#you and him one shot

[msriri030]

Underground Devil

Adam x reader, heavenly apocalypse au, oneshot?

Disclaimer: murder, slightly heated scene, fighting

Masterlist

The Baptism of the Red Sea.

That was the day the Angels arrived.

Throughout human history, angels had been seen as celestial beings—pure, untarnished by sin. So when they filled the sky, humanity rejoiced. Some stretched out their hands, desperate to touch a fragment of heaven, while others offered baskets of fresh food, gifts for their divine visitors.

Everyone believed the angels had come to end humanity’s suffering.

It was a selfish thought. A human thought. A desperate wish.

Because if they had known the truth—if they had understood what angels really consumed—they would have run.

The Lord’s gospel, they called it.

Angels had come for only one purpose.

To extinguish the human race.

The air, once filled with cheers, became a sea of screams. People trampled friends and family in blind panic, scrambling to escape as angels descended upon them, their holy radiance dripping with human blood. Flesh was torn from bone. Streets ran red.

The ones who survived?

They fled underground, sentenced to a life in the shadows.

Because the surface belonged to the angels now.

And they…

They became the hunted.

But humans couldn’t survive completely underground. Resources dwindled, air grew stale, and no matter how well they hid, they still needed supplies.

That’s why the lottery was created.

Every few months, a group of “volunteers” were chosen—names pulled at random, their fates sealed in ink. Those selected had one job: go to the surface and scavenge for anything that could keep humanity alive. Medical supplies, building materials—if you were lucky, even non-perishable food like canned goods.

Most never returned.

And now, you were one of the unlucky chosen ones.

Night cloaked the ruined city as you moved with your group, a heavy backpack slung over your shoulders, heading back to base. The streets were graveyards of rusted cars and white feathers, their shattered windows like empty, staring eyes. You didn’t check inside. You didn’t want to know what rotted within.

Above, the skeletal remains of skyscrapers loomed, their broken silhouettes clawing at the sky. The wind whispered through the hollowed buildings, mingling with the pounding of your heartbeat.

Still, you kept moving.

Keep searching. But most of all—

You kept watching the sky, because you knew God’s messengers could be watching, too. Yet despite it all, you couldn’t help but admire the stars.

It was the one thing the angels hadn’t stolen.

Above the ruins of a broken world, the heavens stretched vast and untouched, glittering with cold, indifferent beauty. For a brief moment, you let yourself forget the dangers lurking in the darkness. The stars, distant and eternal, didn’t care about the blood-soaked earth below. Maybe that was why you found comfort in them.

"(Y/N)? Is everything alright?"

Magdalene’s voice was hushed, laced with concern. She was the last surviving member of your group—a friend you had made during your time on the surface. Short and lean, with red-dyed hair styled in short space buns that bounced as she walked, Magdalene carried a large gallon jug of clean water in her arms, shifting its weight as she glanced between you and the sky.

You offered a small, apologetic smile, falling into step beside her. "Yeah, I'm fine. I was just… looking at the stars."

Her expression softened. "Oh," she murmured, her lips curving into a faint smile. "I guess that is comforting. It reminds me of how we couldn't see them before because of the light pollution. To be honest, when I was a shut-in, I thought I’d finally make friends one day, go shopping in the city, maybe even sing karaoke together… silly, huh?"

Her hazel, droopy eyes—framed by freckles dusting her tan cheeks—met yours for a fleeting moment before turning ahead.

"Not really. I would have loved to go with you, Maggie," you said, your smile widening as you spotted a decrepit mall up ahead. You recalled your Aunt Ruth’s ramblings about malls, remnants of a time when the surface was still full of life. It gave you an idea. "Why don’t we make it a reality?"

Before she could protest, you grabbed Magdalene’s arm, tugging her toward the mall entrance. A brief escape wouldn’t hurt—just a small indulgence in fantasy before you both resumed your journey home. Maybe you could even bring back a few memories with you.

Pushing open the rusted doors, you held them as Magdalene stepped inside.

If only you knew who was watching.

He watched, annoyed, from the old banking tower, playing with a stray kitten he had found. Today was supposed to be a rest day—no killing, no hunting—but then you had to show up. Worse still, you unknowingly brought Him with your scent. Saffron. So he couldn’t pretend he didn’t see you.

His dyed purple hair blew in the wind, stirred by the force of Saffron’s wings breaking before landing onto the platform. The white-haired man was something of a guardian—or perhaps more like his clean-up crew. He never quite understood why Saffron loved to devour human flesh. At least it meant he didn’t have corpses rotting everywhere, he supposed.

"Hello, Adam. Are you hunting those humans too?" Saffron asked, his glowing green eyes locking with Adam’s.

Adam glanced over his shoulder. "If so, I would be happy to join you, even though my wings are designed to be silent compared to yours."

He wasn’t wrong. Saffron’s white wings were long and broad, their pale blue primary feathers reminiscent of a hawk’s, built for soaring high above. Adam’s, on the other hand, were rounded, with soft, serrated feathers—perfect for gliding soundlessly behind any prey he chose.

Adam exhaled, pushing himself to his feet. "Alright. I’ll kill them for you—but stay here."

He stepped to the edge of the platform, spreading his black wings wide. The moonlight caught the silver shimmer woven into the feathers, making them glisten like liquid metal. Then, with a final glance back, he launched into flight.

Magdalene eyed the water jug nervously as she followed you deeper into the abandoned mall. Her gaze flickered around the darkened corridors, shadows stretching unnervingly across the cracked tile floors. "Are you sure we should be here, (Y/N)? Maybe we should keep moving—"

"Don’t worry," you reassured her, kicking an empty can across the floor. "This place connects to the underground railways. We can use them to get to the sanctuary. So, for now… let’s have some fun."

You came to a stop in front of a dusty clothing store display, its mannequins frozen in time, dressed in garments long untouched. A grin spread across your face as you turned to Magdalene. "Maybe we grab some new outfits? And if we’re really lucky, we might even find a working karaoke machine."

Magdalene hesitated beside you, her eyes catching on the glass storefront. The two of you stood side by side, your reflections aligning perfectly with the display behind it. Her breath hitched slightly as she imagined herself in a stunning white dress, Victorian lace trimming the collar and sleeves. Meanwhile, your reflection sported a sleek black suit with red accents—something sharp, something bold.

You watched the flicker of longing in her gaze and nudged her playfully. "What do you think, Magdalene? Just for a moment—indulge in a simple pleasure with me?"

She said nothing at first. Instead, she carefully set the water jug down, her fingers curling into fists. Then, without warning, she darted forward, scanning the debris-littered floor until she found a rusted bat.

With a wild grin, she gripped it tightly and swung.

Glass shattered on impact, the display window fracturing into a cascade of glittering shards. The sound echoed through the empty mall—sharp, defiant, exhilarating. Magdalene stood amidst the wreckage, chest rising and falling, the dim light catching the fire in her eyes.

And for the first time in a long time, she smiled—a real, unrestrained smile, bright and unburdened.

“Let’s!” she exclaimed.

You couldn’t help but laugh as you dropped your things, grabbing her hand and rushing into the store. Laughter filled the air as you both tore through the clothing racks, tossing garments into the air, daring each other to try on the most ridiculous outfits. The weight of survival, the looming specter of danger—it all faded, if only for a moment.

Eventually, you settled on a black sweater with devil horns on the hood, paired with black jeans and combat boots. As you adjusted your sleeves, you glanced toward the fitting room, waiting.

“Come on, Maggie. I wanna see—”

Your breath hitched when she finally stepped out.

Magdalene stood in the same white dress from the display, the Victorian lace softening her silhouette. Her hazel eyes shimmered under the dim mall lights, and in her hands, she held an imaginary microphone.

Then, without hesitation, she began to sing.

"I want you to stay'Til I'm in the grave'Til I rot away, dead and buried'Til I'm in the casket you carry."

Her voice wove through the abandoned store like a whisper from the past, haunting yet beautiful. When your eyes met, both of you burst into laughter—pure, unfiltered joy.

Magdalene plopped down beside you on the floor, resting her head against your shoulder. The light in her eyes dimmed slightly, sadness creeping in beneath the warmth.

“Thank you for everything, (Y/N),” she murmured. “This was the best day of my life…”

You smirked, exhaling softly. “Anything for you, Maggie.”

A beat of silence. Then, you sighed.

“Let’s head back?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

Magdalene and you gathered your things, still smiling, still holding onto the fleeting warmth of the moment. You reached for the rusted bat, turning to say something—

But then—

A shift in the air, unnatural and wrong.

Your breath caught in your throat as movement flickered in the hallway beyond the shattered display. Silhouettes, tall and eerily still, stood against the dim emergency lighting. Their shapes were almost human.

Almost.

Then, the black feathers.

Sleek, pristine, and dripping with something silver edge.

Your stomach twisted. Your grip on the bat tightened.

“Maggie, is that—”

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“An angel.”

The word felt heavier than it should have, soaked in fear and finality.

The moment of peace was over.

Adam stood before you, his crimson eyes locking onto yours with a gaze so intense it felt like it could pierce straight through your soul. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, deafening in the heavy silence. Every instinct screamed at you to move—to run—but you couldn’t. You were frozen, trapped in his predatory stare.

A slow, deliberate smirk crept across his lips as he twirled a hunting knife between his fingers, the blade catching the dim light in hypnotic flashes. He always did love getting personal with his prey.

Then, without warning, he lunged.

The glinting steel arced toward you—

But before it could reach its mark, Magdalene yanked you back, her grip tight as she pulled you out of the way. Adam crashed hard into a rack of clothing, sending metal hangers clattering to the floor.

“RUN!” Magdalene’s voice snapped you back to reality.

Adrenaline surged through your veins as you grabbed her hand and bolted, your feet pounding against the tile. You barely had time to process what just happened before you found yourself sprinting toward the underground subway system—your only hope of escape. 

Adam wasn’t going to let you go that easily. His wings were relentless and fast, as he closed the distance with every stride. You and Magdalene sprinted, hearts pounding, but Adam was faster, his sheer presence a looming threat as he tore down the hallway after you.

The end of the corridor was near—just a few more steps, and you’d be at the staircase. But when you glanced over your shoulder, panic surged through you. Adam was almost upon Magdalene, his hand reaching out to grab her, to pull her into his grasp. Without thinking, your instincts kicked in.

You spun around and slammed into Magdalene, knocking her aside just in time to give her enough room to avoid Adam’s grasp. But as you moved out of way, the force sent you tumbling, and Adam’s body collided with you, shoving you both toward the end of the staircase. The momentum was too much. The bat you had been clutching fell from your hand with a loud clatter, skidding out of reach.

In an instant, Adam was upon you. His grip was unyielding, an iron vice that clamped onto your shoulder and wrenched you to the ground with terrifying ease. The impact stole the breath from your lungs, leaving you gasping as pain flared through your body. Before you could react, the cold bite of steel sliced through flesh—a sharp, searing agony that ignited in your shoulder as the blade buried itself deep.

A strangled scream tore from your throat, raw and rugged with pain. The world around you blurred, your vision tunneling into the suffocating haze of agony. Above you, Adam loomed, his twisted smile stretched wide in satisfaction, his golden eyes gleaming with something dark, something insatiable. A predator, savoring the moment before the final blow.

But then—movement.

A shadow flickered just beyond Adam’s shoulder. Your gaze darted to Magdalene. She moved with a silent, deliberate grace, staying just out of his peripheral vision. The dim light glinted off the metal bat in her grasp as she crept closer, her fingers tightening around the handle.

Your breath hitched. Adam, perceptive as ever, noticed. His smirk faltered, suspicion flashing across his face as his eyes narrowed. He followed your gaze, beginning to turn—

You had no time to think.

With a desperate burst of energy, you yanked him down, your fingers tangling into his hair as you crashed your lips against his.

For a heartbeat, his entire body stiffened, wings flaring in sharp, startle reflex. His grip on the knife faltered, just slightly, just enough.

Then, like a dam breaking, something inside him cracked.

His body melted into yours, the rigid lines of control dissolving into something heated, something frantic. His lips moved against yours—hesitant at first, unsure, but quickly growing hungry. Desperate. He let out a low, needy groan, his breath hot against your skin. His fingers twitched at your sides, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

His inexperience was obvious—the way his lips parted against yours, searching, unsure but eager. The way he let himself lean into you, pressing closer, needing more. It was intoxicating, the way he surrendered without even realizing it.

Oh. This angel was probably a virgin.

Finally, you let him go.

Adam gasped, staggering back as if the kiss had stolen the air from his lungs. His chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, his usually sharp, calculating expression utterly undone. His golden eyes, wide and unfocused, stared at you with something raw—something almost reverent.

His lips were slightly parted, still tingling from the contact, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. His wings twitched behind him, feathers ruffled and disheveled. A deep, rosy flush spread across his cheeks, creeping down his neck, a stark contrast against his usual composed demeanor.he finally breathed, his voice hoarse, dazed,

“What… what was—” 

Slam!

The sickening crack of wood against bone echoed through the night as Magdalene swung the bat with every ounce of strength she had. The impact sent a violent tremor through Adam’s body, his wings flaring wide in a stunned reflex before they crumpled uselessly against him.

A sharp, strangled grunt tore from his throat as the force of the blow sent him toppling off you. He hit the ground hard, his hands flying to the back of his head where Magdalene’s bat had struck. His fingers trembled, gripping at the point of impact, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

You didn’t hesitate. Ignoring the searing pain radiating from your shoulder wound, you scrambled to your feet. Magdalene grabbed your arm, and together, you bolted toward the entrance of the underground station. The city lights ahead where a beacon of salvation, the cold, sterile glow of the station promising safety.

But Adam wasn’t finished.

With an enraged snarl, his wings unfurled with a powerful snap, propelling him forward at an inhuman speed. The rush of air behind you sent a chill through your spine. He was gaining on you—fast.

You reached the station entrance first, barreling inside just as Magdalene skidded to a stop behind you. Relief surged through you—until you noticed the look in her eyes.

She was smiling.

Something was wrong.

Then, like ice flooding your veins, the realization struck—you weren’t safe yet. The underground station had an emergency gate. A heavy steel door that could be locked from the outside.

Your stomach dropped.

“Magdalene—” You turned to stop her, reaching out desperately, but it was too late.

Adam’s dark silhouette loomed behind her, his towering presence swallowing the dim light of the entrance.

With one final glance at you—something unreadable flickering in her eyes, something fierce and unwavering—Magdalene slammed her hand against the emergency button.

A deafening clunk rang out as the steel gate groaned to life, sliding into place with an unyielding finality.

“No—Magdalene!” You screamed her name, panic clawing at your throat as you lunged for the gate, your fingers grasping at cold steel. But it was done. She was on the other side.

Trapped with him.

A scream tore through the air, raw and filled with agony.

“Magdalene! You sadistic bastard!” Her voice cut through the heavy silence, followed by a sickening tear. The unmistakable sound of flesh being ripped open.

You stumbled back as something warm splattered against the floor beneath the gate. Your breath hitched. Blood. A smear of red spread across the pristine white tiles, seeping under the barrier that now separated you from the horror on the other side.

Your chest tightened, a sob wrenching itself from your throat as you slammed your fists against the steel. No, no, no—

“Magdalene!” Your voice was hoarse, desperate, but there was no answer. Just the wet drip of something pooling.

Then—silence.

A cruel, suffocating silence that made your stomach churn.

Knock. Knock.

The sound was slow, deliberate.

You froze, your blood turning to ice as a voice slithered through the cracks of the door.

“Little devil… are you there?” Adam’s voice was sickeningly sweet, mockingly gentle. “Don’t cry now. It won’t be long before I find a way in…”

A pause. A soft, wet squelch.

“…And when I do, you’ll join her.”

Your breath shuddered, your body screaming at you to move, to run.

You hesitated for only a second before you spun on your heel, sprinting down the underground corridor toward the only safe place left—the hideout.

But even as you ran, Adam’s voice lingered, curling around you like a promise.

A guarantee.

On the other hand, Adam—no, his body—was screaming at him to make you his.

His breath came in ragged pants, his chest rising and falling with an unfamiliar, maddening heat. His mind was a haze, clouded by the remnants of your touch, the ghost of your lips still lingering like a brand against his skin.

A sinful moment. A taunt to his purity.

He clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching as he gripped the hilt of his blade. This is wrong. You were a temptation, a wicked, intoxicating curse wrapped in human skin. His wings trembled, caught between instinct and restraint.

The only way to cleanse himself of this corruption—this unbearable, tormenting desire—was to end you.

To kill you like the devil you were. Or at least, to have you all to himself.

[chloesimaginationthings]

The FNAF story of the one you shouldn’t have killed..

[mochasucculent]

Was looking at refs and since Viktor has two different leg braces I was wondering, do we think he wears them simultaneously?? The refs don't perfectly line up perspective-wise so it's hard to tell but parts of the one he wears during the Hexcore scenes look like they could maybe line up with the brace that he wears over his clothes, but also some parts really don't and look like they'd be super uncomfy. Also HOW does he take these on and off. Experts weigh in

[nanamisgirly]

cw breast obsession non-sexual, gentle dominance ig, soft intimacy.

my personal fav fantasy is husband!nanami coming home late. he's super exhausted and he finds you already sleeping.

he sighs in relief at the sight of your peaceful body lying on the bed, the moon light peeking through the curtains, casting a soft glow over you.

you're wearing a delicate crop top, yellow with tiny pink roses on it, thin straps slipping off your shoulders, and lace-trimmed triangles barely covering your breasts— shifted out of place in your sleep. it's Nanami's fav. because he got the chance to cup your tits easily from behind.

it's not in a lustful way!! he's not groping you with some filthy intent not always at least. he holds them in a comforting way, in a way that makes him exhales deeply the moment he slides into bed, feeling the stress of the day melt away as his large, calloused hand finds its rightful place. right over your chest.

it's comforting, the way they fit just right in his palms— they're not too big, not too small, just perfect. like they were meant to be in his hands, like he was meant to touch you this way. he likes the shape of them, the way they mold to his touch, yielding and soft, a stark contrast to the roughness of his palms. he doesn't squeeze hard, doesn't knead them like he's trying to work you up— just holds.

he loves how soft they are when you're relaxed, when you're warm and tucked into his arms, your body completely at ease. how they don't poke or demand attention. they're sitting there all plush and smooth against his fingers, unbothered.

he loves how your breasts change when you're lying down, how they spread just a little, how they lose that roundness but become so soft, so flat, almost like they're becoming one with his hands. he loves the way his fingers can rest along the curve of your ribs, feeling the gently rise and fall of your breath beneath them.

it's instinctual. reaching for you. holding you. owning you.

his favorite way to touch you is when you're on your back, his face buried in the crook of your neck—your floral scent invading his nostrils—'cause that's where he has better access to your tits. he likes to slide his hand up from your waist, fingers ghosting over your ribs before they settle beneath the swell of your breast— his thumb and index supporting the weight ever so slightly, pressing just enough to feel their fullness. and sometimes most of the times he gives the underside a gentle pinch, his lips twitching at the way your body shifts in response, even in your sleep.

and your nipples. god he loves them sooo much. he's totally obsessed when they don't poke or stiffen under his fingers, just stay warm and smooth against his touch, like they trust him enough to relax. he traces lazy circles over them, fingertips gliding over the subtle change in texture. he never presses, never pinches because he knows if he did, if he rolled them just right, they'd start to react. they'd tighten, harden under his touch, and sure—when the mood was for it—he loved that just as much.

but right now, it was only about feeling you.

and if you make some little sound of protest when he adjusts his grip— he simply shushes you, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, whispering, "go back to sleep, darling." and you do. because how could you not when you were so sweetly wrapped in his warmth?

(*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)

[pharmasrightarm]

oops, still feral over pre-war Dead End Dratchet

(drift: you're rusting at every joint gasket: but isn't that doctor chummy with the cops? we're literal thieves??)

started with the headcanon that drift hung around the clinic like a feral wet cat for a while, then halfway through shading these, I started thinking, what if deadlock was an especially reliable assassin because he knew what kind of damage would make sure that even the best of the best couldn't bring you back

[cubbyhole-for-flea-bee]

(Not) an approved use of the Power Of Friendship

[technically-human]

5 PhDs + 1

@lalalaurieart happy birthday! I offer you one of my silly headcanons

None of Robotnik's degrees are in medicine. Why should he care about that? His interest in the human body ends with his own. That is, until one time when Stone got really hurt, and the Doctor could do nothing. He coped by... teaching himself everything there is to know about medicine! He's very normal like that. Never bothered getting a degree for that one though.

[briefkittenearthquake]

I like my men smart

[cloudyluun]

Soft Spot

Summary: Harry Styles is the world’s most effortlessly cocky bastard in public. But behind closed doors? He’s soft for one person, her. Their love is private, sacred, the only thing that’s ever truly been his. But the internet is relentless, the rumors won’t stop, and she starts to wonder if she’ll ever fit into his world. Just when she’s about to pull away, Harry makes sure she never doubts it again. AKA: Soft (but also possessive) boyfriend Harry? Check. Jealous, protective, doesn’t-take-shit Harry? Also check. A public declaration, viral paparazzi moments, and one very necessary smut scene? You already know.

A/N: This fic is based on two requests (this one and this one from @dipmeinhoneyh) that fit so perfectly together I had no choice but to make it a full story. I hope you love it, I hope it makes you feral, and I hope you leave this feeling at least 10% more in love with Harry Styles than you already were. Also, if you ever see a man carrying all your bags through an airport while wearing your shirt?? Marry him immediately.

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: 

Smut (obviously)—possessive, praise-heavy, SOFT but also FILTHY

Harry being the most protective, doting, airport-sherpa boyfriend alive

Jealousy and minor confrontation (because someone was dumb enough to question her worth)

Public scrutiny and social media toxicity (but don’t worry, he shuts that shit down)

Excessive amounts of boyfriend fluff (back rubs, forehead kisses, and “mine” moments galore)

Did I mention the smut? Because THE SMUT.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Harry Styles was a menace.

Everyone knew it—especially the media. He wasn’t just the biggest name in music, he was also a nightmare to interview. He had little patience for industry bullshit, answered questions with nothing but a smirk or a sip of his drink, and rarely—if ever—gave the press what they wanted.

At this point, journalists had learned to come prepared when sitting across from him. They needed strategy, a solid game plan, and maybe even a shot of whiskey beforehand. Because Harry? Harry made it difficult.

And God, did he enjoy it.

The first clip that went viral was from a BBC interview.

The journalist was older, seasoned. She’d been in the game for decades and knew how to handle difficult personalities. Or at least, she thought she did.

The interview had been going fine—as fine as an interview with Harry Styles could be. He’d leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, looking like he owned the place. Dressed in a half-unbuttoned silk shirt and tailored trousers, he was a picture of effortless arrogance.

Then she asked, “Do you think you’re difficult?”

Harry blinked. Didn’t move for a second. Then—slowly, deliberately—he picked up his drink, took a long sip, and held eye contact the entire time.

The silence stretched.

And stretched.

The journalist swallowed.

Finally, Harry licked his lips, tilted his head, and asked, “D’you think I care?”

The second clip was worse.

A different interview, a different day, same energy.

Harry was sitting in front of a panel of radio hosts, arms crossed, tattoos peeking out from under the loose sleeves of his sweater. The conversation had been moving along at a leisurely pace, touching on his tour, his latest album, the usual surface-level stuff.

Then one of the hosts leaned forward, smug, thinking he had the upper hand.

“So, tell us, Harry. What’s the song ‘Soft Spot’ about?”

Harry, who had been absentmindedly fiddling with one of his rings, paused. He exhaled through his nose, the barest hint of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth.

Then—without hesitation—he shrugged. “Dunno. Just a song.”

The hosts groaned in frustration.

The internet? Ate it up.

Edits of him smirking, of him dodging questions with effortless ease, flooded Twitter and TikTok. People captioned them with things like “This man is impossible” and “Certified menace behavior”.

The general consensus?

Harry Styles didn’t answer questions unless he wanted to.

Until someone asked about her.

It happened during a late-night talk show appearance.

The studio was dimly lit, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Harry was perched on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, fingers playing absentmindedly with the chain around his neck. He was half-paying attention, answering questions with his usual brand of casual indifference.

Then the host, a sharp-eyed comedian known for catching celebrities off guard, grinned. “Alright, Harry. I have a question I think the people really want to know.”

Harry didn’t react much. Just arched a slow, lazy brow. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been seen with the same girl a lot lately…”

For the first time all night, something shifted.

Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

But it was there, the way his fingers paused against the metal of his chain, the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly, the way his mouth twitched, like he was already biting back a smirk.

The audience leaned forward.

The internet, watching from their screens, held their breath.

Harry tilted his head, slowly. His lips parted, there it was. That signature smirk, the one that sent fans into a frenzy.

“Yeah?”

The host grinned, seeing the shift. “Care to comment?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—Harry grinned. Not his usual mocking, I’m-so-over-this smirk. A real grin. The kind that made his dimples crease, the kind that softened his otherwise sharp edges.

His fingers tapped once, twice against his thigh.

Then, he looked directly into the camera, his voice dropping just a fraction.

“She’s great.”

The studio lost it.

The audience roared—cheers, gasps, the works. Twitter exploded before the show even finished airing. Within minutes, #ShesGreat was trending worldwide.

Fans analyzed the clip from every angle:

The way his face softened.

The way his body language changed.

The fact that he—HARRY STYLES, NOTORIOUS MENACE—HAD ACTUALLY ANSWERED.

He didn’t say her name. Didn’t confirm anything outright. But the shift in him? The softness in his voice?

That was all people needed.

It was real.

And the world wasn’t ready.

Y/N wasn’t famous.

She wasn’t an actress, a model, a singer, or an influencer. There was no glamorous past, no viral moment that put her on the map. No high-profile connections, no childhood dream of Hollywood stardom.

She was just a girl with a normal life—one that, up until a year ago, had been blissfully simple.

Her days had always followed a rhythm.

Morning coffee at her favorite little café, tucked into a corner booth with a book. Work, which she genuinely enjoyed—something steady, something real, something that felt like hers. Drinks with friends on Fridays, lazy Sundays spent in oversized sweaters, grocery shopping in peace without having to worry about cameras or strangers whispering her name.

She had a routine. A quiet, predictable world.

Then Harry Styles had walked into it.

And ruined everything.

She still didn’t know how it had happened.

It was easy to pinpoint the beginning—the first time their paths had crossed, the first time she’d realized that Harry fucking Styles wasn’t just a name on a magazine cover, but a person with thoughts and moods and an irritatingly sharp wit.

But she never expected it to go anywhere.

At first, he was just a guy who flirted too much.

Then he was a guy who made her laugh.

Then he was the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about.

And somehow—without her even noticing—he became hers.

It had been over a year now. Twelve whole months of him.

Twelve months of stolen moments, whispered conversations in the dark, secret rendezvous that always ended with his lips on her skin and his voice murmuring, “Just us, love. That’s all that matters.”

Twelve months of hiding.

Because Harry? Harry was obsessed with keeping her safe.

"It’s our life, not theirs," he told her once. "You don’t owe them shit."

She’d been curled up in his lap when he said it, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his arm.

She had been scared that night—really, truly scared.

Her phone had blown up with messages from friends, all linking her to articles and Twitter threads dissecting her existence. Speculation had spread like wildfire after one blurry photo of them together made it online. Nothing too obvious—just a candid shot of her walking ahead of him, their fingers barely brushing.

But it was enough.

Enough for people to start digging.

Within hours, her social media had been flooded. Comments, theories, strangers demanding to know who the hell she was and why she thought she deserved him.

She had wanted to throw her phone into the ocean.

Instead, she had buried her face into the curve of Harry’s neck, inhaling the scent of him—warm skin and expensive cologne and something inherently his. Something safe.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she had admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s grip on her had tightened immediately. Protective. Possessive.

“You don’t have to,” he’d murmured. “Not like that. Not the way they want.”

And that was how they lived. No red carpets. No public declarations. No letting the world in. Just them, in their little bubble—hidden away in hotel rooms and dimly lit apartments, in long drives with the windows down, in whispered confessions at three in the morning.

It was beautiful. It was safe.

But Y/N knew—deep down, in the quiet moments when she was alone with her thoughts—that the world wouldn’t stop trying to tear it apart.

Because it wasn’t just them anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

And no matter how fiercely Harry tried to protect her from it, the outside world was still watching.

Still waiting.

Still hungry for cracks in the foundation.

They didn’t understand him.

The world saw one version of Harry Styles.

The public version. The one who didn’t give a single shit what anyone thought of him. The one who strolled into interviews with that lazy, half-lidded smirk, sprawled out in his chair like he had all the time in the world, deliberately giving them nothing just to piss them off.

“Harry, is it true you walked out of your last meeting with the label?”

He barely blinked. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Is it also true that you—”

A slow sip of his drink. A deliberate pause.

Then, just for fun, a cocked eyebrow. “Dunno. You tell me.”

Click. Click. Click. Cameras flashing. Headlines already writing themselves.

Harry Styles: Rock’s Most Arrogant Asshole.

Harry Styles—Too Famous To Care?

Harry Styles Gives Zero Fucks About Literally Everything.

It was a game. One he didn’t mind playing.

Because the more they focused on the persona, the less they looked too closely at what really mattered.

The less they dug into his real life.

The less they found her.

Because private Harry?

A completely different person.

Private Harry sent texts like, “be home in 5”, because he knew she worried. Because he knew she’d never say it out loud, but if he was running late, she’d start pacing the kitchen, chewing at her bottom lip, imagining the worst.

Private Harry stole her hand cream and chapstick just to smell like her when she wasn’t around.

Private Harry carried her bags through airports like they weighed nothing, insisting every time, “Not letting you lift a damn thing, love.”

Private Harry curled around her in his sleep, face buried against the curve of her neck, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns along her spine until he drifted off—breathing easier when she was there.

No one saw that Harry.

And he preferred it that way.

But every once in a while, the world got a glimpse.

And when they did, it fucking broke the internet.

One moment in particular had gone insanely viral.

It had been a bad day—one of those relentless, aggressive paparazzi swarms outside a studio in L.A.

Harry had already been in a foul mood—late for a meeting, running on three hours of sleep, coming off a night of back-to-back phone calls that had left him rubbing his temples in frustration.

The cameras had been waiting for him the second he stepped out the door.

“Harry! Over here!”

“Harry, how’s the new album?”

“Harry, what’s the deal with the tour delay?”

He ignored them. Didn’t even look up.

Then someone got too close—flashed a camera right in his face, nearly knocking into him.

And that was it.

He snapped.

“Fuck off, yeah?” Sharp, cutting, the words slicing through the air like a whip. His jaw locked, his body tense.

Paparazzi shuffled back, startled.

They knew his reputation.

They’d seen him do this before.

They thought that was the whole show.

Until Y/N appeared.

She had been standing a few feet behind him, waiting.

The second he turned and saw her, everything about him changed.

His scowl softened. His hands, which had been clenched into fists? Relaxed.

And in front of dozens of cameras, in front of the very people he’d just been spitting fire at, Harry immediately reached for her—a steadying touch to her back, a soft tilt of his head. “Y’alright, love?”

Quiet. Gentle. Intimate.

As if nothing else existed in that moment but her.

The paparazzi?

Fucking shook.

The clip blew up online within hours.

Side-by-side comparisons flooded Twitter:

🚨 Harry Styles telling the press to fuck off vs. Harry Styles turning into the softest human alive the second his girlfriend walks into frame. 🚨

Memes. Reactions. Fans dissecting the exact millisecond his demeanor changed.

WHO IS SHE?!

HOW DOES SHE HAVE HIM WRAPPED AROUND HER FINGER LIKE THAT?!

The discourse was endless.

And Harry?

Didn’t say a damn word about it.

Because as long as they were talking about that, they weren’t looking for more.

They weren’t digging deeper.

And that meant she was still safe.

For now.

But the internet was relentless.

Because the thing about secrets—especially ones that belong to someone as famous as Harry Styles—is that they don’t stay secrets for long.

And when people suspect even the smallest sliver of something?

They become obsessed.

It started with something small.

Something that, to anyone else, would have seemed like nothing at all.

Harry had been spotted leaving a café in London, his sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, a coffee cup in one hand.

But that wasn’t what fans noticed.

No.

What they noticed was the bracelet on his wrist.

A thin, woven band. Nothing fancy, nothing designer.

And—most importantly—not his.

The theories exploded.

GUYS. HARRY’S WEARING A FRIENDSHIP BRACELET. HAS HE EVER WORN ONE BEFORE? NO. WHO MADE IT?!

Look at the colors. Do we think there’s a meaning?

I AM SO SERIOUS THIS IS A HANDMADE BRACELET SOMEONE IS IN LOVE WITH HIM AND IT IS NOT ME

WHO THE FUCK IS SHEEEE?

There was no confirmation.

No proof.

But that didn’t stop people from digging.

Because once the internet smelled a mystery, they wouldn’t let it go.

Then came the coffee shop photo.

Blurry. Grainy. Taken at just the right angle to be nearly useless—but not quite.

Because despite the bad quality, despite the distance, despite everything, one thing was clear.

He wasn’t alone.

There was a girl across from him.

A girl who wasn’t famous.

A girl who was sitting comfortably in his presence, laughing at something he said, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other resting—casually, easily—on the table between them.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Too real.

The internet lost its collective mind.

HARRY STYLES SPOTTED WITH THE MYSTERY GIRL IN LONDON—NEW GIRLFRIEND?!

HARRY DATING SOMEONE? WHO IS SHE?!

WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE.

I KNOW WHO SHE IS @yourusername!!

The photo was picked apart frame by frame.

Theories flooded TikTok and Twitter.

Some people were excited—because Harry in love?! Soft domestic boyfriend Harry?! They’d been dreaming of this for years.

But not everyone was happy.

Because some people… some people wanted access.

Some people wanted control.

Some people wanted to destroy anything that felt too real.

It started small.

A few comments.

A few tweets.

A few people saying she wasn’t good enough.

That she was using him.

That she was just another clout chaser who would milk this for all it was worth.

Then the DMs started.

Vicious. Personal. Cruel.

You’ll never be good enough for him.

You’re ruining his career.

No one wants you here.

He’ll leave you just like he’s left all the others.

And she told herself that she wouldn’t let it get to her.

That it didn’t matter.

That these people didn’t know her.

That as long as Harry was with her—really with her—nothing else mattered.

But it wasn’t just online anymore.

Because now, when she stepped outside, she swore she could feel the eyes on her.

Now, when she walked into her favorite coffee shop, she hesitated—half-expecting someone to recognize her.

Now, when she reached for her phone, her hands shook.

She started pulling away. Just a little.

Stopped texting first.

Stopped answering right away.

Stopped leaning into his touch as freely as she had before.

And Harry—because of course Harry noticed—tilted his head at her one night when she turned away from his kiss, his brow furrowing, his thumb tracing soft circles against her wrist.

“Alright, love?”

Her chest ached.

Because he was looking at her like that.

Like he knew.

Like he could see right through her.

Like he was already worried.

She forced a smile. Pressed a quick, barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

And lied.

The industry party was a mistake.

Y/N had known it the second they walked in.

The air inside the private venue was thick with expensive perfume, whiskey, and the kind of arrogance that could only come from people who knew they were untouchable.

The laughter was too loud. The conversations too sharp, dripping with faux warmth and hidden daggers.

She felt out of place immediately.

It wasn’t her world.

It never had been.

And standing next to Harry—Harry, who fit into this world so effortlessly, who could command attention just by existing, who seemed to belong in a way she never could—only made it worse.

He hadn’t let go of her hand since they arrived.

Had kept her close, thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles, squeezing her fingers in silent reassurance every few minutes, as if he could feel the tension in her shoulders, sense the way she was holding her breath.

But no amount of grounding touches could change the fact that she didn’t belong here.

That much became even more obvious when the wrong person decided to open their mouth.

He was a producer.

Smarmy. Arrogant. The kind of man who loved the sound of his own voice and had been in the industry long enough to think he could get away with saying anything.

And for some reason—maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was just sheer audacity—he chose her as his next target.

“Didn’t think this was your type, Harry.”

Y/N froze.

Harry stiffened next to her.

The producer took a slow sip of his drink, eyes flickering over her like she was something to be inspected.

“Quiet little thing, huh? Thought rockstars liked more excitement.”

Her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t just the words.

It was the way he said them.

The smirk. The condescension. The absolute certainty that he was untouchable, that he could say whatever the fuck he wanted without consequence.

Y/N shrank back before she could stop herself.

And that was when Harry snapped.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t react instantly.

Just went completely, unnervingly still.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

His fingers—still tangled with hers—tightened.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he turned.

And stepped right into the guy’s space.

Harry Styles didn’t have to raise his voice to be intimidating.

Didn’t have to yell, didn’t have to make a scene.

All he had to do was look at someone the right way.

And the producer? He knew.

He fucking knew.

Because suddenly, the confidence wavered.

The smirk faded.

The hand holding his drink trembled just slightly.

“She’s worth more than you ever will be,” Harry said, voice low, icy, laced with so much venom that Y/N shivered.

And then—as if to drive the point home—his hand found her waist, pulled her against him, shielded her from the world with nothing but the sheer force of his presence.

It was a warning.

A claim.

And everyone in the room fucking knew it.

He didn’t let go of her for the rest of the night.

Didn’t stop touching her.

Didn’t stop checking on her.

And when they finally left—when they were finally alone—he held her even closer.

She should have felt safe.

Should have felt protected.

But instead, something heavy settled in her chest.

Because the truth was, this wasn’t just about one asshole at a party.

It was about all of it.

The industry. The fans. The internet. The constant feeling of not being enough.

And maybe… maybe they were right.

Maybe she really wasn’t enough for him.

She wasn’t going to say it.

She wasn’t.

But then Harry—still holding her, still watching her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—brushed his lips against her forehead, whispered, “You alright, love?”

And it just—it broke her.

Her breath hitched.

And suddenly, she was blurting it out before she could stop herself.

“Maybe they’re right,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Harry froze.

“Maybe I’m not enough for you.”

His entire body tensed.

Like she had just physically hit him.

Like the words had physically hurt him.

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

It wasn’t a plea.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

His hands framed her face, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And when she did—when she really looked at him—she almost couldn’t handle what she saw.

Because he was devastated.

Shattered.

“Don’t you ever—” His breath shuddered, his forehead pressing against hers. “—say that again.”

She swallowed. “Harry—”

“No.” His grip tightened, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he let go. “You belong with me. Here. Always.” His lips brushed hers, desperate, aching. “And I don’t care what anyone else says.”

She closed her eyes.

Breathed him in.

Let him hold her together, piece by piece.

Because if Harry Styles believed she belonged—

Maybe—just maybe—she could believe it, too.

The storm hadn’t passed.

Not really.

The world still had its claws in them, still watched their every move, still dissected every glance, every touch, every fleeting moment caught on camera.

But Harry… Harry never wavered.

Not once.

Not even when the headlines got uglier.

Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown speculation.

Not even when she started pulling back again, flinching at every flash of a camera, hesitating before reaching for his hand in public, terrified of giving them more fuel.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t push.

Didn’t force her to talk about it.

Didn’t tell her that she was still enough, still his, still the only thing in his life that mattered more than anything.

No.

Harry Styles didn’t waste his breath on words.

He showed her.

And the whole damn world saw it.

Madison Square Garden.

A sold-out crowd.

Phones up. Lights blinding.

It was a big night—bigger than most.

The kind of night that would be talked about for years, the kind of performance that would live forever in grainy fan videos, breathless social media posts, and blurry concert footage.

And she wasn’t supposed to be there.

Hadn’t planned on coming.

Had told Harry she’d stay home—avoid the cameras, avoid the crowd, avoid the possibility of being dragged into something she never wanted to be a part of.

But somehow—somehow—she found herself standing in the wings, heart in her throat, hands curled into fists at her sides as she watched him command the stage.

It was impossible not to be captivated.

Impossible not to watch the way he moved, the way he laughed into the mic between songs, the way he glowed under the stage lights.

He was in his element.

He belonged here.

And she—

Well.

She was just trying to stay invisible.

But then—

He turned.

Looked right at her.

And everything stopped.

Because suddenly—mid-show, mid-crowd, mid-fucking-Madison-Square-Garden—Harry Styles did something he never did.

He talked about her.

On stage.

For the world to hear.

“This one’s for someone who thinks she doesn’t belong in my world,” he said, voice steady, eyes never leaving hers.

The crowd screamed.

A roar—loud and deafening and completely unaware of what was actually happening.

“But she is my world.”

Her breath caught.

And then—before she could process what was happening—

He started playing.

A new song.

Unreleased.

Just for her.

And the lyrics—oh, the fucking lyrics.

They were filled with pieces of them.

Little inside jokes woven into verses, fragments of whispered late-night confessions hidden in melodies, the kind of details that only she would understand.

A love letter.

A declaration.

A warning to the world that she was his and he was hers, and that nothing—not the industry, not the headlines, not the relentless scrutiny of millions—could change that.

The internet lost its mind.

Clips went viral within minutes.

Fan theories exploded.

But none of it mattered.

Not really.

Because in that moment—in the middle of everything, in front of everyone, under the brightest damn spotlight possible—

It was just them.

And she belonged.

She didn’t hear the rest of the set.

Not really.

Not past the pounding of her heart, not past the static in her brain, not past the overwhelming realization that he had just done that.

For her.

For everyone to hear.

The screaming of the crowd blurred into white noise. The energy in the arena buzzed around her, the walls seeming to pulse with the sound of thousands of people still losing their minds.

But she couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t do anything except stare at the stage where he still stood, grinning like he hadn’t just shattered her entire world in the best possible way.

Because Harry Styles didn’t do things like this.

He dodged questions in interviews.

Shrugged off rumors.

Gave the media nothing to work with.

And yet, tonight—tonight, he had given them everything.

And she had no idea how to breathe through it.

Somewhere along the way, her fingers had curled into the fabric of her sweater, clutching at herself like it might help her stay grounded. Like she wasn’t seconds away from dissolving into nothing but feelings.

Because she knew what this meant.

Knew what it would cause.

Knew that by morning, headlines would be flooded with theories, and her name—or at least her existence—would be dragged into the light again.

But she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Because he’d said she was his world.

He’d said she belonged.

And maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

She was still in a daze when the show ended.

Still stuck in her own head when the lights in the arena dimmed, when the roaring of the crowd turned to scattered cheers and fading echoes of his name.

She barely noticed the way people moved around her.

Security, crew members, the distant hum of conversation—it all faded into the background.

Until—

“There you are.”

Her breath caught.

And then he was there.

Harry.

Still sweaty, still breathless from the high of performing, still looking at her like she was the only thing in the entire fucking world.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t ask if she’d liked the song.

Didn’t joke about how she’d better have been paying attention.

Didn’t do anything except close the space between them, hands gripping her face, lips pressing against her forehead, breath warm and shaky against her skin.

And she—

God.

She melted.

Because she could feel it—everything he wasn’t saying, everything he had already said on that stage.

The weight of it settled in her chest, so thick she thought she might break apart.

And then—so quietly she almost missed it—

“Tell me you’re staying.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Because he knew.

Of course he fucking knew.

Knew how much she had struggled with this.

Knew how many times she had almost walked away.

Knew how much she loved him, but how terrified she was of all of this.

And yet—

His voice was steady.

Not desperate.

Not pleading.

Just… certain.

Like he already knew the answer.

Like he already knew her.

And maybe he did.

Because before she could second-guess herself—before she could let doubt creep in, before she could convince herself she wasn’t strong enough for this—

She nodded.

Just once.

And Harry fucking collapsed against her.

Exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for months.

Arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might disappear.

Lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was anything but careful.

Because it wasn’t a question anymore.

Wasn’t a hesitation or a what if or an I don’t know.

It was real.

It was them.

And she was staying.

His hotel room was dark, save for the soft glow from the city outside.

But she barely noticed.

Because the only thing that mattered—the only thing that existed in this moment—was him.

Harry.

Pressed against her, warm and solid, breath still uneven from everything that had led to this.

His hands were everywhere.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just certain.

Slow, teasing touches down her spine.

Fingertips tracing the dip of her waist.

Lips skimming along her throat, up to the shell of her ear, where his voice was low, husky, full of intent.

"Gonna remind you who you belong to, yeah?"

Her breath hitched.

Because fuck.

She’d heard that voice before—cocky, teasing, full of mischief when he was playing up his charm.

But this?

This was different.

This was a promise.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping, needing—but he wasn’t in any rush.

Because Harry didn’t just take.

He worshipped.

And she felt it.

In the way his hands moved over her skin—slow, deliberate.

In the way he kissed her—deep, devastating.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like she was the only thing in it.

His mouth found the curve of her shoulder.

The dip between her ribs.

The inside of her wrist, where her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.

Every inch of her.

And with every kiss, every touch, came a whisper.

"You're everything, love."

"Perfect for me."

"Mine."

Her face burned, but he wouldn’t let her look away.

Wouldn’t let her shrink away from the way he saw her.

Because when she got shy—when she tried to hide—

He caught her chin, thumb tracing her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And fuck, that look.

Like she was something sacred.

Like she was something he could never get enough of.

"Look at you, taking me so well."

Her breath shuddered out of her.

And God, he knew what he was doing.

The filthy praise, the way he held her like she was precious, the possessiveness in his voice—

It was too much and not enough, all at once.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop until she was falling apart beneath him, gasping his name, hands tangled in his hair, nails raking down his back.

Didn’t stop until she was completely his.

And then—when the world had settled again, when their breathing was slow and tangled together, when she was half-asleep in his arms

Harry took care of her.

Of course he did.

Because he always did.

Pressed a kiss to her temple.

Murmured soft things against her skin as he cleaned her up, as he wrapped her up in him.

Strong arms pulling her close, keeping her warm, keeping her safe.

Only ever his.

And just before sleep pulled her under—

Just before her body fully relaxed against his—

She heard it.

Soft.

Low.

Meant just for her.

"Love you, you know that?"

And she did.

God, she did.

But what really got her—what really made her heart ache in the best, most devastating way—was that he never said it like he needed her to say it back.

Never said it like he was waiting for some kind of validation.

He said it like a fact.

Like the sun would rise tomorrow.

Like the sky was blue.

Like her being his was something permanent.

And maybe it was.

The airport was a nightmare.

The second they stepped inside, cameras started flashing, voices shouting—Harry! Over here! Is that your girlfriend?! Harry, can you confirm—

He ignored them.

Of course he did.

Didn’t even flinch.

Just kept walking, kept his hand firmly on the small of her back, kept her close.

And he was carrying everything.

Her suitcase.

Her tote bag.

Her carry-on.

Even the stupid travel pillow she’d nearly forgotten in the car.

Meanwhile, she was strolling beside him, completely unbothered, sipping her coffee like she didn’t have a single care in the world.

The contrast? Insane.

And the internet lost its mind.

The tweets came fast.

@stylesupdates: HARRY CARRYING EVERY SINGLE ONE OF HER BAGS WHILE SHE JUST DRINKS HER COFFEE??? SIR. YOU ARE WHIPPED.

@hslotlover: HE'S WEARING HER SHIRT (it’s posted on her Instagram @yourusername) AGAIN I CAN’T DO THIS TODAY.

Because, yeah.

He was.

It was an old, slightly oversized tee—hers.

The one she always stole from his drawer. The one she wore to bed whenever he wasn’t around.

And now?

Now he was wearing it in public.

On purpose.

Like some kind of quiet, undeniable statement.

Like a middle finger to the world.

But the real moment—the one that cemented it all—was the photo.

A blurry, candid shot someone snapped from across the terminal.

Harry, walking ahead, death glaring at the paparazzi.

Her, right behind him, looking effortlessly soft, untouchable.

And the caption?

"He’s still an asshole, and she’s still his soft spot."

And fuck.

If that wasn’t the truest thing anyone had ever said.

Because the world still didn’t get it.

But he didn’t care.

Because she was his.

And that was enough.

That had always been enough.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east @bethiegurl19 @adoredeanna @secretisme4 @harry2121 @hopefullimaginer123 @fangirl509east @uncassettodiricordi @2601-london @zbaby @harryscherries28 @michellekstyles

[bcksbarnes]

silver lining

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: for someone who was once frozen in time, bucky barnes never had to worry about aging, until he finds his first gray hair.

word count: 2.3K

Mornings spent wrapped in Bucky’s arms were your favorite ways to start your weekends, especially after such a long week. You were barely awake yet but you could feel the way he held you close his chest, both of your bodies intertwined as the two of you slept. 

Work was kicking your ass, not physically, but with the way your to-do list piled up.

Work was kicking Bucky’s ass, but actually physically.

He had been away for the week, only getting home late last night as you were finishing up dinner. He loved his job, loved getting to help people and save the world, but coming home to the apartment the two of you shared was the most rewarding part of it all. It was as if he could fully unwind and forget about the cruelty that seeped into this world; Bucky had his fair share of contributing to that many years ago, but now he was doing his best to pay back all he had done.

And now, as you stirred softly from your sleep, all you could think about was how excited you were to be with him on this glorious Saturday morning. The sun was shining in from the tops of your blinds, the bedroom you shared still mostly filled with darkness - per Bucky’s request to get black out curtains, it helped him sleep better. A groan leaves his lips as soon as he feels you stir, his hand on your back pulling you in closer.

“Morning.” You whisper, your eyes opening, blinking away the blurriness. 

“Morning.” He mumbles back, but it’s almost incoherent as he sucks in a deep breath and starts to move. “I was very peaceful, you know.”

“I’m so sorry.” You say to him, a smile on your face as your hand moves up his chest and to the side of his neck, pulling him in for a quick kiss. He hums against your lips as he runs his fingers up and down your spine, your shirt riding up as he does so. 

“Apology accepted,” he mutters softly, causing both of you to break into a smile. Bucky finally opens his eyes; those baby blues that you had fallen in love with had always managed to make your heart flutter, and this time was no exception. It didn’t matter how long the two of you were together (3 years, but who’s counting), there was always a spark that hit the both of you whenever your gazes connected, it was exhilarating. 

Without even thinking about it, you bring your hand up to his face, cupping his cheek softly as your thumb rubbed against his coarse skin, his early morning stubble was one of your favorite things about waking up with him.

The two of you finally pull back, only far enough so that you can see each other's faces. You weren’t exactly sure how you landed such a wonderful man in your life, for all the bad things that Bucky had seen about himself, they were just overshadowed by how truly incredible he was. A man who saw himself as cold, guarded and unemotional, was deep down really just the kindest, most gentle and well rounded person you had ever met. You were so very lucky.

“What’s the plan for today?” he asks, clearing his throat a bit to get out the morning vocal fry he usually had. 

“I was thinking maybe we can go grab breakfast at that new diner we’ve been wanting to try?” You ask and can hear him hum in response, the best way to Bucky’s heart was definitely through his stomach. After years on the run and in control by someone else, good food was always a comfort he could appreciate.

“And then afterwards we can head to the store? I need to pick up a few things for the week.” Youwere already dreading thinking about the next week of work, but that was just life, mundane and full of running errands and doing chores. Though when the two of you did it together, it never really felt so bad.

Bucky sighs as he rolls onto his back, looking up at the ceiling as he uses his hand that’s not resting on your back to run down his face, getting out one last yawn before he had to get up for the day. You knew the days after missions were tough for him, a mix of needing to catch up on sleep and wanting to make the most of your time together, he always opted for the latter. He’ll sleep when he’s dead.

His hand lightly taps your back signaling the two of you to move and start getting out of bed. Both of you stretched your limbs, stealing one more quick kiss before going your separate ways; Bucky on his way to take a shower while you move to the kitchen to get the coffee pot going, if it was one thing about you and Bucky, it’s that you both needed at least two cups before you could get your day going. 

While he’s in the shower you keep yourself busy; folding blankets the two of you left out in the living room, picking up shoes from the hallway, putting dishes in the dishwasher and getting dressed so that all you had to do was wash your face and brush your teeth when he got out - all the same mundane things every couples did.

It’s about twenty minutes later when you start to get concerned, the shower is still running but Bucky doesn’t usually take that long, he’s more of a man that showers because he hated the idea of being dirty rather than a man looking to relax. When you step closer to the door you press your ear against it, hoping to hear at least some sign of movement, when you don’t your stomach drops.

“Buck?” You call out, your fist knocking on the wood door. “Are you okay in there?” 

Suddenly it feels like time had slowed down and all you can think of were the bad things that could have happened. You didn’t hear him collapse - Bucky was a big man, you would have heard that - and you didn’t hear him yell in pain or anything, but the thought doesn’t leave your mind as you start rapidly knocking again.

Your hand reaches for the doorknob but before you can even grasp it you hear the water from the shower shut and footsteps approaching the door. Taking a step back to give him some space, you watch as the door slowly opens and Bucky stands in front of you. He’s standing in his boxers, it looks like hadn’t made it into the shower yet, and there’s a look on his face that’s hard to read. The steam from the room is slowly entering the hallway as he meets your gaze, his hair is all messed up. As quickly as relief filled your body that he was okay, the look on his face made your concern return.

“Are you okay?” You ask, reaching your hand out to him. “I got worried.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He’s suddenly feeling very shy, not wanting to have worried you. Sometimes Bucky can tend to revert back to those days of keeping everything inside, not wanting to share his emotions or feelings. It feels like a complete turn around from this morning and the way the two of you were wrapped up in each other. 

In the beginning of your relationship it was hard to coax these talks out of him, Bucky would shut down and shut himself out. With time, patience and trust you two were able to get to a place where this didn’t happen very often, but sometimes it still did and it always blindsided you. You tried to never show it on your features, you knew that if he had any inkling that this was surprising that he’d shut down even more. Open, patient and receptive is what you had to be and this time was no different. 

“No, no, don’t apologize.” Your voice is soft as you take a step closer, your hand resting on his shoulder. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I didn’t want to have to break the door down.”

This gets him to smile, well not really a smile but the edge of his mouth curls up a bit.

“Yeah, like you’re capable of that.”

There's no malice in his joke, but there is an air of nervousness from him as if he’s contemplating what he wants to say, your thumb is drawing small comforting circles on his skin as you wait to see if you need to push him to talk or give him some space. You see him open his mouth to speak, your eyes watching his every move.

“I found …” he mumbles the last words so you don’t quite catch them.

“Sorry, what?” 

“I found …” he says it again, this time even more mumbled than the last.

“Buck, babe, I can’t hear what you’re saying.”

A sigh leaves his lips as he closes his eyes, he’s struggling with saying this out loud for some reason. It’s not that big of a deal, it happened to everyone, but Bucky never thought he’d see the day it’d happened to him.

“I found a gray hair.” His voice is still sort of muttered, but you can finally hear him. 

The words hit you square in the chest and your emotions are immediately conflicted. You are so happy that Bucky has lived to see the day that he has gotten to age properly, that he’s been able to live a new life that is so fulfilled and full of love. But, you know the flip side of this coin, which is that Bucky is a person from another time and that this process should have started decades ago for him. 

“Oh, Buck,” a whisper comes from your lips as you take another step closer to him, the steam from the bathroom still flooding the hallway.

“I’m just having … a moment.” He explains softly, his hand moving to the small of your back as he pulls you in, needing the close proximity for comfort. “I never thought this would happen, you know? It’s hard to imagine myself getting …” he takes a deep breath before continuing, “older. I guess.”

You listen intently as you know it’s the right thing to do, all Bucky ever asked for was for someone to take his feelings seriously and you always tried your best to do so. 

“And? How do you feel about it?” 

“Good, bad, a mix of both.” He says honestly as his hand slips under your shirt, the warm flesh rubbing against your skin as if to ground himself. “It’s nice that it’s finally happening, that my life is moving forward, but it should have happened a long time ago.”

“I know.” You whisper softly.

You move both of your arms to wrap around his neck, keeping him close to you. His shoulders relax and you can feel the tension leaving his body almost immediately. Bucky was an adult man, there was no doubt about it, but moments like these gave you an inside look as to what he would have been like all those decades ago - a boyish look in his eyes in the moments he felt really small.

When he opens his eyes again to look at you his thoughts are racing. He wished he never went through what he did, of course he did, but in some sick twist of fate if his life had never worked out the way it actually did he would never have met you. Bucky, for all its worth, thinks that alone is worth the years of his life missed.

He’s smiling at you now and you can see the sparkle in his eyes return again as you both stand there for a beat. In these moments he’s happy he gave his heart up to someone all good and all kind.

“Do you see it?” He brings his metal hand up to his hair, grabbing a few strands from the front of his head and flattening them so you can get a better look. “See? Right there.”

There’s still a massive amount of dark hair, but between the strands you see it - the one gray hair that stands out from the rest. It really is only one.

“I see it. You want me to rip it out?” You offer.

“No.” He says quickly, his hand on your back playfully smacking your behind as he smirks at you. “That’s actually why I haven’t taken a shower yet. I’ve been contemplating for the last 20 minutes if I should rip it out of my head or not. Is it a mid-life crisis if you’re over 100?”

You can’t help but laugh softly at his joke, bringing one of your hands up to fix his hair; you can tell he was definitely digging to see if there were more.

“Oh definitely not, you’re way past mid-life crisis. Maybe more like a geriatric spiral instead?” You feel him smack your behind again and both of you start laughing softly, the Bucky you knew and loved slowly returning to you. “Now you and your gray hair better shower quickly because I’m hungry. If we end up getting to the diner and there’s a line I won’t be very happy.”

“Oh well, we can’t have that happening, now can we?” 

Bucky presses a sweet kiss to your forehead before he pulls away from your embrace, giving you one last look over before he closes the bathroom door to shower. He turns towards the sink once the door is closed, his hands on either side of the counter as he gives himself one last look over in the mirror, the gray hair standing out from the rest. He meets his own eyes and gives himself a nod. Everything would be okay.

[papayacinnabun]

lando’s arms - cinnabun thoughts 18+

thinking about lando putting you in a headlock and fucking you from behind. he forces you to look into the mirror in front of the bed, watching as he thrusts into you deeply. nothing cute or gentle about it just pure carnal need, pounding into you as his bicep restricts your airflow.

he would whisper filthy things in your ear, telling you what a good girl you are for taking his cock. he would tease you about how much you liked getting fucked like this, like a little slut. your whines and moans would motivate him further, tightening the arm around your neck and reaching down between your legs with the other to work his fingers on your sensitive bundle of nerves.

your orgasm crashes over you when he tightens his hold, the combination of the lewd visual in the mirror along with the restriction of air sent you over the brink. you sink your nails into his veiny arm as you ride out your high, eyes rolling back in pleasure. the sounds of skin slapping and your wetness lubricating his cock were obscene, echoing through the room.

seeing you come undone made his thrusts more determined, his release nearing as your pussy clenched helplessly around him. he groans at the feeling as he spills into you, fucking his cum deep inside so he can watch it leak out of your perfect cunt later.

a/n - just got back to school, sorry i dropped off the face of the earth but this picture brought me back to life ‼️‼️‼️‼️

have ideas? requests are open!!

masterlist

[swordsandholly]

Double Date - Double Down

NSFW | MDNI

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem!plus size!reader

Word count: 4.9k

Summary: When you get a call in the middle of the afternoon from your friend begging you to fill an empty spot on a double date your initial instinct is a hard no. After all, no one wants to go on a blind double date and be surprised by the fat friend. It doesn’t help that this Simon guy is stupid fucking hot and obviously doesn’t like you - if his lack of talking is anything to go by.

A/N: Just a fun little oneshot I used as a warmup between working on chapters of future multi chapter projects.

“I said *no*.” You snap, angrily folding the washcloth in your hands.

Your friend splutters from the other side of the phone, the desperation in her voice only growing now that she’s on her fourth ask. “*Pleeeaase*! Steph backed out last minute and no one else is free-“

“How do you know I’m free?”

“You just said you were!”

You huff. She’s got you there. When she first called, you admitted you didn’t have anything going on but that was *before* she told you the plan for the night. Before she mentioned that her very, very conventionally hot military boyfriend wanted to do a little double date with his friend and one of hers. Plus, you take a least a little offense to being second choice. Really, last choice, it seems.

“Cass, you can’t just set up a blind date and take your fat friend. That’s not-“

“You’re not fat, love. You’re beautiful.” Her words drip with turned honey. You make a gagging face to yourself in the mirror. “You just need more confidence!”

You sigh loudly, pinching the bridge of your nose. You could try, for the millionth time, to explain to her the nuanced ins and outs of dating as a fat woman. The rules and stats that could rival even the most complex rpg… or you could be petty. It takes less time to be petty. “If I go, you’re paying for my drinks.”

“Johnny’s friend will probably-“

“Yeah, and when he leaves you’re paying for my tab.”

“He won’t-“

“We got a deal?”

She clicks her tongue. “*Fiiiine*.”

At least you can get wasted for free either way. A small consolation. She texts you the time and location, barely leaving you with enough time to shower and turn yourself into something presentable. Not that you really care. It’s going to be shit either way, most likely. Staring yourself down in the mirror, you suppose you could at least try to look somewhat attractive. If you’re about to get rejected (or possibly shouted at, you’ll never forget *that* horrendous interaction) you might as well feel your best.

The pub is small as you push through the front door. Casual. A couple pool tables, some darts, a large bar and few booths with stools on the outer side. You scan the room, searching for Cass’s familiar face.

“Over here!” Cass waves with a wide arc at you, a grin plastered from ear to ear. At least she’s having fun.

You take a long breath, bracing yourself for whatever is about to happen. Cass introduces you to her boyfriend - who is somehow even hotter in person. You can see why she’s so smitten with him. Johnny looks you up and down as he shakes your hand. He doesn’t comment, or make a face, or really react in any particular way, but you can feel a shift. Something in his eyes…

Maybe it’s just your imagination. You’ve always been a little over sensitive.

“Si will be back in a sec. Stepped over tae get a drink.” He flashes a grin.

You hum, quietly folding your hand as Cass pushes a cocktail for you that she preemptively ordered. Criticize her as much as you like, she knows her mixes.

“There he is.” Johnny grins, turning slightly.

You follow his gaze, heart sinking as your eyes settle on the man approaching your table. He’s massive. Tall and wide. Total brick shithouse. His face is mostly covered by a black surgical mask. A few years ago you might have questioned it but at this point you couldn’t care less, especially when his dark eyes meet yours, small flecks of gold honey catching the low bar lights. Barely styled tufts of blonde hair stick up from his head. They look like they might curl if he let it grow a little longer.

All in all, wayyyy out of your league.

He settles into his seat with all the confidence of any military man - back ramrod straight. He extends a large hand. “Simon Riley.”

You murmur your name, somewhat enthralled by the half lidded, almost bored look in his eyes. Now that he’s closer you notice a large scar splitting his left eyebrow and light, newly forming crows feet in the corners of his eyes.

“S-so you’re military, too?” You stutter, eyes trained on his the massive hand holding his glass. It’s nicely vascular, his nails are well groomed but it also looks like he could snap you in half with it.

Not that that’s entirely a bad thing - whatever that may or may not say about you.

He nods. “I’m a Lieutenant.”

“Oh! Officer position. So you’re smart, then?” You try to be charming, to give him a sweet smile and keep your body language open.

“Enough.” He deadpans. It takes a few beats for you to realize he’s not going to say anything else.

“Uh…” You squirm awkwardly under his gaze. It’s intense - his dark eyes nearly black in the low light of the bar. “I do hair.”

Conversation is slow, to say the least. The longest answer he gives you is maybe five words. He only flips up the mask long enough to take a sip of his drink every so often. You start to talk less, opting toward a group conversation in which Johnny takes the lead, which he is obviously very good at. He regales you and Cass with a few stories of his and Simon’s adventures. Some funny, some brave, some worrying. He’s setting the man up to be a god, nearly, but Simon himself just shakes his head and insists Johnny is exaggerating.

You wonder what he sees in Simon. Alternatively, you wonder what *you’re* supposed to see in Simon. Besides his good looks, of course. He’s… bland. Obviously bored if his constant glances toward the exits and rhythmic, occasional tapping on the corner of the table are anything to go by.

“Want tae go dance, lovie?” You overhear Johnny as he leans in toward Cass.

She glances at you, then Simon, then back to you before nodding enthusiastically. “We’ll give you two some time *alone*.”

In any other situation, you’d probably beg her to stay in desperation for a conversation buffer. Here and now, though, you’re grateful. You can finally let this poor guy off the hook. You wait until they’re gone; fully out of earshot before turning to the man in front of you.

“I…uh… look…” You chew your lip, glancing between him and your folded hands on the table. “Sorry… I know I’m probably not what, uh, what you expected… I get it if you want to leave. It’s - you don’t have to stay, or whatever. Don’t have to be polite…”

He cocks an eyebrow, eyes boring through your skull. “Why would I want to leave?”

“I know what I look like. You don’t have to be nice.”

His raised brow turns into a slight frown. “I think you’re quite pretty.”

You scoff - blushing despite yourself. “Again, you don’t have to be nice.”

“Do I seem like the type to just be nice?”

You continue to gnaw at your lip. He’s got you there. Simon definietly doesn’t come off as the type to bow to polite society. “You’ve barely talked to me.”

He stares for a moment. It’s his turn to avert his eyes, swirling around the whiskey in his glass awkwardly. Almost bashfully. “It’s not you. I’m… not great in public… especially in crowds…”

Oh.

*Oh*.

You’ve completely misjudged him, haven’t you? Shit. He’s just a big awkward lug isn’t he?You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Oh God, *I’m* the asshole, aren’t I?”

He chuckles, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I’m sorry it’s just…” you scrub a hand over your face. “Most men don’t really want to be surprised with a fat girl on a blind date. Guess I assumed the worst.”

Simon hums. A low vibration that settles into your bones. He gets up, sliding into the booth side of the table beside you - his massive frame pushing into your space. He smells like spices. Cinnamon and pepper. A little hint of leather and tobacco underneath. It’s heady, and some primal part of your mind wishes you could roll around in it like a dog.

“Some men might like a waifish little thing, that’s their business, but personally…” He leans in, a large hand resting on your wide thigh. “Yeah. I like somethin’ I can get a proper handful of.”

“*Oh*.” You squeak, back stiff. Was that what you saw in Johnny’s face before? Approval?

“‘Ere’s a thought - we go back to mine. S’quiet. Can talk more freely. See where the night goes, hm?”

You smile hesitantly, finally looking up to meet his gaze. It’s honest. Kind. Dark pools of sincerity. It’s against your better judgement. Impractical. Out of character. Even so, you allow yourself to surrender with a warmth in your cheeks and a small nod.

“I’ll get an Uber.” He pulls out his phone, tapping away. “Five minutes out.”

“Want to wait outside?” You offer, nodding toward the front entrance. Simon just nods, following you out close behind. Neither of you say much of anything while you wait, but you watch him out of the corner of your eye. He taps on his leg a few times in much the same way as he did on the table.

He dutifully opens the car door for you, letting you slide in before climbing in beside you, long legs slightly cramped in the small sedan.

“You don’t live on base?” You ask as the Uber drives away from the infamous military housing. You’d been there once or twice - a while ago when you were younger and messier.

“S’too loud.” He shrugs. “Too crowded.”

“Well, at least you’re consistent.” You smile.

Simon hums, resting his hand on your thigh once again. It’s casual, not too high up or too much pressure. Not presumptuous.

“How’d Johnny get you out there in the first place? If you’re so *averse*.” You tilt your head.

He shrugs, “Was supposed to be another Sergeant we work with but I guess he cancelled. No one else was free.”

“Ah, so we’re both last choices, then.”

“Yeah?”

“Made Cass promise me free drinks if I came.”

“Smart girl.” He chuckles, holding out a hand to help you up out of the car upon your arrival. His hand is warm when you take it, and a small part of you feels disappointed when he lets go.

The building is small. Old. All red brick with a thirty year old intercom and an elevator that you’re pretty sure hasn’t been inspected since the place was built. About halfway down the hall, you start to second guess yourself. You don’t know a thing about this guy - you don’t know what’s going to happen as soon as you get on the other side of his door. His weird, bright red door. Wait - why is this whole floor covered in red doors?

“Alright?” He grunts, back turned to you as he wrestles with the lock.

“Uh - why is your floor color themed?”

Simon laughs, wide shoulders shaking with the movement. It’s a low sound, something that vibrates in his chest. Makes you want to press your ear to it, see how it feels. If it will reverberate into your bones as well. “The old lady that owns the building is a bit… unique. Likes to talk about colors and karma and destiny stuff.”

“Ah.” You nod, as if that makes any sense at all. “So you’re red?”

“Apparently.”

His apartment is actually quite homey, as you step into it. From a stiff military man like him you expected something akin to an ikea floor model. Instead it’s furnished with a well worn, green couch. A large TV with an extremely up-to date surround sound system and an entertainment center filled to the brim with CDs sits against the wall. A few movie posters fill the walls. All horror classics - you count three of the scream movies. The first two final destination. There are condensation rings on the coffee table.

Behind you, you hear the door lock and unlock three times, but you don’t pay it much mind.

“Want a drink?” Simon asks, already popping open a decanter full of something gold on a small drink cart beside the kitchen island.

“Sure.” The agreement is automatic - blurted out before you can second guess taking a drink from a total stranger.

You watch a little too closely as he takes off his light jacket, exposing his strong arms and a half sleeve tattoo. It’s a bit tacky, all skulls and military symbols. The black ink has been sun worn over time. The motif of a young getting his first tattoo after enlisting. He settles down on the couch with the decanter and two glasses, patting the spot beside him. You plop down. It’s pretty comfortable, honestly.

His fingers loop into the mask’s straps. You find yourself watching with wide eyes and bated breath as he removes it. His nose is crooked - broken more than a couple times, you think. There’s a scar running from his nose to upper lip that could only come from a cleft palette. It’s charming, in a way. When he turns toward you, you notice a patch on the side of his face that looks like a rather large burn all the way down to his sharp jaw. The roughness of him works, somehow. The scars and tattoos and choppy hair all coming together to create the visage of a life hard lived.

“You’re really pretty…” the words slip from your tongue before you can stop them.

Simon splutters out a laugh, the slightest hint of color appearing across his cheeks. “Didn’t take you for a flatterer.”

“I’m not.” You huff before nodding toward the posters. “Horror fan?”

He hums, passing you a glass. “Are you a fan? Of horror, I mean.”

“Found footage!” You grin a little too excited. “It’s the best genre.”

“Terrible taste.” He scoffs.

“Wrong! Found footage can be anything you want it to be - slasher, thriller, mystery, mocumentary. Anything.”

“Which makes them messy.” He argues. “Anyone can make one.”

“Yeah! Theres so many hidden gems out there.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Oh, I’ll put you on them. We just need to get you a good one.”

“Askin’ me on a second date already, love?”

“Oh, fuck off.” You shove at his shoulder. He was right, it is so much easier to talk freely out of the bar. Away from everyone and everything. His posture is far more relaxed, laid back into the couch with his hips canted forward rather than stiff as a board.

“We could watch one now?” He offers. If you were more sober, you might have heard the twinge of pleading in his voice. As it stands you’ve already drained the glass he gave you and are perfectly buzzed enough to be ignorant to the subtler parts of communication.

How convenient.

“Okay.” You whisper.

After a bit of debating back and forth you settle on Hell House. After all, it’s been your tried and true method for getting anyone and everyone into the genre. You don’t notice it, at first, but you slowly begin to scoot closer to him as you fold your knees up on the couch. Eventually, tucking yourself under his arm sling across the back cushions. Between him and the drinks - which you’re pretty sure is a rather fancy bourbon - you feel what could only be described as snuggly. Limbs loose and pliant, smile easy and words flowing as you cheer and jeer at the characters together.

At some point, Simon’s dark eyes meet between yours. You lean in, so does he. Inch by inch until your lips meet. It’s tentative, at first. Testing the waters. His lips are soft and move expertly against yours. You part for him has his tongue darts across your lower lip.

It’s easier than it usually is for you. Easy to let him pull you over his lap. To rest your hands on his broad shoulders as you take each other in. Normally, you’re not a person for one night stands. A commitment kind of gal. You can’t exactly say no, though, when you have a beautiful man’s hands traveling over your body like it’s the only thing in the world worth paying attention to right now.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to grunt, “Bedroom?”

“*Yes*.” You gasp between kisses.

Suddenly those large hands grasp under your ass as you’re hauled up. You grapple to hold onto the back of his neck, keeping your weight forward.

“Simon!”

“Yes, love?” He asks as if he didn’t just life you like a sack of potatoes.

“A-aren't I heavy?” You question as he makes his way through the apartment, peppering kisses over your neck and jaw.

“No.” He replies bluntly. Like what you asked was stupid.

You’re placed on a bed with all the gentleness of a rare china plate- one hand cradling your upper back and the other tucked under your thighs. There isn’t any time to take in the room before Simon is kissing you again but you do count approximately five pillows and zero navy sheets.

That shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Simon leans in close, nose ever so slightly bumping yours. “Before we keep going, I want to establish a rule. Red light means stop. At any time, for any reason.”

You can’t help but smile. “Okay.”

“Say it back, doll.”

“Red light means stop.” You reach up and cup his face. So handsome. So warm.

“Good girl.” He murmurs. “Let’s get these off, hm?” Simon pulls your clothes off deftly - dragging those rough palms over your skin as he moves and kneading at the plushness of your hips appreciatively.

You reach up to tug at his shirt. “S’not fair if I’m the only one naked.”

Simon chuckles and hastily sits back to yank the shirt over his head, giving a lovely show in the process. You think this what people mean when they talk about an Adonis. There’s a comfortable soft layer of his strong abdomen. Something you want to sink your teeth into. Your fingers trace each dip and curve of his muscles, the lovely shape of his pectorals, the raised scars littering his body. Floral shapes from bullets along with slashes and smaller jabs. A particularly nasty one runs down his side, coving his ribs. A burn, you think.

“You’re beautiful.” You murmur. Definitely out of your fucking league. You move to sit up, reaching for his waistband.

His hand pushes your shoulder back on the bed. “Let me take care of you tonight, bird.”

Your face warms. Simon kisses your cheek, continuing down to your chest and taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Gently sucking and nipping at it while flicking the other with his hand. A shameful whimper escapes your throat.

Simon leans up to murmur in your ear, “What do you want, sweet girl?”

“Want you to fuck me…” You murmur, embarrassment making you want to close your legs. His solid hips block you.

“Oh, I will, but first I want those beautiful thighs wrapped around my head.” Simon continues to place kisses down your body, over your stomach, stopping right at your panty line and tracing along it with rough fingers. His arms circle your thighs and in one swift motion your hips teeter on the edge of the bed, Simon kneeling between them. His fingers hook in the waistband of your underwear.

“W-wait…” You sit up on your elbows.

He freezes, looking up at you.

“I, uh, I haven’t exactly *landscaped* in a while… wasn’t really planning-“

Simon huffs out a laugh. “I’m a grown man, love. You think a little bush is gonna scare me off?”

All thoughts related to anything within the proximity of embarrassment come to an instant halt as Simon’s lips wrap around your clit- sucking and nipping and lapping like a man starved. Like he’d die without it. A low groan rumbles through his throat.

“F-fuck!” You gasp, whimpers and moans interrupting any chance you may have at putting words together.

“Taste so fucking good, princess.” He mumbles against you. A shaky moan rattles through you as he pushes a thick finger in, working it gently. His other than grips your hip tightly, pinning you in place. The pet-name sends a shiver down your spine - leaving you rolling your hips and clenching on the finger inside you.

“Fuck, Si…” You gasp, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I can tell your close, baby.” Simon groans. “Cum for me. Come on, be a good girl and cum all over my fucking tongue.”

The bastard knows the power he has in that voice. He *has* to. That baritone gravel sinks in your veins and all you can do is whimper. Panting pathetically the closer you get. His fingers curl up and your back arches harshly as your climax washes over you. Your legs tremble as he works you through it; stopping just shy of pushing you too far.

“Hey!” You gasp indignantly as a jolt shoots up your spine as he settles a final, harsh suck on your clit.

Simon taps your hip, climbing back over you as you scoot up on the bed. He carelessly kicks off his pants as he goes, toeing them off before settling between your legs. Those dark eyes rake over you leisurely - taking in every inch. Every curve and dip and flaw categorically. He sucks in a breath and sighs. “Bloody ‘ell, look at you… so fuckin’ pretty.”

Your face heats and you look away. “Who’s the flatterer now?”

“Not me. Just bein’ honest.” He places a quick kiss to your soft jawline before reaching over to dig through his nightstand drawer. You don’t miss the gold foil of the condom wrapper.

You can’t stop yourself from licking your lips as he pulls off his boxer briefs. Simon is uncut, already ruddy and leaking and just begging for your mouth. Maybe next time, though. He’s already slipped on the condom, carefully hooking one of your legs over his shoulder and the other around his hip. The man has a laser-focus to him, you’ll give him that.

“Still want t’ keep goin’?” He mumbles, eyes locked on his cock as is drags between your folds.

“*Please*.” You whine pathetically. Simon’s chuckle turns into a gasp as he presses in. It’s achingly slow and you roll your hips in demand for more.

Simon lets out a low groan as his hips meet yours. The stretch is perfect - just enough to feel completely full without pushing you too far. As though your bodies were made to slot together just so. Your head falls back, chest heaving as you beg him to move, to fuck you, just *please* for the love of god-

“Needy little thing.” He gives you a sloppy smile before setting a brutal pace. You find yourself clawing at his back, clinging to him as your back arches and the most obscene sounds are systematically torn from your throat. The angle he has your hips placed causes his cock to bully that sensitive spot inside you - dragging over it with every thrust.

Simon leans toward, bracing himself on his forearms and pinning you under him as he fucks into you. “So fuckin’ good f’me. Knew you would be. So soft and sweet and goddamn *pretty*.”

“*Fuck, Simon*.” You gasp, nose bumping against his as your lips intertwine. Breaths and moans intermingle as you both chase that edge. There’s nothing else, in this moment, just you and Simon and the sounds only he has ever managed to pull from you.

Your orgasm hits you like a train. Out of nowhere and all at once, tensing every muscle into a trembling mess as you clamp down around his cock. Simon sinks his teeth into your neck as his own climax takes him, cradling you close and moaning out your name so muddled you almost miss it.

For a few moments, you stay frozen in place trying to catch your breath as you come down. Your limbs feel like jelly when you finally try to move, body limp and pliable. It almost feels like a loss as he pushes off of you, leaving you open and vulnerable to the cool night air while he ties off the condom.

“Be right back.” He murmurs, slowly climbing off you and heading for an attached bathroom off to the left.

You let your eyes slipped closed only to jump and shoot back open as a dap rag drags between your thighs. A little yelp escapes you as the rough material drags across your oversensitive clit. Simon chuckles at you, tossing the rag back somewhere in the bathroom before crawling into the bed beside you. It’s so easy to curl into his chest and let those strong arms encircle you.

“Have fun, love?” Simon murmurs into your hair.

You just hum happily, smiling against his hard chest.

“Good.”

It’s just as easy as the rest of it to fall asleep like that. To seek out the warmth of his body in your satiated haze and press into him, allowing the night and rhythmic beating of his heart to overtake you. You feel four small taps between your shoulder blades just before tipping over the edge into comfortable nothing.

You wake slowly to an empty bed. The light from the window above you streams in - bathing the room in a light golden tone. It’s cozy. The blankets seem to pull you in, keeping you snugly in place. Distantly, you hear the sound of pots and pans clinking.

Shockingly, you’re not hungover. Well, not much at least. There’s a slight twinge in your head and a not unpleasant soreness in your hips. You dig around, finding your clothes strewn across the room haphazardly. Your underwear are nowhere to be found and you eventually give up with a shrug. They weren’t one of your best pairs anyway.

When you come out of the bedroom, you pause. Simon stands in the kitchen, working on something over the stove wearing only a pair of sweatpants. They hang loosely around his hips, showing off the rises and dips of his strong muscles and well defined waist. This scene somehow feels too intimate despite your activities the night before.

“Perfect timing.” Simon turns, placing a plate down on the kitchen island. The omelette before you looks immaculate, all the way down to a light garnish on top.

Your eyes turn to saucers. “You…you made me breakfast?”

“Course.” He nods sharply as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. As if *not* doing so would be some sort of affront. Either you’re still asleep and this is all a dream or you stumbled upon the perfect man through pure happenstance.

He turns the stove off and on and off twice before standing at the counter across from you while you sit on one of the stools at the island. It’s a comfortable silence as you both eat. Simon keeps glancing up at you as if waiting for your disapproval. Boyish, somehow, despite the size and breadth of him.

It’s perfect. The eggs practically melt in your mouth and the goat cheese and vegetables taste fresh. You can’t help but him happily as you eat.

By the time you’re done, you think you might be a little in love.

Maybe you should text Cass and thank her or something. Maybe a gift basket. “Oh. My phone’s dead.”

“Didn’t charge it before y’left last night?” Simon cocks an eyebrow, chewing on his last bite.

You snort. “It was last minute, remember?”

“What if I’d been some sort of psycho? What was your plan?” He grins as he takes your empty plate. If you were a more impulsive woman you may have gone so far as to lick the damn thing.

“Are you a psycho?”

“Not generally, no.”

“Well then, nothing to worry about.” You grin, watching a little too happily as he rinses down the dishes and loads the dishwasher.

Simon just scoffs at you.

You glance at the time above the stove, disappointment settling deep in your chest. “Shit. I should get going.”

“I’ll get you a cab.” Simon offers automatically, reaching for his phone.

You shift side to side, twiddling your thumbs. “Y’know… we never finished the movie…”

Simon cocks and eyebrow. From the pleased smirk on his face you can tell he knows what you’re implying. He still patiently waits for you to say it out loud.

“Would, uh, would you want to exchange numbers? Maybe… meet up… again…?” Your voice is more timid than you’d like. This fear of rejection is new. Being rejected is nothing new for you, so why does it suddenly feel so high stakes with this one guy you barely know?

You don’t miss the way his eyes light up ever so slightly at the question. “I’d love to.”

[thefirstwhisperingmuses]

MDNI!!!

Smut blurb time because my mental health is getting a little better

CW: pregnancy, breeding kink, babies, AFAB Reader because of pregnancy, tiny hint of voyeurism

Imagine being married to Spencer for about 3 years when he starts to talk and insinuate about having kids. Of course, being with Spencer as long as you have it shouldn't be a surprise that he has a breeding kink. And knowing Spencer he probably had a very detailed conversation about kids and the future because yes part of it might be a kink for him, but he genuinely wants kids and if you're not cool with that then he won't force you.

Anyways, for weeks Spencer has been very bluntly asking to fuck you raw. You thought about it and eventually agreed, one time won't hurt right?

Unfortunately for you and your poor pussy anytime Spencer has the chance to fill you up he will, over and over again. The sweet, timid man you married is all the sudden replaced with a caveman who is actually solely upon primal urges. Spencer is fucking you so hard that you can actually feel the tip of his cock hitting your cervix. And when he cums he stops momentarily and continues to fuck his cum into your womb. By your 4th orgasm you're bleary eyed and seriously wondering how Spencer is still hard. After both of you are spent and tired you go to bed, well after Spencer showers and you pee because he's not risking you get a UTI.

It should be of no surprise that you missed your period, Spencer is of course over the moon. He's promising to be at every appointment and anything he deems as important which is everything.

Apparently luck is of Spencer's side because sometimes pregnancy hormones can make people extremely horny, and Spencer is more than willing to help. So much so that you're fucking in supply closets after you bring him lunch and public bathrooms of stores. But the best is when you're a little further along in your pregnancy and Spencer holds your belly from behind, fucking up into you and whining in your ear in between him kissing and sucking at your neck. He is absolutely pussy drunk behind you moaning, grunting, whining, and saying dirty things into your ear.

For your last month Spencer treats you like royalty, because you deserve it. He's waiting on you hand and foot, you want ice cream from a certain store at 3 AM? He's throwing on clothes and coming back in record breaking time so much so that you know that he couldn't have done it without speeding. And obviously when you want him to fuck you, he's ready. Who cares that it's midnight and you both have things to do in the morning? He's eating you out and making sure you're satisfied before he even thinks about going back to bed.

[just-null]

wrestling to be the first to greet you (they broke into your house)

[saltcxrcle]

medicine ── . ✶ s. winchester

summary: persuading sam to go out to the bar with you was easy, but it's not like he needed much convincing when it came to you.

pairings: sam winchester x reader, sam winchester x fem!readerノ wc: 3.3k warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, no use of 'y/n', smut, porn with no plot, feat. sam munchester!, dry humping, oral f&m receiving!, 69ing, finger sucking, protected p in v, riding, praise, aftercare, fluff, loverboy sam!, is titled and loosely based on the unreleased song by harry styles, kinda edited; all mistakes are my own a/n: you guys voted for this, so you shall receive the smut you freaks! jk love you guys and i had so much fun writing this hehe (can you tell i have a thing for his forearms lol). also would highly recommend you guys listen to the song either before or during this fic but enjoy <33 sam winchester masterlist

SAM WAS SO GLAD YOU HAD YOUR OWN ROOM. 

He pushed you hard against the door, lips attached to yours as his hands found purchase on your ass. Sam smiled against your lips as you let out a slight squeal at the feeling of him squeezing and massaging your ass through your jeans. 

You ran your hands up his chest, leaving one on his shoulder as the other one clutched at the back of his head. Your fingers ran through his silky smooth hair before tugging at the strands. He let out a low groan as his hips involuntarily jerked against you. 

You tugged at the strands again, making his lips detach from yours with a small ‘pop,’ a strand of saliva being the only thing connecting the two of you. 

You smiled at the slightly dazed look that Sam had on his face. “We should probably get inside. Unless you want to give everyone a free show.” You joked. 

“Right, yeah we should.” Sam nodded, seeming to remember the two of you were outside of your room. 

Sam let you turn around in his arms, hands resting on your hips—his breath ghosting over your cheeks as his face moved to bury itself in your neck. You could barely open the door, distracted by the soft kisses Sam was placing along the sensitive areas of your neck. 

Sam smiled into your neck at the sight of you fumbling with the lock. He was glad that you managed to rope him into coming out with you and Dean tonight. But it’s not like he needed much convincing from you—he always found himself wanting to be around you, and this was no different. 

Dean took no time finding someone to chat up and eventually go home with tonight, leaving you and Sam to your own devices. After having a few drinks, he felt loose and relaxed for once. Sam enjoyed being around you and loved that he had your undivided attention. You didn’t drink often, but you enjoyed a cocktail or two when you were out with the brothers after a successful hunt. 

You had about two, almost three Dirty Shirleys tonight, the vodka hitting you slightly, but the buzz you were feeling got canceled out with the fries you and Sam had ordered to share. The cherry that was floating at the top of your drink was resting against the ice in your nearly empty drink. 

“Can I have that?” Sam asked from beside you, pointing to the cherry in your drink.

“Sure.” You plucked it from your glass and held it out to Sam, thinking he was going to grab it from your hand. 

Sam was feeling bold, the alcohol bolstering his confidence. His intense gaze never left your eyes as he ducked his head down and grabbed the cherry from your hand with his mouth—his lips wrapping around your fingertips, drawing the fruit into his mouth. 

Your mouth fell open slightly as the tension between the two of you grew exponentially—his eyes fluttered, letting the tartness of the cherry coat his tongue. You couldn’t help how your cunt clenched around nothing as you saw Sam’s jaw move as he chewed on the cherry slowly. You had to look away from Sam, your cheeks filled with heat as a spark of desire ignited in your lower belly. 

It didn’t help that the low lighting of the bar seemed to cloak Sam’s sharp features but made his hazel eyes practically glow in the dim lights. 

Sam couldn’t help but smirk at your reaction. “You okay?” He ducked down and asked quietly in your ear. 

“Yeah.” You cleared your throat, trying to mask the shiver that went down your spine at the low rumble of his voice. “Just peachy.” 

Sam chuckled quietly. He rested his hand on your thigh. “Did you want to head back?” 

The two of you quickly left after he posed the question, his hand on the small of your back leading you out of the bar. Luckily, the motel the three of you were staying at was within walking distance of the bar, so it didn’t take long for the two of you to make it back. 

Once you arrived at your room and before you were going to ask Sam if he wanted a nightcap, his question threw you off completely. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

You stared at him before quickly replying. “Yes.” 

It didn’t take long for Sam to pin you to your door once you got it open, and the two of you made your way inside. Your hands immediately found their place in his hair as his lips moved against yours. You couldn’t help but softly moan at the feeling of his tongue sliding against yours—being able to taste the cherry he had eaten only moments ago with the faint hint of whiskey that he had been sipping on earlier. 

Sam swallowed your moan as he kissed you. His hands roamed over your body before finding the back of your thighs. He quickly lifted you up, and you wrapped your legs around his waist without any hesitation. Sam walked the two of you to one of the beds in your room before sitting on it with you in his lap. 

You couldn’t help but grind against his denim-covered bulge, making him groan against your lips. His hands landed on your hips to aid you in your movement. 

Your lips finally detached from his as soft moans left your lips. Sam’s lips found your neck again, biting and sucking at the skin as you continued to grind against him, sparks of pleasure zipping through you as your clit rubbed against your underwear. 

Sam’s lips eventually left your neck, and he made quick work of your shirt—almost ripping it from how recklessly he pulled it off of you. You all but clawed at the brown button-up he was wearing. It was unfair how well this color suited him. He had the sleeves rolled up to his forearms—and you were salivating at the sight of them all night. 

The two of you stared at each other when your shirts were discarded. 

“You’re beautiful.” Sam murmured as his hands traced up and down your back as he gazed up at you, his hazel eyes filled with reverence and desire. 

“Could say the same thing about you.” You replied as your hands landed on his broad shoulders. 

Sam’s cheeks flushed red at your earnestness. He leaned in and kissed you softly, making your head spin from how different this kiss was compared to the passionate and lust-fueled ones from earlier. You couldn’t help but pour your feelings into this kiss as Sam did the same. 

You eventually pulled away from his lips, giggling when his lips chased after yours. Sam couldn’t help but smile at the sound, his heart filling with warmth. 

You reached behind you to unclip your bra, letting it fall off your chest and throwing it somewhere behind you. Sam leaned in and kissed your neck, his lips trailing down the soft skin of your chest. A soft moan left your lips as you felt his lips wrap around one of your nipples—the unoccupied breast being held in his other hand, squeezing and kneading at it. 

“Fuck Sammy.” Your words came out breathy as your hands tugged at his hair. 

A groan came from deep in his chest. His mouth left your breast as his lips landed on yours again. Sam’s hands wandered down your body and to your jeans. His hands were insistent as he tugged at your pants, trying to get them off of you. 

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you at Sam’s impatience. You grabbed his hands, pulling away from his lips. 

“Slow down, pretty boy.” You got up from Sam’s lap to shimmy your jeans off, leaving you in your underwear in front of Sam. You resisted the urge to hide away from Sam’s gaze, but he looked at you in awe—his cock jumping at the sight of you. 

“Your turn.” You smirked as you walked in between Sam’s open legs and unbuckled his belt as he kicked off his shoes. 

He helped you as you unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down along with his boxers, his hard cock springing up from its confines. You tried not to drool at the sight of it. The tip was red and leaking precum—all you wanted to do was taste him. You ran your hands up his thighs, but he caught them before they could make it to their destination. 

Sam quickly grabbed you, and in a blink of an eye, you were straddling Sam’s face. His eyes were trained on the damp patch on your underwear caused by your arousal. 

“Wait, but I want to suck you off.” You stopped Sam before he could think about burying his tongue in you. 

“That can wait.” 

You pouted before you smiled in realization. You managed to get Sam’s hands off of your thighs long enough to turn around to face his cock. 

“Baby, you don’t have to– oh, shit.” Sam cursed when he felt your warm hand wrap around his dick and started to stroke him slowly. 

You couldn’t help but smirk at his reaction before dipping your head down and kissing his weeping tip. Another groan left his lips at the stimulation his cock was getting. Sam remembered that your covered center was right in front of him. 

He pulled your underwear to the side. “You’ve got such a pretty pussy, honey.” Sam couldn’t help but praise as he swiped his thumb through your wet slit. 

A shiver went through you at the feeling of his fingers on you. “Could say the same thing about your cock.” You managed to say before wrapping your lips around the tip and engulfing it with your warm mouth. 

“Fuckk.” Sam moaned out at the feeling of your hot mouth on his cock. “Feels so good baby.” 

You hummed around his cock before you started to bob your head, stroking whatever you couldn’t fit in your mouth. 

You jumped when you felt Sam’s tongue swipe through your slit, his tongue laving over your cunt before sucking your clit into his mouth. A muffled whine erupted from your lips at the sudden stimulation, and you couldn’t help how your hips chased Sam’s mouth when he pulled away. 

“You taste s’good. Been wanting this for a while.” He confessed as he adjusted your underwear to the side again. Sam scowled at the offending garment. 

You felt something rip, and you pulled away from Sam’s cock long enough to turn around to see Sam throw your now ruined underwear on the floor. 

“Sam! You could have—” You cut yourself off with a moan as Sam buried his face in your pussy, his tongue diving into you, and his hands gripped your hips tight. 

Your head fell to his hip as Sam devoured your cunt. The sounds that were coming from your slick cunt and Sam was downright filthy. Your teeth scraped along his skin when you felt his thick fingers fill you as his lips sealed around your sensitive clit, licking and sucking at the bundle of nerves. 

A groan left Sam’s plush lips, feeling your teeth sink into his skin. You just barely remembered to keep sucking Sam off. The pleasure you were feeling overrode anything you were trying to do. But you started to stroke his cock again, putting your mouth on him once more. 

The coil in your lower belly started to get tighter and tighter as your body grew warmer as Sam ate you out. You could barely focus on getting him off, pulling your mouth off of him and letting the moans and whines escape you as you tried to jerk him off. 

“Shit Sammy, I’m gonna cum.” At your words, Sam seemed to double down in his efforts, his fingers hitting that spot that no one has been able to hit before, and he sucked at your clit harder. 

You came with a cry, letting go of Sam’s cock to grab at his thigh. Sam let out a hiss of pleasure, feeling your nail bite into his skin, his cock twitching at the sensation. Sam worked you through your orgasm before he slowly pulled away so you didn’t get overstimulated. 

Once you calmed down, Sam was able to manipulate your pliant body so you were lying on top of him, face-to-face with him. His chin and lips were covered in your slick, but you didn’t care as you kissed him. The kiss was tender as Sam smiled into it. Sam licked into your mouth, and a low groan left you as you tasted a mix of yourself and Sam on his tongue. 

You started to grind against Sam’s hard cock, covering it in your slick, both of you moaning into each other’s mouths at the feeling. 

Through the haze of lust that clouded your mind, you managed to remember something. “Condom?” You asked as you pulled away from Sam’s lips. 

“In my pants.” Sam gestured to his discarded jeans on the bed. 

You nodded. You got up and grabbed Sam's jeans, checking his pockets until you felt the foil packaging of the condom. Once you grabbed it, you checked as you climbed back onto the bed. 

You saw Sam trying to get up and reach for it. “Nope, stay there. I wanna ride you.” You sent him a sultry grin. 

Sam huffed, but a smile pulled at his lips, and he shook his head. “Fine.” 

You tore open the wrapper and quickly rolled the condom onto Sam’s long cock. You straddled him once more and grabbed its base. Lining it up with your entrance, you slowly sunk on top of him. 

You practically whimpered at the feeling of Sam’s cock stretching you open. The sting of his thick cock sent sparks of pleasure through you. Sam stared at your face, seeing it twist in desire as you slid his dick inside of you. 

Both of you let out matching moans once you had taken him to the hilt. Fuck, you felt so full, his tip just barely pressing against your g-spot. You were already so overwhelmed with the feeling of him but started to move up on his cock before going down just as slowly before starting a rhythm of riding Sam. 

There was a familiar burn in your thighs as you rode Sam, making you falter ever so slightly in your pace, and Sam noticed. He moved his hands to your hips. 

“Doing so good. You’re such a good girl, taking my cock so well.” Sam praised as he helped you ride him, his hips thrusting up and meeting you as you sank down on him. 

The motel room was filled with low praises and groans from Sam, which mixed with your whining and babbling about how good he felt in you. At some point, one of Sam’s hands left your hips to cup one of your cheeks. He started to kiss and bite at your neck as the two of you moved in tandem with one another. 

Sam eventually moved from your neck to look at your blissed-out face. As you moved, his thumb slipped into your mouth, and you instinctively started to suck on it like you would his cock. 

“Fuck.” His cock twitched as he felt a zip of pleasure down his spine at the sight of you sucking his thumb. “You close? I can feel you clenching around me. Shit, your cunt is so tight baby, love it so much.” 

Sam pulled his thumb out of your mouth and replaced it with a bruising kiss as he used his spit-slicked thumb to rub against your clit. 

You practically sobbed against his lip. “M’close!” 

“Come for me. Let go f’me pretty girl.” Sam pressed harder against your clit, and you crumbled around him with a silent cry. 

Sam thrusted up into you twice before burying into your convulsing cunt, biting at your shoulder as he spilled into the condom. Sweat coated both of your bodies as you calmed down from your orgasms. Sam let you rest on top of him as his cock softened in you. But after your breathing went back to normal, you peeled yourself off of him and winced slightly as his dick slipped out of you. 

You landed on your stomach with a slight huff escaping your lips. You looked up at Sam as he rested on his elbows, looking down at you. You sent him a smile, which he returned. He leaned down and gave you a tender kiss before getting up from the bed. He took off the condom and tied it up before heading to the bathroom to toss it. 

You moved your back as he was in the bathroom. You were resting your eyes, taking in the bliss-filled silence, basking in the afterglow of your orgasm. You heard the water running in the bathroom but thought nothing of it. 

Sam eventually made his way back to the main room. “I really hope you didn’t fall asleep on me.” 

“Nope, just resting my eyes.” You opened your eyes to look at Sam. He had managed to pull his boxers back on but had a towel in one hand and a glass of water in the other. 

You were a little disappointed that he wasn’t naked anymore but still drank in his shirtless torso. 

Sam set down the glass of water on the nightstand before he took the towel he wet with warm water and gently cleaned your cunt, being mindful of how sensitive it was. He dotted soft kisses along your bare skin as he wiped you down. After he was done, Sam grabbed the glass of water and brought it up to your lips. 

Your chest warmed at Sam’s actions. You drank at least half of the glass, leaving the rest for him to gulp down. When the cup was empty, he sat it back down on the nightstand, and you gave him a kiss, pouring all of your gratitude and affection for Sam into it. 

Sam all but melted into the kiss, cupping your face with his free hand before you broke it—resting your forehead against his. You reluctantly moved away from him, knowing you should go to the bathroom before you fell asleep.

You kissed his cheek before standing up from the bed, and your legs shook slightly as you walked towards the bathroom. 

Sam tried to stifle a laugh, but a snort escaped him when he saw you trying to walk normally. 

You whipped your head around to glare at him. “Shut up! It’s your fault anyway.” You tried to be stern, but you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Sam’s smug grin. 

“Sorry.” You damn well knew that he wasn’t sorry at all, but you flipped him off as you turned back around and went to the bathroom. You heard his bright laughter through the bathroom door, making you grin. 

Once you were done with the bathroom, you exited the bathroom to see Sam underneath the covers of the other bed, his head whipping over to you and sending you a soft smile. You couldn’t help but return it as you picked up his brown shirt, putting it over your naked body and buttoning it up before you slid in right next to him under the covers. 

Sam didn’t say anything about wearing his shirt, but he loved seeing you in his clothes, so he had absolutely no problem with wearing it. He turned off the lamp, sending the room into darkness. Both of you let out contented sighs as the two of you settled in each other’s embraces, legs intertwined with one another and arms wrapped around waists and torsos. 

Sleep came easy to you both, finding peace in each other’s arms and something more in either of your hearts.  

[lazy-ahh]

Oooooh superhero gn reader x Viltrumite mark, please! During the Invincible War, Mark goes to take reader back to his universe, saying he’s missed them and their life together. Reader rejects him, and makes a deal: if reader wins, Mark has to stop wrecking chaos on the planet. If mark wins, reader will go back with him and whatever ‘life’ they created. And reader ends up losing. :)))

THE WRONG UNIVERSE TO LOVE YOU IN

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (superhero) gender neutral reader

this one wants you back. the problem? you don't belong to him. you belong to the mark who loves eve, the mark who will never know you loved him first, the mark whose laugh still echoes in your dreams. now, as his fingers wipe blood from your face with terrifying gentleness, reality splits open: stay and die for a love that was never yours, or let him steal you away to a world where you were his—where you'll always be second to a ghost of yourself. (he promises to be better. you almost believe him.)

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

the sky is bleeding red when he finds you—a sickly crimson streaked with smoke, the air thick with the scent of burning metal and charred flesh. the distant wails of sirens blend into the chaos, a symphony of destruction that never seems to end.

you’re panting, your bruised knuckles pressed into the cracked pavement as you push yourself up, every muscle screaming in protest. the city around you is a graveyard—skyscrapers reduced to skeletal husks, streets littered with bodies, some still twitching, others long gone. the invincible war has turned your world into a slaughterhouse, and standing in the middle of it all, untouched by the ruin, is him.

mark grayson.

but not your mark.

this one is different—sharp where your best friend is soft, his jaw set in a hard line, his eyes dark with something unreadable. there’s a cruel twist to his lips, a coldness in his stare that makes your stomach knot. he wears the viltrumite empire’s uniform, the sleek, lighter armor a stark contrast to the torn superhero costumes scattered around you. a few blood stains littered the fabric, some of it still fresh, glistening under the firelight. it’s not just from battle—no, this mark wears it like a trophy.

you had just finished killing other variants of him, their lifeless eyes staring up at you, their faces so familiar it made your hands shake. you mourned them, grieved for the versions of you in their worlds who must have loved them as fiercely as you love yours. your breath still comes in ragged gasps, your heart pounding not just from exhaustion, but from the weight of what you’ve done.

and then he arrived.

this mark moves with a predator’s grace, his steps measured, his shoulders squared with the confidence of someone who’s never lost. there’s a quiet intensity in the way he surveys the wreckage—like a king surveying his domain. but when his eyes land on you, something shifts. the cold superiority in his gaze softens, just for a second, before he schools his expression back into something unreadable.

"there you are," he says, voice low, almost reverent, like he’s been searching through a thousand broken worlds just to find you. the way his eyes trace over you—lingering on the blood smeared across your cheek, the way your chest heaves with exhaustion—makes your skin prickle. it’s not relief in his tone. it’s claiming.

and you realize, with a sinking dread that coils like ice in your gut, that this isn’t over. it’s only beginning.

"missed you," he murmurs, the words rough, scraped raw from his throat. his voice is different from your mark’s—deeper, edged with a hunger that makes your pulse stutter. he says it like he’s been holding it in for years, like he’s carved the words into his ribs just to keep them close.

your chest tightens, heart hammering against your sternum. you’ve heard the stories—whispers of alternate marks, warped by viltrum’s cruelty, ripping through dimensions to drag back what they think belongs to them. and now he’s here, standing in the wreckage of your city, looking at you like you’re a ghost he’s been chasing. like you’re already his.

"you don’t even know me," you spit, swiping the back of your hand across your split lip. the metallic tang of blood coats your tongue, bitter and familiar.

he tilts his head, considering you with a gaze that feels like a physical touch. "i know enough," he says, voice dropping into something dangerously soft. "in my world, you were mine." his thumb brushes over a streak of dirt on your jaw, possessive and tender all at once. "we had a life. a future." his eyes darken, something feral flickering behind them. "i’m taking you back."

your fists clench, nails biting into your palms hard enough to draw blood. you think of your mark—the boy who scraped his knees racing you down suburban streets, whose laughter was always a little too loud, a little too bright. the one who looks at eve like she hung the stars, while you’ve spent years swallowing down words that taste like rust and regret.

"what happened to me?" you choke out, the question tearing from you like a wound ripped open. "in your world. did i—" your voice fractures. "did i love you too? or did you just force me to?"

his pupils dilate, just slightly, the only crack in his controlled facade. for a heartbeat, he looks almost human. "you begged me to stay," he says, low and rough, like the memory is a blade twisting in his gut. "the night before the viltrumite fleet came. you held onto me like you knew." his jaw tightens. "then they burned our world to ash. but you—" his thumb presses against your pulse point, a mockery of tenderness. "you were always meant to survive."

the air leaves your lungs. you can see it—some other version of you, screaming as the sky split open, clinging to a monster because they didn’t know he’d become one.

"no."

his expression darkens—not like a storm rolling in, but like a door slamming shut. the brief vulnerability in his eyes snuffs out, pupils contracting into something cold and calculating. his jaw tightens, the muscle flexing as his teeth grind together, like he’s biting back words he’ll never say. the softness that had flickered across his face for just a second hardens into something unreadable, the lines of his face sharpening into a mask of imperial discipline.

but his eyes—oh, his eyes. they’re not just empty. they’re hungry.

the way he looks at you isn’t just possessive. it’s devouring. his gaze drags over you like he’s memorizing the shape of your defiance, like he can’t wait to break it apart and remake you into something that fits in the hollow of his hands. his lips twitch, not into a smirk, but into something far more dangerous—a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, a smile that says, you think you have a choice?

and then, just like that—it’s gone. his face smooths back into viltrumite indifference, as if that momentary crack in his armor had never existed. but you saw it. you felt it. and that’s what terrifies you the most. "you don’t get a choice."

"then fight me for it," you snap, surging forward until your forehead hovers a breath away from his, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, close enough to count the flecks of gold in his darkened eyes. the scent of smoke and iron and something uniquely him clings to the space between you, thick enough to choke on. he doesn’t flinch—doesn’t even breathe—just holds your gaze with a half-lidded, almost lazy intensity, like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved.

then his eyes drag downward, slow and deliberate, lingering on the part of your lips, the quickened rise and fall of your chest. there’s no shame in it, no pretense—just hunger, plain and unapologetic. your pulse stutters. for one terrifying second, you almost falter, because this isn’t the look of a conqueror assessing his enemy.

it’s the look of a man remembering how you taste.

"if i win, you leave this planet alone. if you win…" your voice wavers as a memory blindsides you—your mark’s face, soft in the moonlight on his rooftop, his fingers brushing yours as he smiled at you with something warm and unreadable. you’d let yourself imagine, just for a second, that it was love. that it could be you.

now, you’re bargaining with a ghost of him.

"i’ll go with you," you whisper.

he grins finally, all teeth, but still disciplined—like he’s savoring the way your breath hitches when he leans in. "deal."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the battle is brutal.

you’re strong—strong enough to have shattered the ribs of other marks, strong enough to have left their bodies broken in the rubble of this war. but him? he’s something else entirely. every hit he lands cracks through your bones like fault lines, every impact vibrating through your teeth until your jaw aches. you dodge, but you’re always a half-second too slow, his fist grazing your cheekbone hard enough to send stars exploding across your vision.

and the worst part? he’s smiling. small and private just for you, but still there.

not the sharp, cruel grin of a conqueror—no, this is lazy, almost playful, like he’s savoring the way your breath comes in ragged gasps, the way your muscles scream as you push yourself beyond limits that should have broken you already. he’s toying with you, you realize with a sickening lurch. not because he needs to, but because he wants to see how long you’ll last.

"you took down six of them," he muses, catching your fist mid-swing like it’s nothing, his fingers tightening until your knuckles creak in protest. "six of me." his voice drops, something almost like pride curling through it. "that’s not nothing."

then his knee slams into your gut, and the world blurs.

you don’t even feel the moment his fist collides with your ribs—just the sickening crunch, the way your body folds around the impact before you’re hurled backward, crashing through concrete and steel like paper. debris hails down around you, dust choking your lungs as you gasp, vision swimming in and out of black.

when the ringing in your ears fades, he’s already there, crouched beside you with all the casual grace of a predator who’s never known fear. his fingers brush the hair from your face, smearing blood across your temple in a mockery of tenderness.

"you put up a good fight," he murmurs, thumb dragging over your split lip. his voice is almost fond, like he’s praising a well-trained weapon. "stronger than most. smarter, too." his grip tightens, just slightly, forcing your gaze up to his. "but you were never gonna win."

your body screams—muscles torn, bones fractured, blood pooling beneath you like a second shadow. but the pain in your chest is worse, a hollowed-out wound no advanced viltrumite healing could ever fix. you think of your mark—his stupid, lopsided smile, the way his voice softened when he said your name, the light in his eyes when he looked at eve—a light that was never, ever for you.

and now you’ll never tell him.

"promise me," you whisper, the words slick with blood, metallic and bitter on your tongue. there’s so much more you want to say—begging, pleading things that claw at your throat like trapped birds. promise me you’ll love me. promise me i won’t just be another trophy. promise me you won’t get bored and break me when i’m no longer new. promise me you won't throw me aside like he did. but all that comes out is: "promise you’ll leave this world alone."

mark’s thumb drags across your cheekbone, smearing dirt and blood in a mockery of gentleness. his touch is warm, almost reverent, like you’re something precious instead of something stolen. "i promise," he says, and for a heartbeat, his voice is so soft it almost sounds like the boy you knew.

then his arms lock around you, lifting you against his chest like you weigh nothing. the sky splinters above you—crimson and gold and burning, the last beautiful thing you’ll ever see.

(and somewhere, in another life, your mark screams your name, raw and shattered, as the rubble of your city collapses around him. but you’re already gone, and the universe does not care.)

1.9k words full of my number one favourite invincible variant!! thank you so much to the anon who requested this one-shot heheheh <33