#Trigger points and tight back muscles

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[luveline]

hi! your stories are so captivating😍 Thank you so much for doing them!

If you feel inspired I would love to see a story of Spencer x badass reader where she physically defends him from an unsub and/or verbally from someone they are working with like a cop or something

tysm! ♡ 1k

Sweat drips into your eye. 

It follows a line down your cheek like a teardrop and hits your swat vest with a thud. Quiet has settled with the heat, a blanket encompassing everything, your one drop of sweat enough to give you away. The unsub stills at his computer screen, white light bouncing against his jaw. He looks up like he's looking for rain. 

He turns right first. He sees Spencer. 

"FBI," Spencer announces steadily. 

You point your weapon at his chest. "Put your hands up and stand against the wall." 

Cory doesn't look like he's going to surrender so easily. "You have three children upstairs," you say, though it's not true. The children sit outside in foil blankets, and with any luck they'll be taken somewhere safer before the arrest. "Three young children who love you. What do you want them to think of you now? Come peacefully." 

Cory's face rippled with rage quickly masked. He sits back from his computer and pauses. Then, slowly, he puts his hands against the wall. 

"Reid," Morgan instructs, at your left, his gun similarly trained. 

Spencer moves forward to handcuff him. It's not your normal routine but it isn't out of your jurisdiction, quieter arrests often mean you act as cops rather than full-fledged agents. "Cory Harrison, you are under arrest for the homicide of Tara Harrison. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say–" 

The handcuffs clink as they're whipped from Spencer's grasp, one cuff open, the other closed around Cory's wrist, the links brought unapologetic to the pale curve of Spencer's throat. 

Spencer grabs for his gun. Cory pulls the cuffs tight, forcing Spencer closer to his chest and choking the air from his throat. 

You reposition your aim. Another drop of sweat curves past your eyebrow. The basement humidity and your panic threaten to blind you. 

"Let him go," Morgan says sharply. 

"I'll shoot you if I have to." 

Cory scoffs at you. "And shoot through string bean?" 

You tense your finger against the trigger of your glock. "I have good aim," you say simply. 

You have no intention of firing. Cory has a standard issue pair of handcuffs to his discretion. He isn't big or muscled enough to kill Spencer bare-handed, not quickly, and he's on unsure footing. 

You step closer. Cory snarls. "Stay back. I'll kill him, you stupid bitch–" 

Men. Cory killed his defenceless wife with rohypnol and a rope and now he thinks he can win a fight against two agents trained extensively (admittedly one more than the other) in defence. He's lucky Spencer's in the way —you would've attempted to push his nose into his brain. As it stands, you hook your leg between his and Spencer's, your teammate more than aware of the manoeuvre you're about to pull. With one hand you pull the cuff links cruelly up against Spencer's neck but away, most importantly, allowing him the room to dive from Cory's grasp, and with the other you tuck your gun out of Cory's reach. His arms up, his stomach open, you pull your leg behind his knee and grate your foot down his calf.

He collapses to the floor. You stomp your foot into his groin. 

Morgan saves you the chore of cuffing him a second time. He reads the Miranda Rights by heart as you catch your breath, stepping back into Spencer's open hands. 

You relax at his touch. He's alright, he–

"Did I hurt you?" you ask, spinning on your heel. 

Spencer pouts at you, irked at being worried after. "Of course you didn't." 

"Your neck, I almost choked you like he was," you say, mindful of the agents and specialists flooding the room to secure the crime scene and any evidential material. 

Spencer lifts his chin. "Doesn't hurt." 

There's a rubbed red line up the column of his throat, but it could be worse. You finally wipe the sweat from your face, exhausted and ecstatic that you got the bad guy. 

"Come on," Spencer says.

You follow him outside. In the grass yard waits medical, parked along the entirety of the street stands law enforcement. Hotch nods at you as you return and you take it as a job well done, slouching against the side of a cop car to take a breather. 

"You okay?" Spencer asks. 

You grab for his hand without looking at him. His fingers are warm, neat as they slot through yours. "Why do they always pick on you?" you ask. 

Hotch's voice startles you, but you don't take back your hand. "They underestimate him," he says. "And you. Do you need anything? You're looking…"

"I'm fine." You're tired, too hot, and the short-lived adrenaline of a confrontation is crashing. "Thanks, Hotch." 

He trudges away. Spencer draws closer as you bend forward, his hand on your back. "Are you sure you're okay?" 

"No, I feel awful. I feel sick," you confess. 

He's the only person you'd ever admit it to. You crave his comfort. Spencer must read your mind (or more likely, the twitch of your sore back), his hand landing in the space between your shoulders as he crowds you. "That makes sense. High stress situations make us nauseous because of the fight or flight response. Our body's aren't good at keeping neurotransmitters where they're meant to be. Adrenaline mostly, but cortisol too. It's probably the norepinephrine that's making you feel sick." 

"How do I make it calm down?" 

"Just take a deep breath," he says, rubbing your back. 

You breathe in and out until the sick feeling subsides. Spencer prompts you into standing tall. 

"You know everything," you say fondly, touching his elbow. "Thank you." 

He nudges you. "Thank you for defending me." 

[inkonparchment]

sentinel - re4r bodyguard!Leon x college student!reader.

You and Leon go to the local fair.

everyone say thank you @leonsredfield for giving the idea<33

cw: suggestive themes.

The scent of buttered popcorn is strong, wafting through the stalls, accompanied by the loud music of the carousel with the giggles of children in the air. The large ferris wheel shimmers against the night sky, slowly revolving around its point. The bright colours, the various game stalls and the mix of food scents in the air is very thick.

You, however, seem to be stuck at a distance away from the target shooting game, watching as a couple is trying their hand. They seem around your age, snuggled against each other and laughing as one of them misses a few shots. But his efforts are rewarded by a small teddy bear that he proudly presents to his partner, earning a few kisses in return.

You shake your head. Best to find where your friends had drifted off to instead of creepily staring at couples.

Before you can walk away, Leon sweeps past you to the counter, shoulder brushing against yours, acknowledging the bored looking owner with a nod. "How much?"

The young boy eyes Leon, "Three dollars for five shots."

Leon digs into his pockets, tugging a note out of his wallet and sliding it across. He casually shrugs off his jacket, stalks over to you frozen with confusion apparent on your face. He brings the jacket around your shoulders, gentle in how he drapes you and tugs the opened seam close, the motion making his bangs fall into his eyes.

You gulp, entrapped and entranced with his scent and warmth engulfing you, wiping your brain clear. He leans his head down, fingers gently brushing against the back of your neck, heat bursting through your cheeks as he pulls your hair out from underneath the collar. You find yourself floating towards him, head grazing the skin of the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of his after shave.

He leans back, dropping his face down so that he's eye level to you, enough that you see the specks of green sprinkled in his irises. He taps the side of his nose twice, smiling when whispers to you, "Watch me."

He leaves you breathless, walking over where the rifle waits for him. Leon grips it, hands finding home against the trigger and the fore-stock like he has done this a million times, waits a breath and then nods.

The display jumps to live, jovial music flooding your ears as the various targets begin to move around, bright colours flashing your eyes. None of it captures your attention because your attention is wholly captivated by the sight in front of you.

Legs kicked out in a proper stance, Leon brings the rifle up to his chest, face scrunched in concentration and you don't even know if time is even passing right now. You watch as his broad back stretches the material of his white t-shirt, muscles taught against the thin cloth, barely doing anything to hide the contour of his body, how his shoulders melt into a delicate waist, shirt riding up to reveal the disappearing V-lines of his pelvis.

Why is every shirt he owns so tight? You internally groan.

You should look away, you should really look away but you can't seem to tear your eyes away. No, you don't want to. Every single innocent thought or fantasy you had before was crumbling, it was going to be a near herculean task to imagine the repulsive boils covering his skin to deter him from consuming your every waking moment.

But no. This fucker, your knuckles lose sensation with how tight they are underneath the jacket that's only growing warmer. This bastard. The dips in his abdomen are sculpted by God himself, skin so pale, so precious and glittering with the lines of scars adoring him. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying but failing to reel in your thoughts, aghast at how inappropriate they were.

Could you be blamed? The sight, his jacket, his scent, the lingering sensation of his hand at the back of your neck has you stumbling forward, eyes affixed on his face. And you look down and oh you are in so much trouble when you notice the bulging of his biceps.

The seams of his t-shirt sleeves are holding on for dear life, almost close to bursting with how his biceps are rippling under them, veins trailing various paths against his skin. Your mind almost shatters when you notice the pink of his fingernails, clasped around the rifle, and one finger pushed through the trigger guard, working so dexterously against the trigger, tugging and pulling in languid strokes. Over and over and over and over.

You don't even notice the victory sound going off, the celebratory chimes of bell, slow to notice when he turns, grinning widely as he catches you staring at him. Heat pools in you, watching intently as his lips move, not registering his words. Who would when he looks like an angel kissed by the sun?

You blink, words stuttering out of your lips, "W-what?"

"Which one you want?" He asks again oh so casually as if he hadn't just set your entire world on fire.

"Oh," Your eyes flit away to the array of stuffed toys behind the young boy, retina protesting over having lost its view of Leon. You spot the big snoopy stuffy you were eyeing earlier and point to it. "Snoopy, please."

You watch only him as he reaches out to grab the stuffed toy, taking it from the boy and holding out to you. Your cheeks are warm under his watchful eye, fingers brushing against his as you hug Snoopy close to your chest, hoping it calms your racing heart.

You make to leave but stop when Leon reaches for his wallet once again. "What are you doing?"

Leon offers you a smile, reloading his rifle with a click, shaking his head to move his bangs, "Can't have Snoopy leaving without his pal Woodstock."

[siddyyyyyyyy]

You're Only Sixteen

wc: ~4.6k

summary: child soldier joins task force 141 part THREE; part two, part one; part four

warnings: brief flashback, blood, violence, nightmares

a/n: I'm genuinenly happy how well this is going so far, I'm going to update the parts a bit more slowly for now, but I'm pretty sure I won't take too long on this. Probably. Enjoy!

This time, Ghost is leading the training for today. That just means they're no fun games like last time with Price, not that you were looking forward to it. Starting at the shooting range is like a warm-up for you, landing all shots while doing everything casually. Your reload is fast and precise, your aim is almost always perfect, and your technique couldn't be more clean.

Sparring was similar to the last time, but now you're paired up with Soap. You're both getting in your stance, knees slightly bent, one leg forward, and abdominal muscles tense. Both ready to fight, but this time without any weapons. Ghost specifically told him to strike first, wanting to see how long you can last or even win against Soap. It shouldn't be a big deal for you, even though he is quite a big guy, full of muscle, and slightly taller than you. You've mostly had opponents your size or bigger in field, and you never really had a problem winning or lasting long. Well, besides one person back in camp.

Soap strikes you first with a sharp jab to your side, but you dodge it quickly, hitting him back. You focus on your technique instead of winning, wanting to be strong against him. He seems to be focussing more on his technique as well, noticing how fast he works and his reflexes are. Your fighting styles are similar; the only difference is how you two use it in practice. While he's using more strength and power, you're trying to be quicker than your opponent and trick them.

You kick against his knee, and land some hits against his weak points, it's hard for him to stay balanced or focused. He huffs and stumbles back, only to rush to you quickly and try to tackle you down. With his amount of strength, it's difficult to actually stop him or dodge, having to think quickly. With a small grunt, however, you're down, with him trying to keep you like that. Your heartbeat speeds up and your eyes widen, your breath hitching in your throat. The position you're in is too familiar; trying to get out of it as quickly as you can. Soap is oblivious, just training with you and having tackled you down, keeping you pinned on the mat. Your brain is quick to handle, pulling out the same moves you did in camp. Soap doesn't even realise he's getting into a headlock by you at first. His back on the mat with your arm holding him tight around his neck, feeling how you're only squeezing him more and more with your bicep. He grips your arm and tries to relax, not wanting to get hurt. Luckily, that's all it takes for you to snap back to reality and let go. You sigh out heavily and stand back up, calming down.

»Ye alright?« He asks you even though he should be the one getting checked up on. You give him a weary nod, clearing your throat.

»Yeah, sorry about that.«

You mumble back and focus on not thinking back to the time in camp. It's almost confusing you now, how similar and suffocating it felt. But you know better than to think back to a time like that and distract yourself in training. Soap tilts his head with a confused gaze.

»What do ye mean? The headlock? Nah, that was sick.«

He encourages you with a thumbs up. You nod, unsure of what to say back. The training continues with trembling hands and more focussing on your breathing than technique, feeling on edge the entire time, thanks to the small trigger. Of course, no one has noticed these signs from you, or at least no one has said anything about it. On the other hand, you're glad no one has noticed your trembling hands and more or less distracted mind during the time.

Once it's over, you're headed to the showers and straight back to your bunk. That was more off-putting now that you're alone in your small room, thinking quietly to yourself about what had happened. You shouldn't feel this way, having thought you were over it a long time ago. Maybe it was something else that triggered you, or maybe you really aren't over it yet. Getting in a pin on the ground was one thing your past rival used on you as much as he could. You don't know the real reason behind his technique, but all you do know is how weird and creepy it felt like.

A heavy sigh escapes your lips once more, slumping down on your bed with no energy. Today's training was longer but not as exhausting as the one at camp. But you still feel very tired for no reason. You close your eyes and try to shut your brain off; instead, a lot of thoughts appear about your rival and that god awful training. You don't know why he's all of a sudden back in your mind. You don't know why you're thinking so much about it, and you don't know why you can't stop thinking about him. He was such an annoying and unpleasant person that you tried so hard to forget about, yet he can't seem to give you peace. Even when you're finally away from him.

After spending most of your day inside your bunk, trying to get your mind off old memories, it's time to actually try and do something about it. With slow steps, you make your way back to the training hall. It's dark out already, forcing you to walk cautiously around and not wake anyone. Eventually, you made it in and looked around for a punching bag… and something to wrap your knuckles with. You don't want to injure yourself after all.

It's dimly lit in the training hall, making it seem more cosy and relaxing. Especially with no one inside beside you. There are five punching bags to use in a row, but unfortunately no bandages or gloves for your hands. It is what it is, and you walk up to one of these punching bags to release some tension and stress. After getting into the stance, you land a few softer punches to get used to the feeling again. Maybe it's because you're alone in here, but it already seems too loud for you. Checking behind you, the double door is closed, so there's no way someone could hear you from their bunk.

You start again, using proper technique, and gradually become faster and put more strength into your punches. The punching bag suffers through your hard punches, taking it like a champ, all the while your mind zones out. Zoned out, all you can think about is your past rival back at camp. You don't remember his name; didn't even bother asking for it back then. But you do remember how creepy and annoying he used to be to you, for no reason. And that's enough for your punches to grow heavier and even quicker, the punching sounds are growing louder through the hall. Maybe your knuckles are hurting at this point, but you don't care. That bastard had no reason to treat you like that, leaving you confused, hurt, and probably traumatized.

It's only then when a gruff voice calls out through the hall, speaking to no one other than you.

»Didn't you have enough training for today?«

You stop in your tracks and turn around, seeing that familiar shadow again. Ghost.

Glancing down at your knuckles, you notice how red they look just from how hard you've been punching that bag for… how long already? You didn't keep track, but it seems like more than ten minutes, judging from your aching knuckles. Ghost has crossed his arms, glaring at you with tired eyes.

»Go back to bed, 's way too late for this.« He adds with a more weary tone and leaves no room for arguments, cocking his head slightly to the side. You sigh out rather disappointed, knowing you shouldn't talk back, but you also can't stop just now.

»But I just started...« You mumble and trail off at the end, already smelling how annoyed he is with you. He shakes his head, being as serious as before.

»I won't tell you again. Don't overwork yourself and go to sleep. Let your body rest. We've got trainin' tomorrow, too.« Ghost is not joking with you, probably being more stern than he needs to be. But he knows better than to let you work too much or stress over something for no reason. In his eyes, you're just a poor child who happens to have this fate and is forced to get along with it on your own. Too much alike himself. Eventually, your shoulders drop in defeat, and you nod in understanding.

»Fine. Sorry about that.« He doesn't respond back and just leaves, most likely going back to sleep, too. After considering his words and contemplating if you should just stay longer in here, you walk back to your own bunk like promised and fall against your bed. It's comfortable and quiet, dark as well.

But you notice a small med kit on your night stand, bandages and a cream for sore muscles beside it. You blink, thinking it's just your sleep catching up on you, but there is indeed stuff for you on that small table. Eventually, you apply the cream on your red knuckles and wrap them up, laying back on your bed. Maybe it really is just a normal base and rather peaceful. Maybe you could get used to this some time.

Having no energy to think any more about that, you fall asleep quite quickly this time. Even if you fell asleep quickly, it wasn’t a good sleep. A nightmare plagued you, most likely because of the trigger from earlier. A grey room with no windows, similar to your old training room in camp, several people around you, and loud noises everywhere. It’s incoherent nonsense, but you still understand everything clearly. The room is cold and rather dark for some reason; it all seems too much, but there’s nothing at the same time. Your body feels numb, and you’re wearing your bandages around your knuckles, some dried blood decorating the usual whiteness of the material. You notice it too late, but Mike has you on the ground already. The ground is even colder against your back, and you can’t do anything but lay and watch. He’s on top, which he often tried to do on you, and has your wrists and legs pinned tightly beside you.

Everything is so loud but also so quiet, it makes your ears ring. There’s a horrible stench of blood and sweat around the air, which makes it hard to stay still and fight back. Your moves are too slow, having no other choice but to stay like this. Your rival, Mike, slashes quickly through your throat, staying on top in a mocking way. It’s hard to breathe, you’re chocking on your own blood and squirming under him helplessly. The whole dream feels like a flashback, but worse. Too quick, too real.

You don’t remember much of what happened next, because the next thing you know is how you’re trying to control your breath and get rid of the sickening feeling from the nightmare. It’s not unusual you get dreams like this, but never to such an extent of being unable to breathe normally.

The digital clock on your nightstand tells you it’s time to get ready for the day. You couldn’t be more thankful for Ghost to lay the training into early afternoon instead of early morning. Because you know they’d notice if you showed up like this to the hall. Still on edge and tired, feeling as bad as you look right now. You keep trying to tell yourself that it’s normal to feel like this, hoping it’ll pass soon. Deciding to distract your mind, you go out to the park with your small sketchbook in hand. Maybe you will feel better in the fresh air while sketching something down that comes to mind.

But, of course, you never have a few minutes to yourself as a familiar figure comes by and stops in front of you.

»Drawing?« Gaz seems curious and tries to secretly subtly into your sketchbook.

»Sketching.«

»Ah. What exactly?« He carefully asks, knowing not to disturb a teenage girl when they seem peaceful at the moment. Gaz has past experience from his own family and friends, knowing how moody some are.

You hesitate to show him what exactly you’re drawing, and you just shrug in response.

»Just… anything.« That was a boring response to anyone, and he still wasn’t done disturbing your peace. He politely asks if he can sit by you for a while, sitting down on the same bench after you accept his kind offer. Gaz isn’t one to pry or mind someone else’s business, but today he’s really curious. Probably, because it’s been three days since you’ve been here and no one got to know you properly. Maybe they should work on their social skills instead.

»You sketch often?« Finally, he’s asking you about your hobbies. And finally, a normal question after years.

»From time to time.« That’s not true, you’ve been drawing since you remember and ever since. Drawing to kill time? Three pages full with doodles. Sketching something pretty? Two pages full with only that beautiful thing you saw earlier. Filling some pages to get rid of the anxiety? Done.

Gaz doesn’t quite believe your answer as well, noticing there’s only three pages left in there. Instead of prying more into it, he changes the topic slightly.

»So, what’re you drawing then? People?«

Without another word, you hand him your sketchbook, deciding it’s easier and probably faster this way. He takes it wordlessly and flips through the pages carefully. His eyes study the way you drew random people and objects, not having expected how good you’re at this. He glances at you before flipping another page, recognising the person almost immediately.

»Soap? You drew Soap?« You look down to his hands as he’s still holding it, seeing he found the first sketch of his teammate.

»I guess,« There’s no way out of this now, seeing he’s actually quite amused about it, »There’s more, actually.«

His smile widens, not having expected to see realistic drawings of his teammate. And there’s more? Today couldn’t get any better.

»More? You like drawing him or somethin’?« Gaz stops talking once he goes some pages forward, seeing some doodles of himself and Price. Even if it’s just some sketches or doodles, they look surprisingly well-made and semi-realistic. He looks towards you again, holding up that book of yours slightly.

»Can you draw Soap with a moustache?« Out of all questions he could’ve asked, he chose this one. Always picking the important ones. You need a full second to process what he’s asking before you find yourself speechless.

»What do I get for it in return?« Now, he’s the one without words. He considers for a moment as he tilts his head to the side.

»Depends on how well you draw.«

It’s then, when he can’t take himself seriously and chuckles.

»All jokes, I’ll get you a new sketchbook. Seems like this won’t do in a while.«

That’s a deal well struck with him. You can’t deny such an offer and start scribbling down a rough sketch of Soap, added with a moustache. Gaz watches the lines on the blank paper slowly resemble his teammate, grinning at the extra facial hair above his lip. It’s a sight to behold, being glad he could make someone draw a silly pic of this even more goofier SAS soldier.

Once you’re done, you show the page fully to him, and he can’t help but laugh at the drawing. Not because it’s ugly, but because it looks so much like him, and a moustache looks rather silly on his face.

»We gotta show it to him later.« You don’t see why not and nod, already seeing how absurd the situation will be later on.

After the more eventful interaction, it’s time for the usual training. This time, there wasn’t any difference in sparring, only feeling more tired than usual because of the nightmare last night. All you four did, was practice in the shooting range and go about sparring with Soap, leading with him improving your technique and showing some tricks. Of course, like no other time, you all went to the mess hall to eat dinner. You would have forgotten about the silly sketch of Soap if Gaz hadn’t reminded you beforehand to bring it over for dinner.

Sitting in front of the two teammates, Soap is laughing so hard that he’s clutching to his stomach. The drawing was really worth it, being amused at the sight in front of you. At least now, you could eat in peace without one particular person trying to get to know you better.

A familiar shadow appears in the corner of your eye, and you instinctively glance over. Ghost is approaching the table… with a Capri Sun? You look over once again, needing to take a double take to reassure yourself of what you’re seeing. And right, there he was, the scary-looking goth with a Capri Sun in hand.

It’s then that Soap also notices Ghost. Eventually, he stays standing next to the table and places the smaller but sweet drink on the table.

»Oi, what’s that?« The still amused scot questions him, as confused as you and Gaz. Ghost clarifies, finally not being an intimidating tree.

»Shitbox got me this instead of wa’er. Some of you can have it.«

Oh, so he can’t deal with a vending machine. If he weren’t your lieutenant, you would have made fun of him. Gaz nods and looks over to you after noticing you shift in your seat slightly. To him, it’s clear who wants it most. He wasn’t the only one noticing it, and Ghost shifts the drink towards you, mentioning it to you. Or maybe he just doesn’t think the two blokes deserve such a sweet drink and let’s you have it instead.

»You can have it.«

He grumbles before leaving for wherever he needs to go. It’s a bit weird to just receive something like this for no reason, especially from someone like Ghost. Glancing around, the two others seem normal about it, or they’re just good at hiding their real surprise. Eventually, you take the Capri Sun and draw in the orange straw into the packet. Oh, it’s cherry-flavoured. Your favourite.

Even when you thought your small happiness wasn’t so obvious, it turns wrong once Gaz speaks up.

»Taste good?«

You nod back in response and relax your expression as well as you can, not wanting to come off as too giddy for a sweet drink as such. They both grin quietly and continue eating with Price joining in after some time to eat beside you three.

----

It’s been a week there, and it feels less awkward now. You train and practice every day, sometimes sneaking in late at night to punch some bags. Capri Sun is something you get more regularly at lunch because Ghost can’t seem to figure out how to use the vending machine. In reality, he just likes to give you a small treat and see your eyes light up for a split second. It’s his small way to befriend you; it doesn’t matter if it seems silly or stupid, you appreciate it, and there’s no harm to it. You could compare it with an attempt to befriend a cat with treats, and it works well. Consider Ghost as a harmless guy who gives you your favourite drink- just because.

Gaz talks to you the most from the others, occasionally checking up on your new drawings and sketches, promising to get you a new one as soon as he can. He likes your drawings after all. He’s easy to talk to as well, having light conversations with you and a few jokes. Gaz is the most friendly and easygoing of them all for one. At least that’s how he is with you, but you’re sure he can be different too. Soap is as friendly as him, but for some reason you feel like you need to be careful around him.

The problem isn’t him, it’s no one’s fault, really. You know he’s just as nice and supportive, but it seems like the pin he did on you is still in your head. They can always out win you in a fight if you don’t pay attention, and the thought of it makes your skin crawl. Ignoring it most of the time, you trust them all equally. It’s better here than back in camp. If you can still call it that anymore.

Being here, made you realise how toxic it was back then. They don’t judge and punish you for making simple mistakes; they won’t even look at your scars twice or ask about them, and most importantly, no one forces you into something uncomfortable.

You feel safer.

Pushing the constant nightmares and headaches away, it really is more safe and peaceful here.

Today, after training, you cross paths with Ghost. You immediately notice that he’s carrying an almost comically large bag in his arms. Taking a closer look, you see it’s dry dog food. Dog food? Why would he need that? You never took him as someone with pets, and you never saw dogs around on base. Thank God you didn’t.

You nod briefly at him and can’t help it but approach him out of curiosity.

»Do you have a dog?«

He grunts, side eyeing you for a moment.

»Just gonna feed Riley. A K9.«

So, they do have military dogs. How come you never saw them? Back in the old camp, the dogs could roam freely on base. But they also weren’t really nice dogs, always barking and ready to attack anyone. Even you were once chased by a large German Shepherd, almost getting bitten if you weren’t fast enough.

You simply nod back, not sure what to answer to that. Of course, he could sense your shift into uneasiness and nudges your shoulder lightly while walking down the base with you.

»You should get to know some. They’re not scary, don’t worry.« That makes it better only for a moment before you fully process his words. There isn’t really a way you can deny his offer and nod slightly, following him wordlessly. He isn’t as talkative either, but you don’t think that’s a bad thing. You’re lost in thought once he speaks up, shifting the big bag of dog food into his left arm.

»Ever met a big dog? Anything?«

You’re standing outside his office as he asks, opening his door with a key while he waits for your answer.

»Kind of. Got chased by one.« He can’t help but pause for a moment at your blunt answer, eventually getting his door open and stepping in. You follow him in and close the door behind you, noticing a bigger German Shepherd sitting up on the ground. It’s tongue sticks out and seems to be happy about seeing you both, judging from it’s wagging tail.

The dog stays silent though, patiently waiting for their owner to give them some sort of permission. You stay standing near the door, watching the two silently, hoping it won’t do anything. Ghost puts the large bag down against the wall and steps closer to the dog, kneeling down as it happily walks to him and enjoys the few hat pats he gives. You watch them both interact, visibly relaxing slowly as long as the dog is near Ghost and gets fed, getting a few more pats from its tall owner. He turns to you and introduces you to the dog, his hand staying on the dog’s back.

»That’s Riley. A sweet girl- will be joining our next mission, as far as I know.«

That’s totally great. Yeah, sure, you could work with a big dog while having a fear of them. You nod either way, shifting on your feet as you watch the dog from the closed door. Riley munches on her food, seemingly content.

»She seems… nice.«

He can see how unsure you are about the dog, and he guessed he would need to get you used to dogs somehow. Ghost sits down beside Riley, nodding towards her.

»You can pet her. She’s friendly, won’t bite.« He is trying to loosen the tension with a small joke, only seeing how you glance at him before looking back at Riley. Eventually, you approach her with silent steps, being cautious of the still-eating dog. You kneel down beside Ghost, firstly just watching her with anticipation in silence. Riley is quick to realise you are close now too and lifts her head off the bowl of food, trying to get to know you eagerly. She takes a step towards you, and you stay still, not wanting to accidentally make her angry. Ghost beside you can’t help it but feel amused watching you be so stiff while also watching Riley to make sure she won’t make you even more scared.

Riley sniffs around the air shortly before leaning towards your hands on your knees, taking a sniff at them. Before you know it, she’s licking at them. You cringe at the feeling, leaning a bit away from her.

Beside you, Ghost grins under his mask, glad that you don’t seem to be scared and more amused at how you react to Riley’s sudden affection. Suddenly, the K9 is trying to lick at your face, but you turn away with a small groan. Ghost pets her on the back, commanding her to sit down for now.

It takes a moment for Riley to fully calm down, her tail still wiggling back and forth. Ghost hands you some treats and wants to show you what tricks this joyful dog can do. Riley follows his commands flawlessly, rolling over, laying down, playing dead, able to stand on her back paws for a few seconds.

You extend your hand to give her a few treats- the small cookies in shape of bones in the palm of your hand. She eats it out of there happily, probably having a blast right now.

Riley is a good dog, even when she wants to give you affection through licking your hand, which mostly feels weird, but overall she doesn’t overwhelm you like the past dogs in your life.

Ghost also seems to be satisfied with the end result, however, he couldn’t let go of your words earlier. Normally, he would mind his business, but this is a sixteen-year-old we’re talking about.

»So, you were chased by one?«

You glance at him shortly, unsure of how to explain it to him now. You try it out, explaining it to him as shortly as you can.

»We also had some K9’s on camp and I was chased by one because I wasn’t careful enough.« You don’t realise how shocking that sounds before he gives you a look of disbelief. He asks again, gently petting Riley behind her ear.

»Your own camp had dogs, and one chased you? Why’s that?« You only shrug in response, not sure yourself. The dogs were mostly trained to be aggressive and were held rather roughly.

»I believe they got extra trained to be as aggressive as possible.«

He only hums out in acknowledgement, letting go of Riley and standing back up. Every time he hears more about your camp it is when he loses five years of his life. You follow right after him, standing up and getting a last glance at the sweet dog.

»Go, get your shower.« He mumbles, reminding you of taking your shower since you joined him after training, finally able to rinse off your sweat. You nod and leave without another word, taking a quick rest before eating dinner in the mess hall.

a/n: Hope you had fun reading this, it was a bit longer than the last part. The next one is probably going to be just as long. I hope you enjoed it!

[oogalybooglay]

|gentle now…|

(Sebastian gets hurt so you patch our fishy up)

(YOU GUYS ARE COOL, YOU GET MORE SEBASTIAN FANFICTION!)

The day was as simple as the last, Sebastian was waiting in his makeshift shop inside the vents for expendables to come by and buy something, and honestly? Most of them were just there to flash him with those STUPID FLASH BEACONS! (Authors interjections: in this one, he DOESN'T have a double barrel shot gun)

recently, Sebastian’s had to crush so many flash beacons his hand was sore and cut up so it hurt to move, to he’s had to resort to using the smaller arm.

he heard the familiar thumps of expendables walking to his shop, as much as he didn’t want to, he whispered

“pssssst! In here, I got something for ya”

(Authors interjections: TW this area of the fanfic has blood, and a slight description of glass in the hands, nothing to bad but I though YALL should know before you read ❤️)

you and the others army crawl through the vent, you look up and wave at Sebastian, greeting the shopkeeper with a smile. Standing up, one of the expendables with a sly, mischievous grin, unclips a flash beacon from their belt and points it hat Sebastian, who was already getting aggravated. As soon as they pulled the trigger, he shielded his eyes and lifted them up and snarled,

“don’t do that AGAIN”

He crushed the beacon with his sore hand, forgetting it was, as I said, sore. At this point? It was muscle memory, he winced sharply at the large amount of stinging pain as it shot through his arm. The skin on his hand, which was more sensitive than ever, bled. He felt each piece of glass protruding into his hands, he dropped the expendable and clenched his eyes closed. You see the pain in his face and the blood from his hand and rush over, “are you ok?! Jesus- come here, gimme your hand-“ you unclip a med kit from your belt and pop it open.

Sebastian looked down at you and slowly extended his hand, it was slightly shaking.

“Damnit…..ow…. Get it over with… it hurts like hell”

you slowly and gently removed the glass from his hand, whipped up the blood, then started sanitizing it, don’t want an infections do we? Sebastian’s reeled back a little and hissed, you spoke in a gentle voice

“easy now… I know it hurts, but we don’t want an infection alright?”

Sebastian rolled his eyes and grumbled, “I know.. I know..”

The expendable were temped to leave, but waited till you were done patching up sebs hand.

after you finished wrapping up his hand, Sebastian flexed his hand and made sure the bandage was tight enough, you closed the Medkit and mumbled, “gentle now… don’t reopen the cuts.” Sebastian nodded

“…….thank you {name}…..”

THE SECOND ONE IS DONE! I hoped you enjoyed it 😜 again, it’s just my second one, so it’s prob bad (update: ITS NOT BAD PAST ME DAMN), criticisms welcomed (don’t be too mean)

100

FUCKING LIKES?? HUH?? HOW DID I GET HERE. I KNOW ITS BARELY ANYTHING FOR TUMBLR BUT FOR ME? GIDIF UTSURZKG TYSM JAHHHHHHHH

I might’ve forgotten about this one

shhhhh

[an-ambivalent]

Yandere! Jujutsu Kaisen Headcanons

Warnings: As this is yandere fiction, this deals with behaviours  that can be uncomfortable and triggering to read. Read at your own risk. This work is purely fictional, I do not condone this behaviour irl. By clicking the 'read more/keep reading' you are consenting to read this at your discretion.

Characters:  Satoru, Suguru, Choso and Sukuna 

Yandere! Gojo 

Type: Clingy & overprotective 

Satoru is the ‘strongest’ and yet he’s lost so much. He’s never going to lose you too; that’s why, he keeps you nice and locked up secure in his extravagant residence that only he can access. You can’t leave the premises due to the tight security procedures Satoru has in place. But you wouldn’t need to since he made sure you have access to everything you would need or want within the premises. Well, almost everything.  It’s never easy to earn Satoru’s trust given how many people pray for his downfall. However, once you become his person, you will always be his person. This is particularly after the trauma he experienced, but very specific to you. When he’s with you, he wears no masks or facades. He can be completely true to himself. He can let his insecurities and fears about not being good enough bleed freely, and he can show his ugly desperation and cling onto you like a leech without any fears that someone will take you away from him. Anytime he’s not on a mission, he spends all of his time with you. You’re the only person keeping the last of his sanity intact. He loves you, he loves you the most. So, he is never going to let you go.

Yandere! Suguru 

Type: Possessive 

There’s a turning point in Suguru’s life where everything changed, including your relationship with him. You remember when being around him felt like pure bliss. He used to be so kind, considerate, and attentive to your needs. But after that one mission, that made Getou abandon everything, all became different. 

He had abruptly showed up at your abode with empty eyes, fully drenched, and his wet clothes and hair clinging onto him. He clutched onto you and dug his  fingers into you and frantically begged you to leave with him right then and there. You were only trying to calm him down, but he had mistaken this as reluctance, hesitation, and a change in your loyalty to him. How could you even think about abandoning him when he needed you the most?! You noticed the darkness in his expression too late. He had you imprisoned to your spot with a curse he summoned without your notice. The jeer on his face was terrifying, and the glare he looked down on caused unanticipated tremors in your muscles. 

“I don’t know why I bothered asking… You’re just like everyone else. But I can’t let you leave me. Not you. You’re mine. I’ll make sure it always stays that way.”

Yandere! Choso

Type: Stalker and protective 

Typically, Choso is lax and doesn’t care too much about what you’re up to, as long as it doesn’t break any of the rules he has set for you. Few of these rules being: you can’t go anywhere without his permission, you have to tell him everything and give regular updates if he cannot accompany you. Typically, he is always watching you from the shadows. Even without your regular updates, he knows what you’re up to because if he can’t follow you for some reason, then he makes one of his siblings keep tabs on you and report back to him. 

Choso really cherishes you. He does whatever he is capable of to take care of you. He believes that it is duty to look after you and protect you. He will ruthlessly hurt and kill anyone that hurts you, or believes will hurt you. 

Although Choso wouldn’t normally hurt you, there are instances where he might do something so that you depend on him. Choso enjoys being needed. He loves it even more when you rely on him for the most mundane things. It makes him feel like you cannot live without him just like how he cannot live with you. So, if there was ever a time where he feels that you’re becoming distant and trying to strive for independence, you might ‘accidentally’ have a fracture or two so he can support you and be there for you again. 

Yandere! Sukuna 

 Type: Sadistic & possessive 

Sukuna has a preference for pain. Causing pain is how he felt free and exhilarated, causing pain is how he felt powerful, and causing pain is how he expressed his love. You’re an innocent petite being… Well, you are in comparison to his demon form. No matter what your size is, from Sukuna’s perspective, everything and everyone is smaller and beneath him. 

He loves you the way a monster can love and cherish their most prized treasure or pet. You may not be his only lover, but you are his number one. You’re the closest to perfection he craves and your innocence, opposite to his corrupted self, is what draws him in. He wants to be the reason for your ruin, your corruption. He wants to be the devil who shows you how delightful temptation is, pull you in, and just when you’re on the edge, tear off your wings, and shackle you to him so that you can never leave him. So you only belong to him. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Machinist 3

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible bullying, misogyny, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your new boss sets his sights on you. (short!reader)

Characters: August Walker

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

You sit out on your front porch watching the lazy sun. It’s one of the rare days off where you’re not bogged down in chores. Just you and swing and a cup of coffee. After the week you had, you need the moment to just not think. 

You close your eyes and lean your head back. It’s the simple things. All you ever wanted was a place to call your own. You got a job that pays for all that. A job you’re good at but one you enjoy less by the day. 

A honk startles you from your serenity. You open one eye and slowly put your chin straight. The shiny black jaguar is out of place on the sleepy street. A few of the kids playing ball in the neighbours driveway stop to point and stare. Your curiosity hardly awakens as you guess at its driver before he appears. 

August steps out, almost comically big for the sleek sportscar. You sip your coffee and sway on the chains. He tilts his head in challenge as he comes around the hood. 

“Didn’t forget about little old me, did you?” He asks. 

“Just having a coffee,” you answer bluntly. You didn’t forget but hoped he did. 

“You’ll need the energy, I’m sure,” he comes down the walk, almost strutting.  

He doesn’t have his usual cap and flannel. His hair is combed neatly and he wears a navy tee so tight, you can see his muscles. You’re not sure they make any clothing that would fit him appropriately. You continue to drink and stare past him. 

“I’m sure google would be more helpful. That car has bluetooth, doesn’t it?” 

“Not as entertaining he insists, “you’re hardly dressed for a day out.” 

You hum and look down at yourself. You wear a pair of grey-green jogging pants and a loose tee; your usually affair for the week. Alone. You sigh and drain the last of the dark roast. 

“Go get changed,” he orders. 

You look at him but don’t move. His entitlement tweaks your eye brow. You take a breath and let it go slowly. 

“Now don’t go getting uppity,” he warns with a wag of his finger, “we might not be at work, but I’m still the boss,” he climbs the porch steps one at a time and stops, leaning on the post beside him, “aren’t I, princess?” 

You stand with the cup in hand, “sir. I’ll go throw on some jeans.” 

“Skirt,” he corrects you. 

“Don’t have any.” 

“Dress, then. I wanna see your legs.” 

You nearly crumple up in disgust. You repress a snarl and swallow, “none of those either.” 

“If it wasn’t indecent, I’d say naked,” he retorts, “since you only dress like some teen boy. Shorts, then, I’m sure you can find something.” 

You blink dully, “I’ll have to look around. Might take a while.” 

“If I have to come in there,” he warns. 

“Five minutes,” you relent and spin on your heel. 

Despite your promise, you are anything but expedient. You rinse out the mug and leave it in the rack. You make your way upstairs and open your dresser, not paying much mind to any of it. You really don’t have what he’s looking for. You aren’t what he’s looking for. You’re sure he could hit the bar downtown and find a pretty bimbo. 

You pull on a plain burgundy tee and the black jean shorts with a run in one leg. You check your reflection but don’t put much into fixing it. You look fine. Teeth brushed, moisturized, what else can you do? 

As you come downstairs, you’re annoyed to find him in your entryway. He has no shame. He shuffles through the mail on the corner table. You reach for your blue sneakers. He coughs and turns to watch you. 

“Definitely not the heel type, are ya?” He remarks. 

You shrug and tie the laces. You stand straight and grab your denim jacket and keys. He reaches to stop you, grabbing the other sleeve. 

“Whatcha covering up for?” 

You nearly roll your eyes. You won’t give him the fodder. You let go and tuck the keys into the small pocket of the short. You grab your wallet and put it on the other side of your hips. 

“We’ll fix this,” he flicks his finger up and down. “I know you think you can run with the big boys but you’re a woman underneath it all. No point tryna hide.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“I didn’t ask,” he growls, “that’s a problem too. You talk when I want you to.” 

You should tell him to fuck himself. You should spit in his face. By the smug smirk dimpling in his cheek, that’s exactly what he wants. No. You’ll let him get bored. You wipe your expression and blink. 

“Well?” He huffs. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good girl,” he reaches to pat your head like a dog. You try not to wince away, repulsion roiling from his touch. You lift your chin instinctively and he narrows his eyes, stepping closer as he does. He snickers as sets his jaw square, “don’t worry, I know how to break a stubborn bitch like you. Make her into a loyal little hound slobbering for my attention.” 

You look back at him blankly. He waits. You let him. No reaction. Frustration tics in his cheek and his lips straighten. 

“First thing,” he grabs your arm as he turns for the door, “we find something to dislodged the rod from your ass.” 

He drags you outside and keeps hold of you as you turn to lock the door with your other hand. He tugs you so your wrist twists as you struggle to slide the keys free. They jangle with you as he hauls you forward, your feet clattering down the steps. 

“Keep up, princess, your carriage awaits.” 

[wroteclassicaly]

Girl. Gator. Plus size girl. Blurb. Go!

Lol. I just love the way you utilize details and I need this mans hands on me in the worst way rn. Lol. MAYBE somewhere where we could get caught😈

Oooooh, you’re speaking right to my soul 😭

~*~

Warnings: Language, smut, Gator acts like his jerky, bitchy, temper tantrum throwing, misogynistic, toxic self. Body positive, plus size reader with large breasts, hidden hookups, spit, some titty play, vaginal fingering, jealous and possessive Gator, slightly mean reader, degrading kink, praise kink mention, filthy talk, mean Gator, dominant reader/dominant Gator, public smut, getting caught, and NSFW.

Pairings: Gator Tillman x Plus Size Female Reader

Wordcount: 2,043

A/N: Really love working on exploring Gator with a bigger girlie, because in the Midwest, his options would’ve been a lot of big women. Sooooo, yeah. ;) Note that this is not some fluffy Gator. Man is gonna be mean and nasty as hell, so be warned (he’s cornered with his feelings and he doesn’t like that shit)!

~*~

He really cannot fucking believe this. You actually have the nerve to show up where you know that he will be, dressed like this, acting as if you didn’t want him to call you the second that you got back into town (Because WHEN the fuck did you get back? And why didn’t you call him?). A calloused trigger finger massaged off leftover condensation, nothing but mere drops of amber liquid left over in his glass. He feels like a snarling, raging beast, a fucking embarrassment.

And you simply tuck your handbag into your armpit, situating the end of a very tight black dress, one that slices into a cutoff at your cleavage, the swells of your goods leaving little to the imagination. Stupid bitch. Those are his tits. Besides, since when do you care about what you wear out when you rarely come to bars or club joints around town, anyways…? Your makeup is dark, like wafts of smoke, shimmering on your lid, lips lined a deep blood red, something else you never do around him, either.

Okay, so he’s not good enough to try all of your tricks on?

He’s got that familiar clench starting in his toes, licking his muscles with electricity, pushing on his ribcage, digging painfully into his internal organs to do something. You wave at a couple of local girls, but you don’t join them at a table, no. You head directly to some punk faced fuck in tight jeans and cowboy boots, a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other. Gator’s eyes widen so hard that the muscles protest in stroking stings, his fist clenching over his thigh, knuckles white, taunt flesh wrapped shakily around his glass. He lets it go before it shatters.

A date. A fucking, motherfucking date.

You couldn’t call him, didn’t text him (embarrassing how much he refreshed your thread, honestly), but you bitch about secrecy. And this is what he gets for staying sober from the pussy he could be getting? Nah, he’s not gonna be shown up by some slut that should be grateful he gives her attention at all, and definitely not with this fucking pencil dick of a man, whose joke you’re pathetically giggling at. Abandoning his glass, Gator is walking his way on a sticky bar floor, passing your backside to slam his hands on your table and let out a hysterical chuckle.

“Well, bust my balls. What’s so funny over here, huh?”

Gator takes a mental backflip for points as your eyes widen and you look like you’ve dove into the pools of humiliation. Your date, for lack of better word - he’s trying to figure out what’s going on, but Gator doesn’t let him get in a word. Crowding in front of his space, he’s in your airspace now, reaching down to find your date’s drink, lips wrapping at the bottle’s end as he sips and lets out a snort. “Lightweight.”

“Gator…” You warn, reaching out to attempt to grab his wrist. He shrugs you off, shaking his head as he eyes your ensemble, those fucking tits pressed together and spilling over your cleavage’s hem.

“Look at you, honey. All dressed up, not answering your phone. How long you been back for?”

“I’m busy, back the fuck off —“ He’s suddenly very close to you now, nose nearly brushing, actually letting his personal rules slip, your own emotions becoming discombobulated.

You don’t back away, breathing escalating as his hot breath fans along your painted mouth. He’d like to shut that up, keep you full. And you, you cannot keep your eyes off of his tight black shirt, arms bare and tan from the Midwest summer sun — freckles and moles on display. He’s wearing dark jeans, his normal boots, and thigh holster for show. Fuck, he smells good. He knows it too, as he watches your eyes dart across his wet lips.

He simply smirks, reaches down for your drink this time, and brings it to his lips. Straight whiskey. You were here for a purpose, and it’s up to him to redirect it. You watch in wondrous fascination when he drinks down your remaining liquor in a straight shot, his tongue making a show to lick the rim along the glass, before he lets it settle back onto the cheap bar table coaster. He’s taking that air about, every single inch of him away from you before you can blink, one hand rubbing behind his neck, pulling on his chain that’s tucked beneath his collar, knowing the action specifically drives you crazy, the other hand retrieving his vape.

He blows smoke directly above his head, looking between you and Mr. Clueless Cowboy, laughing lightly. He’s pissing you off. “Hope you folks intend to call a car tonight. I’d hate to have to arrest anyone for driving under the influence.”

And he’s gone. Leaving you practically smoking, aching, hurt, and severely pissed. You grab your purse and excuse yourself to the restroom to get your bearings. You should’ve known, however, the second that the door closes behind you — Gator would be too. He doesn’t approach too fast, doesn’t scare you or grab you, he has his own lines not to cross, to respect.

You’re clenching the sink by the time he’s nearly behind you. You’re tired, pent up, but you still manage to speak. “Don’t. I’m getting sick of you and your games.”

“Is that why you didn’t answer me? Think that’s polite —“

You spin around and level your palms to his chest, shoving him back, hard. “You know, I’m the one that should be embarrassed. Your fucking dad, you being his lackey. I should be the one to be afraid to be seen with you, but I’m not.”

Gator perks at the mention of Roy, of his debt towards him just by being born under his namesake. He feels cornered, losing control. “Watch your mouth. I’m not afraid of anything —“

As if you are ignoring his words, you continue. “I want a real man, not some pussy who is afraid to be seen in public with me. You’re a fucking coward, Tillman. You don’t deserve one single inch of me, and I’ve got plenty to go around, baby.”

Now, Gator can lie and say he is further pissed, that he intends to leave and forget you. But your words, how you stand up to him — his cock kicks, slacks becoming less loose. You’ve got the power and you’re more than ready to use it. Leaving your purse in the sink behind you, you stand a few inches from his airspace, your perfume soaking into his senses, making his jaw unhinged with sinful babble. “I bet you’re fuckin’ wet right now.”

You shrug, crossing your arms to purposely accentuate your chest. “Just because I like looking at you, doesn’t mean that I like listening to your mouth run. Pompous, annoying, disgustingly pathetic. And I can’t stand you.”

His brows press together, his pupils blown so far to hell that he’s seething when the words leave his clenched teeth. “One more word, bitch…”

You lick your mouth and smile lowly, tongue practically caressing the words as they drop off. “Fuck. You.”

What happens next is a dizzying array of blurs. The open pipes and exposed beams - clad ceiling passes in your vision as you meet Gator into a chest crushing embrace, pulling when he pushes, the both of you falling onto a stall with your mouths locked. You’re already working your hands into his belt, a grip hard to maintain with how worked up he is. Gator knows just what to do with you, his own hands immediately ripping the fabric of your dress down to expose your perfect breasts. His mouth waters, his hands paused.

He gives you a look, but you’ve already got his hands closing around your tits, encouraging him to squeeze. His knees knock you into the toilet, his mouth smeared with red kisses. His jaw clenches, nose wrinkles, his eyes glazed over as he lets them roam you, palming you, sampling you. You’re his. He needs more, though, his body rampaged, starved for more you.

You can read those thoughts immediately, the same want, a silent communication. “Put your mouth on me.”

He doesn’t waste a second, head tilting, letting you tug it into shambled strands, his lips close over your bud, tongue lapping around your areola, only to give you what you after you start to beg him for teasing. He isn’t phased that you aren’t jerking him, all that he wants right now is get you off, be with you, be around you. He tries to ignore what that realization means, and luckily, you’re rucking your own dress around your waist, his orbs catching a slinky thong as you work it down your curved hips. He briefly stops what he’s doing, groaning in appreciation as your glistening curls are put on display and your beautiful stomach, with stretch marks that his tongue has traced not enough times yet. He’ll have to fix that.

You’re a little quieter after you’re so naked in front of you, despite having been before. He notices this and abandons his focus on your chest to grab you around the waist. His voice is hoarse, exploding into a molten rasp, coated in the warmth of tension, a vulnerability leaving as he pinches your chin to raise your gaze. “You’re too beautiful for him. Too beautiful for me.”

Your reluctance to accept any compliments, especially his, that is automatically clear when you make your statement. “You could’ve gotten plenty pussy with me gone, Gator.”

He’s never felt more like a piece of shit than in this moment, watching as you truly believe that. He inhales sharply, throat tied to it, escaping words evaporating off his tongue’s tip, shared with you. “I missed you,” It’s actually a freeing statement, one that he feels braver saying, continuing. “And I didn’t screw around on you, y’ know.”

You’re looking at him as if you’re made of glass, irises darting back and forth. He can’t decipher his anticipations, but you save him. “I missed you too. But I had to draw a line, Gator…”

“I know.” He’s resolved to it.

He’s ready to back off, praying it’s not too late. You grasp his wrist, lifting it directly beneath your mouth, and he’s sure he blurts a little in his boxers the moment that your spit settles into his palm. He’s cursing, panting, rocking onto his heels as you lead him between your legs, spreading them, separating two of his fingers, taking them into your warm cunt. His hand tightens on your overflowing waist, fingers instinctively beginning to fuck you, enjoying the devious squelch that echoes. You become more handsy as the minutes pass, eagerly seeking out his chain from his collar to hold onto, rocking against his wrist, bouncing yourself on his fingers — taking what you want.

Gator assists by leaning to lick your nipple into his mouth, letting you hold tightly to his hair, suffocated by your moans and the scent of you. Neither of you hear your date enter the bathroom, not until he’s by the stall and speaking. He doesn’t get the hint, maybe he’ll go away? You don’t want to stop and reject the idea of Gator taking his hand away, leaving his hair, and holding onto his wrist tighter. You give zero fucks if he can hear what you’re doing in here, but he probably thinks Gator makes fun of you —

Your insecurities are tangled into a trap the second that Gator kicks the door open with his boot to give your date an eyeful. Publicly. His eyes widen, posture stiffening, you gasping. Gator adds in a third finger and your legs wobble, making you toss your head back and fuck yourself harder, inner thighs a soaking mess, forgetting everything but the pleasure that you deserve. Your ears are ringing static, a creamy wetness all that can be heard beneath your pleading breaths, uncaring what’s going to happen after, needing to get there NOW.

Gator makes his claim, a lazy little smirk quirking in the corners of his stained mouth. “Be safe on the road, bud.”

[zombflesh]

how do you think ak!jay likes to be hugged (i miss him)

I'm about to yap a lot for this one so strap in. I personally think that Jason wouldn't exactly be used to hugs even before he was tortured. Physical attention wasn't something he was given that much as a child, and he's way used to touch being a negative instead of a positive. His short time with Bruce probably helped him accept that touch wasn't a negative thing until the Joker ruined it all. After Arkham Knight, Jason would not be able to properly stomach any kind of physical contact. He's been tortured, beaten, and is at his lowest point. Jason doesn't even feel human at this point because after everything he can only see himself as a shell of who he once was. The littlest things are a trigger to him. Something as simple as a pat on the shoulder makes him want to claw at his own skin. Jason's S/O would need to be very patient at first. Physical affection is a concept that has been tainted for him. He's trying hard to get used to your gentle touches because he wants to be with you. Jason doesn't want you to be with someone that can barely take care of themselves. Jason wants you to be with a person instead of the ghost that he perceives himself as. Jason heals and slowly but surely, he leans into your hugs. Now to actually answer the question sorry for going on that long ass tangent

At first, Jason's hugs would feel like hugging a statue. Very stiff and he barely moves a muscle. That stiffness slowly melts away the more he heals. And when this man hugs believe me, he HUGS. Jason is starved of affection, and he feels safe in your around. When he hugs you it's always firm but gentle. Jason wants to make you feel safe in his arms like how your presence makes him feel safe. Snuggling with him would feel like hugging a giant teddy bear. Jason would hold you to his chest while his fingers would either rub your back or play with your hair. Of course, there are always those hugs where he picks you up and spins you around. Jason's hugs would be so tight and so warm.

Jason is a forehead kisser and anyone who says otherwise is wrong. After every hug he's give you a big smooch on the forehead. Hear me out on this next part. Little spoon Jason. HEAR ME OUT PLEASE!! Yeah, he prefers to be big spoon. But Jason would melt whenever you hold him. Just imagine the realization that Jason is being held hitting him and he just leans into the hug. He would bury his face into your shoulder and let out the most content sigh. Love, security, and warmth are all things he can find in your arms. Jason would love it if you held him before he fell asleep. His face would be pressed against your chest as he listens to your heartbeat. The rhythm of your heartbeat would help him fall asleep because it's just comforting to know that your still there. He relaxes as soon as you brush your fingers through his hair. Or even hearing you talk is enough to make him unwind.

There's something so sweet about Jason letting himself be held idk what it is

[delulustateofmind]

Married to the Lord of Bloodshed (One-shot)

A/N: OMG! Thank you all for so much love on the Azriel one. I am literally SHOCKED.

**fair warning: it is unedited, like a rough draft like the last one as I am working on both the series as well. Just had a lot of fun with it!**

Summary: collections of being married to Cassian! Married for fifty years :) 

Word count: 1.6k

triggers: Mentions of intimacy, lots of pet names-like LOTS, that's about it!

***

You, an unlikely match, found yourself married to the formidable Illyrian warrior, Cassian, general of the Night Court. Fifty years of a beautiful marriage under your belt. Meeting at a party that somehow left you both discovering you were mates. Cassian was a completely different male when he was around you compared to how he was at the Illyrian camps. 

Among your cherished moments together…

After a long day working as a healer for the court, your muscles tense. Cassian would very much enjoy rubbing out your sore muscles. You knew he did this to lead to other things.

As you would lay on the bed, flat on your back. Cassian lifts one of your legs to rest on his shoulder as he rubs your calf. With a mischievous smirk, he murmured, “Baby let me take care of you.” The feeling of his rough calloused hands rubbing out your sore muscles from standing all day. You couldn’t help but laugh, attempting to retract your leg from the ticklish sensation.

“Baby, that tickles,” Cassian smirks in response as he applies more pressure. “You think this tickles, I haven’t even started yet” he murmurs as he presses a thumb to your tight calf muscle as he rubs a knot out and notices your reaction as you cover your face. 

“How are your muscles looking? Still sore? Maybe you should take off a few days, you’ve been working really hard. I could stay with you and keep you company.” his gaze meets yours as his hand seems to have traveled to your thigh. 

“Well I’ve been going to this new workout studio before work in the mornings, it’s this new workout called pilates” a soft laugh escaping your lips as he reaches a more tense area in your thigh. His smirk fades a little as he looks at you. 

“You’ve been going to the gym before work? Baby, you work like hours on end. Are you trying to run that body of yours to the ground? It’s beautiful and deserves to be cared for” Cassian states as he leans closer to you pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I never complained about you working so much, but sometimes you worry me. Try to take it easy okay? Maybe we can have a relaxing weekend together, just us, maybe go to the river?” He smiles down at you as he pulls you closer to himself. You knew where this was leading, as soon as his hands moved across your thigh and onto your hips to pull you flush against him as he kissed your lips. “How about I make you feel good tonight, hm? I’ll be gentle” He smirks with a kiss.

***

However, one thing that really was a bummer was being married to a super health-conscious Illyrian. Going to the market was a challenge. Sure you enjoyed that your mate looked out for you. Picking the best fruits and vegetables to cook healthy delicious meals with. 

But sometimes a girl just wants two different types of cake and maybe some cookies. Your monthly was probably starting soon but the sugar cravings were at an all-time high. Yes, Cassian would obviously let you pick up one. Not two, no no, just one. He said too many sweets would burn you out…I mean he was right, but it still sucked to admit it. 

“Mamas, just pick one” Cassian chuckled as he carried the bags of food. Looking at you with a smile as you stood there for the past twenty minutes. Carefully. Picking out the one sweet treat you were allowed for the week. 

You pleaded to him as if you were begging for your life. “My love, it’s so hard, can’t we get the fancy cake and the cheesecake?” You shot him a look that even a puppy would fall for, almost begging for your mate to indulge in your cravings. Pointing at the beautifully decorated chocolate cake that sat right next to its best friend, the cheesecake with the pretty little strawberries sitting on top that just went into season. “I mean look they’re best friends, baby? It’s like you and Azriel, we can’t just break them up”

Cassian smirked looking at you, trying to put up a ‘no’ look for you but the male was weak. You knew he couldn’t say no to your cute pleading face. So the moment you looked up at him, he rolled his eyes.

“Fine. But only this, one time.” He teased with mock sternness, his voice low and playful “Only, because you brought up a compelling argument” 

“I have never loved you more than I have in this very moment, Pookie” You gave him a big smile as you motioned the baker over to box up both the chocolate cake and the cheesecake. 

Cassian was just going to roll his eyes, but he couldn’t say no to his wife’s charms. He looked at you and chuckled, not saying anything as you walked out of the store. Grabbing the bag from you and following you. Though he did make sure to give your ass a tiny pinch on the way out.

“Pookie? I swear you’re going to be the death of me some days, I have a reputation to uphold, you know!” he teased as he walked with you. You both had to pick up a few more items before heading home for the day…

***

Mornings were never your thing you despised mornings. You always opted for the afternoon or night shift when you had to work. Cassian on the other hand was a ray of sunshine in the mornings. Though, he never cared that you didn’t work out with him. Your mate just cared that you would at least move around a bit, whether that was doing yoga with Feyre or taking dance lessons over at the Rainbow. He trained you in self-defense when you first started dating. His wife needed to be able to protect herself at least. 

You unfortunately had the morning shift today. A grumpy walk on the way home, you could winnow home. But, you needed the walk to cool yourself down. A walk down the streets of Velaris led you to a new studio that had just opened with the word  ‘Zumba’ written on the glass.  You peeked in to find music flowing out and a bunch of what seemed like moms dancing. 

Sounds like a good time! 

There were two open spots for tonight. You signed both your and Cassian’s names onto the sign-up sheet. Though you hadn’t asked him yet, you were sure you could be convincing enough. 

Entering his office, you found Cassian engrossed in paperwork for the Illyrian camps. “Baby, my love, my sweet honey bear, snookums” you whispered in his ear as you leaned over his shoulder. Carefully not pressing weight down on his wings. 

A soft hum escaped his lips as he reached for your hand. Pressing a small kiss on your palm as he kept reading a document for supplies. “What is it my love” he murmured clearly not paying attention to you. 

“There’s this class going on tonight and I would really love you if you would join me,” you kissed his ear and then his neck. “Pretty please”

“Mm, what sort of class?” He hummed. Although Cassian would agree to anything for you, he couldn’t help but find your sweetness after work unusual, yet endearing. Usually, you were a snapping turtle, especially once you discover soon that he ate the last piece of cake while you were at work. 

“It’s like a workout class with live music, seems fun right? Please baby…pretty please my big strong Illyrian male that I love so much” you whined as you kissed his neck with peppered kisses. Use your other hand to rub his chest. 

“Yeah, we can go, let me get ready then” just the confirmation you needed. You pulled away from him and with a happy smile, just about to leave him to his paperwork. Before you knew it, Cassian had swept you off your feet, a playful gesture that spoke of what was to come when he carried you over his shoulder to your shared bedroom. 

****

Stepping into the ‘Zumba’ studio, Cassian realized that facing war and bloodshed paled in comparison to the challenge of dancing with a group of determined mothers on a Tuesday night. These females seemed as if they were ready for war. Strapped with their sweatbands and their workout clothes. Cassian was definitely out of place, a few of the fae women gave him curious glances as he stood in the back. The mirrors clearly show him towering over everyone, his massive wings were tucked close to his body, straining as if they sought freedom from the small studio. His small wife was beside him, grinning ear to ear as she looked up at him full of excitement. 

How could he refuse when she looked that happy?

As the class concluded, Cassian found himself drenched in sweat, a testament to the intensity of the workout. Sure, he was in perfect shape, he’s had about 500 years of training. Of course, he was a fit male. 

But this tortuous dance class had him wheezing and gasping for air while these moms did the cardio squats like it was nothing. A few of the moms even gave him some fist bumps, humbling the poor lord of bloodshed. 

Grabbing your hand as you both left the studio, a smile formed and tugged on his lips as he reluctantly said, “Mamas, I need one of those pinky drinks you love so much.” Wiping the sweat from his brow, he looked at you expecting to lead the way to your favorite cafe.

[toxicanonymity]

so excited for next raider joel i am literally foaming at the mouth

Company

2.2k / dark raider!joel x dark!f!reader x ofc

raider master

gif by @serenaxpedro

“I’ll do it,” you say, unsure what that even means. Joel looks surprised and impressed.  “You’ll do it, then,” he repeats quietly.

Skip ahead to Raider: Close if you're not into the warnings.

WARNINGS: Striking through extra detailed spoilery warnings but wanna be thorough. These don't all happen to reader. Angst, jealousy, dark reader!, FFM threesome kind of, oral m & f receiving, spanking/pussy slapping, noncon gunplay/penetration, unsafe P in V sex (not btwn Joel and OFC), dubcon via captivity, degradation, cum eating, threat of/allusions to cheating kind of. joel makes reader noncon ofc, f on f oral  PLUS stuff already in play like being chained up.

A/N: Ask 1, Ask 2. TBH I had trouble getting on board with the idea of adding another girl, but eventually a twisted version i could live with came together in my head. Still, I bet some people will not like it. Please don't read if you could be triggered or upset. 🧡 I did not describe the OFC, so please HC her however makes you happy.

-

When Joel gets back, his arms are the first thing you notice.  He’s wearing a body holster with a pistol over his mesh tank top.  The body holster makes his shoulder muscles look even more imposing.  The second thing you notice is that he’s not alone.  He’s dragging another girl by her elbow.  She looks like she’s been crying, but she’s not now.  She’s angry.  Joel doesn’t look at you when he comes in.  He slams the door behind him and hangs up his gun.  He throws her down on the other bed, then cages her with his body.   He holds her chin and and says, “Don’t fuckin’ move.”  She spits in his face.  

He takes a deep breath and cracks his neck without his hands.  ”Been nothin’ but nice to ya,” he says.  “That ends now.”  

Shamefully, your first thought is, what does he mean by ‘nice to her’? Was he the same as he is with you? Did he save her from a worse fate? Did he stroke her cheek and tell her it was going to be alright? Did tell her he was going to take her with him, protect her from far worse men?  How many times has he done this? You hate to think you might not be special.  

Joel unbuttons his pants and looks at the girl menacingly. “Coulda made this enjoyable for ya,” he says regretfully.  “Too bad.”

Your stomach turns and your heart pounds.  Is this all because you kissed him? Is he punishing you for your affection? It’s not fair.  He’s the one who kissed you first in the middle of the night.  Your eyes sting with tears.  You can’t sit here and let this happen.

“What are you doing?” you cry. 

“What am I doing?” he laughs.  He pauses without unzipping his pants.  Finally, he looks at you as he palms himself.  Your eyes follow his hand and you’re relieved to see he’s not fully hard yet. 

“Don’t,” you plead.  “I’ll do whatever you want.”

He unzips his tight jeans and takes his semi-hard cock out.  He asks you, “Where should I put it?” with his pelvis still pointed toward the other bed. 

“Do you have to put it anywhere?” you whimper.  The girl looks at you hopefully like you really have a say.  Like you might be trying to help her. 

“Do I have to,” he grumbles.  You run through the options in your head.  He could put it in her mouth, that’s not too bad. A mouth is just a mouth, right? There’s no way she would do a good job on purpose. But hopefully she wouldn’t bite him, either. 

-

Joel approaches you and spits in his hand.  As he begins to stroke himself with the spit, you say, “Let me.” He holds his cock for you and you try to suck him as good as you can, but he just wants the saliva.  He won’t let you make him come.  Your eyes well up.  

“Shhhh,” he says and cups your cheek as he takes his cock away.  He sighs, then nods back toward the rest of the stash house. “You think they want just any girl? They want what’s mine.” He glances over at the girl then back at you.  He lowers his voice. “She could save your life.” As sweet as that is, it doesn’t make you feel much better about him putting his cock in another woman.  

“Do you really have to?” you plead. 

“Where do you want me to put it?” he asks again.

“In me,” you beg.  He studies your face. 

He looks up at the ceiling contemplatively.  “Well either I’m doin’ it, or you’re doin’ it,” he offers. 

“I’ll do it,” you say, unsure what that even means.  You just know it has to be better than watching or hearing him fuck another girl.  If you have to finger her or even give her head, so be it.

Joel looks surprised and impressed.  “You’ll do it, then,” he repeats quietly.  He unchains you from the radiator and takes the pistol out of his body holster.  He holds it by the barrel and hands it to you.  

Your face goes cold. 

“No,” the girl whimpers, sitting in the corner of the cot with her knees hugged into her chest. 

“You heard her,” Joel says.  “She’s doin’ it. Right, sweet pea?”  

Your hand shakes as you grip the gun.   Joel motions for you to go to the other bed.  

-

“You’re sick,” the girl whimpers at Joel. “Shoot him!” she demands of you.  “What are you waiting for?? SHOOT HIM!” 

Instead, you stand at the end of the cot.  “Get back here,” you say weakly, gun still shaking in your hand.  “And turn over.” 

She shakes her head.  You cock the gun. 

“Damn,” Joel whispers. She still doesn’t move. She cries. 

Joel loses patience and grabs her by the thighs, jerking her to the end of the bed.  He pulls her dress up over her ass, clenches his jaw, and spanks her.  Then he stands between you and the bed.  He spits on his fingers and turns to face you.  He keeps his knuckles facing you as he reaches back and slaps her pussy without looking at her. She yelps. He keeps his hand there and rubs her clit while he stares at you with his hard dick in his other hand. 

“Go on,” he tells you.  “You can do it, sweet pea.” 

“You’re both sick,” she whimpers. 

You steady the gun in both hands, avoiding the trigger, and bring the muzzle to her wet cunt.  She shrieks at the cold ring of metal.  Then you grab her hip for leverage and use your dominant hand to carefully push the barrel into her, gently maneuvering it so it doesn’t catch.  She groans “No.”  

Joel strokes your cheek and looks at you affectionately.  Then he gets behind you, with both of you facing the bed.  He puts his hands on your hips and presses his hard-on into your dress. 

“Go on,” Joel urges and his cock hardens as he pushes it against you.  

You begin to slide the gun in and out of her. 

Joel brings his mouth to your head.  “Good girl,” he whispers and puts his large hands on your hips.  He raises your dress, exposing your ass.  He pulls down your panties, then puts a hand on the small of your back.  You spread your feet more, so relieved and grateful he’s not fucking the other girl.  He flattens his fingers and rubs your clit until you’re wet enough.  It doesn’t take long. 

-

You’ve slowed down with the pistol, focusing more on the feeling of his hand between your legs.  Joel pauses.  “Don’t stop,” Joel cautions.  “Or I’ll do it myself, and not with the gun.”  You start again.  He notches the head of his cock at your entrance and waits. You begin railing her steadily with the barrel of the gun.  “Good, sweet pea,” he murmurs.  

He pushes his tip inside you and you gasp at the stretch, temporarily pausing the rhythm of the gun.  Then he puts one hand on your pelvis for leverage and holds a breast with the other.  He slams his cock into you, jolting you up and forward, with the momentum slamming the gun harshly into her cunt.  She whimpers.  

“Sorry,” you whisper to her and try to steady your hand as Joel fucks you. But the last thing you would do is ask him to stop or ease up. 

Joel drives his length into you steadily.  Your face tenses and your temples feel weak.  You’re still jealous and your mind drifts to whether he’s looking at you or the other girl.  Or is he just watching you fuck her with his gun.  You know he’s an awful man.  Face it, it turns him on. 

You put it out of your mind and focus on the feeling of being filled by him.  His fingers pressing into your skin as his cock impales you, strong but gentle, like him.  You can’t help but moan as he fills you up with his flesh. His cock completes you just right.  You need him to be all yours. 

He switches hands, using his other hand for leverage as he cups your opposite breast.  He buries his mouth in your neck and that makes you feel better, your brow softens.  He bites you and it feels close enough to a kiss that your heart swells.  He sucks your skin, and he moans at the feeling of your nipple hardening into the palm of his hand.  He massages your breast and you begin to twitch around his cock.  He moans into your neck.

“Sweet pea,” he murmurs. “You feel so good.”  Your heart flutters at his words and your lower abdomen buzzes with warmth.  “Whore like that could never. No one else could.” With that validation, you fuck her harder with the gun. “That’s it, baby,” Joel whispers, slamming his cruel cock into you.  “Just like that.”  Your arm gets tired and you switch hands.  It’s so tempting to put down the gun, but you don’t want to find out whether he’d really fuck her.  You don’t want to disappoint him either, and you don’t want him to stop fucking you.

Joel’s hands slither around your body, and his cock pounds into you harder.  “You’re doin’ great, pretty girl.” You feel yourself on the edge of climax.  He slams into you with a grunt. “This pussy’s all mine,” he pants.  “gonna stay that way.”  You lean back into his chest and enjoy the feeling of his body wrapped around yours while you’re wrapped around his cock.  He begins to stroke your clit and you moan.  He breathes heavier and grunts with each thrust. 

He pulls out before either of you come.  You sigh at the loss but his fingers gather slick from your dripping cunt then return to your clit and he outdoes himself.  He puts his mouth to your ear.  “Go ‘head, baby,” and his low whisper makes you see stars.  

You moan and tremble and fall into her, plunging the gun deeper. 

“Pretty when ya come,”  he murmurs and rubs your back while you finish.  Then he grabs your ass affectionately and steps to your side;  You flinch, your ass is even more sore today. 

He slowly pumps his cock and kneels onto the cot with one knee.  He takes your hand and makes you take the gun out. She collapses onto the dirty mattress.  

-

“What’d I do wrong?” you ask him.  

“You did great, sweet pea. You did perfect,” he says as he gets up on the cot and it creaks under his full weight.  

She tries to squirm away and he stops her with a hand on her ass. He’s facing her side and looking at you as he pumps himself.  He straddles one of her legs and you whimper.  He points his cock at her pussy, then he looks at you again as he strokes himself and comes on her ass.  It trickles down her crack to her cunt. You don’t want his cum between her legs, it tugs at your tear ducts, but you’re comforted by his eye contact with you when he came. 

He gets off the cot, tucks his dick away, then comfortingly squeezes your shoulder and watches you watch his cum trickle down.  “You want it so bad, take it,”  he says.  He crosses his arms and nods toward her.  

It feels like a command.  You reach out your hand. 

“Nuh-uh.  With your mouth, sweet pea.” 

You obediently bend at the hips and lean over the cot.  Joel pries her legs open for you.  You plant your mouth between her legs and lick from her cunt, while trying to strain your eyes to meet Joel’s for approval.  “Yeah, get it all, baby.”  You drag your tongue up her crack. 

You swallow it and he holds out his arms for you.  He helps you down from the cot and takes you back over to yours.  “You’re gonna stay here for a li’l bit, sweet pea.  Keep her company.”  

You sniffle. “Do I have to?”

“Yeah, baby. I’ll come back for you later.”  He kisses you on the head and makes sure you’re comfortable before he chains you back.  

-

After Joel leaves, you and the other girl are both silent for a while.  Then she tries to get through to you, tries to convince you that the two of you can outsmart him together.  When pleading doesn’t work, she tries tough love.  “I get it,” she says. “You think he cares about you. But he doesn’t.  You think he’s faithful to you, just because he owns you.”

“He does care.” 

“Well I don’t see your name on his chest.  And his dick sure didn’t taste faithful today.” 

Any sympathy you had for her evaporates with those words. Even if she’s lying, even if she’s trying to play you.  

“Pathetic,” she scoffs.  “You don’t even want to be free, do you?” 

You’re silent for a minute, then get an idea.  “You’re right, I don’t.  But if you really want to, I can tell you how.”   

You know the guard won’t stay at the door all night.  You know the best time and route to get out of the house. If she gets away, good for her.  If she gets caught by one of Joel’s men, oh well. 

-

Thank you so, so much for reading and engaging! Love you guys. You will have your man to yourself next time.

-

if i've left you off please DM me. You can also follow @toxicfics and turn on notifications and you can follow @toxicrecs for my fic recs

[newchangestf]

Two wishes down, one to go

So it turns out my best friend kept a lot of secrets from me. Being deep in the closet was one of them but not one that would have shocked many of us. What would have was if he told us about the lamp he had inherited from a distant relative. The lamp itself wasn't special but the Genie inside certainly was.

Michael was pretty average. We both were to be honest and we've got on like a house of fire ever since we met. I should've suspected he'd developed a crush on me but being straight I was totally oblivious.

One night he chose to make use of his genie. Turns out the whole three wishes thing is true.

It's seems that Micheal's first wish was to become what I can only describe as a Spanish bull. Instantly he swelled up, his body exploding with beefy muscle and dark hair.

Michael had become Miguel. A sexy hunk of Iberian beef. His wish had adapted the world around him and he now sat in a tight fitting Barcelona strip and a pair of white boxers that strained to contain his thick manhood.

He stretched his body and felt that fabric cling to his muscles. It's at this point I walked in.

"Hola chico" he called out.

This triggered his second wish. Before I could even respond and ask who the hell this stranger in Micheal's house was I froze. My eyes locked on to his thick trunk like thighs. I could feel my mouth begin to fill with saliva as I became enthralled by his muscle.

Slowly walking towards him I felt my body shrink. Not just in height, I slimed down too with body fat falling away and relocating itself. Any imperfections gradually fading.

I dropped to my knees and crawled between his thighs, basking in their warm embrace. Reaching forward I released his member from his underwear. With a deep breath I inhaled his musk. The intoxicating smell of sweat invading my mind.

I quickly opened my mouth and took his cock down my throat. Working it like a skilled whore that was no stranger to cock.

After a few minutes. I got up and walked towards the stairs. My clothes gone and now replaced with a revealing jockstrap I looked back at Miguel.

"Let's go to bed" I called to him seductively.

"I've got a present for you..."

-----

I wonder what that third wish could be? Any ideas?

[mlmxreader]

Think Twice | Logan Howlett x trans!m!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ YOO can I get uhhh no-op transmasc Logan and reader with brat taming AND mirror sex... ❞ - @orisquirrelking

: ̗̀➛ Logan isn't happy about it when he catches you being a bit too flirtatious with some of his colleagues, but luckily, he knows what can be done about it.

trigger warnings : ̗̀➛ swearing, choking, anal sex, anal fingering, praise kink, biting kink, jealous/possessive sex, Dom/Sub, slight edging, mirror sex, brat!reader

↳ WOMEN & MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

↳ reader's genitals aren't mentioned at all

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

Logan grumbled under his breath as he watched you carefully and closely. His eyes narrowed; his jaw began to clench as he traced every little movement. He knew what you were doing, and you were never exactly subtle about it, either.

Making direct eye contact with him as you hung off of Gambit's arm; telling him how strong he was and how asking if you could touch his muscles. Logan wanted to scoff, really, but he knew why you were doing it; he had not exactly paid the most attention to you lately, and you acting out was just the right thing to force it back.

Even still, when Logan asked to speak to you in the private confines of his room, you kicked up a fuss; huffing and puffing and complaining.

A spoiled brat.

"The fuck do you think you're doing?" He hissed, planting his hands either side of your head. Trapping you between the door and his body.

You shrugged as you stared up at him. "Well, since you weren't going to give me attention, I found it somewhere else."

Logan's jaw clenched tightly, his breath getting deeper and harsher as it fanned across your face. His gaze drifted down to your mouth. "So you're just gonna whore yourself out? That it?"

You put your hands on his chest, gripping the fabric of his brown plaid shirt. "The thought might've crossed my mind."

He let out a harsh breath, heart skipping a beat. "You wanna be somebody's fuckin' boy toy, huh?"

You lifted your leg up, waiting for him to grab the underside of your thigh so he could pull it to his waist; copying the action as soon as you lifted your other leg. You lifted your hands up, clinging onto the doorframe as you leaned in.

Logan wasn't stupid, eagerly drowning you in an open-mouthed and breathy kiss; your hands went to his hair, gripping it tightly. He moaned softly, tugging you closer as he grunted against your mouth.

He waited for you to press your weight against him, easily guiding you over to where the full-length double mirror was; he pinned you down, letting you bite and suck at the skin of his neck before he fully pulled away and pinned your wrists above your head.

"You gonna be good?"

You shook your head, spreading your legs and grinning at him. "Now why would I wanna do that?"

Logan sighed softly, grinding down against you. "You might wanna rethink."

Slowly, you licked your lips, keeping your eyes on him. "Why don't you try to change my mind, old man?"

That was his breaking point. He flipped you over and delivered a hard smack to your ass; you grinned, softly moaning his name in response.

"You'll have to do better than that," you told him. So fucking sly, like you were some cunning fox merely stepping out of a snare. "Try again."

Logan gritted his teeth, smacking your ass even harder; you pushed back against him, the pounding sting made your heart pound, and your hips jerked. Another dare for him to go harder.

Logan didn't listen, kneeling behind you and grabbing the waistband of your tight shorts. "You changed your mind yet? Or are you gonna be a fucking brat all day?"

You wiggled your hips, inviting him as you looked back with a smile. "I've yet to even debate changing my mind."

Slowly, Logan peeled your shorts down, exposing your bare and raw ass before he pressed his middle finger to your rim; slowly, he circled your tight ass hole, just and just enough to tease you. Just enough to make you shudder and grind against nothing. He paused, licking his lips.

"Broken?"

"As if!" You protested, although your voice was ragged from the slowly boiling desire to feel him against you. "You'll never make me change my mind at this rate. Keep trying, Mister Howlett."

With a quiet huff, Logan grabbed you, positioning you on his lap as he sat facing the mirrors; he kept you just a little bit above him while he slipped his ring and middle finger into your ass.

"Are you ready?" He growled out, biting at the side of your neck.

You scoffed, quirking a brow. "More than."

He didn't waste time, quickly jamming them in and out as you gasped, squirming. He was so fucking rough, keeping your hips pressed to his body as he slammed his fingers in and out of your ass, practically pounding his hand into you.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Right there! Shit! Fuck!"

A smug smile came to Logan's face, waiting until you were right on the edge of your little glory moment before he withdrew his fingers, watching as you settled on his lap with a whimper and a quiet choked back sob.

"Why'd you stop?" You whined out.

Logan took your face, forcing you to look into his eyes through the mirrors. "Are you gonna stop being such a brat?"

You shook your head, bringing his hand down to your throat and pressing down on his fingers. "What'd you think, Logan? Doesn't your hand make such a nice necklace?"

He grumbled under his breath, doing everything in his power not to buck his hips up into you as he pressed down against your the sides of your neck gently. "You didn't answer my question."

You ground down against him, making sure that he felt the way your ass moved. "I think you already know the answer."

"I need to hear you say it," he growled.

You sighed, purposefully rolling your hips just to get a rise out of him. "What do you wanna hear me say? That if you fuck me hard enough, I'll stop being a brat and go back to being your personal little boy toy?"

"It's a start," he breathed out, teeth clamping down on the inside of his lip.

"Please, Logan," you mocked. "Please, please, fuck me until I stop being such a brat! Oh, please!"

"Enough!" Logan snapped. "Tell me what you fucking want, and be serious."

"Fine!" You hissed out, slightly annoyed and frustrated. "I want you to fuck me! Fuck's sake!"

He moved you so that you were on your hands and knees, facing the mirror; he was gone for a moment, although you knew where the second that you heard the lubricant bottle opening.

"Ready?"

You nodded. "Hurry up, old man, I haven't got all day."

Logan scoffed, although he didn't even try and bite back the smile that came across his lips the second that he slipped his fingers into your tight ass.

You clenched around him, and he used it to his advantage; slicking you up nice and easily and stretching you out as much as he could.

He squirted some lube on his hand, pumping his cock to get it nice and ready for you.

"Still gonna be a brat?" He asked lowly.

"Fuck me already," you spat back.

Logan didn't need to hear any more. With one hand, he grabbed your throat as he bent over, thrusting into your ass as he kept your focus on the mirror; making you watch as he fucked you.

"Fuck," you breathed out, pushing back against him as you clenched the mattress with your sweaty fingers.

Logan was rough, hammering into you as hard as he could and not caring that your body jerked forward with each thrust; he bit down on the side of your neck, all but claiming you as he grunted and growled against the soft skin.

The vibrations were too much, and you rolled your hips as you sought any and every single little scrap of him that you could; able to feel his sweat mix with yours so easily. The scent of it thick as you gasped and moaned his name between the encouraging grunts he let out.

He kept going, pounding into you until the sound of grunts and moans was completely drowned out by the wet slap of his skin against yours; you bowed your head, forcing him to pick it back up again so you could watch as he took you for his own.

You wanted to cry out, tell him to never stop and to keep going until you were fucking stuffed - but the words failed you as animalistic groans took over. You writhed and squirmed, trying to find the best angle you could to get enough of him.

"Feel so fuckin' good," Logan growled out against your neck, his teeth still firmly planted against your skin, although not enough to make you bleed. "Such a fuckin' good boy for me, ain't ya, huh?"

You nodded, earning you a firm smack to the ass. "Yes! Fuck! Yes!"

You weren't going to last long, and you knew it; the way he fucked you so eagerly and so hard, it was dizzying. Even more so when he pinned you against the mattress so you were flat on your stomach; he kept one hand on the back of your neck, making sure you could watch yourself whilst he used the other to brace against the mattress.

The loud squeaks were coupled only with your harsh and ragged begs for more and more and more. He stretched you out like nobody else ever could, and you couldn't deny that he was the best fuck you had ever had.

You wanted him to cum in you, wanted to take as much of it as you could until it leaked out and dribbled down your taint. Puddling onto the bedsheets until he fucked it back into you and donated another load to you. You wanted it, needed it, and craved it more than your own release and own orgasm.

Your legs shook, a sensitive and raw feeling budding in your twitching groin as you bucked your hips and cried out his name; your eyes rolled into the back of your head, tongue hanging out of your mouth and a thin whisp of drool hang from the tip. Your toes curled as you tilted your head back.

Logan kept going.

Fucking into you until he suddenly stilled, panting your name out and letting his own drool smack you on the neck; he took a moment to catch his breath before he fucked it back into you, not caring at how it dribbled out and splashed down when he pulled out.

A firm smack to your ass sealed the deal. He crouched down in front of you, gently kissing you.

"Was I too rough?"

You shook your head, lazily smiling at him. "Nah, you were perfect, don't worry."

Logan frowned a little, licking his lips. "I just worry."

"I know," you whispered. "It's fine, you're alright."

He nodded slowly, letting out a long sigh as he smiled back at last. "If you say so... oh, erm, before I forget - Kurt asked to see you tomorrow."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, somethin' about some legal shit," he shrugged. "Said he wanted your input? I dunno."

You could only laugh as you shook your head fondly. "I'll talk to him... are you gonna get jealous, though?"

A glare was shot your way. "No. Big difference between you telling Kurt about your experiences and you actin' like Gambit's cock was worth more than oxygen."

You laughed a little louder. "What? You don't think me telling Kurt about all the mundane shit like gender certificates and ID changes is like as a no-op trans guy could be sexy?"

"You might wanna think twice about me answerin' that," Logan huffed.

Although he was pleasantly surprised when you dropped yourself into his lap.

"Logan," you hummed. "I'm your boyfriend. I only have eyes for you, I promise. I love you."

He nodded slowly, letting his hands rest on your sides for a moment. "I believe you, I do. I believe you."

"Come on," you whispered, getting up and offering him your hand. "Come shower with me and I'll show you how I really, really feel about you... unless you're scared."

Logan scoffed. "Like fuck am I scared."

༺═──────────────────────────────═༻

whilst I have your attention, I would like to point it towards Hani's family; Hani's family are trapped in Gaza, and need €5k each in order to escape and survive the genocide. if you could spare a few pounds, or even just one then it would really make a massive, massive difference. so, please, consider giving to Hani's family.

[suzukiblu]

Thank-you sentences for an anon behind the cut; alpha Jazz, a dark alley, and a very pretty omega. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Naw,” Red Hood breathes, and grips the back of her neck with both hands and squeezes her sides tight with his thighs. Tight enough that she actually notices the strength behind it, which isn’t particularly typical for her these days. The liminality usually means baseline human strength just doesn’t register the same way. 

Well . . . if he is another liminal, that would certainly explain that, she thinks. Even if he is, though, the muscles squeezing her sides and the muscles her hands are squeezing are, well . . . definitely authentic muscle, put it that way. And much, much more of it than most people have. 

It would also explain why his scent filters don’t seem to be functioning as effectively as they would be for a baseline human. 

Jazz really needs a moment here, but she cannot actually imagine finding a chance to take one in this situation. Just–definitely not, no. 

Again: ngh. 

“That’s not a good–” she tries to start, but Red Hood halfway-headbutts her again and she is increasingly convinced that he’s trying to kiss her right now. Which is bad, because if he figures out what’s keeping him from kissing her right now– 

Red Hood huffs roughly and reaches to grope at the bottom of his helmet–and not anywhere near the filter controls he hit before–and Jazz, in what is very literal self-defense, buries her fangs in his armored, leather-wrapped, blood-spattered neck and bites. And she doesn’t let her fangs puncture all the way through that armor, but they definitely do puncture it, cutting right through the gritty leather jacket and sinking in. 

So Red Hood definitely feels the pressure of her teeth pressing against his mating gland, is what she means by that. 

Red Hood immediately and very obviously forgets what he’s doing to grab the back of her neck again and dig his fingers in with a breathless, gut-punched moan, grinding down clumsily against her embarrassingly hard clit and half-blown knot. Just–Jazz isn’t actually a virgin, given the fact she’s spent more than a few of her ruts checked into carefully-researched and reliably-recommended clinics, but being in rut in a clinic is very different from the experience of a heated-up omega built like what a brick house can only dream to be fucking climbing her for her knot. She’d hoped the pressure of her teeth would settle him a little, or at least help him snap out of it enough to realize what he was trying to do, but it very clearly has not. 

Not even slightly. 

This is also not even slightly like any of her previous dating experience. 

Not that this is a date, obviously, Red Hood is compromised by both whatever’s in his system and the heat it’s triggered–and possibly also the fact that they’re apparently very, very, very, very compatible mates, which is something Jazz needs to not think about right now–and they’ve also literally never met before, and she really knows better than to jump right into things with someone she’s just met by now, considering her life experience up to this point. 

Thanks, Johnny. 

But even if Jazz were a less meticulous and deliberate and “been-burned-before” person, she really, really wouldn’t be the type to knot somebody on the first date. 

Though again, this isn’t a date. And it’s also extenuating circumstances. And– 

Oh, she really needs to do something about this before she does something about this. 

“Your filters, omega,” she tries, her head feeling a little dizzy, and Red Hood whines like hearing it hurts. Which–saying it also hurt, so it probably did, yeah. And just saying it to begin with didn’t hurt anywhere as bad as hearing an omega in need whine like that did. 

Jazz, also, doesn’t have any filters, flawed or not, and her scent-blocker vials are still in her pocket and currently out of reach, given her hands are still full of pleading, whining omega. 

That’s–an issue, yeah. Yes. Very, very much is that an issue. 

She needs to do something about that. Definitely. Just–something. 

Red Hood smells so good, though. Just from one stripped-off blocker, even, which–Ancients, that really implies a lot about how his pheromones would smell if he took off all his scent blockers. 

Jazz is trying very hard not to think about that, but unfortunately she’s not dead yet and is therefore still beholden to her own pheromones and literally everything about having a physical form, even with the liminal senses and strength. 

. . . actually, come to think, the enhanced senses are probably making this situation worse for her too. 

She very much needs to do . . . something. Yes. Yeah.

Something. 

Red Hood halfway-headbutts her again, and her inner alpha has several feelings about how bad he apparently wants to kiss her, and she clenches her teeth before they just bite through the stupid thing, the inside of her mouth tasting like flowers. Which she really, really wishes she were doing right now. Had done already. Could do– 

Red Hood whines again, sounding sad and hurt and like he needs a baby in him so bad, and Jazz’s alpha fangs bite straight through the stupid armor keeping his needy, seeking mouth all locked up away from hers. 

So much for the filters, Jazz vaguely manages to realize, and then Red Hood kisses her like a punch, the broken edges of his helmet dragging against her cheeks and its broken pieces still half-in her mouth, and she forgets . . . whatever she was thinking about. Something. Just . . . something. There was . . . something, that she was thinking about. 

Red Hood makes a breathy, hungry noise with absolutely no trace of a vocoder warping it, and Jazz crushes metal and kevlar and polycarbonate and literal circuits and wires into shards between her teeth, then turns her head just enough to spit them all out onto the ground without quite managing to take her eyes off his bared, pretty mouth. The shards aren’t sharp enough to cut liminal skin, but they’re in the way. 

“Fuck,” Red Hood says. His voice is ragged and breathless and so pretty, and so is the hard, smooth curve of exposed jaw she can see now, and the full lips and flushed skin, and–

[roadkillxd]

HALLOWEEN SPECIAL: gun metal ghost.

Thanks to the anons that suggested the featured kinks!

Soap x M!Reader x Ghost ↪ 1892 words — 18+ / SMUT.

Content tags — cis male dominant Soap, cis male dominant Ghost, cis male submissive reader, heavy cnc roleplay, gunplay, implied somnophilia, threat of murder, referenced necro (just a comment Soap makes), virginity kink, breeding kink, sweat/scent kink, impact play, dirty talk, degradation/humiliation, praise, biting, begging, body worship, crying, deepthroating, breath play, oral sex, analingus, fingering, anal sex, penetrative sex, unsafe sex, and mentioned aftercare.

You jolt awake at the feeling of cold metal trailing down the ridges of your bare spine. You feel an unpleasant emptiness, and your cock is hard and dripping where it’s trapped between your stomach and the bed sheets, surely tacky and wet with pre and sweat. Before you can truly get your bearings, a hand grips your hair and another covers your mouth.

“Doon’t scream,” Soap says from in front of you, low and gravelly. His hand slips from your hair, and the familiar click of a gun safety being switched makes you shudder, grunting when the barrels pressed beneath your jaw.

You try to take stock of your surroundings—Soap kneels in front of you, left hand pushing the gun into the soft flesh beneath your jawbone to keep your head propped up, his right palm pressed over your lips, fingers digging painfully tight into your cheeks. He looks smug, though there's a hunger overshadowing the slight tug of his lips and the twinkle of his blue eyes. 

There’s a wetness between your thighs that makes you squirm, the feeling of cooling saliva quickly replaced with the swipe of a hot tongue licking over your hole. You cry out behind Soap’s palm, reaching to grab at his forearms only for two skeleton-patterned gloved hands to catch you by the wrists and tug your arms behind your back. 

“Keep em’ there,” Ghost says, making sure his legs are locked with yours to keep you pinned, his tone as simple as if he’d just ordered you to watch the corner. 

Your hands twitching is greeted with Soap’s palm slipping from your mouth, only for the gun to quickly replace it, clacking against your teeth before the acrid taste of gun metal invades your taste buds.

“You heard the man,” Soap grins, tapping his finger gently on the trigger guard, “wouldn’t want m’hand ta slip, now would we? Not tha’ it’d stop us…” 

You whimper around the barrel, feeling Ghost groan against your hole, and try to blink away the oncoming tears as Ghost returns to messily licking you out, and the reality of your situation washes over you. Ghost’s practiced in his motions, and despite the circumstances there is no rush to the way he works you over, like he has all the time in the world. You dig your nails into your forearms, crossed at your back as Ghost slips a thick, surprisingly soft finger into your clenching heat, having removed his gloves at some point. 

Soap is hard in his own jeans, the outline of his cock mere inches from your face. Your jaw aches around the gun, unable to swallow properly around the bulk of it as drool drips heavily down your chin to form a small puddle on the thin bed sheets. Soap gently rocks the pistol in and out of your mouth, watching with rapt attention how your tongue flexes restlessly along the slide.

The pink muscle flicking at his finger where it rests on the trigger guard seems to be his limit, as he shoves the gun forward just enough to make you gag before yanking it out, the tears finally streaming down your cheeks as you cough. 

“Ghost,” Soap grunts, handing the gun off to the Lieutenant behind you, feeling it press flat between your shoulder blades, the cold ridges pressed to your spine by Ghost’s palm holding it there. Soap grasps your jaw with bruising strength, tugging you up to meet his eyes, “lookit you, pathetic fuckin’ thing.”

The clink of Soap’s belt catches your attention as you glance down, only for his palm to connect hard with your cheek, making you cry out as he roughly grabs for you again.

“Look. At. Me,” he growls, your breath stuttering in a hiccup as you hold his piercing gaze even through the blur of tears. You can see the movement of him pulling his cock free in your peripheral, and whimper as he slides the sticky, soft head of his cock along your trembling lips.

“Open that mouth, baby,” he rumbles, fingers digging into the joint of your jaw when you hesitate too long, “be a good lil’ hure fer me.”

Your mouth falls open on a shuddering moan as Ghost presses the tips of two fingers to the gland of your prostate, massaging the swollen bulb with sniper precision. Soap’s prick slips past your lips, muffling your whines around the thick, meaty length of his cock. 

You can feel Ghost shift behind you, the gun trailing till his arm is hooked under your armpit, barrel dug into your jaw once again. The scrape of denim is rough along the back of your thighs, the soft cotton of his jumper bringing attention to the aching turned stinging along your back, where you can feel now with clarity where Ghost sucked hickeys into your bare skin while you slept, hyperware of the grooves where his teeth dug into your skin. 

“Bloody perfect,” Ghost murmurs, chest vibrating against your spine with the rolling deepness of his voice. His hips absentmindedly rock against yours, his breath hot against your cheek, the bulk of his weight pressing you to the mattress as he presses jarringly chaste kisses along your jawline, to the corner of your lips stretched taut around Soap’s thrusting cock. Soap gives a growling groan when Ghost’s tongue slips out, lapping lazily at the ring of spit and pre that froths around the seal of your mouth.

You feel Ghost’s free hand fumbling between your legs, the sound of his trousers being undone barely audible over the ringing in your ears. He groans as he frees himself, and you whine at the fat length of his cock slipping between your cheeks and catching on your rim. 

You struggle in earnest, trying to pull your head away from Soap’s cock while your hands, trapped beneath Ghost’s bulk, shove at the man’s stomach. Your teeth graze the sensitive flesh of Soap’s prick and he quickly pulls free from your mouth, cuffing you upside the head for the trouble.

“Don’t,” you choke out, voice sleep rough and sore from where Soap’s cockhead had tapped the start of your throat, “please don’t, I’ve never—” 

You sob as Ghost’s hips twitch, the head of his cock spreading the rim of your arsehole wide without quite pushing in. 

“Heard that, Ghostie?” Soap purrs, rocking his hips to slide his slick cock along your cheek, your warm tears against the swollen flesh making him shiver, “know how much you love a virgin hole.”

“Fuckkk,” Ghost groans, pressing his face against your neck, catching the thin skin between his teeth. His balaclava is shoved up over his nose, the scratchy material rubbing against the sensitive skin behind your ear and making your traitorous cock twitch and leak.

“Going to fucking ruin this arse,” Ghost growls. He’s suddenly rough with you, like a switch has flipped inside him. The gun is dropped to the floor somewhere as Ghost hauls you back onto your knees. He mounts up, heaving chest pressed to your back, one strong arm wrapped around your torso while the other lines up his cock with your twitching hole. 

You sob as he shoves in, giving you no time to adjust when his pelvis immediately meets your ass, heavy balls slapping against yours before he’s pulling back and shoving back in, over and over. His thrusts are steady and deep, and you instinctively grab at Soap’s wrist and waist, shoving your face between the crook of his muscled thigh and leaking cock, muffling your moans into the sweaty skin there. 

“Can’t help but feel good, huh?” Soap coos mockingly, fingers carding through your sweat slick hair, “never having taken cock, yet you’re moaning for it like a slut already. You know you were made for this, just needed us to show you.” 

You nod against Soap’s skin, breathing his musky scent in deep, pressing the flat of your tongue to his furry balls before suckling one into your mouth to earn a breathy groan from him. 

Ghost grunts and growls like an animal above you, his mouth sucking mark after mark along the side of your neck, an expanse of purples and reds that’ll be impossible to hide. His cock is so big, each time he bottoms out pushing against the squishy walls of your limits, feeling like he’s in your fucking lungs, and the bulk of his fat cockhead catches on your prostate with each in-and-out movement. 

Soap uses your hair to guide you up the pulsing length of his prick, letting you lather your tongue along the prominent vein that travels up the side, pulling his foreskin down so you can lick and suck at the glans of his tip. 

“He’s gonna breed you full,” Soap rumbles, voice soft as you slobber on his cock, “fill you with his cum ‘till it takes.”

“Please,” you gasp, muffled against Soap’s cockhead and bubbly with spit and precum, “please please, Ghost, please.”

Ghost growls like a shout, making you cry out as his teeth sink into the flesh of your shoulder and his hips begin to jackrabbit it into you, the lude sounds of his balls slapping against your flesh echoing throughout the room, the wet plap plap plap aided by the froth of his own saliva that leaks from your puffy hole down his heavy sac.

“Yeah, Simon? Gonna fuck a baby into his little virgin hole?” Soap goads, pulling your head down his length as you let out a pathetic moan, gagging and choking when your nose presses to the thatch of pubic hair at the base of his cock, eyes crossing as he holds you there, only able to breathe in the thick musk of sweat trapped there. 

You clench up tight around Ghost as you struggle and asphyxiate around Soap’s prick, and Ghost cums with a shout muffled into the bloody wound of your shoulder. His hips slam into yours, bouncing off your ass where you can already feel the red sting of bruises forming, before his movements stutter, buried to the hilt as he fills you deep with his load. 

It’s Soap who lets out a moan next, yanking you off his cock just as he cums, decorating your purple-red face with his spend as you cough and heave for breath. You reach up to pull his foreskin back down and seal your lips around his tip, whining brokenly as he strokes the last of his cum onto your waiting tongue. 

It’s the taste of him that does you in, swallowing him down with a keen as your cock pulses and spurts cum onto the bed sheets below. 

You collapse fully to the bed, cheek pressed to the sweat damp sheet cooling in the night air. Soap pets at your hair, his nails scritching gently at the base of your skull and making your skin tingle pleasantly. Ghost is a large, comforting weight along your back, his soft but heavy cock still buried inside you and occasionally twitching with another pulse of cum he shoots into you with a shudder and what you can only describe as a whimper from his scratchy throat. 

He licks over the lazily oozing wound of his bite mark, the both of you floating as Soap slips from the bed to begin your guys’ aftercare routine.

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 4861

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, mental illness, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

11. Palmiers

Bucky

Because he’s on the far end of the spectrum, Bucky’s sex drive is affected by his condition. He wakes up hard almost every morning of his life, and Steve doesn’t need much encouragement to get himself worked up into the same state very quickly. Mutual morning jerk offs were always bound to become part of their routine.

They take a shower and stand toe to toe, hands sliding and groping all over each others’ slick bodies, pulling on their cocks until both of them are shooting off against each other’s bellies. The water washes it away, and Steve gives him a deep, happy kiss. “Mmm. Mornin’.”

“Blegch. Go brush your teeth, you heathen.”

Steve laughs and gets out of the shower. Bucky stays in for a few minutes longer, adjusting the spray to its hardest setting and letting the hot water beat down on his back and shoulders. He sighs and stretches his neck this way and that, trying to get his vertebrae to pop, but his muscles are all too tight, and the stretching just seems to make it worse. Bucky drops his head in defeat. In all honesty, his shoulders and neck and back are all pretty fucked after months of near-constant use of his prosthetic.

Steve’s right: he doesn’t usually wear it this much. And he’s also right that Bucky’s been wearing it all day every day because he wants to feel powerful and able bodied in front of Mary. As per usual, Steve is the first one to have noticed what maladaptive behavior pattern he’s doing and why, and pointed it out to him. It really is for the best, Bucky knows. Because he can’t sustain wearing the arm all the time anymore. The thing is just too damn heavy.

The engineers who designed it have made tweaks and adjustments over the years. They’ve done all they can to lighten the load as much as possible, but the thing still weighs over twenty pounds. Twenty pounds doesn’t sound like much, but when it’s pulling on the same muscle groups day in and day out, everything in Bucky’s body winds up getting strained and unbalanced. He understands better now, how women fuck up their necks so badly from shouldering their purses (or their tits) around. A little bit of weight makes a big difference.

As a Dom, Bucky may have a tiny problem admitting when he needs help. He has to be in quite a bit of pain, trouble, or both, before he’ll ever speak up and allow himself to be vulnerable like that. It’s an inherent behavior that shrinks have been trying to therapize and medicate out of him since he was a kid, but nothing ever changed it much. Falling in love with Steve helped; Bucky can let himself be more vulnerable around him. But even still, it’s no small thing that he regularly approaches his husband to ask for help in getting his arm back on correctly (Bucky can do it, but it’s a pain in the ass, getting the mechanism lined up just right before it’ll take). 

He gets out of the shower and dries off, then approaches Steve with the prosthesis. “Gimme a hand?” 

Steve makes a cheerful noise of acknowledgement around his mouthful of toothpaste, spits and rinses, then takes the arm from Bucky. He lines it up just so, and then Bucky feels the deep shudder of the arm’s inner workings coming to life as they recognize their mate. The arm attaches and Steve lets go. 

“Thanks babe.”

“Uh huh.” 

It’s as Bucky’s bending over and pulling up his underwear and joggers that a spasm runs through his back and he cries out in a pained, “Ah!”

“Babe? What’s wrong?”

Gritting his teeth, Bucky slowly stands back up. He’s able to get his pants up, but when he tests the movement of his neck and shoulders, the pain flares again. It feels like everything between the base of his skull and his mid back is seizing up. “Fuck,” he hisses, frustrated. It’s his day off. He’d been planning to go to the gym for his long workout. 

Steve steps up and puts a worried hand on his left shoulder. “Babe? Do you need it off?” 

“No. I need some painkillers and a magnesium tablet,” he grunts, already turning around (full body, because turning his head is a bad idea right now). “Fuck.” He starts off for the kitchen. 

Steve follows along with worried protests, telling him to lay his “stubborn ass” down and he’ll get it for him. Bucky ignores him and goes to the kitchen cabinet where they keep their supplement stuff. He winds up yelling again when he tries to reach up and grab the ibuprofen. “Fuck!” he says angrily.

“Babe, I said to let me do it,” Steve scolds, his hand back on Bucky’s shoulder. “And let me take this off. It’s hurting you.”

“Steve, back off,” he snaps, angry and waspish from being in pain, and from being frustrated with his own goddamn body. 

“What’s going on?” 

Bucky turns his head without thinking, hisses in pain, and then turns himself full-body to face in Mary’s direction. She’s standing there looking at the two of them in concern, one hand holding one of those swirly, flaky, crack-cookies that she makes, and the other holding a cup of tea. Her eyes widen at the sight of Bucky’s arm and body, reminding him that this is the first time she’s seen him without a shirt on. “Nothin’,” Bucky grunts.

“Shit,” she says. “Are you guys fighting? Is this a couples’ fight? I’ll just …” She turns to leave back towards her room.

“We’re not fighting,” Steve says. “Buck’s just being an ass. He gets that way when he’s in pain.”

Bucky would turn his head to glare at him, but it isn’t worth another flair of agony in his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he says, when Mary comes back over. “It’s fine,” he stresses. He opens the pill bottle and dumps three capsules into his palm. “Jeez, will everybody stop babying me? I just need a glass of water.” 

“I’ll get it,” Steve says, causing Bucky to huff once again. “Don’t be a jerk, babe.”

“Why are you in pain?” Mary asks, her eyes tracing all over the left side of Bucky’s scarred up body. “Is it … does your arm hurt?” 

“No. It just fucks up my muscles, sometimes.”

“Your muscles?”

Bucky sighs impatiently. “Steve, do you know where the heating pad is?”

“I’ll have to look.” Steve has returned with a glass of water, and Bucky tosses back the handful of pills, wincing at how even the slight motion of raising his arm up makes his trap twinge in protest. “Ugh.” 

“You should get a massage,” Mary suggests, and Bucky fights not to lash out at her. She doesn’t know that one of his biggest pet peeves in life is having other people tell him what he “should” do.

“My PT maxed out back in October,” he tells her. “Doesn’t renew again till January.”

Steve takes the water glass from him once he’s done. “Go lie face down on the bed,” he murmurs. “I’ll find the heating pad.”

“Well I could do it,” Mary blurts out. Both Bucky and Steve pause and look at her. She looks surprised, too, as though she hadn’t been planning to say the words until they were out of her mouth, and now doesn’t know how to continue  “Um, that is ..." she gestures weakly with her cookie. “I just meant I know how to, if you wanted.” Eventually her cheeks color and she looks away. “Erm, Nevermind.”

“Wait,” Steve says. When Mary turns back, he’s looking at her earnestly, and Bucky thinks, Oh no. “You know how to give a back massage? Like a real one?”

“Yeah. My, ah, my ex always had neck problems, so.” She shrugs, looking embarrassed. “I took a class at the community college, learned the basics.”

Bucky blinks. That’s the subbiest fucking thing he’s ever heard. “You did this for the husband that beat you?” he drawls, immediately regretting it because it comes out sounding way more derogatory than he intends it to. “Sorry. I just … actually would pay good money for a massage right now. If you know how to do it.” 

Mary bites her lip, looking deliciously shy and sweet. Bucky’s mood sours as he realizes that she doesn’t really want to. He’s about to let her off the hook, but then some unconscious movement he makes without meaning to has him flinching in pain again. “Sheezus,” he complains. 

“It’s not usually this bad,” Steve worries.

“I must’a slept on it wrong.”

Mary nods, as if this settles it. “Okay. Well, go in the bedroom and tie your hair up so it's out of the way.” She turns to Steve, all but dismissing Bucky now that she’s got a task to complete. Bucky fights back an amused smirk as he heads towards the bedroom, and he hears Mary bossing Steve around, telling him she needs dry oil, the heating pad, towels, and all the seat cushions off the couch. 

The fuck does she need those for? Bucky thinks as he pads back into his and Steve’s room.

He finds out a moment later, when Mary and Steve come in with a couch cushion each, and Steve goes back out to get another. They lay them in a line on the bed, and Mary directs Bucky to lie on top of them, with his body placed just so and his face down just there, and … Oh. He gets it.

She’s left space between the cushion under Bucky’s chest, and the next cushion up, which supports his forehead. The gap creates a drop through for his face—like a massage table. And when she shapes the towel into a donut shape and sticks it there, it's pretty much perfect.

“Oh,” Bucky says, as he’s settling into place. “Oh, that’s actually really smart.” He can’t see Mary from his position, but somehow he senses her preening over the praise anyway. Steve returns from the bathroom with the heating pad and oil. “Found this stuffed in the back of the linen closet. I don’t know what ‘jojoba’ is, but, um … it’s either that or the virgin olive out in the pantry.”

“Do not use that,” Bucky grumbles. “Shit’s expensive, and I don’t wanna smell like garlic truffle for the next three days.”

“That’ll work fine.” Mary is totally task focused, ignoring Bucky’s surliness and telling Steve to apply the heating pad across Bucky’s shoulders and neck for thirty minutes before they get started.

“Thirty minutes?!” Bucky complains, unable to see anything but the top of the bedcovers as the two of them go out into the hallway. 

“Just relax, Babe,” Steve says (and if Bucky isn’t mistaken, he sounds amused). “Take a nap.”

“I just woke up!” He scoffs at the bedspread when the door quietly ‘snicks’ shut and he realizes that he’s been abandoned. “Well okay then,” he mutters petulantly. Steve is right: he does turn into an ass when he’s in pain. Hmm. Maybe he should work on that.

Steve

Steve turns the tv onto a low volume so they can talk without Bucky hearing. “Sorry about him,” he says. “He’s a humongous jerk whenever he’s feeling crummy.”

“You mean it’s not just all the time?” Mary drawls.

“He’s … just one of those people you have to learn to love before you like them.” Mary raises an eyebrow, and Steve winces. “Er, that sounded harsh. Don’t tell him I said that.”

She twists her lips and looks down. “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

“Thanks, Hon. You want more tea?” 

“Yes please. There’s more of the palmiers in a baggie next to the coffee pot, if you want any.” 

“Heck yeah, I love those things.” Steve had thought the prepackaged ones at Starbucks were good, hadn’t even realized that they weren’t supposed to be all stale and hard like that. Just another commercialized pastry that Mary’s gone and ruined him for. He goes into the kitchen and makes himself coffee and Mary tea, knowing by now how she takes it.

She thanks him silently as he returns and joins her on the couch, both of them sitting close to one another on the chaise, since it’s the only part of the couch that still has its cushion.

"Palmier is French. Know what else they call these?" Mary asks.

Steve's lips quirk. Mary's always got these little facts she knows about the origins of this pastry or that. It's cute. Endearing. "No," he plays along. "What?"

"Elephant ears, because of the shape, see?"

"Oh yeah. Huh. That's neat."

She goes back to eating and sipping at her teacup, and after a moment of unrequited, affectionate staring, Steve looks away. "Elephant ears," he murmurs, trying not to be mopey. "That's funny."

They split the palmiers between them, and aside from the sounds of them munching cookies and sipping their drinks, it’s quiet for a long time. Steve made both the tea and the coffee very hot, so they at least have the excuse of cradling and blowing on their steaming mugs to keep the silence from being too awkward. Mary keeps her eyes trained forward, but Steve gets the sense that she isn’t really paying attention to the home renovation program that’s playing on the tv. His suspicions are confirmed when she eventually asks,

“So: His arm.”

Steve inhales slowly. “Yeah. His arm.”

“What happened?”

Steve frowns. He can tell by her inflection that she’s asking not just about the arm, but about the state of Bucky’s entire left side from shoulder to hip. “We were in the army,” he confides. “Deployed overseas. I made captain young, but he was a specialist in the field: a sniper. So I wasn’t put into the same types of situations as he was. His convoy got blown up by an IED. And when the dust settled …” He shrugs. “No more arm.”

“Oh.” Mary sits there and absorbs that information. “I guess I kind of figured it was something like that. I mean what else is there, besides like, a shark attack or something?”

Steve’s mouth twitches. Shark attack, ha. He’ll have to suggest that one to Buck. Might be fun to lie about, the next time a stranger asks. “Naw, just a boring old bomb. And afterwards, well. It was a long road for him, after. He didn’t have the arm when I met him.”

Mary turns her head, surprised. “Oh. You two didn’t meet in the army?”

“No, after. I met him at the V.A., when he was already angry, hurt, and didn’t want to be where he was.” Steve looks over and gives her a meaningful look. “Kind of like when I first met you.” 

Her eyes widen, and then her face colors and she looks away again, pulling her knees up and hunkering over her mug. “Was I really that bad?” she mumbles.

“... You were pretty bad, Honey.”

She frowns and doesn’t say anything, and Steve decides to leave it alone. “So yeah, his arm. He got into a program for experimental cybernetics. It was a big gamble. Back then, he still had his arm down to nearly the elbow, which meant he could use a lot of the different types of prostheses they had on the market. The less arm you have, the less they can do for you. The surgeries for the implant required removal all the way up to and including his left shoulder blade. So if he went through with it and the procedures didn’t work out, he’d be left with less function than he started with.”

“Jeez.”

“Hm, yeah. It was a risk.” Steve stares across the living room as he remembers all of the hospital stays and surgeries and revisions and therapy appointments. “Luckily it worked out. They replaced some bones with metal supports, some of his natural muscle with enhanced synthetic tissue. His body didn’t reject any of the junk they were putting in him, which was the biggest worry. All in all, it took five surgeries over the course of three years, and then a shit ton of physiotherapy. Buck says it was worth it, now, but it wasn’t a walk in the park when it was happening, I’ll tell you that.”

Beside him, Mary makes a sad little noise in her throat. “But … all that and it still gives him pain?”

“Yeah. He gets PT for it, but like he said; it never winds up lasting the full year. I force him to my veterans' support group when I can, but he’s gotta be in a really charitable mood for that.” Steve snorts humorlessly. “He’s always hated being disabled. It doesn’t jive with his DPD. You know that stereotype about men: never wanting to stop and ask for directions?” 

“Yeah.”

"Well it's true. And then you take a guy who’s as far on the spectrum as Bucky is, and it’s ten times worse.” He widens his eyes in emphasis and gets a little giggle out of Mary for it, which makes him warm with pride. He pulls his feet up onto the couch next to Mary’s and nudges her knee with his. “Just fair warning: He’s the worst patient I’ve ever seen. So don’t take it personally if he’s grumpy at you in there.”

Mary frowns and looks away. “Well, I mean I don’t have to do this. If he doesn’t want to.”

“Pretty sure he wants to. And he needs help with it, whether his stubborn ass wants to admit it or not.”

She nods, though she still doesn’t look confident. “It’s been over a year since I worked on anybody …”

“Well then this’ll be good practice for you, won’t it?” Steve nudges her again in encouragement and tells her to finish up her tea: He doesn’t expect Bucky’ll lie around patiently for much longer.

(“Oh, and Hon, maybe don’t tell him we were out here talking about him this whole time.”)

(“Duh.”)

In the bedroom, Mary climbs onto the bed next to where Bucky is laid out on the couch cushions. She takes the heating pad off his neck and puts it aside, looking nervously over the broad expanse of his back. “Um …” She reaches for the oil bottle and pumps some into her hands. She spends a long, long time just spreading it between her hands and staring at Bucky, until finally he snaps,

“What’s the holdup?” 

“Babe, be nice,” Steve warns. “Mary? You need anything?”

“Um, no. It’s just … usually I'd ..." She makes an aborted move, like she's thinking about repositioning herself, but winds up staying where she is. "Right," she mutters to herself. "This'll work fine." She reaches forward like she’ll start rubbing Bucky’s back, hesitates, shuffles closer to his side, then sets her hands on his shoulders.

Bucky doesn’t so much as twitch, but he’s not used to new people touching him, and Steve would bet money that his eyes are clenched shut right now.

“Okay,” Mary warns. “I haven’t done this in awhile, so don’t get your hopes up for a miracle or anything.”

“Anything’ll be better than what I can do myself,” Bucky says gruffly, voice somewhat muffled by the cushions. “Just go to town. You can’t hurt me any worse.”

Steve can see Mary’s face, and he knows by now what she looks like when she’s flustered. Awkwardly, he steps to the side, heading for the door. “I’ll just go watch some—”

“No!” Mary squeaks, and when Steve turns back around she’s looking at him with wide eyes. “Don’t leave,” she says, like being left alone touching Bucky is the worst possible thing that could happen. Steve doesn’t miss how the muscles in Bucky’s arms do tense at hearing her plead for Steve to stay. 

“Uhm, okay. I’ll just … be over here.” He leans back against the dresser, feeling almost painfully awkward. Once again, he’s reminded how Mary has shown absolutely no desire to engage in sexual contact with them. He hopes she doesn’t think this is a ploy to force physical contact. She was the one who suggested it, after all.

She starts at the base of Bucky’s skull, rubbing her thumbs in small circles. “As I go along, try to tell me which areas feel the worst,” she murmurs, and Bucky hums in acknowledgement. Steve watches as she pushes and circles and kneads Bucky’s neck, working down on into his shoulders. He’s struck by how feminine and tiny her hands look against Bucky’s body … and then has to steer his mind away from the thought of how tiny they might look in other places.

“Ah, fuck,” Bucky gasps, when she reaches a certain spot on the left side of his neck.

She freezes. “Bad?” 

“Nngh. Good,” he slurs. “That whole area from there goin’ down into my back ‘n all around my shoulder blade is where it’s worst.”

“Okay.” She tentatively presses around in and around the left side of his neck and shoulder. “Oh, yeah. It starts right here and goes down.” She slides her hand down the muscle and hums. “Oh, I can feel it.”

(Steve tries really hard not to think sexual thoughts.)

“Riiight here? and … here?"

Between the cushions, Bucky’s voice comes out in a series of garbled moans.

“That’d be a yes,” Steve interprets, and Mary actually shoots him a grin at that. Glad to have cut the tension a bit, he dares to take a few steps closer to the bed. He peers down at what Mary’s doing, the way her fingers dig in at sharp, focused points in some places and rub more gently in others. “It’s your trap that’s the worst,” she mutters distractedly, feeling around with her hands and staring off into space with the tip of her tongue poking out at the corner of her mouth. It’s cute. “Mmm, but probably your levator scapulae, too. Those tend to get fucked up hand in hand.”

“Mmrr.”

“And here: your rhomboid.”

“Ooh!”

“Tender?” 

“Shuyeahhh,” Bucky grunts, then his breath hitches when she digs into another spot. “Oh, yep yep right there. Was’that?”

Steve can’t help but grin. Bucky sounds like he’s drooling at this point.

“Your trapezius muscle. It's big. Does a lot of work, covers a large area. Probably the main offender.” Mary hums and feels around a little more. “Oof, yeah. You’ve got a whole bunch of tension right here.”

“You can feel it?” Steve asks, fascinated. He can't see anything.

“Yeah. Here, gimme your hand.” Steve is taken aback when she grabs his hand and guides his fingers into place, her own smaller hand pressing down. “Riiight there. You feel it?”

Steve swallows thickly. “Ah, yeah.” His eyes flick from her hand on his hand on Bucky’s back, up to her face, and back again before she can catch him looking. “Y-yeah it’s hard.” He grimaces at his choice of words (If he's not careful, "it" soon will be).

“I’m gonna focus on this one for a few minutes,” Mary tells Bucky. Then you can guide me around to the other bad spots.”

“Sounds good,” he slurs. Steve is about to take a step back again, but then Bucky calls out, “Hey Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Pay attention to what she’s doin’. It feels really fuckin’ good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mmhm. You can learn n' do it next time,” he says dreamily. On his back, Mary’s hands still for the briefest of seconds. “S’goood.”

Steve nods and comes back to sit on the bed. “Okay,” he agrees, scooting in close and glancing at Mary. Her face looks pinched all of a sudden, her expression stiffened as if in annoyance. “I promise I’m not as dumb as I look,” he jokes, and watches as her face smooths out and she smiles a little.

“Oh! Oh no it’s … it’s okay, I don’t mind. I’ll teach you how.”

“Don’t mind me, m’just a teaching tool,” Bucky drawls, and Steve laughs and pats his shoulder. 

“Yeah you are. So shut up and let her teach.”

Bucky grunts and shuts up. Steve looks to Mary for instruction. He can tell she’s uncomfortable, but she manages to hide it well and keep herself on track. The more he pays attention, the sooner she can get herself out of this and never have to do it again. “Ready to learn,” he tells her.

“Now when you’re doing this, you can get more leverage if you straddle his waist.” She says this like it’s a foregone assumption that she would never dare to sit on Bucky’s waist, and Steve is sure she doesn’t notice the grumpy huff of breath Bucky gives.

“Right,” Steve says, pained. “Okay, so where are the bad spots again?”

“Put your hand here.” She takes his hand again and places it just to the left of Bucky’s spine at the level of his shoulder blade. “Slide your fingers out. There. Feel that difference? Feel how it changes when you move out to just … there?” She guides his fingers, and Steve nods. 

“Y-yeah.” Mostly, he’s just thinking about how nice Mary’s warm, oiled, tiny hand feels guiding his hand around. “Yeah.”

“The trap’s on top, but there are other muscles underneath of this one, and that differentiation you feel is where the rhomboid is ending and the—”

She keeps talking, and Steve tries to pay attention and learn, he really does. But his mind is a veritable sieve, for how well he retains the information. It’s all in one ear and out the other, ninety percent of his attention stuck on Mary’s hands on him, guiding him, pressing on his fingers and gliding his touch over Bucky’s skin. Fuck, how did they wind up here? 

Eventually, having taught Steve the basics, Mary lets him go and works on Bucky’s shoulders for a little while more. For the most part it’s quiet, with Bucky making soft grunts of pain whenever she finds a new cluster of knotted muscle, and sighs of relief once she works them out. 

Her hands linger on Bucky’s mid back when she’s done. She doesn’t seem to know what to do. “Erm. Okay. I think … I think that’s it.”

When neither Bucky nor Steve says anything, she retreats on her own, getting off the bed and looking between Bucky’s prone form and Steve’s sorrowful expression. “So, kay. You can get up, if you want. Just move slowly.”

Bucky’s right hand gives her the thumbs up symbol, but the entire rest of his body doesn’t move. “Thanks Mare. Just give us a second. That was really good. Thank you. Thanks for teaching Steve.”

It’s the “Thanks for teaching Steve” that seems to do it. Mary’s expression firms up and she nods curtly, leaving the room and shutting the door behind her. Steve stays sitting on the bed next to Bucky in silence for a long minute, then says knowingly, “Got a boner?”

“Yep.”

*To anyone who's only ever had store bought, pre-packaged palmiers: I'm so sorry. Along with Madeleines, those should never be eaten more than a few hours max after they've been baked.

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