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flowersforbucky · 5 months ago

Text

oil & water

bucky barnes x reader

word count: 5.8k

prompt - "If you wanted to take your pants off for me so badly, you could have just said so."

shout out to @ellemj for her encouragement with this ♡

warnings/tags: SMUT, vaginal penetration, oral sex (female receving), face sitting, mentions of violence, description of blood & wounds, no use of y/n, reader is afab, hurt/comfort trope, bickering & banter, friends to lovers, forced close proximity trope. 18 plus only!

“Roll your window up,” Bucky snaps at you as he turns down the music you had just put on moments ago. “The last thing we need is someone noticing the blood caked all over the entire right side of your body.”

As if the lack of functioning AC in the twenty-something year old getaway car (an early 2000’s model Chevy Aveo is inconspicuous, according to Sam) wasn’t stifling enough in the south Georgia summer, the annoyance radiating from the brooding super soldier sitting next to you adds an extra ten degrees.

Sure, Sam. Inconspicuous is the right word to describe a six foot, two hundred plus pound man with a metal arm cramped behind the driver’s seat of the equivalent to a clown car. Bright fucking cherry red and all.

“It’s 103 degrees outside.” You glare at him from the passenger seat, where you’re using a tattered handkerchief found in the glove compartment to put pressure on the knife wound on your shoulder. “I’m going to have a heatstroke.”

“You’re not going to have a heatstroke,” he rolls his eyes at you. “That happening would indicate that I have any amount of good luck.”

“Ha-ha-ha,” you say under your breath, reluctantly rolling up the manual window with your still bleeding arm. “I got the fucking intel, did I not?”

You remove the USB drive from its secure location in the cup of your bra and flash it at Bucky. “Though we’ll be lucky if this thing still works after being drowned in boob sweat, since you won’t let me keep the window rolled down.”

“And nearly got yourself killed in the process.” He grabs the flashdrive from you and grimaces. “We’ll be at the safehouse in less than five minutes, if you can please just refrain from stroking out or bleeding out in the meantime.”

You glance down at the once white handkerchief clutched in your hand. “I’m not making you any guarantees.”

You're welcome for saving your ass, by the way, you resist adding.

Jokes aside, the energy exerted in bringing down over a dozen HYDRA agents in combination with the July heat and the substantial blood loss from your shoulder wound has you feeling woozier by the minute. Factor in a few potentially fractured ribs and a dislocated knee and you're in pretty rough shape.

As promised, just under five minutes later Bucky parks in front of a small trailer just outside the city limits of Valdosta. It's seen better days, but you don't mind as long as it has semi-functioning air conditioning.

Bucky is opening your car door and offering you a hand up before you can take in your surroundings. You force yourself out of your seat, ignoring his outstretched hand and attempting to stand on your own, doing your best to ignore the borderline blinding pain radiating from your right knee.

“Thanks, but I think I can–”

Your vision goes fuzzy as you stumble forward, right into Bucky's chest. Your hand instinctively clutches the fabric of his shirt as you attempt to regain your balance.

“Let me guess. You're capable of stitching up your own shoulder, too?”

He gently loops his arm around your waist, slowly walking the two of you to the front door of the trailer. You try to focus on keeping pressure on the gash on your shoulder and not the feeling of his toned body pressed against you. How does he smell so good after hand to hand combat and sitting in that sauna of a car? You're sure you probably smell like a wet diaper that's been left in the sun for–

Bucky opens the door and guides you inside. The interior of the safehouse is surprisingly homey and clean. It's still uncomfortably warm, but offers a nice reprieve from the violent mid-day sun.

Bucky leads you into the small living space before maneuvering you out of his hold, where you all but collapse onto a suede sofa.

“I guess you do have some amount of good luck, after all,” you mumble, wiping sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand.

“What are you talking about?” Bucky glances at you from over his shoulder as he flicks on the AC.

“That happening would indicate that I have any amount of good luck,” you quote his sarcastic comment from the car ride.

“Ha-ha-ha,” he fake laughs just as you did. He rummages through a few cabinets and drawers of the small kitchen before finding everything he’s searching for, then makes his way back to where you are on the couch.

“Drink this.” He hands you a bottle of water that you hadn't even noticed him grab. For once you don't object to his instructions, uncapping the bottle and gulping down the contents as quickly as you can.

“You're not having a heatstroke,” he assures you. “But you are going to have to let me stitch up this crater on your shoulder and pop your knee back into place.”

You sit forward, removing the now fully soaked cloth that you've been holding to your shoulder for the last half hour.

Bucky winces at the sight of it, handing you a dishrag before opening a bottle of rubbing alcohol. “You might want to bite down on–”

“I know the drill.” You sigh before putting the rag between your teeth.

He hesitates for a moment before pouring the clear liquid over the wound. You groan against the rag, your eyes squint shut in pain. You've had your fair share of broken bones and black eyes working in this field, but you don't think you'll ever get used to the pain of getting stitches without the comforts of saline solution and anesthesia.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, dabbing the cut dry with a paper towel.

Your heart skips a beat at the nickname. “It's part of the job. I've come out of missions worse than this before,” you shrug, squeezing the dish rag he gave you until your knuckles go white as he makes the first incision.

“Never because of me.”

You glance at him, taken aback by the sudden shift in his tone. His gaze doesn't leave the thread and needle that he's using to close up the gash on your arm - his normally plump pout set into a hard line.

“You know this isn't your fault, right?” You keep your eyes locked on him. “I saw that guy coming at you out of nowhere and I panicked. I wasn't watching my own back. That's my fault, not yours,” you say earnestly.

“If you say so.” He glances up for a split second, giving you a tight-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

“Is that why you've been such a grouch? You're blaming yourself for me not being careful enough?”

“Maybe,” he admits quietly. “Or maybe I just hate seeing you covered in blood for any reason.”

You freeze at the bluntness of his words. You and Bucky have been partners on more missions than you could count at this point - you know that he would have done the same for you if the situation had been reversed; in fact, there had been times where he had taken the brunt of the fight in order to protect you.

All of those instances suddenly flash through your mind.

The time he used himself as a human shield when there was a bomb set off during a recon mission at a warehouse in Tokyo. Or when he football tackled you out of the direct line of an incoming dagger during an operation in Portland. Not to mention the time he left a job all the way in Prague unfinished because he merely suspected you had a concussion.

You had always chalked it up to “that’s what partners do,” but the pained expression on his face as he refuses to meet your eyes has you questioning if there could possibly be more to it.

No. You’re his partner. He’d do the same for anyone else. He wouldn’t want to see anyone on his team covered in blood if he could prevent it.

The two of you sit in a thick silence while he finishes stitching you up.

“There,” he says at last, clipping the excess suture thread with scissors. “Not quite as good as your stitch work, but I think it’ll hold you together.” His voice isn’t as strained as it was moments ago, though you can't help but notice it sounds forced.

“Thank you,” you tell him, ignoring the way your cheeks warmed the tiniest bit at his compliment. “Now for the really fun part,” you add, staring at your throbbing knee.

“You’re in luck,” he says, perking up a bit. “I’ve popped my own knees back into place an embarrassing amount of times, so this should be a breeze.” He repositions himself to have better access to your leg, moving off the couch to perch on the edge of the coffee table in front of you. You attempt to pull the tight fabric of your tactical pants up enough to give him unhindered access to your knee, but it’s too restrictive, immediately causing you to wince in pain.

“Fuck,” you huff. “I’m going to have to take these off.” You pop the button at the top of your pants and begin to push them down your thighs before insecurity can get the better of you. You try not to think about the fact that Bucky's never seen you in such little clothing - pants now pushed down to your calves, only your underwear and the bra and thin tank top you wore underneath the tactical vest that you took off as soon as you were in the safety of the getaway car left to cover you.

Hesitation flashes across Bucky’s face for a brief moment before he scoots over slightly, moving directly in front of you so that he can position his hands on either side of your kneecap. You’re painfully aware of the polar opposite feeling of his right and left hand - his flesh hand is warm and so much softer than you’d expect, his metal one icy and smooth. You aren’t sure which causes the visible goosebumps that now litter your skin.

Maybe it’s not his touch at all. Maybe it’s the way his eyes haven’t left your thighs since you exposed them.

Maybe it’s the fact that if you parted your legs just a few inches, he’d be nestled between them.

Chill out, you berate yourself. He's just relocating your knee for Christ's sake.

“On the count of three,” he starts and you brace yourself. “One, two–”

“MOTHERFUCKER.” You yell out at the same moment your knee creates a loud cracking noise that echoes off the walls of the small trailer. “You said count of three!”

“Would that really have made it less painful?” He shrugs, but doesn't move from where his knees brush against yours. “I think what you mean to say is “thank you, Bucky, you're a lifesaver and I'm now in your debt.”

“In your fuckin’ dreams,” you scoff. “I'm going to wash all of this blood and sweat off of me.” You move to push yourself off of the couch, tugging your pants back up as you stand. You can feel his eyes trail up your body as you do, making you feel woozy all over again. You turn away from him, heading towards the hallway that the bathroom is likely located down.

“I could have done that through your pants, by the way.”

You freeze mid-step, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “What do you mean?” You snap at him.

“Your knee,” he clarifies, a hint of undeniable mischief in his expression. “I could have popped your knee back into place through your pants. If you wanted to take your pants off for me so badly, you could have just said so.”

Just when you thought the safehouse was starting to cool down, your entire body heats up a thousand degrees. You're racking your brain trying to think of a retort when Bucky's ringtone starts blaring from the kitchen countertop. He ignores it, his eyes not leaving yours for what feels like an eternity.

You finally break the silence. “That's most likely Sam wanting to make sure we're not dead. Should probably answer it.”

“Probably should,” he smirks, and at last gets up from the coffee table to answer the phone.

You scurry the rest of the way to the bathroom before he can look back at you again, ignoring the sharp pains that radiate from your ribcage and the now dull ache that spreads from your knee.

You turn the water to cold, and don't get out until you've started to shiver.

— — — — —

When you exit the bathroom and step back into the connected bedroom in only a towel, you see that Bucky has done you the kindness of bringing in the bags that had been stored in the backseat of the getaway car.

You dig through your backpack, pulling out a fresh t-shirt and pair of leggings. From the next room, you can smell the aroma of whatever non-perishable food that Bucky has scrounged together. Despite your growing hunger pains, you take your sweet time combing through your freshly rinsed hair. The thought of looking Bucky in the eye after your last interaction nearly makes you lose your appetite.

What was I thinking? Oh right, I wasn't thinking at all, otherwise I wouldn't have just pushed my fucking pants down right in front of–

“Your five course dinner is getting cold.” Bucky raps his fingers against the bedroom door, startling you from your thoughts.

“Be right there,” you call back to him, swiping some deodorant under your arms. You take a glance at yourself in the bedroom’s small vanity mirror and immediately wish that you hadn't – you're cleaner than you were by miles, at least no longer covered in your own blood as well as the blood of HYDRA agents – but your cheekbone is lightly bruised, there's a slit on your bottom lip, and the bags under your eyes make it look like you haven't had a decent night's sleep in a month.

You take a deep breath and then walk back to the one room that makes up the kitchen, dining area and living room.

“Beef or shrimp ramen?” Bucky asks as you climb onto one of the barstools on the opposite side of the counter from where he's standing.

“Hm,” you contemplate, not meeting his stare and instead occupying yourself with another bottle of water that he's placed where you now sit.

Fucker probably wouldn't fluster me so bad if he wasn't being so damn thoughtful.

“I'll go with shrimp,” you answer, remembering that beef is his favorite.

He slides the bowl across the counter and then hands you a fork. You finally get the nerve to look up and meet his stare that feels as if it weighs two tons.

“So, what did Sam say?” You try to go for light conversation, twisting the fork around your noodles. “Are we free to get out of here once it's dark out?”

“Not…quite,” he hesitates, now seeming particularly interested in his own food. “The car battery kind of died.”

“What do you mean the car battery kind of died?”

“While you were in the shower, I tried to move the car behind the house so that anyone driving by wouldn't immediately know that someone's here. It started fine, but as I was driving it around back it just.. stopped. Had to push it the rest of the way.”

You let out a dramatic groan as he continues.

“I called Sam again and he said the earliest they can send someone to get us is in the morning.”

“Well,” you exhale, blowing a raspberry with your lips. “We can flip a coin to see who gets the bed?” You ask lightheartedly. This isn’t the first time that you and Bucky have had an overnight mission together, but it is the first overnight mission where the two of you haven’t had your own motel rooms or at least a safehouse with two beds.

He looks at you quizzically, furrowing his eyebrows. “You really think there’s a chance of me making you sleep on the couch? In your condition?”

“My condition?” you laugh. “I’ve got a few stitches, I’m not dying of cancer.”

“You don’t think I’ve noticed the way it’s uncomfortable for you to inhale and exhale? You’ve probably got a couple fractured ribs with the way you landed on that cement. If not fractured, then at least heavily bruised. You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

Between his tone and the look on his face, you know it isn’t up for debate. You throw your hands up in faux surrender.

“Serving me instant ramen and letting me take the king sized bed?” you say teasingly. “Keep it up and I'm going to think that you're soft on me.”

His gaze on you is heavy as he takes a long sip of water from his own bottle. “Wouldn't that be a shame?”

— — — — —

The rest of the afternoon is spent with you lounging in bed, resting your injuries and reading some cheesy western romance novel that you found in the drawer of the bedside table.

Bucky keeps to the living room, where you hear a violent sounding movie playing from a TV that has to be as old as you are.

You tell yourself that you're staying in the bedroom because you need to take it easy and relax, but truthfully you feel suffocated by the tension that has been escalating between you and Bucky since you arrived here.

A certain level of tension had always been there, you knew deep down. From the first time the two of you met almost two years ago.

Bucky had been formally introduced to the team just a few weeks prior, and it was his first official mission. An undercover mission - just the two of you.

Posing as an engaged couple at a party thrown at the estate of a notorious crime boss in order to obtain intel. Pretty straight forward - it was far from your first undercover mission. And then it was sprung on you at the last minute that the man who you'd only met once, less than a month ago, was to be your fiancé for the evening.

The bastard even went as far as to slip the fake engagement ring on your finger himself.

“Natasha picked this out. She said it needed to be a princess cut, because that's what you like.”

You chuckled as he went to slide the rock onto your ring finger. “What? You're not going to get down on one knee?”

The mission went shockingly smooth, you and Bucky were in and out with the needed intel in just a few hours. But those few hours replayed in the back of your mind more often than you care to admit.

The way his arm stayed wrapped securely around your shoulder or waist the entire hour that you mingled as guests. How he pulled you into a slow dance to discuss the plan for sneaking into the study on an off-limits floor. The musky smell of his aftershave and the spearmint on his breath.

And especially the way he referred to you as his “bride” when introducing yourselves to people, on more than one occasion throughout the night.

“And who is this absolutely beautiful young woman on your arm?” an elderly man with eye boogers and booze on his breath asks Bucky.

“This is my bride,” Bucky introduces you, giving him your undercover name. “She is beautiful, isn’t she? Most beautiful woman here, if I do say so myself.”

Saying that Bucky played his part well that night would have been an understatement. Saying that he played his part scarily well would be a more accurate assertion.

After grabbing the intel and fleeing the scene, neither of you ever mentioned that mission again. Not the lingering touches, smoldering stares - not even the way he shoved you up against the wall of a corridor, cupped your face in his large hands, and kissed you senseless for half a minute when you came close to getting caught sneaking into the private office by security at the very end of the evening.

“Do you think that was believable?” he asks nervously, his hands still clutching your face as he looks around the hallway for any lingering guards.

“Ye-yeah,” you stutter breathily. “As believable as it possibly could be.”

There’s a light knock on the partially open bedroom door that draws you back to the reality of the safehouse. You realize that you’ve been staring at the same paragraph in your book for the last half hour.

"Yeah?” you answer, bringing yourself to a sitting position.

Bucky peaks his head around the door, opening it further so that you can see what he is carrying.

“I’m tired of watching old James Bond movies,” he sighs, glancing between you and the stack of board games in his arms. “I found these in the TV stand.”

“I kicked your ass in Battleship last time we played,” you remind him. “Do you really want a rematch of that?”

“How about we make a bet?”

— — — — —

Half an hour later, you've eaten your own words, now owing Bucky a large meat lovers pizza from his favorite parlor in Brooklyn and two weeks worth of laundry duty when you return to the compound.

“How'd you get so good?” you demand as he makes the winning attack. “You were so lame at this last time.”

“Maybe I just let you win last time,” he shrugs with a shit-eating grin.

You just shake your head in defeat, wincing as you stand up from where you had been playing on the shag area rug in the living room.

“No,” you declare firmly. “No, I don't believe that. There's no way you'd willingly let me win anything. I've learned that the hard way during hand to hand combat training way too many times.”

Bucky belly laughs from where he still sits on the floor, his gaze trailing after you.

You walk over to where he has piled the board games on the coffee table, trying to find something you were confident you could win.

Monopoly isn't fun with only two players, Risk takes too long —

Your eyes lock onto a card game peeking out from underneath the Sorry! box.

You pick it up, turning back to face him with a growing smile on your face.

“Absolutely not,” he says firmly. “I'm over a hundred years old–”

“What does age have to do with truth or dare?!” You exclaim, sitting back down on the floor once more.

“I haven't been roped into a game of truth or dare since the 1930's,” he groans.

“Scared of what you might have to do?” You tease, unboxing the cards. “Or what you might have to admit?”

He stares at you for a long moment, pursing his lips. The disapproval doesn't quite reach his eyes - you can tell by the way they gleam that he's going to cave.

“Maybe a bit of both,” he admits. He tousles his fingers through his hair and moves to cross his legs at the ankles. “Fine,” he relents. “One game.”

You squeal like a kid in a candy store as you shuffle the deck of cards and lay them in a stack between you.

“Elders first,” you motion to the pile.

He rolls his eyes, drawing one from the top – dare.

“Smell another player's armpit,” he deadpans. You're instantly thankful that you remembered to cram a stick of deodorant into your backpack when packing for the mission.

“Well?” You lift up your arm. “I'm the only other player here and it's not going to sniff itself.”

Bucky sighs, leaning across the game to put his nose directly next to the opening of your t-shirt sleeve. “Lavender,” he observes after inhaling, giving you an approving nod. “As far as dares go, I got lucky.”

“Lucky that I showered earlier,” you mumble as you draw your turn, your cheeks warming slightly.

Truth.

“Who was your last kiss with and what was it like?”

Your heart plummets to your stomach as you read the words aloud. Bucky waits impatiently as you fiddle with the piece of paper in your hands.

“Might I remind you, you are the one who wanted to play this game so desp–”

You hold up a finger and make a shushing sound, silencing him as he grins menacingly.

“My last kiss was almost two years ago,” you answer honestly, looking back down at the card to avoid his stare. He can always tell when you're lying, why even try?

“With a man I barely knew,” you continue. “We had to pretend to be in love for the evening. It was a shockingly easy thing to do. When he pushed me up against a wall and kissed me as a distraction to security guards, I had to remind myself that it was an act. We never spoke about it again. But now two years later, I'm telling him that I think of that kiss often.”

When you finally look up, you can't decipher the look on his face. Long gone is the mischievous grin from just moments ago, in its place is.. shock? Perplexity?

“And why exactly have you not kissed anyone else since then?” He asks quietly.

“Nope,” you say, popping your lips on the p. “That's not how the game works, you don't get to add sub-questions.”

His eyes don't leave yours as he draws his next card.

His turn for truth. He glances down to read his question.

“Have you ever wanted to have sex with any of the players?”

Forget your cheeks feeling warm - your entire body feels like it's on fire as you wait for him to answer.

He chuckles, tossing the card on top of the other two that had already been picked.

“Every goddamn day since I kissed her almost two years ago.”

You aren't sure which one of you snaps first. You lunge forward at the same moment that he's leaning across the splay of cards to grasp your face in his hands just like he did in that corridor two years ago. The same hint of spearmint on his breath, a bit more stubble on his jaw, and a sense of desperation that wasn't there before.

He moves his hands to your lower back, pulling you flush against him as you both sit on your knees. Your own hands find the hem of his shirt, your fingers dancing across the skin of his waistline.

“I asked you why you haven't kissed anyone since we last kissed,” he murmurs against your lips when he pulls away, both of you breathless. “You don't have to answer, but that..” his mouth moves to the side of your throat where he trails open-mouth kisses across the sensitive flesh of your pulse point.

“That's why I haven't kissed anyone else, either.”

A pathetic, small moan escapes past your lips at his admission. In a split second decision, you take control. You place your hands across his chest, pushing him down onto the shag rug that you'd been playing games on just moments ago. He lets himself fall back, pulling you with him.

You straddle him, positioning yourself directly on his already evident erection. You drag yourself forwards, and then backwards, desperate for friction - he groans beneath you, jutting upwards.

The fabric of your pants between you feels like a prison.

You scoot back a few inches - just far enough to give yourself enough room to unbutton his jeans.

“Wait, wait,” he stops you as you're about to begin pulling down his pants and underwear. You freeze, petrified that you've crossed a line–

“I haven't stopped thinking about having your thighs wrapped around my head since I saw them earlier,” he says as he hooks his hands around them and hauls you up to his chest. “Take these off and sit on my face.” He tugs on the waistline of your leggings.

“If you wanted me to take my pants off for you so badly, you could have just said so,” you echo his earlier teasing.

“I'm asking you now, sweetheart,” his voice has a strained edge to it. “Don't make me beg.”

Though the notion of him begging has wetness pooling down your thighs, you're too eager to entertain it.

You stand up, directly above him as he keeps his position on the floor. You shimmy your leggings down your thighs, this time completely removing them and tossing them somewhere behind you. He tugs his t-shirt over his head and throws it in the general direction of your discarded pants.

With you still standing above him, he leans forward so that his face brushes against the inside of your thighs. He brings his hands to the band of your underwear, hooking his fingers and slowly pulling them down until they're at your ankles.

You slip them off as he lays back down on the floor. A bit apprehensively, you sit so that your bare pussy is against his hard chest.

“Just stop me if it's too uncomfortable or if you can't breathe or any–”

He cuts you off by all but picking you up and hauling you up to his face.

“I wouldn't worry about that,” his voice vibrates against the flesh of your innermost thighs. He tugs you down just one more inch so that his mouth makes contact with your center.

You gasp out in pleasure as his tongue begins exploring your folds. There's no restraint about it - he sets a brutal pace, alternating between fucking his tongue into your cunt and sucking on your clit.

You're writhing above him, grinding your pussy against his mouth. You go to squeeze your breasts, pulling your t-shirt off when you realize it's the one clothing article you've yet to shed.

When he realizes that you're now completely naked above him, he lets out an animalistic groan as he laps a thick lick up your center.

The vibration, in addition to him now squeezing your ass with enough pressure that he's bound to leave behind fingertip shaped bruises, is enough to send you spiraling to your climax.

You involuntarily squeeze your thighs around his cheeks, riding out your orgasm as he continues to wrap his lips around your throbbing clitoris.

You go still for a moment, aside from your heaving chest, as you come back down to earth.

You climb off of him, your jellified legs nearly causing you to collapse onto the floor next to him.

He props himself up with one arm, looking down at you. His face is thoroughly glistening with your juices.

You can't help but think he's never looked hotter.

A proud grin begins to form across his features as you pull him down to you by the back of his neck.

You kiss him with as much feverency as you can muster in your post orgasm haze, tasting the semi-sweet tang of your come on his lips and tongue.

“It's your turn to get these off,” you demand, drawing back from the kiss to pull at the waistband of his pants.

“Can I at least take you to the comfy bed before this goes any further?” he bargains. “You are still recovering from multiple injuries, you know.”

“I can assure you that I've never felt better.” But you let him have his way. He stands before picking you up, lifting you so that you can wrap your legs securely around his midsection. His large hands planted firmly on your ass, he walks the short distance to the bedroom. Your nipples pebble as they press against his bare chest.

He gently places you on top of the comforter before standing back, at last removing his jeans and boxers. His cock springs forward, slapping against his lower belly.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight. If it had been a long time since you had been kissed, it had been even longer since you had been fucked.

He crawls onto the bed, hovering above where you lay. You automatically open your legs to allow him between them.

His eyes rake up and down your body, pausing on your breasts.

"You're goddamn stunning.”

Before you can respond, he's leaning down to capture one of your nipples in his mouth. Rolling it between his teeth, the sensation has you arching your back into his touch. You can feel the tip of his cock jutting against your core - teasing but not yet entering.

He starts to line himself up at your hole, his eyes locking onto yours as he pumps himself in his hand. He brings his lips down to yours, his tongue slipping into your mouth at the same moment he nudges his tip past your entrance.

There's a blissful burn as he cautiously buries himself inside you - you're simultaneously thankful that he's going slow and needing him balls deep. He pushes in, inch by inch, until you're filled to the hilt. When he can't get any deeper, he pulls back - and slams back into you all at once.

You swear you can feel him in your stomach. You look down at where your bodies connect, the sight of him sliding in and out of you enough to have you on the edge of climaxing again already.

He brings his metal hand to knead your breast.

"Do you have any idea how many times I've pictured having you under me like this?” He coos. You gyrate your hips to meet his thrusts, causing his eyes to roll back into his head.

“How many times I've thought about what your little moans would sound like?”

Your only answer is a gutteral moan of his name as you wrap your arms around him and dig your nails into the flesh of his back.

“Your pussy feels even more like heaven than I imagined it would.”

His praises send you over the edge - you're coming for a second time, clenching around him as his thrusts grow messy. He fucks you through your orgasm before he loses control himself, burying his face in the curve of your neck as he spills into you.

With you still panting and limp beneath him, his movements gradually come to a stop but he doesn't pull out - instead he flips you to your side and maneuvers himself into a spooning position behind you.

He peppers soft kisses along the skin of your shoulder, being careful to avoid your stitches, and relaxes beside you.

“Remind me to dislocate my knee more often,” you joke, processing everything that just happened.

He snorts, then tilts your head up to meet his gaze. “Remind me to play truth or dare with you more often.” He captures your lips in his, this kiss slower than any of the ones before.

“I guess it would be weird to make you do my laundry for two weeks now, huh?” He teases, earning a laugh from you.

“You do still owe me a pizza, but I'll be happy to share it with you.”

♡♡♡♡♡

my masterlist

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes one-shot #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #pvris #oil & water #oil & water by pvris #song fic

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serendipitous-girl · 4 months ago

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𝐢 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞

⊱✿⊰ summary: your family wants to protect you but its impossible with the life you all lead

⊱✿⊰ warnings: kidnapping, minor torture, it will be angsty, almost dying, spitting on your face, the joker deserves his own warning tbh

⊱✿⊰ notes: this is for skye because she wanted some angsty batfam stuff and here we are. I am just shitting on the page and hoping words form at this point. I hope you enjoy and feel free to send me requests. Also this is a platonic fic sorry if you were hoping for romance action

⊱✿⊰ tags: @kozumesphone @fizzywashere87 @fashionablysouly @witherwallflower @goldierey

@finleyforevermore @baecakie @gergthecat @mqstermindswift @anyas-shitposting69 (comment on this or send me an ask if you want to be added to my DC taglist)

"Well, well, well. Looks like baby bird got caged." The clown sneered, leaning close to your face. You scrunched your nose and tried to scoot away despite the ropes scratching your wrists raw.

The Joker's finger runs along your cheek, a horrific grin on his face as he stared at you. You tried to keep a brave face, you tried to act like the domino mask over your eyes was really a shield. You tried to act like your dad, Batman.

Maybe it was your fault you got kidnapped. He said you weren't ready to go out and patrol with your family, but you went away. You stole one of Damian's mask and put on the most costume adjacent clothes you owned.

"Where should I start, little one?" Joker asked, breaking your train of thoughts. Placing blame would be set for another time. Not now, its not time yet. "Should I give you a smile that matches mine? Should I turn you into a firey decoration before dear ol' daddy bat gets here?"

You winced, trying to prevent the ice filling your veins and the fear weighing your stomach down. The Joker grabbed a knife from his table that had numerous weapons littered on top. Carefully the cold metal of the blade brushed against your skin, not harsh enough to cut just yet. He wanted to scare you first.

•───────────•°•❀•°•──────────•

"I am going to kill that son of a bitch." Jason growled as soon as he heard the news. Bruce gathered the family in the batcave, and explained the Joker had kidnapped the youngest of the family- you.

"Jason, I understand your frustration but we can't act with haste. I won't let her face the same fate you did. I won't make the same mistake twice." Bruce replied, already dressed as Batman. He was doing his best to stay professional despite his fear being ever present.

"I don't want to wait too long either." Dick added, crossing his arms over his chest. Everybody was tense, wanting their sister to be safe once again.

"I'll find where that stupid clown is keeping [Name]." Tim said, standing up and rushing towards the computer before anybody could even reply. Barbara silently followed, knowing she would be the most help to Tim.

Bruce looked at all of his family and nodded, "We'll find her and get her back."

•───────────•°•❀•°•──────────•

Your throat was hoarse and tears had dried on your face. There was no point to fighting it anymore, you only hoped he would kill you soon.

"Aw but doesn't the bird look good with her wings marked?" The Joker chuckled, slicing yet another line into your arm. The cuts were deep, sure to scar, and they were deliberate. You could only guess what he was spelling on your arms.

With the amount of blood flowing down your arms like a red river, it was to no surprise you were fading in and out of consciousness. That would be nice, at least you wouldn't be awake while he tortured you.

You almost settled into the pain, eyes fluttering close to let yourself rest, when you heard a crash. Glass was broken and there was yelling everywhere.

The Joker grabbed your face with his hand and forced you to look forward, where you saw your family (the only thing disguising their horrified looks were their masks)

"Looks like they showed up in time for you, baby bird." He grinned, spitting on your cheek. You were too tired, too fragile to even bother being disgusted. It was better than the cutting.

"Let her go and I'll think about not crushing your head into the wall." Red Hood barked out, already aiming his gun at The Joker. You tried to pay more attention but you were fading slowly,, ready to force your body to rest.

The Joker dropped your body like it was nothing, your face smashing into the concrete. It hurt, pain forming in your forehead but it was a distraction from the blood oozing out of you.

Despite your best efforts, you finally blacked out. The last thing you saw was your family lunging at the Joker, rage thick in the air.

Light flooded your eyes, fresh air blasting your lungs. You were laying down on something soft and warm, contrasting against the mildly scratchy fabric on your skin. You blinked your eyes a few times, forcing them to focus despite the dull ache pounding in your head.

"You're awake." Damian said, apparently sitting beside you. It took a little while but you realized you were in the personal hospital at the manor. He had a few scratches and bruises but nothing as horrific as the scars on your skin (and in your brain.)

"Wha-what..happened?" You croaked, throat feeling like sandpaper. Like magic, Dick appeared with a glass of water you gratefully took. The liquid in your throat was almost heavenly in the way it made you feel infinitely better.

"The Joker kidnapped you and we rescued you." Your father explained calmly, not bothering to add details. Which was probably good for you, the devil's in details.

"I'm glad your back, sis." Jason said, making you suddenly aware of his presence in the back of the room. Your entire family seemed to be in here, ready to see your betterment. Despite he general aversion to touch, Jason wrapped you into a hug.

Of course, everybody else joined in (forcefully or not) for a big group hug. You laughed, despite the hollow of your heart, watching as Tim was pushed into the hug by Dick.. It was ridiculous having a group hug after a traumatic event...how family sitcom could you get?

But somehow, it felt good to be in the arm's of your family. It felt like home.

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lesbianralzarek · 1 year ago

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tumblr in reddit terms

blogs: personal subreddits where the theme/topic is 99% of the time just “me and whatever the hell i feel like at the moment”. for reference, the most common other theme rn is “wizard roleplay that never breaks character”

reblogs: crossposts. these are crucial to maintaining tumblr’s ecosystem. due to blogs generally having fewer followers than subreddits have subscribers, this is the way that posts get seen and passed around. the vast majority of posts on a person’s blog tend to be reblogs, so if the people you follow dont reblog a whole lot, your dashboard is gonna be a ghost town. post limit (combined total of reblogs and original posts per day) is 250, so feel free to go hog wild

tags: this one is complicated. theyre a combination of flairs and Comments But Low-key. you can use them for organization and to avoid seeing content you dont want to (go to your blog, settings, account settings, content you see, and then add tags you want tumblr to warn you about before seeing it). if op tags the post #reddit (in the tags, not the body of the post), itll show up in the #reddit tag when anyone searches that tag. tags are also used for comments that dont really add anything to the post. you know how a jpeg gets kinda gross when its been through a million screenshots and has ifunny watermarks and shit? thats what adding “lmao same” as a comment does to a post. comments stay on reblogs, while tags show up in 4 places: op’s notifications, the notifs of whoever you reblogged it from, when someone clicks on the “notes” button of a post and actively looks for the tags left on it, and when people view your specific reblog of the post (like a follower would on their dashboard)

likes: upvotes but weaker. almost everyone turns off all the algorithms (settings, account settings, dashboard preferences, toggle off the first 3 options. also, make sure your dashboard is on "following" and not "for you". this is highly recommended), so leaving a like doesnt boost the post in any way. they still matter to some people. you can also use them to bookmark a post and go back to your likes later

enthusiastic and/or hyperbolic tags: reddit gold. you wanna let op know you like their art? leave something like ”#printing this out and stapling it to my forehead #op you wanna get married?” in the tags

pornbots: both reddit and tumblr have an issue with them. we block and report them on sight. they usually have hot women as their icons, no posts or reblogs, and a description like “22, brazil, nurse <3″. try to not look like that if you dont wanna get blocked by everyone you follow

blocking: you have this as well, but it seems like a bigger deal on reddit. the reason we are not twitter is because we block bitches who annoy us and move on with our day. do not feed the trolls

things we dont have:

karma: clout-chasing is The Most embarrassing thing you can possibly do on this site. we are all in this circus together and the clown who gets the most laughs is still a clown. popular users will literally deactivate sometimes because clout is a burden. no one here makes money

#reddit #reddit migration #tumblr guide #lemme know if you have any questions btw. happy to help

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arts-bloody-rose · 19 days ago

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Blood of A Rose - One of A Kind (Art the Clown x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Summary - After having been together in their unspoken relationship for some time, (Y/n) suggests that they have their own first date.

Notes - Y’all I’m alive 🤚🏻 This is for a request from @odditycircus-2002 asking for a date night between this beautifully twisted couple 💕

Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list or have a request!

Word Count - 2,739

Warning(s) - Art honestly, violence, minor gore

Song Inspiration -

Matt Maltese - As the World Caves In

(Y/n) stood next to her bed at her house, folding her laundry while Art was curled up on top of the sheets across from her. Only the lamp on one of her nightstands was lit, casting a warm and dim glow over the room. Soft music filled the room, creating a calmer atmosphere as they soaked in each other’s presence.

Art’s eyes traced her every movement, fascinated by how meticulous she was with such a simple task.

As she grabbed her clothes that were put on hangers and opened the larger wardrobe to put them away, she eyed the clothes inside. There wasn’t an overwhelming amount, but there was enough for every occasion. Though she never participated in such occasions. As she hung up the last article of clothing, she was struck with an idea.

“Hey, Art?” The clown perked up at her delicate voice. “I was wondering about something.” (Y/n) continued as she finished putting away the rest of her clothes in her dresser.

Art sat up enthusiastically, hands folded in his lap with his legs outstretched in front of him as he grinned in anticipation.

She smiled in adoration at his behavior. “What if we had a special night together?” (Y/n) asked timidly, moving to straddle his lap and began to fiddle with his ruffle collar.

Art’s expression was thoughtful. Curious, yet it held a sense of confusion.

“I don’t mean what we usually do. I mean just us… going out and enjoying each other’s company.”

Art gave her an almost offended expression, motioning between the two of them and then holding his hands up in question with a level of sass.

“Listen!” (Y/n) giggled and placed her hands against his chest.

Art crossed his arms, leaning in with his ear impatiently.

“I mean like a date.”

His expression turned into surprise, hands coming up to his cheeks.

“We can go out and grab some good food, watch a movie together.” (Y/n) continued persuasively, reaching to take his hands and held them together in front of her. “I can dress nice and pretty for you.”

Art looked her up and down seductively, wiggling his eyebrows as his tongue peeked out between his teeth.

“We’ll see.” (Y/n) chuckled. “Does that sound good to you though?” She asked seriously, thumbs brushing the back of his gloved hands. He nodded eagerly and she leaned in to kiss the tip of his nose. “Good. Tomorrow then.”

In her small, dimly lit room, (Y/n) stood in front of her dresser, carefully applying her makeup in front of the mirror hung above it. Music hummed in the background, giving her a boost of confidence as she stood back and admired her more gussied-up appearance. Her reflection was striking yet soft, a haunting beauty.

The personification of her work.

The air smelled faintly of old paint, charcoal, and the earthy scent of the countless roses and odd trinkets Art had collected for her over time. But there was also a new scent that clung to the air; the smell of her perfume that she kept for special occasions such as this.

A small smile played at her lips as she thought of him. How he’d watched her work in silence, eyes gleaming with admiration, his chilling presence somehow making her feel seen and safe. She felt his encouragement in ways no one else could understand.

(Y/n) pulled herself from her thoughts and took a deep breath. It was their first official date, and she wanted to look perfect for him in her own way. Wanted the experience to be perfect in their own way.

She reached for a necklace Art had gifted her; a small, golden locket with a delicate engraving of a thorny rose. Inside was a piece of paper, a drop of both his and her own blood dried into it - a blend that was terrifying and alluring, representing their unspoken vows to each other.

She fastened it around her neck, letting it rest close to her heart.

A knock on her door brought her out of her thoughts, sending a flutter through her chest, settling into her stomach as nerves began to set in.

The knocking turned into impatient pounding and (Y/n) took one last look in the mirror, feeling a surge of butterflies that she only ever felt when she was with him.

She opened the door to find Art standing there in his signature outfit, his face painted with that wild, almost taunting grin. There was one subtle change to his attire, however.

At the base of his neck sat a simple black bow-tie. And it oddly fit into his usual monochromatic look.

When she met his eyes, his expression softened - just slightly - when he saw her, as if she were his masterpiece.

He didn’t need words to express himself, his eyes saying all that she needed to know.

Perfection.

There was no need for small talk or pleasantries; they shared a quiet understanding, a mutual appreciation for the darkness they both embraced.

“Hey.” (Y/n) nearly whispered abashedly, hands fidgeting in front of her as she burned under his gaze.

Art’s head suddenly shook, knocking him out of his frozen state and snapping to attention with a wide grin. He playfully adjusted his bow-tie, then bowed low, holding his hand out to her dramatically as he held eye contact.

(Y/n) giggled and delicately placed her own into his palm, watching as he began to kiss it, slowly working his way up her arm before finally landing on her cheek.

Her cheeks reddened as his hand still held onto hers, then linked their arms together and led them out of their hideout.

The streets of the city lay quiet beneath the shroud of night. Beneath the glow of scattered streetlights, accompanied by the eerie stillness of their surroundings, it felt like a hidden stage set just for them. The night’s chill bit at her skin, though she didn’t mind. It was refreshing, almost calming, matching the small flickers of excitement she felt in Art’s strange company.

Even then, she simply stepped closer to him, practically molded into each other as they strolled towards the town.

It felt odd seeing Art out and about without his bag, and even weirder for himself as it felt like a piece of himself was missing. But as strange as it seemed, he agreed not to bring it for the sake of their experience.

Beside him, (Y/n)’s heart fluttered as she snuck glances at the man she called her own. She could burst with tears, break down in front of him and fall to her knees with praise and pronounce her undying love in cliche romance.

But she could only stare.

And for the first time, Art nearly felt an unfamiliar flutter in his own stomach as he, too, snuck glances at the woman beside him. His grin was plastered, unwavering and unreadable to anyone who saw it. But inside, behind his stone-cold eyes, he was more confused than ever before as his chest threatened to twist itself at the sight of her.

As they approached a rather new take-out restaurant on the edge of the city, (Y/n) wondered if he’d even be interested in a simple meal. Art’s appetite, she suspected, leaned more towards the bizarre, but he seemed to humor her. He cocked his head, miming curiosity in her culinary interests, his odd, silent laughter filling the spaces between her nervous suggestions.

Art nodded in agreement and patted her hand, remaining outside while she went in to order.

Following a few moments deliberation over the menu, she chose a few dishes she thought might suit both of their tastes. Anything with rich flavors, meats, and smoky spices, all packed neatly in small cardboard boxes.

After what felt like an eternity, Art jumped when he heard yelling from inside the building and busted through the door, figure tense and expression twisted into violent determination.

Behind the counter, (Y/n) pulled out a pen from a man’s jugular, a bag of food sat on the counter beside them. Blood spewed out of his neck as he held his hand over the wound, gargling for help and collapsing onto the floor.

Art immediately relaxed, watching as she tossed the pen onto the counter and finally looked over at him with an indifferent expression. She huffed and rounded to the other side, grabbing the bag of food with her clean hand and making her way over to him.

Art crossed his arms and tapped his foot, looking at her impatiently. When she reached him she casually wiped off the blood on her hand onto his suit as he rubbed at his stomach with a frown.

“Trust me, I’m hungry too.” Art pointed at the counter in question. “He called me a slut.” (Y/n) pouted.

Art took her wrist and lowered it, eyes set on where the still-gargling man was before making his way over to him.

“Art, I thought we were hungry.” She practically whined as she watched him disappear behind the counter as he crouched down to the man.

(Y/n) sighed and took a seat in one of the booths, picking at her fingers as she waited for him to finish.

Eventually, they left the faint glow of the restaurant with food in hand and strolled towards a cemetery just down the road that they had passed.

The night felt alive in that stillness, and (Y/n) found herself unwinding in ways she never did around others, and the same seemed to occur with the notorious clown.

The iron gates creaked as Art swung them open with a flourish, bowing theatrically as (Y/n) stepped through. Her cheeks warmed, and she smiled shyly, clutching the take-out bag. They found a secluded spot under an ancient oak tree, far enough from the main path to avoid anyone who might’ve been around.

Taking their seats, they ate in companionable silence, Art gleefully tearing into his food with exaggerated enthusiasm, each bite accompanied by silent laughs and approving nods. (Y/n) found herself chuckling, feeling at ease as she nibbled at her food.

There was something strangely poetic about it, about their peaceful picnic among the tombstones, two souls savoring the comfort of isolation in a world that rarely understood them.

At some point, (Y/n) set down her food, watching Art as he looked down at his food while he ate, behavior deceptively innocent when he looked up and around every now and then with wide and curious eyes.

Her own turned to look at the tombstones with a kind of reverent curiosity. Her mind began turning, imagining stories for each name etched in stone. She leaned back against the oak before speaking.

“Do you ever wonder what they’d think of us?” she asked, motioning to the graves. “Sitting here, sharing a meal. As if… we’re normal people.”

Art cocked his head, his silent laugh haunting but surprisingly warm. He raised his hand, pointing a gloved finger at her before tapping his own chest and waved his hand. He found amusement in the thought of two misfits being perceived as ‘normal’, finding solace where others might see only fear or strangeness.

(Y/n)’s smile softened. She felt understood, and that feeling lingered in her chest like a fragile ember, warming her.

She looked back out at the tombs, scanning over them before she found one she thought was particularly amusing. She nudged Art with her shoulder as she chuckled.

“Look at that one.” She pointed and Art squinted to read it.

Guess I have tomorrow off. The epitaph read.

Art nodded and held his stomach in laughter, (Y/n) joining him as she held onto him with her head on his shoulder as she cackled and wheezed.

Art popped up at the new sound, pointing at her and impossibly laughing even harder as he watched her cover her mouth in embarrassment.

Her hand lazily slapped at his arm. “Asshole!” She choked out as she struggled to catch her breath. Art wiggled his eyebrows and used his fingers to tell her for shame.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes as their laughter died, moving to stand as Art stood quickly beside her. He pushed her back down and she collapsed back into her spot, looking up at Art with an offended expression.

Her expression flattened when he brushed himself off and held out his hand in a gentlemanly manner.

(Y/n) clicked her tongue and reluctantly took it, then shrieked when she was suddenly yanked up and collapsed into his chest.

She looked up at him and he gazed at her promiscuously, looking her up and down. (Y/n) swatted at his chest, then pulled away to pick up their mess and tossed it into a trash bin as they left hand-in-hand.

When they entered her house, (Y/n) pulled off her shoes and made her way to the couch, Art trailing closely behind her. She grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, clicking through until she found a slasher film that she thought he would enjoy.

“Have you had ice cream before?” She asked him curiously as she walked to the kitchen. She looked back to see him shaking his head. “You want to try some?”

Art grinned excitedly and rubbed his hands together, shoulders hunched as he creeped over to where she stood at the fridge.

He watched as she pulled out a tub of neapolitan ice cream, followed by two bowls, spoons and an ice cream scooper. When she opened the tub, he eyed it for a moment before he dug his finger into the chocolate portion and brought it to his nose to smell it.

(Y/n) watched him with a small frown, raising an eyebrow at him. He finally ate it off of his finger, and with it still in his mouth, his eyes widened.

Art suddenly snatched the tub, knocking over a bowl in the process, and practically trotted over to the couch to plop down onto it.

“Hey!” (Y/n) tried, but he ignored her and simply dug into the ice cream with his fingers.

She sighed and crossed her arms, contemplating before she grabbed one of the spoons and rolled her eyes. She couldn’t help the giggle that slipped past her lips, giving up on the irritation and instead finding his behavior adorable.

She met him at the couch and curled up next to him, starting the movie before she became too comfortable. She was careful as she scooped her own ice cream, mindful of where his fingers touched to not get any of the grime that inevitably contaminated it.

As the movie played, (Y/n) would be lying if she said she was paying attention to it. Truthfully, she was more so focusing on his reactions, however minuscule they were.

Despite his sadistic behavior, he seemed so innocent in this state. Almost childlike with the tub of ice cream in his lap, coating his fingers and lining his mouth as his wide eyes took in what played before them. He laughed whenever someone was murdered, but that was only to be expected from him.

She chuckled softly to herself, grabbing a napkin from the coffee table in front of them once he set the now nearly empty tub aside. (Y/n) waited patiently as he licked at his fingers until they were nearly pristine before she wiped at his mouth. He flinched at first with a frown, throwing her a side-eye, but eventually gave in.

When finished, she fully snuggled into him, Art reaching an arm around her to pull her closer and resting his head on top of her own.

As he watched the movie, she closed her eyes, closely listening to the rhythm of his heart. She noticed how it picked up with his laughter, with his anticipation before the next kill. How it slowed during the more calm scenes of the film.

Before she knew it, she had fallen asleep. And when the movie ended, Art went to slap her thighs in his enjoyment for what he watched, but stopped himself when he noticed her peaceful form wrapped around him.

His mouth formed an ‘o’ and he looked around, wondering what to do. Art then relaxed his face with content, shimmying to get himself comfortable before he closed his eyes alongside her.

Tag List: @callsignwidow @hoe-for-daddywise

#art #art the clown #art the clown x reader #damien leone #david howard thornton #terrifier #terrifier 2 #x reader #blood of a rose #fanfiction #david howard thornton x reader #terrifier 1 #terrifier x reader #terrifier 3 #franchise #slashers #slasher movies #art x reader #fanfic

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turtletaubwrites · 5 months ago

Text

Numbers Game ~ Part 28

Just Daydreams Now

Pairings: Cross Guild Polycule x Fem!Reader x Shanks

Numbers Game Masterlist

Word Count: 6934

Ao3 Link

Ongoing Series Playlist: Youtube Music Link | Youtube Link

Summary: You spend the morning with Uncle Cedrick while Buggy listens in. The rest of your lovers aren't used to feeling helpless.

Author's Note: Hi! I've been nervous to give more backstory since we're all here for our big baddies, but I hope you enjoy learning a bit more about our Numbers Girl!

Alternate POV Symbols:

!!! SPOILER WARNING !!! Fic contains spoilers for the end of the Wano arc

Rating/Warnings: Author May Choose to Exclude some Warnings to Avoid Spoilers for Certain Chapters, Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, Use of Y/N, Dark Content, Blood & Violence, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Dissociation, Grief, Swearing, Alcohol, Cigars, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Guilt, Drama, Jealousy, Manipulation, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Cross Guild boys are VILLAINS, Anal, Possessive Behavior, Teasing, Threats, Face Slapping/Hitting, Relationship Drama, Scratching, Inappropriate Use of Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit Powers, Shameless Shameless Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

It’s cold.

The cold turned cruel the moment you woke, remembering why there were no warm bodies surrounding you.

That wasn’t real. Just pretend.

Back to your boring life.

“Good morning, Miss Sylvad,” an unpleasantly cheerful servant greeted you. They'd barged into your quarters after a single, patronizing knock, proceeding to hang a few dresses on the coat rack, fluffing the skirts before eyeing your hair. “Your uncle has requested your presence at breakfast, so I have prepared–”

“I can dress myself.”

Their eyes widened for just a split second, so very good at their job.

Can't manage rich pieces of shit like me if you remind us that you're a real fucking person.

“Of course, Miss Sylvad, but if I may–”

“You can report that I refused your assistance. I’m sure you’ll have someone waiting in the hall to show me where to go?”

“Yes, Miss Sylvad,” they nodded, brows creasing just enough for you to know they had a thought, but not enough to know what kind. You stared at the door when they left you alone, and almost screamed for them to return, just to have something else to focus on besides the empty bed. Heat climbed up your throat, but the thought of crying more tears after how many you’d drained last night made you want to stop breathing.

The thought of Uncle Cedrick seeing you cry was enough to pull you in, emptiness radiating from you like twisted heat.

That silver chain seemed to pull at your restless fingers, and you couldn’t decide if it made you more or less likely to cry if you carried it with you.

You carried it with you.

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🐊🤡🔴🗡️~~~

“The locket,” Crocodile breathed, his soothing hand halting its movement down Buggy’s legs.

“You can hear her,” Mihawk praised. His voice was unbelieving, almost reverent.

“Buggy, you’re brilliant,” Shanks laughed, leaning in to kiss his clown.

“SHUT UP!!”

The clown’s three lovers jolted at his yell, watching his face crumple while he curled in on himself.

“I need to listen,” Buggy muttered as he shoved a finger in his remaining ear. “Gotta make her stop crying. Gotta stop…”

Looks were shared between his old enemies, their gentle hands unable to stop the flow of tears that stained that colorful face.

~~~

“Buggy, you need to sleep,” Shanks pleaded, pulling him back against his chest. The three men curled around him on that giant bed, yet no word or touch seemed to calm their clown. Shanks held his lover from behind, wishing that he could wrap around him completely, protect him from all this pain.

“Have to listen,” Buggy almost whined, exhaustion dripping from him.

Mihawk was afraid to reach out, as though his toxic touch could somehow sever that precious connection, somehow tear her from Buggy, yet again. He faced the clown as they laid on that glorious bed, this man that he’d ridiculed, tortured, abused…

I don’t deserve–

Crocodile disrupted Mihawk’s self pitying thoughts, reaching around his body to touch Buggy’s face, brushing that pretty, blue hair aside.

“We’re here, Buggy. We’ll help you. We’ll get her back.”

“She needs you to sleep now, baby,” Shanks whispered along Buggy’s ear.

“Thank you for helping her,” Mihawk choked, that broken sound bringing the clown back to the room for a moment.

He found golden eyes struggling to meet his gaze, and silver eyes staring as Crocodile hugged the quivering swordsman from behind.

“I can’t help her. I can’t do anything,” Buggy rasped, his mouth dry as too many hands reached for him again.

“You’re going to save her, Buggy,” Mihawk vowed, tracing fingers along his face, through tears and faded paint. “We’re going to help you. You have my word.”

Y/N’s sobs had slowed and quieted by now, fitful breathing letting him know that she was moving toward sleep.

All alone. She’s…

Mihawk’s dangerous fingers trailed over his lips, those deadly eyes wider and softer than he’d thought possible.

“Thank you, Buggy.”

This wasn’t the sort of kiss Buggy was used to, at least not from anyone besides Shanks and his star.

It was just a kiss.

Just a bare touch of lips that asked nothing of him. The swordsman kissed him, then cuddled against his chest, his scent and warmth finally slowing the clown’s breathing.

Buggy fell asleep to the sound of her beating heart, while laying in this bed that felt empty, even with the four bodies upon it.

I’m listening, star. I’m listening…

~~~🐊🤡🔴🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

Gods, he could listen to himself talk all fucking day.

It seemed that Uncle Cedrick had called you in just to spout nothingness, blabbing about his recent deals, and “charity” ventures that were nothing more than ego boosts and tax write offs.

Kill me now.

“What was that, niece?”

An exhausted laugh escaped your lips, and you had to fight yourself not to give in to your useless desires to insult, to scream, to hurt.

Now that he wasn’t restricted by the Cross Guild’s security regulations, Uncle had his personal guards trailing him everywhere, even on his own ship.

Pathetic.

“I do hope that your time as a hostage to pirates wasn’t traumatic enough to make you lose your sense of propriety.”

“Is that the party line, Uncle,” you sniffed, forcing another bite down. You wouldn’t let yourself be any weaker than you were, no matter how ashy the expensive food tasted. “Should I prepare a statement? Practice my crocodile tears?”

“Very funny,” he frowned, setting down his silverware to give you his full, disparaging attention. “Luckily, the people aware of your recent hobbies have a vested interest in keeping that knowledge close to the chest. But yes, if anyone asks, you were kidnapped by the clown, and held for ransom. I, of course, found and rescued you before they could– Well, that leads to our other concern…”

“And what would that be, uncle,” you scowled while you pictured all of the ways your daydreams could have killed him.

The smile that tugged at his sneering lips almost had you spilling what little breakfast you’d managed to eat.

“You did say you were ready, Y/N,” he gloated, dabbing nothing from his face with his embroidered napkin. “It’s time for you to get married.”

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🤡🤡🤡~~~

Buggy woke in a panic, already hearing Y/N’s voice. Her annoyance at some stranger wanting to dress her made him want to flay that person alive. The clown ignored everyone, everything in his path, until he tore through the old suite he’d shared with her.

His star had barely brought a thing with her when she joined him. Lingerie and birth control, some expensive, but mismatched clothes, and of course, her notebooks, pens, and an old calculator.

Why didn’t I see you were running from something, baby? I’m so–

“How is–”

“SHUT UP!”

Three, dangerous men hovered by the door like strays begging for scraps. The clown would have laughed at that pathetic picture if it hadn’t shown just how fucking helpless they were to save her right now.

“She’s talking to Uncle AssHat. Close the fucking door,” he ordered, cracking open one of her empty notebooks to feel like he was doing any fucking thing to help her. Her pretty pen scratched away at the page. Something about party lines, kidnapping, and…

“It’s time for you to get married.”

The fuck?!

“Don’t worry, niece,” that fucking sleezeball continued, “it’ll still be your choice. Your mother will be thrilled to help you prepare to meet your suitors. It’s been too long since you’ve taken this seriously.”

“No. Nononono, star! This is stupid,” Buggy whispered, dropping her pen as his fingers tapped along his thighs.

“My choice,” she said with a dark laugh, clearing her throat to clear it away. “When does the parade of boredom begin?”

Pride for her attitude was sunk by the realization that she hadn’t argued, hadn’t resisted with anything more than her snark.

“Come now, Y/N, not everyone can be as interesting as the mass murderers you’ve been bedding down with lately.”

Buggy held his hand over his mouth, the angry beat of her heart sending sick fear straight through him. Sweat poured through the muted paint he hadn’t removed the night before.

“You have put us in quite the predicament, niece,” Cedrick paused, and Buggy couldn’t hear past that frantic beat to know what else might be happening in the room. “When all you were doing was playing at being poor, I didn’t see the harm in letting you wait. Now that you’ve shown the outlandish, dangerous situations you’ll put yourself in, I can’t risk you destroying the family’s reputation.”

Why aren’t you saying anything, baby? Your heart…

“We'll have to wait at least a month, I’d say. Can’t allow people to question where any new little heirs might have come from. Although, if anything pops out with a fucking clown nose, we’ll just have to send it–”

“Fuck you.”

Buggy had stopped breathing, trying to wake himself the fuck up from this piece of shit dream.

“You can’t expect me to have any sympathy for those freaks. Not when you didn’t even trust them yourself,” Sylvad laughed, smug and shitty. “I watched you lie to them, niece. Don’t pretend they were anything real to you. Just a little adventure for an attention-seeking–”

“Shut up,” Y/N seethed, though it was too quiet.

Star…

“You never trusted those criminals, not for a second,” AssHat kept gloating. Buggy was about to explode with the need to stab this man in the fucking throat. “Don’t lie to yourself. You didn’t tell them the truth, because you know exactly what they would do to you if they found out.”

Her heart was too much, it didn’t sound right.

This couldn’t be right.

“Arbo Sylvad’s little heiress only inherits her daddy’s wealth when she gets married,” Sylvad mocked, each new word like rotten food forced down Buggy’s throat. “And her lucky spouse gets their own hefty chunk of the company as soon as the vows are sealed. Which one of your pirate lovers do you think would have won the fight? I bet the swordsman would have–”

“You won,” his star growled, the sound forced as though her teeth were clenched. “I’m here, so why don’t you shut the fuck up already?”

“Don’t be so tense,” that asshole chuckled, voice a bit louder as though he’d leaned toward her. “You’ll have over a month until the wedding to pick your favorite suitor. You should be grateful, Y/N. It’s a lot more generous than I should be, given the damage you could have caused.”

“Fine.”

Buggy had forgotten that he existed. His head was in his hands, his eyes wide and dry while he gaped at the floor. Pieces of his body were scattered, but he couldn’t fucking feel a thing.

“I’m certain we’ll find a suitor that you’ll be content with,” her uncle needled, that saccharine voice making the clown gag. “Besides, something good came from this little tantrum of yours. Now that I know my pretty niece prefers men my age, I’ll be setting you up with some friends of mine. They’ve been asking about you for years. I’m sure that at least one of them will let you call them da–”

Her heart.

Her rage.

A crash of noise shook the clown to his core. Y/N’s yells, broken glass, and “soothing” voices, did nothing to drown out that fucker’s smug laughter.

All Buggy could do was try not to die.

~~~🤡🤡🤡~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🐊🔴🗡️~~~

Helpless.

Sir Crocodile.

Dracule Mihawk.

Red Haired Shanks.

Each of them was helpless, useless, pathetic.

They couldn’t help Y/N, and now they couldn’t help their clown, the only one of them that had held themselves together for her.

Crocodile huffed a laugh at the thought while he lit a cigar. Breakfast was a discarded concept as these three, powerful pirates moped in the lounge.

“We have an in,” Shanks soothed the air, since no words could be soothing to the two men on the too empty couch.

“Yes, astounding work retrieving a business card,” Mihawk snarked, his head leaning back against the couch while he clenched his eyes shut, fighting the urge for violence. “I wasn’t aware that you had such impressive networking skills. I would have—“

“Don’t be a brat,” Crocodile purred, drawing the other men’s eyes to his. “We can let out steam later. Right now—“

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Shanks stared.

And stared.

“You alright, Red Hair?”

Crocodile frowned at his enemy, letting it go. Letting it go for the two men he wanted to see happy again.

Letting it go for the sweet girl that just might need this man’s help.

Well, he tried to let it go…

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry,” Shanks shook himself, absolutely fucking bewildered by everything he’d witnessed since he stepped foot on this island. “Buggy’s right, though. We can’t go until we know she’ll want us to. It’s up to Buggy.”

“Can we at least plan out all the pretty ways we can end that Mr. Sylvad,” Mihawk sighed as he turned, stretching his legs across the couch, and over Crocodile’s lap.

“I’m partial to gutting,” Crocodile gave the swordsman a tiny smile, laying that large hand onto those leather clad legs.

Shanks frowned at the green couch, and at the men flirting over the topics of torture and death.

“I’ve got a headache,” he groaned, covering his eyes.

“There’s more scotch on the bar,” Crocodile jerked his head, ignoring the rest of the trashed room. “I’ll take a glass.”

The red haired pirate laughed, pouring peaty glasses all around.

“Good morning.”

~~~🐊🔴🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🤡🤡🤡~~~

Why are you so quiet, star?

Her heart got slower as that shithead’s laughter faded into the distance. Too many, “right this way, Miss Sylvad’s,” made him feel spun around, until a door shut, and quiet took over.

“Fucking stupid,” Y/N berated herself, quiet thuds making Buggy cringe, the sound as though she’d hit the meat of her thighs before falling to her knees.

Baby, let me help you…

Sick laughter bubbled up, just enough to freeze the blood in his veins, though she choked it down fast. Near silent whispers left her lips in a panicked slur, and Buggy curled in on himself, too weak for this torture.

“Don’t show it. Don’t let him see. Just daydreams now, just daydreams. Daydreams are good. Just…”

Her body drifted further and further away with each moment on that asshole’s ship, yet Buggy felt like they were inches apart, crumpled on the floor while broken sounds left both of their throats.

“Why didn’t you trust me, star,” the clown cried, reaching for her, finding nothing. “Why did you leave me?”

“Buggy…”

His eyes flew open, forgetting that she wasn’t here, that she couldn’t hear him when she whispered his name. He listened while his pretty star sobbed, until her breathing stopped being human.

~~~

Buggy had to be in a fucking nightmare. Nothing made any fucking sense anymore.

He snatched the notebook and pen, racing to the lounge with a finger in his ear to keep track of her soft, wounded noises. He charged into the room, his upper body floating close enough to smell the foul stench of Crocodile’s scotch, like a noxious cloud over the too relaxed men.

Crocodile gazed at Mihawk, rubbing along his calves and feet where the swordsman had laid them in his lap, his extravagant boots tossed to the side of the couch.

Shanks was on the floor, leaning against the couch in front of the swordsman, sighing while dangerous fingers played in his hair.

“Buggy,” Mihawk breathed, looking genuinely pleased to see him.

“What the FUCK are you idiots doing?”

“Waiting for you, little clown,” Crocodile rasped, patting the back of the couch between him and the swordsman.

“Did you hear something, Buggy,” Shanks breathed, sitting forward to reach his hand out. Soft, brown eyes scanned the clown too deep.

Buggy’s need to scream at someone fizzled out, the looks on their faces reminding him that he wasn’t the only one that wanted to save her.

“She’s gonna get married.”

~~~🤡🤡🤡~~~

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🌲🌲🌲⏰~~~

“I love you, Y/N,” your first love purred, kissing his way up your neck until he smiled down at you.

He didn’t wait for you to respond, just tasted your frozen lips, bringing his hands back down your body until you sighed.

“Don’t tease—“

“I’m not teasing,” he vowed, trapping you in his joyful gaze. “I love you! I’ve loved you for ages, you big nerd!”

“Hey,” you laughed, skin going hot while you tried to cover your face. He wouldn’t let you, lips pressing against every bit of burning skin he could reach while you squirmed.

“I’ll go anywhere with you, Y/N. Your uncle’s stuffy mansion, your tiny, shitty dorm room, we can even run away and change our names. Just as long as it’s you and me…”

“Really,” you asked, not meaning to sound so lost.

“Really,” he promised, stealing your heart. “Do you love me too?”

“I do,” you breathed, tearing your chest wide open for him. “I love you.”

~~~⏰🌲🌲🌲⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

I’m fine.

It was easier to lie to yourself when you remembered your new personal guards outside the door.

More like prison guards. My other cage was prettier.

Biting down on your fist, you fought to silence anymore laughter that could mark you as wrong. You needed to get your shit together now. You couldn’t fall apart like you had at breakfast. Couldn’t let him push you…

“I’ll just turn it all off. Shut it all down.”

Sighing at the pathetic words you hadn’t meant to say out loud, you fought to remember how you used to live.

Breathe, slow and steady. Remember that nothing matters, so it shouldn’t bother you. Just focus on numbers. Counting, multiplying, dividing, making up random problems to solve in your head all day.

I’ve got this. I’m fine.

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🐊🤡🔴🗡️~~~

“What did you say,” Mihawk growled, the rumble of death in his voice.

Buggy’s body pulled together before this ragged group of pirates that had just looked as pathetic as humanly possible for such powerful men.

Until he’d said those words.

Now there was a thrum of violence that seemed to steal the oxygen from the air.

Doubt filled the clown, those vicious eyes freezing him, trapping him with decisions that all felt wrong.

The red haired pirate sat up enough to grab Buggy’s hand, guiding the man to sit on the ground with him, to stare up at those towering villains on the couch. Shanks wanted to move him when he saw the view, but his clown was shaking, so he just held on as much as he would let him.

“What did you hear,” Crocodile rasped, stretching out his fingers, fighting not to clench them, to tear them through the world to get to her.

“I’ll kill you,” Buggy threatened, brushing off Shanks’ concerned grip. “If you hurt her, I won’t give a fuck. I’ll blow myself up to take both of you with me.”

Mihawk stared into those crystal eyes, seeing that same look that had been there all this time. He had laughed at it, punished it, until he was finally grateful for it. Buggy’s bravery, and his love for Y/N never wavered, even when they had smeared his blood across the floor.

“If I ever hurt her again, I will gladly let you kill me.”

Statues carved to gaze at each other, the swordsman and the clown might have remained there forever, if Crocodile hadn’t leaned close.

“I don’t care what you heard, Buggy,” he assured, remembering her laughing in his clown's arms. “I’ll never be able to make up for what I did to you both, but I’m gonna start by getting our girl back, safe. No matter what.”

Crocodile offered his hand, meeting Shanks’ gaze over Buggy’s shoulder.

“You were right about me, Red Hair,” he confessed, his shoulders relaxing when Mihawk’s hand joined his. “I’m a monster, and I can’t change what… I’m never gonna hurt Y/N, or Buggy, or Mihawk again. I know it’s not–”

“That’s a lot of words for ‘help me,” Shanks teased lightly, tilting around Buggy so he could join Mihawk in touching the larger man’s hand. He apologized quickly, soothing Crocodile’s weak huff. “Turns out I’m not the best person either, but I’m here. I’ll do anything I can to bring her back.”

“I swear it,” Mihawk breathed, imploring the clown to let them in. “I don’t deserve her, but you do. I’ll–”

“How much fucking scotch did you guys drink,” Buggy scolded, his nervous laughter lightening the mood, but not the tension. Those three hands still waited, three sets of eyes on his skin.

Three, old enemies that could betray him, could hurt her, could take her.

Three lovers that had been saying such wonderful things.

“I will blow us all–”

“I know you will, little clown," Crocodile praised, his face softening even further when that gloved hand finally touched his.

Don’t turn it all off, baby. We’re gonna get you out of there.

Buggy felt like a fucking idiot, but he couldn’t stop this feeling.

Hope.

~~~🐊🤡🔴🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

~~~⏰🌲🌲🌲⏰~~~

It was getting a little late, but you weren’t bothered at all. You waited, enjoying your cheap cocktail, and the cheesy grin that you couldn’t keep off of your face.

I love him. He loves me.

Brand new words. Words that you hadn’t expected to find. At least, you weren’t supposed to, not unless the person who said them was on a certain list.

You didn’t give a fuck about any of that while you swirled your colorful straw, letting yourself feel it all.

“Hello, niece. Aren’t you looking adorable this evening?”

“Why are you here,” you spat while your eyes scanned the restaurant, hoping that your boyfriend would be late enough to miss meeting Uncle Cedrick.

“Are you looking for your date,” he chuckled, picking up your drink just to sniff and scowl at it. “I’m afraid he was in a bit of a hurry, and didn’t find the time to write a goodbye note for you. Something about an internship with Galley-La… I did save his signature though.”

Denial paralyzed you, even as he laid the contract out on the table. Every word on the page was a knife through the heart, but you couldn’t look away until you’d read it all, until you should have been bleeding, dying in the middle of that shitty restaurant.

“You know, it didn’t even take him five minutes before he decided to sign your love away for some pocket change, and a potential job,” Uncle Cedrick gloated, snatching up the contract before your humiliating tears could smudge the ink. “That sort of trash doesn’t belong anywhere near the Sylvad name.”

“I don’t want that fucking name,” you choked out, eyeing the guards he’d brought with him.

He sat back, his arms spread wide, just like his disgusting smile. So at ease, so fucking pleased.

“Are you feeling well, niece? Relationship troubles can–”

“I’m fine.”

Uncle Cedrick smirked, leaning over the table to touch your chin. You held your breath to keep from flinching, to keep from smelling that stupid cologne.

“I knew you’d be fine. You’re such a smart girl,” he praised, and the urge to throw up in his face was getting harder to fight. “It’s been too long. I have some suitors for you to meet, and I can guarantee that none of them would stand you up for such a meager amount of berry.”

“No, you’d cut your friends a much better deal,” you seethed, shaking beneath his gentle touch.

“You’re not a child anymore, Y/N,” he purred, and you had to close your eyes. Had to remind yourself why biting his fucking fingers off would be a bad idea. “You should know that people like us don’t get to marry for love, and I will do anything to protect this family. Even from my brother’s irritating obsession with his favorite daughter.”

He radiated satisfaction, and you knew exactly what smile he’d have when you opened your eyes. You could finally breathe again when he pulled away, taking his fingers, and his scent with him.

“We’ll get you set up with a date this weekend,” he chatted, his friendly tone giving you a headache. “I found a gentleman that looks quite like your wannabe shipwright, so feel free to have a little extra fun if you need to. Just don’t forget your pill, at least not until the wedding. We don’t need any more complications…”

Uncle Cedrick finally left, but your thoughts were too sharp, so you just stared, frowning at that cheap cocktail. Nausea roiled around your gut too much for you to open your mouth, let alone take a sip.

~~~⏰🌲🌲🌲⏰~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🐊🤡🔴🗡️~~~

Buggy threatened them all a few more times, still afraid to reveal his star’s secrets, but he knew he couldn’t do a thing without all of their help.

“She lied to us, but I’ll shove a Buggy Ball up your–”

“I forgive her,” Crocodile sighed, almost laughing at his little clown. “I don’t care how many lies she told, I love her, and we’re getting her–”

“She didn’t trust us,” Buggy started again, his voice breaking slightly at the thought that she hadn’t trusted him. He pushed through, pushing out the next words as fast as he could. “She gets all that fucking tree money when she gets married, and whoever she marries instantly gets their own piece of that stupid company.”

“What?”

“I know you heard me, Hawk Eyes,” Buggy groaned, his hands floating away from their little huddle to shake and flap through the air.

“That can’t be right. What idiot would write that in a will,” Crocodile scoffed, watching those floating hands. “If that got out, she’d have a fucking target on her back her whole life. They wouldn’t even need a ransom, they could just kidnap her, and force her to…”

Eyes met, but all looked away while shame flooded the room.

“No wonder she’d never tell,” Shanks breathed, remembering the face she’d made when he pushed and prodded for her secret to come out.

“You said she’s getting married,” Mihawk shook himself. That urgent question had stayed unanswered while they comforted each other, while she was adrift out there with no one but enemies beside her. “Who the fuck do we need to kill?”

Buggy laughed, sick laughter, as though his star needed him to let it out since she couldn’t.

“My flashy girl's got a whole month to go on all sorts of shitty dates,” Buggy ranted, remembering what he’d be listening to for the next few weeks. “She gets to pick her favorite, slimy, fucking ASSHOLE, and then…”

“What, Bugs? We’ll know when the wedding is,” Shanks urged, rubbing his hand down Buggy’s back. “You just tell us when and where, and we’ll go get her.”

Silence went on, except for the scotch scented breaths that surrounded Buggy while he ran through everything he’d heard. They watched him for a few minutes after he brought his hands back, writing every detail he could remember.

“It’s not enough…”

They didn’t prod this time, but three hands touched Buggy again, until he sagged against Shanks’ chest.

“She wouldn’t leave me for this,” he tried to declare, but had to swallow the pressure in his throat to force it out. “She doesn’t wanna be there, you should hear her…”

Y/N had gone quiet, though he could tell she wasn’t sleeping. It sounded like she was just sitting in silence, not even the rustle of a book to fill the air.

Like she’d shut herself down.

“She’s smart, and she’s strong. She wouldn’t let him do this to her without a reason.”

“I trust you, Buggy,” Mihawk rasped, giving his clown the hint of a smile. “You’ll figure out the excuse we need to crash that wedding, and I’m certain you’ll put on quite the show.”

“I, yeah,” Buggy frowned as the swordsman's hands trailed down his chest, making him pause. Shanks gave a little huff of protest when Mihawk sank to the pile of rugs, pulling Buggy to the side.

“She trusts you. She wants you, Buggy,” Mihawk purred, feeling lost in a way that felt right as he followed along with his body’s plans. “You woke her up last night. You should have heard her little noises, should have smelled her after the finale…”

Shanks watched his lovers falling into each other, and there was a fearful urge to attach himself there, to cling, and to claim.

Yet something in the way their eyes were caught together made the red haired pirate take a breath, pulling himself up to sit on that green couch. The scarred man topped off their glasses of scotch, and they watched the show.

Crocodile hummed when they tapped their glasses, wondering if it was the scotch, the loss, or the fact that maybe things really were loosening up, that made this moment of sharing so relaxed, so easy.

“Smelled,” Buggy asked once he could remember how to talk, wetting his lips while he stared at Mihawk’s taunting mouth. Only it wasn’t taunting.

“Our little rabbit wanted you so badly, I thought she might leap over the crowd just to touch you.”

Buggy sighed, remembering her perfect smile. Then he gasped as Mihawk reached for him, kissing up his throat while those dangerous fingers traveled over his body, pulling at his clothes.

“What are–”

“I wanted you too, Buggy,” Mihawk confessed, eyes fluttering as he let himself give in, let himself say the things he wanted to say. “I’m so sorry. I treated you… I didn’t see you.”

“I’m kinda hard to miss,” Buggy deadpanned, feeling dizzy when the swordsman laughed.

Mihawk crawled over the clown, tossing his coat to the floor with barely a thought while he straddled him. He’d pulled at Buggy’s clothes enough that both of their upper bodies were bare, and the clown gave him a puzzled look.

“Why–”

“I didn’t see how strong you are,” Mihawk purred, moving his body along Buggy’s until the clown made pretty faces for him, soft fabric and leather rubbing together. He heard what sounded like two, pleased hums behind him, but Mihawk was too focused to look back. “Buggy the Clown is smart, and wicked, and powerful. I called you a fool, but… I was the fool. I didn’t see–”

“Shut up,” Buggy grumbled, wiggling away until Mihawk had to lay beside him, propped up on an elbow. The clown’s head was still quiet, but all of those words…

“Buggy, I–”

“Stop,” he snarled, cringing at the look in those golden eyes when Mihawk pulled his hand away.

“I’m sorry, of course,” Mihawk swallowed, not sure what to do with his hand now that it shouldn’t be touching the man he’d hurt.

“Bugs?”

That deep voice was ignored while Buggy sat up, brows furrowed when he got in the swordsman’s face.

“You love her too,” he announced, clapping a gloved hand along Mihawk’s arm. “I’m glad you love her, but you don’t need to pretend you like me.”

“Little clown…”

That even deeper voice was ignored while Mihawk sat up, kissing the clown until they both made hungry noises, but Buggy pushed him away.

“Toy, right? I can play. But we need to get–”

“You’re not a toy,” Mihawk vowed, hoping this would be the last time he’d have to say those words. “I want you, Buggy. I want to be with you, truly.”

The men on the couch had expected less talk during the show, and the urge to assist, and to comfort their boys was ramping up. Shanks watched, wide eyed, unsure if jealousy or gratitude would be a better fit. He took a swig, deciding that he liked gratitude better.

“There’s nothing I can say that will take away what I’ve done,” Mihawk breathed, feeling shameful grief at the fear that this man would never look at him without those monstrous memories behind his eyes.

“I’m not mad anymore,” Buggy soothed, not sure what was happening. “We’re good, okay? We–”

“Not mad anymore?”

Danger.

Something fucking deadly just filled the air. The men on the couch tensed, but neither tried to stop it.

“You must have been sooo angry with me…”

Shanks held in a laugh, smirking at Crocodile whose brows had lifted high, that frightening face looking shocked, but amused.

“Well, obviously, but it’s…” Buggy trailed off again, Mihawk’s wicked grin looming closer.

“I bet you imagined all sorts of ways to make me pay, didn’t you,” the swordsman wondered, biting his lip while his eyes poured over Buggy’s skin. His breath hitched when he noticed that lovely blush moving up the clown’s neck to his pretty face. “Did you imagine how you’d like to punish me?”

Buggy couldn’t help it. He was trying not to get sucked into whatever game this was. He needed to follow his old rules. Don’t get attached. Don’t like them too much. Don’t fall for the con.

But that perfect fucking face was unreal, the tiny movements around the eyes, the smirking corner of his lips, just fucking daring him to take a bite.

“I took an anger management class once,” Buggy coughed, shaking his head slowly as if to ward off this manic birdman. “So I’m totally fine!”

“Fine, really? Even after all of those awful things I did. All of those rotten things I said?”

The little flicker in Buggy’s eyes made Mihawk want to beg. He still might, but first, he pushed.

“What did I call you,” Mihawk hummed, leaning back on a hand while he remembered what a monster he was, trying to make it better. “That’s right. I just couldn’t believe how Y/N had ended up with such a pathetic clown.”

The clown couldn’t hide the slight jerk to his head, the hint of a snarl that anyone but Dracule Mihawk might have missed.

“I said so many terrible things. I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to tear me to pieces,” the swordsman begged, and dared, and apologized. The room felt charged, static before a storm.

Buggy couldn’t look away from that perfect face.

“Mm, what did I say that first night? We made her promise something, didn’t we? Made her repeat my vicious words…”

The clown would have told him to stop if he could unclench his jaw.

“Do you remember, Buggy,” he whispered, his body loose, welcoming. “Do you remember how much you wanted to hurt me?”

A soft whine left the clown’s throat when Mihawk teased fingers over his chest, playing in that dark, blue hair.

“Don’t disappoint us by lowering yourself for that clown? What a cruel thing to say,” Mihawk rasped, almost losing his teasing tone as he drowned in his own guilt. “Are you sure you’re not still angry, Buggy? Even after we made her say–”

“Shut the fuck up,” Buggy growled, more frightening than any yell the other men had heard from him. He let out a frustrated groan at how fucking happy the swordsman seemed to be while he choked him, both hands disconnected to shove the man onto the floor by the throat.

“You fucking psycho,” the clown scoffed as he straddled him, snarling down at those fluttering eyes. “Treat me worse than trash, then you get off when you try to say you’re sorry? You’re a fucking monster!”

“I am, please. I am a monster,” Mihawk fell apart, spluttering when Buggy released his neck, nothing hurting him enough to take it all away. “I’m so sorry, Buggy, please…”

Mihawk’s face crumpled, writhing beneath him with pathetic apologies spilling from his quivering lips.

Dracule fucking Mihawk was crying. Begging for forgiveness.

He’s really committed to the bit.

Buggy laughed again, and the look of shame on Mihawk’s face at the sound finally made it sink in.

He fucking believes it. He believes he deserves it…

“You’d better not think one shitty little tantrum’s gonna be enough for me to forgive you,” Buggy taunted, squeezing the man’s cheeks until his lips pushed out, already wet with drool and tears.

Mihawk shook his head as much as that grip would allow, panicked whimpers like some chaotic song filling the air while he tried to meet Buggy’s eyes.

“You gonna let me–”

“Anything,” Mihawk moaned, breaking free enough to breathe his consent against Buggy’s lips. “I deserve anything you want to give me, Buggy. Fucking hurt me–”

The clown’s eyes went wide, shocked by his own fist that had sent Mihawk’s head to the side. He glanced back, but couldn’t decipher the looks the men on the couch gave him, and the look on Mihawk’s face made his mouth dry.

“Let it out, Buggy,” Mihawk purred, feeling high, feeling right. “Show me how fucking wrong I was about you, darling. Show me–”

“You talk too much, idiot,” Buggy panted, hitting this beautiful, insane man again.

“I do,” he moaned, overwhelmed, and needing it all. “I said so many–”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Buggy tore his gloves off, stuffing them into that mean mouth before stripping them both. He laughed, wicked and hungry, at the pathetic moans forced through that dirty fabric.

“Here.”

Crocodile pulled the lube from the side table, grinning at Buggy’s shocked face when he handed it off to Shanks. The red haired pirate winked at the clown before tossing him the bottle, then stuck his tongue out at the world’s greatest swordsman.

Mihawk drooled into the gloves, tearing up when Buggy gifted him with vicious nails, scraped down his sides.

“Don’t stop crying,” Buggy growled in the swordsman’s face while he shoved lubed fingers inside of him, loving the chaos in those watery eyes. “I’m gonna fuck you just like this, so I can watch Dracule Mihawk cry on my cock. Can’t believe I was ever scared of you… You’re just a desperate whore, huh? Just wanna get fucking wrecked by a clown?”

Little noises, frantic nods, tears, and pretty tears, while Buggy forced himself into Mihawk’s tight ass, satisfaction in every rough, punishing thrust.

“Alright, crybaby, tell me how fucking sorry you are now,” Buggy taunted, ripping the gloves from Mihawk’s lips before fisting into that soft, black hair. The clown was taking him up on his offer, fucking the swordsman harder and faster than he knew he could, fucking every ounce of anger and helplessness that he’d ever felt into the blubbering man beneath him.

“F-fuck, Buggy,” he choked, melting at the powerful look in the clown’s eyes, the evil smile of control on those lips. Melting under that thick, merciless cock that was giving him exactly what he deserved, exactly what he fucking needed. “I’m s-sorry, I–”

“Are you done apologizing?”

Mihawk’s eyes fought to refocus on that smirk, and he shook his head.

“No, Buggy. Not even close.”

“Good.”

So many things at once.

Buggy pulled away just enough to give Mihawk a brutal, backhanded slap. The swordsman was rocked by the force, the power, the pleasure, and the moment was so blissfully intense that he came, forgetting everything but the man that took him there.

Buggy laughed at the lovely ropes of come spilling between them, covering the other man’s chest and stomach, but the desperate look on that face dragged him down too. Buggy groaned, filling Mihawk with so much heat that it spilled down the sides of his cock while he kept fucking until they both whined, too much. All too much.

He finally pulled out, but Mihawk tugged at him, forcing the clown to meet those golden eyes again.

“I’m sorry, Buggy. I hope you believe me,” he breathed, all that pleasure still not enough to take away his need to make things right.

“You made a pretty convincing argument,” Buggy smiled, eyes sparking when Mihawk gave a surprised laugh.

“Look at our pretty, little boys,” Shanks purred, drawing their eyes.

“Maybe we can get along after all,” Crocodile threatened, his deep voice making every other man fight to resist a shiver.

“Maybe we–”

Buggy’s stomach was comically loud when it cut Shanks off, and it reminded all of these big, scary men that even they couldn’t survive on scotch and sex indefinitely.

Even they had to come back down to earth, and remember that their girl was all alone, that they still didn’t know how to get her back.

They were forced to remember that she had never trusted them in the first place.

“Buggy,” Crocodile soothed, tugging on the clown’s braid, still damp from the shower, while they all spaced out over brunch. “Is she…”

“She’s quiet,” Buggy reported, wishing he could hear her thoughts instead of just her disconcerting heart. “One of the servants said they’re landing in the morning. Something about her mom’s ‘preparations.”

“Preparations,” Shanks asked, watching his clown for every sign of strain while he listened to his star.

“Our girl’s about to go on a dating spree,” Buggy reminded, failing to keep his tone light.

“Are you–”

“I’ll be fine,” Buggy lied, cutting the swordsman off. “You remember what she said. Those assholes are BORING. It’ll probably be a big snooze fest.”

“Just tell us what you need, little clown,” Crocodile hummed.

His three lovers watched him while the clown closed his eyes, covering his ear to hear that lonely heartbeat.

“I just need her back,” Buggy whispered, tapping her rhythm onto his own chest. “I need my shining star.”

~~~🐊🤡🔴🗡️~~~

Likes, comments, and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you!!

Author's Note: Special thanks to the lovely Ao3 readers that leave the most gigantic, juiciest comments that occasionally fit what our boys need way too fucking well 😏🙏🏼 btw, I highly recommend checking out the comments over there! We go wild with that ridiculous character limit 😅 (they started getting longer around chapters 14-16, but hot damn, it's like a little book club lately! 🥰)

Part 29

Operation Olive Branch has compiled a working spreadsheet of ways to help families fleeing from the genocide in Palestine. If you enjoyed this fic, and are able, please click the link to find a list of GoFundMe's, as well as other ways to help.

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siconetribal · 8 months ago

Text

Put It On My Tab: Chapter 10

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!reader

Tag:

@vbecker10 @wordsfromthemoon @harlequin-hangout @harpy-space @tild3ath @gone-batty-fics @princessbl0ss0m @dakotali

Warning:

Banter, Fluff, Wit, Book-nerdiness, and more floof

Summary:

Everyone deserves time off, and the vigilantes of Gotham are no exception to the rule. The boys decide to take a weekend to let loose. Who knew a few drinks would lead to a stranger in bed?

Author Note:

A huge thank you and shout out to @harlequin-hangout for the amazing banners you made for me.

If you’re new to the story, please check the master list for the previous chapters!

Jason watched her turn her mug in circles, press a napkin to make it smooth, and shift her plate as if to find the perfect lighting to make her pastry most photogenic. One half of her lower lip was imprisoned by her teeth, the other half jutting out to the side. It was not hard for him to conclude that she was nervous, which made him curious. What does she have to say about what Cici said? How serious could it be? Maybe she’s embarrassed about the bill? Wait, if she brings it up I can insist on paying!

“So ,” Y/N finally spoke up after what felt like hours of silence. “I have been in a dicey situation because of the Joker and his gang of clowns. Wrong time, wrong place, sorta deal.” She paused again, but shorter this time. “I have been hit by his Joker Venom, but I was treated in time. It was a gas and it wasn’t one of the more lethal variants or long enough exposure to be permanently disabling. It’s…not something I talk about either. Cici wasn't trying to lie or cause trouble the day you came in. She was trying to help me out, because I recognized you.”

Great , she recognized me right away and I was just chasing 1’s and 0’s in a useless IP address! His lips scrunched to the side as he slouched in his seat, his pride was thoroughly bruised.

“Don't pout, I was having a bad day, well week, and she was just trying to help me jot deal with another thing, and ended up blurting that out. So no, I’m not some lunatic because of it and yes, I’m perfectly normal, because who isn’t a little traumatized when living in Gotham City, right?”

“I would say ‘or insanely rich’, but they tend to be the actual targets and commoners like myself end up in the crosshairs.” She hesitantly added, seeing no flare of anger or annoyance, she sat up and took a bite of her flaky pastry of choice.

“Are you sure ‘perfectly normal’ is the best term for you?” He grumbled. “You recognized me and did your damndest to be unrecognizable, why? You even got your friend in on it and made me think you're someone,” his voice steadily grew louder and his tone harsher as he sat up straight while she steadily shrank back into her seat, ducking her head to avoid looking at him. Shit , not what I wanted to do! “ Forget it , who am I to get pissed at a little white lie? I’m no stranger to bad days either.” Like being held hostage and left for dead by the Joker. He quickly deflated back in his seat. His foot lightly nudged against hers, making her jump and look up. “I also think anyone who isn't traumatized living here is either off their rocker or they've only just moved in.” His gaze softened as he smiled, coaxing her to relax with him again.

“Being rich comes with its own style of batshit crazy.” He rolled his eyes. Like throwing cash around for giant galas to make yourselves feel better about ‘charity’ which will obviously attract all the other criminals in Gotham. The only difference between them is that one group is considered legal.

“Speaking of rich, you’re a Wayne, right?” Jason’s eyebrows shot up quickly before crashing down and furrowing together. “Cici told me, I was helping her with the drinks that day and she told me to not call it.” She quickly explained. “But that aside, what do I call you? Little Lordling? Littler Wayne? Wayne Jr the second? Wayne 3.0? There are a bunch of you, right? You're the second one, I suppose you'd be Wayne 2, or are you 3 because Bruce Wayne would be 1?” She thought aloud, watching his left eye twitch with each nickname she came up with. It was still oh so satisfying to see.

“Yes, I am an adopted son of Bruce Wayne and no , you can’t call me any of those.” His voice shook as his smile became a little strained, a little bit of a grumble in the undertones.

“Aww, not even ‘Little Lordling’? I thought that one would’ve won.” She pouted. The way her lower lip puffed and pushed out was adorable, but Jason needed to be strong. There's no way he was going to let anyone call him that. It would be the end of him if any of the other Bats heard of this. “So what do I call you by, oh nameless capeless savior?”

“How about you just call me by my name? Which you could’ve just asked me for instead of doing all this.” He rolled his left hand in the air as he gestured to the oddity that was this conversation

“It is absotively posolutely rude to demand such information! To ask without offering something of equal value is simply barbaric!” She scoffed and he snorted while trying to stop himself from choking on his drink. “Also, where's the fun in that? Now you'll remember me the next time you see me, you won't be so thrown off.” The smug grin on her face was frustratingly adorable and pleasantly annoying, he was not sure if he wanted to wipe it off her face or give her something else to gloat about.

“And charging someone for asking questions is not memorable enough?” One of his eyebrows rose up in question. “I feel like we’re well past dinner and a movie first.”

“Who says that's my cup of tea? Maybe I'm a video games and books kind of gal?” She raised an eyebrow of her own in challenge to him.

Damn, games and books? “Well you’re in luck. I’m a bit of both myself.” He smirked.

Oh that is cheating! You can't go looking like this, be a Wayne, and be into those! I’m trying to ask you for 4k, not a wedding ring! Her eyes narrowed as she leaned in closer. “There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”

“‘Pride and Prejudice’ by Jane Austen, not bad.” Jason took a bite of his sandwich. Not bad, not bad. “There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm,” he calmly replied.

“‘The Song of the Lark’, huh, ‘a bit’ is what you said, right?” Y/N sat back. “Consider me impressed again, Wonder Boy.”

“Quit calling me that,” he grumbled as his eye twitched.

“I have nothing else to call you.”

“Then call me by name.”

“I don't have your name.”

“You could ask.”

“That’d be rude, of course. We haven’t properly met.” She smirked.

“And how do we properly meet?” He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table.

“Dinner and a good book.”

“Are you asking or telling?”

“That depends, do you prefer me to ask or tell?” She leaned in closer as well.

“Doesn’t matter to me, so long as you say yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” he grinned. “I guess it’s settled then. Now all I need is your number.”

“Wait, what? My number?” She sat back a little in surprise.

“Yes, your number, how else am I going to get in touch with you?” He extended a hand towards her and she, still confused at what just happened, robotically handed over said device, the screen unlocked. He quickly sent himself a text through her phone and saved his number in hers. “Thanks, sweetheart, I’ll be sending you the details later. On that note, I gotta run. See ya,” he winked and finished his drink before heading out, Y/N sitting there mouth agape and utterly confused. The bell chimed again before she could even process any of it as she quickly cleaned up and got behind the counter once more, the rev of a motorcycle fading into the distance.

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