#that and they just wanted to move on instead so they just papered over it w/o any of the on screen work to be satisfying for the audience

[vunblr]

Plump & Ripe

Pairing: Chubby!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Smut. Unprotected Sex. Some fluff. Slight Angst. A Pinch of Body Insecurity. Size kink. Use of pet names.

Summary: On a routine visit to the fruit shop, Bucky ends up with more than his usual goodies.

Word Count: 7.4k.

note: This is one of the works I'm submitting for the @avengers-assemble-bingo event for Bucky's 108th birthday, running throughout March. The prompt was "Plums". It was supposed to be a cute and fluffy fic, but it turned into pure filth instead. I'm sorry -not-

She looked up from the counter, and a welcoming smile instantly spread across her lips when she saw who had made the doorbell chime.

“You’re late. You’re lucky I set this bag aside when the distributor came this morning because they’re all sold out now.” She lifted a small paper bag from the shelf behind her, placing it on the counter between them. The deep violet of the plums peeked through the crinkled opening, and their smooth skins caught the golden light that filtered through the shop’s front windows.

Bucky stood just inside the doorway, a little tense as his fingers fidgeted with the zipper of his jacket. “Sorry. Something came up and... couldn’t make it earlier.” He mumbled.

That ‘something’ had been him forcing himself out of bed after three days of avoiding the world. Everything felt heavier these days, his body, his thoughts, even some goddamn things that weren’t so before. But he was here now, and that was better than nothing.

She leaned her elbows on the counter. “No worries. I know you’d never miss plum day on purpose.” She tried to tease warmly.

Right. One of the rare occasions he’d missed plum day was when he went on that stupid mission, the so-called ‘walk in the park’ that turned into a bloodbath of agents and ended with him being taken again by the same people who’d tormented him for nearly 80 years. Only this time, they didn’t just want their precious pet back, they wanted it better.

In five days of captivity, they not only just strapped him to a modernized version of that damned chair. Oh no, they’d injected him with a cocktail of drugs that messed up his body in ways he was still discovering, even a year later. Like his fucked-up metabolism.

His eyes flicked to the bag, and his mouth twitched just slightly. “You know me too well on that aspect,” he muttered, reaching out to grab the bag.

She watched him carefully. “Do you need anything else?”

He hesitated, shifting his gaze to the baskets of apples lined up near the wall. “Yeah… green apples.”

She nodded, moving around the counter to grab a paper bag. As she started picking the crisp, bright green apples, she spoke over her shoulder. “I got a new kind in this week. They’re a mix of green and red, still sour but with a sweet twist. Figured you might like them, so I’m throwing one in for you to try.” She dropped a smaller, two-toned apple into the bag, the colors blending in a swirl of muted red and pale green. “No charge.”

His lips quirked, just for a moment, the closest thing to a smile she’d seen from him in weeks. “Thanks.” He said gruffly.

She twisted the top of the bag, folding it neatly before placing it on the counter beside the plums. But she didn’t step back, and her fingers lingered on the edge as if debating something. Her teeth caught her bottom lip, worrying the skin.

Always perceptive, Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

Her head jerked up, eyes widening. “Huh?”

“You look like you’re trying to decide whether to say something or not.” He crossed his arms, leaning his weight on one leg. “Tell me.”

She huffed a laugh, embarrassed. “It’s... not very appropriate.”

One eyebrow shot up. “I’ve heard worse.”

She bit her lip again before glancing toward the back room. “I was just wondering if you could help me with a couple of crates. The distributor was in a hurry, and he just tossed the merchandise back there. It’s kind of a mess... hard to move around.” She gave a half-shrug, sheepish. I’d do it myself, but they’re actually pretty heavy.”

He followed her gaze, and his expression softened. “That all?”

“Well... yeah,” she admitted, heat creeping up her neck. “You already helped with the shelves last week... and the cooler the week before. I just... I don’t want you to feel like I’m taking advantage or something.”

His features softened even more, as he huffed, twitching his lips in a half-smile. “I wouldn’t help if I didn’t want to. Show the way.”

She gestured to the door behind the counter -the only door, really- and he shot her a look. She shrugged, grinning. “I know, I know. Real hard to find.”

He followed her through the doorway, ducking his head slightly as they entered the cramped back room. His steps faltered as his eyes took in the scene. Stacks of boxes and wooden crates were scattered haphazardly across the floor, some leaning precariously against each other. It was like the distributor had been in a damn race to get out of there.

His mouth pulled into a deep scowl. How the hell did that asshole expect her to move this on her own? Where were the manners nowadays? He grumbled under his breath, weaving between the clutter as he started rearranging the crates into a more orderly stack. He made sure to place the heavier boxes at the bottom, the lighter ones on top, within easy reach for her.

She leaned against the doorframe, watching as the chaos turned into something more manageable. “God, I’ll kidnap you and put you on my bedside table.”

His head snapped up, brows drawing together. “Uh?”

She blinked, a faint heat creeping up her neck. “Oh, it’s just... a saying we have. You know, to cherish something.” She waved a hand, brushing off her embarrassment. “Forget it. Thank you, really for always helping.”

He chuckled. “Pretty sure your poor bedside table can’t handle me anyway.” His tone was dry, self-deprecating, like he was almost daring her to argue.

But her brain had short-circuited somewhere around ‘bedside,’ and before she could think better of it, the words just tumbled out: “But my bed sure can.”

He froze, fingers clenching around the edge of a crate. For a second, he didn’t even breathe. “What?”

She cursed inwardly. Did she… did she actually say that aloud? Oh my god. She could feel her soul leaving her body, and her eyes darted down as her brain scrambled for something -anything- that could sound similar. She fumbled, words tripping over themselves. “I- I said... I wondered if... if you can open a can.”

Bucky blinked, his expression shifting from shock to confusion. “A can?”

She nodded furiously, feeling her face burn. “Yeah. A big one. I have... with peaches. And I don’t have an opener, so I thought maybe...” Her eyes flicked to his metal hand, then back to his face.

They stared at each other, the silence was thick and heavy. “You want me to open... a can of peaches.”

Her chin lifted defiantly, even as her face burned. “Yes. A big one.”

He looked at her, then tilted his head, and his lips twitched slightly. “That so?”

“Yup. I figured you’re more than capable and I... really wanted to try them.” Her voice was firmer now, though her face was still in flames.

Bucky watched her for another moment, narrowing his eyes like he was trying to figure her out. Finally, he huffed, low and almost amused. “Alright then. Bring it over.”

She nodded quickly, grateful for the excuse to turn away from his piercing gaze. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs, and her hands trembled as she rummaged through a cluttered shelf. Eventually, she found the can half-buried behind a jar of jam, with its bright label slightly faded. Two forks were grabbed from a drawer without much thought, and her fingers clenched around them as she tried to calm herself. When she turned back, Bucky was stacking the last of the boxes, his back to her.

Her eyes lingered on his body for a beat too long, and her mind flashed back to her stupid, impulsive words. But my bed sure can. She almost groaned out loud, the embarrassment creeping over her anew. She was never going to live this down.

Clearing her throat, she approached him, holding out the can. “Here. I... uh... figured we could share. Since you’re helping me out and all.”

He turned, and his gaze dropped to the can before lifting to meet hers. His expression was neutral, but his eyes held a glint of something she couldn’t quite place. “Peaches, huh?”

She swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. They should be good. Sweet. Soft, too... uh, juicy” The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and her face burned all over again. God, why did she have to say it like that?

Bucky just stared at her for a second, flicking his eyes to her lips before his mouth twitched. “Alright.” His voice was a little rougher, a little lower. He took the can from her, popping a metal finger through the lid and curling it, crumpling the metal until it popped off.

He handed it back, licking his finger for a brief moment and she could swear she could have a stroke. “There you go. Good thing at least I’m good as a can opener.”

She furrowed her brow, and the playful glint in her eyes faded. “Don’t do that.”

His shoulders went rigid. What did he do to upset her? “Do what?”

“That,” she said, “Sell yourself short. That... self-deprecation thing you always pull.”

His jaw clenched, and his eyes drifted away from hers. “Just saying the truth.” Almost unconsciously, his gaze dropped to his midsection, to the slight curve that hadn’t been there before. To the proof that his body was failing him, that even with all the enhancements, he was broken.

“Bucky,” she said, with a softer tone but no less resolute. “You’re a damn Avenger. Half the days you come in here, you’re bruised and battered because you fight for people who can’t fight for themselves. You protect them. That’s incredible.” Her hand gestured to the neatly stacked crates behind him. “You’re kind... and good. Don’t diminish yourself.”

His eyes snapped back to hers, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual calm but hard expression. He wanted to deflect, to brush it off with a sarcastic remark. It was easier to joke than to acknowledge the weight of her words. But the way she looked at him, made the words stick in his throat. His fingers tightened around the can, and the metal creaked under his grip. “Yeah, well... sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”

She stepped closer, her eyes never leaving his. “Our own perceptions sometimes lie. Doesn’t make it less true.”

He stared at her, and his defenses faltered. The familiar cynicism was there, clawing at him, but her words were louder. His mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always this stubborn?”

She crossed her arms, lifting her chin defiantly. “Only when someone I care about is being stupid.”

The air grew still. She seemed to realize what she’d said a second too late, eyes widening before she looked away. “I mean... you know... as a customer. And a... friend.”

He cocked an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly as if he was trying to get a better read on her. “A friend to put on your nightstand.”

Her eyes snapped to his, caught off guard by the teasing lilt in his voice. “Sure.”

He leaned against the stacked crates, crossing his arms over his chest. His jaw worked, like he was chewing over his next words. For a heartbeat, he thought about letting it slide, about keeping his mouth shut and pretending he hadn’t heard. But the thought of not knowing twisted his gut in a way that made him reckless. “Did you mean it?”

Her heart skipped, the peach suddenly feeling too heavy on her tongue. She forced herself to chew slowly, buying time. “What?”

“The... bed.” His gaze pierced in that way that made her feel stripped bare. “Did you mean it?”

Oh. So he had heard her.

Her mind raced, instincts screaming at her to laugh it off, to deflect with a joke or change the subject. But he just stood there, watching her, waiting. It was infuriating how still he could be, how his silence demanded more than words ever could. His eyes didn’t waver, his face was impassive, but there was something tight in his stance, something almost vulnerable in the way his fingers tapped once against his arm before he caught himself, stilling the movement.

She paused mid-chew, the peach now a lump in her throat. The hell with all. “What if I did?”

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did: his shoulders straightened, and his arms uncrossed just slightly. He took a step closer, and the room suddenly felt a lot smaller. “Then I’d say... you’d better be sure.”

She swallowed, heat blooming up her neck. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

His lips twitched, the ghost of a smile as he closed the space between them. “I figured.”

His hand came up slowly, hesitantly, like he was giving her every chance to pull away. But she didn’t move as his fingers brushed her cheek, rough callouses skimming her skin. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and she couldn’t help but lean into it, never breaking the eye contact.

His thumb traced her cheekbone, and his gaze softened as his fingers curled on the back of her neck. Her pulse quickened, and she could feel her heartbeats echoing in her ears, but she didn’t dare look away. Not when his eyes were so impossibly blue, locked on hers with a focus that stole her breath.

She parted her lips, in a silent invitation, while her hand found its way to his chest, curling her fingers into the fabric of his jacket.

For a moment, he just looked at her, his face so close she could feel his breath on her lips. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and his eyes darkened, “Tell me to stop if this is not what you want.” he murmured, but his hand didn’t move.

She shook her head, tightening her fingers on his jacket. “Not a chance.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched, and his lips crashed into hers, firm and demanding, as he fisted her hair and pulled her closer.

She responded instinctively, pressing her body into his as her hands slid up his chest, wrapping around his neck. He groaned against her mouth, circling his vibranium arm on her waist.

The world around her faded, the cluttered storeroom, the lingering scent of the peaches, everything disappeared until there was only him. His warmth, his strength, his mouth moving against hers with a hunger that made her knees weak.

She sighed, threading her fingers through his hair, and he responded by deepening the kiss. When they finally broke apart, both breathless, she ran a hand along his slightly rounded cheek, tracing its curve with her thumb with a tenderness that made something clench on his chest.

“You are so damn handsome.”

His gaze widened slightly, surprise flickering across his features before something else settled in. Cocky 40s Sergeant Barnes wouldn’t have agreed. In fact, he wouldn’t have dreamed of seeing himself like this, heavier, slower, tired.

He swallowed, as the weight of her words pressed against years of ingrained self-doubt. She exhaled, shaking her head with a small, knowing smile. “I can see the gears turning inside your head, you know?” Her fingers lingered against his skin, warm and sure. “And, in a courageous and embarrassing -but it seems necessary-confession, I must say that I like this version of you. A lot.”

His body tensed beneath her touch. Of all the things he expected, this wasn’t one of them. People -some- admired him for what he could do. No one ever said they liked him like this.

He searched her face, looking for doubt, for anything that suggested she was just saying it to make him feel better. His throat felt tight. “You don’t have to say that.”

Her brows furrowed, and her fingers pressed just slightly into his skin. “I told you earlier that I mean what I say. You’re a soft wall of muscle.” She bit her lip, as her eyes drifted over his shoulders, his chest, lingering just long enough to make his pulse quicken. “And I like big men, so...”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, utterly at a loss. That... wasn’t what he expected. Not at all.

She felt the heat on her face but didn’t look away, just kept caressing his cheek. “In my eyes, you’re better than when I first knew you.”

His heart skipped, the words settling heavy and warm somewhere behind his ribs. “Better?” His voice was low, rough, like he was forcing the word out. “How?”

Her thumb traced his cheekbone, and she felt all the heat in her body rush to her face again. She looked away, sensing her bravado faltering. “God, you’re going to make me say it. This is so embarrassing.” She took a breath, meeting his gaze again. “Sexier, Bucky. You look better to me because I find your bigger body more than appealing. Manlier. Is that enough clarification for y-”

She didn’t get to finish. His mouth crashed again against hers, more heated and demanding than before, as his fingers tightened at her waist, pulling her flush against his body.

A low growl vibrated in his chest, his lips moving hungrily over hers, and she barely had time to gasp before his tongue slid past her lips, tasting, claiming. Her back hit the wall as his body crowded hers, and she didn’t care, didn’t want space, didn’t want air, didn’t want anything that wasn’t him.

His heart pounded in his chest, blood roaring in his ears. Her words echoed in his mind, looping over and over again. Sexier. Manlier. More than appealing.

A rush of masculine pride coursed his body, fierce and hot, like lightning in his veins. She wanted him like this, wanted him bigger, broader. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to hear that, how deeply her praise soothed the bruised ego he hadn’t even admitted having.

She felt his growing erection pressing against her hip, and she gripped his shoulders, feeling him beneath. There was nothing soft about him, not in the way he kissed her, fierce and unrelenting, not in the way his body surrounded hers, hard and unyielding.

He tore his mouth from hers, with ragged breathing, eyes dark and wild as they bore into hers. “You like this?” His voice was rough, deeper than before, and his words dripped with hunger. “You like me like this?”

She swallowed, her pulse fluttering wildly. “Yes. God, yes.”

His lips curved into a grin, that old cocky sergeant slipping through the cracks of his armor. “Good,” he growled, as his mouth descended on hers again, sliding down his hand to grip her thigh with bruising force as he hitched her leg up around his waist, pressing himself against her. His mouth was at her ear, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that sent shivers down her spine. “Because I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t think about fucking you raw under this slutty green apron every damn time you hand me my plums.”

Her brain stuttered, eyes widening as she processed his words.

His hips rolled, grinding his hardon against her tummy, and she felt every inch of his cock, hard and wanting, and god, she couldn’t help it, she whined. A desperate, needy sound that escaped her throat before she could bite it back.

His eyes darkened, his pupils blown wide as his lips curled again into that smirk. “Always with a little extra product, always checking on me.” His teeth scraped her jaw, flicking out his tongue to taste her skin. “Thought you were just sweet, just nice. Turns out you were trying to fatten me up for yourself, huh?” His words were teasing, but his tone was rough and possessive.

He rocked his hips again, a slow, deliberate grind that had her gasping, her fingers digging into his shoulders as heat coiled tighter and tighter in her belly.

“Bucky-” Her voice was a breathless plea, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tried to find words, tried to get a grip on herself, but his mouth was on her neck, sucking a hot, wet mark just above her collarbone, and she was gone, utterly, completely gone.

“You like that, huh?” His teeth grazed her skin again, his metal fingers tightening on her thigh, holding her in place as he ground against her. “Like knowing you drive me crazy? That every time I leave, all I can think about is coming back here, bending you over that counter, and fuck you right there, maybe squishing a fucking orange just to watch the juice dripping down your ass?”

Another whine slipped out, her body arching into his as her hips rolled instinctively to meet his. His words wrapped around her, filthy and raw, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel.

His lips trailed up to her ear, his breath hot and ragged. “So tell me, sweetheart... how long have you been thinking about me ruining you right here in your little shop?”

“If... if we’re about to speak on hard numbers...” She tried to tease, but the words came out ragged, crumbling under the hard suck he planted just behind her ear. Her body shuddered, another whimper escaping before she could stop it. “I’d say... the first time you came here. You’d just moved in and didn’t... didn’t even have pans to cook. Remember?”

His mouth paused on her skin, lips curved against her neck. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Came looking for fruit and you ended up selling me that tray of already cut vegetables to make soup. Lent me that steel jar to boil ’em in.” His tongue flicked over the mark he’d made, soothing the sting before he pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “I thought you were too damn trusting. What if I didn’t come back?”

She let out a breathless laugh, curling her fingers on his biceps. “I saw your hand. You forgot the gloves that day... and I figured... the Winter Soldier wouldn’t steal a steel jar.” Her lips twitched, and a spark of mischief lit her eyes. “If you did, well, the loss was on me. But if you didn’t...” She trailed off.

His eyes darkened, and his grip tightened on her thigh as he pressed her harder against the wall. “If I didn’t?”

She swallowed, feeling her heart hammering against her ribs. “Then... I would have set some points with a handsome man.”

“Sneaky,” he muttered, brushing her lips, a teasing, fleeting touch. “You were setting a trap for me from the start.”

Her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to earn her another low, hungry sound from him. “Can you blame me?” she whispered, her lips barely an inch from his. “You were brooding and grumpy... and so damn gorgeous.”

His eyes flashed with something wild and primal sparking in them. “And now?” His voice was low and dangerous, his metal fingers flexing on her thigh, holding her in place. “Now that you’ve got me? This bigger, grumpier version?”

She didn’t hesitate, running her hands over his broad shoulders. “Now?” She leaned in, grazing his bottom lip with her teeth before she pulled back. “I’d say It was a pretty good investment.”

His lips were into hers again, swallowing her gasp as his body pressed into hers, heavy and hard and perfect. He kissed her hard, his mouth rough and hungry while rocking his hips against hers, and she moaned, digging her nails into his scalp as she arched into him. He tore his mouth away, with ragged breathing, his eyes pinning her in place as they locked with hers. “Last chance, sugarplum” His voice felt vulnerable beneath the heat. “You want this?”

She held his gaze and pressed herself against him, rubbing her breasts against his chest enticingly. "I want you to ruin me, papa bear"

He froze. Every muscle in his body went taut. His eyes widened, and his pupils blew wide as her words penetrated his fogged brain. “...What did you just call me?”

Her heart plummeted. Oh god. Why? Why did she have to let that slip out now, of all times? She could feel her face heating up, a wave of mortification crashing over her. “Um... uh...” She looked away, curling her fingers nervously into his shoulders. “Too soon?”

For a heartbeat, he was silent, his jaw tight and his chest heaving as he processed it. But then a low, guttural sound escaped him, somewhere between a groan and a growl. His head dropped to her shoulder, pressing his forehead into her as his body shuddered against hers. “Fuck,”

She let out a shaky breath, her heart pounding so hard she swore he could feel it. “S-sorry. I don’t... I don’t even know where that came from, I-”

He lifted his head, eyes dark, pupils blown. “Don’t.” His voice was rough, firm. “Don’t take it back.”

Her mouth went dry, and her body arched instinctively into him as his grip on her tightened. “You- uh... liked it?”

His lips curled into a feral grin, grazing her earlobe with his teeth before he growled, “You have no idea.” His nose brushed her cheek, his lips a breath away from hers. “Say it again.”

Her heart skipped a beat, face flaming. “I-” She hesitated, but the way his body trembled, the raw need in his eyes, the way he was holding her like he was afraid she’d vanish... it shattered any scruple she had. She leaned in, brushing his lips with hers as she whispered, “Ruin me, Papa Bear.”

He swore under his breath, crashing his mouth into hers again with bruising force. His hands gripped her tighter, possessive, desperate, and she moaned, opening up to him, letting him in. His tongue swept over hers, hungry and demanding, and she melted, her body molding to his as he consumed her.

He broke away just long enough to start tugging at her apron. “Take it off, or I’ll-”

The faint chime of the bell at the front door echoed through the storage room, hitting them like a bucket of cold water. Her eyes widened, and he stilled, with his fingers curled around the knot of her apron. The door to the storage room was wide open, and the front door? Neither of them had bothered to close it since none of this was supposed to happen.

His jaw clenched, and he lifted a finger, pointing at her with a look that could melt steel. “Don’t move.”

She barely had time to blink before he was striding out of the storage room, with his hair slightly mussed and crumpled clothing. He rounded the corner to find an elderly woman standing uncertainly by the counter, clutching her purse tightly in her hands.

His expression softened -just a bit- as he forced a strained smile. “It’s closed.”

The woman’s brows knitted together. “Oh, but I just wanted to-”

“Lemme accompany you out, yes?” He cut in, his voice dripping with forced politeness. “An emergency came up, and she’s... not here. I just stopped by to lock up.” His words were rushed, his body practically blocking the doorway.

“Oh, I see...” The woman glanced around, clearly confused but too polite to question him. “I’ll come back tomorrow then.”

“Good idea,” he agreed, already guiding her toward the door, hovering his hand protectively behind her back as she shuffled out. The door shut with more force than necessary, as the chime echoed sharply in the now-empty store. He twisted the lock, and stood there for a moment, with a rigid back, shoulders rising and falling with each heavy breath.

In a flash, he was back in the storage room, locking his eyes on her with a hunger that made her knees weak. He didn’t say a word as he closed the distance between them, and his fingers went immediately to the buttons of her blouse, his mouth trailing kisses over every newly exposed inch of skin.

He almost groaned when he saw her bra clasp at the front. “You’re a fucking menace,” he muttered, more to himself than to her, before popping the clasp with an impatient flick of his fingers. The fabric fell away, and his mouth and hands were on her before he could think: Palms warm against her bare skin, squeezing just hard enough to make her arch into him, a breathy moan escaping her lips. He latched his mouth to the delicate skin just above her collarbone, swirling his tongue, teeth scraping, tasting the salt of her skin.

She was driving him insane. Every little sound, every shiver, every way her fingers gripped his shoulders and pulled him closer.

Her hands were just as eager, fumbling with the zipper of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. She hesitated for a heartbeat when her fingers grazed his belly, flicking her eyes up to his. But there was no discomfort there, only hunger. Her pupils were blown, her lips parted, her breathing ragged. Her fingers splayed over his stomach, and the warmth of her touch sank into his skin even through the fabric of his shirt.

He kissed her harder, deeper, pressing her back against the wall as his body settled heavily against hers, his bigger form pinning her in place. She gasped, hitching her leg around his waist again, pulling him closer, grinding, her hips against his, and he nearly lost it.

His lips trailed lower, over the swell of her breast, and his stubble grazed her sensitive skin as his tongue flicked over an already pert nipple. She cried out, her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there as her body arched beneath him, desperate, needing more. He was only too happy to oblige, closing his mouth around her, suckling greedily as his hand moved to the other, kneading, teasing.

“Bucky... please...” Her voice was a broken whisper, as her nails dug into his shoulders and scalp, and her body writhed against his.

He dragged his mouth back up to hers, capturing her lips in another bruising kiss, slipping his hand beneath her skirt, teasing the edge of her panties. “Want papa bear to touch you, sugarplum?” he growled, rough and low, “Want me to prep you open nice and deep and then ruin this little pussy?”

His words made her shiver, and her whole body tensed at the need in his voice. She could barely breathe, could barely think, as her mind spun while his fingers danced along the delicate lace of her panties, teasing, taunting.

“Yes,” she breathed, her voice trembling, her hips rolling instinctively toward his touch. “Yes, please.”

A low, satisfied growl rumbled from his chest, “That’s my good girl.” His fingers hooked under the fabric, dragging her panties down slowly, deliberately,  grazing his knuckles on the sensitive skin of her thighs. He wanted to savor this, to watch her come apart for him.

He lifted her easily, her back hitting the wall as her legs wrapped around his waist. The feeling of her pussy against his stomach made him swear under his breath, his head dropping to her shoulder again as he struggled to hold on to the last shreds of his self-control.

His metal fingers pressed her hips into the wall, to accompany his body, pinning her in place as his flesh hand slipped between her thighs. She was already soaked, and he groaned, feeling his cock throbbing painfully against his jeans. “So fucking wet for me... all that from just a little talk?”

Her head tipped back, hitting the wall, lips parting in a breathless gasp as his fingers found her clit, circling lazily, teasing only to dip them lower, slipping them inside her, stretching her, pressing his thumb down on her clit.

He watched her face as he started to move his hand, pumping slowly, deliberately, curling just enough to make her shudder. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth falling open in a silent cry as her hips rocked against his hand, chasing every thrust, every stroke.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “Such a greedy pussy, taking everything I give you.” His teeth grazed her earlobe. “You’re mine now.”

Her body clenched around his fingers, a whimper escaping her lips, and her nails dug into his shoulders as she held on, tightening her muscles as he pushed her closer to the edge.

“Gonna come for me, sugarplum?” His fingers started to move faster, harder, while his thumb circled her clit mercilessly. “Gonna fall apart on my fingers before I even get to ruin you properly?”

Her whole body tensed and her head snapped forward, pressing her forehead into his as she shattered with a force that stole her breath.

“That’s it... that’s my girl,” he whispered, slowing his fingers, easing her down from the high, brushing his lips against hers in a surprisingly tender kiss.

He adjusted his grip on her body, grinding his clothed erection against her, letting her feel how hard he was, how ready. “And now, I gonna give you what you wanted,” he growled.

He slid his fingers out of her and fumbled with the zipper of his pants "look at the mess you did here, all this cream on my zipper." she just moaned and grind herself against the back of his hand, thrilled by being pinned to the wall by his weight alone and his vibranium hand on her asscheek.

“Bucky... please...” Her voice was breathy, broken, and her body trembled as his metal hand squeezed her ass, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

He hummed, while his fingers continued to play with the wetness she’d left on his pants, dragging her up his length, letting her feel every ridge, every pulse under his denim. “You’re so needy for me, sugarplum,” he murmured, his voice low, rough. “So wet, so… ready.”

She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, her mind was blank with need as he finally spread his thick thighs squatting a little, and sat her on them, tugging down his zipper, and freeing his heavy, leaking cock. He wrapped his hand around himself, and his eyes never left hers as he stroked once, spreading her slickness all over his length. “You see this?” he growled. “This is what you do to me.”

She bit her lip, her eyes locked down, watching him slowly pump himself, zeroed on the pornographic sight of his cock glistening with a mix of their arousal.

Seeing his heated gaze he leaned in, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. “You made this mess... now you’re gonna take responsibility for it”. It was all the warning he did before hooking the back of her knees on his forearms, and pressing his hands on the wall, surging forward, burying the fat head of his cock in her entrance, pushing himself inside her in one slow, stretching thrust.

Her mouth fell open, and a choked moan escaped her lips as he filled her, inch by agonizing inch. Her back arched against the wall, fingers scrambling for purchase on his arms, nails digging in as her body stretched to accommodate him.

He was relentless, his eyes locked on her face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every gasp, every shudder as he sank into her, slow and merciless. “You feel that?” His voice was a rough whisper, his breath hot against her ear.

She could only nod, as he pressed his hips in even deeper, against hers, burying his cock to the hilt. “Bucky... oh God...” Her legs trembled, thighs spread wide over his forearms, helpless to do anything but take everything he gave her.

He groaned, dropping his head to her shoulder, grazing her skin with his teeth as he fought to keep himself in check, to keep from losing himself in the incredible heat of her body. “Fuck... you feel so damn good... driving me crazy, sugarplum.” His words were rough, and breathless, his control slipping with every second he stayed buried inside her.

Her walls quivered around him, tightening instinctively, pulling him in, holding him close. “Bucky... move... please...” she pleaded, trying to roll her hips to create some friction, to ease the maddening stretch.

He didn’t need any more encouragement. His fingers almost dug into the bricks, and he began to move in slow, heavy thrusts that made her whole body rock against the wall. Each time he withdrew, she felt the loss, felt the emptiness, and each time he filled her again, her world shattered a little more as she felt his cock stretching her, filling her, owning her. “Oh God...”

He could feel himself losing control, as his thrusts grew harder and faster, pinning her like a ragdoll against the wall, relishing the needy moans and whimpers escaping her lips.

A hand flew to his head tugging his locks as he wrecked her.  “Fuck Papa Bear… you feel so good, so heavy, so… fucking… big, you turn me on so much.” 

Her praise wrapped around him, squeezing him just as tight as her body did, and his head spun with primal satisfaction. He groaned, as his cock throbbed and pulsed inside her flooding her with precum, and growing even harder inside her. “Yeah? You like this thick Bear covering you, pinning you, breeding you full?”

Her head thudded back against the wall, as she tried to tighten her legs against his forearms, to arch her body to join his thrusts, digging her nails into his shoulders. “Yes, yes, god, yes... love feeling you like this, love how big you are...”

“Fuck, sugar” his bruised ego drank her words like a man dying of thirst. Each confession went straight to his cock. He could feel her body yielding to him, taking everything he gave, and it made him lose his rhythm, made him rut into her like an animal, making her back slide up and down the wall with every hard thrust.

He lifted his arms to spread her wide to take him deeper. Her cries only grew louder, more desperate, and he couldn’t get enough of it. “You’re mine now, sugar plum. Fuck, ‘m gonna fuck you so good you’ll never look at another man again... gonna make sure you remember this every time you close your eyes.”

She whimpered as he buried his face in her neck, nipping her sensitive skin. “Bucky... Papa... please... don’t stop...” she pleaded, curling her fingers into his hair.

His mouth curved into a half smile against her throat. “Not planning to, sugarplum.” He rolled his hips, grinding deep, making her back arch and her legs quiver. “Not until you’re dripping with me... not until you’re so full of my cum you can’t stand.”

Her body convulsed, one hand remained fisting his hair and the other dragged her nails on his broad back, “Fuck! Yes, I want it so bad...”

He lost whatever thread of control he had left. His thrusts grew brutal, punishing as his cock stretched her, pounding into her with a force that bordered on savage. He watched her face contort with pleasure, as the base of his cock ground deliciously against her swollen clit. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and her eyes rolled back as he drove into her, harder, faster. “You’re gonna take it all... every drop... you understand?”

She could only nod, her words were lost to the raw, consuming pleasure.

He was so close, muscles tensed to the point of aching, his breath ragged as his cock throbbed, his balls tightened, ready to spill. But he held on, watching her, waiting, needing to see her fall apart first.

“Come on, doll... give it to me... come all over my cock... let me feel it...” he growled, as his wide shoulders caged her in. “Bet you’ve never been this full before. Never had someone this big ruin you like this.”

Her nails raked down his back, desperate, her eyes rolling back as she tried to meet his rhythm but was utterly at his mercy. “F-Fuck, Bucky... so... so big...”

“That’s right,” he rasped, a savage grin flashing across his face. “Too big for this pretty little pussy, huh?” he lifted her higher and marked every word with a harder thrust.

Her entire body seized up before she felt herself shatter, arching against his body and squeezing him, milking him so tight he finally let himself go.

“That’s it... make a mess... make a fucking mess for me, doll... fuck!” his cock jerked, pulsing, as his release came hot and violent, spilling thick ropes of cum inside her. He kept grinding his hips, pressing himself as deep as he could, stirring his load inside her until it was too much to contain. The excess bubbled out around his shaft obscenely, warm and sticky, dripping down her thighs and landing on the floor.

He nipped at her collarbone, a lazy smirk curving his lips as he gently withdrew them from the wall. He eased her thighs down just enough to let her hook them around his waist, and his eyes flicked to an old chair in the corner of the room. Without a word, he began to move with steady steps despite the lingering tremors in his muscles. As he walked them over, each stride pressed him deeper inside her, drawing soft whimpers from her swollen lips.

Reaching the chair, he sank down heavily, the wood creaking beneath their weight. She straddled him, still nesting him deep inside her pussy, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, tangling her fingers on his hair. His hands settled on her hips, keeping her pressed close, unwilling to break their connection just yet.

His head fell back against the chair, closing his eyes for a moment as he let himself breathe. “You feel... too damn good. Could stay like this all day...”

Her fingers started to brush his hair gently. “Then don’t move... Just stay. You made sure that no other clients visited today." She slightly pinched his stubbled full cheek. "And... is not fair you didn’t remove any of your clothes besides your jacket in all this ordeal."

He huffed out a low laugh, that rumbled against her chest. “Yeah? That bother you, sugarplum?” His hands slid up her back, splaying wide as he pressed her tighter against him. “You wanna see all of me?”

Her fingers tightened in his hair. “I think it’s only fair,” she murmured, a teasing lilt to her voice. “I wanna see what I’ve been getting my hands on... what I’ve been wanting.” Her eyes dropped pointedly to his still-clothed body, darting her tongue out to wet her lips.

His eyes flicked away for a beat, and his shoulders tensed a little. There was a moment, a fleeting second where his hands stilled on her body, where his fingers dug just a little too hard into her waist. Old doubts echoed in his mind, flashing to his reflection in the mirror, the soft curve of his belly, the heft in his chest that wasn’t just only muscle.

But then she moved, running her hands up his chest, her eyes wide, pupils blown as she whispered. “I want to see you, Bucky.”

His heart thudded hard, but he felt himself relax, the tension ebbing away as he let out a slow, shaky breath. “Alright, sugarplum,” he murmured. “You asked for it.”

In one swift motion, he gripped the hem of his shirt, muscles flexing as he pulled it over his head and tossed it aside. He forced himself to sit there, exposed, waiting for the flicker of judgment, for her gaze to catch on his soft middle, or the faint stretch marks on his hips.

But her eyes were wide with interest as she took him in. Her hands roamed over him, tracing her fingers on his skin, lingering on the scars, the old wounds. She palmed his chest, brushing her thumbs over his hardened nipples, and his muscles jumped under her touch.

“Better?” his voice rough, his eyes heavy-lidded as he watched her explore him.

She bit her lip, as she kept worshipping him. “Better... but I’m not done yet.” She added as she trailed softly the scarred flesh where his prosthesis joined his body with her tongue.

His cock twitched with interest inside her, still hard, still nestled so deep. His hands gripped hard on her waist and his eyes narrowed. “You’re playing with fire, sugarplum.”

She smirked, rolling her hips slowly and deliberately. “Then burn me up, Papa Bear.”

Taglist: @civilbucky @blythesarchives

Dividers by:@/cafekitsune

[pythonmoth]

cw: anxiety. post-traumatic stress disorder (torture). reader is traumatized. reader is a bit unreliable. military inaccuracies. hurt/comfort (I guess?).

simon riley x f!reader. implied simon riley x soap. implied simon riley x f!reader x soap.

First | Last | Next

Being home is incredibly boring, especially if you can't move much.

Your brother's been taking care of you, making sure you're eating, that you let your injuries breathe, and soon enough, the cuts on your feet allow you to move around on your own. It takes a whole month for your brother to leave you alone for longer than a few hours. It's a good thing, really, because if you want to spend hours just laying in your bed and crying in silence as you stare at the ceiling, you can. He would only come whenever you needed a ride, anyway.

Despite being able to move around and now even managing to use your sensitive fingers, you dread the idea of going outside. You have to wear sandals and loose pants, because your toes cannot, by any means, be touched by any kind of fabric yet, or else you're grimacing in pain. Feeling defenseless hasn't been a thing ever since you became part of the team. Not even your skills could take down Simon, but you could put up a fight with them all, easily; never won, but you were confident with anyone else on the street.

No doubt you could still beat them up, your skills are still there, but the idea of someone somehow restricting your movements felt like torture all over again. The idea of anyone getting a hold of you makes you want to throw up. Your mind and body betray you, making you remember those awful moments, and you don't realize you're pulling a face.

"You're spacing out".

You look up at the therapist, giving her a little nod as an apology, getting comfortable on the seat. Restless, you can't help but look around for a moment again. The office is incredibly white, clean, filled with mirrors for whatever fucked up reason, and the only thing that isn't grey or white is one of the cushions on the couch on the other side of the room. It's deep purple. It looks awful.

Seemingly realizing you won't be of much help with the question she just asked you, she gives you a smile. "How are your nails? I can see you're using your hands a lot more".

"They're healing" you reply, looking down at your fingers instead of focusing on the cushion. "I can use my hands pretty normally now, but I can't use the stove for long".

"Because of the heat". An affirmation. You've already mention it before, and you're not surprised she remembers that. Probably read it on her notes.

"It hurts, yeah".

"And how are your feet?" she asks, looking down at the way you absentmindedly drag your hands on your pants from your thighs to your calves in slow movements. You only realize what you're doing because you can hear the way her pen drags across the paper, distracting you.

"Well... I can only wear sandals. Doctor said I should be okay to move around with real shoes in three months".

"And what do you think?"

"He's the doctor. I want to believe he knows what he's doing, so I can't really question it. I do hope it heals sooner, though".

The therapist writes down on her notebook. With an uncomfortable feeling, you desperately want to know what she's writing, your eyes drifting to the movement of the pen, but you can't make out a single letter.

"So you trust the doctor, right?" she questions, moving one of her erasers to the other side of her desk. Your eyes are fixed entirely on it, on the little thud the eraser makes when she sets it down.

"He knows best, that's for sure. If he's there, must be a reason" you answer, tilting your head as she keeps moving her things around, making them fit somewhere else on her desk. The pencil goes to the left, then to the right, the eraser from top to bottom of the notebook, as if she's as antsy as you are.

"Do you apply that thought somewhere else? Like... at work? Or if you need help at a store and find an employee, maybe?"

The therapist's eyes are on you all the time, your hands, your anxious feet; your little habits coming to light with a single look. The way you bite the inside of your lower lip, the little double blink you make when she moves something in her desk yet again, even if you don't say anything.

"Of course. If they know their way around, it's only right that I ask for help, and trust that" you answer, frowning. You don't think that question is relevant at all, but she keeps writing, and writing.

"I see. Thank you. Now, you mentioned you've been texting G- Simon. Can you tell me how it makes you feel?"

You go silent for a moment, your fingertips dragging across your arm, so softly you can barely feel it. "It's better now".

During the first three months of being home, Simon would text you nearly every single day. He didn't expect a text back and you knew that, because you told him you wouldn't promise to be responsive. Simon would send you pictures of their plain meals, of Gaz sleeping on your bed, Johnny posing next to Price with their thumbs up, or terrible selfies of himself. Always without a mask.

Tuesday

11:27

"Price scolded Johnny because he had crumbs on his uniform. It was hilarious"

Saturday

03:26

"Just got back. Everyone ok"

Even Johnny would text you from time to time. It was mostly memes, awful stickers or ridiculous, random photos of Gaz mid talking, his face weird, or Price smacking Simon's head, or the entire team posing for a picture, Gaz' arm hovering to the side as if to hug your shoulders. You didn't even need to wonder why Gaz hadn't texted you; that man hated technology with a passion.

Still, you never texted back.

You didn't really pay attention to the texts, or the little voice notes, or the selfies. You didn't feel like reading them properly, always leaving them on seen or just grunting to yourself whenever you heard their distinctive tone. Why you didn't change it in the past few months, you don't know. Maybe that's a question for your therapist.

But then, the texts stop.

Monday

16:49

"Tough job"

"We leave at midnight"

23:42

"Text you when we're back"

Only, Simon doesn't text back. For days. For weeks.

You can't pretend you're not worried. It's impossible, really. You're half-tempted to call him, but you can't, you don't know how it will feel to hear his voice again. He said he'd text you and he hasn't, so he isn't back yet, and you don't want to feel vulnerable by opening up. Yet.

You go through Simon's chat, actually paying attention to whatever he sent you. You realize he sometimes sent you long texts, apologizing, accepting what he did, and even a few voice notes that you didn't notice before. They made your heart race as you listened.

"I hurt you, and I'm sorry. I love you, and you don't have to forgive me"

"Garrick told me to tell you that if you aren't eating he'll go and— shut the hell up, Johnny, I'm talking!"

"Tell her we'll go visit her by the end of the month".

That's Price's voice, you realize.

Feeling incredibly choked up, you check Johnny's chat next. You're expecting to find nothing but memes, as you've seen in passing, but when you see he sent you long, long texts, you finally let yourself cry properly.

He's been apologizing since the day you left, too afraid to face you but his texts are so poorly written you know he was in a rush, or crying, or both. His voice notes, however... they just make you break.

"I'm so sorry. I can't undo what we did. You don't owe me anything, I just... really hope you can at least tolerate me. If not, please know I'll always care for you. I love you. Goodnight".

Something inside of your chest eases, maybe moved to the point of forgiveness, even if just a moment. Your therapist has been helping you unveil whatever you missed during that day— during the torture. It's been a tough process, and she insisted you visited twice a week instead of once, but it helped. You could now understand.

Still, understanding the situation only makes your worry grow.

"Text you when we're back"

For two long weeks, there's nothing, from nobody. Only silence and fear. For the first time since you left, you're scared for them. Scared you'll have to open the door one day and it'll be Price, or maybe not even him, telling you the team is dead.

On the second week, your therapist says you can give them a call, or text them if it's more comfortable. When you say you can't, she advices you to write them letters.

"Tell them whatever you wish to say. If you're angry, write it. If you're worried, write it. There's no good or bad feelings, and it's only right to feel them. Write them for yourself, and then you can choose to give them to your team, or not".

And you did.

A whole notebook of messy writing, some tears staining the paper, and your hate slowly turned to understanding. Real understanding. Not forgiveness, not yet, but it's progress.

By the third week with no news, you just can't handle it anymore. You press call without a second thought and your heart squeezes painfully in your chest when it rings, and rings, and rings.

Hopeless, you lay in your bed, your mind working overtime as you stare at the ceiling.

A muffled dinging sound startles you awake, shifting on the bed to find your phone because that's Simon's tone. Adjusting your vision, you realize it fell from your hands to the ground when you fell asleep. You dive for it, grimacing when your sensitive fingertips brush against the carpet, but to see his name there is enough for you to endure it.

Thursday

01:22

"Safe. Couldn't text you earlier"

01:22

"You called me. Are you hurt?"

01:22

"Safe. Call me"

"Now"

His name pops up not even a moment later, his ringtone filling your ears. When you pick up, he's barely breathing, and you wonder if you're about to be told bad news.

Simon explains they were on a very tough mission, and that that was why he couldn't text you, or communicate with you at all. You could hear him shift, move around. Restless.

They got caught in enemy territory, surviving the best they could for two weeks, Simon tells you. Johnny was shot in the leg and Gaz was the one who helped him out, since Simon was too busy dragging Price, who was bleeding out because someone decided it would be fun to put a bullet through his left shoulder.

"I wasn't any better. Dr. Wilson called me a dick, and then made me lay down because I was shaking. Ridiculous" he grunts, his voice hushed on the other side of the line. "Got shot on my side, I just didn't feel it, but I was better than the other two".

He doesn't seem to expect you to speak, huffing and shuffling. You can tell he's in the clinic room, the echo incredibly familiar by now.

Of course, he doesn't tell you that the reason why he didn't text you the whole past week, is because he's been asleep, drugged out of his mind because of the pain.

"Everyone's okay. No risk. Garrick's the only one who didn't get hurt. I think—"

"I was worried, Simon. I'm glad everyone is okay".

There's silence for a long moment. Simon takes a deep breath from the other side of the phone, sighing deeply. You could hear the smile in his tone. "I wouldn't let myself get killed, luv. I'm sorry I couldn't text you before. We're safe now".

You two spend the rest of the night on the call, with you mostly staying in silence and listening. You can't believe how scared you've been for all of them, for Simon. You know it's gonna be hard to fully forgive them, if at all, but you can't help the way your body relaxes as you hear him breathing against your ear. You can't help the way your arms curl around the pillow, seeking his warmth. As before.

The call goes on for long hours. When your soft hums as he speaks stop coming to his end, Simon goes quiet, realizing you've fallen asleep. He sighs and shifts to look at the ceiling, holding the phone against his ear. Focusing on your soft breathing, he let's himself fall asleep, the gunshot wound completely unimportant if he gets to listen to you sleeping again.

He just wishes you were there.

im so sick y'all, my head hurts, but I obviously couldn't resist! also, you guys like Marina? her new song is so good! mowgli's road's vibes.

the therapist's room I'm describing in the story is actually my therapist's old room. I hated it so BAD. the mirrors were a terrible decision. also, if you can't relate to this type of therapy, that's fine. it's just my experience.

again, styling is fully intentional. can y'all tell how our reader is feeling?~

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @dorothy-rainbird-deactivated202 @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34

(we're so many now, wow! thank you all ♡)

[03den]

bits of you scattered around hamzah’s house headcanons ( gn reader )

a.n: this is still in that whole friends to fwb to lovers universe. you can read more about it here and here

for hamzah his house is his safe place, and the mess is more comforting than he’d like to admit. having your things scattered around, even though you don’t live there (yet), is just so domestic, so intimate, he wants parts of you in every room.

( at the beginning of your arrangement he clearly wants to start impressing you more and lowkey makes an effort to keep his house minimally clean—even tho you’ve already been a witness of the usual mess during your time as friends. eventually, as you keep coming over, he js ends up giving up lol )

just as you enter his home you find yourself at his kitchen, his small and bland kitchen with barely anything but a coffee machine and a microwave at the counters, some plants and a fridge. inside the cabinets where he keeps his glasses and cups, there’s your mug. and by yours i mean its one he specifically bought for you, with a corny design he knows will make you laugh and inevitably choose it for your morning coffee, after you spend the night over. he never tells you he bought them for you, that he knew you’d laugh and claim them to your use, but the more nights you come over, the more your mug collection at his house grows.

there’s also his fridge, full of photographs of his friends and random magnets he bought for fun. you appear in some of the photos with claire and chase, some others with mandy and martin, or all of you together, but hamzah also wanted some where’d it be just you and him—that, lowkey sent him into a crisis. he had this photo of you in your pajamas, slouched on his couch with blue and red near you. you were smiling lazily at the camera, and you looked so settled, so at home, hamzah couldn’t properly look at the photo without his heart going crazy for a few days. then, he was determined on showing off the photo to anyone who’d come in, but. would it be too much? would it be too real? he tests the waters by adding an ai image of the two of you first, a silly scenario of you as astronauts at the moon. when you notice and laugh hard at how stupid the image is instead of confronting him about having photos of the two of you around, he adds the one he originally meant to. now, every morning you’re at his kitchen he’s smiling from ear to ear, and you can’t figure out why.

he doesn’t cook much, not for himself, not for his friends. and at the beginning, he doesn’t cook for you either. it is by far his best skill, but he knows the basics, and how to follow the recipes. however, at some point, he gets nervous that eating the same three things every time you’re over will make the food distasteful, and he opts for cooking for you instead. you’re pleasantly surprise the first time, having expected the same tasty cup noodles, and hamzah is content. now, the groceries in his cabinets were all bought with you in mind, based on a grocery list you wrote together. your favorite snacks are tucked away on a corner of his counter, just so when you leave his bed to go get them, you don’t take much time; and the brand of soda he now buys are your favorite, stored inside the fridge near your preferred condiments.

moving onto the next room, you find yourself at the living room, spacious but messy compared to his kitchen. there’s random things laying around random places, and how he manages to function through the chaos is beyond you—though you do like how lived in it looks. with time, you also get used to it, to a point your own things start mixing with his. the latest magazine you’re reading finds itself at his coffee table, sitting above a stack of papers that are most likely important and both your mugs from this morning’s breakfast are nearby, forgotten there for a later task. during the Hot ones video he makes a point to state the magazine is yours—not that he’d have an issue reading it, he’s just secretly proud you’re comfortable enough to treat his house like your own.

at the couch, over the arm, is draped a weighted blanket he knows to be your favorite. when you had admitted mid-conversation to liking these blankets more, he made sure to have one around. its weight disassociated your conjoined bodies from the rest of the world as you cuddled together, and hamzah thinks he might prefer this ones more too.

over at the side board, where he keeps framed pictures of his friends, he has, specially framed, a couple’s trend you had both indulged in during a lazy afternoon—painting each other on canvases—except he didn’t have canvases laying around so you just did it on regular paper. you didn’t think they were anything special to get framed. the paper was all mushy from the paint, you weren’t a renaissance artist and so wasn’t he. you bet your younger cousin could do something similar to what you had done, but the way he had gone out of his way later that day to buy a colorful frame despite having some normal ones laying around made your heart swell.

at the bookshelf nearby where he has some books, pokemon figures and some other random gifs, he keeps on display little trinkets you’ve got him, little cheap things that caught your eye during an outing and just reminded you of him. hamzah felt so besotted when you told him and can’t help the cheeky smile the sight of the trinkets instantly bring him. you had also gotten a few toys for blue and red, and, although he doesn’t keep them at the bookshelf, he sends you a video of the cats playing with them every time he can.

his office is surprisingly more organized than the rest of the rooms in the house and so, respecting how he keeps his work place, you try to maintain it organized too. you’re only over there to keep hamzah some company, while he’s editing or filming a video. you stay at the bed nearby, normally paying more attention to your phone than anything else, and you can count the handful of times you had to come back to hamzah’s house to pick something you’ve left on that bed, be it a hoodie, your charger or your earbuds.

even his bathroom has evidence of your constant presence. like the purple toothbrush he bought for you, sitting besides his in a glass, after you teased him abt how you couldn’t be walking around with your toiletries every day just in case he asked you to come over. you hadn’t expect him to take you seriously, but the new and nonnomadic toothbrush was indeed useful.

you were incredibly comfortable with one another, you realize, and so did your common friends who started joining in on the ‘you have to move in with him atp’ jokes you had with hamzah. that kinda caught you off guard the first time it happened, like you had forgotten they also acknowledged the bits of you around his house. you wondered if hamzah would warn them not to use your towel, folded and tucked besides his; or your shampoo, resting inside his shower. it was the one he worshiped the brand because ‘it made your hair smell so good’. you wondered how much did your friends notice.

you just hoped they didn’t frequent his bedroom often—not that you’d truly have a problem w it, it was just lowkey embarrassing, given it was the room you left the messier, and the one hamzah felt like you were truly everywhere. a pile of your clothes was mixed with his on his bed, and you still had some other pieces hanged inside his closet. one of the pillows was very obviously not his, as it had a pretty identifiable pillowcase, that just screamed you, and the photo strip of both of you, sitting at his bedside table, also didn’t help your case.

but you weren’t going to complain if they did notice everything as much as you did. in a way it felt good that other knew that, even tho hamzah likes his house, he likes it more with you around.

i thought abt dividing this post into two bc its so long, but then i remembered those annoying storytelling tiktoks that always have like 28 parts and made myself sit and finish writing this 😭

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Baby Preparations

Sam and Dean & pregnant little sister!reader

Requested by Anonymous

Synopsis: you’re pregnant, that’s literally it, that’s the plot

Warnings: short and sweet, pregnancy and tooth-rotting fluff

“Sam!”

Your voice calling out Sam’s name had him doing a 180, heading back from the direction he’d came to find you. You were sitting on the floor of the War Room, and instead of the usual newspaper clippings and lore books, there were dozens of paint sample cards.

“You need something?” He asked.

You held out your hands to him, as if you were 6 years old again and asking to be carried.

“I can’t stand up,” you huffed. At Sam’s light snicker, you scowled. “It’s not funny! I can’t move!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” But Sam couldn’t keep the grin off his face as he helped you to your feet. “How’s my nephew doing?”

“He kicks like he’s a dang Winchester,” you grumbled, rubbing your stomach. “And every time he moves I have to pee, and he—“

“Ok, ok.” Sam stopped you, holding up his hands in surrender. “I get the picture, and I really don’t need to know more.”

“Coward,” you scoffed.

“Hey, when it comes to my baby sister’s pregnancy, you bet I am,” Sam admitted.

“Has anyone seen my pie?” Dean’s question could be heard before he even entered the room, a quizzical and grumpy expression on his face.

“The baby wanted it,” you answered, drawing an eye-roll and a huff from your oldest brother.

“Is that always gonna be your answer?” He demanded.

“Not always,” you admitted. “Just maybe another two months until this guy is eating his own food, not mine.”

Dean face twisted, but he didn’t argue—he never did anymore, and you took full advantage of it. Sam saw right through how you were playing Dean like a kazoo, but he didn’t comment on it; it was too much fun to watch.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled. “I’m gonna go on a run.”

Without a word, you pulled a piece of paper from your pocket and handed it to Dean.

“Again?” He demanded. “It better not be full of weird snacks again.”

“Last time wasn’t that weird,” you insisted.

“I’ve never bought so many pickles or marshmallows in my life,” Dean scoffed.

“It’s marshmallow fluff, not marshmallows,” you corrected.

“Remind me why I’m doing this again?” Dean asked.

“Because my stomach doesn’t fit behind the steering wheel anymore.” You grinned. “And you never let me drive Baby anyway, so you get to make the runs.”

“Fine,” Dean caved. “But if I see orange-flavored beef jerky on here again, I’m throwing the list away.”

…

“Hey Sam?”

Sam glanced up from his lore book to see you still staring at your paint samples.

“Yeah?” He asked.

“I can’t pick a color. Can you help?”

Sam shrugged, ditching his book and coming to your side.

“You really can’t pick?”

“I just…” you huffed. “I want it to be perfect.”

“I don’t really think the baby’s gonna care,” Sam argued.

You were quiet for a long moment, and Sam watched as you started to pick at your hands.

“Hey.” Sam’s hand over yours stilled you. “What’s got you all worked up?”

“I mean…we-we never got anything like this. You know, the rooms and—and a house. But Charlie will…and I want it to be perfect.”

Sam smiled—he loved hearing his nephew’s name, the one you’d chosen to honor your best friend—and rested his hands on your shoulder.

“Charlie doesn’t need the perfect room paint to have a happy childhood. He already has so much more than we had—he has a home, and he has a wonderful mother. He’s gonna grow up so happy—it’s not gonna be like how it was with us.”

“Ok.” You took a deep breath. “Ok, thanks Sam.”

“Any time. And you should totally choose the green.”

Taglist:

@nyotamalfoy @mrvlxgrl @chocorade @aestheticdaisies @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl @casmustdiee @987coley @deadlymistletoe @wayward-impala83 @whump-loverz @johannelis2302nely @studiogrimm810 @tell-elle

[sinful-sonnet]

Office Hours

Professor! Joel Miller x Female Reader Slow Burn | Age Gap | Power Dynamics | Eventual NSFW | W/C: 3k

You weren't supposed to be here. Not like this, sitting across from him in the dim glow of his office lamp, fingers twisting in your lap as he looked over your latest essay with that familiar furrow in his brow.

Joel Miller was nothing like the other professors on campus. He wasn’t one for pointless lectures or pretentious intellectual posturing. He spoke with purpose, moved like he belonged in a different world—one of sweat and hard labor rather than academia. And unlike the men your age, he carried himself with something heavier. Experience. Strength. A quiet intensity that made your stomach twist in ways it shouldn’t.

You’d signed up for his class purely on accident—another elective to fill your credits. You hadn’t expected to spend the semester shifting in your seat, hanging onto every word that left his mouth, heat rising to your cheeks when his gaze landed on you. And now, alone with him, the reality of your situation pressed against you like a vice.

He cleared his throat, flipping the paper closed. “You can do better.”

Your stomach dropped. “I—”

“I know you can,” he interrupted, leveling you with a stare that made your breath hitch. “You’ve got a sharp mind. This feels like you were rushin’ through it.”

You swallowed. He was right, but the way he said it—low, rough, with just a hint of something softer—made your pulse race for an entirely different reason.

“I’ve just been... distracted.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. He leaned back in his chair, broad arms crossing over his chest. “That so?”

You hesitated. This was a dangerous game, toeing the line between student and professor, between innocent and something else entirely. But you’d seen the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching. You weren’t imagining it—the fleeting glances, the way his fingers sometimes gripped his coffee mug a little too tightly when you spoke.

You nodded, voice softer now. “Yeah.”

His gaze didn’t waver. For a long moment, the only sound in the office was the hum of the old heater against the quiet night outside. Then, finally, he exhaled, shaking his head.

“You should go.”

Your heart dropped. “Professor Miller, I—”

“This ain’t somethin’ you wanna start.” His voice was gruff, but there was no real anger in it. Just restraint. “Trust me.”

And maybe you should have left. Maybe you should have taken the out he was giving you. But instead, you stood, slowly crossing the room until you stood just beside his desk. Close enough that you could see the flecks of silver in his beard, the way his hands curled into fists against the polished wood.

“Maybe I do,” you murmured.

His breath caught. For the first time since you stepped into his office, you saw it—the crack in his resolve, the way his pupils darkened as his gaze flickered down to your lips.

But then, just as quickly, he turned away, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Go home.”

You hesitated, then nodded, stepping back. You didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you.

You left, heart pounding. But you knew one thing for certain.

This wasn’t over.

You sat at the very back of the lecture hall, your legs crossed, trying to appear unaffected by his presence at the front of the room. Professor Miller paced in front of the chalkboard, his voice steady, firm, explaining the intricacies of physics with that deep, commanding tone that made your stomach clench.

But you weren’t listening.

Your hand was hidden beneath the desk, fingers gripping the hem of your skirt before slipping between your thighs. You exhaled slowly, barely parting them, just enough to let your fingers trail over the sensitive flesh underneath. A quiet thrill ran up your spine, heat pooling low in your belly as you let yourself indulge in the forbidden.

He had no idea.

Or did he?

You risked a glance up. Joel was standing by the board, writing an equation, his broad shoulders shifting beneath the fabric of his button-up. You could see the way the veins in his forearms flexed as he moved, the strong lines of his hands as he gripped the chalk.

Your fingers pressed a little deeper. A little slower.

God, if only he knew. If only he’d look up, see the way your breath was coming faster, the way your knees trembled just slightly as you bit your lip to keep from making a sound.

His voice cut through your thoughts. “Everyone understand so far?”

A few murmured affirmations from the class. You barely registered them. Your fingers were slick now, the friction sending jolts of pleasure up your spine, making it harder to keep still.

Then—

His gaze flickered up. Right at you.

Your breath hitched, the tension tightening in your stomach, coiling hot and tight, ready to snap—

And then the bell rang.

A chorus of movement surrounded you. Chairs scraped against the floor, bags were slung over shoulders, and the hush of the classroom broke into murmurs as students began to rise, shuffling toward the door.

The moment was ripped from you just as quickly as it had built, the pressure in your core left unresolved, frustratingly close yet so far away. You swallowed hard, withdrawing your hand as heat flooded your cheeks.

Joel looked away abruptly, his shoulders stiff, his fingers gripping the edge of the podium with enough force that his knuckles turned white.

He had to get out of here. Fast.

But not before he risked one last glance at you.

And what he saw nearly ruined him.

Your pupils were blown, your lips parted, and you were breathing just a little too fast. He knew.

And he knew this wasn’t over.

Joel clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the edge of the podium as he watched you gather your things. His body was wound tight, heat creeping up his neck as he tried to steady his breathing.

You had no idea what you were doing to him.

Or maybe you did.

That thought alone made it worse.

He’d seen your flushed cheeks, the way your lips parted just before the bell rang. That dazed, needy look in your eyes when you realized the moment had slipped away from you. And fuck, he’d almost let himself watch for too long—almost let himself acknowledge what you had been doing under that desk.

Almost.

His grip on the wood tightened as he let out a slow breath through his nose, forcing his gaze away from you. Students were still filing out, shuffling past him, their voices a dull murmur against the rush of blood in his ears. He needed to leave. He needed to get the hell out of this room before he did something stupid.

But then he felt it.

Your presence.

Lingering.

He didn’t look up right away. He couldn’t. If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep his expression neutral, to keep himself from giving too much away. But he could sense you standing near the exit, hesitating.

Waiting.

His fingers flexed against the podium before he exhaled sharply and finally forced himself to meet your gaze.

It was a mistake.

Because the moment his eyes locked onto yours, his control cracked.

There was something different in the way you looked at him now. A quiet challenge. A hint of satisfaction beneath the lingering frustration of being denied what you had been so close to achieving.

Joel swallowed hard.

He should say something. Dismiss you. Tell you to go home, like he had in his office that night.

But the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, the silence stretched between you, heavy and unspoken.

His heart slammed against his ribs as his body betrayed him, his mind flashing back to the sight of you in that chair, shifting, your breath catching. He shouldn’t be thinking about it. He shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.

And yet—

“Professor?”

Your voice was soft, but there was a dangerous edge to it. A knowing lilt.

His throat went dry.

He should walk away.

Instead, he nodded once, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Yeah?”

You hesitated for only a second before stepping closer—too close. Close enough that he could see the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. Close enough that he could smell the faintest hint of your perfume, something warm and sweet that curled around him, sinking into his skin.

“I… had a question about today’s lecture.”

Joel clenched his jaw. He knew exactly what you were doing.

And he was letting you.

Fucking idiot.

He glanced around, making sure the last of the students had left before answering. “What’s your question?”

Your lips curved—not quite a smile, but close.

“I was hoping you could explain something… in more detail.”

His pulse hammered.

This was bad.

This was really bad.

But instead of shutting it down, instead of telling you to leave, Joel exhaled slowly and stepped back, nodding toward his desk.

“Close the door.”

And just like that, the last thread of his restraint unraveled.

You hesitated for only a moment before you did as he said, reaching back to gently push the door closed. The click of the latch echoed in the empty lecture hall, sending a shiver up your spine.

Your pulse was a drum in your ears, anticipation and anxiety twisting together as you turned to face him. Joel stood by his desk, his fingers curled against the wood as if he needed to physically ground himself. His jaw was tight, his gaze unreadable—but there was no mistaking the heat behind his eyes.

God, you wanted him.

Hell, you needed him.

But the moment you took a step forward, another thought hit you, cold and sharp.

What if someone found out?

What if the higher-ups heard whispers of this? What if a student saw the way he looked at you, the way you lingered after class? What if someone suspected something and reported him?

The thought made your stomach drop.

Joel had worked here for years. He had a reputation—respected, intelligent, firm but fair. He wasn’t the type to abuse his position, to cross lines he shouldn’t. If anyone so much as hinted at misconduct, it could ruin him.

It could ruin both of you.

Your throat tightened.

This wasn’t just some reckless crush on an older professor. This was dangerous. A risk. And yet, as much as the fear gripped you, it didn’t lessen the ache that had taken root deep in your core.

You wanted this.

You wanted him.

But was it worth the consequences?

You licked your lips, heart hammering. “Professor, I—”

He tensed. “Don’t.” His voice was hoarse, like he was barely holding himself together. “Don’t call me that right now.”

A shiver rolled through you.

He was struggling just as much as you were.

And that only made you want him more.

Still, you forced yourself to take a breath, to ignore the heat pooling low in your belly. “This is dangerous,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s eyes darkened. “I know.”

He should be the one to stop this. To tell you to leave, to walk away before either of you did something you couldn’t take back.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he watched you. Waiting.

Letting you decide.

Your fingers curled at your sides. If you left now, if you walked out that door and never pushed this again, he would let you. He’d pretend nothing had happened, pretend he hadn’t seen what you were doing under the desk, pretend he hadn’t felt his own restraint slipping when he looked at you.

But if you stayed—

If you took another step forward—

There would be no turning back.

Your breath came out unsteady as you swallowed hard, your heart caught between reason and desire.

The air in the lecture hall was thick, heavy with unspoken tension. Your hands felt clammy at your sides, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was from fear, from need, or from the undeniable weight of this—whatever it was you were about to do.

Joel sat at the edge of his desk, his broad arms crossed, watching you. His expression was unreadable, his jaw tight, his fingers gripping at the edge of the wood like he was forcing himself to stay put.

You could tell.

He was waiting.

“Alright,” he finally said, voice rough. “What’s the question?”

You swallowed.

“What?”

He tilted his head, his dark eyes unwavering. “You said you had a question about today’s lecture.” His voice was measured, calm—too calm. Like he was testing you, pushing you, but not crossing the line himself. Not yet.

He was going to make you do it.

If you wanted this, if you really wanted this, it would have to be your move.

Not his.

Because if he made the first move, if he gave in first, there’d be no coming back from it.

Your breath hitched as you realized exactly what he was doing.

Giving you an out.

If you wanted to pretend this was nothing, if you wanted to walk away and never touch this line again, he was letting you. He wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t ask. Wouldn’t even let himself admit what had been simmering between you both for weeks now.

But if you gave him an excuse—

If you so much as hinted at what you really wanted—

He wouldn’t hold back.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. You felt too hot, too aware of the space between you. Your thighs clenched together instinctively, but you knew that wouldn’t help anything.

Your mind was screaming at you to be smart, to walk away, to leave before you got him into something he couldn’t escape.

But your body?

Your body was already making the decision for you.

Slowly, carefully, you stepped closer.

Joel didn’t move, didn’t flinch. His only reaction was a small, sharp inhale through his nose, his fingers flexing against the desk.

Your stomach flipped.

This was it.

Your move.

Your choice.

What the hell were you going to do?

Your mind was spinning, every rational thought tangled up in the thick pull of him, of the weight of his gaze, the way his fingers flexed against the desk like he was barely holding himself back.

You could still walk away. You should walk away.

But instead, you inhaled deeply and forced yourself to focus, to think of something—anything—that could give you a reason to stay.

A question.

Something that would force him to touch you.

Your lips parted, and the words spilled before you could stop them.

“I… I didn’t quite understand how force and acceleration relate in a real-world scenario,” you murmured, voice quieter than you intended. “The equation makes sense, but I can’t seem to feel it. I think I need to see it applied physically.”

Joel’s brows furrowed slightly, but something flickered in his eyes—something dark, something aware.

You were treading dangerous waters, and he knew it.

Still, he didn’t stop you.

Instead, he pushed off the desk and took a slow step forward, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes roamed over you, sharp and assessing, like he was deciding whether or not to call your bluff.

“You wanna feel it,” he echoed, voice low and edged with something dangerous.

You swallowed. “Y-yeah.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stood there, watching you, his gaze dragging over your face, your parted lips, the way your fingers fidgeted at your sides.

Then, without a word, he reached past you.

You sucked in a breath as his arm brushed against yours, his warmth seeping through your sleeve. He grabbed a textbook from the desk, flipping it open absently, pretending like this was just any other lesson.

But it wasn’t.

You both knew it.

“Alright,” he said, voice rough as he turned a page. “You remember Newton’s Second Law?”

You nodded quickly. “Force equals mass times acceleration.”

He hummed, his gaze flicking to yours, unreadable. “Right.”

Then, before you could react, he shifted closer—so close that your back bumped into the edge of a nearby desk. You barely had time to process the way heat radiated off of him before his hand was wrapping gently around your wrist.

Your breath caught.

“This,” he murmured, guiding your hand toward the heavy textbook, “is mass.”

You shivered, the warmth of his palm pressing firmly against yours. His grip was steady, his fingers rough with experience, but he didn’t move any closer. Didn’t push.

He was waiting.

Waiting for you to stop him.

But you didn’t.

Your heart pounded as he placed the book in your hand, his other palm coming up to hover just over your shoulder. Close. Too close.

“Now,” he continued, voice softer, “apply force.”

You hesitated, your grip tightening around the textbook.

He raised an eyebrow, then—so slightly you barely registered it—his fingers brushed against your wrist, guiding you to move.

You inhaled sharply as you lifted the book, feeling the weight shift under your control. Your arm trembled slightly—not because of the strain, but because of him. Because of his hand on you, the way his touch sent shivers up your spine.

“See?” he murmured. “The greater the force, the greater the acceleration.”

You barely heard him. Your brain wasn’t computing physics anymore. The only thing you could process was the warmth of his skin, the way he hadn’t pulled away yet.

How dangerously easy it would be to turn just a fraction, to press yourself fully against him, to close the space entirely.

Joel exhaled slowly. His grip lingered for just a second too long before he finally let go, stepping back like nothing had happened.

But the tension?

It was still there.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “That answer your question?”

You blinked up at him, breathless.

You should say yes. Should thank him and leave before you did something reckless.

But instead—

“Not quite.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, like he knew exactly what you were doing.

And he was going to let you.

Your move.

Joel stared at you.

Not just looked, but really stared—like he was fighting every single instinct screaming at him to stop, to walk away, to keep whatever this was buried deep down where it belonged.

But you weren’t letting him.

You saw it in the way his jaw flexed, in the way his fingers twitched at his sides like he wanted to grab something—wanted to grab you.

And still, he hesitated.

“Go home.” His voice was low, strained, barely controlled.

You shook your head. “No.”

His nostrils flared. “I ain’t doin’ this.”

You stepped closer, closing what little distance remained between you, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please… just show me.”

It shattered whatever restraint he had left.

Joel moved faster than you could process, grabbing you, his rough hands wrapping around your waist as he spun you around, your back hitting the desk behind you with a sharp gasp.

Before you could blink, his large hand was at your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his.

"You wanna be shown?" he muttered, voice dripping with something dark, something possessive.

You nodded, breathless, aching.

He let out a sharp exhale, his forehead almost pressing against yours. "Goddamn it."

Then he kissed you.

No, kissed wasn’t the right word—he took you.

It was rough, unrelenting, his lips hot and desperate against yours, his fingers digging into your waist as if you might disappear if he didn’t hold you still.

You moaned into his mouth, your hands flying up to grip at his shirt, fisting the fabric to keep yourself steady as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours in a way that made your knees buckle.

Joel felt it, because in the next second, he was grabbing the back of your thigh and lifting you onto the desk like you weighed nothing.

Your legs instinctively parted, and he wasted no time stepping between them, his hips pressing into yours, trapping you in place.

“This what you wanted, huh?” he growled, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, his beard scraping against your skin in a way that made you shiver. “Wanted to push me until I cracked?”

You could barely think, let alone form words.

“Yes,” you breathed, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

He groaned, gripping your hips tighter. “Shouldn’t be doin’ this,” he muttered against your skin, his lips finding the spot just below your ear, biting down just enough to make you whimper. “Should send you home.”

You shuddered, arching into him. “Then do it.”

He growled, his fingers tightening around your thighs, spreading them wider.

“No,” he muttered, voice raw. “Not after the way you looked at me in that classroom. Not after what you were doin’ under that damn desk.”

His hand slid higher, pushing up your skirt, fingers ghosting over the sensitive heat between your legs. You gasped, your whole body tensing as he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath hot, heavy.

“You wanted me to notice, didn’t you?”

You nodded frantically, your breath hitching.

“Say it.”

You swallowed hard. “I… I wanted you to notice.”

His fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, barely touching where you needed him most. “And now that I have?”

You were trembling, aching. “Please.”

Joel let out a deep, guttural sound, his self-control snapping like a rubber band stretched too tight for too long.

"Fine," he murmured darkly, his lips brushing against yours.

"Let me show you."

Joel’s hands were everywhere—hot, rough, steady—grounding you against the desk as if he were calculating every movement, every reaction.

"Force equals mass times acceleration," he muttered, voice thick, his lips brushing against your ear as he pressed his body against yours.

You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. "Joel—"

"Shh," he murmured, his large hands gripping your waist, positioning you, as if this was nothing more than another physics demonstration. "You wanted to feel the equation, right?"

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

"Th-this isn't what I meant," you managed to stammer, though you both knew that was a lie.

Joel chuckled, a deep, knowing sound, his fingers trailing down your thighs. "Nah, sweetheart, I think it is."

He nudged your legs apart, his grip tightening, anchoring you in place.

"Acceleration," he murmured, pressing a little closer, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. "It’s the rate of change of velocity over time."

You swallowed hard. "O-okay…"

His fingers trailed along your jaw, tilting your face up to his. "So if I apply a constant force…" His hips shifted just slightly, making your breath catch. Joel positioned himself at your entrance "The acceleration increases. You feel that?"

You bit your lip, your entire body thrumming under his control.

"Yes," you whispered.

Joel hummed in approval, his breath warm against your cheek. "Good. Now, mass…" His hand traveled back down, gripping your thigh. "More mass means more resistance, right? Takes more force to move it."

He lifted you slightly, effortlessly adjusting you against the desk.

"And since you're the mass in this equation, I’ve gotta work a little harder, don’t I?"

Your breath stuttered.

You knew he wasn’t talking about physics anymore.

"Joel…"

He smirked, his fingers trailing back up, gripping your hips. "You wanted me to show you, darlin’. I’m just makin’ sure you learn somethin’ from it."

His voice dipped lower, raspier. "So tell me—what happens when you apply a force in one direction?"

Your head was spinning, body buzzing with anticipation. "It—" You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. "It accelerates in that direction."

"That’s right." His hands tightened. "And what happens when there’s no opposing force to slow it down?"

You were breathless now, clinging to him as the tension stretched impossibly thin between you both.

"It… keeps going."

Joel’s lips brushed against your temple, a quiet hum of satisfaction rolling through his chest.

"Exactly."

And then—

He moved. Fitting his whole length inside you.

His hands, his force, his body—everything was calculated, precise, deliberate.

Physics had never felt like this before.

You gasped, gripping onto him, feeling every single application of the lesson in real time.

Joel groaned, his voice tight with restraint. "Now you’re gettin’ it."

You didn’t know if you were learning physics.

But you were definitely learning him.

Joel didn’t let up.

His grip on you was firm, steady, as if he was ensuring you wouldn’t slip through his fingers—not that you wanted to. Every breath you took felt heavier, filled with something charged, something that made the air between you almost unbearable.

“You remember Newton’s Third Law?” His voice was rough, edged with something dangerous, something that made your stomach tighten.

Your mind was spinning, barely able to process words as his hands grounded you against the desk.

“I—” You swallowed, your fingers gripping at his shirt.

Joel chuckled, dark and low, his lips just brushing against your ear. “Every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” he murmured. “That means—”

Before you could even prepare, he moved, hips snapping faster, harder, pressing closer, his presence overwhelming.

You gasped, your body instinctively responding, pushing against him without even realizing it.

Joel smirked. “See? That’s reactionary force, darlin’.”

Your breath hitched. “J-Joel—”

“That’s how it works,” he continued, ignoring your attempt to ground yourself. “I push, you push back.” His hands tightened. “I apply force, you absorb it.”

Your stomach flipped. He was making you feel every word, every lesson, in ways that had absolutely nothing to do with physics anymore.

Joel leaned in closer, his breath hot against your neck. “Now, let’s talk about friction.”

Oh, God.

You knew where this was going.

You weren’t even sure you could speak at this point, but Joel didn’t need your answer—he was already moving again, showing you exactly what he meant.

“Friction is resistance,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction as he demonstrated. “You feel that? The way two surfaces move against each other?”

You definitely felt it.

Your fingers dug into his arms, nails scraping against fabric as you struggled to keep up, to breathe.

“Too little friction,” he went on, his grip adjusting, “and there’s no control. But just the right amount?” His lips hovered over yours, teasing. “It keeps everything right where it needs to be.”

You whimpered, your body betraying you, arching into him before you could stop yourself.

Joel’s smirk deepened.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmured.

Your head spun. Your heart pounded.

You weren’t sure if this was physics anymore or something else entirely, something much more dangerous.

And the worst part?

You didn’t care.

The air between you crackled, thick with unspoken words and undeniable tension, something electric that neither of you could ignore any longer. It surged between you, a live wire waiting for a spark, and Joel was the one holding the match.

He was everywhere—his hands gripping your waist, firm and possessive, fingertips pressing just enough to leave an imprint. His broad frame loomed over you, his presence suffocating in the best possible way. His scent, all musk and faint traces of leather and gun oil, curled around you like a second skin. There was no escaping him, no resisting the gravity that pulled you deeper into his orbit.

“You starting to get it now?” His voice was low, rough, each syllable a deliberate scrape against your fraying composure. The heat of his breath skimmed over your lips, teasing but never quite touching.

You nodded—frantically, desperately.

But that wasn’t enough for him.

“Use your words, sweetheart.” His grip tightened, his fingers digging in just enough to make your breath stutter. The force of him, the sheer dominance in his stance, made your pulse hammer. “Tell me what you learned.”

You swallowed hard, barely able to think beyond the way he felt, the way his body pressed into yours, caging you in like a predator who had finally cornered his prey.

“I—I learned that…” Your voice was shaky, uneven, your thoughts tangled in the suffocating heat of him. But he waited, unwavering, his dark eyes watching, demanding.

Joel wasn’t going to let you off that easy.

“…that every action has an equal and opposite reaction,” you finally whispered, your lips barely brushing his with each syllable.

His smirk was dangerous, a slow, knowing thing that sent shivers down your spine. His grip on your waist flexed, the strength in his hands enough to remind you just how easily he could control this moment, could control you.

“Good girl.”

The praise hit like a physical force, a shudder rolling through your body as heat pooled low in your stomach. Your fingers curled into his shirt, clinging to the fabric as if it was the only thing tethering you to reality. You needed something to hold onto, something solid, because Joel Miller was unraveling you by the second.

He noticed.

Of course, he did.

And he loved it.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a fresh wave of heat down your spine. “Now, what happens when an object in motion stays in motion…” His hands adjusted, sliding lower, pulling you against him until there was no space left between your bodies. “…until acted upon by an external force?”

Your breath hitched, heart hammering against your ribs. He was the external force, the unstoppable force, the immovable object all in one. And you? You were caught in his gravitational pull, helpless to do anything but surrender.

“Joel—”

“That force…” His voice was a growl now, deeper, darker, filled with something that made your entire body thrum with anticipation. His fingers skimmed along your lower back, tracing slow, deliberate patterns before gripping you tighter. “That’s me.”

Your entire world tilted.

Joel moved deliberately, with calculated precision, pressing you firmly against the nearest surface—something solid, something unyielding, just like him. His hands roamed, mapping out every inch of you as if he had all the time in the world. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty, only an unrelenting purpose that made your skin burn with every touch.

His lips ghosted over your jaw, dragging down, teasing, testing. You felt the scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath, the lingering restraint that wouldn’t last much longer.

“You still with me, sweetheart?”

Your nails dug into his shirt, your head tilting to give him more, offering yourself up without a second thought. “Yes,” you breathed, voice barely more than a whimper.

Joel chuckled, low and satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”

And then he showed you exactly what happened when an object in motion met an unstoppable force.

The pace was relentless, the heat unbearable. His movements were precise, purposeful, dragging you to the very edge before pulling you right back in. Every sound, every sensation built up, coiling tight in your core until there was nowhere left to go but over.

His breath was ragged, his grip unyielding, his body against yours nothing short of devastating. You felt the tension snap all at once, a wave of heat crashing through you as his own release followed, a deep, shuddering groan breaking past his lips. The feeling of him—hot, pulsing, buried deep—was the final push you needed, sending you spiraling into oblivion.

Neither of you moved for a long moment, the air between you thick and heavy with everything that had just passed. His hands stayed firm on your body, his presence still anchoring you in place, as if he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

And neither were you.

Because there was no resistance left.

Not from you.

Not from him.

And you both knew it.

The air in the room was thick, heavy with the remnants of everything that had just happened.

Your breaths were still uneven as you slowly came back to yourself, your body still buzzing from the way Joel had taken you apart, piece by piece, like you were nothing more than a lesson he needed to teach—one he made damn sure you wouldn’t forget.

You swallowed hard, willing your legs to stop trembling as you steadied yourself on the desk.

Joel hadn’t moved much.

He was still standing there, broad frame looming, his gaze locked onto you with something dark and unreadable. His breathing was slower now, controlled, but the tension between you hadn’t dissipated.

Not one bit.

You knew this wasn’t over.

Not really.

There was something in the way he was watching you—something unfinished, something that told you this was only the beginning of whatever the hell this had become.

You exhaled shakily, running your hands over your rumpled skirt, attempting to fix yourself before finally forcing yourself to move.

Joel’s eyes followed you.

You made it to the door, your fingers just barely wrapping around the handle when his voice rumbled behind you—low, rough, dangerous.

"Let’s go over another lesson again sometime."

Your breath caught in your throat.

You turned just enough to meet his gaze, your pulse spiking all over again when you saw the way he was looking at you—like he wasn’t done with you.

Like this was far from over.

Your fingers tightened on the handle.

You knew you should leave. Walk away. Pretend like you hadn’t just let your professor turn a physics lesson into something else entirely.

But instead—

Instead, you smirked.

A slow, knowing, daring smirk.

And then you opened the door and walked out.

But as you disappeared down the hallway, your mind raced, your body still thrumming with the aftermath of his hands, his words, his control.

And one thought lingered in your mind:

You were definitely coming back for another lesson

[cherrycheolkat]

seungcheol + forced masturbation!!

hiiii anon, so this is a continuation of the previous fic i wrote for the prof. seungcheol prompt (in case you missed it) - so let's call this part ii

♡ kat

bingo square: f0rced masturbation (prof. choi, pt. ii)

pairing: choi seungcheol x f!reader

summary: prof. choi has a new kind of session with his favorite student 

genre: college au, professor!cheol, collegestudent!reader

word count: 0.8k

rating: 18+, mdni

warnings: explicit language, smut, fingering, masturbation, dom/sub undertones, penetrative sex

it was late when he called you - something he almost never did. you could hear papers shuffling in the background when he asked you to come to his office. his voice was calm like always. 

before he hung up, he had paused for a beat, “wear the skirt i like.”

he was sitting on the edge of his desk, waiting for you. he gestured for you to sit on the couch that faced his desk. it was leather and not especially comfortable, not that you ever complained to him. 

you were both quiet. the longer he watched you in silence, the more you squirmed internally. 

finally, he sighed, “you want a good grade don’t you, y/n?” his voice was almost sweet. 

you nodded. of course you did, even if you were doing horribly. 

“then touch yourself,” he whispered. 

you watched him, knowing he meant what he said, but you wanted to know what the game was. you were here late at night, and he only wanted to watch - it wasn’t…he liked to be in control, you wondered what he was thinking. 

when you didn’t move quickly enough, he walked over, shoving you back onto the sofa, “did i ask for something difficult, y/n?” his voice was tight, as he pinned your shoulders to the sofa. 

his gaze was intense, and when you still didn’t answer or move, he let go of your shoulders, grabbing your thighs instead and forcing them wide. 

“i’m asking for something so simple, and here you are quibbling over what exactly?” he asked, as he ripped your underwear to the side, his fingers slamming into you. “all the things i’ve done to you, and you can’t just do what i’m asking?”

you whined at the contact, your hands squeezing his shoulders, “fuck,” you gasped. 

he pulled his fingers free though, smacking your pussy roughly, making you yelp. 

he sighed, glancing at you, “you’re wet for me, when i haven’t even touched you,” he leaned close, his lips a breath from yours. 

“now, play with yourself, or maybe i fail you, or maybe i go to the dean to report your little extracurricular activities, hmm?” he rasped - there was no bite in his voice. 

still, you swallowed roughly, nodding, “okay,” you finally whispered. 

he moved to let you free your hand and to sit back to watch. he still held your thighs apart, waiting. 

he watched you as you stuck your first and second finger between your lips, wetting them before reaching down to feel your pussy. he was right that you were wet, but he had asked for you to do it the way you did it when you were alone, so you didn’t skip any steps. 

you traced your fingers around your clit - you liked to tease yourself the way you imagined he would. when you dipped your fingers into yourself, you moaned softly, whispering his name, imagining your fingers were his. 

you pushed them deeper, wanting to fill yourself as much as possible. 

you heard the heavy way he exhaled, “even alone you want me to be stretching you, don’t you?”

you nodded, “always,” you murmured, “always wanting you,” you whispered as you pushed your fingers as deep as you could and scissored them apart, whining gently. you were sore from the day before, from what he had done. 

you weren’t watching him as closely - you were lost in what you were doing. thinking about him, his dick, and everything he did to you with it. you finally popped your fingers free from your pussy, stroking your clit, and reaching under your shirt with your free hand, squeezing your breast and teasing your nipple. all the time, you could feel his grip tightening on your thighs, squeezing you - you hoped he would leave bruises. 

you waited for him to say something, to give some kind of direction, but he didn’t. he only watched as you finally came apart on your own fingers, shivering, cum dripping, while you moaned his name.

you were almost shocked to feel his lips make contact with yours. the way he licked into you - you groaned, wanting him. 

it was the way it became sloppy that was new, sloppy and unplanned. when his cock slid into you so easily, filling you exactly how you wanted - it felt like you were even further from what normally went on in his office when you were alone with him. he was fucking into you, genuinely fucking you. there was no patience, no rules, just two bodies connecting as though they desperately wanted to become one. 

and when he kissed you after it was over, all soft and lingering, and he didn’t rush you away with some new thing to ponder, you wondered what was happening. what was happening with you and seungcheol. 

a/n: uwu cheol being low key soft - i cannot help that i am a soft, fluffy monster lurking in the dark okay

♡ kat

if you want to submit a bingo ask the newest bingo is [here] but there are still open squares from the previous two [here] and nsfw only bingo is [here]

tag list: @syluslittlecrow ☁︎ @gyuguys ☁︎ @haik-chu ☁︎ @tinyelfperson ☁︎ @lovetaroandtaemin ☁︎ @unlikelysublimekryptonite ☁︎ @gigglensnort ☁︎

♡ if you want to be tagged in my posts, go [here] & this is my [master list] if you want to read more

bingo master list [MDNI]: oral sex (gyucheol) | lingerie + praise kink (gyu) | knotting + marking (cheol) | bed sharing + big dick (gyu)| praise + worship kink (gyu) | prof. choi (cheol) | monster seungcheol (cheol) | seungcheol + spanking (cheol) | vehicle sex + oral fixation (gyu) | drunk pda + no underwear (gyu) | big dick!checol + hate sex (cheol) |

[logoleptic-since-06]

Every Corner of This House is Haunted

Pairing: Kento Nanami x Fem!Reader Content: Fem!Reader, Angst, Profanity, Reader and Nanami are in their 30s, Not Proofread

Chapter VIII -> Masterlist if this Series

As you stare at your almost ex husband in front of you, a flashback plays in a film reel at the back of your mind. Meeting him for the first time, your first date, your wedding, moving in with him, him getting promotions after promotions, a distance forming between you, leaving him, signing the divorce papers, kissing Suguru–

You jerk awake from your thoughts, guilt creeping into your chest as your breathing becomes more laboured. It worsens when Kento looks up and for the first time in over a month, your eyes meet. The film reel pauses as if it were truly a movie, and so does everything and everyone around you two. An unknown force moves you closer to the booth he is sitting at.

“Hello, Y/N,” he says simply, his voice collected as always.

For some reason, you tell him, “I kissed Suguru.”

A single tick of his jaw, a single twitch in his eye– his reaction is subtle, almost unnoticeable, but holds more power than the ocean during a storm.

“I didn’t know he was in town,” the calm in his tone is almost dangerous.

Almost.

“He was for a few days.”

“I see.”

There is an electrifying silence until he breaks it. “Did you want it to happen?”

“I didn’t want to do it, it was in the heat of the moment. And that’s not a justification, I know. I don’t want to justify myself, I just want you to know I regret it.” You learn more about yourself as the words leave your mouth. Seeing Kento unexpectedly seems to have opened a gateway in your brain– the gateway that leads you to finally process what you did with Suguru.

He doesn’t get mad. He never gets mad, he never yells. That’s not Kento. Instead, he asks, “Then why did you do it?”

“I was afraid,” you tell him truthfully. “I was afraid that I didn’t know a life without you, afraid that I would need you for the rest of my life. So I kissed him, partially to prove to myself that I didn’t need you, and partially because I was selfish and wanted validation.”

His silence makes your heart clench, so you go on, finally admitting the truth to both yourself and him. “But when I did, I felt nothing. Not validated, not less scared. But one thing I became sure of was that I didn’t need you. I never did. I want you, and I want you to want me. In a way you never did until I walked away.”

“I neglected you,” he says finally. “I neglected you and told myself it was for your own good. That if I had a little more money, a little more luxury, we would lead a happier life. I was so caught up with greed that I’d forgotten to treasure the greatest form of happiness I was blessed with. You.”

This is when your tears come running down your eyes. This conversation has been long due, and it kills you to think it took a disaster for this conversation to happen. He goes on, “I know things will never be the same, and I know we are both flawed people.”

You know what he’s about to say next, so you say it instead. “But I want to make things work.”

He nods once.

The tension in the air doesn’t snap, but it softens. Your heartbeat becomes steadier. “We take it slow?”

His voice is smooth as ever. “We do it together.”

A/N: If you saw me post this a few hours ago, no you didn't. (I forgot to tag)

Tags: @itsafairytalekay  @qualitygiantshoepsychic  @uzuimirika  @coffeeandcrimeshows  @lov3vivian  @lady-of-blossoms  @lavenderdaydream97  @gigiiiiislife  @yeehawbrothers  @heartsforkento  @loveliest-ghostwriter  @darkstudentsaladbakery    @for-hearthand-home  @creative1writings  @corvid007  @realesttruther  @jades-bullshit  @patpatspatz  @yunho-leeknow  @layuhsblog  @luringfantasy  @justbelljust  @nanamiswife22 @belle-oftheball34  @gradmacoco

[xerrorch]

Walls of Ice

synopsis: zayne and you have eased into a simple routine under the vague title of a relationship. however, the comfortable ease of your friendship and zayne’s metaphorical prevent you two from crossing a very important boundary…

warnings: just some angst, making out, and suggestive language. no beta read, we die like men

pairings: zayne x mc (you)

word count: 2.8k~

author’s note: this is a fic i made for my friend and i decided to post it here for the first time. and yes this is based off of his nightly rendezvous card. also, requests are always open if you want something specific so enjoy!

The hospital was quiet tonight, which meant another calm day for Dr. Zayne.

You sighed with relief as you entered onto the Protocore Incidents floor, where his office was. Only the occasional beeping from machines in patients’ rooms and the quiet chatter of nurses filled the air, and your heart ironically felt a little lighter.

He was working extra hard lately, and you were grateful it wasn’t a hard night for him. You wanted to surprise him by coming by the hospital instead of waiting for him back at his house like usual; your shift at the Hunter’s Association ended early anyway.

You approached his office door and knocked on it gently. It was a few seconds before you heard his deep timbre echoing through the wooden door.

“Enter,” he said. So formal.

You sighed and shook your head with a smile as you moved to open the door.

“Dr. Zayne?” You called to him gently as you poked your head in. “I’m here for my appointment.”

He recognized your voice immediately, his head snapping up from his mountain of paperwork and meeting your eyes. There was a flicker of surprise on his face before it was quickly schooled, which made you chuckle.

Always so put together, and now you were here to help him relax.

“Hi,” you said softly, slinking into the room and shutting his office door quietly behind you. Zayne took off his glasses for a moment and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, his eyes overworked and tired.

“Am I late?” Zayne asked with a sigh before placing his glasses back over his nose. “I’m sorry if I am; this paperwork needs to get done.”

You hummed and slowly approached his desk, hands behind your back as you leaned forward and inspected the text of one of the papers piled on his desk. You don’t understand a single word, with everything being written in medical terms and in the obvious scratchy handwriting of a doctor.

“And when are these reports due, Doctor?” You asked him knowingly, glancing up at him and tilting your head at him.

He frowned as you saw right through him, clicking his pen twice before breaking your gaze to continue writing. “Next week.”

You sighed and rounded his desk, fingers trailing along the wood as you walked.

“Zayne, you need a break,” you said a little pleadingly, reaching a hand out to rest on his shoulder. You shook it gently and gave it a small squeeze of reassurance. “I admit that this wing wouldn’t be here without your hard work, but it also won’t fall apart if you clock out on time tonight.”

Zayne’s eyes fluttered shut momentarily before opening again, a deep breath filling his lungs. He continued writing.

“You know as well as I do how much my case load has increased,” he said quietly, not taking his eyes from the paper. You paused at his words, heart thudding against your chest.

More incidents involving protocore explosions and manipulated protocores had seen a spike recently. You were almost as busy as Zayne some days, with fluctuation after fluctuation calling you out to the field. It was exhausting for everyone on this end involving protocores, but with Zayne by your side, you had managed to find time to take care of yourself in all this chaos.

As a result, though, Zayne retreated more and more into this little office on the Protocore Incidents floor of the hospital, working late into the night and always remaining on call. It made your heart ache for him.

“I know,” you said quietly, reluctantly. “But you're the type to not take your own advice.”

He was constantly reminding you to take care of yourself, to leave work as the second most important thing to worry about. However, he never took his own advice or placed his work on the backburner.

Zayne shook his head and stood up from his desk, taking a stack of papers over to a file cabinet in the corner of his office. He opened a drawer and picked out a folder, neatly placing the papers inside it.

“MC, you know that I sometimes cannot leave on time,” he said, keeping his head down as he rifled through his file cabinet.

You frowned at that. There he went again putting other things before himself.

You had known this man since you were a child, saw him grow into a handsome, successful, smart doctor. He had always kept a distance between his friends and his personal life and issues.

However, now that you two were in— well, you supposed you could call it a relationship— Zayne still maintained that stubborn wall from childhood. It bothered you sometimes, especially when he was set on working late like this.

“Zayne, cmon, I know you,” you said softly, even though a part of you just wanted to shake him to get it through his head. You approached him as he stood at the file cabinet. “I know that you’re already a week ahead on all your reports.”

Zayne frowned again, his brow furrowed. It was a telltale sign that you were right.

He doesn’t say anything so you take the lead again, placing a hand on his forearm and moving closer to him.

“Let’s go home,” you said gently. “You need the rest.”

You didn’t expect him to relent that easily, but that’s exactly what happened. He released a little huff of air before placing the folder back into the cabinet and shutting it. You smiled, but the tension in his shoulders told a different story as to his behavior.

“Let’s go, then,” he said quietly, moving behind his desk to pluck his jacket off of the back of his chair. He shrugged it on as you placed your mittens back on your hands, getting ready to go.

The way back was quiet as Zayne waved goodnight to his coworkers and led you down to the lobby. He was as always the gentleman, a gentle hand placed on the small of your back, but there was something beneath that cold expression; you knew it.

And the security guard at the front desk only made the tense atmosphere worse by calling after you two: “I’m surprised to see you out so early tonight, Dr. Zayne. Have a good night!”

His body instantly tensed as he pulled out the keys to his car. You kept your eyes down on the ground and bit back your tongue.

The car ride home was equally silent, and you shifted in your seat as Zayne drove down the highway, as always the cautious driver. You decided to break the tension a little bit.

“Are you hungry?” You asked him carefully, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. His stern expression softened just a touch, and your chest felt a little lighter.

“I ate earlier. No need to worry.”

You didn’t linger on the stiffness in his voice; you didn’t want to. Part of you wanted to ignore the presence of his walls altogether, but it was hard when he caged himself so tightly behind them in everything he did.

Thank god he lived close to the hospital.

You exited the car without glancing back to see if he was following, punching in the code to his house that he made you memorize in case he wasn’t home. A little kernel of annoyance now resided in your chest, because how could he still be putting up these walls around you?

Forget about those years-long feelings you hadn’t properly worked through together. You were still one of his oldest friends.

You opened the front door and dropped your bag at the little white table in the entryway. You could hear his footsteps behind you, and you could already feel the argument building in you before he even spoke.

“Are you angry with me?” He asked gently, the door clicking shut behind him and shrouding the entryway in shadows. Zayne flicked on the lamp sitting on the little white table, casting a warm glow over the room.

He was close to you, his chest nearly pressing against your back. It was too close for how annoyed you were with him.

“I’m not angry,” you punched out, and Zayne sighed as you stepped away from him. You turned to face him. “I’m just worried.”

Clearly he hadn’t expected for you to say that. His expression softened as he glanced away from you, gathering his thoughts together.

“MC, come here…,” he murmured, holding out a hand to you.

You weren’t ready to ‘come here’ just yet.

“No. No!” You were growing frustrated now. He couldn’t just hug you and make this go away. “You’re not the only one who is allowed to worry, Zayne!”

The silence that fell over the two of you made you realize just how loudly you were speaking to him. You believed you hadn’t raised your voice at him since you were kids, but right now it felt necessary. Maybe then he would be able to hear you.

Zayne ran a hand over his face, his glasses jostling slightly on his nose.

“I’m used to this,” was all he said. Before you could urge him on, he continued. “I’m used to the stress, and the chaos, and everything in between.”

You held your breath as he spoke like that, your nails digging into your palms. Your mind went quiet, his gentle voice sliding over your skin like a heated touch.

“Your grandmother told me to look after you, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.” At the mention of your grandmother, you flinched slightly. Your gaze traveled to the floor beneath your feet as you swallowed.

He didn’t say anything else, and silence stretched.

“I’m not the only priority here,” you murmured. Another sigh escaped Zayne from across the room.

“Yes, you are. You always have been.” A footstep, then another. You don’t move, shaking your head.

“Zayne, no,” you said firmly. The footsteps paused. “I dedicated my life to helping others–”

“So did I.”

“–so why can’t I help you?”

A sigh. “You’ve always been persistent, even as a child,” he murmured, taking another step closer to you.

“I know I’m not a doctor, but I want to help you,” you said, your head snapping up to meet his eyes. He had a guilty look on his face, and you wondered why. Why does he think like this?

“MC…,” he whispered, taking another step until you were toe to toe with him. His hands twitched, as if he was holding back from cradling your face. “The last thing I would want to do is burden you.”

Burden. It was such a strong word. The knife in your heart twisted at that, and your expression softened, your lips parting.

You suddenly wanted to protect this man from anything and everything; there was a fragile heart underneath this icy exterior. He surely couldn’t protect you all the time– he was only a man. He could damn well try, but even Zayne could tire himself out eventually.

But this man could never be a burden. Never.

Your hands come up instead to hold his face between your hands. You rose onto the tips of your toes, slowly but surely.

“Whoever told you that caring for you is a burden needs to pay,” you whispered before tentatively pressing your lips against his.

It was soft, but full of meaning and emotion. You didn’t understand why, but you wanted to let Zayne know that you were here. You were alive and kissing him.

And by God, you wanted him to know that you cared about him. Wholly and truly, even after years of friendship.

When you pulled back, Zayne’s breathing became heavy, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t decipher. He stood rigidly, and your fingers twitched as they cradled his jaw. Did you do something wrong? Did he not like it?

It happened fast, before you could even get out a word of an apology.

He dove straight back in, hands flying to your jaw as he kissed you deeply. It wasn’t as soft as the first time, his tongue sliding against your lips and silently begging for you to open up for him. You complied with a hum and tilted your head back; Zayne’s chest gave a low rumble as he tasted you.

It hit you that this is the first time you had kissed him. You didn’t even think about it when you did it– it just felt right. Regardless, after years of friendship, that line had finally been crossed in a physical sense.

His glasses slipped from the bridge of his nose and bumped against your face. You didn’t mind the interruption as he pulled away from you, panting heavily as he inspected your face.

Your hand lifted and gently touched his lens, ready to take it off yourself. He brushed your hand away and shook his head, huffing as he ripped it off himself before returning to your lips.

It was quick, impulsive. And you knew that whatever walls Zayne had in place came crumbling down at your feet. Down fell the pinnacle of perfection and control that Zayne embodied, and in its place was this.

It was like he was a different person, slowly backing you against the wall while kissing you in the middle of the foyer. Before he could trap you there, you stumbled a bit over your feet, momentarily breaking away from the kiss to glance down. Zayne grumbled and dipped his head to try and find your lips again. His hands then fell from your neck to your hips, then to the backs of your thighs.

You yelped as he hoisted you upwards, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist and your arms around his neck. Your eyes widened as you looked down at him, at the intensity in his eyes; it was ironically like a blazing fire.

“Zayne…” You didn’t even know what to say other than his name, and his eyes darkened at the sound of his own name.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to maintain control around you?” He asked gruffly, and your heart thudded loudly against your ribs. You shook your head down at him, your teeth finding your lower lip and biting down.

His gaze dipped to your lips again, his chest expanding and his brows rising in interest.

What was this? This was not Zayne anymore.

With a grunt he started walking with you still wrapped around him, tightening his grip on you. You already knew that he was heading for the stairs, and there went another wall that came crashing down.

You never stayed over. Never. You guessed things had changed now.

“How could I have believed that?” He asked, and you were not sure what he was talking about at all. You settled into his hold, your head in the crook of his neck, and Zayne’s hold tightened immensely, as if he were afraid you would run from him. “How could I resist the most tempting person I’ve ever met?”

You shivered at his words, your eyes fluttering shut. It seemed like his words stretched across years, generations, eons. It came from his very soul.

As he climbed the stairs, your head lifted slightly, your lips attaching to his earlobe. You sucked the skin into your mouth before nibbling gently on the flesh.

“I think we found something you’re terrible at,” you murmured. It was to tease him, just like when you were kids, but Zayne took that little jab as something to chuckle at.

He adjusted his hold on you, your core shifting against the rigid plane of muscles running down his abdomen. Zayne groaned at the movement, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs, and you were so sure he would leave marks there.

“I’ve been resisting this since we were thirteen years old,” he admitted bluntly as he reached the top of the stairs. You faintly heard the thud of a door opening as you continued to nibble on his ear lovingly. “I think I’ve been doing a pretty good job so far.”

When the soft plush of the bed hit your back, you flinched, and your vision of the ceiling was immediately invaded by Zayne’s black hair and the deep green of his eyes. You cracked a smile as he just took you in, his gaze flickering around your face as if to check you were really beneath him.

“Guess you lost your streak,” you whispered, and amusement sparkled behind his eyes as you draped your arms around his neck. Those icy walls that once surrounded his heart melted into mere puddles.

His once cold hands were now warm as they glided across your skin, and a rare smile tugged at Zayne’s lips as he watched you shiver. Your nostrils flared at your intake of breath, your chest expanding against his palm; he glanced down at your body like a doctor, methodically, but now with a barely concealed hunger.

“I’ve hardly lost.”

It was Zayne’s turn to feed into his urges, and you didn’t mind it one bit as the night slowly bled away into day between sweat-slicked skin and whispered confessions.

[krirebr]

More Than This 9

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x f!reader

Word Count: ~3k

Summary: Arranged marriages have always been used to solidify business deals among the ultra-wealthy. Your stepfather wants to be in business with Harlan Thrombey, so now it's your turn.

Warnings: Angst, age difference, adult themes, institutional sexism, explicit language, references to childhood trauma, pregnancy, my own rampant abuse of italics and en dashes, the slooowest burn, - Warnings will be added as needed for subsequent parts. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: We've made it to brighter days, you guys!!! I won't lie to you and say there's no angst at all in this chapter, but we've definitely finally entered the next era of this story. Yay!

Big thanks as always to @paperweight91 who fact-checked this for me, and in general is just always available to talk things through.

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too! As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

You were anxiously pacing around the lower floor when Ransom got home. He stopped in the entryway, watching you carefully. When you stopped moving around, making eye contact with him, he asked, “You ready to go?”

Instead of answering his question, you just said, “You don’t need to come with me. I– I can do this by myself.”

He scoffed. “Like I wouldn’t take advantage of a reason to leave work early.” He held a hand out to you. “Come on,” he said seriously. “Let’s go.”

You nodded silently and grabbed your handbag, letting him lead you out to the car.

“It’s going to be ok,” he murmured as he opened the car door for you. You couldn’t tell if he believed that or not, but you nodded anyway.

You were both silent for the whole drive, news radio murmuring quietly in the background. When he parked in front of the small, upscale clinic, you made no move to get out of the car. You just stared out the window at the building as it loomed in front of you. You took a deep breath, then another, the panic starting to claw its way up your throat. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready. “I’m sorry!” you blurted out.

Ransom’s head whipped to you. “What?”

You shook your head. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t– It was supposed to take a long time. I never thought it’d happen so fast. That’s why I pushed, I was so scared. But– But then it took no time at all. It was supposed to take a long time.”

Ransom placed a gentle hand on your wrist. “I–” he started then sighed. “We both knew what the goal was, okay? This isn’t anyone’s fault.” He paused and pursed his lips. “And that’s not even–” he sighed again and briefly moved his thumb in soothing circles on your skin. “Listen, we don’t– Let’s just go in and find out where we stand, okay? I’ll– I’ll be with you the whole time.”

He gently squeezed your wrist once and you were surprised by the way his touch grounded you. You took another deep breath and you actually felt the air fill your lungs this time. He came around and opened your door for you, then guided you inside with a hand on your back.

 The sanitary paper crinkled under you as you tried to get comfortable on the examination table. You’d already gone through your medical history and how you’d been feeling the last few weeks. The obstetrician seemed nice enough. She was someone Ransom had discreetly gotten a recommendation for from an author he sometimes worked with. Neither of you had gone to your families for that. Steve was still the only one who knew. 

“Alright, this might be a little cold,” Dr. Patel said as she squeezed gel over your stomach. You flinched a little as it hit you, and you saw Ransom fidget in his seat right next to the table, up by your head.

She was silent as she moved the wand around, eyes fixed on her screen. Then she paused and smiled. “There it is,” she said. The soft static that had filled the room suddenly switched to a gentle wooshing. “And there’s the heartbeat.” 

The heartbeat. Your baby’s heartbeat. Alive inside of you. You jumped a little when you suddenly felt Ransom’s hand wrap around your own. You glanced over at him, But his attention was raptly focused on the screen in front of the doctor. He leaned forward a little. “Wait,” he said, his voice low. “Where is–” 

The doctor pointed to a little black splotch on the screen. “Right there,” she said, warmly. “They’re still an embryo now, but they’ll become a fetus in a week or two. Judging by your last period and these measurements, I’d say you're seven weeks along.”

At some point, she turned the ultrasound off. She cleaned off your belly. You heard her talking to you. You heard Ransom respond. But you couldn’t process any of it. All you could focus on, all you could still hear was the steady, hummingbird fast woosh, woosh, woosh of your baby’s heartbeat.

The car ride back was completely silent. Ransom had turned off the radio as soon as he’d turned the key in the ignition. You couldn’t blame him. Your thoughts were loud enough. There was a baby inside of you. It was really happening. It’d been abstract before. A few little symbols on a plastic strip that didn’t actually mean anything. But now they did. Now there was a baby. You’d heard it. You turned your head to Ransom beside you. Now you truly were connected to this man for the rest of your life. The idea, while still a little terrifying, wasn’t nearly as awful now as it would have been just a few weeks before. 

As he pulled up to a stop sign, he did more than pause. After a few moments of idling, you ventured a soft “Ransom?”

He turned to you from where he’d been staring unseeing through the windshield. His bright blue eyes pierced you. “We should go get dinner,” he said, out of absolutely nowhere.

“What?”

“Yeah,” he said, his fingers extending to flick on his turn signal. “Let’s go out to eat. I’m starving.” 

“I– Okay? Where–”

“I know a great place,” he said, nodding to himself as he turned the car around.

The restaurant he brought you to small, intimate. After turning over the car to the valet, he ushered you inside with a warm hand on your back. The hostess led you to a quiet booth in the corner and you and Ransom settled in on opposite sides of the table.

The waiter appeared just a few moments later to tell you about the specials. Then, they asked, “Have you had a chance to look at the drink menu?”

As Ransom reached for it, you uttered a quiet, “Water’s fine for me, thank you.”

Ransom paused and looked at you. “Oh. Right.” He turned back to the waiter. “For me as well,” he said, and the waiter quickly left you both alone.

“You can drink. I’ll be fine.”

Ransom shrugged. “Who wants to drink alone?”

You didn’t really know what to say to that, so you turned your attention to the menu, which you each perused quietly.

After the waiter returned and you both ordered, Ransom cleared his throat awkwardly. “So,” he said, “we’re really having a baby.”

You choked a little on your water. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“I–” he started, then let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. After a weighted pause, he asked, “How are you feeling about it?”

You looked at him carefully. The last week and a half, after your fight then your detente, and then Steve’s visit, had been so different from the months that had preceded them. You both had been so different. It was very possible that he was becoming a person you could trust. You took a breath and decided to be honest. “I’m really scared. Kind of terrified.”

He just stared at you for a moment, then mumbled “Yeah,” with another head shake. He looked off to the side. “God, I hated being a kid.”

“Yeah?” you asked, so, so quietly.

He looked back at you. “Yeah. I mean, you’ve met my parents. They didn’t– They had me because they needed to. To further the lineage or whatever. But they didn’t really have much interest beyond that. So I was just kind of… there.”

You hated how much you understood that. “When we moved into Joseph’s house, I never felt comfortable there. I was always just an intruder or a nuisance.”

He nodded, then asked, “How old were you?”

“Six. Steve was the best. From the very beginning, he made it livable. But I never felt at home anywhere until I moved out on my own.”

He looked down a little as he hummed in acknowledgment. Then, hesitantly, “What happened to your dad?”

“He died,” you said, plainly. “A heart attack. When I was five.”

He swiped his hand over his mouth. “Shit. That must have been hard. I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “I barely remember him. And what I do remember,” you shifted uncomfortably, “he was a very angry man I think. I was always a little scared of him. My mom was too, I know that. But when he died… I don’t remember any relief. Just a mad scramble to find someone else to take care of us, since she’d never given him an heir. So we ended up with Joseph. But… I don’t know. I don’t think I ever really stopped being scared.”

Ransom let out a long sigh. “Yeah,” he said, quietly. “I get that.” He leaned back in his chair. “Fuck. We’re setting quite the precedent, huh?”

Your hand drifted to cover your stomach. “I don’t want them to ever feel like that. Be that scared.”

Ransom’s adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed uncomfortably. “Me neither,” he said, very quietly.

You both just sat with that thought silently, until another thought jumped into your head. “Oh, god, what are we gonna do about Lola? She doesn’t share attention well.”

He surprised you by laughing. “I can imagine. We’ll figure it out,” he said with a smile. “Make sure she’s ready.”

You matched him with your own grin. “You like her,” you accused.

He rolled his eyes. “She’s alright, I guess.”

“Uh-huh. Sure, Mr. ‘I hate dogs.’”

“It’s possible that I had too small a sample size.” He rolled his eyes again. “Harlan has a couple german shepherds. They’re fucking assholes.”

You felt your eyes light up. “Are you afraid of big dogs, Ransom?” you teased.

“No!” he pointed at you. “No. I just don’t like it when they’re that size and they charge at me. Lola’s manageable. I don’t mind her.”

“Well,” you shrugged. “I’m just glad you never tried to make me get rid of her.”

His eyes softened and he almost looked regretful. “Hey,” he said, softly. “I never would have done that. I just,” he sighed, “say shit sometimes. I’m not used to anyone listening to me.”

He’d said that to you before, but it hadn’t occurred to you until that moment just how sad that was—that he’d always been comfortable saying whatever thought popped into his head because he knew that no matter what he said no one would ever take him seriously. You gave a helpless little shrug as you softly said, “I always listen to you.”

He fixed you with a look that  almost took your breath away. Like he actually saw you. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “I know you do.”

That was the moment your food came. The waiter set your plate in front of you, blackened sea bass with a saffron asparagus risotto. You weren’t sure which element exactly was the culprit, but the moment the smell hit your nose, your stomach roiled dangerously. You’d been lucky, so far, that you hadn’t had many issues with morning sickness, but you immediately knew that if you didn’t get that plate away from you, there’d be a major problem. “Shit,” you muttered quietly.

Ransom’s attention snapped to you. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” you tried. “It’s just, the smell. I can’t–” You pushed the plate away from you.

“You’re nauseous?” Ransom clarified.

You nodded, breathing through your mouth.

Without another word, he picked up your plate and switched it with his own. “Is that good enough?” he asked. “Or do you need it gone completely?”

You took a few tentative, experimental sniffs. As your stomach seemed to calm, you sighed in relief. “I think I’m ok. Thank you.” But then you looked down at Ransom’s ribeye in front of you now. “Oh, that’s– No, this is what you wanted. I can’t–”

He interrupted you with your name, both fond and firm. “Shut up and eat your steak.”

You did as you were told, relieved to find that not only did it not upset your stomach, but it was delicious. You let out a little happy sigh and closed your eyes at how good it was, opening them as you swallowed to find Ransom watching you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as he quickly looked to his own plate, the tips of his ears turning red.

You searched blindly for something to talk about, anything to shift the focus from how ridiculous you were. “What was your grandmother like?” you blurted out. Just proving your own ridiculousness further, instead of distracting from it. But it was something you’d wondered about, what Harlan’s own marriage had been like, when he was so set on you being a good influence on his grandson.

Ransom looked at you, a little puzzled. “Uh, my grandma? I don’t know. I never really felt like I knew her that well. Harlan’s so big, you know? She always seemed small in comparison. Um,” he looked up thoughtfully, “I remember her caring a lot what other people were up to, like her neighbors or their friends, what they were buying, what their kids were achieving. She and Harlan, I don’t know, they seemed to get along? Better than my parents, at least, but that’s a low bar. Why on earth do you ask?”

“I don’t know. I…” you trailed off as you tried to pull your thoughts together. “He’s always talking about what our marriage should be and how good for you I’m going to be. And he’s kind to me. But the way he looks at me, and the way he talks about me… It makes me feel like me, who I am, doesn’t actually matter. Just the affect I have on you. And it just made me curious about what she was like. What their marriage was like.”

Ransom hummed a little. “Well,” he said. “The first thing you need to know about Harlan is that he’s full of shit. He thinks he’s the one who’s done everything right and he knows everything. I don’t know what their relationship was like, but my guess is that he knew the version of her that he wanted to know and didn’t bother to get to know her any further.”

You let out your own little hum and then asked the question that had been on your mind since that dinner at Harlan’s. “What’s the deal between the two of you, anyhow?”

Ransom sighed heavily. His gaze dropped as he played with the signet ring on his pinky. “When I was a kid, like really little, Harlan was the only person who gave a shit about me. I spent a lot of time at his house. He was safe and warm when home was cold and scary. People always said we were a lot alike. And I loved that. For a while. But when I got older, it turned into ‘You should be just like me.’ All of my choices were suddenly under a microscope and he’d get so disappointed in me if I did anything differently from what he would do. So then I went hard in the opposite direction. And that caused its own problems.” He paused for a moment, not quite meeting your eyes. “But still, when Neal died, Harlan named me as his heir instead of Walt. But that’s just made him more aggressive about letting me know how he thinks I should be living my life.” He let out a long breath. “I understand him making you feel like you who actually are doesn’t matter. That’s just what he does. There’s never any winning with him. He’s rigged the game.”

  For the second time that night, you were overcome by just how sad you were for Ransom. He’d been all alone for so long. Impulsively, you reached out and grabbed his hand where it rested on the table across from you. “I’m sorry for both of us, then,” you said quietly.

He took a moment, just staring at the way your hand slotted into his. Then, finally, he brought his thumb up and brushed it across your knuckles. “Yeah, me too,” he whispered.

You got back to the house pleasantly full and much calmer than you’d been earlier in the day. Lola greeted you both like she hadn’t seen you in weeks. You smiled as Ransom immediately picked her up, carrying her to the back door indulgently. As he let her out, you got yourself some water from the fridge. 

When they came back in, you smiled down at Lola as you said, “Tonight was really nice. Thank you. I haven’t had a dinner out like that in a long time.”

Ransom took a few steps toward you to close the distance between you. “We should do it more often,” he said lowly.

You weren’t sure what to say next. It almost felt like saying goodbye at the end of a first date, instead of an amicable good night to a man you’d been married to for months. You shook the thought away. You were being silly.

“I’m going to call Steve to tell him how it went today.” Then you added, with a slight grimace. “And then I might go to bed. I know it’s ridiculously early, but I’ve been so exhausted lately.”

He answered you with a soft smile. “That makes sense. You are growing a person inside you.”

You huffed out a small laugh. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

There was another slightly awkward pause. Then Ransom cleared his throat and said, “I’ll probably be in my room, but I’ll be up for a while, if you need anything.”

You smiled at the offer. “Thank you,” you said, and then after a quiet exchange of good nights, you went upstairs to call your step-brother.

[kiwriteswords]

Thank you for the tags, @dudeitiskarev and @solardrop! I love Tumblr games--I wish people would do them more often!

This is for a current WIP that I have yet to decide if I want to abandon it or not (the original date on the google doc is December 28th...so not feeling too confident here, lol). I keep coming back to it, which makes me feel like I should continue it, but I also feel like the overall premise of the story is repetitive to other stuff I have shared. So, we'll see!

Aaron Hotchner x shy!Fem!Reader flirtatious tension story I have been working on, where Hotch sees how much he can fluster shy!reader.

The first few times Aaron Hotchner caught you off guard, you convinced yourself it was a one-time thing.

A fluke. A slip of restraint.

A rare moment where he let himself say what he was thinking instead of keeping it locked behind the walls he’d built for years.

But now?

Now, sitting in the BAU bullpen, surrounded by agents, the hum of paperwork being shuffled and keyboards clicking filling the air--

You realized you had been very, very wrong.

The office was alive with the usual post-case exhaustion, a strange mix of relief and tension still lingering in the air.

The team had only gotten back this morning--after a case that ran for days, a case that left you exhausted but wired, adrenaline still flickering beneath your skin.

Most of the team was wrapping up reports, lingering in the bullpen with coffee cups and sighs of relief that they finally had a few days to breathe.

And you?

You were sitting at your desk, typing up the final notes, trying to focus but finding it impossible.

Because you could feel him. It was this magnetic pull. This energy shift. 

Hotch was in his office, his blinds half-drawn, his body partially turned toward the window.

And he was watching you.

You knew, because every time you glanced up, you found him already looking.

Not in a way that anyone else would notice.

Not in a way that said, “hey, something’s happening here!” 

But in a way that sent a warm, twisting pulse through your stomach, in a way that made your fingers hover just slightly over your keyboard, in a way that made you forget what you were even supposed to be typing in the first place.

Damn it.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to refocus, fingers moving mechanically across the keyboard, the words forming on the screen feeling far less important than the heat creeping up your neck.

And then--

"Agent, a word?"

Your stomach flipped.

Your brain must have shut off and lost track of time or the atmosphere because, for one moment, he was up at his desk looking at you with those eyes--now? Now, he was standing at his door, pulling you from your thoughts. Your scrambled, less than work-appropriate thoughts. 

Because fuck, that voice.

That low, even tone--just professional enough that no one else would think twice about it, but you?

You felt the weight of it.

You exhaled carefully, schooling your features before standing, aware of Morgan’s knowing smirk as you passed his desk.

"Getting called to the principal’s office?" he teased.

You shot him a pointed look, but it lacked any real bite, because truth be told, your brain was already spiraling.

Because Aaron Hotchner wanted to see you in his office.

That should not have been a big deal.

But God, it was.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you, the usual scent of coffee and paper filling the space.

Hotch was behind his desk, one hand resting on a case file, the other rolling a pen slowly between his fingers. The faint sound of the air conditioning hummed in the background, a stark contrast to the palpable silence that fell between you.

"Close the blinds."

You blinked, confusion mingling with the sudden spike in your pulse. The blinds filtered the late afternoon light, casting long shadows across his stoic face, giving him an almost ethereal glow that didn't suit the gravity of the moment.

"What?" you managed to stutter out, your hands unconsciously tightening at your sides.

Hotch lifted his gaze slowly, and fuck, the weight of it knocked the breath from your lungs.

"The blinds," he repeated, calmly, smoothly, like he wasn’t already unraveling you from across the room. "You don’t want an audience, do you?"

Your pulse spiked.

Because Jesus Christ.

What did that mean?

What did that mean?

Your pulse spiked, adrenaline coursing through you as if you were on the edge of a precipice. The office felt smaller suddenly, the walls inching closer, filled with the scent of leather from his chair and the faintest hint of his cologne--a sharp, clean smell that was all too familiar.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly against your side, your throat suddenly dry, because this was not the Hotch you were used to.

This wasn’t the man who delivered briefings with an unreadable expression.

This wasn’t the Unit Chief who kept his emotions locked down so tight that you sometimes wondered if he ever let himself feel anything at all.

This was someone else entirely.

Someone dangerous.

Someone who knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And fuck, you weren’t ready.

"I--" You exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the heat spreading through you, the fact that your hands were trembling slightly as you reached for the cord and tilted the blinds shut.

When you turned back, Hotch was still watching you.

But this time?

This time, his head was tilted slightly, his gaze slow, assessing, his fingers tapping against his desk in an almost lazy rhythm.

"You’re blushing." It was less of an observation and more of a fact. 

Your breath hitched.

"I am not." You moved to go sit at the chair in front of his desk, but your legs felt wobbly. Your palms sweaty. 

Hotch hummed--low, thoughtful, like he knew you were lying, like he was entirely too pleased with himself.

"I don’t know," he mused, leaning back slightly in his chair, fingers tapping slower against the wood. "I think you are."

Your stomach twisted.

Because what the hell was happening right now?

"Did you need something?" you asked, forcing your voice to stay steady, but fuck, it was so much more complicated than it should have been.

Hotch just watched you for a second longer, his expression unreadable--except, this time?

This time, you felt the shift before he even spoke.

"Yes." He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, like this was some mild inconvenience to him, and God, that only made it worse.

Then--

"Come here," he instructed, his voice not commanding but inviting, which was somehow more unnerving.

You blinked, startled, your fingers pausing against the back of the chair you had barely pulled out.

"What?"

Hotch didn’t repeat himself.

Didn’t clarify.

Didn’t explain.

He just sat there, calmly watching you, like he had all the time in the world, like this was nothing unusual at all.

And fuck, something about that made your pulse kick up.

"Aaron--"

"Come here," he repeated, smoother this time, his tone velvet over steel. Your stomach flipped, heat curling low in your spine at the way he said it--smooth, even, just a little too controlled.

Like he already knew you were going to listen.

You exhaled, cautious, unsure, but you stepped forward anyway, the room suddenly too quiet as you stopped just in front of his desk.

Hotch didn’t move right away.

Just sat there, assessing, his gaze dragging over you, the air between you thick with something you couldn’t name.

And then--

He reached out.

His fingers hooked into your belt loop, pulling you forward, slow, unhurried, until your thighs pressed against the edge of his desk. The touch was light, but it might as well have been a chain for all the escape it afforded you.

Your breath hitched.

"Aaron."

"I’ve been thinking about kissing you all morning." 

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

You stared at him, pulse hammering in your throat, because Jesus Christ, what?

"You--" You swallowed, brain short-circuiting, your fingers gripping the desk for support. "We’re at work."

Hotch hummed, unbothered, his thumb skimming lightly over your waistband, just the slightest touch, but God, it burned. "And?"

"And--" You exhaled shakily, completely thrown, because what the hell was happening right now? "And the door isn’t locked," you finally managed.

Hotch’s lips curved, his gaze flicking up to yours, something dark and knowing glinting behind his eyes. "Would you like me to lock it?"

Your stomach dropped.

Your breath came uneven, your fingers gripping the desk tighter, because fuck, you were losing this so fast.

"Aaron," you hissed, voice quieter now, because you could feel your face burning, and God, you could not afford to be flustered right now.

Hotch just watched you, so damn pleased with himself, his fingers still resting against your hip, his throat bobbing slightly as his gaze flickered to your lips. "See, you are blushing." 

Your heart nearly stopped. "I am not."

"You are." His voice dipped, smooth and devastatingly confident. "And it’s because you like it."

You gaped at him.

Because holy shit, when did he start talking to you like this?

Tagging anyone who wants to play! I would love to see what people are working on!

[kistnlads]

𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕

Zayne x FemReader | Short Fic, 2.7k Words | Anonymous Fic Request

Hintofthescene/Moans/Groans | Likes and reblogs are appreciated

⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆

You are his greatest distraction, the one thing he can never tune out. He’s memorized the rhythm of your heartbeat, sketched its shape in the margins of his reports, felt its pulse beneath his fingertips more times than he should. And when you remind him that he is tending to his patient, he loses another piece of his restraint.

He wants you.

Zayne exhales slowly, pressing his fingers into his temple. His mind should be focused on the neatly written reports before him, but instead…

Your heart.

Not metaphorically, not in some poetic, lovesick way. No, it’s your actual, anatomical heart. The one he’s listened to countless times, the one that flutters when you’re nervous, steadies when you’re at ease. The one that once faltered after an injury, forcing him to fight to keep it beating. He remembers the sound, the rhythm, the pulse beneath his fingertips.

And so he draws it.

Over and over. In the margins of reports, between scrawled medical notes, on the edges of prescription pads. It’s not just muscle and vessels to him. It’s yours. He knows it, could sketch it from memory, engraved into his mind like something sacred.

His pen scratches against the paper, outlining the delicate chambers, the intricate arteries, the pulse points where life surges through your body. But as his hand moves, the lines shift, detailing not just a perfect textbook heart, but something softer. 

A heart entwined with his own.

The thought sends a heat curling in his chest, but before he can tear the page out, a voice shatters the quiet.

“Still working this late, Dr. Zayne?”

His fingers tighten around the pen. He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s you.

But he couldn't help but wonder how you slipped in so silently—no creak of the door, no knock to announce your presence. Not that it mattered now. 

You stood by the closed door, arms crossed, a teasing smile playing on your lips. You’re tired, he can see it in the way you shift your weight, the faint haze of sleepiness clinging to your eyes, yet you’re here. And suddenly, his focus on the medical reports feels utterly pointless.

“Should you not be resting?” he counters, voice steady despite the warmth creeping into his collar.

You huff, stepping inside. “Funny. I was about to say the same to you.”

You step closer, gaze flicking down to his open journal. Before he can close it, your fingers dart out, flipping the pages back to reveal his sketches.

And then—silence.

You start to take in the countless drawings. Some clinical, detailed, precise. But others… others are different. It was a secret he never meant to reveal.

“What’s this?” Your fingers brush the edge of the page, tracing the inked lines. “You seem to have drawn this a lot.”

Zayne swallows. Deny it. Say it’s just a medical habit.

Your gaze lifts, locking onto his, searching. And he sees it, the slight hitch in your breath, the same racing pulse he’s memorized.

“Zayne…” Your voice is different now as his pulse thrums in his ears.

He exhales.

“I find myself thinking about it more often than I should.” His voice is low, edged. “Your heart. The way it beats. The way it—” 

His jaw tightens. He should take the journal back. Should laugh it off, tell you it’s nothing. But he doesn’t move. 

“How long?” Your question sends a bolt of panic through him. “How long have you been drawing my heart?” 

He can’t answer. He thought he shouldn’t. Because if he does, if he gives even the slightest inch then you’ll know everything.

“When you check my pulse, when you listen to my heartbeat, do you picture this?”

Zayne clenches his teeth, every muscle in his body coiled tight. His instinct is to pull away, to put distance between you and him before he does something reckless.

But then—

You take his hand. Press it flat against your chest, fingers splayed over the smooth fabric of your white dress, right over where your heart beats for him.

Your fingers tighten around his wrist, keeping his hand right where it is. “Tell me… what do you feel?”

His breath is slow, measured, but he can feel it. Your pulse beneath his palm, the delicate but insistent rhythm of you. It would be so easy to pretend this is just another examination. Just another routine check.

But it isn’t.

He spoke your name, his voice was strained, barely holding together, and you tilt your head, lips curving in the faintest ghost of a smile. 

“That doesn’t sound like an answer.”

Damn you.

Zayne could lie. He could tell you he hears nothing unusual, that your vitals are fine, that this is meaningless.

But the way you’re looking at him—curious, knowing, waiting—he knows you won’t let him get away with it.

And then… he pulls away.

The loss of contact is abrupt, but he doesn’t let himself hesitate as he tries his best in ignoring the way his fingers still burn from touching you.

“This is inappropriate.” His voice is clipped, controlled. 

You didn’t move.

Instead, you study him, slow and careful, as if trying to piece him together.

“Why do you always do that?”

His brow furrows. “Do what?”

“Run.”

The word hangs between the two of you, heavy and unrelenting. Zayne’s lips press into a thin line. His shoulders square, arms crossing over his chest in a practiced display of distance.

“I do not.”

You huff, shaking your head. “You’re doing it right now.”

You take a step forward, and Zayne forces himself to hold his ground. He won’t retreat again. 

“You think I don’t notice? The way you look at me when you think I won’t see? The way you touch me just a little longer than necessary? And now this—” You gesture to the journal still open on the desk, the evidence of his obsession laid bare.

His heart slams against his ribs.

“I want you to say it.”

He knows what you mean. And you want him to admit it. To say the words he’s kept locked behind clenched teeth and medical reports and foolish sketches in the margins of his notes.

Zayne swallows hard, forcing himself to meet your gaze. It would be easy—so damn easy—to close this distance. To grab your wrist, to pull you against him, to press his lips to yours just to see if you’d melt against him the way he’s imagined too many times.

So instead, he exhales through his nose, and responds, “You are asking for something dangerous.”

“I can handle danger.”

Of course you can. That’s what terrifies him the most. You’re not someone fragile, someone he can keep at arm’s length forever. You’re relentless, unyielding, just as stubborn as he is. And if you made up your mind about something—about him—then there’s no stopping you.

Your lips curl, amusement flickering in your eyes. “How about you, Dr. Zayne?”

“This is a mistake. You do not know what you are asking for—”

“Then tell me to leave.”

Zayne’s teeth grind together. You’re giving him another out, a way to escape before he ruins everything. But you don't realize—he’s already ruined.

His control is slipping, unraveling piece by piece, and the more you look at him like that, like you’re his, the more he feels himself cracking.

He spoke your name again, but you cut him off.

“Tell me to leave, Zayne.” Your voice is steady. “And I will leave—”

Just like that—he snaps.

His fingers curl around your wrist, flipping your positions in a single, fluid motion. In a breath, you’re against the desk, and he’s in your space now—caging you in, pressing your back until there’s nowhere left to run.

His other hand comes up, gripping the edge of the desk beside you, effectively trapping you between his body and the cold surface.

Your breath catches, eyes wide, but you didn’t pull away. You don’t want to. And that—that—is what breaks him most of all.

“Do you truly believe that I do not want you?” His voice is low, rough, and dangerous. His grip tightens slightly, his pulse a wild, erratic thing in his throat. “Do you think I do not—” 

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. Your lips part, breath uneven.

You’re everything—too close, too warm—and Zayne has spent too long pretending he could live without this. Without you.

Your gaze searches for him. “What are you so afraid of?”

His throat works, his entire body burning from the inside out. Then, slowly and painfully, he brings his forehead to yours, your breaths mingling in the sliver of space that remains between the two of you.

“You.”

Zayne’s lips crash against yours, fierce and unrelenting, as he presses you against the desk. His hands grip your waist, fingers digging in like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, but you’re not going anywhere. Not when his body is flush against yours, not when heat coils between you like a live wire.

You push off his lab coat, letting it slide to the floor, and your fingers work at his tie, loosening it with impatient tugs. He groans against your mouth as you make quick work of his buttons, exposing the warmth of his skin beneath your touch.

His breath is uneven, his restraint fraying at the edges. Then, without hesitation, his hands slide down, parting your legs as he steps between them. But you barely notice, not when he’s kissing you like this, like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

Zayne’s grip tightens on your thighs as he presses in closer, his breath hot against your lips. His half-unbuttoned shirt hangs open, the tie loosely draped around his neck, forgotten. 

He’s never been like this before—never let himself want like this. Yet, your body is so damn willing beneath his hands, and he knows there’s no turning back.

“You drive me insane,” he rasps against your skin, his lips trailing down the curve of your jaw, nipping, tasting.

You shudder, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him down to you again. “Zayne—”

A low growl rumbles in his chest, and then his hands slide up your thighs, gripping firmly as he tilts your hips toward him, his body slotting between yours in a way that sends heat pulsing through every inch of you. His lips find yours again, demanding, greedy, and swallowing every gasp.

The desk creaks beneath you as he presses you down against it, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your top, brushing against heated skin. You arch against him, pulling at his shirt with desperate fingers.

Zayne, for the first time, curses against your skin. His mind is clouding with need. He should take you. Right here. Right now. And he almost does.

But then—

Reality slams back into him.

This isn’t some dark alley, some hidden corner of the world where he can abandon every rule that’s been drilled into him. This is a place of work. A place meant for professionalism. 

This is an office. His damn office.

And here he is, about to take you on his desk like some reckless fool.

Zayne was a man of control. He had to be. 

A doctor who let his emotions interfere with his work was a liability. A mistake waiting to happen. 

And yet, he almost lost about any of that now. Not when you’re right in front of him, lips parted, skin burning against his touch.

Zayne stills. 

His muscles tense, his hands freezing where they rest against your body while your brows furrowed in frustration, lips kiss-swollen and tempting, so tempting.

“Why are you stopping?” You murmur, voice thick with want, fingers still buried in his hair.

His grip on your waist tightened for just a second before he forced himself to step back, though every fiber of his being protested. His shirt was open, his coat discarded somewhere on the floor, and you—you were still sitting on his desk, legs parted just enough to make him ache.

“Because this—” He exhaled sharply. “We cannot proceed with this here. It is unethical. This—this is not the appropriate place for such matters.”

He shut his eyes, inhaling deeply. 

“I must have some self-control.”

“Self-control?” You push off the desk slowly, purposefully, closing the space between the two of you in a way that makes his heart stutter. “You’ve been doing so well, haven’t you?”

You are testing him. And God help him, it was working.

Your fingers brushed over his collarbone, trailing lower, slipping beneath the fabric of his half-unbuttoned shirt.

Shit.

“We—” He exhales sharply, trying to ignore the way you’re still clinging to him.

“It’s late.” Your voice is light, breath fanning against his lips. “No one’s going to walk in.”

“I… I have patients,” he grits out, hands twitching where they rest on your waist.

You lift a hand, cupping his face with a gentleness that nearly undoes him.

“You’re always looking after everyone else. Always tending to someone. Always taking care of others.” Your fingers then trail down, brushing over the rapid pulse at his throat. “But aren’t you already tending to your patient?”

Zayne stiffens.

“P–Patient?”

You lean in, lips grazing his lower lip, and fuck, you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

“Dr. Zayne,” you murmur, voice sultry, and taunting. “Are you really going to leave your patient unattended?”

A sharp, amused breath escapes him, somewhere between a chuckle and a curse, then his grip tightens, dragging you back against him.

“You—” His voice is strained, his self-control crumbling all over again. “Are going to be the death of me.”

I smile against his lips. And just like that, the doctor abandons all reason.

OUTSIDE DR. ZAYNE’S OFFICE

Yvonne hummed quietly to herself as she approached Zayne’s office, her steps light. She didn’t knock, she already knew she wouldn’t be getting an answer. Instead, she reached for the sliding status sign on the door, smoothly shifting it from DOCTOR IN to DOCTOR OUT.

Just as she was about to turn away, a voice behind her made her freeze.

“What are you doing?”

Yvonne sucked in a breath, schooling her face into something innocent before turning to face Greyson, Zayne’s ever-diligent assistant. He stood there, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“Oh, you know,” she said breezily, clasping her hands behind her back. “Just… helping out. Thought I’d take something off Dr. Zayne’s plate. He’s been so busy, after all.”

Greyson narrowed his eyes. “Uh-huh. And that required switching his status to ‘Out’ when he’s clearly still inside?”

Yvonne laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “Maybe he just wants to be out for a bit, you know? Doctors need breaks too.”

Greyson didn’t budge. “Nurse Yvonne…”

She sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “You really ask too many questions, Dr. Greyson.”

“It’s my job,” he deadpanned.

Yvonne opened her mouth, ready to spin another excuse when suddenly, a very distinct sound cut through the quiet hallway.

A muffled thump.

Then another.

Greyson’s brow furrowed. “What was that?”

Yvonne laughed a little too quickly. “Oh, uh… probably just Dr. Zayne knocking over some books. You know how he is. Always juggling too many things at once.”

And then—

“Zayne—ahh—!” A voice rang out, breathless, followed immediately by a low, husky groan.

Yvonne winced.

Greyson blinked.

There was a beat of absolute silence before the sound of the desk creaking again, followed by another deep groan.

Yvonne pressed her lips together, trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t hearing this.

Greyson, on the other hand, was frozen. His face was carefully blank, but there was no mistaking the realization dawning in his eyes.

“They’re—” he started.

“Yep.” Yvonne didn’t even let him finish.

“In his office—”

“Uh-huh.”

“Right now—?”

“Sounds like it.”

Another moan. Louder. Longer. Breathless. Followed by a muffled whimper.

“Zayne… don’t stop—”

Greyson opened his mouth, then closed it, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

He turned to the door, his hand twitching like he was about to knock. 

“Nope! No, no, no, we do not need to check on that!” Yvonne lunged, grabbing his wrist before he could ruin whatever was happening inside. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, pulling her hand away. “This is highly unprofessional.”

“So is eavesdropping,” Yvonne shot back.

“But, I’m his assistant, and I need to—”

“Yeah? You wanna assist him right now?” Yvonne arched her brow. “Wanna walk in and ask if he needs a goddamn clipboard?”

Greyson opened his mouth, then shut it, looking vaguely horrified. Yvonne smirked. 

“That’s what I thought.” She patted his shoulder. “Now come on, doctor. Let’s go before they finish, and we have to make eye contact later.”

And as they walked away, another muffled moan echoed behind them—loud enough that even Greyson, despite his best efforts, winced.

He groaned. “I’m taking the rest of the night off.”

“Good call,” Yvonne agreed. “You’ll need therapy after this.”

[nephilimeq]

Oh, Darling, Please Be Mine

Prompt: Proposal

@bucktommyfluffebruary

A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62721625/chapters/162762577

Tommy felt his heart hammering in his chest as he led Evan up to the edge of the clearing, where it was easiest to see the ocean from, praying that he didn’t pass out before he asked him the question that he knew would change his life…

…but he also knew that he didn’t just want to dive right into it. He had a plan.

Once they were finally up there, he turned and said, “You know you’re the first person I’ve ever shared this place with?” and his boyfriend nodded and quipped, “Yeah, you, uh…you kinda mentioned that before,” and the airman flushed, feeling his stomach flip at the adorable smile on the younger man’s face, a part of him still terrified that he was making the wrong decision. God, what if Evan said no? Even worse, what if he laughed at him? What if—

No. He cut off the line of thought before it could get worse and took a deep breath.

“Yeah, well…this has always been where I’ve felt the safest, you know?” Tommy started to explain, wanting Evan to truly understand why that place was important to him. “When…when things got bad at home, I always knew I could come here and no one would find me. Here is where I learned to accept…well…me. All of me.”

At that, Evan’s brow unfurrowed and he knew he was getting through to him and let out a sigh of relief and pulled him closer, moving them to a spot where they could sit, echoing their positions from before.

His boyfriend pressed up into him, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, and Tommy felt himself settle.

“When I realized I liked boys, it was here. When…when I realized I never wanted to be my father, it was here. I learned how to make paper cranes here, too,” he added with an embarrassed nod of his head, and his boyfriend’s eyes lit up and he unintentionally interrupted, “You can make paper cranes?” but stopped when Tommy shot him a look, for which he was grateful, and he grasped at his hand with his own. “I also learned that most relationships take a hell of a lot of work and some people…like my parents…don’t know how to put in the work…”

His voice trailed off and he felt the mood shift slightly and felt bad for doing that, not wanting to make his boyfriend feel bad for him and swiftly tried to change the conversation back to a lighter note by saying, “But I’d like to think I’ve figured out a thing or two,” and ran his thumb over the ridges of his knuckles.

“I think you’ve been doing pretty good,” Evan said, shooting him a puppy-eyed look with those perfectly blue eyes of his.

Tommy’s stomach flipped. Again.

The ring in his pocket felt like a lead weight.

He couldn’t decide if the weight was one of promise or one of dread—he loved Evan with all his heart, but there was still some insidious voice in the back of his mind that was telling him that he would ruin everything by asking him to marry him. God, he loved the idea of hearing Mr. Kinard, or maybe even Mr. Buckley-Kinard coming from his lips…but his fear of him saying no somehow weighed more than the prospect of him saying yes, and it was holding him back.

He bit at the inside of his cheek and then turned his eyes to the horizon, taking in the view, and instead of saying what he wanted to, instead said, “It was also here where I decided to go into the army. I used to stare out at this view and all I could think of was being in the air, getting away from it all, you know?”

Evan nodded.

“So…this place was for you what my little hunting shack was for me?” he remarked, and Tommy hummed in the back of his throat and replied, “Yeah, I guess it was. I spent hours here pretending to fly off to places across the ocean. I used to make up countries that didn’t exist. I, uh…I always liked the idea of finding an island filled with dinosaurs,” he softly admitted, hoping that he wasn’t embarrassing himself…

…and was taken aback when his boyfriend said, “Oh, you mean like those Dinotopia books?”

He arched an eyebrow.

“You don’t know Die Hard or Love Actually, but you know one of the most obscure books series from the early nineties?” he asked, incredulous, unable to keep from lightly chuckling at the anachronism, shaking his head as Evan shrugged with a sheepish grin on his face, still trying to understand aspects of the young man in front of him, wondering if he would ever learn everything about him.

He hoped that he didn’t. Tommy hoped that he would go through the rest of his life constantly learning about new things about Evan that he didn’t know. All he wanted to do was keep unraveling the mystery of the man in front of him and living the rest of his life with him no matter what happened, even if it meant that he had to stop flying—and fuck, if that wasn’t the most terrifying thing he had ever thought of; that he would give up flying if it meant that he could keep Evan Buckley in his life.

Tommy’s nerves finally settled.

He went to open his mouth to take the jump, but then Evan said, “I do know things, you know. You don’t always have to sound so surprised,” and the airman gave him a look and said, “I’m not surprised…”

His boyfriend gave him a look.

“…okay, maybe I’m a little surprised, but I like that. I like being surprised by you…”

With trembling fingers he reached towards his pocket and unzipped it as quickly as he could and then pulled out the ring box, noting Evan’s blue eyes widening.

“…and I want to keep on being surprised by you for the rest of my life. For the rest of our lives,” he amended, feeling an odd calmness settle over him as he opened the ring box to show him what he’d picked out for him. “So, if you don’t mind—Evan Buckley—will you do me the honor of turning our lives into something even more? Because I can no longer see a future without you in it, and I don’t want to wait any longer. When I think of home, I don’t think of a house with a cracking front driveway, an uneven foundation, and a leaky side roof anymore...I think of you. You are my home.”

He searched his face, noticing a faint sheen of moisture in the corners of his eyes.

“Evan. Will you marry me?”

He swore everything went silent, even the birds in the trees, the only sound the waves down below them, faint and pulsing in time with his heartbeat as he waited with bated breath, somehow not scared by the silence that he hadn’t been expecting, but instead completely ready for whatever his boyfriend might say…

…and then his heart caught in his throat when Evan looked up at him and said in a tremulous tone, “Oh, god, yes…Tommy, yes,” and then leaned in and wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him in for a kiss that caught him off guard with its softness and sweetness, and he could feel faint tear tracks press to his cheeks, tears that weren’t his, and Tommy leaned into the kiss, pouring all of his love into it, using his free hand to grasp at the younger man’s waist.

Eventually they pulled back and Evan wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and said, “That is literally the most perfect ring I’ve ever seen,” and Tommy smiled.

“It took me a while to get it made. You almost nearly found out about it, actually,” he admitted, and blue eyes locked back onto his.

“Really? When?”

“Remember that yoga class I dragged you to?” Evan nodded. “Yeah, well, I didn’t realize that the woman I ordered the ring from was also a yoga instructor,” he said with a comedic tilt of his head, and was thrilled when his boyfriend coughed out a wet laugh and shook his head and said, “No! Wait, that’s why you were acting so weird around her?”

Tommy nodded and said as he pulled out the ring from the ring box, “Yeah, nearly blew the whole thing up right then and there—and then there was me convincing you to come here,” he reluctantly confessed. “I knew I was gonna propose right after the 118 bash at the beach, before the week was out…and then you gave me the perfect opportunity with this picnic. That’s kind of why I was being so weirdly controlling at the beginning of the trip. And why I took so many photos,” he added as he slipped the ring onto the third finger of Evan’s left hand.

Evan laughed again and said, “Kinda glad you did…oh my god, this is real, isn’t it?”

He lifted his hand and stared at the ring.

“Mhmm. It is.”

“You…me…we’re-we’re…we’re engaged.” Tommy watched as it sunk in. “We’re…oh, god, we’re engaged!” Evan exclaimed, leaning back in and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, his entire face lit up with the biggest smile the airman had ever seen. “I’m gonna be Mr. Buckley-Kinard…”

“So you do want to hyphenate? I was kind of hoping you would…”

Evan nodded so violently he was afraid his head would fall right off.

“Oh, yeah. I mean, I love your last name, but I want everyone to know about both of us, and this way if we have…if we have kids,” he hesitantly added with a duck of his eyes, “They can have both of our names.”

Tommy nodded right back at him and softly agreed, “Yeah, I’d like that. And besides, once we’re both captains, we can go by our own names so people won’t get confused,” he said with a wry grin in as much of a serious tone he could muster considering just how overwhelmingly overjoyed he felt in that moment—so much so that he was certain that he was about to start yelling at the top of his lungs to anyone who would listen that he had gotten Evan Buckley to agree to marry him.

His boyfriend’s expression was adorable as his nose scrunched up and he said, “Once we’re both captains? Wow, uh…sounds like-like you have some pretty big plans for us,” and Tommy gave him a soft smile and said, “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve been thinking a lot about our future lately, and it just made sense that we both might want that one day…”

“Not gonna lie, it’s occurred to me. Just…I don’t want it to happen too soon, you know? I kinda hope Bobby sticks around for a while longer.”

Tommy felt his heart melt a little at the admission.

“Yeah, I get that,” he said, reaching out and brushing a stray curl from his forehead, loving how long his boyfriend’s hair was getting…and then was taken aback when Evan said, “Hey, so I’ve got an engagement ring, but what about you? I wanna show the world that you’re about to be mine, too,” and the airman didn’t know what to say—but then took a second and suggested, “How about I show you the website and you can design one for me, too?” and Evan lit up.

“Oh, I like that idea. You’d let me do that? Because I know you’re kinda weird about that kind of thing. You know, jewelry,” he said, tugging lightly at Tommy’s shirt. “I mean, you wear necklaces from time to time, but because you work with your hands so much in your off time, I wouldn’t want to pick something that would get in the way…”

Tommy shrugged.

“Then we pick it out together.”

Evan’s eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned back in and recaptured his boyfriend’s—no, his fiancé’s lips with his own, and lingered, soaking in the moment at finally realizing that his boyfriend was now his fiancé and that as soon as he possibly could, his last name would be attached to his and they would be married. And he would have a husband.

Fuck, he never thought that it would happen.

Unbidden, he felt a few of his own tears finally sneak out, and Evan pulled back from the kiss just enough to breathe out, “Hey, are you okay?” and Tommy nodded and said, “Yeah, just…you said yes. You-you…you’re gonna marry me. You’re gonna be my husband. We’re…we’re gonna be married," the words finally sinking in, the realization of what had just happened somehow hitting him with all the weight of a firehose to the chest.

The younger firefighter grinned wide and said, “Yeah, we’re gonna be married! I can’t wait ‘til I get to call you husband…”

All of the air left his lungs at once.

He nodded.

“Yeah. Husband,” he said breathlessly, reaching out and lightly tracing his fingers along Evan’s jawline, darting his eyes between his lips and baby blues—no, sky blues, he mentally corrected. Eyes as blue as the sky that he had escaped to at the age of eighteen, skies that he was willing to let go of for the rest of his life if it meant waking up to seeing them right next to him every morning until he could no longer open his own eyes.

Evan then said, “So…we gonna head home, now? Tell everyone the good news?”

Tommy shook his head and softly replied, “Not just yet. I want this to be just us for a little while longer. Is that okay?” he asked, nervous, but his fiancé nodded and skated his thumb over the back of his hand and said, “Yeah, it is. We can keep it to ourselves a bit longer. Just us.”

They stayed like that for a while, sitting and staring, and the airman found himself constantly running his fingers over the ring on Evan’s finger, still baffled by the fact that he had said yes.

Unexpectedly, Evan broke the silence with, “So…when you were asking me about my favorite season earlier, were you trying to figure out when you wanted us to get married?” and he shyly nodded and ducked his eyes. His fiancé chuckled and said, “You know what, I don’t care when we get married, just that we do. Now…how long do you want to keep this between us? Because the moment we tell Chimney, everyone will know,” and Tommy rolled his eyes and groaned.

“Ugh, I know, but I also know that you want to tell your sister as soon as possible, and once she knows, then Howie knows, and…yeah.”

They shared a look.

…and then Tommy said, “How’s this. We keep it to ourselves for the next few days. You’ll have to keep the ring off during work hours, anyway, so it shouldn’t be too hard to hide,” he added with a head tilt. “When you’re ready, we tell them. Not a moment before.”

He rubbed his finger over the ring one more time.

“Only when you’re ready…”

It felt soft and sweet when Evan leaned in and kissed him, none of the manic energy and passion from before, but somehow with even more love than before and he sank into it, enjoying the way it made his brain go quiet, and by the time they both pulled back he was feeling lightheaded in the best way possible and so took a moment to catch his breath by resting his forehead against Evan’s, wondering if they stayed like that long enough that his birthmark would be etched onto his skin, as well.

Evan then said, “I like that idea. Not sure how long I can keep it a secret, though, to be honest,” and Tommy snorted and shook his head and said, “Yeah, why am I not surprised? Don’t worry about it, Evan. Just do it when it feels right.”

His fiancé arched an eyebrow at him.

“I, uh—I kinda wanna call Maddie right now,” he admitted, and the airman threw his head back and barked out a laugh and said, “I think ten minutes isn’t quite enough time. Give it a few hours, at least?” and they broke into giggles together and ended up on their sides in the grass, staring at each other as they tried to come down from their laughter.

Evan calmed down first and said, “Yeah, I can…I can do that.”

They laid there for a little while longer, Tommy basking in the hope and love that he felt…and then the young fireman said, “God, I can’t wait to be married to you…”

…and Tommy smiled.

He couldn’t wait, either.

[foggydreamsstuff]

Unspoken Currents

Chapter Two: The Sweetest Curse

Viktor = Blue

Jayce = Purple

Please comment on some suggestions for what should happen. Does anyone appreciate the Czech??

---

The lab was warm. Too warm.

Between the whirring machinery, the hum of hextech, and Jayce practically radiating heat like a human furnace, Viktor felt suffocated.

Or maybe that was just the sickness curling tight in his ribs.

Across the worktable, Jayce was hunched over some prototype, dark curls sticking to his forehead, sleeves shoved up past his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle. He muttered to himself in a mix of Spanish and half-formed engineering jargon, completely oblivious to the way Viktor stared, the way his own fingers trembled where they hovered above his calculations.

Viktor swallowed thickly.

Not now. Not now.

Jayce made a triumphant noise. “Alright, I think we’re finally getting somewhere!” He straightened up, wiping grease onto his already ruined shirt. “Vik, pass me the actuator, yeah?”

Viktor barely heard him. Something sharp twisted in his chest, rising fast—faster than he could control. He turned his head sharply, pressing a fist to his lips as he coughed—once, twice—before something soft brushed his tongue.

No.

His stomach clenched. He pulled his trembling hand away from his mouth and stared.

Pale yellow petals.

Honeysuckle.

Viktor exhaled shakily, crushing the delicate bloom in his palm before Jayce could see. His ribs ached, his throat burned, but none of it compared to the raw, open wound of watching Jayce pine after someone else.

Of knowing he would never look at Viktor that way.

“Vik?” Jayce’s voice was closer now. Viktor’s head snapped up just as Jayce reached out, brows knit in concern. “Hey, you okay? You spaced out for a second there.”

Viktor forced a smirk, though it felt paper-thin. “Jsem v pohodě, blbče.”

Jayce gave him a squinty, skeptical look. “That’s suspiciously fast, Czech. Are you sure?”

Viktor held his ground. “Here is the actuator. Are you good now?"

Jayce didn’t move. Instead, his arms crossed, and he gave Viktor that look—the one that meant he was thinking, really thinking. It was rare, but it did happen.

Then, like the world’s slowest realization, Jayce’s eyes narrowed. “…You haven’t eaten today, have you?”

Viktor groaned. “Jayce—”

“Nope!” Jayce was already yanking open a drawer, rummaging through their emergency stash of snacks. “I knew it. You get all weird and twitchy when you’re hungry.”

Viktor pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am not a child, Jayce.”

Jayce turned around, triumphant, holding a squashed protein bar. “Eat this, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Viktor glared. “That is bribery.”

“That is caring,” Jayce corrected, waving the bar in front of his face. “Now eat.”

Viktor sighed, snatching it from his hand just to shut him up. Jayce beamed like he had just solved the greatest mystery of the universe.

"Dobrý kluk." Jayce ruffled Viktor’s curls, and Viktor jerked away, scowling.

“Stop touching me.”

Jayce just laughed, sitting back down. “You’re so grumpy when you’re hungry.”

Viktor unwrapped the protein bar slowly, using the moment to mask the way his chest ached. If only hunger were truly the issue.

Jayce, oblivious as ever, was already back to fiddling with the prototype, tongue peeking out in concentration. “Okay, so if we recalibrate the energy output—”

Viktor clenched his fist, feeling the crushed petals stick to his palm.

---

Jayce didn’t know.

Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t understand.

Viktor wasn’t sure which was worse.

The lab settled into a comfortable hum of clicking tools and low murmurs as Jayce worked. He was always moving, always talking—a force of nature too bright and too loud for Viktor’s world.

And yet, he was the only thing Viktor wanted.

Another cough built in his throat, but he swallowed it down, forcing himself to focus. His hand was still trembling. He pressed his palm flat against the worktable, watching the way his fingers twitched.

The shimmer isn’t helping anymore.

His body was breaking, his ribs felt like they were caving inward, and worst of all—he couldn’t stop loving Jayce.

He had tried. Gods, he had tried.

Every day, he told himself he would let it go. That he would stop looking. Stop yearning. Stop loving Jayce so much it hurt.

And every day, he failed.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he would love Jayce a little less.

Maybe.

He knew Jayce would be okay with loving a man. As long as that man wasn't Viktor.

[thedreadvampy]

Sorry about your loss :( when youre feeling up to it, I'd love to hear some memories about Otis.

well as often happens in these situations one thing I'm finding is I didn't take enough pictures of him while I had the chance.

Otis, as my friend said in some distress when I told them last week that he was sick, was The People's Boy. Everybody loved him and he loved people, he was enthusiastically ready to meet strangers and greet friends. He was an exceptionally sweet and chill man and he actively enjoyed handling, so he converted several people who weren't sure of snakes at all into huge Otis fans.

He was an incredibly beautiful boy - he was very big and muscular before he got sick, and he had creamy white and dark brown patterning that made him look like tempered chocolate. His belly was this lovely graphic checkerboard and he had a face that always made me think of a rabbit's face - big brown eyes and a pinkish nose and a little moustache pattern that gave him :3 face.

He liked to climb all over you, and he particularly liked to climb long hair. he would reach himself out so far his whole body was trembling. but he wasn't ever really trying to get away, he was just enjoying exploring - the corn snake we had until 2020 was always gearing up for a dash, but Otis was a pootler, he liked to wander around and smell things.

we got Otis in 2021 from the SSPCA and he was about 3 then. We think they'd misjudged his food requirements cause they told us he had one mouse a week, but that he'd scarf up any leftovers the other snakes didn't eat. and when he moved in with us he fell on food immediately (which was nice cause we'd just lost a baby corn snake who never learned how to eat at all) but then he'd stay activated and looking for more food instead of settling in to digest. also he did this.

literally tried to eat both me and Sam multiple times which was no fun for anyone involved. lots of blood and prising off of jaws with a credit card. anyway then we upped him to two large mice a week and he never showed the slightest signs of aggression or biting ever again. he was literally just starving.

he also grew literally another foot once he was getting enough food, which came as a bit of a surprise cause at 3 we figured he was mostly done growing, but he grew so much we had to get him a bigger viv because he was doing frustrated circles around the old one.

we took him to the vet like a few months or so into having him, because he stopped eating over the winter, which we didn't yet know was normal for him, and because he had a scar on his head when we got him which seemed to be spreading (in retrospect, probably just because he was growing so much that damaged skin was splitting).

First off, the vet loved him. Whenever Otis had to go to the vets, all the nurses would see him through the window and come in to fuss over him.

On that early visit, the vet used the phrase "startlingly healthy" - he was on the biggest end of male kingsnakes and he was basically pure muscle. We called him our long himbo because he was both exceptionally fit, super sweet-natured, and kinda dumb.

I remember one time we gave him a mouse, he leapt on it instantly then dropped it, and he looked back at us in confusion with his tongue flickering like "mOuSe? sMeLl MoUsE? wHeRe MoUsE?????" and we were like buddy. It's on your butt. I can see it. It's draped over you.

he loved to burrow and he loved to swim. Not so much recently, because he was prescribed daily baths to help with his gut issues and he came to find it quite stressful, but in the past if we put him in a bath he'd settle in happily and swim laps around the box. he spent a good chunk of his life buried in between the paper layers in his viv (occasionally terrifying, he was good at hiding) but he refused to stay in pockets, because when he was out and about he wanted to keep an eye on everything.

he was so chill. He didn't mind being handled or kissed on his back, and he'd just do little bleps right on your face. He seemed almost impossible to scare, he'd just wander straight up to things. He did like an explore but he was also totally happy to sit in your lap or around your neck while you got on with things, and he'd often refuse to get back in his viv after. He really really liked people, and he liked us.

I'm really struggling at the moment because for years now when I'm sad and exhausted and out of energy I'd take him out and hold him in my lap and he'd help me feel more safe and present. And I would really like to be doing that again and I can't. I miss his weight and warmth and smoothness and the way he smelled and I miss talking to him. He was the goodest boy.

[ambiguous-avery]

Pick Your Poison³

S1!Dean Winchester x fem!Reader/You | WC: 2541

Summary: Seven years is a lot to catch up on all in one night. But there’s a lot that can be said without words alone.

Tags/Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, unprotected P in V sex (make safe decisions, friends), femme nicknames (pretty girl), g/n nicknames (baby, sweetheart), reader is AFAB, no use of Y/N, fluff, no beta we die like men

Now Playing: Pick Your Poison by Knox

A/N: And it turned into a 3-parter. Sorry, not sorry. Finally a conclusion and a bit of happiness for our boy! @wendichester, here's a tag for the conclusion. Took the drink from the Supernatural Official Cocktail Book (that I totally didn't buy just for this story 😉 If anyone is interested, it's the "Still Kicking" drink) Read Part 1 and Part 2!

Dean had never been more motivated to wrap up a case in his entire life. He almost felt bad that people dying hadn’t lit the fire under his ass in the same way your offer had. You hadn’t so much as stoked his motivation. Rather, you had thrown gasoline straight onto it, causing it to roar and flare, and Dean was sure it had rivaled the fire from the salt and burn job. He had unceremoniously dropped Sam off at the motel that night, telling Sam that he’d be back in the morning. Maybe. Maybe early afternoon. He wasn’t entirely sure. Sam had just rolled his eyes at him.

He pulled up to the bar just as you stepped out of the front door, and he waved you over. You whistled and took a seat in the Impala.

“You really know how to charm a woman, pretty boy.” You set your purse down in the footwell and looked at him. He was ready for your gaze this time around, and instead of knocking him off balance, he met it with an equal intensity that charged the air in the car. Your look carried your burning curiosity, but there was still that unending compassion in your eyes that he remembered seeing years ago. He had seen some pretty awful things in the world. They had left him calloused and jaded. But you? He couldn’t help but wonder what had happened in those same seven years that had shaped you into the person that was before him now. Someone with eyes that could cut someone down or comfort them and had no troubles switching between the two.

“Only the ones I like,” Dean finally responded. You chuckled. 

The only thing easier than the drive back to your apartment was the conversation that flowed between the two of you. You told Dean about things that had happened since you last saw him. You graduated from college with a degree that was about as useless as the paper it was printed on when it came to applying for jobs in your chosen field. Several failed relationships back to back had left you happily single, and overall, it sounded like things in your life were relatively okay. Good but not great. He wanted to dig a little more. Wanted to ask about all the little details you glossed over. But it hardly felt like his place to know. When you directed the conversation spotlight onto his life, he gave vague answers and brushed over large swaths of his time away. Dean could see the way your eyes implored him to give more detail. Implored him to spill all the secrets that were fighting to spill from his lips. He bit them back.

Dean took a seat at the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the living room space in your apartment. It was a nice little place, but he could tell by the scattered boxes that you were either still moving in or maybe getting ready to move out. He wasn’t sure which it was.

“If I remember correctly, I’m pretty sure I still owe you a drink.” He watched as you pulled several liquor bottles from the cupboards and set them down between the two of you, reminding him of times long past. Though the liquor here was much more expensive this time around, he noted.

“What can you make?” He flashed you a grin. You winked back at him.

“I could make you a drink that reminds me of this guy I hooked up with in college,” you said cheekily, locking eyes with him. He arched an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Alright, let’s see what that’s like.”

Dean was regretting that he hadn’t been able to watch you work behind the bar earlier in the evening, but he was making up plenty for it now. Watching you move was something else. You had your own bar setup. It was less professional than the one you had at work, but it did the job nonetheless. With a cocktail glass filled with ice set in front of you, you grabbed a bottle of rye in one hand and a jigger in the other before upending the bottle with a bit of flair. The alcohol splashed into the cup as you dumped it before you tossed the jigger from one hand and into the other, catching it with two fingers before setting both the whiskey and the jigger down. Dean whistled.

“Flashier than I remember.”

“I’ve had a few years to practice.”

It was mesmerizing to watch, even though everything you did was relatively mundane. Sure, you had fancy tricks that made every moment seem more extravagant, but Dean had the distinct feeling that he was only as interested in the process of drink making because it was you making the drink. Two dashes of bitters went in next. Hell, even when you popped open the can of ginger beer, his eyes were drawn to your fingers. It was a simple thing, but Dean watched like it was the most riveting thing he could set his eyes on. You carefully cut into a lemon and sliced away the skin before wrapping it around your finger and letting it slide into the drink. You set it on a napkin in front of him with a flourish, and Dean thought that that was what love felt like.

It wasn’t a grandiose display of affection with dramatic declarations or sweeping gestures. It wasn’t the whispered honeyed words exchanged in the intimacy of night. It wasn’t even those three little words. Instead, it was found in the quiet, steady confidence that radiated from you. It was in the way your eyes settled on him, brimming with an unspoken understanding, as if you were acutely aware of every struggle and triumph that had shaped his journey to this moment. And it was in the soft, gentle curve of your smile, a tender expression that conveyed more than words ever could.

“Drink up, pretty boy. If you like it enough, maybe it’ll become the Dean Winchester special at the bar.” He laughed and picked up the glass, brought it to his lips, and took a long, slow drink from it. His first cocktail, and it was going to be named after him. It was a simple drink with only three ingredients that he saw you put in, not counting the twist of lemon. But the spicy rye mixed well with the sharp ginger beer that kicked at the end. He liked it.

You had already set about mixing up the same drink for yourself, emptying the can of ginger beer into your own glass.

“This is what you think I’m like?” he asked. Your eyes twinkled with the same teenaged mischief that had drawn him in the first time.

“I think you’re better. But this is a close second.”

“Damn, I’m smooth.” He laughed, clinking his glass with yours before you both drank. There was a beat of silence. “Humor me for a moment, sweetheart. Do you really remember me from those years ago?” You set your glass down on the counter and leaned back, crossing your arms as you thought. Dean watched the way the light from the kitchen overhead caught in your hair, casting shadows on the curve of your cheek. He wanted to hold it, feel your skin beneath his fingers again.

“I remember more about you now than I did back then, if that makes any sense,” you finally said, a small smile playing on your lips. “Back then, you were just another guy at the frat. A little mysterious, a little dangerous.” Dean chuckled at that.

“And now?”

“Now?” The ice cubes clinked in your glass as you picked it up, regarding him with a thoughtful expression. “I see a man with fire in his eyes and a heart burdened by a darkness he can’t shake.”

Dean’s breath caught in his throat. How? How did you understand him in a way that no one else seemed to? He had spent so long closing himself off from others, from forming connections that could be ripped away in an instant by the cruel hand of fate. But when his eyes found yours again, there was a warmth in them that made Dean’s chest tighten. Your perceptiveness was something he was unfamiliar with. You maybe had a collective five hours of getting to know him and already you could strip away the layers he had carefully placed around him. That disarming gaze of yours was both terrifying and liberating. He didn’t feel like he had to put on a performance. Didn’t have to put up a facade. He had never felt so seen.

You stepped around the counter, drawing in close to him. He could feel electricity crackle between the two of you, and he turned to face you. You settled between his parted legs, the heat of your body mingling with his. He could feel his heart drumming in his chest, the intoxicating scent of your perfume filling his senses. Your hand lifted to trace a line along his jaw, your touch feather-light yet searing all the same.

“Are you okay?” you asked quietly, and Dean knew what you meant. Knew that you were asking about more than just his physical safety. You were asking about the storm that raged inside him. The storm that darkened his thoughts and kept his heart heavy. Dean searched your eyes, finding concern and genuine care there, and for a moment, he let himself believe that maybe he could share some of his burden with you.

“I’m…” he hesitated. He had spent so long tamping everything down that he wasn’t sure he could even find the right words for what he felt. “I’m trying to be.” The words were so simple, but it felt like a crack had split down the center of the wall he had spent years carefully building up. Your thumb brushed against his cheek lightly, a silent gesture of support that anchored him in the moment.

“I can see that,” you muttered softly. “It’s okay not to be okay all the time.” The weight of those words settled over Dean like a warm blanket, offering comfort in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. And then, without another word, Dean closed the distance between you, capturing your lips in a gentle yet achingly tender kiss. It was soft and sweet, a silent confession of all the things he couldn’t find the words to say.

You led him to your room before long. It was a slow, sensual flurry of messy kisses, fingers tracing along heated skin, and sweet nothings gasped into existence as the two of you undressed. His back hit your mattress as you straddled his hips.

“Let me take you for a ride, hm?” You placed a hand on his chest, steadying yourself as you sank down on him. Dean groaned, low and throaty, as you took him inch by agonizing inch. Adoration shone in his green eyes which were wide and unblinking, not wanting to miss a single second of the moment. You looked down at him, eyes half-lidded and moaning at the feel of him. Dean didn’t fuck like he hunted. On a hunt, he was quick, efficient, get in-get out, take no prisoners. But in this moment, he was perfectly content to let you take the reins and drag the night on as long as you’d like. And drag the night out, you did. You braced your hands against his chest, your nails digging into his skin. He only offered a guttural sound as your hips sat flush against his, his cock pressed against the deepest part of you. You answered him with a whimper.

You set a slow, torturous pace, and every one of Dean’s coherent thoughts slipped further and further away with each roll of your hips. When he looked up at you, you were the only one in the world anymore. His jaw went slack, lips parted as he settled his hands on your hips, thumbs rubbing against the jut of the bone there.

“Dean,” you breathed, “Fuck, Dean...”

“Go ahead, pretty girl,” he mumbled, his words beginning to bleed into each other. “Take what you need.” And that was all you needed to hear before you gave into your own selfish desire to ride him exactly the way you wanted. Your chest heaved as your breaths became more ragged, your movements stuttering.

“More.” You ground your hips against him, searching for more of that delicious friction. Dean thrust upwards into you, using his hold on your hips as leverage, and you yelped in surprise. He shifted and moved one hand to your shoulder, pulling you to him. You leaned forward, pressing your chest against his, your breaths ghosting over his skin. The new angle caused the length of his cock to drag against your clit with every thrust. Your responding cry was breathless. His fingers dug into your skin, threatening to leave marks in their wake.

“Please, baby. Need you so bad,” he grunted between thrusts. Your name spilled from his lips, and he sounded so utterly wrecked. It was the last piece you needed, and as he seated himself fully into you, you clenched and fluttered around him. He held you close, finding his own release moments after you.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled out of you, and you both laid there for a moment, hearts pounding in sync. Your fingers traced random patterns across his chest as he slowly regained his bearings. Eventually, he rolled onto his side to face you, touching his forehead to yours.

“You’re something else.” He pressed his hand to your cheek. You smiled under his touch, mirth dancing in your eyes.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

“I think I owe you a thank you,” Dean said softly.

“For what?”

“You were the first person who ever gave me a way out. Who showed me that I had a choice in everything.” You chuckled.

“I didn’t do anything special, Dean. I just…”

“You did. You don’t realize it.” He reached past you, grabbing for his wallet he had set on your bedside table. You watched him curiously as he opened it and pulled out a worn, yellowed paper that had been folded over a few times.

“Is that-” As he unfolded it, even though the ink had faded over time, ten familiar digits were scrawled in your handwriting.

“My good luck charm,” he boasted. You laughed and rolled on top of him. “Got me through some tough times.”

“That number has been disconnected for years.”

“I know,” he said, a somber tone bleeding into his voice. Your smile faded, and you rested your head against his chest. Dean tucked the paper back into his wallet and tossed it, missing the bedside table. It thumped somewhere along the floor. He wrapped his arms around you, and you melted against him.

“I’ll get you my cell number before you go. Until then, tell me all the things you wanted to say over the years?” And for once, under the cover of night and in the warmth of your embrace, Dean felt safe enough to bare his soul to you.

---

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[taylorsfolkmoredress]

Heyoooo! May I request a Derek Morgan x fem!bau!reader fic? Derek has tried to ask her out on more than one occasion, but she doesn’t take it seriously cuz she assumes he’s just being his usual playful self. When Derek is doing something that takes him away from his desk, the rest of the team give her a little “talk” about how obvious it is that he ACTUALLY likes her and that they know she likes him too.

ok im actually gonna cry i had the PERFECT morgan fic going and tumblr shit itself while i was looking at a thesaurus! im gonna cry!!

wc: 1,122

tags: mild angst? i dont really think so but the reader is a little sad for a sec :(, flirty derek (duh :))), uhhhh thats it?? fluff? derek morgan x reader!

“Hey pretty mama! You finally gonna let me take you out for dinner tonight?” Dereks smooth tone gently called in front of you. It pulled your eyes up from the papers scattered about, starting from his firm waist and slowly climbing towards his magnetic eyes. He looked playful, and you knew he was joking. Some small part of you, one that you felt growing with every flirty joke or sweet gesture, wanted his request to be genuine.

You’d love nothing more than to experience a romantic night with Derek Morgan. You could imagine him sweeping you off your feet, pilling out all the stops. He’d treat you like a queen, and you longed to get to experience that, even if only for a night.

“Not today, handsome, but who knows! Maybe you’ll get me next time!” You match his flirty tone, throwing a playful wink in for extra effect. He smiled back and chuckled softly, shaking his head, and something looked off about the scene. He looked almost disappointed, but you couldn’t quite figure out why. Instead of pressing him, you just let your smile soften for a moment before returning your eyes to your work, barely missed the way his tender gaze swept over your hunched figure.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him move away, grabbing a small stack of files from his desk and making his was to Hotch’s office. You tried your best to remain subtle, but you know the others saw the way your eyes lingered on the broad expanse of his back. The shirt he chose today did wonders.

The sound of the door closing rang through the bullpen like a signal, causing Penelope to pull Emily from where they were sharing muted whispers and secretive glances. Garcia grabbed Spencer as she moved, disregarding his confusion for the situation entirely.

When the trio reached your desk, you raised your head and let your eyes flicker between them, taking in their behavior and sighing softly. You knew immediately that they knew about your feelings, you just hoped they would go easy on you.

Garcia, however, had no such plans. She seemed to want to get to the bottom of whatever thought seemed to plague her mind as soon as possible, but when the words “Why won’t you go on a date with him?” fall from her bright coral lips, your eyes narrow slightly in confusion and turn to Spencer.

“Listen, it’s not that I don’t find you absolutely adorable, Reid, but you’re not really my type, you understand?” His face grew redder with every word you spoke.

“No I- I’m not asking you out! I mean, you’re very pretty but- I don’t-“ You giggle and gently pat his shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. you let him know you understand what he’s saying, but the blush remains high on his cheeks all the same.

Garcia chooses that moment to take back over, not wanting to risk Morgan coming out and interrupting. “No y/n, I’m talking about our resident eye candy! Agent Derek Morgan!” Her words come out an interesting mix of exasperated and something akin to desperation. she continued before you could question her words. “He asks you out all the time, and you always say no even though you look at him like you want to ride away into the sunset together with him on a big horse! What gives?!”

A faint blush rises to your cheeks as she finishes speaking, and you glance down, fidgeting with your fingers in your lap.

“Come on, Pen, we all know he’s just messing around, he’s like that with everyone!” My words nearly cause her right eye to twitch and she noticeably nudges Emily to take over, hoping she can get you to see the truth.

Emily let out a quiet grunt at the contact, but she takes her cue regardless.

“Yeah, but not like he is with you, honey. When you aren’t looking, he looks at you like you’ve given him everything he’s ever wanted. He looks at you like you’re the first drop of water he’s had in decades and he’s dying to taste you.” Her choice of words causes a darker blush to spread to my ears, and my eyes flit between each person. They all look sincere, Penelope and Spencer nodding along with Emily’s words as she speaks.

You study their faces for a moment longer before bringing your pointer finger up to bite your nail. It’s a nervous habit you’d picked up decades ago, a young child with a need for control who took in out on their poor fingers. You’ve tried on your own to quit for years, but it never sticks.

“I just- I just don’t know, what if you’re wrong? what if you all misread things and I ruin our friendship somehow? I don’t want to lose him!” I bit a particularly painful spot on my nail bed and before I knew it, a strong hand was reaching down from behind me to gently pull my fingers from my face. Everyone around me, except the man behind me, stayed perfectly still, shocked by the silent arrival of the very man they’d been discussing so openly.

“Babydoll, you know you’re not supposed to chew those pretty nails. You don’t need to be nervous, lovely thing.” His words are soft behind you, a comforting timbre, despite the electricity that now crackled beneath my skin. “You won’t lose me if you say yes, I promise you that, sweetheart, You’d be making me the happiest man alive if you finally said yes.” As he speaks he turns my chair to face him, ending with his hands on both armrests, caging me in. I wasn’t uncomfortable with the feeling, rather flustered by how close it put us. His face was now mere inches from mine and I wanted nothing more than to kiss him now, not a single care for anyone around.

You couldn’t though, not yet.

“Well, Derek, will you ask me again? I promise you’ll like the answer this time.” I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back my large grin, but it threatened to break free anyways when I saw the bright smile he gave me in return. He wasn’t hiding his excitement and it made my chest warm with a feeling I’d been fighting off for months.

“Absolutely, Baby girl,” he takes one of your hands in his, bringing the soft skin up to his lips, “will you please, finally, actually, go on a date with me? I’ll take you to the best place I know!”

You respond with a kiss, finally giving in to the desire you’ve felt since the first time he called you ‘honey’.