallowed, hard.

It wasn’t the lights. It wasn’t the city. It wasn’t anything out there that made her say:

“Can you… can you pull over here?”

He blinked. Turned to her.

“Here?”

She nodded quickly, eyes darting out the window. She lied through her teeth. “The lights are… pretty.”

She almost laughed.

Pretty?

She didn’t give a fuck about the damn lights.

The truth burned hot under her skin.

It wasn’t the lights, it was the heat.

The heat she couldn’t shake every time she felt his eyes on her.

The heat that pooled beneath her every time his stupid big hands flexed on the steering wheel.

The heat that made her bite her lip until it stung, imagining things she shouldn’t.

Things that were wrong.

Because she had a boyfriend.

Didn’t matter that he was a piece of shit.

Didn’t matter that he’d left her crying outside the club.

She was still his.

And yet here she was, in another man’s car, intentionally stopping in the middle of nowhere just to be alone with him a little longer.

Just so she didn’t have to go home yet.

Because if she was honest, truly, humiliatingly honest,

She didn’t want to go home.

She wanted him.

God, she wanted him so badly it hurt.

Her mind spun with it, filthy, frantic.

A hundred different ways she could say thank you for the ride.

One with her climbing into his lap, grinding down on him until he couldn’t pretend to be polite anymore.

Another with both of them spilling into the backseat, windows fogged, her dress hitched up to her waist while he fucked her so deep the whole car rocked.

And her personal favorite,

Sliding off her seat onto the floor between his legs, the car cramped and dark, his hand tangled in her hair while she took him deep in her mouth. Letting him guide her pace, letting him groan her name like he’d been imagining it forever.

She squeezed her thighs together, trying to stop the aching throb that settled there.

It didn’t help.

Nothing helped.

She turned away from him, pretending to watch the streetlights.

“Yeah,” she said quietly, hating how breathless she sounded. “Here’s good.”

He didn’t argue.

Just put the car in park and let the engine idle, glancing over at her in the dim glow.

─── 🏁

He slowed the car to a stop at the curb when she told him to.

“Here?” he asked, brow furrowed.

She nodded, breath hitching. “Yeah. Here’s good.”

He blinked.

He looked out through the windshield.

The only “lights” around were from an ugly old street lamp buzzing with moths and a grimy billboard for floral-scented hand soap.

Pretty?

He almost scoffed.

What the fuck was she talking about?

He turned his head slowly to call her bluff and froze.

She wasn’t looking at the window at all now.

She was staring at nothing, eyes glazed, breathing shallow.

Her fingers dug so hard into her thighs he could see the indent of her nails even in the dim light. She squeezed them together like she was trying to break her own bones.

And then he really saw her.

The flush on her chest. The tremor in her breath. The way her lip was caught between her teeth, wet and glossy.

Oh.

Oh.

He felt heat flood through his chest, down to his gut, settling painfully in his lap.

She wasn’t looking at the lights.

She was fighting herself.

He swallowed hard, hand tightening on the steering wheel until the leather creaked.

Her name left his mouth for the first time, unsteady but deliberate.

She jolted a little, turning to face him.

And fuck.

She was looking at him like she’d strip him bare right there if he even hinted at it.

That was the same look he’d been sending her all night.

All week.

Maybe longer.

Her lips parted. She breathed once, twice, shaky and hungry.

Then her voice came out cracked, pleading. “We shouldn’t.”

It sounded like a warning.

It sounded like please stop me.

He stared at her for a heartbeat.

Then unbuckled her seatbelt with a single snap.

She gasped but didn’t move away.

He dropped the belt to the side and reached for her waist, fingers hot and heavy, deliberate as he pulled her toward him.

She resisted for half a second, her nails digging into the seat, but her body betrayed her. She was already lifting her hips, already leaning over the console.

He grabbed her firmly, guiding her onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She settled there, thighs spread over his, dress riding high on her hips, breathing so fast he felt it everywhere they touched.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his own breath coming ragged.

“Say it again,” he whispered.

She swallowed hard, eyes glassy.

Her mouth trembled. “We shouldn’t…”

But she didn’t move away.

Didn’t even try.

And he didn’t let her finish before he kissed her.

Her weight settled on his lap, and for a second he thought he might lose his mind from just that.

Her thighs bracketed his hips, warm and tense. Her breath spilled over his cheek.

She didn’t push him away.

She didn’t say stop.

When he kissed her, she kissed him back with a violence that sent sparks behind his eyes. Teeth clashing. Lips slick. Her fingers buried in his hair, pulling, needing.

He let himself drown in it.

Because fuck consequences.

He didn’t care about the club, or the dark street, or the idea of some cop shining a flashlight in the window.

He didn’t even care about her Timberland-wearing asshole boyfriend who’d abandoned her outside like she was trash.

All he cared about was the way she tasted when she whimpered into his mouth.

He broke the kiss only to drag his hand up her thigh, pushing her dress higher, bunching the fabric around her hips. She shivered under his touch, gasping softly.

He pulled back just enough to look at her.

The way the lace straps had fallen halfway down her shoulders.

The way her chest heaved, threatening to spill out of the tight bodice.

Jesus Christ.

He wanted to feel every part of her.

She stared back at him, eyes dark and hungry. Lips swollen from kissing.

Then she did something that made him stop breathing.

She reached for the hem of her dress.

He watched, fucking hypnotized, as she peeled it up and over her head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside onto the dashboard.

She sat there in just her black lace bra and tiny underwear, straddling him in the driver’s seat, panting.

He swallowed hard. His voice broke when he spoke. “Fuck…”

He leaned forward, mouth hovering over her chest. One hand came up to her back, fumbling for the clasp of her bra.

She let him.

It popped open easily, the straps sliding off her shoulders.

She shivered, her breath stuttering.

He didn’t even think. He let the bra drop onto the seat beside them.

She was bare. Warm. Soft.

He ran his hands up her sides, palms big enough to span her waist, thumbs brushing under her breasts.

He wanted to memorize the way she arched into him.

And then she surprised him again.

Her fingers went to his belt.

He tensed, heartbeat slamming in his throat.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t even look him in the eyes at first.

Just undid it. Button, zipper, metal clinking in the cramped car.

She hesitated for half a second, glancing up at him.

His breath hitched.

He let his hips lift gently, helping her.

Her knuckles brushed him through his boxers. He groaned, deep and helpless.

She moaned at the sound.

Like she liked it.

Like she’d been waiting to hear it.

His head fell back against the seat.

Fuck...

He didn’t think about getting caught.

Didn’t think about what it would mean tomorrow.

Didn’t think about her boyfriend, or her mascara-stained tears outside the club.

He just thought about now.

About the way she was looking at him like she was starving.

About how goddamn lucky he was that she was in his lap at all.

He didn’t remember deciding to move.

It was pure instinct.

Her hips were rocking subtly in his lap, breath coming in these sharp, shallow gasps every time she shifted.

Without thinking, he pushed up against her.

Hard.

Deliberate.

He felt the wet heat of her through that thin scrap of her underwear.

She choked on a sound, half-moan, half-whimper.

It lit him up from the inside out.

Yeah. Feel that.

He did it again. Grinding up, making sure she felt every inch of how badly she was wrecking him.

Her fingers clawed at his shoulders. Then she leaned in, mouth dragging hot and wet along his jaw until she found his ear.

She nipped at it.

Not gently.

It sent a violent shiver through him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice breaking.

She didn’t even wait. Her hands fumbled at the hem of his shirt, pushing it up. He lifted his arms obediently, brain short-circuiting as she peeled it off and tossed it somewhere in the dark.

He was panting.

He should have stopped. Said something.

We shouldn’t.

But when he looked at her, hair a mess, eyes black, chest heaving, there wasn’t a single chance in hell he could make himself say it.

She went for the band of his boxers next, fingers curling in the elastic.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t have to.

It was the way she tugged, like she was asking permission and demanding it at the same time.

He swallowed hard, voice shredded. “Okay.”

Like a hungry, stupid boy, he obeyed.

He pushed them down in one swift, fumbling motion, groaning when the cool air hit him, and when she moaned at the sight.

Her nails dug into his shoulders again for balance.

He felt her shake.

He reached down, hands big and warm on her thigh, sliding slowly inward.

She shivered.

He hooked a finger into the side of her panties and pushed them aside, baring her completely to him.

Fuck.

He could feel her.

Hot. Wet.

Waiting.

Their eyes met in the glow of the dashboard lights, both of them breathing like they’d been running for miles.

No words.

None needed.

He lined them up, hands steady even though his whole body trembled.

And when he pushed in, slow but deep, he felt her nails bite him so hard he knew he’d have marks the next day.

Her mouth fell open on a broken moan.

He didn’t even try to stay quiet.

The car was filled with the sound of their harsh breathing, the squeak of leather, the wet heat of bodies colliding in desperate, uncoordinated rhythm.

It was wrong.

It was so fucking wrong.

He knew it.

But neither of them stopped.

Because it was also inevitable.

A mistake they’d both tried so hard to control.

A sin that wasn’t ending tonight.

Just beginning.

─── 🏁

part 2 👀

[suunani]

how to fall in love [ park sunghoon ]

sunghoon totally sucks at pretending to read but can’t help falling for you in the library anyway.

❛ content 1.2k words, book-smart! male reader, fluff, mutual pining, sunghoon’s pov, light humor, just sunghoon being a hopelessly whipped disaster.

sunghoon’s reputation was a lie. a big, shiny, six-foot-tall, fan-letter-magnet lie.

cool? him? god, no. not when he was sitting across the library trying not to pass out because you just pushed your sleeves up to your elbows. and he didn’t even like arms. he wasn’t an arm guy. but somehow your forearms — yeah, your forearms — had him contemplating marriage and naming your future cats.

why is that hot? is this a thing? are rolled sleeves supposed to be this sexy? god, i’m losing my mind.

to the outside world, sunghoon was the campus heartthrob. the untouchable athlete. the boy who glided across ice like poetry and looked like he belonged in a luxury skincare ad. but inside, he was just a man — a man who once tripped over a hallway trash can because you smiled at him in passing.

you probably didn’t even remember that smile. but he did. oh, he did.

it haunted his dreams.

sunghoon didn’t belong in a library. he knew that. the library knew that. the book in his hand, wuthering heights, definitely knew that.

but you were there. and that changed everything.

you were at your usual table near the window, the late afternoon sun catching in your hair, and sunghoon… he was trying not to visibly combust. his palms were clammy on the book cover. he couldn’t feel his knees. his stomach was doing full axels and botched landings, flipping over itself like it was warming up for the olympic.

you hadn’t even looked at him yet today, and he was already dizzy.

every time you adjusted your glasses (god, glasses — his new favorite invention), or hummed quietly as you read, or chewed the tip of your pen while thinking, it was like his brain short-circuited.

how are you real? how is a person allowed to look like a warm cup of tea on a rainy day? you have dimples. DIM. PLES. do you know what that does to me?

he glanced down at the book and realized he hadn’t turned a page in twelve minutes.

catherine and heathcliff are… doing something. probably being dramatic and depressed. i relate. i, too, am being dramatic and depressed. over you.

suddenly, you stood up. sunghoon’s breath caught. you stretched your arms above your head — the stretch, his weakness, why must you test him like this? — and looked around. your gaze landed on him.

eye contact.

sunghoon blinked. froze. half-smiled. probably looked like a terrified deer. his heart rate shot into sprint mode, and he hadn’t even stood up yet.

you tilted your head and walked toward him.

walked. toward. him.

sunghoon panicked.

he tried to make it look like he was reading. realized he still had the book upside down. flipped it — too fast. the pages made a dramatic fwump sound and people turned to stare. he smiled weakly like 'ah yes, literature'. and then you sat down across from him.

that was it.

time of death : 4:37pm. cause : proximity to perfection.

“hey,” you said, so soft and so warm. “is that wuthering heights?”

sunghoon opened his mouth. closed it. tried again.

“yeah,” he croaked. “it’s… really height-y.”

you blinked. “height-y?”

“yeah, you know. wuthering. and. heights. both of those… things. are in it.”

what am i even saying what am I SAYING what is this gremlin noise coming out of my throat oh my god he’s gonna leave—

but you just chuckled. softly. like you were genuinely entertained. “you’re kind of weird.”

sunghoon’s whole chest lit up.

you didn’t say it like it was a bad thing. you were smiling.

oh my god. oh my god you think i’m weird. in a good way. i’m gonna write that in my diary— i don’t even have a diary but i’ll get one. just for this.

you glanced down at the book and tilted your head. “it’s upside down.”

sunghoon looked at it, betrayed. “again?!”

you laughed. you actually laughed. it made sunghoon feel like sunlight was running through his veins.

“i knew it,” you said. “you don’t actually read, do you?”

he winced. “not… really.”

“and yet i’ve seen you in the library like six days in a row.”

he scratched the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of how warm his face was. “i was… trying something new.”

you raised an eyebrow. “trying me?”

his ears exploded with heat. he choked.

“NO—i mean—i wasn’t trying you, that sounds—not that i wouldn’t! i would! i mean—”

you laughed again, leaning forward, chin on your hand now, looking at him like he was really fun.

sunghoon felt the air shift.

you were so close. close enough that he could see the little freckle near your jaw. close enough to smell that faint clean scent you always had — like strawberry and paper and something uniquely you.

his legs were trembling under the table. he willed them to stay calm.

“i think it’s cute,” you said. “you pretending to like books just to talk to me.”

sunghoon’s breath stuttered.

“you do?”

you nodded. “yeah. i think it’s kind of… sweet. dumb, but really sweet.”

sunghoon laughed breathlessly. “that’s fair.”

a beat of silence. the kind that felt full, not awkward.

you tapped your pen against the table. “you wanna learn, though? like for real?”

he blinked. “learn what?”

“how to actually read something. like, together. i could help. if you want.”

you smiled — soft and shy and radiant.

sunghoon felt like he was sitting in the sun.

if this is a dream, please never wake me up. i’ll stay here forever. i’ll learn how to read, i’ll read the dictionary, i’ll memorize every single book you love if it means i get to sit across from you like this. you’re…

“…amazing,” he said out loud before he could stop himself.

you blinked, surprised.

sunghoon slapped a hand over his mouth.

“i didn’t mean to say that. out loud. that was supposed to be in my head.”

you just smiled.

“you’re kind of a disaster,” you said.

sunghoon nodded solemnly. “i am. a total disaster.”

“but i like disasters.”

sunghoon’s heart did a triple axel, landed it, and threw a bouquet. “i—uh—cool. yeah, cool. so. reading date?”

“reading date.”

you looked down at the book in his hands. still upside down.

“and maybe we start with something easier.”

that night, sunghoon walked home with the book you lent him (the little prince, because “it’s sweet and short and also kind of weird, like you”) clutched to his chest like a precious treasure.

he read every word of it. twice.

and underlined his favorite line, just in case he got the chance to read it to you someday :

'it is only with the heart that one can see rightly ; what is essential is invisible to the eye.'

to sunghoon, that line meant one thing :

you’re everything, and you don’t even know it. but i do. and i’ll keep showing up every day just to sit across from you and hope someday, maybe, you’ll look at me the way i look at you.

he smiled into his pillow that night like the lovesick idiot he was. and maybe, just maybe, the next time he saw you, he’d hold your hand.

but only if he didn’t pass out first.

[fourisafan]

arthur leclerc relationship headcanons

➜summary: how i imagine a relationship with arthur leclerc would be (gn!reader) ➜word count: 480 words ➜content warnings: brief mentions of arguments & insecurity ➜author's note: sorry for the gap between fics! it's been really hot here so writing has been quite low on my list of priorities! i hope you enjoy nonetheless!

you are literally dating a big, dumb idiot (said affectionately, of course)

he's loving and tries his very best, but sometimes he misses things - you might have to remind him about things a couple of times

so sweet and patient with you though like he's genuinely so charming and he will make your heart flutter nonstop

sometimes gets insecure & thinks you could find someone better but never actually questions your judgement or tries to end things

works very hard to make you proud of him, even when you say that you'll love him regardless of what he does

arthur is also just insanely proud of you, like wow.. he literally just loves you so much!

always pushes charles to let you stay in his garage so he can have you close by when he works

makes you come to every race weekend where he'll be in the car because you once called it hot and it made him happy lol

he smiles into kisses, i just know he does

arthur usually has to pull away mid-kiss to have a quick giggle over how much he loves you before he can kiss you again

absolutely no issues kissing you in front of people, but won't do it if it makes you uncomfortable

loves a makeout session, even if it doesn't lead to more - he just loves kissing you!!

despite having no issues with kissing you in public, arthur won't really cuddle you in public

he doesn't mind a quick hug, but he won't really hold onto you for longer than necessary

doesn't mind if you wanna cling to him like a ragdoll though

massive cuddler at home tbh because he gets to basically nap trap you each and every time

unfortunately, you two argue a lot - fortunately, its mostly over silly goofy things

arthur is capital d Dramatic and will start a silly squabble with you over damn near anything

absolutely hates serious arguments though, even if they happen more frequently than either of you wants

he just loses control sometimes and gets frustrated, something he hates more than anything

you two, some nice food and a bit a privacy? now that's the perfect date in arthur's mind!

will totally be down to do whatever you wanna do tho - he's pretty adaptable!

doesn't mind sharing clothes but he prefers it when you wear his non-ferrari stuff because to him, its more personal

got you promise rings for your first year anniversary and damn near almost cried watching you put yours on

not really a flaunter - he doesn't care at all about posting you or you posting him, but he doesn't go out of his way to do it

definitely keeps most of his life with you offline tbh

a bit misguided sometimes, but arthur has only the best intentions

he's just the sweetest bean ever... treasure him!!

© all rights to fourisafan 2025.

[totallybelova]

First Time || Headcanons !

a/n: This includes Wanda, Natasha, Yelena and Kate only, sorry, if you have any hc suggestions send them into my inbox and I’ll see what I can do, only Wanda, Nat, Yelena or Kate are accepted!

NSFW CONTENT! MINORS DNI ! MEN DNI. THIS IS WLW!

Yelena Belova

Yelena would totally be very gentle, like extremely gentle and terrified of somehow hurting you,

I feel like she’d opt for external pleasure, not inserting anything. So, no straps, no fingering etc. She’s focused on stimulating the outside as much as possible, mainly with her hand so she can keep her eyes on you,

She’d be constantly looking at you, at your face, one because she likes seeing you enjoying yourself and two just to make sure you’re comfortable, she’d be studying your facial micro expressions. + At the start she asked you so so so many times if you’re sure, because she doesn’t want to scare you off or pressure you or anything

As in for Aftercare she’d bring you anything you need. Water? She’s sprinting to get you some from the kitchen. A blanket? Done. No blanket? Also done.

For more NSFW headcanons she is a switch, who mainly bottoms, but she’s usually the one guiding you, unless you want to, she’s definitely open to suggestions.

Natasha Romanoff

Natasha would be gentle and slow, though she’d seek reassurance more in words, she would constantly check on you, ask how whatever she’s doing feels,

She would go more for fingering, and your foreplay would be longgg, just her trying things out, seeing how you like to be touched and making mental notes of it,

For Aftercare she’d praise a lot, purring all sorts of compliments into your ear, her hands still glued to your body, gently massaging your belly,

Natasha is a switch, who prefers to dominate, she doesn’t have to be a top always, though she prefers it, she’s still a bit hesitant on receiving during sex, cause she doesn’t often feel up to it at all. So she mainly is a dom!top, but can definitely be a sub!top too. I just see her being a top mainly.

Wanda Maximoff

Wanda would be a bit more fierce, very excited to pleasure you, obviously all within boundaries,

She’d prefer to eat you out, cherishing each whimper and noise like a reward, also boob worship, so much boob worship, she just loves boobs ok? let a girl love a good tit. She’d touch them a lot, her hands still glued naturally returning back to playing with your nipples or just resting there.

For Aftercare Wanda would definitely need a moment to rest, just on your own, next to each other, the hear radiating off of your bodies that are not touching but it certainly feels like they are. After she took a moment to rest she’d ask you if you liked it and if she was good,

Wanda is a sub, but a top, she can definitely change it around here and there, but she’s a whore for some praise. praise kink? definitely.

Kate Bishop

Kate would be very confident in herself, very cocky, but at the same time it would be a very fun goofy moment between you two.

She would go for fingering too, probably on a table, kitchen counter or something, alternatively thigh riding. That is her jam.

For Aftercare I think she’d love some resting together, her playing with your hair as you calmed down, her dom demeanour totally gone and she’s a big old silly softie again.

Kate is a switch, who tends to lean into a dom!top kinda vibe, she has days where she just needs you to eat her out, but she still doms just as a bottom.

[aamy2100982]

I AM SO MAD RIGHT NOW!

So as a little context, because I'm writing this in English for no reason when this is a Hispanic topic

(not even a Hispanic topic, if I don't live in Argentina, but I also have a stuck hatred even though I'm Chilean) xd

Cristian Dzwonik better known as "Nik" is an Argentine cartoonist who created the character Gaturro

this cat with an ass face.

The issue with Nik is that many of his comics were "reported" for plagiarism. In 2018 (if I remember correctly), Internet users created a document in Google called "Black Book", where they show plagiarism in Nik's drawings, in the Gaturro strip, with other cartoonists. Some were minimal plagiarisms, others were plagiarizing entire comics. It also seems that most of Nik's comics are devoted to his character Gaturro for children, it would not be a problem if Gaturro was not also the representative of this man's political humor, politics and children like not many go. It goes without saying that Nik is a hypocritical person and he boosts his ego based on merit that is not his.

Now the main topic. Argentina has many well-known comic book writers and several of them have statues of their most representative and/or famous characters. So Nik was also given his own Gaturro statue. But since nobody likes Nik, the statue of Gaturro was vandalized en masse, which became a meme among Latin Americans

they had to remove the statue and Nik started crying on Twitter about how his statue would come back better and revamped with "Anti-Vandalism Technology". Everyone laughed in his face and not long ago we were able to see the impressive "Anti-Vandalism Technology" that was put on the statue

a fence XD

Now, the reason for my anger. Someone out there said "wouldn't it be fun if they vandalize Gaturro, but leave the fence intact?" and they all agreed to leave the fence alone (after all, it wasn't it fault for protecting such a nefarious character).

but someone, an asshole, lightning the fence

You know? all this is fine (it literally takes 3 days xd)

But this

There are very bad people in this world

(I never support vandalism, but Nik is a horrible person and does not deserve a statue, all his efforts are based on palliating the work of his own colleagues. Nik is such an unbearable person, even other comic writers say they would never work with someone as nefarious as him)

[icewindandboringhorror]

I know this is just a silly bad quality random screencap of a screencap that I found on facebook lol, BUT it's a succinct enough image to easily describe the concept in a quick/accessible way hopefully :

-

(and of course, feel free to elaborate in tags, etc.! (especially elaborating about other senses as well.. can you "hear" in your mind just as well as you can "see"? taste? etc.) It's an interesting topic to me, as someone who's like a 4.5 at MOST lol. I'm curious what option will be the most common :0c )

[necrotic-nephilim]

in lieu of having posted any writing/headcanons/asks in the past few days because i have been *so* busy and unable to do anything fandom-related which is terrible and evil, i have a poll out of morbid curiosity and self-indulgence. i've been meaning to ramble here about how i feel about DC's lack fo Deaf representation and which Batfam members i would personally make Deaf, but i am mildly curious about the larger opinion and now i will subject you all to the question, i would love to hear thoughts/opinions/headcanons on any specific choices. (would love d/Deaf/HoH opinions esp but i'm mostly expecting this to reach the hearing crowd, so opinions from hearing ppl are ones i'm very curious about. if you've never given it thought before you are going to now or else /lh)

[plantenjoyer]

I SWEAR I KEEP TRYING TO DO ART BUT THEN SOMETHING GETS IN THE WAY AND THEN I PROCRASTINATE AND THEN SIX MONTHS PASS

[cuddlefishbandit]

[CW: very brief mention of sexual harassment, otherwise just whacky hijinks]

“Hey, boss!”

Trek felt a blunt jab in his dorsal gills, and followed the familiar sting down the upper arm of his subordinate. His annoyance expelled in a harsh, disapproving chuff.

That did not sway the intrepid Kul’Vian in the slightest, to the captain’s chagrin. The young one had a box in their paws made of thin, lined cardboard. They shook it with excitement, an ill-appropriated grimace—what could barely pass for a human smile but struck closer to the bared teeth of lesser apes—traipsing across their jowl.

They did not wait for their captain’s reply.

“I think we may have made headway in concocting a new poison to halt our insufferable human ambassador on his tracks!”

A sharp slide of the cabin door and the clacking of footsteps seized both the captain and young lieutenant. Ber’Lo made her entrance with a precise, calculated kick into a relic which sat against the ship’s wall.

The clatter of broken stoneware rang in Trek’s sensory organs. Recoiling the feelers that sat above his lip like whiskers, he gave a knowing blink. “It went that badly, did it?”

A frustrated growl erupted from the assassin’s throat, fluttering the gills which laid partly-hidden in her dress.

“That oaf has a stomach of tungsten steel!” She took a moment to compose herself, claws pressed to her temples. “First, ghost pepper. A temporary annoyance. Then, taurine combined with a strong caffeine supplement. A momentary hiccup in their cardiovascular track, but of no lasting consequence. All the chocolate did was puff up his dog like a…” She thought for a moment, lashes flickering as she spun her index claw like a turning gear. She turned to the lieutenant. “What do you call that, again?”

“Uh…marshmallow, maybe?” Lt. Serzal gave a sheepish, deflective blink.

“Yes, whatever—a mellow-marsh!” She continued with a shriek, “And I spent two hours in the waiting room of a dog hospice—you know they have hospices just for their pets?!”

“Yes, I was aware.” Trek stifled a bemused hum.

“And then he tried to put his hand up my skirt,” she hissed. “He was under the impression I’d taken him on a date.”

“A date?!” Serzal swallowed loudly. “As in, he thought you wanted to…?” His body seized with revulsion, and he shook out the discomfort briskly, from head to leathery tail.

“Surely, you gave him what-for.” Trek prompted.

Ber’Lo nodded, stone-faced. “Not as much as I’d prefer, but yes. If it weren’t for upkeeping a peaceful public image to the Earthlings, I’d have ripped his bowels clean out—!”

“—I don’t think you have to go that far,” interjected Serzal, presenting the box to her. Her paws, which had been tense since her return to the mothership, relaxed around the little box her lieutenant pressed into her pads. “It’s a combination of arsenic, barium carbonate, zinc phosphide, et cetera et cetera…” he waved his wrist flippantly, “…known for killing rodents.”

He pressed a claw to the strange characters on the box. “Rat poison.”

Hmm. The assassin looked over the box’s gauche little design. She felt the contents shifted from behind the cardboard. It was heavy enough.

Oh, how she longed to bean that nosy little fucker over the head with it. Brash, rude, no consideration for the subtleties of their culture…or their comparatively limited cuisine. The son of a politician, chin pointed sky-high at all times. Earth truly couldn’t have picked a worse representative for its people, and she’d been stuck with damage-control for the past three moon cycles.

No more.

Ber’Lo sucked in a breath behind her fanged overbite. “And you’re sure this will work?”

“Of course!” Serzal bounded into the ship’s halls, bringing a wake of colliding metal and glass behind them from behind the closed door. They lumbered back in with a rectangular object nearly two-thirds their size, and gracelessly plopped it onto the captain’s console.

Both assassin and captain looked on the object, claimed in a dark muslin, with curiosity. Ber’Lo tapped the thing and felt glass chip away at the point of her talon.

Serzal beamed, knuckles wrapped around the cloth. “I’ve finally found a subject worthy of testing! I fed them the substance at the eighth rotational hour, EST—and if I’m correct, that stuff,” he nodded to the box unwittingly nestled in Ber’Lo’s arms, “should knock these babies dead as a house nail!”

“Dead as a what?” asked Trek.

“…Nevermind.” The lieutenant threw the cloak back over their shoulder aaaaaand.

Yep. There they were. But dead, they weren’t.

The three stared into the terrarium as the plumped-up snails sucked and scoured the walls and bowls of their home, leaving trails of thick mucus in their wake.

Trek let out a poorly concealed ha-rumph beneath his feeler-stache. Ber’Lo turned away, the energy to stay angry all but extinguished. Serzal’s Joel quivered in the wake of their latest failure.

“Back to the drawing board, I guess.”

“Hold on, lieutenant,” the elder captain called, “how much DNA does this share with our target?”

“Approximately 70%.”

“And the last subject?”

“…50%. A member of the genus Musa.”

“A berry?!” Trek fumed. “A common banana?! What happened to capturing a lesser ape for testing?”

Serzal guffawed. “I’d like to see you try to catch one! Mean little critters.”

The Kul’Vian hitwoman huffed from a distance, sharpening her claws against a dagger produced from a pocket in her boots—clearly not made for her species, let alone her shoe size.

“Maybe you should use the bananas properly next time.”

You are an alien assassin tasked with killing the human ambassador. Only to find out all your poisons like caffeine, chocolate, capsaicin, tabacco mint etc. Don’t work

[nereidprinc3ss]

bambi

in which spencer reid and fem!reader fuck like they missed each other (because they always do) and he teases her for her shaky legs

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: softdom spencer, piv sex (riding, a first for nereidprinc3ss) /oral f receiving (in that order) mentions of him accidentally grabbing her hips too hard, slight somno SORT OF like he starts going down on her while she’s sleepy and then she kind of goes in and out but its all consensual, sorry haters i fucking love sleepy sex and I always will, teasing, lots of praise, fluffy, established relationship, he loves her badddd, aftercare, literally nothing bad happens no angst for once they just are having sex cause they are in love which is arguably the most superior kind of sex! a/n: I don’t think I’ve ever written smut that is so wham bam thank you ma’am like really we just get RIGHT into it!! also no gif no pics we r going old nereidprinc3ss on this one I hope you loveeee!!!

You roll over onto Spencer and kiss once, long and deep and sweet. He hums into it, too whipped to pretend like he’s got self control or respect, hands finding the soft skin of your bare waist and settling there. 

How it got to this point so quickly, no more than fifteen minutes after he walked through the door, you can’t say. Usually the two of you are a bit more domestic when he gets home from a case, but eight days is a long time to be apart, and the trail of clothing leading from the welcome mat to the foot of the bed attests to that. 

So does the lack of teasing, of begging—at least, a lack up until this point. Right now, there’s only him, patient and content to let you play at being in charge. You pull back and reach down to grab him gently, aligning him at your entrance with a trembling hand. This part, you’re not usually responsible for. 

He assures you with a hand to the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles. “You got it. Slowly.”

You do as he says, brow furrowing in focus as you sink down an inch or two onto him. Spencer’s breathing grows erratic as you take more and more of him, and in a heroic display of overachieving, you take the rest of him at once with nothing but a squeak. He laughs breathily as his fingers dig into your hips. 

“Fuck—I said slow.”

You can’t think. The overwhelm of it all is too much as you crumple forward onto his chest. The subtle rocking you’re doing to try and alleviate some of the pressure in your core is apparently too much as he stops you by the hips, fingers pressing into those same tender spots.

Spencer’s breath is ragged. “Don’t… do not move.”

“Fuck,” you breathe into his shoulder, long and drawn out as despite his wishes you wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. “Oh my god.”

“My lovely girl, please… please don’t move,” Spencer gasps, a plead, and you try to stop for him, nuzzling even deeper against his neck. “I need a minute.”

��It’s too much,” you slur, dizzy as you try to adjust to the feeling. “Please.” You don’t know what you’re asking for. Maybe relief from the sensation that he can’t offer you. Maybe more. 

Spencer is undone by you—the way you writhe on top of him, the way your voice shakes, the way you’re so totally and completely overwhelmed and he can feel it and he loves it. 

“Baby,” he breathes, and he meant to say a lot more than that, but it’s the best he can manage when he is this overstimulated. “Baby,” he whispers again, wrapping his arms around you in an effort to ground you, to give you something else to focus on as you both get used to the feeling. 

It’s going well—for a moment, before your back is arching. 

“Spence, I need to move, I can’t—”

“Okay, okay.” He takes a deep breath, returning his hands to your waist and mentally preparing himself not to cum early. He’s desperate to give you want you want, to feel you like this. “Go ahead. Move, honey. Please.”

By the time you slowly lift your hips up and drop back down with a low cry, Spencer’s lost. His head falls back against the pillow and his eyes squeeze shut. 

“Fuck,” he groans. “Oh, angel, I missed you.”

You do it again, motivated by his praise, and he can hear your little gasps and desperate gulps of air. 

“I missed you so much,” you whine and clench around him, pleasure so intense it’s a resounding ache in the far reaches of your body. “Oh, fuck, Spencer.”

Spencer shivers. He loves when you make it personal, when you say his name like that and it becomes clear this isn’t just about the physical.

“My girl. Just like that. Doing so well, baby, just like that.”

Each pass of your hips has you whining. Your lips skim over his neck, not cognizant enough to actually kiss—only to know that you want the contact. 

“Please can I go faster?”

Spencer almost doesn’t realize you’re speaking to him he’s so lost in pleasure. The idea of faster is as compelling as it is troublesome. Spencer doesn’t know if he can’t take faster, not when he has you like this, but he certainly wants to find out. 

“Yeah, lovely. Do whatever feels good.”

You readjust and begin to pick up the pace, stumbling over a few false starts as it’s clearly more sensation than you’d been prepared for. 

Spencer, on the other hand, has his eyes screwed shut tight, and is attempting to draw a two-dimensional Császár polyhedron on your back, but he loses his place with every twitch of your hips, so eventually he decides to trace imperfect Mandelbrots down your spine—anything to avoid thinking about how the pH of your body interacts with sweet vanilla perfume to create a scent so deeply intoxicating he’d leave his entire life behind just to trail after it, or how you fucking feel against him, on top of him, around him, how miraculous it is that you keep letting him touch you—

“Oh—” you whine quietly, a strangled sort of noise that has his heart skipping. Your hand tangles desperately in his hair as you rock your hips faster and faster and he lets out a tortured groan. “Spencer, oh my fucking god.”

“I know, baby,” he manages, endeared by the fact that you feel so good you have to share it with him. Even now you’re trying to explain it because you want him to be part of it—as if he doesn’t know exactly what you’re feeling already. “That feels good, huh?”

“Mm—f—eels—” you cut yourself off with a cry into the crook of his neck, and he holds the back of your head, vision greying as he stares unseeing at the ceiling because if he looks down this’ll be over too soon. 

“You’re so good,” he breathes, “you’re perfect.”He hears you gasp at the same time as your rhythm falters, and presses a kiss somewhere indiscriminately on your head. “Gonna cum?” He murmurs in your ear, and you nod desperately, rutting against him hopelessly as your thighs tremble from exertion. 

Even the smallest drop-off in friction has his head spinning like he stood up too quickly, so he gives himself enough leverage to start fucking you. You cry out and shift your weight like you’re going to try and evade the feeling—self-sabotage, you always do this—and he again has to hold your hips in an iron vice, just to force you to feel it. 

“You’re okay, I’m gonna get you there.”

“Fuck!” You very nearly yell, still trying to wriggle away up until the very last second like the tide going out before the tsunami comes. When you do cum, your demeanor instantly changes—you get heavy and clingy and whiny as you rock back and forth through your orgasm. 

“Good girl,” Spencer murmurs, being careful in the way he continues to fuck you until he reaches his peak as well, not long after. You shudder, and Spencer feels the way your entire body tenses the way it sometimes does after a particularly strong orgasm, and he fights his way out of the brain fog to rub your back with the skimming tips of his fingers. “Shh. You’re okay. Relax, baby.”

And you do, unwound by the dance of his hand and with a few shallow breaths that gradually deepen, until you’re once more slack on top of him. 

“You’re incredible,” he exhales, with his lips pressed to your hairline. 

So clearly overwhelmed, the only response you can muster is a soft squeak. Spencer laughs fondly, still mapping the soft curve of your back. He feels the way you’re still attempting to train your breathing and kisses your hair again. “What do you need, angel?”

“I’m s’posed to be taking care of you,” you slur. Spencer chuckles again and his brow knits. 

“According to who?”

“According to… I was on top…”

“Yeah. You did all the hard stuff. Your legs are shaking.”

You whine softly. “No they’re not.”

His hand slides down to your thigh, and he rubs the trembling muscles. 

“No? No Bambi legs for me this time?”

You squeeze them around his waist like you could shrink away from his touch. “Spence…”

“I’m teasing you, honey,” he murmurs, pressing kisses wherever he can reach. “You’re cute.”

“Hm.”

“Look at me,” he murmurs, angling his head expectantly as you slowly raise yours. The look on your face is so sweet—eyes half lidded, lips swollen and much higher in color than usual. Your cheek is warm to the touch. His heart flutters like it did on your first date, and the first time he kissed you, and the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder. This view will never get old. “Wow. Look at you, beautiful girl. Can I have a kiss?”

And you grant him his wish, with a long, soft kiss that’s worth every second of that burning feeling in his lungs, every time. 

Eventually you huff out the remainder of your air against his well-kissed lips and your head flops to his chest. 

“I’m sleepy.”

“So go to sleep,” he murmurs, so warm from your kiss he feels nothing could be wrong in the world at this moment. 

“I can’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause you just got home ’nd I missed you and I wanna spend time with you.”

“We have three days to spend together. If you go to sleep now, we’ll actually get more time together tomorrow.”

“But it’s more about, like, how it feels—how much time it feels like we spend together right when you get home, and if I go to sleep now, it’s gonna feel like less time, and—basically you’re just not understanding my math.”

“What math?” He laughs, continuing to rub your legs all the way up to your hips, at which point you hiss and buck—a very visceral feeling when he’s still inside of you. “What? What hurts?”

“You tried to fucking tear my hip flexors from my body, is what hurts,” you grumble. 

“Tender?”

“Mhm.”

“I’m really sorry, angel. Tylenol?”

“Mm-mm. Can you kiss me better?” Sleep stains your voice. Spencer smiles to himself. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Lie down.”

Again you whine as you slip off of him, landing heavily on your back. He sits up, watches with so much affection the way you squeeze your thighs together and arch ever so slightly against the empty feeling. 

“Spencer?” You whisper as he cups the top of your knees. 

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

He pushes your legs apart gently so he can settle in between them and kisses you again. “I love you. So much.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

He presses a kiss to your head, down your neck, taking the scenic route to your hip bones, but you don’t seem to mind. 

The feeling of his lips gentle on the tender flesh has you humming softly, eyes fluttering shut as he showers you with gentle kisses. His traces every place his fingers had pressed earlier—feels the way you relax further underneath him. Nobody’s ever let him in this deeply before, but you trust him with everything you have; your body, your soul, in life or death, awake and in sleep. He’ll never take that for granted. He will never pass on an opportunity like this, to be the one who takes care of you, who puts you back together, as long as you’ll let him. 

Still dancing the line of consciousness, you part your legs, the slow drag of your bare thigh like a jumper cable to his heart. Fingertips trace desirous paths up your inner thigh and back down again. He recognizes this invitation for what it is, and he knows exactly how to give you what you want, but he asks first anyway. 

“Was that on purpose?”

“I d’know what you mean. I’m so sleepy,” you slur, and he believes the second half of your statement to be fact. 

Spencer pushes your thigh a little higher, and you’re completely pliable for him, completely gorgeous. As soon as he skims your thigh with a barely-there kiss, exactly the way you like, you’re lacing a hand in his hair. 

“Please, Spence…” you murmur, and he can’t argue with that. He especially can’t argue when you widen your legs just that slightest bit more, and your arousal is opalescent between your legs. 

He hums, trailing more kisses up until he’s setting the softest one yet against your clit. “Beautiful girl…”

The following gasp is so tiny he could’ve missed it if he wasn’t so attuned to your noises—and then he gets lost in you, making sure to keep his ministrations light as you already came twice recently and are sure to be sensitive. He doesn’t want to wake you from whatever twilight half-slumber trance you’re in, either, sensing that if he does you’ll fight all over again to stay up.

And admittedly, he adores being trusted to take care of you like this.

Your back arches as much as you’re capable of in this state, and he can’t help the way he just barely suctions onto you at that moment, coaxing a sighing moan so sweet and vulnerable and open it gives him chills. Fuck. He really wants to make you cum. But instead he practices patience, tracing you with the tip of his tongue, pressing gentle kisses everywhere you need them—he draws it out. For he doesn’t know how long. 

The first time you get close, your hips begin to roll, and you spout little ah’s, but he talks you back down again, laughing lightly at your angelic cooing, your little sounds of sleepy pleasure. Even now you’re so responsive, moving against his mouth as he slips a finger into your soaked entrance, fucks you for a moment, and then retreats. Maybe he’s being unfair, but you don’t seem to mind. 

In fact, you’re slipping in and out of sleep as he devours you for what feels like hours, one hand pressed lovingly to your stomach, stroking the soft skin there. Spencer’s never had this long to explore you with his mouth and he takes full advantage of every moment, but he keeps all his kisses and licks and touches gentle and reverent and so loving. 

You don’t know how long it’s been, or how many times he’s made you cum when he finally retreats—you half-wake just as he’s finishing cleaning you up. Soon he tosses the towel aside and presses feather-light kisses to each of your cheeks, tear-stained and warm with pleasure. You feel completely drained and completely loved. 

“Hi, sleeping beauty,” he murmurs, climbing into bed with you, at some point having gotten dressed. 

You manage an embarrassed little laugh. More tears crawl down your cheeks as you roll to your side. Spencer brushes them away and pulls you into him, slinging your thigh over his waist. He chuckles. 

“Shaky?”

“Stop,” you whine, embarrassed by his teasing, and hide your face against his chest. “That’s not my fault.”

“It’s nobody’s fault. It’s sweet,” he insists as he rubs your back. And then, a moment later, “So—do you think we’ve spent enough time together for tonight?”

“No.”

He sighs good-naturedly. 

“You’re gonna wear me out, you know that?”

“’F you… can’t handle the heat… get outta the kitchen.”

When he next speaks you can hear the smile in his voice. 

“Go to sleep, Bambi. Let’s see if you can walk in the morning.”

[vintagebuckybarnes]

In Vino Veritas

Pairing → Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Lab Assistant! Female! Reader

Total Wordcount → 3.5K

Summary → It all started when you and the Avengers enjoyed drinks during the afterparty back at the Avengers Tower. There, Tony revealed one of your deepest secrets, and even though you wish it had never come to light at first, you’re glad it did when the man you love stands on your doorstep, ready to start the rest of your life together.

Tags & Warnings → Semi-canon compliant, Avenger! Bucky Barnes, Female! Reader, Tony’s Lab Assistant! Reader, Bucky’s past as TWS is mentioned, emotional hurt/comfort, mutual pining, some cursing, and explicit sexual content.

Tags: Smut → Grinding, begging, some dirty talk, praise, teasing Bucky, protected sex, cowgirl position.

Story Rating → Explicit

Author’s Note → This story is beta'd by the wonderful @late-to-the-party-81, and I cannot thank you enough for that. I hope you'll all enjoy my story, which is filled with some angst, lots of fluff, and some smut to top it all off! 💜

Writing Prompts @fandom-free-bingo Bug Edition → “There is no us.” | Riding | In vino veritas | “Touch me.” @fandom-free-bingo Medical Edition → Crush at first sight @julybreakbingo Post-JBB → Being confronted about their feelings for another

Tags List → If you’d like to be tagged in my stories, you can add yourself to my tag list here.

The evening starts fine, good, even. But it all takes an unexpected turn when the man you work for - Tony Stark - reveals your secret. A secret that you’d only recently revealed to him.

Earlier that day, you’d spotted Bucky as he was working out and from that moment on your mind has been with him instead of your usual work and tasks.

“Hello, Y/N? Anyone home in there?” Tony asks as he lays a hand on your shoulder, making you jump. You look up at him with a worried look while he smiles back at you with a kind expression. A soft sigh escapes your lips as the thoughts in your head wander off again, specifically how his back looked underneath the tank top he wore in the gym while doing squats. Not only that, but you also can’t stop thinking about the way his ass looked in the sweatpants he wore. In a word, magnificent.

“Is everything okay with you? You’ve been a bit off your game today.” As Tony sits next to you, you put down the screwdriver you were holding - the one he asked you three times to pass to him - before turning to face him, your gaze focusing somewhere on the wall behind him. For a moment, there’s a silence between you as you gather the courage to tell him what’s been on your mind.

“Well, uhm- There’s something, or someone, that I can’t stop thinking about, and it’s taking over my mind every second of every day. It- It’s Bucky,” you say almost in a whisper. For a few seconds, Tony is completely silent as he lets the thought of you having a crush on one of his fellow Avengers sit in his mind. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he reaches out for your hand and takes it between his warm ones.

“You know that I’ll always support you in everything, right? I supported you when you expressed your desire to halt your life as an Avenger and retrain as my lab technician, and I supported you when you moved out of Avengers Tower to have your own home with more peace. This is not going to be any different. All I’m hoping for is that he will make you the happiest and best version of you, as you deserve nothing less.”

Tears brim at your waterline as Tony tells you this, and even though you deeply appreciate him, his words, and everything he has done for you, you can’t help but still feel a bit… odd about the fact you told him you’re having a crush on Bucky. That you have a crush on the man who was once the most feared assassin in the world under the hands of HYDRA.

“Now, can you hand me that screwdriver before your thoughts wander off to him again?” your boss asks in a teasing tone, making you smile as you grab it and hand it to him. Somehow, he always seems to know the right thing to say, and it's exactly why you enjoy spending time by his side while learning everything there is to know about his lab and what's going on in there.

Just as you’re about to get comfortable with another drink in your hand, you meet the gaze of the man you’re crushing on, and you feel heat coursing through your veins. The lines around his deep blue eyes intensify as he smiles at you, his attention making every last thought in your brain disappear. You’re so captivated by how Bucky looks at you that you miss your seat as you sit down. However, before you fall, you’re caught by a pair of solid arms that prevent you from hitting the floor.

“Careful there, Little One,” Thor says in his deep voice, his accent always making the butterflies in your stomach go wild. Even though you’d known Thor since you were young, you couldn’t help but get a little flustered by the nickname, and he smiled at you as you were finally sitting on the chair you intended to use.

“Thank you, Thor,” you whisper before sipping your cocktail. Around you, the conversations are starting to become a little blurry as you focus on Bucky and everything he has to say, his lips forming around the words effortlessly. When you suddenly feel a little shove against your arm, you yelp, making everyone go silent as they look at you.

“What did you do that for?!” you ask Thor in a low voice, but all he does is point to Tony, who obviously has something to say as he’s waving for everyone’s attention. There are moments when you enjoy the fact that alcohol can bring out people’s true feelings or thoughts, also known as in vino veritas, but not now. Oh no, now you wish you could disappear as you listen to the words coming out of Tony’s mouth.

“Guys, you really shouldn’t say this to Bucky or Y/N, but they’re having a massive crush on one another!” Tony says in a loud whispering tone, but what he fails to notice in his inebriated state is that you two are sitting right across from one another, enjoying the afterparty just like everyone else. Or at least, you were enjoying the afterparty until your secret got out.

The glass you were holding falls out of your hand before shattering into pieces on the floor, and your feet carry you as fast as they can away from the party and away from your worst nightmare come true. The music behind you fades away as you turn one corner after another, tears burning in your eyes as the event repeatedly replays in your mind. Your lungs start to burn as you keep running, the stinging feeling in your side increasing as you run out of the Avengers Tower into the night.

Meanwhile, Bucky’s world feels like it has taken a 180-degree turn. Mere minutes ago, he could only fantasize that you could have feelings for him, but now? A wave of disbelief washes over the super soldier, his expression showing pure surprise as he takes the moment in. For him, it was a crush at first sight from the momentyou walked into the training room on your first day. Over the years, his feelings have intensified, although he has only told Steve about his crush - or rather his now deep-rooted love - for you.

And yet, now that the pair of you have been confronted about your feelings for one another, he doesn’t know what to do. He has replayed the moment he’d confess his feelings to you more times than he can count in his mind, and in none of those versions, this is one of the scenarios that had appeared. It’s only when Steve grabs his arm and pulls him away that he seemingly comes back to reality again.

“Bucky, how does Tony know about your crush on Y/N? I mean, I’m, of course, fine with you sharing it, but-”

“I don’t know, Steve, I don’t know, and it kills me,” Bucky says as he runs his fingers through his cropped hair.“Fuck- I was planning on telling her this week but… but now it’s ruined, and I didn’t even get the chance to talk to her, and-” It’s all Bucky can say as he fights the urge to punch the wall with his metal fist, both hands clenched by his side as he tries to regulate his breathing. Without warning, Steve pulls him into a hug, and Bucky’s arms snake around his best friend's waist as his fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt.

“It’s going to be okay, I promise,” Steve whispers, though he’s not entirely sure that’s true because he knows as well as anyone that things don’t always go back to how they were before. Still, Bucky decides to believe him as they stand there for a little while longer, and he soaks in every bit of comfort he can get for now. Lord knows he’s going to need it.

The past few days have been strange, to say the least. You haven’t been to the Avengers Tower since Tony revealed your now not-so-secret crush on the super soldier. You’re afraid of what will happen if you do. This also means you haven’t seen Bucky in a few days, and you miss him. You miss hearing his laugh, and you miss seeing how his mouth turns slightly upward as you hand him one of your baked goods, but most of all, you miss how his arms feel when he pulls you in for a hug.

Just as you’re about to make yourself a cup of tea, you get pulled from your thoughts by a soft but familiar knock on the door; only one thing can make that sound: Bucky’s metal hand knocking against the wood. For a moment, you contemplate your actions, but decide to give him at least a chance to talk, especially as it wasn’t him who laid out your feelings in front of everyone.

“Bucky, hi,” you say softly as you take in his appearance, your heart sinking as you do. It’s evident he hasn’t slept at all the past few days. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he doesn’t look as healthy as usual—more disheveled. The struggles he’s facing are apparent in his entire demeanor, and all you want to do is wrap him up in a warm blanket and cuddle him until the end of time.

“Hi,” he says hoarsely, and you step aside, allowing him to enter your apartment. He’s been here a few times already, and usually there’s a warmth radiating from you and every inch of the little place you call home, but ever since the party, it hasn’t been the same. It isn’t just the apartment, either. You feel different.

“Would you like some tea before we talk?” you ask to break the tension. “I was about to make some.”

He nods at you before wandering further into your apartment, and you head to the kitchen, picking out another mug for Bucky to use. Once he’s caught sight of your couch, he immediately takes a seat, a soft groan audible as he does. There aren’t many places more comfortable than the large couch that’s standing right here in your living room.

When you emerge a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of tea and a plate filled with chocolate chip cookies you baked fresh this morning, Bucky can’t help but smile at you. He gladly takes the tea with one of the cookies, as they’re his favorite, and when you sit down next to him, it feels just like it always has, as if nothing has changed. But you both know it has, and that’s why the super soldier’s now in your living room.

“So…” you start, unsure what to say now that he’s sitting on your couch. Bucky’s eyes are trained on the steaming tea in his hands, his thoughts going a mile a minute as he’s thinking about what he wants to say - other than confessing his love for you.

“So… uhm, we missed seeing you around the Tower,” Bucky starts, though you both know it’s mostly him who has missed seeing you there. You have always been a staple there during his mornings as you make him a cup of coffee, and during movie nights, you were always the one he could sit next to and enjoy the movie, but now that you’re not there, it’s like a piece of soul has left the Tower with you.

“I mean, yeah. It’s been a bit awkward for me to go back after what happened a few days ago,” you tell him, and a shudder of horror runs down your spine at the thought of having to face Tony again. A smile tugs at the corners of Bucky’s lips as he thinks back to what happened that night, a happy memory of your first meeting resurfacing in the back of his mind as he does.

“Good morning, Sergeant Barnes. I’ve made some chocolate chip cookies, if you want some. However, I should warn you, Tony’s been on the prowl since I took them out of the oven, so I’ll advise you to be quick,” you say with a glare towards Tony, who has been eyeing them up since he walked into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. For the first time in a long time, Bucky showed something akin to a smile, and everyone looked at each other to ensure they saw it, too.

“Thank you,” he says lowly, grabbing one of the smaller ones on the plate, followed by a cup of coffee, before swiftly leaving the kitchen to spend more time in his room. Before Bucky even left the kitchen, Tony was on the cookies as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks, and this time you let him.

“Can I- Is it okay if I tell you something? Because if I don’t say it now, I don’t know if I ever will,” Bucky says softly, and you nod before repositioning yourself so that you’re facing him. His gaze is still trained on his mug as he thinks carefully about his next words, afraid he might accidentally say the wrong thing.

“Tony was right. He is right, actually. When he said, we’re crushing on each other. I’ve been crushing on you since you offered me those chocolate chip cookies when Tony threatened to eat them all before anyone else had a chance to get them. It was like a switch flipped inside me back then, and I haven’t been the same since,” Bucky says, his mouth now in a line as he tells you about his feelings.

“Each time I look at you, it’s like I’m seeing an angel, and every time I hear your voice, it’s like a little piece of my soul is healing, too. I find myself drawn to you in every room and wonder what life has in store for us. But deep down inside, I know there is no ‘us’ yet. But I want there to be us. I want you, Y/N. I want you to be mine, in whatever capacity you’ll have me. If you want to stay friends, that’s okay with me, but if you want more, I’ll happily accept every bit of love you’re willing to offer me.”

Once Bucky’s done, you’re unsure what to say. What to think. What to do. You want to say that the feelings between you are mutual, that you’re in love with him and that you want nothing more than to be his, but something inside you is stopping you. So, instead of saying anything, you place your hand over his flesh limb, and his eyes slip shut at the feeling of your soft fingers against his rough hand.

“Bucky.” His name is a whisper on your lips, but it’s enough to make him look at you, to meet your gaze.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

As soon as the words leave your lips, Bucky carefully put his tea on the coffee table before hauling you onto his lap, his hands digging into the soft flesh of your waist as your lips interlock in a passionate dance. He can’t get enough of your soft mouth slotting together with his and the way his tongue fights for dominance with yours as your fingers dig into his neck. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt a strong connection with someone, and you’re happy to explore it with Bucky.

Your hips grind over his growing length of their own volition,your body looking for any bit of friction it can get. Without warning, one of Bucky’s hands slides lower until he’s cupping your ass, making you gasp into his mouth as a result. Bucky can’t help but smile into the kiss as he pulls you impossibly closer, your legs spreading just a bit further as you sink against his muscular body.

“Hmm, I’ve been wanting this - you - for so long,” he says between the kisses trailing your jaw towards your ear, his teeth nipping on your earlobe as your head lolls to the side. With every passing second, your thoughts are melting away more and more, and all that’s left inside your mind is Bucky. Soon, his other hand joins the first as he helps you grind onto him, a groan falling from his lips as he sets a perfect pace for you both.

“B-Bucky—" his name sounds more like a whine than anything else. “I—I want you.”

“But you already have me, pretty girl, ‘m right here,” he says with a teasing lilt to his voice, his hands continuing to help you grind until you’re a complete mess for him. Your shorts are ruined, your arousal soaking through them and onto the bulge in his black jeans, much to Bucky’s joy. He was wondering what it would take to get you to this point, and it turns out it won’t take much.

He smiles against the skin of your neck, where he’s taking his time to mark you with hickeys and small bitemarks, all of which leave you a bit more of a moaning, begging mess on his lap, much to his pride. When one of your hands moves away from his neck and down his torso, he quickly catches on to what you’re doing. “Someone’s a little impatient today, huh?”

“Yes, oh god, yes! I need you to touch me, Bucky. I want to feel you inside me as you make me fall apart on your cock, and I need you to fuck me like there’s no tomorrow!” Your voice sounds more breathy than usual, but every care you thought you had has gone out the window. All you want is Bucky and his cock to ride, until you’re orgasming so hard and long you can’t remember your name.

“Okay, I will. Don’t you worry about anything, okay? Let me take care of you, and I’ll give you everything you need and more,” he reassures you in a shushing voice. You nod before kissing him again, which immediately deepens before he gently helps you get up, allowing you to take off your panties and shorts, and he can take off his pants and boxershorts, too. As soon as you’re both freed from your last pieces of clothing, you hand him a condom you retrieved from the side table drawer while he took the time to undress himself.

“Hmmm, looks so thick,” you tell him as you look at it with wide eyes, wondering how he’s going to fit inside you as you’re positioning yourself on his lap once more, your legs bracketing his thicks thighs as you get comfortable.

“I know, but I’m gonna go slow. Wouldn’t want to hurt you and your perfect, sweet little pussy.” He smiles as he holds his cock in place, your pliant body sinking onto him slowly as your fingers dig into his shoulders to steady yourself. Your hiss of pleasure is audible and your face contorts at the slight sting of him stretching you, but just like he promised, Bucky is taking it slow to ensure you’ll both have the most amazing first time.

As soon as you’re fully seated on his lap, your body goes limp against him, your face tucked in the crook of his neck as you adjust to his girth, and Bucky places soft kisses on your head while praising you through it all. “You’re doing so well for me, baby. Such a good girl for me, letting me take the lead and giving you exactly what you need.”

A small smile appears on your face as you look up at him with big, doe-like eyes, and he can’t help but smile back as the back of his fingers gently caress your cheek. He may have thought you were beautiful before, but nothing compares to this moment. 

“I love you, Y/N, and I promise to take care of you with every fiber of my being,” he whispers, his lips sealing his promise against your cheek. Your eyes fall shut at his words, and his hand moves down your side until it’s on your hip again, ready for you to let him know when you’re good to go. Your bodies work in complete sync with one another with every rise and fall of your chest, and his hands guide you beautifully as you slowly sink and rise on his length.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, and it doesn’t take long for both of you to find your highs for the first time, and they’re serving as a promise of everything else that’s still to come in this lifetime. A few days ago, you and Bucky didn’t even know you felt the same about one another, but now you’re sharing the start of the rest of your lives, and it’s all thanks to Tony. Because without him, you wouldn’t have been able to tell the man of your dreams how much you love him.

Masterlist → Bucky Barnes

GIF: Source → All the other graphics you see are made by @vintagebuckybarnes

[mingapace]

𝕹𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖞 𝕯𝖔𝖌

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʀᴇᴀᴋʏ-ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ-ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴏʀᴀʟ (ꜰ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ, ꜱᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ(ᴋɪɴᴅᴀ?), ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ. [Also, English is not my first language]

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 6K

It's been a shitty day. There's no other way to say it.

You started with a flat tire, then the usual blackout at the store forced you to manually enter every receipt, with your boss breathing down your neck at every minor mistake. The boiler gave up the exact moment you walked home and now… now it’s raining.

But not the slow, lazy kind of rain that makes you want to curl up on the couch with a book and a cup of tea. No, it’s raining like the sky is serving a sentence.

The wind howls like a dying animal, crushed under the weight of the storm, shaking the hedges and trees with force—something you find strangely hypnotic. The rain lashes fiercely against the kitchen window as you stare through them.

At least the house is quiet. You made yourself canned soup—the dinner of the desperate—and swallowed it standing up, leaning against the counter, without even turning on the TV.

Your cat weaves between your ankles, rubbing itself, searching for food to satisfy its greed.

You bend over and scratch behind its ear while pouring the contents of the wet food into the small ceramic bowl on the floor.

You were about to stand up and grab some dry food when a dull thud breaks the roar of the rain. Then another thump follows. The metallic clang of trash bins tipping over.

You freeze. It’s not the first time this has happened—there are raccoons and stray animals around, although lately they've been rare.

Slowly you set the can down on the trash and walk into the hallway. The government-issued rifle hangs above the door, not out of paranoia. From protection. From them.

It wasn’t an explosion. Nor an invasion or a scientific breakthrough, like in the movies.

It was a slow accumulation of evidence. An escalation of “isolated incidents” too similar to ignore. Unexplained disappearances. Blood-drained bodies, animals reduced to carcasses in the suburbs. And then the videos: grainy, shaky, filmed with cell phones in the dead of night. Eyes that glowed too bright in the dark, shadows moving against the laws of nature, and smiles full of fangs.

At first, it seemed like a prank. A joke.

Then they started arming themselves.

The creatures of the night—vampires, werewolves, spirits, hybrids never classified—had always existed, only they had known how to hide for centuries. But the era of total surveillance shattered that fragile balance. Technology had discovered them and humans, predictably, responded with fear.

And with fear came solutions. Special patrols, UV ray weapons, sacred barriers, identification serums.

And above all, the Custodians: government and paramilitary groups licensed to hunt, contain, or eliminate every anomaly.

Officially, it was for collective safety.

Unofficially, it was a cold war.

Because humans had never truly accepted that they were no longer the only species at the top, and the creatures of the shadows… had never truly forgotten what the world was like before.

So the government equipped the population with weapons to counter these creatures if needed, and the number of paranormal events drastically dropped.

Your fingers tighten around the rifle’s handle, and you load it with a familiar motion. The metallic click rings loudly in the stillness of the house.

You open the front door, and the cold, wet air hits you full force. You pull your jacket tighter around you, looking down the alley beside the house. The bins are overturned, the open bags spilling their contents across the driveway. The streetlamp’s light flickers in the rain, making everything blurry and trembling.

The distant sound of sirens piques your curiosity.

You take a step forward, stepping down from the porch, then freeze again.

At first, you don’t see it.

You hear it.

Another thud to your left. You look toward the small tool shed in the garden and frown. The door was closed.

Too well closed.

You know that door. It’s old, it sticks, and you always leave it ajar so you don’t have to force it every time you need a trowel or a bucket.

And despite the strong wind, it stayed magically shut.

You feel a chill slide down your back.

You advance with the rifle gripped tightly in your hands, the barrel pointed ahead as you move in that direction. Your heart pounds hard but your hands stay steady. You’ve learned to keep panic at bay.

The grass beneath your shoes is soggy from all the water; every step makes a wet squelch. Your breath condenses in front of your mouth.

When you reach the door, you press your ear to the wood but hear nothing. Not even a breath.

With a sharp motion, you fling the door open. The wood creaks and hits the inside of the shed, and in the confusion, you see eyes shining in the dark and something reflexively bolts forward.

The first shot rings out in the night, echoing, and hits the back of a tin barrel. You’re about to reload when you see him emerge from the shadows. Kneeling.

Hands raised, palms open, eyes wide.

“No! Please! Don’t shoot!”

At first, you think it’s just a homeless person, maybe a drug addict or drunk who ended up in your garden, but then, in the dim glow of the outside lights, you notice more.

The hands are long, the nails too sharp. The skin pale as wax, blotched with blood. The neck stiff, the jaw clenched as if trying to contain unspeakable pain. And the eyes. When he realizes you won’t shoot, he raises them just slightly. They are glossy behind the wet hair falling over his forehead, but a type of red that could only belong to one of them. A creature of the night. A vampire.

“Stop right there!” you shout, clicking the magazine threateningly. Your voice is sharper than the rain pelting down on you.

You see him bend slightly over himself, knees scraping the grass as he inches forward, letting out a wet, deep sound, like he’s drowning.

“I-I didn’t mean to frighten ya. There was nowhere else! I'd have left… I just wanted to hide 'til—” he stammers, shoulders tensing as the police lights begin to color the horizon red and blue. They had probably heard the shot.

You don’t let anxiety take hold and don’t look away from the dangerous creature before you. He’s on your property now, and who knows how long he’d been hiding in the shed. They would ask questions, interrogate you for hours.

As common as those creatures were, so were the people who protected and hid them. And the system certainly didn’t treat them differently once they found out.

“Shit…” you whisper, your finger trembling on the trigger.

“I beg ya. Let me stay 'til they're gone. I won’t harm ya…” he continues in a whisper so low you have to strain to hear, as if he fears the Custodians might hear even through the wind and rain. “I swear on everythin'… on everythin' I've got left. Please, just for tonight. Don’t tell them I’m here.”

Each word is a cough. When he tries to move, you see one leg visibly tremble. His voice breaks on a sob that doesn’t even sound human.

You swallow hard. Instinct tells you to shoot him, to finish him before the Custodians find him.

But looking at him—so broken, so different from every story you’d heard or seen about vampires—you wonder what you’re really seeing.

Not a predator. Not a monster, at that moment.

Just a being close to his end.

“Move.” You say, rifle raised. “Inside. Before they see you.”

He looks at you as if he doesn’t understand.

“What?”

“You heard me. Inside. Now.” The sirens in the distance are getting closer. Time is running out.

The creature drags himself, almost crawling. Each step a groan, a test of endurance. His legs barely hold him; his face is contorted in pain. When he crosses the threshold of your house, he collapses in the hallway, his back against the wall, the rug slowly stained by the blood leaking from his leg. He stays there, without even the strength to turn toward you.

You slam the door shut.

The lock clicks. Two turns. Then silence, almost.

Now the rain is just a muffled sound against the windows.

You feel droplets drip down your hair and neck but don’t bother brushing them away.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see your cat peek out from the kitchen and instantly flare up when it fixes its yellow eyes on the man. It emits a low, threatening hiss, like a little dragon. Its fur bristles and tail puffs before it leaps and disappears toward the bedroom as if it had seen the Devil himself.

The vampire barely lifts his face, cracked lips curling into something that might have been a smile.

“Looks like I've got a bit of charm for 'em.” He murmurs, voice trembling.

You don’t laugh. You don’t move. You don’t lower the weapon.

You still keep it pointed straight at his face.

“Don’t move.” You order. “At the slightest, I’ll put a bullet in your head.”

He doesn’t protest. Just nods slowly. Then a jolt bends him in two. A moan escapes his lips and he wraps his hands around his leg exactly where his pants tear, muttering something you don’t understand—maybe a curse or a prayer.

After a few seconds, you notice the trembling. Fingers twitching near the gunshot wound.

You take a deep breath and curse your conscience.

You turn without a word and head to the bathroom cabinet, where you keep an old first aid kit. Nothing serious: iron tweezers, sterile gauze, a couple of bandages, and discount disinfectant.

You bring everything back to the hallway, rifle clutched in one hand, and toss the small box toward him. The kit lands half a meter away, slides on the floor, and opens sideways, spilling some of its contents.

“That’s all I’ve got.” You spit.

The vampire leans forward and slowly reaches for the tweezers.

You watch him tear more at his pants, the fabric soaked with blood and water clinging to his skin, revealing the bullet’s entry wound still lodged in the flesh.

You almost turn away when he inserts the tweezers into the wound, but you don’t. You can’t.

The sound is wet, disgusting. He growls, his head hitting the wall, sharp teeth clenched to keep from screaming.

A bloody, steaming piece of metal falls to the floor with a dull clack. It must have been silver.

The tweezers land beside the bullet, and you hear him let out a big sigh of relief.

“Thank you…” he whispers.

You stare at him.

“Don’t thank me.”

You lean against the wall opposite him for some stability on your tired legs, watching the wound start to close, the blood stop seeping.

“Name's Remmick.”

You frown at his introduction but don’t return the courtesy.

Time passes.

You stay there, unmoving. Eyes glued to the figure collapsed on your hallway floor. The vampire seems to have stabilized. His eyes closed, occasionally moaning—a low, painful sound that scratches your ears like sandpaper.

You wanted to say you’d stay awake. You wanted to believe it.

But your body had other plans. You’d had an exhausting day and the adrenaline rush was wearing off; it had kept you standing so far, but now it was pulling all the accumulated fatigue down onto your body.

You drag yourself to the couch without ever looking away from him. You keep him in your sights even as you sit down. But your eyelids grow heavy, your eyes burn, and your heartbeat slows, irregular.

Just five minutes, you tell yourself.

Just one breath.

Then the night closes over you.

You wake up with a jolt.

A gasp. Your heart pounding like a hammer against your sternum. Short of breath.

Morning light slams against the windows, filtering faintly through tightly drawn curtains.

A pale, milky white. The rain has stopped, and the world is quiet.

Too quiet.

You sit up suddenly, your stomach clenched in a knot as you look around. The hallway is empty.

The vampire’s body is no longer there.

“For God's sakes.”

The word comes out like a gunshot, sharp and dry. You immediately reach for your neck, searching for bite marks, teeth, anything. Your fingers move across your skin—nothing.

You check your arms. Then your legs, lifting the edge of your pants slightly—again, nothing.

No marks, no bites, no punctures.

But the anxiety doesn’t fade.

You scan the room, searching for any trace. The carpet is still stained, bandages are scattered, and the forceps are still crusted with dried blood—clear signs that the previous night hadn’t been a nightmare.

Then, in the gleam of the light, a glint catches your eye. The rifle.

It’s neatly placed on the low table next to the couch where you’d been lying.

You didn’t leave it there. You had it with you, gripped tight, until sleep took you.

You snatch it up and check the magazine. Still full, the two bullets nestled inside.

Your hand trembles slightly. You wonder how many chances he had—and how many he ignored.

But more than anything: why?

An unmistakable clatter of pots reaches your ears.

You grip the rifle tighter and take cautious steps down the hallway, shoulders tense and eyes scanning every corner. The window in the hall is closed—but you don’t remember shutting it.

Your steps falter when a warm, salty scent wafts into the air, sliding under your nose: bacon.

And something else.

You turn the corner, tension braced for an ambush. And instead…

“Mornin' to ya, sweetheart.”

The voice greets you before the image does. So light and full of cheer it nearly makes your temples throb.

The vampire, Remmick, is there. Standing at your kitchen stove.

He’s still wearing the stained white t-shirt he tried to clean, and one of your aprons is tied around his waist. His hair, still damp, is awkwardly slicked back but sticks out in odd angles.

You stop at the threshold, almost paralyzed, slowly lowering the rifle to let it rest at your side. You can’t speak. Can’t even think.

Remmick smiles as he moves a piece of sausage from the pan to a plate on the set table.

“Had a look in yer fridge, found a few bits.” he says, briefly adjusting the flame under the scrambled eggs. “Thought ya might fancy a hot breakfast, y'know -after pullin' some poor bastard outta the fire last night.”

Your eyes scan the room, taking in every detail.

The two windows: both closed, sealed carefully against daylight. Even the small gap above the sink is covered with a dish towel taped in place. Only the bluish glow of the overhead lights illuminates the scene, preserving his safety zone.

“Ya were up before I even got the coffee sorted,” he adds, nodding toward a gently steaming mug on the counter. “Only had the instant stuff, sadly. Spotted the moka, yeah, but…I reckon yer outta proper grounds.”

You stare at him. Still silent. Your mind unable to fit this scene into any definition of “threat.”

Remmick slides the finished plate along the counter, placing it on the opposite side from where he stands. He watches you intently as you approach—his red eyes now replaced with wide, gray, puppy-like ones.

You pick up the plate and bring it closer to the stool.

“Thanks… I guess?”

His eyes shine with such open gratitude it’s almost painful to bear—and you’re certain that if he had a tail, he’d be wagging it.

You rest the rifle against the kitchen island, not willing to be too far from it, and sit down on the stool.

“You said your name’s Remmick, right?”

He nods, wiping his hands on the towel before untying it from his waist.

“Is there a reason they were after you?” you ask firmly. You see him smirk, but before he can speak, you add, “Besides the obvious,” motioning at his entire being with your fork.

The smile fades from his lips. Not all at once, but slowly, like a candle dying out.

He leans on the back of the chair in front of him and lowers his gaze, as if debating whether to lie.

“They sold me off.” he murmurs finally.

You raise an eyebrow. “Sold?”

He grimaces, like the word tastes bad in his mouth.

“A volunteer… one o' them folks who, well, y'know how it goes…”

Of course, you’d heard about them. Volunteers—humans who offered themselves willingly to the creatures of the night. But even that had been outlawed and prosecuted.

“The fuckin' Custodians jumped me 'fore I'd even physically step away from the lad.”

He lowers his eyes for a second and you think, for a moment, he regrets his wording as you grimace visibly.

“Haven’t laid a fang on anyone without askin' in donkeys' years, swear it.”

The kitchen is silent for a few seconds after his justification.

Then, the alarm explodes in your chest like a gunshot.

A sharp, repeating buzz vibrating against your thigh from your pocket.

You grab it—7:48 - Work

The weight of time crashes down on you suddenly, like you’d forgotten the outside world still exists.

You have a job to show up for, a life that—until yesterday—was made of routine and reassuring silence.

You jump up, ignoring the full plate and now-cold coffee.

You swing open the closet by the front door, yank down your coat, and slip it on in swift movements.

The keys jingle as you grab them from the hook.

Luckily, you hadn’t changed clothes the night before—you’re still in your work uniform.

As for hygiene, you’d freshen up later after handling the store’s incoming inventory.

Meanwhile, Remmick watches you—just outside the kitchen doorway, peeking down the hallway.

You turn to him and force your voice flat, emotionless.

“By the time I get back,” you say, adjusting your bag on your shoulder, “I don’t want to find you here.”

You see his shoulders drop by a millimeter. When he opens his mouth to speak, you turn, open the door, and leave.

Morning and afternoon drag on, marked by the ticking clock above the register and the dull clatter of empty carts.

You sort the shipments quickly, serve customers with your usual professionalism, and close the till.

You watched the sun start to set behind the buildings of the industrial zone, casting dirty gold streaks across the windows and signs.

Sounds became muffled, and by 7 PM, you flipped the sign to CLOSED.

The walk home is always the same: four blocks, a downhill slope, two intersections.

The asphalt is still wet from last night’s rain, small puddles scattered here and there.

You slide the key into the lock and the door creaks as you push it with your shoulder.

Your hands are full—the bag, the keys, a crumpled sack from the corner store where you picked up coffee grounds and dinner.

You expect silence. Emptiness. Maybe a note on the table saying goodbye.

Instead…

The hallway, where last night there were footprints, blood, and mud, is spotless. The carpet is gone and the floor gleams, faintly scented with alcohol and soap.

You lower the grocery bag just inside the door and step into the living room.

You see him before you even cross the threshold.

There. Sitting on the floor by the cold fireplace.

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye but says nothing.

“I told you to leave.”

You’re tired. So very tired.

“Yeah, I know” Remmick lifts his chin slightly but stays seated. “You did.”

The silence that follows is thick, full of unsaid things. But he breaks it quickly.

With soft, cracked words, turning onto his knees.

“I cleaned up the whole place. Set things straight. Blankets folded, all that. Even had a gander at the sink trap—it leaks a bit, but nothin' serious.”

You squint at him. You don’t care about the sink. Not now.

“You’re still here,” you repeat. It’s an accusation, not an observation.

Remmick shifts slightly, his gaze dropping back to the floor.

“Please,” he says. “Just let me stay. Not askin' for much. I can… I can lend a hand. Clean, keep an eye on the place when you’re out. Whatever ya need.”

You take a few steps closer.

You didn’t bring the rifle—but you feel like you could summon it with a thought, if needed.

“You’re asking me to take you in like a stray dog?”

“Jeez, darlin', I'll be whatever ya want. A bloody pet. A shadow in the corner. A dusty armchair -don't matter. I’ve nowhere else. Nowhere safe.”

You look into his dark pupils, those irises just a little too deep to be human. There’s pleading in them, yes—but something worse, too.

Abandonment.

You know creatures like him—vampires, especially—have perfected persuasion as a weapon. They sell pity and weakness when it suits them, and their instincts never truly sleep.

They’re hungry, unstable.

Lies with legs.

Remmick looks at you. He doesn’t get up.

And silently, without another word—but sealing your decision—you head to the kitchen to put something in your stomach before hunger makes you faint.

Against all odds, the cohabitation went well. The days began to blur together, like water slipping through your fingers. Every morning you woke up with a light pressure on your feet, and from that you knew Remmick was back.

He never talked about where he went at night. You had explicitly told him that if he killed someone you would not protect him again so you hoped he would respect this wish of yours.

He would leave quietly, shortly after you had fallen asleep, and return before the first light of day filtered through the tightly drawn curtains in the living room. You would find him curled up at your feet, immobile, as if he had never moved from there.

Your cat, who had his place of honor on the pillow next to yours, still seemed very wary of him and hissed every time he tried to stretch out on that side of the bed, making him take a step back and return to your feet. All this with some grumbling of displeasure from the vampire.

Instead, you got used to his presence as you get used to the constant noise of an old boiler: annoying at first, then strangely reassuring.

You began to ask his opinions, to organize movie nights on lighter days, to take long walks in the nearby park (reassured by his presence that would certainly ward off any other predators).

Every now and then, when you got close enough, you felt his icy fingers brush the inside of your wrist or any point he managed to reach and he would stare at you. Those eyes, which had something bestial, but also desperate.

And as your attitude towards him changed, his gestures changed too. He became more… attentive. More present. More fixed.

One day you found him outside your shop, waiting for you under a streetlight after closing. He didn’t say anything, he ran to you and stood next to you as you closed the shutter, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And from that day on, it was like that every night, when the sun was low enough for him to come out.

He watched you finish your shift. In silence.

From that day on, you started to notice strange things. When you talked to some customer for too long outside the shop at closing time, Remmick seemed to… change. His eyes became dark, shiny, like wet glass. If you laughed at someone’s comment, his hands twitched a little, closing into tight fists. But he didn’t say anything.

When the person disappeared, his true self returned. With that crooked smile and the stories of his day or what TV show he had found, scrolling a bit.

As a result, you never felt in danger. It was disturbing, sure. But you had gotten used to it. It had become part of your routine, like canned soup or cat biscuits.

That is, until the fateful day that changed everything came.

It wasn’t a date. Not officially.

He had been one of those regulars, the kind who always cracks the right joke and leaves you a few extra coins in the tip jar. When you explained that you were busy, he had smiled, almost amused, and suggested a drink after your shift. A drink, nothing more.

And so you had accepted. You hadn’t even had time to let Remmick know. The man had shown up at your shop door a few hours early and since your boss was already in there, you asked him if he could let you finish early that day. You had intended to have a quick drink and then go home, before the sun went down.

But that wasn’t to be.

When you come back, hours later, the sky is already dark and the air smells of wet earth. You open the door without making too much noise, but you see him right away. There. Standing in the hallway, as if he’s been staring at the door the whole time.

“Where were ya?” he asks softly. But his voice is too calm to be forced.

“At work.” You say, taking off your coat. “I left a little early. A customer offered me a drink and—”

Remmick approaches instantly. He’s a few steps away from you before you can finish speaking. His eyes swipe over you, your hands, your neck, your face. He touches your arm, then your shoulders, as if to make sure you’re okay.

“Are ya alright?” he murmurs. “Did someone…do ya harm?”

You look at him, confused. “No. I'm okay.”

But you see the exact moment he changes.

The smell. The smell of that man.

Remmick can smell it inches from your face. The cologne, strong, invasive. He tracks it with his nose, almost sniffing the air. Then he stops, his nostrils quivering.

His eyes flash red. And he stares at you.

“Who was it?” He whispers, his voice scratchy. “Who laid a hand on ya?”

“Remmick…”

“It’s on ya. Here-” he says, brushing your hair, “-and here…” His hand lingers just below your ear, the exact spot where your skin still feels warmest. “He put his mouth here, didn't he now?”

Your heart races. You take a half step back, but Remmick follows you. Not with anger. With hunger.

He kneels slowly in front of you, and his face comes close to your stomach, rubbing it against the material of your shirt making you swallow loudly. His hands move up your thighs and as he stands again he makes sure that his body rubs against yours until it reaches under your chin.

You feel his breath on you, against the column of your naked neck.

You don’t know what to do. Your brain is confused, you don’t recognize the creature in front of you.

“I've to… get it off ya.” He continues. “I can’t bear the stink of it. I don’t want it lingerin' on ya, not a trace.”

He gently brings you against the piece of furniture in the hallway and you, dazed by that mixture of desire and anxiety, let him do it. The edge pushes painfully against your back until his hands close on your hips again and lifts you up to sit on it as if you didn’t weigh a gram.

Remmick slides between your legs before you can close them, his body leaning on yours.

“I… I can go wash myself if it bothers you…” you add, pressing your palms on his shirt-covered chest to maintain distance and making him growl.

His hands leave your body only to rest on the sides of the furniture, blocking your way out as your breath catches in your throat when his face comes inches from yours.

“How fuckin' dare they lay a finger on ya…” He whispers, and when he speaks, his voice is broken by something more animalistic. His face bends on your neck, slightly up, and there, right where he had felt the other’s mark, his lips open.

You slide a hand into his hair, ready to pull with all your strength before he bites you but instead of the stinging pain of his teeth, you only feel a slow, wet caress, which makes you gasp involuntarily.

Your grip on his head loosens and you hear him sigh, his breath hot against your wet skin. Even though his body temperature is still a few degrees cooler than normal, the way he touches you burns.

His hands move again, closing on the sides of your waist and gently pushing forward until his hips are flush with yours. There’s no urgency in the gestures, but no slowness either. He’s clearly driven by a certain need that goes beyond the body.

“I still feel it…It's still clingin' to ya, love.” His voice is plaintive and he brushes you behind the ear with another slow lick, as if he wants to erase every trace of the other’s passage with his tongue.

“You have no notion how much it hurts. It's like fire on my skin, knowin' someone even looked at ya… thought about ya… touched ya…”

He leans down again, his lips landing on your neck with sick adoration, while one hand slips under your sweater, resting against your belly, his forehead laze on yours, shaking.

“I don’t just want to have ya…” he whispers against the skin of your shoulder. “I want to belong to ya. Yours to toss aside, break if you must, use as you will. And when someone so much as looks at ya, I want them to know -I’m there. Always there. And you’re mine.”

The sound he makes when your fingers close slightly in his hair sends a jolt of pleasure to the center of your core and makes you inadvertently grind against him, earning another hiss of need from him.

You feel it. Hard, hot, against your pants-covered lower parts, and when you use that hardness to find a moment of relief, he bites your shoulder lightly but without breaking the skin.

His chest rests against yours, holding you still but not imprisoned.

You are free, you could push him away. But you don’t.

And he knows it.

“Tell me ya want it too…” he whines, pressing against you insistently and making you tense when he presses just right but not enough. “That's it's not just pity. That ya want to keep me. That ya want me here. Always.”

His eyes, red now, search for you, while you’re distracted taking from him, lit by a feverish light.

“Let me stay, baby. Let me be the one who keeps ya safe. The one who warms your bones. Let me be the shadow, trailin' after ya. The beast lyin' at your feet. The lover in your bed.”

Then, lower, with that desperate tone that makes your insides twist:“Let me be yours, for fuck's sake…please.”

And that’s the last straw.

You tilt his face at a comfortable angle and press your lips against his, forcefully. Your tongue invades his mouth but Remmick responds with the same ardor, intertwining his tongue with yours.

His hand, firm on your belly, begins to move up under your shirt, making its way with trembling fingers, as if he were touching something sacred. Every inch of your skin lights up under him. He moves like a man who is thirsty and the only source of water is you.

“Do ya even know what ya are to me now?” He asks you with a thick voice as his lips separate from yours and pass over your chest, still dressed. “The poison...and the cure, both.”

You almost laugh at his dramatic nature but swallow it when the sweater is the first piece to be discarded, leaving you under his heated and supernatural gaze. It’s all there: the adoration, the longing, but above all that silent madness that scared you the first time and now… tightens your stomach in a vice that you can’t untangle.

He bends over your breast, taking it between his lips and clenching his teeth on the small bud in the center, making you arch against him.

The hand that isn’t busy holding your breast ventures under your pants—which you hadn’t even noticed he’d opened—and his fingers slide between your soaked folds, pinching your clit between them.

You let out a meow that makes him growl. It’s a hoarse sound that slides slowly down with him, he grabs the waistband of your pants to slide them down your legs and leaves you naked under his hungry gaze.

“Look at yourself, darlin'. Is all this for me?” His tongue flattens against your wetness, gathering it as it passes and, as if the first taste had gone to his head, he dives headfirst between your legs, devouring you completely.

“Fuck…you’re an idiot…” you moan, pressing yourself as close as possible to his mouth that closes on your delicate mound.

You feel his fingers wet with your own pleasure, pressing against your entrance and pushing in effortlessly, pumping forcefully in and out to draw as many sounds as possible from your lips.

He licks you with unnatural slowness, rhythmically, as if it were an ancient ritual.

Just when you feel your orgasm reaching you, his fingers and mouth move away from you. His lips return up. He kisses your belly, your chest, your throat, until he returns to your face. His red eyes burn into yours.

“What are you-?”

“Let me do it.” He stops you, as he brings one of your hands to the fly of his pants. Your fingers, until then useless, close around his clothed erection, making him shudder and whine. “Let me fuck you, darlin'. Let that sweet pussy tighten 'round my cock.”

His face bends to yours, his nose running along your jaw, like a dog asking for a firmer caress. And you give it to him.

You undo his belt in one swift motion and unzip his zipper with a slowness that could have killed the most patient man.

When your fingers capture his erection you let his weight rest against your palm, smearing your palm with his precum and pump down once to test the length and width. Remmick moans against your cheek and pushes against your hand, the tip brushing your inner thigh.

You curve your lips into a smirk.

“Do you think you deserve to fuck this pussy, Remmick?” Remmick pulls back to look at you, surprised by your tone but definitely delirious, his mouth slightly open, revealing traces of small fangs.

“…No.”

You frown as you twist your wrist, gripping it harder, but he continues.

“Shit…no, I don’t reckon I deserve this.”

His hips snap forward and you almost lose your grip when he comes so incredibly close to your entrance, leaving a trail of liquid.

“But I swear…I could spend me whole life tryin' to earn it. Every day. Every bleedin' night. With all that's in me.”

He brushes his lips against your forehead, submissive and feverish.

“Go ahead, then.” You slide the tip of his erection against your pussy lips, wetting them with your own arousal, his hands closing on your hips, and you tilt him toward your entrance. “Make me yours.”

You feel his breath hitch and then he does.

He takes you.

It’s not a human sound, much less an animal one, that he lets out when he enters you completely, without giving you a second to get used to the stretch. You accept it with a hiss of pain, tightening your legs around his pelvis.

You’re not surprised when he pulls back slowly, your walls closing in on him as if to keep him in place, and then he sinks in deeply again, establishing a punishing rhythm. The piece of furniture you’re leaning against bangs against the wall and for a moment you pray that he doesn’t create a hole.

Every thrust is an oath. Every whine, a broken soul that offers itself to you without asking for anything in return but yourself.

“Ah… fuck… you’re…” and he never finishes the sentence. The words blur with his breathing and need so he kisses you violently and sweetly at the same time, his tongue moving in your mouth with the same rhythm with which his body sinks into yours. He clings to you as if you could save him, and destroy him at the same time.

As his hips begin to wobble, you feel two fingers press against your clit, curling your toes and digging your heels into Remmick’s back.

You move your face away from his to get more air in your lungs as your orgasm hits you hard, making you see stars.

Your tight channel grips his erection and you hear him moan in your ear as he comes inside you, murmuring your name like a plea, his hands still gripping your hips, almost afraid you might vanish beneath him.

And as he tucks his head between your shoulder and neck, nuzzling his nose against the column of your throat with a contented sigh, you realize it’s not just possession.

It’s belonging.

Video Gif: Here Dividers: cafekitsune

[sugarwarachan]

honestly this is just pure filth, pls enjoy. mdni - if I see a blank, ageless blog your ass is getting blocked

pervyroommate!suna who knows all about the videos you upload because he knows the contents of your panty drawer like the back of his hand and recognizes, instantly, the hug of teal lace around your nipples. you've got a small channel, and the videos could honestly be improved—he totally doesn't spend hours thinking about how much better they would be if he helped you film, if he directed your hands and told you what you could touch and how—but there's something in your inexperience that turns him hard as iron.

pervyroommate!suna who doesn't take long to sneak out of his room after you're done filming so he can start huffing up the smell of your wet panties.

pervyroommate!suna who messages you every time you post. he doesn't bother starting out tame or some shit; he wants you to know that your pretty little virgin cunt is keeping him up at night.

and he isn't subtle, either, about the fact that he knows it's you.

but you always respond all the same, all shy and cute in a way that makes his eyes bug out of his head.

pervyroommate!suna who starts dropping hints around the apartment that he knows all about your extracurricular activities just so he can see you flush and stammer. he wants to cut off your rambling with a hand to your throat—let it rest on the column of your neck while your heartbeat thrums wildly under it.

pervyroommate!suna who hears you whimpering through the too-thin walls of your shared walls one night and can't ignore how much he wants to pin you down and make you squeal and cum so hard you wet the bed.

when he opens your door and sees you, flushed and panting and gorgeous, he actively has to stop himself from jumping you. he settles into a chair and gestures.

"you usually make videos of this," he says.

you just bite your lip and nod.

"you make videos 'cause you like to be watched, right?" the smirk on his face turns feral when you nod again. "well, i'm here now, baby. i'll watch you."

pervyroommate!suna who, buried balls-deep in you an hour later, has no idea you've been playing the long game

2025 © all works belong to @sugarwarachan. do not repost, translate, or steal any of my works pls. reblogs and comments always appreciated <3 If you'd like to be added to my general taglist, let me know!

general taglist <3 @cielito--lindo, @one-scarred-mofo, @uekarashi, @waterfal-ling, @iluvikeu, @bach-ira

[dearlenore]

DAUGHTER IN LAW • S.REID

SUMMARY: after Spencer gets out of jail, he is determined to find the perfect caregiver for his mother. However, to his surprise, she seems to have already found the ideal nurse herself.

PAIRING: fem!nurse!reader x spencer

tags: reader is a cutie pie, reader wears makeup, reader is flirty bombshell, mentions of schizophrenia, Alzheimer’s, canon cm violence

a/n: so much medical!reader x Spencer, if you are waiting on a request please be patient! I’m trying to knock out all my drafts before writing new things🥹 love u all!!

w/c: 1.5k

“MOM, I’M HOME!” Spencer called out from the front door, tossing his keys into a bowl and his satchel onto the couch. “Mom?” His voice rose with concern when no reply came.

He moved to her room, frowning as he realized the door wasn’t fully closed. Knocking lightly, he pushed it open.

“Oh! You must be Doctor Reid?” you said with a warm smile as you stepped out.

Spencer’s hand shot instinctively toward his holster.

“Woah! Please don’t…” you stammered, raising your hands in surrender. “I’m definitely unarmed.” You let out a nervous laugh.

“Spencer!” His mother’s sharp voice cut through the tension. “Where are your manners?” She shook her head in annoyance as she appeared behind you. “She’s my new nurse — since you insisted I needed one.”

“You can’t just invite random people into my apartment!” Spencer protested.

You quickly stepped forward, balancing on your tiptoes to peek over his mother’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry,” you said sincerely. “She sort of…chased her last nurse out of the building, and I saw her outside. I figured I’d help her out. Plus, I brought groceries?” You smiled sheepishly, pointing to the bags on the counter.

Spencer narrowed his eyes at you, clearly trying to size you up. After a moment, he exhaled heavily and dropped onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.

“Sorry… I’m sorry, I just… had a long day,” he mumbled.

“I get it,” you said, sitting beside him — not too close, but close enough that your knee brushed his. “Caretaking’s no picnic either. Your mom’s been telling me all about your job.”

“She did?” Spencer’s head lifted slightly, surprise flickering in his tired eyes.

“Mhm,” you nodded. “She’s amazing — kind, patient, funny. And for someone who was in a care home just a month ago… she’s awfully aware.”

Spencer rubbed his eye and gave you a confused look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That maybe…” You paused, your smile turning a little playful. “Maybe love’s the best medicine.”

He snorted softly, the corners of his mouth quirking up. “That sounds like something from one of those feel-good hospital dramas.”

“Oh, totally,” you agreed with a grin. “But hey… if it works, it works.”

For the first time that day, Spencer’s shoulders seemed to relax. “Maybe you’re right,” he admitted.

“I usually am,” you teased. “But hey, if you’re skeptical, I could always prescribe you some fresh air — maybe a coffee run? Strictly professional recommendation, of course.”

Spencer looked up at you, and for a moment, he wondered if you were in the wrong profession. Caretaking? Really? With your warm smile, soft voice, and effortless charm — not to mention that gorgeous figure (which he tried very hard not to stare at for too long) — you seemed more like someone who belonged on a stage or in a room full of admirers.

And yet here you were, fussing over his mother with gentle patience, helping her get comfortable in her armchair. You draped a cozy blanket over her lap, making sure she had her tea close by. His mother never let anyone take care of her without a fight — but with you, she seemed calm, even content.

“She’s the kind of girl you should marry,” his mother murmured suddenly, her voice low but unmistakably firm.

Spencer blinked. “Mom…” He shot her a look, but she just raised an eyebrow.

“I’m just saying,” she added with a shrug, before turning back to her book.

Spencer lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching you hum softly as you wiped down the kitchen counter. The sight of you — moving so comfortably in his home, sleeves pushed up as you puttered around like you belonged there — made something unfamiliar twist in his chest.

“Hey,” you called out, breaking him from his thoughts. “Are you hungry? I was thinking I could make dinner… if you don’t mind some experimental cooking.”

“You cook too?” Spencer asked, stepping into the kitchen.

“Well…” you shot him a teasing smile. “I can read a recipe. That’s basically the same thing, right?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, something like that.”

The two of you moved around the kitchen, bumping elbows and brushing past each other in the small space. Every time your arm grazed his, Spencer felt his pulse jump. At one point, you reached over him to grab a pan, your hair brushing his shoulder, and he nearly forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

“You know,” Spencer said, clearing his throat, “I’m… surprised my mom’s actually letting you take care of her. She’s usually pretty stubborn.”

“She’s sweet,” you replied as you stirred a pot on the stove. “A little feisty, but I like that. Besides…” You glanced over your shoulder at him. “I have experience with stubborn people.”

“Oh?” He leaned against the counter, smirking. “And how do you deal with them?”

You grinned. “Patience. And charm.”

“Seems to be working.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Your smile widened, and Spencer felt a wave of heat crawl up his neck.

After dinner, once his mother had gone to bed, you lingered at the door with your bag slung over your shoulder.

“So…” you said with a smile. “About that coffee?”

“Yeah,” Spencer replied, a little too quickly. He swallowed, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “I’d love to… sometime.”

Your smile softened, and you reached up, brushing a stray curl away from his forehead. “Good. It’s a date,” you said, giving him a playful wink before heading out to put dinner on the coffee table for him, yourself and his mom.

Spencer stood there for a long moment after you’d gone, still feeling the ghost of your fingertips on his skin.

Come eat, Doctor Reid!” your voice called out, breaking Spencer from his trance once more.

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, arranging plates like it was the most natural thing in the world. The soft glow from the nearby lamp lit your face, and Spencer wondered how you managed to look so effortlessly put together after such a long day.

He shook off the thought and quickly walked over.

“Where are my manners?” you said, standing up and dusting your hands off on your scrubs. “What would you like to drink, Mrs. Reid?”

“Oh, just water is fine,” she replied with a gentle smile.

“You got it,” you said, brushing past Spencer on your way to the kitchen. Your arm briefly grazed his, and he swore his brain short-circuited for a second.

He sat down beside his mother, still a little distracted. “So… you like her?”

His mother gave him a pointed look. “I like her more than that last nurse you sent.”

“Well, yeah,” Spencer chuckled. “That guy quit before his second shift.”

“Because I chased him out,” Mrs. Reid said with a sly smile.

“You’re impossible,” Spencer muttered, but his mother’s chuckle made him smile.

When you returned, you handed Mrs. Reid her water and passed Spencer a glass of iced tea.

“Figured you could use a little sugar,” you said with a wink.

“Are you trying to convince me to employ you?” Spencer asked, raising a brow. “But don’t worry about that

“Maybe,” you teased. “But only because you seem like you’re worth the effort.”

Spencer felt heat crawl up his neck again, but before he could respond, Mrs. Reid spoke up.

“You know,” she began, spearing a piece of roasted potato with her fork, “this is lovely. It’s been a while since I’ve had a proper home-cooked meal.”

“Glad you like it,” you said, smiling proudly. “I wasn’t sure if I remembered the recipe right.”

“It’s perfect,” Mrs. Reid assured you. “Spencer, you’d better keep her around.”

“Mom…” Spencer muttered, shooting her a look.

“I’m just saying!” she continued. “Smart, sweet, patient — and she cooks?” She gestured toward you with her fork. “That’s wife material right there. Your—“ she cut herself off before she could mention his father which you didn’t notice.

You laughed softly, looking down at your plate as your face warmed. “Wow, no pressure,” you joked.

Spencer groaned, dragging his hand down his face. “Please ignore her. She’s —”

“Right,” Mrs. Reid cut in. “I’m right.”

“Be nice! She wants to be able to see you get married someday,” you teased, flashing Spencer a grin.

He could only shake his head, but the smile tugging at his lips was impossible to hide.

By the time dinner wrapped up, the conversation had flowed easily — you sharing funny patient stories, Spencer rambling about obscure facts (which you seemed to genuinely enjoy), and Mrs. Reid chiming in with her own dry humor. It felt… comfortable. Like this was something that had been happening for years.

“Thank you,” Spencer said as you started gathering the dishes. “For dinner… for helping my mom… for everything.”

“Of course,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his. “I’ll be back tomorrow?”

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Spencer said before he could stop himself.

You paused in the doorway, shooting him one last smile. “Goodnight, Doctor Reid.”

“Goodnight,” he murmured, watching you leave.

His mother cleared her throat dramatically from the couch.

“Wife material,” she said again with a smug smile.

[eraserbread]

what abt postpartum reader x nanami who is insecure abt their sex abilities (?) after giving birth 🤔 like not feeling the same

you waited that six weeks like an obedient angel.

and, it was actually pretty fucking easy.

there's something about giving every second of your day and night to a crying newborn that pushes sex far, far back in your mind. right now, you're worried about nipple balm, diaper rash, milk temperatures, and the way kento's arms look when he's cradling his girl.

they're adorable, right now. kento's lying on the couch, book perched in his hands as his infant daughter rests on his chest. she's clingy to the bone, refusing to settle unless she's being touched by you or ken. at the end of the day, he knows you're exhausted with it, it's why he lets little rin snooze on his homey chest, memorizing the beat of his heart.

you gave birth six weeks ago to the day, and kento's been so enamored he hasn't even noticed. but, you have. you had a notification set in your phone for this day.

so when it's time to feed, burp, and rock rin to sleep, you're right on time, leaning down to scoop her from his chest.

"bedtime already?" kento hums, holding his book with one hand.

"getting close. i'm six weeks out, now. wanted to get her down pretty quickly."

he hums again, flipping his page and settling back. it's obvious he hasn't been keeping track. not that you could blame him, his postpartum hormones aren't totally out of whack like yours are.

you close your hands under rin's arms, watching her little face screw up in disturbance -- scrunching like a napkin. you coo, holding her tight to your chest so the maneuver is easier.

"oh, there's my girl," you whisper, letting your lips linger over her delicate head. kento sits up with a grunt, placing his book open-faced on the end of the couch.

“do you need anything from me before i lie down for the night?” he asks gently, in tune with his fatherly and husbandly duties more so now than ever before.

“yes.” you stop when you turn around, bouncing your daughter in your grip so she stays content. “take off all your clothes. wait for me right there.”

“it��s okay, just focus.” kento’s purring in your ear, two fingers crooked between your thighs.

sprawled out on the couch, back pressed to the cushion, completely naked, kento hovers over you. he treats you like a present needing to be unwrapped -- taking his time as he reintroduces his thick fingers to your overly-sensitive cunt.

and, though you can feel him in your bones, crying in pleasure, your body betrays you -- betrays him.

you're drier than a desert right now.

"i'm trying," you're begging for something -- anything. more kento, more focus, more need. your mind is flooded and overloaded. shame forms a sickly pit in the base of your stomach. "it feels good, just keep going."

kento's never doubted himself when it came to your sexual chemistry. he could usually just purr your name or shed his clothes, and you're dripping needy rivers between your legs. there was no force, no confusion.

right now, ken feels like he's forcing it.

"we don't have to do it tonight if you aren't feeling it."

"--no!" your eyes fly open, hands reaching to dig into his shoulder. you don't want him staring down at you anymore, you want him pressed to you. that way, he couldn't see the sad tears starting to pool in your vision. "no, I want it now. i can do it... let me- I can get wet for you again, baby. let me... i know I can."

you're babbling, saying anything to make this situation easier to swallow.

"i want you so bad, i swear-

"shh, i know." he's being so sweet, so gentle as his hand caresses the bulk of your thigh. you can feel just how painfully hard he is against you -- leaving a slick snail trail wherever his pretty cock passes over. "don't get yourself worked up -- here."

kento's repositioning himself, sitting tall and proud on his knees between your legs. his rippling torso shines in the dull lights, familiar gaze worried and loving.

he props your leg over his hip, leaning down to spit politely between your legs. the warm wetness pools at your labia, drawing down between your slit before two fingers are pushing it inside of you.

this time, with the wetness, it feels... familiar. good.

but, then he goes to press inside of you. you're confident, he's breathless.

and the baby monitor lights up; tiny infant cries scrambling through the receiver.

on a swivel, both of your heads turn to assess rin's circumstance in the black and white. she's kicking -- fussing as if it were her job. you're sighing, kento knows to get up and hand you back your clothes.

"there's always next time."

If you weren't so overwhelmed, embarrassed, and ashamed, perhaps you would agree. this time, you snatch your pants from his hand and seethe,

"shut up."

kento doesn't take it personally.

[lovemomhatepolice]

i'll make it fit - rafe cameron

navigation taglist requests

pairing: rafe cameron x fem!reader

warnings: sexual overtones, established relationship, fingering, teasing, unprotected sex (PROTECTED YOURSELF), this damn tiny polo!!, English is my second language!, NO SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4

belonging: NO NUT NOVEMBER!

type: totally smut (this is the first time i've written something like this, which has practically no plot at all, just sex itself. keep my fingers crossed that it didn't turn out badly!!!), small plot but really small

word count: 1,8k

summary: rafe cameron likes things too small for him.

more content: obx masterlist, rafe cameron masterlist

Mornings in Tannyhill were mostly quiet. Since Ward Cameron was dead and his entire family had moved to a house in the Bahamas, it was quiet there. Hearing of Sarah had disappeared - she was probably somewhere with her friends, again putting her life at risk, nothing new. And the only one who lived there was Rafe, who had taken over the company from his father and decided to return to the “old garbage.” Well, and you lived there too, by the side of your beloved. You couldn't have dreamed of a better life.

You were awakened by the bright rays of the sun, which rudely crept through the slightly parted curtains into your shared bedroom. You dragged yourself lightly and glanced at the clock, which was on the bedside table and, as usual, was making that unbearable sound.

After muttered under your breath, you slipped out from under the warm quilt, which, to say the least, wasn't all that necessary - after all, it was summer. But by the fact that you were in just a lace petticoat, it definitely enveloped you with a warmth that was missing.

You didn't know what time it was, but by the fact that Rafe wasn't next to you, you knew it was probably after nine o'clock. You didn't have to look for him for long, because as soon as you stepped out into the hallway from your bedroom, you heard his voice. You looked out the balcony door, which was gently open, and smiled at the sight. Rafe, in a freshly stitched buzzcut, was sitting on the couch talking on the phone. In front of him on the coffee table he had papers spread out and a laptop in which he was busily tapping something. As soon as he noticed you he sent you a slight smile, but he was so engaged in the conversation that he did nothing more. And you couldn't be passive, after all, he was wearing a beautiful blue and damn tight polo that exposed his perfectly shaped biceps. You laughed quietly, seeing him nervously tweak them as they rolled up higher and higher each time, not covering as much of his arm as they should.

Despite his serious tone on the call, his eyes would flicker toward you every few moments, his smile softening just enough to let you know he was glad you were there.

Not one to resist temptation, you decided to have a little fun. You strolled over to him, moving slowly, letting your fingers trail along the back of the couch as you circled around to where he was sitting. Rafe’s eyes darted up, narrowing slightly in a silent warning.

You didn’t make it easy for him. With a mischievous smile, you leaned over and whispered into his ear, "That polo looks a little tight, don’t you think? You might need help taking it off later."

“Uh, yeah… sure,” he said to the person on the other end of the call, clearing his throat as if to regain his composure. “Send it to the office, they'll take care of it,” he muttered, hanging up.

You moved your hands over his shoulders, gently massaging them. Rafe put the phone down on the table, closed the laptop and leaned his head against the back of the couch, looking at you.

“You know what you're doing, huh?” he parroted under his breath.

“Maybe I do,” you whispered, letting your breath tickle his skin. “Just trying to make sure my man relaxes after handling all that business.”

“And what am I supposed to do with you?” he muttered, covering yours with his hands. “Whatever you want,” you muttered, going down with your palms on his chest. “Oh, but this polo is really too small for you.” Rafe laughed under his breath and gracefully helped you past the couch so that you were now standing in front of him, between his legs. You were in just a white lace slip that didn't cover much underneath, so Rafe could immediately see your hardening nipples.

You let out a soft laugh as Rafe’s strong hands gripped your thighs, pulling you effortlessly onto his lap. You straddled him, your knees sinking into the plush cushions of the couch on either side of his hips. The way he looked up at you—like you were the only thing in the world that could hold his attention—sent a warm rush through your veins.

"So needy" He muttered, stroking your hair and putting it behind your ears. “Who would have thought that you would beg for my attentions so much?”

“I'm not begging,” you muttered, swallowing your saliva loudly.

You could have sworn that in that moment Rafe heard your loud heartbeat. And even though you had been together for more than a year, he continued to trigger the same feelings in you. “No?” he asked ironically, his hand touching your pussy, which was covered only by a thong. “I would say something else.”

“Rafe,” you muttered, gently pushing your hips out to meet him as his nimble fingers pressed your clit harder. “So wet,” he mumbled, moving your panties aside and nimbly sliding his ring and middle finger into you.

You brought your face closer to his and grabbed his jaw, bringing your lips together in a sweet kiss. It was still quiet around you, the only things you could hear were the birds and your moans, drowned out by your boyfriend's mouth.

His thumb moved to your clit, the touch was light, teasing, his fingers tracing slow circles that sent tingles up your spine. And his fingers didn't stop moving up and down, each time hitting the exact same spot. Rafe knew what the fuck he was doing, he always knew how to make you in heaven in a moment by his precise movements. He knew your body like no one else, just like you knew his.

“Cum for me, baby,” he said, moving his lips to your naked neck. You felt you were close - Rafe did the same, following the feeling as you pulsed on his fingers. You didn't have to wait long until your body shook with pleasant and familiar reflexes, and you came on his fingers, burying your head in his neck.

Rafe took his fingers out of you and put them in his mouth, sucking on them. Oh this sight and Rafe in his damn tight blue polo, was something too strong for you to go through. You moved against his lap, letting him know that this was not what you wanted. “Still eager, huh?” he laughed throatily, but you didn't have to wait long. Rafe always knew what you needed and you got it right away. "You taste so good, baby"

“Rafe please,” you muttered, clasping your small hand over his large cock, which was getting harder and harder under you. “Anything for you,” he muttered, quickly getting rid of his pants.

Without much warning, he entered you. Slowly at first, because you knew very well that he was big. And even after so many times together, you continued to feel a slight discomfort at first. But Rafe always made it fit. He couldn't resist your tight pussy, which was even screaming for his attention. “Fuck, tight as ever,” he whispered, correcting himself on the couch so that you were more comfortable. “But don't worry, I'll make it fit.”

And as he said, so he did. With agility, he began to move inside you, making both of you nothing but moaning messes.

“Wait, I want,” you said, putting your hand on his chest. On that damn sexy polo. “Oh, a princess wants to take control?” he laughed under his breath, catching you under the thighs, but as if on cue he stopped moving inside you, making you feel again how big he was inside you. You groaned involuntarily, but didn't give in. You moved nimbly on top of him, practically taking him out of your pussy every now and then, and then lowering yourself all the way down again.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Rafe groaned, his head falling back against the couch, exposing the strong line of his throat. His eyes were hooded, his lips parted as he watched you, completely entranced by the way you were moving, the way you were making him feel.

You could tell he was trying to hold back, trying to let you set the pace, but the way his fingers flexed against your skin told you just how badly he wanted to take control.

“Not yet, Rafey,” you muttered, moving even closer to him. “You deserve the best. Especially, when you're in that slutty polo"

You increased your pace, but Rafe couldn't stand it anymore either, and came against you, entering your pussy from below. At that moment your bodies were merging at the perfect moments and places, so you were already not far from orgasm. And with that, he captured your lips again, his kiss rougher this time, more urgent. There was no more teasing now-just the raw, unfiltered need that always simmered between you both, threatening to spill over the edges.

“I'm so close,” you whispered into his mouth, clamping your pussy against him every so often. “I know, baby, I can feel it,” he muttered into your mouth, gently biting your lip to reach inside again. "Mmm, so good for me"

Rafe grabbed your buttocks and with even more force began to pound his cock into you. Your tongues fought for dominance, and your hands couldn't find room on his body, clamping down on the collars of his shirt.

"Shit" he murmured into your lips, feeling as his cum shot into your pussy, making quite a mess.

Not much later you too reach climax, clenching around his dick. Exhausted, you leaned on his shoulder kissing his neck. Rafe stroked your back, still calming down after the orgasm that hit you surprisingly hard this time. You felt him smiling over your shoulder, so you shared his happiness, smiling too. You moved your head off his shoulder, looking him straight in the eyes now. He was still inside you, so every movement, made quiet sighs come out of your throats.

“What's so funny?” you asked, stroking his jaw and kissing the corner of his mouth gently.

“Maybe I should wear that tight polo more often, just to find yourself in your tight cunt again?” he laughed lightly, returning your kiss.

“Oh shut up, asshole,” you muttered, lowering yourself on top of him once more until he groaned and settled his head on the back of the couch, pulling you against him.

A/N: I know there's a lot of Rafe or Drew here lately, but I swear, when I see this man, I feel so ungodly that oh jesus, i hope you enjoyed this

please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)