#WHICH THEY HAVE ASKED YOU NOT TO FUCKING DO

[reignpage]

What Am I Now?

Synopsis: in which everything falls apart in one night because of a bad argument between you and Toji Warnings: angst, major character death, hurt/no comfort, f!reader, lots of swearing, grief, some description of bodily injury but nothing graphic, there's no light in this tunnel like fr, not proofread Word Count: 5.2k

“I just don’t understand why you’d rather go to the bar than sit here with me?”

Toji scoffs. “All we fucking do is sit here. What’s so bad about me taking a break and getting some air?”

“A break?” Your hands are flying, waving about as if they could get it through his head how ridiculous he sounds. “You want a break from me? So, what, I’m this horrible monster you just can’t wait to get away from?”

This argument has been going on for hours at this point, with neither of you willing to cave. It started with you, in comfy pyjamas and face mask, preparing dinner and super excited to watch a new movie on Netflix with your boyfriend, but when he came out of the shower, he was in jeans and a shirt without stains. You both looked just as incredulous as each other. He said he was going out. That he had told you. And you were sure he hadn’t because if he had, then you wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of making a hearty meal, laying out the snacks and his very own matching pjyamas.��

Slowly, like he thinks you can’t understand anything when it’s said at a normal pace, he answers, “I didn’t say that. You’re acting fucking crazy, woman. Look, I’m going out to the bar, with my friends, and that’s that. You can do all the shit you wanted to do on your own.”

He’s walking to the door now, grabbing a jacket on the way. Stomping over to him, you get in the way, blocking his exit with a furious glare. There’s no way this conversation’s ending like this, with him deciding it’s the end, with him getting what he wants and your feelings being trampled all over because he’d rather drink himself to death than cuddle on the sofa with you.

“No.”

“No?”

“Yeah, I said, ‘no.’ You’re not going. We have to talk about this.” Toji opens his mouth, disbelieving and growing more irritated with every syllable you utter, and you know he’s going to ask what the fuck you mean about ‘this,’ so you get the words out before he does, “This. Us. Our night. Our home. Why don’t you want to be with me?”

Rolling his eyes, he bulldozes past you, pushing you to the side. You don’t let him. You’re tugging on his jacket, nails digging into the thick material. He can’t go. What if he never comes back?

The words that have been thrown around tonight are sharp edged swords, though they don’t dig deep, they weave several shallow cuts that sting. No ambulance to rush you away, no hospital to take you, no surgeon to sew you back up. You just bleed out, alive and wobbling away. 

Clearly beyond done, Toji grunts, easily shrugging off your pathetic attempts to hold him back. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about and I don’t want to hear it right now. Just get out of the way.”

“No, answer me.”

Pitiful fists smack into his chest in a flurry. He doesn’t budge, doesn’t even flinch. You want to make him hurt. That ache inside your chest, the one that’s holding onto the tears that threaten to stream down your face, that’s driving you insane – you want him to feel it. You want him to care.

Toji doesn’t relent. Instead, he stands there, an immovable statue sculpted by someone else, and pinches his nose. “Just stop.”

“No. Why are you always leaving? Huh? Why can’t you just stay? What’s so fucking wrong with me that you don’t want to have dinner and watch a movie with your girlfriend?”

“Because you’re suffocating me!” He bellows. 

You stumble back.

“I can’t fucking breathe. God, I can’t even think without you nagging me. ‘Let’s get dinner,’ ‘let’s go to a museum,’ ‘let’s wear matching shirts.’ It’s never enough for you. For fuck’s sakes, I just want to be able to put my feet up, drink beer and not have to cater to every fucking whim of yours like I’m some goddamn dog.” Combing a hand through his hair, he breathes through his nose. He’s losing steam – you can see it in the way his shoulders fall and he shakes his head, slowly, weary and fatigued. Then, with a quieter, gentler, more desperate tone, he asks, “I see you everyday and you still want more? You ain’t tired of this shit? Of all the fake coupley shit that you think we have to do otherwise we’re frauds? You haven’t had enough? ‘Cause I’m growing pretty fucking sick of all the bullshit.”

Speechless, you just keep as still as you can, feeling mighty small under the weight of his words. You’ve never seen Toji like this. Usually he’s passive, allowing you to ramble on and on about whatever’s filling your mind, even when you’re mad at him, when he’s heard your story a million times before, and even in your worst moment when you bait him into chasing after you. Through it all, your boyfriend took your insecurities and flaws like a champ. 

Now he’s done. Now he’s been backed into a corner and there’s nowhere else for him to go except past you. 

It’s unclear to you what expression you wear on your face; you can really only focus on that hollow sinkhole widening in your heart. Something about your eyes makes his close tight. Toji breathes once, twice, and says, “We’ll talk later. I’m late.”

And then he leaves. 

His jacket is dangling from your clutches and it’s suddenly so heavy. Tears threaten to fall. You don’t let them, even when your bottom lip wobbles and so does your balance. Heaving, you lean against the wall.

How did it all fall apart so quickly?

The day had started off like normal: sweaty, dirty sex, pillowtalk, late breakfast, lazy lounging around the living room, and catching each other up on what’s happening on your phones. Weekdays are more productive, what with you both having jobs to do, but weekends are yours and his to share. Or at least that’s what you thought. 

An eerie silence falls upon the apartment. It’s unlike the silences you’re used to, like being the last one to leave the house and you’re eating the breakfast Toji made for you, or waiting for him to come back from throwing the bins out, being the first to come home, sitting in bed doing your own thing as you slowly unwind from the day’s toils.

You can’t stand it – the doing nothing – so you shuffle away from the closed door that’s not going to open anytime soon. There’s a lot to tidy anyway: the plates of food untouched, the unfolded blanket you wanted to be cuddled under, face masks and snacks and dips, and the pile of clothes he probably wasn’t going to wear even if you begged. 

Maybe you are too much. 

Maybe what Toji was saying had some merit to it. 

All those outings he would have never done if you hadn’t pleaded with a huge smile and puppy dog eyes were planned by you. The dinners reserved by you, the anniversaries, the dates, all of it. You. It wasn’t as if he didn’t love you. The fact that he did all of it, albeit begrudgingly, was proof of that. His love showed in his gentle touch, his patience, though limited, and in the fact that, through the ups and downs, he still stayed. 

But he won’t forever, not when he feels…suffocated. 

With a sigh, you grab your phone, snatch his jacket and decide you’re not going to let him be out there, cold and angry. 

So you, too, leave.

.

.

.

“Go home, Fushiguro.”

That isn’t what Toji wants to hear from his friend slash handler, Shiu. Truthfully, he wanted to be validated, wanted the man to tell him you were acting crazy, and that he wasn’t wrong for walking out. 

As he stomped into the bustling bar, the suited man took one look at him, shook his head with an exhausted laugh and took a huge gulp of his whiskey, knowing damn well it was going to be a long night. It always is when the scarred man looks ready to kill and for free.

Toji takes a swig of his beer. “You didn’t hear a single shit I said? I said, ‘I'm not in the mood to get into it with her again.’”

“Being a man is about learning to take the beatings life hands you,” Shiu professes mysteriously, tracing the rim of his glass. 

“Fuck off.”

Sitting in the corner of the bar, they’re left alone to wallow in their problems – one man chronically alone and the other about to lose it all. They don’t remember how they found each other or why they stayed as friends when they barely like the other, but they suppose it’s really because through all the faces they’ve met, not many have ever stuck around. But they did. And that has to mean something. 

The bastard is rarely not right and he knows it. He prattles off great advice with a smug face and one has to fight the urge to lay a good one on his nose. No matter how fucked up shit gets, Shiu could always make things so simple, so clear, and straightforward that he’d feel like a dumb sack of shit. 

In fact, that’s pretty damn close to how he feels now. 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he admits, “I feel like shit. Like I got hit by a fucking truck. Look at me. I’m sitting here talking about my fucking feelings with your stupid ass. She’s always gotta get into my head about things. Made me a chump. Fucking hate this. Me. I turned into a pussy.”

“I don’t know about you, Fushiguro, but I like the you she created.” 

Toji snorts. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“You were a massive asshole,” Shiu begins, using a tone that suggests it should be obvious to the man sitting opposite him. “You were angry all the time, moody and brooding for no reason. Hours could pass and you wouldn’t say a single word. Ha, a college kid bumped into you and you knocked his shit before he could even open his mouth to apologise. Made him piss his damn pants. Got everyone scared of your big ass.”

He couldn’t deny that. Their friends, if you could call them that, often joked that he was a monster. And yeah, well, moving place to place, house to house, couch to couch would make a monster out of anyone. Before, these kinda criticisms would have rolled off his back, maybe even brought a smirk to his scarred lips, but something about the person he is now makes that sudden blast from the past bring a grimace to his face.

Shiu chuckles and, with a clink of his glass to Toji’s, says, “Look at you now – you actually shower and smell less like horse shit these days. Sure, you’re still killing for a living but you don’t do that shit with a smile on your face like a psycho now. Hell, you even tip. You used to steal tips, remember? And then just last month, some pimply-faced kid fell onto our table and spilled our drinks and I, honest to God, thought you’d beat him black and blue –instead, what did you do? Huh? Tell me. What did you do?”

“Fuck you.”

“You fucking picked him back up and told him, ‘Get some water in ya, the girl you came with likes you so don’t embarrass yourself.’” He throws his head back and laughs as if he just heard the funniest joke come out of his own mouth. “And don’t try to argue with me. You know she’s cleaned you up, made an honest man out of you, or as honest as a killer-for-hire can be. You smile more, Fushiguro. Fucking cheesing at your damn phone, leaving the bar early, speeding to get the fuck home before she does just so you can do God know’s what – and don’t say, I’d rather not know.”

The changes he talks about, Toji hadn’t noticed. Of course, he knew life had changed for him. A steady, secure home with a woman that sees him and is happy with what fills her vision, a woman who doesn’t mind hearing grunts as replies, who’s patient and kind, that cleans up the blood off his shirts and does it all with a smile. There's stability in his life now. Something that gets him up in the morning other than hunger and a need to piss. A thing to look forward to, a home to come back to. 

"Honestly, I don't know why you'd rather be here with me than her. If I had a woman half as good as her, you'd never see my sorry face. Any more of these nights with you and people will think we're lovers, which is fine by me, just as long as they know I'm on top."

A bead of condensation drips down the neck of his beer bottle. The bar’s too loud, too crowded and it doesn’t smell sweet and floral like home. Everyone’s too drunk to give a shit about what’s happening outside, far too elated with the clumsy grinding and grimy sweating of bodies. Maybe that’s why he likes places like this so much; it’s easy to forget your responsibilities, your past, and all the things that drag you down. 

But that’s not you. You’re not a burden, you’re a part of his present, and the only thing that keeps him going. 

So why didn’t he act like it?

You looked so damn excited to watch that movie with him and he crushed that spark that makes you you under his boot, for what? For booze? For some time alone with an asshole wearing a tailored suit and tie in a dingy bar?

The words he spewed at you come crashing back like a tidal wave of regret and shame. He told you you were suffocating him. He told a bunch of lies, anything to get you off his back, to make his need for alcohol justified. Like. A. Fucking. Pussy. 

Glancing at his phone, he sees missed calls and a voicemail. From you. So does Shiu, who whistles and suggests, “You’re done for, my man.”

“Fuck.” Toji throws his head back. He fucked up. Big time. Running a hand down his face, he says, “I need to go. I need to get home, catch her before she fucking leaves me or some shit. Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

A couple papers get thrown on the table, along with whatever loose change he has in his pockets, and he lunges out of the bar faster than if there was a fire, though not before he sees, in the corner of his eyes, a familiar looking smug tilt of a brow on a suited prick. 

He’s driving home now, fingers thrumming on the wheel, a subconscious desperation to manifest the ability to push the car beyond its limits and get to its destination faster. The useless piece of shit isn’t going fast enough; every second he wastes getting home when he should have been there to begin with is a second closer to him losing everything he never deserved to have in the first place. 

Images of you crying, hugging yourself and waiting by the door, or sleeping, alone, in an empty bed flash in his mind and without realising it, he’s accelerating even more. The roads are empty this time of night and he thanks the universe; the last thing he needs is to be honked at. 

Why couldn’t he just suck it up?

Movie nights are a lot of work – he often has to drive down to the store and get all the snacks your heart desires, squeeze into the cheesy pyjamas you bought him, let you spread some goo on his face, and then sit through some chick flick that he grumbles about at the start but gets really into once ten or twenty minutes has passed. All the dates that required him to get off his ass sent dread settling in his stomach usually turn out more fun than he thought. Because you know him. Because you know his strengths and weaknesses, his sore points and intolerances. And love him because of them. 

Having half a mind to listen to the voicemail you sent, Toji thinks about what he wouldn’t want to hear. What he can’t. The argument was bad, yes, he admits. But it’s not bad enough to quit, to end the beautiful thing you’ve grown, to give up. There’s no life after you, without you. It’s just you. You’re his…everything. And when he gets home, he’ll take you into his arms, apologise for all the shit he said and will say, and watch that movie with you. Hell, he’ll watch it a million times. 

Toji will do anything to make it up to you.

Maybe he should take you to the sea. That’d be a nice break from the chaos of the city. You two can go fishing, take long walks down the beach like women love to do, and do that thing he watched in a movie, where he carries you into the water, laughing and giggling. 

And what about the ring he’s been meaning to buy?

Flashing lights catch his attention. A fuckload of police cars and ambulances off the side of the road. Toji’s brows furrow. “Fuck happened there?”

Palm sweaty, he fishes his phone out. That voicemail he’s been ignoring, pretending it doesn’t exist because if it’s anything other than an ‘I love you, let’s not break up,’ he might just throw his phone out the car. He runs a hand through his hair and presses play, only hesitating twice. A second of static silence reaches his ears before your voice does. 

“Hey, Toji…I, um, don’t know if you want to hear from me right now."

Your voice has the corner of his scarred lip twitching. It's the tender and gentle voice he knows, and not the scratchy half-screams he last heard. The latter never suited you. It's just not who you are and deserve to be.

"But uh…I wanted to say sorry…You’re right, I was a lot today, like usual….And I’m sorry. About the movie that you didn’t want to watch, t-the face masks and the food I didn’t even ask if you wanted to eat. God, I’m so fucking sorry, Toji...I was too much, wasn’t I?”

He shakes his head. There’s a creeping sudden tension rising up his spine and he tightens his hold on the wheel, slowing down for show so the uniformed men don’t give him shit, and as soon as the red and blues of the night disappear from his rearview mirror, he revs up. 

“I think it’s ‘cause there’s so much I want to do with you, y’know? Like, you’ve lived a whole life before me and it’s a little intimidating….You’ve loved before…and it’s beautiful…but you’re my first and I’m not trying to compete with her or anything, I swear! I just want to make our own memories, y’know? I want experiences too. And when you’re quiet, less active, less…present, I guess it triggers something in me: a need to compensate. Maybe one could even say I’m overcompensating and they wouldn’t be wrong, I guess.”

When he pulls up, his feet carry him out and into the building on autopilot, gravel crunching under his shoes and the weight of the world bearing down on his shoulders. There’s no one else around. The lights of every window are off. It’s too quiet. Toji scratches his chest. 

“I don’t know where I’m going with this; you know I ramble when I’m nervous. Maybe I should just go to sleep and wait for you, fight through that feeling I’m getting that says I won’t see you ever again after this. I should sleep everything off…but I couldn’t let our night go like this. You have that mission tomorrow and you’re going to be gone for a couple days so I guess I just wanted to cram some time together…”

The door’s unlocked. He flexes his hand, knuckles turning white with the tight clench of his fist. Somehow, his work schedule had eluded him; it was you who kept up with all that admin shit that Shiu never bothers to remind him about, after all. 

“I should have known it’d be too much. I mean, you’re right that we see each other every day – that was hyperbole, of course...I think anyway...but it’s practically true. We see each other a lot…but I don’t know…I guess I just thought it wasn’t enough.

Your voice grows quiet and he has to lift the speaker of his phone to his ear to hear your next words over the sound of his heart pounding. 

“To me, I could never see too much of you. I always want to see you. To be with you. And…you don’t feel the same…”

Something painful scrunches in his chest, it almost makes him double over. Under his breath, he mutters, “No, baby. I do. Fuck, I do.”

“And that’s okay. I’m realising now that that’s probably healthy. I think I just love you too much. More than you love me – that’s not a complaint at all, I promise. It’s not a reflection of you but rather of me….God, I’m crazy, aren’t I? I never know when to shut up and wow, even now I’m saying ‘I’ a lot. Okay, so yeah, I have problems and I need to work on them.”

You’re not in the living room. The TV is off. And what was that about him loving you less? That’s bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. You know that. You have to. Right?

Making a mental note to make that the first thing you hear, he continues his search. 

“Ma? Where you at?” He checks the kitchen and finds containers of the food you prepared put neatly away. It’s his favourite. His stomach rumbles. “You sleeping, doll?”

The bedroom’s empty too. Fuck.

“I’ll work on it, Toji…so, please, will you give me a chance? To do better. To be better.”

He’s checked every room. Twice. And again. You’re not home. But that can’t be right. You have to be home. You just have to. It’s dark outside and cold and dangerous and he’s not there to hold your hands to make sure they don’t fall off from the frost of summer. 

Louder, nearing a scream, he says, “Baby, I’m not messing around. Tell me where you are. You hiding? Is that it? You hiding from me? Fuck, sweetheart, I promise I’m not mad, okay? So just come out here. L-let me see my gorgeous girl, yeah?”

Breathing faster and faster until he has to lean against the wall for balance, Toji scrambles to think. You’re saying so much so fast and he can’t keep up. For every sentence you utter there’s a whole conversation to be had. So many inaccuracies he needs to correct, to set straight. Where the hell did you even get all this shit you’re saying?

Not from him, right?

He didn’t make you feel so small, did he?

The woman that had built him up crumbling all by herself because he’d rather drink himself to death than live a life you made possible for him. Fucking bastard. Ungrateful son of a bitch. Useless fucker.

���Uh this is getting long, sorry. We can talk more about it when I see you. So, yeah, that’s what I was trying to say. I’m driving over to the bar to give you your jacket. You forgot it. Or maybe you left it on purpose. I don’t know. I just don’t want you to be cold. Or maybe it’s just an excuse to see you, hopefully smiling...You don’t smile without a bottle in your hand nowadays but if I had a clingy girlfriend, I’d probably be making out with beer too. I’m kidding. Sorry, that’s not funny…okay, so, um, I love you and I’ll see you soon. Bye.”

Flashing lights, 

Cop cars. 

Ambulances. 

The crowd…gasping and pointing.

And a flipped over car he only now just processed. 

The ride over to the crime scene goes by in a blur. Only static and the faint sound of your voice on repeat playing in the background. Every stop light is ignored, pedestrians barely avoided, and the wheels pushed to their very limits. All while he foregoes wearing a seatbelt.

Toji doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t think or slow down or answer the many calls from unknown numbers. 

He doesn’t even make a sound.

Not until he arrives, shoves past tiny men with their tiny understanding of who you are and what you mean to him, and finds a body wrapped up in a bag. Rushing of blood fill his ears. People try to hold him back, to get him away, but there must be something in his face or his eyes that warns, ‘don't get in my fucking way’

It’s akin to a wounded yelp of a wild beast or the guttural flames of hell as it opens up and consumes whole poor, unfortunate souls. No one’s ever heard anything like it. Yet, they know. Just from the way he had fallen to his knees, had rushed to yank that zipper down but hesitated to pull the bag open. But the sound…the sound tells a whole story. 

Some look away, half paying respect and half all too familiar with the scene. Others can’t. They bear witness to the shaking hands that cradle your cold face, cut up and bleeding, and the one sided conversation. 

“No, no, baby, what h-happened? Wake up.” Toji’s patting your cheeks, searching for a flicker of your lashes or the rise of your chest. Even now when he feels the nauseating coldness on a body that had only ever kept him warm he's mindful of the force he's using. He could never hurt you. Not like this. “Come on, this isn’t fucking funny. Open your eyes, baby. Come on. Please.”

Shallow cuts on your face, glass shards still embedded in the skin graze his thumb as he brushes the hair from your hair. They cut him too until the blood staining the skin he’d felt and tasted are both his and yours. 

“I need you. I need to talk to you. Fuck, it isn’t fucking fair. You got to say your shit. You need to hear me apologise ‘cause I am fucking sorry. You hear me, you stubborn woman? I’m s-sorry. So wake the fuck up. Please. I can’t do this without you. I just can’t.”

The car’s totalled. Hit a tree. He can hear the police talk on their radio, something about how you were crushed for hours, alive and yelling for help, but was dead when anyone got to the scene. A roaring of injustice wages war in his very soul. His babygirl in pain and alone and dying. Did you call out for his name? Did you think he was going to come even till your last moments? 

He doesn't know how long he holds you for, can't even tell if it's raining or if he's just sweaty as hell. Those trembling hands of his, that have killed countless men and got him this far in life, seem so useless now as he wills warmth into your limbs. Your pyjamas are soaked with a metallic liquid; they stain his hands.

A familiar face shows up, suit wrinkled. “Fushiguro. They need the body.”

Firm hands pull at him, tugging him away. He won’t let go. Can’t let you be all by yourself. Look at you. You’re not even wearing a jacket. Silly girl. You’d bring his but not your own? 

Do you always have to be so goddamn perfect?

Pressing a kiss to your forehead, he says, “Let’s go home, yeah? Let’s go home and watch that movie. That sound good, doll?”

But you don’t answer. 

Not his prayers the next day or his pleadings the week after and certainly not your phone every day since.

Toji never touches another bottle again if only because when he does his mind gets so blurry, so fucked out, he can’t envision the exact angles of your smile or how many wrinkles form at the corner of your eyes. Honestly, if he could, he'd never return to that place you two lived in; it's far too big now and everywhere he looks he sees you. But where else would he go? Where else in this fucked world could he go to find you?

He doesn’t eat either – no one’s cooking tastes the same as yours. They lack something he thinks he might never find again. And maybe that’s fine. It was always too good for him anyway.

None of the people that show up to his door are allowed in; they’d just disturb the air you touched. Not his friends or yours, he has no family and yours don’t really want to see him. Good thing too. He can’t deal with the pity or the attempts to relieve him of his responsibility. 

‘It’s not your fault,’ they say. ‘It was an accident.’

Shit doesn’t matter. Nothing does. How could anything mean shit to a man who only wants to spend his days in bed, holding your pillow over his face, simultaneously wanting to consume every particle of your scent and suffocate on memories of a life he barely lived?

They say he shouldn't let your death define you but how would that even be possible? You've always defined him. There's only the Toji before you, during you, and without you. He thinks maybe his life will forever be defined by all the things he never should have said and the things he wishes he did. That's the real tragedy.

'You need to move on.'

Bullshit. All those grief counselling pamphlets and self-help books don't know shit. There's no moving on. There's only you.

The worst, perhaps, that he’s heard is, ‘she’d hate to see you like this.’

Because what the fuck do they know about you? 

Those assholes see a man locked away, beard growing in, dark circles under his eyes, and an air of death about him. Whereas Toji sees himself as someone who’s keeping your memory alive. Because, contrary to what you believed, you weren’t too much. God, you couldn't ever be too much. With your scent fading, your clothes collecting dust and the divot in your spot on the sofa evening out, he thinks he hasn’t had enough. Could never have enough.

Even the fact that when he closes his eyes he sees you serves as no consolation. It’s not enough. He wasn’t enough. Wasn’t man enough. Didn’t love you enough. Toji needs to touch you, to feel you, to make up for all that he never gave you when he should have. Wherever you are, he wants to be.

His girl all alone? No, he can’t have that. Someone needs to listen to you ramble, to lift heavy things for you and hold you the way you like when you sleep. Who's keeping you company up there? Who's drawing on your palm when you get nervous? Who is telling you you've always been enough?

Someone needs to be there for you.

Staring at a picture of you on his bedside table, he smiles softly.

“I’m coming, baby. Just wait for me, yeah?”

[rosy-hollow]

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈• ｡ﾟ╰┈➤ @ssstaryy ⦂ i saw this tiktok where this mom was talking to...uh....ehem....(bonnie blue) and she said her son was turning 18 and she was rage baiting saying stuff like "oh send him over to me" so..... bakugou with pro hero wife and she gets baited too and she just kinda.....gets really SCARY quiet. i just wanted to see bakugou kind of like "welp i tried to help you" kinda thing lmao

》 ✐ᝰ shortened the ask for all intents and purposes BUT THIS WAS SUCH A GOOD PROMPT I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING ITTT thank you for your contribution to the badass reader universe hehehe

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•

You swear your husband, Katsuki Bakugou, is rubbing off on you — for better or for worse.

It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes into this godforsaken interview for Tokyo’s Hottest and already, you feel the beginnings of a migraine clawing at the base of your skull

You had shown up expecting a conversation about your career — your rise to becoming the number four pro hero, the operations you’d led, the rescue missions, your combat stats, your innovative use of your quirk.

Instead?

All you’ve been fielding is a series of thinly veiled gossip questions about your marriage.

You try — multiple times — to shift the conversation back to your work. The meaningful things. But each time, the interviewer, this woman with teeth too white and a voice too shrill, giggles and steers it right back.

To him.

Now, let’s be clear — you love your husband. You’ve loved him since you were both dumb kids, and if it were Mina in front of you, you’d gush about him like you’re still twenty and head-over-heels (which, let’s face it, you are).

But this isn’t about love.

This is about respect.

And right now, you are very aware of the way it’s being chipped away with every loaded, invasive, disrespectful question this woman throws at you.

“So,” the interviewer purrs, crossing her legs slowly as if she were the one being filmed for a commercial, “we know you and your husband are totally head over heels — swoon — but come on, what’s one thing about him that just drives you crazy?”

You blink. “Uh… no? We’re pretty good.”

“Oh, come on~!” she coos, leaning forward like she’s your best friend at brunch. “Just a little thing. Don’t worry, we know you’re still obsessed with him.”

The frustration bubbles up like boiling water under your skin. But you rein it in. You always do.

“...I guess he leaves his gear everywhere?” you offer weakly. You hate yourself the moment the words leave your mouth, but in all honesty, you just wanted her to stop her nagging.

The interviewer grins like she’s won. Like you just handed her a headline wrapped in a bow.

“Ohhh, well if that’s the case,” she purrs, her voice dropping into something sultry and entirely unprofessional, “you could always send him over to me. I can handle a little mess~”

Silence.

Complete, thick, suffocating silence.

You still.

The rage is instant. Hot, electric. But you don't explode. No, you’ve learned from the best.

You don't throw a chair. You don't curse her out. You don't even blink.

You just stare.

Expression blank. Smile gone. A flicker of fire burning slow and deadly in your gaze.

She shifts in her seat. She knows.

Everyone in the room knows.

You don’t need to yell to be terrifying.

Still, she tries to recover with a nervous laugh, tugging at the hem of her skirt.

“Well, I’m just joking, obviously-!”

“Oi. Cut the fucking cameras.”

Your heart squeezes.

Katsuki.

You don’t even have to look to know where he is - somewhere just offscreen, barely holding back the urge to burn this studio to ash. But as much as you adore him for storming in like your personal hellfire…

This isn’t his fight.

This is yours.

You raise a hand toward the cameraman, who’s frozen like a deer in headlights.

“Keep rolling.”

The room stills.

You turn back to the woman, and you smile. Not sweetly. Not kindly. A slow, cold curl of your lips that spells nothing but trouble.

“Look,” you start, voice smooth like poison, “Hikari, was it?”

She nods once. Slowly. Carefully.

You lean in.

And twist the knife.

“I’ve worked my goddamn ass off to be the number four pro hero in Japan,” you say softly. “I’ve trained until my body broke. I’ve had to endure hours of torture and not say a word. I’ve walked out of burning buildings carrying children while my skin peeled off in strips.”

Her smile falters.

“But sure. Let’s talk about my husband domestic flaws”

You tilt your head, faux-friendly.

“I am not here so you can drool over the man I married like some thirsty little gremlin in red lipstick. My life? My work? My worth? None of it belongs to the man I’m married to - and treating him like a trophy on a shelf for you to paw at just shows how desperate and disgusting you really are.”

You lean back, letting the full weight of your fury settle into your words.

“He’s not for sale. I’m not here for your views. And you sure as hell aren’t getting anything from either of us.”

You sit up straighter, smile sharp.

“And that’s a wrap.”

The crew is frozen. The room? Silent. The air? Thick.

And the camera? Still rolling.

— You go to sleep that night thinking it’ll all blow over.

Spoiler: it does not.

When you wake up the next morning, your phone is vibrating so violently off your nightstand it might file for harassment.

You scroll. And scroll. And scroll.

You're viral.

Like, break-the-internet viral.

Screenshots of your face, lip curled, eyes burning; clips of your brutal monologue with remixes in the background. Edits of you walking out of the studio in slow motion with music that would make Endeavor himself flinch.

Comments flood every corner of the internet:

@ shotatochips13: mommy??? i mean- mommy?? @ kamijiroushipacc: dynamight’s definitely kicking his feet rn @ redriotinmybed: lowkey the interviewer is me but i’d flirt with HER instead @ ilovedekudotcom: book boyfriends could never.

You stare, open-mouthed. This is… a PR nightmare. But also? Kinda badass.

You wander into the kitchen in a daze, only to find Katsuki at the counter.

He's got his phone out.

And it is very clearly playing an edit of you - with some concerning angles that you don;t bother asking about.

He looks up, completely unbothered, smirking.

“What?” he shrugs. “Tried t’warn you, baby.”

You sigh.

You are never going to hear the end of this.

But when his arms slide around your waist, when he presses a kiss to your shoulder and murmurs, “Proud of you,” against your skin…

Yeah.

It was worth it.

A/N: badass reader is my roman empire now

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

main masterlist | series masterlist

Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face. 

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer. 

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away. 

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.” 

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath. 

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it. 

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower. 

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen. 

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly. 

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing. 

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side. 

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger. 

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need. 

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth. 

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.” 

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache. 

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter.  “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade. 

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed. 

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs. 

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up. 

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare. 

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much. 

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder. 

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace. 

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you. 

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—” 

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.” 

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough. 

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.” 

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat. 

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed. 

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long. 

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.” 

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something. 

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop. 

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole. 

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling. 

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. 

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?” 

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either. 

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace. 

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him. 

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above. 

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium. 

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words. 

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. 

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?  

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle. 

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore. 

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected. 

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it. 

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel. 

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard. 

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in. 

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you. 

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap. 

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure. 

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic. 

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you. 

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt. 

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips. 

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene. 

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

[applecaviar]

Got reminded of your pillow humping fic, (Which is amazing btw!) and it made me re-read it. It also made me want to ask if you would be willing to do a part 2 to it? 🤔 Or just a continuation of Caleb's part? Because that fic is so hot! And I need more! I feel like especially for Caleb's part you could do a part where Caleb catches her in the act instead. Like her trying to figure out if it feels as good as it looked? But you can do whatever you want!

Honestly, I wouldn't mind you just writing the same concept again. 🤷🏼‍♀️😏 I love pillow humping and yearning, whimpering men.

Enjoy pookies!

TW:Smut

Zayne/Caleb/Xavier/Rafayel/Sylus

Art: omi-resources

When you catch them humping a pillow (here)

✨✨When they catch you humping a pillow✨✨

You squirmed on the bed, the soft cotton sheets rustling beneath your writhing body. Zayne's pillow cradled between your thighs like a secret lover. Its scent, a mix of his cologne and the unique musk that was purely him, filled your nostrils with each breath you took.

Your panties clung to your drenched sex, rubbing deliciously against your swollen clit with every roll of your hips. You gasped as the pillow pushed against your entrance, walls clenching around the pressure.

Beads of sweat gathered on your brow, trickling down the side of your neck to pool in the hollow of your collarbone. Your heart raced, pounding against your ribcage as if trying to break free. The room, though cool, felt stifling under the heat of your arousal. Your skin flushed, a pretty pink hue spreading across your chest and cheeks like a fever.

You knew he was close, just down the hall in his office. Working. Always working. Even on his day off, he couldn't seem to switch off doctor mode. You had tried to catch his attention earlier, to lure him back to bed with suggestive whispers and teasing caresses. But he had been preoccupied, his brow furrowed in concentration as he barked orders into the phone. So you had left him to it, retreating to the bedroom to tend to your own desperate needs.

Now, with the pillow pressed tight against your cunt and Zayne still out of reach, you couldn't hold back any longer. The pillow was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it was all you had. And as you rutted against it like an animal in heat, you felt your climax built swiftly, the coil of tension in your lower belly winding tighter and tighter.

"Y/N?"

You gasped sharply, eyes flying open wide as Zayne's voice cut through the haze of your lust. Your hips stilled for a moment, the pillow still nestled firmly between your thighs. You turned to face him, cheeks flushed a deep crimson that had nothing to do with embarrassment.

Zayne stood in the doorway, his frame filling the space. He wore only a pair of low slung pajama bottoms, his broad chest bare and on full display. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, were now dark and hooded as he took in the scene before him.

"Y/N?" he repeated, his voice a low rumble you could feel in your bones. "What are you doing?"

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry despite the dampness between your legs. "I'm... I'm having sex," you managed to gasp out, your voice breathy and strained with need. "With myself...Because someone else didn't want to." Your hands gripped the sheets tighter, knuckles turning white as you braced yourself against the mattress.

As you spoke, you found yourself unable to keep still. Your hips began to move again of their own, grinding down against the pillow. The rough texture caught on your sensitive clit "Fuck," you gasped, your head falling back as you chased that delicious sensation. "That feels so good..."

"Please..." you whimpered, not even sure what you were begging for anymore. Release, his touch, his cock... it didn't matter. You just needed more. "Zayne..."

Your thighs trembled, muscles quivering with the effort of holding yourself back from simply throwing yourself at him. Your core clenched, aching, empty, and so very desperate to be filled.

You felt the pillow being abruptly removed from between your thighs, leaving you feeling suddenly exposed and wanting. 

"Touch yourself," he ordered "Use your hand to touch your pretty, needy clit. But do not cum, not until I tell you to. Do you understand?"

You could only nod, your throat too tight to form words. His hands hooked into the waistband of your drenched panties. The fabric clung to your skin, before he peeled them away with agonizing slowness.

With a trembling hand, you reached down, your fingers brushing against your dripping slit. You circled your clit, tracing the sensitive nub with feather light touches. A sharp gasp tore from your throat at the contact, hips bucking up into your own touch. Your legs fell open, spreading wide and baring yourself completely to Zayne's eyes.

"Fuck, look at you," his gaze riveted to your sex. "So wet and desperate. You need to be touched, don't you love?"

You whimpered in response, fingers moving faster, the slick sounds of your arousal filling the room. But you didn't let yourself slip over the edge, not without his permission. 

And when you couldn't hold back any longer, your body screaming with the need for release, you begged, "Please Zayne, I can't... I need... oh god, please let me cum!" Your finger flew from your clit, your hand fisting in the sheets to keep from pushing yourself over the precipice.

In a blink Zayne settled between your splayed thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them even wider. His face hovered scant inches from your dripping sex, his warm breath fanning over your sensitive flesh.

Then you felt it, the first flick of his tongue against your swollen clit. A strangled moan tore from your throat, your body jerking and tensing.

He licked his lips, like he was enjoying your taste on them. "How does that make you feel, y/n?" 

"L-like I never want it to end" you managed to gasp out.

Before you could draw another breath, he sealed his lips around your pussy, his flat tongue dragging slowly up your slit. "Ooohhh!" you moaned, long and low, head thrown back, eyes fluttering shut. Your wetness dripped onto his tongue, coating his lips, his chin, marking him with your scent.

He licked you again, slower this time, his tongue delving deeper. Your hips moved, instinctively seeking more of that friction. Your fingers tangled in his hair, not pushing him closer, but holding on for dear life.

A choked sob of frustration escaped your lips as Zayne suddenly stopped his delicious torment, leaving you aching. 

"Couldn't wait for me to finish work, could you? Now you're shaking and begging me to finish what you started. But brats don't get to cum on command. They earn it."

Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of your eyes as he spread your legs even wider, until you felt a pleasant stretch in your hips. Your sex clenched, empty and aching, as if reaching for something to fill it.

Then his mouth was on you again, his face buried between your thighs, his tongue deep into your dripping core. A scream tore from your throat when he licked you with a ruthless intensity that left you seeing stars.

"Aaahhh! Zayne! Oh god, yes! Don't stop!"

He showed no mercy. His tongue swirled around your clit, flicked over it, sucked it between his lips as he licked and lapped at your sex. Your body bowed off the bed, back arched, breasts thrust out, as pleasure crashed over you in relentless waves.

You felt your climax building, the coil of tension in your core winding tighter and tighter. Your moans escalated, rising in pitch and volume until they bordered on wails. Tears streamed down your cheeks, throat raw from screaming his name over and over again.

Still, he didn't slow down. Even as your orgasm slammed into you, your sex clamping down on his tongue, he kept licking. Kept sucking. Kept fucking you with his mouth until you saw white, until you thought you might pass out from the intensity of your release.

And through it all, you took it. Every last lick, every filthy suck, every devastating thrust of his tongue.

You took it like a good girl.

After a week of awkward silence, you found yourself alone in your bedroom late at night. You couldn't shake the memory of walking in on Caleb in a compromising position, him, naked and lost in pleasure, his face contorted in ecstasy as he thrusted into his pillow, chasing his release. The image was seared into your mind, making your body react in ways you tried to ignore.

You'd heard him before, in the dead of night when he thought everyone was asleep. His muffled grunts and pants igniting a secret curiosity.

Now, you find yourself rubbing your pillow against your clothed sex, seeking the same bliss you saw in Caleb's expression. Your heart races as the fabric of your panties creates delicious friction against your sensitive folds.

You press the pillow harder against your core and your panties dampen as your arousal leaks out, soaking through the material.

Your breath comes in short gasps, each exhale escaping your lips in a soft moan. You let yourself imagine its Caleb's hand between your legs, his fingers stroking your folds, his thumb circling your clit. The thought makes you buck your hips harder and your breathing grows heavier, matching the rhythm of your hips as they undulate against the pillow. The pressure builds, your body tensing, yearning for release.

Suddenly sensing his presence, you freeze. His intense gaze is palpable, even in the dim light. You feel it burning into your back, watching your every move.

Heart pounding, you slowly turn to face him. He's closer than you thought, dark eyes smoldering with unreadable emotions as they rake over your body. Embarrassment colors your cheeks a deep red.

Before you can react, he's right there, looming over you. His large body blocks out the faint light, casting long, shadows across your flushed skin. You tremble slightly, caught in the act, vulnerable and exposed.

"Caleb..." you breathe out, voice barely above a whisper. You try to tug your shirt down, to cover your exposed thighs, but he's too close. You're trapped.

His voice, low and rough, fills the charged space between you. "Are you touching yourself to the thought of me, Pips?" he asks bluntly. There's no judgment, only raw curiosity and something darker.

You can only stare back, mouth agape. Your face burns like the rest of you, core throbbing in time with your racing heart.

"You're not very subtle. You wanted me to know. I could hear your needy little moans all the way from my room." His gaze drops to your soaked panties, and a low, approving groan rumbles in his chest.

"You're fucking soaked, aren't you? Let me help you find relief, sweetheart."

You find yourself surrendering to his dominant aura, your legs parting automatically to grant him access. He doesn't hesitate. He runs a single finger along your panties, collecting your essence, before bringing it to his lips. His eyes flutter shut briefly as he tastes you, sucking your arousal from his skin.

"Mmm, so warm and sweet," he murmurs appreciatively, his eyes burning into yours. "You're fucking gorgeous like this. Lost in pleasure, craving more..."

He hooks his fingers into your panties and tugs them aside, baring your pussy to him. He takes your hand in his, guiding two of your fingers to your entrance. "Push them inside. I want to watch you pleasure yourself"

His presence, his unwavering attention, the blatant desire in his eyes, it's all too much, yet not nearly enough. Your body aches for more, yearning to give him the show he craves.

Your fingers tremble as you slowly push them into your dripping folds, never breaking eye contact with him. The sensation makes you gasp, your walls clenching around your fingers.

He pushes your fingers deeper, his hand enveloping yours, guiding you to explore your own depths. "Like this, princess" he whispers.

His gaze holds yours captive as he continues, "You touch yourself like this, thinking of me because no one else gets you like I do. Every stroke, every thrust of your fingers, you imagine it's my voice in your ear, telling you that you're mine."

Caleb's words make your head spin, dizzy with lust and longing. You pick up the pace, pulling and pushing your fingers in time with his instructions.

"You want me to be proud of how desperately you crave my touch?" he asks as he watches your fingers work over your aching sex. "Show me how much you need me"

He gathers your slick on his fingers, painting your puffy clit with your own arousal. The added stimulation makes you buck against your hand, body crying out for more.

"Please..." Your mind goes blank, focused solely on the pleasure radiating from your core and the man orchestrating it.

As your climax approaches, walls clenching greedily around your fingers, Caleb increases the pressure on your sensitive nub.

"You know my name, moan it for me, princess"

And you do. You scream his name like a prayer, a declaration of belonging.

He's made his point crystal clear, you are his, utterly and completely. And he has every intention of keeping it that way.

You were lost, the morning sun illuminating your passionate frenzy as you rutted against your pillow like a woman possessed. It had been an eternity since you'd last spoken to Xavier, a whole five days of pent up longing and frustration, thanks to that first real fight you'd had. His jealousy, usually a smoldering ember, had erupted into an inferno that day, leaving you both scorched by its intensity.

As you bucked and writhed on the soft fabric, your mind drifted back to the vivid dream that had started this desperate need. In your dream, Xavier was nestled between your thighs, his favorite place to be. You could almost feel his warm breath on your sensitive flesh before the cruel sound of shattering glass jolted you awake. The memory of it left you trembling with want.

Too far gone to care about the noises spilling from your lips, you clung to the pillow like a lifeline as you chased your pleasure. Your shirt was shoved up to expose your heaving breasts, a nipple peeking out as your fingers plucked and rolled the stiff peak.

You imagined it was Xavier's mouth lavishing attention on your dripping sex through the soaked fabric of your panties. His teeth would graze your sensitive nub with the lightest pressure, sending you arching off the bed with a strangled moan. The pillow took the brunt of your need, cushioning your desperate grinding.

You were on the verge of exploding with frustration, your body aching for release that kept slipping through your fingers like sand. Each time you climbed that peak of pleasure, your clit would scream in protest, the sensation becoming too intense too quickly. It was as if you were a runner sprinting towards the finish line, only to have it yanked away at the last second, forcing you to trudge back to the starting line to begin your race again.

You were panting and flushed, your skin glistening with a sheen of sweat as you rutted against the pillow once more. The fabric was damp beneath your touch, bearing witness to your desperate need. Your arousal was a living, breathing thing, coursing through your veins and clouding your mind. You were lost in your own little world, chasing your pleasure, when suddenly...

"Enjoying yourself?" a familiar voice purred, startling you out of your trance.

Your heart leapt into your throat at the sound, and with a gasp, you wrenched the pillow from between your legs to use as a makeshift shield. The fluffy fabric did little to conceal your state of undress or the fact that you had been in the midst of a very intimate moment. Heat flooded your cheeks as embarrassment battled with lingering arousal, leaving you flustered and tongue tied.

"Xavier, what...?"

The idea that he had witnessed your wanton display, heard the obscene sounds of your desperation, made your core clench and your nipples strain against the thin fabric of your shirt.

You felt exposed and yet...a part of you thrilled at the thought of him seeing you this way. Of knowing the depths of your desire, the aching emptiness that only he could fill. Your body was still humming with need, your clit still throbbing and swollen. The interruption had only served to heighten your hunger, leaving you craving his touch with an intensity that bordered on ravenous.

You gazed up at Xavier with hooded eyes, your pleading gaze a silent scream for his touch. Your voice was a needy rasp as you begged, "I need you, Xavi, please..." The desperation in your tone was palpable, every nuance of your longing laid bare before him.

He walked towards you with predatory grace, the look in his eyes was one of pure hunger, the stare of a man possessed, consumed by the need to claim his woman.

"Are you sure?" he asked. It was a challenge, a warning, and a promise all wrapped up in one. He could see the fear in your eyes, the way they widened at his words, and it only spurred him on. He lived for that look, reveled in the knowledge that he could inspire such a visceral reaction in you.

"You know I won't take you gently," he continued "You're afraid because you know I don't just want you..." His hand came down to grip your chin, tilting your head back to force you to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed across your lower lip "I will devour you. I will fuck you until you can't walk, can't think, can't breathe without feeling the ghost of my cock buried inside you. I will ruin you for anyone else."

His other hand slid down the side of your neck, his fingers curling around the delicate column as if he could snap it like a twig. "You are not free," he whispered, his face now inches from yours. "You are not free," he repeated "because you belong to me, mind, body and soul. I will fuck you so hard and so often that the only word you'll remember is my name."

His grip on your chin tightened, forcing you to hold his gaze as he leaned in even closer, his breath hot against your skin. "You are claimed," he breathed, "in every sense of the word. You are mine, now and forever"

His other hand slid down your body, his fingers skimming over the swell of your breast, the curve of your waist, before coming to rest on your hip. He squeezed the tender flesh, his nails digging in just shy of pain "You will be fucked like the goddess you are. Worshipped like the sinful creature I've created you to be. And you will be my sin, my addiction, my reason for living, for as long as I draw breath."

His lips crashed against yours in a kiss, all teeth and tongue. It was a kiss that spoke of possession, of ownership, of a love so deep that it bordered on obsession. It was a kiss that promised pleasure beyond your wildest dreams, but also a kiss that warned of the price you would pay for being the object of such intense devotion.

He made quick work of your remaining clothing, practically tearing the flimsy fabric from your body in his haste to bare you completely. Your panties were the last to go, the scrap of lace and cotton no match for his strength as he ripped them away, baring your sex to the cool air of the room. Your arousal coated your thighs, glistening in the morning light.

He didn't bother with any pretense of gentleness as he freed his cock from the confines of his pants and underwear. The thick length sprang forth, long, hard, and already leaking with desire. He could feel your eyes on him, could sense your gaze drinking in every rigid inch.

Then he pushed your knees up and back, until they were nearly folded against your chest, your body bent in half to accommodate his need. Your pussy was exposed, soft folds glistening and swollen, just begging to be filled. And fill you he would.

He notched the broad head of his cock against your entrance, the thick crown parting your lower lips as if your body was already eager to welcome him home. His hand gripped your hip, fingers sinking into the tender flesh hard enough to leave bruises, a brand of his claim on your flesh. He could feel you trembling beneath his touch, could hear the hitch in your breath as you anticipated his invasion.

With a single thrust, he buried himself inside you to the hilt. His thick length split you open, stretching you wide around his girth as he sank balls deep. The breath was driven from your lungs at the sudden intrusion, your body struggling to adjust to the intense stretch, the delicious burn of being filled.

His teeth sank into the side of your neck branding you as his. The sharp sting of pain mingled with the pleasure and you could feel the hot, wet trail of his saliva on your skin, the way his tongue laved over the reddening flesh, soothing the hurt.

Even as you teetered on the brink of ecstasy, you craved more. More of his touch, more of his possession, more of that exquisite pleasure pain that only he could give you. It was a hunger that could never be sated, a thirst that could never be quenched. You were addicted to him, to the way he made you feel, to the need that burned through your veins like liquid fire.

As if reading your mind, Xavier's hand wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, not hurting, but simply holding you, holding you in place so he could watch your face, could see the way your eyes widened and glazed over with pleasure as he began to move. His long fingers spanned the delicate column, his thumb resting lightly against your racing pulse.

Each thrust drove you closer to the edge, your body coiling tighter and tighter like a bow string pulled back and ready to snap. You could feel the tension building in your core, heat pooling in your belly as he filled you again and again. Your nails raked down his back, leaving red lines in their wake as you clung to him.

He could feel your pulse pounding beneath his palm, could see the way your throat constricted with each gasping breath. He knew you were close, could sense the telltale flutters of your sex around his cock. And still, he drove into you harder, deeper, his hips slapping against yours with a lewd sound that filled the room.

"Who do you belong to?" he asked, his voice a dark, dangerous rumble that vibrated through your very bones. "Say it," he demanded, punctuating his words with a particularly sharp thrust that had stars exploding behind your eyelids. "Tell me who owns this sweet cunt?

"You Xavi..."

His grip on your throat tightened as he felt your body begin to convulse beneath him, your pussy clenching around him "That's it, bunny," he panted harshly "Cum for me. Show me who owns this pretty pussy and every orgasm it ever has."

He could feel your nails digging into his shoulders, could hear the desperate, keening cries spilling from your lips as he fucked into you with a ferocity that bordered on punishing. The bed creaked and shuddered beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall with each thrust of his hips.

"Xavier!" you screamed, your voice breaking on a sob as your climax finally crashed over you. Your sex spasmed around him, the rhythmic squeezing of your walls milking his cock for all it was worth. He could feel you gushing around his length, your arousal dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you.

"That's it," he groaned, his rhythm faltering as he felt his own release fast approaching. "Fuck, your cunt feels so good squeezing my cock"

He knew, as he emptied himself inside you, that your body was no longer your own. It belonged to him, now and forever. Every inch of your soft, pliant flesh existed for one purpose only, to be used, to be worshipped, to be claimed by him.

He saw the way your tears leaked from the corners of your eyes. They weren't tears of sorrow or pain, but of overwhelming ecstasy. Each salty droplet was a testament to the intensity of your pleasure, a silent prayer of devotion to the god that had brought you to such heights of rapture.

Your begging and your tears, your soaked thighs and your boneless body, they were all a part of your worship of him, of the divine connection you shared. They were the visible, tangible expressions of a love that transcended the physical, a devotion that knew no bounds and made no apologies.

This was all Rafayel's doing.

You were sprawled on his bed, aching and needy, your body burning up from his dirty texts. It was supposed to be a sweet moment, you told him you finally had time to get your nails done. But then he went and asked for more, demanding a naughty picture to satisfy his hunger.

"Show me how nice they look by sending me a picture of you spreading your 😺 lips with them, cutie."

You obliged, snapping a lewd selfie with your manicured fingers splayed over your folds. The image was sent before you could second guess yourself. Now, you were left high and dry, your core throbbing and desperate for his touch.

Your hips undulated on the mattress, grinding your soaked panties against his pillow.

The damp patch on your underwear grew with each passing second, arousal seeping through the fabric. You ached to be filled, to have Rafayel's cock stretching you open and relieving this intense pressure.

Your clit pulsed, swollen and sensitive as it rubbed against the soaked cotton.

You were wound up so tightly, your body crying out for release. But more than that, you craved him. His touch, his kiss, his filthy words whispered hotly against your ear.

Soft whimpers escaped your parted lips as you writhed on the bed. Your nipples were hard points beneath your shirt, begging to be touched.

Your climax was so close, your lip caught between your teeth as you teetered on the edge.

Just as you were about to tumble over, you heard the unmistakable sound of Rafayel's voice. Your eyes flew open, a gasp escaping your lips as you whipped your head around to face him.

He stood there, arms crossed, with a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were fixed on his pillow, the one you'd been grinding against so wantonly just moments before.

In a flash of surprise and embarrassment, you grabbed the pillow and hurled it at him. "It's pretty rude to walk into a room unannounced, Raf," you scolded,trying in vain to cover yourelf.

He caught the pillow easily, his smirk only growing wider as he tossed it aside carelessly.

"Yeah? Well, it's pretty rude to moan someone's name when they are not around to help you make those pretty sounds" 

You felt the blush spreading across your cheeks, he walked closer, looming over you with a predatory gaze that made your heart race.

He reached out, his fingertips grazing your ankle before sliding slowly up your calf. Your breath hitched as he drew closer, until his hand was resting high on your inner thigh.

"I could help you finish, you know," he murmured, his thumb brushing maddeningly close to where you needed him most. "I could make those moans so much louder, cutie."

Desire clouded your judgment, your body aching to be one with his. So you reached out, unzipping his pants with trembling fingers. The bulge in his trousers was unmistakable, proof of his want for you. He gripped your wrists when you tried to stroke him and in a quick motion he moved to sit on the bed, pulling you astride his lap. You hurriedly tugged your drenched panties to the side, the flimsy fabric a barrier no more.

He didn't hesitate. He gripped your hips and thrust up, burying himself inside you. You cried out, your walls clenching tight around his thick length as it filled and stretched you so perfectly.

You clung to his shoulders for support, your nails digging into his shirt as you tried to adjust to his size. His hands slid up your back, his fingers splaying across your shoulder blades as he held you close.

He knew your body's deepest desires, and he indulged them with skillful precision. As he guided your hips to bounce on his cock, you felt yourself surrendering completely to the rhythm he set.

Your mind grew hazy, drunk on the sensation of his hard heat driving into you again and again. It was as if he could see directly into your soul, his intense gaze guiding your every movement, telling your body exactly what it needed.

His muffled grunts and groans against the sensitive skin of your neck sent shockwaves of pleasure through you.

Your thoughts dissolved like mist beneath the scorching heat of your desire. In that moment, your world narrowed down to just your body and his, two halves of a whole unite in ecstasy.

You could feel it, the way your body submitted to him, surrendered itself completely. You were his, heart, body and soul, now and forever. The realization made your heart swell, climax building at the base of your spine.

Lost in a fog of lust and love, you rode him with wild abandon. Your hips seeking that ultimate connection, that perfect union. And as your pleasure crested, your vision went white, your world exploding in a supernova of sensation.

 Your face when you came was the most breathtaking sight Rafayel had ever witnessed. No artist's palette could capture the flush of your cheeks, the parting of your lips on a silent scream, the way your eyelids fluttered and your eyes rolled back in bliss. It was the ultimate masterpiece, one he would forever engrave in his mind.

"One more, give me one more"

"I can't..." you whimpered, too sensitive, too raw from the intensity of your last climax.

"It wasn't a request, cutie" Rafayel murmured, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. "Just one more"

He would take it slow, he promised, but take it he would. Your next orgasm belonged to him, just as you belonged to him.

You were alone, ovulating and craving Sylus's touch. It had been a week since he left, and now you found yourself restless and yearning.

Climbing into his huge bed, you hugged his huge pillow close, inhaling his lingering scent. The silk sheets felt so good against your bare skin, a sensual caress that made you shiver. You couldn't resist the temptation of the luxurious fabric.

That's when you noticed it, the silken texture of the pillowcase, even softer than the sheets. The material felt exquisite, smooth as a whisper against your most intimate places. A daring idea sparked in your lust addled mind. Would it feel like his tongue?  you wondered, cheeks flushing hotly at the notion.

Heart pounding, you made your decision. You couldn't stop yourself now, even as a small voice in the back of your head whispered that this was wrong, that you shouldn't be doing this in his absence. But the temptation was too great. Slowly, tentatively at first, you rubbed the supple silk through your slick folds, gasping at the unfamiliar yet thrilling sensation.

The pillow was soon coated in your arousal as you grew bolder, grinding your hips against the silken surface.

The damp fabric slid deliciously between your folds, mimicking the glide of Sylus's tongue. You couldn't stop, the empty house echoed with your shameless moans and the rustle of silk against naked skin.

You chased your climax, grinding your hips in tight circles, rubbing the pillow where you needed it most. Your breath came in ragged pants as the pressure built inside you, your core clenching around the phantom stimulation.

You were close, so close to finding the release your body craved. The silk, the pillow, your own touch, it was all you had, and it was almost enough. Almost.

"Naughty little kitten"

You froze as you heard Sylus's voice, a jolt of shock and embarrassment coursing through you. In your lustful haze, you hadn't heard him enter the room, too lost in your solitary indulgence. Now, you found yourself exposed, your naked body on full display as you clung to his damp pillow and the silk sheets.

Flushing with shame, you hastily tried to cover yourself, wrapping the sheets around your curves. It was a futile effort, given the state of disarray you were in. The fabric, once cool and smooth, now felt electrifying against your heated skin.

Sylus's evol, a tendril of dark energy, snaked out and lifted the pillow and sheets from the bed. They drifted down to the floor beside him, leaving you bare, your arousal glistening on your inner thighs. 

"You've made quite the mess of my pillowcase."

The pounding of your heart, once a drumbeat in your clit, now echoed in your chest. You were acutely aware of every inch of your naked body, every sensitive nerve ending crying out for his touch

"Don't let me stop you, sweetie," Sylus murmured, his eyes roving over your curves like a physical caress. "You were doing so well, pleasing yourself on my pillow. I could hear every needy moan, every desperate grind. Tell me, does the silk satisfy your greedy little cunt?"

"Sy...Please"

He seemed to sense your urgency, your overwhelming need. He cocked an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "Do you need my help, kitten?"

You nodded frantically, too far gone to speak at first. But Sylus waited, his smirk widening, his eyes glinting with wicked delight

"Beg for it," he demanded "Beg for my help"

Your cheeks burned hotter at his words, but the ache between your thighs only intensified. You knew you should feel ashamed, but all you could focus on was the throbbing emptiness inside you, crying out for Sylus's touch.

"Please, Sylus," you gasped out, your voice trembling with desperation. "I need you. I need your hands, your mouth, your... your cock." The last word was a whisper, a naughty plea falling from your lips. 

He moved with purpose, his intentions clear in the dark glint of his crimson eyes. He grabbed the pillow, soaked with your arousal, and placed it beside you on the bed.

"Listen carefully, this is how it's going to go." He reached down, unbuckling his belt with deliberate slowness. Your eyes widened as you watched the process, your mouth already watering in anticipation.

When his cock sprang free, you couldn't help but let out a soft gasp. It was just as you remembered, thick, hard, and heavily veined. Your tongue darted out to wet your suddenly dry lips as you gazed at his impressive length.

"I'm going to fuck your pretty mouth, and you're going to grind your cunt on that pillow until it's absolutely soaked." He nodded towards the pillow, already. marked by your desire. "And you better make a good, messy job of it, kitten, understand?"

You swallowed hard, nodding your agreement. Sylus smirked, satisfied with your compliance.

"Now, be a good girl and open your mouth," he ordered, "Stick your tongue out for me."

Obediently, you moved to straddle the pillow, the cool silk kissed your dripping slit, and you had to stifle a moan, hips already twitching with the urge to grind against it. Then, you opened your mouth wide, your pink tongue lolling out as you gazed up at Sylus with hooded eyes.

He slapped his cock against your outstretched tongue, letting you feel its weight. Your mouth watered with each tap, drool already starting to gather at the corners of your lips. He teased you, letting you sample his musky scent and savor the promise of his taste.

With a low, approving moan, Sylus slowly sank his length into your waiting mouth. He moved with deliberate control, pumping in and out of your mouth with a steady rhythm.

At first, Sylus kept his thrusts shallow and you did your best to keep up, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around the tip. Drool dripped down your chin as you moaned and gagged around his cock. You felt like you were doing well, matching his pace with the rolling of your hips on the pillow beneath you.

Just as you started to find a rhythm, Sylus suddenly surged forward, spearing his thick length deep into your throat. You had no choice but to breathe through your nose, inhaling his scent as he began to truly fuck your face.

More of your arousal soaked into the silk fabric as you grinded desperately against it. Drool coated his cock as he used your mouth, fucking into your throat with abandon. You were at his mercy and you loved every second of it.

He buried his cock deep and held you there, nose pressed against his pelvis, as he ground against your face. Your lungs burned, crying out for air, but you gave him the control he craved.

As quickly as he'd claimed your throat, Sylus pulled back, allowing you a gasping breath before plunging in again. His rhythm became erratic, each thrust harder and more desperate than the last. You could feel his cock pulsing and throbbing, growing even thicker in your stretched mouth.

He was just as lost in pleasure as you, his need consuming him. His balls tightened, drawing up close to his body as his orgasm approached. You grinded desperately against the silk pillow beneath you, the fabric finally granting you the release you craved as Sylus fucked you through it, his cock slamming into your throat.

As your scream of ecstasy vibrated around his shaft, Sylus let out a guttural moan. Your mouth flooded with his hot, thick seed, his cum filling you until it dripped down the sides of your stretched lips. There was so much of it, too much for you to handle.

He pulled out abruptly, leaving your mouth dripping with his cum and your own saliva. Before you could catch your breath, he commanded gruffly, "Be a good girl now and show it to me before you swallow."

You hesitated for just a moment before opening your mouth wide, letting the mixture of your fluids pool on your tongue. You stuck out your chin, giving Sylus an unobstructed view.

He reached out and gripped your chin firmly, his fingers digging into your jaw as he forced you to keep your mouth open. You felt the cool air hit your spit slick tongue, the thick drops of his release glistening obscenely.

"Good girl," he praised. "You've done well, kitten." He held you there, making you wait for his permission, a thrill running down your spine at his complete control.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Sylus gave a sharp nod. "Now. Swallow it all down like a good girl."

With a bratty grin playing at your lips, you obeyed, tipping your head back and swallowing every last drop. The taste of him coated your throat, marking you from the inside out. You knew, as you licked your lips clean, that you belonged to him completely, body, heart, and soul, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

[lavandulawrites]

“I’m just saying: she’s such a bitch! Can you believe she said that stuff about me? I thought we were friends! And now she has just gone behind my back and told everyone lies about me! After everything I have done for her!” you were rambling about your fake friend to your male friend. It was late at night, but you knew he would be awake. Your phone had only rang twice before he picked up, making it clear it was already in his hand.

“And she told our other friend that I had been talking shit behind her back. Which I haven’t! And now everyone think I’m a fake ass bitch. Ugh! I don’t know what to do!” you rubbed your temple furiously as you tried to think about anything you could do in order to save your reputation.

A few huffing noises could be heard from the other line. “Are you alright?” you asked with a raised brow. Maybe he was out for a walk?

“Yeah I’m good. Just keep talking. I’m listening” he responded slightly breathlessly.

“Oh okay… Well- where was I? Oh! Yeah, I really don’t know what to do. I could get back at her– and I really should– but I don’t want to seem nasty or anything. She really deserves the worst, but I don’t want to lose my friends.”

“Ahh- I see… That is very unfortunate. She’s- ugh- such a nasty friend” he mumbled. His voice slight muffled.

“I know right! My whole weekend is ruined! I’m literally so mad right now. I’m shaking” you had to take a few deep breaths to not yell at phone.

“Mhmm… It’s truly terribl- ahh- terrible.”

“Are you okay? You sound… weird.”

“I’m ok-nghh-ay” his breathing was erratic.

You paused. What the fuck. “Wait. Are you fucking mastrubating?!”

He was silent for a second. “Uhm-ugh- no?”

“Yes you are! What the fuck?!” your voice was loud as you screamed into the phone. “I’m gonna hang up!”

“Wait no! Don’t hang up! Keep talking, I’m-aghhh- almost there!”

Click. You tossed your phone across the bed. What the hell was wrong with him?

- GOJO, Mahito (Jujutsu Kaisen), CAELUS, Boothill, PHAINON, SAMPO, Gallagher, Aventurine, Jing Yuan (Honkai Star Rail), ITTO, Ororon, HEIZOU, Wriothesly, Cyno, CHILDE, LYNEY (Genshin Impact), DAZAI, Atsushi, RANPO, Poe, Tachihara, NIKOLAI, MARK (Bungou Stray Dogs), CALEB, Rafayel, XAIVER (Love and Deepspace), L, Matsuda, MATT, Mello (Death Note), HISOKA, Phinks, SHALNARK, NOBUNAGA, Chrollo (Hunter x Hunter), AYATO, Shu, LAITO, Kou, Yuma, Kino, Shin, Azusa (Diabolik Lovers), ADRAIN/ YANDERE LOSER (I literally wrote this with him in mind), Oliver/ yandere botanist, Sigurd/ yandere elf (Original characters), EREN, REINER, Connie, Jean, (Attack on Titan), DOUMA, Tengen, Sanemi, Rengoku, ENMU, Obanai (Demon Slayer)

[strawberrynull]

can u do cockwarming w jake

엔하이픈 | Enhypen | Sim Jaeyun

──Pairing: bf!jake x reader

──Genre: smut

──Synopsis: Your boyfriend is busy with a video game tournament but you seem to be getting sick of waiting. You can tell how bad he needs you but he can’t get off the game until the tournament is over.

──Warnings: cursing, Jake is referred to as Jaeyun, Jae, and Yunnie, teasing, p in v, unprotected (wrap it), cockwarming obviously, mentions of rough sex

──A/N: I have so many Jake drafts from awhile ago. I plan on posting them all soon. Pls look forward to it

Masterlist

It was such a boring day for you. The whole apartment was silent besides the sound of rapid clicking from the bedroom and whatever was playing on the TV. You were staying at your boyfriends house with nothing to do but binge watch shows while you waited for him not to be busy.

A few days ago, your boyfriend, Jaeyun, announced that he was invited to participate in a tournament for his favorite shooting game. Now you were stuck on his couch with nothing to do but watch show after show. Of course you were happy for him. After all, he was personally invited to compete in his favorite game! But at the same time, you were upset a mere game had the ability of stealing your boyfriend away from you. He told you. That this tournament could take all day which pissed you off, although you could never admit to that Jaeyun. He was so excited to compete, you wouldn’t want to spoil that for him.

But now, you were bored out of your mind. You were so bored that you couldn’t even pay attention to what as playing on the tv anymore. You just sat there on the couch, spacing out until the sound of the tv was just static to you.

It had already been hours and in your trance of boredom came one thought. One single idea that made you feel a certain way, an unmistakable throb between your thighs. And that thought? Your boyfriend. Your sweet, caring, handsome… hot… sexy boyfriend…

But he was fucking busy.

You couldn’t bear being away from him. He was always just there with you, always by your side. One day without him was unbearable. You ran your hands down your face in frustration, staring up at the ceiling. If hell on earth was real, this was it. As dramatic as it sounded, this was pure torture. Your boyfriend was literally in the same house as you, only one wall away, but you couldn’t be with him. You couldn’t distract him or he would lose his place in this tournament.

Oh well

You stood from the couch abruptly, with a new sense of determination. The sound of your footsteps echoed through the quiet house as you padded down the hallway from the living room to Jaeyuns bedroom. You slowly opened the door, careful not to make much noise. It wasn’t of much use though. Your boyfriend noticed you entering the room immediately and flashed a quick smile that made your thighs clench in desperation. And he didn’t miss it. No. He definitely noticed the small action and swallowed hard.

Jaeyun is smart. Not just book smart, but socially smart. He noticed when your emotions changed and every shift in your demeanor. He could read you so easily like an open book. Right now, he could absolutely tell what you were feeling. With the idea now in his mind, he was feeling it too.

You plopped down dramatically onto his bed, throwing your arms out to the sides like a starfish. “Are you almost done Jae?” You asked in a bored tone that came out as more of a whine. All he did was chuckle softly which made you even more frustrated. His voice was like honey and it pissed you off but also made your thighs clench even more.

“Sorry baby, I’m only half way done.” He sighed sympathetically, sensing your frustration. You groaned and threw your arms over your face to which he frowned to himself. The sound of him still clicking away at the keyboard made you all the more upset. The pent up boredom and irritation didn’t solve the ache between your legs either. Your thighs clenched tighter, only making it worse. Jaeyun glanced over at you for only a moment but your reaction stuck with him. He chewed at his lip and felt his pants start to tighten.

“Fuck. J-just come over here.” His voice cut through the silence, causing your head to perk up. You didn’t hesitate to jump to your feet and step over to his desk. He reached out an arm and pushed his chair back just slightly, inviting you to sit. “Come. Sit with me.” He whispered, huskier than intended. You hesitated before swinging a leg over his lap, straddling him in his chair.

As soon as you sat down, you felt the unmistakable hardness beneath you. “Jae-‘

“I know,” he interrupted. “I wish this would go quicker too.” He whispered and placed a gentle kiss to your shoulder.

“It’s been hours…” you groaned, forehead now resting on his shoulder. “This is torture.”

He chuckled at that and rubbed your back reassuringly a few times before his hand went back to his mouse. The room became silent beside the sound of clicking for a few moments. Then he spoke again. “I need you just as bad as you need me, baby. I promise you, as soon as I’m done, you’ll have me all to yourself again.” His first sentence made your legs tighten around his waist. And boy did he notice. The tent in his pants grew, becoming even more noticeable, almost like the universe was teasing you. Like a carrot tied to a stick, the universe was dangling it right in front of you but you couldn’t have it. But you needed it so bad.

Another hour or two passed and the tournament still wasn’t over. Staying still was becoming a struggle. Anytime you would move even an inch, Jaeyun would hiss and grab your hip to still you. At this point, it was almost impossible not to move. You just needed to feel something.

You whined against his shoulder, trying your hardest not to move. “Yunnie can I just-“

“Please…” he interrupted with a breathy whisper. “please just sit on it” Your eyes immediately widened and you picked your head up to meet his gaze. His face was flushed and eyes glassy with desire as he looked at you with barely contained desperation. “Please?” He breathed out one more time. You nodded once before rushing to remove your pants. Jaeyun quickly fumbled with his belt and yanked down the zipper of his jeans, freeing his aching cock.

“Are you sure? I don’t wanna distract you…” you mumbled and bit your lip.

“Just do it… but… sit still.” He whispered, pleading with his eyes. With his confirmation, you didn’t hesitate to line yourself up and sink down. You hissed in unison, finally easing the ache you were both feeling for hours. Once you were fully seated, your boyfriend kissed your neck once, then twice before going back to his game. “You better stay still. You’re my good luck charm for the rest of the tournament.” You nodded and wrapped your arms around his neck. Just merely having him inside of you was enough to hold you off until he was done with this stupid competition.

As your boyfriend went on with his game, you tried to occupy yourself with anything. Literally anything that will pass the time. You had been kissing his neck for a short while before being scolded for distracting him. You only chuckled at that but knew not to keep doing it. Instead, you opted for playing with his hair. It wasn’t distracting for him and it kept you occupied. Though, not even that could keep you happy for long. You tried playing with the string of his hoodie or the hem of your own shirt just to pass time. All you could really do was wait patiently.

And stay very still.

After a while though, waiting became boring again. Your hips moved and he inhaled sharply before his hand comes flying to your waist, stopping any further movement.

“Just stay still. I’m almost done.” Jaeyun groaned huskily. You could clearly tell how much he was holding back. He needed it just as much as you did and the wait was painful. Not just for you but for him too.

Suddenly, Jaeyun gasped. “Oh my god… this is the last game.” He announced. You immediately picked your head up and stared at him with shock. “Fuck yes.” He cheered, preparing himself for the final stretch of the tournament.

“You got this, Jae. I believe in you baby.” You kissed his cheek for good luck before the last round begun. Now he was really focused, tapping aggressively at the keyboard like it was life or death.

You could see him defeat opponents from the opposing team over your shoulder. It was truly impressive. “Yessss there’s one person left on the enemy team.” He rambled as his excitement grew. “My team is actually so goated.” You chucked at his burst of energy and excitement. Then you felt his hips buck once. You. Almost thought it was on accident. Then he did it again. Now it was no longer unintentional.

“Jae…” you warned him.

“I don’t care. My teams got this.” He replied with confidence. “I just… need to feel a little bit.” This time his voice came out a little shaky. You could tell his team would win either way so you gave in. All you gave was a small roll of your hips but just that had him hissing. He bit his lip and shifted a few times under you, now only half focused on the last few seconds of the game.

“Come on Yunnie, you got this” you whispered breathily in his ear, making him buck up into you again.

Then he threw his hands up, startling you and making you jump slightly. “We won!” He exclaimed. Your jaw dropped and he looked at you with those signature puppy eyes. He was smiling from ear to ear, the same smile you fell so deeply in love with. Ina split second his demeanor changed. It was like a light switched flipped. He quickly lifted you off of him, making you whine. Then he stood and shoved you harshly against the edge of the desk, swiping the keyboard a mouse to the side. Jaeyun gripped your chin, earning a gasp from you. “The rest of tonight is all about you, pretty girl.” He rasped out before slamming into you. He quickly kissed your lips, swallowing the sharp moan that came from you.

And fuck, was it a long night…

A/N (again): This was supposed to be posted yesterday but it was genuinely an awful fucking day. I couldn’t bring myself to write at all, let alone post. Sorry its delayed and a bit rushed but i hope u like it <3

[starlightkun]

soulbound ➺ j.sc [teaser]

➺ teaser word count: 1797 | full fic: 23.6k ➺ genre: two bodies one soul au, enemies to begrudging roomies to lovers, acquaintances of extreme inconvenience, fluff, humor, some hurt/comfort, there’s some moments with probably more horny energy than is warranted (sungchan and reader r always bickering/squaring up and sometimes it gets physical and everyone’s just like… uhm… that’s not how ppl fight y’all…), not actually a soulmate au bc even tho reader and sungchan technically do share a soul it’s not an inherently romantic thing in this world ➺ warnings: FLAWED CHARACTERS, reader and sungchan r both kinda mean to each other at the beginning (see first genre tag please) for sympathetic(?) but also not great reasons, reader does something knowing it will inflict physical pain on sungchan (i once again refer u to the first genre tag), descriptions of physical pain and injury, one scene with blood/needle/hospital depictions ➺ estimated release: saturday, july 5, 2025 3:00 p.m. eastern time

“I have a job interview tomorrow, by the way,” you stated from Sungchan’s passenger seat, eyes focused on the passing buildings. He had gone to the gym this morning—bright and fucking early as always—which meant that you unfortunately had to go as well, since his gym was just far enough away that if he went alone, the distance would start putting stress on your soul. Sometimes you walked on a treadmill, but usually you sat in a corner on your phone until he was done.

“First I’ve heard of it,” he snorted.

“It’s your day off, stop bitching.”

He rolled his eyes. “What time?”

“Two. You’ll have to dress professional.”

“Yeah, right. I’m not interviewing.”

“But if I have to have you walk in with me, you can’t look like a fucking slob,” you pointed out.

“I’ll just wait in the car. Where is it?”

“Inverness & Wildwood.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re not going.”

“Yes, I am,” you insisted.

“No, you’re fucking not,” he retorted. “It’s the next city over.”

“I haven’t interviewed yet, I don’t know if I’d even get it.”

Sungchan pulled into his driveway, putting the car in park but not turning it off as he shot you a withering look, pointing to the house in front of him. “Y/N, we still live with our parents because we couldn’t agree on a dorm or apartment complex to move into in college.”

“So you’re going to force me to live with my parents for the rest of our lives?” You asked incredulously.

“You can’t force me to move somewhere!”

“I’m sorry I have career aspirations past the part-time job we got in high school!”

“You don’t even have to come to my job, but you’re expecting me to fucking move for yours!”

“I didn’t say that!” You were seeing red now. “Don’t put words in my mouth!”

Sungchan, meanwhile, looked like he was about to rip his own hair out. “It’s in another city, how exactly do you expect to work there without me and also without us fucking dying?”

“This isn’t fucking fair!” You grabbed the door handle and got out of the car.

Sungchan turned the car off and got out too. “Tell me about it,” he muttered.

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” You yelled, slammed the door shut, and stormed off towards your house.

“I know!” He called after you derisively.

Angry, hot tears burned your eyes and rolled down your cheeks as you fumbled to unlock your front door. You slammed that door shut too in your fury, ignoring your dad’s ‘good morning’ as you ran upstairs to your bedroom. This was so fucking unfair. Your whole life you were going to be stuck to a fucking underachiever who was apparently content with keeping the both of you living with your parents forever, never pursuing any dreams or aspirations beyond working at the place that you’d worked at since you were sixteen. What did you do to deserve this?

The car ride to the gym in the next morning was silent. You had your headphones in before you opened the car door, not even bothering to give Sungchan a ‘good morning’ or listen for if he said it to you. You stared out the passenger window with your arms crossed over your chest for the entire drive, wordlessly unbuckling and getting out once you arrived. After his workout, you followed him outside and got back in the car. Except he didn’t reverse out of the parking spot.

Finally, you looked over at Sungchan to find his eyes already on you, fixing you with an expecting look. He motioned for you to take an earbud out. Rolling your eyes, you did so, then waited for him to say whatever he wanted.

“Silent treatment?” He questioned, arching an eyebrow.

“It’s not like we’re friends,” you huffed, moving to put your earbud back in.

“Hey, wait,” he stopped you. “I’m sorry about your interview, alright?”

“Whatever, just forget about it.”

Sungchan buckled in and reversed out of the parking spot. “Isn’t there another firm like that in town? By the mall? You could see if they’re—”

“I said forget it, okay?” You snapped.

He held one of his hands up in surrender, and you put your earbud back in.

With one final adjustment of your blazer, you left your room, hurrying through your house. Your parents were at work, thankfully. You locked the front door behind you and walked right by your car parked out front. Sungchan’s was in his driveway, and you quickly turned down the sidewalk away from his house.

Halfway through your subway ride, you felt a twinge in your head, and grabbed the ibuprofen you had in your purse. You knocked back a couple tablets to keep the pain at bay. Your fingers drummed an anxious rhythm on your knee as you watched the electronic sign for your stop. You were on your feet before the doors opened, rushing out ahead of the other passengers.

A knot formed in your stomach when you emerged from the subway station into daylight, and not from nerves. You swallowed down the nausea, grabbing a ginger chew from your purse and continuing on.

Smiling at the older gentleman who held the door open for you on his way out of the building, you entered Inverness & Wildwood right as a sharp pain started up in your chest. You breathed through it, approaching the receptionist with a calm façade. You gave her your name and interview time, then followed her directions to the restroom that you had asked for.

After locking yourself in a stall, you rooted through your purse for the other pill bottle you had in there, for emergencies. Unfortunately, there was nothing to fully prevent soulsickness—aside from constantly being near Sungchan—but souLOXin could dull the symptoms for a little while. Shaking one of the red and black capsules out into your palm, you made a mental note to put in a refill later; you had less than a handful left. You swallowed it right as you got a text.

[sungchan 👎🍅: where are you?]

You turned your phone on silent and put it in your purse along with the pill bottle.

By the end of the interview, the pain in your abdomen had returned, and you gritted your teeth as you stood up to bow to the three interviewers and thanked them for the opportunity. One informed you they would let you know by the end of the week, and showed you to the elevator. As soon as the doors had closed and you were alone, you let out a groan, clutching your stomach and leaning against the wall for support. You composed yourself again when a ding! rang and you were let out into the lobby once more. Pressing on through your throbbing headache, you rushed down the sidewalks back to the subway, desperately taking another couple of ibuprofen tablets.

Standing on the platform waiting for the next train, you continued to take deep breaths, digging your nails into your clammy palms to distract yourself. Finally, it arrived, and you forced your way in as the doors were still opening. Dropping down into a seat, you let your head fall back against the window behind you and your eyes flutter shut.

Your guts finally started unwinding and the pounding in your head started dulling as you approached your stop. When the announcement was made, you got up, trudging off behind a few other passengers. Halfway back to your house, you were no longer nauseous, you just felt like you were getting over a bad cold—essentially, like shit.

Sungchan’s car wasn’t in the driveway, which you noted in the back of your mind as you walked into your own home and straight up to your bedroom. You eventually checked your phone after getting into your pajamas and crawling into bed.

Four missed calls from Sungchan and a dozen texts total.

[sungchan 👎🍅: y/n]

[sungchan 👎🍅: hello??? i can see your car]

Two calls in a row.

[sungchan 👎🍅: where the fuck are you]

[sungchan 👎🍅: don’t tell me you went to that fucking interview anyway]

Another call.

[sungchan 👎🍅: omfg y/n pick up]

[sungchan 👎🍅: im being so fucking fr rn pick up]

Another call.

[sungchan 👎🍅: im going to kill you if we die rn]

[sungchan 👎🍅: get the fuck back home right now im not kidding]

[sungchan 👎🍅: what the hell is wrong with you]

[sungchan 👎🍅: i just took my last poppys but if ur not back before it wears off im coming to get u idc]

Poppy—the nickname for souLOXin due to the coloring of the capsules. Sungchan always ran out first, the effects wearing off sooner for him than you for as long as the two of you had been taking it. According to the limited studies that had been done, there was some indication that men may metabolize it quicker than women, and of course the fact that he was a gym rat presumably did nothing to help in that department.

[sungchan 👎🍅: if u don’t call me in the next ten minutes im going]

[sungchan 👎🍅: ur the fucking worst that’s it im omw to inverness & wildwood. if u see this and ur somewhere else CALL ME]

He sent that last text six minutes ago. With a sigh, you reluctantly hit the phone icon next to his contact. The first ring didn’t even finish before he picked up.

“Where the fuck are you?” He demanded in lieu of a greeting.

“Home,” you deadpanned. “You can come back.”

“God, you are fucking impossible!” The sounds of screeching tires and car horns were audible in the background. “You went to the interview, didn’t you?”

You shrugged even though he couldn’t see it.

He must have taken your silence as a yes. “Fucking—Was it worth it? Huh?!”

“We lived, stop being so dramatic,” you scoffed. “Big tough guy can’t survive a little stomachache?”

“This time it was a stomachache. And what if I didn’t have any poppys?”

“That would’ve been your fault,” you snorted. “I’m not your mommy, you need to keep up on your own meds. Go get a refill since you’re already out.”

“They’re supposed to be for emergencies, Y/N, not when you want to just—”

Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you pulled it away from your ear to see that there was another call incoming. Just in time, too, you didn’t have it in you to get lectured by Sungchan right now.

“Sorry, I’m getting another call,” you interrupted whatever he was saying loudly, not even bothering to attempt to sound actually apologetic. “Bye!”

⤷ masterlist

TEASER TAGLIST

@annenakamura @bee-the-loser @dejundesign @lotties-readings @ppddpjdr @reiofsuns2001 @snowyseungs @tearinka @yoursyuno @yutasputa69 @winkeuu

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[peace-hunter]

For the haunted au I had an devilish little thought. Has Optimus ever had a really bad time and when the primes try to give him advice he just shouts "you guy's FAILED!" Like for all their wisdom they couldn't beat the quintisons or see Sentinels betrayal coming?

He feels bad but in his spark he wishes HE didn't have to do what THEY couldn't.

absolutely evil thought that was inflicted upon me months ago and that i finally get to inflict upon the rest of y'all OTL

i can see it happening with the caveat that he immediately regrets saying it. but it's too late. it's the kind of thing you say in the heat of the moment and then feel the ground drop under your feet because you never meant to say it out loud. but now it's out there and you can never unsay it.

it's just. a bad situation all around :(

haunted au

[catboy-morro]

ive always found it crazy how they call what kai does courage

[freckleslikestars]

DERRY GIRLS | 1.06

[lgbtlunaverse]

So I've said multipe times now (here and here) that thinking nmj is just so blinded by privilege he doesn't undertand that acting out of line gets people killed is, in my opinion, a misunderstanding of his character that ignores the part where he's, you know, actively dying the whole time and thinks that's a good thing. But that doesn't mean I don't think privilege plays no role at all in how he views the world.

Specifically, his view that death (at least premature or violent death) means something.

Death isn't always a tragedy to NMJ, but it is always meaningful. If you kill an evil dangerous person for your righteous cause, that death had meaning. There was evil in the world and now there is less of it. Similarly, if you die in the pursuit of your righteous cause, that death has meaning, because the sheer dedication you gave to it that you were willing to die for it will further that cause, and your bretheren will be invigorated by your sacrifice to fight even harder.

If a death isn't meaningful, that's an injustice and it is up to the living to give it meaning. That's what cuts so deep about his father's murder. There were no consequences, no changes, no meaning. Wen Ruohan was just going to get away with it! He fights and wins an entire war to make it mean something, to make it so that the unjust murder of Nie Mingjue's father is part of Wen Ruohan's downfall.

But this is a view he can only hold because he's the kind of person who's death will be meaningful. Most ordinary people's deaths are meaningless. Not ontologically, not inherently, but they are made meaningless because no one cares. For death to be meaningful you either have to be so powerful that anything you risk your life for will be impacted in some way. (Like, say, if you sacrifice a long life for immense martial power in a faustian bargain with a blade) Or if people with that kind of power care enough about you to do so for you. For most people, this isn't true. A starving street kid has no power to change the unfair world that put them there, even if they risk their life trying, and no one will do it for them once they die.

Nie Mingjue knows this in abstract, and of course rightfully believes it's wrong. But all that does is make it yet another righteous cause people should be willing to die for. Everyone's deaths should mean something, we'll make it so or die trying!

This is what the conflict between nieyao is about at its core. Because Jin Guangyao, fundamentally, cannot conceive of his own death as meaningful. Nie Mingjue grew up around powerful men who could change the world but refuse to do so because god forbid they risk a single hair on their perfect heads. Meng Yao, on the other hand, grew up in an environment where no one of importance would blink twice if you died. He was surrounded by meaningless death. Indeed his entire early life is defined by that lack of care.

Meng Shi dies and no one cares. Meng Yao gets thrown off a flight off stairs and no one cares. He has to be the one to do the caring, and once he's gone no one else will do it for him.

So he has to live.

Jin Guangyao eventually gets far enough that he actually does aquire the power to change some things... as long as he's alive. If he changes too much, holds on too tightly to his ideals, he'll die and it'll all be for nothing. He can't sacrifice himself for his goals because doing so would immediately render those goals unobtainable. No one will care about what he tried to do. He won't be a heroic sacrifice, he'll just be trash that finally cleaned itself up.

And well... Nie Mingjue dies, and someone makes it mean something. Makes it mean so much that the entire story of mdzs would not exist without it. Jin Guangyao dies and it doesn't mean anything. Most people are glad to be rid of him, and the few that are not don't do anything to change that.

[knifearo]

ultimately when it comes to shipping and fandom space treatment of aspec characters i just don't accept "aro/ace people can still date/have sex" as an answer from nonaspecs. like yeah. mhm. okay. now i think we both know that you're not saying that out of real interest in the diversity of aspec experiences. so you can turn in your seventeen-page essay on why and how you plan to examine this character's aspec identity within the context of a romantic or sexual relationship complete with evidence from canon and peer reviews from multiple aspec people within the next week or i'm putting you in the pit from the edgar allen poe story

[papermachefawn]

LITERALLY my mum doesn't have curly hair but I (and my dad but it's dead short) do have 3b curls and honestly I'm so lucky to have a mum who went to the hairdresser and asked for advice instead of handing me a straightener. ppl with curls I beg you to pick up some styling cream. I beg you to dampen your hair before you comb it and then comb in the styling cream. I beg you to experiment with mousse and hair gel to see which helps your hair to hold better. I beg you to use a diffuser for your hairdryer. I beg you to use a denman brush or tangle teaser. complete these steps and your hair will stick out like a sore thumb, to the point of almost feeling self conscious. complete these steps and your hair will be the envy all. you will have random women walk up to you on the street and go "your hair is beautiful I used to have waves but I killed them with my hair straightener". you will have people say that you look like a druid. and you will look so fucking cool. from my experience anyway idk

somewhere out there right now is a kid with curly hair being raised by people who have wavy hair at best and those people are giving them 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner and telling them to dry brush it. and that kid is gonna spend all of middle school and high school hating their hair and moping over the flat iron. they're being told right now that if they don't dry-brush their curl pattern into oblivion every morning it means they're unkempt and gross even though they naturally have the kind of ringlets that a thousand bridezillas would commit horrible murders for every june. it's happening right now it's an absolute epidemic and a tragedy every time

[transformrobots]

for the asks ! more Prowl pleeaase 🥺 anything you want

and Jazz if you ship them- otherwise pretend i didn't mention it [explodes cartoon style]

comic 13 - nintendogs too

04-19-2025

[erinwantstowrite]

Erin the comparison of JL vs the Avengers to Camp Jupiter vs Camp Half blood is toooo accurate 😭

JL: There’s an established system in place and contingencies for every foreseeable scenario

Avengers: fuck it we ball

peter thinks that the Avengers have it all together because they're his teachers and they're constantly telling him to use his brain but it's really because they, for the first time, saw their own "fuck it we ball" mentality in a teenager, and thought "oh my god maybe that is like... super dangerous." like when a parent was younger and they partied a lot and sometimes got into dangerous situations and thought "this is normal" until they had a kid and they quickly realized "oh that's why my mom was insane."

that didn't make them any better, it just made them hypocrites. peter just doesn't know that because they act super responsible when he's around