#TOO COOL TO BE CARELESS | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gutsby · 1 year ago

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Wedded Bliss

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: The marriage was arranged, and the sex is deranged. Bucky is so obsessed with your pussy that he almost forgets he’s meant to be faking this whole thing—and hating it, like sworn enemies are supposed to do.

Warnings: 18+. Dubcon. Corruption kink. Virginity loss. Arranged marriage between enemies. Brat taming. Breeding kink. Beefy, mob boss Bucky devolving into a fall-to-his-knees-just-to-fuck-you kind of horny mess.

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

You kissed him and wished him dead in the same breath. You said ‘I do’ and meant ‘I don’t,’ exchanged your vows like your own last rites, and felt him slip the ring on your finger as if he’d just tightened a noose around your neck.

You didn’t want to be a bride, and you sure as hell didn’t want to be the bride to Mr. James Buchanan Barnes.

Frankly, you were mortified.

And terrified, too, now that you knew your groom might actually kill you in the kitchen of your honeymoon suite.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?!”

“I walked down the aisle, didn’t I?”

Another plate went crashing on the wall behind your husband’s head just as he managed to duck. He side-stepped a spray of porcelain and glass and probably crushed several hundred shards beneath his polished black oxfords when he walked—stalked—over to you.

You’d just reared back to hurl a serving plate at his face when you found your speed swiftly outmatched. Bucky had your elbow gripped between his forefinger and thumb in less than a second, and, pinching the bone like he might readily break it, he said, even as always,

“Put it down.”

You did as he told you and dropped the platter to the floor with a crash.

Rather than berate you for the broken china—or the four other pieces before it—your husband only smiled.

“Are we done?”

Hell, you wanted to be. Slide over a pen and a one-way plane ticket to someplace in BFE, and you’d be signing those divorce papers in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, your dear husband was just referring to the temper tantrum.

You weren’t totally sure if you were finished on that front, so you looked him up and down and shrugged.

“Now darling—” he started.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Light of my life—”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your cool, level-headed groom took each gibe like it was his sworn duty, and only when he yanked your wrists behind your back and shoved you toward the bedroom door did you sense that he might not be too pleased with your behavior.

Your knees struck the edge of the California King at the center of the room, and before you could will yourself not to fall face-first, Bucky nudged you hard again.

Still pinning your hands behind you, he followed your collapse on the bed and leaned over your prone body.

His breaths were hot on your ear; you could tell he was smiling as he started to hike your dress up your legs.

“It’s all part of the deal, doll.”

You wriggled under his hold and tried to angle yourself better to see him, hoping he’d see your scowl.

“The deal was to get married,” you reminded him.

“Mhmm,” Bucky hummed, just then starting to trail a finger up the uncovered skin of your calf with his other hand, “And what is it that married people do?”

You kicked your foot reflexively, paused, then said,

“Fight. Constantly. Probably resent each other for the better part of two decades before we finally decide that ‘making it work’ for the kids isn’t worth it at all, and I claim half of everything you own in a bitter divorce.”

That earned a chuckle from Bucky. He kept his roaming hand brushing up the back of your thigh and squeezed the flesh just below the swell of your rear.

“Don’t worry, my lawyer drafted a pretty good prenup.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but then he was tracing the contour of your ass with his palm, and you cut yourself short. Bucky carried on, careless as ever.

“But the kids you mentioned,” he said, “How are we supposed to get those?”

You pursed your lips and tried hard not to move when his fingers drifted inward—you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. The bottom of your dress was bunched around your hips now, leaving you sorely exposed. Had your bridesmaids not thrust that stupid white lingerie set upon you hours before the wedding, you probably would’ve chosen something a little more modest than a thong. But here you were.

At least the sight seemed appealing to your husband, whose eyes hadn’t left you once while his hands grew even hungrier to feel your warmth.

“I’m hoping a sperm donor or one of your double-crossing mobster friends will knock me up, honestly,” you said, feigning enthusiasm at the thought.

A tart slap delivered to your ass told you that Bucky hadn’t found that funny. After, he started kneading the skin a bit harder.

“No shot,” he shook his head, suddenly gliding his fingers down closer to your core and waiting for you to say something in protest, “Only one that’s gonna be pumping this thing full of babies is me, I promise.”

It was like he wanted your retaliation, whether that be by a thinly veiled look of disgust or a reactionary jab of your own. You weren’t keen on fulfilling any wish of his, but at this point, you felt you had no other choice. When you sensed he was distracted by the newly-discovered heat between your legs and had loosened his grip on your wrists, you flipped yourself over on the bed. Shoved at his chest before he knew what to do with himself.

Of course, the push didn’t send him far, but it was enough to get his attention—and his hands off of you.

“I’m not having your babies, Barnes! I am never going to fuck you, no matter how long we stay fake married,” you spat.

At that, Bucky just raised his eyebrows and wet his lips. You were cramming your wedding dress back into place, glaring at him the whole time, and were scarcely more aware of the bright, teeming city outside the window than you were of your husband’s own growing erection.

Finally, you’d said it. His new wife wouldn’t fuck him. The sound of your resistance was almost a pleasure unto itself, and the longer you stared at Bucky with growing contempt and resolve not to do that thing, the more determined he became to make it happen.

Cat-and-mouse games had long been a staple in his life, and he was pleased to see them carry into his marriage as well. Surely if he’d triumphed in every pursuit for the last twenty years—facing the likes of some seriously execrable bandits and racketeers—he could take on a bratty woman less than half his size. You said you didn’t want his babies now, but just wait until he’d fucked you full of his cum once or twice. You’d be begging him for it in no time at all, and shortly thereafter, he’d have you barefoot and pregnant as many times as he liked. Always swollen with one of his children and whining for more.

The woman before him now had a murderous glint in her eyes, but he could fuck that away easy. In fact, he would live to do it. He traced the outline of your thigh over your dress and smiled when you tried not to recoil.

“Surely you didn’t think we’d be finger-painting and reading poetry to each other on our wedding night, hm?” he asked, almost delicately.

“Thought you might have one of your other women lined up,” you snorted. When you tried to move away, Bucky pinched your leg to make you stay. You winced.

“That’s not funny,” he said, a little more consternation in his tone. Like he actually cared whether you thought him a profligate Lothario or not, “Now that we’re married, it’s only you and me. No mistresses, nothing.”

Yeah, and he was just as likely arriving to your marital bed a blushing virgin. You rolled onto your side and pretended not to feel him tighten his grip as you did.

“Try the carnal part of our marriage yourself and I’m sure you’ll find I’m an exceptional fuck,” Bucky continued, speaking low as he stroked the chiffon of your dress.

You didn’t doubt the man was good—certainly the extent of his sexual escapades as a twenty-something seemed to demand it—but exceptional? No fucking way. You knew men like Bucky, with the world and every walking pair of tits at their fingertips, and almost all were incurably selfish. Cocky. The kind to jackhammer a woman for three consecutive minutes, roll over, and say, ‘Did you cum?’

No, there was not a snowball’s chance in hell your husband’s sexual prowess was even half as good as he claimed it was. Deciding to bite your tongue for the first time that night, though, you just stared at him blankly.

What you didn’t know was that your silence only stoked the flames of his ego, prompting him to press the matter further.

“What? You think I can’t fuck?” he said, “Any woman lucky enough to bed me has cum at least twice. Every time.”

Sure they did, Bucky, you wanted to say, but were suddenly drawn into his lap before you could speak.

“But let’s pretend I can’t,” he said, heedless of the face you made as soon as you were straddling his hips, “You wouldn’t let your husband prove himself tonight?”

“I don’t fuck strangers.”

Bucky smiled at that.

“Everyone’s a stranger until you get to blow them, honey,” he teased, squeezing your hips when you didn’t seem amused at all. Then you let out a cry, feeling yourself thrown back on the mattress like a rag doll while Bucky moved off.

Before you knew it, he was tugging your ankles down the length of the bed and widening his stance just a bit. He stopped pulling once your knees were grazing his black dress pants and your feet were dangling off of the bed.

“You like skylines?” he asked.

You frowned and raised a brow that he was quick to interpret as a ‘yes.’ He hauled you onto your feet.

“‘Course you do. All pretty girls like pretty skies,” he rattled on, strolling with you step-by-step to the set of French doors at the end of the room.

Bucky led you out to the balcony. The air was warm as it ever was, dull gusts of the evening wind curling up from the coastline below. Just as your husband had promised, the skyline of Santorini greeted you on either side, and you had to admit, it was more than just pretty. The views from your villa were absolutely breathtaking.

You stood with your back to Bucky, hands resting on the marble balustrade, and you felt him there, behind you. You didn’t bother to tilt your head when he drew even closer.

“What do you like most about it?” The question was simple enough, punctuated with a kiss on your shoulder. Your eyes scanned the horizon, the sea, even the quiet little streets down beneath, and you racked your brain trying to think of an answer that might satisfy him.

Before you could, though, you sucked in a breath when you felt your dress start to come undone at your back.

Bucky was unzipping your gown, gentle as ever, and probably grinning from ear to ear as he watched you shift uncomfortably in place and try to hold the material above your breasts where it had been fastened all day. Presently, you kicked your heel backward and hoped it would land somewhere near his balls. You missed.

“James,” you hissed.

Bucky groaned at the sheer intonation of his name on your lips.

“Yes, dear?”

“Why are you undressing me?”

Bucky had successfully dragged the zipper all the way down to your ass, and it seemed he was trying to shimmy the dress off your frame. You held on tight.

“I’d like to fuck my bride over the balcony railing, if that’s alright with you,” he answered truthfully.

The man was nothing if not blunt and crass. You turned around to give him a look, yanking your gown even closer to your chest.

“I’ll— I’ll tell my mother, Barnes.”

You felt stupid as soon as you’d said it—using your go-to threat whenever you were in distress. What were you, eleven?

“Your mother?” Bucky repeated, words steeped in derision, “Last I recall, mommy dearest was practically begging me to get you pregnant at the reception.”

Your jaw clenched, and you internally cursed your whole family. Your parents were supposed to be on your side throughout all of this—it was bad enough they’d pawned you off to a mob boss of unrivaled infamy all to settle a debt, but this? Your mother had assured you just the day before that Mr. Barnes was bound to tire of you within the year. No mention of sex or babies whatsoever.

The same mother who had beat you over the head with the notion of your own virginity since you were old enough to read, the one who had underscored just how important it was to wait for the right man to give yourself body, mind, and soul to, turning around and telling this filthy criminal to have you any way he liked. And knock you up? The fucking nerve of that woman.

You were so preoccupied with thoughts of your own backstabbing family that you hardly felt Bucky drag your dress the rest of the way down your body. It was only when you were completely bare before him, and your husband had just started to skim his lips over your tummy that you tensed with surprise.

“I don’t have to fuck you just yet, doll,” he murmured, having sunk to his knees and only moving lower. Then the corners of his lips twitched, “Least not with my dick.”

You tried to pry his head from between your legs before he could stretch his tongue so much as an inch.

“James!”

Again with that name.

“You know, I love when you call me that, Mrs. Barnes.”

Bucky was peering up at you now, soaking in the sight of your body in a white lace bra, panties, and stockings.

“Is my bride feeling shy?” he teased, gently nipping at your inner thighs.

You weren’t sure what you were feeling in that moment, to be honest. Revulsion, betrayal, arousal, you name it—each crowned with an all-encompassing hatred for the man currently occupying the space between your legs—while a still stronger desire almost hoped he would stay.

“You can hate your husband all you want and still let him tonguefuck you,” Bucky growled against your skin.

Like he’d read your mind.

In reality, your husband hardly needed the powers of telepathy to tell him just how turned on you were; the sopping wet spot in your panties said as much. From his vantage point, Bucky saw the disgust in your eyes slowly eclipsed by lust, and with a single flick of his tongue, he knew he would have you exactly where he wanted you.

“Just let it happen, honey.”

He felt your fingers thread tight through his hair and the first stir of your hips in tandem. One small, delectable whimper crossed your lips, and it took everything in Bucky not to tear your panties straight off with his teeth.

Instead, the man opted for a soft, gentle lick over your clothed slit. Testing the waters.

Your whimper was quick to meld to a moan, and then, just as fast:

“N-no, Bucky.”

To your dismay, his tongue didn’t retreat, only making firmer laps against your centre while his lips grazed the lace. He gripped your thighs and wedged himself deeper, and again, you cursed the paper thin fabric of your panties for letting you feel everything his mouth was doing. He hadn’t even made proper contact with your cunt, and your knees were already starting to shake.

He pressed a kiss above your clit through the flimsy material, and you almost tore a clump of hair from his head.

“No. Please.” You hardly made sense to yourself; it was clear you wanted his touch, but something inside you wasn’t quite ready to submit to the idea that this was all okay. That your husband’s tongue and lips might be meant for something like this, and you didn’t have to feel so guilty for wanting it either. Fucking purity culture.

“My pretty girl,” Bucky presently murmured above the fabric, words sending a dozen little shockwaves in their wake, “My beautiful fucking wife.”

The man inhaled your scent and could’ve sworn he was in ecstasy. Blinded by desire as he was, he really wasn’t bullshitting in the slightest when he gathered you to him and said you were the best; he’d genuinely grown transfixed by the feel of you, in spite of every fibre of his being telling him not to. The marriage was arranged, fake, and fueled by hatred—and somehow, Bucky couldn’t get enough.

Nor could he wait any longer. One light swipe of his finger tugged your panties aside, and then he was latching on, no cover this time, to take your clit between his lips. Sucking hard, going fast, needing it bad.

A moan rang loud in his ears, and your hand on his head was instantly joined by the other. You yanked his hair like you never had before, pulling so tight at the roots as though your pleasure depended on it. Bucky smiled around the soft pearl in his mouth and flicked it gently with the tip of his tongue.

“Feel good, baby?” he breathed.

His head tilted up to you, and he could see you were struggling just to breathe, face painted with a medley of emotions.

You didn’t know if you could, or should, be feeling this good from a man so evil. Bucky flattened his tongue and licked a long stripe up your pussy to ensure that you would. Then he posed the question again, smirking.

“You like my tongue on this wet, needy cunt?”

His words were so damn obscene, but you nodded anyway. Feeling small and powerless beneath those big, broad hands as they pinned you back on the marble and spread you even wider for the taking.

He loved how innocent and lewd you looked at once, wincing with pleasure and still trying to keep your composure like you thought a good girl should.

Bucky wanted to break that resolve. He brought one hand closer to your entrance.

And, just as your breaths were starting to hitch and grow more ragged in your chest, he pushed two fingers inside. The act surprised your husband almost as much as it did you—not quite, but almost—upon feeling how tight you were, how resistant to even two digits you seemed to be. He hardly knew whether to shove them deeper or pull them out, so fast did your muscles contract around him.

When you whined a loud, protracted, ‘FUCK!’ he figured he would stick with the former. He grinned, having never heard you speak, much less swear, out of pleasure like this.

Your head lolled back and your body made an arch when his fingers curled inside you. You were panting, moaning, coating his hand with your juices, and Bucky knew you were close.

He started pumping his fingers in and out while his tongue worked your clit, chin practically doused in your arousal by now. A swell of pride rose within him: he could finally bring you home to that sweet release, have you a shaking, soaking mess above his face like you were wholly his and no one else’s. He moved his tongue even faster and sank his fingers straight down to the knuckle.

Then, unexpectedly, both were robbed of your touch.

Seized with fear, you shoved Bucky off and stumbled away from his glistening face. You took off toward the doors and fled the balcony before you could think.

“What the f— honey? Honey?!” Bucky sputtered. He bounded after you.

You’d thrown yourself in the master bathroom and locked the door behind you in the blink of an eye. Outside, your husband had only to stare in pure bewilderment and awe, mind reeling at what had just happened.

Fucking hell, he knows. He knows! You collapsed against the door and slid down a couple inches. Your hand reflexively flew to your mouth to stifle the sounds when Bucky began pounding the wood behind you.

“Baby, what’s wrong? What’s—what’s goin’ on?”

In truth, you’d rather chug bleach than divulge the thought that had just scared the everliving fuck out of you back there. It was stupid and senseless and should’ve been frightening you for weeks before it ever came to this, but here you were, panicked in the bathroom of your honeymoon suite because you’d never done this before—and you’d never reached climax in your life without bursting into tears.

Fuck, you felt stupid. How could you think this would be any different—or that Bucky’s tongue wouldn’t eventually attempt to wrest an orgasm out of you?

It’d just felt so good, you thought maybe a new climax brought by someone else’s fingers might free you from the same unsavory demise you’d met a hundred times before, but then it hit you, shortly after Bucky had plunged his fingers inside, you were going to cry.

You winced when Bucky’s knocks grew louder, his voice gaining more ire by the second, it seemed.

“Open the fucking door!”

He’d rake you over the coals for this. Getting so close to what he wanted, only to have his silly little bride snatch it all away and run hiding in the en-suite bathroom? Your stomach turned at the thought of what men in the mob were liable to do with women like you—what Bucky might conceivably do now that you’d sparked his rage.

Your eyes darted to the window just as his fist shook the doorframe behind you. You ran over to the tub, tucked squarely beneath the windowsill, and climbed onto it just to get a hold of the fastenings around the glass.

One click synchronized with the furious cadence being hammered on the door, and just as you started to slide the pane up the way, a heavy thud sounded outside. The weight of your husband’s body being thrust against the door, most likely.

You bit your lip and lifted one leg over the windowsill, shuffling your body even closer to the outside world.

Three floors up! Have you lost your mind? You could hear your father’s words ringing in your skull already. There was a ledge, you reasoned, no more than ten feet below, if you could just grab hold of the frame right there and slide down the cool stone you might—

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned.

You watched your husband heave through the busted door of the bathroom, wide eyes and a ‘Here’s Johnny’ flourish raging hot on his face. Your heart leapt to your throat, and you started to lower yourself out of the window, hoping desperately for that ledge below to be sturdy. But before you could make it even half of the way there, strong arms were circling your frame and yanking you back inside, hurtling straight into the bathtub with Bucky tumbling over you.

“What are you doing?!” he roared.

You wriggled under his weight, petrified of the fiery look in his eyes as he lurched over your frame.

He straightened up just enough to shake you by the shoulders—like a parent reprimanding a child.

“What the fuck was that?! Huh? You think that’s fucking funny, jumping out windows?”

No, no, not funny, you wanted to bite back, but found your mouth dry and unable to speak. When Bucky shook you again, you had only to whimper a pathetic sound.

The man was enraged. Stubble still damp with your juices and looking undeniably frazzled and spent, he drew closer to your face and demanded you look at him. When he took hold of your cheeks in both hands, the command couldn’t have reached you any more clearly.

“What— what was that for?” his voice lowered as he tried to catch his breath. You still couldn’t move.

“I-I don’t—” you stopped and hardly knew how to say it:

Sorry to cut our tonguefucking session short, I was just afraid I might burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears while you licked and sucked me through the best orgasm of my life. I’d rather jump off, or out of, a building than tell my mob boss husband that I can’t cum without crying. By the way, I’m a virgin!

Instead, you just blinked and stared back at him.

“Can’t…do it,” you murmured.

Bucky’s expression only grew more puzzled by the words out of your mouth. He squeezed your face tighter and leaned in even closer.

“Do what? Sex? Fuck, I— I didn’t mean to be that aggressive, hell, I’m sorry.” He stopped to run a hand through his hair, and for the first time, you could’ve sworn you saw the first glint of compunction in his eyes.

He looked away a few seconds, as if collecting what fragmented thoughts he could, then brought his head back down to your level and took your hands in his.

“Honey?” he tried getting your attention, just barely above a whisper now, “I know the whole thing’s fucked, I know.”

That was the understatement of the century. To your surprise, Bucky’s gaze softened when he saw a scowl cross your face.

“We don’t…have to do anything. I was just pushing your buttons earlier. Being a dick.”

His tongue moved to wet his lips once more, this time without the seductive, smug demeanor he usually wore and simply exhibiting discomfort. He swallowed. The bow tie around his neck appeared to him to be fastened far too tight all of a sudden, and then, haphazardly, he started clawing at the garment to get it off.

You didn’t know why you felt compelled to help. It was like all ten fingers just lifted of their own accord to join Bucky’s hands in trying to undo his tie.

The silk fabric wasn’t tied, but knotted, crudely and inflexibly, beneath the little black bow. You frowned. Still unable to meet his gaze as you worked your fingers under the tangled material and tried to pretend like the two of you weren’t still sweating profusely from the events that had just transpired—both the tonguefucking and the window-jumping.

“Who tied this, a five-year-old?” you muttered.

“I’m thirty-eight, thanks,” Bucky returned just as quietly.

Both of you indulged in a smile that lasted no longer than a second, but you felt the tension ease a little.

This was not where you thought your dreaded wedding night was headed before. Curled up in a bathtub with your hands around your husband’s neck—and not actually trying to kill him—while Bucky blinked almost nervously the longer your hands lingered on his collar. It seemed he’d found something especially tantalizing on the wall behind your head, because his stare remained fixed on that spot the whole time you fiddled with his tie.

Maybe that, along with the last ebb of alcoholic influence from the reception still coursing through your veins, had emboldened you to come right out and say it while Bucky was looking away. You couldn’t be sure.

“I’ve never had sex before.”

At last, the tie loosened a little.

Bucky flicked his gaze back to yours in a second.

“What?”

You lifted a brow, wondering if he really needed an explanation as to what it meant to have never gotten laid before, but you decided against indulging him any further. Bucky seemed keen on doing that all by himself.

“You’re a virgin?”

You nodded.

“Didn’t my overbearing mother make sure you knew?”

“Yeah, I thought she was full of shit,” Bucky answered bluntly. Then, catching sight of the semi-offended look in your eye, mixed with a tad more amusement than indignation, he added, “I mean— I didn’t think you’d, uh, wanna wait…twenty-five years for some action.”

He winced when he realized that sounded just as bad. His throat cleared shortly to make way for a new attempt at comity, but you cut him off, shaking your head as you finally got the knot to untangle.

“No, I get it. I don’t know why I waited this long either,” you shrugged.

As soon as you’d freed him from his bow tie, you started to stand from the bath tub. Bucky, too, straightened to his full height and started to close the window while you walked back to the bedroom.

You eyed the rose petals strewn across the duvet and felt a little more relaxed this time around. The weight of the V-word had been lifted from your shoulders, and now you had only to share the crying-while-cumming stuff to Bucky later on. Much later on, you hoped.

You crawled onto the bed and stretched out on your belly, playing with the soft red petals and wondering if room service was still offered at this hour.

Bucky had just stepped out of the bathroom when he halted at the threshold. Saw your body sprawled out on the bed, back arched and ass pointed in the air as you reached over for the phone on the nightstand. He stared for a second too long and felt a familiar stir in his pants.

Sonovabitch, he started to think, before chiding himself silently, Shut up, man, she’s a virgin. Be cool. Be cool—don’t make her jump out a window again.

He ducked back in the bathroom and eased the door to just a crack while you discovered a voice on the line:

“Hi! Hey, I’d like to order room service to, uh…” your voice trailed off. Then, covering the mouthpiece, “James, what’s our room number?”

Inside the bathroom, Bucky squeezed his eyes shut at the sound of his name. Already palming his erection through his dress pants as he leaned against the wall.

“We rented the whole building, dear,” he called back.

“Oh.” He could just imagine the slight pout on your lips as you spoke. Then you asked if he wanted anything to eat, Bucky thought only of the sweet nectar between your legs, and he answered aloud, no, he was fine, really.

For the first time in his life, the man felt positively ashamed he was about to rub one out in a bathroom, alone. It wasn’t like this was the first it had ever been done, but now there was you, innocent and oblivious in the next room over, while Bucky undid his belt and quietly freed his cock from his dress pants. It felt kind of perverted, in a way, but he knew he needed this release to put his mind at ease and not feel so affected by you.

While you scanned your phone for a menu and chatted with the concierge downstairs about various food items, Bucky was spitting in his hand and fumbling for his shaft. You talked American Wagyu sirloin, lobster thermidor, and seared Faroe Island salmon while he thought achingly about the way your cunt had tasted and how badly he wanted to try it again.

How did he feel about an artisan cheese platter? Bucky hardly had the wits about himself to answer beyond a strangled, ‘Whatever you want, honey’ and a tightened fist around his cock, stroking hard to get the filthy thoughts out of his head before the food arrived.

Ever sweet, soft, supple, and savory—his mind reeled with fresh memories of that place between your thighs, and he almost lurched forward in pleasure.

Your brute of a mob boss husband was irreparably pussy-whipped and hadn’t even fucked you yet. He gripped the bathroom sink beside him and sincerely wished it wasn’t his hand doing the work right now. But of course, he had to be patient, had to be kind—couldn’t force himself on a woman who clearly wasn’t ready.

Again, he spit in his palm and jerked himself fast.

Any minute now, he thought with some relief.

Your feet padded softly into the living room as the pleasure inside him was starting to crest. Still pining for your warmth and the way your legs trembled around his head, Bucky was all but fucking his hand at this point. He’d snagged his bottom lip between his teeth in a lopsided smile and groaned, too low to be heard, and pumped himself even faster for his impending orgasm.

A thought crossed your mind as you stopped ahead of the sofa. You pivoted.

Suddenly, you were skipping back to the bathroom, wanting to know Bucky’s wine preferences before you placed another order.

You barged in and froze.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, darting out just as fast.

Five seconds slower and you probably would’ve seen Bucky blow his load all over the sink. As it was, the man was left sorely at a loss for any form of release and heaving fast, ragged breaths from the colossal scare you’d just given him.

Good fucking going, Buck—your wife wants to cuddle and eat cheese and you’re out here beating your meat.

Bucky shoved himself back in his pants and waited an excruciating minute for the sound of your second window exit of the night. A slammed door, a frantic phone call, a few sobs into your pillow as you realized how dirty and depraved your husband was, anything.

He was only met with silence.

Taking one more shaky breath, Bucky reached for the doorknob and started back out. Cautiously.

The man took his slow, silent leave of the bathroom with his gaze trained toward the doors—half-expecting to see his bride rappelling from the balcony—but then quickly shifted to the bed. Finding you kneeling at the edge.

“James?”

Your voice almost pained.

A word was all it took. Bucky was back on his knees.

“I’m sorry. I just wanted it to go away, honey. I’m sorry.”

Go away? You quirked a brow and couldn’t hold his gaze much longer; just trailed your vision down his torso to his pants, then his erection, still standing prominent as ever.

Bucky struggled to decide whether you were ticked off or intrigued, seeing your eyes make their painful appraisal of his length beneath his pants. Your brow was pinched, but your head was cocked. Almost curious.

“Are you mad at me?” you asked, gaze fixed on the spot.

Immediately, Bucky rose to his feet and crawled back on the bed, seizing your body with both of his hands.

“No! No, not mad at all,” he mumbled as he sidled up beside you. Pleased to see you hadn’t recoiled, “I was just, uh…missing you, ‘s’all.”

If his men could see him now, Bucky was sure he’d be the laughing stock of all the town. Doting and kind, eyes softened beyond recognition, he just watched you and wanted nothing more than to repair the smile that had ebbed from your face. Come ridicule, hell, or high water, the man was infatuated with his bride—all broken plates and attempted window escapes be damned.

Presently, you brought your hand down to his bulge.

Bucky stiffened but didn’t speak. He wanted you to do this on your own, of your own volition.

“You seem kinda mad to me.” You hardly knew what you were doing. Just rubbing his length and hoping it was something he’d like.

Where Bucky had wanted to see you smile, you just wanted to hear him grunt and whine—maybe grab your hips and beg you to do something, please. You’d never felt any such degree of control, and you suspected Bucky had never not felt it himself. You wanted him desperate.

You were playing a dangerous game, you knew it, but something inside those baby blues said he wanted to do it, too. Do anything for you, quite frankly.

You watched the rise and fall of Bucky’s broad chest and stroked his length even softer.

“James.”

“Uh-huh?” His mouth hung open with a gentle grunt, fighting every instinct to buck into your touch.

At last, you squeezed his shaft and prodded him on. Let your head drift closer to his so his lips would graze the apple of your cheek, and just when you sensed he wanted a taste, you tilted your face toward his own,

“We haven’t even kissed since the ceremony.”

Bucky stared blankly at you, enrapt with the pulse of your fingers. You could tell he was aching to move.

“Oh yeah?” he murmured.

You nodded a wordless affirmation and slid sharply back in bed as Bucky lunged after you. Your hands flew from his pants to the plush mattress behind you as you shifted—or, rather, scrambled—back in place and felt your husband climb over you hungrily.

“That what my wife wants?” he murmured, frame slotting tight between your legs.

You nodded again, and had only to suck in a breath before Bucky was devouring your lips. The kind of flushed, frantic, filthy kiss that would’ve doubtlessly wrought looks of horror on every face at your wedding had he grabbed you that way after the declarations of ‘I do’ had been spoken.

You loved him like this, impassioned and a bit unhinged.

His tongue worked his way past your lips and scoured every soft, fleshy inch between the insides of your cheeks before he took your face in his hands, kissing you roughly.

Something hard and throbbing nudged your sex, and suddenly you were whining in his mouth. Wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Ah, honey, don’t,” Bucky groaned, visibly straining to contain himself. When you dug your heels even deeper in his back, the groan that followed from him was hoarse and guttural.

“I thought— I…fuck,” your husband turned his head to curse as you grinded your hips up to his. You had to bite back a smile.

“I just wanna do what married people do,” you murmured coyly, pretending not to see when Bucky shot you the most red-hot, wanton look he’d imparted all evening.

“Yeah?” Like a kid in a candy shop the size of Sears.

Bucky took your face in his hands once more and made sure to scan your expression for any shred of doubt. On finding nothing there, he sat panting, half-disbelieving and half-contemplating all the wretched things he wanted to do to you. You squeezed his sides with your thighs and just hoped your husband knew what to do, because, in truth, you didn’t have the first fucking idea.

A few dry, clinical terms flashed before your mind’s eye, along with your mother’s bleak depiction of what treatment lay in store for a woman on her wedding night, and as Bucky started to work his belt and his pants off, you just hoped he wouldn’t be cruel.

He couldn’t be, right? He’d only mowed down a hundred men and dismembered dozens more, you were told, but surely a set of eyes this soft, caring, and kind couldn’t belong to a monster. You let him lift your hips and shimmy your panties, garter belt, and stockings down your legs, and when he returned, you tried your best not to betray the thoughts in your head.

Bucky hadn’t been with a virgin for as long as he could remember—maybe ever. His own ‘deflowering’ an ancient relic of his boyhood and the multitude of partners since then a mere flurry of nameless faces, he sincerely couldn’t recall a time when he’d asked, or cared, whether the woman beneath him had her cherry intact. He didn’t suppose it could be too different, as he peeled the last pieces of your lingerie set off your body and saw you seemed perfectly ready. He ran a finger between your folds and felt you shiver with what looked like excitement. Piece of cake, he thought, smiling.

No doubt he would take great joy in making you his own. His bride, his wife, an unblemished beacon of light in a life as sordid as his, looked perfect spread before him. You would adjust to his size. Bucky trailed the head of his cock up your slit and coated himself in your juices, and just when he’d bracketed his other arm around your head on the pillow, you let out a small sound.

“Are you sure it’ll fit?”

Bucky fisted his length and pressed the tip to your entrance.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

He hadn’t yet met a woman who wasn’t able to fit him.

“Okay.”

Somehow, your voice sounded even smaller, head lodged between pillows and the crook of Bucky’s elbow. You felt small. Frankly, it didn’t seem like your husband was quite computing the worries that were pervading your brain, but you decided he knew best—your mother had assured you that husbands always did—and when Bucky first pressed the head of himself to the seam of your cunt, you hardly even whimpered.

You watched his brow furrow above you. He tried to go further.

Your folds were as soaked as he’d ever seen a woman’s, your hole practically pulsing with desire, and somehow, he couldn’t push in.

Bucky snagged his lip between his teeth and braced himself with the aid of the headboard, taking your hip in his other hand. A breath sounded on your lips the second he adjusted, and shortly thereafter, he felt your gaze on the same place he was watching: the spot where your bodies were trying to connect.

His features darkened at the prospect of failing, or even appearing incompetent to you in the slightest. He’d done this hundreds of times before, why wouldn’t it work?

When he felt your eyes trail back up his body and study his face—maybe wondering why her new groom hadn’t gotten around to thrusting into her yet, he thought—he felt a swell of panic and pushed.

Against his better judgment and the feel of your body, he muscled his way through and forced his cock inside. Bottoming out in a single, stabbing thrust.

You seized in pain but wanted to be a good wife for him.

Bucky, too, felt his hips stutter at the resistance your walls were giving him, but then remembered how he’d sworn to be a dutiful husband, and kept going.

Together, you stared anywhere but the other’s face and gritted your teeth for two entirely different reasons—you, in agony, and Bucky, in ecstasy, the latter hoping with everything in him that you liked this as much as him.

Bucky took a tender, if not slightly awkward, rhythm rutting against your body and stared steady at the headboard like he always did.

You were in pain and faced with nothing but his hulking chest, moving up and down, back and forth, over and over again like a goddamn seesaw from hell while it felt like your insides were presently being torn to shreds.

Who fucking enjoys this? you wanted to wail, but feigned a moan instead, raking your nails down Bucky’s back, Why isn’t he looking at me? Why isn’t he touching me?

Your walls involuntarily clenched around him, and he swallowed a moan.

Just think of baseball, beer, math, the Roman Empire, anything to keep from busting right now, Bucky told himself as he clenched his jaw and fought to maintain his pace. Your pussy just felt so. fucking. good.

Beneath him, you had tried and failed to fight back tears. The burn was just too much; the longer he thrusted, the more your walls contracted, and confusingly, stupidly, it seemed like he was using you. Your mother was right, most likely, that sex was just a means to an end for men like Bucky, and your husband didn’t care about your pleasure at all. You fought hard to keep the waterworks at bay, that one thing you hadn’t wanted Bucky to see, but eventually, the tears were flowing freely.

You stifled a sob that your husband mistook for a moan.

He fucked you even faster and felt a grin start to twitch at the corners of his lips when you made a sound that seemed consistent with pleasure.

“Feel so fucking tight,” Bucky grunted, about to lower his gaze to your face for the first time since he’d entered you, “So nice and tight and w—hey, hey, baby?”

He stilled inside as soon as he saw that you were crying. Took your face in his hands and almost couldn’t believe the sight of your tear-stained cheeks beneath him.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” he asked, scanning your face for any signs of harm.

You just shook your head and tried to brush him off.

“Keep going, I’m good.”

Bucky seemed angered at the suggestion. He brought your face closer to his and stared almost reproachfully down at you. Then he paused a beat and swiped one of your cheeks with the pad of his thumb.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“N—”

“Don’t lie.”

You squirmed a bit and winced. That was answer enough for Bucky, and he slowly pulled out of you.

“Aw hell.”

The two of you glanced down to see a blooming red spot on the comforter. Bucky rubbed the blood in disbelief.

He’d gone too far. Again. Hurt something inside of you that couldn’t be fixed with a kiss. While you struggled to sit up among the pillows, Bucky was running a hand through his hair and cursing himself up and down.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he scowled.

“I didn’t wanna interrup—”

“If I’m making you bleed, you stop me, for fuck’s sake.”

“Well you seemed to be having a pretty good time!”

Bucky didn’t need to tell you in words what was painted on his face; he was pissed off and probably bound to slip off the bed any second, when your tears started welling up again. Then he eased off, remembering he was more mad at himself than anyone else, and slid closer to you. He tried pulling you into his chest, but you didn’t budge.

“C’mon,” you said, grabbing his wrist, “Let’s keep going.”

Bucky eyed you incredulously.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh,” you insisted. He shot you a glare but didn’t protest when you guided his hand between your legs.

You were spread back open for him in no time. Still stinging like hell and ready for another go. Bucky almost couldn’t believe it.

“My headstrong wife.” He managed a smile before kissing the crown of your head, and kept right on kissing that spot no matter how far his fingers were traveling.

“You owe me two orgasms, remember, Mr. Barnes?”

It seemed Bucky’s boastful claims of late were in fact the furthest thing from his mind as he crawled back over your body. He pried your knees apart and left just enough room for his frame, taking his fingers to your folds and rubbing in light, gentle circles.

The bleeding had stopped. What little remained was long forgotten, and duly, the pain from recent memory was slowly but surely purged with every flick of his thumb. Bucky planted an arm next to your head and kept touching you there until your face relaxed completely.

When he chanced a finger inside, he was careful not to rub so much as plunge in quick, shallow motions, and at the first signs of pleasure, press light and tender kisses on your skin.

“If it hurts at all, you tell me.”

He sounded stern as he inserted another finger, but really, the man was all putty in your hands, wanting to please you and tease you in any way that he could.

When you told him faster, he sped up; you gripped his hair and said slow down, he did the same. He curled his digits in time with every whimper and moan you made and took care not to be too harsh on your sweet spot.

The only time he paused was when you looked up and asked him point-blank: could he fuck you sweet and gentle now?

Bucky paused. Swallowed.

The man would’ve screwed you six ways to Sunday if you asked him; that wasn’t the problem. The only traces of hesitation remained where your eyes said something different. Even as he shuffled between your legs at your behest, aligned his cock with your entrance, and felt a wave of desire wash over him, he pressed his forehead to yours and searched your glossy gaze once more.

“You sure about this, bunny?” he murmured.

Your heart melted at the name. You couldn’t deny you were frightened, and perhaps a bit worse for the wear after your last attempt, but his words were a comfort, his hand on your cheek a welcome gesture. When his thumb grazed your lips, you kissed it and nodded.

“Alright sweet girl,” Bucky said, tone laced with affection.

This time, before pressing the head of himself inside, Bucky caught your lips and kissed you softly. Rubbed himself up and down your slit—paying extra attention to your clit—and coated himself completely before trying to penetrate you again.

Your cheeks flushed, and you kissed him harder.

“P-please, Bucky, fuck me,” you murmured against his mouth, eliciting a small grunt from him.

“Yeah? You want your husband’s cock inside you, doll?” He kept the pretense of teasing, but really, he was just trying to make sure you wanted this as badly as he did. By the blissed out look on your face and the soft, ceaseless squelching noises produced by your arousal, he got the message pretty quickly.

He breached your folds with just the tip at first. You both felt your muscles contract. Instead of blindly pushing ahead like he had before, Bucky trained his gaze on your face and watched for any signs of discomfort.

“Everything okay, bunny?” he hummed as he brushed a few strands of hair from your face.

You were half in awe of how attentive he was, and doubly impressed by the stretch that followed—like a pinch, but nothing like the pain you’d felt before. You peered up at your husband and squeezed his shoulders.

“It— it doesn’t hurt this time,” you said, breathless.

Bucky could’ve caved at the sweet, innocent expression alone—like you were pleasantly surprised this hadn’t caused excruciating pain—and his lips moved down to pepper your cheeks with kisses again.

“Doll, I’m so sorry.”

The sounds and sighs of your pleasure beneath him, along with the words telling him it was okay, really, he hadn’t meant to do it, all made him feel even guiltier for having hurt you in the first place. It took him some time assailing your face with tiny, apologetic kisses before he even thought to feed you another inch.

When he finally plunged himself deeper, it wasn’t without your express permission; even then, Bucky feared he might split you in two.

The whole time he eased himself inside, he was moving his gaze between your face and the place between your two bodies—watching you open for him and take him inch by inch. He rubbed his thumb over your clit when you whimpered.

“Doing so good for me.”

“Stretching so nice for this cock.”

“My beautiful, beautiful wife.”

Every syllable of his praises flooded your head like honey. Feeling him stretch you out, fill you up, and rock you softly with his first shallow thrusts, all while talking you through it, had your mind ablaze and near-euphoric.

Pleasure practically searing your veins, you didn’t even hear yourself, or really mean to say it, as soon as you did.

“This doesn’t feel dirty at all.”

An epiphany to you and a puzzle to Bucky.

“What’s’at, honey?” He was still rutting his hips and slowly picking up speed. Your husband groaned when you clenched around him and pulled him even deeper—before you realized what you’d said.

Your cheeks flushed.

“I— I was always told sex made you dirty. This feels—” you stopped to swallow a moan when Bucky grazed a particularly sensitive spot inside you, “pretty nice.”

‘Pretty nice.’ Your husband couldn’t help the smile twitching at the corners of his lips as he leaned down to kiss you. He wrapped his big, muscly arms around you and pulled you closer to his chest.

“Makes you dirty?” Bucky said, disbelief evident in his tone before his smile broke into a grin, “Baby, you’re the cleanest, sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He didn’t let you endeavor to protest, just buried his face in your neck and pressed teasing kisses all over the skin while he continued to pump in and out of you. He knew to keep hitting that spot, too.

You were drowning in whimpers and kisses when Bucky brought his lips to your ear.

“Doesn’t make you dirty at all,” he assured you, “Just makes you my wife.”

You clawed Bucky’s back when he sped up a little, and you felt the pleasure soar to even greater heights when he propped your legs above his shoulders—a brand new angle for him to bend you like a pretzel and fuck you good.

“You take this cock too nice to be dirty,” he gritted his teeth and continued to soothe you just how he knew you liked it, “Such a good little wife, sucking up every inch of me like you were made for it.”

Your lips parted in a soft ‘o,’ feeling him plunge the depths of your cunt like he never had before. Bucky slipped his thumb in your mouth while he held your face.

“That what you are, bunny? A good girl?”

You nodded your head and sucked his thumb, feeling yourself fucked dumb as you did. Bucky loved that blissed out look in your eyes.

“Good girl for daddy?” he cooed.

Your ankles trembled around his neck as soon as he said it. You nodded again, yes, you were, and felt a light coil start to form in your lower stomach as Bucky kept pounding you and pushing his thumb between your lips.

Then, with a pop, he plucked the digit from your mouth and brought it down to your clit. He started soft at first, but before long he was rubbing vicious circles on that little bundle of nerves, watching you come undone before his eyes and clench around him even tighter.

“B-Bucky,” you whined, fisting the sheets underneath you both as you squirmed.

“Mhmm?” Your husband pretended to be oblivious.

“I w— I’m gonna—” The words could scarcely leave your lips without finding themselves punctured with a whimper as soon as they were spoken. Bucky thrusted harder.

“Gonna what? Cum for daddy?” he grinned, “Make a mess all over this cock?”

Your moans of pleasure more than sufficed for an answer. You nodded and winced, felt your whole lower half seize with a warm and heady feeling, and before you knew it, Bucky’s thrusts were sending you spiraling over the edge, with a wave of bliss following shortly behind. Sounds of skin slapping skin hardly faltered, and Bucky kept rubbing and fucking you all throughout the waves of your high.

Tears sprung to your eyes, and you didn’t care. Your mind was alight with more bright, fervid feelings than you could count or comprehend, and your body washed over with pleasure.

You clung to Bucky and felt him keep fucking you, even as you shrieked against his skin.

“One more for me, honey.”

You didn’t think that was possible. You had just spilled all over him, squeezing his cock like a vice and screaming his name, and now he wanted it all over again? So soon?

Your fingernails sunk into his arms as he continued to rut into you, and you started to shake your head.

“C-Can’t Bucky, I can’t, I can’t,” you sobbed, tears still streaming down your cheeks.

“Sure you can.”

Your husband had his mouth at your ear again, panting as the pace of his thrusts grew faster. He tilted his body slightly forward so your legs were pushed even higher above you—damn near grazing either side of your head—and pounded you relentlessly.

His voice seemed so calm and assured as he spoke,

“Cum for daddy. Show me just how fucking good this cock makes you feel and cum again for me.”

With a command like that, how could you refuse?

You came a second time, hands seizing Bucky's forearms, and screams tearing through your chest as you rode your high impaled on his cock over and over again. The sights and sounds and repeated, pulsing spasms of your pussy on his shaft sent Bucky chasing his release not long after, and you felt a warmth spread inside you.

Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears, your cheeks practically drenched already. As you came down from your high, you started to blink.

But just as you lifted a hand to sop up the moisture, Bucky was leaning over you and into you with the brightest smile. Then he was kissing each wet, salty stain like it was the most natural thing in the world, sponging soft and gentle touches all over the spots your tears had overflown.

It seemed every nerve ending in your lower half was on the fritz, your body little more than mush underneath him, but somehow you managed to catch his mouth as he traversed the skin. You kissed him back, and Bucky drew you closer.

The two of you separated for a second, Bucky’s cock still resting comfortably inside you and his broad frame engulfing you in bed. He paused a beat. Seemed to consider something in his mind before speaking aloud.

“Honey,” he started, unsure of how he wanted to say this.

You peered up at him, curious. His seed had filled every contour and crevice of your aching walls and was just then starting to dribble out of you. Bucky seemed unfazed. He cupped both hands around your face.

“I love you.”

You blinked. No fucking way you were hearing those words.

“What?” You felt too awestruck to say anything else.

“I love you,” Bucky repeated. A smile was starting to tug at his lips, his thumb tracing your cheek while you stared at him in disbelief.

You would’ve liked to speak.

Would’ve loved to say those three little words right back.

In fact, you had just opened your mouth to tell him that, when a sound at the foot of the bed startled you both.

The warm glow of moonlight pouring in from the window panes was your only means to see it. But sight wasn’t worth much at all when a man appeared and pressed the barrel of a gun to Bucky’s temple, letting out a chuckle.

Another man, clad head-to-toe in polished black tactical gear approached from the far end of the room. Bucky gritted his teeth but remained motionless, hearing that man cock his firearm as well. You were surrounded on either side of the bed. Your blood ran cold.

“Sorry to interrupt the fun, Mr. Barnes,” the man on the left spoke so low and gruff he could scarcely be heard.

When Bucky started to stir, the man on the right raised his pistol as well. Curled his finger on the trigger.

“We haven’t even met your beautiful bride.” A set of cruel, glinting teeth turned in your direction. Suddenly, all eyes were trained on you—along with a third handgun, pointed at your head, as another man approached.

“Wedded bliss treating you well so far, Mrs. Barnes?”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #marvel #mcu #mob bucky barnes #marvel smut #marvel x reader #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #mob!bucky #mob!bucky barnes #mob bucky #mafia!bucky #mafia bucky barnes

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softfem-dom · 2 months ago

Text

the four times they asked about his sidekick, and the one time he realized why. (pt.1)

worst!logan + d&w!deadpool x suicidal!reader

a/n : okay this is sad and emotion-driven asf, so if you're sensitive to suicide mentions or emotional trumoil and problems of self-worth please do not continue reading this. Also warning for suicide description for the other universes' sidekicks. first part out of five!

wc : 2k

TW FOR SUICIDE , TW FOR DEPRESSION , SOFT!WADE , SOFT!WORST!LOGAN , WADE BEING UNABLE TO LOOK AFTER A KID , HEAVY/MULTIPLE BATMAN AND JASON TODD REFERENCES , DEADPOOL VARIANTS FUSSING OVER READER. soft!worst logan . overprotective!deadpool . only-deadpool-still-with-sidekick!wade wilson

Think of Batman and Robin.

Yup. Now turn and twist it around some more and make it.. more chaotic, more unhinged. More morally questionable.

And then think of Deadpool. The merc with a mouth. The dude that chose a red suit just so he didn't have to bother about the red stains.

And then add up a teenager to the recipe. As chaotic as the man, maybe a bit naïver. And you've got Deadpool and his sidekick.

Because if all cool superheros had sidekicks, then Deadpool —albeit while not actively being a superhero. Had to have one too, didn't he?

And that's how you had ended up roped into all of his unethical adventures, killing off the bad guys that had the highest price above their head and helping Deadpool run the official Spideypool fanwebsite.

But, despite how many masks you put on, despite how many bad guys you killed, despite how many times you had saved someone. You were still just you.

A teenager. A teenager paired up with an older, unhinged, mercenary that ran his mouth way too much and that got you into way too much trouble.

A teenager paired up with an irresponsible adult without emotional responsability was the fucking equivalent of throwing a trained lab mouse inside the first maze that didn't have an exist.

Wade cared about you. Yeah, you knew that. But the problem was that you were a teenager and teenagers needed a certain amount of care to grow healthyly.

Because physically you were great, with how much running around and being-at-the-verge-of-death you did. But mentally? God, then you were the messiest mess in the planet.

Spending so much time with someone that had so many intrusive thoughts, that spilled his thoughts without filter, had rubbed off on you.

And sometimes you scared yourself when sudden thoughts popped up in your mind. Like the sudden pull in your legs anytime you walked near the edge of a roof, the "jump!" that flashed across your head. Or the way you wondered, asked yourself, what it would feel to be stabbed when you were cleaning Deadpool's katanas. Or the way you started to throw yourself at danger's way just for the thrill of it. And if you died, well, there went nothing.

It was wrong. It was bad. And it was a totally unhealthy and toxic vice. You knew you were self-destructive.

But you didn't know how to do doing anything about it.

You see, if Deadpool wasn't so reckless and careless maybe you would've told him. But since he did it, you grew into your late teens thinking it was okay.

Lately, your thoughts had grew more dangerous. More specific. And you were starting to get scared of yourself. In movies, that was how villians started —with destructive thoughts. And you didn't want to become a villian.

What would Wade think of you? He'd be disappointed in you, hate your guts, despise you.

So your mind jumped to the quickest—and most self-destructive—conclussion. Offing yourself before that happened.

And you had nearly 10 pages of your pink diary written with ways of carrying on with that plan. Glitter gel pen words scribbled about the knifes in the house—their lengths and sharpness—, about the belts stacked away in Wade's closet, about the height of the fall from the balcony to the ground. You had everything planned.

And Wade hadn't caught onto anything of it, except for the fact you seemed more twitchy and on edge than usual. He tied it to the usual teenage anxiousness that came with your age.

He didn't know this was the last mission he was going to have you in.

He had just brought you along on this 'adventure' just like he had did with all of the ones before, except in this one there was another.. —reluctant—companion.

Logan Howlett. The Wolverine.

And not the dead hero that Wade had unburied a few days before. No. This one was the worst variant of Wolverine in the whole multiverse, the one from the timeline where he killed all of the X-Men.

And that Howlett was smelling something coming.

He could smell the irony scent of blood whafting off of you, a bitter scent choking his airways. Your scent was way too bitter for how cheerful you were, except maybe you weren't.

This Logan had only barely known you for two days, but if something were to happen to you he'd kill the responsible, then find a way to kill the mercenary and then find a way to kill himself too.

But, first. Stop, pause, rewind. How this did even start?

You groaned as you helped Wade drag the uncounscious body of the drunk Wolverine you had found in a random timeline —the only one in which the dude hadn't tried to kill you at first sight. Entering through the door-shaped orange portal to the TVA room.

"one anchor being coming right up!" Wade's voice rang through the air before the merc, fully dressed in his suit, had crossed the portal.

You let out a startled squeak when the antihero pretty much threw the uncounscious body of the Logan on the ground, wincing at the metallic sound of his skull against the floor.

"Wade!" you hissed. "c'mon pumpkin', don't sweat it. He's full metal, remember?" he said as he gave the drunk Logan a kick in the side, the metallic sound echoing his words.

"listen here, babygirl" the merc started, looking at the unimpressed man before him. "this Wolverine has the he-can-do-anything-even-musical-stuff look to him and bonus he's actually wearing the accurate comic costume. So, uh yeah, there, timeline saved"

The silence coming from the dude that had called Wade here in the first place didn't sound too good get it?. And as you sat there, poking the drunk man's face with your index finger while whispering for him to "wake up, Wolvie, rise and shine, wakey wakey?"

"I don't understand"

"You said my, our" he pointed at you "universe is dying because this nutsack died, well, problem solved" he now pointed at Logan.

"oh my god" Paradox breathed out. "you actually think you can replace an Anchor Being with this?"

Oh, great. A rant was comming. Like the ones your mother goes on when you mess up too many times.

"I wouldn't have accepted any other Wolverine BT dubs. But you.. have outdone yourself and brought me the worst Wolverine in the whole multiverse!"

It looked as if the dude's temple vein was going to pop, and you weakly interveened. "what do you mean the worst one..?" you breathed out.

"This Wolverine let down his entire world, he's the stuff of Legend but not in a good way and what he did.. well, some things are just beyond forgiveness"

A beat of silence followed, you knew the Wolverine on the floor had been awake and listening for the whole time. But then, you saw Paradox finally looking at you.

"wait"

"what?"

"is that your little sidekick?"

The incredulous, and cruelly amused, tone of the man in uniform made Wade quirk an eyebrow under his mask.

"yeah, why?"

His words were followed by a booming laugh coming from Paradox. His hand going to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, as chuckle after chuckle it just confused Wade and you even more.

"I can't believe you've still got her"

That was like a titty-flash for Wade, and not the good kind. He stood there, mouth gaping like a fish as he wildly and overexageredly gestured towards you.

"I gave you a chance at greatness, because my superiors deemed you special. But, I did my duty. I gave you the opportunity and you refused, so there's no more bussiness to do here"

And with that, and a strange remote control in his hand, he pressed a button and zapped you three off to somewhere. Leaving Wade with a strange taste lingering in his mouth.

Well, at least it seemed like your last adventure wasn't going to be boring.

(tags : @coocoocachewgotscrewed , @lokisloverisnthere , @krowsfoot , @lizziegraysworld , @r0reep , @beelzel-brat ).

#softie's works #tfttaahsatothrw series #the five times they asked about his sidekick and the one time he realized why #the five times they asked about his sidekick and the one time he realized why series #deadpool #deadpool x reader #deadpool x fem reader #platonic deadpool x reader #platonic deadpool x fem reader #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #logan howlett x fem reader #platonic logan howlett x reader #platonic logan howlett x fem reader #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine x fem reader #wolverine x suicidal reader #wolverine x teen reader #wolverine x depressed reader #deadpool x suicidal reader #deadpool x depressed reader #deadpool x teen reader #wade wilson #wade wilson x fem reader #wade wilson x reader #platonic wade wilson #platonic wade wilson x reader #wade wilson x teen reader #wade wilson x suicidal reader

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boyfhee · 9 months ago

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박성훈 、PRETTY FACE

all the trouble sunghoon gets himself in lands him in your arms.

featuring ⋆ rich boy! sunghoon x fem reader

contents ⋆ kissing, mentions of cuts, injuries and blood, just a whole lot of fluff i miss writing cute stuff, insecurities perhaps ( 1370 )

notes ⋆ rich boy sunghoon....save me from him. also this was not meant to be above a thousand words and was supposed to be funny. and this one's for saint @hoonvrs hi bae

one thing you’ve learnt while dating sunghoon, it’s always an adventure. so unforeseen, like when he showed up at your balcony, again, last night with a few bruises and cuts on his face. you had let him in and he avoids your attempt at cupping his face just as swiftly. and dating sunghoon is exhilarating, with the way you let him stay for the night, again, knowing your parents are home.

“good morning,” you smile and brush your thumb over the cut on the corner of his lips. it’s red, his lips are dry, and yet they’re soft when you lean down for a quick peck.

“morning, sweetheart,” he says quietly. “how creepy of you to watch me sleep,”

“guess i’ll be a creep if it means i get to look at your handsome face,” you hum, fighting back a smile.

“is that a compliment i hear?” and he’s almost turning away to sleep, but your words catch him off, and he smirks drowsily with a soft and sleepy gaze adorning you. “what’s the occasion?”

“i’m serious, hoon. you’re handsome,” you insist with a frown, cupping his face again, thumb brushing over his cheeks as you lean in and whisper ever so tenderly. “so handsome, it’s crazy,”

“well, aren’t you sweet, my love,” and he can’t help but wrap his arms around you, pulling you on top of him. it’s quiet, you lay with your head on his chest. it’s barely six, you look out through the huge glass window panes installed in your room by your request to fit the aesthetic, but now it’s how sunghoon climbs up your room every other night.

it’s not usual for him to get compliments. usually, you’re trying to play it cool, as if his words don’t affect you as much as he thinks they do. on other days, you’re busy rolling your eyes every time he flirts. you make him work for compliments, it’s funny, and he enjoys it. a little bit of challenge in his way too easy lifestyle keeps him going. but today— as you’re quietly listening to his heartbeat while he’s caressing your back— you want to stay like this.

he brushes his fingers through your hair, planting soft kisses on your head every few seconds. it’s rare for you two to be this quiet. with sunghoon, every minute spent on bed leads to something else, most of the time. but this time it’s silent, it’s risky, he’s in your room and as much as he jokes about it, the idea of being caught by your parents isn’t something either of you fancy.

“i think i should get up and leave before your—” it lands upon you to worry about keeping everything a secret, today it’s his job to make sure the secret is safe.

“it stings, doesn’t it?” you cut him off immediately, pinning him down as he tries to get up. he can see the concern in your eyes, worries trickling through your finger tips and seeping through his skin when you lace your fingers over his scratches.

“i told you, they’re not that bad,” he shrugs, too careless, carefree. he doesn’t know why you worry yourself over something so minor. “they don’t even hurt,”

“it hurts me to see you like this,” and his thoughts are put to halt when the words leave your mouth.

it was half past one when sunghoon knocked at the glass doors of your balcony. you were getting ready for bed after movies, and he was avoiding your gaze as you were running your eyes over his state— messy, hurt, and so were you.

‘did you get into another fight with heeseung?’ you had asked and he avoided, again, dodging all your questions and attempts to check on him. you let him in, and he goes straight to your bathroom. his gaze doesn’t meet your eyes, he avoids all the eye contact and conversation. he turns away to take off his shirt covered in dirt. it’s worse this time. ‘come here,’

you grabbed his arm to pull him towards you, but he refused to face you. he’s ashamed, like every time he is when you see him like this. the pretty face you’ve always been so fond of no longer fits the definition. you tried to make him look at you, but he grabbed your hands, kissing your palms and pulled you to bed.

“is that a new way of telling me to not get into fights?” he asks, feigning a yawn, a faint chuckle following by. you’re still on top of him, pinning him down, and if he didn’t know any better, you would’ve ended up under him already.

“is it working?”

“a bit,” he mumbles quietly and pulls you closer by your waist, face nuzzling in the crook of your neck. he keeps planting tender kisses on your cheeks, and then down on your neck, as if telling you to let go of all the concerns that plague your mind. “you worry too much,”

“i know, i will continue to do that,” you pull back again, much to his disappointment. nothing could compare to the feeling of having you in his arms. “if not for your dad and for the sake of your reputation then at least for me, you need to stop,”

sunghoon knows.

if not for anything— it isn’t for anything else. not for his mother’s million dollars fashion brand, not for his sister’s business ventures, nor his father’s political career. it’s for you, every scratch, every nip and every cut, every drop of blood that had trickled down the corner of his lips when heeseung landed a punch on his face. how could he not? sunghoon can stand anything but people talking down on you as if they know you. it makes him fight for you and funnily enough, he’s happy to bleed to death for you.

“you always ruin the mood, bringing that old man up,” he’s deflecting— just as you had expected and you’re not backing down. one leg swinging to the other side, arms by his head. he’s down, caged, a position where he can’t avoid you. it’s about time you two had this conversation.

“i’m serious,” you’re trying your best to keep up the stern face, eyes locked into his.

“i love it when you get all serious, angel,” he grins suggestively, arms around your waist again. he’s slipping them under your top, you slap it away and it only makes him laugh in amusement. “i suppose it is a bit too early for that,”

you don’t say anything, just looking at his pretty face. you stroke softly over the cut on his cheekbone and he flinches ever so slightly. it’s new, it stings, adorned by a bit of dried up blood just like the one on his lips. there’s one near his jaw from a while ago, it’s healing. each and every part an ugly reminder of how much trouble he gets in.

“you’re such a pretty face,” you whisper quietly and lean down to kiss him, trying to be so gentle to not hurt him even more. you take your sweet time, tracing your lips over those wounds, new or old, and then speaking with a voice impossibly loving. “even with these,”

“i love it when you call me that,” he takes your hand, kissing your palms. it’s not everyday that he’s spoiled like this.

and you pull your hand back, speaking with frown as if giving him a warning. “i won’t anymore if you get into another fight,”

“guess we’re making truce with heeseung,” he chuckles quietly, shaking his head, pretending to be annoyed. he finally pulls you down next to him and wraps his arms around you, kissing your forehead. “things i do for my girl,”

you let out a muffled laughter while your face is buried in his chest before looking up at him with love pouring out of your eyes. “for me?”

“for you,” you hand rests on his cheeks as he leans down for a kiss, and his hands wrap over them gently, holding them in place. when you kiss him so deeply yet delicately, like it’s a stellar reunion, he pulls away just for a brief second, whispering against your lips. “everything,”

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jezebelblues · 2 months ago

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𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐘 | 𝐇.𝐒 ₊˚⊹ᰔ

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐲, 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭—𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧.

loosely based off this request.

𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨𝐫. 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐢𝐭.

𝐂𝐖: smut18+ fingering, slight exhibitionism, jealousrry, alcohol usage, fratrry, fem!reader

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 3.4k

masterlist

YN tasted like cherries.

A cherry vodka sour, sweet with a hint of something sharper underneath—a taste that lingered, his very own narcotic, drawing him in sip by sip like a whispered invitation. The scent clung to her, rolling from her lips in quiet, careless breaths that brushed his cheek whenever she leaned too close. By the end of the night, he was close enough to catch the faintest trace of cherry chapstick, a soft tease of sweetness he was certain she left there just for him.

She stood in the neon glow at the edge of the room, light bleeding over her skin, casting her in shades that looked as alive as they did unreal. The dim purple and blue fractured over her collarbone, slipped across her cheekbones, hiding as much as it revealed. He watched her, and she knew it. Her gaze drifted past him, lingering just long enough for him to wonder if she'd felt his stare prickling across her skin. And when she smiled, he swore there was something in it meant just for him—a fleeting thing, a glimmer of knowledge that she understood exactly what she was doing to him.

Harry could feel the weight of it, her laughter bubbling like carbonation, fizzy and sharp as it hit his ears and curled around him, intoxicating as any drink in his hand. She was just out of reach, always a breath away, with eyes that seemed to say she knew every game he was trying to play, and she’d play them better.

He couldn’t remember the taste of his own drink anymore, something else sat on his tongue–bubbling from the top of his throat, igniting his chest.

Her bottom lip pulled between her teeth as she smiled, her solo cup discarded from her hands and onto the broad shoulders of the man standing in front of her. She’d glance Harry’s way every few minutes, eye locking with his before turning back to the man, laughing at something she definitely didn’t find funny.

Yeah, she knew exactly what she was doing.

His fingers gripped his drink, watching as she tilted her head to the side, her tapping against his shoulders like a spell. And then–there it was. Her eyes flickered to Harry, a spark of something familiar dancing on the edge of her pupils, flashing just long enough to say, are you watching?

He was.

The man leaned in closer, his large hand resting against her hip while the other gripped the edge of the table behind her—caged in. Harry wanted to almost laugh. She wasn’t blocked in, no, the exact opposite. Men melted like ice in her palms, she was the ringmaster here. She played it perfectly, the tilt of her head, trailing her fingers up his neck as if she was spinning a web.

“Your cans getting crushed.” Came Mitch’s voice, low and amused as he nodded toward the aluminum Harry white knuckled.

He exhaled, easing his fingers around the drink as he took a shallow sip, a wry smile slipping onto his lips. “She’ll be the death of me.”

Mitch laughed, eyeing Harry over the brim of his beer bottle touching his lips. “Only ‘cause you let her.”

He let himself lean into the wall behind him, the cool surface doing nothing to temper the heat curling beneath his skin. Mitch was right. He let her—let her pull him under like a wave, let her play the part of his tormentor. His eyes held onto her, his cherry, wrapped in a game she orchestrated with the precision of a maestro. The room spun around her, and he was caught into her gravity, helpless to orbit at a distance.

Their gaze held each other every time she would flicker her eyes over. It was filthy, as if they were fucking, front and center of everyone. She pinned him in place with only a glance, that sly, knowing look. She lifted herself onto the table behind her, her laughter like a melody meant only for him. The music thumped against the walls, drowning out everything else, but it didn’t matter—he’d hear YN over it all, every soft breath, every little sound. She was everywhere in his senses, threading through his veins.

The man stood between her legs, saying something in her ear that Harry couldn’t make out, but it was enough to make her lips quirk into a smile—one he knew wasn’t for him. His hand tightened around his drink again, crushed aluminum forgotten, cold liquid seeping through his fingers. It was her doing; she knew exactly how to turn him into this, into a version of himself that held back only because the tension was a part of the thrill.

Another laugh escaped her lips, and he saw her bite down on it, that little nibble on her bottom lip that drove him mad. YN threw her head back, letting her hair fall around her shoulders like a heavy curtain, exposing the curve of her neck. A pulse beat just under her skin, one he knew he could feel if he got close enough.

And for a second, he thought he saw her crack.

The man’s hand slid further up her thigh, threatening to slip underneath the fabric of her small skirt. But her gaze drifted, almost instinctively, back to Harry. It was quick, so quick he almost convinced himself he imagined it, but Harry knew better. There was a question in that flicker, a question he knew was coming since the beginning of the night, are you going to let him keep touching me?

It wasn’t fair, none of it was, the way she played him like this, weaving in and out of his focus until he couldn’t remember the start of his own intentions. Every step he took toward her, its like she took one back, luring him deeper. He hated that she knew he’d follow, hated how she left him chasing shadows.

A hand landed on his shoulder, snapping him back, Mitch—although he was unsure if he wanted to be pulled back into reality or not. He watched him with a look that was half-amused, half-concerned. “You keep staring, mate, you’re gonna turn to stone.” He teased, though his eyes lingered on Harry’s hand, still clenched white around his drink.

He forced a laugh, hollow, strained. “Maybe I already have.”

The words barely left his mouth before he saw her slip off the table, her admirer’s hand slipping from her waist and interlacing his fingers with hers—as if they were heading out.

Something in him snapped. Before he knew what he was doing, he was pushing off the wall, letting his half-emptied can of beer clammer onto the wooden floor beneath him. He weaved through the crowd with a single minded purpose, ignoring the curious glances sent his way. Mitch muttered something behind him, but it didn’t register—couldn’t register.

The guy with her hadn’t noticed him yet, too absorbed in whatever he muttered against her cheek. Harry saw her roll her eyes in amusement, stroking whatever ego the man had. Her gaze then slid sideways, catching sight of Harry. Her expression didn’t falter—if anything, her smile grew, just the tiniest bit, a flash of triumph dancing in her gaze as she held his.

The man finally noticed, his grin faltering as he slipped his hand from hers, turning to face Harry who was close enough to see uncertainty flicker over his face, a split second before he masked it with bravado.

“H,” she mumbled, her voice warm, as if she were greeting just an old friend. She didn’t step away from the two, only allowing herself to lean against the table once again with her arms crossed over her chest.

He took another step forward, a smile curving his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Enjoying yourself?”

YN arched a brow, her gaze playful, almost defiant. “I was. Are you?”

The guy shifted awkwardly beside them, looking at them with a growing wariness, as if he wasn’t entirely sure what he put himself into. Harry spared him a glance, a cool, knowing look that revealed something simmering underneath. It was answer enough.

His patience was fraying, thinning out thread by thread that she unraveled.

He placed his hand on the table she leaned onto, the tip of his thumb brushing against the fabric of her skirt. He was close enough for her to feel his cool breath, close enough for him to smell the faint hint of cherry lingering on her lips. His eyes burrowed into the man that still stood there as he whispered, low enough for only her to hear, “why are y’playing games with me?”

Her smile sharpened, and there was something dark, something electric, sparking in her irises as she looked toward him. She shifted her weight, turning her shoulders into him. His eyes still bore into the man’s, his jaw clenched.

He seemed nice enough, sure, but he didn’t fucking care when it came to her.

God, she ruined him. And Harry took it gladly, falling to his knees and worshiping her.

“Who says I’m playing?” She barely blinked, her words a challenge, a dare he couldn’t ignore. And then she reached out, brushing a single finger along the ink on his forearm, trailing it down with a touch that was featherlight, maddeningly subtle. “Or maybe,” she breathed, her lips a head-turn away, “you just don’t like that we’re not playing by your rules.”

His eyes finally flickered to hers, it was all he could do to hold himself steady. The guy beside them cleared his throat awkwardly, muttering something about getting another drink and slipping away into the crowd, clearly catching the drift.

Harry didn’t care, no. He’d claim her right now, in front of everyone, if she let him.

They ignored him, nothing more than a forgotten piece of her performance—a discarded prop, now that Harry was here, close enough to feel the heat of her skin and that slow, steady rise and fall of her breath.

“You don’t have to keep doing this.” He said lowly, laced with an edge he couldn’t quite hide. “Pretending you don’t want it.”

Her smile was slow, spreading across her face with a satisfaction that bordered on wicked. She pushed up onto her toes, lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Maybe I like seeing what it does to you.”

Her words wrapped around him, drawing him in, filling him with a reckless sort of need, one he’d tried to bury, tried to ignore. But she’d brought it to the surface, peeling him apart layer by layer until he was bare before her, all pretense stripped away,

“Careful.” He warned, his voice a rumble, shifting on his weight to place his free hand on the other side of the table, caging her in. His hand slipped up her thigh, past her skirt, his fingertips slipping underneath the fabric of her panties and gripping the bare skin of her hip. “Or I’ll show you exactly what it does, right in front of everyone.”

Her gaze flickered down, lingering on the sharp line of his jaw, her own pulse quickening beneath his touch. She looked up at him through her eyelashes, a smirk tugging at her lips. “His name is Mateo.” She murmured, her lips brushing against his chin, just beneath his bottom lip. “He was gonna take me upstairs.”

He didn’t say anything, he only tightened his jaw, slipping his fingers inward just barely, tracing the lace of her panties.

She let out a breathy giggle, “seem a little tense.” She mumbled against his skin, her voice teasing, silk-wrapped around a blade. Her smile was innocent, close-lipped and coy as she leaned her head away from his mouth, but her eyes betrayed her, dark and hungry. “Something on your mind?”

“I think you like it.” His voice was rough, sharpened. The tip of his index finger slipped underneath the gusset of her panties, tracing down her folds that were already slick with arousal. “Seeing me like this.”

Her breath hitched, her eyes finally averting from his to the crowd over his shoulder. Everyone was enveloped in their own words, nursing solo cups of vodka or pupils wide with some sort of substance. She could feel his finger, the way it sat right at her entrance. He was teasing her, she knew it. She looked at him again, only seeing a man completely unraveled before her.

Just like she wanted.

“Said he wanted to hear me scream his name.”

He eased his finger into her, knuckle deep. He watched through half-lidded eyes the way her forehead creased in pleasure, the way cherry fell from her breath. He curled his finger upward before slowly pulling out, a sigh escaping her lips. “What was his name?” Harry breathed, his lips against her temple.

Her eyebrows furrowed, scanning the people behind him again. In that moment, she was grateful the table was tucked into the corner of the room, an afterthought unless someone was looking for it. “Mat–”

He pumped into her again, this time adding his middle finger, her velvety walls fluttering around his digits. Her hands gripped the edge of the table, her spine straightening.

“Your cunt was soaked before I even touched you.” He spat, his voice low behind the music. His fingers were slow, teasing, teetering on the edge of her resolve. “Don’t think he did that for you.”

Her chest rose as she drew a breath, deep, silencing. Her eyes found his ways back to his, so dark she could see herself in the reflection of them. A knot tightened in her belly, a pressure building between her thighs before his movements stilled.

His fingers remained, unmoving as he knit his eyebrows together, watching a silent desperation dance upon her features. “Who got you like this?” He murmured, pressing a kiss into her forehead. She clenched around him, drawing a chuckle that emitted from his chest. “Say it, YN.”

“You.” She breathed. Of course he did, no one else could make her feel this way.

Her effort to hold back her moans were poor, soft squeaks tumbling from her mouth as Harry pumped his fingers in and out—the wet sound of being finger-fucked only audible between the two of them.

“You seem tense, baby.” He echoed, pressing a kiss against her cheekbone, soft, barely there. “Something on your mind?”

She raised her hand toward his shoulder, balling the fabric in her hands as she struggled to stay quiet. His knuckles pounded against her pussy selfishly, a sick sense of pride spreading around his chest. “Fuck, H. Just like that.”

He could feel the way she fluttered around him, the way she was so close to coming just from his fingers.

But, he smirked, pulling his hand from her panties, her arousal glistening under the neon lights. A whimper fell from her lips, her shoulders falterning, a frustration bubbling over. His other hand sat on her bare knee as he took the smallest step backward, bringing those two fingers to his lips, licking the tip of them like he swiped them through a sweet dessert.

His lips were slick as he leaned back in, kissing her. Her legs tightened around his own as she tasted herself on him, the heat between her thighs growing unbearable.

And he smiled into it, biting her lip as he pulled away. A warmth settled in his tummy, he felt like he could float—

happy that he could taste cherries again.

#harry styles #harry edward styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry styles concept #harry styles au #frat boy harry #fratrry #jealousrry #jealous harry #harry styles smut

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kryptonitejelly · 6 months ago

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draco malfoy x reader (female)

the one where Blaise notices the Malfoy signet ring on your finger.

send draco requests.

The air smells like a combination of Draco and yourself, but mostly Draco - notes of citrus overlaid with the scent of tea and smoky wood. His sheets are cool against the surface of your skin, a sensation which lends a sharp contrast to the warmth of his bare chest against your cheek. You can feel one of his hands tracing patterns onto the skin of your back, as he other hand fiddles absently with your fingers which you have splayed out across his chest, a lazy post-coital haze surrounding you both.

“Who knew the Draco Malfoy would be one for cuddling,” you say teasingly your fingers tugging lightly on the long slender digits which are still tangled with yours. This isn’t the first time you’ve been here, your naked form flush against Draco’s in the same bed in which he had you legs hooked over his shoulder, his name a litany on your lips just mere moments ago.

“I’m not,” he scoffs with a roll of his eyes, as he manages to squeeze your fingers in his, a subtle battle for dominance among you both.

“Alright then,” you say both suddenly and with a calculated carelessness as you push your hands, fingers still tangled in his against his chest as you make a move to sit up. The covers slip easily down your skin with no clothes to act as friction. It exposes you, your nipples hardening upon contact with the cool air. You’e barely managed to get up when you feel the arm wrapped around you shift, fingers pressing more firmly into your hip to pull you back down.

“Where do you think you’re going,” Draco questions. He keeps his tone indifferent but the arm which has tightened around your body tells a different story.

“I’m sure Theo likes to cuddle,” you express matter of factly, keeping your expression innocent and it earns you an icy gaze from the blonde, cool grey boring in you. Draco observes you for almost a full minute before speaking.

“I’m sure he does not,” is what he finally says as a retort, his tone more disgruntled this time.

You open your mouth to disagree only to feel your back pressed flat into the mattress, Draco’s body now covering yours, his movements swift. You see the glint in his eyes as he lowers his head towards yours.

“Draco,” you breathe his name out. He doesn’t respond but presses his lips to yours. His hands find yours, fingers tangling together, pinning your hands above your head. You kiss him back, teeth nipping his lip lightly which earns your a low growl from the back of his throat. You can feel Draco hardening, his length pressed against your stomach. Your almost miss it with the competing sensations overtaking your body - lips, hands, skin, but your brain manages to register the feeling of Draco slipping cool metal from the signet ring on his last finger onto your index.

“Well, well, well - look who decided to join us,” Blaise calls out too cheerily, taking in the sight of you and Draco walking into the small sitting room in what had come to be Draco’s side of the Malfoy manor.

“It is surprising that I’m joining you in the sitting room of the Malfoy manor,” comes Draco’s reply which earns a good natured chortle from Theo and an eye roll from Pansy.

“Well, you can’t blame us for thinking that you two would be,” Blaise pauses for dramatic effect, “…otherwise occupied.” His unsaid words clear.

As with the rest, you and Draco had been childhood friends. However, years of tension that neither of you had acted upon had only cumulated more recently, and with Pansy’s blessing, into this, whatever it was. You both hadn’t yet spoken about it, the touching, sleepovers, sex, and there had been no outward proclamations to the world at large that either of you was anything other than single, and yet - it was no secret among anyone who knew either of you that you were both very unavailable.

“You mean book club?” You managed to keep a straight face as you question Blaise too innocently. It earns you a smirk from Draco and an amused chuckle from Pansy, your joke clear as you stop by the table facing the floor to ceiling windows which they are sitting by.

You reach across the table for a handful of blueberries from a bowl beside Theo’s elbow when you feel Blaise grab your wrist lightly, his fingers curling around, as he holds your wrist up in triumph, brandishing it around. You place your free hand flat down on the surface of the table, stabilising yourself as you lean forward into Blaise’s pull.

“I didn’t know book club members were all given the Malfoy signet ring,” he grins wildly at the discovery. The group’s gaze flickers to Draco’s hand, noticing the lack of the ring, usually a mainstay, on his the last finger of his left hand.

“If I join book club could I get one too?” Theo quips cheekily as you feel your cheeks start to heat both at your current plight as well as with recollection of what had been a subtle act of possessive on Draco’s part earlier.

“Zabini,” Draco says, tone still even as he reaches over, his hand curling around your forearm, tugging you out of Blaise’s grip, while ignoring Theo, “if she’s wearing the Malfoy signet ring don’t you think you should think twice before manhandling her?”

“Is she yours Draco,” Pansy adds to the chaos, an equally wide smirk on her face as Blaise lets your wrist slip out from his hold with ease while throwing you a wink.

“If you thought otherwise then you lot must be more dim than I thought ,” is all Draco says as he sits down. He lets you drop onto the chair beside him before reaching over to pull the piece of furniture and you closer to his side, the drag of it on the floor audible.

It earns him a whoop from Blaise, two hands thrown up in the air from Theo as he yells “finally”, and a laugh from Pansy who blows a kiss at you.

Draco slides his arm across the back of the chair, before looking at you brows lifted slightly, but his question is clear, you’ve never spoke about this and Draco wants to know - are you okay with this?

“I am,” you say as you lean forward to press your lips briefly against his. It only causes a louder ruckus at the table.

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seeliemansi · 1 month ago

Text

You Made Him Worried (Mr. Crawling x Reader)

Synopsis: The last thing you want is to make him worried

a/n: Wrote this while high on antihistamine, will probably rewrite after I got better *hic*

Part of this universe

------------

Mr. Crawling despises it when you get hurt. He tends to be extra clingy, extra needy, and very shaky when it happens.

You have to be careful as you dance around the topic of you getting hurt because he is not playing with your safety.

That's why when you slipped, and the cause was just you being careless as you decided that running towards your apartment to go home is a good decision during a sudden rain, it hit you so bad, you didn't even have time to say ouch out loud. Enough with protecting yourself from getting wet. You were more worried that he will panic and will start a power surge that can cause an electricity loss in your apartment building. You need the heater and can't sleep with how cold it is tonight.

Your white dress is wet and ruined. Your hair is a mess. You are bruised and in pain. And you walk upstairs with a limp. A good way to end the day you supposed.

You remind yourself to be cool. Not to make Mr. Crawling worried. You just want it to not be awkward when you meet him back home, waiting for you at his usual spot.

At least that's the plan.

The moment you stepped inside, all smiles, acting silly, downplaying what happened, you tried your best. You really do.

But when you opened your eyes, and looked at him.

His smile was turned into a frown. And with a shaky voice he asked.

“You, what happened?”

“You. Blood? Wound?”

“Hurt? Hurt?” He continued asking as he grabbed your arm. A wince came out of your mouth not from his hold, but from a cut you never saw due to the dimly lit streets and the mud that clung on your skin.

“No! Mr. Crawling, I am okay. See, not hurt and painful at all.” You grabbed his hand and wrapped it around yours, trying to divert his attention. You bite the inside of your cheeks, pretending that your whole body is not sore from the fall.

“Let's go, Mr. Crawling. I need to change or I will get a cold.” You insisted as you stepped inside and tried to chuckle, trying to dissipate the tension that is slowly building up in the air. When suddenly, he stopped, pulled his hands out of your hold, slowly stood up, and towered over you.

“No!” He screamed, voice deeper than usual. He walked closer, an inch away from you. His breathing is heavy. His hair seems to have a brain of its own as it stood, like Medusa’s snakes. The electricity flickers as he moves.

You gulped, planning to take a step back but you’ve been cornered by a wall. You can only helplessly look up at him. Watching the dark look clouding over his face.

—-----

“You done?” He asked, too chirpy to your liking.

“I will be done soon. Can you let go of my hand for a moment?” You draw circles on his hand that was holding yours as you bathe in the tub. The curtains were drawn, to give you a little privacy. A little uncomfortable but if you fully close it, he will surely sit in the tub and watch you bath instead.

This is the only compromise he agreed to so he will stop standing up and darkening your hallway.

Although you know he wasn't capable of hurting you, you got so scared when he suddenly stood up and towered over you. All you can think about is to make a compromise that he will like, or at least to lessen his worry. It breaks your heart to see him worried.

“Yes. Yes. Towel?” He offered. But when you tried to grab it from his hold, he pulled it so you would let it go.

“No! Me help you.” He insisted.

“But I can do it by myself.” You countered.

“I said no. I will help you.” A shiver ran down your spine when he suddenly was able to form a whole sentence in your language.

“Alright.” You sighed and stepped out of the tub. He is standing up, hands holding the towel wide open. He is grinning and looking thrilled. Who would have blamed him? It is the first time you two are inside the bathroom together. “Come! Come!” He giggles as he wraps it around you.

The way he switches from terrifying to sweet is always a surprise to you. He can be the sweetest but when push comes to shove, the most frightening ghost you have ever seen.

“Here, kiss. Kiss. Kiss.” He spoke as he raised your arm and kissed all the visible cuts and bruises you have on your skin.

You can't help but giggle from the gesture, feeling your heart swell with happiness. You may be sore but you're glad that you took him home.

#(⁠ʘ⁠ᴗ⁠ʘ⁠✿⁠) seelie writings #homicipher #homicipher game #mr crawling #homicipher x mc #homicipher x reader #homicipher x you #mr. crawling #mr crawling x mc #mr crawling x you #mr crawling x y/n #mr crawling x reader

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demonic0angel · 29 days ago

Note

Anger Management prompt where there is a car accident, except it's in space, between Team Phantom and The Outlaws.

(Lmaoooo this is so freaking funny bc my sister got into a car accident just a week ago. She’s fine tho, dw)

Part 2

“Fuck you!” The teenager immediately screamed. “Where the hell did you learn to drive?! Go back to school, fucking dumbass! You can’t even drive, you piece of sh—”

He was then pulled back by one of his friends, who grabbed him and dragged him back to their normal looking, definitely not broken spacecraft. A girl, dressed in a very distinctive style of goth, then made an awkward face, popped her gum, and said, “Sorry about him. He has really bad road rage.”

Jason’s eye twitched. “I can see that. So what’re we going to do now? You crashed into our spacecraft!”

“Well, you don’t have spaceship insurance, do you?” The girl drawled.

Jason was suddenly reminded of why he hated Tim Drake and Damian Wayne. They were goddamn insufferable, obnoxious, annoying, irresponsible teenagers.

Jason suddenly felt like he aged 20 years in an instant and wondered if this was what Dick felt like, being so old.

Roy patted him on the arm. “Want me to take care of this?”

Jason gestured for him to go ahead, already feeling a headache. Roy walked forward and smiled charmingly. “Hey, kiddo! So, it’s not a big deal that we got bumped into— happens all the time! But we just want to know where your parents are! And why you’re out in space! And how we’re going to get back to earth, since our shipped is now wrecked. You know what earth is, right? Earth is—”

“We know what earth is,” the same cursing teenager from earlier said with a snide tone, “We live there too.”

Roy and Jason blinked.

Then Jason spat, “Well, that doesn’t do us shit! We still have a wrecked spacecraft and we’re stuck here on this moon until you fix it! Don’t think you can just fly away! We’re stranded because of you brats!”

Kori then appeared out of the spacecraft and flew down to them all. The kids all immediately stopped, eyes wide in awe. She smiled and said, “Hello, children! Is there anyway you can help us? You did wreck our spacecraft after all.”

Immediately, in the most respectful tone Jason had ever heard, the two-faced brat from earlier then said, “I’m so sorry, miss. We didn’t think that anyone would be exploring this part of space out here, so we weren’t looking! We’re sorry. We don’t have the tools to fix it either.”

Jason’s entire face suddenly wanted to break out into the nastiest glare he could muster. So not only did this kid blatantly show favoritism to Kori (even if she was definitely super cool), he also couldn’t help at all despite the fact that he completely stranded them in space after being careless with a spaceship?

Kori frowned and they all shared a look. Now what? Jason could feel the migraine get more annoying and he almost wanted to pull out his gun just to kill some kids and feel better about his shitty fucking day, when the other teen, who had pulled away the feral brat, spoke up and said, “We can call Jazz!”

“Oh yeah! Jazz! Quick, Sam, call her up!”

Roy narrowed his eyes. “Who’s Jazz?”

“My big sister,” the brat said, “She’ll fix this.”

Great. Another annoying person who would only make his headache worse and possibly piss him off even further. However, just as he finished thinking this and sharing another annoyed look with Roy, a green portal opened up and a goddess stepped down.

She was tall, with a curvaceous figure wrapped in black and blue robes, as well as a fluffy cape around her shoulders. Her hair fell down over her back, colored red like fire and sunsets and tiger lilies, and her face was that of a statue, carefully designed, crafted, and admired by all. She was so beautiful and picturesque that the air around her seemed to glow like a halo.

Just looking at her made Jason’s sorrows disappear.

She blinked her fluttering eyelashes over her turquoise eyes and then asked, “What seems to be the problem?”

Her voice was so angelic that Jason didn’t even feel his headache anymore.

“Nothing now that you’re here,” Jason said dreamily.

“Oh my god,” Roy said, hand over his mouth as he stared at Jason in shock. Even Kori looked shocked and amused.

The boy with black hair shared a disgusted look with his friends. “I thought that would’ve been my line.”

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dcxdp #danny phantom x dc #dp x dc crossover #ask #jazz fenton #danny fenton #anon ask #tucker foley #sam manson #anger management ship #jason todd #jason x jazz #hardcover ship #ty for the ask <3 #roy harper #koriand'r

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marvelstoriesepic · 7 days ago

Text

Whumpcember (day 15)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Broken glass

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: slight mentions of panic attacks; crying; Bucky being a sweetheart because I love him so much

Author’s note: This got unnecessarily long somehow. Again, this was meant to be a shorty. Also, I was in my feels when I wrote this. Anyway, thank you for reading!

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

The final box of Christmas decorations thuds to the ground as you let it down with a heavy huff. You straighten up your back with a grimace, rolling your shoulders.

You might think as an Avenger, carrying a few boxes, would be an easy task. After all, you are trained to thrive under the most punishing conditions, with sharp skills and boundless stamina. But after hauling all those cartons stuffed with tinsel, garlands, and ornaments up from the storage room to the towering Christmas tree in the compound’s common area, you are left panting like you’ve just run a marathon.

It’s almost laughable. Thankfully, you are alone for now. Sam would have a field day, smug grin plastered across his face at the state you’re in.

Wanda, Natasha, and Clint meant to help you with this but they were all still glued to the desk, writing reports, but Bucky is supposed to be back from his latest mission any minute now and you wanted to do this nice thing for him at least. He did sound a little worn out on the phone earlier when he called you to tell you they were on their way back.

So perhaps decorating the Christmas tree would lift his spirit a tiny bit. It’s the first step in what you hope will be a cozy and inviting scene - something Bucky might walk into and, for once, not feel like a soldier returning from a war zone but a man coming home.

The tree is a statement, of course. Tony insisted on it. It’s so tall, it might even brush the high ceiling of the room and there is no way you’ll get some ornaments all the way up without risking your life. And Bucky would definitely not brighten up if you tried it out.

So you’ll absolutely be needing Wanda’s help sooner or later. With a flick of her wrist, she could make this whole thing a hell of a lot easier but you don’t have the time to wait until she is done writing her report.

You let your eyes roam over the many ornaments lying neatly in the box before you and one of them immediately sparks your attention. Your fingers brush against the delicate surface of the red ornament placed almost carefully beside the others.

Its glass is smooth and cool, the color a deep crimson so much more in depth than all the others. You hold it up to the light, turning it slowly, marveling at how the glow from the tree’s string lights catches on its curves and the unique and detailed pattern all across.

It’s heavier than expected, the weight surprising for something so fragile. The gold clasp at the top gleams faintly, tarnished just a little with age. A thin ribbon dangles from it, curling at the end like it has been tied and untied countless times.

There is something about it, some intangible quality that draws you in - a sense of history, of significance.

And then it happens.

The ribbon slips from your grasp, too quick for your fingers to snatch it back. If you weren’t so enamored with the beautiful piece, you would have gotten access to your reflexes a little earlier.

It’s too late now though, and you can only watch in stunned silence as the ornament tumbles to the ground, the crimson surface catching flashes of light as it falls.

It hits the hardwood floor with a sound that is both sharp and final - a crack, then a splintering.

Disappointed in yourself, you crouch down to the shattered remains. Tiny shards of glass fan out like a constellation, glinting under the glow of the tree. The ornament is no longer whole, splintered into different-sized fragments.

Annoyed that you were so stupid and careless to let this special ornament fall to its devastation, you begin to pick up the many red pieces into your palm.

It really was unique. It would have looked great on the tree-

Your movements freeze. Your heart leaps to your throat. A rush of panic claws at your chest and rises up to your ears where it floods and pounds tremendously.

Rebecca B.

It’s a name ingrained into the largest surviving piece of the glass - a faint, looping scrawl. Clearly written by hand.

Rebecca Barnes. The realization makes you weak in the knees and you fall back onto your heels, your ass hitting the floor with a thump.

This isn’t just some random ornament. This isn’t another piece of holiday cheer to hang on a tree and forget about for the rest of the year after packing it back into boxes to store it in a corner of the storage room.

This ornament belonged to Rebecca Barnes. Bucky’s sister. Something Bucky kept all these years, hidden among the other decorations like a relic of a life he’d lost long before his own had been ripped apart.

The air around you feels heavy. The smell of pine from the tree now stings in your nose. Your heart might actually have fallen along with the ornament because it too is shattered in pieces.

The shards tremble in your palm and you stare at them along with the rest still lying helplessly on the ground, as if there is actually something you can do right now to go back in time and not pick it up ever again, just to make sure.

But there is nothing you can do.

Your heart breaks even further at the thought that Bucky might have put it here deliberately. Maybe it was an attempt to move forward, to share the memory of his sister. Maybe he thought the ornament didn’t belong in some dusty package hidden away, but out in the open, a part of the holiday warmth he’s been so hesitant to feel. Maybe it was his thought of remembering her with someone else this time, instead of alone.

This would be such a huge step for him. And you would feel so proud if you weren’t on the verge of a panic attack.

Because it’s broken, divided into so many pieces. You just dropped something so carelessly that probably meant the world to Bucky. And, god, did he deserve the world. But you took it. You contorted the precious memories of his little sister. Unwillingly, of course. But that doesn’t make you feel any better right now.

You have known Bucky for a few years now. Though knowing him feels like a word too shallow for what you share. You never labeled it, both of you walking the fine line, and never crossing it.

But you see that Bucky trusts you - the kind of trust he doesn’t hand out freely. And for good reason, after all. In fact, you’re not even sure he’s ever given it to anyone else in quite the same way, not even Steve. And that’s saying something.

You see it in the small things, in the way his guarded demeanor softens when it’s just the two of you, the soft smiles that seem to be reserved for you. It’s the kind of friendship where silence doesn’t have to be filled, and words don’t have to be spoken to be understood.

He lets you sit with him on the couch in the living room on nights when his past pulls him under and doesn’t allow for him to get some shut-eye. You are usually awake yourself, sometimes just running on adrenaline after coming home from a mission and accompanying him silently. He always seems to linger out here when you are away on a mission anyway, so you usually meet him here after getting home, watching his shoulders slowly droop and his back rest more comfortably against the back of the couch.

You are the first at his bedside when his nightmares claw at his mind. You’ve seen him at his most vulnerable - shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked chest, hair plastered to his face, his breaths coming in uneven gasps as you help him fight to pull himself out of his memories.

Those nights, you never push him to talk. You don’t ask him to explain or tell you what he saw. Without a word, you would hand him a glass of water and wait while he drinks, his hands trembling so slightly it makes your stomach feel heavy every time. Sometimes you tell him to breathe with you, in and out, until the panic subsided and his shoulders stopped shaking.

You were never sure how much touch he needs in those moments so you usually stay at a small distance from him, but it seems your presence alone does wonders.

When he would be ready, he always searched your face so long and intensely, before croaking out a heavy but meaningful “Thank you.”

And his small acts of kindness always fill you with a jittery feeling that makes your knees weak and unfortunately doesn’t help at all when fighting against Natasha in the ring.

Just a few weeks ago, Bucky spent an entire Saturday afternoon fixing the squeaky hinge on your bedroom door because he heard you muttering to Wanda about how annoying it was.

He never even told you he was going to do it. You just came back to your room later that evening to find the door silent as a ghost. It took a whole week for you to find out how this happened. And it wasn’t him, who told you. It was Clint, who saw him walk around with a toolbox and a satisfied smile on his face that Clint, as he told you found a little terrifying.

Additionally, he always seems to know when you need a break during training sessions, tossing you a water bottle before you even realize how tired you are. Or he would plant himself wordlessly between you and your opponent for the day, with his arms crossed and a chastising glance at you when you’ve been fighting for hours without acknowledging the way your movements already grew sluggish and wobbly.

You are always aware when his hands linger on your shoulder a second longer after a sparring match, his metal fingers cold but careful, as if he’s memorizing the feel of you there. Or the way your stomach twists when he catches your eye across the room, and for just a moment, it’s like the rest of the world falls away. And the way he talks to you, even when people are around, his voice lower, softer, words chosen with an almost uncharacteristic care, makes you feel like you’re the only person he truly is interested in talking to. You also love the nights he shows up at your door with takeout, wordlessly handing you your favorite meal, and striding into your room to settle at the foot of your bed with a contented sigh.

Through it all, however, was always this persistent question you had. The one that molded into an ache inside your chest. Because what if? What if you took one step closer and stopped holding back? What if you risk everything you have with him now for something more?

But right now you feel like those questions don’t hold the same energy anymore. The same weight. No, they just got weightless. Pointless. Because you just ruined everything without even risking it.

You just destroyed something that can’t be fixed with glue and an apology. It can’t be fixed with you sitting with him and comforting him in the dark while his mind goes to the same cruel place like many times before.

This feels like you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross.

The wrong line.

Shaking hands pick up the largest fragment, the soft loops of her name still visible through the fractures. The sharp ends bite into your palm like the memory of something sacred that’s been lost. You don’t feel the sting. You don’t feel the sensation of the few droplets of blood sliding over your palm where the ends nicked your skin.

The only thing you register is that this foolish mistake might actually unravel everything you’ve built with him.

He let you in, further than anyone, but that doesn’t mean he won’t push you back out if you give him a reason. And this definitely feels like a reason.

Your mind presents you with his reaction when he comes walking in here and sees what happened.

At first, there’d be nothing - just the stoic silence he uses to sink into, the kind that makes it impossible to tell what he’s thinking. But you’d see it in the smallest of things - the way his jaw tightens just enough to be noticeable, the flicker in his eyes that he’ll try to hide but won’t be able to, the stiffening of his shoulders. And then the desolation, like a tide pulling back just before it crashes. You wonder if he would say anything at all, or if the silence would hang heavy.

You swallow hard, begin to feel the sting behind your eyes, and try to force the lump in your throat down.

You’ve worked so hard to be someone he could rely on, someone he could trust in ways he hasn’t trusted anyone else in decades. You’ve sat with him, listened to him, stayed silent with him. Learned to know him so well, you even memorized the subtle shifts in his expressions, the things he won’t say but still lets you feel.

And now, here you are with broken glass in your hands and a painful feeling in your chest, terrified that this could be the moment that shatters the thing between you.

He might pull away, retreat behind those walls he’s spent years building. What if he doesn’t let you sit with him anymore. Or what if he does, but his shoulder would only grow more tense. What if he starts holding back, measuring his words, locking the parts of himself away that he once entrusted to you?

The idea of losing him - not just losing him, but losing this connection, this unspoken, almost-more-than-friendship thing that you’ve both been too afraid to name - makes your breath catch and something rise in your chest that might be bile.

A sob comes out instead.

It comes out like a wound ripped open before it could begin to heal. You press a quivering hand to your mouth, in hopes of muffling the sound, but it’s no use. More broken sobs come anyway.

You try to pull yourself together, to force the tears back, but your body feels so weak under the guilt and shame.

More parts of the broken ornament bite into your skin, red droplets welling up and sliding down your skin, pooling at the curve of your wrist, before falling soundlessly to the floor.

Pain should ground you. It should pull you out of this spiral, force you to snap back to some semblance of control. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t do anything at all.

Instinctively, your hand gives way, the pieces tumbling from your fingers and scattering across the hardwood once more.

You only sit there, frozen, your breath hitching and catching in your throat as tears streak down your face, warm and unwelcome. You can’t stop them.

You’re not supposed to be this weak. You’re not supposed to break down like this, over something so small. And yet that makes the sobs only harder to contain. Because this isn’t small - not to Bucky. And that’s the part that leaves you as shattered as the crimson glass. Perhaps as shattered as your relationship with the person you fell for as hard as the ornament fell to the ground.

It’s Rebecca. His sister. His past. His grief. It’s a tiny piece of his life that he trusted enough to bring out of hiding, to put here with the rest of the world, in the open where it could be seen. Where it could be touched. And you touched it, only to let it fall. Only to ruin it.

Shame knocks down on you so hard, you draw your knees up to your chest, curling into yourself as though you could make yourself smaller, invisible, anything but this.

You don’t even know what to do with your blood-streaked palm, only letting it hover in the air, the shallow cuts glistening under the still-glowing lights of the tree. It’s a mess. You are a mess. Curling your fingers into a fist, you wince in pain at the stinging of the cuts but you leave it like that.

Perhaps you are overreacting, sitting here on the floor in the common area of the compound with a bleeding hand and the shattered remains of Rebecca Barnes's memory, but you feel so helpless and remorseful, you can’t really think straight at the moment.

The sound of the elevator is faint, but it’s enough to reach your ears. You freeze. You just sit there, knees drawn to your chest, blood smeared across your palm, the shattered glass of the ornament glittering like broken stars on the floor.

You are tear-streaked, trembling, your chest still hitching with uneven breaths and Bucky just got home.

Those approaching footsteps are so familiar to you, you would always recognize his gate. Usually, it’s comforting, grounding to know he got home and would leave you with relief in your chest.

But there is no place for relief in your chest right now.

His footsteps sound normal, steady, perhaps a little hurried but he hasn’t reached this room yet.

You don’t look up. Instead, you bite your lip to stop the sob that threatens to escape. The shame is too sharp, cutting deeper than any piece of the ornament and making your heart bleed as well.

Maybe if you stay still, if you stay quiet, he’ll miss you somehow.

But then his steps come to an abrupt halt and you know you are screwed.

Burning tears spike once more and the sob breaks free.

“Woah, hey-” he calls out, so urgent, so worried.

Bucky is across the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees in front of you with a speed that catches you off guard.

“Sweetheart, hey.” It falls from his lips so softly, so worried, it nearly breaks you all over again.

Tears fall more freely at the kind of tenderness in his tone and suddenly his hand is cupping your face, thumb, and knuckles brushing the streaks of wetness from your cheeks.

But they keep coming.

“Look at me, please! Doll, look at me,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly gentle, but dripping with so much concern. His metal hand is on your face as well and he tilts it upward, guiding your gaze toward his.

His brows are drawn so deeply, lips parting slightly as he studies your face - the tear tracks, the desolation in your eyes, the shame and guilt, the trembling of your shoulders.

You can’t look at him. Can’t bear to see it. So you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping you’ll ever be able to forget that look on his face. Not when you know what’s coming. Not when you know what you have caused.

Just wait until he sees it, you think. That look will change.

“No,” he whispers, his voice so soft again, but there is a firmness in it. The pad of his flesh thumb smooths gently across your cheek again, while his metal fingers move to your hair. “Hey, no, don’t do that. It’s okay. Y/n, it’s okay!”

You shake your head quickly and try to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a choked sound, half-sob, half-breath. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t know what this is about.

You want to stay hidden behind the veil of your closed eyes, safe from not seeing what you know will be there in perhaps seconds when he figures it out - disappointment, maybe anger, the grief of what you’ve broken.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart, please.”

There is something in his voice you can’t ignore. It sounds unshakable and steady, yet fragile and thick.

Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes flutter open to meet his, but when you do, you freeze.

Because he already knows.

He looks at you. Just looks, but you see he already put the pieces together. He saw the shards scattering around your knees. His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it but he looks at you with an intensity that is new to you. There is that understanding in his eyes. But it’s so soft. So gentle.

There is no anger, no frustration, no disappointment.

There is nothing of the reaction you had feared for.

Yes, there is pain in his eyes as well. It’s unmistakable, flickering in the soft blue of his irises. But it’s not the pain you expected.

It’s not for the ornament. It’s not for what it meant.

It’s for you.

You can see it in the way his brows crease, the frown that tugs at his mouth. And the way he never once lets his gaze stray to the shards on the floor. All he looks at is you.

Bucky keeps his hands on your face, continuing to swipe over your cheeks like he’s afraid you’ll crumble if he lets go. Then, his thumbs still, resting against your cheekbones, his touch so achingly gentle that it only makes more tears fall.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, and the word cracks, quiet and uneven. He still doesn’t look angry. He still doesn’t look disappointed. He looks devastated - not for what you’ve done, but for what it’s done to you.

Your lips tremble, barely able to form words.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Come here.”

Baby definitely is a new one. It’s something he’s never called you before. But there is no time to linger on it, no chance to unpack the flutter it sparks in your stomach because he’s already pulling you toward him.

His flesh arm wraps around your body, tugging you against his chest, while his metal hand finds its place at the back of your head, cold but reassuring fingers threading through your hair.

He lets you cry against his chest. Cradles you so tightly to him, you might actually get worried about your ribs, but it feels so good. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his heart is pounding. The fabric of his tactical suit presses against your skin, rough and worn from the mission he just came back from, but it grounds you to some extent.

“It’s okay. Just breathe, alright? Breathe,” he keeps whispering, exaggerating his breaths against your body to invite you to follow his lead. You try.

“I’m so sorry,” you sob, the words spilling out in a choked, broken rush as you bury your face in his chest. The tears won’t stop, soaking into the dark fabric of his suit.

“Shh,” he keeps on with his soft voice. His arm around you tightens, holding you closer, while his metal hand stays solidly at the back of your head. His fingers brush through your hair in slow, soothing motions. “Don’t be. Don’t you dare be.”

He continues murmuring to you when you try to apologize again, his voice low and warm. He talks so calmly and sure, you feel something inside of you churn.

Bucky tilts his head slightly, resting his cheek against your hair, and you feel the warmth of his breath as he talks to you.

And yet, biting guilt gnaws its way through your ribs. You feel terrible - worse than terrible - because it should be you comforting him, not the other way around.

It’s him who lost something precious, something you had broken. And here he is, holding you, brushing tears from your face, whispering words meant to stitch you back together.

But somehow, he doesn’t even seem to care. He holds you like you are the only thing that matters right now.

Remorse burrows deep, heavy, and shaming, until it pulls you back to yourself - slowly, shakily, but enough to loosen the sobs caught in your throat.

You sniff and take a breath, a real one this time, ragged but yours.

Then, you shift in his arms, gently pressing against his chest to put space between you. His hold loosens, slowly, with a hesitation that tugs at something in you. As if he is reluctant to let you go. Still, he relents.

His flesh hand slides away first, but his metal one lingers, brushing through your hair one last time before settling on your shoulder. He keeps you close, his thumb brushing absentminded sweeps across your sweater.

His gaze never strays and it’s heavy. You can’t meet his eyes for long. They’re too full of that care you don’t deserve, the care he shows you in so many small gestures all the time.

So your gaze falls to the floor, but then you freeze again.

The broken shards that had glinted so mockingly against the floor just moments ago are gone. Instead, settled carefully on the coffee table as though it had never fallen at all, is the ornament.

Whole.

It takes you a moment to process it, to trust what you’re seeing. The cracks are gone, smoothed over seamlessly. The gleaming red glass catches the light of the Christmas tree, its golden little details shining like something out of a memory, timeless and unbroken. As beautiful and aesthetic as before.

For a moment, you even wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then you notice Wanda standing at the far side of the room. Her hands lower slowly, the telltale red glow of her magic fading from her fingertips.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t step closer - just tilts her head slightly, offering you the faintest, knowing smile. Her eyes are warm.

God, of course. You should have thought of that. It even makes you feel a little ridiculous. You live together with people who possess supernatural abilities, powers beyond comprehension. You should have thought of Wanda. How her hands could have mended it back together in seconds.

A choked breath stumbles out of you, somewhere between relief and disbelief. Bucky follows your gaze, his brows furrowing, only to soften when he sees the ornament resting perfectly intact on the table. He stares at it for a moment.

But then he looks back at you and his sweet smile could melt any ice this winter has to offer.

His flesh hand moves a few strands of hair out of your face and tugs them tenderly behind your ear. His hand stays on your cheek. “Told you it’s okay.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I still broke it,” you say, words slipping out quietly, somberly. Your gaze remains fixed on it. Wanda seems to have slipped out again.

“Stop,” Bucky cuts in, his voice more firm than before but still gentle as always. He shakes his head, moving closer to you again, gaze fixed on you.

You feel his hand brush against yours, but then his shoulders stiffen up. He stops. His eyes catch on something and his expression shifts in an instant.

“Jesus-” His frown deepens, something like a shadow crosses his eyes. Sharp eyes lock onto the red streaks lining your palm, the cuts where the shattered glass had broken your skin.

You hadn’t even realized you were still holding onto the pain - too caught up in everything else to notice the dull throb of your hand or the sting of the scratches.

“You’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?” The words are a quiet exhale, soft but weighted. There is no reprimand in his voice, no anger - only concern coloring every syllable.

His thumb ghosts over your wrist, careful not to brush against the cuts. His intense gaze flickers from your injured hand to your face, searching your expression.

“It’s not a big deal-”

“Don’t.”

Bucky shakes his head. His jaw tightens and he exhales sharply through his nose. It’s not frustration - not with you, anyway. It’s something deeper, something that seems to pain him in his chest as he studies the scratches like they’re a personal failing.

“Bucky,” you say while trying to pull your hand back from his grasp when he tilts it more toward the light to get a better look. As if he hasn’t the eyesight of a super soldier.

“Doll. Let me see.” His lips press into a thin line, the faintest hint of exasperation ghosting across his face.

The sigh you let out drags down your chest and you don’t resist when Bucky keeps cradling your bleeding hand and studies the scratches. His brow is furrowed in concentration that feels too much for something so small.

You want to tell him it’s fine, that this is nothing, but the words die before they reach your tongue.

“Let’s get you fixed up,” he says tightly, the tone of his voice all business and leaving no room for argument.

But you shake your head. It’s your fault the ornament broke in the first place. You’re aware it’s whole again, but it was in shambles just moments earlier and you cut yourself thanks to your own stupidity.

“Bucky, you just got back from a mission-” you protest, your voice quieter than you’d like.

“Not too worried about myself right now, doll,” he interrupts, his voice insistent but warm. The hint of steel beneath his words not directed at you but at the way your guilt is still in control, trying to downplay yourself.

“Come on.” He says it softer now, but before you can argue any further, he’s already moving.

Without so much as a pause, Bucky stands and scoops you up into his arms as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You barely have a second to process the shift, before you’re pressed securely against his chest.

“Bucky!” you exclaim, startled, your uninjured hand reaching for his shoulder to steady yourself.

“Relax, doll. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused, though his expression remains calm, focused.

You sigh again, but there is a laugh on your breath. “Buck, I can walk. You don’t have to-”

“Not hearing it,” he says simply, almost flatly. He just continues striding along the halls with you in his arms. His steps are heavier, but you know it’s not because of your weight. He holds you like you weigh nothing at all. “You’re hurt.”

That doesn’t sound like a plausible explanation to you, since you’ve come home with way worse injuries from missions over the last months alone. But the gruffness of his voice, the one that always accompanies him when you’re injured, no matter how small - the seriousness, the concern - it shuts you up for the time being.

You let your head rest against his shoulder. He smells a little like gunpowder and dust, but you only latch onto the parts that are him and breathe them in.

“I didn’t mean to break it, Bucky,” to whisper, gaze dropping to the tightly pressed ball that is your bloody fist. “I’m so sorry.”

You feel the intake of Bucky’s breath against your body and his eyes warmly falling down on you. You don’t meet his gaze.

“You didn’t break anything, sweetheart.” His voice is like velvet, brushing so softly against your skin. So reassuringly. So profoundly gentle. “You’re okay, doll. We’re okay. I promise.” His hands curl tighter around you.

You blink, your head tilting to glance up at him, and your breath catches when you meet his gaze.

It is intense. His brows are pulled together - not with anger, but with concern. Like the only things he cares about right now are the tears that linger in your eyes and the way you’re still trying to curl in on yourself, still letting your body slightly shake with the guilt that he refuses to let you carry.

Something stirs in your belly. Something flutters, as if thousands of tiny wings brush against the walls of you, demanding to be seen. To be felt.

Because you let your mind spiral so much earlier, bracing yourself for a reaction of disappointment, frustration - that flicker of something unnameable that might pull the two of you apart.

But it still isn’t there.

Not even close.

It’s the opposite, really.

#whumpcember24 #whumpcember day15 #marvel bucky barnes #marvel mcu #bucky marvel #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes whump #james bucky buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes comfort #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #avenger!reader #avenger!Bucky

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libbybee · 1 month ago

Text

THE BENEFITS OF CARING — SA

◜pairing: astarion ⨯ fem!healer!reader ◜rating: MDNI 18+ ┊ wc: 13K ◜cw: fluff, sweet-dirty talk, wounds caring, previous sexual tension, feelings, rain, porn with some plot, first time sex, body worship, bodily fluids, piv, masturbation [F, M], blowjob, cock warming-riding, creampie, overstimulation, aftercare, morning talk.

▹ summary. one brow arched. “oh, really?” he asked sarcastically. “then perhaps you can explain why you’re straddling me like you are, love.”

A/N. english isn't my native language, sorry if there are grammar mistakes.

AO3 ┊ MASTERLIST ┊ PLAYLIST ┊ IMG

‎

‘He was foolish. Reckless. Utterly stupid.’

Those words spun like a storm in your mind as you watched Astarion dash into danger. All because Gale, with one of his grandiose schemes, asked him to be a distraction—a distraction, of all things. The sheer absurdity grated on you, especially after that cocky, charming smile Astarion showed.

For all his talk of survival and his centuries-old staying alive, he seemed oblivious to the risks he took, as if he actually believed he was invincible. That careless swagger, that excitement in his eyes—it frustrated you to no end. Why does he have to be like this?

You were the only one in the camp capable of tending to wounds after Shadowheart decided to go off on her own because of a disagreement. And he knew it all too well.

He’d charged straight ahead of a group of Flaming Fists, who’d been hell-bent on killing you all after a disastrous misunderstanding. How you’d managed to escape with just minor injuries was still beyond your reach, but one thing was clear: if his recklessness didn’t kill him, you might do it yourself.

When he came to you later, sheepishly asking for a hand with his wounds, you were ready to refuse—but then he looked at you, with that pleading puppy look in his eyes that seemed to make all your frustration melt in an instant… and you just gave in.

You stepped out of your tent, dressed in your camp clothes and carrying a small bag with bandages and supplies. The moment the cold night breeze swept over your face and bare arms, you regretted your clothing.

But you headed towards Astarion’s tent. And as you crossed the camp, the faint patter of raindrops began to break the silence, with cool droplets striking the ground. You quickened your pace; the last thing you needed right now was to catch a cold.

The flap of the tent swayed gently in the breeze as you lifted your hand to brush the canvas aside and stepped in.

Inside, there was a warm setting given by some candles, and the rich scent of Astarion quickly enveloped you—hints of brandy and rosemary. And there he lay, reclining on his bedroll against some plushy pillows, with an opened book resting idly in his hands, though he wasn’t reading. His crimson eyes lifted rapidly to meet yours by the moment you entered, his brow raising slightly in surprise before a smile spread on his lips.

Astarion set his book aside with an elegant flourish, sitting a bit as his hand reached to help you enter in. “Ah, my darling... at last. I was beginning to think you’d leave me alone all nigh—” His words cut off abruptly as your palm connected sharply with his cheek.

“That’s for risking your life like a fool.” You snapped as you sat beside him on his bedroll.

He lifted a hand to his cheek and soothed the stinging sensation, shocked but faintly amused by your unexpected reaction. Before he could even part his lips to say something, you raised a finger to cut him off while dropping your bag on the bedroll with a firm thud.

“Honestly, Astarion, what in the hells were you thinking?” You demanded, already taking a cloth from your bag. You didn't even wait for him to reply and just reached for his arm, where a nasty wound marred his porcelain skin. “Running in like that without a second thought...” You murmured to yourself, furrowing your brows in worry.

Letting out a sigh, you carefully wiped the wound. “What if I hadn’t been there? Or if you’d got ki—” You shut yourself, swallowing down the knot of anxiety that had lodged in your throat since the fight ended. Memories of that night at the Tiefling’s party appeared in your mind—when, just for a moment, he’d looked at you beyond his enchanting demeanour. And how that left you feeling fragile in a way you weren’t ready to confront.

After a moment, you spoke more calmly, “You can’t keep doing this, Astarion. You can’t keep risking yourself as if you don’t matter.”

As you dabbed carefully at another cut, his face tensed in a grimace, and you couldn't hold back any longer. “I don’t care how bold you think you are, Astarion—there’s no excuse for being so imprudent. You’re not some disposable distraction, no matter what Gale or anyone else thinks.” You noticed how one of his eyebrows raised with that glint in his eyes. “And don’t even think about giving me that look.”

For once, he simply fell silent, watching how your hands moved in his arm with the cool cloth with... perhaps an affectionate expression. Then his voice dropped, gentler than you'd ever heard it. “I didn't realise you cared about me... quite this much.”

Your hands froze briefly, feeling a heat rising to your cheeks. You controlled your feelings. “Well, someone has to keep you in line, and I’m fairly certain neither of our lovely friends would be up to the task.” You clarified, somewhat exasperated, but with some gentility in your tone.

You heard a soft chuckling from him, as he was aware of the truth in your words. Gently, his hand reached out to caress yours. “It means... more than you think. To have someone caring.” As your eyes dropped to his hand and then his face, you saw past his charm for a fleeting moment, past his sly smile to the man who hadn't known kindness in far too long. “Thank you.”

Your eyes widened while your cheeks rose even more, quickly looking again to his arm as you wiped another open wound. You cleared your throat. “Just... try not to make me need to patch you up every time we get into trouble, alright? For my sanity, if nothing else.”

He gently caressed the back of your hand one last time before letting his hand fall to his lap. “Oh, and miss all the attention you give me?” He looked into your eyes, pouting a little but taking in the seriousness in your face. “Fine. I’ll be more careful, love.” His voice was laced with a teasing warmth, easing the sting of worry in your chest, making it almost worth it.

The rain began to fall harder, the deafening through of it slapping against the canvas. When you looked at his shirt, there was something about how it had dark patches of blood through that caught your attention. You could almost see the bruises starting to form and the scratches beneath the fabric.

You glanced up at him again. “Astarion, take that shirt off; I need to see what’s under it.”

He raised one of his eyebrows. “Eager, aren't we?” He smirked. “I suppose I can indulge you, darling...”

You gave him a soft smile for his tease, speaking exasperated but amused. “I’m sure you’ve got wounds under there, Astarion. Just take it off.”

His smirk widened, clearly enjoying. “Such impatience... Very well, love. You’ve earned the right to see what lies beneath.” Then he reached for the hem of his classic white shirt, the delicate fabric gathering in his hands before he tugged it over his head in one fluid move, slightly disheveling his curls.

The shirt slipped away, revealing his chest and the sharp definition of his collarbones. The flickering candlelight danced across his skin, casting shadows over the subtle contours of his physique. His movements were unhurried as he was offering you a glimpse.

As he tossed the garment aside carelessly, it landed in a heap near the edge of the bedroll. The air between you seemed to shift. His crimson eyes showed a slight hint of vulnerability that he quickly masked with a smirk.

“Better?” He drawled, his usual charm creeping back. “Is the view satisfactory, or are you planning to strip me further?”

You rolled your eyes, though the warmth blooming in your cheeks betrayed your mock tiresomeness. “Oh, stop. I’m only trying to see how severe the damage is. Not everything has to be an invitation for your theatrics.” With the cloth in hand, you pressed it gently to a scrape on his shoulder.

Trying to focus solely on the task at hand, you tried not to stare too long at the sight before you, but the way you moved closer left a sense of intimacy that you couldn't quite ignore. The quiet hum of your fingers tracing his chest and the lines of his abdomen made you feel the way his skin seemed to breathe beneath your fingertips. And you could swear that you heard almost inaudible sighs from him when your hands brushed over particularly tender sites.

The storm raged harder, hammering relentlessly against the tent as if the heavens insisted on being heard.

The wounds were worse than you thought—a mixture of gashes and dark bruises, a few of them with a touch of infection already setting in. Your eyes faltered briefly when your heart tightened at this sight as you moved from one injury to the next, cleaning them.

Astarion's gaze remained fixed on you, changing between your hands and your preoccupied expression. For once, the usual, confident, and charismatic vampire who normally danced with danger and seductiveness had taken his mask off. Showing the face of someone who, for once, truly trusted in someone else and allowed you to take care of him.

His breath caught when you reached a particularly deep gash along his abdomen, and you had to steady yourself to not flinch with him. The sound of his discomfort sent a tremor through your hands. Still, he kept his endurance and didn't flinch away from you; this only made your chest ache more.

He broke the silence with a low mutter with an odd weariness. “You should stop doing that.”

Your fingers froze, halting mid-motion. “Stop what?” You asked, but not looking up, trying to maintain your focus.

“Caring so much,” he replied quietly. “It doesn’t suit you.”

You stilled, taken aback by his words, before you finally looked up to meet his gaze. “You’re a fool.” You shot back.

He let out a soft laugh, but it wasn’t the usual mocking sound; no, it sounded with a subtle trace of gratitude, or perhaps something far more complicated for him.

“You know,” he added after a long moment, his voice lower now, “I’m not used to this. To someone looking after me.”

You let your hands rest on his waist, looking up once more. “I’m not doing this because you’re special,” you replied with a snark tone. “I’m doing it because you’re an idiot, Astarion. And if you keep getting yourself hurt like this, I might just tie you up next time to keep you out of trouble.”

His lips showed that smile of his again, though more tenderly. “Ah, my very own personal keeper. What would I do without you, darling?”

After you grabbed and secured a bandage around his waist for his deep wound, you allowed your hands to stay on his body moments longer than necessary. You could feel the enveloping air between you; the silence was tense, though neither of you moved or said anything. Astarion's pupils were dilated looking at you, and they held a certain depth that seemed to pull at you.

Your mind was still so wrapped up in the care you'd given him that you barely noticed the shift in your own position until you relaxed to adjust the posture of your body. That's when the realisation hit you like a punch to the gut—you were straddling him.

Your knees rested on either side of his hips, and you could feel the constant pressure of his pelvis against yours in a way that felt far too out of place.

A sharp breath caught in your throat, and you instinctively stiffened while a rush of hotness flooded your chest. Your mind started to race: ‘How long have we been like this? How had I not noticed this before?’ The tightness of your hips against his, the way your bodies seemed to fit together so... naturally—it was impossible to ignore.

But Astarion? He didn’t falter even for a second. His body remained relaxed beneath yours, with some sort of steady confidence, like he had no intention of acknowledging the shift in the dynamic. There was the faintest shift in his posture, a barely perceptible tightening of his grip on your thigh, but it went away in an instant.

“Getting comfortable, darling?” He spoke smoothly, with a dangerous and devilishly enticing tone. His lips curled into that signature grin of his, but this time it was different; there was no teasing edge, no light-hearted mockery. Instead, there was a subtle weight to it, as it appeared to hold more meaning than it usually did.

“I must admit, I didn’t think you’d be so forward, love.” He purred. There was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice, the quiet thrill touring his body of the intimacy at that moment.

The hand on your thigh slowly slid to your hip, allowing his fingers to linger there briefly before trailing up to your waist. You straightened up immediately, your face flushing while your pulse hammered in your chest because you had never been this close to him before—really close. Too close.

“I wasn't... trying to be forward...” Your voice tumbled, feeling a nervous tension twisting in your gut. Your words stumbled over each other, sharper than you meant them to be. “I was just trying to—”

“Trying to cure me, I know,” he interrupted, his soft chuckle rolling over you like a sensual caress. “Though, love, such a delicate position for a healer. Wouldn’t you agree?” His voice dipped, low and molten, sharpening his smile into something far more dangerous. His eyes were locked on yours, unfaltering, almost daring you to react.

Everything else blurred into insignificance. All you could hear was the erratic pounding of your own heartbeat and his breathing, far too steady for the situation.

“I...” you started, but the tightness in your throat made it difficult to say a word. You didn’t know what to say; you didn’t even know if you wanted to break the silence hanging between you. “We should probably...” The sentence fizzled out, as useless as your resolve to push away the growing tension.

Before you could even think of anything else, the heat of his touch burnt through the fabric of your pyjamas, making your skin tingle in its wake. His hand slid up your side, grazing your ribs and the curvature of your breast with his thumb before setting at your waist to grip it firmly. The way his thumb slowly began to stroke the curve of your waist only made your nervousness get worse. His touching wasn't just casual—it was as if he wanted to test your reaction.

A rush of sensations made it impossible to think clearly, your body betraying you. His posture—his other elbow propped for support—the constant pressing of his crotch against yours, his hand on your waist—it all pulled you into a current you weren’t sure you could fight.

“Go on,” he purred with the faintest hint of mockery. His gaze moved to your lips, as though he could draw out the answer with nothing but his stare. His fingers flexed slightly against your waist, the pressure sending a ripple of heat skittering through you. “What was it you were saying? Something about what we should do?”

You couldn’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on your hands as they rested awkwardly near his chest, fingers twitching. The heat building between your thighs crept upward, spreading through your belly like a forest fire. You felt flushed and shivering, not just from the closeness but from the way he was glancing at you—like you were the only thing in the world worth his attention.

You weren't prepared for this; you hadn't anticipated that the barriers you thought were between you would collapse into nothing so abruptly.

Astarion’s voice cut through your thoughts like a blade. “Are you going to keep me here all night, love?” His tone kept low, almost a growl.

You struggled to string together coherent thoughts before saying something. “I didn't know you wanted... I didn't think...” The words stumbled out again, barely audible as your voice betrayed you.

His smirk deepened, and his crimson eyes held a predatory gleam that made your stomach twist and flutter all at once. “Don’t play coy with me, darling.” His voice was velvety enough to bury each word into your ears. “I know you’ve thought about this—about me. I can see it, feel it. You want this as much as I do.” You tried to look away to escape his gaze, but it was impossible. His eyes held you captive, burning with something raw and unapologetically ravenous.

Your eyes widened as he tugged you closer with a calculated ease that made you perfectly aligned with him—causing your pussy to rub directly on his cock. The feeling made every inch of you stand on edge, your body betraying you with a tremor you couldn’t suppress. Then he reclined back against his pillows more comfortably before his other hand glided up your thigh. “Relax, darling...” He purred lowly, his tone a sensuous command that curled around you like smoke.

You became instantly conscious of the burning sensation beneath you—the growing hardness pressing insistently against your cunt. Your thoughts whirled, panic and desire colliding in a tumult. ‘How did I end up like this?’ But the answer was painfully clear—he had led you, and you’d followed without resistance for being distracted caring for him.

“I... I wasn't planning... this.” You forced yourself to meet his gaze, but his eyes—bold and piercing—made it impossible to hold.

One brow arched. “Oh, really?” He asked sarcastically. “Then perhaps you can explain why you’re straddling me like you are, love.”

His hardening length was impossible to ignore, even through the barrier of clothes, the sensation making heat surge through you in torrents. You swallowed hard. “I… It’s only because you moved me—” You tried to protest, but Astarion pressed a finger to your lips to silence you before leaning in to kiss your neck. “Moved you, did I?” He teasingly whispered against your skin. “Then don’t even think of moving, love... you're not going anywhere.”

Those words echoed in your ears. You knew you’d been fighting with your feelings since that night with the tieflings—when you’d seen him in his tent with his wine focused entirely on you, ignoring everyone else. You’d told yourself it was just the wine, the moment, but now you could hardly keep up the pretence.

For a hesitant moment, you thought about pulling away—but then his expression softened, almost looking if his black pupils were begging for you to stay with him, to kiss him when he noticed your intentions as you stared at his lips and slowly you hovered them with yours; the distance seemed endless.

With a small effort, you leaned in and kissed his lips, and you could feel how he smiled, clearly delighted by your boldness and the way your hand curled at his nape to draw him to you. The motions of your lips were slow, unsure. But as soon as you felt his opening slightly against yours, the shyness began to fade.

His hands clamped on your hips to pull you closer until there wasn't any space for doubt or even space untouched between you, and you could feel him—all of him. The pressure of his cock perfectly aligned with your entrance provoked you to gasp against his mouth; even in the hesitation, he gave you no choice but to lean into him, to crave more and push past the uncertainty that had held you back.

He just seemed to want more, that he couldn’t get enough of you. His mouth felt as if it were burning yours. The kiss started slow and tentative, but that didn't last. His lips grew more insistent as he deepened the kiss, tilting his head and parting yours with ease to slip his tongue between your lips in a hurry. This made you pant by the initial shock of it, racing your heart. Your thoughts began to dissolve, leaving only the moment, and you simply surrendered to the sensation.

The swipes of his tongue weren’t gentle at all. He was implacable, exploring your mouth, moving deeper. His kiss wasn’t just a kiss—it was an invitation, a way to encourage you. And as you accepted, you met his tongue with your own, unconfident at first, but he gave you the courage to match his boldness. Astarion groaned softly, a deep sound that reverberated in your lips, sending an intense pulse of arousal to your pussy.

There was no going back now, and you knew it. This was it—the pull to him, the demand of his touch, and now you could feel the indescribable connection that had been building between you from the very first time your eyes had met.

His lips pulled away just enough to speak. “You’re mine tonight.” He groaned roughly as his hands drifted to the sensitive space between your inner thighs, cupping your pussy and slowly kneading it with his fingers. “And when I’m through with you, you won't even remember what it felt like to be without me.”

Your chest tightened as his words hit hard, but you found yourself barely able to even think, unable to do more than just nod as you looked down at him. Your lips parted while you took your breath, while his hand moved with a voracious elegance, dragging his fingertips along the seam where your trousers joined. The air was charged and burning before he did what he did.

With a sharp tug, Astarion tore the fabric between your thighs. The sound was violent as the seams of your trousers gave way under the force of his hands, almost merciless. The rip clearly was strategic—exposing just enough to reveal what was hidden.

But the regret rushed over you the moment the cool night air hit your exposed area. You hadn’t been wearing any panties, and now, with nothing to shield your nakedness, you felt scandalously vulnerable. You cursed yourself for all the nights you decided against wearing anything, thinking no one would notice. Now, the decision turned painfully foolish.

His eyes dropped, and his pupils dilated further at the sight of his no longer hidden treasure, curling his lips with delight. A low laugh escaped his throat. “Well, well,” he purred, distinctly pleased. “It seems you’ve been planning this all along, haven’t you? No panties? How deliciously bold.”

You mentally damned your stupidity, your cheeks heating in embarrassment. The simple choice of not wearing underwear before going to sleep now felt like an invitation, one he seemed all too eager to accept.

The shock of it left you momentarily motionless and without words, feeling the cool air kissing the exposed skin of your thighs and your core. His hand brushed over the tear he had just created, grazing his fingers very close to where your pussy was.

“I can still see that shy little spark in you, even now.” He talked again, locking onto you. The playful smirk on his lips softened as he watched the blush across your cheeks. “It's almost... adorable.”

You tilted your head slightly, trying to escape his penetrating stare, a nervous pout forming on your lower lip as your hands clutched at his shoulders for some sort of stability. But a sudden gasp escaped your lips when his middle and ring fingers slid between your folds with smooth precision, parting them easily. His fingers let your clitoris be positioned right between both; your sensitive bud responded instantly after so many winters without another’s touch, and your grip on his shoulders only grew firmer.

When they finally clamped on either side of your clit, his fingers massaged it with a slow back-and-forth motion, sending an uncontrollable shiver through your nub. Your hips instinctively moved due to his stimulation, causing a soft tremor in your pelvis as the tingling sensation built. The exact pressure he exerted made you melt further, caught in the heat of it and masking your timid instincts.

All swipes of his fingers coaxed your body to react in ways you could barely control. Astarion's smile widened as he enjoyed watching the last traces of your shyness slowly dissolve beneath his touch. Eventually joining his thumb to the dance, finally rubbing directly over the skin covering your bud before pressing down in slow circles that made your thighs tremble against his hips.

“Just like that…” He murmured approvingly. “Feels good, doesn't it?”

His fingers slid forward slightly, pressing his palm against your clit while his middle finger traced the outline of your entrance. The anticipation held you captive, instinctively arching your hips, silently urging him to end the wait. And then, with tantalising slowness, he slid one finger inside you, the feeling both stimulating and exhilarating all at once. The filling was perfect—gradual but firm—and soon, a second finger joined to push in and out without pulling them out entirely.

With each slow thrust of his fingers, his palm rubbed on the skin of your clit, adding a delicious, pleasurable dual stimulation that sent spasms through your pussy, making it impossible to stay still. The strokes were maddeningly controlled, his fingers reaching and curling deeper with every smooth push, as though he knew exactly what you needed and how to give it to you. Astarion’s gaze never left your face, his piercing crimson eyes bright with pleasure, absorbing every sigh and shiver you produced.

“How sensitive, darling...” He breathed softly as he drew closer to meet your lips with his, causing a sweet pulse to your core, intensifying your throbs.

He angled his hand just slightly to reach deeper, and you gripped him tightly. You found yourself helplessly following the increasing tempo he set, encircling his neck with your arms to pull him closer and losing one of your hands in his silky curls.

Astarion's smile turned avaricious against your mouth, sensing your walls vibrate and deliciously clench around him, drenching his hand in just a few minutes. He curled his skilled fingers inside to stimulate a sensitive spot you didn't know was there, just perfectly, his touch implacable against your clit while he fucked your cunt.

Your mouth was being claimed with an eagerness that made your blood boil—he was devouring you in the kiss. His smooth lips moved against yours, insistent and hungry, coaxing you to open for him as he gently bit your lower lip. As you complied, his tongue rapidly swept in, tasting your saliva mingling with his. It was dizzying; your senses flooded with the taste of him and the coolness of his pale skin, creating a high contrast against your hot, wetting pussy and just adding to the sensations.

A low groan gurgled in his chest as his lips pressed harder, the tips of his fangs grazing your bottom lip before pulling back slightly. Just to slam his mouth to yours again with even more fierceness after taking his breath. His fingers curled more rapidly against that delicate spot within you, utterly submerging you in the magnetic pull of his caresses and the incredible hunger in his kiss.

He pulled away, his lips brushing against yours as he did, a soft, breathless hum escaping him. “I wonder,” he began, “how long it will take for you to break, darling.” His eyes glinted as he continued. “But I’m in no rush. We’ll savour this. I will…”

Your grip on him tightened, slightly pulling his hair as your hips rocked back and forth with the pace he set, lost to the growing pleasure he built for you. His touch was relentless, almost coaxing you to the brink, but every stroke was carefully calculated, carefully slow to keep you teetering, hovering in a blissful tension that left you frustrated.

Astarion watched you with predatory attention, centred on the slightest whimper that escaped your lips, as well as that exquisite pussy between your thighs. The very sight of you brought him as much pleasure as his hand brought to you.

Your breathing grew ragged as your body instinctively sought more of the pleasure he promised. The fullness of his fingers, though they were quite close to what you needed, only left you aching for more. You could feel your desire intensifying with every subtle movement, letting your hands drift lower in his chest with the need to touch, to claim him as yours. ‘At least for tonight’.

“Astarion... more, please... I want your cock inside me.” You pleaded, looking into his eyes with desperate want. “Take off these trousers...” You added, letting your fingers trail down his abdomen to where his waistband circled just below his waist, urging him to remove the last barrier between you.

He held your gaze, his eyes smouldering as a slow, indulgent smile appeared on his face. “Oh, you’re even more delicious when you beg...” He honeyed with approval, pulling his fingers out of your pussy and watching with keen interest as you trembled at the loss, the delicate quiver of your hips only adding to the pleasure he found in your vulnerability.

Before doing so, he slowly brought his dripping fingers from your cunt to his mouth, taking great pleasure in licking them clean and savouring the sweet, intoxicating juices made by your body. A soft, pleased hum escaped him as his eyes gleamed with wicked glee as he drank in the sight of your flushed face.

Only then did his hands drop to the waistband of his trousers. He didn’t rush, of course; instead, his movements were maddeningly slow as he began to slide the fabric down. The gleam in his eyes told you everything—he was savouring every second, drawing out the moment just to test your patience, fully aware of how much it would irritate you.

But just before sliding them for once and for all down, he stopped within a second. His eyes trailed their way down to your breasts, marked against the cloth, still covered while his torso was bare since you made him take off his shirt; the contrast stirred something within him. His fingers gently trailed along the fabric of your shirt, brushing down and against the edge, before his hand slid inside to grip your waist.

He looked back up, meeting your gaze with desire and playful intent. “Darling,” he purred, “don’t you think it’s only fair that you join me in shedding the rest of my clothing?” His eyes gleamed as he showed his damned puppy-like eyes for the second time that day. “I want to feel all of you against me,” he added, his tone rich with faked sorrow as his lower lip made a soft pout. “Take it off, my love...”

Oh, this definitely made you smile, feeling a spark of mischief as you looked down at him. You could tell he hadn’t quite anticipated the thought that crossed your mind.

You let your fingers drift along his bare chest again, savouring the coolness and smoothness of his porcelain skin before cradling his cheek, taking in every detail of his expectant look.

“Well,” you leaned close, letting your lips just a few inches away from his. “After tearing my favourite trousers,” you whispered, trailing your thumb teasingly across his lower lip, “don’t you think it’s only fair that you ask me—politely—to take the shirt off?”

Astarion raised one of his brows; his smile wavered for only a moment as he considered your request. Then, his expression softened, his smirk playing again on his lips as his hands slid up your sides under your shirt. “Oh, I see,” he replied smoothly, “you want me to beg, do you?”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Yes.” You savoured every single letter that slipped from your lips. “I am dying to hear you beg, Astarion.”

A moment passed before he gave a soft chuckle, and his gaze, brimming with delight and want, locked with yours. “Please, my love.” He said lowly, needy. “Let me see those surely precious breasts you must have. I’ll be good, I promise.” He pleaded sweetly. “Take it off... just for me...”

His words only made you want to tease him more.

The diabolical glow in your eyes grew as you leaned forward, letting your thumb trace the line of his chin. You could feel the light tension in his posture, the way the red in his eyes darkened, his lips parting just a bit as he waited for... maybe a kiss? He wasn't quite sure with you. His hands on your waist tightened to pull you a bit closer, but you resisted, holding him at bay.

“Good, you say? I’d like to see that.” You tilted your head as if considering his plea. “Are you sure you’re capable of it?” Your fingers slid down his chest again, skimming over his nipples with your fingers just enough to provoke him a small shiver.

“More than capable.” He replied roughly for the restraint you demanded of him, but not being entirely sincere.

You breathed slowly as you caught his lie, but somehow, your desire for him only grew, knowing he didn’t intend to ‘be good’ with you at all.

Your hands went down to lift the hem of your shirt, but you didn’t pull it up yet. Instead, you let your fingers there. “If you want it so badly, Astarion,” you said softly, “you’ll have to ask again. Nicely.”

His expression shifted to one of purely wanting as he tightened his hands on you. “Please, my love,” he replied in a low tone. “Take it off.”

Finally, you slowly lifted your shirt to reveal your torso and the defined curves of your breasts, drawing the fabric over your head to set it aside on his bedroll and finally being completely naked to his eager stare. Astarion’s eyes glistened with a glow that spoke volumes as he devoured every detail of your flushed skin like a long-awaited treat. You couldn’t help but arrange your hair and adjust your bracelets; you felt a mix of nerves and exhilaration at his intense attention.

Astarion’s hands reached for your breasts with a speed that almost startled you, sinking his fingers into your supple flesh as he kneaded it and leaned forward. His lips found one of your nipples, capturing it along with a portion of your breast, sucking passionately before planting a warm kiss above your nipple. He repeated on its twin, savouring your body before finally looking up; the surprise etched on your face, the blush on your cheeks, and the widening of your eyes seemed to light pride in his gaze.

Astarion revelled in the comfy warmth of your flesh under his cool hands as he continued to knead and massage your breasts as thoroughly as it was slow. Trailing his lips down to run messy kisses along your sternum before returning to one of your breasts once more. He opened his mouth, homely, to get your flushed breast inside, sucking it and swirling his tongue around it, rumbling an eager hum. His hands went to your waist and your other breast to take care of it too, holding you as you leaned against him with a soft moan escaping your lips. He seemed almost like a starved child desperately seeking milk from his mother's breast.

After a long, leisurely moment, he pulled away with a final and slow brush of his tongue over your nipple; his lips glistened with saliva from his attention. A desire that seemed to consume him was burning in his eyes, and when they met yours, a slow smile spread across his face. “You know,” he murmured, “I could lose myself in you like this, so easily.” His fingers slowly contoured your waist. “But I’ll need more than just this beautiful view.” He leaned in to graze his lips on your ear and whispered, “Imagine, darling, how it’ll feel when I’m deep inside you—how I’ll make you forget everything else, until all you can think of... is me.”

Your body received a delicious tremble, an almost inaudible moan escaping your lips because of the intensity of his voice saying those words to you. Your fingers tangled in his hair to pull him closer, feeling yourself getting wetter. The simple thought of him inside you, fucking you until your legs couldn't respond any more, grew your pulse faster.

As his hands wandered lower, the ache between your thighs grew unbearable—the need to have his cock growling in your throat; you could barely stand it. Impatiently, you moved to straddle his thighs, finding with your hands his waistband.

“I need you, Astarion.” Your plea spilt out unprocessed, begging for him to end the teasing and give you what you craved. “Please take them off. I can’t wait any longer. Finish what you started.” The final word fell from your lips almost like a cry, leaving no doubt that you were beyond ready, beyond wanting. You needed him—now.

Astarion chuckled as he looked at your hands, tracing his abdomen. He laid back slightly against his soft pillows, clearly enjoying how you were so eager for him, but he didn’t move anyway. Instead, his eyes flickered to your fingers as they were about to start tugging his waistband, and his lips curled up.

“Please, Astarion.” You pleaded again. “I can't take it any more. Stop teasing me. Take them off. Please.”

He hummed, amused, with a wicked glint in his crimson eyes. “Ah, so desperate, are we?” His eyes slid downward, pausing to take in the way your pussy soaked through his fabric, already dripping as you set yourself on his thighs. “Look at that sweet little cunt of yours, dripping for me already.” As soon as he finished speaking, he let out a soft chuckle. “Can’t wait to feel me inside, I see.”

You furrowed your brows in some annoyance at his incessant chatter that only made your patience thinner. But then, his demeanour shifted nonchalantly, capturing your attention when he propped his hands up on the bedroll and lifted his pelvis fluidly, giving you room to slide his trousers out of his legs.

“Help yourself, darling.” He purred softly with that grin on his lips.

You couldn’t stop yourself from glancing down, captivated by his posture. When your eyes fell to his crotch, where your hands had settled either side, you saw the clear shape of his rigid cock outlined beneath the fabric, straining against the material and angled a little to one side. The thickness and length were evident, making your entrance painfully clench around nothing and heat your cheeks.

‘How didn't I look at it before?’ Your breath hitched at the graphic, raw sight of it—exquisite and so irresistibly tempting. The aching sensation in your pussy grew, not just from the visual but from the rush of desire that quickly followed. Despite yourself, your eyes went back to his face, finding that same teasing, excited expression as though he were daring you to take the next step.

As you began to slide your fingers inside the waistband of his trousers, you brushed lightly his skin, sending a shiver to your fingertips.

And then, pulling his trousers down, you slowly revealed more inches of his pelvis and his white curls, and you could feel his intense gaze smouldering into you. His cock twitched against the fabric, building your excitement until it sprang free, making you inhale sharply at the sight. Your eyes traced his exposed skin as you slid the fabric the rest of the way down his legs. A soft rustle marked their removal from his ankles, and he lay naked before you.

His erect length was blushed and visibly soft, with subtle veins running up from its base, contrasting sharply against his swollen, rosy head. The pale expanse of his skin was almost luminescent; only the tip of his cock seemed all the more vivid. And there was precum already seeping from its slit, a trail that slid down to his sac.

For a brief, delicious moment, you simply stared. The long shape with a slightly tapered head was just stunning, and it made you realise just how perfectly he would enter and fill you. You couldn’t help but let your fingers drift to your clit, stimulating lightly to ease the relentless ache building. The wet heat spread between your thighs, growing stronger as you took in every detail.

A subtle sigh left your lips, caused by the strong beating of your puffy bud against your fingers. You traced the ridges of his hips with the other hand before brushing over from the base to the tip of his cock. It was warm, soft but firm with the ridges of its veins, and the precum that gathered there only added to its silkiness.

Your mind raced with thoughts you hadn’t fully allowed yourself to process—how new this was, how thrilling and unfamiliar it felt yet so drawn by it. Astarion was nothing like the lovers you had before. You didn’t have a long list of conquests, and that made your inexperience clear. But the way he looked at you and how his moves commanded every piece of your attention drew you deeper into something you were both eager and frightened to experience.

Without thinking any longer, your hand wrapped around the base of his cock, feeling its thickness as you slowly began to stroke him in sync with your own stimulation, smoothing with your thumb the head with each pass. His lips allowed a low, appreciative sigh to escape him, sending a wave of emotion through you and racing your pulse. And with one final glance up at his face, you slowly positioned yourself between his thighs to lay down and let your stomach rest on his bedroll.

As you let your lips hover near the tip of his cock, you could feel the heat radiating from him and smell the intoxicating scent of his arousal as he smelt yours. You could almost drool at the sight before you—how you see the shift in his expression—from humour to impatience. The anticipation was exhausting for both of you, but you didn’t rush. Instead, you kissed the tip tenderly, feeling the weight of him against your lips before letting your tongue slip out where his glans started to the high point. Tasting the warmth and saltiness of his cock because of his precum.

You felt the coolness of the storm kissing you and of the bedroll beneath your stomach, grounding you as your hands remained on him, steady and assured. Astarion’s thighs tensed under your touch, caught between the impulse to take control and the pleasure of simply letting you explore at your own pace.

Each time your thumb swept over his tip, his cock twitched, responding to the rhythm of your touch and your lips. You swirled your tongue around his head, licking clean the precum that had gathered there and along his length. The taste was different than you expected—rich and heady, like a Vermentino wine, lingering on your tongue in a way that was deeply intriguing.

The low sounds slipping from his lips spurred you on as you pressed messy kisses to his length and tip, tracing with your tongue the subtle lines and ridges of his shaft. His sharp intake of breath told you just how deeply he felt every small touch, and the sheer pleasure in that knowledge emboldened you further.

“Mm, look at you,” he purred, honestly surprised and pleased. “Not so shy now, are we, darling?” His words were meant to tease as always, but the note of admiration was unmistakable, making clear just how captivated he truly was.

Your eyes met his quietly before slowly lowering your mouth to take him inch by inch. The stretch of him filled your cavity as you went deeper, feeling his rigidity slide against your tongue. You let inside more of him until you felt his tip reach the back of your throat and the hair on his pelvis brushing your nose. His reaction, the involuntary twitch, and the low hum from him sent a thrill through you as you adjusted him inside your mouth, savouring the moment.

As you set a slow up-down with your head, Astarion’s lips started to make soft, broken sounds that were like a lyrical to your ears, urging you to continue. His hand reached out to rest on the back of your head, his fingers threading into your hair as he let out a silent growl. The anxiety in his grip was obvious, yet he kept his touch gentle, guiding without forcing and letting you take the lead, trembling under your care.

You slid your hands down his thighs, feeling the taut muscles beneath your fingers and feeling how his body responded to you. Each time you drew him deeply, your tongue caressed his lower vein, lavishing attention on every inch of him that his cock met with an appreciative palpitation.

Astarion moaned, his head falling back against the pillows. “Slow down, my love... Let me enjoy this.” He breathed as he allowed you to fully take him, his hips flexing slightly. His fingers tightened slowly in your hair, a silent encouragement for you to continue as he gave himself completely over to you.

With one hand still supported on his thigh, you drifted the other to his sac to massage it gently inside your palm. The action caused a louder moan from him, his hips jiggling involuntarily as you kept your mouth moving steady and more slowly, never breaking your rhythm. His low groans came quicker and even rougher, sounds of pleasure spilling freely now like an invitation to go on, filling the tent and dispersing the strong rain outside.

He moved his hand from your hair to your cheek and stopped you momentarily, cradling it in a surprisingly tender gesture as he glanced down at you. “Look at me while you do it, my darling...” He sighed, gently caressing you. “Feel how hard you make me...” His head fell back once more, unable to hold back a guttural growl as you continued with an intensified sucking, feeling his cock pulse and grow impossibly hard against your tongue.

With a measured squeeze, you tightened your grip on his sac, rolling it delicately with your fingers while your other hand remained anchored on his thigh. They trembled involuntarily, just like his cock, each movement drawing a delicious reaction until he could no longer keep still, his hips instinctively arching towards your mouth.

His hand returned to the back of your head, gripping tightly as your tongue traced the underside of his cock. All of him seemed to shiver under your touch, and he still allowed you to take control, guiding him into this sweet, little death.

But, after a few moments, you let his cock slip free from your lips with a slow drag, watching it emerge slick in your saliva and instantly cling to his lower belly because of its hardness. The dampness left a glistening trail between your mouth and him, breaking only as you leaned back, lifting a hand to wipe the last of the moisture from your mouth. He let out a disappointed sigh at the loss of you, then looked down to watch how you had left him all reddish-coloured with a sheen because of his precum mixed with your saliva.

Without a word, you rose on your knees and moved to straddle his hips, feeling the firm press of his thighs beneath your ass cheeks as you settled your weight onto him. His hands instinctively moved to your waist, gripping your sides in a way that felt almost impossible to avoid.

You could feel the hardness of his cock pressing between your folds—a solid, delicious presence. Each pulsate of its head against the own palpitations of your puffy bud felt incredible.

Bracing your hands against his chest, you pressed down gently and took a moment to enjoy the feel of him, tracing the lines that defined his chest with your fingers. His eyes were locked on you, watching the way your pussy just wrapped around his cock.

Gradually, you began to move your hips, grinding down your clitoris onto his glans with a slowed tempo that turned faster. The friction was amazing as you brushed against his slick skin, adding a sensuous layer of lubrication as you moved back and forth against his perfectly nestled cock. You could feel yourself drenching him wetter, mixing your juices with the slickness left from your previous oral.

His hungry gaze roamed over your pelvis, tightening his grip on your waist as he let out a rough sigh, savouring the way your pussy slid so enticingly along his shaft until you leaned forward. Repositioning your weight on one hand, you reached down to trace your fingers along his length, wrapping around it to guide it upwards. You pressed the tip on your entrance, dragging it slowly along your slit, feeling it start to pulse against your inner lips. His lower lip formed a slight pout as you continued to tease, drawing the moment out with almost cruel patience.

But with a final pass, you positioned him straight to your entrance, vacillating just on the edge, and looked at his face to watch his reaction—the way his eyes were focused on your pussy, waiting for you to cut the last bit of separation. Then, with a slow downward, you began to sink him inside, feeling the exquisite stretch his tip made as he filled you, inch by inch, making your walls instantly clench around him for the sudden fullness.

He let out a pleased moan, now holding harder your hips as you settled onto him completely, feeling so deep and stretching you deliciously wide after so many years of solitude. The warm pulse of him between your walls, every subtle movement of his length—an insistent throb—made you simply sit there for a moment. Letting yourself adjust to the sensation of him fully within you and the friction of your clit as it rubbed against his silvery pubic hair. He flicked up his eyes to meet yours with an intensity that made his eagerness clear as he waited for you to move.

You gently cupped his face and caressed his pointy ear, the other hand resting over his shoulder. You softly brought his face closer to yours, locking your eyes on his.

“Astarion...” You whispered. “Can you feel it? How incredible this is?” You gave him a dulcet smile before closing the distance, pressing your lips against his as you traced the line of his cheekbone and chest, feeling his pulse beneath your fingers.

Gently, you lifted yourself just slightly to sink back down, the exquisite friction sending a burst of pleasure through both of you. Astarion’s grip on you tensed again, tightening as his hips surged up to meet yours, letting out a low, throaty noise. Your lips remained together, deepening the kiss as your mouths moved in time with your bodies, setting a slow, constant pace where you rose and fell smoothly over him.

The sounds of your bodies intertwined moving together began to fill the surrounding little space—the slapping of skin on skin, the lewd, sensual noises of your pussy swallowing his cock over and over again blending with the muffled moans, and the relentless raindrops against the canvas.

He forcefully gripped your hips to dictate you, abruptly being the one controlling the pace as he broke the kiss to catch his breath. His lips hovered close, both hot exhales mingling as you rested your forehead against his, matching your rhythm. The tantalising climax drew closer and closer with every thrust, making everything else seem distant, the storm outside being insignificant compared to the tempest building between you.

His hands roamed over your body, tracing your spine before one circled your waist and the other gripped the back of your shoulder to pull you closer, urging you to press down against him more fully.

The deeper you sank, the more you felt him smack against your vaginal walls so passionately. You leaned forward, your hands wrapping either side of his waist and slightly digging your nails into his skin as you picked up the pace. The position shifted just enough to drive him pleasantly deeper in each downward stroke, with a perfect angle that made his tip hammer against your cervix.

Suddenly, the hand against your shoulder gripped your cheeks, pulling you down to capture your lips in another hungry kiss. His tongue tangled with yours, both tasting the other's mouth, becoming something truly addicting, as if he just seemed to want to devour you whole, and you couldn't satisfy your own craving. His hand slid to your nape as the kiss deepened, just like the rhythm of both pelvises grew faster.

Every thrust proved how he was losing himself, both of you spiralling higher and higher. He whimpered against your lips, a sound that vibrated deep in your mouth, feeling the tension coiling tighter within your lower belly, your body feeling worn out as it yearned for release.

His hands were everywhere—guiding, pulling, encouraging. You couldn’t help but moan against his lips, the pleasure overwhelming as your movements grew more frantic. He was holding you just right, pressing his open thighs up against your ass cheeks, lifting you just enough to make you feel perfectly aligned with his cock.

His lips parted from yours with a shaky groan as he looked up at you, consumed by the burning need you were becoming. At that moment, with the weight of your hips moving over his, your voice came out shaky, broken by the effort of holding yourself glued to him. “Am I... am I doing it right?”

The question left you trembling because of its vulnerability, making your pulse race as though the very act of asking had laid bare everything you hid beneath that little girl you were for him. You felt so desperate for his confirmation, for him to tell you that this was all he wanted.

For a moment, he looked as if he was caught off guard, eyes widening just a fraction before he composed himself.

Then his hands tightened his grasp on both your ass cheeks with determination. He pressed your hips down more strongly, making his cock burry inside you to the hilt and making your lips crush against his pelvis. “Do you feel that?” He kept pressing you down harder, grinding his hips up to meet yours. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me, and it’s perfect. Move just like that—don’t stop.” The words slipped out raw and unfiltered, as if he couldn’t hold them back.

The way he said that broke whatever fragile restraint you’d managed to hold onto, unleashing a fierce, unstoppable heat within you. The only thing that existed now was him—all of him—buried balls deep inside you, turning every nerve in almost an animalistic way.

An uncontrollable need surged through you, overtaking all thoughts, as your hips immediately started to move impulsively, slamming down against his. Your body was just demanding to take everything from him, driven by a thirst he had created that couldn’t be denied. The ache of his cock stretching your entrance open and filling you that much was the divine sensation of him, the incredible pleasure of his flawless body moving exactly in time with and inside yours.

You were in pursuit of more—more of him, more of this satisfying connection. You let out a series of desperate moans, each one of them spurring you both deeper into your carnal urges, neither of you able to stop. The immediateness of it overtook you both. Your breathing was ragged as the intense pressure built, feeling him fully as he lifted his hips to force his cock impossibly inside you, aligning you just right, so deep that you could feel it in your very bones. The edge of your release was so close.

His hands dug into your ass, pulling you more forcefully against him to guide your frantic pace and stoke the fire on your clitoris as his pelvis writhed beneath it. “Just a little more...” He growled, strained, like a man on the edge of breaking. “I’m so close, love…” His words were almost a pleading cry, a raw reflection of the need that overtook him because of you.

You could feel it, see it—his control slipping away, his body trembling beneath yours as his hands gripped your hips now to urge you on, both bodies acting just like animals in heat do with an almost agonising intensity that could leave your womb aching for days. You both moved harder and faster, slapping together with an unbreakable pace. The pressure in your core was unbearable now, so close to snapping that it made your legs shake in both of the sides of his hips with the effort of holding on.

Suddenly, one of his hands slid between your bodies, finding your clitoris to circle his thumb over the painfully swollen nub with expert knowledge. Just like if he was already aware of how to trigger your sensitive spots to push you to the heavens. The friction was impossible to bear in the best, perfect possible way, making you cry in pleasure, unable to control the whimpers that tore from your throat.

You couldn’t hold back any more. His touch, the pressure, the movements of his body—it all became too much. The tension inside you snapped, and with a loud and uncontrolled moan, your walls tightly clenched and pulsated around him, your climax crashing over you in pure, consuming pleasure. Hitting you so hard that you felt like you were floating, holding on to him with the tremors of your hips.

But Astarion didn’t stop. He never ceased the maddening stimulation on your clit or fucking your cunt, coaxing another renovated sensation from you, pushing you past the point of stimulation. You tried to pull away to catch your breath, but his hands clamped down, forcing you to stay in the moment, allowing him to draw even more from you. He was relentless as the need to overstimulate you took control.

“Don’t stop, not now.” He gasped, his voice breaking as he thrust up into you harder, his thumb continuing to rub and circle your bud, trying to force your body into another climax. “I need you, my love. Please…”

The words were the spark that made you give in with a desperate cry as ecstasy crashed over you, smashing everything. You felt him pulsating and releasing with a ragged, almost feral growl, leaving his sweet lips, his body quivering beneath yours as he exploded into you, the rush of his climax pushing you to the edge. The sensation of his warm semen spurting against your cervix and filling you sent you into your second release of the night, the new pressure in your body finally exploding in waves of sheer. The powerful sensations of both of you reaching that peak at the same time made your vision blur.

Every spurt of his release throbbed deep within your womb, drawing low, tired moans from your lips as his cock continued its task to fill you, spreading his seed inside you with each pulse of the head. You pressed your hips down, grinding to take him impossibly deeper as your labia were already crushed against his damp pelvis, letting you feel every twitch and tremor between your aching walls. He groaned softly as he tightened his grip on your hips, and you fucked his cock instinctively in answer to coax out every last shudder from him.

His hands guided your hips to keep you pressed down hard as his cock stroked every sensitive inch of your walls, filling you in a way that made some of his cum slowly spill out from your pussy. Your bodies met again and again, making him feel unable to resist the pull of you as you moved perfectly up and down, simply feeling lost in you as you milked him.

Then, you both collapsed together, sweaty bodies shaking with the intensity of your simultaneous culmination and the aftershocks of your climaxes, leaving you both drained. Your breaths came intermittently, laboured, and it felt as though the camp outside had momentarily ceased to exist. The air between you was impregnated with the smell of sex and your scents, but there was also something tender about the way your bodies were embracing each other that made you feel... nice.

Astarion’s hands moved with a strange gentleness now, gliding up your back with soothing strokes in the cosiness of the moment. His lips pressed a tender kiss to your cheek, his breath still unsteady with a warmness that contrasted the freshness of your lovemaking and the way his cock kept pulsating while softening within you.

He dragged you against him. “Are you alright, darling?” His voice abruptly soft, touched with... care, concern; an unknown tenderness that caught you by surprise.

You nodded against his shoulder. “Yes…” you murmured, fluttering closed as exhaustion settled in and the comfort of his presence lulled you, feeling his quick heartbeat beneath your ear. “Just... give me a second.”

A sweet smile tugged at the corner of his lips, looking at you with adoration as he brushed a damp lock of hair away from your face, fingers running gently over your neck. “I’ll admit, I didn't think I’d be the one left wanting more… but here I am.” He said quietly. “That, my love, was truly something else for someone so lovely.” He pressed another sweet kiss to your cheek, remaining just a little before pulling away.

You let out a shaky laugh, the closeness between you both grounding your still-tingling nerves. Lifting your head slightly and reopening your eyes, you met his gaze with a warmth that made your heart swell. “You know,” you started, “I might just have to keep you around a little longer. You’ve made it hard for me to want anyone else, Astarion.” You reached to cradle his cheek as your hidden confession floated in the air between you.

He leaned into your touch, his hand hovering over yours in a loving gesture. “You’re really going to make me do this, aren’t you?” Astarion said, feigning frustration, though his eyes softened with a rare sincerity in his voice. “I had plans, you know. But it seems I’m not allowed to have anything for myself any more.” He let out a mock sigh. “Guess I’m yours, darling. For now. Don’t get too comfortable with it.”

You smiled softly, tilting your head. “Oh, how tragic,” you teased with mock frustration as well. “I didn’t realise you had such grand plans, Astarion. How terribly cruel of me to steal you away from them.” Your fingers gently traced the edge of his ear, a smirk playing on your lips. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll learn to live with it. Just try not to get too comfortable, either, darling.”

Astarion let out a soft chuckle, his fingers leaving your hand to cup your cheek tenderly. “Well, well, what a vile little thing you are,” he said with a playful smirk, grazing your cheekbone with his thumb. “Using that sweet face of yours to get your way... You really do enjoy this, don’t you?” His laugh was light, almost like a caress, before he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a slow kiss that left you aware of all the emotions he couldn’t express using words.

He held the kiss for a moment to savour your lips before pulling back to rest his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he basked in the shared closeness.

After that, he slowly adjusted your position so that you lay more comfortably against him. Once settled, he pulled a soft blanket over you both, wrapping his arms around you snugly.

“Rest now, my love.” He murmured softly. You felt his words settle over you like a soft lullaby, and you snuggled closer to place yourself against him, wrapping your arm gently around his waist.

There, in his embrace, you let yourself fully relax in the quiet comfort of the moment with the rain outside. The feeling of his skin against yours, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the gentle sweep of his fingers through your hair and your arm—it was everything you needed, a perfect, tender end to the passion from minutes ago.

With a contented sigh, you pressed a soft kiss against his chest before your eyelids started to grow heavy as you drifted into a peaceful calm in his arms.

As the hours passed, the heat of the night slowly faded, leaving you both tangled in each other’s embrace. You both drifted into sleep, your bodies still flushed and sweaty from the intensity of your passion that night. Astarion’s arm was wrapped around you, pulling you closer. The odd warmth of his body against yours was comforting.

As the soft light of dawn filtered through the tent, the storm was now nothing more than a distant memory, and a sudden weight pressed down on you.

Your mind, still slow to fully wake, started to be flooded with vivid recollections—the sex, the words shared, the undeniable connection you felt...

A sharp pang of awareness hit you as you became acutely aware of every quiet sound. 'Had I really just done that?' The question lingered in your mind, though it wasn’t that you regretted it—not with him, not when everything felt so unexpectedly right. But still, a knot tightened in your throat. You’d never been this irresponsible before, never allowed this kind of situation with someone you’d only known for a couple of months.

You slowly pulled yourself from Astarion's embrace. The warmth of his body left a mark on your skin nonetheless. As you sat up, the blanket tangled around your hips, and a sudden rush of cool air hit your naked chest, causing an uninvited shiver to you that woke you a little more.

Your eyes drifted to him, still peacefully asleep beside you. His bare chest rose and fell in slowly, and his expression was soft and relaxed in the morning, a sharp contrast to the intensity of your previous night.

While you stood there, tracing with your eyes his form, the weight of what had just happened was still pressing heavily above your shoulders. Embarrassment crept in, not just for the passion you’d shared but for the place you were in—his tent, in camp, with your friends only a few meters away. The unsettling thought wormed its way into your mind: what if they’d heard you?

Your eyes flicked towards the opening of the tent, a bead of cold sweat rolling down the back of your neck. You pressed your palm to your forehead, the reality sinking in. What if they had? The embarrassment felt like it was growing, and you had to swallow back the rising anxiety carving in your chest.

The thoughts swirled and twisted in your mind. Reaching for your shirt, you slowly sat up a bit more; you felt a sting pain in your muscles from the night’s activities. Your fingers fumbled clumsily to the fabric as the weight of your thoughts made everything feel more difficult. You tried to dress as quietly as possible, not wanting to disturb the fragile calm of his slumber.

The texture felt harsh against your sensitive skin, while the cool morning air grazed over the parts of you exposed and between your thighs as you raised the shirt over your head to dress it.

Just as you finally managed to pull it into place, you caught a soft shift beside you. Astarion’s eyes fluttered open, his vision still cloudy with sleep, but his attention immediately locked onto you. He didn’t speak right away; his focus was on the way you moved.

He curved his lips into a small, lazy smile. There was a softness in his expression now that you didn't see before. “Good morning... sneaking off already?” He sighed with the remnants of sleep in his tone. He looked down to where your fingers grabbed the fabric of your shirt, then back to your face, his smile growing wider. His hand reached out to grab your arm, pulling you back towards him gently. “Didn't peg you as the type to leave me after our first time, darling...”

The way he still wanted you close stirred something within you—a warmth despite the storm of emotions inside you. You couldn’t help but smile softly at the thought. “I wasn’t going anywhere...” You replied quietly.

Astarion’s hand moved to your waist, his touch fierce yet tender as he pulled you closer, guiding you to lay back completely against his body. His chest pressed against your back as he nestled his chin in the crook of your neck, pressing soft kisses there. You could feel the weight of him, enveloping you in a way that was both comforting and deeply intimate.

His arm wrapped securely around your waist, drawing you even nearer as he gently adjusted his position, making sure you were comfortable. You could feel the tension in your body melt as his movements spoke of quiet care, though the nervousness inside you didn’t entirely dissipate.

He must have sensed the shift in your mood. “Is everything alright?” Astarion murmured softly, concerned. His lips brushed over your ear as he spoke, a gentle kiss to your cheek that seemed to reassure you, though you couldn’t quite shake the lingering anxiety that clung to you.

“I... I just—” You broke off. “What if they heard us, Astarion?”

“We’re safe, darling,” he murmured, his voice a soothing caress that chased away the remnants of your worry. “No one knows a thing. The storm was our shield last night.”

Astarion’s hand lingered at your waist as he shifted his weight, guiding you gently. And with a slight motion, he turned you to lie on your back and face him fully. His gaze locked onto yours, his crimson eyes glimmering with something unspoken. He propped himself on an elbow beside you, sliding his other hand from your waist to cradle your cheek.

Seeing the faint worry lingering in your eyes, he offered a small, tender smile. “You know, love,” he began, “this is different. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t. I never imagined I’d feel like this—like I’d actually want this... someone.” His thumb brushed softly over your cheekbone, as if the gesture alone could convey what words struggled to express. “Last night wasn’t just indulgence, not with you. It was... real.”

The way he looked at you then was as though he’d laid down his armour, revealing a part of himself you’d only glimpsed. “I’ve spent centuries taking what I was told to, living by someone else’s twisted desires. Wanting something—someone—for myself? I’d almost forgotten what that even felt like.” He hesitated. “But here we are... and being with you, feeling this... it’s more than I ever dared to hope for.”

Your breath caught, and the sincerity in his voice made your chest feel both heavy and light at once. You swallowed, a warmth blossoming where your anxiety had been. “I want you to know that I meant every word,” he whispered against your ear.

As he drew back, his fingers entwined with yours, and he gave you a small smile, one filled with that rare sincerity he reserved just for you. “So, let’s not let the world outside intrude on this, hmm?” His eyes gleamed with a quiet plea. “Not yet.”

The words hung in the warm morning light, soothing the unease within you. Astarion shifted slightly again to recline back onto the soft bedroll, pulling you with him. You instinctively wrapped an arm around his waist to hold him close.

But as your fingers traced along his side, you brushed against something you forgot. A faint crease formed between your brows as you looked down. There was the bandage you had tied the night before, stained with a faint bloom of red where his wound lay concealed. A quiet ache of worry unfurled in your chest as your hand rested against the edge of the bandage.

Without thinking, your fingers traced lightly over his abdomen, avoiding the more sensitive area near the bandage. “Astarion,” you called softly with a new urgency. “Are you... alright? I might’ve moved too much last night.”

Astarion’s eyes opened a bit more as he recognised the genuine concern in your voice. “Oh, my love,” he purred with a smirk on his lips as he glanced down to where your hand rested on his stomach. “If anyone could survive your... enthusiasm, it would be me.” His tone softened as he covered your hand with his.

You bit your lip, the persistent worry stirring as you recalled the intensity of the night before. “Still, I should've been more careful with you,” you replied with a faint blush warming your cheeks. “I didn’t even think about it last night... I just... wanted you.”

He shifted slightly, pulling you closer until your foreheads touched, his lips barely brushing yours as he spoke again. “Believe me, last night... was everything I never knew I needed,” he said, with a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You've given me a moment of calmness I never thought I’d experience again.”

Your hand pressed lightly against his chest; he let out a quiet, contented sigh. His own hand drifted down to rest against your waist, drawing you even closer.

He brushed his lips softly against the tip of your nose, placing a sweet kiss there before he spoke. “The truth is, I’m not used to someone worrying over me. I’ve learnt to dismiss my wounds and to push through the pain alone. You make me feel seen, darling…”

A soft smile tugged at his lips as he leaned back just enough to catch your gaze, reaching with his hand your cheek to rub his thumb along your cheekbone in a gentle, absent-minded swipe. Your heart softened as you wrapped your arms around him, letting yourself melt. You nestled closer to him, the soft heat of his body a constant pull as your fingers traced lightly over his skin, careful not to touch the bandage.

Astarion’s fingers moved in slow strokes along your back, his touch lingering at the small of your waist. The quiet way his body urged you nearer made your pulse race in a way that was both comforting and thrilling. You could feel the passion of the night still lingering in the air between you, a magnetic pull that only seemed to deepen the longer you were in his presence.

“You know,” he murmured lowly, his velvety voice wrapping around your thoughts. He leaned in, his lips brushing over yours as he closed his eyes briefly. “I find myself wanting more.”

A small shiver of anticipation ran through you. He moved slightly, shifting his body to bring you closer, his hand sliding down your side until he could grab one of your buttocks. It stirred something inside of you—something that made it hard to breathe, hard to think.

You pressed your lips to his to give him a soft kiss before pulling back to meet his eyes. The intensity in his look made you ache with longing. “Astarion, are you sure you’re alright?” You asked softly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He froze for a moment, his eyes narrowing with something dark and intense, and then he leaned forward, capturing your lips in a kiss that was slow and sensual, tasting of the night and everything you’d shared. His mouth moved against yours with a quiet eagerness, and you let yourself melt into him, your hand sliding to his waist, feeling the bandage beneath your palm.

But you pulled back slightly, concern flitting through your mind again. Astarion’s eyes glimmered, his expression a blend of amusement and something achingly vulnerable. “Darling,” he replied, his voice a rough, affectionate murmur. “I can handle anything you give me.”

You leaned into him, grazing your lips with his as you spoke, “I just want to make sure you're alright... I don’t want to push—” Without letting you finish, he leaned forward to kiss your lips again to silence you. His mouth moved against yours with a quiet desperation, a demand for attention.

Astarion’s hands slowly roamed your sides as he shifted, positioning himself above you on the bedroll. You could feel the warmth of his body radiating into yours, his thighs pressed tightly against yours.

Your hands moved instinctively, sliding around his waist, bracing yourself against his lower back, feeling the curve of his muscles tense under your touch. The kiss deepened, slow and calm, as if he tasted every inch of you, pushing any lingering uncertainty away.

One of his hands moved to catch your hand and entwine his fingers with yours before pressing your hand down against the pillow. His other hand found your other wrist, lifting it gently above your head and pinning it there, his grip firm yet laced with a sensual care that only deepened your wanting of him. His thighs pressing tighter against yours.

Astarion’s breath was shallow against your lips as he finally broke the kiss to meet your gaze, his pupils wide with a need that mirrored your own, his mouth curving into a wicked smile as he held you in place. The subtle weight of him, combined with the feeling of his fingers interlocked with yours, created an undeniable sense of belonging, a wordless claim that ignited every nerve.

“Don’t worry about me,” he murmured roughly because of his desire, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke. “Just stay here. With me. That’s all I need.”

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