#How do you shade metal anyways

[oneshotgremlin]

Born to serve ✨cunt✨

Forced to serve the Eggman Empire 😔😔😔

[frost-the-ice-dragon]

Missing scene from Master of Destruction

[demaparbat-hp]

Hiya!! 👋���😄 How's it going? Your fashion taste for Zuko in a Modern AU seems to be artsy, or maybe "formal" is the word. That shirt he wore when he gave Sokka romantic song advice looked Versace🧐. Anyway, I was wondering how you came up with it, he always struck me more as the type that didn´t care much about fashion, so I'm curious about other´s opinions and heacanons about it. And do you have any other fashion headcanons for the rest of the GAang? Also, their music tastes. How did you come up with them? Especially Katara's! 😍

Hello! As it happens, I have a lot of Thoughts and Feelings™ about this, so I'm leaving these over here, and the rest of my ramblings down below the cut!

Let us begin with the Gaang, shall we?

SUKI always struck me as that Pretty Girl from the Gym. She is so incredibly fit it isn't even funny. She could kick anyone's ass, and we'd all thank her. She has this casual gym style that somehow always looks glorious on her, as it should! Comfy yet fashionable clothes for a nice workout or a day in town.

Her music tastes are basically any and all power songs from the eighties and nineties. (Eye of the Tiger, anyone?) She also enjoys metal via Toph, and bands like BSB, NSYNC, or Boyz II Men with Katara. My girl has a very eclectic Playlist and we all love her for it.

SOKKA is That Guy™. Loose T-shirts and shorts everywhere he goes, no matter the weather. He's stupidly into fashion but it doesn't show! At all! And everyone teases him about it. His closet is about 90% Cactus Juice merchandise, hence the "it's the quenchiest!" shirt.

His fashion and music tastes are pretty much the same. He loves poetry but isn't really into lyrics. He'll misinterpret just about anything you place in front of him. His Playlist is mostly vibes and tiktok songs he kind of enjoys. He isn't really into music...at least not as much as his sister.

AANG owns exactly one hoodie, one pair of shorts, and one beanie (THE beanie). Oh, and the crocs—don't forget the crocs. Somehow, he's always wearing the exact same outfit. Every. Single. Day. Ancient Gaang lore suggests that the day Aang goes out without his beanie, it's the end of the world.

His Playlist is the poppiest, most bizarre thing ever. Every single song is Happy by Pharrell Williams levels of happy. Yet sometimes, among the bouncy dance-to songs, you'll find the strangest of things... (He does know what Good Day by Twenty One Pilots is about. That's the reason he likes it so much, actually. And it's so weird.)

KATARA is all about sundresses and loose pants. The epitome of comfortable loveliness. Light fabrics in blue shades, careful embroidery, delicate shoes, and little to no accessories—hers is a simple, yet quite adorable, style. She just needs to add more colors to her usual palette...

She is, first and foremost, a Florence + The Machine girl. It's the Dark Goddess of the Sea vibes, to be honest. Florence Welch is her idol and yes, she will fight you about lyrics interpretation, and win. It may not seem like it, but her music tastes are also very varied.

She draws a little from each member of the Gaang, so you'll hear her humming along to Gorillaz (where did you even find out about them, Aang?), The Weeknd (I...don't think this song means what you think it means, Sokka...), and Hozier (Zuko why did you dedicate Talk to me, Zuko WHAT DID YOU MEAN BY THAT).

TOPH...ah, lovely girl. I'll summarise everything about Toph’s fashion sense in two words: comfort and rebellion. Stuffy dresses forced on her by billionaire parents? No thank you! Give her tank tops with loose shirts and short pants. Bandaids shared with Aang, bracelets from Katara, and even piercings she got in tandem with Sokka. Shoes? What even is that?

Something I love about this fandom is our collective agreement that Toph is into the dirtiest, heaviest, most ear-splitting and soul-crushing death metal of all times. Her Playlist is full of the most obscure names to ever exist, and she can and will blast through your walls with the sheer volume of her speaker.

Zuko. ZUKO.

Even in a modern AU my boy must suffer. That being said, I envision Tales from the Couch as—well, exactly what it is: an ATLA modern AU. While there is not a war to fight, and a lot of plot lines are discarded or expanded upon, much about the core story remains the same.

This is my way of saying that Zuko still goes trough his redemption arc, and it reflects on his fashion choices.

The way you described it works perfectly because of one single reason: in this AU, Zuko is an artist. He had to suppress his love for writing and drawing because of his background and the expectations Ozai had for him (taking over the family company), and a very large part of his redemption arc directly affects his relationship with art.

In the Couch equivalent of S1, Zuko has fallen out of Ozai's graces, and is desperate to protect his place in the company and the Kasai household. He's pretending to be someone he isn't and trying to live up to his Father's image of a perfect heir while still being somewhat cut-off financially, and it shows.

He's all about imposing long coats and a semi-formal style, imitating what he knows Azula and Father would respect. He's striking and sharp and dark. But no matter how he dresses or carries himself (that air of cold superiority and arrogance)—it won't help him when he needs it the most.

In S2, Zuko has hit his lowest point. He's officially disinherited and tossed away by his father, and would be out in the streets if it wasn't for Uncle Iroh. He goes from sharp, high-tailored outfits to old second-hand clothes that hang loosely on his frame. He starts smoking and cuts his hair off, forgoing the undercut for the first time in years.

But then...Father accepts him back. When Zuko returns home, it's with respect to his name and a very high position in his father's company. He's finally the perfect Kasai heir, dressed in overly expensive suits and finery, even at home... But Father forbids him from wearing Lu Ten's earring, and Zuko can no longer recognize himself without the familiar glint of gold dancing on his peripheral vision.

When Zuko leaves the Kasai name behind him and goes back to living with Uncle Iroh...he's finally at peace with who he is, and what he wants in this life. The sharp edges aren't gone (they'll always be a part of him, after all), but now they're dulled by looser clothes and softer hairstyles.

He's an artist, and for once in his life, he is determined to pursue his own ambitions. Zuko's outfits may not be designer-made anymore, but he takes what he has and makes himself look like he wants to look, like the person he wants to be.

He doesn't read fashion magazines or keeps up to the latest trends like Azula does. He's just...Zuko. And his newfound confidence makes everything he wears look like it belongs on him.

As for music...well, Ursa raised a literature boy.

He loves lyric-heavy music and natural voices, be they soothing or powerful. Dissecting song meanings and possible interpretations with Katara is one of his favorite parts of the day. They're both very passionate and strong-minded individuals, so it stands to reason that their debates can get quite...heated.

Zuko's Playlist is both incredibly eclectic and somehow very...him. There's a common thread that binds together every song and artist he likes, and he's hilariously unaware of this. To take a look into his Playlist is a higher honor reserved only for those closest to him.

In the wide spectrum of things, it is no wonder that Zuko is, first and foremost, a Hozier man. But though Andrew is his God in all aspects of this life, there's someone else that has had a huge impact on him...

Two someones, actually.

Zuko refuses to tell anyone how he got into Twenty One Pilots, but it's kind of a moot point when the beginning of his obsession is nothing compared to everything that came after. They have just about the right amount of everything that makes Zuko...well, Zuko. The poetic lyrics, the soothing or raging music, the heavy, intensely resonant themes...

Up there, in the second artwork, I placed an album cover behind each period of Zuko's life. The election of these records is intentional, as I feel like their general themes work incredibly well with Zuko's arc and growth.

Blurryface in S1. For the demons within us. For giving a name to our fears and shame.

Trench in S2. For escaping the confined walls of a depression city, and fighting to understand the depths of the map of your mind.

Scaled and Icy in the first half of S3. For returning to places you had left behind. For convincing yourself and everyone around you that you're fine, that you're perfect, even though everything is crumbling inside...

Clancy in S3. For recognizing that you can backslide, that you can have fears and shame and pain—but you're shaping yourself with each step you take. For knowing that seeking help from others is okay. Nobody learns to walk on their own.

(And, in the end, you'll always be better than the person you were yesterday. If only because you're still here. You're still alive. You're still yourself.)

.

Overall, I rambled a bit too much, don't you think?

If you made it all the way down here—thank you so much for reaching out and being interested in this crazy AU! I hope you enjoy these ideas and tell me some of your own ❤️

[dmitriene]

cw: omegaverse, knotting, marking and possessiveness.

you were invading simon's riley head, not only often flashing before his perilous black eyes, but also tormenting him in his dreams, your unfiltered, sweet ambrosial scent were hunting his senses, carving into his nostrils and making them flare, saliva pooling behind his closed mouth with popping fangs.

sweet little soldier, you didn't knew in what exact danger you were getting yourself into with your scent gland demonstrated in his face constantly, every breath he took is a perfect lungful of your addicting scent, rubbed against his gear when you were sticking to him purposefully, your pretty eyes always dazed and gawking at him.

ain't afraid to cling to him with your dainty fingers wrapping themselves tightly around his bicep, the rising wave of his tart, pungent smell doing nothing to shoo you away, not with your scent gland swelling with a need to be marked, belong to someone who won't let you walk around like that, irritating other's alpha's ruts.

you came to him yourself, foozling into his arms willingly with mind frazzled by your own heat, smelling of ripe want to be taken, crawling yourself out your poor nest on a wobbly legs to find his quarters, where anyone could've picked you by their way through the hallway, making simon's arms encircle your form with a too searing grasp, hiding you in the safety of his quarters.

lips behind his mask teased by sharp tips of his fangs, scraped to the bleeding wounds that flooded his mouth with metal tang, but the encasing scent of you, lustfully alluring in your bared vulnerability and craning neck, flashing him the view of the swollen, burning skin made his pupils dilate, eyes taking an shade of black, sinking tar, imagining how you'll taste on his tongue.

simon has a mind to not send you back, he dreamt of you, of this moment, wanting to be the one to mar your pure skin with blooming marks of belonging and leave a bleeding, thrumming mark at your neck, only him and no one else, no other alpha is good enough, and no one had a chance with you from the start.

you picked simon, smart thing, laying your eyes on the more menacing men of all around, with his chocking scent that is too much even when he's out of rut, swirling pools of inking nothingness that replaced his eyes never could've let you know that he's intirested in your persistent attention, but you're here, anyway, and it makes his blood roar.

you're sweetly docile on his cold sheets, even with your body exposed to it's full vulnerability, pulsing pussy oozing pools of slick beneath your sticky thighs, and with simon still being half clothed, the only thing you do is preen at him with rumbling purrs, nuzzling the duvet beneath you that reeks of him and sticks to your itching skin.

loosely wet, legs obediently limp when he spreads them briefly, stilling himself to gaze at the glossines of your puffy folds, the shiny glare of your pungent juices that fill his nostrils, even the thick cloth on his face unable to conceal him from anything that relates to you, the gleam of glossy eyes, the all consuming scent, making simon drawl a husky growl.

you writhe to present yourself for him, would've rolled adorably on your soft tummy if he hadn't pin you down, looming over you almost menacingly, tattooed arm braced above your head, if not for his thick, gloveless fingers that were plunging in your gushing dewy pussy, scissoring between thin walls and feeling the tight clench around his soaked digits, sucking him in.

too sweet, both in the way you look and taste, your saccharine slick blooming on his taste buds when he licks a hot, filthy swathe from his knuckles and up to the pruney tips of fingers, thin lips shining with accumulated spit and your juices, licked clean to sate his curiosity about the way you taste, but now simon needs to sate his cock and your heat.

your body melted against the mattress, chest rising rapidly with greedy lungfuls of air, making your ribcage burn as you watched simon carefully with gleaming eyes, tracing the opening plane of the fat and muscles adorning him, as he rolled his shirt up, inch by inch that revealed the scarred canvas of his pale, wide chest, getting rid of the cloth swiftly, shoulders rolling with small cracks of stiffed bones.

happy trail of dark, thin hair that trailed beneath the waistband of his pants that he was getting rid of, unzipping them with slightly shaky fingers, veins popping with blue webs on the thick skin as he rolled them down, letting his heavy cock bob out through the boxer briefs, tenting the darkened fabric with wet spot, thick musk that filled the air licking at your senses.

simon does it as fast as possible without snapping, trying not to rip his clothes off his body and pounce on you, throwing his pants off the bed, before rolling the soaked fabric of his boxers down, his onyx gaze locked eerily with yours as he gripped the fat girth of his cock, rudy flesh adorned with popped veins and dribbling, pearly precum from his slit, squelching obscenely at each jerk of his wrist.

you claw your needy hands towards him, wanting to caress his rippling abs, make his cock sink inside of you and knot you as his, not registering when garbled string of words spilled from your lips, begging him to finally give it to you, voice small and tipping on the string of crying out the tears that bead in your glazy eyes, and simon isn't the one to neglect his omega.

he's the one to take care of your needs, the one who can give you what you crave so deeply, sate the hunger that bubbles like molten lava in your belly, scorching hot, making every inch of your skin beneath his calloused palms slick with sweat that rolls off of you, shining under the dim light and begging to be licked off.

you obey his grip on your supple hips, blunt nails sinking into the fat of flesh and you're too far away to feel the tiny pinpricks of pain, letting him tug you closer to him as he lifts your legs up, and you obediently lope them around his waist, ankles crossing together against the small of his bowed back, as he slaps his throbbing cock between your fluttering folds, rubbing each inch of his girth along the tacky mess, before sinking against your gaping hole.

fattened, bulbous tip passing through the ring of your tightening muscles, each inch gradually managing to still stretch you around his cock, letting you feel how big he is despite your pussy being as loose as possible, slick dripping out of your gooey hole like molasses to ease the glide and spur simon on a tentative thrusts, one shallow roll of his hips enough for you to tighten with stars in your eyes and rapturous cry spilling from your throat.

your whole body seizing, picking on rippling feeling of your silken walls around his meaty cock that make simon's eyes turn pupil less, blackening completely as he moves his body to blanket you, trapping you in a crushing embrace as he lowered himself down and picked up the pace of his thrusts, freely stuffing you full and stretching your thin walls to the brim, forcing you to accommodate the fat shaft that now was rearranging your insides with frantic motions.

fat cock mercilessly sawing in and out of you, your body unable to jolt beneath the wall of heavy muscles and swallowing palms of his hands that mapped along every inch of you, groping at the round globs of your ass to prop you securely, raking to play with your puffy nipples, capped to the pair of pretty tits that were jiggling right in his face, your spit shined lips open wide just a bit higher, making him howl in answer to your punched, tiny gasps.

your hands clinging and clawing with rosy crescent for stability on any place of his body, the beefy biceps, the wide shoulders, but you want to have him closer, and when you sink with stinging nails somewhere beneath his covered neck, amber of his eyes peering at your lidded gaze and needy sobs that spill from your mouth, simon frees one hand to rip his balaclava off.

no point of holding anything back, not with your pussy tightening with rapid pulsing as your glassy gaze rakes along his tousled, askew hair, looking pressed against his skull slightly, until you skid your fingers in the locks, tugging lightly to bump his forehead against yours, and your smell grows even thicker so close, his pale eyelashes fluttering when he takes a lungful, and then slots your mouthes together.

skimming his teeth along the plump flesh, biting with little sting and lapping off the pearling blood, so fragile, sucking your lip into his mouth before releasing with a wet pop to suckle on your tongue, catching as you tried to curl it's around his, wet mouth swallowing your low, whimpering moans, as his balls slapped against your ass with the squelch of your ceaseless slick.

it wasn't long before you felt your orgasm lick at your tummy, making your toes curl and twitch against the dip of simon's spine, his mouth leaving yours to focus on the rapid clench of your gummy walls, latching tightly around his cock with every frantic bounce of his hips forward, and simon could feel the way the root of his cock grew thicker than the rest of his shaft, knot swelling smoothly, and your cunt was more than ready to accept him.

he knotted you when your little sounds developed in ragged, confused little moans, holding onto his hair with tight, whitening grip of your knuckles, feeling the unyielding, swelling pressure of simon's cock at your tightening hole, pummeling into you at brutal, sudden pace that knocked air out of your lungs, his breath morphing into growling pants, skimming along the burning skin of your neck, tongue lolling to lick along the salty sweat, sucking a drop that rolled down your gland, before sinking his teeth in.

crying scream guggled out of your mouth as hot tears streamed down your eyes, rolling harshly into the back of your skull as you clamped down tightly on simon's spilling cock, knot catched securely between your spasming walls, splitted to your limit around the rippling girth that pumped you with soft rocks back and forth, your body frissoning, until simon wasn't been able to move.

stuck in your pulsing cunt, milking him with rapid, rhythmic clenches to the last drop of the creamy cum that was oozing out from your stuffed hole, seeping down simon's still cock with frothy white streaks, dripping down the sodden sheets and duvet, as he lapped his tongue against your gland, scarlet blood coating his swollen, bitten lips, smeared in a sweet layer as he cleaned the fresh, palpitating mark.

this spoke about your belonging to him, his sweet omega, the one he can and would call as his own, keep you stuck on his cock every night with swelled, imprinted mark of his sharp teeth on your neck for anyone to gawk on, as your consciousness slipped with whiny call of his name, sending pleasant shudders down his spine, as he peered at you again, his mate, safe and sound in his arms, knotted full of him and reeking of his pheromones.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[raytoelicker]

x. another life (written work)

You groaned, throwing your phone into one of the soft cushions.

To say that Scaramouche is a morning person was a complete understatement—that guy's a complete, abnormal morning freak. You're pretty sure he went to bed at around midnight and guessing from the times you've seen him prepare, he'd take at least two whopping hours to, what? contemplate which shade of color goes well for his Minecraft boxers?

Yeah.

That's how slow the asshole is. And listen, you're not one to judge; you're a morning person as well, but in fairness, it's mostly because you're still high from the adrenaline of doing a concerning amount of work before taking a short nap.

So, again, yeah. He's a fucking morning freak that you would absolutely not appreciate in your morning routine that requires the absolute of patience needed.

Clicking your tongue, you shoot a glare at your glowing device. One that could hopefully urge the phone to burst into flames.

Okay, bath. Bath. Bath.. bath.. bath..

–

“Three baskets of strawberries, thirty kilograms of flour, and that Letche brand of baking powder in..” you squinted, willing the memory out of the corner of your brain, “..in aisle three or seven. Just request three boxes of those, thank you.”

The man with the brown cap nodded, eagerly taking notes with the most worn-out pen you've seen so far, “that's it, miss..?”

You smiled. “Miss [Name]. We’ll be seeing each other more, I'm sure of it.”

“Got it! We'll have it delivered by.. presumably three days from now.”

Seconds passed by as the sounds of scribbles filled the air, until another man emerged from of the entrance, form shifting and awkward before the sound of chimes and an embarrassed voice shatters the silence, “sorry to bother you, but uh, um. Your coworker, I assume..? Your coworker is very.. aggressive, and I think he wants to go in. Inside, I mean. Here.”

Silence ensued as you stared blankly at both men, before recognition hits you like cold ass water.

How the motherfuck do I always forget that he exists, goddamnit!

You flashed the two men a customer-service smile, whispers of apologies on your lips as you rushed to the door.. and, lo and behold! The Beauty and the Beast: budget edition!

Said Beast snaps his head to you, an ugly scowl adorning his face, “calltime was 8:00AM. and it's 8:09AM. How hard is it for you to be punctual for once, you fucking–”

You sighed, eyes shutting to a close, “as you said, it's 8:09AM in the morning and it's still early. Can we save the yelling later in the afternoon?”

Your veins throbbed when a click of a tongue was all you could hear before a calmer voice replaced it once again, “yeah, whatever, fruitcake. Let's get on with it. Who were those people, anyway?”

He pats the metal part of his Beauty, slowly treading over to your side, “uh. just a few of those delivery guys. yeah.”

“‘s that so? Also, fucking gross. I can hear your saliva swirling around, shithead. Keep it down.”

“..Shut up!”

–

God.

This was gonna be an absolute comedian 12-Hour Shitshow. With the first guests being the poor two men having to witness the most atrocious altercation between two hard-headed rivals, especially the one with grape-hair.

A particularly idiotic expression coursed through your rival’s face, “no, that's why you don't need the three boxes of shitty baking powder, you dumbass! You have to finish the remaining ones in the pantry first!”

The man with the brown cap flitted his eyes to the Asshole, before going back to yours, “and as I've said, there's only two in the pantry! Two! We need more than just two, and there's barely any stores in here that sells that specific brand!”

“That damn thing is also about to expire.”

“No, it's not! We bought it just a year ago, in the highest quality!”

“Baking powders lasts up from six to eighteen fucking months! You're a barista slash baker, how do you not know that!?”

“Erm—”

“Eighteen! There's still six months left. And—”

“Fuck off with your mumbling shit. There's no need to buy lthree fucking boxes of baking powder to last you a year, you dipshit. You only need one!”

“No, we don't—”

“—Um, as much as we're enjoying this, uh. Conversation, I think we have to really get going, because um. We're running late. So. How many boxes, really?” The sheepish man put out a notepad, strikingly similar to the man with the brown cap that's now pulled down to his face.

Heat burned in your cheeks as you pinched the Asshole’s side, ignoring his utterly embarrassing squeak as you replied back, “Two. just.. two. Thank you.”

The two simultaneously and awkwardly replied, “got it!”

You and Scaramouche shared a glance as they scurried to the door, before it turned into a glare.

“That was your fault, by the way.”

“Was not.”

“It was.”

“If you hadn't made a comment on the baking powder, then this wouldn't have happened.”

Scaramouche scoffed, the snark so prominent it makes you nauseous, “oh, fuck off. you listened to me in the end, didn't you? kind of proves that you really needed my help.”

A snort left your lips as you approached him, arms folded, “kinda? shut up, I never needed it,” there was a harsh finality in your tone and you made sure to emphasize it as you jabbed a finger to his chest, “I survived 15 years without your help. And I sure don't need it now.”

And in response, Scaramouche all but blinked, shock morphing his expression before it contorted to one of mixed miniscule confusion and amusement, “ever heard of sarcasm, fruitcake? you're so easy to rile up.”

Your eye twitched. It's still 8:30AM. You open up at 9:00AM. 9:00AM..

Exhale, inhale.

“And that exhale, inhale thing you're doing is also pretty dumb, by the way.”

“Okay,” you were so close. so close to punching the asshole out of here. better yet, fire him and put the nastiest record on his file, but you know better than that. because, again, exhale inhale exhale inhale— “shut the fuck up, and turn over that damn sign. go parade out the streets since you're such a dollface, you goddamn asshole. maybe you should put that pretty face of yours to some use instead of using it for the ugliest shittiest fucking–”

“You think I'm pretty?”

What. The fuck?

Your brain short-circuits, as you blankly turn to him.

Scaramouche, the shit-eating asshole that he is, dares to even flutter his eyelashes. Eyeliner becoming more prominent amidst the pale expanse that is his face and by gods, you can only hope that the absolute nausea that's swirling in your stomach right now is reflecting on your face, because why in the goddamn fuck did he say it as if it wasn't an universal fact?

Yes, he's pretty! Of course, he is! It's like goddamn sky is blue, grass is green and Tighnari is head over heels for Cyno—so why the fuck is this hardheaded dickhead acting as if your flattery is anything different from the others!?

And after prolonged minutes of intense emotional whiplash between nausea, disgust, shock and acceptance, you reply, “no, you look like god’s abandoned piece of shit.”

He snorts, poise relaxing as he sits by one of the chairs, leg propped up over the other leg, “that's a funny thing to think about.”

“..Are you gonna do the damn thing or are you just gonna—”

“Alright, alright, you fussy shithole!”

–

It's only a short 30 minutes before you’re working on the counter again: swiveling through the counter, putting on the most customer-service smile, throwing an occasional ‘good morning’ to the elderly, and saying ‘hi’ to the chit-chat companion you sporadically talk to.

Except this time, this fucking time, there's a fucking twink bumping hips and asses with you in every turn.

Hey, listen, the café that your grandmother owns specifically intends to hold two workers minimum considering that she had this whole thing built for her husband that soon passed when you were younger. So, meaning to say, it's not particularly small. It's somewhat large if you consider it, but goddamn.

It's like every hit and bump is laced with ill purpose. But when you turn to him to reprimand him, his eyes hold the same sceptical annoyance as well.

(A gnawing thought itches at your skin, but you turn that shit off the second it appears, because it mentions quite the inappropriate thing. Hint: thing being ass.)

It's gotten so bad that by the time it hits an hour before lunchtime, one of the regulars asks the most atrocious thing.

“Um, not to offend or anything, but are you two.. dating?”

And.. that? Oh boy, did your composure nearly slip if it weren't for the hand that was aggressively on your head once again along with an insincere voice cooling the atmosphere down and basically talking in the undertone of, “fuck off and never say that again”.

Along the way of him explaining, which took 3 customers waiting in line watching the theatrical show of your expressions shifting from what to yes, he's right, his fingers slowly threaded through your scalp.

And, shit. It feels good. Like, really good. You'd rather die than ponder more over that though.

So, with renewed fury, you slap his hand away, cutting him off from the yet-still persistent customer who keeps demanding if you two were dating. Which is surprising because you're pretty sure it's been five minutes.

It's then that Scaramouche gently pulls at your ear and roughly whispers, “this guy wants to fucking date you, assshat.”

Your eyes imperceptibly widen, shifting from his to the man before you, as well as the five people behind who're so clearly tired and waiting for their daily dose of caffeine.

Customers aiming for the barista aren't typically common in your area, so this situation is a bit shocking.

A sigh left your lips, as you put out a stance, “is there a problem? There's a line waiting, you know.”

The man fumbles, as you check him out, “right! sorry.”

The moment ended as fast as it came as you tended to the customers, who still seemed a bit pissed by the whole event. By the time the clock hits an hour of lunch and the whole interior is swimming in delicate gold color, you can already feel the lethargy seeping into your bones as you slumped back against the chairs.

Watching customers wasn't really your thing since you particularly have a bad habit of overdoing it and glaring into their souls instead, but perhaps this time, it wouldn't be that bad.

A short few minutes passes by before the gasbag opens its mouth again, “stop glaring at the customers like that, fruitcake. You're gonna scare them.”

That nickname..

You rolled your eyes, “oh, shut up. They don't even care.”

“Look at that little kid over there, he's shivering under your glare.”

“You're schizophrenic, shut up.”

“Yeah, and my hair is green. Anyways, where's lunch?”

Your brows raised as you turned to Scaramouche, who's also currently leaning against the doorway of the staff room, “what lunch?”

He blankly stared at you, “what do you mean, ‘what lunch’? you self-destructive piece of shit.”

You gulp, “I don't.. eat lunch?”

And, silence. Only for a short minute though, because the gasbag can't really keep his mouth closed to save his life.

“Oh, fuck you. What do you mean ‘you don't eat lunch’? Is this why you go stupid after lunch breaks?”

A frown settled on your face as shame blossomed on your cheeks, “I just get busy! And, don't call me that. I still beat you on afternoon recitations.”

A snort, “beat me, my ass. your answers are always slurred.”

“..No, it's not.”

“Ask that little brunette friend of yours and find out.”

“You're such an asshole.”

“I'm so kind, I know. And, also,” an onigiri flew into the air as you stumble over one of the stools to grab it, “30-Minute break is over, assshat. I'll take over first and you better eat that shit, or else.”

Then, slam.

You eyed the onigiri on your hand with suspicion. It was [favourite flavor].

Your gut squirms.

–

The rest of the shift passes by as uneventfully, and as the inky dark finally looms over and the café is deprived of the usual nightly customers, the Asshole finally shows signs of weariness. And it's then that you make the mistake of commenting on it.

“Aw, Mr. Twink tired already?”

“Fuck off, I don't like talking to people.”

“Uh huh, weak ass.”

He glares at you, leg attempting to sweep over to yours but you evade anyways, “try putting on a facade and act like a suck-up bitch.”

Of course, he'd think like that.

“Well, you just—”

“—Do people usually come and ask you out like that?”

And, oh. Well, that's certainly unexpected.

Your gut squirms yet again, “what?”

Why does he care? Is he shitting me?

“Are you deaf, or what?”

“Why do you care about my love life, huh?”

His face drops to a comedic deadpan, all hints of curiosity dissolving, “And in what statement did I even state that.”

You stuck your tongue, “you implied it, not my fault.”

“And this is why you placed third in that ‘Comprehension Reading Regionals’, you know.”

Annoyance settles in your temples as you shove him by the shoulder, “the past is past, that was two years ago, get over it. and besides, i was literally–”

“Excuses, excuses.”

“Shut up! it's true, and hey, I can totally beat you up again if ever the regionals come up and–”

“Yadda, yadda, yadda. Just admit you suck at reading comprehension.”

“Not until you admit sucking on dick!”

That seemed to do the trick, considering the way that familiar scowl finally settles in on his face.

“God, I hate you. You're the reason I've been getting dick pictures in my dms.”

You scoffed, he had the nerve to complain, “at least you don't get death threats from crazy fangirls.”

and instead of an answer, you feel a sharp stab in your shin, and that stupid shit-eating smirk only widens before it leaves out of your eyesight in a very comical downward motion.

“Yeah, that's right. kneel under me, dipshit.”

“You sadistic shit,” you snapped as you did a sweep kick aimed for his shins, and surprisingly that did the job as the Asshole falls over to his ass with a ‘thump’.

A transient glance was shared in understanding before the Asshole grasped at your forearm and pulled you over down with him to have you in a quasi-headlock.

“Fuck..you—” pain blossomed in your knee as you whirled around to knee him on the stomach, a wince coming out of him as he let go of you.

A brief second passed with a glare before he attempted to pin you down on the floor, only to ultimately fail by missing one of your wrists which resulted in a jab in the forearm.

The process went back and forth.

There had been way too many instances wherein you and Scaramouche nearly went into a brawl in the middle of the classroom, art room, or even the canteen. But this? This was the official one. And fuck, are you glad that no one is in the café right now, lest they'd hear the concerning amount of expletives exploding in the air.

..And!

Sike. Turns out, the universe really, really does fucking hates you.

Faintly, the bell chimes.

Your head snapped to the front, as the Asshole shifted to get a peek at the entrance—and, boom, a small ball of greys appears and your heart jumps.

Fuck, it really was your grandmother.

Sending a quick survey at the man on top of you, whose pale face is currently decorated in ugly black and purple blotches, your instinct flies in.

Which was kicking him off, resulting in a concerningly loud thud with a groan. Which also did not help with your heart hammering in your chest and your breath hitching—

“What the fuck!?” He exclaims, and you swear to the flying fuck—

“Dear?” a velvety voice comes in, the door hinges creaking as it finally opens to the staff room and—

God, you wish you could take a picture of your beautiful grandmother’s face right now.

───────────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────────────────

|| previous episode - next episode. ||

───〃★tunes of your heartbeat masterlist

synopsis: in which your fate somehow gets entangled into a messy jumble between punk music in cozy cafés, intense rivalry, cherished yakults, parallelograms and quantum physics, competitions in contests and rainy days. or in other words; the universe seems to fucking hate your guts for whatever reason and decided to curse your love life with your awful crass emo twink-a-fuck rival. the question is; did the curse work?

taglist (50/50): @toekissers , @raineyun @localscarasimp , @potteraep , @shutingstar , @feiherp , @scaraenthusiast1 @dazqa , @wraithisd3adinside , @x-hihihi-x , @court-jester-stuff , @automaticpatroltragedy , @lalalaloveallmydays , @trulyylee , @jayzioxx , @featuredtofu @kazemiya @help-whatdoimakemyusername , @skyoverkill1 @phoenix-eclipses , @anqelkoz , @miyakomari @saechiro @franaby , @swivi , @vixialuvs , @heusalettle @kunikissr @yomishen @mywillt0live , @baldrapunzel @jiminscarmex @sushitushi , @liuaneee , @shynsgore , @mechanicalbeat1 , @marivaudages , @okukura , @azzumei @lucid1tty @iloveescara @usagiarchive @kyouzki @theunhingedmf @kangyeonie @mi2ukiss @bubblebellaz @eternallykira-143 @lumiicch

• featured song - im like a lawyer with the way im trying to get you off by fall out boy

• notes - meeEEEE AND YOUUUUUUUU SETTING ON AAAAA HONEYMOOOONNNNNNNNN give fall out boy a listen cuz GODDAMNNNuggghhh this song is an addiction i need it in my brain waves and also i think this song is popular in tiktok so i hope tjta helps UGGHHHH ME AND YOUUU SETTING ON A HONEYMOOONNIF I WOKE UP NEXT YO YOUUUUU

author's notes: how to quite literally force yourself to write? make a smau that has 60% writing in it. im not even joking dawg. but i love writing so😋😋😋 also can you tell im so ao3 style typa writing? i was gonna write more but then i realized that it's a goddamn smau hayss....

p.s - im passing the fuck out after this but oh my god we reached???? 700??? on the masterlist?? HELLO???? hello new followers omfmdkdndnd giggles okay stop

also totally-detailed schedule of the cafe shift:

Monday to Tuesday - Grandma and friends

Tuesday to Thursday - Hu Tao and granny friends

Friday to Saturday (interchanging) - [Name] and Scaramouche💜

afternoons to evenings in weekdays - double workers

mornings in weekdays - single worker

mornings to evenings in weekends - double workers

(ask to be added or removed)

[smallestapplin]

Ngl, I was eating strawberry ice cream and I couldn't help but noticed that it looked kinda like trans fluid...just creamier...so if it's okay if I could request Bumblebee, Knockout and Bluestreaks reaction to seeing their human partner licking off some melted ice cream the ran down thier arms? You could make it spicy if you want, up to you!

Just have fun with it, anyway thank you and enjoy the rest of your day!

I hope I can do this Justice! I went with G1 Bee, I miss g1 rn.

Reader is gn! Lewd thoughts but nothing happens, so MDNI!

-

-

Bumblebee

It’s innocent he knows that, it’s not even the right shade! It’s hot out today and all you wanted to do was cool off with a sweet treat, why did his processors have to make it dirt? His optics watching intently as you lick up a strawberry flavored popsicle, the soft slurping reaches his audials making his frame tremble as he imagines you sucking on his spike.

His blue optics steadily glow brighter watching the cream pink colored liquid slide down your arm, letting out a shaky ex-vent as your tongue drags across your skin. Oh you could do that to his valve, clean up all his transfluid he’s been saving just for you and-

“Bee, are you alright?”

The yellow bot jumps at the sound of your voice, snapping him from his filthy thoughts. Optics focusing on you, noting you had already finished your popsicle and were now looking at the blushing mech curiously.

“O-oh me? Pff, yeah I’m fine, better than ever, nothing wrong here!”

You riase an eyebrow at the shaking bot, his face plate a bright blue as his metal begins to rattle with how much he is trembling. His legs tightly together trying to hide the transfluid leaking around his modesty paneling, he has no idea how he’s going to explain this if you realize it or find out, he can only pray to primus he can get back to his habsuite soon.

-

-

Bluestreak

Poor Bluestreak can’t even look at you right now, the image of the pink cream leaking down your chin was enough to make his horn honk and lights flash before he quickly got himself under control after scaring the daylights out of you burned into his processor. For once the chatty bot was quiet, he’s so embarrassed he even did that! Looking at you wasn’t an option, his only choice now is to dig a hole, bury himself, and rust away and hope Primus will give him a swift death.

“Bluestreak, it’s okay! You just spooked me is all, I thought that was cute.” You are trying so hard to reassure him everything was fine.

But everything was not fine, how could anything be fine when his spike is pressurized against his modesty paneling with you right beside him? And you thought he was cute! His EM field is going crazy, and you think he’s cute?

Bluestreak is trying so hard to keep his intake shut as you place your soft hand against his arm, trying so hard to tell him it’s okay, but it’s not! He has to bite his derma to stop himself from begging you for a chance, there is so much more he can do with his intake he promises!

He wants to beg you to use his face, tell him what you want, let him give you as much transfluid as you want-

“Bluestreak, please! You’re overheating, babe.”

He’s going to offline here.

-

-

Knockout

Drive in movie theaters are Knockout’s second favorite place to be, he finds these Earth movies fun and engaging, he likes taking you with him as a sort of date night. Often his voice speaks over the radio so only you hear him, and you two swap commentary on the movie in question. However he falls silent watching you sit comfy in his driver’s seat, pint of strawberry ice cream in your lap and eating it happily.

“Gh!” Your noise of shock making him look, and oh does it make his engine rev.

The cold cream sliding down your chin and down your neck from a bite too big for your mouth, you tilt your head back and swallow what you have before reaching for a napkin to clean up your mess.

“Don’t.” Knockout’s hushed voice stops you mid reach, only further shocking you when he starts to pull out of the parking lot.

“Wait, what about the movie, we weren’t done watching it.”

“I want to lick that off your first, get you clean before I cover and fill you with something a little more appetizing.” He purrs, his voice low and chuckling as you squeak at his words.

His darling is simply just too cute to not want to eat up. You make it too easy to tease you, get you flustered and a mess for him without even needing to touch you. But you just had to look so good for him, taunting him like that knowing you have such a powerful hold over him.

Such a simple things has him charged and ready to go, all because it’s you.

[stairain]

Conditioned response

You knew training someone like a dog wasn't the most ethical, but Spencer just makes it too easy to pass up.

Warnings: Sub Spencer, Mean reader, conditioning, forced orgasm, cumming in pants, dry orgasm, crying, begging, manipulation, ropes. 

WC: 1.2K

Training Spencer to cum on command was a labor of love. Having spent hours studying Pavlov and Skinner just to be able to make a  mess of your poor boyfriend on whim.

Spencer was almost unrecognizable, his face a deep shade of red and pink, slathered in a dripping layer of sweat, and a puddle of his own spend at his feet. 

Throwing his head back and swallowing breathlessly, he looks to you and pleads.

“P-Please—Stop. Can we stop, please?”

His rug burned wrists desperately trembling in their binds as he tries so hard to be good for you. It’s wearing him down, you’ve made him cum at least three times now simply by the snap of your fingers. 

It wasn’t this easy at first, and it didn’t even register what you were doing when you finally gave him permission to cum and just so happened to snap at the same time. 

No, it took a while. After the next few times, it confused him, he ignored it, but then it became an expectation to him. 

Whenever your hand was tightly wound against the sensitive tip of his dripping cock, he’d look to you with those desperate pleading eyes before mustering up the courage to beg for release. 

After he’d ask, he wouldn’t wait for your call, no, instead he’d look down at wherever your free hand was. 

As a man of extensive knowledge, especially to things pertaining something as simple as conditioning, Spencer knew these things worked. 

He just hadn’t even expected himself to be the lab rat in your little experiment. 

But now, you’d find him adjusting just fine. At least to your standards. 

As soon as he arrived home, you had dragged him to the garage. He’d made no attempt to stop you, even as you sat him down on a cold metal chair. 

He didn’t even raise an eyebrow when you began to tie him to aforementioned chair. 

Spencer knew better than to question you, and he knew better than to speak without being spoken to. So when he dared open his mouth to talk, you’d quickly snapped your fingers, the sound reverberating through the empty, cold garage. 

Whatever word he tried to say had been quickly replaced with a weak whimper. You let out a small huff of amusement, you’d expected this. 

The dull brown cotton of his slacks were out to get him, he was convinced. You’d had enough of an ego boost knowing he just came untouched, but as the light fabric began to darken as it soaked with semen, you just couldn’t help yourself. 

“Look at you, making a mess so easily.”

You almost scoff, your words taunting and mean.  This was your own doing, how could you possibly blame him for this? But you did anyways, and he hung his head in shame as he tried to ignore the sticky spend seeping into his briefs. 

“I-I’m sorry, couldn’t help it.” 

It’s recommended to ask for permission before you beg for forgiveness, but you made sure he��d never be able to attempt the former. 

“Tell me what you know about counterconditioning, Spence.”

You say as you crouch down in front of him, granting the littlest bit of kindness as you start to undress him and rid him of his soiled clothes. 

The brunet stumbles over his words at first, but answers nonetheless. 

“I-It’s a way to reverse the effects of classical conditioning, associating a set conditioned response—“

You snap. He cums.

Spencer almost doubles over in shock as he shoots another load of sticky seed into his pants. 

“With another un—fuck—unconditioned stimulus.” 

You nod as you pull his cum drenched briefs and pants down his legs, and look up to him with eyes that render him absolutely useless. 

“And how would I do that, to stop this?”

You emphasize your question with the swipe of your fingers across his slick covered tip. His thighs twitch around your head and he licks his lips, trying to take back what little composure he’s ever had.

“Y-You could do that–“ His eyes flicker down to where you’re touching his cock “A-And stop snapping. E-Eventually there won’t be an association between the stimuli.” 

Spencer speaks with an urgency that’s only found in those who know they’re done for. 

“But you don’t want that, do you?”

Your voice drips in a malicious seduction, tilting your head to the side as if to feign an innocence only he should have. 

It doesn’t take more than a second for him to shake his head. Even with his cock aching and his thighs sticky, his need to obey you was stronger than the pain of his self. 

So when you smile up at him, looking genuinely proud, it makes the ache worth it. He smiles back, albeit crooked and broken. 

The moment doesn’t last long, of course it doesn’t. As soon as he saw you raise your hand and press your fingers together, his eyebrows wrung together and his thighs quickly shut. 

It was fascinating, it was as if his body just couldn’t stop itself. Even as only a few spurts shot out of his throbbing cock. Thick white drops of cum dripped down the veiny shaft, falling all the day down his balls and onto the chair beneath him. 

Spencer throws his head back and lets out a strained moan, one that was full of pain and little pleasure. 

It hurt so badly, and he could barely keep up. You were simply torturing him because you could.

“I-I can’t, please.”

He begs, shaking his head when you stand up from your knelt position and look down on him like he was a filthy animal. 

“I’ve only touched you once, and here you are cumming without my permission three times. How selfish.”

You degrade him, reducing him to the villain in the scenario. Tears begin to stream down his face and he can feel his heart twisting in his chest. 

You’re right, he’s failed you more times than acceptable. He should feel ashamed.

“I-I know, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

Spencer practically sobs, his entire body trembles as it aches with the aftershocks of three forced orgasms. 

A small huff expels from your nose and you shake your head. It was unfair, really, how easily manipulated he was. 

It was your fault after all, but what was it worth if not the satisfaction of reducing this know-it-all of a man down to desperate pleads and animal-esque behavior? 

You’ve got your hand held up behind your back, he knows it. He knows you too well to ever even entertain the idea you’d ever listen to him, but he’s hopeless enough to try anyways. 

A sob wrecks through his throat and he feels as though he can barely breathe. 

“P-Please—Stop. Can we stop, please? I-I can’t do this anymore.” 

It’s cruel, the way you laugh in his face as he drowns in his tears. How foolish of him to even ask.

Maybe you were being a touch too cruel, but it was all worth it the moment you saw genuine fear fill his eyes and the slight shake of his head as he begged you one last time to end it. 

But he knew better, and he couldn’t help himself as the hand behind your back echoed a snap right through his ears and out his length. 

You see the way his mouth drops open in a shrill cry, and relish in the sight of nothing coming out of his poor cock in a torturous dry orgasm.

His body’s given you everything it possibly can, and yet, you just can’t help yourself. 

[somebody-not-from-here]

Snippet of something I started on the bus home from watching Thunderbolts bc hooo boy did I miss Bucky

No spoilers just congressman!Bucky x media assistant!reader

“Well, at least you have a lot of online support.” She posited. “Especially with younger people.“

That piqued his interest. “I didn’t know the younger generations cared about veteran’s rights policies.”

She fiddled with the screen of her laptop, pushing it back and forth on its hinges, contemplating how to phrase her next sentence. “Well, it’s not exactly your policy - though that definitely helps - it’s more. Well, congress is filled with mostly old white men, you know?”

A scoff. “I’m an old white man. I literally fought in world war 2.”

“Yeah but… how do I say this…The other old white congressmen, with good policies, don’t have the added advantage of being the de facto sex symbol of politics, right now.”

Fuck. Worst possible way she could have said it. Proven further by the look of utter confusion and dumbfoundedness on her boss’ face right now.

“The- what?”

“You…” god. Her face was burning. “To put it plainly; you’re a hit with the straight ladies and the gays, uh, sir.”

“They think I’m…attractive.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

That was a hilarious question to receive - from the man that pays her salary, no less. From the winter soldier, even. And the sheer comical nature of it all was heightened by how genuinely he had asked. Clearly he had never been literally anywhere on the internet, in the last year. How does she even begin to answer, not only something so incredulous, but also (in her non-professional and very much personal unshared opinion) kind of obvious?

“Well,” her eyes couldn’t help but trace his figure. I mean surely he knew he was attractive, right? She could only imagine the amount of girls he would have pulled back when he was just a boy in uniform on his days off from punching nazis and protecting the country. She wasn’t even particularly pro-military, herself, and even she could see the appeal.

Add to that the beard scruff and the hair you could only dream of running your hands through and those eyes and the fucking motorcycle-

“You’re just naturally likeable. It’s attractive.” Is what she settles on, so that she doesn’t sound like a college freshman in heat in front of her fucking boss.

Something makes him hesitate, then. Blue eyes assess her for what feels like forever. And, for a moment, she’s so sure that being blipped all over again would be preferable to the whatever energy that this conversation has brought into the room and has her face turning every shade of red.

Then he smiles, amused. “Naturally likeable.” He actually laughs a bit, and seeing Congressman Barnes laugh feels like something extremely precious and rare. Something she is getting an absolute privilege to see. “There’s very viable claims out there that I could have killed JFK, and you think I’m naturally likeable.”

“You’re mysterious! Dangerous but noble. Intimidating but not an asshole about it,” - and you have a great ass, she holds back, “it’s appealing!”

“ I have a metal arm that could crush a person’s skull with barely any effort.”

“Yeah! It’s hot!”

His eyebrows shoot up and she curses internally. Shit. “Um, that’s what the demographics say, anyway. Sorry. That was just my professional opinion and I spoke out of turn. I’ll just stop now-“

“No, no, please. Continue, sweetheart.” His smile turns ever so sinister and she’s pretty sure she’s going to pass out. “I’d love to hear your unprofessional opinions on why I’m appealing.”

———————————————————————-

Maybe I’ll continue it. I have ideas…

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: eye for an eye (series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

mob!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, smut, p n v, unprotected sex, table sex, light fingering, hair pulling, begging, past wounds, physical violence, angst, wound description, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, bucky barnes had issues, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: hi!! i spent all of jan doing my 50k word challenge on the daughter of rotsál first draft, but i thought i'd take these first few days of feb to update this fic! i also released a smutty/fluffy oneshot called sweatpea you should check out! my birthday and uni is coming up soon so i'm gonna try squeeze in some more work on the daughter of rotsál draft before that and maybe one more update / another one-shot but i'll see how i go! anyway, enjoy this is a spicy one! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love permanent taglist: @globetrotter28

main masterlist | series masterlist

The shipment warehouse was a vast, hollowed-out space. Shadows stretched long beneath the dim, hanging bulbs. The scent of aged wood, alcohol, and rust lingered in the air, the faint remnants of the whiskey that passed through here on its way to buyers. Though mostly empty, clusters of wooden crates were stacked against the far walls, some sealed, others pried open to reveal their glass cargo, bottles of dark amber liquid reflecting the weak light. Scattered metal production tables dotted the floor, their surfaces scratched and stained from years of work. These were the stations where workers packed the shipments, but now, the tables sat abandoned, save for one.

At the centre of the warehouse, in front of one of the tables, three men sat bound to chairs. Rope bit into their flesh, tight enough that their fingers were already turning an ugly shade of blue. The table before them had been repurposed for something far crueller than packaging liquor. A collection of weapons lay across its surface—blades, hammers, pliers, each one arranged with careful deliberation. 

By the main entrance, Steve and Sam stood guard, their figures solid and unmoving, you eyed them cautiously as you passed through the threshold. They didn’t quite meet your eye, and you wondered if they could hear the deafening pulse that roared in your ears. The cold night air filtered in through the open doors behind them, a scattering of ash decorating the stone floor.

Bucky entered beside you, his steps slow and deliberate. But you could feel the unspoken tension rolling off him in waves. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his shoulders squared rigidly, his jaw tight. The walk over from the Sootline had been silent, even if you could practically feel the heat of rage radiating off him. He didn’t seem eager to talk to you, even if his gaze would occasionally flicker to you to make sure you still followed along behind him. Maybe he feared he would find judgment in your eyes because he never held them for long.

“Bucky—” You called out softly, but the gangster shied away from your touch, the fabric of his sleeve slipping through your fingers. 

He strode forward, each step heavy, his boots striking against the stone with a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent a shiver down your spine. The sound echoed through the warehouse, filling it like a countdown ticking. You knew him. You had to remind yourself of that. You knew this man—the sharp edges of his cruelty, the weight of his fury, the way violence coiled beneath his skin like a second nature. You knew him intimately; you had felt the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his hands, and the steel of his will.

And yet, in this moment, he felt distant. Unreachable.

Even if he was angry, even if he had been cold and dismissive, his rage was not aimed at you. This was because of you. Because of what happened. The thought should have been comforting, a reassurance that you were not in his path and that his wrath had a different target. And yet, the knowledge did little to ease the weight pressing against your bruised ribs; it didn’t stop the breath from hitching in your throat as you took in the scene before you.

You were safe. You knew that.

But safety did nothing to silence the unease creeping through your veins.

The Iron Rats reacted the moment Bucky neared them. Two of them shrank back, their chairs creaking as they futilely tried to recoil from him. Their eyes darted between Bucky and the weapons on the table, their breath coming in quick, ragged gasps. One of them had already begun to tremble, his lips forming silent prayers, his body betraying him as he shook against the restraints.

But the third man—the one at the end—was different. He didn’t cower, didn’t flinch. He simply stared ahead, eyes hollow, his expression unreadable. It was as if he had already accepted whatever was coming and made peace with the inevitable. 

“Barnes.” You snapped louder this time, voice clipped. The gangster paused his movements, not even turning to look back as he raised his hand, silencing you with a raise of his index finger.

“I was considerin’ if the bird needed to see this.” He finally broke his silence, voice low with a dangerous edge. “But I think she needs’a understand, don’t ya think?” 

His hand struck forward, grasping one of the cowering men’s chins, forcing his head to look in your direction. You could tell his grip was bruising, even from a distance, the skin around his thumb growing white at the pressure. “She needs’a understand what happens to dirty fuckin’ rats that come crawling into my territory.”

Bucky released the man with a sharp shove, and the Iron Rat nearly sobbed in relief, his chair rocking back violently from the force. His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. Bucky barely spared him a glance. Instead, he dragged his fingers down the front of his suit jacket in one broad stroke as if ridding himself of the filth he had just touched. 

Then, without looking, he reached for the table, his fingers curling around the worn handle of a butcher’s knife. The blade was thick and heavy, meant to cleave through bone as quickly as meat. As he lifted it, it scraped against the metal tabletop, the sound sharp and grating—final.

Bucky turned to you, his fingers curling around the handle, weighing it in his grip like an executioner deliberating his next stroke. His gaze pinned you in place.

“Left or right, doll?”

The question landed like a punch to the gut.

“What?” You stammered back in response.

“Left or right?” His voice was eerily steady, too casual for the brutality hanging in the air. It was as if he were asking you to pick a wine for dinner, not deciding which limb would be lost. Your throat tightened. The Iron Rats were barely breathing, one whimpering, his chair creaking under his tremors.

You forced your voice to work. “Barnes, don’t you think we’ve caused enough damage?”

You knew you'd made a mistake the second the words left your lips.

Bucky’s head snapped towards you, his jaw ticking, something dark and dangerous flickering behind his eyes. The shift in him was immediate, electric. He abandoned the bound man without hesitation, closing the space between you in a few sharp strides. Your pulse stuttered.

He was on you in seconds, looming, his presence suffocating. You turned your head instinctively as his breath fanned hot across your cheek, but there was no escaping him.

“No.”

The single word was like a hammer shattering stone.

“We ‘aven’t caused nearly enough damage after what they did.” His voice, low and venomous, left no room for argument. His free hand clenched at his side, fingers twitching with barely contained rage. “You think I’m gonna let these filthy fuckin’ rats walk away after puttin’ their hands on you? Huh? After hurtin’ you right under my fuckin’ nose?”

Your breath caught, your ribs tightening under the weight of his fury. He leant in, close enough that his lips nearly brushed your ear. His words were a vow, a sentence carved in stone when he spoke next. “You’re under my protection. Mine. You’re mine. So fuckin’ choose, doll. Left or right?”

Your stomach twisted. The Iron Rats were silent, frozen, waiting for your answer as if it were their final prayer. You swallowed.

“…Right.”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth curled, but there was no warmth in it. It was a razor-sharp thing, all teeth and no kindness. His eyes gleamed with something feverish, something manic.

“Good girl,” he purred. The praise was smooth, almost sweet, but his grip on the knife tightened, knuckles whitening around the handle. And then he turned. The Iron Rat barely had time to process what was happening before Bucky moved.

The butcher’s knife came down in a single, brutal arc.

A sickening crack filled the warehouse as steel met flesh and bone, followed by a scream so raw, so agonised, it turned your stomach. The man convulsed against his restraints, his bound arms jerking wildly, but there was nowhere to go.

Blood splattered across the metal tabletop, dark and glistening. It pooled. Dripped and painted the concrete floor beneath him. His severed hand tumbled to the ground with a dull thud, fingers twitching uselessly in the growing puddle of red.

Bucky barely spared the carnage a glance. “You touched her,” he said coldly, voice devoid of sympathy. 

“So I took your fuckin’ hand.” He tilted his head, considering the sobbing, writhing man before him. “Consider it generous that I ain’t takin’ both.”

The Iron Rat howled, his body convulsing. Tears streamed down his face, his cries dissolving into choked, incoherent pleas for mercy. Bucky wasn’t listening. He wiped the blade clean against his sleeve, smearing crimson across the dark fabric like a war trophy. Then, slowly, he turned to the second man, pointing the stained blade at him.

“Your turn.”

The second Iron Rat thrashed in his chair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. His eyes, wild with terror, darted between Bucky and the ruined stump of the first man. Blood still poured from the wound, pooling beneath the chair, seeping into the cracks of the warehouse floor. The stench of it—sharp, metallic, raw—hung thick in the air.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Please, I—I didn’t even—”

Bucky slammed a heavy hand down on his shoulder, silencing him with a violent jolt. The Iron Rat flinched, chest heaving, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face. Bucky turned to you again, the knife glinting under the dim warehouse lights.

“Left or right?”

Your fingers curled into your palms, nails digging deep enough to leave crescent moons in your skin, but the sting barely registered. Your mind screamed at you, an urgent, panicked voice clawing at the edges of your thoughts. Stop this. Say something. Tell him it’s enough.

But you didn’t.

Because you knew the truth now, Bucky wouldn’t listen. Any sense of cold calculation had snapped within him, as if his father himself had possessed his body. His blood was up, his fury ran red-hot and unchecked. Reason was a foreign concept to him in this moments, swallowed whole by vengeance and violence.

Your breath felt thin as you watched him, as you remembered what was left of Varlan Crey. The Rat King, so smug, so untouchable, had been brought to his knees. Felled not by magic or blades, but by the sheer, unrelenting wrath of Bucky Barnes. He had survived, maybe by the hand of a small mercy. Or maybe just dumb luck. Because you had seen it—the flicker of real, unguarded fear in Crey’s eyes. The raw understanding that, for the first time, he had stood at the very edge of death and only barely stepped back in time.

You swallowed, throat dry as dust. “Left.”

A shuddering breath left the Iron Rat, some final, pitiful sound before—

Bucky moved.

The blade came down hard.

The crack of severed bone and the wet, visceral tear of flesh split through the warehouse. The man’s scream ripped through the air, raw and broken, his body jerking violently against the chair. Blood sprayed across the table, warm and thick, dripping onto the floor. His severed hand landed with a sickening slap, fingers twitching before they went still.

Bucky tightened his grip on the man’s shoulders, keeping him from toppling the chair over as he convulsed in agony. He wiped the blade again, slow and deliberate, his gaze flicking to the last Iron Rat—the one who hadn’t made a sound.

The man met Bucky’s eyes with an eerie, empty calm.

No trembling. No pleading. Just quiet resignation.

A slight, bitter smile played at the edges of his lips as he tilted his head, gesturing to his left hand, which was secured against the arm of the chair. A soldier offering himself to the executioner.

Bucky exhaled sharply, amused. “Good choice.”

And then he brought the knife down.

The man grunted as the blade severed flesh and bone in one clean stroke, but he didn’t scream. His body twitched, stiffening against the pain, but he bit it down. His severed hand dropped onto the table this time, fingers curling inward, as if gripping something unseen. Blood seeped from the wound, a slow, steady stream.

Bucky studied him for a moment, almost impressed.

Then, satisfied, he tossed the knife onto the table with a dull clang. The first two Iron Rats were still crying, writhing, staring at their stumps like they could somehow undo what had been done. The third just slumped in his chair, pale and shaking, but silent.

“I think I should take an eye next, for even lookin’ at you. What’d you think, doll?” Exhaustion lay heavy in your bones as your eyes fluttered shut briefly. Bucky was upon you again, his gaze softer now, the fury still burning beneath the surface but tempered. He reached for you, his bloodied fingers grazing your arm in a touch that was meant to be comforting. “Eye for an eye, after all.”

“I don’t…” You stammered but leant into his touch by default. Steve and Sam had adverted their eyes, their expressions unreadable as they pressed their lips into a line. 

“I’ll choose for ya, how’s that sound, doll?” He rubbed a bloodied thumb across your cheek. You looked up at him through your lashes, hoping something in your eyes could pull him away. But his eyes settled on the faded split in your lip, and his gaze hardened. “They have to pay.”

Bucky stalked off towards the array of weapons displayed along the table once more. The knife he chose gleamed under the dim light, and Bucky tested the edge against his thumb. A single bead of red welled up but he paid it no mind. His attention was elsewhere—on the trembling man before him, the one still staring at his bleeding stump, breath hitching in raw, animalistic terror.

“Please,” the Iron Rat sobbed, voice wet, desperate. “Please, Barnes, I can’t—I—”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders like the weight of their begging was nothing more than an inconvenience. His hand was steady, practiced, as he tapped the knife tip against the man’s chin, tilting his face up.

“Didn’t fuckin’ ask for pleas,” he murmured, voice eerily even. “Left or right?”

The man shuddered violently. He turned slightly, eyes flicking to you as though you could save him as if you had any say. You swallowed, your tongue thick and useless, pinned in place by the weight of Bucky’s presence and the inevitability of what came next.

When no answer came, Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

“Left it is.” The knife sank into the man’s left eye in a swift, brutal motion. A high and raw shriek tore through the room, sending a shudder through your bones.

You flinched, but only slightly. The movement barely registered.

You had seen Bucky covered in blood before, had seen him like this before—violent, efficient, merciless. Yet you had also seen him in moments far removed from this carnage.

You had watched him bleed and had pressed your hands to his wounds to keep him from slipping away. You had felt his warmth seeping between your fingers, his breath shallow but steady as he let you take care of him. He had trusted you then, let you see him vulnerable when he could have just as easily pushed you away.

He had defended you against the Rat King, standing between you and the man who had wanted to carve you apart. If it hadn’t been for him, would you have been at the mercy of the Iron Rats? Tied to a chair like the three men before you? There had been no hesitation in him then, just like there was none now. And it was all for you.

The thought made your stomach tighten, but not in fear. Not entirely.

Bucky wiped the knife clean on the Iron Rat’s pant leg, a simple, thoughtless movement, and turned to the last man. The final Iron Rat had been silent the entire time, watching the carnage with eerie detachment. Even now, as the scent of blood thickened the air and his fallen comrades moaned and sobbed, his expression barely shifted. He only blinked, slow and deliberate, as Bucky approached.

“Ya know what I’m gonna ask,” Bucky said, voice quieter this time.

A pause.

Then, a small sigh.

“Right,” the man murmured, resigned.

Something flickered in Bucky’s expression—curiosity, maybe. Approval. He didn’t make him wait. The blade sank deep, and though the Iron Rat tensed, his breath hitching sharply, he made no sound. Blood welled, thick and dark, spilling down his cheek, but he simply slumped against the restraints, his ruined eye weeping crimson.

Bucky lingered, staring at him, head tilted slightly. Considering. Perhaps even disappointed.

Bucky only clicked his tongue before turning back to you. The shift was subtle but immediate. The hardness in his expression softened, his eyes no longer carrying the cold fury he had wielded so effortlessly moments before. His hand, still warm despite the blood smeared across his fingers, reached for you, grazing your waist.

“See, doll?” he murmured. “Now they know.”

Your breath caught.

You should have felt horror. Revulsion. But instead, as you looked at him—his jaw speckled with blood, his chest rising and falling evenly, the fire still smouldering behind his eyes—you felt something else entirely. Something that made your fingers twitch, something that made your chest tighten.

Maybe, just maybe, this was more than just lust.

You weren’t sure whether that should’ve terrified you.

But at that moment, staring up at him, your heart still pounding, you weren’t sure you cared.

—

Bucky quickly issued his orders: everyone was to leave but you. Sam and Steve moved without hesitation, grabbing a bloodied, barely conscious Iron Rat by the scruff of their necks and dragging them towards the exit. The metallic scent of blood lingered in the cold warehouse air, thick and rich, settling into your lungs with each breath.

Bucky didn’t watch them leave.

He stood with his back turned, broad shoulders taut, tension coiling through his body like a predator still primed for the kill. His suit jacket lay discarded on the blood-splattered table. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled to his elbows, the fabric marred with streaks of red. His hands—still wet with it—hung at his sides, fingers twitching slightly as if the violence hadn’t yet left his system.

You hesitated before moving, carefully stepping past the grotesque remnants of severed hands littering the floor. You focused on him instead, on the way his body seemed stretched too tight like he was waiting for another enemy to appear from the shadows.

Slowly, cautiously, you reached out, smoothing a hand over his forearm. The muscles beneath your fingers were rigid but warm, his pulse steady despite the chaos he’d unleashed.

“You showed them your hand,” you murmured, your voice soft and testing. “What will you do now?”

Your fingers traced a slow path up his arm, featherlight over the muscle, following the curve of his shoulder. When he didn’t pull away, you grew bolder, stepping around him until you stood before him. His face was speckled with blood; the scarlet splattered across his jaw and streaked along the bridge of his nose. His blue eyes, cold and unreadable just moments ago, stirred—just barely—as they settled on you.

“They needed to be taught a lesson,” he said simply, his voice still edged with the lingering embers of rage. A repetition of the words he’d spoken before.

You sighed through your nose, your hands splaying across his chest. His shirt was warm beneath your touch, the steady rise and fall of his breath grounding you. You pressed yourself flush against him, seeking—what? Comfort? Reassurance? An answer you weren’t sure you wanted?

“Yes,” you conceded, your voice quieter now, steadier. “But you’ve shown ‘em your hand.” 

Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric, gripping him, holding him there with you. “You’ve told ‘em another woman is close to you—other than your sister. One that commands enough of your attention for you to do this.”

His eyes flickered with amusement. “Ya scared, doll?”

“No.” The answer was immediate, instinctive—but the certainty of it wavered, even in your own mind. Was that really the truth? “I just want to understand why you’d expose a weakness like that.”

He snorted softly, his bloodstained hands coiling around your waist, holding you there. His grip was firm and possessive but not forceful. There was no threat in his touch, only something else, something deeper, something that made your stomach twist.

For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to hope. Maybe he would finally say something—something real. Something sweet. He always left you with vague declarations of ownership and lust.

Because he cared, he had to—right? No man would do what he had done tonight if he didn’t care. No man would make a spectacle of his violence, an open display of his wrath for the sake of a woman if she meant nothing? He had carved his rage into flesh and blood for you and left a message in the ruined bodies of those men. You mattered to him.

Didn’t you?

But when he finally spoke, his words weren’t what you wanted.

“You have your worth, spirit-raiser.”

A flicker of disappointment bloomed in your gut. You could have pulled away. Should have, maybe. But you didn’t because you needed something from him: reassurance, protection. Proof that he would stand between you and whatever enemies would inevitably come for you now that he had placed you in the centre of this war.

Perhaps tonight had been proof enough.

Conflict and confusion pressed heavily in your chest, warring with the heat between you.

Fuck Becca’s warnings.

There was something here, wasn’t there?

Your hand slid up, fingers ghosting over the rough stubble of his jaw. You cradled his face, pulling him closer. His breath was warm, tinged with the faint scent of whiskey and blood, and for a moment, you hesitated—just a moment—before pressing your lips to his.

Bucky responded instantly, like a man starved, his eager hands gripping your waist with a bruising intensity as if grounding himself in your presence. A sharp wince pricked at your ribs, but the hunger in his kiss quickly drowned it out. His lips moved against yours with fervour, rough and consuming, parting only to let his tongue sweep into your mouth, claiming and demanding. You melted into him, your body yielding beneath his, heat pooling low in your stomach as his touch ignited something primal in you.

He moved with purpose, guiding you backwards. His hands were restless, roaming up your spine, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of your blouse, searching, craving skin. The cool air kissed your exposed flesh as he fumbled with your buttons, the urgency in his touch making his movements clumsy. You gasped into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss as your own hands wandered lower, gliding down the firm planes of his chest. The taut muscle beneath his white collared shirt flexed beneath your palms, solid and unyielding.

His breath hitched slightly as you dragged your nails over the crisp fabric, feeling the faint thrum of his heartbeat beneath. You felt the shudder in his body as your fingers found the buttons of his vest, slipping them free with deliberate ease. Bucky’s hands found your breasts, moulding the soft flesh through your brassiere with a rough, needy grip, his thumbs sweeping over the peaks in slow, teasing circles. Your head tipped back, a breathy sigh escaping your lips as heat coursed through you.

The vest was discarded in a swift motion, tossed aside without care, and before you could fully react, Bucky’s strong hands lifted you effortlessly, hoisting you onto the cold metal of the production table. The chill of it sent a shiver through your body. Still, the heat between you and him was overwhelming, obliterating any thought. His body pressed between your legs, the hard line of him nestling against you through the fabric of your skirts.

His mouth devoured yours again, possessive and unrelenting, his teeth catching your bottom lip in a sharp, fleeting bite before his tongue soothed the sting. You whimpered quietly into his mouth. Clinging to him, fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to earn a low groan from deep within his chest. His thumb grazed over your nipple, teasing through the lace, and your breath hitched.

The world beyond this moment ceased to exist. There was only Bucky—his touch, his breath, his desire pressed into your skin like a brand. And you welcomed it. Welcomed him.

You could already feel the hard length of him, pressing insistently against your inner thigh through the layers of fabric. His heat was unmistakable, searing even through the barrier of clothing, and a shiver rolled through you. The anticipation was unbearable. You reached for his belt, fingers nimble and eager—

But Bucky chuckled, low and deep, knocking your hands away with an easy flick of his wrist. His pupils were blown wide, dark pools of hunger that drank you in as you leant back on your elbows, your body sprawled out before him. His lips were swollen, slick with the mingled taste of you both, his breath warm against your skin. Your chest heaved, one breast exposed where he had tugged it free from your brassiere, the cool air sending a shiver through you.

“Greedy, ain’t ya?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement, but his touch was anything but teasing. His hand slid beneath the heavy fabric of your skirt, fingers dragging up the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You barely had time to process the sensation before he grabbed the delicate waistband of your tap pants and tore them down your legs, the lace rasping against your skin as he wrenched them past your ankles and boots.

The discarded scrap of fabric landed somewhere on the warehouse floor, forgotten. His hands were already on you again, possessive, insatiable. You let out a low groan, head falling back as he trailed a digit through your wet slit, humming in delight as he found you already dripping with desire. “Don’t need an arousal potion for this, do we?”

You ignored his quip, instead wrapping your legs around his waist. He chuckled at you, rewarding your eagerness by pressing one of his digits into your cunt. You clenched around him with a whimper, hips rocking as you internally begged for more friction. 

“Let me hear your noises, doll.” Bucky commanded, his spare hand trailing up your thigh. You whined softly, bucking your hips once more in a silent plea. The gangster smirked down at you, pressing a second digit into you as you squirmed beneath him. 

“Please, Bucky.” You mewled, pulling him closer with the legs hooked around his back. He obliged, slowly pumping his fingers in and out. You could hear the squelching of your wetness, your body shuddering with impatience at the leisurely pace. 

“You want more?” He purred, teasing you with a quick flick of your clit with his thumb. You clenched around him involuntarily, a breathy gasp leaving your mouth as pleasure rocked up your spine, a new wave of electricity flooding your gut. 

You pushed yourself up, hands grasping his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath his shirt as you pulled your bodies flush. The heat of him seeped into you, intoxicating, overwhelming. Your mouth found the column of his throat, breath hitching as you pressed open-mouthed kisses to his exposed skin. His pulse thrummed beneath your lips, quick and heavy, and you traced it with your tongue, savouring the salt of his skin.

Bucky let out a sharp exhale as you dragged your mouth along his adam’s apple, teeth grazing over the sensitive flesh before sucking a bruise into his neck. His grip on your thigh tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, but you didn’t care. You wanted them. You wanted him to brand himself into your skin the way he had branded himself into your mind.

“Please,” you breathed against his ear, voice hushed, desperate. Your tongue flicked along the shell, teasing, before you nipped at his earlobe, letting your teeth catch just enough to make him groan. “I need you inside me.”

The words sent a shudder through him, a growl vibrating deep in his chest. “Turn around, bend over the table. Now.”

Your head tilted, temple resting against the firm plane of his shoulder as you gazed up at him, your breath uneven. His fingers twitched inside you, a steady rhythm still building, each pump igniting a slow, unbearable heat in your core. A sharp gasp left your lips as pleasure twisted through you, your body tensing in response.

“My ribs—” you managed to gasp, wincing as the dull ache reminded you of your bruises.

Bucky stilled for a moment, a flicker of something soft crossing his face, a rare moment of tenderness blooming between the two of you. His breath was warm against your cheek as he considered your words, his free hand smoothing over your hip as though grounding you.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured, low and reassuring, though the husk of his voice betrayed his restraint. “I’ll try to be gentle.”

Gentle. A rare promise from a man like him.

Then, just as quickly as he had stilled, he withdrew. A wet heat lingered in the absence of his fingers, and you shuddered, your walls clenching around nothing. A soft whimper escaped before you could stop it, your body betraying the ache of emptiness. You unhooked your legs from around his waist, knees wobbling as you moved, turning yourself around atop the table.

The cold metal kissed your stomach as you laid your front flat against it, one breast still bare from where he had pulled the fabric away. A shuddering breath left you, anticipation thick in your veins as you braced yourself against the surface, your hips lining up with the edge.

Behind you, you heard the sharp metallic clink of his belt buckle, followed by the slow rasp of leather sliding free. The head of his cock pressed against your slick opening, teasing but not quite entering. You whined into the table as his large hands stroked up the back of your thighs, gripping the flesh. 

“So wet,” he muttered. His voice was thick with hunger as he pushed your skirts up, bunching the fabric around your waist, leaving you utterly exposed to him. His hands trailed down, calloused palms smoothing over the curve of your ass before he spread you open, admiring the slick evidence of your need. “So good for me, huh, doll?”

A desperate whimper left you, your body shivering under his touch. You pressed your folded forearms beneath your chest, arching your back in an attempt to save your bruised ribs from the unforgiving metal table.

Then, at last, he pressed into you.

A gasp tore from your throat, your body instinctively tensing as he stretched you open. The intrusion was thick and slow, overwhelming at first, your cunt clenching down against the pressure of him. Your teeth sank into the flesh of your thumb, muffling the choked moan that threatened to spill free. Bucky cursed under his breath, withdrawing just enough before easing back in, working you open with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Ya like this, don’t ya?” His voice was low and strained, his grip tightening on your hips as he pinned you in place. The firm drag of him inside you sent sparks of heat flooding through your veins. “Like me claimin’ you? Like knowin’ I’d fuckin’ tear through them bastards just to keep ya safe?”

A broken moan left you, your body trembling against the metal. Your fingers curled into fists, nails biting into your palms as he set a steady rhythm, each thrust pressing you further against the table. The slick, filthy sounds of your bodies moving together filled the empty warehouse, the echo of skin meeting skin mixing with your ragged breaths.

Bucky groaned, his hands wrapping around your hips as he rocked into you harder, deeper, pulling you back onto him with every thrust. Your mind swam, the bruising grip of his fingers the only thing tethering you to reality.

“Tell me, doll.” His voice was rough, a demand wrapped in silk and sin. His hips snapped forward, driving into you so deep it left you gasping. “Tell me how much you want this.”

“Please—” The word came out in a small, needy sob, your voice trembling as pleasure coiled tight in your belly.

Bucky growled, a deep, guttural sound. One of his hands abandoned your waist, sliding up the length of your back before tangling in your hair. His fingers twisted into the strands, yanking your head back with a sharp tug. A strangled moan burst from your lips, your back arching instinctively. Your nails scraped against the metal table, searching for purchase as he fucked into you harder, faster.

The steady, brutal rhythm of his hips grew relentless. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. A filthy symphony of desperate moans, ragged breathing, and the wet, obscene sounds of him driving into you echoed. Bucky groaned, the sound low and primal as he chased his release. His grip on your hip was vice-like, anchoring you in place as he pounded into you without mercy. You could only hope Sam and Steve weren’t lingering nearby to hear the sinful chorus of your pleasure.

A sharp cry tore from your throat as your body tensed, pleasure spiking hot and fast through your veins. Your legs trembled beneath you, knees nearly buckling as your orgasm coiled, threatening to snap.

Then he tugged your hair again, the sting mingling with the pleasure in a dizzying rush, and you came undone.

Your cunt clenched around his cock, a strangled moan ripping from your lips as your body spasmed beneath him. Stars burst behind your eyelids, pleasure flooding through you in rolling waves. Wetness dripped down your inner thighs, evidence of your release slicking his length as he fucked you through the aftershocks.

Bucky let out a deep, shuddering moan, his hips stuttering as he followed you into bliss. His grip on you tightened, his cock pulsing as he spilt inside you, filling you with hot, thick ropes of cum. He kept thrusting, his movements growing erratic, chasing the last remnants of pleasure as he wrung out every drop of ecstasy.

His fingers slowly uncurled from your hair, his grip loosening as the tension drained from his body. You collapsed against the table, breathless and spent. You lay motionless beneath him, allowing him to use you as he rode out the final waves of his release, his heavy breaths mingling with yours.

Gods, you were going to need to take an anti-pregnancy potion after this.

PART EIGHT

[sallufix]

If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the process you go through to shade? How do you make it look so textured?

HELLO ANON!!! I'VE MADE MY LATEST PIECE FOR THIS SPECIFICALLY!!! I'm glad u asked... I love sharing my process because it makes me feel like a smartass 💀 I LIKE SHARING THINGS OKAY!!! IM A YAPPER!!! Now, click on keep reading for the shading process of THIS thing 👇

1st is the base colors, I normally color pick from their references and just adjust the settings of the pallete, but you can also just color them however you like :P for this, I wanted a good balance of yellow and blue, so I put a yellow filter by using darken. My advice for 1st step color adjusting is that you should play with the blending modes alot. The ones I use the most are lighten (if you want it to become more pastel or soft) and darken (if you want a more dull atmosphere or are planning to add alot of bright highlights anyway) so yeah!! flat/base colors!!!

2nd is first layer shading, aka the shadows themselves. Recently, I've guided myself with the direction of shading using the red sun as to figure out where the highlights or light sources would be, and the blue moon for where the shadows should be headed or inbetween. As you can see the sun is both at the top and bottom, which means the shading will be focused in the middle and shouldn't look too strong due to alot of light heading towards it!

3rd is the one I like doing the most, which is having reflective light off of shadows. It's basically light inside of the shadows due to some sort of light bouncing off of a nearby surface. Since the light here is blue, I used blue for the reflective light too. It's the one I use the most, but it can vary for what color the nearby surface is. For this step I use the blending mode hue almost always, but for this I used color since it wasn't visible on Shadow Milks shading before

4th isss highlights or lighting! As I've said, 2 light sources, so I kept in mind the one above and the one below, though the one below is more stronger than the one above. This step is pretty simple, just add thin highlights for where you've already marked the light to move to. Yipee!!!

5th and last is the overall piece adjustment and texture addition :P The thing that makes my art look more textured is this metal image thing from ibispaint's gallery, and sometimes the noise effect if this one doesn't really fit the piece. Again, I play with blending modes for everything to work! The second image displays me adjusting the colors using an effect rather than manually, this makes me have more control with the pallete and its vibrancy, that's why it begins to seem more green and desaturated than what I've shown from this point!!!

Aanndd voilà! That's how I do it!!! I switch it up ALOT of times, I change and experiment with shading styles a ton, but this one has stuck the most and is the one I've been using recently! I hoped this helped some people or just gave them a fun thing to read and learn about. If you guys want the brushes I use then I'll probably share them if there's an ask for it! bye bye :]

[saphiccarma]

- Post Bellum

Relationships - Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Summary - After you ran away from sex with your girlfriends, you've been broody and upset. A work event is just the thing you need to fix that.

Warnings: 18+ Men and Minors DNI oral (rio receiving), strap on (r receiving), angry/hate sex, 'lil smidge of car sex (not really tho), thigh grinding (A doing the grinding), lil bit of nipple play, switch!Reader, switch!Rio, top!Agatha, some elevator kissing, crude language alcoholism

A/N: ...Prepare yourselves. Lowkey kinda proud of this chapter and holy shit guys I actually really like it. The smut was super fun to write.

Arms crossed over your chest; you leaned against a firm cool wall. You clutch a flask between your fingers, curling around the cold metal that holds the one thing that keeps you calm, and you bring it to your lips. The alcohol slides down your throat like fire, almost like fine grains of sand that almost choked you.

You shouldn't be drinking while on the job, but you were being moderate with it. Besides you had a high alcohol tolerance anyways. Eyes narrowing, you tighten your grip as you notice a woman talking up your...clients? Girlfriends?

You weren't sure where the three of you stood. Since you'd frozen during sex last time, you pushed them away, holding them at arm’s length like you did with everyone else in your life. Agatha let you, she respected the boundary you set and let you keep it.

Rio did not. The younger woman pushed and teased in hopes to break down your walls once again. It worked the first time, the first time you let her - her charm luring you in, but you learned that you weren't ready for them to see the parts of you that came home from war.

Your jaw clenches as the woman openly flirts with Agatha, even with Rio right next to her. It's a monumental task not to storm over there. That wasn't your job, your job was to protect them and unfortunately someone flirting wasn't physical harm.

Brown eyes meet yours and the formers sparkle with mirth. The brunette raises a perfect brow, tilting her head as if to invite you over, but you stay stubbornly in your spot. Taking another swig of the drink, you shake your head subtly.

Rio's nostrils flare in annoyance and her tongue presses against her cheek. Tauntingly, while maintaining eye contact, Rio boldly slides her hand her to Agatha's ass, squeezing it. In return you grind your teeth together so hard that you think they might crack.

Jealously bubbles in your chest, hot and burning, similar to the scorching sun of the deserts and the heat of an iron. It's wrong to be jealous, Agatha isn't even your wife or in an official relationship with you. Rio's her wife. Her partner, the person she chose to spend forever with.

And you were not.

All that you were here for was to protect them, nothing more. This was a job for the cash, for the money, not to make personal connections. Your heart clenches in protest and you exhale sharply to expel some of the feelings raging inside you.

Seeming to notice you’re not very subtle tense state, Rio pats her wife's arm, whispers something in her ear before sauntering over. She sways her hips intentionally, shoes clicking on the tile floor, and hands tucked into her suit pockets.

She wears a black suit, the first few buttons undone, a white shirt underneath and dress shoes to match the outfit. Her lips are coated in a perfect shade of red that highlights her eyes, and you hate the way you instantly stare at her face.

"How's it going?" She leans her shoulder on the wall, crossing her arms to mimic her stance. In an attempt to mock you, she puckers her lips and furrows her brows, "Look at me, I'm brooding in the corner."

You roll your eyes at her tone, "I'm not brooding. I'm keeping watch, that's what you hired me for, remember?"

As hard as you try, you can't keep your tone sharp, harsh - anything to push her away. Instead your voice comes out flat, but with an undertone of care and self-deprecating loathing. Rio counters your words with an eyeroll of your own, reaching out to flick your forehead with her nail.

"I thought we were past that."

Emotions rage inside you. A mix of frustration, hate, love, care, annoyance, they all mingle together to form a complicated jumble you can't make sense of. Emotions were never your thing, not since you joined the military.

"No," you reply slowly, working your jaw as you figure out a response, "We're not."

Hurt flashes in her eyes and you instantly regret your words, wanting to reach out and brush a stray strand away from her face, to kiss her lips softly, and most importantly to apologize for your behavior. But you don't, instead you lean back to place more distance between the two of you.

Rio doesn't let you, instead getting right up in your face. Her breath is warm as she exhales and her nails dig into your wrist when you try and pull away. There's a darkness in her eyes that should scare you, yet it only makes your thighs clench together.

"Drop the attitude," she hisses, "You're scared, aren't you? Scared that you'll fall in love. Well fucking news flash, you have."

Uncaring for the people she crashes her lips onto yours, one hand tangling into your neck. She bites your lower lip and you gasp softly, allowing Rio's tongue to plunge into your mouth, swiping along the inside of your cheek.

Everything in you screams to pull away, to shove her back and maintain the distance you carefully formed. Despite your feelings, your body reacts on instinct, pulling Rio close and uncaring for the crowd and reputation Rio has to uphold.

The minute you try and gain control of the kiss, Rio pushes back, forcing you to submit as your tongue and teeth clash.

"Admit it," she murmurs against your lips, "You've fallen for my irresistible charms. And that terrifies you, more than you're willing to admit. Because you don't know how to love anymore, do you? Tell me I'm wrong."

You purse your lips together in a hard line and glare at her. Her words hit too close to home, touch too deep and you hate it. It's a feeling that makes your gut curl in a way that reminds you of being tortured and you dig your nails into your hand to ground yourself.

"I'm. Not. Scared." The words are dragged out of you painfully, each word sandpaper on your tongue.

Rio scoffs and maintains eye contact for a moment before pulling back. She gives you a smirk, one that says more than words, and flips her hair over her shoulder. Without another word, Rio stalks back over to Agatha, not sparing you a glance.

Instead of storming after her, you pull out your flask and take another swig of the drink. Agatha glances over her shoulder to look at you, thin straps of her dress threatening to fall off her shoulders to clearly reveal the smooth skin beneath.

Pulling your eyes away from her shoulders, up her neck, you meet her eyes. She tilts her head, a silent question and her gaze flickers to Rio before back to you. Subtly, you shake your head, letting more alcohol flow down your throat.

It makes your veins warm, heat flooding through your body that had nothing to do with the way Agatha was looking at you. Absolutely nothing. You can feel the familiar comfort of the drink settle over you, an indication you'd drunk too much while on the job, but you couldn't bring yourself to care.

The world buzzed around you; your surroundings blurred by the haze in your mind. All you could focus on was the two women in front of you. They were stunning, crafted by the gods themselves and placed onto earth just to taunt everyone else.

With Agatha's sharp cheekbones and oh god her nose, so kissable and you loved feeling it brush against your neck when she would kiss you. And Rio's figure, slim and shaped to perfection from how often she worked out.

Of course you weren't with them for their bodies, but it was an added bonus that they looked absolutely divine.

As the party drags on, you end up filling your drink at the bar. It's a bad idea, you know that, but it makes you feel fuzzy. It helps in a way that nothing else can. The sun has long since set and the people are now dwindling, with only a dozen or so left.

"Ready to go?" your head snaps up at the sound of Agatha's voice and you hadn't even realized you looked away. Eyes slightly bleary, you nod shakily, tucking your flask back into your jacket.

Blue eyes narrow in on you, suspicious and wary, but she doesn't say anything as you escort the two of them out of the large building. You jam a button on the elevator, standing off the side as you wait. Rio takes the opportunity to loop her arm through yours.

You stiffen and clench your jaw, refusing to look at her as you stare straight ahead at the elevator. A finger, cool to the touch, guides your chin to meet her eyes.

"You've been drinking," she observes with a hum, tilting her head and nose twitching slightly. It reminds you of a rabbit.

"So have you," you scoff, subconsciously leaning into her touch, soft and cold and so so nice, "So has Agatha."

The older woman glances in your direction with a raised eyebrow, a clear warning sign not the drag her into the conversation. Huffing out a breath through your nose, you glance back at the elevator, praying for it to come so that you can leave and get in the car.

Rio shrugs flippantly, eyes sparkling and leans up to press a kiss to your cheek, "Yeah but you are working." Her voice is almost sing song as she taps your cheek, sharp nail brushing against your skin.

Finally, the lift dings, a button on the top lighting up as the doors slide open. You usher them into the confined space and realize how bad of an idea it was. The minute the door slides shut, Rio has you pinned against the wall.

You were strong enough to fight back, but her lips are on yours and you don't get a chance to. It's pathetic how you melt into her, mouth parting to grant her tongue access and fingers tangling in her hair. Agatha snorts, an amused smile playing on her lips.

"Rio, I thought we agreed to give her space," Her tone is casual, as if her wife isn't kissing you senseless right now.

A strangled moan, swallowed up by Rio's mouth, escapes you as her thigh presses between your legs. It's a delicious pressure that knocks the air from your lungs. You pull at her hair, gasping when she pulls away from the kiss.

Instead of giving Rio a chance, you tug her head back and attach your lips to her neck. Violent kisses, sloppy with an open mouth and wild teeth, trail along her neck. She laughs softly, grabbing your shoulders to steady herself, and you flip the two of you around.

"Fuck you," you grumble, pushing her suit aside to kiss along her shoulder, "So fucking persistent."

She exhales shakily before giving a response, "Well it's currently working."

The slender collum of her throat is bared to you and you take advantage of that. Hands settle on your hips, but they're far too heavy to be Rio's and they slip under your shirt. Agatha brushes against your jaw and she presses the most tender of kisses to your jaw.

"Someone's aggressive," she murmurs, hands brushing up against your sides and then back down again, "I figured you had it in you, I was just waiting to see it."

You don't give her a verbal response, just biting down hard on the juncture between Rio's shoulder and neck, letting the other woman give a whiney moan. Smirking into her neck, you let that be the response for Agatha instead.

Her teeth scrape against your skin and you shiver, pausing in your own movements.

And just to interrupt the moment, the elevator drops to a stop, pinging to signal it. You pull apart from the brunette women, smoothing down your outfit and taking a deep breath. Rio leans against the wall for a moment, catching her breath before she straightens out.

"Car," you say stiffly, not meeting their eyes as you cross your arms and guide them out. Agatha rolls her eyes fondly but lets you, dragging Rio with her.

They both climb into the back seat of the car and you slide into the driver’s seat. Starting the car, you pull out of the parking lot, hands clenching around the wheel. A wet sound draws your attention to the backseat.

You glance at the review mirror, knuckles turning white as you notice what they're doing. Agatha has her hand cupping Rio's neck, holding her close and Rio is grabbing Agatha's hips. Their lips are locked together in a slow dance of love.

Jealousy, a feeling you have no right to, boils beneath your skin and you turn back to the road, but it's not an easy task. They grow louder, small sounds coming from behind you, and you can hear a seatbelt unbuckle.

You almost think the steering wheel might break with how hard you're gripping it and you swear steam is coming out of your ears. Reaching over the crank up the A.C, you pull on your collar as the car heats up. It's nothing compared to the desert sun, but the warmth was nearly unbearable.

"Agatha," Rio's voice is a low moan and you risk a glance back.

Agatha's hand is beneath her pair of slacks and based on the look on Rio's face, is swiping through the younger woman's folds. The sight makes you swerve slightly, drawing Agatha's attention. She smirks, lips curling upwards teasingly.

"Focus on the road," she chides, turning back to Rio. It takes great effort, but you obey, pressing down on the gas to go faster. Their house comes into view as Rio's moans grow louder and the seats creak from their movements.

Every so often your eyes flick back into the rearview mirror, and it makes your stomach tighten and your fingers curl around the wheel. Slamming the car into park, you're out of your door in an instant. You round to Agatha's side of the car.

A rare side of you is showing as you drag her out and then Rio, dragging them into the house. The door is kicked shut and you stomp up the stairs, ignoring Rio's yelp and Agatha's annoyed huff. All you care about it getting them into the bedroom and fucking at least one of them senseless.

"Strip," you order, turning to face Rio. You would have better luck with her than Agatha.

She rolls her eyes and yanks her arm out of your grip, "Make me."

A low growl rumbles in your chest, and you let go of Agatha, not caring what she does. Grabbing Rio's shirt, you yank it off her head, tossing it somewhere in the room. A flicker of concern passes through you at how rough you're being, but you know Rio would stop you if she was uncomfortable. You tug your own shirt off next, leaving you in simply a bra.

As your hands fumble with the button of her pants, you crash your lips onto Rio's. Her laugh turns into a breathy gasp, and you let your tongue swipe into her mouth. Absently you tug her pants down, leaving her in only a pair of simple black cotton panties and lacy bra.

Agatha is rummaging around in the background, but your focus is solely on Rio. With rushed movements, you walk her backwards until her knees hit the bed and you fall on top of her. Not once do you break the kiss.

It's an angry clash as you pour your emotions into the lip lock - that burning feeling in your gut and the swell of care in your chest. You straddle Rio's hips, hands pinning her wrists above her head.

You break the kiss, moving down her neck, "Keep your hands there."

She laughs, bucking her hips teasingly. Rio grabs your hips, pulling you close and grinning up at you with white teeth flashing. Slowly, she rolls her hips, pushing them up into yours and you can feel how wet she is.

"You're feeling bossy tonight huh?" Her words are punctuated by a sharp nip to your earlobe, "We'll see how long that lasts."

Your hands find her wrists again, slamming them down above her head. Teeth sinking into her shoulder, you lick at the small droplet of blood and moan softly. It's a coppery taste and for once not assosciated with pain and suffering.

"I said keep them there," you growl, "So shut the fuck up and listen before I gag you."

It's a delicious sight to see her eyes widen and lips part slightly in surprise. Cautiously, you let go of her hands, once you're sure she'll stay still and let your hands trail down her body. Her skin is smooth, toned muscles hidden beneath that tense as you feel her up.

You begin to kiss along her jaw, a shudder running through her body, and you move to her neck. Pulse jumping beneath your lips you sigh softly and feel something creak behind you on the bed. The buckle of a belt.

Slithering down Rio's body, you maintain eye contact as you kiss the valley between her breasts, down her stomach and finally, just above her panties. Her hips buck and she whines desperately.

"Just fuck me already," she groans, hands twitching above your head.

You ignore her, pressing a soft kiss to her clothed, dripping sex. A pair of hands grabs your hips, pulling your panties and pants down to reveal your own soaked core. Silicone taps along your slit, and you exhale shakily. Agatha was wearing a strap.

She leans down, her front pressed against your clothed back, "Keep going," she orders, voice low and husky, "Don't stop on my behalf."

There's a light squeeze to your ass and you moan into Rio's core. After gathering your bearings, you push her panties aside and inhale the scent of her arousal. Agatha waits until your tongue pokes out to thrust into you, eliciting a sharp gasp.

The vibrations have Rio moaning as well, and her back arches slightly as she fists the sheets above her head. Her sound of pleasure spurs you on and you scrape your teeth over her clit lightly before pushing your tongue into her entrance.

Agatha sets a ruthless pace behind you, the bed rocking with each snap of her hips. For a brief moment you wonder how she's going to get off, but then you feel something wet and sticky grind against your calf and the angle of the strap changes.

Flexing your calf muscles, you give Agatha a harder surface to grind on and you double you efforts on Rio. Her walls clench around your fingers and she gasps and whines above you, hips bucking desperately.

"F- fuck," she curses, the word drawn out and high pitched, "Fuck sweetheart you feel so good."

A light pressure is applied to your clit, making you freeze for a moment as you gasp, and jerk into Agatha's touch.

"Keep going or I stop," she snarls, stilling for a moment. You're quick to resume your frantic lapping at Rio's dripping center. Finally, the brunette breaks and her hands shoot to your hair, pulling you close and grinding against your tongue.

You can feel your climax approaching, rapidly building like an avalanche ready to topple, and based on the shake in Rio's thighs and her moans becoming louder and needier, she's close too. Suckling on her clit, you whimper as Agatha pinches yours.

"Neither of you are coming until I am, understood?" Her words cut through your pleasure like a knife but you manage a shaky nod and Rio whines out a "yes" above you. You lift your leg up slightly, hoping to help Agatha as she continues to pound into her.

She bottoms out before pulling completely out and thrusting back in. You keep Rio on the edge, just like yourself, as you wait for permission from Agatha to come. Time drags on but you can feel her movements getting sloppier.

Just to make it worse, Agatha slides one hand to your breast, underneath your bra and toying your nipple. It elicits a pornographic sound from you and you shudder, eyes threatening to roll into the back of your head.

After what seems like an eternity, Agatha pants, "Go ahead," her grip on your hips is bruising as her hips rock against your calf, "You can come now."

Her words are all you need to come with a loud sound of pleasure, the vibrations pushing Rio over the edge as well. Her hands loosen in your hair but her thighs clamp around your head to keep your close as she rides out her orgasm.

You feel a gush of white-hot fluid coat your leg from Agatha, and your own drips along the strap and down the bed. The three of you lay there for a moment, Agatha peppering the back of your neck with soft kisses while you tilt your head to rest on Rio thigh.

Your leg is sticky when Agatha finally sits up, climbing off the bed to take off her strap. She returns a few moments later with a wet wash cloth.

"C'mere," she murmurs, sitting you upright and pulling you off Rio. The other woman sits up against the headboard, still panting and her eyes half-lidded. Agatha takes the towel to your leg, wiping away the fluids gently before moving onto Rio.

Once the two of you are cleaned up, you squirm under the blankets, curling into the woman you had just fucked. Rio laughs, clearly amused by the irony of your shift in demeanor, but wraps her arms around you.

Agatha slips into bed next you, her hand draping over your waist and resting on Rio's hip. You sigh softly as you settle between them, letting your breathing even out.

[honeyhonest]

warning for domesticity1!!!

okay now get this. you wake up one morning and Grim is a human.

Not a teenager, at this teenage boy school. Grim is like, four years old at most. Okay, sure, he acts, and talks, and thinks like a very small child, but that was when he was a fucking cat! He poops outside and licks himself when he thinks you aren't looking!

So now you have this fucking, tiny human child in your house. Okay. And you have no idea why he is suddenly a little baby. Malleus and Vil both have a look at him and can't detect any abnormal magic. No potions, no poisons, no curses, no hexes, no spells, no blot.

You are not cut out for single parenthood. If you're going down, then someone is going down with you.

Obviously the first and second years are not equipped to be a step-father, even if platonically. The third years, too. If you even look in Leona's general direction he'll pick you up by the scruff of your neck and dropkick you off the island.

But that's no problem! You're a grown-up, there are other grown-ups here, someone has to help!

Your first pick is obvious. Lilia has the most experience, and is the most helpful. He's even offered to babysit cat-Grim before!

And he's flattered, but... no. Babysitting is quite different from raising a child, he just doesn't have the time or energy for that anymore. He has his family, and throwing another kid (+ partner?) into the pot might upset his boys, especially since Malleus'... uh, episode wasn't that long ago.

Then there's Trein. Raised two daughters on his own, years of teaching experience, reputable and reliable and- no. No, absolutely not. He's a girl dad through and through, and he's had ENOUGH of raising the NRC boys to be somewhat respectable young men. Again, he must consider his daughter's reactions to randomly adopting a baby with one of his coworkers-slash-students. And poor Lucius... so, he hands you a wad of thaumarks and tells you exactly what to buy.

Sam jokes about being a cool uncle but isn't much help otherwise. He does give you a slight discount on the diapers, though (Grim is not potty-trained).

Vargas isn't really good with the whole "baby" thing, so even if he did want to help, you'd be stuck doing most of the work anyhow.

Crewel bursts into maniacal laughter and slams his door in your face.

You're at a loss.

While everyone had offered something- their advice, their condolences, and their thaumarks- none had offered to help. How are you supposed to raise a whole BABY on your own?? Let alone one that breathes fire!!!

You can't just abandon him. He's your responsibility, and you have an obligation to...

...Oh, right.

No person, not the staff, nor your friends, had the obligation to help you.

Except for one.

All Crowley says when you throw his door open and drop a thumb-sucking Grim (not that he's that young, he's just enjoying having opposable thumbs for the first time) on his desk, is, "Well... this is quite the predicament you have, isn't it?"

"You mean the predicament WE have,"

He pales, which technically shouldn't be possible, considering the nearly blue shade of his skin.

"Now, let's not be rash, Prefect-"

"Either fix him or help me. We're your responsibility, Headmage,"

He curses under his breath (probably something like "goodness me!") and stands from his seat.

Crowley mumbles something about hatchlings being less difficult while he tries to get Grim's shoes on his kicking feet. The Headmage keeps looking at you, either for help or approval, and you have to remind him that you don't know what you're doing, either. It's not like you gave birth to this thing, anyway.

Baby Grim is also a biter. Every ten minutes you can hear Crowley yelling for you because he's got metal in his mouth again. You haven't had a moment alone in, what, a week?

Potty training is even worse than it sounds, if only because Grim refuses to do anything you ask of him. He's somehow more stubborn as a child than he was as a cat. He won't eat anything but sweets and tuna sandwiches, which you and Crowley are both getting very, very sick of.

There are some upsides to it, though. Ramshackle is cleaner than ever, since Crowley got tired of having to pry glass and peeling wallpaper out of Grim's mouth. Grim has better control of his magic now, and he's less clumsy with thumbs. The Headmage even went out of his way to buy a nicer, bigger bed for the three of you, since he was jealous that you and Grim got to have the bed and he was resigned to the couches in the guest room when he stayed the night.

Crowley is, weirdly, not awful at this. He insists on making the food and feeding Grim (it's a bird thing) and cleans him, too. Even when it's spit-up because Grim can't seem to resist testing the limits of his new stomach. But the Headmage also sees that you're sleeping enough, studying enough, and eating enough, too. And when you're running his errands under this new pretense, it feels more domestic than professional.

Everyone on campus thinks you're absolutely demented btw.

One day you'll get too lost in the sauce and Crowley will tenderly say "Let's have another one" and you'll have to remind him that Grim is a fucking cat.

[libraryofgage]

Good Vibrations Two

This AU got a lot more attention than I expected actually hfjdks I'm so glad everyone likes it!

Anyway, here's part two! We get some concert, some peeks at how Robin helps Steve navigate social situations, and a little Eddie having an itsy-bitsy crisis over Steve's fashion choices.

Have fun! And, as always, if you see any typos, no you didn't (especially for this one since I wrote most of it on my phone actually lmao)

----

Steve stares at the shirts laid out on his bed, arms crossed over his chest. Choosing jeans had been easy, but choosing a shirt is giving him trouble. What do you wear to a metal show at the local dive bar for a small-town band in which the lead singer is a long-time and way-out-of-your-league crush that you've been holding a candle for since the first time you saw him laugh on top of a cafeteria table?

You definitely don't show up in a plain black shirt, that's for sure.

The lights in the hall outside Steve's room flicker, switching off and on three times. Steve just barely notices, which means he doesn't get his pants scared off when Robin appears in the doorway, grinning at him while pocketing the key to the front door he'd given her months ago into a messenger bag. "Hey, dingus," she says, striding into the room and flopping onto the bed.

Steve rolls his eyes, yanking the shirts out from under her and laying them once more over Robin's stomach and legs. "What shirt should I wear?" he asks.

It takes a few seconds for Steve to look from the shirts to Robin, and she patiently waits until he's staring at her to say, "Just pick one. Nobody's gonna care what you're wearing."

"I care," Steve says, frowning as he looks back at the shirts. For the aforementioned crush reason, Steve cares very much about the shirt he wears. "What says 'Hi, we've never talked before but your music is the only thing I can hear and I think your hair is in desperate need of quality shampoo and also I've been halfway in love with you since, like, sophomore year'?"

Robin considers the question for a long moment before picking up a red sweater. "This one says 'I'm horny'," she offers.

Steve blinks, staring at the sweater for a few beats before laughing. "But I'm not," he says.

Despite looking at Robin, she happens to angle her head toward the sweater, and her response is lost on Steve. He frowns, waits until her jaw has stopped moving, and says, "I didn't get that."

After Robin first learned about Steve's deafness, he'd been overly anxious about asking her to repeat things. Somehow, it was worse to constantly ask when the person knew he couldn't hear well, if at all. But Robin had never shown annoyance; she'd just adjust her posture, make sure Steve could see her lips, and repeat her words. She does all of this now, and Steve gets to read her joking response, "Yeah, but you will be."

And, yeah, she has him there. Steve huffs and collapses onto the bed beside her, sacrificing the shirts. "I'll need a jacket," he says, turning his head to look at Robin so he can read her response.

Instead of words, though, he sees her face light up, and she jumps off the bed. Steve sits up, watching as she digs in her messenger bag before pulling out a t-shirt. "Remember when I stayed over a few weeks ago? And you let me borrow a shirt? You should wear it!"

Thankfully, Robin waits until she's done talking to throw the shirt in Steve's face. Honestly, he only understood a few words ("remember," "borrow," and "wear") but he's gathered enough context clues to get the gist of things.

He spreads the shirt out, humming at the Iron Maiden design. It's not one he wears often; for the most part, it's a shirt he wears on lazy days at home because of how soft it is. But as he's studying the design, Steve is suddenly hit with a stroke of pure genius.

He quickly changes into the shirt and then grabs a varsity jacket (not his letterman, but one he'd seen at the mall and bought on a whim because it used a nice shade of yellow) off his desk, tugging it on over the shirt but leaving it unbuttoned. After a few more seconds of digging around, he finds sneakers under the bed and tugs them on.

"Okay," he says, turning so Robin can see the outfit from every angle. He comes to a stop when he's facing her once more, hands buried in his jacket pockets, and asks, "What do you think? How's it look?"

"I think you'll give Eddie a crisis," Robin replies, wrinkling her nose at the varsity jacket. "Not, like, a bad one. But he'll probably ask where you got the shirt from."

Steve grins, thinking that sounds about perfect, and turns to study himself in the mirror. It's a surprisingly solid blend of metal and jock, and it makes him feel oddly confident, the same way he felt the first time he did his hair just right and everyone complimented it.

"Perfect," he decides. "Let's go."

----

The ride to the Hideout isn't exactly quiet, but it's not like Steve can talk and drive at the same time. So it's filled with music blasted as high as it can go on his car stereo, causing the whole vehicle to vibrate with each beat. When he finally turns the car off after parking, Robin grimaces as she rubs her ears.

She waits for Steve to be in front of her before saying, "We're putting the windows down next time."

"Oh. Sorry," Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck a little awkwardly as Robin dismissively waves off his apology.

"No, it's fine, I'm just saying. Now, let's get inside before they start."

With that, she loops her arm through Steve's and drags him into the Hideout. They're hit with a wave of cigarette smoke, spilled beer, and sweat as they walk through the door, the combined smells making Steve dizzy. He frowns, leaning closer to Robin as she squeezes his arm. He feels her thumb tap him twice, their code for asking if the other is okay.

"I'm fine," he mumbles, nodding to a table in the corner. "Let's go sit. I just need to get used to...everything."

The lights are weird, too. Despite the place being dim, the few lights that are on are flickering, and Steve is having trouble processing all the new information his (working) senses are taking in.

Thankfully, Robin pulls him over to the table he pointed to, a small circle near a stage of dubious sturdiness. It looks like it can barely hold the instruments, much less those plus the people who will play them. There's an amp on the side of the stage near the table, which means they'll have the perfect spot to feel the music's vibrations. Steve slides into one of the chairs there and closes his eyes, resting his arms on a table that is surprisingly not sticky.

He feels Robin move the other chair next to him, slide in, and start pulling things out of her bag. When Steve opens his eyes again, there's a notebook between them and a variety of pens in all different colors spread out across the open pages. Robin has already picked up a red pen and is writing with it as Steve chooses a purple one.

When Robin is done writing, she taps the page so Steve can read, "Want something to drink?"

"I'm not sure we can trust the glasses here," he writes back.

"The fact you're calling them "glasses" tells me everything. Just sit tight."

With that, Robin drops her pen, winks at Steve, and heads over to the bar where a woman is wiping the counter. Steve watches her for a few seconds before looking around at the other people in the place. Most of them are sitting in groups, talking amongst themselves. Most of them also have mustaches or beards, making it downright impossible for Steve to read their lips.

Instead, Steve just gets a dull kind of rush in his ears, an ever-present background noise he can't escape. Soon enough, maybe because he's thinking about it too much, a high-pitched ringing starts up in his right ear, growing and growing in pitch until it's all he can focus on. Steve grimaces and looks down at the notebook, trying to keep his shoulders relaxed so he doesn't look as tense as he feels. The ringing persists, and he rubs his ear like that's going to help.

His ear is still ringing, though it has started to diminish, when a water bottle is placed in front of him. Steve jerks, forcing himself to calm down as Robin slides into her seat again with a mug of beer that's more foam than anything else. "They're about to start," she says, waiting until Steve has nodded once to show understanding before taking a sip.

Steve looks up at the stage and wonders how he missed Eddie and his friends arriving. As his friends are setting up behind him, Eddie is resting one hand on the neck of his guitar and using the other to hold the mic close to his mouth. Steve can't read his lips, but Eddie's grin is a little contagious as he says something to a guy by the bar. The guy must say something back, because Eddie bursts out laughing, his head thrown back to show off a neck Steve wants to bite.

A tap on his arm brings his attention away, and he looks at the notebook to see Robin has scrawled out a transcript:

"Eddie: Thanks for coming out tonight, everyone

Guy: Fuck off, Munson

Eddie: Love you, too, Jeremy"

Steve snorts, looking up to see Robin's equally amused smile as she continues to write on another page. When he glances at the stage, Steve sees Eddie still talking into the mic, his eyes roaming over the audience until they reach Steve and Robin. Eddie seems to grip the mic tighter, and he holds Steve's eyes for a few seconds, giving just enough time for Steve to wave awkwardly before Eddie looks away. But his smile seems a little bigger than before, and Steve is happy to let himself think he caused it.

When he looks down again, Robin has finished writing, and she nudges the notebook closer to him. Eddie must talk fast, because her writing is almost indistinguishable from chicken scratch in dirt that a cat got dragged through. Thankfully, Steve is an expert at this point.

"Eddie: Anyway, you know the drill. We'll start with some Metallica, treat you to Iron Maiden, throw in a dash of Black Sabbath, and then grace you with a Corroded Coffin original. If you don't like it, not my problem."

Steve feels the beginning of the set as he finishes reading. He sits a little straighter, planting his feet firmly on the floor and placing his palms on the table with his fingers spread. Robin is still writing next to him, most likely transcribing the bits and pieces of conversation she can hear for Steve to read later and laugh at. She doesn't try to get his attention while she does, already knowing it won't be worth it after Steve has shifted into Music Mode.

In the same way that people can tell what song is playing based simply on the first note, Steve can sometimes tell based on the strength and length of the first vibration. In the same way people know the lyrics of songs after listening to them enough times, Steve knows the vibration patterns like the back of his hand. In the same way people who hear their favorite songs played live can tell when a note is wrong or a lyric is sung too fast, Steve can tell when the drummer or bassist makes tiny mistakes that wouldn't be caught otherwise.

And Steve loves it. He loves how his entire body thrums with each vibration that travels from the amp. He loves how he can close his eyes and picture a story based on the music, one that probably doesn't match the lyrics but tends to replace them in his heart. He loves that this is something he can still share with his friends, even if most of them don't realize how different his experience with music is.

So, for all the little bumps and dips that occur in the vibrations as Corroded Coffin plays, for all the tiny slips that certainly go unnoticed by anyone else, and for all the fact that Steve doesn't get to hear Eddie's voice, he can confidently say he loves the show. He's never heard the songs played like this before, and it helps diminish the gut-deep desperation for new music.

And then Corroded Coffin starts a new song. It's one Steve doesn't recognize, one with vibrations that are completely foreign to him, and he jerks his head up to watch Eddie play his guitar in an opening solo. It thrums across the floor, climbing up his legs and spreading in waves from his palms on the table. Steve feels goosebumps chase after it, a new wave washing over him when the guitar solo ends with a particularly strong vibration that's immediately followed by the drums and bass.

Eddie throws himself into the music, moving and twisting and strutting around the stage like he's playing to Madison Square Garden. Steve can't look away, the lyrics incomprehensible but replaced by the jerk of Eddie's hips and the tilt of his head and the little half-spin he does on his heel.

It ends too quickly with one final, reverberating strum that lingers in Steve's bones, burrowing into his marrows as Eddie pushes his hair back and grins into the mic. He says something breathlessly, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly as he tries to catch his breath, and Steve knows he's gone.

He's hopeless.

He's desperate.

He needs more Corroded Coffin, more Eddie, in whatever form he can get.

----

For the first time, Corroded Coffin gets genuine applause after playing. Usually, the patrons of the Hideout will politely clap (if they even notice the set is over) for about two seconds. Tonight, however, Eddie and his friends are graced with excited clapping, a few shouts, and one very strong whistle from a small table to the left of the stage. And it spreads because even rough biker dudes can fall to peer pressure when it's that enthusiastic.

So, yeah, genuine applause all because of Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley who, Eddie thinks, is surprising company for the former King of Hawkins High. No matter how unexpected, he should still thank them and ask what they thought of the set now that it's over. He carefully sets his guitar on a stand and glances over his shoulder, catching Jeff's gaze and flashing a grin. "I'll be right back," he says before jumping off the stage and heading over to Steve and Robin's table.

As he gets closer, he notices the notebook and pens spread out, colorful writing filling the pages and Steve grinning with amusement as he reads it. Robin is watching him like she's waiting for him to understand an inside joke already so they can laugh about it together. If Eddie didn't already know Robin was like him (band camp, summer after his junior year, during an unfortunate game of Seven Minutes in Heaven where they awkwardly stood in a closet together before Robin commented on his black bandana), he'd wonder if something was going on between them.

"How'd you like the set?" Eddie asks when he reaches the table, suddenly nervous enough to tug on a lock of his hair and pull it in front of his mouth.

Robin looks up, but Steve doesn't. He's still reading the notebook, snorting at whatever is written there like he didn't hear Eddie. It's not until Robin elbows him that he raises his head, eyes widening when he sees Eddie. "Sorry, could you repeat that?" Steve asks, his gaze dropping to Eddie's mouth (Eddie definitely isn't imagining that) and faltering some.

"I asked if you liked the set," Eddie says, frowning slightly as Robin grabs a pen and scribbles something on the notebook. It's too small for him to read, but he doesn't miss how Steve glances down for less than a second before his eyes light up with realization.

"Oh!" he says, looking back at Eddie and flashing a charming grin. "It was great. You guys are so loud, and I've never f-uh, heard anything like your original song before."

Eddie catches the way Steve fumbles, faltering like he wanted to say one word but forced himself to say another. Something is tugging at the back of Eddie's mind, but he can't quite grab onto it just yet. For now, he leans forward, placing both hands on the table so he can be closer to Steve. "You listen to metal often, Harrington?" he asks.

Steve stares at his mouth for a few seconds before nodding, and Eddie feels the thrill of learning something completely unexpected. "I like Black Sabbath best, but Judas Priest and Guns N' Roses are close seconds," Steve says.

"Yeah?" Eddie asks, "What do you like most about it?" He wants to know. Does Steve Harrington (King Steve, Steve "The Hair" Harrington, Steve fucking Harrington) like metal for the same reasons he does? Does he like the stories and the passion and the heavy theatricality of it all?

Steve seems to hesitate, possibly thinking about how to answer, before finally saying, "I like how it's music I can feel. When I listen to metal, it digs into my bones. Other music doesn't."

Somehow, Eddie's grin gets impossibly wider, and his cheeks are hurting from the sheer force of it. He's about to say more when Robin glances at the clock and swears under her breath. "Shit, I promised Mom I'd be home ten minutes ago," she says, grabbing the pens and recklessly throwing them into her bag.

It's the movement that seems to catch Steve's attention, and he looks down at Robin's hands before looking up at the clock. "Oh, fuck, your curfew," he says, looking at Robin like she hadn't just said the same thing two seconds ago.

"Yeah, no shit, dingus," Robin says, pausing long enough to speak while looking straight at Steve before throwing the notebook into her bag, too. She jumps to her feet and hauls Steve out of the chair, making his varsity jacket fall open to reveal an Iron Maiden shirt.

And Eddie thinks his heart just about stops. He doesn't know why, but seeing Steve in a metal band shirt under an undeniably jock jacket makes him feel....something. This is, like, sacrilege, right? How dare Steve Harrington allow Metal and Jock to meet? Doesn't he know the two styles clash? Or, well, they're supposed to clash, but Steve somehow wears them well, and Eddie thinks he's upset and annoyed by the fact.

Before Eddie can analyze that feeling, Steve says, "Sorry to run, Eddie. You played really well. Let me know when the next show is."

There's a lot to unpack there, too. Steve Harrington wants to come to another Corroded Coffin gig. Steve Harrington is sorry he has to cut the conversation short. Steve Harrington thinks his band played really well. Before Eddie can say anything in response, Robin is dragging Steve away, throwing a goodbye over her shoulder.

Eddie doesn't want Steve to go without something, though, some kind of departing word, so he shouts, "See ya later, big boy!"

Steve doesn't look back, but Robin nearly trips over the doorway. She then pauses long enough to say something to Steve, watching with sheer delight as he splutters and glances at Eddie before dragging her through the door. Eddie couldn't stop the grin if he tried, and he didn't try.

Later, when Eddie is sprawled on the floor of his room, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about Steve's stupid combination of Metal and Jock, he'll be struck by a sudden, consuming thought. What if Steve was wearing just the Iron Maiden shirt? What if he wore just the jacket?

Eddie swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, his mouth going dry as he scrambles to his feet and gets ready to take a very, very cold shower.

----

Tag List (the tag list is completely filled up! There definitely wasn't enough room for everyone who requested a tag orz

Please follow the tag "good vibrations Steddie" or put on notifications for my blog to see when new parts are posted :D)

@hallucinatedjosten, @queenie-ofthe-void, @r0binscript, @jewellthebooknerd, @paintgonewrong, @vacantwatchers, @newagemyth, @gutterflower77, @just-a-tiny-void, @littlebluejane

@whenindoubtb72, @different-tale-student, @sharingisntkaren, @current-steddie-brainrot, @willim-billiam-byerson, @nuggies4life

@lostgurl-12, @anomalygal, @synonym-for-strange, @sani-86, @missmagillicuddy, @ilikechocolatemilkh, @thoughtfulbreadpolice, @harringrieve, @awesomeimportantfan, @fredtheemoplant, @warlordess, @therealscarletpumpernickel, @gsvshsjsbs, @mightbeasleep, @mollymawkwrites

@lil-gremlin-things, @honorarybrit81, @sonny-ray-of-goth, @potent-idiocy, @fandomcartographer, @heartsong18, @lingeringmirth, @ko0kyco0kies, @ccomandercody, @spiderman-stilinski, @l0st-strawberry, @xxsky-shockxx, @stilesstickitinme, @boxsam, @thepansexualsnake, @37-screamingfrogs, @yourmom-isgay, @brainsteddielyrotted, @plasticcrotches, @hannahhook7744

[ilovetoxicfictionalmen]

RED IS THE COLOUR OF

KINKTOBER DAY 1 - BLOOD WITH JACKSON RIPPNER

Pairing - Jackson Rippner x fem!reader

Summary - Jackson returns home covered in other men’s blood. He’s too impatient to shower first.

Warnings - noncon! dead dove do not eat ! forceful, abuse, blood play, blood tasting, p in v, oral! m receiving, drawing blood, biting, bondage, abduction.

Word count - 1.4k

Notes - Starting kinktober off strong with my sweet baby boy Jackson. This is quite dark and mentally disturbing so be warned.

The heavy slam of the front door woke you up. As you jolted up, the short chains locked around your wrists yanked your body back to the bed frame. In the darkness, your senses focus on your hearing. The familiar pacing footsteps crept towards the bedroom. Goosebumps formed on your trembling naked skin as you curled up into a ball waiting for your captor to walk in. 

The door creaked open, you could only draw out his figure as the darkness shadowed over his features. Jackson’s breathing was heavy, likewise to an athlete’s aftermath of a marathon. His hand slid up the wall, his fingertips searched for the switch. 

“You almost got me killed tonight baby doll” Jackson spoke quietly, his tone filled with frustration and disappointment. 

Your eyes narrowed to him, mouth ajar opened as your heart pounded with anticipation. When the light snapped on, you let out a piercing scream. If you could sink into the wall, you would have. The muscles on your back were quickly turning a shade of bright red. 

Jackson smiled at you innocently, the lower half of his mouth painted a crimson red. His expensive grey suit ruined by the repercussions of human blood. As he closed the distance, he easily kicked off his newly polished shoes and slipped his jacket off to the carpet. You whimpered his name as he slowly crawled up to you on the bed, his piercing blue eyes never inching away from you once. He was the wolf and you were the lamb awaiting slaughter. 

“Let’s have a shower, get you all cleaned up” you suggested timidly, your breath hitching, It was motivated by desperation mixed with fear, your eyes darting over every inch of his crimson skin. 

“Shower later, need you now” he declared through a grumble with a gentle nod as his dirty hands wrapped around your ankles, swiftly pulling you down flat on the mattress. 

Jackson didn’t care that he was already permanently staining his sage bed sheets, or that his clothes were ruined, definitely not that he’d have to spend all of tomorrow morning cleaning the interior of his car. Most importantly, Jackson didn’t care how horrified you were right now. 

With your arms unwillingly raised above your head, your teary eyes watched Jackson fearfully. Under his still damp clothing, your bare thigh squirmed around. He rubbed his mouth in thought, slowly his metallic tasting lips brushed over yours like a soft breeze. Jackson pressed his lips up to your ear as he breathed in your sweet scent.

“Your daddy didn’t want to cooperate with me baby, now I’m covered in him” Jackson admitted shamelessly, a dark chuckle quickly followed. 

Impulsively, you thrashed underneath him, your restrained hands tried to claw at him but it was hopeless. The wicked smile on Jackson’s crimson lips was sinister as he pinned your wrists onto the mattress. Those baby blue eyes of his were full of darkness. Immediately your lips were wobbling, you could see the honesty as clear as day. 

“You’re lying!” You gasped out in denial, your fragile body being thrown into a wave of shock. 

“Unfortunately I am not, babydoll” Jackson sighed. 

It was fine, Jackson was never going to let you go anyways. But now he was going to miss out on a hefty paycheck. Oh well, you’d be able to make him feel better. You’ve succeeded at it every time so far, Jackson’s sure you’d be more than willing to keep up your efforts. 

Like a baby, you were blubbering underneath him, pleading him for mercy. It always got him painfully hard when you’d beg for your life. As if Jackson would ever dare to kill his favourite girl, no matter how badly you could act out of line. 

He was comforting you, coaching you to take in deep breaths and to clear your mind. As his red hands massaging your scalp, his needy hips humped against yours. After your cries had mellowed into whimpers, he moved his lips closer to yours. 

“Come on, taste him” he encouraged. The smell of bloodshed made you feel sick as your lips were a mere inch apart. 

“Jackson please!” you pleaded hopelessly, the nozzle to the waterworks twisted to full power. 

Menacefully, Jackson shook his head towards you slowly. With wide eyes and a trembling mouth, you mewled to him pathetically. Gently, his lips pressed against yours. 

“No, no… This is all you have left of him baby doll” he stated before deepening the kiss. 

It was human to react in pure disgust. Without forethought of the consequences, you bit onto his lower lip, with a force that pierced into his skin. The horror was the lack of reaction Jackson had initially. A dark laugh echoed up his chest, his lip still caught between your teeth. 

Suddenly, he smacked the side of your head, your latch snapped. Time slowed down momentarily, the ringing in your ears numbed your thoughts. The blood that spilled from his mouth painted polka dots onto your heated face. 

Blinking hard, you jolted underneath him, but Jackson held you down easily as you swore beneath him. “Don't fight me, you’re all worked up from having no control” Jackson spoke calmly, ending with a sigh. But when you didn’t obey his order, his string of patience snapped. “Are you listening to me!” Jackson roared as he backhanded your already stinging cheek. 

You laid stiff below him, like a ragdoll, his perfect babydoll with glistering doe eyes. 

The stinging in your eyes made you feel like they were on fire. The restraints on your wrists will show fresh bruising and cuts in the morning. The blows to your cheek will certainly leave a mark. Jackson huffed at your broken expression and stood on his knees on the mattress. His fingers fiddled to take off his bloodied shirt and undertop. 

“So fucking ungrateful” He hissed as the belt slipped out of the loops of his pants. 

You turned your head to the side as he hovered over you to wiggle out of his pants. When he was completely free of his clothing, he shuffled his lower body up to your face. Stroking his throbbing length over your lips, you dared to look back to him.  

“Go on then, put your mouth to better use. Fuck, you think I really want to hear you whining after what you got me into? I almost died for you. You know how many men I killed tonight!” he bellowed, roughly pressing his tips to your closed lips. 

Guilt struck over you, as if any of this was ever your fault. It was always so easy for him to break you down. Submitting to him, you shuffled up the bed. Looking up to him, your mouth slowly opened. 

“There’s my good girl” Jackson praised cruelly through a groan whilst your tongue swirled over his tip, a whine ran down his shaft.  

His bloody hand massaged your aching cheek whilst you took him in further and further with each bob. Holding onto the top of the bedframe, he crouched over you as he fucked your face thoughtlessly. The sounds of your gags were always music to his ears. 

Pulling his salvia coated cock out, he moved back down to hover over you. Jackson stroked his wet cock with his bloody hand, the moisture lubricated the dry blood and gradually painted his cock red. His hand wrapped around your throat as he tiled your face up. 

“You’re completely mine now, baby doll… No one will get in our way again” Jackson spoke softly as he pressed himself in your all too eager cunt. 

The smile was sinister, the sensation of how wet you were sent his nerves through the roof. You mewled out and scrunched your expression. But Jackson wasn’t taking it anymore. 

“Shut up before I fuck your ass” he threatened harshly, his eyes rolled back dramatically whilst burying his dick inside of you.

You followed his orders and remained silent. Rapidly, Jackson pounded his cock into your pussy. Accompanying that action by kissing you deeply. The stench and taste of him made your stomach curl over. His fingers circled over your clit, you whined out as you felt your body betray you once more.

“There you go” Jackson murmured, a wicked grin on his face as he observed the pleasure rise on your expression. “Remembering who you belong to” he groaned when he felt your velvet walls squeeze him.

Suddenly, his teeth sunk into your upper lip, drawing just as much blood as you did. You cried out, tugging at your restraints but didn’t dare to fight him. Jackson rubbed his face all over yours, making sure that both of your faces were covered in blood, inch by inch. He smiled at your pretty red face, his cock throbbing inside of your clenching walls. 

“Babydoll, did you know that red is the colour of love?” He asked quietly, smiling like a fool in love.

[softshuji]

𝟏𝟏:𝟓𝟗𝐀𝐌 | 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐈 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐔 | 𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐀’𝐒 𝐁𝐎𝐗

Summary: On Christmas Eve, Rindou comes to get you from a night out with friends, harsh truths coming out about what you both mean to each other.

cw: fem!reader, angst, implied cheating, reader wears makeup, some suggestive content but nothing too crazy, a lot of internal conflict from both of them, ran makes an appearance. Sorry in advance lol. Reblogs much appreciated

Rindou drums his lithe fingers on the steering wheel and waits, pausing to adjust his rearview mirror, or his collars, now open and peeled back to reveal the beginnings of the tattoo that curls along his chest, tie long discarded on the backseat. He watches every club-goer that exits the lacquered doors and sights inwardly when he realizes none of them are you. It’s Christmas Eve, and the streets are thrumming with energy, buzzing with flashing lights, neon billboards, the raucous laughter of men too deep into their drinks, and women throwing their heads back and giggling under the fluorescent streetlights. 

All of it so noisy, so suffocating, that he’s glad for the hunk of metal that separates him from the cacophony, praying and wishing for the sleep that he never seems to get or eludes him completely. 

His eyes ache, temple pulsing with a tight coil of pain and tension, and yet he’s here, driving you home at nearly midnight on Christmas Eve.

He considers ringing you again and makes to grab his phone when your knuckle knocking against the glass of his car window pulls him from his reverie.

‘Hey jellyfish, open up!’ You say and Rindou catches the flash of your smile, your hair falling against the condensated glass, lipstick now faded and muted to a lighter shade of red than before.

He rolls down the window and quirks an eyebrow at you, leaning back in his seat as he unlocks the car, watching you slide into the passenger seat, your head falling back against the headrest. The pulsing pain in his head simmers, a degree lesser than before when he sees your eyelids flutter shut and the sigh leak from your lips. A contented sigh, a peaceful sigh, and your arms drop to the side as you all but sink into the plush leather. 

‘Do you have to call me that?’ Rindou rolls his eyes and turns the key in the ignition, leaning on the seat as he reverses out of the parking space, the buttons on his shirt straining with the effort, delicate whorls of black ink now very much visible from beneath the open buttons.

‘What? Jellyfish?’ You suppress a smile and let your head fall against the window, now dripping with the first rain of the night. It drops in rivulets, and you trace the water racing down the glass with one polished fingernail, feeling the soft and simmering happiness thrum in your chest. 

‘Yeah. Such an embarrassing nickname,’ he mutters, his rough voice laced with mirth. ‘How was your time anyway?’

‘Oh, boring, you know I hate these things.’ Your eyes crease as you frown, watching the passing cars and their glaring headlights fade behind you as Rindou speeds up, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping on his thigh. ‘I’d rather be at home with you and Ran.’

He hums in agreement and curls his fingers over the gear stick. His hands are rough, calloused, blemished by cuts and bruises, scabs and scars sprinkled over his knuckles, a marked contrast to yours. 

‘It’s a shame he couldn’t come,’ you say, lifting your head to watch the glow of the streetlight pass over you, and in that light, Rindou’s lilac mullet flashes a deep burnished orange, the light illuminating the patch of skin where his tattoo slides up and down.

Rindou’s neck prickles with unease. Yes, he knows Ran should be here, that  he would be if he could, that he’d ditch anything in less than a minute for you. 

Always the job, always the looming paperwork, the assignments far away, the haunting and yet commanding voice of Mikey that propels them further, that leaves little room for error.

Rindou swallows against the pulse of pain that snakes up his jaw. ‘He would be, if he could be.’

He knows that. He knows Ran is probably doing exactly as he is right now, drumming his fingers on a steering wheel, or resisting the urge to check his phone for the umpeenth time, knowing you’re here, that he should be here too.

Rindou had taken the call only earlier in the day, hearing his Brother huff on the other end of the line as he jammed his keys into the car, cursing low under his breath when he dropped them on the gravel.

‘... and Y/N is going out with her friends later today, y’know for the holiday. Any chance you could pick her up for me?’ 

Rindou had sunk in his office chair, let out a huff of air indignantly, his chest both deflating and stuttering at the prospect. If only you were easy to ignore, to relegate to just being his Brother’s Girlfriend and nothing more. Perhaps it might make things easier, might make it easier for him to ignore how hard he wanted to press his lips to yours.

‘... again?’ Rindou had let the impatience seep into his voice, blowing a tuft of hair from his eyes, his skin prickling when he happened to think of how pretty you always looked, as if you had swallowed the sun whole. He cringes at himself now, at how he always feels so full and empty at the same time, of how his chest aches with how hard he fights to keep his breath even, of how sparks flit underneath his skin whenever you’re in his vicinity.

‘I know, I know, but you know Mikey’s been on my ass recently since everyone’s going to be busy for the holiday. She likes hanging out with you anyway and you’ll be doing me a favour. Come on Brother.’ Ran had said and Rindou had known instinctively that he’d have said yes anyway, that pretending it was a chore was just a ruse. He could never deny Ran, and more recently, he was discovering he could never deny you either, that the longer he hung around you the more he craved your time, your smiles, your attention and being your unofficial bodyguard didn't make that yearning any easier to deal with.

A sharp and ugly green spasm of self loathing worms it’s way into his stomach and he hates himself a little more every time he thinks about you, every time your name falls from his lips, said fervently like a prayer, like a wish he keeps tucked under his pillow, every time he fists himself to the image of you and then somehow, shamefully, looks you in the eye the next day. This was wrong. You were Ran’s. You are Ran’s. He repeats the phrase like a mantra when he leaves the office to come and get you.

And yet all his resolve, the wall he’s built up so carefully around himself, brick by unmovable brick, comes falling down when you smile at him as you tilt your head and sink into the leather of his seats and he forces his eyes away from your thighs peeking out from your dress.

You shiver, and Rindou flicks the heating on when he sees the goosebumps break out in his periphery. He gestures to the glove compartment by your thighs with a flick of his chin.

Your eyebrows knit together and you shuffle forward to pull the glove box open. 

A blanket, inlaid with tiny glowing stars, the fleece warm against the bare skin of your arms, falls into your lap alongside a sealed water bottle and a box of painkillers. You frown and Rindou marvels at the way your lips part and your tongue runs over the faded lipstick, at how you suck in a breath and your teeth pull in your bottom lip.

‘Emergency supplies,’ he says and grins sheepishly as he stops at a red light, the growl of the car’s engine slowing to a soft thrum. ‘For days like today.’

For you, he wants to say.

‘Oh.’ Warmth seeps along your skin and into your stomach.

Stop. Stop and ignore it. Ignore it, and go home and sleep in your own bed, the bed you share with his Brother and let this go, refuse to think about it again. It’s wrong, and Ran doesn’t deserve this. You love him don’t you? You said you loved him more than anything, that he was the one you called Home.  It wasn’t as if it was Ran’s fault. You knew he loved you, knew that he’d rather be with you than anywhere else, that his mind was filled to the brim with thoughts of you and you only. 

‘Can I ask why?’  You say and pull the blanket up to rest underneath your chin, knocking back the water to wash the taste of anxiety coating your mouth. Anxiety that’s thick and coagulated and churning with self hatred and confusion. Your tongue clings to the roof of your mouth.

‘Well, I thought, since I’m always picking you up, it would only make sense.’ He runs a hand along the nape of his neck, the inky black tattoo stark against the copper light spilling in through the window. ‘We can’t have you getting sick, or any accidents after all.’

‘Oh so I’m an accident now?’ You quirk an eyebrow.

‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ he says pointedly and you stifle a giggle at the way he puffs his cheeks and rolls his eyes. 

He heart stammers in his chest when he sees your nose scrunch with the effort to crush your grin and despite himself, despite how wrong he feels, a tentative smile tugs at his lips all the same.

It doesn’t help that he’s both beautiful and attentive, that his eyes perfectly reflect the moonlight when he looks up, pearly and opalescent and clear as the surface of a lake, that his hair is shimmering lilac and gossamer silk, that you imagine it slipping through your fingers like the soft velvet of spiderwebs.

‘Besides,’ he continues, ‘I’m your bodyguard, it’s my job to look after you.’ 

On the days when your thoughts get the better of you, when Rindou is there on hand as soon as you dial him, you wonder what it would be like to touch him. When he keeps you company late into the night, the phone pressed between his ear and the curve of his shoulder as he shuffles into his apartment, you wonder how his lips feel, how his throat feels pulsing under your mouth, how he tastes in every way you can taste him. You hear the jingle of keys as they’re thrown onto the coffee table, the low buzz of the TV as it’s switched on and your heart aches for him, for the loneliness he can’t seem to shake, the penthouse that is always deathly quiet. You recoil from these thoughts, shut them out. Pandora’s box, locked up for eternity.

You wonder on some nights, at what point did he stop being your bodyguard, and start being something else? At what point, did you think about kissing him more often than you thought about kissing Ran? At what point did you come to expect that Ran was busy and Rindou was there, always there, to pick up the pieces?

‘My bodyguard? You can’t stand the sight of me half the time.’ You huff and pout with indignation. ‘I remember what you said!’

Rindou’s eyebrows crinkle as he purses his lips. ‘If you’re referring to me calling you weird and annoying, it’s true.’ Despite his words, his voice betrays his mirth at the memory. ‘And it's only because you think vanilla is better than strawberry!’

‘That’s because it is!’ You say, as if the most obvious thing in the world, quashing down that flutter in your throat, a butterfly flapping its wings when he rolls his eyes and chews the inside of his cheek, a tentative smile still lingering on his lips.

‘See? This is why I can’t stand you.’ 

You throw your head back and laugh, your hair slipping past your shoulder, clinging to the seat behind you, and Rindou hates how it sounds to him, the lilting nature of your voice, the tinkly laugh that is both high and low at the same time. God he wishes he could make you laugh forever.

There again is that persistent thought, that remnant of his conscience that tells him he’s an idiot, that he should end this friendship here, that breaking his own heart is a small price to pay for saving Ran’s. Do you not love your Brother? The errant voice says. Do you not love him despite everything he has done for you, everything he continues to do for you?

Shut up, Rindou thinks. Shut up and stop making this harder than it has to be. But the claws of that self loathing are sharp and rake down the walls of his mind regardless of what he does to crush them.

At some point, he arrives at your apartment and the car slows as he glides into the parking space outside. This is it, he says to himself. This is the final time. He’ll refuse Ran next time, he’ll flatten that mixture of longing and obligation that propels him to see you, to pick up your calls and listen to your voice sluggish with sleep late at night. And yet, even as he thinks this, he knows the opposite is true. 

The car stops, the engine fizzing out as the key is turned in the ignition and Rindou sighs, letting his head drop back onto the seat, watching you with his chin jutted slightly out, the low hood of his eyes making them seem feline in the light. 

‘Rindou,’ you start and your tongue is a boulder of corrugated gravel in your mouth. You swallow, and the saliva is caught in your throat. ‘There’s something we should talk about.’

Ah.

Rindou knows this conversation has been on the precipice for a while, that there was only so long you could skirt and tip-toe around the issue. That air of simmering tension would be bound to break before long. At least this way, despite the nausea building in his stomach, it could be put to rest.

His knee bounces, anxiety prickling at his skin.

‘Rin, I like you,’ you say and the tension of holding the secret for so long bleeds out of your skin. There is no easy way to say it considering the circumstances, but still, the weight pressing down on your shoulders dips once you have the words out. ‘And I think you like me too, don’t you?’

Rindou hangs his head, soft wisps of hair skimming his collarbones. ‘I do. I’m sorry, I never intended to. Not like this.’ After all, what does he have to lose now? 

A lot, considering the circumstances. 

‘Me neither.’ Your heart quails, falters as you reply in tandem and the terse silence thereafter only serves to heighten the incessant buzzing in your ears, the furious thumping of your heart in your ribcage. 

There is no going back now and the finality of the situation hits you like a freight train. He fiddles with the hem of his jacket and pulls out a silver tin inlaid with his name in neat cursive. From you obviously, because you were always very sentimental. Perhaps that was half the issue. That for all his skills and for all his cold brutality, he wanted to feel the sun, wanted to bask in your warmth and would have spent a lifetime running after you had it meant he could taste that sunshine once. If only he had met you first.

‘How long?’ He asks and his head snaps up to meet your eyes, eyes that are turned down with barely repressed sorrow. 

‘I don’t understand-’

‘How long have you known? How long have you felt the same?’

Since we met. Since that day you listened to me cry all night, had borne the fruits of that sacrifice later from Mikey and yet never, not once, made me feel guilty for it.

‘Does it matter?’ You say instead because it seems easier than telling the truth and letting that worm of self hatred gnawing at his insides fester knowing he’d assume he encouraged it. 

‘I suppose it doesn’t.’ He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, letting the nicotine fill his lungs once he pulls it into his mouth. He wants to drown in it, to feel it swim through his blood till his head stops thrumming and his ribs cease to crush his heart. If anything he just wants his hands to stop shaking.

He casts a glance at you as he blows a ring of smoke and absent-mindedly his hooded gaze drops to your lips, the indent in your chin and the sharp cupid’s bone that make them so alluring. It would be so easy to kiss you now, to just bridge the distance and slot his lips against yours. To let himself be weak and stupid for one moment, maybe leave this one mistake in this year, this one Christmas where he could perhaps blame it on the alcohol and rationalise it in his head to assuage the guilt. You’d taste the smoke on his hot breath, smell the shower gel he uses and wind a hand into his hair and Ran would never know. He knows you’d never speak about it, and neither would he, The shame would be his companion to the grave. 

But no, he’d never betray Ran like that, and he’d never put you in the position to deal with the shame of your sin either. Love is truly complicated and we do not choose who we love after all.

‘Rin, I love him.I love him more than anything. I want you to know that.’ The interior of the car is suddenly too close for comfort but despite the alcohol in your system that muddles your vision, your voice is firm and unflinching. ‘So this isn't going to go anywhere. Right?’

Keeping secrets was always your forte and even though Rindou has known this was coming, he can’t help the watery shake of his voice, the javelin headed straight for his heart, piercing through his chest till his back bleeds. 

‘Right. We can let this go,’ he says and inhales a lungful, hoping the shake of his hands and voice doesn’t betray the squeeze of his heart. ‘We’ll never talk about it again.’ 

This was the best future, the one in which the three of you could stay together and squashing your feelings was a small price to pay for the glimpse of that happiness. Perhaps he could learn to be content on the sidelines like this, just barely in the corner of the picture.

Did the fact that this conversation was months in the making make it any easier to have? Or had you done nothing but prolong the pain that was inevitable for the both of you?

‘Okay good,’ you say and run a hand through your hair. A part of you is deflating, breaking. You know in another world perhaps, you’d have been perfect for each other, that the golden thread that ties you together would somehow mean you would find each other there. But other worlds and timelines don’t exist do they? And it’s best not to dwell on half-truths and regrets that gnaw at your soul.

‘Can…can we still be friends?’ His hand reaches for you, a moment of unabashed and naked tenderness, so out of character for him that he feels the shame and embarrassment of it immediately. 

‘Of course we can. We’ll be friends forever, Rindou. Best friends.’ Your eyes soften, even as your heart beats against your throat. You want to kiss him, just once. No one would ever know, or tell. The secret could die here and just when you think your body is going to move of its own accord, Rindou turns away, slumping back in his seat, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

And the moment passes, and you unclip your seat belt, tucking the blanket back into the glove box, both relieved and ashamed at yourself.

‘I guess I’ll be seeing you then.’ Your voice is an earthquake tremor as you push open the door, the slicing chill of the night cutting right into your skin. ‘Drive home safe okay?’ 

That lump in his throat punches his chest as he watches you lean down to smile at him. ‘I will. Call me if you need anything Y/N.’ 

Because it’s easier to pretend like you haven’t just hurt each other, like you’re not both lying, like you don’t both feel sick with longing and shame and disgust.

You smile placidly and shut the door with your hip, bounding up the stairs to your apartment. You look back once, at his earnest stare as he raises a hand to wave, cigarette perched between his lips, both haunting and beautiful under the honeyed copper of the streetlight. 

And then you shut the door just as the engine fades into the distance. Maybe some secrets were better left buried. Pandora’s box. Never to be opened again. Left to die and rot, like bones in a graveyard.

a/n: sorry everyone lol. I just wanna say thank you for all the support this year, all the fics and comments, all the interactions, I hope 2025 brings us all some peace and love and our dreams coming true. If you wouldn't mind, I would greatly appreciate if you could show some love to my small business (I make jewelry) over on my instagram here. But if you got this far, thank you so much!

Taglist : @reiners-milkbiddies @prettyiolanthe @sugusshi @snakegentleman @haitaniapologist @lonnie19 @bejeweled-night-33 @ranscutedoll @qiiuusoup-xo @hoetani @burnishedcrown @sinfulseashell @nikokopuffs @mitsuwuyaa @haruwuchiyoo @mochimiyaas @theaonlax @blackfire2013 @wotakuhime @severellamahottub @stargirlstabber @intheafterall @ljubimaya

[kazuhahalol]

— alone on valentine’s day | Jeff the Killer x reader

Jeff, new to love, doesn’t understand how to show you he loves you. He attempts and fails miserable, only terrifying you.

TW: Slight gore, stalking

masterlist

You don’t remember when the feeling started.

The sense of something lurking just beyond your peripheral vision, creeping at the edges of your life like a shadow that never quite faded. A presence that never announced itself but made sure you felt it.

At first, it was just small things. Your window open when you swore you locked it, your bedroom door cracked open in the morning when you knew you shut it before bed. You’d brush it off, chalk it up to forgetfulness, to paranoia, to your mind playing tricks on you.

But then things started changing.

People you hated, people who deserved something bad started disappearing.

Your English teacher, the one who made you cry in class once, never came back after winter break. Some guy who harassed you on the way home from school ended up in the obituaries a week later. A “hit-and-run,” they said. You tried not to think about it, tried not to make connections where none should exist.

But deep down, you knew.

Someone was watching.

Someone was doing this for you.

And today, on Valentine’s Day, they left you a gift.

It was late at night when you opened your front door. The street was quiet, the air cold and still. But sitting on the welcome mat was a tiny box. Thinking it’s just a package someone in your family ordered you pick it up and bring it inside. There was no name, no address, no identification of the sender.

So, you did what anyone else would. You opened it. Inside, nestled in a bed of what looked like human hair, was a severed finger. Still fresh. Still warm. The nail was cracked, painted a faint pink. You recognized it. It was the same shade your teacher always wore.

You were curious, but you weren’t stupid. You called the police immediately and told them about the feelings you’ve been getting of someone stalking you. The severed finger of your rude teacher was enough proof to confirm someone was indeed stalking you, so the cops set up cars around the neighborhood to prevent anyone from harming you.

Useless.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the horrible smell. Thick, metallic, suffocating. It clings to the air, staining it with something wrong. Something terrible. You sit up, heart racing, your sheets damp with sweat. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:14 AM.

Your bedroom window is open. You don’t remember opening it.

The curtains sway in the cold air, whispering against the walls. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps. You tell yourself not to look.

But you do anyway to satisfy your insatiable curiosity, and there—on the windowsill—is a handprint. Smudged deep into the wood. Dark, sticky, still wet.

You fight the urge to pass out.

A sound echoes from somewhere outside your window. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Measured. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. The footsteps stop. Then, a voice, low and paced with amusement.

“You’re awake.”

Your heart seizes. You want to move, to run, but your body won’t listen. Every muscle locks up, your skin crawling with something deeply, terribly wrong. A shadow shifts beyond the window, a raspy voice speaking to you.

“You dream about me?”

The voice is closer now. Whispering through the dark. Your breath shudders out of you in a weak, broken gasp. The air feels thicker, like something unseen is crawling along your walls. You want to throw up.

You squeeze your eyes shut. You will yourself to wake up because this has to be a dream. Suddenly, a quiet thunk lands against the floor.

Then another…and another. You don’t even want to know what it is.

But when you finally open your eyes there’s only a box at the foot of your bed, just like the one that held your teachers finger. Your vision blurs, breath sharp and ragged, but your hands move anyway.

Because this was always meant for you.

You grasp the lid of the small box, your fingers shaking, sinking into something damp and warm. Inside, tangled in a mess of severed, dripping hair, lies a necklace.

Silver…delicate…still attached to the flesh of a freshly torn-off throat. You could only recognize the necklace as your teachers.

A note is stuffed beneath it. The edges soaked in some substance that causes you to gag and hold back your vomit. The handwriting was terrible and you could only make out half of it.

“You know me. I’ve been inside your room. I’ve watched you sleep. I know how you breathe. I know how you smell. I know when you touch yourself. I know your favorite food. I know you cry yourself to sleep most nights. How you look when you’re afraid. I know how often you get scared because I’ve always been here.”

Jeff doesn’t understand why you screamed for your parents while he watched you through the fabric of your curtain.

Earlier today, he watched as you cried in the girls bathroom at school after getting publicly humiliated by your teacher. Jeff is foreign to love, so he thought if he killed her and gave you a gift on the day of love, you’d love him. Jeff doesn’t think he’s scaring you because Jeff thinks he’s loving you, and he only wants you to love him back.