#[conversation in the dark | musings]

[st-just]

Less Boring 40k Demon Prince Ideas than 'Bigger Angrier Chaos Space Marine'

Unspeakably ancient eldar who was one of the decadent hubristic imperial magnates so good at murderogries they caused the birth of Sleanesh, happily sold out the rest of the species

Sisters of Battle canoness/living saint who was actually genociding people for Khorne instead of the Emperor (took multiple campaigns for anyone to notice, very embarrassing)

Demon Prince of Nurgle that literally is a zombie apocalypse plague, their consciousness distributed throughout the Resident Evil/Left4Dead-style horde and monstrous mutatioons

A Sauron-among-the-Numenoreans disciple of Tzeetch, appears as a normal looking charismatic savant genius who shows up and givens a world's leaders everything they need to start a glorious new golden age (eventual rebellion and/or disastrous collapse can be assumed)

Corrupted machine spirit of a titan (with bonus entire crew of the titan still eternally bound within it)

Just like, any aliens tbh.

[liroyalty]

A masterclass in getting modern Sue to wind down & glow a little.

[ciaervo1]

Google Bard: "Who was Estraven?"

Today I was given access to try out Google Bard. I asked it "Who was Estraven?" and it gave me the following little book report:

Therem Harth rem ir Estraven is a fictional character in Ursula K. Le Guin's 1969 novel The Left Hand of Darkness. Estraven is a Gethenian, a member of an androgynous species that is capable of changing sex at will. He is the Prime Minister of Karhide, one of the two major nations on Gethen.

Estraven is a complex and fascinating character. He is intelligent, capable, and loyal. He is also deeply cynical about politics and the human condition. However, he is also capable of great compassion and understanding.

Estraven plays a key role in the novel. He is the one who helps Genly Ai, the envoy from the Ekumen, to understand Gethen and its people. He is also the one who helps Genly to achieve his mission, which is to unite the two nations of Gethen.

Estraven is a tragic figure. He is ultimately betrayed by those he trusts and he dies alone and in exile. However, he is also a heroic figure. He is willing to sacrifice everything for what he believes in, and he ultimately succeeds in his mission.

Estraven is a memorable and important character in The Left Hand of Darkness. He is a complex and fascinating individual who plays a key role in the novel. He is a character who will stay with you long after you have finished reading the book.

[galarsghxst]

  That name sounds familiar. Something whispered in a dream, maybe? Something in between the light and dark? Not a waking name.

  You’re wrong. They are who deemed us unfit to rest peacefully. To slip into the darkness, quietly.

  

  They made a game of us. You’re a game. I am a game.

[eyehq]

okay, but your rules also say bipoc specifically, several times. i’m just trying to understand, bc you’re using bipoc and poc as if they mean the same thing on your page. bipoc means specifically black or indigenous. i’m not trying to be rude, it’s just unclear. your rules page vs. your ask answers are confusing. sorry!

again, we know what bipoc means and apologize if it looks like we're using them interchangeably and we'd be more than happy to rectify the rules so they're a little clearer. i'm mobile right now and my coadmin is at work, so neither of us can hop on to change what they say at the moment but our answer's still the same. if you intend to bring one muse, you simply cannot bring a white person. they have to be either poc or bipoc. thank you for trying to clarify though!

edit: co admin here to clarify !! we do not use these interchangeably on our page. our rules state that we prioritise characters of colour and therefore muns may only have one white character. additionally, of their (multiple) muses, muns must play one black or indigenous person of colour - i believe this is where the confusion stems from. the only other time we mention bipoc in our rules is to state that if you use a black or indigenous fc and change fc, the new fc will also have to be black or indigenous. additionally in this rule we clarify the same is expected for other poc. hope this helps clear things up for you < 3

[scottsanchez]

SCOTTY SANCHEZ TAG DROP+

[whinesandwhimpers]

down bad simon may look a little like this

You've stepped outside for some fresh air so when Simon walks out a few minutes after you and lights up a cigarette, your face immediately scrunches up in disgust.

He catches your expression. "Not a fan of smoking?"

"Came out for some fresh air."

"Hm, seems like more than that." He muses, turning his head away to blow out some smoke.

"I just think it's gross."

He's silent for a few moments and you think maybe he's offended even, but then he turns back to you and clears his throat.

"That one of your deal breakers then?"

"Deal brea—yeah. It is. Don't think I could bring myself to even kiss a smoker. Why? You interested?" You joke, expecting a laugh and dismissal of the conversation.

He immediately throws his cigarette on the ground and snuffs it out with his shoe, then walks over to the bin and pulls the half-full carton out of his pocket and throws it and his lighter out. Just like that. He walks back over to stand in front of you, his large hand coming up to rest on your cheek, an intensity simmering in his dark eyes as he looks at you.

"Yes."

[nyctophiliac-muse-alafire]

[scottysanchezs]

TAG DROP +

[serabellyms]

[liroyalty]

When you are still very sure that Tiger's Eye is still the gem half of the watchers of The Jewelry Box call 'a bitch'.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

MW2 Reaction to You Being A Virgin

Warnings: 18+, Implications of Smut, Corruption Kink, Purity Kink, Innocence Kink, Ownership Kink, Age Gap, Implied Slight Yandere Graves Inexperience, Objectification, Dominant MW2, Soft MW2, Gaz is anxious :-( but trying his best, MW2 Trying To Be Smooth, Profanity, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except ‘You’.

Ghost

The fact that you, innocent, are his to love and corrupt sends white-hot anticipation between his legs.

He’s imagined what you’d be like in bed: how you’d take him, the sounds you’d make. Of course he has – practically everyone on Base has.

But now, his fantasies are tinged with something feral. A primal need to show you that he is the best choice for you (even if he doesn’t believe it himself) – the only one strong enough and skilled enough to be yours and to make you his.

He’s fantasised about you looking up at him with doe eyes while he pins your wrists to the mattress, voice meek as you tell him, as if it’s a secret, that you’ve “Never done this before…”

He can’t live without it. The fact that he can – will – be your first time. Satisfy you in ways nobody else will ever be able to compete with.

He’d never admit it, but a dark part of him has plagued him with ideas of ravaging and corrupting you, about making your first time so pleasurable and carnal that nobody will ever be able to satisfy you as he can.

“Don’t worry, Sweetheart,” he tells you, taking your chin between his fingers. He lowers his lips to your ear. You don’t see the dark gleam in his eye. Don’t see the deliciously dark idea cross his mind – the impulse to fuck you so hard that you won’t be able to feel anything, nevermind pain. And he makes a promise to you anyway.

“I’ll take care of you.”

König

“Thought as much.” König’s words are blunt yet sharp.

“Seeing as you have everyone wrapped around your finger, it’s clear you have no regard for the way you conduct yourself.”

You may construe König’s words as mean. Derogatory, even. He means it as a compliment. Even if you don’t know it yet.

“You think I don’t see the way you flaunt yourself in front of the soldiers – thinking that you’ll be able to get away with it without consequence.”

König’s frame towers over you. His gaze is ice, and any trace of the socially anxious soldier you knew is gone.

“I wonder how you like it.” he muses aloud. His voice is tinged with something unreadable. Venomous.

“How you’ll take it. Rough, gentle…” His eyes narrow.

“Mean.”

He’s boxed you in with his stature alone.

“Makes no difference to me,” he tells you. Deceptively calm. And then, an offer. One you can’t refuse.

“I’ll fuck you every which way until I find what makes you scream the loudest.”

Soap

“Oh, really?” he says, eyebrow quirked and a hidden smile teasing his lips.

Johnny really couldn’t care less that you’ve never had sex before. But, the fact that you shared this information with him – albeit after he steered the conversation towards more…intimate topics – gave him hope that you were hinting towards something.

Something that Johnny’s wanted since he realised he was massively, whorishly down bad for you.

From his position opposite you, against the kitchen counter, he takes a step forward.

“I suppose you’re not very experienced then, are you?”

He advances until he’s in front of you. A wolf and a lamb. Close enough that you can smell his cologne.

His eyes are piercing, but there is a softness behind them. Something that writhes and wants and needs.

His hands come to rest upon the counter behind you. Nowhere for you to run. The heat from his body is scorching.

“Though, I’d be more than happy to…” His voice husks. “Beef up your résumé.”

Valeria

Corruption kink to the MAX

Valeria is a territorial, dominant woman – that much is easy to see.

And the fact that you haven’t had anyone else before her just does something to her.

Alters her brain chemistry permanently.

There’s not one soldier, police officer or government official she doesn’t own in Las Almas.

So why shouldn’t she own you, too?

Now she’s thinking of every conceivable way she’s going to take ownership of you.

She thinks about it so often that she struggles to complete her paperwork without having to disperse the issue before she can continue.

But be warned: there will come a day when satisfying herself just won’t cut it. When she’s going to seek you out and ruin you.

“It might hurt at first, mi Amor,” she tells you, hand stroking your cheek, coming down to your jaw. “But trust me when I say that–”

Her hand grips your jaw. Tight. A viper’s strike. A fire burns in her eyes and the corners of her lips curl up in a cruel smile.

“I’ll make it hurt a whole lot more if you don’t do as I say.”

Price

Given his age, Price has had his fair share of experiences.

But that doesn’t harden him to the simple fact that you haven’t.

In his eyes, there’s something endearing about how you’ve yet to give yourself to another person.

Another person that, he hopes, will someday be him.

The idea makes something in him stir. The fact that the difference between your age and his makes him that much more confident in his ability to please you in ways no mere boy can makes him anxious to act.

“Oh. Is that right, Love?” He says, eyes light and his smile dangerous.

“S’ppose you’re waiting for the right person.” His posture is inviting. Tempting. Belies the rush he’s feeling — the desire to have you at his mercy in the most carnal sense.

“Pretty little thing like you, you could have your fill of men.”

He’s angling for something. His face says it all.

He steps towards you. Again. Again. He’s in front of you.

His chest is almost to yours. His smile is shallow now. Strained. Like his pants.

“Probably looking for someone with experience.”

He thrives on the way your chest flutters. His does, too, but it’s masked beneath a  heavy stare.

“And trust me, Love,” his voice is low. A message for you and you alone as he brings his lips to your ear, breath hot against your skin.

“I’ve got plenty to spare.”

Horangi

You don’t hear it for his mask, but Horangi lets out a shuttered breath.

“That’s why you’re always so quiet when sex talk comes up.”

He says it as a fact, but you take it as a question. You nod.

Horangi’s arms unfurl from his chest, come to rest at his sides. He’s looking at you.

Even through the layers of his mask, his gaze is heavy. Leaden.

He steps towards you. His frame, broad, fills your vision.

You can hear how heavy his breathing has become. How thick the air is.

How much he’s trying to restrain himself.

“How about a deal,” he proposes. Commands.

“You give me something to have a nice, long, hard think about,” his hips are to yours. You feel him pressing against you.

“And I’ll give you something to talk about.”

Alejandro

“You surprise me, mi amor,” he says, natural as anything. As if he already knew.

“I’d have thought someone would have swooped in and claimed you by now.”

Truth be told, Alejandro wanted to be that somebody so badly that it made him ache in places he’d rather not think about. Especially when you’re already making containing himself incredibly difficult with that pouting, wide-eyed, innocent look.

God, you had no idea what you were doing to him.

“Or…are you saving yourself for someone specific?”

Before you, his frame is broad and imposing even without all his military gear on.

He takes your chin between his fingers. Tilts your head so your gaze can’t escape his. A shiver runs up his spine at the sound of your breath stuttering.

His words aren’t rhetorical. He’s pulled the answer from you – seen it in your eyes.

“Or are you just waiting for a man who knows how to take care of you?”

Rodolfo

“O-oh!” Rudy chokes out. His cheeks are already giving way to a telltale pink. He tries to cover it.

“But– you’re so pretty and smart and kind – I thought you’d have a boyfriend by now!”

In some ways, Rudy’s a bit of a traditionalist: his mind still jumps to the idea that you’d typically only be intimate with someone you’re already in a relationship with.

Not that he’d judge you if this were not the case for you.

But he sees his chance. And he takes it.

“Well, if you’re not with anyone, then…would you like to go out sometime? With me?”

His eyes are wide and filled with hope – something you’d never have expected from a  man in such a brutal line of work.

Sex is the last thing on his mind right now: truly, he’s so taken in with the idea that you’re single and available that your sexual status means very little to him.

Though, that isn’t to say he hasn’t thought about you like that before, or that he hasn’t spent many a night with his face smothered with pillows as your name escapes from between his lips, panting, moaning.

That’s a little secret for you to uncover later in your relationship…

Graves

“So you’re tellin’ me that no one’s had the privilege of fuckin’ that pretty little ass of yours?”

Graves sure has a way with words.

For all his slimy business practices, this is the one time he’s genuinely surprised. Unable to be slick.

He puts his game face on. Gives you a half-lidded stare and lowers his voice. His heart hammers: he conceals it behind a cool tone.

“Well, colour me impressed, Angel,” he says. A hand comes to the hem of your shirt, takes it between slow, intentional fingers. He has to resist the urge to look at your chest when he pulls the fabric taut.

“And here I was thinkin’ I already knew everything about you.”

He’s moving in before you can analyse his statement. Before you can begin to understand how badly this man has lusted after you – how deeply entrenched in your life he’s become. And all without you knowing.

He places a hand on the wall behind you. Presses himself closer to you.

“How much to let me be the first,” he drawls. Your eyes widen. His thin smile grows.

“And last.”

Gaz

Bless his little cotton socks, he doesn’t know what to do with both this information and himself.

See, despite being incredibly intelligent, Gaz is still the youngest of the 141, so he’s not entirely accustomed to situations like this.

He can’t tell if you’re hinting, flirting, or just telling him something about yourself.

He remembers what Soap taught him, though.

Should a situation arise where someone is flirting with you, just use your intuition and don’t fuck it up.

Gaz leans against the doorframe, almost misses, scrambles to resume his ideal posture.

“Oh, so we’re more similar than you’d think, then.”

He can feel Soap banging his head against a wall. Jesus, Gaz – at least try to impress (Y/N) !

At your raised eyebrow and your playful “Oh?” Gaz coughs. His voice lowers.

“But…” he steps closer. “Maybe we can un-virgin each other.”

Long story short, Gaz has no idea what he’s talking about. But, somehow, his nervous disposition and pretty boy charm have enamoured you. And you may have told him you’d take him up on his offer 👀.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

[darkdemeter]

THE THREAT OF INTIMACY

⚤ Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Angst — insecure reader and depictions of negative thoughts and fear of sexual intimacy — profanity — SMUT 18+ mdni — virgin!reader/loss of virginity — unprotected sex — hurt/comfort — oral (female receiving) — le dasha of body worship —cream pie — mafia bucky being a huge softy for his wife — I think that's it ✎ 7.4k A beautiful bride marrying the man of your dreams. But when faced with what comes after the vows and first dance as Mr. and Mrs Barnes, you suggest that a particular arrangement be made.

↳ MASTERLIST | ↳ TAGLISTS ────────────────────────

It’s not so much of a grand show once the curtain falls. There hangs a greed of mischief and ominous silence. He looks at you, blue eyes piercing the exposed skin of your back, the white gown hangs an elegant silhouette on you. Its embroidered sculpts become melded into the fabricated folds as you stop midst the gate of your saunter forwards, each step a reminder drawing nearer as you do to the bed. 

Did you really have to do this? 

It was an era of change after all. But his seniors were old school, and so you expected him to be as well in the matters of the marriage bed. It is expected of you — the both of you. Your hands fish through the elaborate style of your hair, musing it loose and gaining a comforted scalp as you turn away from the bed and walk over to the large windows that extend from top to bottom, overlooking the twinkling space of stars fallen to earth. 

Being far away from it means you are torn from it. Once you step foot back in that place, you are no longer the girl you once were.

You are now Mrs. Barnes. A wolf among sheep. The queen of the Bratva. A cooperation of mobsters who have bought police eyes and silenced officials of the government. But was this status and power worth what is intended to follow? 

You didn’t have a real choice in the matter. Well, maybe you did. You fell for him, you won’t deny it, and you fell hard for him. Other pickings were not as savoury, nor did they explode with the chemistry you shared with him. But this wasn’t the only factor. 

It’d been clear that your hearts were set on one another. With the subtle whispers into the other’s ear, hugging and kissing, fingers entwined, or the more assuring hand on the low of your back. This intimacy had been a flavour sweet – loving – and you came to embrace these softer textures of your life at his side. His proposal was impossibly expected but even then, you couldn’t contain your surprise and eagerly said yes.

You never gave the thought of what came next exactly. The very intimate aftermath. Until his mother pulled you aside, a smile on her painted ruby lips as she guided you to walk with her through the hedged gardens. That conversation is one you will never forget. Her love is shocking, her devotion to her husband and family, you can hardly stand the thought of not loving her in return. 

But that talk shocked you. 

Half of it because of the gory details she regaled, but the other half because of your own mind. Your poisoned mind that festers with anxious insecurities. 

Of course it’s expected. Your virginity doesn’t exactly wave you as an expert, no matter what talks of womanhood you are subjected to. But by the standard of Mr. Bucky Barnes, his former bachelor days had given him what you lack: experience. 

What if I’m so bad that he’s repulsed by me? 

He’ll only need to take one look at me and that’ll be enough.

What if I can’t make him cum? 

What exactly am I supposed to do— I don’t think I’m ready. 

You continue on in your panicked, internal reverie, hand raised to rest your lips against your knuckles, the shine of diamonds catching in the dark reflection, a momentary blindness befalls you that then causes your stomach to writhe with unease.

“Hey,” your husband whispers, breath warm over the shell of your ear and his lips tease the curve of your exposed neck with light kisses. Your body flinches at the suddenness of his appearance right behind you, his chest to your back; you feel tears deep into the corner of your eyes, hot and wet and annoying. The stronghold of air chokes you in the back of your throat.

“Mm, hi…” 

Your forced smile is quick to fade, just barely passing back a glance at him before looking away. He catches this falter. His expression is shadowed by a troubled frown. He noticed the way you flinched before him. And that glistening of tears is hard to miss when it comes to you.  

“Talk to me,” he presses gently, “you okay?” 

His hands are strong and sure as he holds you, turns you to face him directly now, putting the window to your back. Your ring bound hand massages over your face with a breath hollowing out in a deep sigh. 

“Yeah. I’m good, I think we should get some rest. It’s been a big day.” 

Before you can step around him, his hand circles the entirety around your forearm, holding you in place.

“You don’t want to…” At the trailing end of his words with his blue eyes alluding to his meaning, the sting of tears prick your vision again and a flush paints your cheeks and neck red. He lets you walk away with the train of your dress flowing behind you like a silken shadow. 

“I don’t think tonight.”

Or any other night… 

Bucky’s throat bobs with a thick swallow, nodding as he watches you. Always a man who knows what to do, how to maintain composure — his power — he feels that confidence wane like the fading moon. Powerless.

The words brewing on your tongue are tart, poisonous and unpleasant. Not the sort you would ever want to say to your husband, no less on your wedding night. 

You’d ventured over to the vanity by now, you say beneath a shaken exhale, “I’ll look to hire a mistress.”

“Excuse me?” He gasps sharply. 

Your reply, voice short of anything joking or playful. You sit before the vanity and bend forward, unfastening the golden clasps on your heels before you set them aside. “I’ll have a mistress contracted for you. We’ll do everything else together but she will… provide the sexual affairs.”

“And you?” His question makes you pause midway of turning fully towards the mirror, only barely do you see him trail the outskirts of the room, just only in focus of your view. With a sigh, you pluck your earrings out, saying more so to your own reflection than him, “I’ve gone this long without sex, Bucky. I’m sure I can go on the rest of my life without it.” 

“No, no, we’re not doing things like that. I married you — I want you.” Why is that just too hard to believe? You can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes in the mirror, so you look away, anywhere that doesn’t meet his gaze. “Honey, where the fuck did this come from?”

You don’t answer. The man is practically brought to his knees before you like a servant ready to obey you like a goddess. Treatment he committed to you, though you don’t feel deserving of. He spins you slowly on your stool until you face him, knelt before you, he tries to find the stunning awe of your eyes only to find you hiding away from him. “Did somebody say something to you? Who was it?” 

Quick to spare someone needless bloodshed, you stand abruptly, almost knocking him back and storm away from him by some feet, putting distance between you both, your voice carries over your shoulder, “Nobody said anything. I just think this arrangement will be better for us.”

You’re blinking back a curtain of tears that threaten to unleash. A wave rises high like a tsunami in your soul with these stupid, incessant thoughts. 

You’re imperfect. 

You’re ugly. 

Let another woman – a beautiful woman – please him. 

He’ll regret marrying you once he sees you.

Fingers ringing the course of massaging your temples, you are slowly being drowned by many, many thoughts like these. They're endless. They’re relentless and they are loveless. Not once do you give yourself the internal piece of mind that maybe, just maybe, there is hope in this relationship. That they are wrong. That he won’t judge or run from you. But who can say for sure?

It’s best to play it safe and keep what dignity you have left. Despite the spitefulness of seeing him become satisfied by another woman, it would be better than depriving him for the rest of his life. And you care more for his own happiness. It’s all you want for him. 

He speaks up again, his voice going stern in his verbal study. “So, let me get this straight: I marry the love of my life, the very essence I love and breath for, only to… fuck another woman. After I swore a vow to you.” 

“Bucky, you’re making it sound—”

“I’ll go without sex for the rest of my life than have some whore in our bed.” 

You spin on your heel, mouth agape. Finally you look at him long enough as he works to slowly approach you and he sees just how badly you’re hurting on the inside. “Bucky—” 

How quick he is to cut you off before you can even utter another heinous thing, now reaching you. “I wouldn’t stand at the altar for just anyone. I gave up that bachelor life to have you. I chose you. I want to have all of you.”

You mutter, mumble off-centred excuses that come out as broken noises on a record, and then you let out a shaken breath, chest feeling like it's being cleaved and ripped apart to the point your body trembles. You try your hardest to suppress your quiet sniffles as the flow of tears begin, fingers hastefully dapping away as to not smear your makeup; your only means of perfection that you’ve felt in a while.

When you saw yourself in the white dress every little girl dreams of for the first time in a bridal shop far too expensive for the average, then again in the dressing room with hair and makeup done to the nines, it all almost made you forget about the gut-wrenching aftermath once the reception concluded. That you were walking down that aisle with a purpose you would never come to regret. 

Was it all a foolish fairytale to idolise this facade of beauty?

The hand bearing his ring uses a force so gentle you think it’s the end, that when you look up, he will be gone. That your wedding dress will fade into your everyday jeans and grandmother’s patchy sweater you treasure too much to throw away, her scent still lingering there to inhale on a bad day. 

He drives your focus upwards until your eyes meet, your vision hindered behind a blur that wets your lashes as you blink. A vibrant colour of blue that once intimidated you now attends to assure you, to quiet your riled fears, but there is a reluctance to let your guard down this time. 

His hands cradle your jaw in his hold with a promise to never let you go. To never let you know this fear again.

“I won’t judge. I won’t run in disgust or whatever you think I’m gonna do. I think my vows can be credited to that, yeah?” 

Your bottom lip sinks inward slightly, teeth biting down hard on the plump of flesh, muttering a softly broken, “I-I guess.” 

“You’re scared.”

It is shame that brings your eyes to falter, chin wobbling until it crinkles. “Yes…”

It’s like he could read you, knowing that your next move is to shove him off – push him away – he leans down and presses his lips to your own. Warm, a little roughened yet still retaining a softened plush of texture, he breathes some sort of cooling flame that soothes you if not for a short while. A rattled, sharpened gasp teeters on the edge of your voice and he parts from the kiss with a low and silky drawl. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, love. We can take our time with this.” 

You’re hoisted into his arms, strength unyielding as he carries you over to the bed and sets you atop the mattress like porcelain. For him, he’s scared how easily it is to break you, no matter how hard you hide this fragility. You use the outside of your hand to wipe at your nose and exhale loudly, mind prattling on with your swirling thoughts. 

Pathetic. 

He’ll definitely need a mistress after that display. 

And all you’re better off getting is a toy. 

His family will ridicule you. He’s going to tell everyone that his little wife refused to have sex with him on his wedding night.

Poisonous thoughts. They aren’t going away. With a sniffle, you watch Bucky begin to strip himself down, leaving himself to his boxers. However much you admire the act in itself, it’s far too intimate than anything else. The idea of you doing that for him sickens you. You become repulsed by yourself. 

Your mind is a hideous beast. 

Like you.

Shut up!

You make this wedding dress look ugly.

“Come on, doll,” Bucky’s voice breaks through the hazardous cloud like a lighthouse awaiting for you ashore, guiding you to safety. He offers you a smile you try to match only to feel your lips twitch, muscles cringing as you keep the well of tears and cries inside. He invites you to join him and you move up the bed. You can’t bear to shed the second skin of your dress to reveal the lavish, risque lace and frilly lingerie you’d picked out at the encouragement of your bridesmaids.

You never really gave it much thought before until it was too late. This culture of intimacy you perceive as a threat. 

Your husband doesn’t question you. Instead he lays beside you, arms stretched out to invite you into his embrace. An invite you half-heartedly indulge in, inching yourself awkwardly to his side but remaining to keep some inches from him.

Head laid on the tucked shelf of your arms, hair mused to fall over your features, you intend to wallow in silence until exhaustion overtakes you into sleep. 

You’ve ruined his day.

“What are you thinking in that pretty head of yours?” The question is directed to you, you’re sure. But it also sounds like he’s asking himself for the answer to a riddle he cannot begin to understand. 

“I’m sorry I ruined your day…”

The contortion of his features almost has your body locking up into a tightly wound position, the form of his dark brows bevelling in the middle, eyes widening until the blackened pupils shrink into tiny dots. 

“What?” he sputters, “No– no, honey. This is our day.”

Our day?

There is a storm of emotion battling in his own eyes, however, he is just as quick to hide it from you. He trails again to caress the line of your jaw, his thumb strokes along your bottom lip. “Love, I will never force you into anything. Not your first time, not your hundredth. You hear me, yeah?”

Your eyes only look to stare at him with a stillness, before you absently nod. Then you turn, putting your back to him. You cannot bring yourself to look at him out of sheer guilt that no matter what, he cannot silence the honest and cruel torment of voices in your head. Not forever. They will find something to pick out and gnaw at to send you into this spiral. 

If you could do so without the judgement of your husband, you would cry and howl into your pillow for hours until the perfect mirage of your makeup fell apart, you’d spare the dress from being a ridiculed taint by being on you any longer. You���d be on the phone to your sister pleading for her to keep you company and distract you from this pain, you’d cry into her chest as she held you with all the strength she possessed. You’d ask your parents to call you beautiful, even though it’s a lie. 

But you keep it all in. And it breaks you so harshly on the inside that it cuts you like thousands of shards shredding you apart. 

You’re not sure exactly how much time has passed between the void of silence. You can’t sleep. The tyrannical storm of emotion swarming inside you makes it impossible to even try lest you break and let it all out, letting it show. 

“B-Bucky?” you squeak, clearing your throat and you hear him hum immediately in response, the weight of him rolling over until his body is a ghost along your back. “Can I… uhm, can I ask you something?” 

Aside from the odd hiccup and sniffle here and there, you hold firm to sounding as you were before, the bubbly and playful girl Bucky couldn’t help but tease until you were a flustering mess, the girl who attempted to flirt back only to fumble over your words and proceed conversation with a shy smile. The girl he fell in love with. The one he gladly stood at the altar for. Before the voices.

“Of course, doll. Anything.”

 Nervously your fingers flex and wind together, thumbing the fabric over your breasts, the enclosed circlet of cleavage pressed closely together. You wish you could giggle at the way you caught Bucky gawking numerous times in supposed awe of you throughout the day. He often is like that every time he sees you though, now that you come to think about it. 

Supposedly.

Not likely real…

I’m going to regret asking this, aren’t I?

With a heavy swallow coated heavily in your hesitance, you take a breath in hope that proves to fail to settle your nerves. “You’ve been with plenty of girls before me… you know how to please them, what did…” you pause upon a whimper, “were they all the same?”

The amount of strain behind your vocal cords makes you cringe in disgust. You sound like—

“No, they were all different. Unique to each girl.” You can almost sense the way his head props up to look at you. His eyes staring a cool layer of heat into your back. “Just like you.”

“How can you say that?” Your voice betrays the toxins of a heart and mind poisoned together over far too long. Bucky hears the loathe of self in your words, dry and cynical, unbelieving in his words and your own image. “You’ve never even seen what I look like… you don’t know how I’ll be, I’ve never—” 

Your hands press over your eyes in hope to suppress the tears glassing over your vision. 

“Hey,” Bucky admonishes with a low drawl, tutting you, “hey. I’m not expecting the fucking grandios of perfect sex. I’m expecting you and only you. I want what makes you and your body unique.”

You turn your head to see him, chin wobbling slightly. How he’d crawl through hot coals and glass for you, seeing the beauty of what you see are flaws. He then grins and for a moment, it disturbs you how he could smile when you’re like this. 

“I wasn’t the best for my first time. In fact, I’m telling you–”

“Bucky, no, you don’t have to,” you interject with a stifled cough. You shoot to sit up and your husband follows, chuckling. 

“No, I will tell you I was shit at sex. Horrible. My first time—”

Your hands paw and pat at his mouth to silence him to no avail, your chorus of hiccups and sniffles turn into shy giggles. 

“I–couldn’t–”

You giggle a little louder this time. “Shush, Bucky! No-ho!” 

“Couldn’t even– find the cl—”

Your fingers are a heavenly pillar even as they hold his lips prisoner from speaking aloud. He smirks behind them and plants delicate kisses to them, enamoured by the faint smile on your face and the softness of your eyes. Seeing you cry and be tied to these human emotions makes a fire burn in his chest. Like for the longest time, he’s finally found someone who can make him feel whole. If only he could help you feel the same. In the make of those blue, puppy dog eyes, you crack and scoff out a snort. “New York’s infamous Mob Lord…” 

He beams from ear to ear at the unfinished implication, taking the time to fall so hard in love with you all over again. He leans his forehead against yours with a rumbled, “Mhm.”

Mascara smudged under the barrage of wet lashes and tears, your lips part with a shaky breath. “Bucky?”

He hums again, so you press on, throat suddenly tight. “Do you think you could make me feel that way?”

His response is instant, deep voice trailing along the bridge of your neck, much like it had done earlier as his arms circle the lower curve of your arse and hoist you until you balance atop his thighs, keeping his weight on his haunches. “Moya zvezda, that and more.” 

Your arms drape over the burly muscle of his shoulders, breath mingling with his in hot gusts laboured with anticipation, you hear him groan as you ever so slightly lower your hips against his and he pushes you that little higher on the pedestal he holds you on, it’s height greater than any earthly accomplishments men can dream of. 

It’s why you’re his star. 

I love this man.

With all my heart. 

His front presses fully into you, he works to weave one hand beneath the shower of your gown and feeling along the sheer stocking attached to your garter; he groans again, more feral sounding in his sensational marvel of how perfect you are. How blessed he is to be the one to touch you like this. To hold and have you so intimately. 

At his touch, your body erupts with a shudder, momentarily staggered by the electric push and pull and thriving buzz between your legs; though the stir of arousal isn’t foreign to you, it certainly is a stark contrast with his attentive action. 

His lips smother the embers of your trembling gasps with a kiss, passion tasting as a fine wine on his tongue. The kiss is paced slowly to attend to your cautious nature, an utter surety that he won’t make any move against you. You take no part in stopping him as he pushes aside the obstructive barrier of your panties. 

The way his fingers are gentle to stroke your core has you keening, teetering on a choked whine, his work deliberate in focusing on the pearl of your sensitive clit and the slickened beginnings of your folds. His hands that have sinned many times now amend themselves with the purity of worshipping every inch, exploring you with the intent to please. His thumb rolls in drawn circles, eliciting from you mewls and heated pants of air too heavy to stay in your lungs, cooing at your slow induction. 

“Atta girl.”

I’m alright. 

“You’re doing amazing.”

I’m safe. 

His two fingers run along your entrance, causing your spine to arch slightly and he smirks, pulling from the kiss. 

“You like that, doll? Yeah?” he asks smoothly, seeing you nod shakily with eyes half lidded. 

Your hands entangle themselves to the bedded roots of his hair, tender as you can to pull with each spark that has your stomach tying knots and your muscles tensing, his thumb begins to roll a little harder and faster. At hearing the apparition of a moan escape you, he applauds you with his encouragement despite the way your hand covers over your mouth to silence these noises.

“Fuck, please again, zvezda. Please.”

“I want to hear you.”

“Please… fuck you sound so beautiful…”

In your stun over his pleas, your hand lowers away and you continue to let your moans lull him, hips moving at a slow crawl against his fingers that press to your core and with a single look you let him know you’re willing. He fights the tantalising grip of your fingers to reach your lips as he pushes two fingers past your folds. Your gasp is a sharp sound to his ears, one of alert that he seeks to comfort you through the kiss.

The trajectory to pull your hips away stabilises and you begin to find that rhythm with each grind and thrust onto his fingers, the waves of pleasure coming from your clit has your stomach tightening. 

“B-Bucky…” you whisper and he swallows your words with a deep moan. Your walls clench around the intrusion of his fingers, moreso when he adds a third, curling them as if to beckon your body furthermore to his touch, to yield your fears and let him set alight that bloom inside your core and unto your bliss. 

You pant harder, “B–ngh… Bucky… th-there.”

“Right there?” He asks with a sultry grin. Your voice comes out in a strangled response. “M—mhm.”

The voice of your whine is his commandment. He installs a level of dedication at gently fucking you with his fingers right where you needed him – wanted him. That swell inside you grows and grows, furthering into a maelstrom that leaves your body shivering, unexpected of where this sudden burst will implode. 

“Good girl, you’re doing so well, doll,” he praises with a low timbre, groaning with a prided grin when you tug a little harder at his hair, your softer nature betraying to act out this darker side of yourself; this almost forbidden wanton. 

I feel…

Your hips move to become greedy and much to Bucky’s approval, feeling the swollen bulge of his cock straining against his boxers has you weak and some instinct to move against it drives you, a louder moan slipping past your lips. Bucky’s mouth leaves a heated trail of passionate nips and teasing flutters of kisses against your neck, spoiling you. 

You gasp and your hands fly to his shoulders to hold you at bay, the sudden shockwave a prelude to ride as your orgasm ascends upon you, he hears the feverish whimpers you make and he purrs, pumping his fingers, “That’s it, love, let go. C’mon, let me feel you cum for me. I’ve got you.”

The suppression of a scream hides in your chest, leaving only a choked sob to rack through you as you thrust and claim your first release, a hot flush of white behind your eyes blinds you, your muscles convulse in tensing and relaxing as you ride out your high. 

Your arms that wound around his shoulders squeeze a little tighter in your recovery, your breath timed to slow down after a few minutes but your body remains to quiver against him. The form of his aroused cock clear and unhidden has your core weeping for more.

“There you go, that’s it,” he coaxes softly with a smile while he eases a kiss to the corner of your lips, “how’re you feeling?” 

“G-good… really like… wow.” The words come out jumbled to you, as if you were still influenced by the strong wine at the reception, having made you reserve your consumption to a very limited amount. 

Bucky hums and withdraws his fingers, leaving you to mewl at the loss. The sight before you has you in some chokehold, a crimson heat flushes into your cheeks and down your neck, rendering your blood into fiery rivers beneath your skin, a sudden jerk picking up in your heartbeat as Bucky cleans the slick of your release from his fingers, the crystalised shade of blue dimming with a certain darkness as the taste of you rolls over his taste buds. 

He’s tasting me…

He moans with a thunderous growl. “Fuck… you taste amazing,” he grins, teeth gleaming with that cute, charming esteem. 

I do?

The warmth in your cheeks glows ten fold, bringing a sight for Bucky to admire. That cute girl who’s face becomes rosy with embarrassment. It’s like he could read your mind and the way he says your name has you at a loss of breath, drawing your attention back to the shine of his eyes. 

“You are exquisite…” 

Following in action as the continuation of his proclamation, his hand finds the spine of your dress and upon reaching the apex between your shoulders. He seeks to pause and his eyes seek out your permission, brows slight to bevel. “May I, Mrs. Barnes?”

The crescents of your palms brush the exterior of his stubble, every inch of your hands covered by the sensational prickling that leaves you like putty. How he stares at you with this amass of love and fondness that feels overwhelming at times. 

He’s just so… perfect.

The return of tears glasses over your eyes and you smile, brightly and toothy and nod, cupping his jaw in your hands before you press a softened kiss to his lips. You feel it in unison with him; it steals the breath from you both. 

“You may, Mr. Barnes.”

With your approval, he draws the zip undone. Anticipation lines your nerves like a trail of gunpowder ready to be set ablaze. He’s testing the waters, ensuring that this is what you want and when you give no indication of refusal, he glides the dress from your shoulders, revelling in the delicate sculpt of your body; the warm, ambient light hitting the surface creates a heavenly glow upon your skin. With the overhanging light above, it frames a golden halo around you as his sights steer upwards. 

Your gown drapes a sultry form over you, accentuating the mounds of your breasts pushed close together and the nakedness of your shoulders and neck. Bucky growls under a vice of hunger. But something lays in the glassy waver of his stare. 

“Please be real?”

His voice barely rises above a near shattered whisper. A man who fears losing you just much as you fear losing him. His voice pleads with you. Your lips part, jaw coming to drop slightly as your eyes widen.

Please be real for me?

“I-I am, Bucky. I’m real…”

The man before you exhales loudly, gasping for breath to keep himself drowning. “Good. Because I want this to be real.”

He doesn’t waste another moment. His mouth clashes against yours, hunger succumbing as he ravishes you with the heated intensity of his kiss, tongue running a pleaful line along your bottom lip. You part them and he awakens the stir of arousal flooding through your veins, tongues dancing in an artistic battle for dominance he undeniably wins. You moan a muffled song and he drinks every lyric of it, intoxicated by it. 

His hands are wild in their exploration, peeling your dress lower to reveal the laces and frills of your lingerie, not permitting you to shy away and hide from him this time, his hands feel every inch of it, mesmerised by the way it fits to you so beautifully that even the most talented of sculptures would struggle to capture your raw and enticing beauty to its complete and apex design. 

Your hands scour to claim the roots of his hair again. This time, you hold no restraint and he loves it. He loves the radiance of confidence you find in every following second. You are claiming what is rightfully yours as his wife. As his one love that he will kill and die for without question. Though time and mortal breath dares to intrude and part you, you find ways around the schemes, momentarily gasping for air within the clash of your lips, too far entranced to pull away. 

His hands glide up your sides until his thumbs are able to tease your stiffened nipples through the thin fabric, groaning at the noises you create from it, his touch sending those blissful tingles throughout your body. When time comes to see you both departed from your kiss, you each still remain to linger, tasting one another in the inch spared between you, chests heaving madly and brushing together. Dress pooled to a rolled belt over your waist, Bucky drinks in every detail of your body. 

Why does he look at me like that? 

His nose buries into you, nestling into the warmth and softness of your body as he utters phrases of praise to your skin, a trail of his devotion painted upon your skin with the invisible ink of his love and adoration for you. 

“You feel what you do to me?” he asks, strong hands guiding your hips down to roll in unison with his, the swollen mound of his erect cock still suffering in confinement has you hiccuping in your stun.

Though your voice is light, you nod as you answer. “Yes.”

“That’s how fucking hot you are,” he says with a deep, velvety drawl, his words slightly muffled by the way his mouth caresses you. “You have me so hard right now, fuck, the things I wanna do to you, doll.”

His confession has you blushing. 

He can’t possibly mean that…

He can’t help himself. He’s a man enslaved at your whim. Though you try to bring this madman to his senses with an embarrassed huff of his name, he only leans in to claim your lips with his, the melding of hunger brings you both into that feverish haze again. Tongues entangled with one another, Bucky’s hands paw and pluck the garments of your lingerie from your form, peeling away the details of floral patterns and lacy sheer to feel the heat of skin below, the way your muscles twitched under his touch. 

You moan between the kiss and allow your hands to feel the soft tresses of his hair between your fingers, carefully weaving through the darkened locks and nails scratching at the roots against his scalp, a rumbling purr escaping him. 

The rock of your hips move together, a desiring fire burning in your core to the point it borders on a painful ache between your legs. Your dress is discarded, left aside with your undressed garments to be reclaimed at a later time. He lays you on your back, your head nested atop the plush cushion of the pillows, bodies flush together without leaving so much as a morsel of space apart. 

Entrapped by his lustful kiss, you thrust and grind your heated sex against him with shocking eager, a whine is tugged from your throat, unsure.

Bucky is quick to assure you of your arousal, that its intoxication is a vice wanted. He uses one arm to support his weight above, caging you, as his other takes hold of your thigh and gropes at it fervently while somewhere in the mixture haze his boxers are tossed aside. His swollen tip oozes with glistening, droplet streams, his size heavy and long that has a gasp escaping you. 

W–will he fit?

Such worrisome thoughts are snuffed out like speckled embers as he deepens the kiss, tongues gliding together and moans and limbs entangle. His tip brushes over the sensitive spot of your clit and your hips take languid actions against his practised thrusts. 

“It’s going to hurt at first,” he mutters across the skin of your jaw, “but it won’t for long. I’m right here, moya zvezda, I promise.”

A crystalline glint appears on the waterline of your eyes, a tender smile on your lips as your lips connect with a chaste kiss. 

“I’m ready, Bucky…”

His blue eyes take the time to carefully read your expression. For a man so immersed in being so gentle and caring with you, you have come to know that with the very same hands he caresses you with – he has broken jaws, bloodied and bruised noses and strangled the very life of more than one person. He can tell when a man is lying just by looking into his eyes. 

He sees you’re telling the truth. That you want this with him. You want him. Cock nudging at your folds, you push your legs a little wider to better accommodate his size after hearing him chuckle at the crimson blush creeping into your face, flustered at the thought of his entire cock sheathing inside you. 

“Gonna fit all of me, my sexy little wife?” he’d teased with a wink. 

His eyes retain their focus with yours as he pushes the head of his cock into your cunt, meeting the slight of resistance and surged forward, a sigh heavily laced on his breath that has his head bowing to press his forehead to yours, eyes scrunched tightly. 

A hitched note on your throat is silenced, cut out with a high pitched whine as he sinks deeper and deeper, breaching past the wall of your hymen. Your nails mark their bite into his shoulders and down his back with angry red scars, tracing over the blackened inks already imprinted there. 

Your walls constrict around the intrusion of him with a searing pierce that brings your tears to streak down your temples, chin slightly trembling, you feel Bucky’s lips hover over yours. 

“O-ow,” you mewl, “It hurts…”

“I’ve got you, zvezda, I’m here.”

Your chest feels tight, suffocated, but his words comfort you. You cling to him tighter, thighs trembling at his sides and you feel his hand resume its place there, gentle to knead and rub soothing circles as he coaxes you through the blight of your pain. 

“Fuck baby, you feel so good,” he whispers to your lips, the crinkle of a smile forming on his features. Just as quickly as it had come, the pain subsides and you feel so full at the point where your bodies meet, you finally nod for him to continue. 

He goes slowly. 

He sets a rhythm paced to ease you into the forcing motion of his cock gliding through your hot, velvety walls that clamp and shudder with each movement he makes. Your gasps turn to softly sung moans as you begin to grind your hips to meet his and he smiles down at you. “There you go, love. That’s it, you’re taking me so well.” 

“This body… so perfect, so beautiful… I love it, I love you.”

Another moan escapes you. He heaves a deep breath with every thrust, still focusing hard to keep this steadiness, until you moan for him, 

“Bucky… please, I-I need…”

“What do you need, love? Tell me.”

“I– need more– please.”

He groans, the thought of ruthlessly fucking you with abandon crosses his mind in flashes, the way you’d look spread out while being pummeled by his cock that ruts into your pretty pussy until you’re stuffed full of his cum that it overspills as a creamy ring around his girthy base. 

To fuck you the way of a mafia lord. 

“You want that, sugar?” he asks, his voice sudden to drop lower into a silken, deepened purr with a darkened smirk. “You want to be fucked the way a mafia queen should be? H–hmph, you want it harder? Faster?”

You choke on the release of your words, sounding breathless, “Y-yes!”

Your walls clench tight around him, a series of moans spilling from your parted lips as he then picks up his pace, the incentive of your permission driving him to thrust harder, his hand fists and squeezes the flesh of your thigh within his grasp, holding you fast to him as he strikes deeply into your pussy. His muscles bend, curve and tense and your hands greedily explore every single portion of him, granting you this chance to be upheld by the prison of your thoughts that may hold you back later.

You howl, whine and cry – all for more, for him to keep going, to not stop. His body arches over yours, hands now ahold of you at the hips he uses the advantage of his strength and position to forcefully piston himself back and forth, back and forth until you’re writhing beneath him  Your hands attach themselves to the veiny reins of his wrists, your hips arched up until your lower half is lifted for his leisure to fuck into that spot that has you seeing an galaxy of stars.

“Bucky– Bucky, oh Bucky!” you cry out. 

“Fuck— yeah baby, fuck you sound beautiful, shit— baby, keep screaming my name, I want to hear you.” Each word is intensely laced with an exerted breath or guttural groan. “Fucking hell, zvezda, you look fucking amazing like that—” 

“You’re taking my cock so well.”

“I’m never getting over the sight of this.”

His eyes burn with lust at the sight of your breasts bouncing without restraint, the shudder of your body with each clash of your thrusts, how your face contorts so beautifully with pleasure and the holstered grip of your legs hooking around his waist repeatedly only to falter each time after several pumps, only kept upright by his hold. A knot coils inside you, a tidal wave of pleasure coursing through your veins that sets your nerves aflame and your vocal cords to strain with every sound you make. The more and more he slams his cock into you, your neck is forced to arch back against the pillows with a pleasured shriek. 

You call out to him, “Bucky, I— I’m gonna… ah!” 

“Cum for me, doll, I wanna feel how tight your pretty pussy is around me.” Your back arches further as his tip continues to hit that spot and the sensational toying of his thumb rolls on your clit, eliciting a flourish of sparks to ignite until you’re suddenly overcome with a flush of white, that euphoric hit crashing over you while heat pours into every inch of your skin with your eyes rolling back.

You chant his name like a sacred prayer, the meaning of your vows imbued within your slurred, intoxicated mantra. He pants, hot and heavy in your ear,

“Shit, shit— fuuuck, baby— ‘mgonna cum, gonna cum for you. I want my seed in you, I want it in you so bad.”

His thrusts increase, the sound of skin slapping skin is erotically loud. You don’t want it to stop. You don’t want him to stop and so you beg him to keep going. 

You continue to whine, low and cooing, walls stretching and clenching around him, milking him of his release that sweeps over him with a long, baritone and throaty moan. His head presses into the crook of your neck to suck at the skin of your collarbone, marking you with dark bruises of his love and possession as he paints your pussy with his seed. The air is faintly filled by the sound of oozing slick of your combined orgasms that leak and drip around his still thrusting cock.

The erratic pace in which his rhythm held eventually wanes, instead he moves to a slow-crawling grind to ease you off your combined highs. His chest rises and falls and you allow your eyes to admire his form above you, A balance of skin and ink layered in a thin coating of sweat, as is your own, the muscles of his body rippling with each motion he makes. 

His hands release from your hips after he’s lowered you back down to the bed, allowing your body to succumb to the exhaustion undoubtedly taking hold of you. Your gaze meets his own, the colour of them haloed by the shine of tears and his heart yearns for you. 

He fears he’s done something wrong and his hands quickly raise to caress your face, thumbs stroke over your cheeks. 

“Moya zvezda, are you—”

“I’m…” you trail off, blinking rapidly to see him through the watery veil and you grin up at him and nod. He’s relieved to see that smile, coming to mirror it himself. 

She’s okay. My girl’s okay.

You reach your hand up, the warmth of your palm contrasted by the cool adornment of your ring. Bucky leans his face into your touch. “You stayed… you didn’t—” Though your words fail you, Bucky sees what you mean to say in your eyes. 

“Of course. You’re everything I ever wanted…” Your brows furrow, touched by the sincerity in his words. Before you is a man whose heart is held in your very hands. And his heart is one you wish to cherish, hold dear and never break. To think you almost bargained him off to another woman— 

“Have me again tonight, zvezda. Have me any other night. I promise, I will be there every time, every moment.”

He doesn’t want a mistress. He wants me. 

Those voices are gone, replaced by newer, kinder ones.

You’re perfect. 

You’re beautiful. 

I’m not scared anymore. Not with him. 

You now realise that intimacy was never the threat. The voices in your head were. 

THANKS FOR READING!

✎ a note from the author, Did you want some tissues?

on this issue's taglist, we've got: @mostlymarvelgirl @hollyseb @sebastianstansqueen @openup-yourmind @kandis-mom @calwitch @cjand10 @identity2212 @ashdoctor @missmarvelophilic @boobsbeesbongos @mrsnikstan @floralwsloki @mcira @schneeflocky @greatenthusiasttidalwave

[benevolentbones]

beach day | spencer reid x fem!reader

part 2

warnings: swearing, massage? flustered spencer

word count: 1.2k

summary: you and penelope decide to take the team to the beach :)

a/n: thank you sm to everyone who follows me and supports my silly little fanfics!! getting to everyone’s requests soon!! comment if you’d like to be added to my taglist <3

“you want to what?” hotch asked, his dark brows furrowing.

“we should have a beach day! it would be so much fun- you can bring jack.” penelope mused excitedly, her arm wrapped around your shoulders as you both tried to get more people on board.

it was initially your idea, to invite a few members of the team to go to the beach as the summer heat was eating you alive, it was penelope’s idea to invite everyone. and y’know the more the merrier.

“so will you come?” you asked, a sparkle glinting in your eyes.

“i don’t swim, so i wouldn’t be able to mind jack in the water.” he mumbled, reshuffling the case files on his desk, thinking of his five year old son.

“that’s okay- y/n is a trained life guard, she can look after him in the water.” penelope seemed to have an answer for every one of hotch’s excuses.

he then realised that the two of you weren’t taking no for an answer. he let out a small sigh before meeting your eyes.

“you promise you’ll watch him?” he asked, like you haven’t been babysitting jack for two years at this stage.

“pinky.” you smiled, extending your pinky finger for hotch, who reluctantly locked his finger with yours. he knew how serious you took pinky promises.

“alright then.”

garcia let out an excited yelp, dragging you out of hotch’s office and on to convince the last few members of the team.

so far you had got jj, emily and hotch.

“three down two to go.” you grinned at penelope, her blonde hair bouncing as she dragged you towards spencer’s desk.

derek was standing against reid’s desk, his hands gripping the edge of the table as they were both deep in conversation.

you had thought to wait until they were finished talking before you interrupted them, but penelope had other ideas. she came to a halt, her arm locked with yours.

“how do you fellas say about a beach day this weekend?” she asked, a cheshire like grin on her maroon stained lips.

derek’s attention shifted from the younger male to the two women who stood before them.

“a beach day? a chance to see you ladies splashing about? count me in.” morgan grinned, before turning his attention back to spencer.

“what do you say, pretty boy?”

spencer’s face turned sour, it was needless to say he didn’t really enjoy the beach. he hated hot weather, the texture of suncream and then the dreaded sand.

“um…” he began “i think i’m okay, thank you for the invite though.”

“oh c’mon reid, everyone else is going!” penelope beamed, determined to have everyone go.

“i don’t know- i don’t really like the beach guys…” he trailed off.

“you get to see y/n in a swimsuit.” derek added.

you furrowed your brows slapping morgan’s arm in a playful manner.

“i mean you will!” he laughed, shielding himself from your attack with a case file.

“fine, i’ll go- but not for that reason.” a blush exploded onto spencer’s pale features.

“yes! i’m going to start planning!” penelope couldn’t contain her excitement as she whisked your flustered self away.

“oh it’s totally for that reason.” derek bumped his elbow into spencer’s ribs lightly.

“s-shut up man.”

~

saturday rolled around and the team were on their way to the beach, it was a bit of a road trip to the nearest beach but you weren’t complaining. the sun was out, the heat causing wisps of your hair to stick to your neck. you couldn’t wait to get into the water.

once everyone arrived, penelope scanned the beach for the perfect spot and then began ushering everyone over, making morgan and hotch carry the umbrellas and coolers from the van you took.

you followed in suit, holding onto jack’s small hand to guide him over while his dad did all the heavy lifting. once you had reached the perfect spot you began to lay your towel down as derek positioned the beach umbrella.

everyone began laying out their respective towels and beach chairs, spencer plopping his chair under the umbrella beside you. you gave him a sweet smile before you dug through your bag for the suncream.

“alright mister, suncream time and then uncle derek will make sandcastles with you okay?” you announced, getting jack to sit in front of you.

“hey i didn’t sign up for that-“ morgan began earning a glare from both you and hotch who was mounting a wind barrier to his left.

“-yeah i mean, yay sandcastles!”

once you applied the suncream to jack, he ran off to derek, dragging the man down the beach, bucket and shovel in his tiny grasp. you turned to spencer who was already halfway through a book he had brought for some ‘light reading.’

he was wearing a pair of dark purple board shorts, paired with a white short sleeve shirt that was loosely buttoned up, and damn did he look good.

“your turn spence.” you smiled, taking the book from his grasp.

“i- yeah i already put some on before hand.” he muttered, attempting to take the book back from you.

you rolled your eyes playfully. “well i’ll top you up later- would you do me?”

“do you?” spencer’s voice cracked slightly, a small blush beginning to spread to his cheeks. his mind threatening to wander.

“mhm would you put suncream on my back, i can’t reach.”

“oh right- yeah come here.” he adjusted his seated position.

you stood up, dusting any sand that clung to your skin. you quickly slipped off your white sundress that you used as your beach coverup, revealing a black two piece.

spencer gulped nervously, as you passed him the bottle of suncream. his eyes traced your form, the two piece accentuating your already, in his opinion, attractive figure.

he didn’t really comprehend why he was so nervous, he had seen peoples bodies before, other women at the beach and such. but he had never seen this much of you.

he began applying the lotion, ignoring the heat rising through his body. this felt like a fever dream to him.

honestly you could’ve asked one of the girls to help apply the suncream, as they were already helping out each other, but truthfully you craved spencer’s touch.

his lightly calloused hands massaged your form, trembling down to the small of your back which made your face heat up.

spencer’s hands brushed up your waist, causing your breath to hitch in your throat, his touch soft as he worked in the suncream.

you never wanted this to end, his hands moving up to your shoulders nearing the nape of your neck, and then..

“a- all done.” he stuttered out, handing you back the bottle. you took it back, your fingers brushing against his as you passed his book back to him.

“thanks spence.” you flushed, quickly putting it back in the beach bag to avoid his intense gaze.

“up for a swim garcia?” you turned to the woman to your left, her blonde hair in two braids and her body adorned with the cutest pink frilly two piece.

she shot you a grin before grabbing onto your arm and dragging you off to the water.

“yeah i bet you needed to cool off after all of that, damn girl.” she whispered causing you to become even more flustered.

“oh you’re down bad.” emily laughed at spencer as soon as you were out of earshot.

“as if i didn’t already know that.” spencer sighed, slumping back into his chair.

he was in for a long day…

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[avocado-writing]

if you are taking short fic requests for wade n logan, how about one where typically sunshine!reader comes home sad and while the both of them have that frenemy thing going, they agree on fucking up whoever made reader unhappy :o btw i love your work ❣️

You fill the apartment with laughter and light and life. You: all parts sunshine and joy, making things a bit brighter even when the world feels so dark. You’re a bit of levity at the end of a day which is usually bathed in blood. A reminder of what’s worth fighting for. 

So when you walk in that night with your jaw grit tight and eyes watery, it’s pretty damn noticeable. 

“Hey. You okay?” asks Logan, voice gruff but full of concern. He’s on the couch, patching himself up from no doubt getting the shit beaten out of him, hopefully not staining the new throw blanket you bought. You head to the fridge wordlessly, grabbing a beer and getting annoyed when you can’t immediately find a bottle opener. He holds his hand out silently, and you give in, allowing him to use one of his claws to help. 

“Long day,” you manage, trying to bite back tears. You hear the bathroom door open and Wade sticks his head out, the sound of conversation irresistible to him. 

“Hey sunshine! How’s my favourite—?” he starts, but trails off when he sees the state you’re in. He goes to jump over the back of the sofa to get to you but immediately falls on his face because he’s missing half a leg. Despite everything a laugh bubbles up from you, inescapable. 

“I’m glad my dismemberment is just a slapstick routine to you, cupcake,” he pouts up at you from the floor. You wipe your eyes furiously with your sleeve and go to help him up, settling him into an armchair - and giving him the opportunity to sweep you into his lap. 

“What’s the matter, honey? Seriously. Who do we need to kill?” he asks. “Is it Deborah? Tell me it’s her. She’s been asking for a knife in the kidney ever since she swiped your lunch two months ago. I’m surprised you haven’t done it yourself, you know we’d help you hide the body.”

“You’re sweet,” you sigh, “but it’s not her, actually. I just had a lot to do today and nobody was cutting me any slack, you know? It got too much.”

“If you need us to talk to anyone,” says Logan, fixing Wade with a look which suggests murdering your colleagues will probably create more problems than solve them, “we’ll do it.”

“Yes! Good-boyfriend, bad-boyfriend routine. Oh, or charismatic-boyfriend, grumpy-but-sexy boyfriend. Or even, slut-boyfriend, slut-but-doesn’t-know-it-yet boyfriend. Maybe that one’s better suited for tonight though…”

Logan growls a warning but Wade just grins, blasé. You giggle. 

“Thanks, guys. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Be a lot more bored and horny,” Wade muses, as Logan mutters “hmph. Apartment would be quieter…”

You drink your beer and smile.  

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[comatosebunny09]

You don’t know what compels you to leave the comfort of the guest bed. Just have the urge to move towards the muffled noise carrying through the stilled hallway of his mansion.

The door softly clicks shut behind you. Glacial tiles bite unforgivingly into your feet as you pad over them. You brace a hand on the textured walls to steady you, moving instinctually towards the source of a husky voice and gentle piano keystrokes.

You tug the faux fur blanket snuggly around you, blinking through the bleary haze of exhaustion. Hobble through the hallway like something half-dead. And somewhere between the alcoves and the glowing wall sconces, you hear Luke or Kieran snickering.

You must be quite the sight, hair mussed and eyes rimmed purple. Drawn from your sleep by the comforting rumble of Sylus’ voice, and it had summoned to you like a beam of light.

Finally, you reach your destination. Grasp the brisk handle of the door to his quarters, cautioning it open. The swell of noise inside welcomes you, accompanied by the aroma of scorched sandalwood, and it’s warm here. Dimly lit and homely with harmonious notes of classical music, all beckoning you deeper inside.

Off to the left, behind a bookcase, you hear Sylus. Ensnared in a conversation on the phone, his tone hushed and even. You’re sure he won’t mind the intrusion, you muse as you kick the door shut.

Mephisto clicks curiously, watching you with all the intrigue of the world. You pay him no heed, dragging yourself toward the room’s focal point. With a weighted sigh, you collapse onto Sylus’ bed, arms splayed out like you’re making snow angels.

A smile cresting over your lips, you nuzzle into the safety his bed exudes. Inhale the faint under-notes of cologne buried in the comforter, and you exhale wistfully.

Something warm wades through your innards, working like a soothing balm. You find yourself curling into the fetal position, tucking your head beneath the throw blanket you’d snatched from your room.

Fatigue washes over you, beckoning you towards a comforting mistress named Darkness. And you would fully succumb to her charms if not for the mattress dipping below the weight of the room’s other occupant.

His voice seeps through your blanket like smoke, curled around a chuckle. He gently taps your hip, tone amused.

“At this rate, you might as well sleep here with me all the time.”

This is routine, you sneaking into his room to steal his bed when he’s out on business or reading in his study. It’s more comfortable than any other bed in the manor, and it smells too much like him.

You’re too weary to argue as the heat of his body permeates through your blanket, and he molds himself to you, tugging you closer until your rear notches perfectly against his groin.

“Too tired to respond?” asks Sylus. You can hear the smirk in his voice.

You blink sluggishly, offering a noncommittal grunt in reply. Sylus chuckles low, content with stroking your arm through the thick material of the throw blanket.

“Sleep then. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

His promise is enough for you to let go.

His chin settles in the crown of your head. Breath is heavenly as its rhythm, coupled with his steady heartbeat, lulls you into a deep slumber.

You can’t recall a time that you’ve ever felt more safe.

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