purrrrrrr

26 yr old from NYC 💅

[heldbybarnes]

Bucky, who is OBSESSED with biting the reader when they're having sex😩 like, this man is feral. Also he's never had this urge before, but the reader is chubby and squishy it's physically impossible for him to not dig his teeth into her soft skin. At first he is hesitant, he doesn't wanna scare her, but figures she likes it too after a few trials, and now it's mandatory when they have sex. Like anywhere. They both love it equally.

Bucky Barnes had always prided himself on control.

Even after the serum, after the decades of violence etched into his bones, he kept his edges sharp and leashed. Sex with you had been no different at first—intense, reverent, a careful worship of every curve and dip of your body.

You were soft in all the ways that made his mouth water, your thighs thick enough to bruise his hips when you wrapped them around him, your belly a warm, yielding pillow under his palm. He loved sinking his fingers into you. Loved the way your flesh gave and bounced back.

But biting?

That urge had never been there before.

Until it was.

The first time it happened, you were riding him slowly in the dim lamplight of your shared apartment, your hips rolling in that lazy rhythm that drove him insane. Sweat slicked your skin, making the soft underside of your breast glisten as you arched above him.

Bucky’s metal hand anchored your waist while his flesh fingers dug into the generous swell of your ass, guiding you down onto him again and again. You felt so good—tight, wet, perfect—and when you leaned forward, your breasts swaying heavy and full right in front of his face, something in him snapped.

He latched onto the side of one breast without thinking, teeth sinking into the give of you.

Not hard enough to break skin, but firm.

A low, guttural growl vibrated against your flesh as he bit down.

You gasped, hips stuttering.

For a split second, Bucky froze, horror flooding him.

What the fuck was that?

He pulled back immediately, eyes wide, lips already forming an apology.

“Shit—baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

But you were looking down at him with flushed cheeks and parted lips, pupils blown wide. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, guiding him right back.

“Do it again,” you whispered.

“Harder.”

That was all it took.

---

Months later, biting wasn’t just a sometimes thing.

It was mandatory.

Foreplay. During. After.

Anywhere his mouth could reach, he marked you.

And you craved it just as fiercely.

Tonight was no exception.

You’d barely made it through the door after a long day before Bucky had you pinned against the hallway wall, his mouth crashing into yours in a messy, desperate kiss. His hands roamed greedily, squeezing the soft rolls at your sides, kneading your hips before sliding beneath your shirt.

“Missed you,” he growled against your lips.

“Missed this.”

He dropped to his knees right there in the entryway, tugging your leggings and underwear down in one rough motion. Your thighs jiggled with the movement, and Bucky groaned like a man starved.

“Can’t help it,” he muttered later, eyes dark and wild as they traveled over you. “You’re so fucking soft.”

By the time he carried you to the bedroom, your skin was already decorated with the evidence of his affection.

The mattress bounced beneath your weight when he set you down, stripping quickly before crawling over you.

He didn't rush.

Not really.

Because as much as Bucky loved having you beneath him, he loved worshipping you even more.

Every inch.

Every curve.

Every soft place he could touch.

Every place he could leave his mark.

“Bucky, please,” you breathed, legs wrapping around his waist.

His answering smile was dark.

“Gonna take care of you, doll.”

The rest of the night blurred into tangled sheets, breathless laughter, desperate kisses, and the familiar ache of being wanted so completely.

Not tolerated.

Not settled for.

Wanted.

Consumed.

Adored.

Bucky always looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and somehow that feeling never got old.

If anything, it only made you love him more.

---

Afterward, you both collapsed in a sweaty, satisfied heap beneath the blankets.

Bucky pulled you against his chest, his hands gentle now as they traced the constellation of marks scattered across your skin. Some were already darkening into bruises. Others were barely visible.

“Too much?” he asked quietly.

The question always surprised you. Even after all this time, some part of him still worried.

You laughed softly and turned in his arms.

“Never.”

His expression immediately relaxed.

“I love it when you lose control like that,” you admitted, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Makes me feel wanted.”

His eyes softened.

“You are wanted.”

The words came without hesitation.

“I can’t get enough of you.”

Your heart squeexed because you could see he meant every word.

“Your body,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Perfect.”

You laughed.

“Perfect?”

“Perfect.”

“Even when I steal all the blankets?”

“Yes.”

“When I leave cups everywhere?”

“Yes.”

“When I—”

“Yes.”

He cut you off with a grin.

“Still perfect.”

You smiled and tucked yourself closer against him.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The apartment sat quiet around you, safe and warm.

Eventually, Bucky shifted lower against the mattress, burying his face against your chest with a satisfied sigh.

“Comfortable?” you teased.

“Very.”

“You planning on moving?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“Nope.”

You laughed and ran your fingers through his hair.

Within minutes, his breathing had evened out.

One arm wrapped around your waist. One hand resting possessively against your side.

You watched him for a moment before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Bucky Barnes had spent most of his life fighting.

Surviving.

Holding himself together through sheer force of will.

But here? With you?

He could finally let go.

And judging by the way he slept curled around you, he never intended to leave.

[miniaturepenguinkryptonite]

BITE ME

[xmpxlxx]

Ghost needs to discipline you

pairing: Simon Riley x afab!reader cw: dom!Ghost, bondage, edging, denial, overstimulation, fingering, piv!sex, praising, brief aftercare, porn with little plot wc: 2993 an: ovulating as we speak

The metal table was cold against your back, seeping through the thin fabric of your sports bra, the only thing left on your body besides the ropes. Your wrists were bound above your head, the coarse fiber digging into your skin as your fingers flexed and grasped at nothing, the rope leading down to the table’s legs at the other end. Your ankles were similarly secured, feet tied to the legs at the edge, leaving your legs spread and completely exposed. You'd lost track of how long you’d been lying on the surface. Your skin was slick with sweat, every muscle in your body trembling from exertion and denial.

Ghost stood at the foot of the table, his mask discarded somewhere in the room hours ago, revealing the force of his expression, the close-cropped blonde hair, and those dark eyes that seemed to take in every twitch and whimper you made. 

Simon. 

You’d known him as Ghost for months before you'd ever seen his face, and even now, after weeks of dating, the sight of him without the balaclava still made something flip in your chest.

He was fully clothed, making the whole situation even more shameful. You were laid out like a feast, naked and dripping and desperate, while he stood in his tactical pants and black t-shirt, his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with the same calculating focus he used in the field. His sleeves were short, revealing the tattoos that snaked up his forearms.

“Simon,” you breathed out, your voice cracking. You’d said his name so many times tonight that it had lost all meaning. “Simon, please.”

He tilted his head slightly, his jaw working as he studied you. “Please, what?” His voice was low, that rough Manchester accent shocking your very core. “Use your words, Sergeant. I know you have them.”

Your hips lifted off the table involuntarily, seeking contact, seeking anything, and you were met with nothing but air. The motion made the ropes pull tight, and you gasped at the painful bite against your ankles and wrists. “Please let me cum. I can’t—I can’t take anymore. I need—"

“What do you need?” He stepped closer, his hand landing on your thigh, warm and heavy. The touch was barely there, just his palm resting against your trembling flesh, but it made you whimper like he’d thrust inside you. “Tell me exactly what you need.”

“Your cock. Your fingers. Your mouth. Anything.” You were babbling now, the words tumbling out without thought. “Please, Simon, I’ll do anything. I’ll be good. I’ll listen during drills, I’ll follow every order, I’ll—”

“Should’ve thought about that sooner.” His thumb began to move, tracing slow circles on your inner thigh, maddeningly close to where you needed him most. Your core was throbbing, your clit swollen and desperate for attention. You could feel your arousal leaking out of you, dripping down between your legs, making a mess of the metal table beneath you. “Before you decided that you knew better than me.”

“I’m sorry.” The apology came out strangled, buried beneath a sob. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t mean to—I just reacted—”

“You reacted against orders.” His thumb moved higher, closer, and your breath caught in your throat. “You saw an opening and you took it without thinking about what could have been waiting for you. What was waiting for you.” His eyes hardened. “If this had been real, you’d be dead right now.”

The memory of the training exercise flashed through your mind. The mock hostage situation, the building they’d cleared room by room. You’d spotted a target through a doorway, had lunged forward to neutralize it before anyone could stop you—and straight into a tripwire that would have triggered a live explosive in a real scenario. Simon had grabbed you by the back of your vest and hauled you against the wall just as the training system registered the detonation. You’d both been splattered with paint, marking you as casualties.

You’d expected him to yell at you. To report you to Price for disciplinary action. To do anything other than what he’d done—gone silent, finished the exercise, and then grabbed you by the arm as soon as you were back at base, dragging you to the room without a word.

“I know,” you whispered. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, born from frustration and guilt and an overwhelming need that threatened to consume you. “I know I messed up. I won't do it again.”

“No.” His thumb finally brushed against your outer lips, and your whole body jerked at the contact. “You won’t.”

He’d been at this for hours. You knew that was an exaggeration, that it had probably been closer to one, but time had lost all meaning somewhere between the first time he’d brought you to the edge with his mouth and the fifth time he’d stopped just as you were about to tip over. He knew your body better than you knew it yourself, having mapped every sweet spot and sensitive area with the precision of a soldier conducting reconnaissance. He knew exactly how to touch you to build you up, and exactly when to stop to keep you dangling.

His thumb traced the seam of your lips, gathering your wetness and spreading it around, avoiding your clit entirely. You whined, high and pathetic in your throat, your head thrashing against the metal table. “Simon, please, you’re killing me.”

“Not killing you, love.” His voice was calm, maddeningly so. “Teaching.”

“Teaching what?” The words came out as a sob. “How to lose my mind?”

His eyes met yours, and something flickered in them—something that might have been amusement or might have been hunger. “How to follow orders. How to think before you act. How to control your impulses.” His thumb pressed harder, parting your lips and sliding through your slick folds. “How to endure when every instinct tells you to act out.”

Your back arched off the table, pressing your body up toward his hand, but he pulled back just enough to maintain the distance he wanted. A frustrated scream built in your chest, dying in your throat as his other hand came up to pinch your nipple.

The sensation shot straight to your core, making you clench around nothing. Your nipples had been tortured almost as thoroughly as your clit, Simon's fingers and mouth taking turns teasing and pinching and sucking until they were swollen and red and so sensitive that even the air in the room felt like too much.

“Bodies are fascinating things,” he said, his tone almost academic as he rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “They can be trained to respond in certain ways. Conditioned to obey. It takes repetition. Consequences.” He twisted, and you gasped, your hips bucking. “And rewards.”

“Reward me then,” you begged. “Please, Simon, I’ve been good. I’ve taken everything you’ve given me. I haven’t—"

“You haven’t learned.” He released your nipple, and you both mourned and celebrated the loss of contact. His hand returned to your thigh, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. “You’re still thinking about what you want, but what I want you to.”

Your mind spun. What did that even mean? You wanted him. You wanted release. You wanted the pressure that had been building in your core for what felt like an eternity to finally snap and wash over you. What else was there?

“I don't—” You swallowed hard, trying to focus through the haze of arousal clouding your thoughts. “I don't understand.”

Simon moved around to the side of the table, his presence looming over you. You could smell him—the clean scent of soap mixed with gunpowder and something distinctly him that made your mouth water. His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, almost tender.

“Right now, your body is screaming at you to chase satisfaction. Every nerve ending is firing, telling you to move, to grind, to do whatever it takes to get what you need.” His thumb traced your lower lip, and you parted your mouth, desperate for any contact. “But I’m in control. I decide when you cum. I decide if you cum. And your body needs to learn that fighting that control won’t get you anything but more frustration.”

Tears spilled from the corners of your eyes, trailing down your temples to soak into your hair. “I'm not fighting. I'm not—”

“You’re tensing up. Pulling at the ropes. Trying to move your hips toward my hand every time I get close.” He leaned down, his face inches from yours. “Stop fighting. Submit. Let me decide everything.”

It was too much. The pleasure, the denial, the weight of his words—it crashed over you like a wave, and you felt something break inside your chest. The tension didn’t leave your body, but it changed. You stopped pulling at the ropes. Stopped trying to lift your hips. You went limp against the table, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your entire being focused solely on him.

“That’s it,” Simon murmured. “That's my girl.”

His reward was immediate. His hand slid down your body, over your stomach, through the slick coating your inner thighs, and pressed against your entrance. Two fingers sank inside you without resistance, your body opening for him like it was made to do nothing else. You moaned, your walls clenching around him as he curled his fingers upward, finding that spot inside you that made lights explode behind your eyes.

“God, you’re soaked.” His voice was rougher, a crack in his composure. “This whole time, you’ve been dripping for me. Making a mess of yourself.” He started thrusting his fingers, a steady rhythm that had you climbing higher and higher. “Such a good girl when you actually listen.”

“Simon,” you gasped. “Simon, I’m close—I’m going to—”

He pulled out. The denial hit you like a punch to the gut, and you sobbed, your body clenching around nothing. “Not yet.”

“Please!” You were crying now, tears streaming down your face, your entire body trembling with the effort of holding back. “Please, I can’t—I did what you said—I stopped fighting—”

“You did.” His fingers returned, sliding inside you again, resuming their relentless rhythm. “And you'll keep doing it. Every time you get close, you’re going to tell me. And you’re going to hold back until I say you can cum.”

It was torture. Sweet, agonizing torture. He brought you to the edge three more times, each time pulling back just as your orgasm began to crest, leaving you shaking and sobbing and more desperate than you’d ever been in your life. Your voice was hoarse from begging, your throat raw from the sounds he was pulling from you.

After the fifth time—sixth? You’d lost count—Simon stepped back from the table. You watched through blurred vision as he reached down and undid his belt, the metallic sound of the buckle making your core clench. He unzipped his pants and pushed them down just enough to free himself, his cock springing forward, hard and thick and perfect.

You moaned at the sight, your mouth watering. You wanted to taste him, to feel him in your mouth, heavy on your tongue. But that wasn’t what he had planned.

“Tell me what you want.” He wrapped his hand around himself, stroking slowly as he looked down at you. “Use your words.”

“You.” The answer was immediate, automatic. “Your cock inside me. I want you to fuck me. I want you to let me cum.”

He hummed, considering. His hand moved faster, his thumb sweeping over the head, spreading the bead of moisture that had gathered there. Your eyes were glued to the movement, mesmerized by the sight of him pleasuring himself while you lay bound and helpless beneath him.

“Please,” you whispered. “Simon, please.”

“You’ve done well.” He stepped forward, positioning himself between your spread legs. The head of his cock brushed against your entrance, and you both groaned at the contact. “Better than I expected.”

Your hips twitched, trying to press forward, to take him inside you, but the ropes held you in place. “I’ve been good. I’ve been so good.”

“You have.” His hands gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. 

He pushed forward, sinking into you in one long, slow thrust. You threw your head back, a moan tearing from your throat as he filled you completely, stretching you wide. It was too much and not enough after so long without, your body quivering around him as you fought the urge to cum immediately.

“Don’t.” His voice was strained, his control hanging by a thread. “Not yet.”

“I can’t—Si, I can’t hold it—”

“You will.” He bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, and held still. 

You whimpered, your walls clenching around him, trying to adjust to the intrusion. He felt huge inside you, thicker than usual, filling every inch of you until you couldn’t tell where he ended and you began. Your thighs were shaking, your toes curling against the air.

“Deep breaths.” His hand slid up your side, over your ribs, to cup your breast. He squeezed gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple, and you mewled. “Focus on me.”

It was impossible. Your body was all you could think about—the fullness, the pressure, the overwhelming need that threatened to swallow you whole. But you tried. You focused on his face, on the beads of sweat gathering at his temples, on the way his jaw clenched as he fought his own urge to move.

“Good.” He pulled back slowly, agonizingly, until only the head remained inside you. You gasped at the loss, your body trying to follow him, to keep him inside where he belonged. “So good for me.”

Then he snapped his hips forward.

The sound that tore from your throat was inhuman. He set a brutal pace, each thrust driving into you hard enough to push you up the table, the ropes pulling tight against your restraints. The metal table creaked beneath you, the sound mixing with the wet slap of skin against skin and your mingled moans.

“Is this what you wanted?” He growled, leaning over you, his hands planted on either side of your head. “My cock? For me to use you?”

“Yes!” You were beyond words, beyond thought. “Yes, Simon, yes—”

“You want to cum?” His thumb found your clit, pressing down hard. “You want me to let you cum?”

“Please!” The word was a sob. “Please. I need—I need—”

He circled your clit with his thumb, matching the rhythm of his thrusts, and you felt the pressure building to a breaking point. It was too much—the fullness, the contact, the sight of him above you, his eyes dark with desire, his teeth bared in a snarl of pleasure.

“Cum for me.”

The orgasm hit you like a freight train. Your entire body seized, your back arching off the table as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. You screamed his name, your vision whiting out, your muscles clenching around him so hard he groaned, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge.

He buried himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he spilled himself, warmth flooding your core. His groan was guttural, raw, his forehead dropping to rest against yours as you both rode out the aftershocks.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing—heavy, ragged, interspersed with whimpering moans—and the feeling of him inside you, still hard, still filling you. Your body was trembling, every nerve ending hypersensitive, aftershocks rippling through you each time he shifted.

Slowly, Simon lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and the mask of dominance had slipped, revealing something softer beneath. His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing away the tears that still leaked from the corners of your eyes.

“You did well,” he murmured. “You learned.”

You sniffled, a laugh bubbling up from somewhere deep in your chest. “Learned that you’re a sadist?”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Among other things.”

He pulled out of you slowly, and you whined at the loss, at the feeling of his cum trickling out of you and down onto the table. His hands went to your wrists, untying the ropes with practiced moves before moving to your ankles. As soon as your limbs were free, you let them fall limp, your muscles too weak to hold them up.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you mumbled, and Simon huffed a laugh.

“You will.” He gathered you up from the table, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and cradled you against his chest. You nestled into him, your face pressed against his neck, breathing in his scent. “Rest now. I’ve got you.”

Your eyes were already closing, exhaustion washing over you in waves. You felt him move, felt him sit down somewhere—on a crate, maybe, or a bench—and settle you in his lap. His arms wrapped around you, warm and secure, and you let yourself drift.

But just before sleep claimed you, you heard him speak, his voice soft against your hair.

“And tomorrow, Sergeant? We’re doing drills again. And this time, you’re going to listen.”

Your lips curved into a smile against his neck. “Yes, Lieutenant.”

His arms tightened around you, and you felt the rumble of his voice in his chest. “Good girl.”

You were floating somewhere between consciousness and sleep when a thought drifted through your mind—tomorrow was going to be a very long day. And if this was your punishment for disobeying orders, you weren’t entirely sure you didn’t want to misbehave again.

Just to see what else he could teach you.

[livfastdieyoung69]

I just read your frank fic with spoiled reader and I loved it!

Can I request Frank with spoiled reader but instead she’s really sweet? Like the whole “spoiled but never rotten” thing?

grrrr i love him!! i love writing 4 this fine ass man so much i truly am still single cuz i just look at a man and go….but he’s not jon bernthal!!

Frank Castle who spoils his sweet girl to no end

Frank takes offense when people call you spoiled. You aren’t, he’ll argue, it’s what a good woman like yourself deserves. He hates it even more when you’re the one to say so.

He’ll bring you flowers home, smiling to himself just at the thought of your face brightening from such a small thing before he can round the corner to where you eat a snack in the kitchen.

“Frank?” You call out, hearing the door shut and the sound of his big boots being torn off. He puts them on the rack, because you asked once after he accidentally left them on the floor, and you’ve never had to ask him the same thing twice. The loose hinged cabinet? Tightened right up. The painting you wanted hung up? On the wall when you come back home from work. The laundry needs to be switched over and you have to leave? He’s got a timer on his phone.

But you aren’t spoiled, he claims, while he ties your shoes because you asked so nicely gleaming up at him with those sweet eyes. You didn’t want to bend over, how could he say no to his sweet baby? He just knows how to treat a woman right, and you say please and thank you all nice. He gets kisses on the cheek, too, often accompanied by a drawn out hug where you wrap yourself around him as tightly as possible.

“Yeah, s’me, baby,” He finally turns into the kitchen with a grin over his face, finding you sitting on the counter attempting to peel an orange. You see the flowers in his hand and your head falls back against the cabinet he fixed last week.

“Frank,” You scold softly, like there isn’t a grin growing on your face to match his. You take the flowers from him when he’s close enough, tilting forward into him. “Thank you.”

See. Not spoiled. A spoiled girl wouldn’t say thank you, especially not like that. Like it’s the nicest thing in the world, a fifteen buck bouquet of flowers from the grocery store.

“S’nothing,” Frank kisses your head, smiling down at you before letting his hand tangle over yours at the stems of the flowers. “Here, lemme see,”

You let him take them with no hesitation and then watch as he ducks to get one of the vases you keep under the counter.

“Frank,” You try again when he starts to fill it with water.

“What, sweetheart?” It’s always sweetheart from Frank. Always. Since the first day you met him, blushing all pretty and apologizing so sweetly for bumping into the booth he sat in. He’d grinned up at you, placing his mug full of black coffee back down on the diners table. Don’t worry ‘bout it, sweetheart, he’d said, little thing like you not hurtin’ nothin’, and you’d only gotten more bashful.

“I can do that, y’know,” Your legs kick against the counter. Frank scoffs, like the idea is unimaginable while he places the filled vase next to you.

“You want me to bring my girl flowers home and make her do the work with ‘em? Kinda man you think I am?” He cuts the stems, sprinkles the weird powder stuff into the water and places them in the pretty vase, the one he brought home with the first bunch of flowers he’d ever gotten you. What if you didn’t have one already? He couldn’t bear the thought of you having to go buy something because of him, even if it’s because of a gift.

“Thank you, Frankie,” Your swinging legs reach out to tap his thighs. He grabs your feet, hands trailing from the pedicured toes he paid for (like he does every month) up to your thighs. “They’re beautiful.”

“Always, sweetheart.” Frank cups your face, kissing your forehead. His thumbs brush over your cheekbones before he lets go and takes the orange from your hands. “Lemme see that,”

“Frank!”

“What?” He’s peeling your fucking orange for you, and is offended that you think it’s ridiculous.

“This—“ You cut yourself off with a stammer. “You spoil me too much.”

Franks eyebrows furrow, head jerking back like you’d tried to reach out and slap him, and he’s immediately pouting at your words.

“Kinda nonsense you talking about? No I don’t.” He holds a slice up to your mouth. It had all of the gross stringy bits peeled away, because of course Frank knows you hate that part.

Your eyebrows raise as you give him your best oh-really-now look. Says the man who buys you flowers just because and fixes your appliances after one ask and feeds you oranges he already peeled and will be making you dinner in an hour. Says the man who lets you sleep in everyday and fills your gas tank and pays for your nails and hair appointments and the groceries and every dinner date. Says the man who ties your shoes and hangs your wall decor. Says the man who kisses the ground you walk on and draws a minimum of two orgasms from you daily.

“You ain’t spoiled,” He reiterates, raising his eyebrows right back until you take the slice into your mouth. “You’re loved.”

[miniaturepenguinkryptonite]

"You ain't spolied."

"You're loved."

[bluetimeombre]

Take care of you

synopsis jack really wants to take care of you, you're really not used to that feeling, but when an accident has you in harms way and rattles jack more than you, you have little choice but to accept how he feels about you. (I want to take care of you- it's rotten work- not to me, not if its you) type.

warnings, fluff and angst but with a happy ending. guns. insecure reader. reader is described with hair long enough to braid. insecure reader. angst with happy ending . younger reader though not a massive plot point. miscommunication/misunderstanding

authorsnote uncle pee-paw i'm growing very fond of you. sometimes i get so in my head about how things preform on tumblr and i completely forget that fanfic is so self indulgent so as long as i'm happy with it but i'm so happy with the love these pitt fics are getting they really do mean a lot

Pitt masterlist. Jack Abbot fic!

“ You need a ride? ”

When you'd called Jack to tell him you were going to be late into your night shift because the buses you relied so heavily on to get you to and from work weren't running due to some strikes or something, you really were only calling to let him know you'd be late. Not to subtly ask for him to give you a ride.

“No- no. I just didn't want you to think I was not turning up, I'll be there.”

“ What's your address again? ”

“It doesn't matter, I'm walking- running- running in,” you said breathless down your phone, busy stuffing your bag with whatever you'd need, none of which was food for the shift. You'd recently ran out of the energy bars Jack had recommended.

Everyday you said you'd prepare something nice, some risotto or something and take it in. Every morning you collapsed from exhaustion and ran out of time to make anything that resembled a 'meal'.

“ I've got it here, I'll be around in ten, ” Jack said.

Your bag slid down your shoulder as you paused. “Got it? Got what?”

“ Your address. ”

“How do you have my address?”

He chuckled down the line. “ Remember I ubered food to yours, two weeks ago? You've probably still got leftovers in your fridge. ”

Ah. You remembered. One of those times you let slip your terrible routine and he sort to fix it, sending you over prepped meals that- he was right- were still littered around your fridge.

“Right, yes. You should delete that.”

“ Comes in handy, sometimes. In emergencies, ” he said. “ I'll pick you up in ten, bye. ”

There was no time to argue as the call ended promptly after that.

Jack Abbot was a caring man. Something you were learning the hard way. You knew he'd given Ellis his spare room when she was evicted from her apartment, he'd even let her re-decorate, got her fresh blankets and sheets. You knew that Shen's favourites snacks were always stocked up in the lounge. You always knew that he was first to spot Lena getting tired and was always there with a coffee.

It was just like you knew he knew all those little things about you too.

He knew when your bus got in across from PCMT, always there to escort you over the road and back again at the end of the shift. No matter how long or gruelling it had been he would wait with you, rain or sun. He knew you had a bad sleeping habit so he told you herbal remedies in teas and even brought some for you. Annoyingly they worked and every time you had one you were forced to think of Jack.

You knew that if he said he was picking you up- he was.

There was nothing wrong with his affection.

You just didn't know what to do with it.

The night shift was still new to you. You'd only joined since their nights had gotten wilder, even too wild for the 'weirdest and wildest' to handle so you'd made the swap six months ago to help out. You were used to Robby's ways of doing things: of his careful watch over his residents with happy thumbs up or disapproving shakes of his head.

Jack trusted in his residents to take care of patients, but didn't when it came to themselves.

You rushed around, finding your pens and stethoscope and phone that you'd just put down for a second. Soon enough Jack had texted saying he was coming up (he somehow already had the code to your apartment complex).

His knuckles rattled softly and you rushed to grab the last of your things, including a book marked with 'Abbot, J' that you had yet to get round to reading.

“Hi,” you greeted.

You'd expected he'd come up just to be a gentleman, figuring the two of you would just head back down.

Jack squeezed by your attempt at baring him from your place and walked into your small and cramped apartment. “Hey.”

You tried not to be surprised, shutting the door behind him. “I've got everything, we- we can go.”

“I jussss wanna check-” the kitchen was just to the right and he opened your fridge door, grinning. “I was right. Still got the leftovers.”

There were many containers stacked, some full, others emptying. All marked in his handwriting from his meal prep he shared with you.

“Yeah, I haven't got round to sorting it,” you said. “Sorry, I didn't get around to eating everything. It's really good though.”

Jack smiled, reaching into your fridge like it was his own. “Hey, I made you a lot, didn't expect you to eat everything. Just wanted to make sure you had a choice. Did you like the Linguini? I tried a new recipe.”

Jack moved around your kitchen like he'd been living in your space forever. He was confident as he re-arranged your food, throwing what had gone out of date away and washing his hands in your sink, taking a towel hanging up by a cupboard like he knew it was there and drying.

“Er, yeah, it was nice, we can go, you know,” you said.

“You started reading it?” Jack asked, gesturing down to the book in your hands. “What do you think of it?”

“Oh, er, no. I haven't had the chance to start it. I was gonna give it back to you,” you said.

Jack shrugged. “It's yours, keep it.”

It was not yours. It was his. It was one of his favourites if the several dog-eared pages and annotations were anything to go by. It was a title he'd recommended to you and handed you a month ago but you'd only managed to flick through and get a vague understanding of the characters names only.

“But I mean- I don't know when I'll get round to reading it,” you said, loitering outside your kitchen.

“It's okay, I've read it a thousand times, keep it till you do.”

Wasn't he worried you may never get round to reading it and he might not ever get it back?, if your forgetful memory was anything to go by.

Jack finally abandoned your kitchen, passing by you. “Shall we?”

“Thanks for the lift. You really didn't have to,” you said as you left your apartment building, the sky already darkening and where others came in from their long days of work, yours was only just beginning.

“It's on my way,” he shrugged.

“It's out of your way,” you pointed out, knowing Jack was a complete different way to PCMT then you.

You saw his eyes roll as he opened the passenger door for you, nodding for you to get in.

“Just take the lift.”

“Thank you.”

“Word is you and Abbot arrived together,” said Dana.

You groaned.

There was a lot to like about the night shifts. It felt more of a team work than day did sometimes, you loved working with everyone just as much as you did day and you liked how still it got in the night sometimes. But you missed Dana who watched out for you like a mama bear. Still, she made time to always check in with you before she headed out.

Her jean jacket was thrown over her shoulders, her hair pinned back neater and keys in hand but she still greeted you like it was the start of the day.

“He gave me a lift, the buses are on strike.”

She smirked. “Nice of him.”

“I've told him not to do it again.”

“Oh yeah, how'd he take that?”

He'd shook his head and laughed, constantly brushing off every thanks you made and offer of any aid you could give. He seemed wholly un-bothered by the inconvenience you'd caused.

“Jack's a good guy,” said Dana.

“That he is.”

“You deserve someone like him.”

You weren't sure where Dana got that idea. You also didn't know why you couldn't believe her. Why every time Jack turned up when things were going bad, or why every time he showed he cared you felt scared.

And you'd never really had the time to un-pack that.

You looked up to Dana, folding your arms over on the counter. “And what about what he wants?”

“Well for that you'll have to ask him,” she said with the all knowing look in her eyes. Her hand was gentle on your shoulder as she squeezed. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“Night.”

You thought you'd have a chance to view the patient charts that were swapped over to night shift but Jack was next, standing in Dana's space.

“What did mamma bear have to say?” he asked.

“Oh you know, the usual,” you said. “Trying to give me life advice that I won't follow.”

He huffed a chuckle. “I could've told her that, saved her the time.”

“I listen to your advice-”

He levelled his gaze onto yours.

“- I try to.”

His brows rose up. “You brought anything in for food tonight?”

You were about to answer, ready to prove him wrong, finally.

Jack interrupted you. “Anything other than that caramel coffee you like?”

He could read you like a book. You don't know how he found the time to know so much about you, to observe such things you wouldn't even notice unless he pointed them out.

Your silence was an answer.

“I brought extra, we'll have it later.”

He said it so confidently, leaving little space for any arguing on your end.

“Will we?”

“Yeah,” he said, stretching out on the counter. “I'm thinking a midnight picnic, trauma two? Might even get lucky with a GSW as company.”

You laughed and when you looked at Jack he was smiling. It was a soft kind, the sort that smoothed his face and made him seem younger and lighter. The kind that you took home with you and re-played as you fell asleep slowly.

You would never admit how long Jack spends in your mind. Somehow it felt like he already knew.

“You, um, you didn't braid your hair today,” said Jack, straightening up and drumming his knuckles on the counter. His gaze only faltered on yours for a second.

This was something you knew you did, carefully creating a routine for washing your hair that meant you didn't have to do it every day after work. Enough baby powder or dry shampoo meant you could get away with two washes at best.

“No, I guess I didn't.”

“It's gonna annoy you, being in your face all day.”

“I'm sure I'll manage.”

Jack didn't listen. He picked up your wrist- the one you kept a hair tie around- and slid it onto his own before going behind you.

“Jack, what are you doing?” you asked.

“Helping you.”

“You don't have to, I'll shove it up.”

Jack grumbled. “Let me work.”

His fingers grazed your neck as he brushed back your hair, the callouses on his hands rough against you, eliciting some sort of warmth in your body. Thankfully he was behind you and couldn't see the blush absolutely coming to your cheeks.

Jack took care of those around him, but he'd never touched anyone else's hair, never stood in the middle of the nurses station where all could see to braid someone's hair.

You felt him work, the weight of his gaze on the back of your head and his fingers moving through your hair like a cool summer evening breeze.

Across the way, Lena peered over her glasses at you with a smile.

“Lena's staring,” you said, unable to focus on any work till Jack's fingers were out of your hair.

Jack hummed. You knew that concentration from the amount of times you've seen him focused. “Lena always stares.”

You noticed Crus and Matteo passing by, both watching and pointing. You were sure Crus made some obscene make-out gesture and only hoped Jack didn't see. You were sure, if anyone else had asked he'd have done the same.

Though you hadn't technically asked.

“I'm sure you have far more important things to do than braid my hair, Abbot.” The lights in the Pitt seemed brighter, burning down on you like spotlights.

“Nothing more important right now.”

Your neck stretched as Jack pulled at your hair lightly to get it all in place. Curiosity ate at you, wondering where he'd done this before but the idea of knowing- like you had any right to- shut you up before you could speak.

Eventually he finished and his hands fell on your shoulders.

“There. Ready to be a hero?” he asked, spinning you around to him.

Your feet scuffed along the floor. “What? Am I the Robin to your batman?”

His lips quirked up and he moved his head side to side like weighing up his options. “More like the Lois to my Super-man.”

You sadly weren't versed enough in comic to know if that was a good or bad thing.

Jack was attending to a young girl when you walked in. Honestly it was starting to get comical how you turned up around him or he you. Some would call it magnets and as you met Jacks gaze as you stepped in you knew the ‘people’ meant Jack.

He looked at you, taking a quick note of the fact you still had your braid in even hours into the night. Jack smiled.

“Miss mermaid this is who I was telling you about,” said Jack.

The young girl- maybe five, maybe six- looked up at you as Jack slowly pulled at the thread bringing the skin of her knee together.

The chart had told you she'd taken a nasty fall on the playground and her teacher had brought her in, still trying to get in contact with the parents while Jack kept her company, cleaning her scraped knees and the gash just below.

“Hello,” the little girl waved. There wasn't even any tear marks on her cheeks but there was a small mark of blood at her little lip and her hair was falling out around her face.

“Hello miss mermaid,” you greeted, realising quickly the name came from her little mermaid top she wore.

“We were just talking about you,” said Jack, glancing quickly at you.

You blushed, wondering what Jack had to say about you to a small child. “Oh?”

“You and Crus played mermaids that time at the beach, remember?”

The girl giggled and Jack smiled over her shoulder at you.

“It wasn't- it wasn't mermades,” you excused.

That day was one of sweltering heat and lingering gazes. The night shift had took a trip to the beach on one of the hottest days of the year, enjoying the day for the day-shifters that couldn't. You'd gotten a lift with Matteo who'd brough Victoria Javadi along as she had the day off anyhow.

There was sand in places you didn't know sand could get, beach balls that somehow were pierced before you could even blow them up and gazes shared with Jack.

Maybe it was the bikini you wore that was so different from the scrubs. Maybe it was the fact Jack was un-characteristically insecure about his prosthetic leg being exposed to all and you'd told him nobody cared, that everybody cared more that he couldn't enjoy himself. Something had changed that day, settling in you like a pebble at the bottom of a lake thrown from a great height.

Since then, you and Jack had never looked at each other the same way.

But you and Crus hadn't been playing mermaids.... exactly. You swam around a lot and sort to collect more sea shells than the other. You just didn't call it mermaids.

“Will I be able to play mermaids again?” asked the little girl brushing hair out of her face with clumsy hands.

“Absolutely,” said Jack with great enthusiasm.

“And run faster than all the boys in my class?”

Jack chuckled, so did you. “Of course, but you'll have to rest up first.”

“Give the boys a chance to catch up, huh?” you suggested, plucking a leaf out of her hair.

“I like running fast,” she said.

Jack worked on the stitching, back to concentrating.

You sat down on the other side of the bed, gently reaching over to pluck bits of leaf and dirt from her hair. “So do I but sometimes we got to take things slow to not get hurt.”

You hadn't realised the meanings of the words until Jack halted his movements, glancing at you.

So you supposed there was a double meaning.

Jack's gaze was heavy.

“Tell you what, miss mermaid, Doctor Abbot here is better at braiding hair than he is stitches,” you said after a clear of your throat.

“Rude,” Jack mumbled.

It took a little convincing but you managed to swap places with Jack, gloving up and taking the tread he'd started at. He took your space on the bed and gently worked the child's hair into something neat while you carried on her stitches, close enough to being finished.

The both of you worked in silence as you each concentrated on your separate endeavours. All the while the young girl sat in between you hummed to herself, some Disney song.

“That's my favourite,” said Jack half way through when he must have realised what song she was humming.

You were still trying to understand it when part way through they changed to 'Under the sea'. You had to all but hold her leg from swinging as she sang loudly, causing you to laugh.

“Why not singing?” asked the girl.

“Yeah, why not singing?” Jack asked

You shook your head. “I don't know the song.”

Jack made a 'pfft' sound like he didn't believe you and 'little miss mermaid' did the same, blowing a raspberry.

Eventually you finished up the stitching, coincidently the same time Jack finished with his braiding.

A nurse- Bridget- walked in with the young girls teacher, eying the two of you between her. “You braiding Matteo's hair next?” she teased with a glint of wicked amusement in her eyes.

Jack moved up from the bed just as you also stood, discarding of the tools you'd used. “Only if he asks nicely.”

“Her parents have been informed they're on their way,” said the girls teacher.

“Perfect,” said Jack, holding either end of his stethoscope slung around his neck. “We are going to leave you in the very capable hands of Bridget who knows many more Disney songs than we do. Don't go without giving me another song.”

The girl laughed, her new braid slung over her shoulder. “I won't.”

Jack smiled and held the door open for you as you left with a small wave and him trailing behind you.

Lena was at the nurses station, answering calls and dishing out work while others walked around the two of you, busy with their own nights that existed by itself in the Pitt.

You hadn't realised you and Jack were heading for the break room till his arm stretched out and he pushed the door open over you.

“Are you really telling me you didn't know the song she was singing?” he asked.

“Of course I knew the song. I wasn't going to sing and embarrass myself,” you said, pulling out the mug you always used and Jack's favourite, finding the coffee pot newly brewed.

“Like I'm any Phil Collins,” scoffed Jack as he pulled out two containers from the fridge.

You frowned, sitting at the table. “Who?”

Jack looked at you, swinging the door shut. His brows rose high, crinkling his forehead. “Phil Collins? Turn it out again.... In the air tonight... The music on Tarzan?”

“Is he the dad of Lily Collins?”

Jack slid into the seat across from you. “Who?” He passed you over a full container of some sort of quinoa. It wasn't just left overs, it was a carefully calculated portion to match his.

You stared down at it like you were trying to decide if it was poisoned while Jack had already had a spoonful of his own.

It felt strange, to be sitting in a secluded room of the chaos and eating with him. Though at work, it felt oddly domestic. It felt- annoyingly- like the right thing to do. You wanted to eat from his container and wash it, hand it back to him. You wanted to know where he kept all his Tupperware, the kind that fell from cupboards at every open of the door.

“You cooking for me now?”

Jack shrugged, not meeting your gaze. “It's quinoa. Hardly cooking.”

You took a careful spoon.

Like he'd been discreetly watching as soon as you swallowed he spoke.

“You like it?”

“It tastes... kind of...”

“Healthy?”

You looked at him, feigned aghast.

Jack smirked, jaw working as he ate his food. “Come on, if it weren't for me you'd still be living on pizza's and take aways. At least this way you save a couple bucks and eat good. For a doctor you should know how important that is.”

“What are you so worried about what I eat for?” you mumbled, more wondering to yourself.

“I like to take care of you.”

He admitted it softly, a slight shrug to his shoulders like it was nothing. Like looking after you, a simple colleague- maybe a friend if you were lucky enough- was a simple feat. As if you didn't struggle to take care of yourself. Jack worked the same shifts, even more as an attending and cooked for himself, did yoga in mornings and even went out as a SWAT team member.

“Why?” You pushed the grains around in the tub.

“Why what?” he asked.

Daring to glance at him, you found Jack looking at you, arms rested on the table, his freckled biceps pulling at his scrub top.

You shook your head, taking another spoon of the food.

Any other time some emergency would be called to save you. Nothing as such when you really needed it. Of course you were glad nobody was being rushed in hurt... but still.

“Why do I like looking after you?” Jack repeated. “Because it's you.”

At that, you smiled. Not through happiness, more sympathy. “Because I can't look after myself?”

You knew you slept a lot, didn't take as good care of yourself as you could have. There were healthy and easy meal ideas sat in a folder in your phone, gathering dust. There was always laundry in a pile, dirty and clean, to go to their respective homes. There were friends waiting to make arrangements you never got around to making. You weren't easy but you didn't think you were so bad someone else had to come in and save you.

Jack paused, his face falling. “That's not what I meant.”

“Sure it is, you can admit it,” you shrugged, the food he's kindly shared turned to ash in your mouth. “I know I might seem like a mess to you, to someone so put together and... older, but I really do have my life managed. You don't have to add me to your to do list.”

“Woah, woah, woah, I never said that. That's not what I meant at all.”

You laughed. It felt better than feeling so embarrassed. “It's okay-”

“- no, no, that's not what's supposed to be going on, I... ”

Jack cared for people, you knew that. It was just apart of himself.

So you were almost distraught inside when you realised he didn't like you anymore than Shen or Ellis. He just looked out for you cause it was something he had to do.

“I'm not actually very hungry right now,” you said, pushing the lid back on and leaving it for him.

Jack was just as quick as you were to his feet. “No, no, wait- wait, hey-”

His pushed the door closed as you only just opened it an inch.

You looked at him. Your stomach was tight, uncomfortably so.

“Let me- let me try again, okay? I didn't think this through.”

“There's nothing to think through, just wait-”

Shen appeared at the door, trying to get in but Jack was surprisingly strong in keeping the door barred. “I need my coffee.”

“Give us a minute, Shen,” said Jack with all his attending commanding voice.

“But-”

“- a minute!”

You caught sight of Shen looking to you for help before walking away, head down and probably with his bottom lip jutted out like a kicked puppy. “Shen won't get far without his coffee.”

“Shen can wait till we're done now listen,” he said and leant against the door, watching you close. “I like taking care of you, I do, I really do. Not because I think you're not capable of looking after yourself, you are, I know you are it's... I just...”

You waited.

There was nothing.

Jack looked at you with all wide eyes and tension held in his arms. It's like he wanted to say something but ... couldn't.

One more minute and Shen would tear the place apart for coffee.

“You're a nice guy, Jack, you just don't have to be that nice.”

Jack let his arm fall from the door and you evacuated.

The sun had started to rise and you were so close to getting out the door, so close to running from the day's problems. Day shift had turned up, somewhat bright eyed and bushy tailed to take the days stresses though you weren't sure they could take Jack's insistence to talk to you away.

You were inches away from leaving when Jack called for you.

There wasn't the desperation to talk to you, it was the sort he used in traumas, only.

“I need you, GSW to the chest!”

The both of you ran in, gowns pulling on and gloves next as you pushed through the doors.

It was all the usual to you: too many doctors in one room, so much talking and orders it fell on your ears like music you knew all the words to.

“Woman in her twenties, multiple GSW's,” Robby called out. “Pulse ox eighty!”

The doors shut behind and the team of you all took your roles like a practised routine.

“Three... two... one- move!”

All together you lifted her over.

There was blood blooming on her shirt, a tear in her jeans. There was a black eye and what looked like a broken nose if the cut over the bridge and the slant of it was anything to go by.

You'd seen enough of these to know when they were accidents and when they weren't.

Her back hit the bed and the sharp beep of life being lost echoed.

“We've lost her pulse!” shouted Robby.

Without being told you climbed up, hands coming together and hammering down on her chest. For a split second you felt the ghost of Jack's hands, helping you up before they were gone like a summers breeze.

Looming over her you could see the injuries better. And worse.

“GSW, right-sided, she needs a central line,” you announced.

Jack moved around you and the patient, already preparing himself for the central line before you'd called for one.

“BP's dropping out! Pulse Ox is eighty-five!” Robby called.

“She's got tension pneumo,” said Jack without shouting and everyone heard. Somewhere in the back of your mind you recognised that authority he demanded with the simple sound of his voice.

“Crash cart,” said Robby. “Charge to one hundred.”

You waited till you heard the buzz of the cart and felt the heat of the panels before moving.

“Clear!”

The sound of her pulse was quiet and the rhythm was odd but it was there, slight bumps in a green line.

You climbed down, landing next to Jack as he readied with a fourteen needle.

“BP's seventy Ox,” said Jesse.

“Day shifters trying to cramp our style,” said Jack as he slid in.

Robby tutted. “Trying to make sure you don't get all the fun.”

Jack straightened next to you. “Ok, I'm setting up the chest tube, you're gonna set me up with a thirty-two French. Get a mig of atropine and a need a unit of O-neg.”

Two units were hooked up.

“We need to get the chest tube in and stop the bleeding.”

It was all a flurry of hands and tools as the chest tube was in, as the chest was packed with gauze at the right flank where the bullet had tore through her chest. It was a close one, but the sort you could save with nimble hands and careful concentration.

“Okay,” Jack uttered as the both of you loomed over her. “I know we're fighting and I don't like that-”

“We're not fighting and now's not the time,” you said.

Robby was on the other side of the bed, giving the two of you a look. “I agree.”

Jack waved him off, focusing on you. “I'll strike you a deal, we save this woman's life. You get breakfast with me.”

You glanced up, wondering if anyone had heard, though you were sure by now Jack's attempts at asking you on a date was one of the worst kept secrets.

Robby was watching from the other side, arms over his chest and his brows raised.

“You strike a hard bargain there, Abbot,” you mumbled.

“May as well say yes, either way you're saving lives.”

“Why cause you'll die if I say no?”

Jack looked at you. As usual there was nothing giving away if he was joking or not. “Yeah.”

It would have been a pretty poor time to joke.

Five minutes later she was stable.

Blood bags hung slowly draining, rags and gauze of blood littered the ground and torn off gowns were thrown haphazardly around. The patients pulse was steady and beating with the promise of years of life ahead. There'd be challenges, you don't get shot and not have to face even more hardship.

But there was life.

And that was the most rewarding part of the job.

“Good job,” said Robby, peeling of his gloves. “I'm gonna get some air.”

“Then go home, right?” asked Jack as everyone slowly moved away.

Robby only made a rude gesture as the doors closed and left you and Abbott to peel away the blood stained gowns and gloves.

Jack turned to you, un-fazed at the life he'd saved. “You want to go from here or do you want me to drop you off at yours and let you change first?”

You stared at him.

It was almost unfair, his charisma in spite of it all. You didn't stand a chance. When Jack said he was going to save a life, he was going to do just that. It was an added bonus to take you on a date.

Your head was shaking but your lips were curling up.

Jack backed out of the room, leaving you with a thumbs up.

You didn't know why you lingered with the body. You were a resident who had one patient on the go, you should've picked up another. You should've left the trauma room for the surgical consultation.

Yet you wanted to start a chart, wanted to find a name for the girl.

As you walked over, checking her BP which sat safe at one hundred over sixty, her eyes fluttered open, dry lips parting and murmurs exiting.

“Hey,” you dropped your voice gently. “You're safe now, you're at the hospital. Can you hear me?”

You held her head steady as her eyes fluttered but didn't open wide enough to meet yours.

“Can you tell me your name?”

You listened close but got nothing from the grunts.

The doors to the trauma room pushed open.

A small girl stood there, early twenties or even late into her teens. She wore a hoody, blood soaking up the sleeves. She didn't introduce herself, instead, she stared.

“Is she alive?” she asked.

Beyond the broken nose you could see the resemblance in the unconscious on the bed and the one that stood ahead of you.

“Do you know her?” you asked.

“She's my sister.”

“Well your sister was shot in the chest, she's lost a lot of blood but she should make it-”

You heard the gunshots before you saw the gun.

Jack had stripped off the gown stained with blood and pulled off his gloves next, trashing them in a bin.

“That was some way to ask a girl out,” chuckled Robby as he followed his movements in yanking anything with blood on him off.

Jack shrugged. So far nothing that he'd planned the day had gone to plan, asides from saving lives yet that was his plan every day. When you'd called he was already at the hospital but you'd said about the buses and he put his keys back in at once. He thought finally. He'd been waiting for a sign to try to take you on a date, seeing's as the food and books and recommendations and days out weren't enough.

Now, he'd saved a life and got a date.

“So what's next?” asked Robby. “You perform a resuscitative thoracotomy and ask her to marry you?”

“If you have one let me know and I'll see.”

Robby chuckled, patting him on the back when three gunshots rang out.

Everyone ducked.

People screamed.

Where suddenly dozens of people stood everyone was down in lumps, covering heads and ducking for patients.

Jack hovered, not quite down but ready to move. Gun shots were nothing, enough to lull him to sleep. These shots were like any other but they echoed in his ears and richoeted in his heart.

They came from behind him.

From the room he'd just left.

“Where'd that come from?” he asked. He knew.

Robby's hand pushed at his chest, already moving past him. “Trauma two!”

You.

“No!”

The two of them took off toward the room.

A lady exited. It wasn't you. It wasn't the patient. It was a third un-familiar party.

She turned at the sound of heavy footsteps and rose her gun at the two.

“Gun!” someone screamed.

Robby was still holding onto Jack as the two of them skid to a stop in front of her. Somewhere someone was crashing and Jack couldn't see you or hear you.

There were three shots.

He knew three shots were enough to kill.

Jack raised his hands, showing he was harmless and helpless. “Please,” he begged. “Is she alive?”

The girls eyes were hard and full of hatred. The gun was steady in her hands. She was calm, completely but there was no doubt the gun shots were hers. “Not anymore.”

“Oh god-”

“Woah-Woah-” Robby caught Jack with one strong arm as his knees gave out.

You were dead? Some girl- hardly an adult- shot you? Why? To tear out his own heart?

It was already gone.

“Jack? Jack, brother, listen to me,” Robby was trying to talk to him but nothing was going through to him, like a signal lost.

The girl turned and left quickly, making sure everyone knew she had a gone when they all knew she wasn't afraid to use it. The shots must have rung out through the entire hospital.

Robby helped Jack up and as soon as the doors leaving the Pitt closed they rushed in.

The harsh sound of beeping was bouncing off the trauma walls where blood was splattered and a pool of that same blood dripped down into a puddle under the patient.

“Oh my god.” Jack found you at once, using the walls as a crutch as you stumbled your way through the room. He was at your side at once, arms around your trembling body and holding you- moving with you even as you tried to walk.

There was blood all over you and you'd paled dramatically.

Jack coaxed you into staying still, grabbing your cheeks to get your attention. He ignored the pain in his leg that had come from the run, the giving out and now as he crouched to get a look at you. “Hey, hey, hey, look at me- let me look at you. Are you hurt? Did she hurt you?”

Robby had already rushed to the patients side, what doctors and nurses that had gained control over themselves joining him in trying to save her life again. “Ah shit, looks like PEA! Amp of antropine, amp of Epi!”

Your eyes darted over to where the chaos ensued, even as Jack tried to get you to look at him.

“You won't ... won't get her back!” your voice was shaky and hoarse from a scream he hadn't heard. “Blew her god damn brains out.”

“Come here, okay, let's-let's-” Jack's arm was around your shoulder and he was moving you out, trying to help pulling off your bloody gloves while keeping an arm on you.

There was blood and something else on your gloves. Blew her brains out. And you'd tried to scoop them back in.

When the bright lights of the hospital met you your body grew still in his arm.

Jack was familiar with trembles, with blood and PTSD. He wasn't used to any of it in you. In everything he'd learnt about you, he hadn't learnt the subtle art of comfort. “Let's get you some air, let's get you cleaned up-”

You pushed out of Jack's arms, pulling and tugging at your scrub top soaked in blood and all but ran into the women's bathroom.

He heard retching as the door closed.

Jack shook his head, ready to follow you when Dana appeared in front of him, hand on his chest.

“Take it easy, take it easy, I'll check in on her.”

He could still hear you throwing up when Dana slipped in.

The sun was high in the sky, casting the roof of PCMT in an orange glow. The sky burnt in its colour but all you saw was red.

One moment the girl had been crashing, the monitor still beeped in your head. Her body had jerked up to the sky before you got a rhythm back and then- just as you did with any patient- you got hopeful. It seemed in the clear to do so, you'd helped patients come back from worse and you always had hope.

Nobody that worked in the ED could live without it.

Then- it had took three bangs for you to drop to the ground but not before being smeared in blood. You didn't even know what was happening as the ringing ran out in your ears. You'd met the ground with a hard thump to your head. When your vision cleared you saw the shoes rush out of the room.

Your guiding as a med student was doing no harm, saving lives and you'd dropped and put your life ahead of your patients.

What kind of doctor did that?

The cowardly type- you.

“You're in my spot,” said a voice coming closer.

Jack.

His voice soothed the nerves in your body that had been on edge since the accident. Everything made you jump, but him.

“It's a nice spot,” you said as loud as you could, knowing your voice still wasn't back. Or loud enough.

“Yeah,” he said, getting closer. “But usually I like to be on the other side of the rail. And on my feet.”

You were sat on the edge of the roof, not on the edge close enough for anyone to worry but apparently that didn't stop Jack.

He huffed, behind you now. “Please, I'm an older guy, my heart can't take it. Can you come over?”

If your feet weren't like weights pulling you down maybe you could have but you were struggling to feel any part of you.

You admitted as much, quietly. “I can't move.”

You'd moved quick when faced with the gun, dropping to save your own skin. Since then moving had been difficult, like you'd used every muscle in your body to push yourself and now you were locked.

Jack moved in a blur as he ducked under the rail and slowly set down next to you. He was silent, only his breathing calming you. “Did you get checked over with Robby?”

You nodded. “The ringing'll go away in a day or two.”

“Yeah.... it always does.”

You looked at him and Jack was looking at you. The grey stubble of his beard never looked greyer and his eyes were dull, small half moon bruises of sleep marked there. His hair was ruffled and he smelled dully of hospital.

This was a man that had saved more lives than you could count and severed in tours ... and he was taking time to check on you.

“I'm sorry,” you didn't know you had cried till Jack's arm was around your shoulder, bringing you in.

“Hey, hey,” he cooed, his arm tight on you. “What are you sorry for, huh?”

“I didn't save her, I-I should've tried. Should be reasoned with the shooter and I just-I just dropped down and you-” your breathing was ragged, the cries frequenting. “-you've done so much, lost your leg for damn sakes and I just dropped.”

“Hey,” he snapped. It wasn't un-kind. It was stern in ways he had to be in the as a night attending. “You did everthing you could.”

You looked at him. He really meant that though. “I dropped down!”

“You saved your life,” he reminded you. Jack's arm was still tight on your shoulders but his other hand held your cheek, making you focus on him. “You acted on instinct. If you hadn't your patient still would've shot and you-” Jack's breath caught. His eyes were glossed over. You'd missed the redness around his eyes. “- you'd have been shot and I couldn't live with that. I-I couldn't.”

Jack wiped away his tears, wiping yours next. He chuckled dryly at the both of your tears.

“I lost my leg in a tour,” said Jack. “Where guns and shooting is part of the job. It's not in a hospital. You did what you could.”

It still didn't feel right. It still felt like the cowards way of doing things.

“Look at me, look at me-” he nudged your gaze to his. His eyes were wide and implored you to look at him. Really look. “You did what you could and I know a patient died and I know-I know it's hard but...”

He sniffed.

“But what?” you mumbled. How could there be a but in any of this?

He held your cheeks tighter, smudging your cheeks just that little more. Jack let out a shaky exhale. “But I am so happy you're okay. I am so fucking glad.”

His dimples were hardly there as he gave you a sorry smile.

Your head fell into his chest and he brought his arms around you, holding you, shushing you as you cried. Cried for your patient, for the shooter, for the way you dropped. None of which maybe could be forgiven but all of which were valid.

Somewhere in the crying Jack held you tighter and moved the both of you back away from the ledge. You let him, even helped in scuffing your feet and pushing away till the railing hit both your backs.

“You're okay, I got you, I got you.”

I got you. He'd always had you, if he hadn't had you today what would you have done? Nothing crazy but you might have stayed up on the roof all day, be dead on your feet by the night. Jack had always had you and when he did you'd all but told him not to.

“I'm sorry.”

His hand ran over your hair. It had come lose but still remained in the braiding. “You don't have to be sorry, you don't.”

“No about earlier, in the lounge,” you said, holding onto him. “You were being nice, you've always been nice and I... I was horrible-”

“- you weren't horrible, no-”

“- you've been so kind to me and I don't even say thanks-”

“- you have actually, quite a few times- ”

“- I don't know why you put up with me-”

“- well, it helps that I love you-”

If there was one way to shut your rambling up, it was that.

You still had a vice on his scrub top but you looked up to him. For the first time- you think ever- Jack had to look away from you.

“What?” you asked.

Jack's jaw ticked and he clocked his head. “I didn't mean to say that.”

Disappointment chocked you. Of course it would just slip out, heck Jack was comforting you, he'd say anything.

“Oh.”

“I do love you,” he said and you looked at him with something akin to hope as you moved your head away. “That's why I've been looking after you, that's what you do when your- when your in love. My... my wife taught me that. I was just scared you know cause.... I haven't been in love since she died.”

It wasn't often Jack talked about his wife but when he did he talked. He'd talk anyone's ears off about her and once or twice you'd been that person.

“I'm sorry.” This time you weren't sure what you were apologising for, you just were.

Jack looked at you with a mocked frustration.

You cringed. “Sorry, I should- I should stop saying that.”

He hummed and nodded along with you, a tiny smile on his lips, the chapped parts cracking from the salt of his last tears. “I never meant to make you feel incapable, I know you can look after yourself. But I want to.”

You laughed at yourself, wiping at your cheeks and snot. “Why? I'm a mess.”

Jack took your cheek in the palm of his hand. “No, you're not. Not to me.”

Jack kissed you so slow and sweet on the edge of the roof with the sun praising upon the both of you. He didn't push his feelings into you, he let you feel them in the gentle press of his lips and the hold of his hands.

And feel the love you did.

[miniaturepenguinkryptonite]

A MAN

[bittersweetlyblue]

bf!toji who pretends he's annoyed every single time you ask him to do something for you, but somehow he's already doing it before you've even finished your sentence. you'll barely get out a quiet "can you—" before he's sighing dramatically, standing up and grabbing whatever you need. he acts like you're inconveniencing him, but the truth is he likes being relied on. likes knowing you're comfortable asking him for things. if anyone points out how whipped he is, he'll deny it immediately while carrying your bags, holding your drink, and checking whether you've eaten lunch.

bf!toji who absolutely melts whenever you fall asleep on him, though he'd rather die than admit it. you'll wake up sprawled across his chest, one of his arms wrapped securely around your waist, only to find him already awake and scrolling on his phone.

the second you smile at him? "don't."

"don't what?"

"look happy."

"...why?"

"because now i gotta stay like this." and he doesn't move for another hour.

bf!toji who never remembers important dates but remembers every tiny thing about you. your coffee order. the side of the bed you prefer. which blanket you steal every night. the exact face you make when you're trying not to cry.

he'll forget what day valentine's day falls on but somehow knows you've been quieter than usual for the past three days and keeps finding excuses to stay close to you because he knows something's bothering you.

bf!toji who is unbelievably touchy once he's comfortable with you. he just always has to be touching you somehow. a hand on your lower back, your legs thrown over his lap, his fingers tangled with yours while you're walking.

he's not even aware he's doing it half the time. if you move away, he'll unconsciously pull you back. if you're sitting beside him, he'll tug you against his side. it's become such a habit that when you're not around, he catches himself reaching for you and gets irritated afterward.

bf!toji who claims he hates shopping but suddenly becomes very invested when you're buying clothes. he'll sit in a chair looking bored out of his mind for twenty minutes then you'll walk out of the fitting room and suddenly he's paying attention. "turn around."

"what?"

"lemme see."

he acts like he's judging the outfit critically but really he's wondering how one person manages to look good in literally everything.

bf!toji who has a reputation for being intimidating until people see how he acts around you. suddenly this terrifying six-foot-something man is carrying your purse because your shoulder hurts. holding your umbrella, letting you steal all the blankets, walking on the outside of the sidewalk automatically.

bf!toji who looks at you differently when he thinks you aren't paying attention. that's the biggest giveaway. his usual expression is relaxed, lazy, sometimes amused. but when you're distracted? reading. talking. focused on something else. his face softens completely like he's still trying to figure out how someone like you ended up in his life.

and every time you catch him staring? he immediately looks away and acts annoyed. "what?"

"you were looking at me."

"and?"

"why?"

"...because you're standing there." he's a terrible liar.

bf!toji who acts tough when he's sick right up until the moment you start taking care of him then suddenly he's the most dramatic man alive.

"i'm dying." "it's a cold, baby." "tell my story." "to who?" "the world."

five minutes later he's asleep with his head in your lap while you're playing with his hair.

bf!toji who never expected to become the kind of man who plans a future around another person but then you happened and now every decision quietly includes you.

every apartment he considers. every job. every plan. without even realizing it, he stopped thinking in terms of me and started thinking in terms of us which is probably the most serious proof of love he'll ever give.

© #BITTERSWEETLYBLUE. do not copy, translate, edit my work then claim it as your own, attempt to plagarise or repost it on any other website nor feed into AI. you will be blocked.

[lxnarphase]

toji and his new gf talking about sex, and she mentions that she’s never enjoyed sex because she’s never gotten very wet before, and he’s cool with that, just jokes about getting a gallon of lube to help

but the night you both are about to have sex, you try to stop him, saying you feel really wet and sticky and that your period might’ve started. he’s in the middle of telling you he’ll change the sheets after and not to worry about it, trying to soothe you.

however, you both are shocked into silence at the wet sound of the fabric being pulled from your cunt and at the thick, sticky strands of your slick clinging to your panties. you are fucking soaked.

“fuck. fuuck…y’really like me, don’t ya? dripping all over the bed, mama, you’re s’ damn wet, baby, oh my god.”

the poor man isn’t even teasing, he’s genuinely in awe at how messy he’s got you just from some kisses and touches, and without any warning, he’s pressing his face against your pussy, hungrily lapping up all your juices like a man starved. he’s the first to get you this soaking wet, so of course he’s going to taste his reward

[madwcman]

clark kent x reader | a/n at the bottom!

tw: smut | MDNI 18+

“i’m sorry,” clark chokes out as his hips stutter against you slowly. “i’m so sorry.” he continues to cry on top of you as his cock plunges into your tight cunt. you can’t really figure out why your boyfriend is exactly crying; you’re dazed from clark pulling two orgasms from you. he really has nothing to be sorry for.

“i’m being selfish with you.”

“it’s okay, clark.” you coo up at your whiny boyfriend, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders, letting your fingers wrap around clark’s loose, dark curls.

“you just feel really good.” he cries out, rutting his hips against you. you couldn’t help but feel dizzy at the sight of clark crying just because you feel good around him. it was intoxicating.

the thought of your strong, heavily muscular boyfriend crying and falling apart from just touching you was overwhelming. it was exciting. you never had anyone so obsessed with you the way clark was.

“you’re perfect,” he stutters out, his hips still rocking hard. your heart swells at his words; he was always so sweet to you. clark always made sure you were taken care of; he always put you first.

“i could stay here forever.” clark’s large hand wraps around your thigh, hoisting your leg up higher around his waist as he thrusts in deeper.

you blink up at clark, his face screwed up in pleasure, his body glistening in sweat, and a single dark curl falls in front of his eyes.

“baby, i need—“ he sucks in a harsh breath, moving his hips over and over, hitting the spot that always made you shiver as his fingers dig into the back of your thigh.

“you need what?” you ask, trying your hardest to actually focus on clark and his words. “what do you need, baby?”

“use your words.” you coaxed, trying to get him to repeat himself as you wipe his falling tears from his flushed cheeks.

your words pull a shudder out of clark, his words getting stuck in the back of his throat, being replaced with a groan.

“come on,” you try again, your hand gently pulling on his hair. “tell me.”

“i need to come, please.” clark whimpers, his blue eyes looking brighter than they usually are from the crying. you take pity on him, leaning up you lazily place a kiss on clark’s jaw. “go ahead, baby.” you murmur into his skin.

with your approval clark picks up his pace, trying to reach his high he’s been chasing for the past hour. with just a few sharp thrusts, he spills into you with a deep groan.

“you’re amazing, baby.” clark slurs, his head falling onto your chest, kissing you there softly. “you’re so nice to me.”

a/n: i don’t know how i feel about this one, guys 🫩

[miniaturepenguinkryptonite]

Awwwwwwww

[fourthstay]

Could you possibly do a fic or headcanons of Kit Fisto with a chubby fem lover? If not that's fine! I just personally think he really likes chubby girls but haven't really seen anything like that for him <3

All of You

Kit Fisto x afab plus-size reader 

Words: 1,056

Summary: Established relationship. You and Kit had some catching up to do, and with extra time due to one of his missions running shorter than expected, there was no time like the present 

Warning: Explicit 18+, NSFW, oral f receiving 

A/n: I absolutely can! I ended up doing a fic because the idea came flowing once I read your request. Enjoy!! 

You entered your apartment with the familiar click of your key inserting into the wall panel, the green light flashed indicating that it unlocked, and the door slid open. You breathed in the familiar feeling of home, but there was something else—someone else. 

“Hello,” he said, looking up from the datapad that he’d been reading on. 

“Kit,” you breathed, surprise sending your eyebrows shooting up. 

Jedi Master Kit Fisto had been in the Outer Rim for the last couple of weeks. He had told you it was going to be longer, yet here he was. You stood and stared at him, mouth twitching as you tried to form words, a smile turning your lips. 

You continued, “I thought…” 

“I know. We finished our mission early.” 

“Yeah, by a whole week.” 

A grin split his face, and he rounded the counter, dropping his datapad on a side table, and catching you in a tight embrace. 

“Happy to see me, my dear?” he asked, a lightness to his tone. 

You sighed into him. “Very.” 

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, trailing his lips down your neck and shoulder, slipping your work bag from you along with your jacket. 

“You seem excited,” you murmured. 

He broke away for a moment to hang your things on the coat rack by the door, then returned with his signature grin, his hands framing your shoulders. 

“I am always excited to see you,” he replied. 

He caught you in an open mouthed kiss, his smooth tongue painting yours with all the grace of a well disciplined Jedi Master. You, however, did not have that kind of self control, and melted into his touch. 

“That’s not what I meant,” you mumbled against his lips. 

“Care to show me what you did mean?” 

“You aren’t going to butter me up first?” you teased. 

You were caught off guard by the sudden movement as he lifted you onto the counter by your thighs. You were a big girl, it was probably the first thing people noticed about you. Sometimes it was bothersome. But to Kit, it was his favourite thing about you—other than your sparking personality. He loved every part of you, those parts included. Being lifted onto counters wasn’t something you were familiar with, not from any of your past encounters. With Kit, it all seemed so natural. 

“Be careful what you wish for, Gorgeous.” 

You stared into the voids of his eyes, his hands travelling down the wide curves of your body to your hips where he squeezed you lightly before disappearing under your waistband. You gasped when his fingers found your pussy, growing wetter the longer he drew it out. 

“Mm, I missed you,” you moaned when his mouth found yours again. 

“It has been long enough.” 

You tried to grind against his palm, but he stopped you, pulling your pants off and tugging at the bottom of your shirt. 

“I wish to see all of you,” he insisted. 

Hesitantly, you helped him remove your clothing. He took in the sigh of you, his smile growing like he’d won the lottery. 

“You truly are gorgeous.” 

Pink heated your cheeks. He really looked like he meant every word he said as he devoured you with his eyes. He took one of your breasts in his hand, kneading it, and put the other to his mouth, his teeth grazing your nipple as he kissed your skin. You held his head against you by grabbing his tendrils, stroking them in a way that sent a groan rumbling through his chest. 

You threw your head back, bracing your hand on the counter behind you to keep yourself upright. “Kit, I need you.” 

He sucked at the underside of your breast, leaving behind dark marks in appreciation. 

“Kit,” you begged again, “please.” 

He took his mouth off your breasts, kissing your mouth in a way you would be thinking about for weeks. 

“Can you lay back for me?” The command came with a set of craving eyes, and he helped lower your back against the counter. “Good.” 

He trailed his mouth down your stomach, nipping his teeth around your curves. He took his time self indulging in adoring your body, never seeming to get enough of you. He reached your legs, lifting them and pressing his face between your thick thighs. 

“Kit, I don’t want to suffocate you,” you warned, your hand gripping one of his tendrils. 

He grinned. “If you don’t, then I’m not doing something right.” 

His tongue licked your pussy, eating you out like it was his favourite meal of the day, and that he’d been looking forward to this moment. He groaned, and the sound vibrated against your clit, making your legs shake. 

“Fuck, Kit,” you moaned. 

He sucked at your clit and you felt the pressure growing in your lower stomach, pleasure building as he inserted two fingers inside of you, pulsing them in a way that hit the perfect spots. 

“Kit, I’m gonna—” 

You squeezed your thighs around his head as your orgasm crashed through you in a wave of pleasure, feeling his tongue lick up every last drop of you. You released your hold on his tendril, realizing how hard you were gripping it. 

He kissed your inner thighs in a “thank you”, then your stomach, trailing soft marks up your body with his affection. He helped you sit up, holding you as he murmured praises in your ear. 

“You look so good spread out for me,” he whispered, his hands holding your sides. 

You hummed into his shoulder. “You carry all that talent around and no one knows.” You clicked your tongue. “It’s a shame.” 

He smiled against your hair. “You know, and that’s the only person who matters.” 

He kissed the corners of your mouth, then fitted your mouths together, deeply and sweetly as he rubbed your thigh, not caring that he’d just made a meal out of your pussy. 

“You know,” you began when you came up for a breath, “I own a bed.” 

He chuckled, kissing you again. “I am aware.” 

“Just reminding you, in case you wanted me to take care of this.” You pressed your hand against his pants and cupped his erection. 

He lifted you off the counter, his fingers not leaving your sides, and you steered him towards the bed. 

Fanfic Masterlist | General info | Ao3

[megumios]

megumi wants to see you as you cum ୨୧ megumi fushiguro x fem!reader ୨୧ im gonna lick his tip

riding megumi means holding eye contact with him. it's hard when you're shy about even riding him in the first place. he doesn't care though, he needs your eyes on him.

he's sitting on the bed with you straddling his hips. his cock is buried deep inside you, kissing places you didn't even know he could reach. he makes you wrap your arms around his neck, faces so close you're basically breathing each other in.

he helps you grind on his cock, feeling him go even deeper.

"mm wait!" you whine at the feeling. he doesn't wait though. he keeps helping you roll your hips on his length. its good, feels really full, you can't hold back the long whiny moan that comes out of your throat.

you close your eyes, but then you feel a pinch on your thigh.

"eyes on me." he demands you, rolling deeper into you.

you whine, trying to keep your eyes open, but it's embarrassing. your cheeks flush as he continues bullying your poor pussy.

"bounce, pretty girl." he tells you in a whisper. his lips meet yours in a gentle kiss, far different to what's happening between your legs.

he helps you bounce on his cock, holding your hips tightly. it's enough to leave finger prints and yet it feels so good.

megumi sighs, panting and groaning at the feelings of you fucking yourself on his cock. his lips find yours again in another gentle kiss.

"mm so good, baby, just like that." he whimpers out as you bounce harder. your legs ache from the movements, already preparing for the pain that'll come when you're older. it's worth it though.

his breath mingles with yours, lips a whisper away from yours. "fuuuck, baby." he whines when you clench around him. you bounce sloppily, slow and fast and then stop all at once. he has to take over, rutting his tip into your walls.

"ngh, gumi!" you whine. his tip meets your spongey spot. he moans when he feels you clench around him tightly. it's almost too tight. he can't keep a steady rhythm when you clench him like that.

"tight, sweets, so ti-tight!" he whines, pressing so deep as he finishes inside you. he keeps his eyes on yours, watching as you whine, clenching harshly on his cock, milking him dry.

he watches you try not to close your eyes, failing and earning a pinch.

"i said eyes on me. now we have to do it again because you can't listen."

[stardustrider]

Sweet on you

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Authors note: so I'm on the fluffy side again, no angst this time, I swear, only pink buttercream swirls and a very sweet grumpy super soldier 🥰🥰🥰

Warnings: fluff, SMUT 18+, lots of sugar and a bit of suppressed feelings

Word Count: 4,9K

Summary: Decorating cupcakes for Mel's bridal shower should’ve been a simple task until Bucky Barnes offers to help. One frosting fight, a kitchen full of chaos, and a few stolen kisses later, it’s clear the tension between you isn’t just in your imagination.

“Come on, it’s just one afternoon!” you plead, practically begging as you trail after Ava across the rec room, while she’s trying to make a swift escape into the hallway.

“I’m not asking you to sew a wedding dress from scratch, just bake a few cupcakes and help with the frosting – pink creamy swirls, that’s it.”

Ava doesn't even break stride. “I have an extraction in Prague in six hours.”

You groan. “You’re literally intangible, you could phase in, phase out, and pipe a few rosettes on your way out the door.”

“No.”

You spin around and aim your best puppy eyes at Red Guardian, sitting at the big table and chewing something. Is it just you, or is he always chewing something?

He raises his hands. “I do not bake. That is women’s chaos.”

You stare at him. “What does that even mean?”

“I said what I said.”

You throw your hands up and pivot toward Yelena, your last hope, who’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, polishing a knife and blowing pink bubbles with her chewing gum.

“Yelena,” you say, trying not to sound desperate. “Please, it’s Mel’s wedding shower. Mel. She let you borrow her dress for that infiltration in Vegas. You owe her.”

Yelena chews slowly, then shrugs. “I don’t do sugar.”

“Then pretend! Wear gloves! Anything! I just need an extra set of hands.”

She pauses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, then they glint with sudden revelation. “Use him.”

You blink. “Use who?”

She jerks her chin toward the door.

You turn, and there he is.

Bucky Barnes stands in the doorway, brow furrowed like he just walked into an ambush. He pauses, clearly catching the tail end of your meltdown, eyes flicking between you and Yelena with a look that says he regrets coming in at all.

“Use me for what?” he asks slowly.

You freeze.

Nope, absolutely not! Abort mission!

Bucky is the last person you’d ask for help, not because you don’t want it, but because you do – you want his help, you want his attention, God, you’d never say it out loud, but the truth is… you want him.

And that’s exactly why you keep your distance, because Bucky is … Bucky.

He’s been cool and polite since the day you joined the Thunderbolts, never rude, never unkind, just distant, reserved, like he’s keeping you at arm’s length on purpose and you’re not about to throw yourself at him like a lovesick idiot when he’s clearly not interested.

You swallow and wave awkwardly. “Nothing. It's fine. I’ll just, uh, do it myself.”

“Incorrect,” Yelena says, already pushing off the couch with a wicked glint in her eye. “You said you need hands. He has two. Technically one and a half.”

Bucky glances down at his metal arm like it surprised him. “What exactly am I helping with?”

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, waving a hand. “I’m just being dramatic. Ignore me.”

Yelena, of course, does not ignore you. “She needs help decorating cupcakes for Mel’s bridal shower. Piping bags. Ribbons. Pink and pastel chaos. I know you’re soft on the inside.”

You feel your soul leave your body. “Yelena, no. He doesn’t have to…”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, clearly baffled. “You want me to… decorate cupcakes?”

You can’t even meet his eyes. “No, no, you really don’t have to…”

“OK, I’ll help.”

You blink and he shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Mel’s cool. And you seem stressed.”

Your heart thuds in your chest, your brain stalls, and for a moment you struggle for words.

“Great,” Yelena uses the opportunity. “I’ll go tell Mel that Bucky Barnes is decorating cupcakes for her bridal shower. She’ll die.”

Bucky frowns. “Wait, why is that funny?”

You meet his eyes for the first time, and your throat dries. “It’s not. It’s just… unexpected.”

His lips twitch into the faintest smirk. “I’m full of surprises.”

God help you.

The kitchen smells like vanilla and warm sugar, a soft hum of music plays from your phone on the counter and you glance up from the bowl of batter just as Bucky steps back from the oven, proudly closing the door with a dramatic flourish.

His hair’s a little messy from where he kept brushing it back with flour-dusted fingers, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled halfway up his forearms.

“One tray down,” he declares, metal hand resting on his hip like he just saved the damn world.

You grin, licking a bit of batter off your spoon. “You’re really taking this whole cupcake mission seriously.”

He shrugs, almost bashful. “It’s Mel’s shower. Besides, you said it was important.”

You blink. “Yeah. I just didn’t expect…”

One thing is surely true – from all the possibilities you didn’t expect him to be the one standing here in your kitchen, helping.

He looks away, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m just here to help.”

He tries, he really tries to make it sound as nonchalant as possible, almost like he doesn’t think he belongs here, like he’s just doing you a favour, and not quietly, desperately hoping this afternoon will stretch a little longer. 

Inwardly, he’s cursing himself for the umpteenth time already.

Cupcakes, Barnes? Really?

He’s never baked a damn thing in his life, let alone frosted something pink and dainty enough for a bridal shower. He should’ve picked something else to impress you, something cool, tactical, not... buttercream-related.

But when Yelena volunteered him and you didn’t immediately shut it down, he couldn’t bring himself to say no. How could he? This was the first real chance he’s had to be around you, really around you, in your home, not in training or on missions or with the whole team watching.

And maybe, just maybe, if he can manage not to completely humiliate himself with a piping bag, you’ll see he’s not that miserable after all, and maybe you’ll stop feeling so out of reach.

You raise a brow, forcing some levity back into your voice. “I bet you just want to lick the spoon.”

He doesn’t deny it, instead, he reaches over, dips a finger into the batter, and brings it to his mouth – not the flesh hand – the metal one.  

Your brain short-circuits – the sight of his tongue curling around vibranium should not be this distracting, but there it is, lighting a fuse somewhere low in your belly.

“Pretty sure that’s a health violation,” you mutter, trying to sound unaffected as you reach for the piping bags.

“I’m not baking for a Michelin star, doll. Just trying to impress your cupcake crowd.”

You pause at that. Doll? Impress? Them or… you?

You hand him a piping bag filled with pastel-pink frosting. “Please, try not turning the frosting into abstract art.”

He accepts the bag carefully, like it’s a weapon he’s not trained for. “I’ll have you know,” he says, giving you a sideways glance, “I watched four cupcake decorating tutorials on YouTube last night.”

You blink. “You did what?”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning over the counter like it’s classified intel. “I’m committed.”

You try not to smile, but it slips through. He’s awkward, earnest, and so fucking sexy, and it kills you.

Especially when you glance at the ridiculous apron you made him wear: white, with “Bite Me (I’m Sweet)” printed in loopy pink cursive across the chest.

You half expected him to roll his eyes and retreat the moment you handed it to him, but he didn’t, he just tied it on without complaint, and somehow… somehow he just manages to look both impossibly hot and impossibly cute in it. With rolled-up sleeves, jaw dusted with flour and that quiet focus etched across his brow… he looks so completely out of place and yet so right in your kitchen.

And that’s what’s dangerous.

“So,” he adds, positioning himself at the counter beside you. “How do I make mine look like yours?”

Your hand moves before your thoughts do, as you reach out to guide him, fingers brushing his wrist, and your stomach flips like you’re teetering on the edge of something huge.

“Like this,” you say softly, helping him guide the bag. “Steady pressure… and swirl from the outside in.”

His head tilts, and when you glance up, his face is so close, closer than expected and for a moment you just stop breathing.

There’s something in his expression that makes your knees go a little weak – a hesitancy, like he’s afraid to look at you too long, and a tenderness like maybe… oh, no, girl, get those stupid thoughts out of your head, you’re imagining too much, you mentally slap yourself and try to refocus on the task at hand.

“You’re good at this,” he murmurs.

You glance up at him. “Teaching you how to pipe frosting?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes flicking to your mouth. “That too.”

There’s a beat of silence, the music hums gently in the background, the scent of sugar thick in the air, and your breath catches just a little too obviously.

Suddenly his metal finger dips back into the frosting bowl, and before you can react, he smears a swipe of pink right across your cheek.

You gasp, mouth falling open. “James Buchanan Barnes!”

He grins, really grins, and the rare sparkle in his eyes knocks the breath right out of you. “What? You had something on your face.”

“Oh, you’re so dead,” you growl, lunging for the frosting bowl with a wicked glint in your eye.

You scoop up a generous portion of frosting, brandishing the spatula like a weapon.

Bucky’s grin falters, just slightly, as he checks the mischief in your eyes. “Wait…wait, hold on…”

Too late, you swipe a thick smear of pink frosting across his cheekbone with gleeful precision. “There. Now you have something on your face.”

He stares at you, mouth open in mock betrayal, fingers slowly wiping the frosting away.

“You realise, this means war.”

“Catch me, if you can,” you shoot back, grinning, and take off before he can retaliate.

He lunges, and you shriek with a laugh as you duck behind the kitchen island, nearly sending a mixing bowl flying. He chases after you, laughter booming in his chest, rich and free in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever heard from him before, and it makes something inside you flutter wildly.

You grab another spoonful of frosting and launch it over your shoulder, it hits him square in the shoulder with a soft smack.

“You little menace,” he growls, swiping a handful of powdered sugar from the counter and flinging it at you.

“Saboteur!” you shout, blinking sugar from your lashes.

You’re ducking and dodging, laughing so hard it hurts, frosting on your cheek, powdered sugar and flour streaked across your apron and hands. Bucky lobs a spoonful of soft-pink frosting that misses your head by inches and lands on the fridge.

“Friendly fire, Barnes!” you yell.

“You started it!”

“Because you smeared frosting on me!”

“You looked like you needed a smile!”

Another volley and this time it’s you, launching a handful of sprinkles that explode across his hair and shoulders like edible confetti, and he just stands there, blinking through rainbow chaos, looking ridiculously pleased with himself.

Then he pounces, catches you by the waist as you try to slip past the island again, spinning you around with embarrassing ease. You squirm and squeal in his arms, twisting like you still have a chance, but he’s strong, steady and unfairly fast.

And then he smears frosting onto the tip of your nose with his finger.

“Got you,” he murmurs, breathless and flushed.

You stare up at him, cheeks burning, chest brushing his with every ragged inhale, the spatula in your hand hangs useless now, your fingers sticky and shaking.

The kitchen is a mess, there are flour footprints across the floor, rogue sprinkles clinging to the cabinets, frosting in places frosting absolutely shouldn't be, and you’re breathless with laughter, cheeks aching and heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with too much sugar.

You lean against the counter to catch your breath, Bucky’s hand – the cool metal one – comes up slowly, brushing a smear of pink from your cheek with his thumb. The touch is featherlight. You freeze.

His eyes are already on your mouth.

“You’ve got something right… here,” he murmurs, your breath catches and before you can process what’s happening – he kisses you.

It’s soft at first, hesitant, like he’s waiting for you to pull away, but you don’t. You couldn’t if you tried.

You kiss him back, slow and uncertain. His hand – the warm flesh one this time – rises to cup your jaw as he deepens the kiss, his body still not quite touching yours, like he’s afraid to press too far, too fast.

He swallows hard, parting from your lips. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, like he means it. “I just…”

You stop him with a soft smile, lips still tingling. “Don’t be.”

His eyes flicker over your face.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

His brow furrows. “What?”

“You’ve always been… distant, cold. I figured you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

He huffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh and shakes his head. “No, doll. I stayed away because I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

He shrugs, sheepish. “You’re too cool for me.”

“Too cool for you?” You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “You wrestle bad guys with your bare hands, brood in corners like it’s your second job, and somehow still manage to look hot in an apron that says ‘Bite Me, I’m Sweet.’ You’re the cool one, Barnes.”

His lips twitch. “Still I managed to kiss you.”

“Miracle,” you murmur, leaning into him again, your voice softer now. “Do it again.”

He doesn’t hesitate this time, his lips crush against yours, the kiss deepens, it’s slow and searching, like he’s trying to map your mouth with his. Your hands tangle in his hair, flour-dusted and soft between your fingers. There’s frosting on your chin, sugar in your hair, but none of it matters, not when his lips feel like that, not when he kisses you like he’s afraid he won’t get another chance.

He breaks away just long enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, voice rough. “Tell me to stop.”

“Why would I do that?” you whisper, already pulling him in again.

He exhales, relieved and wrecked, and the next kiss is even deeper and hungrier.

He lifts you effortlessly, his hands curling under your thighs, setting you on the counter like you weigh nothing. The sudden shift knocks a cupcake tray to the floor, but neither of you cares. He steps in close, slotting his body between your knees, hands roaming without direction – one warm and steady, the other cool and strange but just as careful.

His vibranium fingers brush your bare skin beneath the hem of your apron, you suck in a sharp breath as the contrast sends a shiver straight through you.

“Too cold?” he murmurs, pausing.

You shake your head, a little breathless. “No, just different. But good.”

Encouraged, his hands keep exploring, bolder now, his metal fingers slip beneath the edge of your soft velour shorts and press gently between your thighs, through the thin cotton of your underwear and you gasp, hips shifting into his touch before you can stop yourself.

He stills.

“Too much?” he asks again, voice low, but laced with concern.

You look at him and your chest aches at what you see: the hesitation in his eyes, the way he’s holding himself back, terrified he’s crossed a line even though you’re practically melting for him.

You slide your hand over his jaw, thumb brushing his unshaven cheek. “Not too much. Not even close.”

Something flickers behind his eyes, something fierce and unguarded, and then his mouth is on yours again. His flesh hand wraps around your waist, steadying you, while his metal fingers push your panties aside and slide through your slick folds.

The cool touch makes you shiver, but it’s the contrast – hard metal and soft pressure – that has your breath catching, as your forehead falls against his shoulder with a soft thud and a moan slips out before you can muffle it. 

“What did you tell me?” he whispers in your ear. “Steady pressure… and swirl from the outside in.”

You gasp when one of those fingers start teasing your entrance, circling before slowly easing in. You clutch at his shoulders, clinging to him as he pumps it gently, then adds another, stretching you with firm, patient care.

His mouth follows the trail of frosting and flour on your skin like a man starving – your collarbone, your throat, the hollow of your neck.

“You see?” he groans, his tongue flicking along the line of your jaw. “These fingers do a hell of a lot more than spread frosting.”

Your fingers tighten in his hair as his metal hand moves with more confidence now, learning you, what makes you gasp, what makes your thighs tremble, what draws out that desperate sound he seems to crave.

Your hips roll into his touch, breath stuttering when his fingers find that perfect rhythm, slow and deep, and so damn good.

His thumb brushes your clit in slow, teasing circles as his fingers continue working you, and your body starts to tremble, heat building fast. He’s relentless in the best way, drawing soft, broken sounds from your lips as your head tips back against the cabinet behind you.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “Wanna come on my fingers first?”

You whimper in response, nodding, hips grinding down into his hand, chasing the friction shamelessly now.

His fingers curve, and your body jolts with pleasure, another moan escaping your lips, louder this time, helpless, you’re barely coherent now, panting and whining.

It builds faster than you expect, tight and hot and overwhelming.

“Bucky…I…” you gasp, and he kisses your temple.

“Let go, baby,” he whispers. “Come on. I’ve got you.”

And when you finally do, tumbling over the edge with a loud, broken moan, thighs shaking, body arching into him, it’s like everything else melts away, it’s just heat, frosting, and the sound of his voice in your ear, telling you what a good girl you are for him.

He holds you through it, steady and strong, pressing soft kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your mouth, his hand never leaves you, not until you’re done shaking and collapse against him, breathless, half-laughing, half-stunned.

When the tremors finally fade, he eases his fingers out and kisses your forehead, chest heaving against yours.

“Jesus, Buck,” you whisper, eyes fluttering closed. “That was…”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your face. “It was.”

Bucky’s arms wrap around you from both sides, pulling you into his solid chest and you stay there, nestled against him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath and the unmistakable hardness pressing against you.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, as if he’s afraid that showing how much he wants you might ruin the fragile, perfect thing unfolding between you, but his body gives him away.

You tilt your head up, lips brushing his. “Your turn?”

His voice is quiet, almost unsure. “Only if... you really want to. I… I don’t need anything. Just having you like this is already more than I thought I’d ever get.”

You lean in, brushing your lips over his jaw. “I want to make you feel that good, too.”

Bucky closes his eyes for a moment like he’s trying to keep himself from shattering on the spot. “You already do.”

You smile against his skin. “I can do better. Let me show you.”

You slip off the counter and gently turn him around, pressing his lower back against the edge, as you reach behind him to untie the sexy apron before your fingers trail to the hem of his shirt. “Off.”

He obliges, pulling it over his head and tossing it somewhere behind you, possibly onto a cupcake, but priorities have shifted.

Your hands slide up his chest, warm flesh over steel muscle, the dips and ridges of him, so solid and steady, and beautiful. His body isn’t perfect, he wouldn’t even call it good, but you look at him like he’s a piece of art carved from marble, and it makes him dizzy.

“God, you’re…” you trail off, fingers grazing the joint where metal meets skin at his shoulder. “You’re gorgeous, Bucky.”

He laughs softly, disbelieving, nervous. “You’re biased.”

“I am. Wildly.” You press your lips to the center of his chest. “Still true.”

He swallows hard, his hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he still can’t believe this is real. “Tell me what to do,” he says, voice low. “Where you want me.”

“I want you right here,” you whisper, sliding your hand down and cupping him through his jeans, your palm firm and slow, he hisses in a breath, eyes going dark.

You drop to your knees before he can say a word, fingers working his fly as you glance up at him through your lashes. 

When you free him, thick and flushed and already leaking, his breath stutters, and then stops entirely as you wrap your lips around him. 

“Shit,” he breathes, bracing one hand on the counter, the other twitching at his side like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

You start slow, your tongue teasing the underside, your hand stroking what you can’t take, his vibranium arm grips the edge of the counter so hard it creaks.

“Fuck… baby,” he groans, jaw clenched, eyes shut like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. 

You hum around him, pleased, pulling a low moan from his throat, his hips twitch, but you hold him there, mouth wet and eager, taking him deeper until he brushes the back of your throat and his knees nearly buckle.

“Please,” he rasps, as he looks down at you, like he’s never seen anything so filthy and beautiful all at once. “I’m not gonna last if you keep…”

You pull off just enough to murmur, “Good,” before sinking back down, lips sealing around him once more and this time, you don’t hold back.

You bob your head in a slow, steady rhythm, hand wrapped around the base of him, working in tandem with your mouth. You swirl your tongue along the underside, savoring every gasp he gives you, every shaky breath and whispered curse that tumbles out of him.

“Ohhh….fuck,” he groans, his voice cracking, metal fingers threading through your hair, not pushing, just holding.

You glance up at him through your lashes and moan around him, just to feel the way his body jolts in response, his thighs tremble, hips twitching again, trying not to thrust but so close to the edge he can barely help it.

“God,” he chokes out, chest heaving. “You’re gonna…shit, I’m gonna…”

You take him deeper, until your nose brushes his lower belly and he lets out a ragged, broken sound, his body tenses, and with a guttural groan, he comes hard, spilling into your mouth, his hand clenching in your hair as his hips stutter against your lips.

You swallow around him, slowly, gently, not letting go until he’s gasping for air and tugging you back with shaky hands.

He’s still breathing hard when you rise to your feet, licking your lips with deliberate slowness, eyes locked on his.

Bucky’s hand finds your waist in a daze, pulling you in, you smile, wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb. “Still think I’m too cool for you?”

He laughs, softly. “Yeah. But I’m not letting that stop me anymore.”

“Good,” you cup his jaw, brushing your lips against his before you kiss him again, greedily slipping your tongue into his mouth, and he groans, low and helpless, grabbing at your hips as he turns, lifting you in one fluid motion and setting you back onto the counter.

His mouth is everywhere, your throat, your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder. His hands tremble just slightly as he pulls off your T-shirt, your shorts and your soaked panties follow, as he tosses them somewhere into the flour-dusted chaos. 

He leans back for a moment to look at you – bare, flushed, wanting – then wraps one hand around himself, stroking slowly from base to tip. He’s already thick and hard, but he takes his time, watching you with dark, hooded eyes as his other hand slips between your thighs, fingers gliding through the slick heat of you.

You moan, breathless, hips twitching toward his hand as his thumb circles your clit just right, sending sparks through your limbs, but your eyes keep flicking lower, watching the steady movement of his hand over his cock, hard and glistening at the tip, and you swear your whole body clenches in anticipation.

When he finally steps between your legs and pulls you to the edge of the counter, your heart races. He lines himself up, the swollen head pressing against your entrance.

He doesn’t push in yet, just holds there, letting you feel it.

The stretch when he finally starts to press into you is intense – a slow, thick push that has you gasping, back arching as your body yields around him inch by inch.

“Jesus, Bucky…” you breathe, gripping the edge of the counter.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs with a groan, as he bottoms out. “You take me so damn well.”

You feel impossibly full, every inch of you stretched to accommodate him, the pressure riding the edge of too much, but it’s exactly what you want, exactly who you want.

He starts to move slow and deep, like he’s afraid you’ll break, but the way you gasp and cling to him makes it very clear you’re not fragile, you want him rough, you want him deep and raw. You just want him in every possible way.

And God, once he sees it, feels it, something in him snaps, he growls low in his throat, hands tightening on your hips as he picks up the pace, thrusts growing harder, sharper, more desperate. The counter jolts under you with every movement, a frosting bowl toppling to the floor with a clatter you barely register.

All you can focus on is him, the stretch, the heat, the delicious drag of him inside you over and over, stealing every breath and thought from your head. Your moans rise with every snap of his hips, unfiltered, raw, your fingers digging into his shoulders for something to hold onto.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants, mouth at your ear. “You feel so good, so fucking good, can’t believe you’re mine.”

You gasp at that – mine – because you want to be. You are.

“Harder,” you whisper, the word half-moan, half-beg.

His thrusts turn feral, his grip bruising in the best possible way as he fucks you like he’s trying to make you feel every inch of him, like he’s making up for every minute he spent holding back. The slap of skin against skin echoes through the sugar-sweet air, drowned only by your moans and the sound of his ragged, desperate breathing.

Your orgasm builds fast, dizzying, the pressure coiling sharp and tight in your core.

“I’m… Bucky…I’m gonna…”

“I’ve got you,” he growls, his hand slipping down between your bodies, fingers rubbing your clit in quick, perfect circles. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

You fall apart on a sob, walls clenching around him as your orgasm rips through you, white-hot, devastating. He curses, feeling you squeeze around him, and thrusts a few more times before he follows with a broken moan, burying himself deep as he comes hard, hips stuttering, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

You're both shaking, breathless, ruined.

He doesn't pull away, just holds you there, hands gentle again, mouth brushing your temple, your cheek, anywhere he can reach like he needs to prove to himself that it’s real.

“Are you okay?” he whispers eventually, still buried inside you.

You smile against his jaw. “Better than okay.”

He exhales, relief pouring out of him as he kisses you again.

The sound of bare feet shuffling against the floor is the first thing that returns to the ruined kitchen, followed by a gentle puff of steam as you and Bucky re-enter, freshly showered.

There’s a suspicious red mark on Bucky’s collarbone and a matching one on your thigh, but neither of you mention them.

You move slowly, limbs still shaky, your whole body deliciously sore in the best possible way. You had really meant to just take a shower, when you’d shoved a pink-and-white frosting-smeared Bucky into the bathroom, but you hadn’t quite accounted for the fact that your newly minted boyfriend (oh God, was he really that now?) also happened to be a super soldier with super soldier stamina.

The shower had quickly devolved into another round, maybe two, possibly three. You lost count somewhere between his mouth on your neck and being pinned against the fogged-up glass, Bucky buried in you to the hilt while steaming water poured over both of you, muffling every gasp and moan.

Now, standing side by side in the wreckage of your kitchen, reality hits you like a sugar-dusted freight train.

“…Oh my God,” you whisper, hand flying to your mouth, and Bucky follows your gaze.

The kitchen looks like a war zone – a frosted, sprinkled, powdered-sugar-bombed war zone.

Flour coats every surface like freshly fallen snow, a piping bag lies crushed and limp across the counter, one cupcake tray is face down on the floor, and a single rogue cupcake sits in the sink, soaked and tragic. 

Bucky surveys the carnage in silence for a beat, then runs a hand through his damp hair and mutters, “I don’t think I can ever look at cupcakes the same way again.”

“Mel’s going to kill me,” you gasp, tears in your eyes.

“She’ll understand,” Bucky says, pulling you closer. “Tell her it was a matter of national security.”

“You think so? And what exactly were we protecting?”

He leans down, lips brushing your temple. “Your smile.”

You glance up at him, warm all over again.

“OK,” he adds, sighing as he surveys the mess, “I guess we’re starting from scratch.”

You nod, slipping your arms around his waist. “Good thing I’ve got backup now.”

He kisses your forehead, squeezing you tight. “Yeah. Your frosting soldier is reporting for duty.”

You burst into a fit of giggles, hiding your smile against his chest and somewhere in the midst of flour and pink buttercream, you both know this was never about the cupcakes.

[vylaris]

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭….. 𝒄𝒐𝒅 𝒎𝒆𝒏 + 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒑𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒔 tags: suggestive, fem!reader

you can’t convince me these men wouldn’t appreciate a pair of plush, pillowy thighs.

price keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh during long drives. fingers flexing, tapping every now and then. sometimes jiggling them, whether he realises it or not.

when there hasn’t been another car for quite some time, his hand starts to wander higher along the inside of your thigh. he just grunts when you glance at him.

“need somethin’ to keep me awake, love.”

honestly? you stop pretending to mind. not when you know those thick fingers can work absolute magic.

simon likes seeing evidence of himself on you. rough hand gripping until faint fingerprints bloom across your skin.

he’ll stare at them afterward. there’s something deeply possessive in the way he looks over the marks, eyes going darker by the second.

“look at tha’,” he murmurs, voice rough enough to send heat down your spine. “fits me hand perfect, don’t it.”

it’s a proof that you’re real. and his.

johnny would be shameless about it. pinching your thighs every chance he gets just to hear you complain about him being annoying.

the real danger starts when his teeth suddenly sink into the meat of your thigh like some needy mutt, just enough to make you jolt.

then he kisses and licks the mark like that fixes anything. grinning widely when he sees the imprint he left behind.

“coulnae help maself, bonnie.”

kyle is gone the second he rests his head in your lap. completely gone. the way you play gently with his curls, fingers massaging his scalp while his eyes flutter shut…

it would make any man melt. 

“my sweet girl takin’ such good care of me.”

but be aware, this soft man might turn feral in a moment, fighting the overwhelming urge to drag his tongue along the inside of your thigh just to hear the sound you’d make for him.

graves is totally not staring at how your thighs fill out those slacks today.

he insists on wedging onto the couch beside you that is clearly too small for two people, “helping” you dig through stacked folders for a contract that he misplaced.

when he runs his mouth again to defend himself, you nudge your thigh to push him out of the way.

“careful, darlin’.” he catches your thigh before you can pull away, thumb pressing slow into the soft flesh there. “keep this up and i’m gonna forget we’re workin’.”

alejandro’s hands always drift to your thighs whenever he pulls you close. you’re never safe wearing a shorter skirt or dress near him.

loves putting you on top of the counter, spreading your legs just enough so he can stand between them with heat in his eyes.

“how’s a man supposed to stay respectful with these thighs wrapped around him, cariño?”

the worst part? that devastating grin turns downright smug when your legs part wider for him without you even realizing it.

and rudy - our sweet, disciplined rudy - pretends to be better than the rest of them.

but one look at your thighs in shorts and suddenly he’s wishing for the old rosary his abuela gave him years ago, the one sitting forgotten on the bedside table shelf.

he shuts his eyes with a quiet curse in spanish.

“dios mío you’re gonna be the death of me.”

as if gripping those worn beads could save him from every impure thought clawing through his head right now.

…and if any of these men ever catch you feeling insecure about your thighs - hating their size, disgusted by those dimples and ripples of cellulite, yada yada yada - best believe they’ll have many ways of reminding you just how much they love them.

⤷ MASTERLIST

a/n is this self-indulgent? yes. much love to all the girlies out there who are insecure with their thighs 🫶

[chocolex122]

KINGDOM ¥ LH44 pt. 2

PAIRING: Lewis Hamilton x dancer!black!fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: Lewis Hamilton has never been a man to let opportunities pass him by. Following your break up with the Prince of Monaco, Lewis wastes no time in showing you exactly what it’s like to be with a King.

CONTENT: smut, fluff, angst, mentions of infidelity (previous relationship with Charles), self worth issues, age gap (reader is mid twenties), Lewis likes to spoil you, Rihanna being a bad bitch.

PARTS: PART 1, PART 2

(Word Count: 8.2k)

AMSTERDAM

THE ANSWER COMES IN THE MORNING WITH A SINGLE TEXT FROM RIHANNA. A grainy picture of you Lewis through the darkened car window. You half in his lap. His hand on your waist. Your mouth very--and you mean very--obviously on his. 

Robyn: That’s what I’m talking about. Get it girl. 

You make a sound of dread as you sit up in bed, prompting Lewis to stir awake behind you. 

“What’s wrong?”

You shove your phone in his face. “It's everywhere!”

Tabloids--That Night 

“Midnight Madness: Lewis Hamilton Caught Getting Handsy With Teammate’s Younger Ex-Girlfriend.”

“Backseat Confession? Racing Icon Lewis Hamilton Spotted Getting VERY Cozy with Teammate’s Former Flame.”

“Love in the Fast Lane: Lewis Hamilton and (Your Full Name) Can’t Keep Their Hands off of Each Other After Afterparty.”

There are photos under every one.

At the party: Lewis’s hand at the small of your back while he leans down to hear you over the music, his expression intent in a way cameras love to exaggerate.

Outside the venue: the two of you laughing, your heels in one hand, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder as he ushers you into the waiting car.

And the car. A blurry but unmistakable series through the tinted glass — your body turned toward his, his hand around your waist, your mouth on his, one frame where you’re very obviously straddling his lap while he looks at you like he’s forgotten the world exists.

Your face burns.

Lewis--the bastard--laughs. 

A deep, genuinely amused laugh, like he’s reading something ridiculous instead of what is effectively photographic evidence of the two of you making out in the back of a car.

“Lewis,” you say, scandalized.

He looks up, entirely too calm, as he watches you, “They make it sound much more dramatic than it was.”

You stare at him.

“We were literally kissing in a car.”

He shrugs, laying back down and pulling you into him. “Yes.”

“You ripped my panties.” 

“I’ll buy you new pairs,” he grins smugly, suddenly maneuvering you until you're straddling his waist. 

“Lewis,’ you scold, still gripping your phone. “We have become a scandal!”

His hands settle on your thighs.

“Yes,” he says, hand meeting the back of your neck and pulling down until his mouth brushes yours. “And?”

Your retort dies when he kisses you once, slowly and infuriatingly unconcerned.

~~~~~

Charles almost throws his phone through a fucking wall. It starts with one notification. Then another.

Then a message from Pierre that says only:

Have you seen this?

He opens the link expecting some race commentary, maybe a sponsor story. Instead, he gets a full-screen photo of you in Lewis’s lap.

Charles goes completely still. The room seems to narrow around him.

There’s another picture — the two of you at the gala, Lewis leaning close, his hand on your back. Another outside the venue, his hand at your waist. Another in the car, your mouth on his, his face tilted up to yours with an intimacy that is impossible to mistake.

Charles’s jaw clenches so hard it aches.

He opens another article. And another. Every headline is worse than the last.He scrolls through them, anger building so fast it leaves him lightheaded. Not because you moved on. That’s what he tells himself.

It’s because of Lewis. Because of the optics. Because the press is dragging his name into it. Because Lewis — quiet, unreadable Lewis — had looked him in the eye all season and apparently been circling around you the whole time.

But underneath all those excuses is the thing he refuses to name.

The image of you smiling up at someone else.

The way you’re touching Lewis like you once touched him.

Like the years you spent together, the fights, the apologies, the promises — like all of it could be replaced in one night with a man twice as composed and infinitely harder to read.

Charles throws the phone onto the kitchen counter so hard it skids across the marble.

“Are you serious?” he snaps to the empty apartment, chest heaving.

He paces once. Twice.

Then snatches the phone back up, staring again at the photo in the car.

You look happy. That is what makes something ugly twist in his stomach. Not guilty. Not messy. Not drunk and making a mistake. Happy. Like you aren’t thinking about him at all. Like what happened between the two of you ended exactly when you said it did — and only one of you kept replaying it afterward.

Charles scoffs bitterly, scrubbing a hand over his mouth.

“As if it meant nothing,” he mutters, even though he was the one who cheated. The one who lied, then somehow managed to turn every argument afterward into your failure to forgive him quickly enough.

In his mind, none of that matters right now.

All he can see is Lewis’s hand on you. All he can hear is the teasing from the paddock that will come the second he steps into the garage.

His phone buzzes again.

A video this time. He doesn’t mean to watch it. The clip is halfway down the page, buried between race analysis and endless speculation, a grainy thumbnail with your face caught mid-laugh and Lewis’s hand unmistakably tangled with yours.

Charles knows he should keep scrolling. Instead, he taps it.

The footage is shaky, taken on someone’s phone in the dark. Camera flashes go off in violent bursts, bleaching everything white for half a second before the image snaps back into motion.

But it’s clear enough. 

You’re the one leading Lewis. Your fingers are laced through his, tugging him forward down a narrow street crowded with shouting photographers. You’re laughing — head tipped back, cheeks flushed, moving with that loose, unguarded ease of someone who’s had just enough to drink to stop caring who’s watching.

Lewis stumbles half a step behind you and laughs too, low and easy, letting you pull him wherever you want.

Not resisting. Not rushing. Just following. Like he’d go anywhere if you were the one taking him there.

“Lewis! Over here!”

“Are you two together?”

The voices overlap, frantic and sharp. Then another one cuts clean through the noise.

“Lewis—any comment on the tension this is going to cause in the paddock?”

Charles stills. His thumb freezes against the screen. In the video, Lewis slows. Just slightly. He turns his head toward the cameras. For one brief moment, there’s something sharper in his face. A flicker that could almost be a warning. Then you glance back at him and the look disappears. It softens instantly, the hard edge melting into something infuriatingly calm.

He smiles, lazy, content, unbothered. Like the question doesn’t touch him at all.

Like Charles doesn’t touch him at all.

“Ask me when the season starts back up,” Lewis says, voice light, almost amused.

The reporters erupt. Questions come faster, louder.

You tug on his hand again, laughing as you look back at him.

“Don’t encourage them.”

Lewis’s smile widens, smaller than a grin, but somehow more intimate. Like it’s only really for you.

“I’m not,” he says, and lets you pull him forward again.

He doesn’t take his hand back, doesn’t glance at the cameras, doesn’t even bother hiding how naturally he follows when you lead.

And just like that, the two of you disappear into the waiting car together--that same car where you kiss him like he’s what you need to breathe, swallowed by the dark and the crowd and the flashing lights.

Charles replays that part.

Once.

Twice.

Then a third time, though he tells himself he’s only trying to hear Lewis’s answer again.

It isn’t the question that gets under his skin. It’s the handholding.

The way you reached for Lewis first. The way he let you. No hesitation. No surprise. Like that’s normal now. Like letting you touch him is second nature.

Charles pauses the video at the exact moment you turn back to look at Lewis.

Your hand is still in his. You’re smiling at him, bright and careless, and Lewis looking at you — not at the cameras, not at the crowd — you.

Charles knows that look. He used to think it belonged to him. That soft, private expression. The one that makes everything around the two of you seem irrelevant.

He remembers when you used to laugh like that with him. Late nights after events, sneaking outside entrances to avoid cameras, your hand wrapped around his while you pulled him toward some afterparty or empty street or wherever the night happened to take you.

Except now, watching the clip again, something awful settles in his stomach.

You never looked that free with him.

You were happy, yes, but careful.

Always checking if someone was watching. Pulling your hand away before cameras caught too much. Smiling, but with restraint.

This—This is different.

You look like you don’t care who sees.

And Lewis looks like he’s already decided that if anyone has a problem with it, that’s their burden to carry.

Charles replays it again.

This time, he notices the smallest detail. When you tug Lewis’s hand, he tightens his grip before following. Not to stop you. To keep hold of you.

Charles drops the phone onto the bed like it burned him.

But even staring at the ceiling, he can still see it.

Your hand in Lewis’s.

Your laughter.

The way he followed without question.

And for the first time, something ugly and undeniable cuts through all the anger he’s been feeding himself.

It isn’t just that you moved on.

It’s that you look happier doing it than Charles ever let you be.

PARIS 

 YOUR DISLIKE FOR PARIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH PARIS ITSELF. You just have experiences you’d rather not relive again and Paris had a bad habit of throwing your problems back at  you with a violence that could cause whiplash. 

That is where Charles finally catches up to you. Of course it had to be Paris. 

Paris is 3 for 0. Fuck you Paris, you know what you did.

You walk down the street towards where you planned on meeting Lewis at the end of your separate days out, shopping bags looped over your arm, sunlight catching in your hair. There’s an ease to the way you move now — something that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. No rushing. No checking over your shoulder. No bracing for a message that might ruin your day.

Just movement.

Just you, carrying the remains of a long afternoon and the kind of quiet happiness that sneaks up on you when you stop expecting it.

You’re halfway down the block when you see him.

Charles Leclerc.

Leaning against a parked car like he’s been waiting.

The change in you is immediate.

Not fear. Not even anger, at first. Just a sharp, tired irritation. 

You keep walking.

“(Name).”

You don’t stop.

“(Name)—wait.”

His hand closes around your wrist.

And the second his skin touches yours, the memory hits so hard it nearly steals the breath from your lungs.

Your apartment door unlocking after rehearsal. The hallway is still dim. Your dance bag slipping off your shoulder.

A laugh from your bedroom that did not belong there.

The sight of him in your bed.

The woman tangled in your sheets, wearing your robe, turning toward you with startled eyes while Charles stumbled to his feet saying your name like he hadn’t just split something open inside you.

The way you shoved him. Again. And again.

Driving him backward through the apartment while he tried to talk over your anger.

Get out. Get out of my house. Get out.

The slam of the front door. His knocking afterward. His voice muffled through the wood.

(Name), I’m sorry, I love you, it didn’t mean anything. Open the door. Please.

Your stomach twisting so violently you barely made it to the sink before you were sick, one hand gripping the counter hard enough your knuckles ached. The image is repeating in your head. That girl in your bed. In your room. The perfume that wasn’t yours still hanging in the air.

Then the rage. Ripping the sheets off the mattress. Shoving pillows into garbage bags. Scrubbing the counters. The bathroom. The door handle. The floor. Scrubbing until your hands were red and raw and your tears were falling into bleach water because you could not stop feeling like something had been taken from the one place that was supposed to be safe. All of it flashes in less than a second. You yank your arm free so sharply he stumbles back a half-step.

“Don’t touch me.”

Your voice is colder than he expects.

Charles exhales, already unraveling. “You won’t answer my calls.”

You stare at him.

“Yes.”

He blinks, thrown by the simplicity of it.

“That’s all you have to say to me? After everything?”

You adjust the bags on your arm, looking at him like you genuinely cannot believe he’s still making this about himself.

“What exactly are you expecting, Charles?”

“I’m expecting you to stop this,” he snaps, gesturing vaguely. “This thing with Lewis. The traveling, the photos—this is ridiculous.”

You blink, before releasing a short, incredulous sound.

“You think this is ridiculous?”

“Yes,” he says, louder now. “You disappear, you parade around with Lewis Hamilton, you let everyone think—”

“I’m not letting anyone think anything,” you cut in, voice turning sharp. “I’m living my life.”

“With him,” Charles says, like that alone is the offense.

Your expression changes. All the irritation drains out of it. What’s left is something much colder.

“With someone who didn’t cheat on me in my own apartment.”

His mouth opens immediately. Maybe to defend himself, maybe to have the audacity to claim that he loves you. You didn't let him get that chance, “You don’t get to make yourself the hurt party.” 

A few people nearby slow. You don’t care.

“You brought another woman into my home,” you say, your voice rising despite yourself. “Into my bed. She was wearing my robe. I threw up, Charles.” 

His face pales.

“I had to throw everything out,” you say over him, anger building with every word. “Do you understand that? I stood in my bathroom throwing up because I could not stop thinking about her in my sheets.”

The street grows quieter around you. People are looking now. Charles’s expression fractures.

“I didn’t know you felt—.”

“Of course you didn’t,” you snap. “Because you never paid attention to me unless I was useful to you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really?” you fire back. “You couldn’t even come to the Tonys.”

“I had a race—.”

“You didn’t even watch,” you say, louder now. “I won the biggest award of my career and you didn’t even watch. But you had time to bring someone else into my home.”

He recoils like you slapped him. A couple at the corner has stopped entirely. Someone discreetly lifts a phone.

Your chest rises sharply, but you don’t stop.

“You made me feel small before you ever cheated,” you say. “Like my work didn’t matter. Like my life only mattered when it fit around yours.”

Charles’s jaw tightens.

“That’s not fair.”

“You made me scrub my own skin raw because I felt dirty in my own apartment,” You confess, “Do you know who sat with me when my hands were bleeding?”

His face changes before you even say it.

“Lewis,” You watch him flinch with satisfaction, “He didn’t ask me to be less to make room for him. He didn’t make me feel embarrassed for wanting to be seen.” Your eyes don’t leave him. “He treated me like I mattered before he ever touched me. He had a race too--but he still watched, he still celebrated me. He made the space. The time. You couldn’t even be bothered to make a fucking instagram post.” 

Charles scoffs, but there’s panic under it now.

“He was waiting for this. He’s playing games.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But at least he didn’t destroy my sense of safety and call it love.”

Silence. Heavy. Public. 

Charles looks at you like he’s finally realizing that whatever he lost, it isn’t something he can talk his way back into.

“(Name),” he says, voice cracking now. “I love you.”

“You don’t get to say that after I had to sanitize my own home because of you.”

“(Name)—.”

“No.”

You take one step back. Your voice is flat. Final. “We’re done here.”

And as you walk away, there is no trembling despite the unsteadiness in your gut.

No collapse.

Because the woman who sobbed on her bathroom floor surrounded by trash bags full of ruined sheets and stripped bedding is gone.

She disappeared somewhere over the Atlantic — somewhere between Barbados and Milan and Paris, somewhere between Lewis’s hand at the small of your back and his quiet voice telling you that what Charles did did not make you dirty.

At the end of the block, a black car waits.

Lewis is leaning against it, sunglasses on despite the late afternoon light. He does not interrupt. He simply waits.

As if he knew you didn’t need saving. And when you reach him, he takes one look at your face, opens the passenger door, and presses a kiss to your temple before helping you inside.

No questions. No demand for explanation. Just that steady, grounding presence that has become dangerously easy to lean into. As he makes his way around to the driver side door, you miss the way Lewis levels Charles with a sharp warning look. A silent and sure, “Stay in your lane,” conveyed in the silence of the aftermath. 

~~~~~~~

The hotel room door clicks shut behind you, soft but final. For a second, you just stand there. Shopping bags slip from your fingers and land in a quiet heap by the entryway, tissue paper spilling out, one handle snapping under the weight. You don’t even look at it, moving deeper into the room. Straight past the bed, past the open balcony doors where late afternoon Paris light spills in, straight into the bathroom like something inside you has decided it can’t breathe anywhere else.

The faucet turns on too hard. Water splashes against the porcelain sink. Cold.

You put your hands under it immediately.

Soap. Lather. Rinse.

Again. And again.

Your breath is sharp, uneven, too fast in your chest. The mirror fogs in broken patches as you lean closer to the sink, scrubbing harder than you need to. Because your skin still remembers. Charles’s hand on your wrist in the street. Too quick. Too familiar. Too wrong. And worse than that—what it pulled up. The apartment. The bed. The woman in your sheets. The moment your world split open and never fully closed again.

Your stomach twists so sharply you brace one hand against the counter while the other keeps washing.

Soap.

Water.

Again.

The bathroom feels too small suddenly. Too bright. Too much. Your breathing sharpens. 

“(Name),” Lewis’s voice, quiet behind you.

You don’t turn around.

“I’m fine,” you say immediately. It comes out wrong. Thin. Strained. You keep scrubbing.More soap, lather, scrub. 

He steps closer anyway, “Hey,” he says softly.

You shake your head once, like you can physically dislodge the memory.

“I just—.” Your breath catches. “I can still feel him.”

Lewis reaches past you and turns the water off. Silence rushes in immediately. It’s worse than the noise. Your hands stay hovering over the empty sink, dripping. Soap sliding away too slowly. For a second, you just stare at nothing. Then your fingers twitch toward the tap again. His hand catches yours, stopping you from hurting yourself anymore. 

“I know it’s stupid,” you say, words coming too fast now. “It’s just—he touched me and I can’t get it out of my head and I feel—.” your voice breaks slightly, “I feel sick.”

Lewis turns you gently, guiding until you’re facing him instead of the sink, when you see him, something in your chest finally cracks open properly. His expression isn’t alarmed, he’s steady, present, “There’s nothing stupid about it,” he says quietly.

You swallow hard.

His gaze drops briefly to your hands, red from scrubbing, then back to your face.

“He crossed a boundary your body still remembers,” he says. “That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

Your throat tightens. You hate how much you need to hear that.

Lewis lifts your hand carefully, turning your wrist slightly. His thumb brushes over the exact spot Charles grabbed earlier. Then he presses a kiss there, soft and intentional like hes trying to erase the feeling with his mouth. Your breath stutters.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says.

A shaky breath leaves you, and then you’re stepping forward before you even decide to.

Lewis opens his arms immediately and you fold into him.

Forehead against his shoulder, hands gripping the back of his shirt like you need something solid to anchor you to the present. His arms wrap around you, firm and steady, one hand at the back of your head, the other between your shoulder blades, letting you exist there.

After a moment, he shifts back slightly, just enough to look at you.

“You’re here,” he murmurs.

Not a question.

A reminder.

You nod faintly, but your hands are still shaking.

Lewis notices.

Of course he does.

He leans down, slips an arm under your legs before you can protest, and lifts you easily onto the bathroom counter. You let out a small, startled breath.

“There you are,” he says softly, like he’s found you again.

He steps between your knees, one hand resting at your waist, grounding you in place without pressure. And for the first time all day, you stop bracing. Your hands loosen where they’re still curled into his shirt. Your breathing slows. But there’s still something raw under your ribs. Something that hasn’t fully settled. Lewis’s thumb traces the inside of your wrist again.Then he lifts your hand and presses another kiss there.

Your eyes close for a second, heart stuttering violently in your chest. 

And when you open them, you’re already leaning toward him. It happens before you fully think it through. You kiss him. It’s quick at first—almost desperate. Your fingers catch in his shirt again, pulling him closer before you can second-guess it. Lewis stills for half a heartbeat. Then he responds, meeting you exactly where you are.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, steadying you as he steps closer between your knees, and the kiss deepens into something slower, more deliberate. Grounding.

Like he’s giving you something solid to hold onto from the inside out. Your breath catches against his mouth. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t escalate.

He just stays with you in it, letting you set the pace without letting you drift away from yourself. When you break slightly for air, he doesn’t go far.

Forehead resting against yours.

You’re both breathing unevenly now, but calmer than before.

His thumb strokes your jaw once.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, but it’s small, not fully there yet, so he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper and something in your chest finally unclenches.

The sink. The street. Charles’s hand. It all starts to fade at the edges. Not gone. But quieter. Less sharp. When he pulls back again, you don’t chase him this time—you just stay there, forehead still touching his, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Lewis looks at you for a moment like he’s reading something only he understands.

Then he exhales softly.

“There you are,” he says again.

You let out a small breath that might almost be a laugh, still a little unsteady, still a little stunted.  He smiles faintly in response before pressing a kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then your mouth again—brief, soft, certain. “Tell me what you need, baby.”

You sigh into his mouth, you don’t know. He trails his lips, soft and sweet, down your jaw and your breath hitches slightly, involuntarily. He pauses a moment, mouth against your skin before he continues his path down your neck, his kisses slow, open mouthed, tongue tasting your skin in a way that makes you shiver. 

You feel him smile against your skin, “I know what you need,’ he whispered, nipping slightly at the junction of your shoulder and neck, your eyes flutter closed. “Let me give it to you.”

“Hmm?” 

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you breathed. 

“Good,” he wrapped your legs around his waist and picked you up, carrying you back into the bedroom. He plopped you on the bed and you looked up at him with wide eyes as he looked you over, liking his lips slowly, thoughtfully. His eyes lingered on your pleated black skirt before flicking back up to your face. “Take it off for me, baby, leave the skirt on.”

You find yourself doing what he says, with shaky fingers, discarding your blouse and bra. 

“Panties too, skirt stays.” 

Your painties join the small pile on the floor, leaving you bare under your skirt. He hums happily and drops slowly to his knees between your legs. Your breath hitched. “What are you doing?”

He looked up at you and your heart stuttered at the dark look in his eyes. “Helping you take your mind off of it,’ his hands trailed up your thighs and you shivered. “Will you let me?”

You hesitated, “No one has ever--.”

He raised his brows looking oddly offended on your behalf, “No one?” 

You shook your head shyly. “Not really, one of my exes tried once,” you grimaced, “He bit me.” 

Lewis laughed. You smacked him on the shoulder. “It's not funny! Robyn had to take me to the ER, she laughed at me the entire time.” 

Lewis dropped his head against your knees chuckling for a moment more before he looked up at you, brown eyes shining. “I promise I won’t bite you, unless you ask me to.”

“I won’t,” you frowned, "I am a soft girl, I like soft things!” You protested, turning up your nose. 

He laughed brightly, “That’s not what you said last night.”

“Do not use my vulnerable words against me,” you narrowed your eyes even more and he chuckled, leaning forwards to kiss the frown off your face. 

“Yes, of course, my bad,” he kissed you again, deeper this time and you melted into the feeling. “Let me, please?”

“You don’t have to--.”

“I want to,’ he said, looking into your eyes. “Do you trust me?”

You nodded.

He smiled, his hands spreading open your legs slowly, “Can I taste you?”

Your breathing hitched, as you looked down at him. You nodded. 

“Use your words for me, baby.”

“Yes. You can.” 

“Good,” he pressed a kiss to your knee, pressing a hand to your sternum and you leaned back on your elbows, “Relax, let me help you feel good.”

He trailed open mouthed kisses up your thighs as he spread your legs wider, you couldn’t help but feel a little exposed as you watched him disappear under the fabric of your skirt, your breathing picked up as he drew closer and closer. He spread your thighs open wider. He pressed a warm open mouthed kiss high on your inner thigh, his warm breath on your skin sending a shudder through you. 

Then his mouth met you exactly where you needed him, you both moaned at the contact. Your elbows slipped out from under you, back hitting the bed as he licked a long strip through your slit. 

He took his time with you, mapping out every reaction, every hitch in your breath, every buck of your hips. He catalogued what made you whine and what made you tremble. Soon he was building pleasure with a slow intensity that made it almost too much but equally not enough.

He sucked gently at your neglected clit and your hand flew to your mouth almost instinctively when a sound slips out of you—too honest, too unfiltered—and you try to swallow it down. It doesn’t work. A low hum leaves him in response, quiet but approving, and it sends a sharp ripple through your whole body that makes your stomach tighten.

“Lewis—."

Your voice breaks on his name.

One of your hands drops to the mattress, gripping the sheets hard like you can anchor yourself there. The other reaches for him without thinking, needing something real.

He notices instantly.

Of course he does.

His arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place—not letting you retreat from the intensity building in your body, but not letting you drift away from it either.

“God,” you whisper. “You’re—."

You can’t even finish the sentence.

Because everything feels like it’s building too quickly now—too concentrated, too focused in a way that makes your thoughts fragment.

You shift slightly, overwhelmed, your body instinctively trying to retreat from the intensity.

“Lewis,” you gasp. “Wait—."

He stills instantly, not fully stopping, but pausing just enough that the pressure eases, enough that you can breathe again, but not far enough for you to come down, the feeling of his breath against your sensitive flesh making you tremble.

“Look at me.”

You do.

It takes effort.

Your vision is a little unfocused, your body still trembling faintly, your pulse loud in your ears. His expression is steady—completely focused on you, not on anything else. Not on anything but how you’re doing.

“You with me?” he asks quietly.

You nod, but it’s shaky.

“Words, baby, I need words.”

“Y-yes .”

“I need you to stay here,” he says, it's not quite given as a command, but more of a grounding point.And something about that—about the way he’s prioritizing you inside this instead of just the moment—cuts through the overwhelm just enough for you to reach for him properly.

Your hand slides up, finding his wrist.

Then his hand.

Your fingers curl around his first.

And then you lace them together.

He responds immediately, tightening his grip—not restricting, just anchoring you back into the present through touch.

You exhale sharply, some of the tension in your chest loosening as your hand stays firmly in his.

“Better?” he murmurs.

You swallow.

“Yes.” 

But you don’t let go.

And neither does he.

When he is sure you’re still with him, he starts again, mouth meeting you again, tongue lapping at you with slow confident strokes, like he had already processed all the information he needed to make you tick, to make you whimper. 

His thumb brushes slowly over your knuckles, steady and repetitive, like he’s reminding your body how to settle even while everything inside you is still humming. The intensity doesn’t lessen, it burns through you like a slowly creeping fire, your hips twitch up as his mouth moved over you, tilting you 

But now it’s different.

Contained.

Shared.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly, before doubling down. Your breath started coming out in sharp pants, legs trembling, threatening to close around his head, but he forced your legs apart with one strong hand. 

Your back arched off the bed, “Fuck! I--Lewis, I’m gonna come--I’m--.”

Your high tore through you with a sharp pulsing heat that rattled through your body, a sharp whine escaping you as you shuddered. Lewis held you down through it, continuing to devour you through your waves and just as you were coming down you were going up again. 

“Lewis! Lewis-fuck!”

Your second high detonated through you, a loud sob leaving your mouth as you tried to scramble up the bed, your free hand leaving the sheets to push at his head. “Too much! Too much!” 

Lewis lips left your clit with a slick, filthy pop that skittered through your body so hard you sobbed, pushing yourself up the bed, only then did he let you scramble away, still holding your hand, so you didn’t get far. 

He followed you up the bed, pressing open mouthed kisses up your sternum, chest and neck until his mouth met your in deep kiss that seemed to short circuit your system, your entire body softening and going lax. You could taste yourself on his tongue, it made you kiss him harder, arm coming up to wrap around his shoulders. 

He pulled away just enough to look at your face, a grin pulling at his mouth, “Still thinking about it, baby?”

You blinked, perplexed and dazed, still clinging to him like you needed him to breathe,  “About what?”

He laughed and kissed you again, “Good girl.” 

Tabloids--That Evening

“Explosive Paris Showdown: Star Calls Out Ex For CHEATING in Her Apartment.”

“ “I Threw Up”: (Name)’s Devastating Public Confrontation With Driver Ex.” 

“Tony Winner Leaves Ex Stunned After Street Argument in Paris.” 

~~~~~~

Charles calls while you’re still asleep, early in the morning, the sun having just risen. Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand, then stops. A minute later, it lights up again. Then again.

By the fourth call, Lewis finally reaches over with a quiet exhale and picks it up, glancing at the screen before his expression shifts into something unreadable.

Charles.

He looks down at you.

You’re draped on him, dead asleep, wearing his oversized team sweater from the night before because the hotel room had been too cold and he’d tugged it over your head without waking you. The hem barely covers your thighs. One of your hands is curled against his chest, your face tucked into the side of his neck as if that’s where you naturally belong.

His mouth curves up at the thought of it, because you do. 

The phone starts ringing again.

This time, Lewis answers.

He doesn’t move you off him. Doesn’t even straighten from his position against the head board, just keeps one arm around your waist and lifts the phone to his ear. “Good morning, Charles. A bit early don’t you think?”

There’s a split second of silence.

Then Charles’s voice explodes through the speaker loud enough that even you stir slightly against Lewis’s chest.

“Why is her phone with you?”

Lewis’s hand slides lazily up your back, soothing when you shift but don’t wake, your breath warm against his neck. 

He speaks evenly, almost bored. “A better question might be why you’re calling my lady’s phone this early.”

The silence on the other end is so sudden it’s almost comical.

Then Charles absolutely loses it.

“Your what?” he snaps. “Are you out of your mind? Lewis, what the hell are you doing?”

Lewis says nothing.

Charles keeps going, his voice rising with every word.

“This is about me, isn’t it? You think because your season’s been rough you get to pull some stunt like this? Taking advantage of her just to get under my skin? She was drinking, she—”

Lewis pulls the phone away from his ear as Charles rants. 

Not to hang up.

To open the camera.

Still holding you with one arm, he angles the phone just enough.

The photo is almost offensively intimate.

You’re asleep in his lap, wearing Ferrari red but no longer Charles’s. Lewis’ number printed across the back. Your legs are folded over either side of him, your face hidden against his throat. His hand is spread across the small of your back. The hotel sheets are tangled around both of you, sunlight spilling over the bed.

There’s no room for misinterpretation.

You look completely at home.

Lewis sends it.

Then lifts the phone back to his ear.

A beat passes.

Another.

Finally, he asks, calm as ever, “Did you get it?”

Charles doesn’t answer at first.

When he does, his voice is shaking with anger.

“You son of a—.”

“Let’s not resort to name calling, mate,” Lewis cuts him off, not loudly, but with a quiet finality that somehow lands harder. “She is with me now.”

The room stays silent except for your breathing.

Lewis’s fingers move once against your back, absent and almost possessive.

He continues, voice smooth, unhurried, “And she seems very comfortable where she is.”

The sound on the other end is ragged breathing.

Charles says nothing.

Then the line goes dead.

Lewis pulls the phone back from his ear and chuckles slightly to himself, putting your phone back on the nightstand, before pressing a kiss to your head. 

~~~~~

In a hotel across the city, Charles stares at the photo for exactly three seconds before throwing his phone hard enough that it smashes against the wall of his apartment and drops to the floor in pieces.

His chest is heaving.

That image won’t leave his head.

You in Lewis’s clothes. Sleeping on him. Wearing his number. The quiet intimacy of it is worse than the tabloids. Worse than the car. Worse than the gala photos.

Because those could have been explained away.

A drunken kiss. A reckless night. A bad decision.

But that picture?

That picture looks like something settled.

Like you woke up in Lewis’s bed and never thought twice about it.

Charles drags both hands through his hair, pacing so hard he nearly kicks over a chair.

He hates the jealousy crawling under his skin.

Hates that Lewis sounded so calm. So smug. Not even taunting — which somehow makes it worse. Like he doesn’t feel threatened by Charles at all.

Like he’s already won.

And what tears at Charles the most is the awful, humiliating suspicion that Lewis might actually mean it.

That he is already that gone over you.

That while Charles was busy convincing himself you’d eventually come back, Lewis simply reached out and took the place Charles left empty — and did it without a second of hesitation.

ZANDVOORT 

The next race weekend arrives under a storm of gossip.

Every paddock screen, every entertainment blog, every sports panel has spent the entire week cycling through the same grainy photos of you and Lewis Hamilton in the back of that car. Analysts pretend to talk strategy and lap times, then somehow end up discussing your lipstick on his collar.

And Charles has spent the whole week preparing.

Not for the race.

For you.

He tells himself it’s because closure matters. Because there are things left unsaid. Because if you show up in the paddock — if Lewis brings you there like some statement — Charles is going to pull you aside and say everything he should have said months ago.

That he was sorry.

That he was stupid.

That he still loves you.

That none of this with Lewis means what it looks like.

He rehearses versions of it in hotel mirrors, in the driver gym, walking from engineering to the garage. He builds entire conversations in his head where you look uncertain, where maybe you admit you’re confused, where maybe there’s still some opening.

Then Friday morning comes.

And Lewis arrives alone.

No you.

No dramatic entrance.

No hand at your back. No flash of cameras catching you stepping out beside him.

Just Lewis in team kit and sunglasses, walking into the paddock with a coffee in one hand, looking so calm it borders on offensive.

He looks rested.

Content.

Absolutely stable.

That is what throws Charles off.

Because Lewis should at least look irritated by the circus.

Instead, he looks like a man who slept eight solid hours and woke up with exactly what he wanted.

~~~~~~

The team meeting is tense enough to make the mechanics go silent.

 Fred doesn’t even wait for the door to close, before he slaps a tablet onto the conference table. Your face flashes across the screen in a tabloid collage.

“Would anyone care to explain,” Fred says tightly, “why one of my drivers ignored six calls from communications while the entire internet watched him devour his teammate’s ex in the back of a car?”

Silence.

Charles stares at the table.

Lewis, meanwhile, takes off his sunglasses and smiles like he’s being asked whether he’d like cream in his coffee. Then he reaches into the leather bag he set by his chair and places a polished cedar box in front of Fred.

The room goes still.

Fred narrows his eyes.

He opens it.

Inside is a pristine set of rare Cuban cigars, he stares at them for a long moment, then the team principal--with all the fiend composure of a squirrel caught in a trap-- closes the lid slowly and exhales through his nose.

The expression on his face says he knows exactly what this is: an apology wrapped in expensive, utterly unapologetic smugness.

Lewis folds his hands on the table.

“My phone was unavailable.”

Charles nearly chokes.

Fred glares at him for a full five seconds. Then, against every expectation, he tucks the box under his arm and moves on to race strategy. The meeting continues. Charles says nothing.

He forces himself not to look at Lewis. Forces himself not to ask the one question tearing at him:

Where are you?

~~~~~~~

By media hour, the press pack is feral. The first few questions are about tires, upgrades, and the new aero package. Then one reporter grins and asks the obvious.

“Lewis, are the romance rumors true? Are you and (Name) together?”

Lewis leans back in his chair. There’s a beat where he could dodge. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. A slow, smug smile spreads across his face — not flashy, not performative, just deeply pleased. “Yes.”

The room erupts. Camera shutters fire like machine guns. Another reporter jumps in.

“Are you concerned this relationship could create tension with your teammate, given (Name) previously dated Charles?”

Lewis’s expression barely changes as he folds his hands and answers in the same calm tone he uses to discuss tire degradation.

“I don’t feel guilty for treating a woman the way she deserves to be treated.”

The room goes dead silent.

It is such a smooth answer that it takes everyone a second to realize what he actually said. Then every journalist in the room starts talking at once. Across the media line, Charles’s face goes white. Lewis doesn’t even look at him.

“Where is (Name) this weekend? Was she expected in the paddock?”

That same small smile returns, softer now.

“She’s in Los Angeles working on a few projects she’s been excited about for a while.”

The way he says it changes everything. He sounds proud.

Genuinely proud.

“She won’t be around for the rest of the season,” Lewis continues. “Her schedule’s full, and I’m looking forward to seeing what she’s building.”

No possessiveness.

No annoyance.

Only open admiration. 

Charles feels sick. Because Lewis says it like supporting you is the most natural thing in the world.

~~~~~~

When it’s Charles’s turn, the room turns predatory. The first question is polite.

“Charles, how do you feel about the public confirmation of Lewis and (Name)’s relationship?”

Charles gives a practiced smile.

“I wish them both well.”

“Were you aware of their relationship before the photos surfaced?”

He shrugs.

“People have private lives. It’s not my concern.”

He’s doing well, too well.

Then someone from the back asks:

“Do you regret cheating on (Name), given Lewis’s comments suggesting she’s being treated better now?”

The air leaves the room, Charles’s jaw tightens. The PR manager in the front row visibly straightens.

Charles smiles — but only with his mouth, “That’s a private matter.”

“Do you think (Name) left because of the infidelity, or because she had already developed feelings for Lewis while you were teammates?”

That does it, The chair scrapes sharply as Charles leans forward.

His voice cuts hard enough that several cameras jerk toward him.

“You people don’t know anything about what happened between us.”

The room freezes. His PR manager is on their feet immediately.

“Last question,” they cut in quickly, stepping toward the podium, but Charles is already halfway standing, anger flushing up his neck.

“You take one photograph and build an entire story out of it—”

“Charles,” the PR manager says sharply.

The warning in their tone finally reaches him. He stops, but only barely.

His hands are shaking, and every camera catches it.

Tabloids--that evening. 

“Lewis Hamilton confirms romance with teammate’s ex — responds with quiet class amid media storm.”

“Charles Leclerc visibly rattled after ex goes public with older teammate.”

“One Man in Love, One Man Unraveling: F1 Paddock Drama Reaches Boiling Point."

“(Your Full Name) Spotted in Los Angeles While Romance Headlines Explode Overseas.”

And the photos from LA spread just as quickly.

You wearing oversized sunglasses outside a dance studio in North Hollywood Arts District, carrying a garment bag and iced coffee, completely unaware that half the motorsport world is dissecting your love life. Smiling, busy, moving forward.

While in the paddock, Charles sits alone in his driver room, staring at the article comparing his outburst to Lewis’s composure. The worst part isn’t the headlines. It’s the comments under the photos. Thousands of them. And the one repeated over and over:

She looks happier

MONACO 

The café is small and tucked away from the main streets of Monaco, the kind of place you only find if someone brings you here once and you remember it by instinct after that. Quiet enough that conversations don’t carry. Quiet enough that you can breathe without feeling watched. You chose it on purpose.

Neutral ground.

Not Charles’ world. Not yours in any official sense either. Just somewhere in between, where nothing feels like it belongs to him.

You’re already seated when Arthur arrives.

He spots you immediately and slows for half a second at the door, like he needs to confirm you’re actually here before he commits to walking in. Then he does, and you watch him take in the room as if it might change on him halfway across it.

He looks different. Taller than you remember, though you know he has been for a while now. Broader in the shoulders too, the kind of growth that happens when you stop noticing someone every week and start seeing them in snapshots instead.

But his face still gives him away. Still Arthur. Still the same boy who used to trail after you in paddocks, stealing chips from your bag and asking you questions like you had all the answers.

When his eyes land on you, relief softens everything immediately.

“(Name).”

You smile before you can stop yourself.

“Hi, bébé.”

It slips out naturally, like it always has, and you see it hit him in real time. He crosses the room and sits across from you, pulling his coffee closer like he needs something to hold onto. His hands are a little too tight around the cup.

For a few seconds, neither of you speaks. Then Arthur exhales, too fast, like he’s been holding it in since the moment he decided to come, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t even hesitate,“No.”

He frowns immediately. “(Name), I should’ve said something earlier. I should’ve—.”

“Arthur,” you cut in gently, but firmly, you lean back slightly, studying him. “You are not responsible for what Charles chose to do.”

His jaw tightens at the name anyway, “He hurt you.”

You nod once, “Yes.”

The honesty lands between you both without embellishment. Arthur looks down, “I didn’t know how to fix it.”

“You can’t fix it,” you say simply. “It’s not yours to fix.”

That makes him go quiet again. A heavier silence settles.

Then, softer, almost reluctant, he says, “I thought you’d stop talking to me too.”

That one actually stings. Your expression shifts immediately,“Never.” It comes out so fast it almost interrupts his thought entirely.

Arthur looks up sharply, you don’t look away.

“You don’t get to disappear on me just because your brother lost his mind.”

His eyes flicker, emotion catching before he can hide it properly, you reach across the table without thinking and cover his hand with yours.

“And for the record,” you add, because you need him to hear it properly, “you’re stuck with me.”

That earns a shaky breath of laughter from him, “You say that like it’s a punishment.”

“It is,” you say seriously. “For both of us.”

That gets a real laugh out of him this time. Tension loosens slightly around his shoulders. Arthur glances down at your hand over his, “I just didn’t know what to do,” he admits again, quieter. “He’s my brother.”

“I know.”

“And you’re…” He hesitates, searching for something that doesn’t quite exist. “You’re you.”

You raise an eyebrow, “That’s not helpful.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s vague.”

“It’s accurate.”

You sigh, amused despite everything, “You’re terrible at emotional arguments.”

“I’m not having an emotional argument.”

“You are absolutely having an emotional argument.”

Arthur huffs out a breath, finally relaxing a fraction more. For a while, the conversation drifts into easier things. Racing schedules. Travel complaints. The usual nonsense that makes up most of your shared history.

At some point, you lean back in your chair, watching him more than the table, “You know,” you say casually, “I always wanted a little brother.”

Arthur immediately narrows his eyes.

“There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The part where you pretend you’re significantly older than me.”

You blink, “I am significantly older than you.”

“You’re three years older.”

“Which is basically a decade in emotional development.”

Arthur groans and drops his head into his hands. “Oh my God.”

You smile into your drink. “It’s not my fault you’re permanently seventeen in my head.”

“I am twenty-four.”

“A child.”

“I race cars.”

“A child with a dangerous hobby.”

That finally pulls a laugh out of him despite himself.

He shakes his head, still smiling now.

“I regret coming here.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You absolutely don’t.”

“You buy me expensive birthday presents and then talk to me like I need supervision.”

“You do need supervision.”

“I really don’t.”

“You once tried to microwave pasta in a hotel kettle.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times.”

Arthur groans again, but there’s no real frustration in it now. Just familiarity.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” you say lightly, “you’re still here.”

You both go quiet and smile softly at one another. Arthur sighs, and hooks his ankle with your under the table, and your grin at the familiar gesture. 

“Okay, enough emotions," he declares dramatically and you laugh, “Tell me about it, you and Lewis.”

You raise your brows, “Do you really want to hear about it?”

“I want to know that he’s making you happy.” 

You smile, “He is.”

Arthur nods, “Good. Because I’ll kick his ass.”

“You’re too French and delicate to kick anyone’s ass.”

He gasps in offence, “I am not French, first of all, second, I’m taller than him--!”

You can’t hear him over your laughter.

~~~~~~

The winter break changes everything. It starts quietly.

One photo from a ski lodge in Switzerland — your face hidden in Lewis’s scarf while he takes the picture, both of you snow-dusted and laughing.

Then another from Christmas: you standing in the kitchen of his family home in France beside his mother, flour on your cheek, Lewis in the background pretending not to watch you with the kind of soft expression that sends the internet into a frenzy.

New Year’s in Monaco, your hand in his, fireworks blurred overhead.

Then his birthday.

A candid shot posted to Lewis’s account — a rare thing in itself — of him seated at a restaurant table, looking up at you like there is nowhere else he would rather be. Your hand is in his hair, his smile small and private.

No caption.

He doesn’t need one.

By the time pre-season testing starts, no one is calling you a rumor anymore.

You are simply understood.

Lewis’s girlfriend.

And somehow, that still feels too small for what the photos show.

AUSTRALIA 

The new season opens under fresh regulations and an entirely reshuffled grid.

Lewis should, on paper, be struggling to adapt. Older drivers are supposed to take longer to settle into new machinery. The younger field is hungry, the car is radically different, and the paddock has spent all winter speculating whether his best years are behind him.

Instead, Lewis is in his element.

From the first practice session, he looks terrifyingly composed.

Every lap is precise. Controlled. Like he and the car came to an agreement long before anyone else.

And on Thursday morning, just as the paddock begins to fill—

There you are.

For the first time in months.

In person.

Charles sees you before he registers his own reaction.

You’re standing just outside Lewis’s garage, sunlight catching in your hair, laughing at something one of the engineers says. You’re wearing Lewis’s team jacket, his number stitched large across the back, sleeves slightly too long so the cuffs cover part of your hands.

You look bright and completely unmoved by the fact that half the paddock is staring.

Charles stops walking, actually stops, right in the middle of the hospitality corridor, because for one awful second he forgets how to breathe.

You should look awkward. At least a little uncertain. Instead, you look like you belong there.

And then Lewis walks out of the garage, catches sight of you, and without breaking stride presses a casual kiss to the top of your head before continuing toward engineering.

No performance, just the kind of unconscious affection that only comes from repetition.

Charles feels something inside him drop.

He tries to talk to you that afternoon.

He catches you near the hospitality terrace, alone for the first time all weekend, iced coffee in one hand and Lewis’s paddock pass around your neck.

You turn when he says your name.

And smile.

That is what destroys him, because it’s not forced, not cold, not even angry.

Just polite, almost friendly, like he’s someone you used to know.

“Hey, Charles,” you say easily. There is  no trace of the woman who once kicked him out of your apartment, screaming and crying. 

He swallows, “I— I wasn’t sure if you’d be here.”

You glance toward Lewis’s garage and shrug lightly.

“Lewis asked if I wanted to come for opening weekend.”

The way you say Lewis’s name is casual and warm and practiced.

Charles hates it.

He searches your face for something — resentment, nostalgia, anything. There’s nothing.

You ask him how winter training went. As if you are making conversation with a coworker. As if he did not break your heart. And before he can figure out how to steer the conversation anywhere meaningful, someone calls your name.

Arthur jogs over, carrying two coffees.

The second he sees Charles, his face hardens.

He hands one drink to you.

“Lewis’s looking for you,” Arthur says, pointedly ignoring his brother.

You thank him, then give Charles a perfectly pleasant smile.

“See you around.”

And just like that, you leave.

Arthur lingers long enough to level Charles with a look that says you did this to yourself.

Then he follows you.

Charles stands there feeling like he’s been erased.

The whole weekend is like that.

You spend time with Noah. With team staff. With Lewis’s family who flew in for the opener.

You laugh in the garage. Sit on the pit wall with headphones too big for your head. Post a blurry picture of Lewis’s helmet to your story with a single heart. And not once do you look at Charles like he matters.

Race day arrives with Lewis starting P2.

Charles starts P4.

The new regulations suit Lewis perfectly. The car rotates the way he likes, stable on entry, aggressive on traction. By lap twelve he’s hunting the leader. By lap twenty-three he takes the overtake in a move so clean the commentators lose their minds.

And once he’s in front, he never gives it back.

The checkered flag falls.

Lewis wins.

After the difficult previous season, after months of questions about decline and retirement and whether the younger generation had finally pushed him out—

He wins the first race of the new era.

The garage erupts.

Charles crosses the line in fourth and barely hears his engineer.

Because on the giant screen above parc fermé, Lewis is climbing out of the car, helmet in hand, grinning with a kind of open joy no one has seen from him in years.

And then he spots you.

You’re already waiting beyond the barriers, wearing his team number, eyes shining.

Lewis doesn’t hesitate.

He walks straight to you, takes your face in both hands, and kisses you in full view of every camera broadcasting live around the world.

The crowd screams.

The commentators stumble over themselves.

You kiss him back without a second of shyness, smiling into it, one hand fisted in the front of his race suit as if you don’t care who’s watching.

Charles goes cold.

Because it hits him all at once.

Not the jealousy, not even the humiliation. The finality. You are not his anymore. You are not waiting for closure or apology or one last conversation and what hurts most is the realization that you were never like this with him.

You had loved him privately. Carefully. Like something to protect.

But with Lewis?

You are loud about it.

Unashamed.

Proud.

As though being loved by him makes hiding unnecessary.

Charles has to look away from the screen because suddenly he cannot stand the sight of it.

By the end of the weekend, the headlines write themselves.

“Lewis Hamilton Returns to Winning Ways Under New Regulations — and Celebrates with Girlfriend (Your Full Name)”

“LOVE AND VICTORY: Lewis Kisses (Name) Live on TV After Stunning Season Opener Win.”

“One Ex Thriving, One Spiraling: Charles Leclerc Overshadowed by Teammate’s Comeback Weekend.”

“(Your Full Name) Returns to Paddock After Winter Romance with Lewis Hamilton — Couple Appear Inseparable.”

The photos are brutal.

Lewis, triumphant, arm around your waist, smiling like the world has aligned.

Charles in the background of another frame, helmet off, expression dark and hollow as he walks away from the podium celebrations.

The contrast becomes the story.

~~~~~~

That night, none of it matters.

The hotel room is quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside.

You’re curled against Lewis in bed, his arm tucked beneath your shoulders, your cheek resting over his heartbeat. He’s fresh from the shower, hair still damp, one hand absentmindedly moving through yours where it rests on his chest.

The winning trophy sits on the dresser across the room, forgotten.

You tilt your head up to look at him.

He’s already watching you.

That same calm, steady expression he wore stepping out of the car after winning, except now it softens in a way no cameras ever catch.

“You were brilliant today,” you murmur.

A small smile touches his mouth.

“You flew in for one weekend and I suddenly remembered how to win.”

You laugh quietly and tuck closer, your leg sliding over his.

He kisses your forehead, then your temple, then just rests his mouth there for a moment.

Nothing pressing in from the outside. 

Just the quiet weight of his arm around you and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.You close your eyes, warm and content beyond measure, and let yourself sink into him. Across the world, headlines are still dissecting the kiss in parc fermé. But here, in the dark, with Lewis’s fingers tracing lazy circles over your back and his body curved around yours like he can’t sleep any other way—It feels wonderfully simple.

He won.

And at some point, without either of you saying it out loud, so did you.

TAG LIST: @diorsava @shadowdark00 @amandapiealamode @stargirl-mayaa @omgsuperstarg

[miniaturepenguinkryptonite]

Awwwww so happy for them 😍

Cheers to the winning team 🥺

[luxcuriousao3]

You see some dumb post on Reddit about how all guys secretly prefer anal, and feeling a bit insecure, you ask König if it's true. He is deeply confused, and then starts to get nervous, thinking you're going to ban him from fucking your cunt. Literally tears up like "b-but... but I love your pussy..." 🥺

Like this man would die happy if he could be balls deep in your cunt at all times. He has zero interest in fucking your ass.

[miniaturepenguinkryptonite]

A MAN

cause why are so many hetero men pressuring women to do anal 😐

[heldbybarnes]

hello! Idk if you're taking requests at the moment so i'm just gonna try it 🫡 love your writing style btw! Thought i already followed you but i didn't. What a SHAME!

so my idea is: grumpy x grumpy where bucky and reader are grumpy to the others but soft around each other. When they are on their own, they talk less but still participate. But once they are around each other, they are soft and cuddly and stuff. Do what you wanna do with that idea! And if you don't wanna work on this, that's totally fine too!💜

Everyone in the compound agrees on one thing: you’re difficult.

You don’t smile much. You don’t linger in common areas. You don’t indulge Sam’s jokes or Clint’s constant need to fill silence with noise. You do your missions, file your reports, and retreat to your room like the world is an obligation you’re fulfilling out of sheer stubbornness.

Bucky Barnes is exactly the same.

He broods in corners, metal fingers tapping impatient rhythms against tabletops. He answers questions in clipped sentences. He glares when someone touches his arm without warning. He has perfected the art of looking so deeply unimpressed that people second-guess themselves mid-sentence.

Together, you’re a nightmare for team morale.

Separate? You’re quiet but tolerable. When you’re not around him, you’ll occasionally respond to Nat’s dry humor with a faint huff that might pass for amusement. You’ll sit in the same room as Wanda and read, offering the occasional low comment. You’re not warm—but you’re present.

Bucky, when you’re not there, is the same. He’ll train longer than necessary, grunt through conversations, but he doesn’t leave the room. He exists alongside the others like a wary cat that hasn’t decided whether it likes the household yet.

But when you’re together?

God help anyone who witnesses it.

It starts subtly.

A mission debrief. You’re standing across the room from each other, both leaning against opposite walls like you’d rather be anywhere else. Sam is talking—rambling, really—and you’re staring at the floor like it personally offended you.

Bucky glances up and sees you. His entire posture shifts. There is no grand smile or obvious change. Bucky Barnes simply looks softer.

His shoulders lower a fraction. The tension around his mouth eases. He pushes off the wall and crosses the room without announcing it, stopping just close enough that your arms brush.

You don’t look at him immediately. You just lean—barely—into his side.

That’s it.

That’s all it takes.

Sam trails off mid-sentence.

“Are you two… okay?” he asks slowly.

You lift your head just enough to glare at him.

“We were fine before you started talking.”

Bucky hums in agreement, metal hand sliding casually around your wrist. His thumb rubs slow circles over your pulse point, hidden by the angle of your bodies.

Sam throws his hands up. “Unbelievable.”

The others have stopped questioning it.

They’ve learned that your softness is reserved. Exclusive.

On the rare nights everyone gathers in the common room for a movie, you and Bucky take up the far corner of the couch. Not the middle. Not where people can lean on you.

The corner.

Bucky sits first, sprawling in a way that makes it clear no one else is fitting there. You arrive a moment later without a word and slide directly into his space.

No hesitation.

You settle against his chest, legs thrown over his lap. One hand wraps around you waist automatically while they other tucks under your thigh, anchoring you there like he’s afraid someone might try to steal you.

You don’t speak much.

You don’t need to.

He presses his nose into your hair and breathes you in like oxygen. You tilt your head back just enough for him to press a kiss to your temple.

Nat, sitting across from you, watches the exchange with a knowing smirk.

“You’re disgusting,” she says flatly.

You don’t even open your eyes. “Mind your business.”

Bucky tightens his hold, resting his chin on top of your head.

Anyone else trying to drape themselves over him like that would get a warning growl. A tense shrug. A muttered “don’t.”

With you, he melts.

The grumpiness doesn’t disappear entirely. It just redirects.

Someone makes a loud joke? You both glare in perfect sync.

Someone interrupts your quiet moment? Bucky’s metal fingers flex in irritation while your nails dig lightly into his thigh in silent agreement.

But when it’s just the two of you—when the door is closed and the world is quiet—it’s different.

There’s less biting commentary. Less defensive sarcasm.

More… warmth.

You don’t fill the silence with chatter. You sit together on his bed, backs against the headboard, your feet tucked beneath his thigh. He traces idle patterns over your shoulder while you scroll aimlessly through your phone.

“Hungry?” he murmurs eventually.

“Not yet.”

He hums. Adjusts the blanket higher around your shoulders.

Sometimes you talk about nothing. A comment about training. A complaint about Sam leaving dishes in the sink. A brief, dry observation about the latest mission.

But mostly, you exist.

You rest your head against his chest and listen to the steady thump of his heart. He rubs slow circles into your back, grounding and familiar.

He’s gentler with you than anyone realizes.

If you wake from a nightmare, you don’t thrash. You just go still—rigid and quiet. He feels it instantly. His arm tightens. His lips brush your ear.

“I’m here,” he whispers, voice rough with sleep. “You’re okay.”

You nod once against his chest. He presses a kiss into your hairline and doesn’t let go until your breathing evens out again.

During the day, if someone criticizes you—even mildly—Bucky’s head snaps up like a guard dog scenting danger.

“She handled it,” he says, voice low and final.

You roll your eyes. “I can defend myself.”

“I know.” His gaze flicks to you, softer than anyone else would ever see. “Doesn’t mean I won’t.”

It works both ways.

When Bucky withdraws too far—when the ghosts creep in and his silence turns heavy—you’re the only one who can reach him without pushing.

You don’t force conversation. You just sit beside him, shoulder pressed to shoulder.

“Stay,” you’ll say simply.

And he does.

It confuses people.

How two of the most irritable, closed-off members of the team can turn into something so undeniably tender the moment you’re within arm’s reach of each other.

But the truth is simple.

You don’t need sunshine personalities. You don’t need constant chatter or exaggerated affection.

You need quiet understanding.

You need someone who doesn’t demand smiles or explanations.

You need someone who knows that your silence isn’t emptiness—it’s comfort.

One afternoon, Sam finally asks the question everyone’s been thinking.

“How are you two so grumpy and so… disgustingly cute at the same time?”

You and Bucky exchange a look.

A small, private one.

You shrug. “We don’t like people.”

Bucky nods. “Just her.”

You roll your eyes but your hand slides into his automatically.

He squeezes yours softly.

And that’s the thing.

The world gets the armor.

You get each other.

[miniaturepenguinkryptonite]

NOW THIS IS GOLD

[chick-hab1t]

Secondhand Smoke

Pairing: John Price x Reader 

Summary: Your husband smokes all the time. While he’s away you wonder what the appeal of it is. There’s only one way to find out right?

Warnings: 18+, Smoking, GN reader, reader is irritated as fuck😭 , Price is in his 50s, obvious communication issues, not proof read

WC: 588

John had a smoking habit. Everyone who ever knew him was aware of it. 

It didn’t bother you much at first, you thought it never would. He would excuse himself to smoke a quick cigarette after dinner dates or when you’d sleepover at his flat. But two years into living with each other has changed that.   

Every morning you’d wake up to that strong odor beside you. John smoking in bed. This morning he didn’t even bother to use the ash tray on the bedside table. There was a small pile of ash on the fancy comforter you took so much care of. 

“God damn it John. My sheets..” Your voice was still groggy. 

He turned to you as he non-chalantly let smoke go from between his lips. His large hand reached to pet your hair.

“Sorry love.” John took another drag of the cigarette. 

It was the same thing when he got home from the base each day. Stepping through the door and lighting a cigarette before greeting you. During dinner he would have his meal with a large cigar in one hand, a fork in the other. You even started to find his cigarette butts in random areas of the house. The key tray by the door. Your shared closet. In some of your planters.

You didn't dare to express how you felt. John’s work was hard enough. He didn't need a spouse nagging at him at home. 

Still, His smoking habit was really getting on your fucking nerves.

Your home was quiet for 2 months. This was the longest the house had been clean for since you guys moved in. John was on leave for work. He didn't tell you much but he did say he’d be home in no time.

 The lingering smell of tobacco was long gone. Part of you missed it.

You missed your husband so much that went up to your bedroom to search through his bedside table. There you found a box, It was John's stash of cigars. 

Curiosity took over.

The first drag you took made you cough hard. It felt like something was clawing at your throat. That feeling made you regret your decision of inhaling. But there it was. The familiar scent of your husband. After a few more puffs the cough subsided. Your skin was buzzing and your mouth was dry. The living room smelled like John again. 

To your surprise it was actually enjoyable. Now you understand why John smoked so often. 

The front door opened. 

Loud footsteps approached from behind the couch you laid on. 

“What the fuck are you doing.” A cigarette hung from his mouth.

“Smokin’...What the fuck are you doing?" Your tone was condescending. 

Moonlight that seeped through the curtains allowed you to just barely see the expression on his face. Disappointment? Slowly, he reached for the marlboro black between his lips, putting it out on the ashtry nearby. Both of you maintained eyecontact. John didn't say anything else about what he walked in on.  

He held you tighter than usual in bed that night.

You noticed a difference in the following days.  

No more waking up to John smoking in bed. No more lighting up before greeting you after work. No more smoking at the dinner table while you both ate. 

All the ashtrays in the house seemingly vanished without a trace. John didn't smell of tobacco anymore. 

Thinking that his addiction rubbed off on you made him sick. John couldn't fathom the idea of you harming your body like that. He wanted the best for you, if that meant dropping a 30 year old habit then he would do it.

Chick note: I dont know if this counts as angst/comfort ?? This is super short because i’m working up the courage to write something big.. taking baby steps here!!!!!!!!

Dividers:@/pixopix

[miniaturepenguinkryptonite]

Awwwwww

Quitting because he doesn't want you to harm yourself 🥺🥺🥺

How considerate 😌

[heldbybarnes]

Bucky who is obsessed with chubby reader who has a visible belly and uses it as a pillow and what not :)

Bucky has always loved soft things.

Soft sweaters. Soft blankets. The quiet softness of early mornings before the rest of the compound wakes up.

And you.

You, with your plush hips and thick thighs and the gentle curve of your belly that peeks through every fitted shirt you own like it’s proud to exist. You, who huff and roll your eyes when he stares too long, who pretend not to notice the way his hands wander, always, always settling at your waist.

He is obsessed.

It starts small, the first time he rests his head against your stomach. You’re both on the couch after a long mission, exhausted and half-limp with it. You’re sitting upright, back pressed into the armrest, scrolling through something on your phone while he stretches out along the length of the couch. He shifts closer without asking, metal hand warm and steady as it hooks around your thigh and tugs you in.

“Buck,” you murmur, distracted.

“Shh.”

And then he just… folds.

He slides down until his head is resting squarely in your lap, cheek pressed to the softness of your belly. Not flat against bone. Not sharp edges. Just warmth and give and comfort. He exhales like he’s found something sacred.

You freeze. “What are you doing?”

“Using my pillow,” he answers simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Your stomach flips. “You have like six actual pillows.”

“None of them are this good.”

His flesh hand splays wide over your side, thumb brushing the slight dip where your waist curves inward before swelling out again. He gives a little squeeze—absentminded, affectionate—and settles his full weight there.

You’re hyperaware of it. The weight of his head. The scratch of his stubble through your shirt. The way his nose presses just slightly into you when he breathes.

“I’m squishy,” you mutter.

“Exactly.”

He sounds downright pleased about it.

You expect him to move after a minute. To tease you and then roll away. But he doesn’t. He stays. His shoulders loosen. His fingers trace lazy shapes along the underside of your belly, reverent and slow.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, rougher. “Don’t know how you walk around like this without me glued to you all the time.”

Heat floods your face. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m serious.”

He turns his head slightly and presses a slow kiss right through your shirt, just below your navel. The sensation makes you jolt.

“Buck.”

“What?” he asks innocently, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “Can’t appreciate my girl?”

It’s the way he says it—my girl. Like he’s claiming treasure.

You shift, suddenly self-conscious. “You don’t… wish I was smaller?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You hate that it does. You hate that it’s even in your head.

He goes very still.

Slowly, he pushes himself up onto his elbows until he’s looking at you directly. His eyes are blue and sharp and entirely serious.

“Smaller?” he repeats, almost offended. “Why would I want less of you?”

Your breath catches.

He sits up properly then, hands coming to frame your waist. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t soften his grip. He squeezes—firm, grounding.

“I love this,” he says, sliding his palm over your belly openly now. “Love how you feel. Love how you fit in my hands. Love how I can lay my head here and hear you laugh and feel it.” He presses his ear back against you demonstratively. “It’s my favorite sound system.”

A startled laugh bursts out of you.

“There it is,” he says smugly. “See? Worth it.”

You swat at him lightly, but he catches your wrist and brings your hand to his hair instead. Encouraging. Guiding. Like he wants you to get used to this.

“I like that you’re soft,” he continues, quieter now. “I spent decades surrounded by hard things. Cold things. I don’t want that anymore.”

His cheek presses back into your belly, slower this time. Intentional. He rubs his face there shamelessly, like a cat claiming its spot.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs. “You’re comfortable. You’re real.”

Your fingers slide through his hair without thinking, nails scraping gently at his scalp. He melts instantly, breath shuddering out of him.

“And I like that I can do this,” he adds.

He wraps both arms around you and tugs until you’re practically folded over him, his face buried fully against your stomach now. He nuzzles, exaggerated and greedy, and then presses a series of soft kisses along the curve.

You can’t stop smiling.

“You’re obsessed,” you accuse softly.

“Yeah.”

No denial. Not even a pause.

“I am.”

His hand slides under your shirt this time, skin to skin. His palm spreads wide over the softness there, thumb tracing lazy circles. He watches your face carefully as he does it, gauging every reaction, like he wants to memorize the way you respond.

“I like that you’re soft enough for me to sink into,” he says, voice dropping slightly. “Like that when I grab you, I actually get to hold something.”

Your breath goes shallow.

His touch shifts from playful to deliberate. Fingers pressing deeper. Appreciative. His lips follow the path of his hand, kissing along your belly slowly, like he’s mapping it.

“You know what my favorite part is?” he asks quietly.

“What?”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes dark now, but still tender.

“That you don’t hide from me.”

Your chest tightens.

“You let me love you like this,” he continues. “You let me touch you. Lay on you. Hold you. And I wouldn’t trade that for anything.”

He slides up your body then, kissing a path from your stomach to your sternum, to your collarbone, until he’s hovering over you on the couch. Big and solid and entirely devoted.

“And if you ever start thinking you need to be smaller,” he adds softly, brushing his nose against yours, “I’m gonna remind you that I need exactly this.”

His hand drifts back down, settling possessively over your belly again. Like it belongs there.

Like you belong there.

You pull him down into a kiss before you can overthink it, arms wrapping around his shoulders. He smiles against your mouth, satisfied, and then deliberately shifts so he can rest his head back where he started.

Pillow reclaimed.

You roll your eyes, but your hands find his hair automatically.

“Comfortable?” you tease.

He sighs like a man who has found heaven.

“Perfect.”

[tojislittlesluttt]

—BRAT

Cameron Cade x Black Reader

Warning: countertop sex, PinV, rough sex, choking, dirty talking, slight fluff, use of pet names ‘Daddy, pretty girl, good girl, mama, etc.’, mating press, angry Cameron, use of profanity, small spit fetish (?), no protection (wrap it upp), bratty reader. MDNI 18+

FULL ONESHOT

YOU AND CAMERON have a perfect relationship, one that people both envy and adore. Everyone on campus says he’s so sweet to you, how he’d never raise his voice even in the slightest, he even let you do his makeup when you wanted to try out something new. You two went on shopping sprees nearly every month and yet it seemed like his pockets were never ending. He made sure you keep up with your maintenance too. Hair always done, nails always done, lashes always done, toes always done. Whatever you asked he gave.

It wasn’t like he did it for no reason since he knew you always did same for him. Haircuts? Paid for. Manicures to keep his hands clean after games? Paid for. New games you know he’d like? Paid for. You both kept each other looking in the best shape possible. And that was one of the main reasons why everyone around knew you both as that ‘it couple’.

Now, it was around three in the morning when Cameron had arrived home. After a stressful day of practice, all the boy wanted to do was come home, shower, and lay with you. When he walked through the door, he placed his duffle bag next to the door and slid off his shoes. The first thing he did was scan the living room for you, which he found you on the couch, writing something in your notebook while a random true crime documentary played on the tv. What he noticed right after you was the loads of boxes and bags next to the sofa.

Cameron raised an eyebrow yet didn’t question it, he walked over to you. You were lying on the couch with your back against it, legs folded up and the journal in your hand. With a sigh, he parted your legs some more and laid right in between them. His head against your stomach while his arms wrapped around your waist. The boy lifted up just a little to peck your lips three times and then laying back down in his original position, “I missed you today.”

You let out a hum of acknowledgment before speaking, “I missed you too. What’d you do today? You weren’t answering me your phone like usual.” Your eyebrow raised in slight speculation. You knew Cameron would never cheat on you, but then again he was an athlete, one of the best actually. So you couldn’t help but worry sometimes.

“Coach had us workin’ extra hard. You know our final game comin’ up soon.” Cameron mumbled against your skin. His grip around your waist relaxed as your manicured nails moved to his freshly buzzed hair. A sigh of content left his lips and he practically melted into you, “What you did today, mama?”

You shrugged, “I went shopping, then I got my toes done since I got my nails done last week. And thennn I went out for brunch with my girls, and yeah. That’s all.” You listed out everything so casually like you hadn’t spent hundreds of dollars only in one day. See the problem was that you were always spoiled, starting from your family all the way down Cameron. So a limit was never a thing for you. Yet sometimes, Cameron couldn’t help but be annoyed at how much you spent, he knew he was apart of the problem but he was beginning to think it was time for a change.

“Youn’ think that’s a lot of money? You done spent damn near a thousand in the span of two days, and I know you writin’ another shopping list in that notebook.” His tone was soft but held authority in a way that made you freeze. Cameron’s head lifted, his chin now resting on your stomach so that he could look at your reaction to his words.

You blinked a few times, like you were trying to comprehend what seemed like the unknown language of saving money, “Sooo…?”

“So maybe we should start savin’. Youn’ think so?” Your deep brown eyes stared into his green irses. A small furrow in between your eyebrows. You looked at the boy lile he had grown two heads, saving wasn’t even in your vocabulary. You slowly began to sit up which caused Cameron to sit up too.

“Uhm no…” Your tone was unsure, like you were hoping he wouldn’t actually be serious about this. Who would you be without new things every other week? From your words, a furrow also formed in Cameron’s eyebrows. He couldn’t help but feel like you were being irrational right now.

“What you mean no? Baby, you gotta understand that we still payin’ rent for this apartment, we still got bills to pay, we got other shit we need to be worryin’ about. We can’t be blowin’ money cause you wanna buy some new shit every time it comes out.” His tone held softness, one that prevented the conversation into an argument. You felt like he was trying to gentle parent you at this point.

You stood up from the seat, placing your notebook on the coffee table, “I don’t wanna have this conversation.” That was his problem with you. Whenever something didn’t go your way you always ran away from your problems.

Irritation spiked in his blood, the conversation just added more stress on his back that just mixed in with that stress from practice. He could hear you rummaging in the kitchen, doing God knows what. Cameron stood up from the couch, he stretched out his long legs and walked to the kitchen. When you came in view, your back was towards him. He knew he couldn’t stay mad at you for too long and so did you. His arms slowly circled around your waist and rested his chin on your shoulder, “Why you mad, mama?” The boy questioned. His breath tickled against your skin.

He knew you were in the wrong, but he’d correct that attitude later. When you didn’t reply, he began pressing kisses down your neck, “Youn’ hear me talkin’ to you? Tell me why you mad, baby. Lemme make it better.” Cameron pressed a kiss on your sweet spot before sucking on it, his tongue swiped over the skin in a way that had you moaning under your breath. When he pulled away, the brown skin had a purple bruise.

“You ignorin’ me? You mad at me, baby?” He questioned, “I’m the problem?” The undertone of sarcasm had your panties unwillingly dampening. “Hmm?” He hummed out, a silence passed as he waited for a reply. He was met back with silence, and that surprisingly made him smile against your skin, “Bet.” Just like that, he flipped you around so that you were facing him. Cameron’s arms wrapped around you to lift you up and placing you on the white marble counter.

“Wait, Cam—” You didn’t even get to reply before his lips smashed into yours. You froze in shock before automatically melting into the kiss, your hands came up to cup his cheeks while his hand moved to grip the back of your neck and tilt for head for him. His tongue swiped over your plump bottom lip for entrance which you gladly accepted.

Your tongues slid together, the taste of mint was faint on his tongue. You moaned into the kiss as the way his teeth grazed against your bottom lip. His hand moved to grip your jaw, his grip was gentle yet dominating. When you pulled away to catch your breath, he held your jaw so that your mouth could stay open. Then he spat in your mouth and sucked his spit back off your tongue.

“Cam, I— Don’t say shit to me. You wanted to ignore me so keep that same energy, lay down.” You sat there for a minute, shocked that this was the same boy who was just sweet talking you. Due to you taking too long for him, he laid you down himself. He pulled down your pink shorts, the pink hello kitty panties coming visible. A quiet snort leaves his lips before he became serious again. He pulled down his own basketball shorts and ripped your panties right in half.

Your wetness glimmered under the kitchen lights. He took his bottom lip in between his teeth, he lifted your legs until your knees touched your ears, “Pretty ass pussy.” He whispered. Cameron’s hand wrapped around his aching length before he slid the tip against your slit. The pre-cum mixed in with your slickness, “You ain’t hear me? Say thank you.”

“Thank you…” You say breathlessly, your heart was pounding in your chest from anticipation. A hiss left your lips as he slid inside of you. No matter how many times you both had sex you’d never get used to his girth. Cameron slid in so slow to the point where you could feel every vein sand twitch, “Ouu fuckkk.” You moaned out, your head falling back against the counter.

“There we go.” He coo’d. Then, he began thrusting in and out, his pace got faster and faster. He gripped underneath your knees to keep you in the position, “This what you wanted? Catchin’ an attitude for what? Huh? I been told you to cut that shit out.” He said through gritted teeth. His thrusts were so hard that the counter creaked underneath.

The sound of skin slapping together filled the kitchen, along with the wetness that harmonized against your moans and his groans, “Open this pussy. You hear me?” He watched as your face twisted in pleasure. Your jaw fell slack and moans left your lips like you couldn’t stop them.

“Yesss, yesss! I hear you, Cam.” You mewled, more wetness spewed from your entrance. He had never been this aggressive with you, clearly he had some built up pressure that he was finally releasing.

“That’s not me, get it right.” His hand came up to gently smack your cheek. Tears formed in the corner of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure. Your mouth opened but nothing but moaned left your lips. Cameron’s hands moved to lift up your shirt, it was like he was in a trance at the way your breasts bounced up and down.

“Okayyy, okay. I hear you, daddy. I’m listening.” Your hands scrambled to grip the end of the counter you tried to push your body upwards but that didn’t help anything. With a tsk, his hand wrapped around your neck and pulled your upper body upwards. You nipples brushed against his torso that had your back arching into him.

Cameron looked eye contact with you, his eyes held a mix of love and lust, “Don’t run from me, mama. You hurtin’ my feelings when you run from this dick. Take it like a big girl, you got it.” He pressed a kiss on your jawline, then one on your cheek, then one on your nose. Lastly, he connected your lips. Your tongues moved together simultaneously, swapping saliva while his thrusts never slowed down.

When he pulled away, a string of saliva connected you two together. Cameron’s other hand came down to rub your clit, the sensitivity made your body jerk forward, “Cammmn Cam, Cam, oh my goshhh!”

“I know baby, let it out for, daddy.”

lol thank my bf for this chapter cause boyyy I had a time last night 😭

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