moony's mind

my first language is not english, but i like to write my little stupid thoughs

[moony01234]

NSFW ALPHABET din djarin

A = Aftercare

Din is quite gentle on the aftercare, he will definitelly be spent if you guys went through a night of pleasure, and he will mostly just let you lay on his chest and cuddle you to sleep, but if it was a quickie, he must probably help you clean up carefully, give you a tiny kiss before putting his helmet back on...

B = Body part

Din loves your ass, no excuses, he enjoys to grab it, to slap it, to caress it or to pinch it to tease you during some harmless bickering, but he does love your eyes too, because he feels more seem by you than by anyone else. As for himself, he does like his hands very much, and his scars, because he knows you adore to trace them, and it makes him feel more beautiful somehow.

C = Cum

Din is not some virgin boy, so he doesn't mind pulling out before finishing and doing it somewere else, like his hand, your thighs, your stomach, as long as you don't get pregnant during a harsh moment, better. Not that he doesn't have a breeding kink, excuse me, this man is the king of babyfever, just Grogu isn't enough for him, but until you both settle somewere safe enough, Grogu and you safe and healthy is all he needs.

D = Dirty secret

Din loves when you randomly decides he deserve a headjob, and he go wild when you do, how your lips wrap around his cock in that way only you do, he gets pretty vocal.

E = Experience

Despite his stoic exterior, Djarin is quite experienced in the bedroom and knows how to please his partner thoroughly, he travelled many galaxies, so he has all kind of experiences, even being a bit hard to get.

F = Favorite position

Definitely missionary, because after he broke his creed to let you see his face, all he mostly enjoy doing is watching you without his helmet on, to see you look in his eyes when you look at his, to kiss your neck and jaw over and over while his hips piston into your tight heat.

G = Goofy

Din is not quite goofy during sex, but the goofyness come when he is asking if "You're okay?" for the 10th time and you complain about it and he gets all whiny about you don't cherishing when he is attentive with you.

H = Hair

He trims, but it will never be a clean shave, and you get used to it, because travelling galaxies constantly, you both never have much time for this type of self-higyene, neither disposable razors to use without causing some sort of rash.

I = Intimacy

Din values the intimate connection he has with you during sex and often expresses his love and affection verbally, asking if you're okay all the time, wanting you to guide him through it, and his favorite way to show his affection verbally is to use Mando'a native nicknames, like Cyare, Mesh'la, Cyar'ika and others...

J = Jack off

Since he is constantly away from home and automatically from you because you don't leave the planet with him, he misses you constantly, so when things get too heavy for him, he does it as much as to relieve tension only, because you treat him very good.

K = Kink

He likes kneading you a lot, ass, thighs, hips, he likes to grab you, to feel your soft skin on his hands, to hear your soft reactions from when he does it. He loves when you claw his back though, his shoulders and biceps, he adores to get marked like this by you.

L = Location

Din prefers to have sex in private, intimate spaces such as his own quarters or a secluded area on a ship. But it things get too much, it can happen inside a cave, against a tree, hidden beneath a bush...

M = Motivation

Din gets going by your moans alone, to your soft touches as much as your hands on his hair, to your lips on his throat... He goes wild with the back clawing thing, and he gets REALLY going when you clench around him.

N = No

Would never choke you too tight or slap too hard, with the intention of making you feel pain or excitement through fear, that's too sadistic to him, and he wants you to feel pleasure, not pained fear.

O = Oral

This man loves to make you squirm when he is munching at your pussy, because yeah, he is a muncher, and once, when you decided to try 69 with him, it nearly became his favorite position, because he could do his three favorite things in sex with you: - grab your ass - taste you - and get you to suck his cock

P = Pace

Din likes to start slow and sensual, building up to a more intense and passionate pace if it's a slow night. But if it's a quickie, he'll build up faster, and focusing on finishing mainly.

Q = Quickie

Not when the mission is too dangerous and require attentiveness.

R = Risk

Absolutely hates, the though of being caught with you by some enemy is the worst possible, because he always is prepared, and during sex, he gets extremelly vulnerable, so no, he don't take risks when it's about you.

S = Stamina

2 rounds and a cunnilingus if you're still up for it.

T = Toys

Prefer to use his cock, and is sure you do too.

U = Unfair

Din teasing is with bickering, going back and forth on filthy talking to see who folds first.

V = Volume

He is pretty vocal, but more on groans and whimpers than actual loud moans, and he talks you through it.

W = Wild card

Once he stayed so long without sex with you, that when you actually did it, he came so hard that he managed to make a whole mess around your stomach, your thighs and your tits, he managed to hit everything by just jerking his climax off.

X = X-ray

He walk like it's heavy, girls, it's definitelly big, 7 inches to more and definitelly girthy.

Y = Yearning

His sex drive is so deep that turns into actual yearning, in a genuine way, he enjoys being close to you and sex deepens this bond between you both, of him being vulnerable and helmetless around you, and you caring for him as much as he does for you.

Z = Zzz

Never sleeps before you do, and when he does, it's kinda creepy even, he doesn't even snore, just sleeps like an angel, quietly, motionless, and holding you tight against him.

[moony01234]

Back home din djarin

warnings: intimate, possible spoilers from The Mandalorian and Grogu, way too cute, din being smitten asf, kinda smutty

The hyperspace tunnel finally dissolved into streaks of blue and black, and the old gunship groaned like it, too, was exhausted.

Din Djarin sat heavily in the pilot seat, one gloved hand still on the controls while the other rubbed slowly down the front of his helmet.

Behind him came a tiny, sleepy chirp.

“I know,” Din muttered. “I’m tired too.”

Grogu blinked at him from his seat, ears drooping dramatically in betrayal.

The mission had gone wrong approximately seventeen times.

First, the Hutt they were hired to escort had attempted to betray them. Then pirates got involved. Then the Empire. Then, somehow, an exploding fuel station. Din still wasn’t entirely sure how Grogu had gotten hold of detonators.

The child made an innocent face.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

Grogu cooed louder.

Din sighed. “You’re lucky she likes you more than me.”

At that, Grogu perked up immediately, tiny claws tapping excitedly against the seat.

Home.

The ship descended through the atmosphere toward the hidden repair dock tucked deep into the canyon settlement. Warm lights glowed through the dusk, and Din felt that familiar pull in his chest the second he saw the open hangar doors.

Her.

He could already picture her standing there with grease on her hands and that unimpressed expression she always wore when he came back half-dead.

The ship landed rougher than usual.

“Easy,” Din grunted.

Grogu squealed as the ship bounced once.

The ramp lowered with a hiss.

And there she was.

Y/N stood beneath the workshop lights with a hydrospanner hanging from her belt, dark streaks of grease smeared across one cheek. One side of the docked ship behind her was still open from repairs, sparks occasionally flashing inside its exposed paneling.

Din’s heartbeat slowed instantly at the sight of her.

Stars.

Every single time.

She crossed her arms immediately. “You’re late.”

Grogu launched himself down the ramp with a happy shriek.

“Hey, my little green love—”

You barely had time to crouch before Grogu collided with your chest, climbing up you like a tiny monkey. You laughed breathlessly, kissing the top of his head while he made clingy little noises into your neck.

“Oh, I missed you too.”

Din watched silently from the ramp.

He always did that.

Watched the two of you like you were something sacred.

Your eyes finally lifted to him. “What happened this time?”

“Mission complications.”

“That means something exploded.”

“A few things exploded.”

You narrowed your eyes instantly.

Din knew that look.

“I had it under control.”

“You always say that right before you almost die.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Grogu made a very dramatic sad noise.

You looked down sharply. “What happened?”

The little traitor pointed at Din and babbled furiously.

Din actually stiffened.

“You snitch.”

Grogu barked happily.

Your expression darkened more and more the longer Din explained.

“You WHAT?”

“The Hutt wasn’t the target—”

“You took on three Imperial cruisers for a HUTT?”

“There were not three cruisers.”

“How many?”

Din paused.

“…Two.”

Your jaw dropped.

Grogu slowly hid his face against your shoulder.

“You are unbelievable.”

“It worked.”

“You got shot!”

“It barely hit me.”

“You crashed the ship!”

“We landed.”

“You are impossible to—”

Grogu suddenly grabbed your face with both tiny hands.

You stopped instantly.

The little green child pressed his forehead against yours and gave the saddest little whine imaginable.

Your anger melted so fast Din almost laughed.

“Oh, no,” you whispered, rubbing his ears gently. “You thought I was mad at you?”

Grogu nodded pitifully.

“I could never be mad at you.”

The child chirped triumphantly and immediately cuddled closer.

Din shook his head.

Manipulator.

You pointed at Din over Grogu’s shoulder. “We are continuing this argument later.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t ‘yes ma’am’ me.”

Din almost smiled beneath the helmet.

Home.

This was home.

Later that night, the ship was quiet.

For once.

Grogu had finally fallen asleep in his little bunk after demanding approximately forty-seven minutes of cuddles from both of you.

Din had taken the first real shower he’d had in days, steam still curling through the tiny fresher as he stood shirtless beside the sink.

Water rolled down scarred skin.

Old knife wounds. Burn marks. Bruises spreading dark along his ribs.

New ones.

He stared at them silently in the mirror.

The door slid open behind him.

Din looked up immediately.

You leaned against the doorway, arms folded loosely across your chest.

Your eyes traveled slowly over him.

Not teasing.

Not joking.

Just… looking.

Din suddenly became very aware of every scar on his body.

“You got hurt,” you said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that too.”

He watched your reflection approach him.

Closer.

Your fingers brushed carefully over the fresh bruising on his side, and Din inhaled sharply despite himself.

Your gaze lifted instantly to his.

There it was.

That shift.

The air changed all at once.

Din’s hand closed around your wrist before he could stop himself.

You didn’t pull away.

Neither of you spoke.

Then you kissed him.

Hard.

Like you’d been waiting for it.

Din backed you against the wall so fast the metal clanged beneath you both, his hands instantly at your waist while your fingers tangled into his damp curls.

The sound he made against your mouth was low and rough.

Hungry.

Stars, he’d missed you.

The kiss turned messy almost immediately, all breath and restrained frustration and months of near-misses between missions.

“You drive me insane,” you mumbled against his lips.

Din laughed once under his breath before kissing you again, harder this time.

“You like me insane.”

“I like you alive.”

His forehead pressed briefly against yours before his mouth found your jaw, then your neck.

You gasped softly as his hands tightened on your hips.

Without the armor, without the helmet, without all the layers between you, Din always felt overwhelming.

Large hands. Warm skin. Quiet little sounds he only made around you.

“You worried about me?” he murmured against your throat.

“You almost got yourself killed over a Hutt.”

“Mhm.”

“I should hit you.”

“Mhm.. Try me..”

Instead, your hands slid into his hair, tugging gently.

Din groaned softly against your neck, kissing lower, pressing his hips on yours while you laughed breathlessly at the sound.

“Careful,” you whispered.

“You started this.”

“You pinned me to a wall!”

“You kissed me first.”

You opened your mouth to argue—

Tiny footsteps.

Rapid little pitter-patters approaching the fresher.

Both of you froze.

Din lifted his head slowly.

The door slid open.

Grogu stood there holding his blanket.

Silence.

The child looked at Din.

Then at you pinned between him and the wall.

Then at Din’s mouth on your neck.

Grogu’s face scrunched instantly.

A tiny offended growl left him.

Like: yuck.

You burst into laughter immediately, covering your face.

Din closed his eyes in defeat.

“Kid…”

Grogu made another judgmental noise and waddled over, demanding uppies with both hands.

Just like that, the moment shattered.

Din stared down at him for a long second before reluctantly picking him up.

Grogu immediately wedged himself between the two of you possessively.

You laughed harder. “I think he’s jealous.”

“I noticed.”

Grogu glared at Din.

Din stared back.

“…I fought pirates for you.”

Grogu blinked once.

Then deliberately snuggled into your chest instead.

Little traitor.

Guys, would you like some Mando smutt??

Tell me by the comments 🙏

!!edit: i've done a mando nsfw alphabet, you can acess by this link here

[moony01234]

can we have more harry castillo! maybe how they first met?

Unexpected honesty Harry Castillo

warnings: slow burn romance, emotional and sexual tension, flirting, and implied sexual content (no explicit smut), wealth imbalance and class-based assumptions (briefly, in the luxury store scene), discussions of sex therapy and emotional vulnerability, power dynamics are present but portrayed gently and consensually.

You're not supposed to linger. That’s the rule you give yourself the moment you step into places like this—soft lighting, glass cases, sales associates dressed better than most people at weddings. You’re only here for one thing: earrings. Classic. Timeless. The kind your best friend will wear for decades and think of you every time someone compliments them.

A bridesmaid’s gift. A marriage gift. Something that says I see you without screaming money.

You lean over the display, hands clasped behind your back, studying a pair of delicate diamond studs set in gold. Understated. Elegant. Perfect.

“Those are… quite expensive,” the sales associate says, hovering too close. His smile is tight, professional in a way that isn’t warm. Assessing. “We do have similar options that are more accessible.”

You blink once. Then twice.

“I didn’t ask for similar,” you say calmly.

He chuckles, like you’ve made a joke. “Of course. I just meant—well, sometimes people are surprised at the price point.”

Sometimes people like you, he means. Flare jeans, fitted dress-shirt (with the sleeves rolled up), hair in a messy bun, your heels were usual pumps, toeless and ankle strap, not something like Jimmy Choo or D'Orsay. No visible labels. No performance.

You meet his eyes. “I’m not surprised.”

He tilts his head, unconvinced. “If you’d like, I can show you something a bit more—” he gestures vaguely “—reasonable.”

Before you can respond—before you can decide whether today is the day you let yourself be sharp—

“Sorry,” a voice cuts in smoothly. Male. Warm. Unhurried. “She’s with me.”

The associate straightens immediately, apology already loading. “Oh—sir, I didn’t realize—”

You turn.

And there he is.

Tall. Broad-shouldered without being imposing. Dressed immaculately in that effortless way men only manage when they don’t try to impress anyone—dark trousers, crisp shirt, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms dusted with dark hair. A watch glints at his wrist, clearly expensive, clearly chosen with intention.

His hair is short to medium—soft curls at the crown that look like they resist control. His nose is big in a way that gives his face character, not arrogance. There’s trimmed stubble along his jaw, a mustache that should look pretentious but somehow doesn’t. His mouth curves easily, like smiling is a habit, not a tactic.

And his eyes—focused. On you.

Not scanning. Not claiming. Just… present.

The associate turns to you now with a different tone entirely. “Of course. My apologies. Shall I wrap the earrings?”

You nod, slowly. “Yes. Thank you.”

The man beside you steps back as if he’s done his job and has no intention of taking up space he didn’t earn. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t linger. Just waits.

When the associate disappears with the box, you finally look at him fully.

“You didn’t need to do that,” you say.

He smiles, softer now. “I know, miss.”

There’s no defensiveness in it. No savior complex. Just honesty.

“I just wanted to do it... Sounded like it was about to be something stressing.”

That should irritate you.

Instead, it disarms you.

You exhale. “I had it handled.”

“I figured,” he says. “You looked like someone who does... I would have given up the earrings already.”

The associate returns, deferential now, explaining warranties and care instructions like you aren’t suddenly invisible. You pay without comment.

Outside the store, the air feels different—less curated, more real.

“You didn’t have to pretend you knew me,” you say, adjusting the bag in your hand, you still felt a bit stressed, not at him, but at the fact the associate only respected you after the man stood up for you, pretending he was with you.

“I didn’t pretend,” he replies easily. “We kinda look alike even.”

You laugh despite yourself. “That’s dangerously vague.”

He grins. It’s charming in a way that feels unfair. “I’ve been told.”

You walk together for a few steps before realizing neither of you has actually suggested it.

“I’m getting coffee,” he says, nodding toward the café across the street. “No obligation, but i'll be paying.”

You arch a brow. “You’re assuming I’d say yes.”

“I am,” he admits. “But I’d survive being wrong, maybe not, because you seem like you're very endearing.”

You study him for a moment. The confidence isn’t loud. It’s settled. Like he knows who he is and doesn’t need confirmation.

“Fine,” you say. “But I’m not thanking you again.”

“Deal.”

Over coffee, you learn his name is Harry. That he’s recently single, delivered casually but with the careful neutrality of someone who’s done processing and doesn’t want to relive it. He listens when you mention you’re a therapist—really listens—and raises his eyebrows when you clarify.

“Couples,” you say. Then, with a small smile, “And sex therapy.”

That earns a genuine laugh. “That's... Unusual, to say at least.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says, stirring his coffee, “I would have never even consider you were a sex therapist.”

You notice the watch then—the one he’d been buying for himself. Ridiculous. Beautiful. Unnecessary.

He doesn’t ask you out.

Not then.

Not even when you stand to leave.

He just says, “It was nice meeting you,” like he means it in a way that doesn’t expire after today.

Three days later, your phone lights up with an unfamiliar number.

This is Harry—from the store. I was wondering if you’d like to get dinner. No pressure. Thought I’d ask properly.

You stare at the screen longer than you should.

And somewhere, quietly, something begins.

The date night

Harry is already there when you arrive.

You notice him before he notices you—not because he’s flashy, but because he looks settled. Like he belongs in the low amber light of Nobu Downtown, like the clean lines and quiet luxury were designed to orbit him rather than impress him.

Black sweater. Soft, fitted, deceptively simple. Dark trousers. No jacket. No tie. Nothing trying too hard. He looks… comfortable. Confident in a way that doesn’t need proof.

And then he looks up.

The smile that spreads across his face isn’t restrained. It’s not calculated. It’s open, immediate, almost relieved.

“Hey,” he says, standing.

You step closer, aware—uncomfortably aware—of the way his eyes track you, not greedily, not crudely, but with the unmistakable focus of a man registering something beautiful and trying not to make it obvious.

He leans in, a casual hug that lasts exactly the right amount of time, his cheek brushing yours as he kisses the air beside it. His hand rests briefly at your upper back—warm, grounding—before he pulls away.

“You look…” He stops, then chuckles quietly. “You look really nice.”

Not stunning. Not wow. Just really nice.

It somehow lands harder.

You smile, composed. “You clean up well yourself.”

“I didn’t even try,” he says, mock-serious. “That’s my whole brand.”

He pulls your chair out for you, smooth and unhurried, and waits until you’re settled before sitting across from you. You clock it all automatically—the manners, the attention, the ease.

Careful, you remind yourself.

You’ve seen this movie before. Eighty percent of the couples you work with start with a man like this. Polished. Attentive. Performative kindness that later curdles into control.

Still… something about Harry feels different. Not softer. Just… quieter. Like he’s not acting for an audience.

The menu conversation is easy. Playful. He explains why he likes Nobu—not because it’s exclusive, but because no one bothers you, because the food speaks for itself, because he doesn’t have to be “on” here.

“I like places that let you disappear a little,” he says.

You nod. “That’s rare for you, I imagine.”

He shrugs. “I’m not as interesting as people think.”

That earns a skeptical look.

Dinner unfolds in that rare, delicious way where conversation doesn’t feel like a series of questions. You talk about books—discover you both love the same obscure author, the kind people either adore or abandon halfway through.

“Museums?” he says. “Yes. Absolutely.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a museum guy.”

“I didn’t strike myself as one either,” he admits. “Turns out I just hated history class. Worst grades I ever got.”

You laugh. “Because it was taught badly, or because you were bored?”

“Because they tried to make it about memorizing dates instead of people,” he says. “I care about why things happened.”

That… interests you more than it should.

Wine loosens the edges of the night. The light catches the embroidery of your dress, gold and shadow shifting as you move. You feel him noticing, not staring—tracking the line of your waist, the structured confidence of the silhouette.

At some point, inevitably, he circles back.

“So,” he says, resting his forearms on the table. “Sex therapist.”

You smile, already bracing. “Here it comes.”

“I’m trying to be respectful,” he says, clearly amused. “But I’m also human.”

“Dangerous combination.”

He grins. “Occupational hazard.”

He hesitates—just a beat too long for the question to be purely academic. “Does knowing everyone’s problems make you better in bed? Or does it just ruin sex forever?”

You choke on a laugh. “Wow.”

“Too much?”

“Bold,” you correct. “But not too much.”

His ears pink slightly, betraying the confidence. “I’m genuinely curious.”

You tilt your head, considering him. “It makes you… aware. Of patterns. Of communication. Of what people think they want versus what they actually respond to.”

He hums. “That sounds… dangerous.”

“For whom?”

“For anyone who underestimates you, and for myself... I mean- It’s not every day you find out your date knows more about orgasms than you do.”

You feel the heat then—not between your legs, not yet, but higher. In your chest. In the space between restraint and curiosity.

“Ah yeah?” you ask. “Why the interest for my job?”

He shrugs, casual again, but his eyes stay locked on yours. “I like knowing how things work.”

“Even sex?”

“Especially sex,” he says. Then, softer, “Especially with someone who knows what they’re doing.”

There it is. The flirt. Clean. Controlled. Intimate.

You should shut it down.

Instead, you smile slowly. “You’re very comfortable talking about this for someone who claims to be shy.”

He laughs. “I’m only shy when I care about the answer.”

That lands.

Hard.

The rest of the night hums with that tension—legs brushing under the table, shared glances, the awareness of how close his knee is to yours. He doesn’t touch you again. Not really. And somehow that makes it worse.

When he walks you out, the city feels louder by contrast.

“I had a really good time,” he says simply.

“So did I.”

He doesn’t ask to come up. Doesn’t kiss you. Just another light hug, another kiss to your cheek that feels far too intimate for how innocent it is.

“I’ll text you,” he says.

“I know,” you reply.

You watch him walk away, heart annoyingly unsettled.

Careful, you remind yourself again.

But even as you unlock your door, you already know—

Harry Castillo isn’t like the others.

And that might be the most dangerous part.

[moony01234]

Cute, Sweet and Kind pt1 Bob Reynolds

warnings: Bob Reynolds x Reader, M4F, Slow burn / hurt–comfort, PTSD & panic attack depiction, Mental health themes (rehab, trauma, meds), Emotional vulnerability & angst, Power-imbalance discussion (addressed in-fic), Physical affection & non-graphic sensuality, Fluff after angst

10 Months after the battle with Void

Everyone thought Bob Reynolds needed supervision because he was dangerous.

You knew better.

Danger was the symptom. The real problem was that Bob didn’t trust the ground under his own feet.

For ten months, your job had been to make sure the ground stayed where it was.

You’d been assigned to the New Avengers through Valentina—assistant, on paper—but everyone in the tower knew what that really meant. You were Bob’s anchor. His schedule. His reminders. His quiet check-ins. His “are you here with me?” person.

Valentina had been blunt.

“He’s emotionally traumatized,” she’d said, heels clicking against the floor as she circled you like a general inspecting a soldier. “Be very careful how you address him. He doesn’t trust easily. He always keeps one foot back.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Bob smiled easily, laughed softly, said thank you too often—but he flinched at raised voices, froze when corridors echoed too long, and dissociated so badly during early training sessions that the Void bled through the cracks.

So you stayed close.

Their routine

Mornings were meds and oatmeal. Afternoons were physical rehab—grounding exercises disguised as strength training. Evenings were therapy worksheets Bob pretended not to hate and movies he pretended not to care about.

You learned the signs.

The way his hands trembled before a panic attack. How he stopped blinking when the Void whispered. How he forgot to eat when his thoughts spiraled.

Sometimes, when it got bad—really bad—you’d sit beside him on the couch, let him curl in slightly, your shoulder solid against his chest.

Human contact grounded him.

He’d confessed that once, quietly, like it was shameful.

“When someone’s there,” he’d said, eyes unfocused, voice thin, “I can feel… Real. Like I’m not disappearing.”

So you stayed.

And Bob noticed everything.

He noticed the way you always wore soft fabrics when you knew you’d be near him all day. How you never stood behind him without announcing yourself. How you laughed with him, not at him, when he tripped over his own feet or spilled tea down his sweater.

He liked his sweaters because you liked them.

You called them “cozy.” You called him cozy once, half-asleep on the couch, his head tipped dangerously close to your shoulder.

He didn’t sleep that night.

His conversation with Bucky

The conversation happened after a rough training day.

Bob had lost control—just a flicker, barely visible—but enough to send alarms humming through the facility. He’d shut down immediately afterward, sitting on the gym floor with his knees pulled in, breathing like he was afraid air might hurt him.

Bucky had stayed with him.

Not hovering. Just… present.

Later, they sat in the empty common room, the city lights smeared across the windows like distant stars.

Bob picked at the sleeve of his sweater.

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” he said quietly.

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He leaned back, metal arm resting against the couch like it weighed nothing.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Welcome to the club.”

Bob let out a small, shaky laugh.

“It’s not— it’s not like that. I mean. It is, but… I feel this thing. Around her.”

Bucky turned his head then.

“Your assistant.”

Bob nodded, cheeks pink.

“She—she makes things lighter. Like someone opened a window in my head. I like how she listens. She doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t rush me. And she’s—” He swallowed. “She’s really beautiful. Like… unfairly. She’s way out of my league.”

Bucky watched him carefully.

Bob kept going, words tumbling now.

“But it’s not just that. It’s the way she notices when I’m fading. Or how she remembers my triggers without making it obvious. Or how she smells like clean laundry and coffee and vanilla—” He stopped, mortified. “Sorry. That was weird.”

Bucky snorted.

“Kid, if that’s the weirdest thought you’ve had, you’re doing great.”

Bob hesitated.

“This feeling. It’s… warm. Fuzzy. It makes me scared but also—happy. And I thought maybe it was like… Yelena. But it’s not. She’s like my sister. This is—” His voice dropped. “This is different.”

Bucky looked away for a moment, jaw tight.

For just a second, something old and heavy passed through his eyes—war memories, unspoken longing, a ghost named Steve Rogers that still lived in the quiet spaces.

He didn’t say it.

He just said:

“You should tell her, before is too late.”

Bob blinked.

“You think so? I—I don’t want her to think I’m a weirdo. I mean—look at me.”

Bucky turned back fully now.

“You may look a bit weird,” he said flatly, “but you’re not a weirdo, dude.”

He reached out, vibranium hand warm despite everything, and patted Bob’s shoulder.

Bob exhaled, long and shaky.

In the tower, quiet morning

The day it happened, the building felt hollow.

No team. No noise. Just the low hum of systems and the soft tap of your keyboard.

You were at your desk near the main office, reviewing reports, when you sensed him before you saw him.

Bob had a way of drifting—present but hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to exist in a space unless invited.

“Hey, Bob,” you said gently.

He smiled, small and nervous.

“Hi…”

He hovered.

You swiveled your chair.

“You need anything?”

He almost said no.

Almost turned away.

Bucky’s voice echoed in his head.

If you take too long, you might lose them.

Bob swallowed.

“Actually, yes. I— I want to tell you something important.”

You nodded, patient, open.

And Bob told you.

About the warmth. About the way you made the Void quieter. About how being near you made him feel lighter, like gravity loosened its grip. About how he thought you were beautiful, inside first, always inside first.

You smiled the entire time.

Soft. Fond.

“Oh, Bob,” you said gently. “You’re so sweet.”

His heart stuttered.

“You— you won’t… won’t say you feel the same?”

You hesitated.

“I mean… you’re cute and kind. But I don’t think it would be okay. I’m your assistant. And you’re still emotionally vulnerable.”

The silence that followed was sharp.

Bob’s smile faded.

“I’m not cute,” he said quietly.

You frowned.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You really don’t feel the same?” His voice wobbled. “Or— or are you saying no because I’m… wrong?” His hands were shaking already.

You stood, careful.

“I never said that—”

“I’m tired,” he interrupted, suddenly raw, words spilling like blood from a reopened wound. “I’m tired of being reduced to cute. Or sweet. I’m not a child who needs to be handled carefully. I’m not delicate.”

His eyes burned.

“I’m an adult. I can drink. I’ve done drugs. I feel horny and depressed and angry— I’m not even a virgin, so why—why do you look at me like that?”

You froze.

“I’m not cute, sweet, and kind, Y/N.” He said, at last.

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

In ten months, you’d known Bob as gentle. Shy. Soft. A bit awkward.

But this Bob—honest, hurting, standing tall at six feet with trauma carved into his spine—this was a man who deserved to be seen.

And before you could say anything—

He was gone.

The door whispered shut behind him.

You exhaled shakily, Valentina’s words ringing loud in your head.

He always has one foot back.

And for the first time since you met him—

You realized you’d been the one holding him at arm’s length

Bob’s Room

Bob didn’t make it far.

He shut himself inside his room, the door locking with a soft, traitorous click that sounded too loud in his head. The walls felt closer immediately. The ceiling too low. The air too thin.

He slid down the door until he was sitting on the floor, knees pulled tight to his chest, fingers digging into his sweater like it was the only thing tethering him to the present.

Breathe, he told himself. Just breathe. Count. In. Out.

It didn’t work.

His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to escape him. His hands shook so badly he had to clutch them together, nails biting into skin.

The Void didn’t rush in.

It never did.

It waited.

You ruined it.

Bob squeezed his eyes shut.

“No,” he whispered, voice barely there. “Please— not now.”

She saw you. And she didn’t want you.

His breathing fractured, sharp little gasps scraping his throat raw.

You were embarrassing. Desperate. Gross.

“I just wanted—” His voice cracked completely. “I just wanted her to see me.”

She does see you. Weak. Broken. Too much.

Bob rocked slightly, forehead pressing into his knees.

“She doesn’t hate me,” he said, desperately, like saying it enough times might make it true.

The Void laughed—low, intimate, inside his skull.

She thinks you’re a child. Something fragile. Something she has to manage.

His chest burned.

You’ll never be enough for her.

The room blurred.

Bob crawled away from the door, as far as he could get, ending up wedged into the corner beside his wardrobe. He hugged his knees tighter, arms locking around himself like he could physically hold himself together.

“I’m trying,” he sobbed. “I’m trying so hard not to— not to do anything bad. Please. Please stop.”

Why would she stay?

Why would anyone?

He pressed his hands over his ears, shaking his head.

“Stop— stop— please—”

His breaths came too fast now. Dizzy. His vision tunneling.

“I don’t want to disappear,” he cried, voice wrecked. “I don’t want to lose her. She’s all I—”

The words fell apart into broken, helpless sounds.

You and Valentina

You didn’t chase him.

That might’ve been the hardest thing you’d done in ten months.

Instead, with your heart pounding and guilt clawing at your throat, you went straight to Valentina’s office.

She didn’t look surprised when you told her.

She looked angry.

“I warned you,” Valentina said coldly, fingers steepled on her desk. “You were careless.”

“He confessed his feelings,” you shot back. “That’s not a threat.”

“He’s unstable,” Valentina snapped. “You handle unstable people carefully.”

You clenched your fists.

“No. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to be handled like glass.”

Valentina scoffed.

“He has no control over the Void.”

“And he’s still a man,” you said, voice shaking but firm. “He’s in his late twenties. He’s not a teenager. He doesn’t want to be reduced to ‘cute’ or ‘safe’ or ‘manageable.’ He wants autonomy. He wants to be seen.”

Valentina leaned forward, eyes sharp.

“And when he loses control and engulfs this building?” she said softly. “When you get hurt because you wanted to play emotional honesty?”

Your stomach dropped.

“Just remember,” she continued, voice almost pleasant, “if you die because he gets too ‘misunderstood sad puppy,’ as you put it— that’s on you.”

She stood.

“Fix it. Or stay out of the way.”

She left you alone with the echo of her heels and the awful realization that you’d let her fear shape how you treated the man you cared about.

And you were done letting that happen.

Back in the building quarters, you wen't to find him.

You didn’t knock.

You opened the door slowly, heart in your throat.

“Bob?”

No answer.

The room was dim, curtains half-drawn. The bed untouched.

Panic spiked.

Then you heard it.

A broken, hoarse whisper from the corner.

“Y/N… Help me, please…”

Your chest shattered.

You crossed the room immediately, dropping to your knees in front of him.

Bob was folded into himself, shaking, eyes red and unfocused, tears soaking into his sleeves.

“He won’t stop,” he sobbed. “Please— He won’t stop—”

You cupped his face gently, thumbs brushing his cheeks, forcing him to look at you.

“Bob,” you said softly, urgently. “Look at me. He’s not here.”

His eyes flickered.

“He’s not you,” you continued. “He doesn’t get to tell your story.”

Bob grabbed your wrists, clinging like he was afraid you might vanish.

“I don’t want to push you away,” he cried. “I really like you, Y/n. I really do. I don’t want to lose you— Please don’t leave me alone.”

You didn’t answer with words.

You pulled him into your arms.

Held him tight.

Let him sob into your shoulder, his grip almost painful, fingers digging into your back like you were the last solid thing in the world.

“It’s okay,” you whispered over and over. “I’ve got you. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, i'm right here.”

Slowly—so slowly—his breathing began to calm.

When he could sit up again, you guided him to the bed, handed him water, stayed right beside him.

He stared down at his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For… mistaking what we are.”

You took a breath.

“Bob,” you said gently. “I like you too.”

He looked up, startled.

“And when I say you’re cute,” you continued, voice steady, “I mean you’re handsome. And gentle. When I say you’re sweet, I mean you’re attentive and polite. And when I say you’re kind— I mean you care deeply about people.”

His eyes filled again.

“I don’t think you’re a child,” you said softly. “And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like one. And I’m sorry you feel depressed and angry and horny.” A small, shaky smile tugged at your lips. “That’s human.”

He swallowed.

“So… it means…?”

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “I like you too, Bob.”

He looked away, wiping his face, overwhelmed.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“Can I… can I kiss you?”

You smiled.

And nodded.

He didn’t rush it.

Bob leaned in like he was approaching something fragile—not because you were, but because the moment was. His hand hovered near your waist, uncertain, fingers twitching like he was asking permission without words.

You felt his breath first.

Warm. Shaky. Real.

When his lips finally brushed yours, it was barely a kiss at all—just a soft, testing press, like he was checking whether you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

So he tried again.

This time slower. A little firmer. His mouth moved against yours with careful intent, not clumsy, not desperate—just… attentive. Like everything he did with you.

You sighed before you could stop yourself.

That did it.

Bob’s hand found your waist, fingers spreading like he’d known exactly where they belonged. He pulled you closer—not hard, not possessive—just enough to erase the space between you.

Oh.

You hadn’t expected that.

His thumb brushed your side, absentminded, grounding himself as much as touching you. The kiss deepened, still slow, still gentle, but warmer now—charged with the realization that this was real. That you weren’t going anywhere.

Your hand slid into his hair without thinking.

It was softer than you expected.

You felt him shiver.

He let out the smallest sound—barely there—but it went straight through you.

Bob leaned back instinctively, and you followed, the kiss never breaking, until he was lying against the mattress. You climbed onto him without ceremony, knees bracketing his hips, palms resting on his chest like you needed to feel his heartbeat to believe this was happening.

He froze for half a second.

Then his hands settled on your waist again—confident now, grounding, thumbs pressing lightly as if memorizing you.

You kissed him again.

And again.

Bob’s breath hitched, his hands tightening just a little as the kiss grew messier, less careful. Not wild—just honest. Like he’d finally stopped overthinking and let himself feel.

Then, somehow—somehow—he rolled you both.

Suddenly you were on your back, Bob hovering over you, eyes blown wide like he couldn’t believe what he’d just done.

“Bob—” you started, half-laughing, half-breathless.

But he leaned down, lips brushing your jaw, then your neck, soft warm kisses pressed there like he was discovering something sacred. His hands stayed respectful, steady at your sides, but the intent was unmistakable.

You gasped despite yourself and brought your hands up, cupping his face, forcing him to stop.

“Hey— wait,” you said, breathless, a little stunned. “God—you’re… fast.”

Bob froze instantly.

“Oh— I— I’m sorry,” he blurted, cheeks burning red as he pulled back an inch. “You’re just— you’re so—”

He stopped, embarrassed.

“So…?” you prompted gently, thumb brushing his cheek.

He swallowed.

“Sweet,” he said softly.

You laughed, warm and breathless, pulling him back down by the collar of his sweater.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “You too.”

And when you kissed him again, slower this time, Bob melted into it—no Void, no fear, no glass-child carefulness.

Just two people, finally meeting in the middle.

He stayed frozen for a full five seconds after the kiss ended.

Like his brain had short-circuited somewhere between that just happened and oh god I did that.

Bob cleared his throat, face still very pink, and carefully—carefully—lowered himself until he was lying beside you. Then, after another second of deliberation, he shifted again and rested his head on your chest like it was the most natural place in the world.

Which it was.

You smiled, fingers immediately threading through his hair, slow and absentminded. He let out a soft sound—half sigh, half embarrassed noise—and buried his face just a little more, as if hoping you couldn’t see how flustered he was.

“I—uh,” he started, then stopped. Tried again. “That… escalated.”

You laughed quietly, warm and fond, fingertips scratching lightly at his scalp. “Did it?”

He nodded into you, mortified. “I mean— I thought I was gonna pass out and then suddenly I was—” He gestured vaguely with one hand. “—on top. Which I did not plan. At all.”

You hummed, amused. “Seemed pretty natural to me.”

He groaned softly, hiding his face. “Please don’t say that.”

You laughed again, playing with his hair, twisting a lock around your finger. “Relax. It was cute.”

Bob tilted his head just enough to look up at you, eyes glinting with something playful now, voice dropping to a whisper.

“I can be worse.”

You blinked.

Then giggled, genuinely, unable to help it. “No, please— my image of you is so adorable.”

He chuckled too, the sound low and warm against your chest, then leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your neck. Not rushed. Not intense. Just… there.

Your breath hitched anyway.

He pulled back just enough to speak.

“So,” he said quietly, tentative again, that familiar carefulness slipping back in. “Now we are… what? Still… possible danger and assistant?”

You winced a little at the wording, then softened, thumb brushing his cheek.

“We can be casual,” you said slowly. “For now. Just… get to know each other in the relationship part. See how it feels. How does that sound?”

Bob nodded, thoughtful, eyes never leaving yours.

“If that’s what you’re comfortable doing,” he said. Then, after a beat, softer: “But— hey. I… I wanna date you someday. When you’re okay with that.”

Your chest warmed.

“Of course,” you said gently. “So… we can be… soon-to-be lovers?”

He smiled, small but real.

“Sounds better than casual,” he said, a quiet chuckle escaping him.

You laughed. “Yeah. Wrong word choice.”

He relaxed fully then, head settling back on your chest, fingers lacing loosely with yours like he was afraid the moment might slip away if he didn’t hold onto it.

And for once—

Nothing was slipping.

would you people like a possible first time smut of bob and y/n? (edit: i've done it, its on my blog, go read it)

[moony01234]

Such a gentleman Harry Castillo

warnings: slow burn, M4F, mutual pining, unspoken feelings, emotional vulnerability, fear of commitment, romantic tension, implied sexual content (non-graphic), intimacy without explicit smut, period mention, body image / insecurity (height, surgery mention), wealthy love interest, acts of service as affection, reader insert, female!reader, hookup!harrycastillo

You never meant for it to last five months.

That was the lie you told yourself when Harry Castillo first slid a Belgian chocolate bar across the small marble table between you, like it was nothing, like it wasn’t wrapped in that imported paper you’d once mentioned loving in passing. You told yourself it was just a hookup. Elevated, maybe. Premium, definitely. But still casual.

Harry was very good at casual.

He was also very good at everything else.

Five months in, his apartment felt familiar in a way you pretended not to notice. Your shampoo had a permanent place in his shower. There was a drawer that was yours, even if neither of you had ever labeled it that. Movie nights on his couch weren’t negotiations anymore; they were routines. Sundays meant takeout and his arm draped over you, loose and warm, like it belonged there.

He never rushed you.

That was the thing.

Harry Castillo—immaculately dressed, absurdly attentive, dangerously charming—never once made you feel like you were something he was trying to win quickly. He opened doors. Pulled out chairs. Paid for dinners that came with linen napkins and waiters who knew his name. Gave you bouquets bigger than your head. He remembered how you took your coffee. He booked your nail appointments without asking, just texted you the address and time. He walked through high-end stores with a focus that surprised even the sales associates, holding up dresses he himself though you would find pretty and even like that, still asking, “Would you wear this?” like it mattered.

Lingerie shopping was his quiet indulgence. Yours too, if you were honest.

He never made it vulgar. He stood there, thoughtful, choosing textures and colors like it was art. When he paid, his hand always rested at the small of your back, grounding, possessive in a way that never crossed a line.

And you let him. Because it felt good. Because he felt safe.

Still—casual.

You kept reminding yourself of that when he showed up at your place fifteen minutes after you called at two in the morning, because you were sleepless, his hair still damp from a shower, jacket half-buttoned, concern written all over his face.

“I’m fine,” you’d said, even as you curled into him on your couch.

“I know,” he’d replied, already reaching for the blanket. “I just wanted to be here.”

You remembered the night you got your period at his place, mortified — because all indicated that you would be having sex that very same night — bracing yourself for awkwardness. Instead, when you told him, he went to the pharmacy, and came back with: painkillers, snacks, and the right tampons.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I googled,” he’d said simply. “And asked a very judgmental pharmacist.”

You laughed so hard it almost hurt.

Then there was the surgery.

He told you about it one night over wine, voice careful but honest. About having done it by wanting to be taller. About confidence. About how people saw him—and how he saw himself.

You’d listened. Really listened.

“I think I would’ve fallen in love with the short you,” you’d said softly.

Harry hadn’t spoken for a long moment after that. Just stared at you like you’d rearranged something inside his chest.

Still—casual.

That was the word you clung to, because naming anything else felt dangerous. Men like Harry didn’t want commitment, you told yourself. Not really. Not when they could have anything.

So you never asked.

And he never said.

The night it finally happened was painfully ordinary.

No candles. No grand gesture. Just your bedroom, soft lamplight, and the two of you tangled in sheets that smelled like him. Sex with Harry was never rushed, never careless, always warm kisses, angled thrusts, right touches and soft moans—but afterward was your favorite part. When the world quieted and he turned gentle in a way that felt unguarded.

You lay on your stomach, cheek pressed into your pillow. Harry traced idle patterns along your back, fingertips slow, thoughtful.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“Always,” you murmured.

“I was thinking pasta. That place nearby.”

You smiled. “The one with the terrible chairs?”

“The very same.”

Silence stretched. Comfortable. Heavy.

Then, quietly, like it slipped out without permission, he said, “I don’t want to do casual anymore.”

You froze.

Not dramatically. Just… stopped breathing for half a second.

Harry noticed immediately. He always did. His hand stilled.

“I’m not—” he started, then stopped himself, swallowing. “I’m not trying to corner you, really, it's just— I can't pretend that I don't feel more, because i do feel more, way more than i should.”

You rolled onto your side, heart pounding. “Harry…”

He exhaled, a humorless huff. “I’ve been trying to convince you for months without saying it out loud.”

“Convince me of what?”

“That I’m not just… passing time.” His voice dropped. Honest. Bare. “That I want you. Not in a temporary way.”

Your chest tightened.

He sat up slightly, bracing his weight on one arm, eyes fixed on you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he looked away.

“I didn’t say anything because I thought it would scare you off,” he admitted. “You’re so careful. And I didn’t want to be the guy who ruined a good thing by asking for more.”

You laughed softly, breathless. “That’s… ironic.”

“Yeah,” he said, a little smile breaking through. “I’m realizing that.”

He reached for your hand, tentative for the first time since you’d met him. “I love you,” he said. No theatrics. No performance. Just truth, laid gently between you. “And I’m really bad at pretending I don’t.”

Your throat burned.

“I love you too.” You whispered softly, touching his fingers.

Harry’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I’ve been trying to date you without saying the word ‘date’ for five months.”

You laughed through the emotion. “Such a gentleman.”

He smiled, soft and relieved and devastating. “Only with you.”

He leaned down, forehead resting against yours, breath warm. “We don’t have to rush anything,” he said. “I just needed you to know. I needed to stop pretending.”

You kissed him then—slow, certain, full of all the unspoken moments that finally had a name.

For the first time, you didn’t call it casual.

And neither did he.

[moony01234]

Insomnia steven grant

warnings: TW night terrors/nightmares/insomnia, fluff, comfort oneshot, M4F, female!reader, boyfriend!steven

Of all the things that came with dating Steven Grant—soft smiles, awkward jokes, museum facts whispered at the worst possible times, the way he held your hand like it was something precious he might drop—there was only one thing that ever truly scared you.

His insomnia.

Being with Steven was easy in the way breathing was easy. He was kind without trying, gentle without expecting praise for it. He remembered how you liked your tea, always warmed his hands before touching your face, apologized when he bumped into furniture that very clearly attacked him first. Almost perfect, really.

Almost.

Because when the lights went out and the city quieted, Steven’s mind didn’t follow. It stayed awake, pacing, gnawing at itself. Some nights it felt less like sleeplessness and more like something cruel he did to himself—eyes rimmed red, fingers twitching, body exhausted but refusing rest. As if sleep were a door he no longer trusted enough to open.

Tonight was one of those nights.

You woke to a soft, repetitive click-clack sound, faint but persistent. Not loud enough to be alarming—just irritating enough to pull you out of a half-dream.

Click. Twist. Click.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Steven sat on the edge of the bed, hunched slightly, elbows resting on his knees. A Rubik’s cube turned in his hands, movements quick but unfocused, like he wasn’t actually trying to solve it—just keep his hands busy.

“Stevie…” your voice was thick with sleep, a quiet mumble against the pillow. “D’you know what time it is?”

He flinched like he’d been caught doing something wrong, shoulders jumping a little. The cube paused mid-turn.

“Oh—! I’m sorry, love, I didn’t mean to wake you.” He twisted around to look at you, eyes wide and apologetic. “I’ll stop, I swear.”

You sighed, rubbing your eyes as you pushed yourself up on one elbow. “You already woke me,” you said, not unkindly. “What’s the matter?”

Steven hesitated. That was always the tell. He pressed his lips together, gaze dropping to the cube in his hands. When he looked back up, he wore it—that expression that made your chest ache every time.

The abandoned puppy face.

“I… couldn’t sleep,” he admitted softly. “Haven’t been able to for a while now. Thought I might, you know, distract myself a bit. Didn’t think it was that loud.”

You felt your annoyance melt instantly, replaced by something warmer and sadder. You reached out, fingers brushing his arm. “Steven,” you murmured. “You look exhausted.”

He gave a small, self-deprecating huff of a laugh. “Yeah, well. That’s sort of the theme lately.”

You sat up fully now, sheets pooling around your waist. “I can make you some hot chocolate,” you offered gently. “Help you relax a bit.”

He shook his head immediately. “No, no, that’s alright. Don’t want to put you through all that trouble.”

“It’s hot chocolate, Steven.”

“I know, but still.”

“What if I add marshmallows?” you tried, arching a brow.

He cracked the tiniest smile, then shook his head again. “Tempting. Very tempting. But no.”

You studied him for a moment, really looked. The tightness around his eyes, the way his leg bounced restlessly. “Did you take your pills?” you asked quietly.

His smile vanished.

“No,” he said, just as quietly. “Didn’t want to.”

You didn’t push. You never did—not right away. Instead, you shifted closer and gently took the Rubik’s cube from his hands, setting it aside on the nightstand. Then you opened your arms.

Steven hesitated only a second before leaning into you, allowing you to pull him back against your chest. You wrapped yourself around him, chin resting against his hair, arms snug and warm. He let out a shaky breath, tension melting as he sank into your hold.

“They make it worse,” he confessed, voice muffled against you. “The nightmares. The night terrors. I wake up feeling like I’ve been running for hours. I just… didn’t want that tonight.”

You pressed a kiss to his temple, thumb rubbing slow circles over his arm. “I know,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”

He relaxed a little more, fingers curling into your sleeve like he was afraid you might disappear. You held him tighter.

“Tell me, then,” you murmured softly, voice heavy with care. “What do you need, Stevie…?”

There was a pause. You felt him think about it—really consider it. Then, almost sheepishly:

“…I think,” he said, clearing his throat, “I want the hot chocolate. With marshmallows.”

You smiled into his hair, heart swelling. “Good choice.”

You shifted carefully, keeping one arm around him even as you reached for the blanket. “Stay right here. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

He nodded, finally letting himself sink back against the pillows, eyes already a little heavier as you moved away.

And when you returned—mug warm, marshmallows floating happily on top—you found Steven waiting for you, Rubik’s cube untouched, gaze soft and grateful.

Some nights, love wasn’t fixing the problem.

Some nights, it was hot chocolate, marshmallows, and holding him until sleep felt safe again.

So Steven accepted the mug with both hands like it was something fragile, something important. The warmth seeped into his palms immediately, shoulders dropping a fraction as he lifted it to his lips. He took a careful sip.

“…That’s really good,” he murmured, surprised every time, like you hadn’t made it for him a hundred times before. “Perfect temperature.”

You smiled softly and shifted back against the headboard. After a second, you patted your lap.

Steven didn’t need to be told twice. He moved closer, curling into you sideways, his shoulder pressing into your stomach, one knee tucked up as he settled. You waited until he’d taken another sip before lifting your hand to his hair.

His curls were a little tangled—sleep-ruffled, fingers having worried at them earlier without him noticing. You slid your fingers in gently, slowly untangling them, smoothing and separating each curl with careful patience.

Steven melted.

His breath stuttered softly, tension leaving him all at once as his head tipped back just enough to give you better access. “Oh,” he breathed. “That’s… that’s really nice.”

You continued, unhurried, nails grazing lightly over his scalp. “You okay?”

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, voice already slower. Lifting his head a bit to not spill, he took another sip of the hot chocolate, marshmallow brushing his lip. You laughed quietly and wiped it away with your thumb, and he smiled—sleepy and fond.

For a moment, there was only the quiet of the room and the steady rhythm of your fingers in his hair. Then Steven spoke again, voice drifting.

“Did you know,” he started softly, “the ancient Egyptians believed dreams were messages from the gods? Proper messages. Like… you were meant to listen to them.”

You made a small, encouraging sound, fingers continuing their slow, grounding path through his curls.

“They even had dream temples,” he went on, words stretching out lazily now. “People would sleep there on purpose. Try to invite certain dreams. Always thought that was brave. Letting yourself be that open.”

His grip on the mug loosened, so you gently took it from him and set it aside. He didn’t protest—just shifted closer, cheek resting against your chest, breath warm through your shirt.

“There’s this god,” he continued, barely above a whisper, “Bes. Little guy. Protector of homes. Children. Scared nightmares away.” A faint smile curved his lips. “People kept him near their beds. Thought he’d guard them while they slept.”

Your fingers slowed, cradling his head more than combing now.

“I like that,” you whispered.

“Me too,” Steven murmured, already halfway gone. “Feels… comforting. Like someone’s watching over you.”

His breathing evened out gradually, words dissolving into silence. You kept playing with his curls, smoothing them back, grounding him the way you always somehow managed to do.

“…You’re better than the pills,” he mumbled sleepily. “You don’t give me bad dreams.”

Your chest ached at that.

You kissed the crown of his head, arms tightening around him just enough to remind him you were still there. “Sleep, Stevie,” you whispered. “I’ve got you.”

And this time, he let himself rest.

Steven fell asleep curled against you, curls loose beneath your fingers, mind quieted by warmth, soft touches, and stories of gods who chased nightmares away. The night stayed calm. The Rubik’s cube remained forgotten on the nightstand.

And for once, sleep felt safe.

look at this lil hands bro 😭 i cant write a smut of this man, he way too cute

[moony01234]

Sexy Heater

warnings: explicit smut, temperature play (warmth/heat), dirty talk, teasing, soft dominance, fiery climax (literally), slight humor, and domestic fluff/smut fusion.

INSIDE AN NICE APARTMENT IN MANHATTAM

The cold had no mercy today. Even buried under a pile of heavy blankets in your flannel pajamas, you still felt like your bones were made of icicles. You were curled up in bed, trembling under the covers, nose pink, toes frozen despite fuzzy socks.

Beside you, Johnny Storm looked like summer itself. Bare chest on display, tousled hair, cheek pressed to the pillow like he hadn’t a care in the world.

And not even a goosebump on that annoyingly perfect skin.

“Johnny,” you groaned, your voice muffled by layers of blanket and frustration. “I’m freezing...”

He cracked one eye open lazily, a smug smile already curling on his lips. “You really saying that to me right now?” His voice was thick with sleep and that damned cocky charm.

You shot him a look. “You know what I mean.”

He stretched like a cat, flexing just enough for you to see every line of muscle under warm golden skin. “Come here,” he murmured, lifting the blanket with one hand, exposing a long arm and his bare torso, heat rolling off him like a furnace.

You scooted over, and the second your skin met his, your body sighed. He was warm, comforting. Delicious.

“Mmm,” you murmured, letting your face rest against his chest. “God, you’re better than a heater.”

“Told you.” His palm slid along your back, fingertips barely skimming the edge of your pajama shirt. “Deluxe edition. Hot skin, hotter moves.”

You laughed, but it was soft—laced with the kind of warmth only he could give you.

Then he spoke, lower, closer to your ear.

“Want me to warm you up properly, baby?”

You tilted your head up slightly. “How properly are we talking?”

His smile turned wicked.

“Take the pajamas off,” he whispered, his voice all silk and sin. “I’ll heat you from the inside out.”

Your breath hitched. “Johnny…”

His hand dipped under the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your stomach. “Let me melt you,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded now, pupils dilating. “Let me fuck the cold out of you, sweetheart.”

You shivered, and it wasn’t from the weather.

“I can make it slow…” His hand slid up, cupping one breast, his thumb grazing over your nipple—already pebbled under the fabric. “Or fast. Hard. Deep.” His voice dropped, dark and smooth. “You tell me how you want it. Either way, you’re getting all of me.”

You whimpered, body aching, his heat soaking into your core.

“I want you,” you whispered back. “Just don’t burn my sheets.”

“I’ll behave,” he murmured, “unless you beg me not to.”

You let him peel the layers off you, one by one. Pajama top, socks, pants—every inch of skin exposed to the air made you gasp, but then he was there, mouth on you, hand guiding you closer to the center of the bed, and his body heat was like liquid gold against your naked skin.

His lips trailed fire down your neck, collarbone, breasts. He took his time, worshipping with soft, open-mouthed kisses and delicious heat between each one. “Look at you,” he muttered against your chest. “All goosebumps and soft sighs. You're so fuckin’ sexy like this. Cold and needy.”

His hands—hot, skillful—gripped your thighs and parted them slowly, reverently. You felt him settle between them, heat focused and heavy.

You moaned as he pressed against your core, the tip of his cock teasing, teasing…

“Johnny,” you panted, “I'll start freezing again if you keep teasing—”

His smirk was sinful. “Don’t worry, love…” he growled, pushing in slowly, “I can Flame On right between your legs.”

You gasped, nails raking down his arms. “Asshole,” you whispered, smiling through the moan.

“You love it.”

He began to thrust—deep, slow strokes at first, heat blooming with every movement. Not just his cock, but his body was warming you inside out. You were melting, unraveling under every kiss and every teasing word.

You were barely keeping yourself tethered to reality.

Johnny’s cock dragged against your walls like he owned them— his skin was searing against yours, but not in a painful way. It was comforting. Electrifying. Like dipping into a volcano made just for you.

His mouth was at your ear again, the rasp in his voice turning deliciously dangerous.

“God, baby… you’re gripping me so tight,” he growled, rolling his hips into yours with practiced ease. “You that needy? That cold? Or do I just make your pussy ache like that?”

You whined, too breathless to answer. Your nails dug into his shoulders, and he grinned, loving every desperate little twitch of your body beneath him.

“I think you like being fucked by fire, don’t you?” he purred. “You need this heat. My heat.”

He pulled out just far enough to make you whimper and snapped back inside with a powerful thrust that had your thighs shaking.

“I can feel you,” he murmured against your neck. “Every squeeze. Every flutter. You’re so wet for me now, sweetheart... didn’t take much.” He grinned wider, nipping your earlobe. “Guess that theory about the cold not getting you wet was a fuckin’ lie.”

You moaned loudly at that, back arching, legs spreading wider in invitation.

Johnny’s hand slid up your body, fingers curling around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, reminding you who was in control. His warmth there pulsed into your skin, making your nipples tighten and your breath catch in your throat.

“You’re shaking, baby. You gonna come for me already?” His thumb stroked your jaw, gentle despite the filth in his voice. “So sensitive. Bet you’d come again if I just talked to you the right way.”

His hips ground in slow, agonizing circles, the head of his cock dragging perfectly over that spot inside you that made your vision blur.

“You love the way I fill you,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek. “How deep I get… how hot it is inside you.” Another thrust, this one harder. “You take it like such a good girl. You’re mine when I’m like this, huh?”

Your response was a breathless gasp, your voice wrecked. “Yes—fuck, yes, Johnny—”

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” you moaned. “All yours, Johnny.”

“Damn right,” he growled, thrusting again. “This pussy’s fuckin’ perfect—swallows me whole every time like you need me to survive.”

You were already teetering on the edge, but his mouth moved to your breast again, tongue swirling around your nipple, heat radiating from him like a furnace—delicate, controlled, but intense. You could feel it building in your belly, in your spine, in the tremble in your legs.

He kissed his way up to your mouth again, lips hot and slow, then murmured against your kiss:

“Come for me, baby. I wanna feel it. I want you to melt around me.”

You obeyed, your orgasm hitting you hard, your body arching, vision whiting out as pleasure rushed through you like a tidal wave of molten bliss. You cried his name—ragged and raw.

And just as he came, deep inside you, pulsing and groaning into your skin—you noticed it again.

Smoke.

Tendrils curling from his messy hair, glowing embers blooming softly at the edges like tiny suns.

You giggled breathlessly, drunk on pleasure. “Johnny, my love… You’ll activate the smoke alarm again…”

He gave a wrecked, cocky laugh, still buried deep in you, hips slowing but refusing to leave your body.

“Can’t help it,” he panted, voice hoarse, breathless. “Flame on, baby.”

You both collapsed into the mattress, bodies tangled, sheets damp with sweat and heat—but not a trace of cold left anywhere.

His palm stayed flat on your belly, heat sinking into your core like he was trying to keep the warmth there forever.

And maybe he was.

..............................................................................................................................

BONUS

INT. BAXTER BUILDING – REED’S LAB

A chunk of alien rock hovered midair, rotating slowly inside a suspension field while Reed Richards used a telescoping tool to gently extract glowing fragments from it. He wore protective goggles, ten fingers now twenty, all elongated and multitasking with impossible precision.

Behind him, Johnny Storm sat on a stool spinning in slow circles, chewing gum like a bored teenager.

“Reed,” Johnny started, “can I ask you for a favor?”

Reed didn’t look up. “If it involves you blowing up another drone with your ‘special effect’ videos again, the answer is no.”

“No no. It’s not that. It’s serious.” Johnny stood, arms crossed. “I need you to make me a pair of fireproof sheets.”

Reed paused mid-extraction. “…Come again?”

“You know, like my suit! Something that won’t ignite when I get a little too into things with my girl.”

Reed sighed. “Johnny, the suit is made of unstable molecules. It's designed for combat, not carnal acts.”

“I’m just saying—there's collateral damage,” Johnny continued, dragging a hand down his face. “Like last week? We were just kissing—clothes on, Reed—and boom. Her panties? Gone. I melted them clean off. Twice.”

Reed turned around slowly. “You’re telling me... you burned through her underwear during foreplay?”

“I didn’t mean to! But the girl rides me like a freakin’ Valkyrie, and when she’s all tight and wet and her thighs are locked around me and I’m trying not to go full solar flare—”

“JOHNNY.” Reed’s hand snapped up, palm out. “My boy. I love sex, okay?”

Johnny blinked. “You do?”

Reed nodded solemnly. “Me and Sue broke a bed once. Hydraulic frame. Titanium legs. Gone. I’ve done things with Sue that would make your hair curl—”

“Too late. Already curly.”

“—but I don’t need your play-by-play on how you rail your girlfriend like a heated jackhammer, thank you very much.”

Johnny snorted. “You said rail.”

Reed pinched the bridge of his nose. “Have you even considered the biological ramifications of what you’re doing? You get hotter when you're aroused. You know your body can reach supernova temperatures.”

Johnny tilted his head. “I keep it under control! Mostly.”

Reed deadpanned. “Mostly?! Johnny, the human body regulates at 37 degrees Celsius. A fever is already dangerous. You? You're packing literal internal combustion. And even if it feels fine to you, she’s not flame-resistant. Are you monitoring her skin for redness, sensitivity, any signs of burns?”

Johnny’s eyes widened. “No. Should I be?! She said she liked how warm it is!”

“She also wears sunscreen, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah, but for outdoor stuff!”

Reed sighed and gestured toward a whiteboard. “You need flame-reduction strategies. I’ll draft a prescription list. Flame-dampening serum. Microfiber weave sheets. Possibly a thermal-displacing lubricant. And no flaming-on during sex, even if it’s controlled.”

Johnny held up his hands. “Fine, fine. No more sex flare-ups. Geez.”

A long pause followed.

Then Johnny asked, slowly:

“So… about you and Sue.”

Reed frowned. “What about me and Sue?”

“You stretch.”

“I do.”

“You use it… in the bedroom?”

Reed blinked. “Johnny.”

“Come on,” Johnny said, leaning in like a kid at summer camp asking about boobs. “I’m 7 inches and I’m not ashamed—but I feel like you could literally become a slip 'n slide of dreams.”

Reed stammered, affronted. “First of all, seven inches is—”

“Average. Yeah, yeah, you said that last week and I’m still hurt. But please, don’t dodge me. I’m begging you. Do you stretch your c—”

“Johnny.”

Sue Storm’s voice sliced through the air like a goddess descending in slow motion.

They both whipped around.

She stood in the doorway of the lab, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, like she’d walked in just in time for the last five syllables.

She walked over to Reed slowly and placed a soft, possessive hand on his chest.

“Johnny,” she said coolly, “he doesn’t need to stretch.”

Johnny’s soul left his body.

Reed turned redder than Johnny’s flames. “Susan…”

She winked at Johnny.

Johnny blinked. “...okay.”

Then whispered, “…respectfully, damn.”