#three softer worlds

[breathe-2am]

(Dare to be stupid.)

1209 - a softer siren - 10/?

[webism]

pornstar!satoru who knows there are a million eyes on him, he’s seen his view counts—the whole world has seen his form. He’s cocky, loves knowing just how many people have gotten off to the sight of him.

pornstar!satoru who, despite his infamous confidence, gets nervous when you walk on set and offer him your camera-ready smile. You’re such a pretty thing, the dictionary’s definition of perfect.

pornstar!satoru who can’t help but excuse himself before the shoot, so he can was his face and sate his nerves. Locks himself away in a bathroom just to pull his phone out and google your name—and god does he like what he sees.

pornstar!satoru who is minutes away from having to be balls deep inside of you and can’t help himself from touching himself in the bathroom. scrolling endlessly on his phone, pictures of you in different positions, different little outfits, looking fucking perfect in each one.

pornstar!satoru who cums harder than he has in months, in a porn set bathroom, just to the fantasy of his hand being yours. he feels like a sex-driven teen again, hands clammy as he washes them clean from the receipt of his desperation.

pornstar!satoru who is hard again the second he steps out to find you already naked on the scene bed. your skin looks satin soft against those sheets, eyes soft and lips softer as you watch him stalk over to you. consent checks and camera placement talk goes through one ear and out the other, he can’t get his eyes off you.

pornstar!satoru who forgets he’s a pornstar the moment his hands touch that sweet body of yours. he’s completely fumbling the scene laid out, the scripted dirty talk is forgotten the second his lips open. the only reason cameras aren’t cut is because the filth that leaves his mouth instead is more pornographic than the scene at hand.

pornstar!satoru who presses you down into the mattress in a mean mating press when he’s supposed to have you face down ass up. who would he be to deny himself a long look into those pretty eyes of yours? no way is he losing this opportunity for a paycheck he doesn’t really need.

pornstar!satoru who loses his curated pornstar persona the minute he bottoms out inside of you. his usual moans and groans are replaced with desperate whines of real pleasure. this is sex, he’s a mess of need and want and sweat and god do you look good stuffed full of his cock. he can tell you’re feeling it too, that something else, that electric eroticism that gets lost when you fuck for a living.

pornstar!satoru who can’t stop wondering what you’d look like pinned down in his own bed, away from the harsh light and prying eyes of the production crew. who has such a visceral feeling of dread knowing how many people are going to see you like this, fucked out and cockdrunk by his doing. it’s possession, a need to keep you to himself, sequester you away for his eyes only.

pornstar!satoru who cums ropes way too quickly. he’s usually good at holding his orgasm at bay for long enough to make a porno, but your pussy clenched around his cock was too much, your nails in the corded muscle of his biceps, your lips against his, your body in his fucking vicinity? he can’t help it.

pornstar!satoru who, after filming, invites you back to his for a drink or three, and gets swiftly rejected when you bat your pretty lashes at him and mention your boyfriend waiting for you at home.

pt 2!

[rizzanon]

Babysitter

a damian wayne and batsis! reader oneshot ft. jon kent | m.list

Summary: your brother forces you to take him and his bestfriend along with you to wherever you’re going

You had a plan. A flawless, well-thought-out, foolproof plan.

Step one: Move quietly.

Step two: Avoid creaky floorboards.

Step three: Do not alert Damian Wayne, resident bloodhound.

You had your hand on the doorknob, your shoes were on.

You had one foot out the door. No one in sight. Freedom just within reach—

“Going somewhere?”

Your whole body froze.

Goddamnit it.

You knew that voice.

You closed your eyes, inhaled sharply through your nose, and prayed to whatever higher power was listening that maybe—just maybe—if you ignored him, he’d disappear.

No such luck.

A second voice, softer but just as damning, followed.

“Uh, I told him we should just let you go, but…”

You sighed. Of course.

With a slow turn, you met the unimpressed stare of Damian Wayne, standing in the dim hallway like the world’s smallest, most judgmental security system. His arms were crossed, his expression far too smug for someone who had no business being awake right now. And right beside him, slightly hunched and looking far too apologetic, was Jon Kent.

You stared at them. They stared back.

Finally, you spoke.

“I knew I should’ve left through the window.”

Jon winced. “Sorry. Again, I did say we should just let you go—”

“But he didn’t,” you deadpanned, shooting a look at Damian.

Damian tilted his head, unbothered. “Because you’re sneaking out.”

You scoffed. “I am not sneaking out—”

“You’re leaving without me. That’s the same thing.”

“It is not—”

“Semantics.”

You groaned louder. “Oh my God, I hate you.”

“Likewise,” Damian said flatly.

Jon, still watching this exchange like a confused referee, hesitantly raised a hand. “I feel like I should stop this.

At the exact same time, without missing a beat, you and Damian both turned to him and snapped—

“You stay out of this.”

Jon immediately took a step back, hands up in surrender. “Ah. Alright.”

You dragged a hand down your face, inhaling slowly before fixing your glare on Damian again.

“So,” you said, voice strained, “what do you want, Damian?”

Damian ignored your question. “Where are you going?”

You deadpanned. “Out.”

“Out where?”

“It’s none of your business.”

Wrong answer.

“Tt. Incorrect. It is my business, because you’re taking us with you.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

“No, yeah, I heard you. I just don’t think I should have.”

Jon stepped in, looking a little apologetic. “Sorry, he kinda roped me into this,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.

You gave him a flat look before turning back to Damian. “And why, exactly, would I do that?”

“To accompany you.”

“Why?”

“You require supervision.”

You stared.

“…I require— Damian, I’m older than you.”

“By an unfortunate number of years, yes.”

You inhaled sharply, clenching your fists. “I don’t need supervision, you little gremlin.”

Jon cleared his throat. “To be fair, I think he means he needs supervision.”

You stared. “You require— Damian, you’re forcing me to babysit you?”

“Tt. Babysit is a strong word.”

“That’s literally what’s happening.”

“I prefer guardian escort.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Yet here we are.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling deeply before muttering, “Where’s Alfred?”

“Out.”

“Dick?”

“Busy.”

“Tim?”

“Comatose, most likely.”

“Cass?”

“Training.”

“Jason?”

“Wouldn’t care.”

Your eye twitched. “And Dad?”

Damian raised an unimpressed brow.

“…Right,” you muttered.

Jon shot you another apologetic smile. “So, uh… that just leaves you?”

You let your head fall back with a long, suffering groan. “You are not going out with me.”

“And you’re supposed to be grounded.”

“That’s why I’m sneaking out, dipshit.”

There was a brief silence.

Damian let out a long, dramatic sigh, like you were the most exhausting person alive. “You continue to delude yourself if you think you’ll be able to succeed in sneaking out.”

“I hate you.”

Jon cleared his throat. “Um—”

Your expression softened immediately as you turned to him. “Not you, Jon. You’re fine. You’re good. Damian’s the problem.”

Jon blinked. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a tiny, bashful smile, cheeks just a little pink.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks?”

Damian, meanwhile, squinted. “What the hell?”

You ignored him, turning back to Jon. “See? This is how you behave, Damian. Maybe take notes.”

Damian’s scowl deepened. “I am nice.”

You snorted. “To who?”

“To you.” Damian snapped, like it was obvious.

Jon let out a tiny, poorly suppressed laugh.

You shot him a look. “Jon. Don’t encourage him.”

“Sorry,” Jon said, not looking sorry at all.

Damian scoffed. “So where are you even going?”

“Out.”

“Not without us.”

You stared. “No. Absolutely not.”

Damian just blinked.

Jon shuffled a little, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. “I mean… if you don’t want us to come, that’s okay, I guess…”

And there it was.

The puppy-dog eyes.

You winced.

Damn it.

Jon Kent had mastered the art of looking genuinely dejected, and it was so unfair.

You hesitated. Pressed your lips together. “…It’s not that I don’t want you to come, it’s just—”

“Great,” Damian interrupted. “Then let’s go.”

You groaned. “That’s not what I meant—”

“You’re not exactly convincing me otherwise.”

“I will fight you.”

“I will win.”

Jon coughed. “This feels counterproductive.”

You shot him a betrayed look. “Jon. I thought we were friends.”

Jon rubbed the back of his neck. “I do want to go, though…”

Your eye twitched. You knew he was being genuine. But damn, he was dangerously good at making you feel so mean. You sighed heavily, staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers.

“I hate being the responsible one.”

Damian smirked. “Then be irresponsible and take us with you.”

You snapped your head back down to glare at him. “That’s not how this works, moron.”

Jon stifled a laugh.

Damian just tilted his head, completely unfazed. “Yet here we are.”

You clenched your jaw. Closed your eyes. Took a very deep breath.

Then, begrudgingly—

“Fine.”

Jon brightened. “Really?”

You shot him a look. “Not like I have a choice, apparently.”

Damian’s smirk widened, victorious.

“But there are rules.”

You pushed the door open, already regretting everything. “One: No causing trouble. Two: No running off. Three—” You turned sharply to glare at Damian. “No murder.”

Jon blinked. “That has to be a rule?”

You looked at him, dead serious. “You’d be surprised.”

Damian scoffed. “You act as if I lack self-control.”

“You literally tried to stab a man at the grocery store last week.”

“He cut in line.”

“You pulled out a knife, Damian.”

“And?”

Jon looked as if he was used to this.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You are literally going to be the death of me.”

“Unlikely,” Damian deadpanned.

Jon patted your arm sympathetically. “It’s okay. Breathe.”

“I don’t want to breathe.”

“Understandable, but necessary.”

Damian scoffed. “Are you done yet?”

“Oh, I’m done,” you muttered, pushing open the door. “So done.”

And with that, you stepped outside, the two boys following close behind.

This was going to be a long day.

The night air was crisp, Gotham’s usual symphony of distant sirens, honking cars, and murmured conversations blending into the background as you walked down the quiet streets. The dim glow of streetlights cast long shadows across the sidewalk, but your focus was on the two boys trailing beside you.

Jon was practically buzzing with excitement, barely able to keep himself from skipping as he shot off rapid-fire questions.

“So, what were you going to do?”

You hummed. “What do you think I was gonna do?”

Jon tilted his head. “Go fight bad guys?”

You chuckled. “Nope.”

“Scout for intel?”

“Nope.”

“Secret mission?”

“Jon,” you laughed, ruffling his hair. “Hold your horses, kid. We’re doing nothing of that sort. Not when I’m around.”

Jon pouted but grinned anyway, adjusting the sleeves of his shirt. “Well, then what are we doing?”

Before you could answer, you caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of your eye.

Damian.

The boy had taken two steps to the side, eyes locked on the nearest alleyway, looking entirely too ready to vanish into the night.

“Oh, hell no.”

You reached out, snagging the back of his hoodie and pulling him to a halt.

“That goes for you too, mister,” you said, voice firm.

Damian let out an audible groan. “Tt.”

Jon blinked, confused. “Uh—what exactly was he about to do?”

“Disappear into the shadows”

Jon turned to Damian, frowning. “Dude.”

Damian merely sniffed, looking vaguely offended at the idea that he of all people needed babysitting. “I was merely about to scout the area for any dangers.”

You gave him a flat look. “We’re on a sidewalk, Damian.”

“And?”

You exhaled sharply. “You are not ditching me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“Tt. You have no proof.”

“I have a brain.”

Jon held up a finger. “Technically, that’s not proof—”

You turned to him, exasperated. “Jon.”

“Right, right, sorry.”

Damian crossed his arms, unimpressed. “So, what are we doing?”

You just smiled.

Luxurious. That was the only word for the place you were in.

Soft, ambient lighting filled the space, casting everything in a warm, golden glow. The gentle sound of water trickling from an ornamental fountain mixed with the low, soothing hum of instrumental music playing from hidden speakers. A faint scent of lavender, eucalyptus, and something faintly citrusy hung in the air, lulling your body into relaxation almost instantly.

You let out a slow sigh, sinking further into the plush lounge chair as the nail technician expertly shaped your nails. Across from you, Jon was already wrapped up in a fluffy white robe, a cooling face mask spread across his skin, and a woman massaging his shoulders. He looked blissful.

Damian, on the other hand, was sitting stiffly in a massage chair, arms crossed, looking like he was being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. His expression was set into a deep scowl, but you didn’t miss the way his shoulders had started to relax under the therapist’s touch—albeit reluctantly.

You smirked, wiggling your fingers as the technician moved on to buffing your nails. “Well?”

“Tt.”

Damian’s eyes were shut as if that alone could block out his misery. “You dragged us to a spa.”

You grinned. “I treated you to a spa.”

Damian let out another Tt.

You turned to him, amused. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying this.”

Damian scowled. “I don’t see the point.”

“The point,” you drawled, stretching your legs, “is relaxation.”

“I don’t need relaxation.”

“You literally live with Bruce Wayne. You need it the most.”

Jon let out a snort of laughter.

Damian shot him a glare. “Shut up, Kent.”

Jon just grinned wider, looking far too content. “Nope.”

You chuckled, letting your head fall back against the chair. “Face it, Damian. You like it here.”

“I hate this.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I loathe you.”

You didn’t miss the way his shoulders had slowly started to loosen.

Or the way his scowl wasn’t as deep as before.

“You love me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

Jon let out a happy sigh, sinking deeper into his chair. “I knew you had a good plan.”

You shot him finger guns. “Always do.”

Jon chuckled, then suddenly let out a little noise of contentment as the massage therapist pressed into his shoulders just right. He melted into the chair, the sheer bliss evident on his face.

“Aww,” you cooed, reaching over to gently pat his head. “Look at you, kid. Living the life.”

Jon made a happy little noise in response, fully leaning into the massage.

Damian scowled. “Are you coddling him?”

“Yes,” you said immediately.

Damian scoffed. “Ridiculous.”

You smirked. “Oh, I’m sorry, would you like to be coddled?”

Damian’s entire face twisted into disgust. “Absolutely not.”

You laughed, nudging Jon. “See? He’s jealous.”

Jon barely opened one eye, too relaxed to care. “Yep.”

Damian turned his glare to him now. “Shut up, Kent.”

Jon just smiled. “Just saying the truth, Damian.”

“You wish.”

You stifled a laugh, watching Damian attempt to shrink further into his chair, clearly regretting ever coming along. You were definitely going to remind him of this later.

The spa had been a fantastic idea—well, for you and Jon, at least.

Damian? Not so much.

At first, he acted as if he were enduring actual torture. When they tried to give him a robe, he scowled as if they’d offered him poison. When they led him to the massage chair, he sat down stiffly, arms crossed, eyes darting around as though expecting an assassination attempt. The moment the massage therapist placed their hands on his shoulders, his entire body locked up.

“This is unnecessary,” Damian muttered as you and Jon stifled your laughter.

“Oh, absolutely,” you said, leaning back as a technician buffed your nails. “Completely unnecessary. That’s why you’re staying right there and relaxing.”

“I am always relaxed.”

You and Jon shared a look.

Jon, his face already covered in a cooling mask, turned toward Damian. “Dude, your entire body is clenched like a steel beam.”

“Tt. I am merely prepared.”

“Prepared for what? A surprise attack by the scented candles?” you teased.

Damian glared at you, but then the massage therapist hit a particular spot on his back, and you swore you saw his soul briefly leave his body. His lips parted slightly, eyes fluttering for a split second before he forcibly locked himself down again, pretending nothing had happened.

“Oh my god,” you grinned. “You liked that.”

Damian turned his head away, nose upturned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

But he did shift ever so slightly to let the massage therapist work deeper into his back. You and Jon exchanged victorious smirks but wisely didn’t comment further.

Well—except for Jon’s quiet, “Told you you’d like it.”

Damian kicked him under the table.

After a tedious amount of time, Damian had finally let himself relax. Not entirely—he was still Damian, after all—but enough that he no longer looked like he wanted to eviscerate someone.

Jon, meanwhile, had been living the dream since the moment you arrived. You’d made sure to book an extensive package for him, complete with a massage, a face mask, a manicure, and even a foot scrub.

The problem?

Jon’s Kryptonian genes.

The poor spa technicians had no idea what they had signed up for.

It started when they tried using a gua sha stone on his face.

The second they dragged the tool across his cheek, there was a horrifying screech—the sound of something hard scraping against something impenetrable.

The esthetician froze, blinking at the gua sha in her hand.

Jon winced. “Uh…”

Then she tried again. More forcefully.

SCCCRRREEEEEEE—

Damian cringed as the sound echoed through the room, making your ears ring. “That is unbearable.”

“I—I don’t think it’s supposed to sound like that,” Jon said weakly.

The esthetician, determined, switched to a jade roller.

The exact same thing happened.

“Okay,” the woman murmured, frowning. “We’ll, uh, circle back to that.”

Then came the body scrub.

Which was supposed to be exfoliating.

Except the scrub was doing nothing.

Jon, ever the polite one, just smiled sheepishly as the technician literally pushed down with all her strength, trying to get some kind of reaction.

“…You don’t feel anything?” she asked, breathless.

“Uh.” Jon paused. “I mean. It’s kinda nice?”

Damian looked deeply entertained. “This is absurd.”

You nudged him. “You’re absurd.”

“Tt.”

Then came the nail buffing.

Oh, the nail buffing.

The technician tasked with filing Jon’s nails was genuinely putting her whole body into it. You could see her arm muscles flexing as she went back and forth, desperately trying to shape his nails with an emery board that had already worn down to nothing.

At one point, she wiped her forehead. “Are you sure you’re not wearing, like… armor?”

Jon laughed nervously. “Nope, this is, uh, all-natural.”

The woman blinked. Then, deciding to just accept that reality was being weird today, simply nodded.

“Alright,” she said. “We’ll… figure something out.”

Jon beamed. “Thanks!”

You patted his head. “Good job, buddy.”

Jon grinned. “I think this is nice.”

And truly, it was. You were finally getting a break, Damian had sort of warmed up to the experience, and Jon was having the time of his life.

It was peaceful.

It was relaxing.

It was exactly what you needed.

So, of course, something had to go wrong.

The peace was shattered by the sound of screaming outside.

Your head snapped toward the spa entrance just in time to see a group of civilians running past in a panic. Then—explosions.

And the unmistakable whir of something mechanical.

You bolted upright.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Jon was already standing, ripping the robe off and revealing his Superboy costume underneath.

Damian, meanwhile, pulled a full Batman move by seemingly materializing his utility belt and weapons out of nowhere.

Before you could even say anything, the two boys were gone—leaping straight out the spa’s open balcony.

You turned to the wide-eyed spa staff, letting out a long sigh.

“Boys being boys, am I right?” You forced a smile, desperately trying to cover up the awkwardness of the situation. “They’re die-hard fans for action. Can’t help themselves.”

For a brief moment, the room was silent as the estheticians exchanged confused glances.

Then, in the most awkward and abrupt way possible, you scrambled to grab your purse, fumbling around as you threw an absolutely ridiculous sum of cash onto the counter—enough to more than cover the treatments, plus a hefty tip for the staff that definitely deserved more than a little credit for surviving this spa chaos.

The technicians just stared at the money, stunned into silence.

You didn’t stick around for questions.

You bolted after the two boys—still wrapped in your robe, your hair tied up in a towel, and your face mask half-finished.

You were praying—praying—that the day would somehow not end up on the news—though you knew full well that was already a lost cause. But hey, at least you were going to have one heck of a story to tell.

You finally made it to the street corner, and saw Amazo-tech robots rampaging through the streets, blasting apart cars and sending civilians running. Jon was in the air, flying between them, lasers shooting from his eyes as he took them down one by one. Damian was on the ground, expertly maneuvering around, slicing through the robots’ weak points.

You were impressed.

But you were also trying not to yell at the two boys.

Because Damian was still wearing his spa robe over his Robin suit.

And Jon still had his facial mask on.

“Just once,” you muttered to yourself, laughing despite the absurdity. “Just once, I want a normal day out.”

But then again, in Gotham, that was never going to happen.

The Batcave had never felt so… tense. The lights flickered above, casting shadows that seemed to mirror the dark expressions of the adults standing before you. You, Damian, and Jon stood side by side, feeling the weight of their scrutiny.

Bruce was standing at the forefront, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his eyes narrow and calculating. Alfred, behind him, looked as if he were about to take away all your privileges for the rest of your lives. Clark had one hand over his face, clearly trying to stifle an impending headache, while Lois had her fingers pressed to the bridge of her nose, fighting the urge to explode in frustration.

The silence stretched on, suffocating. Then, finally, Bruce spoke, his voice quiet but stern.

“So,” he said, voice level. “Would you care to explain yourselves?”

Before you could even open your mouth—

“It was her idea,” Damian said immediately, pointing at you.

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me—”

He met your glare with a simple, “You were the adult in charge.”

You gaped at him. “Oh, so now I’m the adult?! When I was paying for the spa day, you were more than happy to—”

“Tt.”

“Don’t you ‘Tt’ me, you little shit..!”.”

Bruce let out a long, suffering sigh.

Jon cleared his throat. “It all worked out, though. We saved the day, didn’t we?”

The adults all exchanged a look, their faces unreadable for a moment. Lois then shakes her head and pulled out her phone, tapping something before showing the screen.

It was a photo.

A civilian had snapped a very clear picture of the battle—showing Robin, still in his spa robe, kicking an Amazo-robot in the face while Superboy, face still covered in a facial mask, was mid-air punching another.

It was already trending.

Jon looked at it.

Then, sheepishly, he shrugged.

“…It was nice...?”

Clark just let out a hearty chuckle.

“Well, it’s a memorable way to save Gotham. At least you three enjoyed yourselves.” he said, earning a small chuckle from Lois.

Bruce closed his eyes, clearly questioning his life choices. He rubbed his temples as Lois and Clark just share a look. “….We will discuss this later. Go and get yourselves cleaned up.”

It’s safe to say that your grounding just got a whole lot longer.

i had this as a scene to write for undoing fate but it didn’t quite fit into it as much as i’d like it to so it became a oneshot outside of it instead (completely unrelated to undoing fate but you can imagine it happening between chapter 7-9 when they’re posted lol) but hope you guys enjoyed this 🫶

taglist (open): @k1arar3 @kingshitonly @rainnyydaysworld @ceridwyn3 @darkfaethedestroyer @blueiones @strwberryglass @lithiumval @thephantomdanny @eli-mayhaveatencats @rockyeatrock @dreaming-of-the-reality @shirp-collector-of-fixations @gneepgnorpsneepsnorp @skerbablo @dind1n @gwyneveire @yukixies @kristalag @greantii | ask to be added <3

[joemama-2]

it’s late at night. he’s already situated on the bed, seeing you come into the room with unkempt hair, you shirt has splotches of dried milk and your movements are slow. tired.

why wouldn’t you be?

an energetic three year old who’s just like his father is hard to maintain. though you wouldn’t trade it for the world. “come here, baby.” he pats his lap, grinning softly.

you look over from where you’re taking off your jewelry for the day, in attempt to get ready for your nightly shower. “hm? for what?”

his eyes follow your every movement, patting his lap once more. “you know exactly why. cmon, daddy needs some stress relief.”

the laugh you let out causes his face to soften, admiring you in a way that’s reserved solely for his wife, for the mother of his son. “i thought we agreed you couldn’t call yourself that anymore.”

he adjusts himself when he sees you come over, crawling on the bed to situate yourself in a straddling position over his hips. his hands fall into place on the curve of your waist, thumbs rubbing small circles on the small patch of skin that shows when your shirt lifts up. “you did. i didn’t.”

“it’s cringey.”

“so?”

you huff, eyes rolling. he dips his head forward into the crook of your neck, planting a trail of warm kisses. “satoru, are you sure?”

“are you sure?” he asks, voice muffled by your skin. “i just want to pamper my wife after a long day, can’t i do that?”

“i feel hideous right now.”

he tips his head back, bright eyes staring back at you with an intensity you’ve come to associate with. the kind of intensity that lets you know whatever he says—he means it. “hideous? what did i say before, huh? i said don’t even think about saying stupid stuff like that again. and look at you now.”

your lips downturn. “don’t say that just to make me feel better.”

“i’m not,” he places a firm kiss to your lips. “you look beautiful every day, every second of the day. but you look especially gorgeous right now.”

you narrow your eyes at him, skeptical. “why right now?”

satoru’s lips quirk into a sly grin, his thumbs still tracing those comforting circles on your waist. "because right now, I see my whole world in front of me. the woman who gave me everything I could ever want—a family, a home, a reason to come back every single day.”

the weight of his words presses against the exhaustion hanging over you. it’s not just flattery. it’s raw and genuine, just like him, and it makes your chest ache in the best way. “you’re so cheesy, you know that?”

“and you’re so heavenly,” his grin widens, leaning in closer until your noses almost touch. “but you love my cheesiness, don’t you? admit it.”

your lips twitch, a small smile breaking through despite your best efforts to keep a straight face. “maybe I do.”

“there it is,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to your lips, softer this time, as if he’s handling something fragile. “that smile’s all I need to get through anything.”

the words wrap around your tired soul like a warm blanket. and for a moment, the weight of the day fades, replaced by the solid, steady presence of him—your husband, your partner, the man who never fails to make you feel like the most important person in the world.

you sigh, resting your forehead against his. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Wrong.” his voice is firm, his hands steady as they pull you just a little closer, subtly rubbing you against his clothed cock. “I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.”

and in that quiet, intimate moment, with the world outside fading into irrelevance, you believe him.

"now let me pamper you like I promised." he switches positions, hovering above you as you lay on your back. leaning down to raise the hem of your shirt, trailing sweet kisses and licks against your stomach—heading further south. your hips raise slightly as he discards your lounge pants, breath hitching in anticipation. hand running down through the streaks of his white hair, he smiles at the sight of your pussy hidden behind the grandma underwear you adorn.

hot breath tickling your core that leaves you almost jerking upwards for more. he kisses your clit through the loose fabric. “besides, mommy needs her fix too, doesn’t she?”

[nona-la-nona]

Okay, but...there's a reason Tamsyn Muir has characters like Abigail, and Palamedes, and Cassiopeia, and Issac be necromancers.

I need you to look closely at the ways in which the dynamic can be "yay!!! horrifying" versus "derogatory!!!!! horrifying".

I need you to remember the ways in which Wyll believes in the ethos of Baldur's Gate at the start of the game and what it stands for, completely unaware and unwilling to let himself realize that the city he loves so much cast him out.

I need you to remember he was canonically a prince.

I need you to remember that his father told him he deserved to be cast out and he believed it, implicitly.

I need you to consider that Wyll and Gortash are foils in the same way that John and Palamedes are foils.

Wyll and Karlach have that necromancer/cavalier vibe going on (yay!!!!!!), but so do Gortash and Karlach (derogatory!!!!!!!).

[littlelamy]

rafe x reader; she’s not you

when you stepped off the plane and back into the outer banks, it felt surreal. the salty air was still the same, warm and familiar as it wrapped around you like an old friend. you had been gone for two years—two long years where you’d distanced yourself from everyone here, most importantly, rafe. the boy you had promised everything to, only to leave without a word. but you were back now, and you were determined to reclaim what was yours. no matter what obstacles stood in the way, you were going to make things right.

your heart pounded as you made your way toward tannyhill. memories of late nights sneaking into rafe’s bedroom, tangled up in each other, whispered promises of forever, flooded your mind. you couldn’t believe you left him behind, left everything behind. but rafe had promised to wait for you, and you trusted his word. that’s why you were so confident walking up the familiar stone path to the house. you had no idea what you were about to walk into.

with a deep breath, you raised your fist and knocked on the large wooden door. a few seconds later, the door swung open to reveal a girl—sofia, of all people. dressed in nothing but a towel, her hair still wet and hanging loosely over her shoulders, she looked just as surprised to see you as you were to see her.

her confusion was written all over her face. “uh… can I help you?” she asked, clutching the towel tighter around her body, clearly taken aback.

you blinked, trying to process what you were seeing. “i… i think i have the wrong house,” you stammered, but you knew that was lie. your heart sank, and before you could say anything else, you heard a familiar voice call out from behind her.

“baby, who’s at the door?”

the world felt like it had been yanked out from under you as rafe stepped into view, his voice trailing off as his eyes locked onto yours. you could see the shock flicker across his face, but it was quickly masked by something darker—anger, hurt, and maybe a little confusion. you felt the bile rise in your throat. the rafe you had left behind was with her now?

“rafe…” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you stepped back from the door in disgust.

rafe’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might say something, but he didn’t. instead, he just stood there, staring at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there. the tension between the three of you was palpable, and you couldn’t stand it anymore.

you turned on your heel and walked away, feeling like the ground beneath you had crumbled. how could he move on so easily? he had promised you forever, and now here he was, with someone else. you weren’t dumb..you knew that you left him but, damn, why her.

as you made your way back home, your emotions were a whirlwind—anger, pain, regret. but most of all, you were determined. this wasn’t over, not by a long shot. rafe cameron was yours, and you were going to make sure he remembered that.

later that night, you were back in your childhood home, sitting on the porch and trying to collect your thoughts. everything felt so wrong. you’d pictured this day for months, how you’d walk into rafe’s life again, and things would fall into place like they were meant to. but instead, you were faced with the reality that he had moved on.

suddenly, you heard footsteps approaching. your heart skipped a beat as you saw rafe walking up the path to your house. he looked conflicted, torn between anger and something else—something softer. you stood up as he reached the porch, not sure what to say, but knowing that whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be easy.

“what the hell are you doing here?” his voice was low, rough with emotion. he shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes scanning your face, like he was trying to figure out if you were real.

“i came back,” you said simply, meeting his gaze. “for you.”

he laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “for me? after two years of silence, you just show up and expect everything to be the same?”

your chest tightened. “rafe, i—”

“no, you don’t get to walk away and then come back whenever it’s convenient for you,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “you promised me forever, and then you left. do you know what that did to me?”

the pain in his voice was clear, and it hurt to hear. you took a step forward, your eyes pleading. “i had to leave, rafe. I didn’t have a choice.”

“you always have a choice,” he snapped, his voice hard as he stared at you. but then his expression softened slightly, and for a moment, you saw the rafe you once knew, the one who would have moved mountains for you. “you said you’d marry me. we had a plan. and then you just disappeared.”

your heart ached as you reached out, resting your hand on his chest. “i know i hurt you. but I never stopped loving you. I never will.”

rafe’s breath hitched, and for a moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning. his eyes darkened with desire as he looked down at you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. “you think you can just come back and say all the right things and i’ll forget what you did?” he whispered, his voice low and dangerous.

“no,” you whispered back, your lips inches from his. “but i can make you remember why we’re meant to be.”

before he could respond, you pressed your lips to his, desperate and hungry. rafe groaned against your mouth, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you closer. the kiss was hot, intense, fueled by the passion and anger that had been building between you for the past two years. it felt like fire—like everything you’d been missing was suddenly right there, burning between you.

when he finally pulled back, his breathing was ragged, and his eyes were full of lust. “you think you can fix everything with a kiss?” he asked, his voice rough.

“no,” you said, breathless. “but it’s a start.”

rafe growled, gripping your hips and pulling you flush against him. you could feel the heat radiating off his body, the tension between you building to a fever pitch. “you left me,” he repeated, his hands digging into your skin. “and now you think you can just come back and take what’s yours?”

you stared up at him, your heart racing. “i don’t think, rafe. i know.”

the tension between you and Rafe was like a live wire. he had come over with every intention of confronting you, of demanding answers, but as soon as he laid eyes on you, all those old feelings came rushing back. he was torn between his anger and the desire that had never really gone away. as he stood in your bedroom later that night, watching you peel off your dress and reveal the lacy underwear beneath, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

“fuck, you look even better than I remember,” he muttered, stepping forward and running his hands down your sides. you shivered at his touch, your body aching for him.

rafe leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “i’ve thought about this moment every damn day since you left. you have no idea how many nights i’ve spent imagining you right here, under me, begging for it.”

you whimpered, the sound escaping your lips as you tilted your head back, giving him more access to your neck. his hands roamed over your body, possessive and demanding as he pushed you onto the bed, his eyes dark with desire.

he stood over you for a moment, drinking in the sight of you laid out before him. the skirt of your dress was flipped up, your legs spread wide, and your lacy thong pulled to the side. you were already soaked, your body desperate for him.

“please, rafe,” you moaned, your voice full of need. “i need you.”

a cocky smirk played on his lips as he slid his hand down between your legs, teasing you, running his fingers over your dripping, puffy folds. “you want me, baby?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

you nodded, biting your lip as your hips bucked toward his hand. “yes, please…i want you so bad.”

rafe’s smirk deepened as he lowered himself onto the bed, positioning himself between your thighs. he dragged his tongue slowly up your slit, savoring the taste of you as you moaned loudly. his grip on your hips tightened as he licked and sucked at your swollen clit, his cock straining painfully against his pants.

“fuck, you taste so good,” he groaned, his voice muffled against your slick skin. “i’ve missed this. I’ve missed you.”

your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as your body writhed beneath him. the pleasure was overwhelming, the years of pent-up frustration finally finding release as Rafe devoured you like a man starved.

“rafe, please…i need you inside me,” you gasped, your body trembling with need.

he pulled back just enough to look up at you, his lips glistening with your wetness. “you’re mine,” he growled, his eyes dark and dangerous. “don’t you ever forget that.”

you nodded, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he stood up and quickly discarded his clothes. his cock was hard, already leaking pre-cum as he positioned himself at your entrance.

without another word, he thrust inside you, filling you completely in one swift, hard motion. you cried out, your body arching up to meet his as he began to move, his pace fast and demanding. every thrust was a reminder of what you had left behind, of everything you had both lost in the years apart. but now, with him inside you, it felt like nothing had changed—like you were right back where you belonged.

rafe’s hands gripped your hips as he pounded into you, his eyes locked on yours, the intensity between you palpable. “you’re mine,” he repeated, his voice low and possessive. “i don’t care where you’ve been, what you’ve done. you’ll always be mine.”

your breath hitched at his words, a shiver running down your spine. It wasn’t just about the sex—it was about everything you had shared, everything you had promised each other. and now, in this moment, you knew there was no going back. he was right. you were his, and nothing was going to change that.

as the pleasure built, your moans grew louder, your nails digging into his back as you held onto him. “rafe,” you gasped, “i’m—”

“i know, princess,” he groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he felt you tighten around him. “come for me. let me feel you.”

that was all it took. your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, your body shaking as you cried out his name. rafe followed seconds later, his own release hitting him hard as he buried himself deep inside you, groaning your name as he came.

for a few moments, neither of you moved, your bodies still tangled together, breathless and spent. then, slowly, rafe pulled out and collapsed beside you, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath.

you turned your head to look at him, your heart still pounding in your chest. “i’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet room.

rafe looked at you, his expression softer now, the anger and hurt replaced by something else—something you hadn’t seen in him for a long time. “i know,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “but you’re here now. and that’s all that matters.”

you nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you rested your head on his chest. for the first time in a long time, it felt like everything was going to be okay.

as you lay there, your body still trembling from the intensity of what had just happened, the reality of everything slowly started to settle back in. the warmth of rafe’s skin, the way his breath was steadying beneath you—it almost felt like old times, like the two years apart hadn’t happened. but you couldn’t ignore the question that had been nagging at the back of your mind since you arrived. you shifted slightly, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him.

“rafe,” you began softly, your voice uncertain. “what about sofia?”

his expression darkened instantly, his jaw clenching as he looked away from you. he ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. “what about her?”

you swallowed, feeling a knot tighten in your chest. “is she… are you… together?”

rafe’s lips pressed into a hard line, and for a moment, he didn’t answer. you could see the conflict in his eyes, the tension returning to his body. “it’s not what you think,” he said finally, his voice low and guarded.

“then what is it?” you pressed gently, not wanting to push too hard but needing to know the truth. “i showed up at your house and she was there, rafe. wearing nothing but a towel. i just…i need to know.”

he sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his back to you. for a long moment, he didn’t speak, just stared at the floor as if searching for the right words. finally, he turned to face you, his eyes filled with a mix of guilt and frustration. “she’s not you,” he said bluntly. “she never was.”

your heart clenched at his words, but you couldn’t help the flicker of jealousy that crept in. “but she was there. you were with her.”

rafe sighed again, rubbing a hand over his face. “i don’t know what you want me to say. you left. i was a mess. sofia… she was just—” He hesitated, searching for the right explanation. “she was a distraction, okay? someone to fill the void you left.”

you looked down, biting your lip as his words sank in. it stung to hear, but you couldn’t deny the part of you that felt relieved. “so, you don’t love her?”

he shook his head, his voice firm. “no. i never loved her, not the way I love you.”

his confession made your heart skip a beat, but it wasn’t enough to wash away the pain entirely. “but rafe, she was there… in your house. In your bed.” the thought of it made you feel sick all over again. “how am I supposed to just forget about that?”

rafe stood up, pacing the room with frustration. “you think I wanted this? you think I wanted to find someone else? I waited for you. I fucking waited, but you didn’t come back.” He stopped, turning to face you, his eyes hard. “what was I supposed to do? i needed something, someone to take my mind off of you.”

tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away, trying to keep your voice steady. “i’m here now.”

he stared at you for a long moment, his anger softening as he saw the hurt in your eyes. slowly, he walked back over and sat down next to you, reaching out to cup your face in his hand. “yeah,” he murmured, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “you’re here now. And that’s all I care about.”

you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes for a moment as the weight of everything settled over you. It wasn’t perfect, and things were far from easy, but you were here, with rafe, and somehow, you knew you would figure it out. together.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0

[connorsui]

Bound by Diamonds - Sylus x reader

Genre/warnings: pure fluff, established relationship between the both of you, teasing, sweet kiss, darry ring (a literal soulmate ring), no warnings …unless you want to say no to his proposal..

Synopsis: Sylus carefully plans the perfect moment to present you with a lifelong promise.

Note: the most expensive darry ring is well over 150 grand in U.S currency …that is the equivalent of $5 dollars in Sylus money

w.c: 2,119

VIP: @zanyssins (I thought u might like this ...)

The night felt like something out of a dream, the kind you didn’t want to wake up from. The streets were alive with the hum of the city, the faint glow of the streetlights illuminating the sidewalk as Sylus guided you toward the restaurant. His hand was warm, steady, wrapped around yours with a casual but firm grip that spoke of his protectiveness—a gesture you had come to know well over the years.

Sylus, as always, had made sure every detail was perfect. The air held a cool crispness, carrying with it the subtle scent of rain that had fallen earlier in the evening. His steps were confident, exuding the quiet authority that made heads turn as you walked into the grand entrance of the restaurant. You caught a glimpse of the way people shifted in their seats, straightening as he passed, their gazes following him with a mixture of respect and curiosity. There was no denying Sylus held power, not just in your life, but in the world beyond it. He had a presence that commanded attention, but with you, it was softer, more intimate.

The host greeted you with an almost reverential nod, leading the two of you through the dimly lit space. The restaurant itself was an oasis of luxury—high ceilings adorned with chandeliers that sparkled like clusters of stars, and soft music playing in the background, barely audible but creating a calm ambiance. Sylus had arranged for a private room, of course. He always did when it came to moments like these. Privacy was something he valued when it came to you.

As the waiter opened the door to your secluded table, your breath caught in your throat. The room was stunning—glass walls on three sides that offered a panoramic view of the city below. The lights from the skyscrapers stretched out endlessly, flickering like tiny diamonds in the distance. You could see the entire skyline, the towering structures glittering against the inky black sky. It was the kind of view that made you feel like you were floating above the world, a private escape far away from the chaos below.

Sylus gave your hand a gentle squeeze, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he led you to the table. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, that signature teasing note dancing in his words.

You turned to him, catching the way the city’s lights reflected in his eyes—those mesmerizing crimson eyes that never failed to draw you in. They burned with intensity, as if every emotion he felt for you was captured in their depths. You smiled softly, feeling your heart flutter as you nodded. “It’s far greater than beauty… it’s stunning.”

Sylus’s gaze never left you, a smile playing on his lips as he leaned closer, his voice soft and intimate. “And yet, as stunning as this view is, it pales in comparison to the radiance you bring into my life. To me, you are the true masterpiece—more breathtaking than any cityscape, more precious than anything im bound to give you”

He countered smoothly, pulling out your chair with the kind of grace and charm that was so uniquely Sylus. “Tonight, let me show you just how much you mean to me,” he said, his eyes holding yours with a deep, earnest gaze. “Because you deserve to know that, no matter where we are or what we’re doing, you are the center of my universe.”

Heat flushed your cheeks, but you couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face. “Please, if you keep talking like that you might as well make me believe in total perfection ” you teased, lowering yourself into the plush seat. The cushions were soft, molding to your form, and the table was adorned with a single candle flickering in the center, casting a warm, romantic glow over everything.

Sylus took his seat across from you, his long fingers playing with the edge of the menu, though his attention never wavered from you. “It’s not about being perfect, sweetheart,” he said, leaning forward slightly, the flame of the candle reflecting in his eyes. “It’s about being honest”

There was something in his tone tonight—something deeper, more deliberate. You could feel it, the way his gaze lingered on your face, the way his fingers tapped idly against the table as if holding back some secret. But for now, you let it slide, content to fall into the easy rhythm of your usual banter.

For a while, the two of you talked, slipping effortlessly into conversation like you always did. You told him about your day, about the little frustrations and victories at work, the mundane details of life that seemed so much more interesting when shared with him. Sylus listened with the same rapt attention he always gave you, his eyes softening as he watched you speak, a small smile playing on his lips.

“ — I would love for the both of us to have some peace together …alone” you smiled, leaning back in your chair, “I know everything has become so demanding these days – so, having something cozy as a cabin would be sweet”

Sylus tilted his head slightly, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his wine glass. “Is that your subtle way of telling me you want a getaway?” His smirk widened, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Because you know I’m always game for spoiling you.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips. “You spoil me enough as it is. Sometimes I think you’re trying to make me a little too used to luxury.”

He chuckled, his deep voice sending a shiver down your spine. “Only the best for my love. Besides, why wouldn't you think you deserve it. You deserve everything.”

His words were so sincere, so full of warmth that it made your heart swell in your chest. You looked down at your glass for a moment, trying to hide the way your pulse quickened under his intense gaze. “You’re too good to me, Sylus.��

His eyes darkened slightly, a more serious expression crossing his face. “I don’t think you realize how much I mean that,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

Before you could respond, the waiter arrived with the bottle of wine Sylus had chosen—a rare vintage, no doubt, something he’d picked specifically for the occasion. He poured two glasses with expert precision, and Sylus raised his in a silent toast.

“To you,” he said, his voice soft, reverent. “To us.”

You clink your glass gently against his, taking a sip of the rich, velvety wine. It was perfect, of course, just like everything Sylus planned. But as the conversation continued, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was on his mind, something unspoken.

It was in the way he watched you—his eyes never leaving your face, even as you spoke about the most mundane details of your day. He was always attentive, but tonight, it was different. There was a weight in his gaze, a quiet intensity that seemed to hum between you like a current of electricity.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sylus leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the table in that familiar, thoughtful way. He reached into his pocket, his movements slow and deliberate, and your breath caught in your throat when you saw the small, black velvet box in his hand.

Your heart pounded as he set it on the table between you, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows over the velvet. “Sylus…”

“Let me finish,” he interrupted gently, his voice barely above a whisper. His crimson eyes were locked on yours, filled with a tenderness that took your breath away. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment, the perfect time, the perfect setting, but I realized…that each moment I have tried — my mind couldnt conjure the right words out of my mouth …the right sentence ..or the right feeling ..everything felt out of place ..but tonight is different–this ring is different”

He slid the box across the table, his fingers brushing yours as he did, sending a spark of warmth through you. “This is a promise, sweetheart. A promise that no matter what happens, no matter where life takes us, I’m yours. Always.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as you opened the box, revealing a stunning diamond ring nestled inside. It wasn’t just any ring—it was a Darry Ring, a once-in-a-lifetime promise. You’d heard of them before. The kind of ring that symbolized true love, loyalty, and commitment. Sylus had chosen this for you.

“I… Sylus..” you whispered, your voice trembling as you looked up at him, the tears threatening to spill over.

Sylus stood then, moving around the table to kneel beside you, his hands gently cupping your face as he smiled softly. “You don’t have to say anything, love. The only thing I would ask is for you to please stay with me”

Your breath hitched as you nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks as you threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. “Yes,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “Yes, I’ll stay with you. Forever.”

He pulled you closer, his lips capturing yours in a tender, lingering kiss. It was soft and gentle at first, but as the moment deepened, it became more passionate, filled with all the love and promise he had for you. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in that perfect bubble of intimacy.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were sparkling with a mixture of love and mischief. “A promise ..more of a bound between our souls, don't you think?”

You smiled through your tears, the weight of the ring on your finger a beautiful reminder of his commitment. “gods, you say the most ..its perfection is what it is”your voice still tinged with emotion.

Sylus stood, helping you to your feet, and pulled you into a close embrace, his strong arms wrapping around you as he pressed another tender kiss to your lips. This kiss was soft and full of promise, a sweet punctuation to the heartfelt words and gestures that had defined your evening.

He guided you towards the glass walls of the private room, where the breathtaking view of the city seemed to sparkle even more brightly now. The air outside was crisp, carrying the faintest scent of blooming flowers from the terrace. Sylus led you to the private terrace he had arranged—a cozy space adorned with plush cushions and blankets, perfect for a serene escape under the stars.

The terrace was illuminated by a soft, ambient light from string fairy lights that twinkled overhead. The city lights below glittered like a field of diamonds, their reflections mingling with the soft glow of the lights above. Sylus settled you into the cushions, his hand gently brushing against your cheek as he sat beside you, pulling you close.

“This is where we’ll end our evening,” he said, his voice tender and filled with affection. “Just the two of us, surrounded by all the stars of the night.”

You nestled against him, feeling the warmth and comfort of his presence as you both sank into the soft cushions. Sylus’s arm draped around your shoulders, pulling you into a snug embrace. The peaceful quiet of the night was punctuated only by the occasional distant murmur of the city below and the soft rustling of the wind.

As you looked out over the city, Sylus’s gaze never wavered from you. His eyes were filled with a love so deep it seemed to shimmer in the gentle light. “In a world full of fleeting moments” he murmured, his lips close to your ear, “this is one I want to hold onto forever with you”

You turned your head to look up at him, your heart swelling with a profound sense of happiness. “it almost feels surreal…”

Sylus’s eyes softened even further, his expression a blend of affection and admiration as he pressed a final, soft kiss to your lips. “It's a reality I wish to keep you in”

The night stretched out before you, filled with the promise of many more moments like this. As you lay together on the terrace, wrapped in each other’s arms, the city lights below and the stars above seemed to echo the love and commitment you had just sealed with a kiss. In that perfect moment, you knew that no matter what the future held, you had found something truly special—a promise of forever, made in the glow of love and a diamond ring.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘∘₊✧──────✧₊∘∘₊✧──────✧

Note Part two: I wrote this while listening to Mario Kart Rainbow Road Music! Also a darry ring is a fancy French ring that once you get it — you must sign both of ur names that this relationship is forever and ever and you can't get a second ring for another relationship!

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

please please please more hockey cregan

Synopsis: You both agreed it was casual when you began this situationship with the Wolves’ hockey captain. It was exactly what you needed at the time. But, as time passes, it’s getting hard being a chill girl — because you're not. Every time you hear him tell people it’s nothing serious, it stings a little more. Because in your heart, it hasn’t felt casual for a while now

Three times Cregan tells people you’re not together, and one time he does

After weeks of waiting, my new modern!Cregan fic is here!! Sorry for the long wait. October was stressfull and busy (creating halloween content is fun but also exhausting!), and then my mom got bad health news and that turned my whole world upside down. I hope you'll like it <3 Please send more hockey au requests, i love writing them

Warnings: 18+, sexting (sort of), oral (f receiving), car sex, misunderstanding, men being clueless and blind

—

You: A little something so you think about me while on the ice 💕

You: [picture attached]

It was cruel, but you liked to tease Cregan before his games. Especially the away ones where he wouldn't be able to touch you after. Today, you went with a simple snap of your lace panties, the kind you knew made his dick painfully hard. 

Cregan: Fuck 🥵

More messages appeared on your screen. 

Cregan: Hate when you do shit like that 

Cregan: How am I supposed to be getting ready for the game?

Cregan: Little minx! 👿🖕🏻

You were tempted to send another picture, to push with the teasing. You could imagine Cregan in his bedroom, in his gray joggers, cursing as he felt his dick stiffen from the sight of your underwear. It was almost 5pm, and he needed to be at the arena an hour early for warm ups and some locker room talk. If he jerked off now, he would be in a time crunch for the arena. You didn’t want him to get in trouble. 

You: If you win tonight, I might let you take them off 

It was crazy to wear a skirt to a hockey game, but you didn’t think of the cold air of the arena when you got dressed. All that was on your mind was the after-game party at the hockey house…and Cregan’s delicious cock inside you. The Wolves were playing against the Lions tonight — easy win —, so he’ll still be full of energy after the game. In other words, tonight will be a long and fun night.  

‘’Aren’t you cold?’’ Rhaena’s eyes fell on your bare legs.

You shrugged. ‘’Nothing I can’t handle,’’ you brushed off. 

The reason you dressed like that was so you wouldn’t need to go back to your dorm to change. You could go straight to the party. At least you wore a sweater over your corset bra. You would get frostbites by exposing your nipples to the arena’s cold air. Not pleasant. Although Cregan probably wouldn’t mind warming them up with his tongue later. 

‘’You’re lucky Baela’s not here tonight,’’ Rhaena said, pulling you out of your naughty thoughts. ‘’She would have lectured you about the risks of getting sick and spiraled about how irresponsible it is to risk getting the whole campus sick. People will miss classes, possibly fail their trimester, and blah blah blah.’’ She laughed, perfectly imitating her sister’s softer voice with a tinge of scolding. ‘’Nursing school is getting to her.’’ 

Sweet Baela. You were curious how she’ll make it as a nurse if she continued being this stressed about sickness. It was sweet of her to care, but she really needed to relax. 

A group of girls came to your row and next to you. One of them had a hockey jersey on — a girlfriend, assumingly —, and the others were dressed casually. If you remember correctly, her name was Talisa. You gave her a smile, then turned your attention back to Rhaena. 

‘’How was your date with Luke? You never told me.’’

Judging by the smile on her face, it must have gone well. 

The hockey house was packed, the typical crowd buzzing after another one of the games. Players, friends, usual fans, and even people who didn’t go to the game came to bask in the afterglow of a win. It’s an ambiance no frat party can match. 

You walked through the crowd, expertly dodging a spilled beer incident as you searched for the Wolves’ captain. You saw some of the players around, shower-damp hair and a beer in their hands, so they must have begun to arrive at the house. 

While you waited, you busied yourself with a drink and sent Cregan a little teaser. 

You: Come find me 🍒💋

You: [video attached]

The video had been taken prior to the game. Just a short little video of you groping your tits, which were spilling at the top of your corset bra. 

Although he claimed to love all of your body, Cregan Stark was a breasts man. He liked to lay his head on them, suck on them — and come on them —, and to use them as stress balls. They fit perfectly in the palms of his hands. 

So, when you hit ‘send’, you knew he would search the house for you and drag you to his room. 

Standing in the kitchen in all his post-game glory, Cregan was laughing with his teammates like he didn’t have a care in the world. A joke about one of the rookies — they get teased a lot. His laughter came short when he opened your text, not expecting a fucking video. He held back a groan as he watched you play with your tits, wishing he had his hands on them right now.

Cregan must have been staring for too long because Ben peered over to his phone screen to see what had taken his captain’s attention. ‘’Ohh, nice tits! Who’s that?’’ 

Beside him, Jace took a look too. He whistled, agreeing with Ben.  

‘’Damn, is that your girl, Stark?’’ another teased, taking Cregan’s phone to get a better look and replaying the video again. 

Cregan shook his head, taking a sip of beer. ‘’Nah. It’s casual.’’

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

‘’Did you see my bra?'' you asked as you walked around Cregan’s bedroom in your panties and one of his shirts, searching for the missing piece. ‘’I can’t find it.’’

Cregan, still lying in bed, barely lifted his head to glance around. ‘’Eh, no,’’ he muttered, too lazy to really help. 

You sighed, hands on your hips as you scanned the room. It had to be somewhere.

He pointed lazily toward his dresser. ‘’I think it’s by my gym bag, over there.’’  

You raised an eyebrow. His gym bag? How could it have ended there? 

You bent down and checked, pushing aside sneakers and a Wolves hoodie. ‘’Are you sure? Because I see no bra here.’’

‘’Search deeper, maybe you should see to get glasses,’’ he teased, a smirk playing across his mouth as his eyes stayed glued to your bent-over form, obviously enjoying the view more than helping you search.

‘’Cregan, it’s not there! Maybe you should get glasses,’’ you returned, your tone showing your patience was running thin. ‘’Are you fucking with me right now?’’ 

His laugh gave him away, and that’s when you realized what he was doing. 

You shot him a glare over your shoulder. ‘’You’re an ass.’’ You stood, his shirt covering your thighs again. ‘’And I thought you liked my tits better?’’

“I do.” Cregan smirked, leaning back into the pillows, arms behind his head. “But they’re covered right now, and your ass is right there in my line of sight. So I’m appreciating the view.”

Before you could shoot back a reply, his phone buzzed on the bedside table. His smirk faded as he reached over to grab it, glancing at the screen.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, voice dropping to a softer, more polite tone.

You, too focused on hunting down your missing bra, didn’t even notice the phone conversation. Where was that damn bra? You could go home without your bra — you had other ones — and free the nips on the way to your dorm, but it was your favorite and you needed it back. 

Finally, you spotted it half-hidden under the chair. “Got it!” you exclaimed, holding the bra up triumphantly. “It ended up under the chair. Probably wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t flung it across the room like an animal last night.’’ 

 You laughed, but it died on your lips when you heard a woman’s voice faintly from the phone. Cregan’s mom.

‘’Cregan, was that a girl I heard in the background?’’ her voice asked, clear enough in the now-quiet room. ‘’I didn't know you were not alone.''   

Cregan stiffened as he fumbled for an answer. ‘’Eh...''

‘’Bring her over for Thanksgiving next weekend,'' his mom cut in, excited.

‘’I don't think—''  

‘’Sara is coming with her girlfriend, the more the merrier!''

‘’She's not my girlfriend, Mom. She's just... She...'' 

‘’Oh. Got it,'' she replied, the awkwardness sinking in over the line.

You couldn’t believe he said that to his mother. He could have said you were a friend. It would have been discreet and more respectful to you. But no, he told her you were the girl he was taking to his bed when he needed to empty his balls. 

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

Panties pulled to the side, you had one of your feet on the dashboard while Cregan was knees deep in the passenger seat with his mouth on your cunt. A symphony of mewls and moans was slipping from your lips, your head thrown back against the headrest of the seat. Going to the backseat would have been a smartest idea, but it was filled up with hockey shit and unusable. 

To make more room, the passenger seat of the jeep was pushed as far as it would allow, but Cregan was tall and broad — it was simply impossible to make it comfortable for him. He didn’t seem to care that it was cramped and that he could barely move. All he cared about was watching and hearing you squirm from his tongue. 

You gripped his shoulder, fingernails digging through the thick material of his sweater, needing something to grip as he sucked on your clit and sent jolts of pleasure up your spine.

It’s crazy what a 9pm trip to get In-n-Out can lead up. The puck bunnies who hung around the team would throw knives at you if they knew where you had him right now…

‘’I’m close— Aah, please don’t stop.’’ You pushed your cunt against his face, as if it wasn’t glued to it already. ‘’If you stop I’ll fucking kill you, Stark.’’

Cregan was very tempted to stop just to mess with you — he took pleasure in that —, but instead kept going, his stubble scratching your inner thighs as he kept his head buried between them. 

The jeep's interior filled with the sounds of your ragged breathing and the wet, desperate noises of his mouth working against you. You felt the buildup, that white-hot tension coiling tighter and tighter until it finally snapped, sending you tumbling over the edge. Your thighs trembled around his head, and your hips bucked uncontrollably as a loud moan escaped your lips. Cregan kept going, drawing out every last shudder, his tongue working you through the waves of pleasure until you were nearly limp in his hands.

He finally pulled back, a crooked grin curling on his lips as he looked up and slapped the crotch of your panties into place on your sensitive cunt. You winced and glared at him. Could he be a little more delicate? 

You watched as he opened the passenger door, getting out with comical difficulty. What was he expecting?

He moved to the driver side and turned on the car, swearing when he saw the time. ‘’Shit.’’ Cregan ran a hand through his hair, and searched for his phone, quickly typing a message to someone. ‘’Do you mind if we’re making a little detour on the way? I was supposed to pick Jace up, but we got…carried away and it completely slipped out of my mind. I’ll drop you off after.’’

Couldn’t he take a bus or an uber? You felt uncomfortable about someone other than Cregan seeing you like that — fucked out. You must be looking a mess with your panties going up your ass from being pulled to the side and your skirt all hiked up, face flushed from your orgasm. 

‘’Yeah. It’s fine,’’ you said with a forced smile, shifting on the seat to adjust your clothes and trying to regain some composure.

After a few minutes of driving, Cregan pulled up to the curb where Jace was waiting. He got in the Jeep, complaining about all the junk that was on the backseat while pushing it away to make space to sit. 

When he finally clicked his seatbelt, his eyes flickering over your disheveled form and messy hair with a raised brow. ‘’Were you two on a date or something?” he asked, his tone carrying a teasing edge, not minding his business. ‘’Because you both look a little messy over there.’’

You felt your heart rate pick up. Was this a date?  A date at a fast food place was not very romantic, but you couldn’t imagine Cregan taking a girl on a date at a fancy restaurant. It wasn’t him. He preferred simple things. 

But this was not a date. 

Maybe it’ll be one day.

Cregan rolled his eyes and shifted the Jeep back into drive. ‘’Shut up. We were not on a fucking date. We just got In-n-Out.’’

‘’And you didn’t take anything for me? I thought we were best friends, man…’’ Jace shook his head in disappointment.

The words stung, but it was his tone that hit deeper, as if the idea of a date with you was too absurd to even consider. It twisted something inside you, and you hated yourself for letting things drag on this long, pretending it was still casual when, in your heart, it hadn’t felt that way for a while now.

When you got to your dorm, you sent Cregan a text saying it was over between you. 

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

''I don't want to be mean, but what were you expecting?'' Rhaena said, lounging on the couch beside you and Baela. Her tone was blunt, like she was stating the obvious, and it stung more than you cared to admit.

You had just finished telling them how you had called it off with Cregan — if you could call it that. 

''Rhaena!'' Baela shot her sister a sharp look.

Rhaena shrugged, unfazed. ''It's known that hockey players don't do girlfriends. Clearly, he didn’t want anything serious; he just wanted sex. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have stayed casual for so long.’’

You didn’t expect Rhaena to turn on Cregan so fast, but it was comforting to hear that she had your back.  

Baela shook her head, letting out a sigh. ‘’They're not all like that, Rhaena. Don't put everyone in the same basket. Cregan had a girlfriend for three years before college.''

Your brows shot up. A girlfriend?  

‘’How do you know that?’’ you asked, surprised. Cregan never mentioned any past relationships. 

‘’Alysanne told me,’’ Baela explained. ‘’She and Cregan used to go to high school together. Apparently, he had a tough time after the breakup and never had a girlfriend since.’’

That would explain why he never brought it up. Any why he was always correcting people when they assumed you were his girlfriend. Maybe that relationship scarred him so much he was scared of commitment now? 

Rhaena scoffed. ‘’So it’s a valid reason to treat Y/N like that?’’

Baela glared at her. It was not what she was trying to say. ‘’Of course not. I just think it’s best to try to understand the other person’s side before jumping to conclusion. Girls are not the only ones who can get hurt from relationships, guys too.’’ She turned to you. ‘’What did he say when you told him you had feelings?’’

You looked down at your lap. ‘’I…I never told him.’’ 

Unexpectedly, Baela hit your arm. 

‘’Why did you do that for?!’’ You rubbed the spot, frowning.

‘’For not telling him!’’ Baela said, exasperated. ‘’Guys are blind as hell. They don’t pick up signals. If you don’t tell them you like them, there’s chances they’ll never make a move.’’

You turned to Rhaena, who agreed with her sister about needing to be straightforward with guys. So, maybe the reason he corrected everyone was because he didn’t want them to get the wrong idea because this situationship was what you agreed on? 

And they dare say girls are complicated and confusing… 

‘’Well, that’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’’ you concluded. ‘’Besides, if Cregan liked me, he would have said something when he got my text or called. He didn’t. Case closed.’’

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

 The case was not closed.

A few days later, Cregan was in the living room of the hockey house, hunched over on the couch with a controller gripped tightly in his hands. He was playing Call of Duty with Jace and was sorely losing. Every time his character took a hit, he grunted and smashed the buttons like he was trying to punch a hole through them.

''If you break the controller, you buy a new one,'' Jace warned, not even looking up from his own controller.

Cregan rolled his eyes. ''I'm not gonna break the damn controller,’' he snapped.

''Could've fooled me," Jace shot back, a smirk across his face. "Smashing the buttons is not gonna help your game, bro.'' 

Cregan grunted in response, and just as he got his character back on his feet, he got taken out by a sniper. Again. The muscles in his jaw tightened. ‘’Bullshit," he muttered, slamming the controller onto his thigh. "This controller's definitely broken. Let's switch, Jace."

Jace snorted, still lounging on the floor with his back against the coffee table. "Your controller's not broken, you’re just shit." He looked over at Cregan, who was glaring at the screen like it had personally offended him.

‘’Or, maybe our captain is sexually frustrated,’’ Ben chimed in as he wandered in from the kitchen, a bag of flamin’ Cheetos in hand. He plopped onto the couch next to Cregan, crunching loudly. ‘’You've been playing shit on the ice too, and you’re irritable.’’

Cregan shot him a look. ‘’I’m not—’’ 

‘’He got dumped by his girl, Ben,’’ Jace interrupted. ‘’So little Cregan’s getting lonely.’’ 

‘’First off, she was not my girlfriend,’’ Cregan said, setting the record straight — again. ‘’How many times did I tell you that? And second, don’t call my dick that. Actually, don’t call it anything.’’ 

Ben laughed. ‘’We should make you a Tinder profile so you can find a girl to fuck tonight or tomorrow, and we can have our captain back just in time for Friday’s game. What do you say, Jace?’’ 

Jace grinned, picking up on Ben's suggestion right away. "I’ll even help you with the bio, Cregan. How about, ‘Hockey captain, terrible at video games, but makes up for it in other areas’?’’

Cregan groaned, tossing a cushion at him. ‘’Fuck off. I don’t need a Tinder profile.’’ 

‘’But you do need to get laid,’’ Ben reminded, eating some more Cheetos. ‘’Why don’t you call that girl with the nice tits? You know, the one who sent you dirty pictures the other day?’’ 

His question was answered with the darkest glare.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°

The Wolves broke their winning streak since you called it off and lost every game. According to the whispers on campus, Cregan’s head was not on the ice. 

Baela tried to convince you that it was because he was thinking of you, but you laughed and told her she was ridiculous. If Cregan was thinking about you, he would have called. 

It wasn’t until the first fall of snow that you got a text from him, asking to come by the house to pick up a few things he had found in his room. Nothing worth going seemed to be missing, but you went anyway. 

The house was quiet when you got there. Robb let you in and said Cregan was upstairs. The door was open, but you still knocked on the doorframe, announcing your presence. Cregan turned, and you had to fight the smile from your lips. It’s been a while since you last saw him — you missed him. 

He greeted you with a hug, which you accepted. It was a brief but warm embrace, the scent of his pine cologne faint, yet familiar.

As he pulled back, you saw he was wearing shorts and a hoodie, a strange combo for late November. 

‘’Thanks for coming,’’ Cregan said, not really knowing what to say. 

‘’Well, you said you had some of my things,’’ you replied softly. The silence that filled the space was a tad uncomfortable, and you shifted your weight on your feet.

He nodded, remembering why you were there in the first place, and grabbed a bag — which contained your things. Cregan handed the bag to you, and as you took it, your fingers brushed lightly. A brief moment of contact, that sent a subtle spark through your fingertips.

The bag was light. Probably just a thong or two, and maybe a hair scrunchie. ‘’Is that everything?’’ 

He nodded again, but before you could turn on your heels and leave, Cregan stopped you. ‘’Actually, there's something else," he said slowly, his hand moving to rub nervously at the back of his neck. ‘’Can we sit down for a minute?"

You were momentarily thrown off by the request, but nodded nonetheless and took a seat on the edge of his bed, while Cregan sat beside you, leaving a small gap between the two of you. The last time you sat on that bed, Cregan’s cock was deep inside you and you were clutching his sheets.

‘’I want to apologize for how I treated you when we were…together-but-not-together,’’ Cregan began, snapping you out of your dirty thoughts. ‘’I didn’t realize I was hurting you when I was correcting people. I was just making sure people wouldn’t label us something we were not. I’ve never been with a girl outside a relationship before, so this was completely new to me. I didn’t know the dos and the don'ts, or how it worked…other than the having sex part.’’ He let out a dry laugh, then continued. ‘’I know it’s not an excuse. What I’m trying to say is, I truly didn’t mean to make you feel unworthy.’’ 

You listened as Cregan admitted his mistakes, and fidgeted with the hem of your sweater’s sleeve to keep your hands busy — to stop yourself from reaching for him. He hadn’t intended to hurt you, his lack of experience in situationships had gotten in the way. 

His words hung in the air, and you could hear he was struggling to find the right words. It didn't feel rehearsed, he was genuinely apologizing and opening to you. Cregan was never one to lay himself bare like this. Feelings were not something he often discussed.

‘’If anyone is unworthy, it’s me. You’ve always been kind to me, even when I treated you poorly in your face.’’

You took a slow breath, steadying yourself. ‘’It’s okay, Cregan. What’s past is past.’’ 

He shook his head. ‘’No. It's not okay.’’

‘’We both agreed it was casual. I should have known better than to expect anything serious…’’

‘’What if I want something serious too?’’ 

You raised your head toward him, meeting his gaze for the first time in weeks. 

‘’I didn’t ask you to come over just so you could pick your things up,’’ he admitted, his voice low. ‘’It was an excuse to talk to you, to see you…and hopefully fix what’s between us.’’ His hand inched a bit closer to yours on the bed, like he was considering reaching for you but hesitated. ‘’Being away from you made me realize what you meant to me and how important it was having you in my life, close to me. I miss your perfume lingering on my sheets and seeing your face in the stands cheering for me. I miss the way you feel in my arms. I miss hearing your voice, teasing me and making me laugh — I haven't laughed properly in weeks.’’ Cregan’s eyes were fixed on your face as he spoke, studying your reaction.

It was rare that you were speechless, but you truly didn’t know what to say. You came here to pick up a few personal items, and ended up listening to Cregan apologizing and confessing his feelings to you.

So you decided to make him laugh. ‘’I have to agree, your sheets do smell better after I’ve been in them. My expensive perfume doesn’t smell like sweaty balls.’’

Cregan cracked a smile, his eyes flashing with amusement. ‘’My sheets does not smell like sweaty balls.’’ 

They didn’t. 

‘’But they do smell better when you’re there,’’ he added, his voice low and his eyes never leaving yours. 

You tried to resist his charm and him, but he was just too good at working his way back into your good graces. With that irresistible northern accent, he’d flirt his way out of anything, his words always smooth and a little too convincing. And when he looked at you with those soft, pleading eyes and that crooked, boyish smile… Staying mad wasn’t exactly an option.

You leaned to kiss him, but before your lips could touch, Jace’s voice came from the hallway, asking Cregan about getting food. 

‘’Oh, Sorry. I didn’t know you had a girl over,’’ he said, pausing in the doorway when he spotted the two of you. It was clear he’d interrupted something, hence why he apologized.

‘’No just a girl. My girl,’’ Cregan corrected, making you smile.

—

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[lovebugism]

how abt eddie x shy reader , she meet’s wayne accidentally & she brings like sm food for the week he LOVES HER but shes so shy

a request deep from the archives that i haven't stopped thinking about since i got it hahah please enjoy xoxo — you spend a fluffy morning in with the munsons (established relationship, fluff, 1.2k)

bug's one year celebration ♡

Eddie rouses from his sleep like a king on a sunken-in couch. 

Saturday morning cartoons play on the TV just ahead of him, mostly on mute ‘cause you’ve got the radio going in the kitchen. Something soft and soulful and too low for him to hear. The trailer swells with the scent of something sweet, of syrup and cooked sugar. 

Speaking of sweet…

His flushed cheek rubs against the arm of the couch when he looks up to find you. He can see you just over the top of the counter, like a scene from a movie. You’ve got a bowl of something wedged in your elbow, and you stir at it with your free hand — half-distracted because your nose is stuck in an open recipe book on the counter. Your glasses fall slowly down your nose. You try to push them up again with your shoulder, but they slip back down a second later.

Your gentle humming fills his ears, and Eddie figures this is what heaven must be like. There’s no greater nirvana than this.

He rises and stretches and walks the very short distance to the kitchen. Still warm with sleep, he wraps himself around you, chest flush to the expanse of your back. “Whatcha doin’?” he lilts, muffled into your sweater.

“Cookin’,” you answer in the same tone, only softer and a little more sheepish.

Eddie breathes hard once. You think you feel him smiling. “Dumb question, huh?”

“Did you sleep good?” 

“Too good to be passed out on the couch for an hour.” He lifts his head to prop his chin on your shoulder. It bobs against you with every word. “You were supposed to be sleeping with me, by the way.”

“I tried. But then I wanted to make you breakfast.”

“Correction. You wanted to make Wayne breakfast.”

Your giggling is as soft and sweet as the cinnamon concoction you’re stirring at. “Well, I don’t want either of you to starve, actually. So sorry for making sure the Munson’s are taken care of.”

Eddie’s chest swells. His heart starts to warm so much he’s scared it might burst. He tucks his face back into your neck and holds you tighter. “Don’t apologize, sweet thing. ‘M just being stupid.”

“That nickname’s not gonna stick, Eds,” you tease, tilting your head until your cheek meets his wild hair. “You can stop trying now.”

He scoffs and pulls back from you. His eyes, still softly swollen with sleep, are wide and glittering. “Why not?” he shouts, a bit too loudly to be so close to your ear. “You’re sweet and you’re my thing— it’s literally the perfect nickname.”

“You’re thing?” you echo with a distant laugh. “I’m not a toy, Eds.”

“Not all the time—” His boyish giggling is followed by a scoffed breath when you elbow him with your free arm. You shove him away halfheartedly, pushing him out of the tiny kitchen. “What?!” he exclaims, laughing loudly.

“Get out of the kitchen!”

“What’d I do?”

“My french toast tastes good ‘cause it’s made with love, and you’re tainting it.”

“How? I love you more than anything in the whole wide world.” He gravitates back to you despite your efforts to keep him away. He plants a smacking kiss to your lips and grins wide when he pulls away. “See? Now it’ll taste extra sweet.”

You’re glaring at him one moment, then happily accepting another one of his kisses the next.

The front door opens, squealing in protest and rushing in the cool morning air. It’s unsurprisingly Wayne. His work boots stomp heavy on the carpet. He holds a greased hand over his forehead. “My eyes are still closed,” he jokes, voice deep and gravelly. “You two have about three seconds to stop touchin’ each other.”

Eddie scoffs but steps back from you anyway. “That was one time!” he argues boyishly. “And we weren’t even doing anything!”

Wayne laughs a sharp breath, just like Eddie had, but a little bit gruffer. He forgoes the petty banter and shoots you a smile — tightlipped, barely-there, and weighed down by the exhaustion of the graveyard shift. “How ya doin’, sweetpea?”

“Good,” you answer, shrinking into your shyness. “I’m makin’ french toast.”

“That’s my favorite,” the older man grins. “How’d you know?”

“‘Cause it’s my favorite,” Eddie insists.

“It’ll be done soon,” you tell him, all quiet in your sheepishness. “If you wanna get changed or whatever.”

Wayne heads to the hallway, stopping short in the kitchen to muss at Eddie’s curls and pat you gently on the shoulder. “Thank ya, sweetpea,” he murmurs, voice dripping with fatigue. His accent always gets real heavy when he’s tired.

“You’re welcome…”

Eddie doesn’t say anything until he hears the bathroom door shut. “So Wayne can call you sweetpea, but I can call you sweet thing?” he asks, features swirled with offense.

“It’s different!”

The boy follows you to the cabinets like a lost puppy. Then, when you have trouble reaching the vanilla extract on the top shelf, he leans over you to grab it. “No, you just have favorites,” he argues, passing you the small container.

“That’s not true!”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, still pouting as he leans against the counter beside you. He mourns the lack of your attention when you give it all to the french toast mixture on the counter. You spoon in the vanilla with a practiced touch. “…Are you staying over again tonight?” he mutters, shier than you are now.

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “If it’s okay with Wayne, then—”

“Wayne! Sweet thing’s staying the night— is that okay?” Eddie shouts before you can blink. The trailer rings with the volume of his voice.

“Eddie,” you scold quietly.

The bathroom door squeaks open. A grunt sounds from the hallway, a nonverbal answer you’re not totally sure what to make of. The man returns in the pajamas he pulled from the hall closet — a thin t-shirt older than Eddie is and a pair of plaid pants.

“I’ll make dinner before your shift tonight,” you tell him with a soft grin that neither of the Munsons can say no to. “I promise.”

Wayne makes another scoffing sound. A laugh, maybe. A smile hints at the corner of his bearded mouth as he pours himself a coffee across the counter — in the painted mug Eddie made him for Father’s Day, several years ago now. 

“Well— In that case, I’m afraid I have to insist on you stayin’, sweet pea.”

“Thanks, Mr. Munson.”

“Call me Wayne,” he tells you, playfully chiding in a parental sort of way. He gives you a pointed look over the cup he sips from and heads back towards the living room. “You’re feedin’ us too good to be so polite all the time.”

You smile to yourself and laugh a quiet, slightly forced laugh.

The sofa squeaks when Wayne settles onto it, sprawling out the same way Eddie had before. Too tired to reach for the remote on the coffee table, he watches He-Man re-runs with heavy eyelids.

“Alright, sweet thing— what do you need me to do?” Eddie asks with a clap of his hands, making a very pointed effort not to drop the nickname. You get all flustered when he calls you that — smiling softly to yourself and then ducking your gaze to hide it from him. You’ll have to pry the name from his cold, dead hands.

You turn to peer at him from beneath your lashes. “You dip the bread, and I’ll fry ��em?”

“Sounds like a plan, sweet thing.”

“Eddie.”

[mariasont]

That anon was living under a rock because your smut fics (all of your fics tbh!) I reread wayyy to many times, lol. But if you’re taking smut requests, I’d love to see more bimbo!reader and Hotch! I can’t get enough.

I’ll take anything!! But more specifically, their first time, all of that built up tension (that you write so perfectly!) finally breaks!

Anyways, I never send in requests but I saw a window of opportunity and had to take it, haha.

Third Date Rule - A.H

summary: the third date proves to be worth the wait when you and hotch experience your first time together. pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: 18+ MDNI, sexy time, fingering, oral fem receiving, p in v, they did not in fact wrap it before tapping it and it's not really discussed so yeah idk about that one, aftercare wc: 7.7k

This was so overdue.

Technically, it's only been three dates. Technically.

But if you count all the years you'd known him, the months spent daydreaming about this moment, the weeks of waiting while he played the world's longest game of restraint, then really, you should have had him naked ages ago.

And if Aaron (which still feels like a thrill to say — Aaron — because you're dating now and you can freely call him that) wasn't so stubborn and noble and insufferably gentlemanly, you would have.

But tonight was finally the night. The third date. The sacred, hallowed, much-debated, universally accepted gateway to getting into the sheets. And yes, okay, maybe you barely survived the wait without jumping his bones, but that's hardly relevant now. The point is, you did it.

And now you're in his lap, his tie wound tight around your fingers, his tongue deep in your mouth, and gods, if this night didn't end with him inside you, you might actually die. 

Like, literally. Heart failure. Sudden death.

This was premeditated. At least, for you. You moisturized like your life depended on it, doused yourself in perfume that could be classified as a controlled substance, and selected a bra that made your tits look so insane, it might actually be illegal in some states.

And then you spent an embarrassing amount of time picking the perfect dress that says oh, I'm classy, but also please take me home and rip this off with your teeth.

You pull away, just enough to see him. To take in the slow bloom of pink trailing from his cheeks to the tips of his ears, the way his pupils are so wide they’ve all but erased the brown of his eyes. And his lips — swollen and red from kissing you — part like he was debating how bad it would be to drag you right back in. You wouldn’t mind.

“Aaron,” you sigh, fingers burying into his hair, marveling at how absurdly soft it is, how freely he lets you have this piece of him. “We should go to bed.”

For a second, he locks up. Not hesitation but calibration, a body processing desire so sharp it might break him. You feel it in the way his chest expands, in the quiet exhale through his nose.

"This wasn't my plan for the night," he murmurs, voice softer now, not strained, but steeped in something much gentler. Something careful. "I wasn't —," He shakes his head, like the whole concept doesn’t sit right in his mouth. "I don't want you to think this is just —,"

"Sex?"

You can see the way he wants to argue, like he wants to carve the word out of the air and replace it with something that means more.

"Yes."

You can’t stop the stupid, lovestruck smile pulling at your lips. Maybe it’s the wine from dinner finally working its magic. (It’s not.) Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, all serious and earnest, like you’re the only thing in existence, and if he blinks, you might vanish. (It definitely is.)

A laugh bubbles up, light and giddy, body not knowing what to do with all this adoration. You lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, just to see if he’ll let you. (He does.)

“Are you serious? If you just wanted sex, you wouldn’t have spent actual years pretending my very dedicated, very expertly executed attempts to seduce you weren’t happening.”

His brow arches, but you see it for what it is — a stall. “Expertly, huh?”

"Remember that heatwave last summer? When I just had to eat a popsicle at my desk every afternoon?"

His eyes darken like the memory is playing in high definition behind his eyes.

"I remember."

"Do you?" Your fingers slip beneath his color. “Because —” You tilt your head. “I always seemed to finish them standing in front of your office —"

You don't even get to finish your sentence. 

One second, you’re speaking, the next, you’re airborne. Lifted clean off the couch, legs locking around his waist automatically, arms thrown around his shoulders like you planned this all along.

You didn’t, but you wish you had. 

Not that it matters, because he’s already moving, already walking straight to the bedroom.

You bury your smile against his jaw, letting your breath tickle against the shell of his ear as another giggle slips out. It couldn’t be helped.

"I really hope you know," you whisper, “that I am, like, stupidly excited for this. Like, counting down the days excited.”

Aaron sets you down on the mattress gently, but his body doesn’t follow right away, hovering over you.

"You're not making this easy for me."

You ignore him because you’re much more distracted by how insanely soft his sheets are. That was your first thought when your back hits the mattress, hair fanning across the pillows.

For a fleeting second, you wonder if he’ll catch the scent of your perfume tomorrow. If he’ll notice the ghost of you when he lays down alone.

Your second was that this is so not the time nor place to get emotional. 

But this is his space. His bed. His room.

It’s tidy, but somehow not sterile, everything having its place, but not afraid to be used. A book sits on the nightstand, a book mark sticking out mid-thought. A photo frame faces the bed, though from this angle you struggle to see what’s inside.

There’s his suit jacket from yesterday, draped over the back of a chair, a little rumpled. 

And maybe it's silly, but you feel weirdly honored to be here.

You should probably be processing this moment, what it means to be here, with him, like this. Instead, you take a second to admire the view.

The lamp softens the sharp lines of his face, making him look almost gentle — which is funny, considering how you hoped to be thoroughly destroyed by him.

Something expands inside you, stretching against the walls of your chest, something too big, something that terrifies you.

So you do what you do best. You deflect.

“I can’t believe I’m about to sleep with my boss.”

He doesn’t even try to hide his exasperation, his forehead dropping into the crook of your neck. “Sweetheart—,”

"What?" You giggle, letting your fingers slide through his hair, letting your nails rake lightly over his scalp. "It's true."

His sigh is nothing short of pained, but then he kisses your cheek anyway, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. You were starting to feel like each was a thinly veiled attempt to tame you.

"Please don't phrase it like that."

"Yes, Mr. Hotchner." 

Every self-satisfied thought evaporates the moment he kisses you – really kisses you.

It’s not just a meeting of lips but a focused intensity, tongue sweeping inside your mouth and suddenly nothing before this mattered, because clearly, clearly, every kiss you’ve ever had was just practice for this one. 

Your body responds before your mind can catch up, spine arching and he doesn’t stop you, just kisses you with a hunger that makes teasing obsolete, that makes breathing secondary to the way he’s taking from you, giving to you, all at once.

His lips wander, dragging across your jaw like he’s leaving invisible ink behind, pressing something permanent into your skin.

You hope you’ll wake up tomorrow and still feel him there.

Your hands move to the nape of his neck, drawn by craving, by the need circling inside you like a ribbon of fire.

It stretches outward, licking at your skin, threading through your veins. His hands hold you still, spanning over your rib. His breath fans over your pulse, and you swear he can feel how fast it’s racing.

You should be gloating right now. This is, after all, exactly what you wanted, what you worked for. A biting remark sits on the top of your tongue, but then his mouth moves, and he finds it.

That wicked, traitorous little dip beneath your jaw that turns your entire brain into pink, glittering static. He pauses, listening, feeling, before sealing his mouth over it again, tongue dragging over the sensitive skin like he’s testing a theory that he already knows the answer to.

Your fingers clench in his hair, a startled sound choking in your throat before you can stop it. And then, the bastard laughs. Not sweet, not kind, but low and sharp and smug because he knows exactly what he’s done. 

You had the upper hand. Past tense.

"There it is," he murmurs, pressing another kiss there, his tongue flattening over it just to make you squirm. "You want to know how I figured this out?"

You hum, or try to. But it’s pathetic because you’re barely conscious, every cell fried to uselessness by his mouth.

He mimics you, just to be an ass about it, mocking the dazed little sound like he hasn’t just reduced you to it. "You always reached for it when I looked at you too long."

Your mouth opens. Closes.

"Or," he continues, "when I stood too close to you at the coffee machine. You'd fidget, tuck your hair behind your ear like you weren't thinking about it." His exhale burns against your pulse. "Cute."

You gasp, a little offended, mostly turned on. "Oh, wow. Profiling me? At work? That's, like, wildly unethical."

"Didn't need to," he murmurs. "You were practically begging me to figure you out."

His mouth is perfect in the way lightning is perfect – striking, searing, and completely out of your control. It’s perfect enough that you can pretend not to hear him.

He sucks, slow and hard enough to tear a sound from your lips before you even know it’s there, something that feels like vulnerability in its purest form. Something you would never willingly give him.

His laugh is quiet, wrecking, as he pulls back, lips slick with your skin. "That good?"

His mouth makes quick work, over your collarbone, down, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses, down, branding every inch of skin he can reach. 

He stops at the neckline of your dress, and suddenly, you can't think about anything except how it's still on.

You want to strip it off, want to offer yourself up as a willing sacrifice, but you’re well aware that if you try, if you even reach, he’ll stop you. Or worse, he'll make you wait. He'll slow you down, draw it out just to watch you squirm because patience is his weapon of choice, because he lives for making you suffer.

His teeth graze the swell of your breast, just enough to sting, and whatever fragile grip you had on yourself disintegrates on impact. Your hands fumble blindly for his face, fingers shaking, needing to see his eyes.

"Please, Aaron.” It’s an exhale, a prayer. “Need you."

You see the ripple of tension along his throat. And for one tiny, blinding second you think this is when he finally snaps, abandons his tolerance and just takes you.

"You don't know how long I've wanted you like this," he rumbles. "I'm going to take my time."

You whine, frustration bleeding from your fingertips where they clutch his shoulders, fingers digging in like you can physically push him into moving faster.

He does not move faster. 

His hands slide up to the straps of your dress, as he drags it down with all the urgency of a leisurely Sunday stroll. 

Your mind is halfway through an exceptionally justified complaint about how slow he is moving when he folds the dress.

Folds it.

Sets it aside. Doesn't toss it.

And that may be the hottest thing he's ever done.

Because you know he knows. He’s always known. Known that your things aren’t just things — that your dresses, your heels, your overpriced lip glosses aren’t frivolous, aren’t some shallow indulgence, but tiny, curated pieces of you.

He has listened to you decide between two pairs of shoes that are, for all intent and purposes, identical. He knows jasmine is mysterious and vanilla is flirty, knows that you’ll debate your right to own the same three shades of pink. 

And instead of dismissing it, instead of rolling his eyes (though he does that too), he folds your dress. As if it matters.

You stare at him, somewhere between melting and spontaneous combustion, and he simply raises a brow. “Something wrong?”

"No." You shake your head for emphasis, voice a little too weak to get the point across. "Just thinking I might have to marry you."

His hands settle at your waist, fingers tracing over the pink lace like he’s trying to process it, like if he touches it enough times, it’ll confirm that this is actually happening and not some cruel illusion. His thumb brushes the scalloped edge, breathing shallow. You were pretty sure he’s currently having a full-scale existential meltdown over lingerie.

"Agreed," he murmurs, distracted, hooded eyes still glued to your chest. "I think the courthouse opens at eight."

Your giggle stutters, hiccups right out of you, because his hands are suddenly everywhere, roaming with no clear plan, just a man in crisis over how much of you he wants to touch first. His palms skate over your stomach, down your thighs, up over your breasts.

"So, this is all I had to do to convince you to do what I want?"

His mouth follows, retracting the path of his hands, rewriting, reworking, perfecting – because apparently, the first time wasn’t good enough, wasn’t thorough enough. 

"You think this is what did it for me?" His voice is hushed. "You could've walked into my office six months ago and told me to get on one knee.” A kiss, open-mouthed, starving, just below your navel. “I would've done it."

Six months ago. You don't know if you believed that.

Except now you're spiraling, backtracking, rewinding, piecing together little details like some lovesick conspiracy theorist with red string and a bulletin board. Every interaction, every loaded glance, every time he let you get away with high-level flirtation without so much as a blink. You thought you were testing him, but what if he was never fighting at all?

And before you can even recover from that, before you can file an official grievance about why no one told you sooner, his hands squeeze at your thighs, his mouth so close to exactly where you need him, and his voice —

"You're so beautiful."

His nose presses into the damp center of your panties, and your hands fly to his hair so fast it’s practically reflex, breath stalling in your chest like your body forgot how to function for a second. 

This is everything. What you've wanted, dreamed of, written in the margins of notebooks (hypothetically, of course).

It should be perfect, but suddenly, it isn't.

Uncertainty slips between the cracks, heat turning into something less solid. You don’t have time to find it, to name it, because he’s already there, already sensing it, already fixing it before you even know what’s wrong.

"Hey." His voice hooks into you, gently reeling you back from wherever your brain was about to go. "We don't have to do anything you're not ready for."

"No, I—," The words come out far too fast and desperate, and you can't decipher why it's so hard to say. "I do want to. Obviously." The nervous laugh that follows is definitely not your usual flirty confidence. "Have you met yourself? Because if you haven't, I would love to introduce you. Tall, devastatingly handsome — you'd love him."

His move curves, but his eyes stay patient and focused, giving you a second to breathe.

"It's just..." Another pause, another frustrated sigh. "I haven't been with anyone in a while."

"That's okay, we can take it slow." He moves so that he's hovering above you again, brushing a strand of hair out of your face, his smile just amused enough to leave you flustered. "How long?"

"May."

"May?"

"Yeah, like, May. Three years ago."

Aaron just stares at you, processing. You can see the gears turning, the little mental loading wheel spinning, his expression caught between stunned and deeply interested.

His fingers creep up, sliding under your ribs, just close enough to the heavy swell of your tits to remind you exactly where you are. What he was doing to you before you so rudely derailed this into actual conversation.

"Really?"

You pinch his arm. "Hey! That is not an absurd amount of time."

"No. I know. I didn’t say that," he says quickly. "I'm just... surprised."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

His lips part and he immediately shakes his head, exhaling like he's physically trying to dispel what just ran through your mind, knowing exactly where your thoughts were.

"I just mean — I don't know how every man you meet doesn't immediately worship the ground you walk on."

"Oh, well, they do." You smile. "But I was only ever planning on letting one of them take me to bed."

You reach for his dress shirt buttons, tugging insistently, but your hands refuse to cooperate, not properly communicating with your brain.

It's his fault, you decide.

He looks too good, and it was extremely hard to focus on anything but that.

You have no idea how you survived dinner. Or the car ride home. Or even the eternity it took to get past the door, because that was definitely a struggle considering your mouth was all over his, tasting the whiskey he’d barely touched, before he could even get the key in the lock.

You spent all night picturing this, the way his hands would feel in you, the way his mouth would taste, the way his suit would look crumpled on the floor.

Which, in hindsight, probably meant you were a pretty terrible dinner guest. Nodding, smiling, pretending to listen, all while barely holding back the need to ride him in public.

Aaron laughs, clearly entertained by your struggle, and then, because he’s nothing if not arrogant, he starts undoing the buttons one-handed, to be a show-off.

It’s rude, really. Because now all you can do is watch, helpless as he peels himself open to reveal golden skin, dark hair dusting over firm pecs, trailing lower, disappearing beneath his belt. 

Your manicured fingers glide over the broad expanse of his shoulders, pushing his shirt away like uncovering some lost Renaissance painting that scholars would kill to get their hands on — something that should be in a temperature-controlled glass case, not just here, sprawled above you like he belongs to you. Which, he does, because he’s just letting you do this, letting you look. And you look. He is art. No, better than art. Art is stationary, lifeless, some brushstroke interpretation of what beauty should be. But this, him, he is warmth and breath and muscle.

Museums wish they had something this valuable. They’d burn down in despair if they knew he existed just for you.

"May," he muses, letting the word roll off his tongue, turning it over in his mind. "That's an oddly specific answer."

You make a vague sound of agreement, mostly just to acknowledge that yes, technically, he did say words, but you’re too busy to actually care. Too busy with spreading your hands over the planes of his chest, with grabbing at his belt.

"You were hired in May three years ago."

Your hands freeze. 

"That's... um weird." A slow blink. "Weird that you know that. Weirder that you noticed."

You work his belt loose, tugging it free. It’s meant to be a distraction, a well-placed touch to shift his focus from his revelation.

But then your plan backfires spectacularly because he’s hard, thick, unreasonably big and suddenly your fingers feel useless.

Aaron makes a sound — half a hiss, half a laugh — and his hands snap to your wrist, catching you before you can explore further, like he knew you were going to do that. "It’s okay, honey."

"I—I don't—," You blink up at him, floundering, desperately trying to sound casual. "That's, uh, I don't know what that's supposed to mean."

Aaron’s smirk deepens, his grip on you slackening just enough to trick you into thinking he’s going to be nice.

But then his other hand moves, slipping between your bodies, sliding beneath the heat trapped between your thighs, finding the neediest part of you, and pressing.

Your whole body jerks, a startled gasp catching in your throat as sensation flares — hot, sharp, mercilessly good.

His fingers start to move, rubbing tight circles against you. Your hands cling, one locked onto his bare shoulders, the other pressing against his dick, desperate to make him feel even a fraction of what he's doing to you.

It earns you a groan, low and gritty, hips twitching against your palm, his breath is hot against your lips, his mouth hovering just barely out of reach.

"I won't tease," he promises, but the way he bites at your bottom lip feels like a lie. His tongue is quick to follow, flicking over the welt he’s just left, soothing the burn before sealing it with a kiss, just this side of messy. “Three years… that’s a long time.” His lips skim yours again. “For both of us.”

A pleased sound bubbles up from your throat, slipping between his lips, that makes it obnoxiously clear just how much you love those words. That is a sentence you’d like embroidered on a pillow. Maybe cross-stitched into a nice, elegant frame for your future shared bedroom. 

"Oh," you sigh, a smile stretching against his lips. "I really, really, like knowing that. That's, like, incredible news."

Your brows scrunch, and you pull back just an inch. 

"Just to be clear, though, you do mean in a wow, you've ruined me for other women way, and not in a I've been to busy for a sex life way, right? Because those are two different things, and I need to know which one we're working with here—"

Aaron huffs a laugh and instead of answering with words, his hands slip into your panties, fingers finding your clit without prelude. Skin to skin now, no fabric, no flimsy barrier. Just touch.

His fingers dip lower, dragging through the slick, indecent in how easily he moves through the mess of you. He makes a noise — nearly a groan, mostly a hum of appreciation, of possession — before he spreads it, smearing your own arousal over your clit, rolling circles.

"Oh, wow, sweetheart."

Your thighs fall open like you have no say in it — because you don’t, because every instinct in you is reaching for him, needing it like a fix.

And maybe, maybe that should be embarrassing — the obvious, shameless way you seek him out — but it’s a gorgeous kind of humiliation, a flush that spreads lower.

"Well," you gasp, chest rising in stuttering little pants. "Y—you kept me waiting forever."

Aaron hushes you with a soft tsk, his fingers pressing, stroking, coaxing you into sweet, mindless submission. Every movement feels preordained, like he already knows your body, like he’s a man who’s spent years thinking about this.

"I know, sweetheart," he soothes, murmuring it against the fragile skin beneath your ear, punctuating it with a kiss. "But I think I'm making up for lost time pretty well."

"I guess," you manage. "Th—that's acceptable."

Aaron chuckles, the vibration traveling straight into your skin. His lips descend, an idolization thing, but it’s the kind of devotion that sets you on fire.

His hands spread over your thighs, parting them gently.

Your underwear drags down, slipping over your thighs, grazing the curve of your knees, and then off. And suddenly, there's nothing separating you from his eyes, from the way the air licks over you, cool against the sticky heat between your thighs.

His lips part like he wasn't expecting to fall apart so easily. Like he thought he'd have more time, more control. And the power in it, the sheer, intoxicating power of knowing he's just as affected as you are, that this is breaking him open, makes your skin fizz, burn, ache for him even more.

If someone had told you a year ago that Aaron Hotchner, mister all-business-all-the-time, would be between your legs, staring at you like he's never seen anything more perfect, you would have said something nonsensical. Something about fate. Or destiny.

And you would have been right. Because you always knew this was a definite.

"Oh, honey.... You're gorgeous," It's almost a whisper, like the words were dragged out of him against his will, stolen straight from his lungs the second his eyes landed on you. His gaze drinks you in, head tilting, lips parting, tongue skating over the swell of his bottom lip. “I knew you would be, but…”

A sharp, sizzling spark races up your spine, white-hot and unbearable, but when it should tip over into relief, it withers into frustration. The kind that makes your body revolt against the absence of touch. Your hips buck, thighs squeezing as if you can somehow force the friction you’re being deprived of.

"Give me a second, baby," he teases, caressing his nose along the inside of your thigh. "Just wanna look at you."

His mouth moves in decadent passes, open-mouthed kisses pressed into your inner thigh.

Another kiss. Then another. So close.

Then he detours. Veers off, pressing his lips into the dip of your hip instead, dragging his tongue along something that is not your clit.

"So perfect."

His fingers prod through your folds, parting you, fingertips wading through the slickness pooling at your entrance. The sound that spills from him is sinful.

All of your muscles coiling tight, every inch of you scorching with unmet need and just when you think you're going to have to beg him, just when the words start to form —

He gives in. 

His tongue is there first, dragging a flat, broad stripe through your center, licking over every hypersensitive inch of you before looking up at you through hooded eyes. You swear you nearly come from the sight alone.

"Knew you'd be sweet."

Aaron doesn't waste another second, burying himself in you, mouth moving like he's been ravenous for this. 

His grip is firm as he spreads you wider, keeping you at his mercy. His lips wrap around your clit for a split second before he moves again, tasing, licking, humming, lapping up everything you're giving him.

It's messy. Wet. Dripping. His mouth moves as he tries to wreck himself on you. Each second convincing you that he wouldn’t mind suffocating here if it meant another taste.

His nose nudges against you, the angle so cruelly perfect it sends another violent tremor through your body, legs jumping against his shoulders. Your fingers grasp blindly for purchase, gripping the sheets, tangling in his hair, at anything you can reach. 

"That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs into you, words muffled by your pussy. "Let me hear you."

"Oh — " The sound falls from your lips, your eyes squeezing shut like you can block out the overwhelming pleasure if you just try hard enough.  "Oh, that's — "

Your hips stutter, thighs tightening around his face.

Aaron chuckles darkly, and you feel it more than you hear it, the sound pulsing through your core.

You’re not sure you have a body anymore, not sure you exist outside of this moment. You’re just sensation, just trembling atoms held together only by his hands, his breath, his voice. There’s no past or future – just now, just him.

If this is what it means to transcend, to be unraveled and rewritten in the same breath, then let it consume you whole. You could die like this, and it would be the kindest death you could ever ask for.

A single finger ghosts over your entrance, teasing but never quite committing. He dips in, just the barest of intrusion, and you shudder, clenching around nothing because it’s gone just as fast. 

He waits, just long enough to hear the next breathy fussing before finally spearing back in. Your eyes flutter shut, breath breaking apart in little puffs.

The sounds coming from your cunt should embarrass you, sticky, so shockingly loud that if your brain was working, you’d be mortified. But it’s not working. Not even a little. 

His hand flattens over your stomach and suddenly the pressure doubles, triples.

"Tell me, baby," he murmurs, "feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yes, yes, oh my gods, Aaron, I—"

Your normal senses have left the building. Packed its bags, hit the road, abandoned you to whatever dark magic this is. Because this —this isn’t how your body works. This isn’t how guys work. You don’t come from this. 

But here you are, hurtling toward it at full speed and all because he decided you would.

It’s happening too fast, the pressure stacking. Your thighs shake open, stomach clenching so hard it aches. Your mind is lagging behind, still reeling, still trying to rationalize but it doesn’t matter because your body has already made its choice, has already given in, has already decided this is happening, whether you’re ready for it or not.

"Aaron, I think—,"

Aaron just groans, finishing your sentence for you, lapping up your confession with his tongue,

"I know, baby." Hot air blows against your swollen clit. "Let me feel it."

It crashes over you, back bowing off the bed. Your body splinters apart, thighs trembling so hard you couldn’t stop them if you tried. The edges of your vision smear into nothing as the pleasure consumes everything in its path. 

His mouth stays on you, tongue and fingers pushing you through the aftershocks until you’re clawing at the sheets, until that pleasure tilts so far into oversensitivity that makes you unaware if you’re pulling him closer or pushing him away.

Your limbs feel like liquid, consolidating into every inch of your body, melting into the mattress as Aaron moves to be face to face with you.

He's looking at you like he's the only thing keeping you tethered to this planet, and maybe he is, because when his lips get close enough, you tug him the rest of the way down, crashing your mouth into his in a way that's all sloppy desperation.

You can taste yourself on him, can feel the way he groans into it when you sigh against his mouth, all soft and dreamy and drunk on gratification. 

When you pull back, your fingers card through his hair, fixing nothing but feeling everything.

"Oh my gosh," you gasp, dissolving into giggles, toes curling as you flop back against the pillows. "I knew you'd be good at that, obviously, but I wasn't expecting all that. Like wow, you should get a certificate of excellence or something."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you sigh dramatically, "Or like, a trophy, a raise, a sash that says best head giver in gold letters—," You pause for a breath, sucking in air like you just realized how winded you are.

"— and I mean, I've never come like that before. So. You should probably put that on your résumé."

When Aaron presses against you, you feel every inch of him. Thick and unfortunately still restrained. His slacks are a cruel barrier, the rough drag of the fabric catching your clit in a way that rips a whimper straight from your throat.

His teeth scrape along your jaw, then he's mouthing at your neck, sucking, teasing, marking you.

"Firstly," he murmurs. "I hate the idea of anyone else touching you."

An involuntary shiver rolls through you.

"And secondly," he continues, "the fact that they didn't even know how."

Your hands are frantic as they fly to his waistband, fumbling a bit, the last hindrance between you offensive in its existence. 

"Well, yeah," you sigh, looking up at him through fluttering lashes, glossy lips parted just for him. "I mean, you're literally the only one who's ever known what to do with me. That has to mean something, right? Like, cosmic destiny or whatever."

Aaron shoves his pants and briefs off, barely sparing them a second thought, and then he's back, fitted between your thighs.

"You already know the answer to that." His lips brush your temple. "I'm the only one who knows how to handle you. And I plan on proving it."

"Yeah, okay," you say, squirming beneath him. "Not gonna argue when that sounds like the best idea ever."

You've seen a lot of versions of Aaron. You've seen work Aaron, serious and bossy, looking at crime scenes like he can hear the evidence whispering just to him. You've seen grumpy Aaron, glaring over his coffee when you talk too much at morning briefings (but you know he likes it, he just won't say). You've seen soft Aaron, the one who lets you steal his jacket even though you definitely don't need it.

But you've never seen this Aaron. This post-kissing-you Aaron. Lips slick, still damp with you, evidence of where he’s been, what he’s done.

His eyes flick to yours, and there’s no shame, no rush to wipe it away. If anything, he tilts his head, letting you see it from a better angle.

"You're so handsome, Aaron." Your voice trembles. You don't even know if you said it out loud or just thought it so hard he must have heard it anyway.

"And you,” he murmurs, tracing his thumb over your cheek, “are so damn sweet, honey."

You beam at that, overwhelmed, so unbelievably happy that your thoughts are practically spilling out faster than you can catch them.

"Okay so I just need to say — this is so exciting, like, you do realize I've had a crush on you for years, right? And now this is actually happening, and that's just — wow."

You suck in a sharp breath, nails dragging over the thick muscles of his arms, across his shoulders.

"I mean, it's us, Aaron. Can you believe that? Like, I feel like this has been building for so long and now I'm just — gods, you're so hot, this is actually distracting me. I can't even finish my own thought —,"

You laugh, because you already feel so full of him and he isn't even inside you yet.

"And I know you're being all careful and slow because you're sweet and romantic and, like, the most perfect man alive, but also —,"

You grind up, chasing friction, his cock sliding just right over your clit. Your breath stutters, hands fisting at the nape of his neck as you try to remember what you were saying.

" — I'm literally at your mercy right now, so you should probably take advantage of that before I —,"

"You talk so much, baby."

And then he shuts you up. Hard.

His mouth rams into yours, ingesting the comment, the breath, everything.

He doesn't rush. 

The head of his cock nudges at your entrance before he finally, slowly, pushes inside.

It knocks the breath from your lungs. Your mouth parts against his, lips catching on his as a little sigh slips out. Your nails dig into his shoulders, helpless against the way he's opening you up. 

He stills, a sharp, fractured inhale slicing through the air, fingers digging into your hips — hard. He is struggling. You can feel it. The way his cock twitches inside you, like his body is screaming at him to move.

"I-I'm good." Your laugh wobbles, catches at the edges, barely disguising how badly you want him to believe you. "You can keep going."

"You're tensing because it's been a while." You don't mean to, but your body reacts before your brain can tell it not to, stiffening. Stupid, stupid. His exhale is shaky, and his lips press against your cheek. "I know that. I expected that."

You swallow, but it doesn't help.

"I also know that you think if I notice, I'll stop." His forehead rests against yours. "But I need you to hear me, baby. I'm not stopping."

His lips graze yours.

"I'm going to work you through this. Just let me in, princess."

And the second you do, the second you finally give in —

He groans, pushing deeper, stretching you completely, filling you to the hilt. 

"There we go," he breathes, wrecked with praise. His hand presses to your lower belly, feeling how deep he is, how well you take him. "That's my good girl."

Your head tilts back, lips parting, body doing the melty thing that feels really, really nice but also really, really dangerous because you swear you're seconds away from levitating straight out of your own skin.

"Okay, so I did think this would feel good —," Your fingers twitch against his chest, nails raking lightly over sweat-damp skin as another sharp moan tumbles free. "— but, um, wow, this is like — this is so —,"

Your words taper off, get lost somewhere between your psyche and your mouth, because oh. Oh, wow. He's so deep, so heavy inside you, pressing into places you didn't even know existed.

"Go on, baby," he murmurs, a smirk plastered across handsome features as he dips his head. "You were saying?"

"You know," you gasp, words all flimsy and loose, like they've been shaken up inside you, "I kinda always wondered how big you were —"

Your breath hooks halfway through, hiccups on a moan, brain scrambling to keep up with your mouth, your mouth scrambling to keep up with — him.

"Not that I, um — I stared at your pants or anything —" Another sharp inhale, another desperate moan, your walls fluctuating and squeezing around something too thick. "I mean, I try not to because I'm a professional —"

An involuntary clench makes him curse, makes his fingers dip into your hips, makes his head plunge forward hard against your shoulder.

"Honey, shit—,"

Your lashes flutter. "What?"

"Sweetheart, if you keep squeezing me like that while you ramble about my cock, I'm not going to last."

Your mouth clicks shut promptly.

"That's what I thought."

Hotch rocks his hips, just once, a sharp gasp fissuring from your lips like you weren't expecting it. 

"Jesus, sweetheart. You're trembling." He cups your cheek, his thumb skimming over your bottom lip, eyes dark and aflame. "Does it feel that good?"

You nod, and he hums, dragging his cock almost all the way out before pushing back in. 

His hand drags down your waist, spans over your belly, fingers pressing like he's charting the way he fits inside you.

"I used to tell myself I wouldn't do this," he admits. "That I wouldn't touch you. Wouldn't ruin you like this."

Your head lolls back, eyes fluttering, lips parted prettily, gasping as he rocks into you again, and again, and again. You shake your head, or at least, you think you do.

"You don't —" You try to shape words, but they liquefy on your tongue. "Don't ruin me, Aaron, you — oh, you make me —"

Hotch's throat bobs, his pupils blown.

"You make me so, so good, so soft, so perfect."

His hand cups your jaw. "You're already all of those things, sweetheart."

"Not before you," you sigh. "I've been waiting so long, Aaron, so, so long —"

"I know, baby," he groans. "I know."

His hand veers between your bodies, his fingers finding the swollen, neglected bundle of nerves.

“Aaron — oh, wait, wait, wait —,” Your hands shoot up to his shoulders. “I don’t know if I can, I mean, I can, but it’s just —,”

His cock throbs inside you, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he finds it again, harder this time, his fingers matching the pace.

“Too much?”

“Yes, no, kind of? I don’t know, I can’t—,” You choke on your own breath as another thrust knocks every last rumination from your head. “I can’t think.”

“Good.” His forehead presses against yours, his lips parting against your mouth, panting, his control slipping. “I don’t want you thinking. Just feel me, sweetheart. Feel what I’m doing to you.”

Your body is shaking, shaking so hard that you don’t even know if you’re moving or if he’s just pushing you through it. 

“I know, baby. But you can take it, can’t you?”

“Y-Yeah,” you stutter, body twitching. 

“That’s my girl,” he praises, groaning as he grinds into you, stretching it. “One more, honey. You can give me one more.”

It hits you slowly, unwinding through your organs like smelted honey.

“Oh, oh —,” Your breath falters, mind going blank, the pleasure overwhelming every nerve in your body until you can’t do anything but let it consume you.

“Christ,” he groans, feeling you clench around him so tight it nearly undoes him.

You barely register the way you’re gasping, twitching, babbling out breathless little moans, vision blurring, and for a second you think you might black out.

“That’s it, princess,” he rasps, fucking you through it the reverberations. “So, so good for me.”

His pace turns shallow, sharp, chasing the tight, perfect squeezing of you still thrashing around him.

“You’re so tight, honey,” he grits, hands bruising your hips, your breath still catching from your own orgasm.

You’re too gone to respond, too wrung out to do anything but whimper as he takes you, using your body to pull himself over the edge.

He groans, low and deep, his fingers tangling in your hair, his mouth ghosting over your cheek as he finally breaks.

A shudder, a muttered curse, his body jerking, hips slamming into yours as he spills inside you.

He doesn’t mean to collapse, you know that, because even as his body gives out, his arms brace, still trying to be careful, even now. You want to cling to him, lock your legs around his waist, but you barely remember how to move, so you just let out a sleepy sound, nuzzling blindly at his throat. 

He murmurs something low, something that sounds like praise, maybe worship.

His lips press to the side of your face, half-gone and still recovering, and then his muscles tense, trying to lift himself off you.

Your arms wind around his neck before he can get too far. 

“Sweetheart,” he rasps, “I’m crushing you.”

“Don’t care,” you mumble, voice a little hoarse. “Feels nice.”

“You did so good.”

When he finally pulls out, you feel the loss and everything that comes with it, his release sticky and warm beneath your thighs. 

Aaron disappears into the bathroom, and you barely have time to miss him before he’s back with a warm cloth in hand.

You giggle, squirming before he even touches you, already restless, and the second he presses the cloth to your inner thighs, you jerk, laughing helplessly.

“Oh, wait —,”

Aaron sighs, one hand pressing against your hip to keep you still. “Sweetheart. You have to let me clean you up”

“But it tickles—,”

He smirks and continues his work. “How do you feel?”

“Like I saw god actually,” you ramble, kicking your feet against the sheets. “Or, like, like, if I had to describe it, I’d say I transcended reality for a little bit —,”

Aaron just chuckles, pressing a kiss to your knee as he finishes cleaning you up. Each swipe reminds you that your legs might not be on speaking terms with you tomorrow.

When he’s done his mouth finds yours again. It’s easy to kiss him. If it were physically possible to stay attached to him, twenty-four hours a day, you’d gladly test the theory.

“Worth the wait,” he breathes into your mouth.

“Well, yeah,” you murmur, smirking up at him. “I figured it would be for you.”

He laughs.

“Yeah, baby, you were good,” he mutters, kissing right over your stuttering pulse. “You were so good.” Another kiss. “So good I’m already thinking about the next time.”

Your heart hasn’t even slowed down, and you’re already thinking about the next time. Already plotting, already ready to drag him back down and see just how quickly that next time could turn into right now. But before you can so much as tug at him — Aaron is rolling out of bed, pulling on his pants, disappearing into the kitchen.

You mean to protest, to demand why he left you alone in a post-bliss haze, but then he’s back, pressing a glass of water into your hand, watching you drink it like it’s his personal responsibility.

Then comes food, something light and something he feeds you between kisses, between lazy murmurs about nothing. 

At some point, the blankets are back over you, his lips pressing against your forehead, his voice saying something about getting some sleep before you got any ideas, before pulling you against him.

You hum, content and drowsy, shifting a little, rolling over to get more comfortable —

And then your eyes land on that photo frame from earlier. You had a clear view of it now.

It was you.

It takes you a second to place it, but once you do, you almost laugh. You know this photo — because Garcia took it. She printed it out months ago, probably as some ridiculous gag, and stuck it to Aaron’s office wall with a bright sticky note that read your favorite obviously. You’d rolled your eyes at the time, called it workplace favoritism, but he’d never taken it down. 

And now, somehow, it’s framed. On his nightstand, like he’s been looking at you every night for —

You don’t finish the thought.

Instead, you just smile, huge and uncontrollable.

He doesn’t say anything.

And you don’t need him to.

Because you already know.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[luveline]

missing spencer x stripper reader these days

—Spencer visits the strip club unannounced. fem, 1.1k

Spencer can’t be clinical about it forever. You’re a sex worker. He doesn’t care, but he can’t ignore it when you look like that. 

You’re standing by the bar slouched backward, your abdomen bent forward, an unsexy position if you were to ask a patron, but weirdly endearing from where Spencer’s standing. Your heels are completely clear. He can see your toes, their painted nails, and the bandaid on the back of your foot where you twist. “Can I have another water, please?” you ask. 

The lingerie is blue. Spencer loves blue. Three pieces, a bra, underwear, and a suspender belt holding stockings the colour of your skin. He knows this is just work, that he’s not being a good friend thinking about how pretty you really look, but it’s not just pretty. His ears start burning the longer he sees it. You shift your weight from one foot to another and your thighs looks soft. 

You take your new glass of water and press yourself flush to the wall. Then you level your gaze and see Spencer watching you, expression jumping from happy to confused to knowing. 

“Hey, Spencer,” you call, hard to hear over the music pounding and the sound of men jeering at to the left near the big stage. “Are you here to see me, or is it a pleasure trip?” 

He clears his throat as discreetly as possible and makes his way to you. The heels make you taller, your legs longer, and the lingerie reveals simple things he doesn’t often think about, the shapes of your breasts, the curve of your sides, your hips leading down… Oh, god, he thinks, feeling sorrier than sorry. 

“You okay?” 

“I came to ask you that.” 

You frown, perturbed. “Why?” 

“You didn’t answer your phone. I just wanted to make sure everyone was still being nice to you.” 

Your frown softens but doesn’t fade. “It’s broken.”

See, he’d believe you, but you used to wear this Tiffany necklace with a soft bevelled heart around your neck until recently, when you told Spencer you lost it, and showed him your second tell. When you’re in pain, your hands tend to strain from you, pushed out and fingers curling. When you lie, you smile too soon, and your eyes catch on the freckles on his nose. 

He pulls open his messenger back and sorts through papers for the black and silver mobile. It’s his emergency phone; should something ever happen to the first, he still wants to be able to contact the outside world. “Here,” he says, offering it to you. 

You’re still. “I can’t take your phone.” 

“It’s a spare. A burner phone? I bought it for emergencies, and this could be one.” 

“Spencer, I can’t…” 

“Please, will you? I’ll get another one.” 

You need a phone. Maybe ten years ago you could get by without one, but you need a phone to arrange bills, talk to your landlord, your boss, your doctor, whatever. Being without one in an emergency could mean bad things. 

You take it, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“It’s not very fast,” he says. “There’s a prepaid sim in there for now, but I can get you a real one.” 

“I can do that. Thank you, Spencer. I’ll pay you back.” 

“I don’t want you to pay me back,” he says with a real smile. 

“I could pay you back… with a dance?” You lean across to tap his elbow. “I saw you looking at me, Spencer Reid. We can go somewhere private.” 

Suddenly, it’s like the air in the room is being sucked out, leaving him, and you, and your beautiful bare skin alone in a tight space. 

He raises the arm you’ve tapped to tap you back. “You’re beautiful,” he says, sure you can see the blood in his cheeks, “but I don’t need anything from you. I want you to have the phone because I know you walk home by yourself most nights, it’s not so you owe me. You don’t owe me anything.” 

He shouldn’t have added that last part. He’s worried you’ll be angry with him for saying something that might embarrass you, but you give him a softer smile. Real, and nothing like the playful fire you’d held when you were offering a dance. “You sure?” you ask quietly. 

“I thought we were friends?” 

“I think so too.” 

“Can I ask you something unrelated?” 

You squint with mock suspicion. “That depends.” 

“Are you cold?” 

You laugh, grabbing his arm as you do to steady yourself on your precarious footwear. “I’m surprised I haven’t got hypothermia,” you say, face tipping gently to your shoulder. “But I don’t think I’d make any money in a hoodie.” 

Spencer doesn’t see how that could be true. You're one of the prettiest girls he’s ever seen, if not the prettiest, and even if you were in a hoodie that would still leave your legs to make money. He’s sure they could. He’s also sure that he shouldn’t say that aloud, instead digging through his bag for the real thing he’d brought you. “Here,” he says, handing you a chocolate chip and strawberry protein bar, “for your rumbling stomach.” 

Those few nights you’d stayed with him, you’d been a little shy and more afraid, probably worried he’d hurt you while you were vulnerable, though he had no intention, but you’d start to let pieces of you through the cracks. You like dancing but not men. You like fresh fruit, the smell of a new car, and buying new clothes. Stripping isn’t, like, easy, you’d said once, sitting cross-legged on his couch with a bowl of soup and that awful shiner, It probably looks easy. People think that the hardest part is being pretty, but it’s not. 

What’s the hardest part? he’d asked, sympathetic and curious simultaneously. The hardest part statistically would be the high rates of femicide and assault. 

It makes you so hungry. It’s like constantly working out every night.

“That’s for me?” you ask. 

“So you can survive your workout.” 

“Spencer, I think you’re the most romantic guy I’ve ever met.” 

He presses the protein bar in the same hand as the phone, ducking his head just a bit, just to see you clearly. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry.” 

You seem to think this is the funniest thing he could’ve said, pressing your face briefly, heart-achingly to his shoulder, before pulling away to beam at him. “Don’t be sorry. You’re the best guy ever. And I had this investment banker come in a few days ago who gave me a hundred dollars to listen to him talk about his new kitten.” 

“I’m surprised I beat that.” 

You spread a hand over his heart. “I wouldn’t worry about competition, Dr. Reid.” 

[avocado-writing]

Avo please I need Pregnant reader x DP&W headcanons 😩 I love both these men so much. I just wanna a little life with them. These men have been through so damn much. Let them have some softness in their life.

I don’t really want kids but good lord- if they asked me too, I would push out an entire hockey team for them

Wade is so fucking happy when you tell him you're pregnant. They've been trying to knock you up for ages now, about damn time it worked!

Logan is pleased too but he's a little more... reserved about it. Doesn't want to run around telling everyone like Wade does. It's hard for him to embrace happiness, because he's so used to it slipping through his fingers. Get past your first trimester and he's able to start smiling about it though.

Expect to always be sitting down. If you get up to do something, one of them will be gently guiding you back to your seat. "Sweetie you sit your fine pregnant ass right back down, I'll get whatever you need. Soda? Chips? A whole tub of Ben & Jerry's?" or a softer, "Stay there baby, I'll grab it."

One of them is always with you, like a fucking guard dog. They're dangerous men after all, who knows who might be looking for them? Usually you can handle yourself but they have an extra reason to worry now.

Al makes it very clear she does not want a baby in the apartment (can you blame her?) so you have to find a new home. It's an added stress for you so the boys usually go out scouting. Eventually you're able to find a cute little place to afford with the three of you (being in a polycule is the only way to make rent these days)

You love to spend those days doing up baby's room and singing silly little songs as you do it. "Am I gonna paint your nursery green or yellow, who knows... ♫" If one of them catches you, they'll lean against the doorframe and watch you with absoloute heart-eyes.

Logan's been around for long enough that he's had experience with young kids before, so when you or Wade panic about something, he's usually the one to temper it. Reminds you that you'll both be fine.

Wade never shuts the fuck up talking to your bump. Truly, a stream of consciousness about the world to baby. Gets little Deadpool onesies for them too, because he thinks they're cute. Logan is quieter, hand on your belly, a quiet few sentences just so they know that he has a voice and it's not just Wade.

They're pretty good when you go into labour. Wade panics a bit but Logan hits him with a look which implies that now is not the time, and he buckles down. Delivery goes smoothly. It's great to have two guys who can heal their bones when you need to grip down on something as you push.

And when you get home? Crib is barely used. Baby is pretty much always in someone's arms: Wade's who's always babbling to baby's delight; Logan's solid embrace as he hums quietly; against your chest as you whispered how loved they are.

taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk @starfleetteddybear

[honeyryewhiskey]

when dean falls in love

or, all the little details that run through dean's mind when he's falling in love. and all the fears and self-doubt that come crashing down on him. warnings ! a pinch of angst | mostly feel good | kissing | confessions | dean admiring reader | dean's internal struggles | reader being patient | sam third wheeling j's note ! this is my apology for that sad one i posted last night. also, i had little baby 26-year-old dean in mind for this one. enjoy <3 5k words

Few rules exist in Dean’s life—most are made to be bent, broken, or ignored altogether. But you?

You’re the exception. You’re the rule he refuses to cross.

You are entirely off-limits.

Not that you seem to care. You crashed into the Winchesters' world like a wildfire, all sharp eyes and steady hands, showing up guns blazing in the middle of a nasty hunt. There was no slow introduction, no time for cautious trust. One minute, it was just another night, another hunt—then suddenly, there you were, standing in the wreckage, breathing heavily, covered in blood that wasn’t yours.

Dean should’ve known to let go right then and there—you were too good to be true. But he didn’t. Instead, you stuck to the corners of his mind like sugar between his teeth, sweet and relentless. Your energy, raw and electric, burned through everything around you. You invaded his thoughts, wrapped around his mind like a constant hum.

You were the kind of girl who made a man forget his own damn rules.

At first, Dean tells himself this newfound trio is temporary.

You’re a lone wolf, and the Winchesters don’t do long-term attachments. But somehow, you weave yourself into their lives like you’ve always belonged.

You slip into the passenger seat of the Impala without waiting for an invitation, kicking your feet up on the dash just to piss him off. You steal fries off his plate like it’s second nature, smirking when he glares at you but never stopping. You roll your eyes at his bravado, call him out when he’s being an ass, and yet—when it matters—you’re always there. Ready to fight. Ready to bleed for this life, for them.

For him.

Dean tells himself he doesn’t notice the little things. The way you hum along to his rock tapes like you’ve known them forever, how your hands—so much softer than he deserves—patch him up without hesitation. The way you meet his teasing with just as much fire, never backing down.

None of it means anything.

Because it can’t.

Not when he’s always been too rough, too jagged around the edges to hold onto something as good as you. Somewhere around his twentieth birthday, he made peace with the fact that he was cursed—fated to be nothing more than a soldier, a brother, a blade meant for war.

Being anything else, wanting anything more—wanting you—would only end in tragedy.

But then he catches Sam talking to you in hushed voices over coffee in the morning, like you’re family. As if every diner table and wobbly motel kitchenette was always meant to sit the three of you. He watches you clean his gun without being asked, like it’s second nature now. He hears your voice on the other end of his phone at 3 a.m., always answering when he calls, asking if he’s okay after a rough hunt. 

And just like that, you’re in. You’re a part of them.

A part of him.

And that? That’s the most dangerous thing of all.

Dean doesn’t know when it happened—when the lines started to blur, when the rule he swore by turned into something fragile, something breakable.

Maybe it’s the way you slip so effortlessly into their lives, settling into the spaces he didn’t even realize were empty—mediating brotherly arguments like you were always meant to be their missing piece. Maybe it’s the sound of your laughter, bright and unshaken, slicing through the heaviness of a bad hunt. Or maybe it’s the way you look at him, like he’s something more than the scars, more than the sharp edges—like he’s worth seeing at all.

Or maybe it’s the small moments like this.

The diner is warm, buzzing with the quiet hum of conversation, the clatter of silverware against plates. Sam’s focus is his laptop, half-listening to whatever you’re saying as you flip through the menu, sitting beside Dean, debating tonight’s meal. Dean’s trying to keep up, trying to ground himself in the normalcy of it all.

And then, without a second thought, you reach for his jacket.

It’s been draped over the back of the booth since he sat down, familiar and worn, carrying the weight of long nights and too many miles. And you just take it, slipping your arms through the sleeves, tugging the collar up like it belongs to you.

Dean’s fingers tighten around the menu.

It’s nothing new—he’s handed it over a dozen times before, thrown it around your shoulders without a second thought on cold nights. But this? This is different. You didn’t ask. Didn’t even hesitate. You just did it, like it was instinct, like it was yours.

He clears his throat, trying to force down the feeling clawing its way up his chest. “Comfy?”

You hum, settling into the fabric, your fingers curling into the sleeves. “Mmhmm.” Your voice is light, easy. “You always run so warm. Thought I’d steal a little of that.”

Dean swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. Prying his eyes off of you, he tries again to look like he’s reading the menu. Scanning the small font, even though he’s already decided on a burger and fries like he always gets. 

Across from him, Sam sighs, clicking at his keyboard. “You guys do realize you act like a couple, right?”

Dean shoots him a glare. “Shut up.”

Your laugh falls out sweet and quiet, the sound pressing against his heart with a persistence to make it move faster. Your boot nudges Dean’s under the table, and he takes it as an excuse to look at you again. “You jealous, Sammy? Want me to steal your jacket next?”

Dean barely hears the response. He watches as you burrow further into his jacket, your nose dipping beneath the collar. Then, with that same mischievous glint in your eye that always spells trouble for him, you lift the collar to make a show of taking a slow, exaggerated sniff.

His brows press down, lashes forming a tight squint around his eyes as he braces himself, “What the hell are you doing?”

Your lips twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. “One thing about this old jacket, though,” you muse, taking another thoughtful inhale. “There’s this metallicy smell… buried under all that cologne you drown this poor leather in.”

Dean scoffs, shifting in his seat and turning his head to save himself from letting you see the pink creeping up his cheeks. “I do not drown it in cologne.”

Sam doesn’t even look up from his laptop, but his chuckle doesn’t help ease Dean’s embarrassment. “You kinda do.”

Dean’s head shoots up, tilting slightly as he glares at his brother. You’re already grinning, undeterred, your fingers lazily tracing the worn seam of the sleeve. “It’s faint, but it’s there. Like… gunpowder. And whiskey, I would assume. And maybe a little bit of blood?” Your teasing gaze flicks up to meet his, “What have you been getting into, Winchester?”

Dean should play it cool. Shrug it off. But he can feel his ears burning red and hot from that little teasing smile on your lips and his brain is a few steps behind, caught somewhere between you’re too damn close and when did this get so hard to ignore?

He leans back, arms crossing over his chest. His mind makes quick work to steady buzzing nerves, “Dunno what to tell ya, sweetheart,” he sighs, jaw popping as he finds his barings, “That jacket’s seen more action than you have.”

You feign offense, pressing a hand to your chest. “Wow. First, you over-season your leather, and now you’re just slinging insults?” You shake your head, dramatic as ever. “I thought we had something special, D.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah, yeah. You done sniffin’ my jacket, or should I be concerned?”

You huff, settling back against the booth so that your arms brush against each other when you shrug. “I dunno. Might need another whiff.”

Dean points a warning finger at you, his smile breaks his attempt at stoicism, and all it does is make you grin wider.

Sam lets out another long-suffering sigh, shutting his laptop with a little more force than necessary. “I’m concerned. And I’m officially done with this conversation.”

You smirk, smug as ever, but Dean? Dean’s just trying to pretend he’s not completely, stupidly gone for you.

The rest of dinner passes in easy conversation—at least, for you. Dean is quieter than usual, letting you and Sam fill the space between bites of food and stolen fries. He tries to focus on anything else—the chipped laminate of the table, the hum of the old diner lights, the way his fingers tap absently against the side of his glass.

Mostly, he tries not to look at you.

Not when you lean forward, chin propped in your palm, laughing at something Sam says. Not when you nudge his boot under the table, stealing the last bite of his pie with a satisfied little smirk. Not when you adjust the lapels of his leather jacket like it’s yours now, like it belongs to you the way he does.

By the time the check hits the table, he’s still got too many thoughts in his head, and none of them are ones he should be having.

Outside, the night air is crisp, the motel’s flickering vacancy sign glowing just across the lot. Sam mutters something about research and trudges off toward their shared room, leaving the two of you lingering by the diner’s door.

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it is. You shift on your feet, then tilt your head toward the motel.

“What’s it gonna be tonight, D?” Your voice is soft, slipping into the quiet like it belongs there. “You sticking around for a bit, or heading to bed?”

Dean exhales, shaking his head. “Gotta make sure you get in safe.”

Your laugh rings through the empty parking lot, light and easy, curling around him like warmth against the cool night air. And despite only wearing a flannel, despite the late hour and the breeze whispering through the lot, he feels nothing but warm.

“Ah, yes,” you tease between giggles, nudging his arm. “My knight in shining armor, always keeping me safe.”

The short walk across the lot is quiet but never empty—the kind of silence that lingers in the spaces between you, comfortable and charged all at once.

At your door, you unlock it with a flick of your wrist, pushing it open before leaning lazily against the frame. The dim motel light catches the amusement in your eyes as you glance back at him.

“See?” You gesture to the empty room with a grin. “All’s quiet on the western front.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves you off, stepping inside without a second thought, the door clicking shut behind him.

You move past him with easy familiarity, shuffling through your things while Dean leans against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest. He watches as you slip into your usual routine—kicking off your shoes, pulling your hair back, stifling a yawn with the sleeve of your sweater. His jacket, draped over the chair beside your bed, stays untouched. He doesn’t move to take it. If he’s honest, he kind of hopes you’ll sleep in it. Let it take on your scent instead of his.

When you return from the bathroom, fresh-faced and sighing contentedly, you crawl onto the bed and sit cross-legged, flipping absentmindedly through an old paperback—the one you grabbed from the library when you were supposed to be researching.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you so deep in thought tonight?” you break into the silence without looking up, voice soft but knowing.

Dean huffs, tipping his head back. He’s trying to find something other than you to look at, he’s gotta stop watching you so often. “I’m always deep in thought.”

You snort, “yeah, okay. Sure.”

Your eyes flicker over him, he’s always following you into your room like a stray pup, like he doesn’t know where else to go. He lingers in your space, but is careful to maintain a set distance. At first you thought he was trying to claim you as another notch on his bedpost, but all that ever happened on these nights were quiet talks until your eyes grew too heavy to keep open. And by morning, you’d be alone, tucked beneath the blankets like someone made sure they were pulled around you just right.

You watch him for a beat, noting the familiar tension winding through his shoulders. “Seriously, though. You were kinda out of it at dinner.”

Dean hesitates, glancing away like he can pretend he didn’t hear you. His eyes settle on the peeling motel wallpaper, tracing the cracks like they hold some kind of answer. He hadn’t planned on sticking around this late—not when his head is already full of you. Not when it’s dangerous for the sanctity his carefully drawn lines to be near you like this, feeling the way he does.

But neither of you move. You, cross-legged on the bed, book in hand. Him, still leaning against the dresser, pretending he has somewhere else to be.

He should make an excuse, crack a joke, steer this conversation somewhere safer. But your voice, soft and steady, tugs at something in him. And instead of fighting it, he lets himself lean in.

“You ever think about what happens when we stop?”

Your fingers still against the worn pages of your book. “Stop what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely, like that explains everything. “The hunting, the moving around. All of it.”

Your brows furrow slightly as you consider his words, the weight of them pressing down in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. This life—it’s far from glamorous, but it’s all you’ve got. Stepping away from it is a thought you buried long ago, a fantasy that never had a chance. You shrug, pushing the thought aside. “I don’t know,” you say quietly. “Never really let myself think about it too much.”

Dean exhales a heavy breath, eyes dropping to the floor like the weight of your words is sinking in. “Yeah.”

A beat of quiet settles between you. It’s not uncomfortable, but there’s a weight to it that presses against Dean’s chest, making the space feel tighter than it is. You can feel his tension, like he’s holding something back, but he doesn’t look up.

Then, you shift, breaking the silence with an easy gesture—a pat to the empty space beside you on the bed. “Don’t just trail off on me, D. Sit down. Tell me more.”

Dean hesitates for a split second. This is a bad idea. It’s an invisible line he’s been toeing for too damn long, one he’s tried not to cross—never sit on the bed, never get too close when we’re alone. But then again, it’s you. You’re looking at him like you care, soft and patient, as if whatever’s inside his head actually matters.

And just like that, he gives in. One little exception, just for tonight.

With a quiet sigh, he pushes off the dresser, settling beside you on the bed. He stretches his legs out, but the small mattress makes it impossible to keep any real distance. His legs brush against yours, and his arm brushes yours too. He hopes to hell you don’t see the flush creeping up his neck.

If you notice, you don’t mention it. There’s no teasing, no playful smile—just the quiet comfort of your presence beside him. You don’t push, don’t pry. You just sit there, calm and steady, waiting for him to speak.

“I dunno,” he mutters, “just been thinkin’ lately. About what it all looks like when it’s over. If it ever is.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “And?”

Dean swallows, debating how much to say. How much to admit.

“And… I don’t see much of anything.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Spent my whole life doing this, I don’t see an ending where I’m not dying at the hands of this. Y’know, going down in the fight.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then—so softly he almost doesn’t notice—you shift closer, your arm snaking its way around his. You’re snuggled right up next to him, watching with careful eyes.

“There will always be monsters to hunt,” you murmur, your voice soft yet steady in the dim room. “But you don’t have to be a warrior forever, D. There will always be hunters, too. Doesn’t mean you have to be one.”

Dean chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound, more an exhale than a laugh. His gaze drifts toward the bedspread, unable to meet yours. "Yeah, well... I don't know if I could just walk away." His words come out quieter, like he’s unsure if he’s talking to you or to himself.

You turn slightly toward him, noticing the tension still coiled in his shoulders. The quiet settles deeper now, heavier with each passing moment, but he doesn’t seem to notice the distance between your words.

“What’s got you thinking about all of this?” you keep your voice light, though there’s a weight to it.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, his thoughts at war with the words he wants to say. "I can’t have the things I want, not really," he finally admits, the confession slipping out before he can second-guess it. His gaze drifts to the side, and his fingertips come up almost absentmindedly, dragging across your temple, pushing stray hairs back into their place.

“This life," he continues, barely above a whisper, "it consumes all the good things in my life."

“Not true,” your voice is firm but gentle, like you’re trying to remind him of something he can’t see.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just quirks a skeptical brow at you.

“You have your brother,” you continue, “and you’ve got me. Nothing in this universe can take us from you.”

Dean’s breath catches, and for the briefest moment, he wonders if you understand just how much weight those words hold. He swallows, trying to hold it together, but he can’t ignore the ache that creeps up his spine. He gives a small, almost rueful chuckle, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "What makes you so sure?"

You meet his gaze with a steady confidence. "Because I know you wouldn’t let it."

His hand lingers by your face, his thumb brushing softly against the warmth of your cheek. There’s an electricity in the touch, something that feels too close and yet too natural. He can feel the way his pulse quickens, how much his body wants to close that last inch of space between you. But he doesn’t.

You don’t push him. You just watch him, like you’re waiting for him to decide whether to take the step—or to retreat.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and his eyes drop to your lips for a moment before meeting yours again, like he’s trying to reconcile the gravity of what he’s feeling. His voice drops to almost a whisper, his words thick with something raw. “You have no idea how right you are, little miss.”

Your hand comes up, curling over his with a quiet, deliberate touch. The softness of your skin against his makes it almost impossible for him to remember the times he’s watched you move through the world—handling a gun with precision or a blade like it’s second nature. Most of you makes him forget, really, about everything that doesn’t involve you in this moment.

Your warmth, your softness, it makes him lose himself in daydreams of a version of you—one that doesn’t belong to this life. A version where you’d lean into that gentleness, the part of you that exists outside the hunts and the danger, in a life far away from the chaos that haunts him.

You shift, sitting up, still keeping your gaze on him, and it makes something in his chest tighten. The determined strain in your features catches his attention immediately. It’s the same look you get when you're deep into a lore book, your brow furrowed with that little scowl—like something has piqued your interest, and you won’t rest until you’ve unraveled it completely.

“Dean, there’s more to this than you’re letting on.”

He shakes his head, trying to brush it off with a quick, dismissive shrug, his lips pouting up into his best attempt at nonchalance. “Nope. That’s pretty much it.”

You let out an exasperated huff, and Dean can tell you’re seeing straight through him. It’s not enough to deflect you. What he doesn’t expect, though, is the rough shove to his shoulder. It makes him blink in surprise, but before he can recover, your fingers press right back into the tension of his muscles he’s been trying to ignore all night.

“You’re as stiff as a board,” you point out, your fingers digging in a little harder. “Something’s bothering you.”

His breath comes out shakier now, and for a moment, his whole body feels like it’s been wound too tight. You can feel it, he knows you can. There’s no denying it now, but the words feel too heavy in his throat. He wants to argue, to brush it off again, but something in the way you’re watching him shifts. It’s not just curiosity anymore—it’s concern. And maybe, just maybe, a part of him wants to let you in.

But damn if it doesn’t feel like a risk.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, trying to pull away, but the pressure of your fingers is a subtle anchor, keeping him there. His gaze flits to the floor, anywhere but your eyes, because once he looks at you, he knows he won’t be able to hide.

"I told you, it's nothing," he mutters, his voice rougher than usual, the words escaping before he can stop them. He tries to push himself up, but the weight of your stare presses him back down.

You don’t buy it. You never do.

"No, Dean," you start softly, the concern clear in your voice, "I know you better than that. Something’s been eating at you for a while, and you’re not gonna keep dodging it."

His chest tightens, his heart racing in his ribcage. Every part of him wants to throw up some wall, some excuse. Something to keep you from seeing the rawness of what’s inside. The vulnerability he’s been running from his entire life.

But still, you watch him, waiting, your eyes steady and unwavering.

"Come on, just let it out," you press, your hand moving to his shoulder again, your touch gentle now but insistent. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, you know?”

He swallows hard, his jaw tightening, hands suddenly restless at his sides. The fight inside him is crumbling, piece by piece, until he's barely holding on to whatever's left. His voice comes out strained, almost desperate.

“Please, just drop it,” he grinds out, his eyes briefly meeting yours before flicking away again, helplessly. “I’m fine. You don’t... you don’t need to know all of it.”

You sit forward, leaning in just a little, your hand still gently gripping his arm as you search his face. The determination in your gaze doesn’t waver, but there’s something softer there now, almost like a plea. “Dean—”

He jerks back slightly, suddenly standing up with a bit too much force, the air between you thickening with a tension that’s making it harder for him to breathe. He takes a few steps away, running a hand through his hair, his back turned to you as he tries to calm the storm rising inside.

"I can’t do this," he mutters, his voice low, rougher now, like it’s been dragged over gravel. His shoulders still tense with the weight of the world pressing down on him.

You’re silent for a beat, and he knows it’s because you’re giving him space. But he also knows you won’t stop until you get him to say what he’s been holding back.

He exhales sharply, his hands trembling as he clenches them into fists, his back still turned, fighting a battle he knows he’s losing. "God, I don’t want to talk about this." His voice cracks slightly as he says it, and he hates how much it betrays him.

His eyes flick to you then, and there's a crack in the armor—a vulnerability that’s almost painful to see. He looks at you, but he’s not sure he can bear the weight of your gaze anymore. Not when all he wants to do is keep you safe from the wreckage inside him.

His body is coiled tight, but his chest feels like it’s going to implode. He wants to walk away. He wants to escape from the weight of this conversation, from the way you're looking at him like you’re waiting for him to finally crack open and spill it all out.

But when he finally turns back to face you fully, all he sees is that unflinching patience, that quiet insistence that you’re not going to let him go until he finally says what he’s been hiding for so long. It makes him want to burn every rule he’s built for himself.

"You don't get it," he spats roughly, eyes flicking to the floor. "I can’t just... say it. It’s part of me, it’s who I am, this thing that I can’t get away from."

You rise to your feet, crossing the room in one smooth motion. There’s no anger in your steps—just a calm resolve that cuts through the tension between you like a knife.

"I'm not an idiot, Dean," you peek up at him, unfamilarly timid as you cross this uncharted territory. "I see the way you look at me. Hell, at first I thought I was imagining things but I can see it’s eating you alive. And I—” your words cut off in your own shock at the confession, the sincerity in your expression making his knees weak, “I can’t bear to see you like this.” 

Your hands reach up tentatively, like you’re scared he’ll tear himself away again. But he stills, letting your warm hands press into either side of his jaw, “you’re my rock, alright?” your words trail into a soft laugh, easing the tension of your own truth. “I don’t wanna live in a world where I’m not by your side, because you make life worth the fight to stay alive. But you can’t just keep me in the dark, I have to know what you’re feeling.” 

His breath catches in his throat, the weight of your words hitting him harder than he expected. The realization that you know, that you’ve seen through all his defenses, makes everything inside him ache.

"I don’t know what you want from me," it comes out sounding like a plea, still looking for an excuse to retreat into himself.

"I want you to stop hiding from me." Your words are simple, but they strike right at the heart of the matter. "I want you to stop pretending like you can’t have the one thing you want most."

His throat tightens, and he shakes his head, trying to dismiss it. "I don’t get it," he mumbles, though his eyes are locked on yours, searching for the reprieve he still doesn’t believe he’ll find. "I don’t... I’m not fit for this."

"I’m not either, D. I’m just asking you to let it happen." You’re so close now, he can feel the warmth of your body, the soft pressure of your fingers against his jaw. Your gaze doesn’t break, it never wavers.

And that’s when it hits him. He’s been afraid of this—afraid of the way you make him feel like he can finally breathe, like all of his pain and avoidance can cease in your presence. he’s been holding himself together with tattered shreds for so long, and you’re the only thing that’s strong enough to pull him out of the mess he’s made of himself. 

And letting that security live in someone else terrifies him more than any monster he’s faced. 

“I’m not perfect,” he admits quietly, his words like gravel in his throat. “I’m broken, and I’m scared as hell, but god, if you only knew how much I want—”

You stop him with a soft kiss, the sweetest touch of your lips to his. It's gentle, almost hesitant, but it shatters something inside him, enough to freeze him in place. The weight of everything unspoken presses in, and for the first time, it feels like the walls he's built around himself might finally crumble in your hands.

The chains of his tightly kept composure snap at the delicate pressure of your lips, and without thinking, his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. His hands find purchase at your waist, holding you as if you were the only thing that kept him grounded. The kiss deepens, desperate, as if he's trying to kiss away the years of holding back, the silent fear of letting you see the real him, the uncertainty of if you’d stay with him in the wreckage.

When you finally pull back, your lips linger just above his, breaths mingling. Your voice is a soft whisper, but it cuts through the tension like a thread being pulled taut. “Then say it, Dean. Tell me what you want.”

His heart beats in his chest, loud and frantic, as his walls come crashing down, piece by piece. He can’t think straight with you in his arms, all of his steely armor melts at your touch. And for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets go of some of those fears.

His eyes are nearly consumed by his pupils as he takes in the sight of you slightly out of breath, lips wet and a little more pink. From his doing, from his touch—it makes every broken rule worth the trouble.

“I've fallen for you, Sweetheart,” he breathes, his voice is raw, shaky, but it's honest, every word carrying the weight of what he’s been holding back. “I want to keep falling for you, love and all that crap. And I’m terrified of it, but I can’t keep hiding this from you.”

Your thumb brushes over his cheek, the gesture soft, but nevertheless, grounding. A quiet smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your eyes hold nothing but certainty. “You’ll never have to hide any part of yourself, Dean. I’ve been here all along, with nothing but love. Just been waiting for you to see that.”

tags <3 @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @dulcescorderitas @bluemerakis

[loveesiren]

𝙼𝚢 𝙼𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎

Thanos x american!reader | Forever Masterlist

a/n: i told ya'll i wasn't done writing for them! there's still more to come for this series as well as a new series! i linked to the series masterlist but if you haven't read it before thats okay! enjoy :)

synopsis: (a continuation of Forever) Thanos still struggles with his anxiety a year after the game. Being sick only enhances his panic.

warnings: anxiety, panic attack, symptoms of ptsd, fluff

wc: 3.4k+

It was a dreary, rain-soaked day in Seoul, the kind of day where the sky seemed to blend into the ground, gray and heavy. Thanos lay curled under a thick, knitted blanket on the couch, the soft crackle of the fireplace the only warmth against the chill in the air. A hot mug of tea sat untouched on the coffee table in front of him, the aromatic steam curling like ghostly fingers toward the ceiling.

“Drink your tea, baby,” you said gently, your tone carrying both affection and a hint of sternness. You knew how stubborn he could be, even when he was clearly suffering. His only response was a low grumble as he tugged the blanket higher, hiding himself from the world. His cheeks were pale, flushed only by the fever he’d been battling for days now. Strep throat—the doctor’s words still echoed in your head from the day before.

“T, please,” you coaxed, your voice softer now as you adjusted the blanket over his shoulders. “It’ll help your throat. Just a few sips.”

He didn’t respond, his focus fixed on the TV. South Park blared in the background, the absurd humor earning him a weak giggle, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. Even sick, Thanos was a child at heart.

“I’m heading out to grab your medicine and stuff for dinner,” you announced, slipping on your jacket as you gathered your things.

His head snapped toward you, eyes wide with sudden concern. “Wait—you’re leaving?” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, and the vulnerability in his tone made you pause.

“Yes, hon. I have to get your antibiotics.”

“I can come!” he blurted, sitting up too quickly. The effort seemed to zap what little strength he had, and he slumped back against the cushions.

“No,” you said firmly, crossing the room to kneel beside him. “You’re staying right here and resting. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Thanos hesitated, his brow furrowed as anxiety flickered in his eyes. You reached out, cupping his face in your hands. The warmth of your palms seemed to anchor him, and he leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Hey,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I’ll be fine. I’ve been here for two years now, remember? I know my way around, and it’s just a quick trip. I promise.”

His lips trembled as he opened his eyes, and for a moment, the mask he often wore—stoic, unshaken—crumbled. “Be back soon… please.” His hand reached for yours, pressing three soft kisses to your palm like a silent prayer.

You smiled, though your heart ached at the worry etched into his features. “I promise, honey.” You leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. “Try to rest, okay?”

He nodded reluctantly, sinking back into the couch as you draped the blanket over him once more. His eyes followed you to the door, and you gave him one last reassuring glance before stepping into the elevator.

The moment the door clicked shut, the silence pressed down on him like a weight. Thanos tried to focus on the TV, on the cartoon chaos playing out on the screen, but his mind refused to stay still. His hands began to tremble, and a cold sweat formed on his forehead despite the heat of the fireplace.

The thoughts came, sharp and relentless. What if she slips in the rain and breaks her arm? What if she gets in an accident? What if someone hurts her—what if she doesn’t come back?

His chest tightened, his breaths growing shallow as panic clawed at him. He clenched his fists, trying to ground himself, but the memories of the games came flooding back—each moment of helplessness, every second of fear that had taught him the world was cruel and unpredictable.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his body shaking as tears slipped down his cheeks. “She’ll be fine,” he whispered to himself, as though saying it aloud would make it true. “She promised…”

But promises didn’t always hold in a world that had taken so much from him.

And so, Thanos sat there, the blanket wrapped tight around him, a storm raging inside to match the one outside. All he could do now was wait—and hope.

-

You darted up and down the aisles of the grocery store, your shoes squeaking against the polished floor as you tried to gather everything on your list. The rain outside had seeped into your sleeves, chilling your arms, but you barely noticed. All you could think about was getting home—to your boyfriend. The small orange bottle of antibiotics in your purse felt like it was burning a hole through the fabric, a constant reminder of how fragile he seemed today.

The weight of his pale face and hoarse voice lingered in your mind, pressing against your heart. You moved quickly, grabbing vegetables and broth for the soup you’d promised to make him. Thanos didn’t often ask for much, but when he wasn’t feeling well, he needed you in ways that pulled on something deep within you—an instinct to protect him, to wrap him in warmth and make the world feel less harsh.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you swiped it open to see a message from your grandmother.

“Sweetheart, are you sure you don’t want me to come by? I can bring food, or even stay and help out for a few days.”

You smiled faintly at her offer, warmth blooming in your chest. As much as you appreciated her kindness, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was something you wanted—needed—to handle yourself.

“Thanks, Halmeoni,” you typed back quickly, “but I’ve got it. I want to take care of him. I’ll call if I need anything, promise.”

She responded immediately with another offer, and then another, peppering her messages with instructions for dinner and well wishes for Thanos. As you tossed a bundle of rosemary into your cart, you texted her back between stops: “Okay, okay! I’ll remember the garlic. Love you!”

Finally, after what felt like ages, you made your way to the checkout counter. The hum of the conveyor belt and the beep of the scanner filled the air as you bagged your groceries, mentally double-checking your list. The moment you stepped outside, the rain greeted you again, its cold droplets pricking at your cheeks. You slipped your AirPods in and hit play on your comfort playlist, the familiar melodies keeping you steady as you clutched the bags tightly and made your way to your car.

-

Meanwhile, Thanos was falling apart.

He sat on the floor, the blanket that had once been wrapped around him now pooled at his feet. His head rested heavily in his hands, his fingers tangled in his dark, sweat-dampened hair. His phone—he couldn’t find his phone. He had looked everywhere he could think of, but in his feverish haze, he couldn’t focus, couldn’t remember.

“Where is it?” he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking as his hands fumbled around him. “I need to—” The words caught in his throat, replaced by a rising panic that clawed at his chest. He needed to call you. He needed to hear your voice, to know you were safe.

But the thoughts were already spiraling, pulling him under like an undertow he couldn’t fight. What if she slipped and hit her head? What if someone followed her? What if the rain made her car spin out? His breath hitched. Each imagined scenario was more horrifying than the last, and none of them felt far-fetched—not to him, not in the world he had lived in.

His body betrayed him, trembling as the adrenaline surged through his veins. His heart raced uncontrollably, pounding so hard it drowned out everything else. He pressed his hands against his chest as if trying to physically hold himself together, but the pressure only seemed to make it worse.

The room spun around him, the edges of his vision blurring as he squeezed his eyes shut. She’s fine. She’s fine. She’s fine, he chanted silently, but the words felt hollow, swallowed by the louder voice in his head screaming that something was wrong. His breaths became shallow and desperate, each one harder to pull in than the last.

The tears came next, hot and relentless, streaming down his face as he rocked back and forth on the floor. He hated this. He hated the way his mind betrayed him, the way his body refused to listen to logic. “Why can’t I just be normal?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Why am I so fucking weak?”

Memories of the games flashed behind his closed eyelids. The helplessness, the fear, the constant sense of waiting for the worst to happen. It had rewired something in him, left him with a heart that couldn’t rest, a mind that couldn’t stop bracing for the next blow.

Curling into himself, he pressed his forehead against his knees, his breath hitching with every sob. He wanted to be better—for you, for himself—but the spiral felt endless. His fever blurred reality, making everything feel bigger, heavier.

Minutes felt like hours as he sat there, shaking and broken on the floor. The only thing keeping him tethered was the faint hope that you’d walk through the door soon. He needed you. Desperately.

And so, he waited, the storm inside him raging as fiercely as the one outside.

-

Pulling your car into the reserved parking spot in the underground garage always brought a small smile to your face. It was a privilege you hadn’t grown used to, no matter how many times you parked there. You would live in a tent if it meant being with Thanos, but you had to admit, the perks of his luxurious life didn’t hurt. The sleek penthouse, the reserved parking, the polished floors of the building’s lobby—it all felt like a dream, even after all this time.

Grabbing the grocery bags from the trunk, you made your way toward the lobby, your arms full but your steps light. The doorman greeted you with a bow, and you returned it politely before continuing to the private elevator that led to the penthouse. You swiped your card, the quiet beep granting you access to the place you now called home.

The elevator doors slid open, and you stepped into the warm, quiet space of the penthouse. The floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the city skyline, streaked with rain that blurred the twinkling lights outside. The soft hum of the heating system was the only sound. Relief washed over you.

“God, the store was a madhouse!” you called out, setting the heavy bags down near the kitchen and peeling off your rain-soaked coat. You brushed your damp hair out of your face, ready to share a laugh with Thanos about the chaos of the day. “You’d think—”

Your words froze in your throat as your eyes fell on him.

Thanos was curled up on the floor near the couch, his body trembling violently. His blanket lay discarded nearby, and his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if trying to hold the pieces together.

“T!” you screamed, dropping everything as you rushed to his side. You fell to your knees beside him, your hands instinctively reaching out to pull him into your arms. “Baby, what’s wrong? What’s happening?!”

He didn’t respond immediately, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His skin was burning hot, his face pale except for the fevered flush across his cheeks. His glassy, unfocused eyes darted around the room before they landed on you, and you saw a flicker of recognition break through the panic.

“Y/n?” he croaked, his hoarse voice cracking as he clutched at the fabric of your shirt like it was his lifeline.

“I’m here, baby,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you held him closer. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.” You ran your fingers through his messy purple hair, the motion soothing for both of you.

He clung to you desperately, his body still trembling as he buried his face in your shirt. His breaths were shallow and ragged, but he managed to inhale your familiar scent, grounding himself in the safety of your presence.

Tears stung your eyes as you tried to stay strong for him. You knew how much he struggled with his past, how the memories lingered like shadows that refused to leave. He never talked about it, not really, but moments like this revealed the scars he tried so hard to hide.

“You’re here,” he whispered, his voice barely audible as if he needed to remind himself that it was real.

“I’m here,” you repeated, pressing a soft kiss to his damp forehead.

“M’sorry,” he mumbled weakly, his voice laced with shame.

The apology shattered you. Tears spilled down your cheeks as you cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. “You have nothing to be sorry for, honey. Nothing.” Your voice cracked as you spoke, but you meant every word.

For the next twenty minutes, you cradled him on the floor, murmuring soft reassurances and stroking his hair as his breathing slowly evened out. You whispered about the soup you were going to make, about how you’d stay with him until he felt better. Gradually, the tremors subsided, and his body relaxed against yours.

Finally, you coaxed him back to the couch, wrapping him in his favorite blanket and tucking it securely around him. His tired eyes followed you as you stood. “I’m going to make my Halmeoni’s famous soup, okay?” you said with a small smile. “It always made me feel better when I was sick.”

He nodded reluctantly, his eyes still glassy. “You’re here.”

“Yes, baby,” you said, brushing your thumb gently over his flushed cheek. “I’m right here. I’ll just be in the kitchen, okay?”

Before leaving, you grabbed the bottle of antibiotics and shook one pill into your palm, handing it to him along with a glass of water. “Take this,” you said softly. He hesitated for a moment but then obeyed, swallowing the pill and offering you a faint, tired smile.

“Good boy,” you teased.

-

As night fell, the sound of rain against the glass walls of the penthouse became a comforting rhythm. You stood over the stove, stirring the soup carefully as you tried to follow your grandmother’s recipe. Every few minutes, you texted her for guidance, and her replies were quick and filled with concern.

How’s Su-Bong? Does he still have a fever? Should I come over?

He’s fine! you reassured her. I’m making him dinner right now.

You smiled faintly as you read her reply but focused on your task, determined to get it just right. The aroma of garlic, ginger, and simmering broth filled the air, bringing a sense of warmth back into the apartment.

Soft footsteps behind you caught your attention. You turned to see Thanos shuffling into the kitchen, his blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders like a cape. His hair was still messy, and his cheeks flushed, but there was a softness in his tired eyes as he approached.

“Hi, baby,” you said, glancing back at the pot as you stirred. “How are you feeling?”

Instead of answering, he came up behind you, resting his hands lightly on your hips and letting his head droop lazily onto your shoulder. “Miss you,” he mumbled, his voice muffled against your shirt.

You couldn’t help but smile at his clinginess. “Food’s almost ready, hon. Go sit down, okay?”

He whined softly, reluctant to let go, but eventually shuffled back to the couch as you gently shooed him away. The corners of your mouth lifted as you watched him retreat, blanket trailing behind him like a child dragging a beloved toy.

Even as you finished the soup, ladling it carefully into bowls, you couldn’t help but feel grateful—for the warmth, for the love you shared, and for the quiet moments like this where you could remind him that he was never truly alone.

With a careful grip on both bowls, you shuffled across the polished hardwood floors, your sock-clad feet making soft, whispering sounds as you moved. The aroma of the soup—ginger, garlic, and the herbs your grandmother insisted were essential—wafted through the air, mingling with the warmth of the fireplace. You placed your own bowl on the coffee table, turning to Thanos with a soft smile as you offered him his.

“Eat up, baby,” you said gently, your voice carrying the kind of warmth only reserved for him. “It’ll help you feel better.”

His tired eyes softened, the corners of his mouth curving into a small but genuine smile. Despite the fever still painting his cheeks pink, there was a flicker of gratitude in his expression.

“Thank you, angel,” he said, his voice still hoarse but laced with affection. He took the bowl from your hands, his fingers brushing yours. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Your heart squeezed at his words, and you leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his damp forehead. “You don’t have to do anything to deserve me, T,” you murmured. “Just be here.”

He gazed at you with an almost boyish awe as you sat down beside him, curling your legs beneath you and leaning back against the cushions. The flickering light of the TV danced across both of your faces as the silly, absurd humor of the cartoon filled the room. It wasn’t your usual choice, but the way Thanos chuckled weakly between spoonfuls made it worth every ridiculous joke.

Thanos was quick to finish his first bowl, the warmth of the soup visibly helping to ease the tension in his shoulders and the rasp in his voice. You noticed the way his movements seemed less lethargic, his hands steadier as he held the bowl. Without a word, you rose and brought him seconds, knowing the nourishment would help him fight off the lingering illness.

“More?” you asked, holding out the freshly filled bowl with a raised brow and a teasing smile.

He nodded sheepishly, his lips twitching upward. “You really are an angel, you know that?”

“You’ve mentioned it,” you teased lightly, leaning over to kiss his temple before handing him the bowl.

Dinner passed quietly, the clinking of spoons against ceramic mingling with the occasional chuckle from the TV. When he finally set the empty bowl down, his movements slow and careful, you gathered both bowls and carried them to the sink. You stared at the dishes for a moment before deciding they were a problem for tomorrow. Tonight wasn’t about chores—it was about him.

Returning to the couch, you grabbed the blanket and nestled yourself beside Thanos. He shifted to accommodate you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close. The weight of his arm was comforting, grounding.

The blanket was warm and soft, cocooning you both as you sank deeper into the cushions. Thanos’ fingers found their way to your hair, lazily twisting and untangling strands in a soothing rhythm. His touch was absent minded, but it carried so much tenderness that it made your chest ache.

The cartoons faded into background noise as your eyelids grew heavier. You turned over, your body curling into his chest, your ear pressed against his heartbeat—a steady, reassuring sound that lulled you closer to sleep. Thanos tightened his arms around you, his lips finding the top of your head.

He pressed a long, meaningful kiss there, his lips lingering as if the act alone could convey all the love he didn’t have the words for.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he whispered into your hair, his breath warm against your skin.

Your eyes fluttered open just enough to glance up at him. “I’ll always take care of you, T,” you mumbled, your voice soft and drowsy. You tightened your arms and legs around him, as if holding him closer would keep the world at bay.

Thanos rested his cheek against your head, his fingers continuing their gentle path through your hair. The sound of your steady breathing soon turned to soft snores, and he couldn’t help but smile.

The tension in his chest eased completely. The panic and fever were no match for the warmth of your presence, the way you fit so perfectly in his arms.

As he held you, his own eyes growing heavy, he thought, This is the only medicine I need.

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[golden-reverie]

Burnt Out

Author’s note: Hello to anyone who sees this! I’m Elodie, 24, from the Midwest. I love to experiment with writing, and my guilty pleasure is anything to do with Harry Styles. I’ve been so inspired by all the amazing writers on here, so I finally decided to take a stab at something of my own. I hope you enjoy :)

Summary: You’ve been running yourself ragged over a work project, and Harry isn’t having it.

Word count: 4.2k

Warnings: MDNI, spanking, punishment, fingering, pre-established dom/sub relationship, stern dom!harry, sub!reader, fem!reader, aftercare, all actions and dynamics are consensual

The soft glow of the laptop screen flickered against the walls, casting restless shadows in the dimly lit house. Y/N’s fingers danced over the keyboard, her eyes locked onto the cascading lines of code. Stray wisps of amber hair had escaped the messy bun atop her head, and she absently chewed on the end of a pen—an old habit from her college days. The room was silent, save for the rhythmic clicking of keys and the quiet hum of the laptop’s fan.

Harry lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with a mixture of concern and quiet frustration. The faint aroma of the dinner he’d prepared still clung to the air, a cruel reminder that she had once again skipped a meal in favor of work. Outside, the streetlights cast a soft, silver glow through the thin curtains, tracing ghostly patterns on the floor. Y/N remained wrapped in the world of her screen, completely oblivious to his presence.

He cleared his throat, his voice cutting through the hush like a blade. “Y/N, it’s late. You need to come to bed.”

She didn’t look up. “Just a few more minutes, Harry. I need to finish this.”

Harry sighed, raking a hand through his unruly curls. “You’ve been saying that for the last three hours. You need a break.”

This time, she did glance up—just long enough for him to catch the flicker of exhaustion in her gaze before she turned back to her work. “I can’t. This project is a big one. I have to get it done.”

Harry pushed off the door frame and strode toward her, his presence heavy, unyielding. A warm hand landed on her shoulder, grounding her. “You’ve been at this nonstop for weeks. You need to take care of yourself.”

She shrugged off his touch. “I will. Just not tonight.”

His jaw tightened. “That’s not how this works, Y/N. You know the rules. You agreed to them.” His voice remained level, but there was an edge to it now, a quiet authority that she could no longer ignore. “Your body needs food, rest… You’ll burn out if you keep this up.”

Y/N’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, but for the first time in hours, she hesitated. She exhaled slowly, her voice softer, but still laced with defiance.

“I just… need to finish this. Can’t you see that?”

Harry’s expression didn’t waver. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You can finish it tomorrow. During normal hours. Right now, you need sleep. I already let you skip dinner, and we both know that wasn’t the first meal you’ve ignored lately.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a murmur. “I’ve run out of patience, love.”

Y/N stilled. She understood the implication behind his words. Her breath hitched, cheeks heating.

“Harry, I can’t just—”

“Yes, you can.” His tone was gentle, yet immovable. “And you will.” With deliberate ease, he reached out and closed her laptop, the sudden silence deafening.

She finally looked at him, her eyes flashing with something between defiance and reluctant surrender. “You’re being over the top,” she muttered.

Harry smirked, tilting her chin up with his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Maybe I am. But someone has to be.” His thumb brushed against her cheek, slow and deliberate. “You’re not taking care of yourself. And that’s not acceptable to me.” His voice was softer now, but it carried an unmistakable weight.

The air thickened, charged with something unspoken yet undeniable.

He took a step back, nodding toward the staircase. “C’mon. Up you get.”

Y/N hesitated for half a second before pushing up from her chair, her body drawn to his like a tide to the shore. As much as she wanted to argue, she knew he was right. This project had pushed her past her limits—late nights, skipped meals, unanswered texts and calls—Harry had let a lot slide. But tonight, that grace had run out. And now that she had been pulled from the blue-light-induced trance she had been under, she found herself grateful for his insistence.

As they ascended the stairs, a different kind of tension coiled low in her stomach. She knew exactly where this was going, and she could already feel the electricity crackling in the space between them.

Harry sat on the edge of their bed, his eyes steady as she hovered in the doorway. He extended a hand, beckoning her forward.

“C’mere,” he commanded.

She found her place in between his legs. His hands fell to her hips and slinked around to the soft flesh under her ass, holding her in place. She looked down at him, anticipating his next move.

“I think you have a pretty good idea of where this is headed, yeah?” His eyes held a quiet patience that stood in sharp contrast to the inevitable sentence looming over her head.

“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, avoiding his gaze.

Harry hummed in approval. “I’ve let a lot slide these past couple of weeks,” he said, tilting his head forward in search of her eyes. “I know big projects come up and that they sometimes get the better of our judgment. That’s just life. But you’re not doing yourself any favors by skipping meals and running on two hours of sleep each day… I know you know that.”

She rested her hands on his shoulders, fingers toying with the fabric of his shirt. A nervous habit.

He blows out a soft sigh, brushing his fingers against her skin, “I gave you plenty of chances to course-correct, Y/N. I wasn’t expecting perfection, but you’ve been running yourself into the ground, and that’s not something I can just overlook.”

She chewed her lip, her gaze flickering anywhere but his face. “I know. I’m sorry.” A frustrated breath escaped her lips, “It’s just… this project is important to me, and you know how cutthroat my coworkers can be. I can’t afford to fall behind.”

“I understand,” he says, lightly squeezing her flesh beneath his hands. “And I love how hard you work, but regardless, you know you can’t be on your A-game if you’re not taking care of yourself… That’s why we put these rules in place, remember? He moves his right hand up to her jaw in a silent command to meet his stare, “Because I love you and I care about you.” His voice was steady, eyes unwavering. “And sometimes you need a reminder to care about yourself, too. Yeah?”

She maintained eye contact this time, the guilt she had been trying to push aside settled heavily in her chest. “I love you too.” she mumbles, her voice barely audible. “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t just an apology—it was an admission. She had ignored the rules, brushed aside her own well-being for weeks, and now the weight of it all felt like it was seeping out of her pores, pooling at his feet.

Harry lets his hand drop from her chin, his expression firm but not unkind. “And I appreciate that,” he says, his tone shifting, sharpening. “But you know the deal.”

It wasn’t necessarily a question, but she answered him, nonetheless.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Alright, over my knee,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He patted his thigh—a silent summons, firm and absolute.

Y/N hesitated for a moment. Not out of reluctance, but out of the sheer pleasure of the moment—this dance between them—the thrill of defiance followed by sweet surrender. She always wanted this, always needed this, and until right now; she hadn’t realized how much she’d been craving it.

He didn’t rush her. He never did. He simply waited, watching her with steady, knowing eyes. The weight of his gaze alone sent a shiver through her, anticipation thrumming beneath her skin. Taking a slow, measured breath, she finally relented, placing her hands on the mattress for balance as she draped herself over his lap.

He took a moment to admire the sight before him—the gentle arch of her back, the delicate vibration in her limbs, betraying her excitement. His hands smoothed over her spine, warm and comforting, a soothing contrast to the tension coiling inside her.

He could feel her trembling almost imperceptibly as she laid there—a quiet, unspoken longing bubbling up from her core. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her leggings, peeling them down her legs with deliberate ease before tossing them aside.

His palms roamed over the swell of her ass, his touch featherlight, teasing. Y/N bit her lip, resisting the instinct to press her thighs together as he traced the lace trim of her panties, feeling her heat radiating through the delicate fabric. That alone nearly unraveled him. His cock strained painfully against his sweatpants, but he forced himself to linger in this moment—the exquisite torture of making her wait, of drawing it out until she was teetering on the edge.

His hands traveled upward, finding the hem of her shirt, fingertips grazing the sensitive skin beneath. He heard the small hitch in her breath, watched as goosebumps bloomed across her flesh. Slowly, agonizingly, he lifted the fabric, removing it from her body, letting the cool air kiss her bare back as she shivered in his grasp.

He towered over her, his presence commanding every ounce of her attention. His voice, low and unwavering, wrapped around her like a steel chain. “Is your work more important than your own health?”

Y/N inhaled sharply, steadying herself before she answered. “No, Sir.”

“And who decides when you’ve had enough?” His head tilted slightly, waiting—expecting.

His voice rumbled through her, a dark, velvety vibration that settled deep in her bones. Her breath hitched. “You do, Sir.”

A flicker of approval danced in his eyes. “Good girl.”

His palm ghosted over the curves of her ass, tracing gentle circles that did little to soothe the anticipation humming in her nerves. “I want you to count for me.”

She barely had a moment to brace herself before his hand left her skin—only to return with a sharp, resounding crack.

“One!” she gasped. But before she could stop herself, her right hand shot back instinctively, trying to shield herself from the sting.

Harry was faster. He caught her wrist effortlessly, pinning it against the small of her back. His fingers wove through hers, the delicate touch at odds with the firmness of his next words.

“You know better than that.” His voice carried a quiet, heavy disapproval that made her stomach flip. “We’re starting over. Every time you squirm, we’ll go back to one again. Understood?”

Y/N swallowed hard, resisting the urge to whimper. He meant business tonight. “Yes, Sir.”

The next blow landed just as hard.

“One, Sir.” This time, she tagged on the honorific—not required, but a subtle touch she knew he'd appreciate. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

Then came the next. And the next.

“Two, Sir… Three, Sir!” The quick succession stole the breath from her lungs, leaving her voice edged with both pain and something deeper, something needier.

He could feel it—the way her body responded, her skin flushing beneath his touch, heat rolling off her in waves. His palm burned against her flesh, but he reveled in it. He lived for this part: the slow, deliberate breaking down of everything but sensation.

By number twelve, the sharp slap landed against the tender flesh of her lower thighs, and she wailed, the sound raw and unfiltered. Tears pricked at the edges of her vision, but still, she forced the number past her lips.

Harry knew her body better than she did. He knew exactly how to unravel her, how to make her cry out first from frustration—then from sheer, unadulterated pleasure. He wanted her mind empty, consumed only by this, by him.

The next set of strikes sent waves of something heady through her, an intoxicating blend of pain and euphoria. Her breath stuttered. She barely managed to grunt out the numbers between each punishing impact, her body trembling, craving.

By the time he reached twenty-eight, her head had fallen slack against the bed, silent tears soaking into the duvet. This was the most Y/N had ever taken. Normally, he didn’t have to go past twenty before she surrendered completely, but tonight—tonight she had been stubborn. Each slap chipped away at the stress, the tension, the weight she had been carrying for weeks.

He felt the moment her body gave in. The way her fingers went limp in his grasp, her voice raw, spent. She wasn’t resisting anymore—just accepting.

“Thirty, Sir,” she sobbed, the words almost lost in the haze of exhaustion and relief. Then, softer still, “I’m sorry.”

Harry let his hand relax, fingers tracing slow, soothing circles over the heated expanse of her skin. Her body was still shaking, but not from pain. Not anymore. He knew she had slipped, drifting into that quiet, blissful space where nothing existed beyond the warmth of his touch and the safety of his presence.

And he wasn’t about to pull her out. Not yet.

For a long moment, the only sound was the steady rhythm of his palm smoothing over her, and the lingering, uneven sniffles escaping her lips. He let her breathe, let her be.

After a couple minutes, he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he murmured, “You did so good baby. I’m proud of you.”

He pressed a few final, featherlight kisses along the curve of her lower back, his breath warm against her skin as he murmured, “Are you ready for me to check on you?”

He already knew the answer. Knew what he would find when his fingers slipped between her thighs. The anticipation sent a thrill down his spine as he let his hand drift lower, tracing the seam of her slick folds, drinking in the heat that seeped into his skin.

She was dripping.

Harry was hard beneath her, the evidence pressing insistently against her stomach, and he knew she could feel it too. But tonight wasn’t about him. Yes, she had broken the rules—deserved the punishment she had just endured—but more importantly, he wanted to strip away the weight she had been carrying. He wanted to unmake the stress that had hardened her and replace it with something softer.

His thumb found her clit, circling with just enough pressure to make her squirm, a broken whimper muffled against the duvet.

“Good girl, Y/N,” he praised, his voice a low hum of satisfaction.

“Just gonna make you feel good now, yeah?”

He slid a finger inside her, slow and deliberate, while his free hand threaded into her hair, stroking, grounding her.

Her nod was small, but he felt the way her body melted, giving in to his touch. Wetness seeped onto his thigh, further proof of how much she needed this—needed him.

He pushed a second finger inside, reveling in the way her walls clenched around him, her body trembling from the overwhelming sensations. With every stroke, he could feel her tension unraveling, her muscles slackening, the last remnants of restraint slipping away.

The world around him dissolved as his fingers curled inside her, seeking out the spot he knew would make her crumble. “You’ve been so good for me,” he whispered, his lips grazing the damp skin of her shoulder. “Took your punishment like a champ. Now, I want you to come for me. Just like this.”

Her skin tasted of sweat and salt, the scent of her arousal thick in the air.

Y/N was a paradox—a perfect blend of submission and defiance. As obedient as she was, that stubborn streak of hers ran just as deep, a constant challenge that kept him on his toes. But nights like this? When she surrendered completely, yielding every inch of herself to him without hesitation?

He savored it. Relished it. Worshipped it.

Because having all of her—mind, body, and soul—was a privilege he would never take for granted.

He studied her like an artist captivated by the final stroke of their masterpiece, burning the view into his memory—the flutter of her lashes as her eyes turned glassy, the flush that crept down her neck, the way her cunt clenched so tightly around his fingers as if trying to keep him there forever. He wanted to teach her to let go. To release all the anxiety, frustration, and exhaustion that had been suffocating her for far too long.

But he needed it to come from her—wanted her to own her pleasure as much as he did—to know that she was worthy, desired, loved.

Harry’s fingers slid deeper, moving with deliberate slowness as they arched just right, pressing against the spot that had her moaning, her body instinctively grinding against his palm. Her face was buried in the duvet, eyes squeezed shut as she gasped, overwhelmed by the rush of sensations flooding through her.

“Come on, Y/N. Let go for me,” he coaxed, his voice dripping with filthy promise.

Her body tensed, and he knew he had her. She trembled on the precipice before the dam broke. A shattered moan tore from her lips as pleasure ripped through her, muscles spasming in tight, rhythmic waves. The heat of her release coated his figures, and he didn’t stop—not yet.

He worked her through it, his thumb never relenting from the steady, precise strokes against her clit. He wanted everything. Wanted to hear her cry out for him, to watch the pleasure drag her under until she had nothing left to give.

And under she went.

Her cries turned breathless as the last tremors wracked her body, her limbs going boneless beneath his touch. Slowly, he withdrew his fingers, smirking at the needy little whimper she made at the loss. He soothed the ache with soft strokes along her trembling thighs, grounding her as she came back down.

“Atta girl, sweetheart,” he cooed, voice laced with satisfaction. “That feel good?”

A slow, exhausted nod was all she could manage. As the haze of pleasure lifted, she became aware of everything at once—the damp strands of hair sticking to her nape, the tingling in her limbs, the lingering warmth radiating from her backside.

But nothing could pull her back to reality quite like his voice.

“Can you sit up for me, sweet girl?”

***

Water cascaded from the shower head in silken ribbons, a warm, soothing contrast against the cool tile. Steam curled in the air, thick and languid, blurring the edges of the room until it felt like they existed in their own private universe. The scent of eucalyptus clung to the mist, wrapping around them like an embrace.

Harry held Y/N close, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, the quiet strength of him anchoring her. Her head rested against his collarbone, the sound of his heartbeat a calming metronome against the storm that had been raging inside her for weeks.

His hands moved slowly over her damp skin, drawing soothing circles along her spine, his thumbs tracing the delicate ridges of her back. She shivered—not from the cold, but from the contrast of sensations: the warmth of the water, the cool air beyond it, the roughness of his calloused fingers against the softness of her flesh.

She tilted her head up, meeting his gaze through the water’s shimmering veil. Her lips were parted, her lashes heavy, surrender written in every line of her expression. Harry felt something deep and primal stir in his chest.

With a lingering kiss, he turned her around, his fingers threading through her hair as he worked the shampoo into a gentle lather. His touch was reverent, a contradiction of tenderness and strength, his large hands cradling her head with the kind of care that made her stomach flutter. She sighed softly, melting into the sensation as she rested against his muscled body, her small noises of contentment filling the air like music.

When the last suds had been rinsed away, Harry reached past her to shut off the water, the sudden absence of sound leaving them in an intimate hush. Without hesitation, he grabbed the towels he had set out earlier, wrapping her in one before she could feel the bite of the air. He took his time drying her off, the plush fabric gliding over her sensitive skin like a gentle breeze, coaxing a soft sigh from her lips. Then, with the same quiet devotion, he slipped one of his t-shirts over her head, the oversized fabric swallowing her smaller frame.

As Y/N moved through the final steps of her skincare routine, Harry retrieved a bottle of lotion from the cupboard across the room. He approached her with the grace of a shadow, gently tapping her on the bum.

“When you’re done, I want you to lay on the bed on your tummy. Ok?” His voice a smooth, honeyed command.

She finished up and did as she was told, sinking into the mattress, her head resting on her folded arms. Her damp hair spread across the silk pillow like a river of dark water, cool and smooth against the fabric.

The bed dipped beneath his weight, and she heard the soft sound of lotion being smoothed between his hands. A moment later, the hem of her shirt lifted, and his warm palms met the tender skin of her backside. Y/N sighed deeply, the coolness of the lotion a welcome relief to the heat lingering from earlier. His hands moved with slow, deliberate strokes, massaging away the sting, his fingers tracing the curves of her body with intimate familiarity.

The room was quiet, save for the rustle of sheets and the steady rhythm of their breathing. Y/N felt herself unraveling beneath his touch, sinking into the present moment, leaving behind the weight of the stress that had knotted itself into her muscles. He always knew how to bring her back—how to pull her from the depths of her mind and remind her that she didn't have to handle everything on her own.

When he was finished, he leaned down, brushing a stray lock of hair from her neck before pressing a gentle kiss to the delicate skin there.

“How do you feel?” His voice was a low murmur against her ear, thick with warmth and something deeper—something unspoken but understood.

Y/N swallowed, taking a moment to gather her words. “I—I feel good, Sir,” she admitted, her voice still laced with the remnants of pleasure and submission. “Still a little out of it… but good.” She paused for a moment, then continued, “I’m glad for the punishment. I really needed that.”

She shifted to sit up, and he caught her chin between his fingers, maneuvering her head to face him.

Harry’s lips curved into a soft smile, his thumb tracing slow, reassuring patterns along her cheek. “You did well tonight. You know that, right? M’proud of you.”

The weight of his words settled over her like a blanket—warm, protective, unwavering. She smiled softly into his touch.

A beat of silence stretched between them before he spoke again. “When you feel like things are spiraling, I need you to know you can come to me.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he leaned in and kissed her. It was slow and deliberate, filled with everything he didn’t need to say—everything he had already proven.

When she finally pulled away, her voice was softer, more certain. “I do know that. And I’m sorry I didn’t come to you sooner. It’s… a habit, shutting people out when I’m stressed. But regardless, you didn’t deserve that.”

Harry exhaled a quiet laugh, “Yes, I’m well aware of that habit of yours, which we’ll crack one day. But in the meantime, you can push all you want, sweetheart. Unfortunately for you, I’m not going anywhere.”

She giggled, letting him pull her into his chest. “On the contrary. Very fortunate for me,” she corrected, her voice tinged with affection.

He grinned, maneuvering the covers so she could slide beneath them. Reaching over, he switched off the lamp on his bedside table, casting the room into a velvety darkness.

As Y/N melted into him, the last of her tension slipping away, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“Get some sleep. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered against his skin, finally surrendering to the quiet lull of sleep’s embrace.

...

Ahhh! Kind of out there for my first post but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Hope you enjoyed!

[hard-core-super-star]

brought you together so nice [W.Maximoff + N.Romanoff]

pairing: dom!natasha romanoff x sub!reader x switch!wanda maximoff

summary: natasha takes care of you until wanda comes back. needless to say, the witch is more than happy about the arrangement you both came up with in her absence.

warnings: SMUT, MINORS DO NO INTERACT -> porn with very little plot but even more feelings; mommy + daddy kink; slightly more established dom/dub dynamics; a dash of pet play (as usual); bondage; gagging; soft domme nat + bratty wanda!!!!; vibrator use [R receiving]; praise + degradation + a dash of humiliation; hair pulling; spanking; aftercare

wordcount: 4.1k

a/n: well, well, well...guess who got too attached to another series? yup, me 😅 these two have taken up more of my mind than i originally thought so here is part three of this little series. i don't have a plan to make another full part, but i might mess around and write a few blurbs here and there. we'll see what happens. anyway, thank you for all your support, especially regarding this little series. i'm thinking of opening my requests back up until the start of the new year so keep an eye out for that ;) [commissions are still more than welcome, though!] okay, i'll stop rambling for now, hope you enjoy <3

* * * * * * *

Natasha could be sweet when she wanted to.

That was the first thing you learned after agreeing to become her and Wanda's submissive. 

The rules and details weren't too clear yet, the redhead promising to answer all your questions as soon as the Sokovian came back from her mission. Still, she did what she could to fill in the gaps of your knowledge, allowing you to ask her as many questions as you pleased before showing you, in great detail, what she meant.

Despite the cold exterior you'd learned to love, she was much softer with you than you'd ever imagined. Sure, she was still a mean domme at heart, but she wanted to show you heights of pleasure you'd never experienced before.

And she went to great lengths to guarantee it.

It quickly became clear to you how much she loved impact play. Even outside of play sessions, she would always come up behind you, landing a hard smack to your ass before pulling you into her arms. You didn't mind, even when she did it in front of the others.

(Although Tony did whistle at you guys once and promptly earned himself a punch to the stomach. He laughed it off but made sure to never tease the Widow about her behavior with you again.)

You knew there were a lot of things you didn't know or fully understand, but Natasha always seemed to find a way to make you feel more excited than nervous about it. It was almost funny how quickly her personality changed once she allowed you to see past her walls.

Sure, she was still a little mean and more than a little snarky (which is exactly how you liked her, if you were being honest) yet there was a softer, affectionate, side that started coming out more and more.

She told you it was simply because Wanda wasn't around and she wasn't allowed to "break you in" without her around. Maybe it was a silly excuse perfectly crafted to keep you on your toes, but you didn't really mind.

Well, except because you really missed Wanda.

Being without the witch was harder than you thought it would be, but the Widow kept you busy enough to forget the empty spot beside you in their bed.

Your bed.

That was the second thing Natasha made you learn. 

Yes, you were technically an addition to their relationship, but you weren't an outsider. You never were.

That was the third thing you learned.

Both Natasha and Wanda had their eyes on you from the very beginning. They loved each other, and their relationship made them happier than they could put into words, and yet they always felt something was missing. A third energy to keep them in check. To stop them from getting too rough, too mean with each other. To help remember how to be soft after spending so much time fighting with the world.

It was...strange, but you couldn't deny what they meant to you. The attraction you felt toward them had always been there and after Wanda opened that door...well, let's just say there was no going back.

You didn't understand how real that was until now.

Because somehow, someway, after carrying guilt you didn't even need to have in the first place, you were here.

You were theirs.

You were waking up in their bed with Natasha's arms wrapped tight around your waist.

A shudder ran down your body as the redhead's lips met your bare shoulder, peppering kisses across the skin. "Morning, detka. Sleep well?"

"Yeah," you reply as a smile forms on your face. "You're a fantastic cuddler."

"Shut up," she mumbles. There's a clear lack of annoyance in her words despite her attempts at sounding tough. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Your grip on me begs to differ."

At your response, her hands move to grip your waist, her nails digging into your soft skin. The sensation makes you gasp, your back arching almost instantly. You can feel the redhead smiling against your skin. It hasn't been that long and she already knows your body better than you do.

"Sorry, were you saying something?" She says, taking advantage of your reactions to grind against your ass. "You seem a little distracted."

 It's a bit of a cruel game but it's one she loves to play with you. Truth be told, she loves playing with you, period. You're so different from Wanda, so much more responsive, more honest about your constant neediness.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you mumble, not so subtly grinding back against her.

Just because you were slowly learning the rules regarding your place didn't mean you didn't love pushing Natasha's buttons whenever you could. Which really only happened in the mornings and during aftercare. Those were the only two moments when the older woman allowed herself to be soft with you, to let you see behind the walls she'd expertly put up to keep everyone out. Everyone except you and Wanda, it seems.

Her voice remains low, straddling the border between a tease and a warning. "Is my good girl trying to be a brat?"

Your heart skips a beat at her words. At the mention of being her good girl. Of being hers.

After the rough beginning your relationship had, you never thought you'd be let into her heart in any way. And yet here you are. You're her good girl, her kitten, her darling submissive.

"No..." You trail off, trying to decide whether to behave or push her buttons a little more. Ultimately, your desire to be a little shit wins out. "...Daddy."

Natasha chuckles behind you, her hands moving from your hips and toward your breasts. She gives them a soft squeeze as her thumbs tease your hardening nipples. "Oh, kotenok, you woke up cheeky this morning, huh? You know what mouthing off like that will earn you, right?"

You do know. She's told you many, many times before, usually while she's praising you for being so good for her and drawing out orgasm after orgasm from your overstimulated body.

However, she's never actually acted out any of her warnings. It's a good thing, you know that, and yet you can't stop yourself from wanting to see what it will feel like. To explore what that kind of submission will do to you.

"Yes, Daddy. I know."

She hums before going right back to kissing across your shoulders, nipping at your skin just to get you to arch into her teasing hands. "I see...you want to be punished, don't you? Want Daddy to remind you of your place until there's nothing else inside your mind?"

You're about to reply when you're interrupted by F.R.I.D.A.Y. "Miss Romanoff, Miss Maximoff has asked me to notify you of her return."

Your cheeks flush, even though the disembodied voice can't see what exactly you're up to this morning. At the very least, F.R.I.D.A.Y. is a lot less nosy than Jarvis ever was. Although, if you're being honest, you liked him better before he turned into a robot.

"I'm assuming she'll be at the Medbay for a while?" The Widow replies, her mind no doubt full of the things she'll do to you to pass the time.

"Yes, it seems she'll be there for the next half hour."

"Good. Thank you, Friday."

The AI doesn't reply and you can practically imagine her making a swift exit out of the room, leaving you to face whatever it is that the redhead has come up with.

"y/n..." Natasha purrs, her breath hot against your ear. "I have an idea. Why don't we give Mommy a nice surprise, hmm? Don't you want to be her pretty welcome back gift?"

You're not sure what being Wanda's "welcome back gift" will entail, but you can't deny your curiosity about it. Especially since the witch has no idea what you and her girlfriend have been up to. You have no doubt she has her suspicions, she is a mind reader after all, but it'll still be nice to surprise her.

You agree before you even know what you're doing, and Natasha wastes no time in springing into action.

In a matter of minutes, you go from lying comfortably under the covers to being spread out on your back, your limbs tied to each corner of the bed. You're exposed, vulnerable, and you love every second of it.

Of course, Natasha isn't satisfied with that. No, to top off the pretty sight you make, she places a deep, dark red ball gag between your lips. You shouldn't be surprised since, after all, you did ask for it.

"There we go," the redhead hums appreciatively, her eyes taking in the beautiful sight. "Now, just sit tight, okay, detka? I'll be right back."

You whine instantly, but she pays no mind to you, quickly making her way out of the bedroom and going to look for Wanda. You're not exactly happy about being left alone yet, there's nothing you can do. All you can do is throw your head back in frustration and wait for your lovers to return.

You're not sure how much time goes by, although there's no doubt in your mind that Natasha does her best to draw out their return just to mess with you, but eventually, they make their way back to you.

The sound of the door opening makes you practically vibrate with excitement, your hips wiggling from side to side without thinking.

"Well, would you look at that," Wanda says as she steps further into the room. "Looks like someone was having fun without me."

Natasha follows her in, standing behind her and wrapping her arms around her waist. There's something so domestic about the action that makes your heart clench.

"I had to get her ready for you, darling," the redhead replies as her chin finds the other woman's shoulder. "She looks good, doesn't she?"

"She sure does. I take it you worked out your issues?"

"We came to an...agreement, yes. I couldn't let you have all the fun."

Wanda chuckles, the corners of her mouth quirking up into a fond smile. There's no mistaking the fire in her eyes, though, the desire simmering below the surface. "And you said I was crazy for wanting her to join us."

The Widow grumbles, clearly not quite ready to admit her girlfriend was right. "You're still not off the hook, you let her believe you cheated on me."

"When are you going to let that go?"

"I'm not sure, maybe you should make it up to me."

Natasha's eyes remain on you but Wanda turns around, silencing her girlfriend's complaints with a fiery kiss. All you can do is watch, feeling left out and far too involved at the same time. You're slowly getting used to their competitive antics.

Their kisses turn desperate in nothing short of a few seconds, leaving you far too desperate and needy while you squirm around on the bed. They take their sweet time getting back to you, though, instead letting their hands wander over each other's bodies.

You'd love to complain but you're still gagged so talking is pretty much impossible. More than that...you can't say you're not loving the view. It makes you feel a little dirty, like you're watching an intimate scene you shouldn't be, and it brings a rush unlike anything you've ever felt before.

They know, because of course they know, and your obvious arousal only motivates them to tease you.

Natasha moves first, expert hands reaching for the hem of Wanda's shirt and lifting it over her head in an instant. "I missed you."

"Are you talking to me or my boobs?" The witch replies with a perfectly raised eyebrow.

"I'm talking to all of you."

"Nice save, 'Tasha."

"Shut up."

There's something comforting about the scene in front of you, even as your frustration builds. You've been with them before, but it's different this time. You can feel the change in energy, the easy chemistry that flows between all of you now that Natasha isn't trying to push you away.

"Come on, I think we've teased our good girl long enough," Wanda says, taking the redhead's hand and leading her toward the bed. "Isn't that right, sweetheart? You're feeling a little frustrated, hmm?"

You nod desperately in response, tugging at the rope that holds you down. Your actions only make both of your lovers chuckle.

"Look at her, she's drenched and we haven't gotten started yet," Natasha comments, her eyes trailing up and down your body like a predator assessing its prey.

"I'm guessing this means training's going well."

"She's a quick learner. A bit bratty sometimes, though."

The way they talk about you as if you're not a part of the conversation has you clenching around pure air. It doesn't help that the Widow is so accurate in her assessment of you. You love being submissive, being under their control, but you can't deny how much fun it is to disobey. To push against the boundaries she's set for you, not to defy her but to tease her. Maybe even test her a little.

It's far too fun.

"Is that right, sweetheart?" Wanda asks, even though your body language makes it clear how correct Natasha is. "I thought you liked being our good girl. Because if you don't, well...you know what happens to naughty girls, don't you?"

Of course you know. It was one of the first things the redhead taught you. Sure, the rules and terms weren't too fleshed out yet since Natasha had wanted her girlfriend to be a part of the whole exchange, but she'd gone over most things with you. Rewards, punishments, hard limits, all that stuff.

You're unable to tell the witch that, though, thanks to the gag in your mouth. Your incoherent mumbles seem to entertain her for a few seconds while Natasha sneaks off toward their closet.

Wanda's chuckle cuts through the air. Your attempts at convincing her you've been good clearly amuse her. "I know, baby, I know you like being good. Otherwise, Nat wouldn't be so attached to you."

"I'm not attached," the redhead grumbles.

A month ago, her words would have made your heart drop into your stomach. Now, though, you know she's only playing a part. She has no problem telling you how she feels outside of a scene, but when you're playing, when you're being their pet, she's right back to being mean. Right back to degrading you and humiliating you until you're riding the edge of pleasure and pain.

"Keep telling yourself that, darling."

"Oh, I will."

Their banter is borderline comforting. You've loved spending time with Natasha, but this, being with them and seeing their personalities come together, this is where you thrive.

Well, it's not like you're doing much. Then again, they like you most when you're like this. Vulnerable, at their mercy, and so obviously loving every second of it.

Wanda climbs onto bed with you, crawling over your body until she's hovering over you with a gentle smile that steals all your worries away. "'Tasha's such a liar, isn't she, sweetheart? It's okay, let her act like she's the big bad."

You want to laugh, but it's a little hard when she's leaning down to pepper kisses all over your face. The action is far softer than what you were expecting and it makes your heart soar.

You were ready for a rougher training session, for a trial run meant to show you what you had been missing in the witch's absence. But this? This is really good too.

Wanda continues her loving assault on your skin, trailing kisses down your jaw and toward your neck. You tilt your head back in response, earning a soft giggle muffled against your skin, as she kisses and nibbles all up and down your throat. There's no doubt in your mind that she's littering your skin with hickies and noticeable marks, but you find you really don't mind it.

The witch steals your attention long enough for Natasha to gather a few supplies before making her way over to you. You feel her set a few things down next to you, but you don't get to see what they are. Not that you really mind considering how busy your mind is.

"Stop hogging her attention, that's not very fair."

"It's not my fault you left her so fuzzy-headed. Poor girl didn't even stand a chance, huh?"

You shake your head, a few muffled whines making their way out of you.

Natasha chuckles as she shifts onto her knees next to you. Her hands find their way between you and Wanda's bodies, teasing your skin as she explores the territory she's spent the past few days claiming.

"Oh, please. This is nothing. You should've seen the state she was in last night."

The reminder makes you squirm in your restraints, trying to get closer to them to no avail. You know how desperate you look, how absolutely needy you are, but you can't find it in yourself to care. This is what you had been waiting for. To be completely theirs. To surrender to them and accept everything they were willing to give you. Sure, it was intimidating and yet it felt incredibly right.

"Are you trying to make me jealous?" Wanda responds, working her way down your body, expertly avoiding the areas where her girlfriend is touching you.

"You deserve it. Wasn't this your fantasy?"

"Maybe. It was hers first, though. Isn't that right, detka?"

The change in topic makes you blush. It shouldn't be surprising to hear that the witch had already known about your feelings for her but it's still a little embarrassing. At least she seems to enjoy it.

You nod, your movements slightly frantic and no doubt fueled by the feeling of her lips on your flushed skin. She takes her time dragging her lips up and down your inner thighs as Natasha teases your hardening nipples.

"Such a good little slut. I bet you're already so fuzzy. Just want your cunt played with and nothing else." The redhead distracts you with her words, leaving you completely unprepared for Wanda's continued assault.

You don't hear the thrumming sound of the vibrator coming to life, but you sure feel it against your sensitive clit. Your whole body shudders in response as your hips buck in a desperate attempt to escape the overwhelming sensation.

Your reaction makes the witch laugh and she leans down to press a few more kisses to your thighs. "There you go, that's what I like to see."

Her words feel more like humiliation than praise and yet you can't find it in yourself to care. Not when it feels so good that it borders on painful.

"Excuse you, we were having a little chat." Natasha's tease is coupled with a firm grip in your hair as she tilts your head toward her. "I'll have to train you if you don't fix that attention span, pet."

"Be nice, Nat, it's not her fault she likes me more."

"God, you're such a brat, Maximoff." Her free hand leaves your body to land a sharp smack against Wanda's ass. "I'll put you in your place too, if I have to."

The witch hums in response, very clearly pushing herself back against the redhead's hand. "You know I'd enjoy it."

Natasha spanks her again and the sight has you bucking your hips faster as you search for more pleasure. You let out a string of whines, already feeling yourself on the edge of an orgasm. It's a little embarrassing how quickly you're reaching your limit but in your defense, you've been worked up ever since you woke up. You were bound to lose from the beginning.

"Don't tell me you want to cum already, sweetheart? We've barely gotten started."

You want to defend yourself, but your attempts are instant failures. Natasha seems to get off on how pathetic you sound, though.

"It's alright, kitten, why don't you go ahead and cum for me? Mommy hasn't earned her reward just yet."

Wanda opens her mouth to object but she doesn't get very far since the redhead goes right back to spanking her.

You're not used to seeing the witch in a slightly more submissive position. She always seem to straddle the border between being fully in control and immersed below Natasha's dominance. This change of pace is more than welcome, though.

The vibrator gets pushed harder against your sensitive clit and the pressure sends you over the edge almost instantly. You don't get a chance to warn them, all you can do is give in to the sudden pleasure as your body trembles beneath them.

They're both distracted by the sight of your orgasm crashing into you so suddenly. So beautifully.

"What a good girl," Natasha murmurs appreciatively. "You could learn a thing or two from her, Wands."

"Whatever." You miss the way the witch rolls her eyes since your eyes are more than a little blurry and there's a soft ringing in your ears. "It won't be my fault when she forgets her place, Daddy."

That earns her another spank, but she's too busy moving the vibrator away from your drenched cunt to care. You whine softly at the loss of contact even though you feel far too sensitive to take much more.

Apparently, you look as out of it as you feel because the older women take a few moments to let you catch your breath.

Wanda's hands gently stroke up and down your legs to keep you grounded while Natasha shifts closer, her hands reaching out to undo the ballgag. "How are you feeling, kotenok? Do you want to keep going?"

Your throat's a little dry, but you manage to form a reply. "I'm okay. Just need to catch my breath."

The Widow nods before reaching over to grab the bottled water on the nightstand. She helps you take a few sips of water while Wanda continues to caress your skin, both giving you as much time as you need to recover. It's such a small thing and yet it's a reminder of why you're so attached to them. Why you need them more and more with every day that goes by.

Your relationship with them might have had a bit of a rough start, but you couldn't imagine a better outcome. Couldn't imagine two better people to surrender your heart to.

"Someone's in a romantic mood," Wanda pipes up with a soft smile.

Her words cause an instant response in you and you feel your face grow warmer by the second. "Why are you in my mind right now?"

"Because your thoughts about me are so loud," she replies almost instantly. "Don't look so embarrassed, detka, I think it's cute."

"Shut up," you mumble, momentarily forgetting where you are and what you're in the middle of doing.

Wanda's smile turns slightly dark and her hand comes down against your thigh before you can even think about what you did wrong. "Where'd your manners go, huh?"

The sensation makes you shiver, but Natasha reaches a hand out to stop the witch from smacking your thigh again. "Time out, darling. I don't think we're quite ready to keep going."

You want to argue with her and yet you make no real effort to. As much as you might want to keep going, you can't deny how overwhelming it all was...and how desperate you are for some cuddles.

"Sorry," you mumble.

Wanda instantly shushes you as she uses her magic to undo the restraints keeping you tied down. "Nonsense, you have nothing to apologize for."

The second your limbs are free, Natasha's hands are on you again. This time, though, she merely maneuvers you onto your side so she's able to slide in behind you. The second her arms wrap around your waist, your shoulders let go of the tension they've been holding. 

Wanda wastes no time in joining the two of you, laying down in front of you and reaching up to play with your hair. "Just relax, we have all day to pick up where we left off."

"Don't rush her, little witch."

Natasha's words make you chuckle and you lean forward until you're practically buried in the witch's chest. "I'm okay, guys. I don't break easily."

A beat of silence goes by as they allow you to soak in the afterglow, in the feeling of their embrace.

But the Widow really can't help herself.

"Are you sure? Maybe we should test that out."

Her words are a tease, but none of you can deny your curiosity...or your arousal.

Needless to say, you spend most of the day tangled up in their bed.

Your bed.

With the two women who mean the absolute world to you.