#I wasn’t intending for you to know how down bad I am for you!!!

[intrepidacious]

time after time [7]

series summary: After what starts out as a fairly normal mission, you find yourself stuck in a time loop. Which would already be bad enough in itself if it didn’t also mean having to watch Bucky die over and over again.

pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

word count: 11.1k

chapter warnings: self-deprecation, negative self-talk and canon-typical violence. this one's heavy on the angst. it's also my favourite so far. please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.

a/n: i return with a semblance of a posting schedule and a chapter that i'm well aware is absolutely insane. but that was always gonna be the case. enjoy my loves 💚

series masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3

seven: spellbound

The slamming door made you flinch awake from where you’d fallen asleep on the couch, still wearing your extravagant jumpsuit. Bucky’s hands were clenched into fists, the frown on his face familiar and deep. He’d lost his tie somewhere on the way back.

"You alright?" you mumbled, getting up on one elbow.

He ignored you, facing Sam, who had his hands folded in his lap, back still hunched forward in thought or worry.

"You alright?" Sam repeated.

Bucky gave a short nod. "Can I talk to you?"

"Talk."

He did look at you, then, his gaze slowly and irritably dripping down your body. "I meant alone," he said pointedly.

"This is my home," you protested, sitting up properly.

"You’re a squatter."

"What do you want to talk about?" Sam interjected before you could snap back.

Bucky crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I want her out."

Your mouth dropped open. "What the fuck?"

"Tonight wasn’t ideal, I’ll give you that," Sam said tiredly. "But we got what we went in for and we didn’t cast any unwanted suspicion."

"Didn’t we?" Bucky said. "Because I feel like some of us remember tonight differently."

People murmuring in confusion as you blinked in and out of existence, knowing that something was off, even though they couldn’t put a finger on it. Agitated comm chatter throughout the corridors.

"Excuse me for saving your ass," you said hotly. Maybe it would have had the intended effect if you’d properly wiped the dried blood from your face.

"I didn’t ask you to do that," he pressed out.

"If it pissed you off so much, I’ll just let you get shot next time, then, see how that feels."

"Okay, I think we can all just calm down and continue this conversation tomorrow," Sam boomed.

Bucky gritted his teeth and turned his back on you, but you jumped up from the couch, your anger giving you enough energy to follow him to the stairs.

"No! He’s having a go at me for no reason at all and I would like to hear the rest of it. Tell me where I made a single fucking mistake. Because I can tell you when you did."

"I am sick of you pretending to fix stuff—"

"Pretending?!"

"Guys—" Sam called from the living room.

"—when we don’t even know what it is you’re changing!"

"How about you actually just trust me for once, like you said you would?"

"I said I trust Sam’s decision to take you on, and that I trusted Steve’s judgment. There’s a difference."

You threw up your hands. "You wanna know what I changed? Your fucking arm almost got both of us caught, tin man, that’s what I changed."

"Do you know what it feels like," Bucky said, voice shaking with barely restrained rage, "when people tell you things about yourself that you don’t remember choosing to do?"

"Must be nice to get to forget things."

Your fingers twitched at the same time as his, metal and flesh curling like you both wanted to clutch at something you couldn’t reach. In another universe, he might have turned on you, slammed you into the wall with his hand around your neck.

Do it, then.

But no. In this one, he just went very, very still. Like he’d simply turned to stone under your gaze.

"Stay out of my fucking head," he pressed out under his breath, so low you barely caught it at all.

"I have no interest in your fucking head," you said, rage and frustration blazing in your eyes. "You want me to be honest with you? Fine. I’m sorry about what happened to you and I get why my powers are touchy for you because of it, but you gotta stop telling yourself that I’m holding out on purpose or that I have any control over anyone but myself when I go back. I didn’t ask for this shit, so get off my damn back."

"Who did, then?"

You stumbled a half-step backwards involuntarily. "What?"

Bucky’s jaw was set so tight his teeth audibly ground. "How did you get your powers?"

You blinked several times, your nails digging into your palms again. "I don’t know."

He huffed, turning away with a shake of his head. "You gotta be shitting me."

"I don’t know, okay? I don’t remember. I have to remember every single reset I’ve ever made, but I don’t know when it started, or how, or why. It’s just always been a part of me."

"Then why don’t you try to find out?"

"Oh, because you’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you? Clearly, I have no interest in understanding the thing that’s ruined my fucking life. I’ve tried. I’ve tried everything I could think of, and none of it’s done me any good."

"And you’re just fine with that, and so we’re supposed to be fine with it as well. Not knowing what the extent of your powers is, or why you got them in the first place. Sounds like a great idea."

"It was enough for Steve." You laughed mirthlessly. "He told me once that we would’ve gotten along, can you imagine that?"

"Well, maybe he was wrong about both of us, then, but why don’t you do your thing and we can ask him ourselves."

"Because for the millionth time, it doesn’t work like that! Don’t you think I’d like that, too? To go back and undo all of this damage that happened over the past couple of years? But I can’t, I can’t do it, I can’t change anything that’s farther back than eleven fucking minutes, and that was when I still had a family."

The word fell apart on the way out of your mouth, breaking into pieces just like the actual thing. You pressed your shaking palms against your eyes.

"So. I’m sorry, Barnes, that I’m not good enough for anything like that. I know that. I know that my powers are essentially useless, and I don’t need you to remind me all the time, okay. I’m already very aware."

* * * * *

.

.

.

.

.

.

Darkness.

.

Darkness and pain.

.

.

The sound of dripping, ticking, tilting.

.

Something like a bright light.

.

.

And then—

* * *

Bucky comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, right as he’s about to turn his back on the brownstone front of the Central Synagogue. There is a strange itch on his left arm that almost feels human.

He blinks, disoriented, unsure how he got here. The last thing he remembers is—

A car honks and he staggers to the sidewalk, head still pounding, and his good hand flies to the side of it, as if checking for blood.

He doesn’t find any.

Another nightmare, then. Disturbingly vivid, though. He’s concerned that his only memory of getting up and going on his usual run has the tinge of the dream to it, like he hasn’t actually woken up yet.

And neither the memory nor the nightmare carries the usual haze.

Bucky grits his teeth and tries blocking the whole thing from his mind. His thoughts keep returning to your scream, instead, which might be worse.

He notices he keeps rereading the sign in the window in front of him, and when he realizes that it’s yet another fucking Starbucks, he’s about to cut his route short and just go home, like there’s something there that could fix this bad feeling curdling in his stomach.

Instead, he takes a few shallow breaths, pulls his cap more deeply into his face, and then he continues.

When he was younger, he took up running to keep him quick on his feet during a fight. These days, he probably doesn’t have to keep on it quite so regularly, but there’s something about the rhythmic, constant movement that usually does help clear his mind.

Damn, he hates when his shrink is right.

Today, his run takes Bucky eight minutes longer than average, but he can wholeheartedly blame that on his almost-incident with the car. His thoughts are still stuck on what he remembers from the dream, spinning around and around in a loop until the elevator dings and he has to shake himself because he’s already here.

Maybe a shower will help.

It does, a little, because he turns the hot water to cold several times until he thinks, of course he’s awake. It seems so obvious now.

This is real.

The water turns off with that little squeaking sound that he keeps forgetting to fix. He doubts that anyone but him can even hear it; one of the uncountable inconveniences of enhanced senses is the ability to find some of the tiniest noises insufferable.

He shrugs a new shirt on and hangs his towel up on the only free hook, grabbing a fresh cloth from the closet. There’s not many left; neither of you has gotten around to doing laundry post-mission yet.

His heart is still beating a little harder than usual when he cracks open the door to the gym, peering inside right when Sam hits the mat.

"Geez, what’s gotten into you?"

You shrug and roll your shoulders, pulling him back to his feet. "I’ll dignify that with an answer when I see you kick above your waistline, Sammy."

Bucky can’t help but smile a little at the smugness in your voice. No matter what that terrible voice at the back of his mind is still whispering, you’re fine. It was all a strange, bad dream; end of story.

He watches the two of you circle around each other for a moment longer. There’s a grace to your movements as your eyes stay focused on Sam, calm and unwavering, like you’re anticipating the right moment to pounce on him. It’s mesmerizing.

Then again, you usually have that effect on him.

Bucky quietly slips away when you’re about to call it a day. Normally, he’d probably sit in your company to dry off his prosthetic, listening to your heartbeat return to normal levels and then watch you trot off to the showers with that little indignant shake of your head. In fact, there’s a significant part of him that wants to do just that; maybe he’ll catch a glance of that annoyed glimmer in your eyes that seems to be reserved solely for him.

It’s the one thing he gets.

He tries not to read too much into the fact that Sam gets things like an affectionate little suffix to his name when you tease him, even though that fact haunts him more than he’d care to admit. You probably don’t even notice you’re doing it, but it’s because you actually like Sam. Have learned to care about him over the past few months. And why wouldn’t you?

Bucky, on the other hand, is just Barnes more often than not. Which is fine; he’s used to it by now.

He opens the door to his room and a waft of stiff air hits him, familiar and suffocating all at once. For the first couple of months, he hesitated to even call it his room, even though he always picked the same one when it was easier than traveling all the way back to Brooklyn; the one upstairs with the large corner windows facing east and south.

It still doesn’t feel much like his out of anything other than habit. Blank, off-white walls, a half empty dresser, bed always made, the only source of disorder a couple of cat toys cluttered in the far corner. The only thing that reminds him of home is stowed in the drawer next to his bed.

He doesn’t open it now, instead reaching for the journal on the bedside table, flicking through until he reaches the latest entry.

But it’s strange.

Not the content itself, but the fact that Bucky could’ve sworn that he’d written it yesterday. He stares at it for a moment, flips the page over and back again, frowns slightly.

This nightmare is truly fucking with his head if he wasn’t even in a clear enough space of mind to jot down a couple of notes before his run.

He does it now, in as few words as he’s comfortable with, because something about all of this still doesn’t sit right with him but he can’t quite put his finger on it yet.

Out of some deep, dark instinct, his hand slips underneath his pillow, and he hates that his heart beats a little more calmly when he feels the cool metal of his gun right where he left it, where he always leaves it.

This is real.

Something nudges his side softly and when he turns, Alpine is nuzzling her head into the crook of his arm, mewling discontentedly. The sound melts a little more of his trepidation away.

"What’s wrong, sweetie?" he says with a quiet smile.

The cat observes him unblinkingly as he puts his journal down again and reaches out to pet her head, but she jumps off the bed before he can make contact, looking back at him in anticipation and, he’s pretty sure, annoyance.

She’s hungry, then.

Bucky sighs and follows her out of the room only for you to almost barrel into him. You’re sweaty and breathless, and he refuses to notice the way your training gear sticks to your body. In fact, he refuses to look anywhere but your face.

There’s an odd look on it, just as odd as the tone of your voice when you gasp, "Bucky!"

"Y/N!" he says, mimicking it. Adrenaline is still coursing through you, your heart beating so erratically he can almost feel it pulsating in his own skin. "What’s wrong with you?"

"Nothing," you answer quickly enough for him to know something is definitely wrong. "You look … normal."

"Thanks," he says dryly. "You don’t."

The nervous twitch of your ear is back, the soft tapping of your fingers against your thigh. At least he’s seen you like this enough times to know how to deal with it.

"You remember what showering is, right?" A tilt of the head, a hint of a scoff in his tone; you respond best to him pretending not to give a damn, and so he’s gotten quite good at it.

Predictably, your shoulders lose a little of their tension, even though your eyes don’t. "Fuck you, Barnes."

Really; he’s used to it by now.

Alpine meows again, like a reminder not to get hung up on things he has no control over, and it finally lets him look away from you. That’s always the hardest part, somehow, even though that makes him feel ridiculous.

Downstairs, he can’t keep his mind from wandering as he scrapes the contents of a tin can into Alpine’s bowl only for her to fall asleep in a spot of sunlight on the kitchen floor.

It’s then that he realizes the odd thing about you was that it almost, unexplicably, looked like relief.

* * *

Bucky’s been on enough missions with you and Sam by now to know you both use mindless chatter to calm yourselves in tense situations, and so he doesn’t mind forming the rear. Even if he doesn’t listen in on every word, he can easily tell if something about your situation changes while he’s covering your six.

There’s at least two guards patroling the grounds, according to Sam’s funny little computer bracelet, and so it’s no surprise that he asks Bucky to keep an eye on them while the two of you head up to find the entrance to the lab. You keep your hands raised halfway up, but Bucky can tell by your empty gaze that you’re tired. His grip on his gun tightens.

He nods to Sam once he’s in position, perched up on the roof just out of sight from any unsuspecting anarchists. Then, he watches you slip through the entrance of the barn-like building and lets out a deep, slow breath.

It’s been a weird day.

That gnawing feeling of déjà-vu has settled deep into his bones, like a pesky thought he can’t quite let go of. This, though? He can manage this.

The strange truth is—and frankly, this is something he’s looking forward to never disclosing to his therapist—that being on a mission like this one, having a specific set of tasks he can concentrate on, being keenly aware of all his surroundings … it has a calming effect on his brain. He’s not sure what to make of that fact, but it’s true.

He’s sick of the fighting, but he can’t let go of it, either.

Instead, he squints at the two white dots in the distance meeting on the other side of the block, gesturing for a while, and then slowly creeping closer.

Without taking his eyes off his targets, he tunes into your conversation again.

"—only scream when there’s good reason."

"I don’t wanna interrupt," Bucky murmurs, fiercely ignoring the untimely lurch his heart makes, "but they’re heading your way now, so get a move on."

"You’re no fun, Bucky."

He would love to roll his eyes, but he’s a professional. That’s also why he swallows his remark when you make a comment about your resets; it not like it’s surprising, anyway. You haven’t been sleeping well these past couple of weeks. Breakfasts have been particularly grumpy affairs since Marylebone.

The guards creep closer, and even though their faces are covered by the white masks, Bucky can tell they’re bored. Shoulders slumping, grip on their weapons loose, boots shuffling on the gravel. One of them has a pack of cards in her breast pocket.

If either of them were smart enough to look up, they’d spot him within a second. But since nothing unusual has ever happened during their shifts, it doesn’t even occur to them to do so.

Look at them, a voice inside him says. They don’t notice anything, do they?

Bucky’s jaw clenches, his finger tightening on the trigger. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Reminds me of old times," Sam says.

"Can’t say that, bud," Bucky murmurs. The guards are only a couple of yards away now. "Twenty seconds."

Take them out now.

"—makes Barnes cranky."

"You forget he’s always cranky."

This is what he’s good at, what he’s always been good at. Being the lookout. The Howlies’ best sharpshooter. His aim is perfect. His mind is clear.

They might be dangerous.

He swallows.

One of the guards trips over his own feet, almost losing the rifle he’s holding. They’re both amateurs; it’s clear from their posture, the way their jackets aren’t quite crisply ironed, even the way they walk. Neither of them pose any real threat.

Still, the voice says. Why not make sure?

It’s easy, so easy, to aim at the center of their white jackets. To imagine them soaking red on the ground while he barely moves more than a single finger. Just a flash of a second.

So easy.

"Any time, Buck."

Breathe out.

The taller one gets a bullet in her right shoulder, just underneath the joint, missing her subclavian artery; the shorter one gets hit in the kneepit as he turns, his rifle skittering away as he falls, safety still engaged. Clean and quick.

With one last glance around, Bucky jumps to the ground right as the explosion sounds inside. No one is coming. Yet.

He knocks the guards out with two quick blows to their temples. Their wounds aren’t bad, of course; just enough to keep them out of the way and hurt a bunch later.

Сбой.

No, but it’s all too simple. Too obvious. This, he remembers from his nightmare as well; the lab with the hidden staircase, the metallic stench coming from the leaking containers, the data stick and then …

Another fight.

The voice leaves him alone when there’s no time to think, and so Bucky trusts his instincts for this one. It’s despicable, really, how much the rush of adrenaline makes his blood boil in the best possible way, blocking out all other thought, leaving nothing but the cacophony of noises and the flurry of movement surrounding him.

This is what he was made for.

His breath hitches when a memory catches him, and he steps out of the way of a shot aimed for his head like it was in the dream, just in case.

It fires into thin air, instead.

The fact that it does fire, exactly like he remembers, takes him a fraction of a second to process.

Talk of a lucky coincidence, he thinks, knocking another agent out cold. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"We better get moving," Sam shouts, and Bucky nods.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you throwing another punch; you barely seem to have broken a sweat.

There’s something off about the way you move. It seems controlled, almost rehearsed in a way; as if your body knows exactly where to land your next attack without even thinking about it.

A little too perfect.

There’s a beat before you turn around to face him, and your eyes widen at the same time as Sam’s voice explodes in his ear, "Bucky!"

There’s a flash of pain and a burst of green light, and then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and it’s like you’re still shouting his name, the sound echoing through his mind so clear and sharp it’s like you’re standing right behind him.

There’s something wrong with him.

Something wrong with his brain, something terribly wrong, because this—

He stumbles to the sidewalk when the same car as yesterday honks at him, comes to a halt next to the same street lamp, sweat beading on his temples in the exact same way while his bad arm itches and his head aches.

Bucky’s hand flies to his chest, pressing, feeling his heart beat erratically. There aren’t any holes. No broken ribs, no scars he doesn’t already know, every new trace of violence vanished like it had never brushed his skin.

Even though he just got shot.

Again.

He’s drawing attention now; he can feel the stares in his neck. It’s not going to take long for someone to recognize his face as well.

So he forces his breaths to slow, straightening his shoulders and tilting his head in the most unassuming way he’s taught himself. After a while, his thoughts start to clear.

There’s something wrong with his timeline. You told him once that going back felt a little like the moment before freefalling, and the bile in his mouth might just be proof for that hypothesis.

But how on earth would he have gone back, and why?

Maybe it’s his perception of time that’s warped.

He remembers the stories about people seeing their whole lives flash before their eyes before they die; and he remembers almost dying.

This feels like much more than a flash, though, and he’s not quite dead yet. This is real.

Right?

"This is impossible," he whispers.

His reflection in the Starbucks window does the same.

* * *

One more, he thinks as the shower washes away the cold sweat sticking to his skin. He’ll give this one more try before accepting that he’s either finally losing his marbles or that there’s something else going on.

His life’s been an assembly of unexplainable things. Twice might still be a coincidence.

Third time’s a pattern.

The shower squeaks off and he steps out in a cloud of steam, the cold tiles underneath his feet grounding, in a way. He wipes a streak of condensation off the mirror, staring at his own face for a moment, trying to find any signs of his mind starting to crack. His hair is long enough to stick to his forehead again, eyes tired as always.

Everything feels the same.

No one’s done laundry.

It’s like his feet automatically follow the same path they’d gone yesterday, turning left, waiting for him to push the door open, hesitating.

"What’s gotten into you?" Sam asks you again, and you shrug, again, neither of you noticing that you’re all retracing steps you’ve taken before.

Bucky thinks about the journal on his bedside table, and his fingers curl more tightly around the rag in his hand because he already knows, he knows it’s going to be incomplete again. The heavy feeling in his stomach settles as he sits down on the wooden bench, the sun hitting his arm at the exact same angle again. For a moment, golden spots dance around the room before he twists his torso just enough to make them disappear again.

He thinks about the journal, and he doesn’t want to have to look at it quite yet.

You flop down on the mat when Sam calls it a day, and Bucky nods back at him as he heads outside, rubbing a spot between his shoulderblades. Your face is still tense, even with your eyes closed, your heartbeat fast enough to make him tilt his head.

You’re so pretty. It’s not making the confusion boiling inside of him any easier to deal with.

The words are at the tip of his tongue without him having to think about them.

"You look like shit."

You blink at him in a peculiar way, like you’re just waking up from a dream yourself, and you let out a long, shaking breath.

"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."

It’s so normal for you to say it like that it almost puts him at ease. Almost.

"I think you nearly broke his nose, there." He presses the rag into another one of the crevices in his arm.

You hum noncommitantly. "Didn’t, though."

You haven’t put your rings back on, but your knuckles look fine, so you’ve probably managed to not do it in one try as well. Bucky’s gaze wanders up your arms again, slowly; your heart hasn’t calmed yet, and you continue to stare at the ceiling like you’re waiting for something.

Probably his leave, he realizes, standing up. He’s had his indulgence. "Take the towel on the right," he tells you again. "I already used the other one."

He doesn’t miss the shaky little exhale you let out as he turns his back on you, and his left fist clenches involuntarily.

One more.

He’s probably just going to have to take his mind off it all.

The air outside is sticky with heat; like the skies are supposed to break open but refuse to. Even when he squints, he can’t make out a single cloud in all that endless blue.

He keeps his head down even as his eyes scan his surroundings. It’s a little like being part of a movie he’s seen before.

There’s the woman with the two dogs, one of them barking at a garbage truck across the street. The banker on a phone call with his pregnant fiancée. The tired violin player busking near the subway station, playing the same song he did yesterday, something Bucky recognizes but still can’t name.

Everything is exactly the same.

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets to fish for his ticket, joining the other people lining up to board the subway, their faces too familiar to distract him. He keeps expecting one of them to break, to call him out on doubling back every day, but none of them do. They don’t seem to notice.

He almost hesitates before he knocks on Sam’s door that afternoon, but the knot in his stomach hasn’t loosened. If anything, it’s gotten worse.

I thought you’d be there, he texts the number that never responds. He waits for a minute, two minutes, but of course there’s no answer.

There never is.

Just another thing to take his mind off of. Let his mind settle on something concrete that’s right in front of him. That he has complete control over.

Besides, maybe there’s something he’s supposed to get right here.

But when Sam calls, "We need to get moving," Bucky already knows, deep down, how this is going to end. His heart is beating frantically as the situation stays out of control, even though this should be easy. He’s seen this before. What is he missing?

The voice at the back of his mind hums dangerously, and he ignores it, punching out the agent in front of him and then whipping his head around to find you already staring at him with your eyes wide and for a moment, the world freezes because you look at him like … well, fuck.

Like he’s usually looking at you.

Desperate.

It’s his last thought before something right next to him explodes and there is nothing but pain.

And then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and this time, this third time, he feels like he’s earned the right to be considerably less calm about the whole thing.

The car honks and the people stare and Bucky throws up on the sidewalk next to Starbucks because the world is still hung up on Friday and he’s died three days in a row. When he rummages through the pockets of his slacks for a tissue, his hand grazes something cool.

It’s a small, coal black ring that he’s seen many times before, and his stomach churns again as his hand closes around it so tightly it must leave an imprint. Of course, there are no coincidences in his life.

He really should’ve known better from the start.

* * *

He needs to talk to you.

He thinks it when he puts the ring back into his pocket and he’s still thinking it when he bursts into the Tower, doors slamming loud enough to startle Alpine awake from her spot on the couch. He needs to talk to you, and you’re going to figure this out together, because that’s what you do. It’s what you always do.

But she’s got time powers.

He presses his lips together tightly as he jogs up the stairs two at a time, ignoring the thought. Then again, there’s the piece of soap on the tiles next to the sink that he’s picked up three days in a row now, and his hand reaches for the same towel automatically, and how the hell does one get stuck in a time loop in the first place?

Месть.

Bucky turns the shower off so resolutely part of it dents. No, he thinks. If you knew, you’d get him out of this. He knows that you wouldn’t wish him harm.

Then how?

"You’re dead," he says out loud, staring at his own steamed up reflection. "You’re not real."

Neither of us is.

His heart beating out of his chest would disagree.

When he sits down next to you today, he watches you apprehensively. You still ignore him, but it seems to come so natural to you. As if all of this is normal, as if you don’t even notice something is wrong, even though you have to, right, you have to.

"You look like shit," he says out loud, but he feels like he’s still talking to himself.

Fuck you, Barnes.

And then it happens again.

Clearly, he’s losing his mind.

It’s the only explanation that’s left. He’s already been to hell and back and now he’s going mad, he’s finally going mad, he’s going insane—

No, you’re not.

His own heartbeat sounds so loud in his ears as the shower screeches off and something settles in his stomach like a stone, something as sure and familiar and uncomfortable as that voice that’s been getting louder each day.

You’re as clear-headed as you’ve ever been.

Which means that once again, someone or something else is trying to mess with his head, only this time, it’s already been screwed with enough for him to tell.

Here’s the thing about all this that keeps rubbing him the wrong way, keeps scratching at the very back of his mind just like the parts of him he’d rather keep buried for the rest of his days: If you truly don’t know this is happening, then why are you the only one doing something different every time?

Bucky’s spent the better part of his life honing in his perception skills, and he’s seen everyone else behave in the precise same manner four, five, six days in a row, but you … you’ll leave a room a few minutes earlier than the day before, or order a different lunch, or wear a different shirt.

It’s not easy to miss in the slightest and it makes him doubt you’re as clueless to this as you pretend to be.

Which leaves him with the version of events he hates the most, and which is therefore the most likely: If you do know this is happening, then why do you keep up this charade? Is it because you’re responsible for all this somehow? And if you are, is it on purpose?

That’s too many ifs for his liking. It all makes him think back to the Westview Anomaly, so he reads up on it.

And then he decides that he’d rather know whether the sinking feeling in his gut is right.

You’re staring up at the ceiling like you want to pretend he’s not even there, and his good hand is shaking too much to be of much use in drying the arm.

"Take the towel on the left," he makes himself say. "I already used the other one."

There’s a shuffling as you sit up, but he can’t bear to turn around. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"I said use the one on the left, because I took the other towel," he repeats.

"Right," you say, and then he can hear your rings clink against each other as you collect them from their dish.

Maybe he should return the one he found in his pocket. Maybe you just haven’t realized it’s missing yet, because this is your first time living through this day and you don’t know to ask for inconsistencies yet.

You shuffle towards the showers, and he’s startled to realize how relieved he feels. Strange, really, to put that much weight on a towel; but at least it means you don’t—

"Hey, Bucky," you say, hesitating at the door, and his stomach drops a little. "What day’s today?"

"Friday," he answers, his voice surprisingly level. "Why." It’s not really a question.

"No reason," you say, and the door clicks shut behind you. The sound seems to echo in the empty gym.

"Something weird is happening," he tells Sam as soon as he can hear him approach the kitchen.

He hates that he’s doing this, but it’s not like there’s a roster of people he could talk to. His shrink would probably just prescribe him some pills that won’t work again—that is, if Bucky could get a hold of him on a national holiday in the first place—, and even though Sam is going to laugh in his face about this whole thing, he at least has to try. Right?

"You sound like Y/N," Sam says, pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes.

Bucky grimaces, which earns him a concerned head tilt. Sometimes, Sam reminds him of all the best parts of Steve, and he doesn’t know whether that makes him calmer or furious.

"Talk to me, Buck."

He stares at the milk carton like it’s holding the solution to his problem. "I think she’s doing something to me."

Sam snorts. "Thank you, Captain Obvious."

He says it so lightly, almost jovially, and Bucky’s nails dig so hard into his palms one hand draws blood. "You know?" he says tonelessly.

"Are you kidding me?" Like he’s tickled. Like he’s been in on the joke for a while. "You two have been doing this dance for months."

Despite it all, his heart cracks a little more. "What?"

Sam hesitates for a moment before squinting at him. "We’re not talking about the same thing, are we?"

And Bucky supposes they’re not, they’re really not, so he says, "Today should be Tuesday."

A frown. "What do you mean?"

"What day is it?"

"Friday," Sam says.

"Wrong," Bucky tells him. "Yesterday was Friday. And so was the day before, and the one before."

He finally puts his bowl down on the counter. "Are you having a stroke?"

"Sam, listen to me. Today keeps repeating."

He frowns. "You mean like a time loop? Like you’re in Groundhog Day?"

"I don’t know what that is." A fun little name for his personal Gehinnom.

Just deserts, don’t you think?

"Have you talked to Y/N about this?" Sam asks. "I mean, that’s kind of her thing. I’m sure whatever this is, she can help you out." He still sounds a little incredulous, but he knows Bucky well enough to recognize when he’s not joking.

He’s never felt less like joking.

"There’s also this." He pulls out the ring. "I found this in my pocket. Why would it be in my pocket?"

Sam leans against the counter. "You tell me, man."

"I think she knows something."

"But that’s a good thing, right?"

Theoretically. Not when he’s died for a week straight, though.

"Then why didn’t she tell us?" He hates the despair in his words, the paranoia seeping through. He hates that Sam catches it, and that his features morph into something that’s supposed to look understanding, even though he doesn’t get what this is about.

"Maybe you’re wrong," Sam says gently. "Are you sure she’s not just as oblivious to this as everyone else?"

Bucky drags a hand through his hair. His left shoulder aches. "I don’t know."

Yes. You do.

"I’m telling you, there’s something going on."

Sam stares at him for a long, hard moment, and then he nods. "Okay. What do you want to do?"

He wants to sleep in on Saturday. He wants to stop feeling so confused. He wants the words in his throat to stop choking him.

But what he wants hasn’t mattered in eighty years.

And so he doesn’t say, I’m scared.

He doesn’t say, I feel so alone.

He doesn’t say, I don’t want to die.

And the only one who hears those things swallows them up whole until there’s nothing left.

"I’ll tell you when I find out," he says, because that’s the only thing that will leave his mouth. And if Sam looks at him doubtfully, well, maybe he knows him a little too well.

* * *

"I’m gonna go get some coffee. Do you want something?"

Bucky can hear your keys clattering as you pull on your shoes in the hallway, but he doesn’t move from his spot on the couch. He has to think.

"I’m good," he says blankly.

Are you?

Even Alpine looks at him doubtfully. He leans back a little until a spot of sunlight reflects from his watch, making her pounce at it playfully. Normally, it’d make him smile.

She jumps up on the coffee table and sniffs at the shreds of cardboard someone’s left behind. They weren’t there yesterday.

On the muted television, Sam enters the stage with his signature cap grin. Presumably, there’s thunderous applause, because it takes him a while to actually step up to the podium and begin his speech.

In the background, dozens of important-looking people gaze at him expectantly, with the exception of a woman with short blonde hair who’s turned away from the stage, holding both hands to her ears like she’s trying to understand a person on the phone. Bucky squints.

"You sure?"

Reflexively, he looks up at the sound of your voice, only to see you leaning in the doorway with a cautious expression that doesn’t help his muddled thoughts in the slightest.

Talk to me.

"Why are you wearing a jacket?" he asks.

You tug at the sleeves, not meeting his eye. It’s become a habit he doesn’t care for. "To be more like you," you deadpan.

It would feel so normal if only he could shake the feeling that something is wrong. Something is off.

He catches a glimpse of your hands just before they vanish into the pockets of your jacket. Not long enough to clearly see what color your rings are, but enough to notice one’s missing.

It’s flitting through his own fingers instead, and you would notice, too, if you would just look at him.

"You sure you alright?" he asks, and for a split second there’s something like a flicker on your face, but it washes away immediately, replaced by the usual unbothered exterior you’ve been wearing.

"Just fine," you say, voice even, face neutral.

And the problem is that he’s not sure if you’re lying. Normally, it’s so easy to tell, but right now …

Alpine rubs her head against his palm, your ring pressing into it like a reminder, and it sends a chill down his spine.

Bucky waits for the door to click shut behind you before slipping into his shoes and quietly following after you. He takes three steps at a time to keep up with the elevator, and in his rush he ends up having to wait for it to arrive in the lobby, glancing surreptitiously through the small window in the fire door.

A change has gone through you while you were out of his sight. The mask you’ve been wearing whenever you know he’s around has vanished, dropped like your shoulders. When you cross the entrace hall, the usual bounce in your step is gone and you just look tired.

The frown on his face deepens. He makes himself count to ten before following you.

Stepping outside at this time of the day always feels like getting slapped across the face by the noise and the heat. The sun is relentless today, and he can feel sweat beading on his neck, but you don’t so much as readjust your jacket as you make your way across the street, slowly, like you’re letting yourself be carried by the crowds.

Bucky keeps enough of a distance so even you won’t get a second chance to become aware of him. Just before you enter the Starbucks, your chin raises up again, your spine straightening.

It’s uncanny to witness your defenses going up as clearly as this, and it makes him stop in his tracks so abruptly someone almost bumps into him.

"Hey, I was just—oh, sorry, Sergeant Barnes."

"It was my fault," he mutters. The guy strolls towards a delivery bike, stealing a cautious look over his shoulder. Something about the way he moves feels oddly familiar.

There’s no time for Bucky to entertain the thought much longer, because a couple of minutes later you step out onto the sidewalk again, drink in hand, and he retreats a bit further into the alley, expecting you to pass him on your way back. You don’t, though. Instead, you look up at the sky and let out a sigh before turning and strolling down Lex.

You didn’t do that yesterday, either.

Bucky hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t want to outright follow you around for the rest of the day; he only wanted to see … what, exactly?

He groans quietly and then walks into the Starbucks himself. Maybe coffee isn’t such a bad idea after all.

Besides … it’s not like she’s that fast.

How strange to know that if he really wanted to, he could probably track your steps without much of a problem, even on a day as busy as today. It unsettles him more than he would like to admit.

The AC blasts a little bit of common sense back into him, even though the volume inside the store immediately makes him want to tear his ears out. It’s not that busy at the moment, but the amount of noise of the chattering people and the coffee grinders and the milk steamers is close to unbearable as usual.

The barista who has a crush on Sam is working the register again, fanning herself with a playbill. There are red, white and blue stripes running down her forehead, and Bucky briefly wonders how she keeps it from getting into her eyes.

"Hi there," she says with a knowing grin as soon as she recognizes him. "You just missed Y/N."

"I saw." Bucky shifts his weight. "Did she seem weird to you?"

She chuckles. "Apart from the fact that she ordered decaf?"

He frowns. "Something like that."

She shrugs and redjusts her cap. "Just the usual amount," she says in a way that would make him smile on any other day. The tag on her apron has the name Nora on it, but he feels like that’s not right. "Do you want to order something? I can put it on her card."

Normally, he’d refuse out of principle, but it’s not like anything he does today matters.

"Thanks," he says. "I’ll have a coffee, then."

He doesn’t even particularly like coffee, but it does help when he hasn’t slept a lot. And, truth be told, he’s not sure when the last time he slept was. He’s been awake for a week, but without feeling any of the usual side effects of insomnia.

Or the numerous head wounds.

"Mhm," Not-Nora says. "Little more specific?"

Well, shit. "Not decaf?" he tries.

"You’re useless," she smiles and then taps her screen a bunch of times. "Alright, move along. Tell cap good luck from me."

He almost smirks. "Why not tell him yourself?"

She huffs, blushing ever so slightly. "I’m not getting out of here ’til one and I’m already a sweaty mess."

And maybe it’s because his day has been nothing but a shitshow over the past week. Maybe it’s because Sam hasn’t talked about Leila in over three weeks even before Friday started, and Bucky doesn’t like his friends being quietly miserable. Maybe he just wants to see something work out for a change.

It’s been a while since he’s played matchmaker. His sisters would’ve laughed about this for weeks; maybe he does it for that thought.

"How about you put down your number and I’ll pass it on?"

Not-Nora perks up even as her flush deepens. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

When he leaves five minutes later, her phone number is scrawled along one side of his paper cup, and even though the coffee tastes just as disgusting as usual, he can’t help but feel like maybe he can do one tiny thing right. At least for a moment.

His feet carry him down Lexington Avenue without him even consciously thinking about it, and he gets as far as three blocks before he remembers that Sam’s speech started at 14:00. He jerks up his watch so quickly the coffee spills on his shirt, but he barely hisses at the burn.

14:47.

What’s the point? he thinks as he throws the empty cup into the closest trash. Or maybe he does.

* * *

He throws his punches a little harder each day.

It takes all of his might not to lose himself completely in the fight to come, not to unleash his full serum-powered strength on a couple of faceless fanatics who would be fine again in a couple of minutes, anyway, depending on how long he’ll make it today. Still, there’s a certain mindlessness to it as he repeats his own steps, ribs cracking and wrists twisting as he strikes again and again and again.

"I think I’m losing it," he tells Sam about a week in.

"Like a bad day or you’re about to go Shining on me?"

So far, there hasn’t been any shining, but it wouldn’t make a difference.

"Two o’clock."

He’s already half-turning when you say it, already pulling the trigger as the words leave your mouth, moving on muscle memory alone at this point. And you still don’t notice.

A single bead of sweat runs down the side of your neck as you kick another one of your assailants in the groin, and even though your eyes are focused, you’re not in it.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say you were just concentrating; but he knows you can be in the moment and quip freely at the same time. He’s seen you do it countless times before today.

But it’s Friday, endless, sweltering, blood-stained Friday, and it’s like you’ve turned into a robot version of yourself, every move premeditated and precise, every look and word and nod planned and practiced just enough not to arouse suspicion in anyone who doesn’t look as closely as he’s had time to. It’s a game of pretend, and you’re almost winning. You’re almost perfect.

No. You’re too perfect.

Perfect in your display of almost-shock, of almost-pain as the knife cuts through Bucky’s kevlar vest like butter and lodges right above his heart. At first, he barely feels it; he only tastes the blood bubbling up his throat when his mouth drops open.

His eyes stay on you as he thuds to his knees, bones crunching, eyes watering. You catch him, barely, supporting his shoulders to keep him steady.

Your silence is deafening.

"What’s wrong with you?" he murmurs as the ringing in his ears gets louder, barely audible enough for you to hear, but clearly you do, because something shifts in your eyes, and oh.

There’s that glimmer in your eye he loves looking at so much, the one he only gets to see when he teases it out of you. That spark of mischief he’s missed during all this, like your fire has burned out.

He’s never hated it more.

And then he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, and once again, he feels like a decision’s been made for him already.

He makes it to the side of the road and sits down on the boardwalk, ignoring the bustle of curious people around him. Instead, he stares directly at the synagogue on the other side of the street, and he doesn’t ask why.

He asks, Like this?

And just like he expected, there’s no answer. Not even from within.

He presses both of his hands to his heart to feel it beat against his palm, more steady than his thoughts and still there. He’s still there.

It’s Friday again.

Bucky thought, not too long ago, that with everything he’s come to know and … like about you, you were someone he could let in. That someday, he could let you see him, with everything he’s used to hiding away underneath all of the protective layers he’s built around his heart.

Maybe he was wrong.

He should confront you. No, he should just ask. Why can’t he bring himself to ask?

Сбой, the voice in his head reminds him again and he presses it down, down between his torn open ribs, shoves it underneath the wounds that keep reopening anyway because he’s sick of having to listen to it all the time, sick of never being alone in his own damn head anymore, of not being able to leave a single day behind, let alone anything else.

Something tugs at him from deep within, and it’s enough to make him get up, rub his palms against his pants, and then take out his phone as he starts walking again. He knows the number by heart, but he’s never been able to actually hit the call button before, even though he’s tried. He’s tried countless times.

His speed picks up with every ring of the phone because something about this makes him feel like running away. Like maybe he gets it now. Like—

There’s a click, and then the sound of the voicemail recording. Of course.

Bucky groans. "Damnit, I know you’re never gonna listen to this, but there’s something really fucked up going on and I don’t—I don’t know what to do, man."

He keeps walking, keeps his head up even when he bumps into people, because what does it matter, right now? He ignores the red light at the next crossing, mostly because he needs to move.

"It’d be real fuckin’ decent of you to just pick up the goddamn phone every once in a while, you know, because that’s what—"

"Buck?"

For a second, everything screeches to a halt.

He’s not sure what comes first, him dropping his phone or the car hitting him from out of nowhere, but the next thing he knows is he comes to in the middle of the crossing between Lexington and East 55th, right as he’s about to turn his back on the brownstone front of the Central Synagogue, and it feels like someone just ripped his heart open all over again.

He flips the car off when it honks, not even caring about the ache in his limbs. His phone is safely tucked away in his pocket, and when he pulls it out again, there’s not so much as a scratch on the screen, but right now, it’s not like he would have cared.

The next five times he tries, the call doesn’t even go through.

He knows that voice. He knows it just as well as his own, just as well as the one hiding inside some dark corner of his mind, and it shouldn’t sound like that anymore.

The thing inside stirs again, that other, softer voice, that part of him he hates just as much.

Keep trying, it says.

It’s the part of him that told him to jump from the helicarrier. The part of him that still refuses to believe he was past redemption despite all the evidence pointing to the contrary; the part of him that’s too damn hopeful for its own good, and somehow still persists.

Talk to her, it says.

He can’t go on listening to ghosts for the rest of his days.

Or day, rather.

His thumb hovers over the call button one last time, and then he shuts his phone off.

* * *

"You look like shit."

"Oh, fuck you, Barnes."

He scoffs, but his mind is still hurling with anger and pain and confusion, and it comes out like a growl. He’s vigorously scrubbing at the crevices in his arm. Maybe the inside is still stained with his blood; maybe that’s why it feels so heavy.

"Are you alright?" you ask and his head snaps up.

You look so innocent, almost concerned. Normally, he would enjoy it for the second it would last, but today, it sticks. Everything sticks today.

"What do you think?"

Your eyes widen just a little bit, but you don’t say anything. You still don’t fucking say anything, and that’s more telling than anything else in this endless nightmare so far.

You’re not asking what’s wrong with him, because you know. You know.

"How many times are we gonna go through this before we’re done?"

You bite your cheek, your fingers twitch. "I don’t know," you say, and your voice sounds so far removed it barely sounds like yours anymore.

Fine, he thinks. If you’re not telling him, then it really is some elaborate scheme to punish him. To make him think he’s lost his mind again, make him see that free will is nothing but an illusion, that things will always, always stay the same no matter what he does. He gets the point.

Then why does it hurt so much to know? Why does it hurt to know you?

Maybe because none of this, as terribly, horribly real as it’s been, has felt like it was true at all. He’s still missing a piece of the puzzle, and you’re refusing to give it to him. If he only knew what went wrong between the two of you—no.

You’re clearly done with him, and he’s not going to beg for answers he’s not going to get. People he cares for usually made a point of leaving him; why should it have been any different with you?

By the time Sam enters the kitchen, Bucky’s been glaring at the fridge for a while already. There’s a magnet in the shape of a blue alien with six arms holding up your shopping list; a couple of sticky notes with passive-agressive messages on them, most of them about the cat litter; a postcard from the exhibit at the National Air and Space Museum. Trivial bits and pieces.

He wants to set all of it on fire, starting with the postcard.

"She knows," he says without turning when he hears Sam’s steps behind him. They halt on the other side of the kitchen island.

"Knows what?" He doesn’t even ask who, and it fuels the anger.

"That I’m stuck in a time loop."

A choking sound, too short to be worrisome. "Come again?"

Bucky glowers at him over his shoulder, even though none of this is Sam’s fault. He gets a concerned stare in return, which cools his temper somewhat; he lets out a sigh. "What day do you think it is?"

"Are you feeling alright?"

No. "Humor me."

He grabs a mug from the drying rack, just to have something to do with his hands. It’s the one with cat ears that showed up outside his room on his birthday, wrapped in cheap brown packing paper.

How long ago was March?

"Friday," Sam says, and he sounds so sure about it. Bucky desperately wants to believe it’s that easy.

"It’s been Friday for a while," he says instead, his voice cracking.

To go through everything like this is both easier and worse than he expected.

"I don’t get it." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. "I’ve seen you fight before. Hell, I’ve fought you before. You’re near impossible to hurt, let alone kill."

Bucky huffs. "I heal fast, I’m not invincible."

"Then how does it keep happening when you know it’s coming?"

Unbidden, the glimmer in your eye comes to mind again. The line of your back turned towards him, the complete abandon of self-preservation in your fighting style, however streamlined it may be. Even through all this, you expect him to watch your six.

And why wouldn’t you? His eyes are continually drawn to you, anyway.

He knows that just as well as you do, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He can just go and be slaughtered instead.

Bucky swallows. His throat feels very dry.

"I told you we shouldn’t have brought her on," he finally says, even though it’s not really an answer. Or maybe it is. You were always going to be the knife that cut the deepest, and maybe he’s known from the start. "Reckless idiot."

"Yeah, you said that. Almost a year ago. Hasn’t that changed?"

"Everything’s changed," he snaps, and the mug slips from his fingers. It shatters on the tiles, small shards flying off in all directions, and it hurts.

It’s just a mug. It shouldn’t twist his stomach, not like this. He keeps staring at the pieces.

"And why do you think that is?" Such a soft question.

Bucky’s hands clench into fists.

That other voice inside knows the answer, is desperate to scream it out, to share the burden and the weightlessness of it, but he can’t let it. He squashes it down, forces it back into its dark, hopeless corner. It has no place here. It can’t.

Somehow, Sam seems to hear it anyway.

"Have you talked to her?" He chooses his words carefully.

Bucky’s heart is racing like he’s dying, but he knows what that feels like now and it’s not this. This is worse.

Сбой, he thinks again, and this time, it echoes in his mind loud enough to drown out anything else. The shards on the floor are blurring. He has a sudden urge to spit or vomit, but he half-expects words to come out if he should. Of all things.

Can we leave before I do something he’ll regret?

His left hand makes a grating sound as his right palm opens underneath his fingernails, blood slowly dripping from one wrist. It brings him back into the kitchen, Sam’s gaze still heavy on him. He doesn’t want to meet his eyes.

"She’s not coming."

There’s something cold in Bucky’s voice he’s too fed up to care he recognizes.

It’s his own fault. He’s let his guard down around you, let you in, and it’s been a mistake. Of course it was. You’re the one who led him here, and he doesn’t want to follow your orders any longer.

"Let’s go on the mission without her. If she isn’t there, maybe I won’t …" He doesn’t have to say it out loud. He’s still bleeding, after all.

"Are you sure?" Sam says.

No. "I’m asking as a friend."

As expected, that’s enough.

He doesn’t feel bad leaving you behind without a single word, without looking back over his shoulder as he quietly drags the door shut behind him. He doesn’t feel bad sitting on the quinjet in silence, staring daggers at the wall. He doesn’t feel bad as he climbs out and soaks up the last few rays of sunshine, his focus unbroken for once.

He’s not haunted by you here; only by his own ghost.

Bucky’s been through this enough times to recall more than the broad strokes of it; he slips this mission on like a second skin, breathing through the absence of you with more calm than he’s thought possible. Then again: this is what he’s good at.

There’s a goal, and there’s a catch; but no more distractions. This will be a breeze.

.

…

That night, he dreams of you. If you could call it a dream, the few strange, hazy moments after he dies and before he gets put together again.

You look at him, almost reaching out but never quite touching, your eyes gleaming green.

His name still echoes in your voice when he comes to.

* * * * *

From his perspective, it made sense, of course, so really there was no point in going over it again.

And yet you did. Over and over.

I want her out.

It was quite simple, really. Bucky hated your guts because of something you couldn’t control, you were still seething because of it, and you were both perfectly fine with avoiding each other for the rest of your days.

You took an extra shift at the store the next day, just so you wouldn’t have to run into the two of them any more than necessary. You couldn’t wait until Sam jumped back on his flight to D.C. and Bucky fucked off to do whatever he did all day; the most important part was that they’d both be far, far away from you.

"Fucking Steve," you mumbled as you violently scrubbed the counters. Come to think of it, all of this was entirely his fault. No one would even know you existed without him blabbering on about you. And what you wouldn’t give to live in a world without being judged for your very existence by a bionic ex-assassin.

On top of everything else, some moron decided to steal the tip jar while you were distracted getting some ice, and by the time you made it home, it was nearing midnight, you’d had way too many espresso shots for a single human being, and you just wanted to cry in the silence of your own four walls. It was probably the single most terrible day you’d had since the first couple of weeks in the Tower.

Unfortunately, when you unlocked the front door, you immediately realized that your terrible day wasn’t over yet. There were too many pairs of shoes sitting in the hallway, and voices coming from the kitchen area.

You quietly pulled off your sneakers in the semi-darkness of the hallway. You were way too exhausted to attempt to use your powers, but maybe you could tiptoe past them to take a quick shower and then fall into bed without having to talk to anyone.

Slowly, you crept closer to the stairwell, keeping one eye on the shadows dancing across the wall to your left. Snippets of conversation got clearer.

"—not saying that, but whether you want to admit it or not, she’s good." Sam sounded annoyed.

"It’s not about that and you know it."

"Yeah, I do. You know what else I know? You need to go back to therapy."

You froze, shrinking back into the darkness of the hallway. You could hear Bucky huff an incredulous laugh.

"I made—"

"Amends, I’m aware. And was that your idea, or was that the assigned homework from your court mandated army doctor?" Silence. "You can’t just work through a list and at the end of it decide you’re done and everything’s magically alright again."

"'Course not. I don’t get to do that."

There was something about his tone that made your anger sink down slowly, heavily, until you swallowed it down entirely and you just felt wretched.

You weren’t supposed to listen to any of this. This was way out of your depth, and you had no idea how to get out of it. Their voices blurred into each other as your pulse was rushing through your head loud enough to make you dizzy, and you reached for your necklace in an attempt to ground yourself, to calm your breaths and reach out to something that could get you away from this moment in time.

It was useless.

"Like I said," Sam continued calmly. "You don’t have to work together ever again. But the two of you should talk it out first."

"Or how about this," you whispered, not loud enough for any but superhuman ears to pick up on, "should we ever get to the point again where I reset something around you and it’s important, I will let you know."

You barely knew why you offered, with your back pressed against the wall, not even standing in the same room as Bucky. But you didn’t want to fight.

There was a beat of hesitation, and then he said, "Promise?"

"Sure," Sam said.

You held up your pinkie finger in front of your heart, even though no one could see. "On the nine lives of the cat I will own one day."

You counted your breaths up to twenty before you heard one of them shift their weight, bare feet shuffling over your tiles.

"Fine," Bucky said finally. "She can stay for now. But I’m keeping an eye on her."

A familiar hitch went through you all on its own and you opened your eyes to find the world standing still. You took a couple of hesitant steps towards the stairs again, your head turning when you passed the kitchen area.

Sam had his back turned to you, stretching to reach something on the shelf next to the fridge, but Bucky’s frozen gaze was fixed on the wall you’d been leaning against, his arms crossed in front of his chest. Determination was a good look on him, you decided. It left a certain shine in his eyes that was hard to look away from.

That night, you dreamt of drowning at sea, and somehow you didn’t want to call it a nightmare.

chapter eight

thank you for reading!! you can follow my library blog @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications 💚

this chapter was my best kept secret and i'm forever grateful to @marvelettesassemblenow for reading ages ago 🫶🏼 also no one talk to me about thunderbolts bc i still haven't watched it but it seemed like a good time for a comeback

[lunar-alden]

Love you too, Petal.

Oh. Oh.

Sorry, will you just excuse me for one moment while I—

[foxy-eva]

Send Nudes

Summary: Chaos ensues after you accidentally send Spencer a nude pic

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader 

Category: Smut

Content Warnings: (18+, minors DNI) dub-con (Spencer receives an unsolicited nude pic), embarrassment, awkwardness, tension, heavy kissing, male masturbation, oral (fem receiving), handjob, protected penetrative sex

Author's Note: I wrote this for @imagining-in-the-margins Wrong Recipient Challenge!

Word count: 3.2k

Masterlist

Panic. Embarrassment. Shame. 

It was hard to describe what you felt when you stared at your phone, realizing that you had just sent Spencer Reid a nude picture of yourself. 

It was a mistake, of course – right when you wanted to send him a screenshot of an article, you stumbled over the mess in your apartment and selected the wrong picture. Frozen in place, you watched in horror as the read receipt showed up instantly. 

Spencer had just seen your naked body light up on the screen of his phone. 

A picture he never asked for and probably didn't want to see. It wasn’t a bad photo, some might even call it aesthetically pleasing. But you had never intended for anyone else to see it. It was just a way for you to make yourself feel good about your body. 

You contemplated your options. Burning your phone, moving across the country and changing your identity sounded intriguing but difficult to arrange. Instead you decided to text Spencer, hoping that soon you’d both be able to laugh about the embarrassing thing you just did. 

“I am so sorry about that. I really didn't mean to send that! Can you please delete the pic and forget about it?” 

You didn't get a response. Spencer was never great at texting but you had really hoped to hear back from him. It was hard to tell if he felt just as embarrassed or maybe even offended – you certainly wouldn't want to receive unsolicited nude pics either. 

You had barely gotten any sleep when you walked into work the next morning. Worst case scenarios had plagued your mind all night – from another painful workplace sexual harassment seminar to maybe even losing your job over your mishap – you had no idea what would expect you today. 

Everything seemed normal when you got to your desk, except for the fact that your favorite coworker didn't even look at you when you walked by him. Spencer usually liked sitting beside you in the conference room and also on the jet, but he did neither of those things that day. 

“Wow you really must have pissed Reid off, huh?” Luke whispered when he sat down beside you on the plane. 

“Did he say anything to you?” you wanted to know. 

“No, he didn't. What did you do? Spill coffee over his favorite chess board?” he teased. 

“Oh it’s so much worse than that,” you whined while heat rushed to your face. 

Emily decided to discuss the case before Luke could ask more questions. Spencer avoided you for the next couple of hours until you decided you both had suffered enough. 

A quiet moment in the coffee kitchen of the police precinct seemed good enough to approach him.

“Hey Spencer,” you said and noticed how he almost jumped at the sound of your voice. 

“H…hi,” he mumbled, his eyes fixated on the floor.

Stepping closer, he finally looked at you for the first time that day. The rosy shade spreading over his cheeks was impossible to ignore. 

“I’m very sorry about the… you know. I didn't mean to send it but I understand if you feel offended by it,” you sincerely told him. 

“I’m not… offended.”

You took a deep breath before you continued talking, “All I want to say is… if you want to discuss this incident with Emily or even HR, I would understand. I never wanted to make you uncomfortable in any way.” 

“No, it’s okay, really,” he lied. “We can just forget about it.” 

Spencer Reid was good at many things. Lying, however, definitely wasn’t his strong suit. You decided to drop the subject for now, aware that talking more about it would probably not make him less uncomfortable. 

The tension between you two was palpable for the rest of the workday. When you stepped into your hotel room that night, you were relieved to finally have a couple of walls between the two of you. 

If this thing didn't resolve soon, you’d have to talk to Emily about it eventually. But there was still hope that it wouldn't come to that. The embarrassment about your mishap was already bad enough as is.

The three knocks on your hotel door startled you. With your heart beating uncomfortably fast, you walked over to the door to find Spencer on the other side. 

He walked into your room without saying a word. Then he began slowly pacing up and down your room, still silent. He looked at you for a second but his sight fell to the floor immediately after that. 

“I uh…” he began before taking a deep breath. “I lied to you earlier.”

“About what?” you wanted to clarify. “Wanting to go to HR?” 

He shook his head. “I said that we can just forget about it but I don’t think I can do that.” 

Your heart felt heavy at his words. His discomfort pained you and you wished nothing more than to be able to take it back. “I’m so sorry Spencer.”

“I deleted the image off my phone but…” he paused to finally look at you. The expression written over his face was hard to read. What you didn't find was the discomfort you expected. Instead he looked… cocky?

He continued, “...it seems like it’s burned into my brain. And I can’t help but wonder, was it really an accident?”

“What?! Of course!” you squeaked. “Believe me, I would never want to send you a picture like that unprompted.”

That was when you saw a subtle smirk on his face. “Interesting choice of words.” 

You thought about it for a moment. Had you really just implied that you would want to send him nudes if he’d ask you to? 

“That's not what I meant,” you tried to brush it off. “And please don’t give me a lecture about Freudian slips.”

His presence filled the room and you felt like you couldn't take deep enough breaths to satiate your need for oxygen. His demeanor was so different from what you were used to and you had trouble wrapping your head around it.

His next question was even more surprising. “Who did you take this picture for?” 

The undertone in his voice was unsettling and you started feeling defensive. “I don’t see how that's any of your business but just for the record, I took it for myself. I do that occasionally to make myself feel good about my body.” 

It seemed as if he was content, almost relieved with your answer. You scanned his body language again and replayed his words in your head. Then it hit you all at once. Spencer was not here to scold you for what you did. 

He was jealous. And he wanted to make sure no one else got to see your picture. 

A grin formed on your face as you realized that you could play this game too.

Your tone was laced with a certain playfulness when you asked, “What did you do after you saw the picture?”

The change of your demeanor seemed to take Spencer by surprise. “I just told you, I deleted it.” 

“I don't think that's all you did.” He audibly gulped and you noticed his cheeks taking on a reddish color. Stepping closer to him, you whispered, “Did you touch yourself, Spencer?”

A shaky breath left his mouth before he confessed, “Yes.”

“Naughty boy,” You teased him. “You really liked that image, hm?” 

Nodding, he took a step forward until there was barely any space between the two of you. “I can't stop thinking about you.”

His words boosted your confidence. “I know I look great in that pic. But I think I would look even better in this lighting right here, don’t you think?” 

Before you could bring to action what you had insinuated, you felt Spencer's hands cupping your face to pull you into a kiss. The surprised gasp escaping your throat was muffled by his lips against yours. 

He kissed you with a fervor that knocked the air out of your lungs. Weakness rushed to your knees and you had to hold onto him to not tumble back. One hand pawed at his shirt while the other one held onto his shoulder. His lips felt soft yet firm against yours. 

When his tongue begged for entrance, you let it. As he deepened the kiss, you could feel heat rushing through body. A few moments ago you really thought you’d have the upper hand in this game you were playing but now realized you were just as pathetic as he was. 

Maybe sending him that image was a Freudian slip of some kind. Or maybe it was just some odd plan the universe had to bring you together. Either way, you were grateful for how things turned out. 

Your hands became curious as they wandered over Spencer’s body. The tingling in your fingertips could only be soothed by feeling his skin underneath them, so they quickly began unbuttoning his shirt. Spencer showed a similar interest in feeling more of you by the way his fingers dropped down to the hem of your shirt. 

Piece after piece both of your clothes fell to the floor, only ever breaking the kiss for as long as necessary. When you stood completely bare in front of one another, you dared to press your body against his to feel him. 

It was impossible to tell who moaned first when his length pressed against your stomach. With a firm grip on his shoulders, you moved him back until his legs made contact with the edge of the bed. You pushed down until he sat on the mattress, staring up at you with a curiosity in his eyes that made your heart jump. 

As you stepped back, his tongue darted out of his mouth to lick over his lips and you wondered if he thought about tasting you. To your surprise, he managed to not break eye contact until you challenged him, “Go on, take a look.”

His sight scanned your body, lingering on your breasts for a second before moving further down, taking everything in. You couldn’t hold back from looking at him, too. A rosy color had spread all over his cheeks and chest and when you dared to drop your eyes to his cock, you noticed how it twitched slightly against his thigh. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he cooed when your eyes met again. 

“Better than the image?” you teased, smirking at him. 

He only nodded before looking at your body again. It was like he was mesmerized, as if a miracle had just unfolded right before him. It became obvious that he was ready to worship you if you’d let him. But first, you had something else in your mind. 

“Show me exactly what you did when you saw my picture,” you told him. 

He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Wh… what?” 

“Don’t be shy now,” you snickered. “Come on, I wanna see how pretty you think I am.” 

The sweet smile on your face seemed to encourage him enough to let his right hand move towards his hardness. It was as if he needed reassurance when he found your eyes and you nodded.

He wrapped his fingers around his cock, giving himself a squeeze and you watched as precum spilled over the tip. Slowly, he began moving his fist up and down his length, swiping his thumb over the head each time he got to the top. The groan that slipped from his lips could only be described as absolutely sinful. 

You couldn’t deny how much the sight in front of you turned you on. Spencer was so incredibly beautiful and the thought that your body had the ability to make him feral like that drove you insane. 

Arousal gathered at your entrance the longer you watched him. This show was no longer enough for you, you needed more. Your hands found the curve of your chest, gently kneading them before your fingers began toying with your hardened peaks. Spencer’s eyes were fixated on your hands, his mouth hanging wide open and unabashedly moaning at the sight while accelerating the pace of his hand. 

Then suddenly, he stopped and got up from bed. Desperation was written all over his face when he looked at you. 

“Please,” he begged as he stepped closer. “I need to touch you.” 

It was everything you wanted right then, too. 

“I’m all yours, Spencer.” 

His mouth was on yours in an instant and he didn’t waste any time to move you over to the bed to push you onto the mattress. He followed quickly, towering over you as he kissed down your neck, making you moan in anticipation of what would follow. 

He moved further down your body, kissing and nipping on the tender flesh of your breasts before focusing his attention on your nipples. The sensation was almost unbearable and you could feel how your arousal began coating the insides of your thighs. 

Spencer smiled against your skin when he noticed you rocking your hips against his leg every so slightly. His confidence grew as he realized that you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. 

“Needy,” he chuckled as he kissed down your stomach. “That’s cute.” 

Right then you couldn’t care less about being in charge, you just wanted to be taken care of. When his lips brushed over your inner thigh, you opened your legs further to give him better access. He lay down between your legs and didn’t waste any time before he began leaving feather light kisses against your folds. 

You watched as he licked his own lips, tasting your essence on them before he found your eyes. 

“You’re so wet,” he teased and let a finger move along your slit. “Is that all for me?” 

He expected a witty response, like you telling him to bring his mouth to good use for once. So it took him by surprise when you simply sighed, “Yes.” 

There was no more game to play. No more back and forth of who was in charge. It was just the two of you, equally as desperate to finally do what you both had been dreaming of for weeks.

“Good,” Spencer whispered, his hot breath tickling your core, before he finally granted you some relief. 

His tongue moved through your folds, collecting your taste before he focussed on your most sensitive spot. He experimented with different motions for a few moments, paying attention to your reactions until he found what you enjoyed the most. Your hand flew to his hair, your fingers intertwining with his curls to hinder him from moving away – even though he had no intention to do so, anyway. 

With one arm wrapped around your thigh he hindered you from bucking uncontrollably against his face while his other hand found your entrance, letting two fingers slip into you with ease. He moved with great precision, adjusting the angle and the pace according to your reactions, bringing you closer to your breaking point with every second passing. 

The sounds of your pleasure filled the room as you began dancing along the brink of euphoria. With just a few more skillful motions, he pushed you over it. Your walls pulsed around his fingers while your entire body shook. He worked you through your orgasm before he lay back down beside you, placing a gentle kiss against your lips. 

You were still panting when you found his eyes. The warm amber of his irises was almost completely swallowed by his pupils, the lust visible in his eyes contradicting the saccharine smile he showed you. 

“You okay?” he breathed as he wrapped one arm around your waist. 

“Yeah,” you confirmed while one of your hands moved down his body. 

Tentatively, you let your fingertips brush along his length, feeling his velvety skin under your touch. “Now what are we gonna do with you?” you purred as you wrapped your fingers tightly around him, making him gasp. 

With a torturously slow pace, you moved along his cock. “Tell me, Spencer. What do you want?” 

“I uhm…,” he audibly swallowed. “I have a condom in my pocket.” 

The fact that he brought a condom to your hotel room when he came over early amused you. He never had any intention of just talking to you. 

“So, you want to fuck me?” 

“Yes,” he admitted unabashedly. “If you want that, too, of course.”

With a nod you confirmed that that was exactly what you wanted as well. Right after you let go of him, he grabbed his pants from the floor to take out the foil wrapper. You watched as he ripped it open and carefully rolled down the condom. 

Then, he kneeled down between your legs, taking a moment to admire the beauty of the woman in front of him. 

“Come here,” you cooed and he leaned over you without hesitation. 

Reaching between your bodies, you guided him to your entrance. He closed his eyes when he slowly entered you, relishing the sensation of stretching you open inch by inch. When he was fully inside you, he kissed you before he began moving with slow thrusts.

Wrapping your legs around his hips, you brought him even closer. When he was sure that you could take it, he accelerated his pace, fucking you against the mattress until you were sure you would lose your mind. 

Spencer’s body began trembling and he suddenly stopped moving. 

“Sorry, I’m really close,” he whined and tried to pull out slightly. 

“Don’t stop,” you pleaded as you kept him in place with your legs around him. “Please, I need it.”

One of your hands moved down to where your bodies were joined to desperately draw circles around your little nub, making you clench hard around his hardness. 

“Fuck,” he whimpered as he began moving again. “I can’t, ah–” 

With just a few more deep thrusts Spencer came, his cock twitching inside you as his whole body shook. It was enough to throw you over edge too, entering a state of pure bliss together with him. After you had both come down from your high, you welcomed him inside your embrace, your fingertips gently dancing over his back as he caught his breath. 

For the sake of getting cleaned up you separated for a few moments, only to lay back down together soon after. A shaky breath fell from Spencer’s lips and caught your attention. 

“So…,” he began talking but didn’t continue. 

You propped yourself up on one elbow to find his eyes. “Yeah?”

“I wanted to ask if maybe–” 

“You want me to send you that pic again?” you interrupted him with a grin on your face. 

“No,” he laughed. “I mean… that’s not what I wanted to say.”

Still in a teasing mood, you snickered, “But you would like to see that pic again?”

“You know what,” he chuckled as he lifted the blanket to get a peek at your naked body. “I think I actually prefer this.”

“Good,” you chirped. “If you want to see more of me you’ll have to take me on a date though.”

Placing a soft kiss on your lips, he whispered, “Deal.”

Thank you for reading! Please like, reblog and leave a comment to show your support and help me stay motivated to write more stories!

Taglist: @adoredfromafar @grumpyy-bearr @frickin-bats @pleasantwitchgarden @cynbx @xserenax-13 @alexxavicry @samuel-de-champagne-problems @evvy96 @reidsbookclub @lover-of-books-and-tea @sebs-oxygen @nomajdetective @kobaltdragon @matthew-gray-gubler-lover @castiels-majestic-wings

[tomsparkyr]

𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐀 [𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐕𝐀𝐔𝐋𝐓]

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

summary: when coach tells people the room requirements and the 'no sexual perversions perpetrated' rule by the so-called 'little deviants', it only makes the couple want to break that rule even more.

stiles stilinski x fem!reader (no smut sorry babies)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You were nestled into your boyfriend's neck, the soft flannel material brushing against your cheek and the scent you knew all too well, all of the senses could have made your eyes flutter back closed. You felt a small nudge on your shoulder, groaning and shrugging off the contact, you decided to ignore Stiles’ silent request for you to lift your head up.

It wasn’t until you felt his warm touch brush the hair that had fallen in front of your face away and the palm of his hand stroke your cheekbone, you pulled away from his contact and looked up at him.

His brown eyes looked into your own and he smiled softly at you. He couldn’t help but think you were the most beautiful person he’s ever laid his eyes on. He couldn’t believe he was going out with someone like you. You were beautiful in and out, hence his gut-wrenching crush he’s had on you since the 3rd grade. After long years of pining and certain dreams, he couldn’t thank the supernatural world for existing more as he finally got a chance with you; and boy, did he take it.

At the beginning of your relationship, Scott thought Stiles was joking when he said he kissed you, and you actually kissed him back. He just laughed, patted him on the shoulder and moved on with the subject.

“No, Scott! I’m not kidding.” Stiles said, almost offended. But then he sobered his thoughts and kind of understood Scott because it had taken him 3 hours after your kiss to finally process that he had grown the balls to do that, and apparently you liked it too.

Scott paused momentarily, “Neither am I Stiles, we need to focus on--” Stiles sighed dramatically and flailed his arms around in desperation. Scott paused mid-sentence, tilted his head and waited for his best friend to continue.

“Scott, I kissed her. Like, I actually kissed her!” Stiles smiled widely. Scott remained unconvinced, blinking slowly and scrunched his brows. “You know, when you put your lips on someone else's--”

“Yes, Stiles! I know what kissing is!” The werewolf exasperated, he shook his head. “I just don’t believe it was with her. Y/N? Head cheerleader, popular, smart, way out of your league Y/N?”

“You better believe it, Scotty.” Stiles patted his hand rhythmically on Scott’s back as he began to walk away, intending to walk to his beautiful girlfriend's house. 

Scott grabbed onto Stiles’ flannel and yanked him back for more details, “You mean ‘I’ve had a crush on her since 3rd grade, I wish she would look my way and we would get married and have kids’ Y/N?” Scott grew a proud smile the more he said, knowing how down bad his best friend was for this girl.

Stiles nodded frantically and adjusted his flannel, “And she actually kissed you back?” Scott questioned. “Scott, I think 3rd grade me died a little bit when she held my hand, let alone kiss me back.” Stiles jokes.

The two boys looked at each other before high fiving and doing their ‘bro-hug’. Scott congratulated the boy, not hiding his pure excitement for his friend; borderline jumping for joy. The boys gushed over the new relationship for a few more minutes before Stiles snapped out of it and ran out the room, shouting behind him saying he had to get back to his girlfriend who was waiting for him. Scott doing a subtle fist pump as Stiles turned his back.

“Wake up, baby,” He whispered, not wanting to disturb you too much as you wiped the grogginess and sleep off your face. You looked at your surroundings, “We here?”

Stiles looked out the window of the bus, eye twitching at the surroundings. “Not quite…” 

The motel looked uncomfortable, old and just overall, definitely violating hundreds of safety codes. The poor attempt at the neon lights brightened up the place in the darkness outside, but did little to make the atmosphere any more homely. But he knew it would be fine for one night, as long as you were by his side the entire night.

Everyone began piling out of the bus, a couple of your friends passing you and giving you two a wink as they noticed the state you and your boyfriend were in; cuddled up close, hands intertwined and Stiles admiring you as if you had hung the stars in the sky. Even in this messed up supernatural world, Stiles found beauty in the horror; and that was you.

Stiles helped you off the bus, his hands never leaving you. He slung an arm around your waist as you stepped onto the concrete and became aware of your surroundings. 

It was clear you had the same initial thoughts as Stiles as he read your body language. He rubbed his thumb on the skin between your top and the jeans that hugged your figure, leaning in and kissing the top of your forehead.

As you walked towards your friends and addressed Lydia’s discomfort at the Motel, Stiles had sneaked behind you and hugged you from behind. He rested his head on top of yours and you leaned back into his chest; his arms were locked around your front and you rested your hands on top of his, sighing into the contact.

It felt like you were in a dream, you never wanted to leave this comfortability with Stiles, he was the best boyfriend you could ever ask for.

The Coach’s whistle broke you out of your bliss, snapping your attention to him as he turned away from the Motel and faced the angsty teenagers. 

“Listen up. The meet’s been pushed till tomorrow.” You groaned quietly and nestled backwards into Stiles’ chest, he smiled at you. “This is the closest Motel with the most vacancies and least amount of good judgement when it comes to accepting a bunch of degenerates such as yourselves.”

You would protest Coach’s point, but he was completely correct, actually. Who the hell would want 20 odd, hormonal teenagers who definitely have questionable things packed in their bags to stay in your Motel?

“Now, you’ll be pairing up. Choose wisely.”

You and Stiles look at each other, untangling yourself from his hold and intertwining your hands. You pulled him over to the Coach, not seeing Scott raise his brows at Stiles’ smirking face at the idea of spending a night with you in your own room, no parental interruptions, no supernatural; just a boyfriend and girlfriend in each other's company.

Coach noticed the two of you approaching like a couple on their honeymoon and felt the need to clarify something.

“And I’ll have no sexual perversions perpetrated by you little deviants, got that? Keep your dirty little hands to your dirty little selves!” He shouted, looking directly at you. “Especially you, Stilinski and Y/L/N!”

You two dropped your hands expectantly, reluctantly taking a key for different rooms. The boy sighed at you and leaned in to kiss you before you departed over to Lydia and Alisson.

The sound of the Coach’s whistle made you two jump apart before your lips touched. “What did I just say!” Stiles went to protest, “I don’t wanna hear it! Get out of here!” 

Stiles groaned and turned away to room with Scott, you loitered back for a moment, just in time to hear the Coach say, “How he managed to get you to go out with him… I’ll never know.” You chuckled to yourself and roomed with your friends.

It had been an hour since you got to your room and settled in, kicking back and chatting to the girls for a while until they decided to shower and get themselves ready for bed. You had begun to set up until you got a message from Stiles.

Stiles: come to my room please i miss you

You smiled at his message, missing him too. And typed out a response.

You: i can’t the girls will see i’ve gone somewhere :((((

Stiles: you’ll be back before they’ve noticed you’re gone i promise

Stiles: baby?

Stiles was typing out more questions, and thinking of other ways to convince you to come over as Scott had left the room to explore the Motel more.

He was confused by your silence until he heard a knock at the door. He stood up, expecting it to be Scott but was braced by your beautiful face as he swung the door open.

He smiled, looking you up and down before tugging you into the room. He kicked the door behind him as he twisted your bodies so your back was facing the room. 

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders and you messed with the hair at the nape of his neck, drinking in his appearance and licking your lips. “I missed you, baby.” He groaned in the sexiest voice you think you’ve ever heard in your entire life. “I missed you, too.” You chuckled before connecting your lips.

He leaned into your body as his lips pressed into yours, subtly sneaking his tongue into your mouth. His hands snuck around to your back and held your body against his own, feeling every crevice and worshipping them. His hands explored your back, itching closer as he murmured for you to jump into him.

You obliged and wrapped your legs around his waist, he caught you by planting his hands on your ass. He smiled into his kiss and found himself growing more desperate for you as each second passed.

Your hands tangled in his hair and tugged at it as he walked the pair of you to the rickety bed situated in the middle of the room. He gently placed you on the bed and leaned on top of you, finding himself comfortable in between your legs.

The kiss grew more erratic as it went on, hotter and hands wandering. Stiles slipped his hands underneath your top and began to lift it over your head. 

You stopped him suddenly and he pulled back, his face coated in your lipgloss and his hair a mess; God, he looked good. 

“What? Did I do something wrong?” He panicked. You smiled and placed your hands on his face. “No, baby. Just don’t want Scott to walk in on us.” You confessed.

Stiles shook his head, “He won’t be back for ages…” He whispered and leaned back in to kiss your neck, sucking at your sweet spots that made your back arch. You sighed as his tongue worked wonders.

Stiles noticed you weren’t fully convinced and jumped off the bed, leaving you stranded. You were confused momentarily until he snatched something out of the bedside drawer, and opened the room door, hooking it on the handle and turning back to you.

“Just to be sure.” He winked and situated himself back between your legs and lifted your shirt over your head this time.

The room became hotter with each second, steam practically coating the walls; as the room door held up a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign with pride.

Your stay with Stiles was much more prolonged than you had intended, your clothes now back on your body a little misshapen but the thought that was there. 

You skipped back to your Motel room and quietly pushed open the door at this late hour, knowing Lydia and Alisson were probably curled up in bed at this time. 

Kicking off your shoes, you snuck into the room and breathed a sigh of relief that the girls hadn’t had their suspicions about your disappearance, obviously feeling content enough to go to sleep with no nerves.

You turned on the bedside lamp to see where you were going and jumped at the sight of Lydia and Alisson wide awake and leaning on the headboard of their shared bed, staring right at you with raised eyebrows and a subtle smirk.

Alisson tilted her head, “So, where were you?” She questioned.

You stuttered for a moment, trying to come up with a convincing lie. “I was just… at the vending machine. Stupid things sucked up my money.” You fake chuckled.

Lydia hummed, “Yeah, it took you 3 hours…” You could practically feel a bead of sweat dripping down your forehead, “Yeah, I had a lot of trouble with it… Anyway, I’m heading to bed-”

“I didn’t know vending machines give you hickeys.” Alisson said, making you freeze and pale.

You opened your mouth but no words came out, “And it has nothing to do with the fact that Scott tried to get back to his room but the sound of moaning probably stopped him from going into the hot box.” Lydia smirked.

You quite literally had no words, “Shit.” You murmured.

Alisson giggled at you, "You realise Coach is gonna kill you two, especially Stiles." You groaned loudly.

The two girls chuckled at you and invited you into their huddle, only insisting you showered first. You laughed along with them and jumped into them, “At least someone had fun on this God awful trip.” Lydia smiled at you before you whacked her with the pillow you were previously leaning on.

[brokenmenswhore]

say it | aemond targaryen

request from inbox that wishes to remain anonymous!

pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader

summary: aemond wants you to learn high valyrian so you can understand his dirty whispers in front of everyone else, and he decides to try to teach you from between your legs

warnings: smut (MDNI 18+) this has no plot!!, kinda mean aemond, dacryphilia, degredation, oral (fem receiving), overstimulation

a/n: fought for my life to make sure i was properly translating the high valyrian instead of the other types of valyrian do NOT come at me if anything is wrong i did my BEST okay. this is kinda short but i STRUGGLED

────── ☾ ──────

“Oh come on, rūs (baby), you can do better than that,” Aemond teased, only pulling his mouth away from your cunt to say something condescending, “I thought you were smarter than that.”

You whined, squirming under his touch as he shoved his tongue back inside of you. Aemond was tormenting you, intentionally trying to shove his tongue as far into your cunt as it could go, causing you to squeeze around him.

“I, I can’t-“

He slapped the inside of your thigh, forcing your legs to stay open and leaving a slight red mark. He ran his fingers over the redness as you cried out, having already come too many times to count, but Aemond wasn’t letting up.

“Sīr ȳrda (so tight),” Aemond groaned, “too bad it won’t matter if you come again. You still haven’t gotten one sentence out.”

You were overwhelmed, barely able to say a proper word, nevertheless a sentence.

Aemond always whispered High Valyrian into your ear, and you knew it was something sinister based on his tone, but you never understood him. He begged and begged you to learn, and you agreed, but you never actually sat down and studied the language. Aemond got tired of waiting.

He was trying his hardest to stay in control and command you to speak, but he was so drunk on you, obsessed with how you tasted and how you writhed beneath him, tears spilling out of your eyes at the overstimulation and intensity.

He was so desperate to continue tasting you that he was eating you out sloppily, his tongue inside of you, and the rest of his mouth sucking and kissing anything he could.

He had to fight with everything in himself to tear his mouth away from you. “Tell me what I said to you in front of everyone.”

You were lost in space, a hiccup replacing what you intended to be a protest. “Ke-Kes- Aemond please,” you begged, “just don’t stop.”

“Aweh, am I making you cry?” Aemond taunted, “poor little baby who can’t even speak a sentence of High Valyrian.”

“A-Aemond, p-lease,” you squeaked, begging for another release.

“Gaoman daor care lo ao māzigon arlī (I don’t care if you come again). You know how to make this stop.”

You were frustrated by your lack of understanding. You hated it when he spoke to you and he knew you couldn’t translate. He wanted you to be able to, but with his tongue buried deep in your cunt, you could barely even think.

Your climax washed over you again, causing your legs to shake from the intensity, Aemond gripping your thighs as he kept his head buried between your legs. You pawed at his hair, trying to pull him away from you, but he only gripped your thighs harder, forcing you to allow his mouth constant access to your heat.

“Please,” you cried, sniffling. You didn’t know if you were begging him to stop or continue.

“Say it in High Valyrian.”

You groaned at him, trying to shift your thighs away to no avail.

“Aemond-“ you moaned as he resumed his actions.

He growled against you, annoyed that he had to tear himself away from your cunt again.

“Beg me in High Valyrian and I’ll make you come again.”

Your chest rose and fell intensely as you tried to somewhat catch your breathing. You knew this. You knew the word, you just had to remember it.

“K- kostilus (please),” you whimpered.

It was the prettiest sound Aemond had ever heard. As a reward, he brought his hand up to your clit as his tongue continued to fuck you, adding to the overstimulation but allowing him to pull another release from you.

You were whining and whimpering nonstop, voice too weak to let out a proper moan.

“Now tell me what I said to you earlier,” Aemond demanded, “if you speak the sentence, you’ll be all done.”

You were fully crying. Your chest was heaving and your breathing was erratic and full of sniffling, crying out as your cunt squeezed around Aemond’s tongue. “Ao sylutegon sīr sȳz (you taste so good),” Aemond said, knowing your lack of understanding would only make you cry more.

He watched you from his position between your legs, your face wet with still-falling tears as you writhed, unable to stay still. He pressed one arm down across your stomach to keep you from moving away from him. You gripped the sheets as you tried to shift away from his mouth.

“Ke-kesan mazverdagon ap hīghagon (I’ll make you scream),” you spoke, breathing out the sentence the best you could, desperate for Aemond’s assault on your cunt to end, “that’s what you said. Kostilus, Aemond.”

Aemond pulled himself away and looked into your eyes. “Good girl,” he praised, finally pleased with your ability to repeat something back to him.

He continued to taste inside of you, yet another climax threatening to wash over you. You were squeezing Aemond’s tongue like a vice, only making him more feral and desperate to make you come one more time.

Your back arched off the bed as you came again, your entire body shaking from the sensation.

Aemond forced himself to detach from your cunt, the entire lower half of his face wet. He brought up his face to meet yours, his swollen lips placing a kiss on yours and forcing you to taste yourself on him. “See, rūs, was that so hard?”

[cybrasigilism]

Cockwarming w/ Squid Game 2 Men (500 Followers Special)

warning: smut, obviously | not proofread | lowercase intended | cockwarming | sub/dom! reader (depending on the character) | mommy kink | degradation | praise | these are my headcanons + interpretations of these characters, please be respectful even if my opinions on the characters differ from your own

characters: nam-gyu (player 124), thanos/choi su-bong (player 230), park min-su (player 125)

(red = sub!reader | blue = dom!reader)

A/N: HOLY MOLY!! thank you all so much for 500! i truly cannot fathom all the support and i am eternally grateful. i figured i should do something special to celebrate this milestone, so here you go! many fans will be pleased to see i am writing for several beloved squid game men from the second season! i hope you all enjoy, as always. and again thank you all SOOO MUCH!!!

MDNI! 18+ content beneath the cut, reader’s discretion is advised

➤ nam-gyu (player 124)

➛ if you thought you’d have any sort of say in moving while you cockwarm nam-gyu— think again. he’ll hold you in place himself if he senses you getting impatient, but he knows you’re not stupid enough to try to pull a fast one and start moving anyway.

➛ he’ll pretend that you have absolutely no effect on him like this. like it isn’t killing him just as much to keep you from bouncing on his dick the way you know he likes. it’s all apart of the process with him though, being mean and restraining any possible movement. oh and you can bet he will 100% be poking fun at how pathetic you look.

➛ “such a predictable little slut,” he scoffs, his grip on your thighs tighter than usual. “i know it’s killing you that you can’t fuck yourself on my dick, isn’t that right?” you nodded rapidly, earning a somewhat sadistic laugh from nam-gyu. he loved having you at his mercy like this

➛ he’ll be extra mean from time to time and move just an inch, playing it off as adjusting his seating. but you know damn well that it’s his own twisted way of trying to get under your skin, and oh god did it ever work.

═════════════

➤ thanos/choi su-bong (player 230)

➛ thanos suggested it at first, he saw it as a fun new way to tease you. little did he know, the tables would be completely turned

➛ he wasn’t expecting to be the one in agony. he wasn’t anticipating that he would be the one to be begging for any semblance of friction as you sat motionless on his dick. you clenched down at his little whines and whimpers, but you remained calm— unrelenting in your stillness.

➛ “please baby, i’ll do anything… just move please, fuck.” his pleading was almost pathetic, you’d not seen him in such a position before. his cocky, obnoxious demeanour was thrown to the wind the moment control was ripped from his grasp.

➛ you don’t know what came over you, but suddenly you felt smug enough to tease him. i mean, if he could dish it out— he should certainly be able to take it. “oh? is this not going how you pictured? how sad.” you pretended the noise that was drawn from his throat didn’t damn near make you reconsider this yourself, his hands quickly finding their place on your hips. “señorita, please just fuck me.”

═════════════

➤ park min-su (player 125)

➛ you almost felt bad. almost. in all fairness how could you not? the way min-su was squirming under you, searching for some sort of satisfaction all while you held him down as still as you could. the tragic little whimpers he would make could have almost changed your mind into giving him the release he so clearly craved. he was gripping onto you, and you could feel him tremble.

➛ “it’s okay.” you assured him, brushing his bangs out of his face as he looked up at you with those trademark puppy dog eyes of his. “you’re doing so good for me.” you could feel his hands squeeze down on your thighs at the praise, a strained exhale leaving his lips. you had to admit, there wasn’t a hotter sight than this— seeing min-su melt in your hands like this.

➛ “ngh, mommy.. i c-can’t do this f’ much longer..” his speech was slurred beyond comprehension from the pleasure, you could feel his cock twitch inside you; desperate for any sort of leverage. “oh but you can,” you cupped his cheek, bringing him in for a kiss. as you leaned into it, you could tell even this slight shift in position was driving him up the wall— as if the way he was now moaning into your mouth wasn’t a telltale sign of his anguish.

➛ if you want to continue to drive him mad, whisper little praises in his ear.

“that’s right, you’re doing so well for mommy.”

“fuck, you feel so good… i could stay on you forever.”

“you’re doing such a good job for me, sweet boy.”

═════════════

oh em GEEEEEE!!! thank you all a million bajillion times over for 500 followers! i’ve been having a bit of a hard time feeling confident in my writing lately, but it’s honestly so relieving to see how many people await my works 🩵 i’m so eternally thankful for all of your support and each of your comments continue to make me smile :’) i promise i’ll keep working hard to contribute my best to this fandom, and of course THANK YOU GUYS FOR GIVING ME AN OPPORTUNITY TO SHARE MY PASSION FOR A SHOW I ADORE

as always, any advice/constructive criticism on how to improve my writing is appreciated and requested :) have a spectacular day/night lovelies 💋💋💋

tags: @gongyoosgf @strangelife122 @kouzih @agorsnotworld @kvstjwonnie @pink-apples001 @fiicalapsiholoaga @luvlyfandoms @gabbystinks

[redflagshipwriter]

Snatching Snitches pt 4

Masterpost

“Father.” Bruce yelped as Damian appeared, like a wraith, at his elbow. His hand convulsed to hold the 105 page treadmill manual in his grip hard enough to tear the paper cover. His heart rate picked up in that instant as his hard-won instincts to fight were ruthlessly suppressed by his conscious awareness that he was safely at his home. Bruce could not strike. He strangled his impulses, if barely.

His son ignored the reaction entirely on, blithe about startling someone who might lash out. “I require transportation.” Fuck. Christ. He could have hurt Damian.

Bruce blinked and took a moment to come back to the real world as he put down the manual he was reading. “Ah…” He racked his memory for his sons’ schedules, trying to make this interaction make sense. Nothing came to mind at 6pm on Tuesday, so he gave up and asked, “Where to?”

“Titans Tower,” Damian instructed. He glowered, his green eyes shining in the lowlight. He was, Bruce thought, adorable. Bruce was still strangling panic at the intrusive thought that he might have harmed his baby. He took a deep breath and put away the frisson of fear in order to exist in the current moment.

He kept the resulting smile off of his face, as his prickly baby would not appreciate it. “Oh?” he said mildly. Bruce stood up and brushed dust off his trousers. “Are you going to meet someone?”

“I require a consultation with one of the trainers there,” Damian reported sharply. He was all but standing at attention.

Bruce went through a mental inventory in an instant– Raven. Damian had to be intending to speak with Raven to get a tracking spell or some such for his cat. That…

Well. She would probably tell him no, but it wasn’t his place to try to shield his kids too much from the world. Besides, Damian was a persuasive young man. Perhaps she could find his kitty for him.

‘I wouldn’t mind knowing where the cat went,’ Bruce thought privately. He fetched his keys for the car in the right city, ready to escort Damian through the transportation relay to San Francisco. ‘Even if he wasn’t heartbroken, it’s troubling that a cat managed to get from Bristol to a bus depot in Gotham Central.’

That was somehow more upsetting than the fact that the cat hadn’t been seen on camera after that bus ride. The cameras were low-quality. The cat could have been hidden under seats or inside a bag. But how had the naked cat navigated Gotham’s troubled public transportation system? Most of his kids didn’t dare try.

Hopefully the damn thing hadn’t been eaten by a coyote or something. Damian would never forgive the bearer of bad news.

XXX

The flock of imbeciles at the tower of stunted titans were useless to his aims. They clustered him with bids for attention and puerile greetings. Damian stoically endured their pleasantries until he had pierced the inner sanctum and then beelined for the quarters belonging to the current head trainer.

“Raven.” He rapped at her chamber door, respectful in the presence of an aged witch. “I wish to speak with you.”

The door opened with no human touch. The buzz of demonic magic rattled around in his teeth, an unpleasant crispness to the air as Raven exercised her powers.

“Come in, Robin.” Her scratchy voice called out. He stepped inside and turned to see the woman sitting midair, cloak and hair dangling down. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” he said, “but not in a world shaking sense.” He confronted her head-on. “I believe that I encountered a spirit or ghost of some variety. It stayed with me for several weeks before disappearing. As I am invested in his welfare, I much desire to locate him again.”

Her eyebrows went up high on her oddly short, round forehead. “Do you have a foci- you have a whole scrapbook. Alright.” She took it from him and then blinked. “He took the shape of a cat?”

“He was clearly intelligent, and capable of walking through solid matter,” Damian laid out his case. “Undoubtedly he is more than the average feline, as he is capable of using a tablet to write in English. However, I am concerned for his welfare. When he came to me, his condition was poor and his stress was obviously high. I cannot rest without confirming his welfare. I have traced his travel to a dank pit of despair known as Amity Park, which seems to be rife with dangers for ghosts.”

If only he knew where Snitches was hiding there, Damian would simply retrieve his boy.

“Do you have any type of contract or bond connecting you?”

Damian nodded and indicated the scrapbook with a nod. “Please turn to page 62.”

Paper flipped. She regarded the gold-lined paper and the paw prints on it dispassionately. “That should work,” Raven admitted wryly. She seemed amused. “Stand by. Let’s do this now.” Her eyes flickered with an unholy light and she lifted her hands, palms-up and fingers splayed. “Let’s see what kind of answer we can get.” She tossed her hair slightly as she looked upwards and started the mutter to herself. Paper rustled in a sourceless wind.

Damian took a judicious step backwards. It was well that he did. A glistening crack in reality peeled itself open. It was virulently green.

“In you go.”

He stepped into the crack and then up a short set of mahogany stairs, into a circular office. Raven followed at his heels, floating in and peering around.

A skeleton in a blue military uniform with some unknown epaulets raised a bony hand in greeting. “Welcome to custody court, how can I help you?” He seemed unpaused by the flying girl.

Damian brandished his scrapbook with the original copy of his precious paperwork. “I adopted a ghost, as you can see.” He pointed to Snitches’s pawprint signature. “He has run away. I am extremely concerned for his welfare.”

The dead man leaned in to examine the paperwork. It very clearly had “Adoption Certificate” branded across the top in ornamental script. “That seems to be in order. You need help finding and placing him, then?”

“He needs to sue for custody,” Raven interjected. Her eyes glinted purple in the dim light. “We don’t know if there are any current guardians, but we suspect the minor is experiencing neglect.”

The skeleton grunted and hit a button on his chest. “Can we get a compliance officer in here?” He asked. “Need to look into a vulnerable minor ghost.”

Damian felt a thrill of success. Finally, he was on the right track. And everyone here seemed shockingly competent.

The compliance officer appeared in the form of a purple tinted middle aged woman, with an extremely dated hairstyle. “Good morning and evening, if you’ll provide me with a record of the child’s ecto signature, I’ll be able to do a home check.”

Damian proffered the scrapbook. “Will something in this suffice?”

She took it with a hum and started flipping through. “Oh, yes,” she said. She picked up the collection of hairs that Snitches had shed onto the pillow and absorbed it into her hand. “I’ll go find him and investigate his condition.”

“Do not alarm him,” Damian said. His stomach twisted. “He is only a little boy.”

The ghost nodded, her glasses slipping up and down her nose. “I’ll be circumspect,” she promised. Then she bustled away as the skeleton man returned with a hefty stack of paperwork.

Raven peered over his shoulder as he worked on it. “Write your name as D. Wayne,” she advised. “I have a premonition.”

He clicked his tongue against his teeth and did as she said.

The paperwork was extensive, and it took at least an hour. During that time the compliance officer reappeared. She was significantly more ruffled than she had appeared at departure. “Well!” She slicked down her hair, which had puffed out in shock from its sleek updo and was fizzing slightly.

Damian leaned over to confirm that the edges of her clothing were smoking and torn. “How was visitation?”

She made an odd high-pitched sound, almost like a hiccup. Her whole figure went static momentarily. “Why don’t we all have a look!” She held up an oval. “I would have to concur that the minor is not in a safe environment.” An image of two people in a fight fizzled into being.

Damian squinted. “I do not…” he trailed off as he really looked at them.

Of the two figures, one was a sleek and confident female figure in a rocker outfit. The other figure was awkward and somewhat gangly, extremely vulnerable and yet determined.

How very odd. But there was only one possible explanation:

“The white and black one is Snitches.”

He was not quite as cute as he had been before. Damian straightened his back to military precision and steeled himself. He would adapt. Taking responsibility via adoption was a lifelong commitment, and he would not be deterred by the loss of paws.

‘I will miss the paws.’ Damian froze. ‘The pawprints in that album are the only remaining evidence of how small my boy once was. I have already missed his childhood.’

The custody officer looked pleased. “Yes, 5 months deceased Danny Phantom, formerly Fenton.”

“Five months,” Raven mouthed quietly, appalled.

Damian reeled. 5 months. A pathetic 20 weeks of existence. He was even more a babe than Damian had realized. And now he was out there, helpless and afraid!

‘I only knew him for twenty percent of his life. I have missed almost all of his youth. I must retrieve him immediately.’

“Yes, an infant,” agreed the wellness officer. Her smile went toothy when she looked back at her still image. “He was being harassed by an older ghost when I arrived, and I had to intervene. After a wellness interview with him, I am interested in opening a case to sue for custody.”

“Excellent,” said Raven. “We would like to proceed as quickly as possible.”

“You are, of course, an adult by the standards of your species?” The officer confirmed.

Was that relevant? Damian stiffened, shocked by this turn of events.

“Yea, of course. Dick Wayne, age 32, is suing for custody,” Raven interjected. Her voice was mild and unaffected. “I’m his representation.”

…Damian nodded. He tried to look 32. Should he clutch at his joints? He settled for a grimace, as though pushing bravely through pain. Dick was very noble in his suffering, after all.

“Very well,” said the ghost cheerfully. “I’ll need copies of your personal documents to move further in this, and to do a home check, a few other things.”

‘I cannot have her come to do a home check at the manor. Father will intervene and reveal my impersonation, and then I shall not receive my child.’

“Of course,” Damian said through gritted teeth. Would Todd allow him to use a safe house, perhaps? There must be a solution. “Would tomorrow be acceptable?”

It was in a haze of planning stress that they confirmed the appointment, Raven taking the lead with her strange half smile. They stepped back through her portal into Titans Tower.

For a moment, Damian stood in shock. Then he cleared his throat. “Dick’s last name is unfortunately not Wayne,” he said.

It wasn’t the largest sticking point, but he was concerned. The paperwork had to be accurate to be legally binding.

Raven hummed. “Yes, we’ll have to adopt him for Bruce.” She shook her hair. “He has the paperwork ready, we’ll just take it and file it. Upper left desk drawer in your father’s office, in an envelope.”

“I will retrieve it,” Damian promised solemnly. “Thank you for your legal counsel.”

“No, no,” Raven said mildly. “It’s the least I can do after all that Dick has done.”

“…all that he has done to aid you recently?” Damian confirmed. He glanced at her full-on for the first time in at least an hour, confused. Her support was appreciated, but it was not expected. The situation had escalated. Truly, Dick had cultivated noble companions in his youth!

She hummed in the back of her throat. “Something like that,” Raven said vaguely. “Let’s go make Dick a legal ghost father.”

[missqhughes]

IS SHE REALLY YOURS? | Q. HUGHES43

-> quinn x jacksgf!reader

-> contains: mentions of sex and sexual acts, verbal fights, cheating, teasing, ocs created for the plot, use of y/n, lowercase intended

-> IN WHICH: y/n swears to herself and quinn that jack will never know what happened between them. however, as jack’s actions become even more questionable, quinn starts to drop hints about what he did to his girlfriend the night before, showing him two can play at the same game.

-> the HIGHLY requested pt 2 to can he get you like this! god i love this plot soooo much. don’t know if i would hate to be in this situation or adore it 🫥 anyway, hope you love it as much as i do!

18+ CONTENT BELOW THE CUT

y/n knew it was wrong.

that she fucked her boyfriends older brother. how much she enjoyed it, how good he made her feel. that she loved how it sounded when he moaned her name. that she slept in quinn’s bed in his boxers, she felt a comfort in him holding her close in his unconscious state.

y/n attempted to reach over quinn to grab his phone, afraid that she had woken up too late and leaving quinn’s room would mean certain, immediate trouble.

quinn shifted, waking up and witnessing her crawling on top of him, reaching for the side table, and ultimately failing to do so.

“well, good morning to you too, what are you doing?”

quinn’s sleepy voice was like music to her ears, “sorry, i just wanted to see what time it is,” she said, backing up to lay on her side, partly embarrassed that quinn caught her in the act.

quinn let out a chuckle, brushing the hair away from her face, then holding the nape of her neck to bring her into a sweet kiss.

he inhaled with satisfaction, “you don’t need to know what time it is,” he mumbled against her lips, breaking away to place a kiss on her jawline.

“i do, it’s going to look pretty bad if jack is awake and i come out of your room. especially looking… like this.” y/n remarked, her chest branded with quinn’s mark.

quinn briefly looked at his phone screen, “it’s 7:50, still pretty early. you should be good,”

y/n felt a relief, thinking the worst, that it was later in the morning and everyone else was already awake and that she would have to bring the million dollar excuse to the table of why she was coming out of quinn’s room instead of her own, or jacks.

y/n got up off the bed to look for her shirt and shorts, only to realize that her shirt was still splayed over the kitchen counter.

“fuck”, she whispered to herself, cursing at her forgetfulness.

“can you go get my shirt from the kitchen? i don’t want to walk out there in just a bra and shorts.”

got up and ruffled his hair, his broad shoulders displaying just noticeable scratch marks down them. instead of leaving the room, he went into his closet.

“just wear one of mine,” he said casually,

y/n knew he wasn’t going to get it, and she sure as hell wasn’t either. no one was going to see her in it, so who cares?

quinn tossed her an oversized shirt, a grey one with the classic canucks logo on it. she shot him a look,

“seriously? quinn i cant wear this. what am i going to say to jack if he sees this in my room?” she held the t-shirt in her hands, flustered just at the thought of wearing quinn’s shirt.

“you’ll be fine, you worry too much,” quinn was so casual in his demeanor, some may say it was off putting, but that’s just how he was.

y/n slipped the shirt over her head, engulfed by quinn’s familiar and newly intoxicating scent.

“see you for breakfast then?” she said, standing by the door, holding out the boxers he lent her the night before.

“always,” he said, taking the boxers from her hand before biting his lip and slapping her ass as she left his room.

“quinn!”

“sorry, just had to,” quinn laughed, then closed the door behind her.

was any of this real? she thought to herself.

y/n quietly shuffled into the kitchen, grabbing her shirt that was, in fact, splayed over the kitchen counter. she hurried back to her room in a quiet run, softly closing the door and finally letting out the breath she was holding in.

she took off quinn’s shirt and replaced it with her own, his scent still lingering on her. y/n’s mind went blank, wondering how everything was going to be from now on. sure, jack didn’t know. he will never know. but now that she had done this with quinn, what does that mean for them?

she knew she couldn’t have them both, that she couldn’t just end things with jack just to move on to his older brother.

y/n snapped out of it, shoving quinn’s shirt deep into her dresser, where hopefully no one would find it.

——————————————————————————

10:23am

y/n thought this was a safe enough time to leave her room, this being the hour she usually emerges to the living room. but this time she had been up for hours before hand, laying down, a million thoughts firing at once.

she walked down to the kitchen, no quinn or jack, or alana in sight, just april and luke.

“morning guys, the others aren’t up yet?”

luke yawned, “morning, quinn isn’t up but alana and jack are.”

y/n tried her best to keep a poker face, but she felt her heart sink at hearing that they were up but no where in sight.

“oh. where’s jack then?”

she didn’t give a shit about where alana was, as long as it wasn’t with jack.

“he took her out on the jetski, they left like 10 minutes ago,” april let out quickly, avoiding eye contact with y/n.

great.

in almost weird, perfect timing, both quinn came out of his room as alana and jack came up from the dock.

a few good mornings were shared, jack walking over to y/n sitting at the kitchen barstool, placing a quick soft kiss on her cheek. quinn smirked while watching, her head dipping down slightly to hide the pink hue dressed on her face.

jack, for once in his life it seemed like, noticed, and he gave quinn a weird look.

“what’s up with you bud?” he smiled, passing his older brother in the kitchen.

quinn poured himself coffee, back to his brother, covering the devilish smile he had on his face.

“nothing, just slept really good last night, ya know? bed felt extra comfortable,” he said casually, sipping his coffee then facing jack with a nonchalant look.

y/n held her breath, thinking she was going to pass out either from lack of air or whatever the fuck game quinn was playing.

she was so focused on the interaction playing out in front of them, she didn’t notice the other three leaving, april tugging her friend into luke’s room, and him by the door listening to their conversation.

thankfully jack thought nothing of quinn’s remark, and he chuckled at his brother, “yeah i get you. all of us should get down to the water, it’s a super nice day out.”

he would know that. he’s already been out with alana today.

but she couldn’t go out today. not with the situation going on with her chest.

“i’ll probably just stay in-”

“-how about a boat day? i’ll come with this time. all of us.” quinn was quick to cut her off, and she couldn’t control the eye roll that came after.

jack nodded in agreement, “i’ll go tell the others,”

god, what did she get herself in to?

——————————————————————————

the weather was perfect, a calm summer day to pair with the pure anxiety she had on this boat ride. a secret under her shirt, and thankfully, quinn had his on too.

everything was fine for the most part, she was sitting next to jack, legs resting on his lap, and his arm gently draped over them.

the only thing that wasn’t fine, was that alana was still wearing his fucking hat. that she was taking pictures in it, and that they just could not stop talking to each other.

y/n looked at quinn’s focused expression steering the boat, and he looked back at her, then glancing at jack and alana. he slowed the boat, until it came to a complete stop.

“we should anchor here, too nice to not swim,”

she held her breath, again.

and to her horror, quinn peeled his shirt off, scratch marks in full visibility across his back.

luke was the first to notice, “dude, did you fuck someone last night?” after luke’s comment, the rest of them all turned their heads to see what he was talking about.

“damn Q, you’re an animal,” jack followed, “when did you leave the house to smash?”

“i didn’t, she came to ours.”

y/n’s heart stopped.

“who?” april asked, everyone curious about quinn’s secret woman of the night.

“yeah quinn, who?” y/n asked, gaze not leaving him, clenching her thumbs in her hands to prevent anyone seeing them from shaking.

“not telling. wanna see where it goes. but she lives really close,” he dived into the water, luke and april following after.

god what was he doing? does he think this is funny?

jack tapped her legs, signaling her to move, and she did. he walked towards the edge of the boat, noticing y/n didn’t soon follow after.

“you’re not going to get in? you love swimming,”

guilt hit her like a truck.

“i really dont feel well, i think swimming will just make me feel sicker,” she lied through her teeth, wrapping her arms around her body to sweeten the lie.

“don’t worry, i’ll swim with you jack!” a piercing voice said, y/n scoffed as alana skipped to where jack was, pushing him in.

she looked back at y/n, the two holding eye contact for just a moment before jack grabbed alana’s arm and pulled her into the water.

whatever.

the guilt was fading away, and as y/n looked out into the water, she didn’t notice april looking at her with a face of concern.

——————————————————————————

the ride back to the house brought familiar feelings back to her.

quinn decided to keep his shirt off, which she knew was 100%, undeniably, intentional. her evidence on him was on display for everyone, and her mind faded in a daydream of clawing into his back, pornographic moans emitting from her lips, all while he fucked her senselessly.

she needed to be alone.

y/n didn’t wait for anyone, instead booking it straight back into the house. she threw herself onto her bed, groaning into the plush pillows as she gripped her hair so tight she thought she might rip it out.

in her tantrum of panic, there was a knock at her door.

she didn’t know who she was hoping it was. jack? quinn? both?

neither.

it was april.

“hey,” she smiled softly at y/n before speaking again, “can we talk?”

“yeah, of course,” y/n held open the door to let april in to her room, the girl sitting on the edge of the bed, tensed up.

she never hated april. she actually found her really nice, thought she was a good fit for luke. they’d always gotten along, even going on double dates with her and jack.

“are you okay? what’s up?” she sat next to her, crossing her legs on the bed.

april inhaled deeply, in contemplation of her words.

“y/n, there’s something you should know.”

her heart stopped.

“what is it?”

“jack… and alana. i know she’s my friend but you deserve to know this. i mean you’ve seen it yourself she’s been throwing herself at jack this whole time. i keep telling her to stop but she just won’t, and i think they might have kissed on the dock.”

she felt like she was going to pass out, her throat burning with heartache. it hurt extra because she had no right to feel this way. she was the one who cheated on him first. or did she even? it was an impossible situation.

“how do you know?”

y/n could tell april was trying not to cry, her own personal guilt coming out, “the other day, when you went to your room after dinner, alana and jack went down to the dock, just the two of them. i could see through the windows he was leaned over her, and she had her hand on his chest. that’s why i don’t know if they did for sure, and alana refuses to tell me.”

any guilt, all guilt she had in her situation was gone. at least she had the reservations to cheat on the low, and not be so embarrassingly blatant about it.

she hated it. she hated him.

y/n contemplated in this moment what she should do. should she tell april what her and quinn did? that they were both just another chain in the link of cheaters?

she was going to fake sadness, but the tears flew out unconsciously.

“thank you for telling me. i appreciate it.”

april nodded, and the two held a long, comforting hug.

“you’re welcome, and i’m sorry. i don’t know what you want to do but she’ll be gone in a few days, if you wanted to confront jack then.”

“yeah, good idea,” april gave her one last smile before getting up,

“i’ll be down by the water if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

y/n gave her a thumbs up, and with a gentle click of the lock, april left.

she waited a couple minutes, enough time for her to be gone, then shuffled over to quinn’s room. his door was shut and there was no noise to be heard, but she prayed he would answer when she knocked.

and he did.

“hey, hey, what happened?” his look softened, instinctively holding her face in hands, wiping her tear ridden face.

“jack cheated. he fucking cheated before we even did anything quinn. that night… the night i went to my room, he kissed her, he kissed alana on the dock. he was almost on top of her and she had her hand on his chest.”

her voice trembled, she held up her hands to hold quinn’s arms to keep her standing, feeling that if she didn’t, she would come crumbling to the floor.

quinn’s soft expression quickly morphed into a look of anger,

“how do you know that?”

“april told me,” y/n sobbed.

“oh, y/n,” he pulled her into his room, engulfing her in a hug, resting his face on the top of her head as he rubbed gentle circles on her back.

“everything’s going to be fine, okay? it’s gonna be just fine. do you trust me?”

she looked up at him with glossy eyes, not a hint of deceit in his face.

“yes, i trust you quinn.”

he kissed the tip of her nose, her tear stained cheeks, then her puffy red lips.

“good. lay down with me for now, i don’t want you upset all alone,”

she nodded, taking quinn’s hand and following to his bed, where he wrapped the blanket and himself around her, soothing the hiccuping sobs while massaging her body, and whispering that she was okay, and he was here.

——————————————————————————

y/n woke up in quinn’s bed.

but he was nowhere to be found.

stretching and rubbing her puffy eyes, she got up from the warm comfort of quinn’s bed. creaking open the door to see if anyone was up. when the coast was clear, y/n slipped out of quinn’s room and down to the main level.

she was greeted with everyone else, luke and quinn in the kitchen cooking dinner, and the others resting around the living room.

quinn looked over at y/n, waving her over to the kitchen.

“quite the napper recently aren’t you?” he joked, leaning his body slightly towards her, “you okay?” he whispered.

“i’m fine,” she said back, quinn holding her waist for just a few seconds then back to the cutting board before anyone could notice.

“go relax, dinner will be ready soon,”

she jokingly saluted him, taking the empty seat next to april on the couch, luke and jack occupying the chairs whilst they played video games.

she gave her a side hug, and y/n rested her head softly on april’s shoulder. her eyes glanced to alana, who was already looking at her, jaw tight and a deep look of annoyance on her face.

cant wait for a great family dinner.

——————————————————————————

y/n actually felt okay enough to talk.

it felt like everything was back to the way it was before, everyone was in the conversation. laughing, joking, enjoying it all together.

“so Q, you gotta tell us, who’s the chick you hooked up with?” jack asked, still rolling in curiously over who his older brother secretly had in his bed.

aaaaand there it was. back to reality.

quinn wiped his mouth and looked at jack coldly, “why do you want to know so bad?”

everyone looked taken aback at quinn’s defensive reaction,

“chill, i was just wondering. we all were trying to think of who it could be but came up blank.”

luke chimed in, “is she hot?”

“very.”

she could hear her heart beat pounding into her ears.

“how did you meet?”

“through someone else.”

“was it good?”

“even better than i imagined in my head.”

y/n’s chest felt like that of a hummingbird, unable to slow the pulse of her heart.

quinn crossed his arms on the table, “actually, i have a question for you jack.”

god, why was he doing this now? couldn’t he wait a few days?

“yeah?”

“what were you doing at the dock with alana the other night?”

here we fucking go.

jack stared blankly at quinn, the whole table fell into silence. his brother stared back, his expression unwavering.

“what are you talking about?”

“you two were there. her hand was on your chest, you were all over her. what’s up with that?”

jack stared at his brother blankly, placing his hand on y/n’s thigh with a soft squeeze.

“baby it’s not true, i promise. he’s lying,”

“i saw it for myself. alana?” quinn shifted the conversation to her, clearly annoyed that jack disregarded his question.

alana said nothing, jacks head whipping around to look at her, pleading blue eyes filled with nothing but guilt. she took her head in her hands, and just barely nodded in confession.

jack begun to panic, moving his hand up to caress y/n’s face, anything to save himself.

“baby i promise it’s not what you think. you’re all mine, i-”

“is she though?” quinn stood, leaning over the table slightly, a dark sound in his voice.

“what the hell are you talking about quinn?”

“you know… last night, she cried to me. cried to me about how shitty you were being, how little love you were giving her, how little attention gave to her. so i did.”

if looks could kill, jack and quinn would have matching wounds.

“what are you getting at?”

“i fucked her. in my bed. yeah, she was so fucking sexy moaning my name, i even made her cum. hard. ever get her like that jack? hm?”

no one else could say a word. luke’s mouth was hung open in shock, april’s covered by two hands, and alana with an unreadable expression.

y/n turned away, unable to look him in the eye,

“is all this true? look at me.”

she refused, instead nodding with a quivering lip, tears coating her closed lashes.

jack scoffed, “unbelievable, you are fucking unbelievable,” he was stood up now too, a hand gripped through his hair.

that’s when her emotions turned into a complete 180, appalled at his words,

“me? i’m unbelievable? you just spent the past couple days flirting with alana, come to find out you kissed her, and you think you get the only right to be mad? you need to fucking leave.”

“leave, you know this is also my house right?”

“jack…” luke’s voice trailed off, disappointment lingering, “you should go.”

“you’re kidding?”

“no. go to your apartment in jersey, go to mom and dads, anywhere, but you can’t be here for the rest of the summer.”

jack rubbed a hand on his mouth before slamming his fists on the table, grabbing alana’s hand, and ascending up to his room, likely to pack all their things.

y/n’s silent tears now turned into loud sobs, paining her each time she took a breath. quinn held her first, april and luke soon to wrap their arms around the pair too.

——————————————————————————

cleaning up after dinner was silent.

no one dared to speak, the loudest noise in the room being the familiar soft hum of the refrigerator.

they had all made their way to the living room after, y/n with her legs pulled up to her chest, leaned on quinn, the well known crumbling feeling just around the corner from her.

about an hour had passed since jack and alana went up, and now footsteps trailed down, them both emerging with packed suit cases.

together? who knows.

who cares.

the silence was still kept when they stepped towards the door, y/n only standing up when jack looked at her.

“hope you realize he just used you. used you because you were vulnerable, and easy. don’t forget that.”

the door slammed shut.

“you two definitely need some time alone,” april said softly, fiddling with the fingers in her lap.

“agreed, we’re gonna go to my room, you all got the floor, Q” luke chimed, putting an arm around april. as he tapped quinn’s shoulder and lovingly messed up y/n’s hair, they went to luke’s room, leaving just quinn and her left.

“and then there were two.” quinn said lightheartedly, his laugh fixing the dark aura that surrounded them previously.

“yeah, just us.”

“i always wanted it to be just us.”

she was in shock, especially considering her and jack dated for almost two years, and she knew the hughes family even longer before.

“quinn,” she began,

“i promise. i’ve wanted to give you everything for so long. i was crushed when jack told me he had feelings for you, but i pushed mine aside because i wanted him to be happy. but i knew i could be better for you,”

she wrap her arms around his neck, eyes going over all his gorgeous features, lip slightly quivering at his resemblance to jack.

“i had no idea quinn, if i knew… things could’ve been so different. but right now, i do want you. but i need time, it’s so fresh,” she almost framed it as a question, nervously awaiting what quinn was going to say.

“that’s okay, i’ll wait forever if i have to. right now, let’s just enjoy the rest of the summer yeah, how’s that sound?”

she smiled, bringing her head down to fully hug him,

“that sounds really good, but what about you and jack?” quinn’s face was unwavering, not a hint of worry or fear present.

“me and jack can figure our shit out later. it’ll all be okay,” he turned his head to kiss her temple reassuringly. y/n knew he was being truthful, every time quinn said something would be okay, it would be.

with his sweet words, she was ready to soak all of him into her. she was really all his.

——————————————————————————

© missqhughes

xoxo, kaia

[gyucheolslut]

2:14 AM • KMG

lowercase intended.

cw: somnophilia (consensual), established relationship, fingering, unprotected sex (don’t be stupid), creampie!! yum!! multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, nervous gyu, whiny desperate gyu & f!reader.. they both want to please each other so bad :( neck holding? it’s kind of implied that reader is smaller than gyu, his shirt is big on her and falls off her shoulders.. .. pet names such as baby, sweetheart, pretty girl… maybe more.. i don’t know.. i got carried away

word count: 1.7k~

not proof read!!

a/n: hi!! i’m eve~ this is my first time writing smut and i’m using it as a way to get back into writing! im super excited! i haven’t written in like.. 2 years.. so be nice to me.. :[ i hope you enjoy :]

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

mingyu couldn’t help himself. while you usually don’t move much in your sleep, especially within his tight grip.. tonight was different.

you wouldn’t stop moving..

at first, it wasn’t that big of a deal, with you occasionally shifting in his arms.. but it started to become an issue when your ass kept pressing into him, stirring up his mind and now painfully hard cock.

small soft whimpers and whines would occasionally sneak past your lips, making it more difficult for his mind to focus on anything other than fucking you in to the mattress..

while mingyu knew you weren’t doing it on purpose.. he could tell you were actually asleep.. the movement of your hips almost seemed too calculated. are you dreaming of him?

as if on cue, he was torn from his thoughts by a broken whine of his name.. “gyu..” it almost sounded painful. desperate. you needed him, he decided. he had to help you.

with shaky hands, mingyu found himself messing with the band of your underwear underneath your his shirt. why was he so nervous?

you had discussed your sexual limits and interests early on in your relationship.. and you’ve woken him up many times to some fantastic morning head.. so why was he so nervous?

mingyu sat there, contemplating for a moment before he whispered a small “fuck it..” under his breath, one of his big hands finding its way into your underwear.

using his middle finger, he pressed it between your folds finding your clit with ease.. groaning quietly into your hair as he can feel how warm and wet you’ve become. you were definitely dreaming about him.

with a skilled digit, mingyu circled your clit. feeling your head fall back into his shoulder, he peered down at you. the moonlight from the window illuminated your face, allowing him to watch the tension in your forehead release and your lips part in satisfaction.

he dipped his finger a little lower, teasing your entrance for just a second.. adding his pointer finger as he pressed them into you. you were always so reactive, so sensitive. your back arching off of his chest slightly.

using the arm that was underneath you, he adjusted himself to pull you back against him. pumping his fingers into you skillfully, curling them every few thrusts.

your breathing became heavy and a little unsteady, body wriggling against his from pleasure. mingyu hums softly, placing wet kisses along the side of your face, lips stopping at your ear to whisper a gentle “s’okay baby.. i’ve got you” as he increased the pace of his fingers.

as the tension in your belly began to build, your eyes fluttered open.. a hand reaching to grip his forearm. “fuck..” you whined, pressing your hips down to meet his movements.

mingyu smiled against your ear.. “there she is..” he muttered, shifting himself even closer to you as he became more brutal with his pace now that you were awake.

your grip on his forearm tightened, mirroring the band of fire stretching in your lower abdomen, signaling your impending climax.

clasping your fingers around his wrist that was setting an unrelenting pace on your dripping core, your mouth drops into an o shape, a high pitched gasp escaping before silence took over for a moment..

the only noise to be heard was mingyu’s quickened breath and your squelching pussy that was gripping his fingers even tighter than you were his wrist.

as you broke the silence with a anguished whine, mingyu wouldn’t let up. he couldn’t. he wanted more. he wanted to make you cum.. again and again.. and again.

“gyu, please.. i need more. i need you.. i need you to feel good.” you begged, turning to the best of your ability to look at him with teary eyes.

really..he felt great. watching you cum because of him was all he need. but he understood. you needed him. you wanted him.

mingyu searched your eyes, slowing down his movements before coming to a complete stop and pulling his fingers out.

despite asking him for more, you couldn’t help but whimper the loss of contact.. your hole clenching around nothing as it was desperate for more. for mingyu.

moving lazily, but skillfully.. mingyu pushes your underwear down, feeling you kick it off of your ankles beneath the blanket before following, pushing his boxers down and kicking them off the edge of the bed.

he quickly grabs your waist, needing to feel the heat of your skin. keeping you on your side, back pressed to his chest.. mingyu grabs your thigh, pulling it up and over his hip. you locked your foot behind his knee in a weak attempt to keep yourself grounded.

leaving open mouthed kisses along your neck, mingyu began to drag his tip through your drooling folds. sucking a breath in between his teeth, resulting in a quiet, hiss like noise that went straight to your core.

whining in impatient anticipation, you pushed your hips back against him, gasping when his tip bumped your clit.

mingyu felt hot. he felt like he was burning… that feeling worsening as he felt your warm, sopping cunt engulf him.. taking inch by inch of his painfully hard cock.. like it was made for him. molded for him.

a broken mewl escapes his throat, a hand sprawled against your thigh that was propped over his own. he speaks softly in your ear, voice laced with need.

“there ya go baby..” he exhales.. “shh.. s’okay, you’re taking me so well.. god.. you’re so warm sweetheart..” he practically coos, allowing you to adjust to his size. you’ll never get used to it.

when you started moving your own hips against him, he knew you were ready, hand dragging up your body to rest heavily against your throat.

pressing into you, the arm that was underneath your body adjusts to not only stop it from falling asleep, but to grip and paw at your closest breast.. underneath the fabric of the shirt you were still wearing.

the shirt has fallen off one of your shoulders, it’s bunched up around your waist. it’s pointless for it to be there, but neither of you care to remove it.

the room is filled with heavy, hot breaths and the pornographic sound of skin slapping as he repeatedly makes contact with your ass.

you’re dripping around him.. your thighs, his thighs, covered..so much skin is glistening with your arousal.

it’s loud, the squelching of your heat that is sucking him in so greedily.. your moans, whines and whimpers. his groans, grunts and mirroring whines.

“oh.. my pretty girl.. is that better? does my baby feel better? you needed me so bad” he starts, voice laced with an almost condescending hum “practically begging for me in your sleep”

you moaned out a broken sound that was more of a “ngh” than a reply, eyes fluttering closed as you were unable to keep them open any longer. you felt so good, too good.

gripping the forearm of the hand that laid against your neck, you felt yourself becoming dangerously close.. parting your lips to speak, to warn mingyu.. but nothing was coming out but breathy gasps..

mingyu’s pace is almost inhumane, his mind is clouded with the want and need for both of you to cum. hips snapping into yours as he chases both of your climaxes.

he takes note of your attempts to speak, hand snaking down for his fingers to find and circle your clit, your body reacting strongly to the added pressure. it’s almost too much.

“i know baby.. fuck.. are you gonna cum? hm?” he hums, kissing your exposed shoulder. “gonna cum for me pretty girl? gonna let me fill you up?” his tone is desperate, so desperate.. so whiny and overwhelmed. it’s only adding fuel to the fire that is erupting throughout your entire body.

pace unrelenting but becoming unsteady as he approaches his high, mingyu uses his pointer and middle finger to rub your clit until you’re practically exploding around him. a strangled moan echos in the room with the sinister sound of him fucking you so good as you reach back to grip his hip, back arching against his toned chest.

you see white as you cum, jaw dropping in a silent scream, fingers digging into the skin of his hip/ass. drool trickling down the side of your cheek, mixing with your tears that started to flow. you felt so good. so incredibly good.

mingyu whines, gripping your hip as he continues to pound your tightening, pulsating pussy.. mumbling praises as he closes in on his own high.

his bruising grip gets even tighter on your hip as he presses himself flush against your ass and body, painting your insides with hot, thick ropes of white.

hips stuttering against yours as he whimpers into your neck and shoulder, thrusting a few more times, riding out his high and pushing his cum even deeper into your warm heat.

you’re breath heavily, whining in overstimulation at his last few thrusts, your grip on him not letting up.

mingyu stills, leaving kisses on every inch of exposed skin he can reach. you stay like that for a while, catching your breath.. listening to mingyu’s sweet praises on how you’re so good to him, how pretty you are..

he pulls out with, slowly.. rubbing his length against your folds a few times to spread his cum all over you. chuckling when you whine again when he grazes your sensitive clit, attempting to move away from him.

you end your night with mingyu cleaning you up, giving you water and making you change your now sweat soiled shirt. he holds you, your body engulfed by his arms, head against his chest, your arms wrapped around him as he mumbles something about definitely needing to wash the sheets tomorrow morning before you both drift off into a comfortable sleep..

[fanbasetwo]

Ꮺ . , CUZ YOU’RE MY HYPE BOY , L.CY !

PAIRING: bf ! anton × gf ! afab reader. SYNOPSIS: never in your wildest dreams had you dreampt of leaking at the wrong time but here you were, trying to hide the stain your period blood left on your bf's sheets—will you succeed? [REQUESTED] . . . . . . GENRE: fluff, fic, period talk & mentions of pain and blood obvio. WORD COUNT: 1.6k [LIBRARY] ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 sena’s note — this was such a cute fic to write, thank you to the anon who requested, ily <3

You wake up to a sharp, familiar ache in your stomach, and a groan slips out before you can stop it. The cramps are bad—bad enough to make you regret spending the night at Anton’s apartment. You weren’t planning on staying over, but it was late, and Anton, being the gentleman he is, insisted you shouldn’t walk home alone.

Now, though, you wish you’d just gone home. Because as the pain twists in your lower stomach, you have an awful realization.

Carefully, you lift the blanket and glance down, your heart dropping. There, on Anton’s spotless, white sheets, is a visible red stain.

Your period.

For a moment, you just stare at it, horrified, your cheeks burning. How could you forget it was coming? And of course, it had to happen here, of all places. Your hormones are already making you emotional, and now panic kicks in full force.

Anton is still fast asleep behind you, his soft breathing the only sound in the room. You glance back at him, guilt and embarrassment tangling in your chest. He looks so peaceful, completely unaware of the mess you’ve made.

Your mind races. What is he going to think? Will he be mad about his sheets? Annoyed that you’ve ruined his morning?

And yet, a small voice in your head reminds you of who Anton is—the same Anton who stayed up late helping you pick out groceries, who insisted on carrying your bag even though it wasn’t that heavy. He’d never yell at you. Right?

Still, you can’t shake the nerves. You’ve worked so hard to keep a good image in front of him—always put-together, always in control. And now this? How are you supposed to explain it?

Taking a deep breath, you sit up slowly, wincing as another cramp hits. You’ll have to handle this before he wakes up. You just hope he’ll understand if he finds out.

You’re so lost in your panicked thoughts that you don’t even notice Anton stirring behind you. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you close, but you immediately squirm out of his grip.

Anton blinks, rubbing his eyes with a sleepy confusion. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, and the soft morning light barely fills the room. His brows furrow as he sits up slightly, his voice gentle and laced with concern. “What’s wrong, baby?”

You open your mouth, intending to brush it off, to say nothing, but the words catch in your throat. His gaze is too soft, too worried, and for a second, you freeze.

But Anton isn’t as clueless as you hoped he’d be. He pauses, his nose twitching slightly, his expression shifting. There’s something about the smell—unmistakably off. Not that he knows exactly what period blood smells like, but it’s… different. And it’s coming from you.

Before he can say anything, another gush of blood makes your stomach twist, and you bolt from the bed, rushing toward the bathroom. Your heart is pounding as you shut the door behind you, barely holding back tears as you glance down. Your underwear and pants are already worse than before, and the humiliation hits harder than the cramps.

You lean against the bathroom counter, trying to steady your breathing, but all you can think is: How am I going to face him now?

Anton isn’t confused—he’s just worried. The moment you shut the bathroom door, he glances down at the bed and notices the fresh red stain on his pristine white sheets. He doesn’t hesitate. Getting out of bed, he approaches the bathroom door, softly knocking as he hears the faint sound of your sobs.

“Baby, talk to me. Do you need anything?” His voice is gentle, filled with concern.

You try to keep it together, forcing out a shaky, “I’m fine,” from behind the door.

But Anton isn’t buying it. After a brief pause, he knocks again, his voice a little quieter this time. “I… I kept a packet of pads in my drawer. You know, just in case… so… you can…”

He trails off awkwardly, and you can easily picture him standing outside the door, scratching the back of his neck, trying to give you space but wanting to help.

You wipe at the tear slipping down your cheek, your embarrassment still overwhelming. “Do you… have them right now?” you ask hesitantly, your voice small.

“Yeah.”

“Okay…” You take a deep breath. “I’ll open the door. Oh gosh, this is so embarrassing.”

You crack the door open just enough to let him hand the pad through. Anton doesn’t try to look inside, and you snatch it quickly before shutting the door again. But as you glance down at your ruined underwear and pants, another wave of frustration and helplessness washes over you.

“Um…” you mutter, hesitating before you call out again, your voice shaky. “My panties and pants… they…” You trail off, staring at the bloody mess.

You groan, more to yourself than to him. “Why does it have to be me? God!” The urge to yell is overwhelming, but before you can spiral further, Anton knocks again, his voice soft but steady.

“Here,” he says, slipping a pair of boxers and shorts under the door. “They’re mine, but, um, the boxers are an old pair—probably a little smaller, so they might fit okay. And the shorts are loose, so…”

You stare at the clothes, his thoughtfulness surprising you. He adds quickly, “Oh, I put the blanket in the wash. Don’t worry about it. And… if you want me to, I could wash your panties and pants too—”

“PLEASE NO!” you blurt out, horrified. “IT’S DISGUSTING, EVEN FOR ME!”

Anton flinches on the other side of the door, your sudden outburst making him fall silent. “Okay,” he mumbles, his tone a little sheepish, before retreating to give you space.

As you get yourself cleaned up, you can’t help but replay everything in your mind, the humiliation bubbling up again. But underneath the embarrassment, a tiny flicker of gratitude lingers. Anton may have seen more of you than you’d ever intended, but his calm, gentle way of handling it makes you feel just a little less alone.

You’re not sure how much time has passed as you stand in the bathroom, rinsing the blood from your panties and pants. You know you’ll eventually need to properly wash them later—leaving them would just make the smell worse. The memory of an old, similar experience leaves you determined to clean up the mess as best as you can now, even though the situation still feels mortifying.

After finishing, you take a deep breath, shoulders slumping as you step out of the bathroom. Your hands are thoroughly washed, but guilt still weighs heavy on you. You can’t help but feel like you’ve ruined Anton’s peaceful holiday morning with this mess.

Always causing trouble, you scold yourself internally.

But the soft, refreshing smell of lavender in the air pulls you out of your spiral. Glancing around, you spot the faint flicker of a lavender-scented candle melt on the nightstand. He must have lit it to make sure you didn’t feel self-conscious about any lingering smells.

Your chest tightens, warmth blooming where shame had been moments ago. Why was Anton so thoughtful? So gentle? You couldn’t help but fall for him a little more.

“Baby,” his voice calls from the other room, breaking your thoughts. You turn, finding him standing near the bed with two plates in his hands. “I made us both—woah.”

His jaw drops slightly, and you follow his gaze, realizing you’re still wearing his shorts and boxers. They’re a bit oversized, sitting loosely on your frame, and suddenly you feel self-conscious.

“What’s that?” you blurt, quickly trying to divert his attention. Your eyes land on the plates in his hands.

“Oh, this?” He holds them up slightly, a sheepish grin on his face. “I cooked for us… since you’re on your… ehm, periods.” His cheeks flush slightly as he finishes, his voice awkward but endearing. It’s clear this is all new to him, and you realize—you’re his first girlfriend, and this is probably the first time he’s ever dealt with something like this.

You blink in surprise, glancing at the plates again. Eggs, fully cooked, sit neatly on them. It’s not perfect, but it’s not runny either. You know how much Anton struggles to cook, so this feels like a small miracle.

The realization of everything he’s done for you hits hard. He didn’t just stop at replacing the sheets or lighting the candle—he even attempted cooking despite his lack of skill.

Your chest swells with emotion, and before you can stop yourself, you wrap your arms around him. Anton flinches slightly, caught off guard with both plates still in his hands. You bury your face in his chest, mumbling, “You don’t think I’m weird?”

Anton tilts his head, the corners of his lips twitching into a small, innocent smile. “I just think you’re fertile.”

The sheer absurdity of the statement makes you laugh, even as a tear slips down your cheek. He’s so clueless yet so sincere that it’s impossible to stay embarrassed.

You pull back, wiping the tear away as he teased, “I love you, but I’d appreciate it more if you forget the stain and instead praise this chef.”

Anton smirks, watching as you plant a soft peck on his lips. He doesn’t even get the chance to pull you closer, both hands still occupied with the plates. The warmth of his love and efforts almost makes you forget the dull ache in your stomach.

Even if your cramps are still there, maybe surviving this morning with your boyfriend’s cooking and his genuine care will be enough to make the pain feel a little less overwhelming—even if his cooking turns out to be a bit of a disaster.

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[sttoru]

♯ 𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐊.

⟣ sypnosis. kento has been extremely busy lately, going on business trips and so forth. he decides to surprise you by coming back earlier than expected. that’s how you end up finding your lover on top of you, showering you in his affection at 3 in the morning.

⟣ tags. nanami kento x female reader. fluff, bit of angst, suggestive towards the end. reader gets called 'sweetheart, angel, dear' wc: 1.8k

⟣ note. okayokay finally an adition to my event heheh ive almost forgotten about it but then i saw this prompt & was like . ok nanami , i must write this rnnn no delaying anymore so here i am :3 its also very bad. i hate it sm LOL i hope u at least like it t_t

kento often asks himself why he had returned to the world he despised — the jujutsu society; his old high school. the sprawling curses everywhere are the main cause of his current misery.

he had been sent out on missions left and right, not catching a break in hopes of reducing any more civilian causalities than necessary. kento had even thought that maybe his previous 9-5 job wasn’t as bad as he had considered it.

overtime was every day for the sorcerer now. that wasn’t the worst thing - no - the fact that he was pratically living a long distant relationship with his beloved irritated him most.

a thought he had in his high school days reoccured in a moment of distress: ‘why not leave all those missions to gojo?’

you were still pretty understanding of his situation. kento appreciated that, though the guilt still ate away at him whenever he tried to sleep. an empty bed welcomed him each time he re-entered his hotel room — you saw the exact same scenery when returning home to your shared apartment.

both of you were adults; both knowing that life was unfair. the two of you being unable to see each other from time to time was a part of your life. kento and you still maintained a healthy relationship. that was all that really mattered in the end.

11:49PM. . . tonight wasn’t unlike any other night; you were preparing yourself to go to bed—changing into your pyjamas after showering, snuggling to a pillow under the covers and texting your lover one last message.

‘good luck on your mission as always! stay safe, i love you.’

you stare at your phone screen for a minute longer than intended. even if you tried to be mature about it — you longed for kento’s warmth and undivided attention. you want him with you, his strong arms holding you to his chest as you rest, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine in the best way possible.

you sigh defeatedly and put your phone down on your nightstand. just two days until you could see your partner again. you can hold onto that hope to keep you calm.

despite you trying to stay positive, you tossed and turned in your bed as you thought about kento’s safety. there was always a chance of him not coming home to you — always the possibility of that bed to be empty for the rest of your life.

all you could do was pray for his safety in your head whilst your eyes eventually closed from fatigue, your mind drifting off to a deep slumber.

03:14AM. . . kento opens the door he had wished to have opened way earlier. the door that lead to the place where his heart lays; the person who claimed his heart and soul for eternity. you.

he didn’t think he’d actually do it. kento had originally planned to finish his last job as soon as possible and then get home afterwards, but there seemed to be a change in routine.

the special grade sorcerer simply assigned the mission to ino — the person whom he could trust most to finish the job in one piece. as much as kento dislikes to put his juniors in possible risky situations, there are also situations where it’s fine to depend on them. besides, the mission could easily be done by a grade one sorcerer.

kento sighs. the familiar scent of your home was one he could recognise from miles away. one that could calm his nerves instantly. it was that same distinctive scent you carry; thus why your lover sometimes calls you his home.

‘i can’t wait to be home’ ‘i want to be home’ ‘i’m going home’ — all these sentences, which kento has uttered before in earlier conversations, weren’t referring to a place. rather to a person he held dear.

“oh, my sweetheart.” the blonde man whispers under his breath as his eyes catch the shape of your figure under the blankets. he quietly enters the master bedroom and closes the door behind him, not making a sound as to not interrupt your well-deserved sleep.

kento slowly undoes his dotted tie, along with the upper buttons of his blouse. he probably needs to go take a good shower before he could settle down with you — but that’d risk waking you up.

you look extremely angelic in his eyes. especially with your left cheek squished by the soft pillow your head rests on. you never once fail to convince him that you are indeed the woman of his dreams; the woman kento ever had and will have eyes for. it’s like you get more attractive to him as the days go on.

“mh,” your sudden and soft groan makes him realise just how disturbing his behaviour could be interpreted as. kento’s body was hovering over your sleeping one and he was just. . . staring at you with a soft smile. a smile which he didn’t even notice had permanently found its place on his weary face.

kento sits down on the edge of the mattress, callused hand gently tucking you in properly, putting the blanket over your shoulders to make sure you didn’t get cold. he can’t rest if you’re not comfortable— even if he himself was exhausted to the point his eyes were starting to feel heavy.

yet that exhaustion doesn’t last long. it never does when kento’s able to see you again after a tiring week of countless missions and other jobs. your presence alone grants him the energy to stay awake and take care of you. and himself. you’re the reason he keeps it going.

“i love you so much, my beautiful girl — my angel.”

kento sure was a romantic. even when you’re unaware and asleep.

he couldn’t help it; the feeling stirring inside of him. the feeling of adoration and love for you. you are simply resting, yet kento felt an urge to kiss you all over, show you the unending love he has for you. but. . that’d probably be disturbing your peace. you are sleeping after all. he

not that that would stop kento.

your eyes flutter open due to a sudden presence hovering over you. your entire face and neck area was feeling ticklish, like someone was placing tens of kisses all over the skin.

strands of blonde hair is the first thing showing up in your blurry vision. kento’s face follows afterwards as his head tilts back up, the warmth against your jawline disappearing along with it —

“ah, i’m sorry.” a low and almost guilty chuckle tumbles out of his sore throat. the visible confusion on your face makes him let out another, “shh, shh, it’s just me, sweetheart.”

your arms flew around kento’s torso the second the realisation dawns upon you. your heart went from a slow pace to one that caused your entire body to warm up immediately; the adorable reaction and increase in heart rate not going unnoticed by your lover.

you wordlessly hug him — almost still in shock by the sudden appearance. kento doesn’t fight off your tight embrace, instead, welcomes it with open arms. the delicate kisses on your skin continue, each being placed with precision whilst one of his hands keeps your head tilted a little — rough fingers being a contrast of the gentle grip they had on your jaw.

“i missed you lots,” kento murmurs, eyes closed as he basks in the warmth of your body, his lips refusing to let go of your neck, “i couldn’t wait anymore. i couldn’t be separated from you any longer or i’d lose it.”

his gruff voice sounded even deeper than it usually would. maybe due to the overuse of it during his missions. the lone thought makes you pout — the thought of kento working super hard just to provide for you both.

“i missed you more, love.” you mumble, bottom lip trembling a little as kento’s hug triggers a whole lot of emotions in you. his hugs were special, his muscular arms giving you a sense of comfort you couldn’t find anywhere. no one could hug you like he did, “you did well. you did so well.”

those were all the words kento needed. his lips come to halt right above your collarbone, his breath a bit heavy from how much he's holding himself back from doing more. one hand moves from your cheek to your waist, fingers toying with the fabric of your shirt.

“thank you, dear.” kento says. his words carrying a load of unending affection. your simple words of appreciation and encouragement makes him shiver in delight. this is what he longed for; this is what he did it all for.

it was clear. the answer to his question - of why he had returned to the jujutsu world, to become a teacher at his former high school - it was all for you. to be able to be with you, see you and hold you like this. to have someone like you appreciate all of his efforts.

“may i?” kento asks through a quiet whisper as he gently removes the blanket covering your figure, his eyes darting down towards your cleavage. he's asking for permission to cross that barrier — to cover you in the love you deserve.

you just stare at the blonde man above you for a second. you watch as he climbs onto the bed with you; the bed which was once empty and dull, now suddenly becoming your favourite place to be at. your fingertips graze against kento's sharp cheekbones. a habit you always did when you were appreciating his looks.

“go right ahead.” you answer with a confirming nod.

both of you were touch starved and had been deprived from each other's embrace for way too long. now was the perfect time to make up for all the time lost.

kento wasn’t going to let the opportunity slip past him. he smiles at you, a gentle and handsome smile, whilst a few of his blonde locks fall over his left eye — his hands already prying away the blanket covering your shape. it was time to show you just how much he has longed for you.

“hold on to me, sweetheart. i’m not stopping until you realise just how much i’ve missed all of you.”

[theonottsbxtch]

GIVEN ENOUGH | LN4

an: nessa barrett's new album has been pure inspiration i swear to god, listen to given enough while reading this because LORD, i fully felt bad for this version of lando even though i wrote him

wc: 2.8k

LANDO EXHALED, HIS JAW TIGHTENING as he glanced at her from across the room. She was draped in a crimson dress that clung to her like a second skin, every inch of her perfect for the cameras that flashed relentlessly. The evening air was heavy with champagne and ego, the kind of event he loathed, but his manager had insisted. "Keep the image alive," they’d said. The golden couple, the picture of perfection. But the truth of it all lingered like poison in his throat.

She caught his gaze and smiled—small, distant, rehearsed. He knew the curve of her lips too well to be fooled. That wasn’t a smile for him. That was for the photographers. For the sponsors. For the endless charade they’d both been roped into.

Lando took a sip of his drink, amber liquid burning his throat. The taste was bitter, but not nearly as bitter as the memory of last night. Or the night before that. The endless cycle of her tears, his apologies, the shouting, the silences. She always cried so beautifully, like it was an art form, and he hated how it disarmed him every time. How it left him apologising for sins he didn’t remember committing.

Haven’t I given enough? The thought tore through him like a cold wind. He clenched the glass tighter, ignoring the laughter that rippled around the room. She always needed more—more attention, more promises, more of him. And he’d given it. Again and again, until he didn’t know what he had left.

And yet, she stood there, radiant and hollow. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold her or disappear entirely.

“You’re staring,” her voice came, soft yet sharp, as she stepped beside him. The closeness was suffocating, the scent of her perfume almost too much.

“Am I?” His tone was flat. Detached.

“Yes.” Her smile didn’t waver, even as her words dropped lower, meant only for him. “You should try looking at me like you actually care.”

He laughed, quiet and humourless. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, a warning, but she didn’t say anything else. She turned back to the crowd, her hand brushing his arm in a way that seemed deliberate, calculated. It was always like this—a performance. For everyone else, they were untouchable. Together. But behind closed doors, there was nothing left to save.

For a brief moment, Lando wondered if she knew how much she’d drained him, how much she’d taken. Probably not. She’d smile, shed a few tears, and take more. Because that was what she did best.

And he’d let her. Every single time.

Lando adjusted his tie, trying to loosen the invisible grip around his throat. The gala was a success, he supposed—if success was measured in hollow conversations and counterfeit smiles. The air hummed with whispers of power, of wealth, of people pretending to matter more than they did. She thrived in it. He endured it.

As she floated away to join another circle of admirers, he downed the rest of his drink. It was always like this: her holding court while he played the silent shadow. To the outside world, they were the perfect pair. To him, it felt like being dragged across broken glass.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration pulling him back to reality. He fished it out, hoping for an excuse to leave, but the screen only held a reminder of tomorrow’s schedule. Another meeting, another event, another night like this.

He sighed, setting the glass down with more force than intended. The sound drew a few glances, but he ignored them. Instead, his eyes found her again, across the room. She was laughing now, the soft, melodic sound he used to adore. Now it only made him tired.

“Rough night?” The voice came from behind him, low and sardonic. Lando turned to see a man, older, sharp-suited, with the kind of smirk that made you want to punch him.

“Just another one,” Lando replied, his tone clipped. He didn’t know this man, didn’t care to.

The man nodded, his gaze sliding to where she stood, radiant under the chandeliers. “She’s something, isn’t she? Always knows how to light up a room.”

Lando didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

The man chuckled, a knowing sound that grated on Lando’s nerves. “But I suppose that’s the thing about women like her. They take everything you’ve got and leave you wondering if it was ever enough.”

Lando’s jaw tightened. The words cut too close, too deep. He turned back to the bar, signalling for another drink. The man didn’t push further, just gave a slight nod before disappearing into the crowd.

When the bartender slid the glass toward him, Lando stared at it for a moment, the amber liquid catching the light. How many of these nights had he survived? How many more could he endure?

“Lando.” Her voice was soft, cutting through the noise.

He turned to see her standing there, her smile as flawless as ever, though her eyes held that familiar edge. The one that always seemed to ask, Are you going to fight me, or are you going to give in?

“We should leave soon,” she said, brushing a hand over her necklace. “People will start to talk if we stay too long.”

He almost laughed at that. People always talked. It was the only constant in their world.

“Right,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He grabbed his jacket, the movement sharp, deliberate.

As they walked toward the exit, arm in arm for the sake of appearances, Lando felt the weight of her against him. To the onlookers, they were untouchable, unstoppable. But he knew better. She wasn’t leaning on him. She was pulling him down, piece by piece.

And no matter how much he gave, it was never enough.

The ride back to the hotel was suffocating in its silence. Lando stared out the window, watching the city blur into streaks of light and shadow. She sat beside him, her fingers scrolling idly on her phone, her face unreadable. They didn’t speak. They rarely did anymore unless it was for show.

When the car finally pulled up to the grand hotel, she stepped out first, the driver opening the door for her as though she were royalty. Lando followed, loosening his tie as they made their way through the lobby.

They looked like a power couple—walking in step, polished and composed. Heads turned as they passed, whispers trailing behind them like a faint echo. It was always the same. People admired what they thought they saw.

When they reached their floor, the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. She stepped out first, her heels clicking against the marble. Lando followed a step behind, his feet heavier with each stride.

She stopped in front of her door, the number gleaming under the dim hallway lights. “Goodnight, Lando,” she said, her voice smooth, pleasant. Polished for the cameras that weren’t even there.

He nodded, already turning to head to his room further down the hall. But then her voice stopped him.

“Lando.”

He turned back, his hand still on the keycard in his pocket. She stood there, her hand on the doorframe, her head tilted slightly as she studied him.

“You’re in a mood tonight,” she said, her tone light, teasing, but there was something else in her eyes. Something sharp.

“Am I?” he replied flatly, his exhaustion bleeding through.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she took a step toward him, closing the distance between them. Her perfume reached him first, soft and heady, the kind he used to find intoxicating. Now it just felt cloying.

Her hands slid up his chest, her touch feather-light, deliberate. “You don’t have to sulk,” she murmured, her voice dropping lower, almost a purr. “You could come in. Stay with me tonight.”

He stiffened, his eyes searching hers. “I thought you said goodnight.”

She smiled, that perfect curve of her lips that had fooled so many. “I changed my mind.”

Before he could respond, she leaned in, her mouth brushing his. It wasn’t gentle. It never was with her. Her lips moved against his with a hunger that felt practiced, calculated. Her hands slid to the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

He didn’t move at first. He didn’t want to. But then her tongue traced his bottom lip, and he gave in—not because he wanted to, but because it was easier. Because blowing off steam with her was less complicated than the alternative. Because if he left her standing in that hallway and found someone else, people would notice. They’d talk. They always did.

His hands found her waist, gripping tighter than he intended. She moaned softly against his lips, her body pressing into his as if she could melt into him entirely. It was almost enough to make him forget the hollowness behind it all.

Almost.

He broke the kiss first, his breath uneven. She leaned back just enough to meet his gaze, her lips slightly swollen, her expression unreadable.

“Come on,” she whispered, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “No one has to know.”

The irony of her words wasn’t lost on him. No one has to know. As if they weren’t already a living spectacle. As if their lives weren’t dissected and discussed by strangers every day.

He nodded, wordlessly, and followed her into the room. Because it was easier. Because it was expected. Because it was all he had left to give.

The door shut softly behind them, the click of the lock cutting off the world outside. Her heels echoed against the hardwood floor as she stepped into the room, shedding her wrap and tossing it onto a nearby chair. The suite was immaculate—too pristine, too perfect, just like everything else in their lives.

Lando stood by the door for a moment, watching her. She didn’t glance back, already unfastening the clasp of her necklace and setting it on the dresser. The silence between them was thick, stretching taut like a thread ready to snap.

She turned, her eyes locking onto his. “Well?” she asked, her voice soft but challenging. “Are you just going to stand there?”

He shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if he were stalling for time. He didn’t know why—he already knew how the night would go.

She closed the distance between them in two strides, her fingers hooking into his shirt and pulling him closer. Her lips found his again, more insistent this time, and he let her. His hands settled on her hips, his grip firm but distant. She pressed her body against his, the warmth of her skin bleeding through the thin fabric of her dress.

“You’re so tense,” she murmured against his lips, her hands sliding up to his shoulders. “You need to relax.”

He almost laughed at that. Relax. As if he could. As if this—they—weren’t part of the reason he felt like he was drowning. But he didn’t say it. He just let her guide him, her movements fluid and precise, like a dance she’d perfected over time.

Her hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, her fingers deftly working them open. She kissed along his jaw, down his neck, her breath warm against his skin. He closed his eyes, trying to will himself to feel something. Desire, anger, anything. But all he felt was the gnawing emptiness that had been with him for months.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes searching his. “You’re quiet tonight.”

“Just tired,” he said, the words coming out flat.

Her brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t press. Instead, she reached for his hand, guiding him toward the bed. “Come here.”

He followed, his steps heavy, his mind already elsewhere. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands trailing up his arms as she pulled him closer. Her lips found his again, her kiss slow, sensual, calculated.

For a moment, he let himself get lost in it. In the warmth of her skin, the softness of her lips, the way her body moved against his. It was easier than thinking, easier than feeling.

But even as he sank into the motions, a voice in the back of his mind whispered the truth: this wasn’t love. This wasn’t even connection. This was survival. For both of them.

Her hands slid lower, tugging at his belt, and he let her. Because if he stopped now—if he pulled away, if he walked out—he didn’t know where he’d go. Or what he’d do.

And so, he stayed. Not because he wanted to, but because it was what was expected. Because it was what he’d been trained to do. Give enough to keep the peace. Enough to make it through the night.

But even as he moved with her, his body going through the motions, his mind drifted. And he couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he could keep giving before there was nothing left of him at all.

A little while later the room was dark except for the faint glow of the bathroom light spilling into the corner. She’d slipped out of bed without a word, the soft click of the door barely registering in the haze of his thoughts. Lando lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The sheets were tangled around his waist, their warmth suffocating despite the cold air in the suite.

He ran a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths. His body felt heavy, his mind heavier. The act itself had been mechanical—motions he’d gone through so many times before, with her, with others. It should’ve been release, a momentary reprieve from the weight he carried. But instead, it only added to the weight.

In the bathroom, water ran softly from the tap, and he could hear the faint shuffle of her movements. She was thorough, always. Her routine was perfect, every step deliberate. He imagined her wiping off her makeup, smoothing out the lines that cracked her carefully crafted image. She’d come out in a silk robe, her hair pinned back, her expression serene, as if none of it ever touched her.

But him? He was cracked straight through, and no amount of polishing would make him whole again.

He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, exhaling sharply. His mind churned, fragments of thoughts colliding like shards of broken glass. He could end this. He could say the words, let it unravel, walk away. She’d be fine. She always landed on her feet. And him? He’d finally be free.

But what then?

Lando swallowed hard, his hand falling back to the mattress. The truth of it burned in his chest, heavy and bitter: he wouldn’t end it. He couldn’t.

Because this—this mess of a relationship, this performance they lived—was the most stability he’d ever had. It was the closest he’d come to something resembling a home. And even though it was killing him, it was better than the void that waited outside of it.

He clenched his jaw, staring at the ceiling as if it held answers. There were none, of course. Just the same gnawing emptiness that followed him everywhere.

The bathroom door opened, and she stepped out, exactly as he’d imagined: her robe cinched at the waist, her hair swept back, her face bare but flawless. She glanced at him briefly, her expression neutral, then moved to the other side of the bed.

“Goodnight,” she said softly, slipping under the covers.

“Goodnight,” he replied, though the word felt hollow.

He lay there for a moment longer, the silence pressing down on him. Then, with a sigh, he pushed back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“Leaving?” she asked, her voice calm, almost indifferent.

“Yeah,” he said, reaching for his shirt on the floor. “I’ve got an early morning.”

She didn’t respond, simply turning onto her side and closing her eyes. It was the same every time. No argument, no questions. Just this unspoken understanding that this was how it worked.

He dressed quickly, buttoning his shirt with practiced efficiency. His tie was a crumpled mess in his hand, but he didn’t bother fixing it. As he grabbed his jacket and shoes, he cast one last glance at her. She looked peaceful, like a portrait in a gallery—beautiful, untouchable, and completely detached.

He stepped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence out here was colder, emptier, but he welcomed it.

As he walked toward his room, his shoes dangling from his hand, he felt the familiar weight settle on his shoulders again. The routine was almost comforting in its predictability. Wake up. Smile for the cameras. Go through the motions. Give enough to keep the world spinning.

Because if he didn’t, he wasn’t sure what would happen.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow

[desireangel]

Infernal Desires | Part One

Aemond Targaryen x fem!Reader

Synopsis: When your family is caught up in treasonous scandal, the Prince Regent makes an offer that is impossible to refuse. To avoid what certainly would have been death by his sword, your family promises you to a man who is followed by whispers of violence and sin.

Warnings: mdni 18+! Strictly. Dark-ish ??? Aemond! Bad language, reader is implied to be from a certain family but not really, rushed & unedited. Sexual tension, allusions to sex, mentions of death and killing, Aemond gets angry handsy, hair pulling, mention of the noose bc Aemond would never tell just anyone how he feels. This is mainly a word vomit - I am once again incapable of limiting my writing to one part.

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: aaand I’m back with a rewrite of an old fic I started last year! hopefully this is somewhat decent to follow along with - I wrote this while severely sleep deprived, stressed about procrastinating my uni work and knackered from work. Let me know if we are even interested in a part 2 or if I’ve missed any warnings!

It is a debt to be paid and an alliance to be made, that is all it is. 

Easy enough for them to say. After all, it was you who suffered from the mistakes of your family and not them. They may as well have left you to the dangers of King’s Landing with nothing more than a shattered dignity and the tears that trailed down your cheeks. 

Shit. Crying wasn’t going to do anything and while you never intend to present yourself as weak to anyone, there was nothing you could do to stop the angry tears that welled in your eyes. You wondered if your parents truly pained to see their daughter cry or if the tremble in your mother’s lip was nothing more than a pretence. 

Your father stared at the ground by your feet. “It was not meant to come to this.”

“But it did. Are you really going to barter me to–”

“We are not bartering you. Stop saying that,” He snapped. “All you will have to do is take the title as his wife and give him children. It cannot be that bad.”

The glare you sent his way was full of malice and rage. How could he say that? You were better than that, smarter than that and the thought of being reduced to who knows what that man had in store for you as his wife - they may as well have cut your tongue out and made you a slave. Knowing that your family, whom you loved endlessly, were so sure of selling you so easily to a cruel man like Aemond Targaryen caused a dull ache in your chest. 

It seemed hard to breathe through the betrayal, your chest heavy with deceit and heartbreak. Had you known what your father had been planning, you could have run away and found a way to survive without the comfort of your family lands. 

“What Prince Aemond has offered has saved us,” Jericho stood leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He stared at you, his little sister who would have died before leaving him to such a fate. “I do not expect you to understand the complex relationships between our Houses but consider this, dear sister. Would you rather him have the Vale burned to ashes? Have us hung from the walls of the Red Keep? I made a mistake. I know this, and I am sorry but this is the only choice we have.”

There was a tense silence. Jericho had ruined everything with little chance of repair and it was you who had to pay the price. You knew how the Crown punished Rhaenyra’s sympathisers and Jericho had damned the future of your family. What was happening is wrong - war is never worth the price it takes. You wholeheartedly agreed with that but there was something inherently stupid about putting the people you cared about at risk just to send a raven with a conditional offer of a bent knee. 

You blinked as you tried to make sense of it all. “Explain it to me. I do not understand.”

“Aemond Targaryen is Prince Regent but I was once his only friend,” Jericho said. You knew he used the word friend strategically. “He extended an olive branch. Repent our House’s treachery through our last daughter and a pin for the Vale on King Aegon’s map. You could not understand how generous that is. Refusing would have been a sentence of death.”

Friend? Generous?  You would have laughed if you could. You briefly wondered how Jericho had managed to barter with the Prince Regent before they had taken his head. Alas, it would be of no use to ask a question you would get no answer to. The men of these walls underestimated the capabilities of a woman’s mind and a woman’s strength. 

“All he gains is something to hold over your head, brother. Paying off your mistakes with my life? You have heard the stories - he has become a cruel man. Warming his bed when he sees fit and making his heirs will not fix what you did. Many have been executed for far less.”

Your father cleared his throat. “It is our only option. We have nothing more to offer in place and a ruined reputation. The family name holds the last of our power and without what little power we have left, your brother and I would lose the Vale. It is a miracle we have not already.”

“The Prince wants to dangle you over our heads? Fine. If that is what it takes for him to spare our lives.” Jericho’s voice was so rough. It was the first time you had seen him as anything other than gentle to you and you felt a heaviness at the sight of him so distressed. 

There was not much left for you outside of the empty empire that your father’s father had built for your family. At least you still had each other and your titles, and despite the situation that they’ve forced you into, at the end of the day, you all loved each other to death. It would have been a death sentence but you could have run away instead, could have found a life for yourself somehow. But how could you live with yourself knowing that you’d damned those you love because of your pride and fear of life as a princess?

So reluctantly and tearfully, you nod your head and silently agree.

Aemond wondered whether he was making the right decision by giving Jericho a second chance. If it were anyone else, he would have had them hung without a second thought. But you and your brother were different. 

It was a moment of weakness, an inexcusable lapse in his judgment to have spared Jericho’s treason because he remembered you and to have further justified his actions by claiming the Vale through your betrothal. While it was his first and foremost motivation and Aemond was bound by duty to take advantage of the opportunity, it was not the only reason he had suggested the idea at the Small Council.

There was hardly a person in Aemond’s life whom he could call a friend. There was not a soul in this world that Aemond could truly trust, not even Jericho who had been by his side for the first parts of his childhood. 

Nor you, who had at once shown him kindness in his youth despite the mockery that was often made of him. You had only accompanied your brother and father to King’s Landing on three occasions, and what started as your soft conversation and willing smiles for him had left his memory entirely until he heard word of Jericho’s treacherous message. 

Aemond, despite your attempts at friendship, had never returned your kindness. In truth, he didn’t know how to. And quickly, your smiles had turned to frowns and your attempts at friendly talk had become sarcastic remarks and quiet scoffs.

It was also a moment of selfishness and a decision made with nothing more than foolish curiosity. You had always been there, in the back of the picture and unnoticed by everyone apart from him. There was not a person in this world who had peaked his curious desire more than you and the two of you had spent the brief occasions together bickering and pestering one another. Regardless of your initial efforts, Aemond was never your friend. While he had never actually done you wrong before now, you were never really fooled by his deceiving nonchalance and forced manners. 

The indifference that you had for each other had no cause to fade. Even less so with the recent murderous, vile stories of Aemond the Kinslayer who killed his nephew and (while most wouldn’t dare utter the words beyond certain walls) who may have crippled his own brother with Vaghar’s fire. You had almost fallen to your knees upon hearing of your betrothal to such a man.

Aemond was now twenty and three but when it came to whatever distorted plot he was planning, he felt juvenile. Your brother and your father were the perfect pawns. You were the perfect leverage - perhaps a pawn yourself. As much as he convinced himself that having you in his possession would mean he would have invaluable power over your House to do exactly as he wanted within his twisted politics while he has the power to do so, the idea of having you in the palm of his hand, in his control and eventually beneath his body was exciting. 

He was never one for meaningless entertainment. But what was the harm in indulging himself this once?

It was a formality. Being presented at King’s Landing for the first time to your future husband, his family and to those whom he currently ruled over as the woman to be his wife. 

You had changed since the last time Aemond had seen you. It had only been two years but he would never admit to his surprise at just how different you had become from the cowering young girl he remembered you to be when you were just ten and four. 

He had rushed through the formalities of greeting you and your family, welcoming you into what would come to be your home. The lunch was painfully awkward as little was said between anyone. The Dowager Queen spoke formally yet kindly with your mother and shared a few words with you but you could barely engage with her conversation under the burning gaze of the Prince Regent who sat across from you.

It was over quickly, before anyone could start bickering about the traitorous reasons behind your presence. Aemond shortly convinced his mother that no escort would be needed, so long as Ser Criston Cole was there when you both were left to acquaint yourselves in private. You gulped as you were lead shamelessly into the Prince’s chambers. 

Aemond only set a glance upon Ser Criston and the raven haired man took his place outside the closed doors.

You were sure that the Prince’s chambers were as large as an entire wing of your own home yet you felt claustrophobic under his gaze. His eye was hellfire as he silently stared at you, leaning back in his chair and resting his fingers under his chin. There was little you could do but stare back at him, anxiously tapping your foot on the marbled floor.

In your eyes, Aemond had always been torturously beautiful. But here, as his gaze fell upon you and you shared the silence of his personal space, he was ethereal. It caused your breath to catch as you waited for him to address you first.

Shakily, you broke the silence. “Why am I here, my Prince?”

“You are to be my wife,” He drawled, fingers tapping on the desk that he lazily dragged his hand along. What a stupid question. “That is why you are here.”

“I believe you know that is not what I ask, my Prince.” You scowled at him. It wasn’t smart to talk to him in such a way, you knew that. He is Prince Regent, after all. A memory of your brother’s warning to be careful flashed briefly in your mind. 

His expression deceivingly calm, Aemond considered putting you in your place. He may be behaving in a way he does not recognise of himself but he would not tolerate your disrespect. 

Instead, he somewhat answered your question. “We will be married so that your brother’s treason shall be forgiven and your House will be sworn to the King. You will stay here, in my chambers. Do whatever the seven hells you please, it does not matter.”

In any other instance, Aemond would have detested the sight of you gaping at him, stumbling over your words stupidly as your wide eyes confidently held his own. You had changed. Or maybe he had just been blind to the perfect curves of your body or the way you looked at him like he ruled the realms, so submissive yet so full of fire. So tempting. 

He’d condemn himself to the noose before ever admitting to his thoughts. 

“What?” you almost gasped. There was no chance that you could stay in his chambers like this. You were sure the whispers of the Keep were already running amok with Aemond’s insistence on isolating the two of you behind the doors to his private chambers.

Aemond took pleasure in the way you seethed. “I will not make it so easy for you to return to scheming with your treasonous family.”

You could hit him. If he weren’t a Prince, you would have. “You are keeping me prisoner? For something I have had no such hand in?”

“No,” he stood from the table and in two strides, he was in front of you. So close that you could smell the woody oils he bathed in mixing with the smell of his musk and the leather of his clothes. You shuddered. “Maybe I am. Call it what you like. You can do as you please, eat as you please, wear whatever you please, you can explore these halls as you wish. I do not care. But you will listen to me and it will all be as per my will.”

Before you could respond, Aemond continued. “For all they know, I’ve made it clear to everyone that you will stay in the chambers that I have chosen for you, on the other side of that wall.”

Aemond’s eye was a violet-blue inferno as it held yours. He was closer now and you let your eyes drag across every part of his devastating face, swallowing at his beauty and wondering what lay under the leather of his eye patch. 

Struggling not to lose your breath, not to lean in to touch him and feel him, you held your head high and turned your back to him. “Fuck you.”

A gasp fell from your lips as Aemond’s hand found the back of your head in an instant, slender fingers weaving into your hair gently before closing into a tight fist and pulling back slowly so that you were forced to look up at the roof, the back of your head resting against his chest. His other hand wrapped around your waist, holding you back firmly against him. The tightness of his grip on your hair ached and left you dizzy, an unfamiliar longing for his hands to find more of you with the same fervour had you holding back a pathetic whine. 

Suddenly, you were burning from head to toe, a fire setting on your skin as he held you roughly against him, so close that you felt the feather light tickle of his breath grazing your hair when he spoke. He was scorching you through the leather of his tunic, your dress doing little to shield you from the heat of his body.

More than his anger, Aemond’s amusement made the air heavy. The way he unashamedly let his stare fall upon your lips, tucked between your teeth as you struggled to hold your glare, had your breath snatched from your lungs. 

Aemond dropped his head enough so that his lips lingered just under your ear, close enough that you could hear him draw in a breath, dragging his nose across the dip where your jaw met your neck. Your face burned at how shamelessly he had inhaled your soft scent.

“Is that how you talk to your Prince?” Aemond’s voice was low, dripping with a dominance that commanded respect. Placing his free hand on your left shoulder, he slowly turned you to face him, making sure to keep you tightly pressed against him.

Aemond was disastrously beautiful. The curve of his nose, the strength in his jaw, the way his scar painted the top of his cheek, the soft fall of his pin straight hair and the soft shine of his lips which you so badly yearned to feel. You cursed yourself for thinking such a thing as his low voice broke you out of your distraction. “This is my home. Right now, all of Westeros is mine. You are here because I said so, because I own everything. Everything. Including you. You would do well to remember your place while you are here, pretty thing.”

The fire in your blood was rage. You had never felt such desire that had your body craving another. It was anger driving you mad, it had to be. Despite your better judgment, you whispered once again, “Fuck. You.”

His jaw ticked and with a strong yank, you were flush against him. The pounding of your heart was violent and you were sure he could feel it against his chest but you were stuck under his burning gaze. Aemond was angry. And you couldn’t help but think that it suited him. It made him all the more desirable. 

Aemond was strong and hard against your body, tense as he held you so intimately yet so roughly. 

By the gods, you couldn’t even think. What was happening? 

“My Pr-”

“Quiet,” Aemond commanded. His deep voice, raspy with lust and with rage sent shockwaves down your spine. “What a mouth on you, my Lady. Fuck me, is that so?”

You muttered incoherently under your breath, the desire and the fear making your eyes flutter shut as you trembled against the Prince who held you so roughly.

“Hm,” Aemond chuckled when you let out a short whimper. He squeezed you tightly, his voice low and dark. “I could have you begging on your knees, crying for my cock all day and all night and you would never deserve it. You best careful, ñuha dāria, because I can ruin you.”

Another gasp fell from your lips and Aemond took pleasure in the way you squirmed against him, thighs pressing together as you felt the flush of his words through your body. He hummed, you were so reactive. Somehow, you fit perfectly against him, so that he could feel every little tremor he caused in your body, every goosebump that he placed on your skin. His gaze never left you, his resolve solid as iron. 

Your mouth watered at the thought of the things that Aemond could do to you. Thoughts you had never imagined yourself capable of harbouring, especially not for a man like Aemond Targaryen. It overwhelmed you - he overwhelmed you. 

But all you had to do was glance at the map that was splayed over his table and the weaponry he had discarded at the foot of it before you were trying to shove him away from you. Aemond stepped away from you upon noticing the panic in your movements. You barely noticed the flash of worry that passed through his features before he so skilfully replaced his mask. 

The rise and fall of your chest was heavy and you had the sudden urge to punch the sultry smirk right off of Aemond’s face. That was not okay. Right now, you didn’t even want to think about the way your body reacted to him, they way you would have let him have his way with you right there and then despite all the consequences that would rain down upon you. 

“I will not stay in here,” You closed your eyes to avoid his stare, chest heaving as you caught your breath and reminded yourself of the formalities of Aemond’s title. And of the possible repercussions for denying him so stubbornly. “My Prince, it is not appropriate.”

You hadn’t heard him make his way across the room until you heard the door open. Aemond hesitated, his resolve was not as strong as he had thought given the way his heart was beating as if he had run a mile. The strain at his pelvis was almost painful and his hands urged to be tangled in your hair again, squeezing your hips, feeling the warmth of your skin underneath your clothing. Perhaps you weren’t wrong and Aemond returned to his hardened self at the thought of being unable to control his desires. 

“Hm,” he drawled, stoic as ever and standing tall at the doorway and gazing down at you over his shoulder with a red hot spark in his eye. Aemond’s mind raced with a million words, many in the alluring language he knew you could not understand and they all tasted dangerous on his tongue. “You are not wrong. It is not appropriate until we are wed, ñuha dāria.”

[deepestnightcolor]

✩⁺₊✩☽⋆Kinkmas - 15th of December⋆☾✩⁺₊✩

ᴀ/ɴ: If you are still here, I hope you are still enjoying your little advent calendar! Open the door, see if it is for you and I hope you like it!

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Sam (SDV) x Fem!Reader

ᴡᴄ: 2804 words

ᴍᴅɴɪ ✧ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: cursing, drool, comfort sex, possessiveness, praise, pierced dick, raw fucking, creampie, taking pictures of you, Sam just wants to make you feel good because you are hurt, but don't worry, he is giving his best!

He just did not get it. Could not understand, no matter how hard he tried. And he probably never would – he would simply never understand how anyone could hurt you. Precious you with a glimmer in your eyes that made his head spin, a smile that lit up his world and a touch that made him melt, ready to be shaped and formed into whatever you intended him to be for the day. Yes, perhaps Sam was a little biased here with how down bad he was, but he was sure everyone in the damn town would agree that your piece of shit ex did not deserve you. Leaving you just before the feast of the winterstar? Sam was not a violent man, but he was willing to make well-placed exceptions. He had found you in tears in front of your house, phone clutched in one hand, face hidden by the other, sobbing quietly. It had broken his damn heart, had made his fist clench in a bitter rage he had never felt before, body already tense, ready to go scorched earth on what- or whoever had caused the scenery in front of him. But seeing you look up at him, pretty eyes still filled with tears, cheeks red and wet, lip wobbling dangerously, he knew he had to do something else first; be there for you. He had knelt down in the snowy dirt in front of you and had silently pulled you against his chest. At first you had tensed up, but that had quickly faded as you had melted into Sam’s embrace, sobbing into his shirt, your nails digging into the fabric as if you were scared that he would leave just as quickly as he pulled you into a hug. Truth was – Sam would have never left. His heart was absolutely breaking; it was like the pain you felt went over to him, running through his body, pinching at his soul, slamming its ugly fists against his heart. “I am here,” he whispered against your hair, his big hand stroking down your back and back up to your shoulders. “I am here now, promise.”

He didn’t know how long you had sobbed in his arms, and frankly, he didn’t care. What he had cared about was the fact that your sobs slowly had become more infrequent and quieter, that your body hadn’t shaken as violently anymore. You had slowly become more relaxed in his arms, and yet he had still held you tightly to his chest, his long fingers not stopping their brushing through your hair. “Sam?” You had whispered, making him tilt his head. “Yeah?” “I…I need you to do something for me.” “Anything-“ “I need you to f-…fu—I need you to fuck me, Sam.”

Sam also wasn’t sure how often he had asked you if you were sure. Five, ten, or even fifteen times? He had asked you as he had picked you up and pressed you against his body. He had asked you as he was carrying you inside. He had popped the question just before your lips had been about to collide, making you do that cute sniffle-laugh that both tugged at his heartstrings and at the corner of his lips. You had gripped strands of his hair and pulled him into a kiss that could have been described as nothing but desperate, and Sam was shameless enough to say that he had matched that energy. Biting at your lower lip to let his pierced tongue lick over yours, sucking at it to taste you, gripping your ass with those big hands of his in an attempt to press you even closer to his body. He probably shouldn’t have given in, but he was here to help, right? This didn’t have to do with his own selfish desires. Wasn’t connected in any way to the nights he had fisted at his cock, your precious name at the tip of his tongue. Not at all related to the times he had daydreamed about being your boyfriend instead of that prick he had never liked.

“Are you sure?” He asked, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses over your neck, enjoying the feeling of that preciously soft skin against his lips, the softness only inviting him to bite. Mark over where that fucking loser had been, reclaim what he had lost. “Yes, I a- fuck, Sam,” you whined, lulling your head to the side to bare more of it to him. Yoba, how could anyone be so stupid to let you go? But you didn’t need to worry – he would make sure you would know just how precious you were. How deserving you were of feeling good.

Turned out, you were showing him how good sex could feel. Sam’s eyes were rolled back in the far of his skull, his cock buried balls-deep inside of you, and holy fuck, he probably would never be able to fuck anyone that wasn’t you. He had to swallow several times to be able to even utter a word, Adam’s apple bobbing violently. “Fuck, baby, love, oh my fucking- you feel so good…” His dick was throbbing inside of you, pink, pierced tip shamelessly leaking pre-cum as he took a moment just to look down at you. Hair spread out beneath you like some sort of halo, pretty tits on display for him, thighs spread open for him to be accommodated. Slobber and freshly bitten bruises were forming on your skin, making his tongue feel heavy with split. Yoba, you were gorgeous, like a damn angel had crafted you. And yet you were in pain, pain you didn’t fucking deserve, but by hell, he was going to fuck that pain away.

He leaned down to press a quick, rather sloppy kiss to your lips, his cock throbbing dangerously in your cunt. He hadn’t moved much yet, and you still sucked him off so well already, squishy walls wrapping around him in a way that knocked the breath out of his lungs, and he had to fear he was going to fucking cum already. “S-sam,” you whispered, your hips bucking toward him in a loving grind, making him almost go cross-eyed. “Baby,” he whispered, breath quivering with his words. He slowly pulled his hips back, away from you, away form the grinds you gifted him; and holy fuck did it pain him to do so, especially when you whined his name again, lower lip wobbling just like it had done before. Sam gave you an almost soothing smile, one that was supposed to keep back the moans that were bubbling at the top of his throat. That first thrust would forever hold him in a chokehold – engraved in his brain, hammered in his heart. Oh, how your eyes rolled back and how your breasts bounced. He had even felt a quiver ripple through your thighs, so snuggly wrapped against his hips. He was fucking addicted in one stroke, forcing him to pull back, just to snap his hips forward again. His teeth were digging into his lower lip as he began to set a pace, blue eyes glued to your body, drowning in what his dick did to you. Your whole body seemed to react to him, your head thrown into the pillow as the pierced tip of his dick bullied forward, pushing deeper, deeper, deeper. You looked absolutely beautiful, and Sam forever fucking prayed that he would never forget that look on your face. That look that he caused. “You are so fucking- you are fucking- Yoba, fuck,” he started, eyes rolling as your walls squeezed him. Did you like that, huh? Liked being praised? Did that fucking douche dare not to praise you enough? Shit, he would praise you, promise. “You are fucking everything, baby- come on, touch me, baby. You can, let me feel those nails dig in my back.” His words seemed steady at the surface, but below there was a groan lingering, an animalistic sound of pleasure from the depths of his body. One he couldn’t keep in anymore when your eyes fluttered, those pretty orbs finding him, the look of sadness you had had being replaced by something more…primal and lustful. One that only grew louder when your nails did sink into his skin, scratching down along his spine. “That’s it, baby. Look so pretty, even prettier on my dick- hooo…fuck, you are squeezing me, baby. You like this? Yeah? You like my dick? Does it make you feel as good as you deserve, princess?” He panted, eyes slipping shut for just a moment, letting his instincts take over. Instincts to fuck you hard and deep, make you feel every. Damn. Inch. Of. His. Cock. He hadn’t even noticed that his thrust had gotten harder, fast, hard fucks of his cock deep inside of your pussy, making your body rut along the mattress, bed frame squeaking sounds of annoyed disagreement. But Sam didn’t care, the bed could break, he would buy you a new one, build it with his own two hands if you wanted him to, if you only kept looking at him like this – mouth open, eyes rolling and fluttering, but always with a dick-drunken look in them, a trail of spit on your chin as he pounded into you. He wanted to make you forget, wanted to make you feel as good as he did with his balls pulled tight and the thick vine on the underside of his cock throbbing, but he doubted he ever could, not when he felt like on cloud six and cloud nine, fuck that, whatever highest cloud there was, he was on that one.

“Sa-ham!” You squeaked, causing another groan to tear for him. He just had to. Just had to make sure you would have a reminder of this. His eyes wandered to the phone you had dropped only when he had started kissing you, tongue licking over your body as if he was set out to devour you, and now it was in his big hand. He looked at you, nodding at the phone, his hips stopping out of necessity – the blond tried to ignore the way his cock pulsed, the way your cunt squished and gushed, the sloppy wet having formed a creamed ring around his fat shaft. “Can I, baby? Gosh, you just look so pretty, look atcha…Want you to remember how good you can feel,” he rambled, licking over his lips, watching your face intently. You were panting, still in a daze, and yet there it was, a nod. Your thighs wrapped tighter around his hips, hands reaching up to grab his face and pull him into a kiss. Sam happily complied; he would have been stupid if he hadn’t. He grunted, shifting more of his weight on his forearms, adding some pressure on your body, just to make you feel a little closer. He needed it, and he hoped you enjoyed it, too, as your tongues clashed and bumped. Sam’s hips slowly began to resume their pace from before, heavy balls smacking against sloppy wet skin, cunt squelching whenever he drew back. “Gorgeous, wonderful girl. Ya deserve the world, baby. Gonna pick the stars from the sky for ya if ya want that,” he slurred, eyes watering with just how good your pussy felt. His fingers were fucking shaking as he pressed the camera button, pressing a small kiss against your lips before picking himself up just a little, allowing the camera to capture his cock pounding your pussy. Gosh, he was in love, with how you scratched him, how you moaned for him, how you snapped up your hips whenever he went especially hard – with you. “Good girl, good fucking girl, pussy taking me so well, holy fuuuuuck,” he panted. He felt the coils in his tummy twisting and turning, becoming tighter, threatening to snap, snap for you, ready to mark you up, cover the tracks of those who weren’t deserving. He was moaning your name quietly, the camera now lifted higher, trying to capture as much of your beauty as humanly possible, free hand groping your bouncing tit. “You are amazing, baby, hng- I am- oh fuck, you are going to make me cum if you keep squeezing me like that, princess.” His words were hissed through grit teeth, which was understandable with how close he was to the edge.

“You deserve the world, baby, deserve being pounded stupid by good dick every day, yeah? That’s it baby,” he cooed, hand leaving your tit to press his thumb against your throbby little clit, drinking in how your body twitched, back arching in, the moans that had fallen from your lips now mixing with mumbles of his name. That’s how he liked it, having you dumb on his cock, just how he was absolutely drunk on your pussy. “I can feel you squeezin’ me, babe. Gonna cum? Huh? Tell me. Look at me and tell me,” he ordered, whimpering at the way your nails dug deeper into his skin. Yet your eyes met, your head nodding. “Gonna-gonna cuuum! Oh FUCK, Sam!” You suddenly whined, your back snapping up again, an absolutely unholy whined sound escaping you. He knew he almost had you there, and he needed to bring you there – he was sure he would fucking die otherwise. “Yes, yes, yes, cum for me! Bless me like that, baby, please. Oh my Yoba, please cum for me, babygirl. Need you to drench me. Gonna do that for me? Are you? Pretty, pretty -fuhuuuck- pretty please,” he panted between harsh snaps of hips and quick flicks of his thumb, trying his best to hold back, trying not to pump you full just yet. Being begged like this did seem to do something to you, because it made you sob out his name as you were pushed over the edge, a wave of orgasmic bliss washing over you. Your toes curled as you pressed Sam against you, your legs locking him in as if you wanted to make sure he could not fucking escape you – as if he ever wanted that-, small begs and pleas leaving your kiss-bitten lips. Sam moaned in your ear, shamelessly so, kissing the shell as his hips sloppily fucked into you. If he had been precise before, he was nothing but humping you like a mere bitch in heat right now, kissing at your neck, your ear, whispering how good you were doing for him, desperately trying to keep the camera lifted steadily. “Made a mess on my cock, baby- ugh, so fuckin’ hot. I- shit, princess I am gonna fuckin’ fill you up, I am- mmpf-“ the last sound was drowned in the throaty moan that left poor Sam, the knot in his stomach finally snapping at a single word that left your lips: “please.” But who could blame him? It sounded so beggy, so whiny, so earnest. And shit, Sam would deliver.

He was left absolutely breathless as he came, nestled deep inside your squishy walls, ropes of cum filling your precious cunt. Poor Sam was shivering, phone shaking in his hand was he rutted, humping his cum deeper inside of you, hoping to fill you to the brim. Sam was just a man, after all, shamelessly milking himself with quick little thrusts, much softer than before. He could feel the world around him spinning, eyes watering again as he rutted, and rutted, and rutted, hoping to fuck a memory inside of you that you could hold onto. Only when he deemed himself drained did his hips slow, greedy Sam not able to bring himself to stop completely, even though he had nothing to give anymore. Until he saw your face. Lulled in the pillows, blissed smile on your spit-wet lips, eyes cross-eyed as you looked at where you connected. He had deemed it impossible, but his cock twitched, filling you with another rope of cum, bringing him close to sob. You were just perfect, weren’t you? Even in his fucked-out mind he was able to zoom in on your face, voice breathlessly whispering another praise. “You are absolutely perfect…Gosh, you are- you are the sun, baby. Fuckin’ hell.” It might not have made sense to you in that moment, but to him, it did. It always would. You were the sun and he was nothing like a mere moth, drawn to your light, ready to worship you, even if he would end up burnt in the end. A small smile tugged on his lips as he saved the video, panting still as he leaned down to kiss you. To his surprise, you kissed back again, your sweaty hands holding his cheeks affectionately. Hey, maybe he had fucked some of the pain away. And if not, he could always manage another round. Just for you, of course, sunshine.

[sixpounder]

the honda odyssey fucks hard!

deadpool (wade wilson) x f wolverine variant!reader

summary: the honda odyssey fucks hard! too bad deadpool does too.

warnings: mature content mdni(unprotected sex, creampie fight sex, dry humping, violence, inappropriate language)

word count: 2k

lowercase intended

the road stretched endlessly ahead, the hum of the tires filling the silence between you and deadpool. you had your hands on the wheel, gripping it so tightly your knuckles turned white. beside you, wade was sprawled out in the passenger seat, boots propped up on the dash like he owned the place.

it had been quiet for too long, so of course, he had to ruin it.

“so,” wade drawled, stretching. “if they can fix your world, what's the first thing you're gonna do when you get out of here?”

you didn’t even look at him. “get some tequila shots. maybe a wiper fluid chaser if i’m feeling reckless.”

he let out a low whistle. “damn. a woman after my own heart. you trying to impress me? because it’s working.”

“you’re a low bar.”

“ouch. right in my emotionally stunted heart.” he pressed a hand to his chest, feigning pain.

you rolled your eyes, focusing on the road, until something clicked in your brain.

“wait…what did you say?”

wade blinked at you. “i said, when we get out of here, what’s the first thing you’re gonna do?”

“no. no. before that.”

there was a pause. wade hesitated, then muttered, “…if they can fix your world?”

your heart stopped. the wheel creaked beneath your fingers.

“what do you mean, ‘if’?”

he shifted uncomfortably. “i mean… y’know…”

you turned to look at him, and your glare could have burned a hole through his mask.

“…you lied to me.”

wade’s hands shot up. “no, no, no! i mean-ow, fuck-”

you slammed the brakes. the honda odyssey lurched forward, sending wade crashing into the dashboard with a satisfying thud.

“fuck! my spleen! my second spleen! my third- wait, how many spleens do i have?”

you grabbed him by the collar of his suit, yanking him close until his masked face was inches from yours.

“you don’t have a fucking clue if they can help me fix things, do you?”

“no! i mean-ow-fuck!-”

you slammed him back against the seat.

“you lied.”

“no! i made an educated wish!”

“an educated wish?” you echoed, voice dripping with venom.

“yes, it’s like an educated guess but with more ‘please let this work, universe’ energy!”

you glared at him, chest rising and falling with rage, but he wasn’t squirming the way a normal person would be. no, he was looking at you, really looking at you, like he was enjoying this.

you bared your teeth. “you think this is funny?”

“no.” a beat. “…okay, maybe a little.”

your claws popped out, the metallic snikt filling the van. wade let out a low whistle.

“god, that’s sexy.”

“shut up.”

you were about to carve his throat out, but then, he pulled something out of his suit. a photo. crumpled, bloodstained. you frowned, staring down at it.

“…what is this?”

his voice was quieter now. “my entire world.”

you hesitated. the photo was of a woman, dark-haired, beautiful, smiling up at the camera. vanessa. you recognized her. there were others in the picture, too, faces that meant something to him.

“it’s only nine people,” wade continued, “and i have no idea how to save it alone.”

you felt something in your chest tighten. you hated that.

his voice softened. “i know how to fuck people up for money. but you? you know how to save ‘em.”

you swallowed. looked away. “i don’t know how to save worlds.”

he smirked, head tilting. “no, but you sure as hell know how to ruin a man’s entire f*cking life with just a look. and i gotta say… it’s kinda hot.”

you rolled your eyes. “you’re unbelievable.”

“and yet, here i am, trapped in a minivan with the sexiest murder machine i’ve ever met.”

your eyes flickered down to his lips before you could stop yourself.

no. no. absolutely not.

“i should kill you” you muttered.

“i mean, you could try, but i’d probably moan about it.”

that was it. you swung, but he caught your wrist.

the radio clicked on.

the air shifted. your breath hitched.

then, you both lunged.

the honda odyssey rocked violently as you slammed into each other. claws scraped against fabric. wade was laughing, arms wrapped around your waist as you pinned him down against the seat.

“oh, you dirty bitch” he groaned, hands sliding down to your hips.

“you love it” you shot back.

“i really, really do.”

he flipped you over, but you yanked him back.

he slammed you into the dashboard.

“fuck!” you growl, shaking off the hit. pain flares through your ribs, but it’s already healing. your head snaps up, eyes burning with rage.

wade is sitting in the backseats, chest rising and falling, hands flexing at his sides. his mask is torn, exposing the cockiest fucking smirk you’ve ever seen.

he brings up two fingers. flicks them toward himself. a gesture as if to say ‘come here’.

“i take it all back.” his voice is low, smug, taunting, throwing his head back. “the honda odyssey fucks hard! too bad we don’t, baby.”

your stomach flips.

rage coils in your chest, but it’s not just that, it’s something else. something dangerous. something that makes your breath come faster, your heart slam harder.

you crawl back to him, straddling his lap. you reach for his throat, pressing your claws against his neck, but not enough to cut him.

too close.

his breath is hot against your lips.

his other hand trails down your side, slow, teasing.

his mask was half-torn, revealing his mouth, his scars. His eyes, behind the fabric, were blown wide.

“I should throw you out of this car” you murmured, but your hands were still gripping his suit.

“I’d just climb back in,” he muttered. “you mad at me, sweetheart?” his voice is playful.

“you’re an asshole.”

“yeah, but you like it.”

your heart is hammering.

his mask is half gone, and his lips are right there.

fuck it.

you crash your mouth against his.

wade grunts in surprise but melts into it instantly.

his grip on your hips tightens, his other hand sliding into your hair. his lips are warm, rough, desperate. his teeth graze your bottom lip, and you growl, nipping at his in return.

the kiss turns filthy.

your claws sink into his shoulders. he groans, but presses closer. his hands gripping your hip.

his hand moves from your hair, trailing lower.

dangerously low.

you break away, panting.

his lips are swollen, pink. his eyes are blown wide, pupils dark.

“…are we still fighting?” you breathe.

his grin is wicked.

“god, i hope so.”

and then, he’s kissing you again.

harder. rougher.

his hand grabbed your ass firmly, and squeezed it, pulling you harder against him with a groan that's half pleasure, half pain from your claws.

you rolled your hips against his to tease him. he inhaled sharply as you ground against him, his grip on your ass tightening. a grin spreaded across his face, even as his hips bucked involuntarily to meet yours. you moaned, feeling him hardening under you. one of his hands moves to your jaw, tilting your head for better access as his lips find your neck. he nibbled, sucked, left a mark, knowing it'll heal in seconds with your healing factor.

you kept grinding against him, trying to create some friction where you needed him. he groaned, his hands moving to your hips. he lifted you slightly, adjusting your position so that you're lined up with the bulge in his pants and held you in place, his hips thrusting upward in a slow, teasing rhythm. his breath hitches as you ground against him, his fingers digging into your hips. “shit…”

you reached out for the zipper of your yellow and black suit, pulling it down. his eyes widened, a smirk curling his lips. “well, somebody's eager…” he reached up, helping you tug the zipper all the way down. his hands slipped inside, helping you out the suit.

as soon as you undressed yourself, you kissed him again, desperately. he met your desperate kiss with his own. his hands roamed your bare back possessively. one hand slid down to cup your ass again. he boosted you up slightly, then ground up again, making you moan. he swallowed the sound, then broke the kiss, panting heavily. his hands moved to the front of his own pants, quickly undoing them. he shoved them down just enough to free himself. he was already hard.

he grinned wickedly at your hungry gaze “like what you see, claws?” he teased. without warning, he lifted you and positions you, rubbing the tip teasingly against your entrance. you moaned and pressed yourself more against him.

he groaned at the feeling, his hands gripping your hips tighter. with a swift movement, he thrusted up, entering you in one smooth motion. he stays still for a moment, savoring the feeling. “fuck... you're so tight…”

you started riding him, going up and down slowly, just to annoy him. he tightened his jaw, his fingers digging into your hips again. you were teasing him, with slow, torturous movements. he swallowed a growl. he let you control the rhythm, knowing full well you were trying to drive him crazy.

you smirk and start tracing a line of small wet kisses along his jaw. his breath hitched, the slow ride driving him insane. he tried to maintain control, but it was slipping. his hands slid up your back, gripping your shoulders, trying to make you increase the pace.

“wow so i made you shut your mouth for longer then 2 minutes? record” you teased him, whispering it into his ear. he snarled at your teasing, his control snapping. he started thrusting up hard and fast, chasing his release. one hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you in for a brutal kiss. you kissed him back.

he was hitting every right spot inside of you, making you a moaning mess. he felt you tightening around him, your moans spurring him on. his hips thrusted relentlessly, each thrust deliberately aimed at that spot inside you that makes you see stars. “you’re not teasing anymore, are you?” he teased with a smirk.

“fuck off and keep going” you ordered, trying to not sound too desperate, but failing. he chuckled darkly, obeying your order with a renewed vigor. his pace becomes almost punishing, each powerful thrust stirring up those delicious sensations within you. "yes, ma'am" he quipped sarcastically, though his strained voice betrays his own desperation.

you could feel you were close, and by the way your pussy was tightening around his cock he could tell too. his breathing became ragged. one hand moves between you to rub your clit in fast circles, pushing you closer to the edge. "c'mon, claws..." he rasped, knowing exactly what he was doing to you.

“oh fuck” you cried out loud as you finally reached your orgasm. he growled as he felt you convulse around him, pulling him deeper. his own release was right there, but he wanted more. he kept thrusting, drawing out your release, making you whimper and shudder. "not done"

you were crying out for the overstimulation, everything was so sensitive. he showed no mercy, continuing to thrust into you as you try to squirm away from the overwhelming sensations. his fingers continued their relentless rubbing, pushing you towards another release you were not ready for. "look at me”. you tried to look at him despite the urge to close your eyes and roll your head back.

his eyes locked onto yours, intense and unyielding. he leaned in, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss as he pushed you over the edge again. his hips stuttering as he finally reached his own release inside you. “fuck” you said out of breath, you were shaking.

he continued to kiss you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth as he slowly came down from his high. he broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing heavy. "fuck, i love the way you come apart for me..."

“oh shut up” after a minute or two of silence, you finally gave in. “ok, i’ll help you save your world”

a/n: let me know you liked it, and if you did, don’t be scared to like, comment or reblog, it would really help me since this blog is new. let me know if you have any kind of request, not just for deadpool, it can be of any marvel character or more, i’m happy to write them <3

[brainddeadd]

“You're in love with me?!”

“You just found out?”

You blinked at Oscar, your brain short-circuiting as his words echoed in your head.

"You're in love with me?!"

Your voice came out louder than you intended, and a few people in the paddock turned to glance at you. You didn’t care. You were too busy staring at the man in front of you—the same Oscar Piastri who had been your best friend, your constant, the one person who could read you better than anyone else.

He just looked at you, unimpressed. If anything, there was a flicker of amusement in his brown eyes, like he had been waiting for you to catch up.

"You just found out?" he asked, his tone maddeningly casual, like this wasn’t the most earth-shattering revelation of your life.

Your mouth opened and closed, trying to form words that made sense. "How—when—what?"

Oscar sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. "Honestly? I thought you knew. I mean, everyone else does."

Your heart stuttered. Everyone else? The weight of his words settled over you, and suddenly, memories started flooding back.

Every time he pulled you aside at races to make sure you had water.

Every time he draped his jacket over your shoulders when it got cold.

Every time he sent you a text after a bad day, somehow knowing exactly what to say.

Every time his hand lingered on yours just a second too long.

"You're joking," you mumbled, half to yourself.

"Am I?" His expression softened as he stepped closer, his voice quieter now, meant only for you. "You really never noticed?"

You swallowed hard. "I—I thought you were just… I don’t know, being you."

Oscar huffed out a quiet laugh. "Yeah, well. 'Being me' means being in love with you."

Your breath hitched. He said it so simply, so easily, like it was a fact of life. Like it wasn’t currently turning your entire world upside down.

"You love me," you repeated, softer this time, testing the words on your tongue.

His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant but deliberate. "Yeah," he murmured. "I do."

And for the first time since this conversation started, you weren’t speechless anymore. Because the truth was, your heart had always known. Your head was just late to the party.

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure Oscar could hear it. The warmth of his fingers against yours sent a rush of something electric through your veins—something terrifying, something exhilarating.

You took a shaky breath, eyes flickering between his. “You do.” It wasn’t a question this time.

Oscar gave you the smallest nod, like he wasn’t afraid of admitting it. Like he’d been waiting for this moment, waiting for you to see it.

And suddenly, everything felt too loud—the hum of the paddock, the chatter of engineers nearby, the distant roar of an engine being tested. It was all background noise to the way he was looking at you, steady and sure, like he had no regrets about laying his heart bare.

“Oscar,” you started, voice barely above a whisper. You didn’t even know what you wanted to say.

“Hmm?” His thumb brushed lightly against your skin, sending a shiver up your spine.

Your mind raced through every moment that had led to this, every stolen glance, every inside joke, every time you’d caught him staring and ignored the way it made your stomach flip. God, you were such an idiot.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted.

Oscar exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“But I—” You hesitated, chewing on your lip. “I feel like… I should’ve known.”

“You’re a bit oblivious sometimes,” he teased, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

You swatted his arm lightly, rolling your eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

The laughter between you settled into something softer, something weightier. You felt his fingers tighten slightly around yours, grounding you.

“Do you need time?” he asked, voice gentle, no pressure behind the question.

You thought about it—really thought about it. But the truth was, if you took time to process, it wouldn’t change anything. You knew what you wanted. You always had.

You stepped closer, tilting your head up to meet his gaze fully. “I think…” You took a steadying breath, heart thudding. “I think I might be in love with you too.”

The way Oscar’s eyes lit up made your breath catch. It was subtle—he wasn’t the type to be overly expressive—but the pure, unfiltered relief that washed over his face was impossible to miss.

“You think?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You huffed, rolling your eyes again. “Okay, fine. I am in love with you.”

A slow grin spread across his lips. “Took you long enough.”

You barely had time to glare at him before he was pulling you closer, his free hand sliding to your waist. And then, just like that, his lips were on yours—soft, certain, home.

And you knew, without a doubt, that there was no one else you’d rather be late to the party for.