#and if you are good at figuring out plot!!

[aenramsden]

[ID: All quotes from the linked interviews set over relevant gifs from the movie:

Image 1: For the three members of Huntrix, Kang referenced K-pop idols and models. They looked at ITZY, BLACKPINK, and TWICE. Korean model Ahn So Yeon inspired the fashion-forward character, Mira. For Zoey, Kang wanted a cutesy vibe. With Rumi, they leaned into a very classic, beautiful Korean look.

Image 2: The Saja Boys were inspired by Korean groups such as Tomorrow X Together, BTS, Stray Kids, ATEEZ, BIGBAnG, and Monsta X. They all follow the same archetype. There's always a muscular one who shows off his abs; one who was the romantic type (his bangs were purposefully meant to be heart-shaped); and th ebaby of the group. Baby Saja is obviously the maknae and they're usually the rapper of the group.

Image 3: Though the Saja Boys were given their own individual, distinct looks, they all have one thing in common. Fun fact: they all share the same CG body, except for Abby Saja, because he's a little bit bigger and he was bulked up like 20%.

Image 4: In Maggie's original mission, there's this idea of presenting women that were badass, super beautiful, and glamorous. But also weird and funny, food-loving, and silly and wearing their pajama pants. That combination of being fantastically perfect and also very flawed and human is at the heart of a lot of Korean storytelling.

Image 5: It was really just wanting the girls to feel very real. It was really to show women the way that Kang wanted women to be portrayed in tmovies, especially in a superhero movie. They worked really hard to create mouth shapes and eye shapes that were very Korean. So even though the girls are speaking English, they were mouth shapes that you would only make as a Korean person, with the Korean language.

Image 6: Kang admitted that the character of Jinu was inspired mainly by K-drama actors. Cha Eun-Woo and Nam Joo-Hyuk were leading men on the inspiration boards. They wanted him to have a very classic Korean look, which is why he had dark hair. Though Ahn was cast as the voice after the character was created, Kang does see the similarities.

Image 7: The costumes are also plot points. For example, with Rumi, there's the "Golden" song and the gold costumes represent their kind of MacGuffin of a dream that they're chasing of being perfect. By the end of the second act, Rumi is standing there and that dream is literally and physically in tatters. It's shredded around her.

Image 8: The name Saja Boys has a deep meaning. The word "Saja" means "lion" and also refers to Jeoseung Saja, the reaper/messenger of death of Korean folklore who escorts souls to the afterlife.

Image 9: The tiger and mysterious bird are inspired by Korean folk paintings, mainly Jakhodo (tiger and magpie art). Their names were revealed by the director on social media. Derpy is a clumsy cat-like tiger who delivers letters and tries to fix fallen objects. Sussie is a suspicious magpie with traffic-light eyes and a stolen traditional Korean hat.

Image 10: Ultimately, for Jinu's story is felt right for him to not get everything and be around at the end. He really needed to listen and learn from Rumi's message, be inspired by it and sacrifice himself for the better good. He give shis soul to teh big battle and ultimately saves her, but he's also the catalyst for all the other fans to sing with Rumi. He was the first domino to fall.

Image 11: There were several epiphanies with the color identity. The Golden Honmoon, which is a bit of a false goal. It's one color, pure, singular, and perfect. Thematically, there's this idea that we have more than one dimension to us. By acknowledging those imperfections, we get closer and maybe form stronger relationships. That helped them figure out what is called a Rainbow Honmoon.]

KPOP DEMON HUNTERS + TRIVIA From interviews with the directors {✩ | ✩ | ✩}

[neilsbeloved]

get the job done

summary: every night, clark feels bits of his sanity chip away as he has to involuntarily listen to your moans and whimpers despite being miles away from you. he doubts he can control himself any longer especially with a familiar red stone hanging around his neck.

pairing: red k!clark kent x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ / smut with no plot / oral (f) / dubious consent / use of vibrators / unprotected sex (no male cum) / voyeurism (i think) / overstimulation / inappropriate use of superhuman hearing / size kink / clark competes with a vibrator / competitive clark / mutual masturbation / big dick clark fr / mentions of using somebody’s moans to get off

Clark Kent is the best college roommate you could ever ask for.

He cleaned, he cooked, he has cool parents that always sends him freshly baked goods—and above all, he's always down to get you your art supplies whenever you run out of them in the middle of the night.

Though, you always wondered how he manages to get to the edge of the city then back to the dorm in less than ten minutes. Whenever you did that, it took you at least an hour. You didn't question him about it though, you figured there so much more things to worry about than your roommate being Sonic the Hedgehog's cousin.

Clark could say the same for you.

Never asks questions, keeps your hands to your own things, washes the dishes when it piles up, always offers your help whenever he and his journalist friends needs it—it's a breeze living with you.

Well, almost.

Whenever the clock hits twelve and you bring out your friend from underneath your bed, it's the only time Clark wishes he can fully block out his superhearing; give you your privacy and let him fall asleep without having to hear of your hushed breaths and restricted moaning.

Why not leave? Clark could easily super-speed out of the dorm room then come back after you're done.

He did that before already. Running off to the farm in Smallville to sleep in his own room, barely alerting you that he did. It worked for the first few minutes. He was able to get some quiet, got to close his eyes, relax—everything.

However, just as he was about to fall into sleepland, your voice invades his head again. The intensity of your voice seemingly felt like he's doing it intentionally; zeroing on your voice despite the distance he willingly put between the two of you.

With his cock hardening every second he heard your voice desperately calling for him, he couldn't help but be forced to relieve some of the pressure using your moans, no matter how against the idea he was.

The next night he left the dorm, he tried going as far as the Fortress of Solitude. Sitting just outside of the grand palace, head in his hands, eyes closed thinking he finally escaped the threshold of your sounds.

Unfortunately, that breathy voice of yours saying Keep going, Clark, you're fucking me so well proved him wrong.

Clark strolls back inside of the dorm, bag slung over his shoulders after he had just finished his last class for the day. You immediately appear into his view, nose deep into your drafting table, sparing him a quick glance.

"You don't look nice. Didn't sleep well?" You chime, voice characteristically monotonous.

Clark sighs. His shoulder slumping down as he takes a seat on his desk, rubbing his face in his hands. "Not really. I was caught up on some midterm review last night."

"Midterm review?" You furrow your eyebrows, "Oh! Is that why you weren't here last night?"

"L-last night? I was here." Clark clears his throat.

You scoff, raising an eyebrow as you throw him a look over your shoulder. "Dude, I woke up at like three in the morning and your bed was empty. Hours later you're back on your bed snoring."

He raises an eyebrow at you.

"Don't worry, Clark. You don't have to tell me if you're sneaking out," you say teasingly, only to laugh loudly when you see Clark roll his eyes at you.

Only if you knew what he was doing out of the dorm.

The both of you began working in silence, occasionally bringing up some mundane things to talk about like what the two of you are having for dinner, or if either of you are going to a party you got invited to.

"Why ask me, aren't you and that dude in finance going out?" Clark asks, stretching his arms up while dropping his pen on his notebook.

You grimace, shaking your head. "He spilled coffee on a plate I was supposed to submit."

"That's gotta leave a mark," Clark hoots, throwing you over a look before laughing. Very much entertained at the way you glared at him to shut up. "What'd you do about it?"

"What else was I supposed to do? I left his sorry ass in the cafe, Jesus." You huff irritatedly, scratching the side of your head with the tip of your pencil. "Every man's either stupid or reckless, usually it's both."

"No argument from me there," he responds, reminding you once more why you enjoyed having him as a roommate.

After another round of silence, his phone rings in an awfully loud ballad ringtone.

Whenever that ringtone sounds, you know it's that blonde named Chloe. While in other cases where it's a White Snake ringtone, it's definitely Chloe's cousin Lois. You, on the other hand, picked out the Mario Kart theme song as your designated ringtone after finding out about Clark's little habit of assigning a specific ringtone to a person.

"It's Chloe, she needs me at the Planet." Clark says with a nod, closing his notebooks shut and grabbing his jacket. Before he leaves, Clark calls for you. "Oh—and I might spend the night back at the farm. I need to help my dad out with something so… I'll just bring you some muffins."

When he sees you raise a thumbs up, Clark nods, locking the door shut as he left.

Fuck, Clark, keep going.

Don't stop.

Mhm, just like that!

Your voice rang in his ears. Constant cries of his name falling from your lips like an endless prayer.

Clark's jaw ticks, resisting the urge to let the growl in his throat free as the bartender over the counter looks at him with concern. "You okay, Kal?" The red rings in Clark's pupils flicker dangerously. The Kryptonian downing the shot in one straight swig, barely even affected by the lousy human alcohol.

"Never better," Clark says, jerking his head for another shot.

Yesyesyes—Shit, Clark—

The marble counter cracks under Clark's hold. His eyebrows knitted in concentration as he tried to block out your sounds. As beautiful and dirty they were, this wasn't the time nor the place he should be hearing them.

He swears, one more whimper of his name and he'll—

O-oh! I'm almost there, please…

"Keep it," Clark slams a hundred dollar bill he stole from someone in the club, the bartender looking at him confusedly. Before he gets to ask him, Clark had already dashed away.

When he arrives, his mouth falls open in utter surprise.

You laid there naked, legs spread, your cunt out in display for anyone to see. The pink toy in your hand pressed firmly on the quivering mess in between your thighs. Your cheeks were dusted with color, eyes closed shut, lips wide and spilling all sorts of moans and pleas.

One hand was on the pink toy, the other was busy fondling your breasts. Rolling your firm nipple in between your fingers as the coil in your stomach tightened by the second.

"Oh—mmhm—fuck! Almost there, almost there… godgodgo—" A silent scream breaks through you, your hips stuttering a few times before you ultimately shake on the mattress. Legs clamping around the pink toy as spots of white appeared in your vision.

Clark's name leaves your throat, smothered by the pillow you grabbed beside you.

Then, you hear a voice from the corner: "Aww, c'mon now, angel, don't cover your mouth."

You stiffen, body shooting up in alert. Your eyes drifting to the figure at the corner of the room; his legs were spread apart, big hand holding his even bigger cock as he shamelessly runs it up and down the length. Deep groans emitting from his every movement.

It's Clark, your roommate.

He's jerking himself off in the corner of your damn dorm room.

"What? Don't stop on my accord, angel. Keep going," he shrugs indifferently. Lips pulling into a smile that urges you to continue. "Oh c'mon… do you want me to beg for it, angel? Beg for you to continue pleasuring that little cunt of yours until that gadget finally makes you come?"

Your cheeks heat up with the vulgarity of his words. Clark doesn't even use curse words on a normal day,  hearing these stuff come out of him now is bizarre.

"I… I don't know what you're talking about, Clark."

Clark chuckles at you, deep and pointed, letting go of his cock and standing up to start walking towards you. Your legs close out of instinct, nuzzling them both to your chest as Clark sits a feet away from you, right by your feet.

He catches your lust-blown eyes in his, only to glance down on your lips, running his thumb across your bottom lip.

"Angel, let's not fool ourselves here. I know you've been fucking yourself every night thinking of me. Picturing my mouth…" he runs a finger on your exposed knee, "…my fingers…" he flicks his attention back up, noticing the way your breathing slowly clipped and your eyes glued on his member. "…and of course, my cock."

You shake your head at the last bit, trying to get some sense back into your brain. Telling yourself over and over again that this has got to be some sort of nightmare—or dream, actually.

"You think that little toy of yours is enough to satisfy your needs—but no, it's isn't, angel." Clark nears his face to yours, the manly scent of his aftershave invading your senses. "Not even close."

He pulls away with a smirk, enjoying the way your legs clenched together with just his mere words.

"C-Clark…" you breathe out, trying your best to sound composed. But it's hard, especially when your roommate—the very one you've been fantasizing about—is sitting in front you with his hard cock in display. "We shouldn't do this."

The man in front of you scoffs, an air of smugness surrounding him. "Why not?" He asks you softly, "You didn't seem to have a problem crying out my name a second ago."

You open your mouth to respond but he beats you to it.

"I'm betting you anything in the world that if I pry these legs of your apart," he places a hand on your knee, "Your pussy would be dripping wet."

You don't respond anymore—you don't think you can. Your head is spinning with everything that's happening. You just wanted to get your release for the night, not get tangled up with Clark-on-viagra.

But you can't say that it didn't intrigue you.

This version of Clark—the way his voice went deeper than it usually did, the blazing hot presence he carried himself with—you can't say that it didn't make the mess between your legs ache even harder.

The way he watched you like a predator watching his prey, waiting for the right moment to pounce on you—it was fucking hot.

"So what do you say, angel? Are you gonna let me show you how much better I am than that lousy gadget of yours, or are you gonna stick with that?"

Your response? A wordless one as you spread your knees apart, letting him see every inch of you from your glistening cunt to your stiff peaks. Clark's eyes glow red, his sharp canines coming into view as he zeroes in on your puffy clit, begging to be tended to.

"Good choice, angel," he grins, kicking off the rest of his pants before lying down in front of you.

Clark's head is face-to-face with your pussy. His arms wraps around on both of your thighs in a secure grip before he dives in.

His tongue finds your clit with practiced ease, swirling the wet muscled around it, alternating between sucking and licking before you start to feel the tip of his fingers prod at your hole.

"Oh my god," you gasp, the quick rising of your orgasm has you gripping the sheets in ecstasy. "Keep doing that… keep—keep your mouth on that clit, Clark." You feel him chuckle against your pussy, finding the way you're instructing him adorable.

It's not Clark's first encounter with pussy. And it's definitely not Kal-El's too.

He looks at you, making sure you keep your eyes on him before he thrusts one finger inside of you. He barely lets you adjust on his thick finger as he goes right into fucking it in and out of you while he sucked on your clit.

Your legs shake uncontrollably around his face, trying desperately to clamp around his head but his arms are stopping you. The muscles of his biceps flexing harshly.

Clark puts in another finger, testing your hole with his thick fingers as he keeps his eyes locked onto the delicious upturn of your eyebrows. The walls of your shared dormitory now filled with your shameless moans.

"Right there!" You gasp, darting out to grab his wrist as you began meeting his thrusts with your hips. "So… sosososo—fucking good, Clark."

"Yeah? How good?"

"Incredible," you breathe.

The knot in your core tightens, your walls clamps down on his fingers greedily.

"Better than your toy?" He arches an eyebrow.

You don't answer, your mind currently running in circles as you focus on the overwhelming sensation in your pussy.

Clark's eyes narrow, teeth coming in contact with your clit as you writhe. "Asked you a question."

"Better! It's… ohh fuck…" your mouth falls open, feeling the finish line near.

Clark grins, looking at you with satisfaction. "It's about to get better." he flicks his tongue in continuous strokes, making up for the bite before he starts thrusting his fingers into you. Making sure your wetness trails down the fluffy covers of your bed for tomorrow's reminiscing. "Come all over my hand, angel. I want you to make a mess of yourself."

You do as he says, your legs giving out as you feel a rush of pleasure shoot through your core. Your eyes squeezing shut as a broken cry of his name falls from your lips.

Not even a second later, you already feel Clark cleaning you up with his tongue. Greedily licking up every bit of come that oozes out of your hole, caring about nothing else aside from making sure he gets every drop. No matter how hard you pull at his hair, pushing him away from further overstimulating you, it practically does nothing as Clark's strength overpowers you.

Next thing you know, you're convulsing around his tongue again, this time, faster than you ever did on your vibrator.

Your voice is hoarse by the time Clark pulls away from you. Your thighs tensing involuntarily as he finally lets go of his superhuman hold on them. The lower half of his face is drenched in your release, glistening again the smooth skin of his chin.

He moves up to you, hungrily taking you in a lust-filled kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue—sweet, mildly salty, and very messy.

"Not done yet, angel. Fun's just started," he grins, running his tongue over his sharp canines.

God if that didn't make you ache even more.

You let him pull you closer to him, the weight of his cock resting idly on your pussy. The sheer length of his cock making you squirm in place. Clark only chuckles, giving you a few slaps to side of your thighs.

"Don't worry, angel," you start to feel his tip run up and down your slit. Clark's forehead creasing as he dips back down to angle his hips so that your wetness coats the outside of his cock.

You gulp. The air gets knocked out of your chest the moment you feel the first two inches inside of you.

"Oh god," you cry out, holding onto Clark's biceps. "Clark, you're… Fuck—I can't—"

"You can, angel. Just a little more, c'mon. You can take dear ole roommate inside that greedy cunt," Clark grunts, nose scrunching up as he looks at you with nothing but lust.

He pushes in further, and when you've thought his fully inside you, he's still pushing in.

"God, Clark, how fucking big are you?" You can't help but let it out, too overwhelmed by the stretch in your cunt to even care about your words.

Clark smirks, "Big enough for you to take, angel."

You finally feel him bottom out, and it's like your heart shoved up your throat.

"How's it feel, angel?"

Your walls flutter around his cock as a response. A deep growl ripping through Clark's throat the moment you do.

"I'm takin' that as a yes to move, angel. Now, if you wanna be naughty and muffle your moans," he drops his eyes to your swollen lips, "Feel free to bite me."

He begins moving at a brutal pace. Pounding in and out of you with much force that your bed frame's hitting the wall in loud clashes. Clark sucks on his teeth as he goes delirious over your tightness, losing the grip he has on himself the longer that he keeps fucking into you.

"Clark! That… nhhngg—feels so fuckin' good, givin' it to me so—so fucking good baby," you ramble, saying the only words that you know at the moment.

The red rings in Clark's eyes pulses, watching your eyes roll to the back of your head in pleasure. Losing yourself to the pleasure as sobs of his name fill the small space. He feels more energy surge through his body, fucking his thick cock into you with much more vigor until you feel his balls slap onto your ass with every thrust.

Your core tightens, the knot in your stomach coming way earlier than you want it—you can't stop it, the way Clark's fucking into you in an inhumane pace has you nothing but puddle in his arm.

"O—Oh, Clark! I'm coming!" you sob out, locking your arms around his neck as you feel a sort of chain on it.

Clark's hands moves from the mattress to the side of your neck, using you as leverage to thrust even deeper, groaning deeply each time. "Go on, angel, come for me."

A wave of pleasure—way more intense than before—ripples through you. Your legs shooting up to wrap around Clark's waist as his pace never faltered, continuing the ruthless way his hips crash into yours with abandon

Mindlessly, you tug on the chain around his neck. The pendant on it slipping from the opening of his shirt. Your eyes caught on the red stone pendant, the mere stone glowing just subtly.

Clark looks down, his pupils flaring red the moment he sees the pendant. He turns back to you, watching in satisfaction as you squeeze around his cock like a greedy bitch in heat.

You shake from under him, back arching up into his clothed chest as you release one more time. Clark bites his lips, pulling out of you haphazardly only to feel a gush of your wetness spray onto his cock.

The two of you look down at the same time, seeing the part where you two had connected be drenched with liquid—both yours and his.

Something drops onto your chest, just right above the center of your breasts. When shift your head just subtly, you see a familiar pendant on your bare skin.

"Oh my god…" a shaky voice comes from above you.

There you see Clark, again, only this time he doesn't have that dark and lustful look in his eyes—no, this time, he actually looks shocked.

You shake your head, thinking maybe it's just the orgasm doing tricks on you. But then Clark speaks—

This time, a little less deep and more Clark Kent: "Oh no."

hearts, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated! xoxo

[houseofhyde]

tear you down, wear you out.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader mcu timeline. post-thunderbolts. synopsis. to everyone else on the team, you're a ball of sunshine, a quick-thinking spy, a genius pair of eyes keeping track of anything suspicious during missions. to bucky, however, you are the bane of his existence, the knife in his back, the ire in his blood. he'll stop at nothing to get you kicked off the team, even if it means risking his own life. unfortunately, he never planned for this: you pinned beneath him on the training mat, wide-eyed and fully aware how hard he is against your thigh. based on this request. warnings. smut ( switch/dom-leaning!bucky, unprotected piv, oral - m & f receving, 69ing, fingering, face riding, ab riding, knifeplay - m receiving, manhandling, biting, dirty talk, dick+pussy pronouns, spit, one spank, like a second of thigh fucking + choking, voyeursim/mirror kink? idfk basically they are fucking and watching, bucky puts the reader in a headlock :), backshots ayo! honestly they're kind of fighting and fucking at the same time? idk just read it pls, i'm baring my horny soul to you here! ) bucky's pov & he's so annoying (i love him), one-sided enemies to lovers bc bucky's a loser and you're literally just vibing, spy!reader, lowkey himbo!bucky, bickering, jealousy, unwanted sexual advances ( not from bucky ), angst, fluff, gun violence, description of injuries + blood, a bad guy that i made up in my head therefore he sucks and has a very lame name :) for the purpose of plot: bucky is the 'leader' of the thunderbolts* reader inclusivity. some implications of the reader being shorter/smaller than bucky, reader has a specific fear + a specific scar. word count. 14.3k hyde’s input. pray for me y'all, i'm going through something unimaginable 😔 (attempting to write a new fic after peaking w/ manchild)

Gun to his head and a demand to say one good thing about you? Bucky is taking the bullet.

In every sense of the word, you’re a good person. You’re a reliable partner, a shadow that lurks among crowds and keeps an eye out for your teammates. You’re patient, always the last to raise your voice when tensions are high and the others are divulging into a cacophony of outrage. You help Bob with the dishes, you give John tips on how to get blood out of his suit, you invest your time into researching methods to ease Ava’s chronic pain, you take care of Yelena’s guinea pig when she’s away on missions, and you encourage Alexei on all of his awful PR stunt misadventures.

It’s no wonder that the rest of the team adores you, yet, for reasons he can’t explain, Bucky can barely tolerate your presence for more than a minute without breaking out in hives and debating putting his own skull through a wall. The worst thing about hating you is knowing it’s irrational. 

“Someone’s approaching your nine, James,” maybe, he ponders as your voice speaks through his earpiece, it’s your peculiar insistence on using his first name. “Roland Andrews, big shot lawyer and son of tech billionaire, William Andrews. His father has been accused of tax fraud more times than you clean your knives yet he always seems to get away with it, scot-free.”

Sure enough, the stout figure of a prematurely balding man is creeping along the left of  Bucky’s peripheral. The champagne in his hand isn’t sweet enough to mask the bitter taste of admitting you’re correct.

“Thanks for the encyclopedia dump, what’s it to me?” Or maybe it’s the fact you make him irresponsible, nerves too frazzled to remember to be discreet when he speaks over the comms — the couple to his right are staring at him confused, surely wondering why he’s talking to himself.

“His father has been linked to the likes of Kingpin and, more relevantly, Hydra. So if we’re hoping to investigate the rumours of their resurgence…” As if your voice in his ear isn’t enough, fate chooses the perfect moment to have him spot you over the rim of his champagne flute, standing across the museum hall, sparkling beneath the chandelier. Your eyes are somewhere else; unlike how the small crowd surrounding you has busied themselves with focusing on their own reflections in the glass, you seem to take genuine interest in the exhibit behind the pane.  “Sorry, I assumed you read the mission brief.”

No, he hadn’t. In fact, the time that should have been dedicated to reading the brief had been wasted on watching you. Specifically, the way your knee bounced across from him on the Quinjet. Had the plane not landed when it did, Bucky would have leaped over and put a stop to your distracting movement.

“I was busy,” this time he makes sure it’s but a whisper, loud enough for only the mic to pick up. “What do we know about his father’s links to Hydra?”

“Not much, unfortunately. Rumours, at best. An entire history of funding them, at worst,” the man grows closer while your voice grows more distant over the earpiece, an interference of two strangers conversing near-by. “He’s closing in on you. Leave the line open.”

Bucky wants to disobey.

He wants to turn off his mic and drop it into the remaining bubbling liquid in his glass. He wants to rip out the earpiece and crush it beneath the heel of his italian leather shoes. He wants to make a big scene, point down the length of the display hall and announce your presence to each and every overly-wealthy, underly-empathetic tech-head and government body within the vicinity.

It matters little that he would be blowing your cover, unveiling your role as a quiet partner of the Avengers, and subsequently putting the oligarchs in the room on edge. It would all be worth it, even the part where he’d be risking his own place within the team, if it meant you would get the boot and no longer be here, hovering in his peripheral like a persistent, buzzing little bee.

Unfortunately, a baritone voice stops him from giving into his wildest fantasy.

“Good evening, Congressman Barnes,” Roland Andrews is every bit the image of a hot-shot lawyer, right down to the Rolex living obnoxiously on his wrist and the bottle of cologne he appears to have doused himself in. “Though I suppose it’s just Barnes now. Avenger Barnes? It’s hard to keep up with all those… heroic names.”

“I know he’s insufferable, James, but unclench your hand. You’re a second away from snapping the innocent neck of that champagne flute.”

His fingers almost tighten as you whisper through his earpiece.

“Do they call you Lawyer Andrews-”

“You’re being hostile!” Bucky can feel your eyes on him, unnerving him.

He bites back a scoff, coughs up a plastic smile, “Just call me Mr Barnes.”

“So, you've heard of me,” of course that is all a man like Roland would pick up on, salivating at his mouth for that little morsel of validation to feed his ego’s belief in his right to be in a room like this, surrounded by the other ‘big-deals’ who managed to wrangle themselves an invite to the exclusive event.

“It’s hard to tell from all the way over here but I swear you knowing his name has got him so excited, he’s popped a boner,” you’re in his ear again, just as Bucky takes a sip of his drink.

The sharp inhale he pulls almost causes him to choke and, for a moment, he can’t help but shoot a quick glare your way.

A glare you don’t even notice, too invested at blinding a stranger with your aggravating smile.

“Yeah, well, don’t go feeling too flattered,” a twisted feeling of satisfaction nestles itself in his gut as he watches the man’s face fall to a frown. “I know your father.”

If decades of being a puppet through which others’ enacted evil and bloodspill had taught James Buchanan Barnes anything, it was to notice everything. The way his shoulders straighten a little at the mention of his father. The way his weight shifts from his right foot onto both. The way the pupils of his alcohol-stained eyes stretch an inch, growing with his interest.

For a lawyer, he’s got an awful poker face.

“Is that so?” While the man’s mouth is stoic, his voice is laced in intrigue.

“Well done, you’ve got him hooked. Now, reel him in.”

Bucky is really wishing he’d shut off the line.

“We once worked together,” there’s always a bitter aftertaste that comes with a lie, that’s what Bucky has come to learn, like his mouth is physically rejecting his own dishonesty. “You could even say, we’re old friends.”

“My father and you,” he’s familiar with that tone behind the lawyer’s words. Not disbelief but disgust, the kind one stares down at a wretched bug with. “Worked together? He never told me he’d taken any interest in your campaign for congress.”

“You know what you have to do,” you’re watching again. He knows it because the hairs on the back of his neck rise and his chest feels tight, like it’s boxing his lungs in.

“Like I said, old friends,” Bucky had thought the scheming and the calculated words would all come to an end alongside his term in congress. It’s missions like this that remind him it never ends, not when he’s stuck inside a sandbox full of snakes, waiting for him to turn his back on them for a chance to take a bite. “Our organization met some obstacles a few years back. But, what’s that old saying? Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”

There Mr Andrews goes again, spilling all his secrets onto his visage. There’s a subtle stilling of his breath, a twitch in his left brow, a parting of his lips.

Recognition stares Bucky in the eye. And, for the first time since he regained his mind, it seems Hydra is staring at him too.

The torture, the mind control, the words that turned him into an unfeeling monster…

“Say it,” you’re there to cut off his next thought, his next memory.

As easy as slipping on a tailored suit, those old words roll off Bucky’s tongue, “Hail Hydra.”

Like a wave, ice cold and chilling to the bone, nausea washes over him. He blinks and, behind his eyelids, a montage of violence that wears his face yet lacks his soul. Pain shoots up his left arm, nonsensical and impossible in every way, yet it's there all the same, stabbing at his metal arm and lingering along the missing nerves.

What a punch in the guts it is — after so many years of working on himself, bettering himself, remembering himself — to be cruelly reminded of his inability to ever fully escape his past. No pardon and no psychologist could ever suck the evil fully out of James Buchanan Barnes, so long as he was living beyond his lifetime and walking amongst the collateral victims of his violence.

Instinct commands him to reach for two things.

First, a glance over at you. Closer than before, hovering among a crowd of eager-eyed suits. Just like the rest of his team, you have them effortlessly wrapped around your finger, clinging onto every ounce of attention you fill their cups with.

A sneer on his lips, the soldier looks away.

And, secondly, he tilts his glass up and reaches for a final sip.

“Good boy, James,” this time, he does choke.

Champagne burns the back of his throat and his neck nearly snaps at the speed his head turns to you, still playing your cards of flattery to your crowd of loyal watchers and completely unaware of the paleness taking over Bucky’s face, the anger clenching its fist around his heart, and the heat melting his loins.

Why would you say such a thing? How could you say such a thing, and have the gall to not even be looking at him? It isn’t fair, in any universe, for you to be so unaffected while you nearly kill him with three words. You must not be human, must not be real, must not be trusted.

There, that’s what it is.

Bucky doesn’t trust you, that must be why he wants you gone.

“Beautiful woman,” Rolland Andrews commands Bucky’s attention back to him, and that’s when the soldier realises his mistake.

He’s been staring at you, openly and undoubtedly, making the subject of your investigation not only aware of your existence but of Bucky’s interest in your whereabouts.

His right palm is growing sweaty.

“You think?” Bucky makes a point of taking two steps to the right, blocking the view of you over his shoulder and forcing a load of eye contact onto the lawyer. If he plays his cards right, he can pivot the conversation away from you and back over to the point of the mission. “I hadn’t noticed. She’s just-”

“His assistant,” there’s your voice again, but it isn’t in his ear. It’s by his side and accompanied by you coming fully into view between the two men. Bucky watches your hand shake the outstretched paw of Mr Andrews before you turn your attention onto him, a mellow smile pairing well with the red of your lipstick. “Sorry to interrupt, Mr Barnes, but there’s been an incident downtown that requires your assistance.”

He doesn’t mean for his eyes to narrow, but that’s just the kind of reaction you inspire in him: confusion and disgruntlement.

“What a shame,” there’s nothing confusing about the way the lawyer’s leopard-like eyes are glued to the neckline of your dress. Perhaps the soldier’s jacket would be of better use over your shoulders. “You’re stealing him away just when our conversation was getting interesting.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir!” You slip right past Bucky’s attempt to grab your forearm, and lay a hand on the man’s shoulder, a faux apology in your gaze. “But this really is a pressing matter. Here,” you’re back to keeping your hands to yourself, too busy rifling through your clutch to entertain whatever perverse thoughts are growing in Andrew’s mind. “Take Mr Barnes’ card, perhaps we can arrange for you both to continue this conversation somewhere a little more private.”

As easy as a dog herds sheep, you escort a bewildered Bucky Barnes away from the target.

You lead the charge, weaving through the clusters of people so effortlessly that he struggles to keep up, his path occasionally thwarted by an unmoving mass and forcing him to watch as you continue your pursuit of the up-ahead, leaving nothing but the shape of your dress to follow. It’s only once the chill of the night bites at exposed skin that he manages to catch a hold of you, halfway down the entrance staircase.

“What was that?” He seethes into your ear from one step behind, hand wound around your arm.

“Smile, James,” you glance back at him, “unless you want to end up on the front page of the news with accusations of mistreating your poor assistant.”

Waiting beneath the staircase sits a promenade of black cars and personal drivers, queuing up to collect their decorated debt otherwise known as their employers. Alongside the white light of burning headlights, there’s the incessant flash of cameras going off, a wall of photographers and journalists hungry to catch a glimpse and steal a moment from those attempting to flea the event’s festivities.

“You’re not taking another step until you answer my question,” he mutters all the same, grip reinforcing itself on your arm.

Despite that, Bucky doesn’t stop you from journeying down another two stairs.

“Your question wasn’t very clear,” at this point he’s certain you must be doing it on purpose, picking and choosing the words you need to drive the soldier up the wall.

“I had him right where we wanted him, and you-”

“I what?” Again, you’re looking back at him, and again, you’re smiling perfectly for the cameras, manoeuvring him to loosen his grip on your arm and switch to locking elbows instead, just in time for the press to take notice of his presence and begin turning their lenses. “Come on, use that caveman brain of yours.”

“Do you get a kick out of ruining my missions?” He registers a shout of his name, and then another, and then another.

Like a pack of starved vultures, the press scramble to gather at the bottom of the stairs, microphones and cameras grasped in their talons as they screech out questions he has no intention of answering.

“We’ve been over this before, James,” if you’ve noticed the fact he is descending slower in light of the chaos that awaits, you say nothing. You simply match his pace. “I get a kick out of helping.”

Bucky remembers the last time you said those very words, both of you lost in the outskirts of France and struggling to find any signal. When he was sure that would get you reprimanded for inefficiency, you pulled through and managed to salvage the mission.

Before that, there was a late night in Tokyo, where you and Walker boarded the jet with blood drying into the cracks of your fingernails. Despite the bloodshed, the mission was a success, and Bucky’s chastising words aimed at you fell upon deaf ears.

In truth, he still the first time you said those words, two days into the job and faced with his interrogative eyes in the dark of the kitchen whilst you were trying to sneak away with a midnight snack.

“Funny, cause you never seem to help.”

“Roland Andrews may be an obnoxious asshole but he’s not an idiot,” as you lift your foot to tackle another step, the heel of your shoe catches on the hem of your dress. His elbow locks and his vibranium hand is steadying you before he can even ponder what a satisfactory sight it would be to watch you roll down the stairs and strike out the press in some twisted game of bowling. Much to his own disgruntlement, his subconscious doesn’t know how to let harm come your way. “He wasn’t about to confess in the middle of the Smithsonian that your old torturers are planning a resurgence. Thanks to me, he has your card. Which means he has your number, which means he’ll call.”

His pride won’t give in and allow him to tell you it’s a good plan, so he narrows his eyes and questions it instead, “Why are you so sure?”

The press are so close now, a mere three steps below, yet he hears you perfectly clear among all their harmonious yelling.

“Like you said, you had him right where we wanted him,” his eyes follow your own as they glance backwards. At the top of the stairs, Rolland Andrews stands watching you both leave. “Trust me, he’ll call.”

Five weeks pass before the call arrives.

On a Thursday morning, six forty three am, with dawn smearing the horizon in shades of tangerine, Bucky wakes from a dream he can’t quite remember. There is light, there is laughter, and there is someone laying by his side, keeping count of his heartbeat while he traces constellations over a naked thigh. Then, the phone rings and he’s thrust back into his body, sweating beneath sheets and consumed by the empty space to his right.

On the other end of the line is not the most-anticipated Roland Andrews. It’s his assistant, with a voice as chirpy as a bird singing its morning song, relaying a short list of demands veiled as an invitation — one of which leads him to now, four hours later, pacing the living room while you wax poetic about your genius, world-saving, revolutionary plan.

The very same plan that’s going to send Bucky to his belated grave.

“Absolutely not,” he says for what feels like the millionth time, metal fingers tangling themselves in the web of his hair. The sting against his scalp is the only thing that seems to ground him, aiding him in holding back even a modicum of the frustration your persistence is simmering within him. “Over my dead body.”

“It makes perfect sense, James,” in opposition to his own rabid demeanor, you’re cool as ice, spread out atop the couch and sipping away at your morning coffee. Movement is occasional, optional — in the desperate times when he’s intercepting the path between your eyes and the television, where reruns of some awful reality show hold your attention captive. “Come on, you know my plans always work.”

They do, and he hates it. Despises it. Wishes you would hurry up and screw up enough to stop being put in harm’s way. But no, you just have to be perfect at everything.

“How many more times do I have to say it? No,” like a broken record or an ever-looping echo, he’s repeating words, over and over, all in the futile hope you’ll sniff out the suspicious nature of Andrews’ demand and agree to Bucky’s terms instead.

“You’re being stubborn,” you lean to the left, trying to catch a glimpse at the screen past his stoic stance.

Perhaps a little overzealous, Bucky had hoped your proposal of continuing the conversation somewhere private would be just that: private. It seems the lawyer and his different definition of privacy had other plans in the form of a summoning to attend an exclusive gala at his family’s estate. The point of contention, however, is the request tacked on at the end of the invite: Mr Andrews requests your assistant come too, as his personal date for the evening.

“And you’re being reckless!”

“Newsflash, that’s kind of my job.”

The first thing Bucky learnt about you was your history — better said, your lack of history.

A life lived in silence. Quaint and quiet are pretty synonyms for invisible. Your existence is nothing but a blank, untraceable slate, up until you at last appear on the proverbial map of agents and demons, as merely a drop in the ocean formerly known as S.H.I.E.L.D.

Sometimes, Bucky thinks he remembers seeing you. Just once, with the Winter Soldier shielded by shadows in Pierce’s office. You stood on the other side of bulletproof glass, a mournful Steve to the right of you and the despicable mass of Alexander Pierce in front of you, face painted in faux sympathy and a hand squeezing down on your shoulder. But the waters of his memory are murky and leave him needing to come up for air before he can ever make a real shape out of anything.

After the downfall of Hydra, you returned to being a ghost. Unheard from and inactive, until the war between heroes, a silent partner in Sharon Carter’s ploy to steal back Steve’s shield and Sam’s wings. While Bucky was turned back to ice, you were running around Europe, protecting the whereabouts of the men who fought for his freedom. Then came the dark days, after half the world turned to dust. Somewhere along the record books, you became a mercenary.

An agent turned killer for hire, and one of the top earners under Valentina’s payroll. When the time came for her to do away with all the loose-ends of her crimes, you were lucky enough — or just busy enough — to ignore her deadly invitation into the furnace that housed Bob. Seven weeks after he was declared an Avenger, Miss De Fontaine turned up at the tower’s door with you. Sweet smile, sharp senses, one job: look out for the team.

From agent, to mercenary, to glorified babysitter.

“Your job is to gather intel, to be an informant, to keep a close eye,” the pacing has seized and Bucky has now taken to facing you, right knee popped out and hands on his hips, the very image of a parental figure mid-lecture. “It’s not your job to answer to some daddy’s boy on a power trip.”

“This might be our only chance to get a lead on the Hydra rumours,” whether it’s prompted by the change in his stance or by your own disinterest, you reach for the control and turn the television off. “You owe it to yourself to let me help.”

The only noise that remains is you two bickering, while the rest of the tower’s inhabitants are sleeping away their morning how you had hoped to — before a certain soldier pulled you out of your slumber—: undisturbed and uninterrupted. 

“I’m going alone,” before he can even fully commit to his sentence, you’re standing up and rounding the coffee table.

“Please, just take a minute, breathe, and think about this rationally,” your approach is one that calls for peace, the demeanour of someone trying to calm a street cat: hands stretched out in front of you and a plea in your eyes that screams ‘please don’t run away’. “Andrews isn’t just inviting you to one of his posh parties, James. He’s testing you, trying to see how easily you’ll grant his request. He wants to see how much he can trust you. I’m tougher than I look, okay? Let me be the collateral to you getting the answers we need.”

One of the worst things about you is your ability to make a good point, even out of a damn circle. Your argument is just the correct mixture of rational, impactful, and personal to almost have him giving in and accepting your offer to help.

But, why should you have to be tougher than you look? Last time Bucky checked, your skill is stealth and brains, not muscle — he is all the muscle you, or, better said, any mission could ever need.

Though frozen in thought, the soldier can see those open arms growing closer, and closer, and closer. You’re two inches away from resting your hand on his hunk of vibranium when Bucky finally reacts, flinching out of a touch he doesn’t quite get to feel and turning away from you.

“I’m not pimping you out,” he shakes his head, voice stern and brow furrowed. “Not to Andrews. Not to anyone. You’re an agent, not an escort.”

“Honey traps have existed since way before your day and age-”

“I’m the leader of this team, my word is final,” for his own self-preservation, he’ll pretend he doesn’t notice the smile sliping down your face. “You’re not coming.”

Bucky’s beginning to doubt this team knows the definition of the word ‘leader’.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t be dressed to the nines and looking like a ten, people-watching out the tinted window of a car in an effort to distract himself from your reflection in the glass and the cloud of titillating spice your perfume floats his way.

Of course you end up coming with him to Mr Andrews’ event, and so Bucky Barnes has to result to gaslighting himself into believing this is what he really wanted all along: him in another suit, you in another dress, and nothing between you but the thinning space of a middle seat. The illusion shatters each time he recalls that the silk resting atop your skin has been hand picked by the lawyer himself, delivered to Bucky’s office with a note that conveniently never found its way to you — For that pretty assistant of yours, Barnes. Tell her to wear nothing beneath.

The subtle strain of your hardened nipples has him uncomfortably aware that you’ve complied with Roland’s request, despite being none the wiser to its existence.

“Don’t drink anything you’re not there to witness being poured,” his throat is raw from the lack of use, the forty minute drive in silence nearly coming to an end as the grand gates to an estate come into view. “I don’t trust Rolland Andrews, there’s something… off.”

“Yes, James, that’s why we’re here.”

“Did you just-” His head finally turns away from the window to look at your image in full dimension, something more than just a poor-man’s imitation of you in the window. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

“Roll my eyes at you? Never, my dear leader!” And you have the audacity to offer him a mint, hand mid-rifle through your purse. He accepts it, and prays the sharp flavour on his tongue will be enough to calm the jitterbug traversing through his veins. “I was trying to catch a glimpse at my brain, that’s all.”

“The only chance of seeing your brain is with a microscope,” the gates open slowly, dramatically, and do nothing to aid in the soldier’s uneasy feeling.

“Have you ever considered becoming a motivational speaker?” You chirp, and cross your right leg over the other. “With words as kind as that, I feel empowered to take on the world!”

Once more, you’re a liability to Bucky, a distraction in the shape of a shin peeking out. He’s not usually so bothered by a woman’s skin… But when it belongs to someone he loathes entirely, it’s hard not to seeth at the sight of it.

At the top of an obnoxiously long driveway sits the Andrews estate, a courtyard mansion stripped right out of the Renaissance and sticking out like a sore thumb atop nine acres of flat terrain. Cars are queued up, one after the other, slowly rounding a central water feature, disposing of their passengers, and driving back out of the expensive lot. Unlike the Smithsonian, not a single member of the press is circling the masses with screeching questions or invasive cameras, and, in a twist not even the soldier expects, he almost wishes there was someone, if only to document whatever evil may take place beyond those walls.

“Tell little miss Totally-Spies she looks pretty,” for a moment, Bucky mistakes the voice for his subconscious… But no, it’s just Yelena, no doubt laughing at him all the way over on the Quinjet.

“What? No she doesn’t,” something bitter comes over his tongue. “Tell her yourself.”

“How can I tell her when she is not wearing a wire, genius?” Bucky takes a mental note, adding Yel to the list of women who have rolled their eyes at him this evening — so far, it's two for two. “Oh, and do you copy? Walker says to check our connections before you two step into your high-school Hydra reunion.”

“Of course I fucking copy-” He should have retired to a farm when he had the chance.

The evening does not unfold in the disastrous way Bucky anticipates — it’s even worse.

Barely a foot in the door, the man of the hour conjures before you both as if from thin air. He greets you first, hands laying themselves over all the right places to rile Bucky’s nerves as the man pulls you in to press a sloppy kiss against your cheek. The smile you shoot at the soldier is one of pacifism, a non-verbose reminder to remain calm and focus on the object of your mission.

Since he cannot spare you from Andrews’ wandering touch, Bucky intercepts the wine glass he attempts to hand you, swallowing it down in one large gulp with the blind hope that his super soldier serum has any possible inbuilt date-rape repellent.

Rolland Andrews is possessive, infectious  — an invasive species that is destroying the already endangered ecosystem of Bucky’s tolerance. As the night unfurls, he wears you like the watch on his wrist, a silent jewel perched on his arm and paraded throughout the room. Expected to smile and encouraged to stay quiet, you play your role to perfection. Bucky can’t help but watch you, study the way you shapeshift into someone he’s never met, a chameleon whose nature it is to blend in with her surroundings.

For hours, he’s forced to watch the light shade of your dress be eclipsed by the lawyer’s dark tux. Across the room or stood among the same circle of oligarchs, the sight of you burns his eyes all the same. To add salt into the agitated wound, he has yet to achieve a moment of real privacy with Andrews. And, so, the soldier decides you are not a distraction, but an obstruction.

If Bucky’s eyes stick to you like glue, it must be for two very simple, extremely logical, and completely impersonal reasons.

Firstly, despite the lack of respect he’s afforded by you all, he’s a good leader — a man made of responsibility, who has sworn to take care of his agents, no matter how often he flirts with the idea of you being kicked off the team. And, secondly, in hopes that you’ll notice the panicked widening of his eyes and help steer the lawyer into taking Bucky someplace private to resume their dealings from the Smithsonian’s gala.

It’s not until he finds himself in the mansion’s central courtyard, lost in a mass of swaying bodies and nursing his fourth whiskey on the rocks, that Bucky loses sight of you.

You’re gone, until you’re not. A glimmer of light in the corner of the soldier’s eye, beckoning him to look up. Row after row of empty balconies protrude from the mansion’s walls, staring down onto the festivities below. When he finally spots you, his stomach drops.

“Something’s wrong,” he reaches for the comms like it’s a crutch, something that will steady this uneasy feeling.

“Don’t be cryptic, Bucky,” Yelena’s voice rings through within a moment, somehow sounding equally alert as she is bored. “It does not suit you.”

Traveling over quicksand is easier than moving through this crowd — Bucky would know. He makes it seven steps, sight glued to you, before a solid figure forces him to look away.

After carving out a new path to get inside the home, his eyes find you right where they left you, “She’s on a top-floor balcony.”

“O…Kay? Are you worried she is going to fall in love with the view and betray us?”

“No!” His sudden outburst garners a few looks. Bucky pushes harder through the rows of bodies, neck tilting to watch how your dress dances in the wind. “No. It’s just… weird.”

To the left of you Bucky notices the blurry shape of Rolland Andrews. Were he as logical as you, perhaps he’d see this as the perfect opportunity to snatch a moment alone with the lawyer. Instead, all he sees is a threat at your side, causing a fresh wave of nausea to crash over him and his footsteps to fall a little faster.

“Why?”

“Because she’s afraid of heights,” the words are a reflex, pouring out of Bucky with no thought put behind them — the only thought he seems capable of is you.

“She is?” Walker jumps on the line. “When did she mention that?”

“She didn’t mention it,” an elbow digs into him as a woman stumbles over her heels and, suddenly, a martini glass smashes to pieces on the floor and the stench of vermouth stains his clothes. “I just noticed.”

“Oh, so you notice things now?”

“Don’t say it like that,” he quietly chastises Yelena as he side steps both the woman profusely apologising and the stranger approaching him with tissues in their hands.

There’s no time for interruptions or distractions, he needs to keep moving.

“Like what? This is just my voice.”

“Like there’s something you’re not saying.”

“Busted,” the Widow’s tone conjures outrage inside him, and stains his ears in hues of red. There’s a tight feeling in his chest, in his throat, uncomfortable and unwelcome as she continues to speak. “I’m just thinking how much someone needs to watch her to notice that.”

It only takes him a second to notice you are uncomfortable, cornered against the balcony’s ledge while the target of your mission hides his face in the crook of your neck, arms much stronger than your own caging you in.

Perhaps this is all the makings of Bucky’s own feelings, his own discomfort at the sight of an agent under his care being put in this position, somehow being irrationally projected up onto you. Too good at your job for your own good, never once has he known you to let your guard slip. Does your disdain of heights affect you so viscerally that it’s now cracking away at your hard-shell exterior?

A throat clears itself over the comms.

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly hard to tell when you sit through a six hour flight with her bouncing her knee,” remembering to reply grows harder as he continues to search for a break in the crowd of foreign faces.

There’s an ache in Bucky’s neck, one that promises to be unforgiving when he wakes up tomorrow morning. Putting his pain on the backburner, he tilts his head back further.

“It must have been so hard for you,” something curls up inside his loins, ashamed, as Walker speaks, mockery bleeding through the speaker. “Wishing she was bouncing on your dick inste-”

“I’m going up. Get the jet as close as you can.”

The pieces fall into place in perfect harmony: a doorway back inside the mansion appears on his right, just as Rolland disappears off the balcony and leaves you all by yourself.

The ascent is one of desperation, a disgraced angel scrapping its way back up the stairway to Heaven. Bucky tackles the marble steps in pairs of twos and threes, using the length of his legs and the strength in his muscles as an advantage to cut down time. When he reaches the top floor, each breath is the result of a heaving chest and sweat is pooling at the base of his neck.

The third room on the left is where he finds you, back turned on the view of the courtyard and lip caught between your teeth.

“What are you doing out here?” He doesn’t mean to startle you, to have your shoulders jump in surprise at the sudden appearance of his voice, but it’s like he just can’t help himself, he cannot stand another moment of seeing you like this — hunched in on yourself, itching to be anywhere but where you stand.

“James,” amidst your fear, you’re still more level-headed than he’s ever been around you. While most see your disregard of your feelings and fright as another testament to your skills, he’s increasingly finding it to be a sign of recklessness. Would it kill you to put yourself first, for once? “Get lost! If Andrews comes back and finds-”

“Finds what?” Bucky challenges as he steps out onto the balcony. There’s your perfume to greet him, again, washing over him with the breeze of the night. “Me speaking to my assistant?”

A stare-off ensues, one that gives him far too much time to notice how the moon sits reflected amidst a pool of stars in your eyes, then you finally huff in defeat, “Dammit, you’re right.”

“For once.”

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?”

Something else feels nice when he catches a glimpse of your smile.

Not the sly, temptress curls of your lips you’ve been shooting at Rolland all night, but the loud smile — the one that puts your teeth on display, and pushes the swells of your cheeks up, and wrinkles the corners of your eyes. Bright and real, the kind that lights up the whole tower when it's an ungodly hour and you spot Bucky emerging into view as you dig into your usual midnight snacks.

A heavy gust of wind arrives to remind you of where you are, sweeping the smile right off your lips.

Anxious feet dance beneath the trail of your dress, the click of heel upon marble reaching his ears. As any good leader should, he takes a step closer and takes a hold of your wrist, too aware of the shake in your hands to fully envelope them with his own. He moves one step back towards the room and beckons you to follow.

“Come on, let’s get you away from the ledge-”

“Wait, just a second,” you’re turning to fully face him, invading his space.

For a moment, it feels like the world is caving in around you both, the walls of the universe nullifying the distance between you with a force greater than gravity. All he can see, all he can smell, all he can feel is you. His lungs are running out of oxygen. When was the last time he took a breath?

You’re in the air, and in his eyes, and pressing a single finger to his cheek.

“You’ve got something on your face, righttt… Here!” You inch back enough to display your pride and joy to him, a single eyelash perched on the tip of your finger. How is it that something so tiny, so inconsequential can capture your attention so easily, while Bucky — for all his power, and all his valor, and all his strength — can barely get you to look at him most days? “Make a wish.”

A myriad of words dangle off the tip of his tongue, thoughts that have echoed through his head from the moment you stepped foot into his life — not just as a ghost in Steve’s stories, but as someone tangible, and real, and blood-boiling. I wish you would… Leave the team, stop helping, notice when I clean your gun, realise it’s not Bob who keeps ordering all the food you like, acknowledge that I don’t like you, inch closer and kiss me.

He doesn’t get to make a single wish.

All he gets is the harrowing view of playful eyes staring at him, unaware of the glowing red dot dancing up the length of your face before coming to a halt at your temple.

With no time to alert you, Bucky pulls your frame against his and dives back into the room as a bullet cuts through the air. Both of you tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs before the soldier hauls you behind the wall. With the comfort of you hovering at his back, tucked safely against him, he peeks his head out just in time to catch the sniper’s laser stretched out across the courtyard. A second shot is fired, and a window is blown to smithereens.

“We’ve got an active shooter situation,” he barks into his microphone, ducking out for another glimpse at the sniper’s location. “Third floor, west wing, can’t tell which room.”

“James,” he barely registers the soft call of his name.

“On it,” Yelena responds, a thread of ease to weave his fraying mind back together.

“James.”

“You two get to the roof, I’m bringing the jet around,” as John’s voice fills the line, so does the sound of the plane’s engine.

Selfish as he is, Bucky can’t just walk away from tonight, can’t let you being put in harm’s way, again, all be for nothing.

“Leaving compromises the mission, Walker. I need to speak with Andrews first-”

“Bucky!”

The soldier’s neck snaps to look at you, a rush of whiplash burning down the left side. The yell knocks something out of you, your back slowly descending down the length of the wall while your legs give out beneath you. Like a mirror, he mimics your movements, coming to a crouch beside you on the cold floor.

Bucky can no longer smell the spice of your perfume. Now there is only metal, something sticky that drags down his throat upon inhaling and fights its way out of him. Sickly sweet and traumatically familiar, his limbs freeze in its presence.

“You’re bleeding,” he speaks with wonder, disgust, disbelief as a river of red flows down the length of your left leg.

“Listen to me,” there’s an eerie calm in the way you’re speaking, one that does not pair well with the way your hands tremble through their attempts to drag your dress up. Four hands work faster than two, and so his own join you in your mission, flinching to grab at the meat of your thigh upon the wound coming into view. “I need you to make me a tourniquet.”

“Andrews set this up,” his eyes feel like they’re about to fall out their sockets, opened wide and refusing to blink as his brain short circuits out of control. Nothing seems to be making sense. He spotted the sniper, just in time, and got you away from the danger. So why is there a bullet lodged in your upper thigh and why are his hands stained with your blood? “That sniper was meant to kill-”

“Hey!” There’s a sharp sting against his scalp and his attention jumps right up to your face. “Snap out of it. You keep saying you’re the leader of our team, yeah?” He nods into the grip of your fingers, letting the tension of straining strands knock the sense back into him “So be a leader, cut off the bleeding, and get us both out of here. Alive.”

The skirt of your dress winds up ripped in half and tightened in a knot around your upper thigh. You shoulder the pain like a champion, quiet and unbothered if not for the grip he lets your nails dig into his arms with, and the permanent indent of your teeth clamping down onto your lip. Eased back onto your feet, the soldier tolerates a total of three winced steps before he’s scooping you up into his arms and against his chest, silencing your protests with a pointed look.

“There’s a door at the end of this hallway, around the corner,” your voice is methodical, running through words like they’re programmed to come out of you rather than something you’re conjuring with your own mind. “That should get us up to the roof.”

“How do you know that?” He’s moving as carefully as he can, painfully aware of your blood drying into his skin. 

“Lesson one, James,” the return of his first name has never stung so much. “Always know the layout before you enter a building.”

A shot rings out from behind before he can respond.

Emerging from the stairway is one of Andrews’ bodyguards, weapon on display as he openly fires at you both. Bucky doesn’t even have to tell you to reach into the hidden compartment of his suit, your fingers already fishing out his gun and pointing it over his shoulder.

The guard fires again and Bucky ducks to the right, leaving the bullet to lodge itself in the wall. As he picks up his pace, you fire a few rounds back at your attacker.

“Instead of wasting our bullets, maybe try aiming next time,” Bucky snaps as you blow out a window.

“Sorry, aims a little shaky right now on account of the whole bleeding out thing,” you fire and miss, again. “They don’t exactly teach you this at spy school!”

“Spy school?” He parrots back, readjusting his grip on you.

The end of the hallway is close enough he can taste the sweetness of freedom and the chill of the night air.

“Less questioning my methods of distracting myself with humour,” a final shot rings out in Bucky’s ear before he hears the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor. “More getting us to safety.”

Yelena is already awaiting you both as you reach the rooftop, a spray of someone else’s blood across her cheek. The pair work in unison to move you onto Bucky’s back and, as the familiar shape of the jet comes into view, the soldier warns you to hold on tight before grabbing hold of the dangling rope ladder. Climbing his way up to safety, Yelena follows close behind.

“Get us out of here, Walker!” Bucky’s quietly thankful for the blonde’s outburst, too busy tending to you to take control of the situation.

Guiding your frame down to the floor, his hand finds your face, your skin cold to touch despite the sweat dripping down your forehead.

“Tell me again how your plans always work,” he says in an effort to keep you awake, the weight of your eyelids growing with each slow blink you take.

The war zone of your leg is too much to handle, yet something compels him to take a peak, turning his own stomach at the bloody wound. Were he more sane of mind, he’d question why it’s affecting him so gravely after a whole century of working in the field of guts and gore. Tightening the bloodied scraps of your dress is of far more immediate concern to the soldier.

“Don’t go throwing your ‘I told you so’ party yet,” your voice is weaker than he’s used to, none of that calm confidence that shakes up his bones. Uneasy fingers tear the necklace off your neck and drop it into his palm, flipping the feature gemstone over and presenting a nearly unnoticeable bug microphone. “Let’s just say Andrews gets mouthy when he gets touchy.”

Bucky replaces you with a new enemy — time.

Where it used to fly, now, clipped of its wings, it crawls. There’s a drag behind every second, a noticeable existence surrounds every minute. Hours turn to days, and days fade into weeks. Midday in the tower is chaos, no level-headed voice to break through the yelling egos, while his midnights are quiet, somber, absent of any loud smiles when he creeps into the kitchen for a glass of water.

You being kicked off the team was never supposed to go like this.

It was supposed to be harm-free, a necessary solution to the problem of your hazardous lifestyle. It wasn’t supposed to be due to a bullet slicing right through your thigh, forcing you into temporary sick leave.

Worst of all, Valentina refuses to give up your location — citing some bullshit excuse about protecting your rehabilitation from any distractions. The soldier would sooner believe it’s the team she means to save from distraction, prying their focus away from whatever awful, stomach-turning, mind-numbing state you’re in.

Five months have passed, winter has brought destitution, and the team has slowly winnowed down those involved in the Andrews’ conspiracy to reestablish Hydra. Thanks to your little bugging trick, Rolland’s hands now only touch the steel bars of a jail cell, his father’s enterprise of tax fraud has at last been brought down, and any real hope of seeing you fully removed from your role as spy has fled Bucky’s grasp.

What is in his grasp, however, is the handle to your bedroom.

One turn of the latch and he confirms what he already knows awaits him beyond the door: an empty room full of your absence. It’s a cruel ritual that takes place when the soldier finds himself alone in the tower — John is visiting his kid, Ava and Yelena are somewhere in Europe working on extraditing someone, Alexei and Bob are in the West Coast negotiating PR deals. And Bucky is completely alone. Or, at least, he should be.

Until he hears a crash followed by a slew of words a nun would never dare repeat.

Knife in hand, Bucky treads through the tower with practiced ease, a silence in his steps reminiscent of his days as an assassin. He sticks to shadows, avoids any sparse ray of sunshine bleeding in through the windows as he clears the place, room by room. On his way past the empty maintenance room, the intruder makes noise once more and alerts him to their location: the training room.

Carefully pushing the door open, the last thing he expects is a high-pitched scream.

“Oh my god, James!” Hand clutched to your chest, your back is hunched over in search of both a steady heartbeat and breath. “Why are you sneaking around like some crazed serial killer?”

“Me?” The heavy door slams behind him as he pushes further into the room, the mirrors that circle the room reflecting his slow approach towards you and the way he safely tucks his knife away. “You’re the one banging around the place like a burglar!”

“Oh please, who on Earth- No, actually, in the entire universe would want to steal your stinky vests and rusty weights?”

He knows that he should reply, that he shouldn’t settle for you speaking to him in such a way. But he can’t. Not when you step out fully from behind the leg press and put your skin on display, the tiniest pair of black running shorts clinging to the plush of your thighs.

The visible loss of muscle definition is to be expected, yet it still hits him in the chest like a sledgehammer, knocking the wind right out of his lungs. The lack of usual bruising should be a comfort, yet it pulls on one of his heartstrings until it snaps, another reminder of how you’ve been out of commission. And then there is the scar.

Resting atop the outside of your left thigh is a patch of fresh skin. It stands out in both its colour and texture — an almost waxy, freshly polished finish behind the way it reflects the angry white lights of the training room ceiling. The scar tissue is new, gnarly, and squeezing at his throat with its existence.

You weren’t supposed to get hurt.

“What are you doing here anyway?” He forces himself to speak, and rips his eyes away from your thighs in search of distraction.

“I was going to do some weight training but, as you can see,” your outstretched hands point at the cluster of fallen weight disks. “The whole thing decided to collapse on me.”

“You’re supposed to be on medical leave,” there’s a pinch in Bucky’s forehead as he pries you away from picking up the mess, the permanent frown you rouse in him at long last returned. “How are you still finding ways to be a nuisance?”

An evil torturer wrapped in lycra, you reach for something to the right of him as he’s knelt down to grab the final disk, putting your legs perfectly on display before him.

“It’s all for the love of the game, James.” At your airy giggle, he looks up and finds you smiling down at him, one hand slipping inside a familiar boxing glove before you’re landing a cushioned, mock-punch against his cheek. “We should spar.”

You’ve changed your shower gel. Bucky can smell it on your skin: once a wall of musk and earth, now layers of something fruity and floral. The deep inhale that follows is intended to stabilise him but only seems to unnerve him even more.

“Not happening,” he tries to grab at your wrist, but you twist it out of the way, leaving his hand to brush over your midriff. “Leave.”

“But I just got here,” you whine, and Bucky must be suffering from an injury of his own — a concussion, perhaps — because something carnal is melting into his loins at the sound, sight, smell of you. “Do you know how hard it was to get Valentina off my back? C’mon, train with me.”

“I’m not fighting you,” at last successfully grabbing a hold of you, he rips his boxing glove off your hand and tosses it over his shoulder to land elsewhere in the room. “You’re injured.”

There’s a downside to capturing you: you’re touching him now, too, prying his hand off your wrist and leading it southbound.

“Pft, that was a flesh wound! See?” You press him against your thigh, the ghost of a gunshot beneath his fingertips almost enough to distract him from the warmth of your flesh. Almost, because he feels it, just like he feels you: alive, present, tempting. “I’m fine, so fight me, Barnes.”

A lingering brush along your thigh follows the soldier’s ascent, snagging on the hem of your shorts as he rises off his knees and towers over you. His hand snaps back to his side like it’s just touched open flame, skin blistering under the heat of feeling you, rebuking your touch.

“No,” he brushes past you, shoulder bumping shoulder, and manages no more than five steps.

“Winner chooses the punishment,” you barter, delicate fingers grasping around Bucky’s forearm and holding him in place in the centre of the training room. It doesn’t matter where his eyes run to hide, he sees you in every mirrored crevice of the walls. “Any punishment.”

The fighting tug he puts up against you is powerless, a flicker of the strength coursing through the livewires of his veins, but it’s easier than letting himself believe he’s giving himself up to your will.

A pause of intense staring between you both persists until the soldier cracks like an egg, “As soon as you surrender, you’re going back on sick leave.”

“Surrender’s a big word for you, James,” you wink and he feels himself falter. “Better get used to the shape of it in your mouth.”

Bucky’s not at all disappointed when you drop his arm in exchange for stretching out your muscles. Not one bit. That deepening of his frown? It’s nothing more than a side effect of realising he truly has to fight you just to get you to obey.

Facing each other, hands raised to the level of your eyes, the faux battle commences. Where the soldier pulls his strength, resulting to grappling with your punches and blocking the swipes to take at his feet, you ram full speed ahead. A kick to his shin, a knee to his guts, a failed attempt at tangling your legs around his neck — it seems Yelena has been training you in the Widows’ specialty.

You get the better of Bucky, eventually, taking advantage of the pause in his strategy that comes at the flinch of returning your injured leg to the ground. His right foot goes first, kicked out from behind, and then your shoulder shoves into him and knocks him on his ass.

“Best of three,” and he’s back on his feet within seconds, cutting off your incoming declaration of victory.

The second round is tougher, longer, one that doesn’t feature Bucky being as delicate as before. Still playing nothing but defense, his hands simply grab a little rougher, hold a little tighter, restrict your movements a little harder than before. You lift your leg and attempt to swing it at his face but the soldier is faster, grabbing your ankle with a firm squeeze and flipping you over.

But you like to play dirty.

A hand balling at his shirt, fingers that tighten their grip and rip him down alongside you. The cotton tears in two, all the while his vibranium arm flies out just in time to break his fall and save you from shouldering the entirety of his weight collapsing atop you.

Two chests that move in perfect sync — for each of his inhales, you exhale, and vice versa. Your limbs are both a tangled web of legs and arms, and your faces are suffocatingly slow, the warmth of your breath melting at his skin until a bead of his sweat drips down and lands on your lips. Holding his gaze with your own, your tongue licks off his residue and reaffirms why Bucky Barnes will always hate you.

“You’re reckless,” he seethes in your face, teeth bared like a feral animal as he slowly presses more of his weight down onto you — not completely, just enough to make you struggle through your next breath and give you a burn of the fire you insist on playing with. “You know that? Conceited, too, always bragging about your little plans that only work when something goes wrong.”

A light flickers overhead and his shadow casts over you a little darker, a little more all consuming, smothering you beneath the figurative weight of his outline. 

“And you’re selfish,” he continues with no protest from you, lips slightly parted as you gaze up at him from your brows, a salacious parody of the famed Kubrick stare. “You don’t give a shit about how you distract me from doing my job when you go off script and make me worry about you.”

His mouth is a loose cannon, firing off thoughts he’s kept hidden under lock and key for far too long. It’s electrifying, freeing, sending a buzz of pent up energy right down to his toes as he spreads your legs with his own and presses even more of himself against you, pinning you to the foam mat beneath.

Motionless and trapped, you blink up at him with the desperation of prey longing to be free.

“You thinking of saying anything,” he quirks a brow, biting back the satisfied smile twitching at his cheek. “Or are you just going to keep fawning at me like a little doe?”

The glaze over your eyes fades away into something far more sinful, far more daring, as a fit of giggles bubbles out from your chest.

“Can’t you feel it, James?” You shift beneath him. “You’re hard.”

Denial is freezing cold, turning him into an iceberg — the real danger lurks beneath the surface of his Calvin Klein’s and is currently poking against your inner thigh.

Fury resolved through friction, you roll your hips up into him and render him useless, mouth agape in a broken attempt at capturing a grounding breath.

That’s all it takes for Bucky’s entire world to tilt over its axis as he’s flipped onto his back. Instead of the ceiling, his eyes find you, sitting atop his torso and pinning him between your legs. He tries to tilt his head down, better his view of your shorts riding up, but he’s met with an immovable force pressed against his neck.

“Close your mouth, James,” your hips swivel, inching up his body, and the blade of his own knife tickles his skin. “You’ll catch a doe. Or, actually, the doe will catch you.”

Try as he might, he can’t seem to pick up his jaw as you struggle to get comfortable atop him, the search for a seat quickly dissolving into a search for traction, your knees digging into the mat on either side of him while you cant your pelvis back and forth.

You pry off the tattered remains of his shirt with one hand while reinforcing the other’s grip on Bucky’s knife, the sweet sting of an almost cut teasing at his neck.

“I thought we were fighting,” an expert at self-sabotage, the soldier can think of nothing better to say to ruin this moment.

“Who says we’re not?” You chirp, tilting your head to the side and gifting him the inquisitive look of a puppy. “I am holding a knife to your throat.”

The blade scrapes at his skin as he swallows down a ball of nerves, a sharpened edge that effortlessly slices along his three-day long stubble. His body, more treacherous to itself than the days of mind-control, responds to you grinding against him by tightening the strain beneath the layers of gym shorts and boxers.

“Then hurry up and put me out of my misery,” he grits out, unsure of how exactly he wants you to do so.

Would slicing his neck work? It would certainly be a finite solution, if you did it right, a permanent end to his days of playing the role of dog herding up the headless sheep of so-called New Avengers. Maybe his request is not quite as dramatic, an exaggerated plea to be put back on his feet to spar with you one last time before he sends you on your un-merry way back to quiet nights and days of rehabilitation.

“I suppose, if you’re bored, you could always just…” you pause for dramatic effect, rolling your hips as you roll your tongue. “Surrender.”

The fever brewing in his loins, in his chest, all over his body has him fearing the worst — that he wants you like this, mounted atop him, one hand to his throat and the other laid flat above his racing heart.

No sooner than that wave of fear crashes over him, the knife begins to journey down his skin. Delicate as glass, you drag its pointed edge over the curve of his collarbone, through the valley of his chest, over the bumps and ridges of his abdomen. When the blade reaches the blockade of your body, you let it dance over your skin too. The soldier holds his breath as he watches it slip over your scar.

“You’re so good at sharpening knives, James. I bet this could just-” hooking his knife beneath the waistband of your shorts, an effortless flick of your wrist is all it takes to bring the fabric to ruins. “Cut right through cloth.”

When Bucky woke up this morning, he went back to bed.

Not for long, barely clocking in an extra twenty minutes of sleep. Realistically, he had not truly been tired — it was about principle, about enjoying one morning to himself where no one was going to interrupt him with news of the kitchen burning down or a world-ending crisis.

Right now, as he flickers all over the shape of you — naked from the waist down, pussy slicked by your own arousal and hovering a few inches above his skin — the soldier’s not so sure he ever did wake up.

You must be a dream.

“Fucking Christ,” is the tamest of things that come to his mind as he watches you.

And, oh, does he watch.

Eyes turned to steal, a metal force that locks them in place, unmoving and unblinking as you bring the knife to your core. Flat on its side, the sharp edge and its pointed tip angled safely away from the puffy, delicate, desperate flesh of your cunt, you draw the weapon up over the glistening folds and against the hidden pearl of your clit.

“Say ah,” is your only command as you bring the knife up to his mouth, where instinct has betrayed him and presented his tongue to you.

The taste of you stains his blade, a mouthwatering tingle against his taste buds that hijacks his system and hardwires a new addiction into him. Never again will he sink his knife into an opponent and not think of this, of you. You’ve cursed him forever, a hindrance that will haunt him even when you don’t.

You’re back to grinding against him, skin pressed to skin. Over his abdomen is a trail of your wetness that, upon noticing it, has his arm gripping at your undulating hips and guiding them down harder against him. There’s something magnetic in the way you move, holding his focus to every half-gasped moan that ripples out of you, and every strain of your muscles, and every roll back of your eyes.

It’s all so appetising, he could eat you.

“If you’re going to rut against me like a bitch in heat, at least do it on my face.”

“That’s no way to speak to a woman wielding a weapon,” despite the warning, you give no protest to the way his hands are leading you up and over his body.

Your knees now knocking at each side of his neck, the soldier salivates as you sit against his chest, your sweet pussy teasing him, too close and not close enough.

“What are you waiting for?” Bucky gruffs out, all his confusing feelings drowning in the pools of your eyes.

“Nothing,” the gentle shift in your voice has him stilling, heart sucked up into a mini-tornado before it lurches back into his chest. When your hand cups his face, he wonders what he did to deserve it. “Just admiring the view.”

“You can admire it from here,” the soldier regains some of his sanity in manoeuvring you up to his mouth.

You sink down onto his face and Bucky goes to heaven. Quite literally dies and meets his god — goddess.

Flattening his tongue, the soldier licks a tentative stripe up your cunt, hands squeezing tight against your waist and halting your attempt to flee from his touch. Once you’re secured in his hold, he’s diving deeper, tongue claiming ownership of your body for as long as you’ll allow him.

Sweet and heady, he smells your arousal all around him as your hips rejoin the dance in honour of your pleasure, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit once, then twice, then a third prolonged time while he presses you fully down on his face.

“God, James,” a full-chested moan ripples out of you and his knife at last slips out your grasp, meeting the floor with a cushioned thud.

Bucky has always known you would be the death of him, he just never imagined he would die like this. Tongue buried in the tight walls of your cunt, nose nestling into the repeated ruts of your clit, the all-consuming, brain-melting, life-changing weight of you pushed down on his face. If he’s to suffocate between your thighs, he’ll go happily into whatever after-life awaits him.

The soldier shifts his legs, bending them at the knee and planting both feet on the ground, driving your lustful stare away from his and glancing over your shoulder instead.

“Are you pitching that tent just for me,” you turn further around, one hand sliding over the expanse of his abdomen and dipping its fingers beneath his waistband. “Or are you always this hard during fights?”

Much to his own reluctance, Bucky lifts you off his mouth.

“Bit of both,” a featherlike touch brushes over the tip of his aching cock and nearly drives him feral, a hiss caught between his teeth before he sinks them into the meat of your thigh. “Fighting’s an adrenaline rush.”

“Then what am I?” You barely manage, voice divulging into a gasp as he bites you again, harder, tattooing indents of his teeth into your supple skin.

“You,” he drags the word out, just like he drags a soothing lick of his tongue over his bite mark. “Are a pain in the ass.”

The soldier can feel you trying to tug down his shorts but the angle is awkward and, for every inch of skin you reveal, the waistband slips up another two inches. And while it rouses a frustrated sigh out of you, it’s fully driving him into the depths of desperation, the epicentre of his heartbeat shifting from a thump in his chest to a throb in his dick.

So he’s more than complicit when you do a one-eighty.

“Since I’m such a pain in the ass,” you arch your back, pawing your way down the expanse of him, and Bucky swears he witnesses your hole wink at him, sticky and wet and inviting him back in for another taste as it hovers above his face. “Enjoy the view of mine.”

Each side of you sinks down on him in sync, your cunt against his lips and your mouth around his cock. You become everything, all his, grinding your hips against his tongue while your own lathers itself in the salty taste of his skin, gliding up the length of his dick.

Bucky’s left hand grips at your thigh while the other imprints his fingertips into the globe of your ass cheek, grounding himself with a squeeze of your flesh amidst the hazy clouds of pleasure that threaten to swallow you both whole.

The soldier decides you must be a masterpiece, crafted by the hands of a visionary genius and lost to the hands of time, only to wind up here, tangled atop the training mat with him, feeding him with a honey of sin and moulding something new out of him with a hand steadying the base of his cock while you swallow down all you can take of him. Even then, it’s not enough for Bucky.

His own hips lift off the floor, feeding an inch of two more into your gaping mouth before he soon hits the back of your throat.

“Wish I could see it,” the rasp in his throat makes it hard to speak, while the feeling of you gagging on his dick makes it hard to think. “That pretty little mouth of yours finally being put to good use.”

His fingers seek you out, passing over the puckered hole of your ass before burrowing themselves — middle and ring — into your cunt. While your hand busies itself massaging your drool along his shaft and over his balls, he’s switching between beckoning you towards him with curling fingers, pressing against the gummy walls of your pussy, and scissoring you open while his tongue laps up the molten pleasure you spill over his knuckles.

“There you go, doll,” there’s a thrill to running his mouth, unabashed and unguarded, spewing out the first obscenity that pops in his head and watching how you viscerally react, a whining, moaning, desperate thing falling apart just for him, because of him. “Take him as deep as you need. Practically begging me to paint that mouth white, aren’t you?”

You bob your head over him, the vibrations of your moans shooting right down to his base and pulling his balls tight and desperate for release.

“Want you to cum down my throat, James,” you grind back against him as he mouths at your clit. “Wanna taste how you surrender.”

That word snaps Bucky’s mind back into place, awakens him like a sleeper agent.

In a matter of seconds, you go from straddling his face to being shoved onto all fours atop the training mat, manhandled like the perfect ragdoll he wants you to be. Malleable and manipulated into whatever position, angle, hole he wants from you.

Even a saint, when faced with the sight of your arching back, couldn’t hold themselves back from landing a skin-tingling slap against your ass — and the soldier is no saint. The spank is not enough to bruise, just enough to have you choking on a breath and keening back into the apologetic kiss he soothes the stinging flesh with.

“Please, oh god,” you moan when, for old times sakes, Bucky helps himself to another taste of you, tongue prodding at your hole from behind.

“Don’t reckon he’s willing to save you now,” he punctuates his snark by spitting on your hole — not because you need the extra lubrication, but because he craves to see you dripping in at least one of his fluids.

You melt away the minute his cock enters you — one fatal thrust of his hips that burrows him all the way to the hilt inside of your dripping pussy — your arms giving out beneath the weight of your body and winding up outstretched along the floor as your face meets the ground too.

One shallow thrust, a barely-there roll back of his hips, and he feels your walls squeezing to hold him inside.

“‘S this what you were needing, huh?” The hand gripping at your waist is gentle, soothing, his thumb rubbing over your skin, yet his tone is anything but — authoritative, chastising, in charge. “All those times I berated you over your misactions, who knew I should’ve just tried fucking some sense into you.”

“Bucky,” your voice is muffled against the foam mat.

“Oh so now you want to call me that,” he tries another thrust, eyes glued to the view of his length retreating from the grip of your pussy lips, covered in your juices. “Finally feel close enough to me now that I’ve got you stuffed full?”

“So full,” you’re babbling and drooling, a wet patch forming just below where you press your cheek against the floor and glance back at him.

“You wanted to fight me, so go on,” it nearly kills him to pry his hands off you. “Use those hips like a fucking weapon.”

The soldier can tell it takes a moment for you to process his words, eyes glazed over as you gape at him from the floor, but you catch on eventually. Clench your walls, take a deep breath, and at last begin moving.

You fuck yourself back against his cock in slow, stuttered movements, fingers flexing along the floor in search of a piece of reality to grip at while your nails press into the foam, permanently marking the training room with evidence of your reckoning. The view is enthralling and tongue-tying, driving him mad in search of appraising words that falter into nothing but pleased hums.

His hands resist the urge to touch you, to guide you back against him, too stubborn in his desire to see you work for it, work for him. A pathetic mess sprawled out on the floor, yearning for any friction you can get from holding his cock snug within your walls and rutting your hips back against his own.

Bucky can only deny temptation for so long.

“Shh, atta girl,” every drop of mockery in his tone is intentional, heartfelt, his pity for you only going far enough to rouse a faux pout on his lips as he starts to meet your cunt with thrusts of his own and watches you start to sing a broken melody of moans and whines. “I know he’s big but you’re taking him like a champ, she’s taking me like a champ.”

A hand skirts down the expanse of your spine, enhancing the arch of your back as his hips slowly start to dig out a rhythm, fucking you deeper, harder, better. By the time his fingers reach the back of your neck, he’s forcing your head down against the ground and relishing in the sound of his balls slapping against your soaked folds as he works his dick inside of you.

One glance ahead sends Bucky down a new avenue of desire, something more primal and carnal stirring in his guts.

“Look at us,” his words are drawn out by wonder as the hand at your neck rearranges your head until your chin is pressing into the mat and your eyes face forward, meeting his steely blues in the mirror. “This is how it’s supposed to be. The leader on top, and you grovelling on your knees.”

Your reflections are nothing but sin, capturing every movement that passes between you both. The perfect dance of how your body welcomes him in. The way the soldier’s mouth gapes open, firing off capricious words and man-whore moans. The way your eyes are borderline lost behind your eyelids.

That last one has Bucky outraged, resolute to change the attention you give to the mirror.

The hand at your neck curls around the front and hooks you in the grasp of his elbow, before Bucky’s yanking you up, your back to his chest while he holds you in a headlock.

“You’re too perfect like this to miss, sweetheart,” he croons in your ear, eyes pinned to both your reflections. “So look.”

“James,” his name sounds like a blessing, brought out in your time of need.

He echoes your own name back to you, pleased to find your eyes blown wide open and equally as enraptured as he is by the show you’re both putting on. 

Your hands find his bicep and cradle the capture it’s taken over your throat. Bucky finds himself wishing he’d peeled your top off, the tight fit compression gear denying him the luxury of watching your breasts bounce alongside his ministrations. Before he can lament for too long, his free hand graces over the scar in your thigh and there’s something more pressing that upsets him.

“That bullet was meant for your head,” a gasped out confession, interrupted by your hips grinding down on him. “I nearly watched you die. You think that’s fair?”

He hates the way you shrug, like the prospect of being permanently gone means nothing to you, “You still would’ve- Ahh- Caught Andrews.”

“I didn’t give a shit about him,” his face turns towards yours, nose flattened against the side of your temple as his lips brush over your cheek, breathing you in. “It would’ve all been for nothing if I lost you.”

“James,” you whisper, his thrusts brought to a complete halt under the intensity of your eyes — your real eyes, not a reflection — finding his own when you turn to face him. “I’m right here.”

He blinks, slow, and when his eyelids reopen, you’re still there for him to behold. Infuriating, blood-curling, heart-shaking you and that loud smile.

You give him what he needs most, hand finding his jaw and your lips meeting his. The kiss is careful and composed, an explorative union of mouths, until it’s not. Until he’s desperate, hungering for more of you, his tongue brushing into your awaiting mouth and his lips moulding themselves against yours in hopes they fuse you both together, forever.

Bucky finds it impossible to turn away from you, so you do it for him, fingers gripping at his jaw and forcing his gaze forward again, bringing him back to where he needs to be. In this room, with you in his arms and him in your cunt, equal players in this game of pleasure.

One last kiss seared down into your shoulder and the soldier’s back to fucking you properly, winding his hips back just to admire the way you welcome his whole length, embrace his whole girth so pliantly. There’s an end in sight, one that promises momentary bliss, and all he wants is to take you there, to the very brink of ecstasy.

“D’you want to cum?” He slurs in your ear, the hand at your thigh snaking its way over to pinch at your clit. “Yeah? Then say you surrender.”

“You surrender,” and, oh, you must feel so smart, his beautiful vixen, a choir of giggles spilling out of you.

He tightens his hold around your throat, flexes the muscle in his arm, and watches how the silence is choked into you, no noise remaining but a broken moan.

“C’mon, baby,” Bucky needs it, just as much as you do, that greenlight to finally let himself explode. “Wanna feel her squeeze me real tight. Say it, for me.”

“I sur-” You’re cut off by your own pleasure, a half-shrieked scream that rips out of you while the soldier does the impossible and, tilting at a new angle, fucks deeper, tip bumping against what has to be your cervix.

“Uh-huh, that’s it,” the mirror spills all his secrets and feeds you the sight of his kisses being peppered up your neck, against your cheek, and sweat-soaked strands of hair that sit glued to his forehead. “Say it nice and clear for me.”

“I surrender,” you manage the full word, barely, and Bucky’s so proud of it, of you.

Of how you fall apart for him, hands grabbing at his arm in search of something grounding amidst the chaos of your shaky legs, and spasming walls, and weepy eyes. Of how you give yourself up to him, let him guide you through the blinding haze of your orgasm, cunt swallowing every subtle nudge his dick bullies into it. Of how pretty you gasp his names for him, a spillage of Jameses and Buckys all over the training room floor.

And of how, as his own orgasm crashes over him, you help him too, don’t even protest when his cock leaves you empty, slipping out only to search for friction between your two thighs. You squeeze them around him, marvel at the blush of his leaking tip as it rocks back and forth up to your clit.

When Bucky spills at last, it’s with his teeth clamped down on your shoulder and a hand clutching at your thigh as the thick, hot, white ropes of his cum paint your skin.

Exhaustion melts you both to the floor. A few moments in grasping at breaths pass before his hands are turning you around, in search of your face. When he finds it, there’s still a challenge in your eye.

“I lost,” you concede. “What’s my punishment, sergeant?”

The only response he can muster is to roll his hips.

Seasons ebb and flow into new ones.

Spring blooms and brings flowers into Bucky’s life, a handful a week delivered discreetly in the dark of a midnight rendezvous. With summer comes the heat — in both the temperature and the accusatory looks from the team each time his hand lingers on you during debriefs. In autumn, the leaves come crashing down alongside the truth, a pile of ‘I knew it!’s mixed in with the disgruntled paying of debts to Alexei for winning the ‘When Will They Tell Us?’ betting pool. And now, a whole year passed in the blink of four eyes, winter has returned.

More aggressive than ever, it seems, as Bucky stares out the window to a sea of desolate white.

Perhaps it's not so much about the season as it is about his location, the clue very much being in the name: Iceland.

“Come back to bed,” a soft drawl from behind him, the gentle rustle of limbs stretching over a mattress. “It’s cold, James.”

Of course you’re cold, naked atop the wrinkled sheets with his fingerprints burned into your skin and his cum leaking out your slit.

The soldier rolls his eyes in feigned annoyance, turning away from the fogged up window and crossing over the creaking floorboards to rejoin you, grabbing the blanket — discarded during earlier activities — off the ground.

“That snow’s showing no sign of stopping,” he shares the observation as he crawls up the bed to you, lips brushing over your skin as he goes. At the top of your thigh, he pauses, takes the effort to kiss the marred skin gently, a silent ritual where he gets to thank whatever power in the universe delivered the bullet there instead of your skull. “We’ll be trapped here at least another night.”

“Oh no, what a shame!” Grabby hands that hook under his arms to drag him the rest of the way up to you. “I guess we’ll just have to keep warm somehow.”

The soldier holds you how he knows you like it best: his left arm as your pillow, his right one resting at your neck, and his legs tangled in yours in an indecipherable mess. Silence lasts but a second or two before his thoughts get the better of him, memories of how wrong the first part of today had gone with the arrival of the blizzard.

“Am I allowed to say I told you so yet?” Even with your eyes closed, he knows you’re aware of the teasing smile on his face.

“Do you really think I don’t know how to check a weather app?” 

“You’re seriously stalling us both here while there’s bad guys to be caught.”

“There’s always bad guys to be caught,” your fingers flex in the grasp of his own, a satisfied sigh sweeping through your chest as you find warmth at last. Not from any blanket resting heavy on you, but from him and the way he holds you. “There’s not always a snowed-in cabin, or time to enjoy having my half-naked hunk in bed with me.”

“You’re making me irresponsible,” still, Bucky’s resting further into the pillow beneath his head, eyes welcoming the dark.

“When it comes to me, you’ve always been irresponsible.”

He has, and he hates it. Loathes it with every fibre of his being.

The worst thing about loving you is how entirely it consumes him.

“...Six, seven, eight,” you whisper out into the dark of the cabin.

“Mhmm,” a hand finds your thigh, fingertips tracing manmade constellations into your skin. “What are you counting?”

“Your heartbeat.”

+ extra hyde.

· my headcanon of bucky being incapable of processing emotions manifests in two ways: 1) unspoken yet undying devotion (manchild!bucky) and 2) deducing that any positive feeling must actually be a negative one because that's all he's ever known & thus mistaking love for hatred (the loser bucky present in this fic) · besties, somebody needs to throw me an intervention on how to properly list warnings on a fic, it's getting ridiculous. · dear anon who requested this: i hope you enjoyed, i'm sorry if you didn't! i know your request wanted banter, however, i was kind of worried too much banter would just turn this into the exact same reader i wrote in manchild and i didn't want to do that ( probably did it anyway by accident, oopsy daisy!)🧍‍♂️ · anyway i'm about to hit post like its a detonate button and the only safety distance from the explosion is to log out of tumblr for 24 hours, see you on the other side <3 · lore accurate photo of bucky in this fic;;

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

Au where it’s kinda similar to doodle ford but where Stan gets Isekai’d.

Stan an only child grew up watching this comedic show from the 60’s called Mystery Falls. The protagonist of the show, Ford, always faces against his nemesis Bill Cipher. However for one of the episodes it reveals a twist!! Ford has a twin brother, an evil twin brother who runs around committing crimes, Mr. Mystery and his henchman Questiony the question mark.

It was a good show until it started to derail and become one of those more grim dark edgy shows where everything is miserable.

Stan when he was still kicked out of his parents house, watched Mystery falls like a lifeline, because the show used to bring him some comfort. Unfortunately the show ended terribly with having one of those, twisted bad endings where Ford ends up being Bill Cipher’s pet and everyone else dies.

However one day, he wakes up as the main protagonist’s evil twin Brother!! Mr. Mystery!!

Only as he starts to slowly realize the character that he’s playing might have not been evil, but actually has been trying to help Ford, but Ford “hates” him because he made a huge mistake.

Stanley’s goal? Protect Ford, stop original show’s ending from happening. Be a father figure….to his weird side kick kid… Soos?

OH and there’s a bonus twist ;)

For Ford, he remembers the previous events of the show and thinks he has “future knowledge” on how to save the world and prevent Bill from taking over.

Meanwhile Stanley is going around changing things majorly and Ford’s like ????? this is DIDNT happen last time what’s going on?!?!

Stanley: I’m going to reform this show to its former glory and turn it into a comedy again

Ford: What the hell?! THIS ISNT MY GRIM DARK ACTION HERO SHOW?!

———-

Stan: How do I keep acquiring people WHY DO YOU KEEP FOLLOWING ME

Kid Soos: I want a dad

Manly Dan: You seem chill and I want to punch trees and people

Emma-May: You all are weird creatures to me, I must study you.

Carla: A jobs a job and I have none

——-

OOOOOOH WAIT WHAT IF EMMA-MAY WAS ISEAKAI’D TOO?! And she’s like *looks at original bland Fidds wife character who was supposed to die in the opening act of the grim dark arc*

Emma-May: Oh HELL NAH, this is fascinating I must learn all of the intricacies of this world and do experiments.

Tate: Mama..?

Emma-May: COME SMALL CHILD LET US GO RESSERCT THE DINOSAURS!

——-

Fiddleford: My wife’s acting weird….

Ford: Don’t have time for that F, I have to determine what move Mr. Mystery is playing next! Surely he is playing 4D chess and I must anticipate his next move of villainy

Meanwhile with Stan:

Stan: Uhhhh we’ll be… *throws darts on a list of criminal activities* robbing… *throws another dart it lands on museum* a museum, for… *throws dart* Squids.

(And for those are wondering this is inspired by Scum Villain Saving System heheh)

Oho this is fun! Give me a moment. I have not read scum villain saving system, so bear with me.

Hmmmmm. Hmmm. Hm.

OK. Mystery Falls started out as a monster of the week show, where Stanford Pines, aka Six Shooter the protagonist fight against an array of monsters and villains in a sort of Scooby-Doo batman action superhero mix. It started out as a comedy, but as time went on and they tried to add more plot and move away from the monster of the week format it took on a darker tone and ended on a sour note. Fans hoped for a movie to wrap it up, but by the time Stan died at 28 in a back alley nothing had ever been hinted at.

The show follows Ford and his mission to keep peace in The Falls, a paranormal city/town that's rife with crime and demons trying to cause trouble (sort of teen titans style). Ford works with fiddleford (his man in the chair) to find Mysteries, solve them, beat up the bad guy, and keep the peace. Bill Cipher was the big bad always sending goons and henchmaniacs after him, Mr. Mystery was a behind the scenes joke villain that was revealed to be Fords twin brother, Emma-May was a background bland character meant to add conflict to Fiddlefords storyline and got killed off, and everyone else was background or minor characters.

This is the world Stan wakes up in after a deal gone wrong kills him at 28. Takes him a moment to get his bearings, understan where and who he is, and learns that Mr. Mystery wasn't actually the crook he appears in the show, but using crime to cover up his own monster fighting and information gathering attempts. Ford was angry and never wanted Stan's help, so he went around defeating low level demons before they could become problems. Since Ford would explode at any sign if Stan helping, he'd do a crime to hide his involvement.

Well, now Stan has to deal with all of the og Stan's plotting, as well as add his own. He's gonna keep this show so light hearted no one will know what hit them. He's gonna ramp up the goofs, become an anti hero, do silly heists and save key characters to stop the og ending from happening! Like Fiddlefords wife! Emma-May! Who is now moving into his lair and making monsters in his basement.

Huh?

Emma-May also watched the show, but cared absolutely 0 about the plot and characters and was only in it for the world building. Just loved watching shows where you could do anything with science, and Mystery Falls had an interesting blend that let all kinds of whacky creatures loose. A world she finds herself in after her lab explodes. She doesn't care about the plot or any of that, all she wants to do is test the limits of her new reality and not die. Since her new 'husband' is a hero and would not be ok with her going mad, she's gotta find somewhere else to set up shop. Like Mr. Mystery, the character who rarely appears in person and is very mysterious, basement. He's not quite how she remembers from the show, but he can supply her with space and she'll help his criminal career as long as he uses his ability to never be found to her advantage.

Meanwhile Ford, the main character who was launched back in time to fix all his mistakes, is floundering. He had it all planned out, what to do so none of what happened happened, very grimdark, except Emma-May is barely around, Mr. Mystery has become even more unpredictable and silly, and a whole set of new criminals under his brother are crawling out from the woodwork. Half his plans are useless now that a bunch of threats were taken care of by Mr. Mystery when he was doing crime in the same area, and the other half are useless because no one is acting how they should. Fiddlefords freaking out because his wife got a secret job and is acting strange, Mr. Mystery acts like he barely knows Ford (and that's where their at now huh? Gonna pretend none of their past happened (Stan has no idea what happened, it's a huge plot hole the writers never addressed)), and who?? Are all these other criminals???

Madam Mystique (Carla) really needed a job that wouldn't get demolished every other day and is technically Stan's secretary but evil. Keeps track of Stan's schemes and makes sure things are on time, got hired after he robbed her third job that week and she got so angry at his newly hired semi incompetent goons she started yelling at them to pick up the pace so they could all go home.

Manly Mayham (Dan) got really caught up in the energy when Stan went to rob a zoo of their goats(he's got a nice mix of crimes for fun and crimes for plot, somehow this was plot related), grabbed a goat and followed Stan home and then no one could get him to leave. Rose in the goon ranks until he was Stan's muscle that he really hopes parents are at least somewhat aware of where he is.

Questiony came with the Mr. Mystery name and Stan has no idea what to do with this kid but he's essential for the zanny atmosphere. Gotta keep him around for the comedy to reach its peak.

Dr. Conundrum (Emma-May), a brand new never before seen threat adding strange monsters to Fords list of problems. Works alongside Mr. Mystery by making distractions and whacky creatures for the lulz. They get a wheel set up for what kind of creatures Emma-May should try to make ranging from 'knives' to 'made of bubble wrap'.

Stan's trying to survive and save the heart of the show, Emma-May is assisting through the sheer thrill of bringing her imagination to life, and Ford really wishes they'd take things seriously around here.

[from-a-farther-room]

If the sequel can retcon the first film, I can retcon the sequel, right?

Everything Discord said about the last immortal business is lies. Tuah is gullible and/or in on it. Nile had nothing to do with Andy losing her immortality.

Instead, this spear is some kind of cursed artefact that screws with immortality, but it doesn't actually remove it, it just disrupts the healing process. (Where did it come from? Doesn't matter. Why did that random guy in Croatia have it? Something to do with Discord's actual plan. Or he bought it on eBay.)

Dying again resets everything, but it takes a while. Andy couldn't go back for Booker's body at the end because the authorities or more goons or whoever were coming and she needed to get Quynh to safety. Booker revived at some point after they'd left and ... got captured by someone? Went off to sulk about not staying dead? I dunno sorry I don't care enough about Booker to figure out his plot, the point is he's fine and he'll come back eventually so the others don't have to be so sad about him.

Andy is immortal again for the same reason Joe and Nicky became immortal together: maybe it is truly random and she just got a wild coincidence like they did; maybe Nicky is right, (sometimes at least) it's not arbitrary, and destiny or whatever you want to call it insisted that Andy and Quynh get another chance to heal and be together just like it insisted on Joe and Nicky.

At some point during the big rescue mission, Quynh will be gravely injured and die in Andy's arms after telling her she forgives her. Andy will not leave her body behind, and Quynh will wake up good as new while Andy is sobbing over her. She'll say something clever and Andy will reach for her, and then hesitate because she still doesn't know if she's allowed, and so Quynh will kiss her and they will make out so SO MUCH you can't even imagine.

Meanwhile, Nile will figure out that all the last immortal stuff is nonsense and work out what Discord's real plan is (what is that? don't care doesn't matter), and use that information to devise her own plan to defeat Discord and escape. It's very much Nile's show though Joe and Nicky will contribute in some not-totally-trivial way that maybe involves an interesting non-crusades flashback for them. Copley can help too. In the course of their escape they'll run into Andy and Quynh who are still making out and everyone will fight together to finish the job. Nile will use the labrys at some point.

Finally, we'll see the whole group back together around a table eating and laughing and betting on something silly; Quynh reconnecting with Joe and Nicky; Nile and Quynh getting to know each other; maybe Nile deciding to reach out to her mortal family too.

Oh, and the cursed spear goes into a vault or gets melted down or whatever, but along the way Nile picks up an even cooler one that doesn't cause so many problems.

NILE FREEMAN + her new double-headed spear

[thisonehere]

I Saw Them First!

At a party, Leon Kennedy and Chris Redfield fight over you

Chris Redfield x Leon Kennedy x reader

A/n: And here it is. The winner of my poll.

A little nervous, this is my first ever Resident Evil fic so I hope you like. Enjoy!

Tags: Resident Evil, NSFW, Adult, Drabble(???), Smut, Plot, Gn reader, Chris Redfield, Leon Kennedy x reader, Agnst, One-Shot

Word Count: 4,755

C/w: Mention of PTSD, Bonding, Threesome, Drunk Sex, Rough Sex, Spit Roasting, Anal sex, Oral Sex, Mention of Bodily Fluids, Creampie, Cum play, Mention of 69'ing, m/m (✨boy-kissing✨), Sloppy Kissing

The strobe light in the DJ's booth flickered into different arrays of colour. Chris's head pounded at every colour. Yellow, Blue, Purple, Red; he hated them especially. He gripped his drink harder as he rubbed his eyes. He silently wondered why he was here.

As an agent of Blue Umbrella, Chris has been busy, so busy in fact that he decided for one night he'd do something for himself, something to relax after all these years of hard work. So, he decided to go to this party-club-whatever this was. He thought to go because he had heard that Claire and a few other people he knew would be here. He thought it would be a wonderful time; he forgot the pounding lights of the speakers and the blinding sounds that parties often had. He could feel a migraine coming on. It didn't help with the unwanted attention he was getting. While he was glad his large and imposing figure deterred some, he was befuddled to find men and women alike trying to catch his attention.

Be it romantic or friendly, Chris didn't care too much for all the eyes that were on him. And much to his disappointment, he didn't see Claire anywhere. He looked everywhere and couldn't find her. He asked around, but no one had seen her. This brought Chris anxiety, after all they've been through, not knowing where his sister had made him nervous, which made his head hurt even more.

Retreating farther into the room, where it was darker, less nosy, next to the open bar, he sat himself down at one of the stools available. He sighed at the relief of sitting down, and much to his joy, there weren't a lot of people at the bar. Chris was never really a social person. His time dealing with things such as Wesker and the T-Virus worsened it, practically killing any semblance of sociality left within the tired man. Making his decision to come to this party even more ill-fully thought-out in retrospect. Chris cracked his neck as he stretched. He hunched over, thinking deeply as he closed his eyes. He finally felt some form of relief; in his mind, the image of his bed appeared. Something much better than this, with a good book too. He had just gotten a new pair of reading glasses that would do him wonders.

"What's wrong, old timer, a little bit past your bedtime?”

Chris's eyes snapped open as he recognized this voice. "Leon." He said, with a strange sense of relief in his tone. He was happy, at least that someone he knew was here. He swiveled in his stool to take a good look at him. Leon was the same, perfectly gorgeous, with the same haircut that Chris always thought was stupid.

"It seems we both had the same idea." Leon took the stool next to Chris and sat down next to Chris. "Yeah, and what would that be?" Chris asked as he took another swing of his drink. "Come out and pretend to be normal." The silence that followed was so loud that it silenced the music; it was like Leon and Chris were the only ones there in their little world.

Years of pain, fighting for his life, and losing a hundred flashed before Chris's eyes. He took another swing of his drink. "Have you seen Claire?" He asked, hoping that this would distract them both. Leon just shrugged "Last I heard, Jill called her and asked to meet up and talk about something. I don't know what's happening with her." Chris looked at his cup, nearly empty, and he felt the muscles of his body ease up. Knowing Claire was with Jill made him feel a bit better; Leon being here with him made his antisocial condition improve ever so slightly.

"How long are you in town?" By now, Chris had ordered another drink, and Leon had gotten his first. Chris was drinking an iced tea; it was too late in the night for alcohol, and his head was already pounding. He didn't want to feel even worse in the morning. "I'm stationed here until further notice. I imagine it's the same for you, too." Leon, on the other hand, had a whiskey; he needed something to take the edge off.

The two men stayed there for some time, catching up, talking about life. They were in a conversation on which gun is most effective when shooting zombies and infected, when Chris saw something from the corner of his eye, and Leon followed his eye and saw it too.

An alluring figure appeared from the crowd like a water drop from a sea, making their way to the bar for a drink. You stood there, glamorous and mysterious, every aspect of your look was carefully thought out for the night. Your clothes were tight in all the right areas, showing all the best parts, even revealing in very lucky spots. Chris and Leon were silent as they watched you. Practically hypnotized, the two men stared at you, not looking away and not blinking even once. You didn't notice the men; however, you were too into the moment to notice them. You were out with your friends, and you were having a good time.

After getting your drink from the bartender, you sit at the counter for some time. Chris noticed that you ordered an iced tea like him and held his glass even closer to him. Leon suddenly rose from his seat "Um, excuse a second." Chris nodded, his eyes still on you. "Uh, yeah, yeah…Take your time." Leon made his way to the bathroom while Chris stayed there. By now, Chris's eyes melted, and he looked at you with a desperate and longing look in his eyes. Despite his tough and intimidating demeanor earlier, Chris looked at you like a cross between a lost puppy and a deer in headlights. He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it, thinking that it would either be stupid or unheard thanks to the music. He then opens his mouth again to say something and then closes it again. He does this again, and again, and again. He wanted to say something to you but struggled to conjure words in his mind and push them through his mouth.

Leon, on the other hand, was rehearsing what he was going to say to you. He looked intensely in the mirror, practicing his smile. Suddenly judgmental of every flaw he could find on his body. "Well, hello there, I'm Leon. Why yes, I am single…ish. It's nothing, I'm just in a complicated relationship with a Chinese spy who I…no-no-that's too much for the first time." Leon muttered to himself, pursing his lips as he thought of another way to take the conversation. As he did, he unbuttoned the top of his shirt, hoping to go for a sexier look, for a second, he wondered if he should pop his collar. But after popping it and looking at himself in the mirror, he decided that that was too much.

He wasn't very sure how this would go between you two, but he wanted to at least try something.

Walking out of the bathroom, Leon saw even from here that Chris was stumbling over himself talking to you. His face was a little red from embarrassment as he messed up and said something stupid, but you seemed very interested in what he was saying, interested in him more. Leon panicked at the notion; he stared in horror as you giggle at something that Chris said. Leon turned and went to the bathroom again.

Your smile was like a breath of fresh air for Chris; he was happy that something stupid he said managed to make you smile. You were even more beautiful when you smiled. Should he tell you that? No, that's too much. "So, you live around these parts?" Chris asked, You two stood closer together now. "Yes. I grew up in Racoon City, but I had to move because…”

"The T-Virus outbreak?" Chris finished for you, forgetting that you were just an innocent civilian. You stare at him, confused, unsure what he just said or what this "T-Virus" was. "No-Uh-I moved out for college a-and found an apartment here." Chris shifted uncomfortably as he realized that he ruined the vibe between you. He began to try and think of something else to say, something to change the subject and get the ball back to moving.

Suddenly, the phone at the boor began to ring. The Bartender had just finished fixing a Shirley Temple when they stopped and answered it. She just listened and nodded as the person at the other end. "Call for Chris Redfield, From Claire Redfield." She called, by now the music was much lower, playing a slower song, making it easier for her to be heard. Chris's ears picked up, and he turned to face the bartender. "ME!" He turned to you and apologetically excused himself.

"Um, hey, I couldn't help but hear that you're from Racoon City." You hear a voice from behind you. A charming man took the stool next to you, a genuine smile on his face. "I grew up there, too! I'm Leon by the Way.”

—

Leon was pleased to find that you were so taken by him. You two talked about your time at Racoon City and how unfortunate it was that it was destroyed. You notice his smile strain as he talked about it, as if those memories were painful for him to remember, like he was there when it was being destroyed. Leon quickly found a way to change the conversation. He said one of his cheesy One-liners, and you laughed, and he laughed at seeing you laugh.

"You have a beautiful smile," he said abruptly, not thinking. You smile and hide your face for a moment. "I'd love to see more of it. Maybe on a date.”

Leon watched with anticipation as you began to write your number down on a napkin. He had to retrain himself from laughing like a child as you handed him to paper, he kept his cool and calm and even a little smug stare at you.

"Excuse us," 

Leon's smile immediately vanished as he felt a familiar presence behind him put a hand on his shoulder. "I need to talk with my friend here.”

On the other side of the party, Chris and Leon were having a very pleasant chat. "What the hell? Using my sister's voice to make a message to sound like she was in danger?!" Both men had their arms crossed, flexing their muscles and puffing out their chests slightly. Perhaps thinking it would intimidate the other. "It was worth a try." He merely shrugged, making Chris more agitated. 

"Look, I'm sorry. I was only trying to get Y/n alone so that I could talk to her.”

"After you saw Y/n speaking to me." Both men stared the other down for a few moments. Suddenly, an idea came to Leon. "Then we'll let Y/n decide.”

—

There you were all alone at the bar on your phone. By now those two men were too away for you to see them, obscured by the crowd of people leaving you all alone here. Shame, you would like at least one of their companies. By now most of your friends had left, they offered to take you home, but you insisted that you'd be fine and that you'd find another way home. By now you had wished you went with them, because you were tired and ready to leave.

"Excuse me." The first man you were speaking to returned to the stool beside you; a smile filled with renewed interest. "Sorry about that, my name's Chris and I'd like to buy you a drink." 

Things were going nice with Chris. He seemed like a very genuine guy, though a little too stoic for your liking. You talked for quite a bit, and you drank. You were glad honestly; he was a lot better than the other men here, he seemed very sweet and respectful. Though very a little standoffish, he was obviously interested in you on a deeper level. Showing an almost bashful desire for you that made you really like him.

You were getting really close to him, and the fact that he was hot helped matters greatly. You were really getting into a conversation when suddenly, a timer on his phone went off. Chris's smile slowly faded as he pulled out his pants and looked at it. "I'll be right back." He promised as he rose, towering over you as you sat. Before you could ask where he was going, he was gone, once again disappearing into the large sea of people.

And then comes Leon, attempting to seem cool as he placed himself down at the other stool. "Hey." He gives you a smile. "Sorry about earlier. If it's alright, I'd like to pick up where we left off. Leon was yet another good candidate for your affection. As well as a pretty good sense of humor. He did also look at you with a deep level of intensity with those magnificent eyes that made you feel like you were about to faint. 

You talked for a bit, with Leon the conversation felt more alive than and, in the moment. Leon ordered you both vodka shots, you didn't usually drink this much, but you were so lost in the moment that you just threw caution to the wind. You talked and you laughed, and you drank. 

"You sure can hold your alcohol." Leon compliment as he wiped excess vodka from his lips. "I can hold more." The alcohol had loosened you enough just enough to be risky like this. Leon raised his brow in surprise, actual and raw surprise, not fake surprise. He then let out a low scoff. "You know what?" he leaned in close to you like he was about to tell you a secret. "I think I like you, Y/n.”

You leaned in close to him as well, for a moment it was like you two were about to kiss. Then suddenly Leon pulled back quickly, as if he felt something. In fact, you thought you heard a buzzing coming from Leon's pocket, like a silent alarm going off on his phone. " I have to go. I'll be right back.”

The moment Leon left, Chris suddenly resurfaced from the crowd. This is how it went on for the rest of the night. You talked to one, got close to that once, drunk, they'd leave, the other one would immediately show up.

Leon took you out to the floor to dance, he left, and Chris appeared and you began dancing. Chris started to do pushups with you sitting on his back, He left, Leon showed up, he used you to bench press. The men kept interchanging, doing stuff to impress you. To the point that it began to get ridiculous at one point, Leon gave you a piggyback ride as he did the back flip and Chris was going on about the time he punched a boulder. You thought it was cute at first, you just tried to have fun with the absurdity as it happened, this is probably the one time you'll ever have two hot men fight over you so you might as well enjoy it.

The time finally came when the party was winding down, people were starting to leave, and the DJ was almost out of songs to play for the night. You were with Leon now; he held your hand tenderly, "Let's go to my place." You whispered into his ear; he grew a smirk on his face as he gave you a single nod to agree. It seems the alcohol made you both loose indeed. You both made your way to the door. 

"Going somewhere?”

You both turned to face Chris, who stood there with his arms crossed as he stared Leon down. Leon let out a low sigh, it was obvious, even in your drunk state that the two men had it up to here with each other. Leon softly excused himself and walked up to Chris, though he stumbled a little while walking over. "Listen, she chose me".

"Did she?" Chris arched a brow as he glared, then marched up to Leon. Leon didn't back down and took a few steps towards Chris, the men were so close that their chests pressed up against the other. "We both agreed that we'd let Y/n decide when the party was over." Chris growled. Leon merely shrugged, "I guess Y/n chose early. You'll have to find someone else to talk about the thrilling tale of punching rocks." Chris's eyes narrowed his. "Why don't you go do a backflip at a kids birthday party, then I'm sure someone would actually be impressed!”

The two began to bicker causing a crowd to gather. You rubbed your eyes; you were embarrassed and too tired for this. "Hey guys!" You call, the men stopped their little spat and looked at you. Shame immediately looms over faces. "Y/n, we're so sorry." Chris started walking towards you but then stopped when he made contact with your eyes. You nodded your head, motioning them to follow you outside. The two gave the other a questioning look and then proceeded to quickly follow after you.

It was later in the night, the guests of the party were grabbing their things and leaving. The DJ was putting up their sets. That is when Claire finally arrived. "Damn it!" She said under her breath. She knew that she'd be late, but not this late. Jill followed in behind her. She was supposed to get to this party earlier, but Jill contacted her on some very pressing matters. Matters that would require her to leave by tomorrow morning. Claire knew that Chris wasn't going to be in town for much longer, so she had hoped to spend some time with him here. They were so busy with their own personal lives now that sometimes they didn't see each other for years. She also heard that Leon was here, so she wanted to say hi to him as well.

Jill and Claire rushed to the now closing bar and asked the bartender. "Last I saw, he left with two other people, one of them was called Leom...? Leroy? I'm not sure" She answered, clearly tired from a hard night's work. Jill and Claire exchanged glances. Jill turned to the bartender and took her turn asking questions. "Who else did he leave with?”

"Fuck, your mouth feels like Heaven." Leon moaned, and Chris grunted in agreement. Here you were in your kitchen, on your knees, both Leon and Chris shoving their cocks in your mouth. And there you were, on the kitchen floor sucking both of them off. Your clothes were carelessly scattered all across the living room.

"You're so good for me, aren't you?" Chris bit his lip as he pressed his dick deeper into your mouth. You nod as you keep suckling and slurping their cocks, sporting both in your mouth like a hotdog eat contest. They both tasted like the salty sweat of a long night. You are bobbing your head back and forth, occasionally taking one out and rubbing it while fully swallowing the other. Then the other would then snatch your head away from the other and shove their bit into your mouth. You were down on your knees sucking and slurping, saliva and cum dripped down from your mouth, down to your chest. Both men growled and grunted like wild animals as they began to snap their hips back and forth against your face in a fit of animalistic lust.

Finally, you tasted the hot, salty-sweet sting of their semen against your tongue as they filled your mouth. Some even spill out all over your face. Before you could spit it out, Chris put his hand over your mouth. "No, No, I want to swallow every drop." You tried not to gag from vomit as you forced yourself to swallow every bit of seed in your mouth. Leon smirked as he wiped a bit of excess juice from the tip of your lip. He stuck that figure in your mouth, having you suck their combined load. "Fuck you're so hot with my cum all over you.”

You all decide to take this to bed, and Chris throws you over his shoulder. You all make your way to the bedroom. Chris slammed you onto the bed. You get up to see both the men towering over you, licking their lips and their thick and veiny erections, looking at your naked body as if a pack of wolves waiting to pounce. It was dark in the room, save for the sweet moonlight that poured into the room, illuminating the men's magnificent bodies, highlighting every feature. They both had the bodies of Greek gods, the type of bodies that you could worship all day. Chris was big, with giant biceps, thick thighs, and a hairy chest with a nice width to his penis. Leon was much cleaner-shaven and smaller, but still perfectly muscular, with more length to his penis. 

Without wasting a bit longer, the two men pounced on you.

Leon was on his back and his cock was once again in your mouth. Not fully, though; you were still reeling from earlier. You licked and kissed and massaged it, from his balls to his shaft to his tip. Leon groaned in wild pleasure as he lay his head back on the pillow and rubbed your head. Chris, on the other hand was behind you, his rough hands slowly traveled your body going from your neck to your back and finding its way to your ass. Rubbing and slapping at it. You could feel the calluses of his rough hand as he delighted in your figure. He took his tip and slowly began to rub the entrance of your hole, teasingly. You could just feel the head emanating from his naked body from behind. It caused you to begin to sink deeper onto Leon cock. Finally finding the bravery, you slowly inched your lips past his tip and transitioned to the shaft.

Chris continued to tease, pressing two fingers to your ass, going deeper as he began to massage the entrance. "Does that feel? You like it in the ass." You tried to lift your head to answer but Leon was so lost in your hot mouth that he kept his hand firmly on your head, ensuring that his erection stayed in your mouth. 

"I'm going to put it in now, get ready for me, sweetheart," Chris whispered into your ear. Giving your ass another good slap. He had to be courteous to slowly put it in, so smoothly like it was butter, but that didn't stop it from hurting. In hopes of muffling your screams, you shoved Leon dick in its entirety into your mouth. This caused him to throw his head back again in pleasure. Chris put his lip a little as he plunged his manhood deeper and deeper. He waited a moment to allow your body to get used to his girth.

When you were ready, he began to gyrate his hips, into you and out of you. Leon, on his end, guided your head up and down. 

In no time, the rhythmic smacking sound of skin slapping together combined with the sound of giggling and gurgling filled the house and bounced off the walls. 

You scream as Chris finds the power within him to charge even faster into you. Leon was even less merciful, gripping you by the hair tightly now, bobbing your head, and even slamming his own hips upward and downward into you.  

They went faster and faster and faster. Suddenly, it all hit a satisfactory climax. Chis erupted your ass, while Leon filled your mouth. You leaked hot jizz though those two orifices you could swear they were still exploding in you. Leon fell back onto the pillow as Chris fell on top of you, the three of you were reduced to a heap of huffing and gasping for air.

"My turn." Leon gestured towards your ass, signaling for both of them to switch. Chris kept his member deep inside you and now had a smirk on his face. He took some of the cum that dripped down your leg and he wrote his name with it on your lower back. "Sorry Leon, but I think Y/n likes me here, don't you baby?" he gives your ass another slap, you merely groan in dazed agreement.

Leon narrowed his stare at Chris, and Chris proudly smirked as he stared back. "You hate yourself so much." And with that, Leon grabbed Chris and pulled him forward and kissed him. The two drunk men began to sloppily kiss. They grabbed each other's dicks and began to touch each other rapidly. Before you know what's going on, thick ropes of cum burst out, covering both of them and getting all over your back.

This seemed to cause Cris to finally relent and let Leon mount you while positioned himself to the head of the bed. He could lie, he liked your mouth around cock even more than he liked it in your ass.

This is how it went for the rest of the night before the break of dawn. They'd take turns with each part of your body you could offer them. Chris sat you on his lap and pleased you with his hands while you Leon another blowjob, Both men fucked you in the as at one point, Leon fucked Chris in the ass, you 69'd with both of them, You were then in a sandwich with you on top with Leon inside of you while Chris was inside of Leon. It was truly a wild night of violent and thoughtless passion. 

By the time morning comes, 5 in the morning, you think, your head is pounding. You could barely remember last night, so it was a pleasant surprise when you awoke to two of the hottest men you've ever seen, as well as the room smelling like semen and sweat. The two were still asleep, still inside you. They pressed themselves against you, wrapping you and each other close in a cocoon of sorts. You lay your head down again, too tired to think at the moment.

When you awoke again, you were alone in your bed, and breakfast was on your nightstand. Your head was pounding and your body was sore. You could barely remember what happened last night, just that you met two men at a party and you assumed you took them home. You find that your room is a lot better, the same with your kitchen; and it seems the men cleaned up a little bit before they left.

On your counter was the breakfast, or it looks like they cooked for you before they left. Beside it was a note. 

It read:

"Thank you for last night, it was one of the best nights we've had in a while. We'd love to see you again. Please call us.”

And below were their names and their numbers, as well as a cute little heart drawn.

You smiled warmly at the note. You have breakfast and get ready. Your head still hurts from the hangover, but you felt oddly good inside. You are excited to see them again yourself. From what you could remember, they seemed like nice men, though off. Talking nonsense about “T-Viruses", "Wesker's", and "Boulders” and such.

A/n: And that's all Folks! It's been a while since I wrote smut so I'm a little rusty. I hope you all enjoyed it and I'd love to know any other fandom I should try.

[neoflect]

what are your thoughts on each jojos part?

phantom blood: definitely my personal favorite and its not even close. i disagree w the general fandom consensus that its the weakest arc or something to be suffered through until jojo "gets good" & i think much of this consensus can be chalked up to david pro's careless and mangled adaptation, which i resent. if youre anime-only i cannot stress enough how much of pb was left on the cutting room floor - not only entire fight sequences but crucial character-building scenes that are critical to the coherence of the whole narrative. its relatively straightforward by jjba standards but that simplicity belies its thematic depth. if it has any shortcomings its that its somewhat racist (but even the racism is thematically relevant!) and its female characters (or... character, singular) are sidelined and underwritten

battle tendency: pretty good. its a lot of fun but i dont think it coheres the same way pb does - as the awkward middle sibling of the core jojo "trilogy" and the connective tissue between the two major dio arcs its kind of the odd one out. nevertheless lisa lisa is probably my favorite jojo girl (we love a deadbeat mom!) and its always fun to see joseph slutting around so i cant really complain. i can, however, complain about the nazi shit - it suits jojo's italian grindhouse exploitation cinema heritage, and its critical to the theme of "empire coming home to roost" in the same way a lot of the worst parts of pb are, so i dont resent the nazi presence entirely, but arakis handling of it is clumsy at best and outright apologia at its worst

stardust crusaders: a mixed bag. this is actually one of my least favorite arcs. when it hits it really, really hits - but much of it is an awkwardly-paced, weirdly gross slog. the simple innovation of stand-based combat belies the fact that araki hasnt yet figured out how to write stand combat well, so many of the stands themselves are not very interesting and virtually every fight ends with the deus ex machina of star platinum punching the other guy really good. additionally jotaro himself is probably the least interesting jojo, second only to giorno, and is ill-suited for the protagonist role - after a certain point polnareff functionally becomes the main character and does a much better job of it to boot. this post sums up my thoughts nicely. but you know if you stick with it long enough you get to see dio! so its not all bad

diamond is unbreakable: excellent. no complaints. the initial chapters are a somewhat awkward transitional phase for the franchise - araki did not initially plan anything past the end of sdc, and he also switched editors on very short notice, and the lack of planning shows; but once it finds its footing it is all hits all the way up to the very end. the limited setting and slice-of-life format are a breath of fresh air after the initial trilogy and also allow araki the wiggle room to really figure out what stands are good for - centering the story around a town full of, by and large, "normal" people who use their supernatural powers in various convoluted ways - to enrich themselves or their businesses, to pursue their hobbies and careers, etc - is so so much fun. also, kira is unique and a standout among jojo villains and every second he is on the page is an absolute delight

golden wind: sucks.

stone ocean: a strong beginning and a strong ending, but it slumps a bit in the middle - nevertheless a suitable ending for the original jojo timeline. jolyne is a fun protagonist and jotaro is about a million times better suited to the supporting role of estranged divorced dad than a macho leading man. pucci is great too, and his prior relationship with dio and backstory/enmity with weather provides an enriching foil to complement the joestar family a-plot. this part has a lot of stupid stand bullshit™ (for better or worse) and a lot of the supporting cast/rotating enemy stand-user-of-the-week characters are not really very memorable, although i will admit i find dios other 3 kids way more compelling than giorno. het romance in jojo is always annoying and forced (other than, maybe, jojolion) but anasui sucks and hooking jolyne (or, her alternate universe incarnation) up with a guy she visibly did not give an iota of a shit about prior is perhaps one of arakis worst authorial decisions ever.

steel ball run: maybe arakis masterpiece, but thats hardly a controversial take. an excellent complement to pb that enhances and transforms much of its subtext into text, so of course im fond of it. i reread sbr recently in preparation for the anime and i was really struck by how well araki's depiction of the various neuroses at the core of usamerican exceptionalism & jingoism holds up after 20 years! i wish soundman and pocoloco - the two characters perhaps most relevant to its commentary on the contradictions inherent in the false promise of american liberty & justice - were not so sidelined, and the sudden resurrection of you-know-who at the eleventh hour doesnt really feel earned, but the narrative as a whole is so fucking strong i can forgive it. a pity that once the anime starts its going to become impossible to discuss without butting heads with some of the most ignorant chuds alive. dont trust anybody who tells you sbr peaks at true man's world - the REAL peak is sugar mountain

jojolion: im gonna be honest: i read jjl in chunks intermittently while it was being published over the course of a decade so im a little rusty on a lot of the early details, and i havent revisited it since it finished in 2021 so irdk how it coheres as a complete work. nevertheless... my recollection is that its kind of a crowded mess. i found the initial mystery of jo2ke's search for identity really compelling, and the emotional core of the narrative is his found family among the higashikatas, and in that sense araki brings it home at the very ending. but all the stuff with the locacaca and the rock humans kind of lost me, and toru seems to take over the main conflict completely out of nowhere, and so many of the earlier characters that i was really intrigued by (kei and karera especially) simply disappear entirely with no resolution. i know people hate the "araki forgot" meme but there is so much shit in jjl that remains unresolved over its decade-plus publication that its hard to come up with any other reasonable explanation! but if you are a fan of heteros i guess jo2ke and yasuho are about as good as it gets

jojolands: i only read the first few chapters when it started publishing and fell off. i need to get caught up but following ongoing manga is kind of annoying. i think dragona is nice :)

[goodolddumbbanana]

How about an Au where Sun gets trapped past, back to when eclipse had the star, new moon is born, earth is her old self and both moon and lunar are dead. He tries to figure out how to get back to his old timeline, or…………… Try to comb through his life choices and may or may not to figure out how to save his family (or the people thats left of the family) from their future fates? 😏

Funny how you said because I actually have a plot like that (actually like 4 versions of it) in my writing trashcan. (I never had a chance to finish it because well, I'm lazy)

Like if Sun goes back in time in his younger self body, like he replaced him or if Sun just goes back and also they have a Sun too.

Sun would have a crisis for days. Like depending on the timeline if he is back right after Eclipse killed Lunar and New Moon just woke up, or it has been days after that.

He would try to call the Timelord. But no one answered. Or they will come but they couldn't get him back to his timeline, and ordered him to not screw things up or else the timeline would be erased and he would die with the world.

Eclipse v2 is not die in this au purely because I want that ass to get a redemption arc and also Sun thinks with the help of the star, he can get home.

Either way, I can imagine he would lock himself up for a day before being back to his normal self.

He wouldn't be completely broken down like New Moon but he would experience some kind of "is this real? Am I dreaming the whole time? " with shaking hands and a head full of mist.

He would be so awkward when he sees New Moon (I would call him Nexus, his name is too long) and Earth.

He might unconsciously avoid Nexus, again. It's not like he hates Nexus at all. Sure he has some very bitter feelings towards him, but also, he would cry or something like that would happen if he talked to Nexus for too long. His emotions completely wrecked when it comes to Nexus.

He misses him, he loves him, this seems like a dream, and he would have to leave this place soon.

Just like digging an old wound and letting it bleed.

He is very conflicted about telling this to anyone because well, he doesn't want to put burden in New Moon shoulder because the last time he trusted Nexus, his bro broke down and went insane. Especially when New Moon is very sensitive about the whole identity thing.

And let's not forget about the fact he might have to leave and then... What happened after that? He couldn't leave New Moon and Earth alone dealing with things...

So... Sun will try to be better which... Because he is Sun, things go terribly wrong.

Like, he would try to care about Nexus much more, to the point of helicopter parents.

Like, instead of telling New Moon to watch the old videos to catch up with things, he just simply tells New Moon Eclipse is an asshole who has beef with a version of Moon and he doesn't have to care about Eclipse words.

So because of the curiosity, and also seeing how much Sun gets tossed around by Computer in order of Old Moon (the beating stick, the experiment has Sun Tag on it, how Sun seems very nonchalant when Nexus accidentally yeet him into different dimensions.... Especially how Computer doesn't like Nexus at all)

Also the whole Sun avoids talking about the Old Moon and how much Sun leaves Nexus out so Nexus couldn't be stressed or in dangerous.

(like he would step up in front of Nexus if they face danger. He can use magic and he knows everything and ...)

To sum up, Sun ironically makes Nexus feel like he is useless because while Nexus is a dumbass who couldn't remember anything and let Sun handle things alone.

You know, the feeling when you live with a divorced mom who even with her very busy job, still does anything to take care of you.

It makes Nexus feel like either whether he is here or not is meaningless . And he also doesn't want to enjoy things like Earth.

Sure he is good at science , but what is the point of it if he couldn't help his family?

So he secretly watches the videos himself and he is horrified about the old moon.

And the root ironically still blooms.

Nexus once again thinks Sun is nice to Nexus because he is scared of Old Moon. And the same applies to how Sun sometimes seems detached from him.

He doesn't hate and make fuss about it to Sun because he knows Sun would apologise and all things.

Ironically, because of what Sun did, Nexus mind gets easier to break down.

Anyway because Sun has learnt his lesson, sun doesn't hide that he practiced Star power to Nexus and just say we can beat Eclipse if they yeet him into a different dimension.

And he needs Nexus help. But also he said it okay if Nexus doesn't want to do it because... He doesn't want Nexus to do too much.

Of course Nexus agrees, and he just like canon went to Solar dimension.

Once again he is solar besties.

---

Sun doesn't have hallucinations about BM in this au but he has a Nexus hallucinations.

The one would laugh when seeing him interact with New Moon. It funny.

Either way, no matter how Sun tries, the end is the same.

Solar died, because in this au, he is the one who actively says Ruin is suspicious but well, because he couldn't have any evidence, no one believes him.

Also New Moon with his ego is about to be a teenager and wants to rebel. So he doesn't listen to Sun, only eclipse v2 but their relationship is very tense. (New Moon still doesn't understand why Sun keeps this ass live.)

So... It break nexus more when solar dies because of all the warnings and he just didn't listen.

And the dream happened.

And ... He is about to murder BM again.

Funny

[toluene-sister]

Just wanted to let you guys know I took down LISMBWYD, which is something I'd been meaning to do ever since I posted the last chapter back in November. Idk, I guess I kept it up for so long bc maybe I was hoping I'd eventually get over shitting out 160+K words and not getting a single piece of actual feedback at the end of it, but obviously that didn't happen lmao so I figured there's no point for it to just sit there and gather dust anymore. Let's consider the whole rewrite time wasted and move on, that's life.

Idk yet what I'm gonna do abt my other fics tho, it's possible I won't update WNIOS until I've written all of it bc frankly I'm not getting any concrete feedback on that either, like, idk is the plot any good? Is the worldbuilding any good? Is the pacing any good? idkkkkk no one would fucking tell me lmao people comment on the most random things that makes me feel I'm doing sth wrong with this whole writing thing, so idk, I might just stop posting to focus on the joy of writing without being bummed out with the lack of actual human connection & conversation I was kinda hoping for when I started posting--I mean there is no fucking TDK fandom anymore so obv that's not gonna happen for me. Gotta protect my peace and not set myself up for getting bummed out.

But I haven't decided yet, just--it's a possibility so don't be surprised if WNIOS doesn't update for a longer while. My mental health is a fickle fucking mistress so we'll see.

[thatonegrimm]

I have a serious question now.

If the Saja boys suddenly got genderbent, what do you think their first reaction would be?

I feel like Jinu would freak out and Romance would be “I look fabulous!”

If I genderbent suddenly, I think I’d freak out cause I look so bad with short hair 😭😭😭

- 🌊 (I made some bad hair decisions in grade 5)

OMG 🌊 anon you just unlocked a chaotic mental image I didn’t know I needed 😂

Jinu – Full-blown existential crisis. Immediately googles “how to reverse accidental gender transformation” while clutching his chest like it’s the end of the world. Would probably lock himself in the bathroom for 3 hours, then come out and shyly ask if he still looks “leaderly” in a skirt.

Abby – After ten seconds of confusion, flexes in the mirror and goes “wait I’m still ripped?? Nice.” Starts testing if his strength changed and ends up cracking a tile.

Mystery – Stares at his reflection in silence for 45 minutes. Doesn’t say a word. At some point just drapes a curtain over his head and disappears into the shadows again.

Romance – You already nailed it: thrilled. Full glam activated. Already plotting ten outfits and flirting with his own reflection. Starts saying things like “Honestly, I look too good, it’s unfair.”

Baby – First reaction: “Am I hotter than before or…?” Then gets deeply competitive with himself and starts comparing selfies from both versions to figure out which one gets more likes.

Also: don’t even worry about the grade 5 hair incident—we’ve all got one of those 😭

[yeetspace]

DAMN verbatim same probably didn't help while dealing with that whole ordeal of someone who while actively being in a worse situation than me mentally, could barely even consider the idea that I could ever be in a bad mental place too, to the point where I got yelled at for being sick and unhappy from how stressed out they constantly made me cuz no matter the interaction, at some point in the middle of the night for no reason with no impetus they'd try to kill themselves and make it my problem and then when i was attacked by their feral cat style of splitting i was just expected to both take it on the chin and actively comfort them through it while they said things that weren't just spur of the moment rage comments but deeply hurtful and still long reaching indictments on what I'm realizing now was a people pleaser trauma response meeting someone that couldn't imagine someone unironically carried for them so much so that they morphed that into unironic hatred because they knew for a fact in their deeply deeply deeply fucking on well mind that obviously I'm just lying constantly and actually I hate them very much

Them constantly doing that kind of made it really hard not to eventually get there which I hate to say is absolutely the case, but given the fourth year of being agoraphobic given the interaction that I had to deal with, I'm safe and saying fuck them directly they caused this to me yeah.

Extra special help from the school administration who was getting on my ass for not being able to complete assignments for being sick too often from the ungodly amount of stress I was very obviously under and be very obvious lack of sleep I was obviously under because these things would happen at 3:00 in the morning and school started at 8:00

which they never once considered oh shit this kid's really fucking sick but instead Like they thought that this was some kind of insane school movie plot where there's like a whole group of people just lying for no reason to like administratively get past being there and not just me being horrifically sick

Like it was so bad and so consistent that there was a point in which a teacher got mad at me for not feeling up to writing an assignment cuz someone I knew killed themselves, the teacher got pissed at that and was like it's not good to not show integrity It's like I'm going to show the grit inter your fucking mouth when your teeth are turned to dust shut the fuck up she was a nightmare bitch who just kind of constantly knew that she could be a smarmy as she could possibly muster and the kid literally administratively could not do anything other than just take it, she was a bully who taught my dad and I can see exactly how someone like that in power and administration would lead my dad to fall down the pipeline of becoming a boot licking class traitor 💀

It's like they don't understand that children get sick and that every individual choice made by a child isn't both conscious and made to spite the person that it inconveniences which I don't think that my high school could ever even consider

The school was literally epitomized by that one community scene - but it's like:

"I can excuse the swastika's written all over the walls and the anti-lgbtq hatespeech but I draw the line at feeling unsafe in school (Wait why the fuck do you expect me to ever do anything to make it less unsafe? Just stop feeling that way nerd🤣.)"

What the fuck is up with administration and authority figures just desperately needing ND minds to actually secretly all be completely aware criminal masterminds that are just doing it for the bit to make them piss instead of you know, a child who doesn't know what they're doing and is waiting for the authority figure who tells them what things are and how to do them how to do things and what the thing is, and weirdly enough asking about it isn't snidely being like oh what's that and asking how to do something isn't being like I don't know what I'm doing and is in fact a child asking for the things a child should have?

Like holy fuck

i mean my one real experience with romance basically caused all my organs to shut down and brain explode with the stress so i really do worry about the next time. granted. i do not think relationships are supposed to be so stressful you’re crying all the time but that’s all i’ve really got to work with

[gothiclynovi]

Do you have any favorite or leosagi fanfics you're reading right now that you would recommend?

I literally have so many lol but here are my favorite ones that I keep downloaded :) They are all completed

Paper Rings by lydiasgrace

Summary:

The first words Usagi ever said to Leonardo were “Marry Me"

Before Leo could give his answer, he was whisked away by his brother.

Determined to track Usagi down so Leo could give him his answer, he soon finds that actually finding Usagi is the easy part. Convincing his family to let Usagi live after they find out is a much, much harder task.

This was one of the first leosagi fics I ever read and still one of my favorites! It’s very cute and fluffy!

When Worlds Collide by celestiangel

Summary:

Usagi crossed his arms. “You want me to become his best friend? Easy. I’m very likable.” Big Mama snorted, and Usagi pretended not to hear.

“More, actually. I want you to become his…more than a friend.”

If Usagi had drunk something, he would have spit it all over Draxum.

Or

Usagi is given a simple task by Baron Draxum. Spy on the four Hamato siblings for him, gather information, feed it all back to Draxum. The only draw? Usagi has to pretend to fall in love with Leonardo.

Chaos ensues.

I will never forget this one. Changed my life. I go back and reread it every few months and I’ve literally made so many TikToks on this fic.

Midnight Blue by TugboatExpress

Summary:

One minute he’s sacrificing himself to be beaten to death by a murderous alien invader in a

nightmarish prison dimension, and the next minute he’s locking eyes with the actual, literal,

cutest guy he’s ever had the privilege of seeing. Such is life for Hamato Leonardo.

This is my number one favorite Leosagi fic ever. I reread it all the time and It’s genuinely incredible. We get to watch their relationship grow and develop so naturally ahjdjshdjksh I love it. And there is a sequel!

Midnight Blue, Vol.2

So In Love And Yet Nothing To Talk About by rosesofenvy

Summary:

After saving the world three times, you would think that Hamato Leonardo wouldn’t have a care in the world. Unfortunately, the self proclaimed face-man was always looking to subvert expectations. This particular topic was one they’d always danced around but now that they were certifiable Heroes, he figured he could spend some time worrying about it now.

As a mutant turtle teenager who was also a ninja, Hamato Leonardo never thought he would be able to meet his soulmate.

tl;dr Leo wants to find his soulmate and is willing to throw himself (and his brothers) headlong into a new mission to do so.

I definitely recommend watching Samurai Rabbit before reading this one! It’ll make more sense if you do. Lots of world building and the plot is *chef’s kiss*

StarBlind by WeirdNCrazy

Summary:

There was a lot of mutagen and other sharp objects being dangerously launched around as Baron Draxum lair got destroyed.

What would happen if some of that got into a certain Red Eared Slider eyes?

Well it would make for one blind turtle and an interesting shift from canon that what it would be!

Magnetic Force of a Man by BialyLis

Summary:

"He wanted to slit my throat!"

"But he didn't, seeing how you can still talk so much. Usagi is a very hard-working boy, the

best employee I had in a long time."

Usagi gave no indication that the compliment made an impression on him. If anything, he looked even more tired than before the start of this whole conversation.

Leo wasn't about to fall for those empty eyes and lack of will to live.

"That's cool, because the last guy he worked for wanted us dead."

"See?" Hueso spread his arms. "So it wasn't even his idea. He's a good boy and you'll be nice to him, Pepino, or you'll never get a discount again," he threatened, which was completely absurd and a sign that the whole world had turned upside down after all. Leo blamed the Foot Clan. And Shredder. And Big Mama. "Besides, I'm sure he had a change of heart. Right, Lechuga?"

They both looked at Usagi expectantly. The rabbit took his time, twirling the pen in his fingers for a moment, before finally sighing. And in that same, emotionless voice, he announced:

"My boss fucking died."

Or; When Usagi and Leo first met, they fought.

The best way to start a great friendship!

This one… I love it with my whole heart. Their dynamic is so unique and the romance isn’t rushed. They actually don’t even get together yet in this one! But their relationship develops so naturally and we get to watch them grow up together. I love it, and it has a sequel which takes place post-movie (and they do get together in it):

Foolish One (Leo’s Version) by BialyLis

Summary:

"My phone," he demanded, tapping his fingers urgently on Donnie's wrist. His twin wasn't carrying his communicator, which most likely meant it had fallen to pieces and no amount of force could put it back together. Although Mikey definitely tried his luck with duct tape,

Raph frowned, and the concern on his face was momentarily replaced by irritation.

"Leo," he started, and there was a warning note in his voice: "If you're thinking about your phone at a time like this, it's a sign that you have a damn serious problem."

Leo huffs in frustration, tapping his brother's wrist once more, this time just to find some outlet for his mounting stress.

"Usagi," he clarified, cursing the increasingly severe pain in his throat. "I have to call him."

Or;

There's time for recovery and time for pining - and it happend to be one and the same.

Actually, you should just check out the entire series because it is amazing: Idiots in Love

give me something that’ll haunt me when you’re not around by taizi

Summary:

Usagi Yuichi doesn’t have a crush on that striped turtle guy who used to come into Run of the Mill all the time, because that would be stupid.

Yuichi very much has a crush on Leonardo. Everyone else figures this out before either of them do.

Includes: overprotective siblings, unasked-for third-party opinions, a dinosaur, and lots of love.

Fifty Cents by emiartse

Summary:

A late-night crime alert at the nearby Mall sends Leonardo going off into the night to scope it out by himself. While checking it out, he runs into Yuichi Usagi who looks less than pleased to see him. Now forced to work together to find out what triggered the alarm system, the two set off with Leo hoping to finally break down some of Usagi's walls.

But out of all the things Leonardo expected to come of that night, getting buried beneath a building with the samurai after a bomb goes off was not one of them.

Now all alone and one of them gravely injured, the two are forced to put aside their petty rivalry and keep one another alive till help arrives.

Bunny Jumps for the Moon by WeirdNCrazy

Summary:

What’s a mutant turtle to do when he overhears (eavesdrops) a group of teenage yokai being framed by a skeevy money grabber tycoon?

Why help out of course!

It didn’t hurt that the bunny yokai was especially pretty.

A World of Samurais and Ninjas by Annonnie

Summary:

Mickey succeeds in making a portal, but portals are tricky. They don't always bring people to their intended destination. instead of bring Leo home he sends him to another dimension. A dimension that is very similar to feudal Japan. Leo will need to figure out how to get home while also navigating new relationships and dangers.

Meanwhile his family is dealing with grief in their own way. Some won't believe that he is gone, others are trying to accept it and move forward. But how do you keep moving when a fourth of your heart is missing.

--------

Basically these turtles have given me brain rot in the worst way. I saw a lot of people using the portal as a way to send Leo to other TMNT universe and wanted to try my hand. This time though its Usagi's world he gets sent to.

This one also has a sequel! I just never got around to finishing it (oops) but it is very good!

Bunnyguard by Sroloc_Elbisivni

Summary:

A series of LeoSagi fics for Year of the OTP set in a world where 1. Draxum helped raise the turtles 2. the cast of Usagi Yojimbo are lifelong residents of the Hidden City 3. Usagi is hired as a bodyguard for Leo who Does Not Want a bodyguard.

They start to like each other anyways.

This one is a series! Check it out :)

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

Disclaimer - I’m gonna try to keep to more mid-length emoji amounts to try to keep from overwhelming your inbox but if you’re wanting more asks of a specific size, let me know and I’ll come back with more!

Okay first theme is “Chimney and his brothers!” I’m loving both these stories and the exploration of these dynamics!! Chimney is such a fun character - of course because he’s hilarious but also because he’s so full of love for the people around him. I love reading about it!

☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️☠️ (the plot is thickening and I am hooked!!! The crows are out to get Buck! Chim is gonna join the ranks of Buck’s captains who wish they could keep him wrapped in bubble wrap :p I’m so excited to learn more about the curse and how it involves Bertie! Also excited for the Hen-Chim drama to come to a head!)

🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷🪷 (I’m LOVING this Kevin chapter! It’s so wonderfully juicy! Everyone’s freaking out! As is their right! It’s also so good when Chim is missing Bobby when we know he’s back! Very curious if they’ll reveal Bobby to Chim earlier now that he’s experiencing the resurrections too. Can’t wait to see what’s next!)

- PCA <3

These are perfect lengths!! Thank you!!!

I try to work on one big request, and then take breaks to do smaller ones. So anything over 54 sentences, to me, is a big request. So 36 sentences are perfect.

Ah I love this theme! Writing Chim is so fun for me. I love him so much.

36 for ☠️ (Excited to slowly reveal all this! I'm glad you're enjoying it!

---

Shit. Shit. How does she know? Did Buck tell her what they’re actually doing? Why would he do that? They had an agreement!

“You know what’s going on with Buck,” Maddie says. “You’re just not telling me.”

Oh. Well… That’s easier to deal with. 

“It’s a secret!” Chim explains. Technically not a lie. “You know how I am with secrets!”

“I do,” she nods.

“So please, Maddie. Don’t push! I want to keep Buck’s confidence on this. It’s important.”

Maddie gasps. Her hands fly to her mouth.

“What?” Chim asks. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s proposing to Eddie,” Maddie says. “He’s proposing and he told you and not me?”

 “What?” Chim finds himself asking again. How did she get there?

“I mean, I figured it’d happen quick,” Maddie says. “They’ve been half-dating forever, before either of them knew it. But this quick?” 

Chim could correct her. Assure her this isn’t it. But… Doesn’t that run the risk of her not buying his half-baked lie?

---

36 for 🪷 (THANK YOU!!! Excited to share more!)

---

“You okay?” Maddie asks.

“Mhm,” Buck answers. In a way that very much suggests the opposite. “You?”

“Yeah,” she nods, in a similar manner.

Buckleys. 

Maddie steps away from Buck and looks at Bobby. She smiles. She doesn’t do the thing 

everyone else has done. She doesn’t look at him with a mix of horror and awe and tears. Well, she’s a bit teary. She’s Maddie, after all. But she seems steady. Like nothing about seeing him is unexpected or world shattering.

She prepared herself. Bobby is grateful.

“Hi, Bobby,” she says.

He smiles. 

“Hi, Maddie.”

“Can I give you a hug?” She asks.

He nods. “Of course.”

She walks forward to embrace him, and even her hug feels steadying. God, she came here to hold them all together, didn’t she? He’s never been especially close to Maddie. Not the way he is with her husband or brother. But she’s closer to him than the other returned people. Maddie isn’t here for the dead. She’s here for the living.

The children walk inside next. Jee hugs Buck right away. He kisses her on the forehead.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says. “Can you do me a huge favor today?”

“What is it?” She asks. 

“Can you keep Joze and Bertie occupied? They need someone responsible to watch them while we figure all this out.”

[between-the-pages-ofa-book]

Oh boy, worst take i have ever seen on a piece of fiction that I love so dearly: This girl on tiktok just said she wants a book on the 76th Games. That they had to have already been in motion when Coin was killed. That because Katniss voted yes, it means they happened.

Did...did this girl read a completely different story than I did? Because Katniss voted yes to get close enough to kill Coin so that wouldn't happen. Those games were not announced and there is a high chance of even more Rebellion if that happened. Also, Paylor is voted in as president. Even if the Games were in motion, they certainly would have been stopped as that would have been her first piece of business because no one who's seen death of children up close like she did would want more death of children, not a good person at least.

Also, if those games had happened, there is absolutely no way we wouldn't know about it. Absolutely no way it wouldn't have been mentioned by Plutarch that they were still a go or even mentioned in the epilogue.

The Games were ended with the end of the revolution. There wouldn't just be another games after that. That plot thread was open and shut within pages of each other.

Also, if you really want a 76th hunger games, just read the 3rd act of Mockingjay. As Finnick says, "ladies and gentleman, welcome to the 76th Hunger Games." He died for those.

What's even worse is this person said Suzanne Collins is capable of nuance unlike other authors but one of the authors she mentioned would have done a 76th Games if given the chance. Suzanne Collins isn't going to write a series about war and then have said series end with another Hunger Games--one of the things that was both a result and a cause of war--hanging around.

Also, even if you couldn't figure it out from the ending of the series, Sunrise on the Reaping made it clear that there was not another games. "She's the one who kept that sunrise from rising on the reaping." The sun never rose on another reaping day because the Games were officially ended with Katniss shooting Coin.

[sofbd4]

OKAY OKAY OKAY SPOILERS AHEAD YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

•

•

•

S17E1

LOVED that they had ulterior motives the entire time, like OFC Dee wasn’t just into Gregory, there was ofc something else going on. And Charlie just playing into the learning how to read thing. Didn’t totally understand the point of the Billy Joel song but whatever it was fun! Janine called Dee a cunt YES CALLED IT!! Loved seeing Dennis just making coffees for people. And then them all going back to the bar and giving them an espresso machine while Frank steals the copper😭 Really fun ep, maybe not the funniest, but it’s always cool to see Sunny do different styles.

S17E2

HATE that I saw the behind the scenes photo of Frank as cake before seeing this episode, basically gives away the whole thing😭 Whatever this episode was pure gold, totally s8/9 vibes for sure. Loved when Mac said “dude📈dude📈dude📈dude📈dude📈woman📉” so funny. THE SUITS OH THEY LOOKED GOOD. AND ALEX WOLFF AH! I saw him live around the time they would have filmed this, that’s so funny. “Who are we playing?” “Just be ourselves.” “Oh Dennis I don’t feel comfortable being myself.” OH MAC😭 DENNIS DOING COCAINE WITH MAC AND CHARLIE‼️ Loved when they got to the crack house and Alex’s character kept asking who was gonna put it in him and the three of them turned around and Charlie said something like “yea we’re gonna figure out who’s gonna put it in you” while pointing at Mac😭 Two men kissing in front of Mac🙏 lowkey probably the closest we’ll ever get to see him kiss a man. LOVED the five stages of grief plot. THE DRAWING! AND DEE GETTING EMOTIONAL AND CALLING FRANK DAD!!?! EVEN WITH THE SPOILER THIS STILL GOT ME AHHH. And then Charlie, Dennis, and Mac go back to the apartment and Dee’s crying “it’s over” OH KILL ME. And then ofc the most Frank thing ever, him teaching them a lesson. Really loved this episode!

SUCH A FANTASTIC START TO THE SEASON OH IM SO EXCITED

[bellasweetwriting]

dancing in the moonlight { redkryptonite!clark kent x f. reader } (+18)

masterlist

plot: a shot of red kryptonite makes normally good boy clark kent take you out for a hot night of dancing

warnings: really close dancing , cursing , fingering , reader is lana’s cousin , orgasm , redkryptonite!clark , MDNI (+18)

a/n: this is based on that dance scene in footloose (2011) for reference

You leaned over trying to grab a mug from behind the counter, letting everyone inside the Talon to take a glimpse of your ass in those tight dark blue denim straight jeans that hugged your legs.

Your cousin, Lana, called your name so high it made you turn around abruptly, making you almost drop that mug you were searching for. She had her arms crossed in front of her chest, approaching you angrily.

“Is there reasoning behind showing the strap of your thong to the world?” She questioned you, placing an apron around you that covered your exposed belly skin that your tank top didn’t cover. Lana looked up at your chest, giving up entirely. “If you don’t want to follow dress code, at least try not to flaunt it.”

“You’re just pissed because I’m bringing in clients,” you mocked her, serving a cappuccino in the mug you had been looking for. Your long wavy hair almost reached the start of your jeans, also something that pissed off Lana, since she was afraid a client would find a foot long hair inside an espresso. “You should let loose a bit. I’m going dancing tonight, and you should come.”

“I’m studying with Clark tonight,” Lana told you, awkwardly, which made you look at her. “Stop it.”

“I’m not the one spending the afternoon with my ex,” you mocked, resting your arms on the corner and leaning forward in her direction, staring at her with your siren eyes, your soft long waves spreading over your shoulders, covering a part of your face as you smiled mockingly. “Oh, Clark,” you moaned, biting your lower lip. Lana opened her eyes widely, waving her hands and trying to stop you. What you did instead was close your eyes. “Clark, you’re so hot! But we can’t be together. But you can still fuck me—”

“Really?”

That deep voice took you and your cousin by surprise. You opened your eyes widely, seeing through those strands of hair that covered part of your eye the figure of tall Clark Kent standing behind your cousin, staring at you with a smirk. You pushed your hair behind your ears, placing your hands inside your back pockets as if you were trying to hide.

He was looking at you, definitely having fun around the whole situation. He walked past Lana, placing his hands on the counter. You looked down, staring at his toned biceps and the veins thar recovered his arms. You could imagined those firm abs underneath that white tshirt, making you gulp.

“Can you repeat that?” He asked, softly, placing his index finger behind his ear. “Slower this time, please.”

“Very funny, Kent,” you said twirling your hair before walking away from the counter, keeping your eyes on him.

There was something different, a spark you hadn’t seen before. You liked it. You always searched for spark in guys, and you imagined Clark was too goodie-two-shoes for something like a spark.

“I’ll be ready in a minute,” Lana let him know as she began taking off her apron, as to which Clark stopped her abruptly, surprising you.

The farm boy smiled, showing his pearl white teeth to his ex-girlfriend with a grin you’d never seen before. You could even say he was daring. Taking in consideration his option of clothes that didn’t include his regular use of primary colors, or plaid, you could tell there was something different about him. Something that caught your eye.

“I don’t feel like studying today, Lana. It’s a Friday night. We should do something fun. Like we used to do, remember?”

“I think our fun ran out a while ago, Clark,” Lana said, and you noticed confusion in her tone. “What’s going on with you?”

That’s when Clark turned his blue eyes in your direction, smirking.

“And what are you doing tonight?”

You tried to hide your nervous smile, trying to not let Lana notice how attracted you were to his proposal. You looked at your cousin, noticing how she was staring at you, trying to appeal to your loyalty. And it was working. You could never go out with your cousin’s ex boyfriend. It would be wrong.

So you cleared your throat, you looked at Clark and smiled. “Why do you care?”

“Curiosity. I know you always have something fun to do. Pit of the two, you’re the cousin that likes to let loose.”

You scoffed, while Lana stared at Clark, noticing believing what she was hearing. “She’s going dancing,” Lana finally said, taking you by surprise. “Why don’t you go with her and have that fun you say you don’t get with me?” And with that, Lana turned around and left, leaving you and Clark alone.

Clark took a step forward in your direction, cutting the distance between the two of you. His blue eyes looking at yours before taking a look down at the revealed skin of your chest that you weren’t trying to hide, and he wasn’t trying to keep secret he was checking out.

“I’ll drive,” he said so close to your lips you felt the warmth of his breath. Then, with an inhumane strength, he grabbed you hand and pulled you out of the talon, smirking all the way as he walked.

You quickly took off the black apron and tossed it to one of the chairs, grabbing your coat that hung by the door as Clark dragged you out towards his bike.

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

As you walked inside the bar, you felt Clark’s hand placed on your lower back, just about to touch the string of your underwear yet not quite, as if he was keeping himself from it. You guided him inside, making your way towards the counter, where you both sat, face to face.

The lights of the bar barely lit anything, but the greenish blue neon lights that hung from the shelves of the bar were enough to highlight the color in Clark’s eyes, the ones you kept staring at. You were afraid they would turn back to normal, that they would lose whatever spark they had, and Clark would go back to ignoring you.

It wasn’t like you and Clark hated each other, you barely knew one another. When you got to Smallville, he was kind, he offered to show you around, he tried to keep peace with the fact that you were his ex-girlfriend’s cousin, and to you, that’s all he was. To you, he was the reason Lana got messed up, although now you realized you weren’t sure which of the two was hurting the other more.

There was something about the usual good hearted Clark Kent you weren’t seeing right now, and you weren’t sure you liked it or not. You liked boldness, and being direct, the things Clark Kent wasn’t usually known for, as to why this behavior seemed strange to you.

As strange as it was… it also caught your attention enough for you to ditch everything and come to a crowded bar with your cousin’s ex.

“I’ve just realized,” Clark said, turning your stool in his direction, enough for your legs to get intertwined with one another. You kept your lips around the straw of your drink, looking at how the pupil of his eyes grew and darkened when he looked at you. “You and I have never properly talked. I always took you as Lana’s cousin, never noticed you. Well, that’s a lie. I forced myself not to notice you.”

“Because I’m Lana’s cousin and you’re Lana’s ex.”

“And you made it so hard,” he muttered between his teeth, looking down at your chest again. He had lost all control of himself, caressing your arm’s skin with the back of his fingers. “With those tight jeans, always bending down to pick up stuff at the Talon. And those shirts.”

“Look, Clark, I don’t know how long you dated my cousin, I have no idea how serious you guys were. But what I do know is that I’ve been in Smallville for two months and you guys still have something there, even if you guys broke up like a billion years ago. And I don’t want to get in the middle of anything. I’m here for a long time, apparently. It’s not wise for me to get involved in any drama.”

“I like the way you scrunch your nose when you are serious,” he flirted, getting closer to you. He clearly was not listening to anything you were saying. Great, just like any of your other boyfriends. “Look, I came here to see you dance. That’s all I’ve been thinking about during the ride here. Do you want to dance, or not?”

You rolled your eyes, standing up from the barstool and landing right in front of Clark Kent, the start of your neck so close to his nose you felt his exhalations hitting your warm skin, and his eyes simply staring at the exposed skin of your breast, visibly through your corset style tank top. His lips parted in a way that let you know the desire behind his eyes, and you could tell he was imagining your skin entirely exposed to him.

He actually seemed as if he was seeing it rather than imagining it.

“I’ll give you a dance, Kent,” you finally said, watching him as he stood up, towering you over with his incredibly height, and his firm muscles. “If you promise you’re not doing this in some psycho way to piss off my cousin. I’ll only give you a dance if you promise that I’m actually the one you want to see dancing… and not someone else.”

He took a quick glance at you, his side smirk growing before looking at your eyes after checking you out.

“I can actually promise you… I really want to see you dance,” he whispered the last part against your ear, you melting to the sound of his dark, deep voice. “And after that, I’d really like for you to repeat what you said at the Talon.” His fingers stole your skin, leaving you goosebumps as his skin passed yours. “How you want me to fuck you. I really can’t stop thinking about that.”

“I was mocking Lana,” you admitted, your eyes catching his. “What do you have to say about that?”

“That I still liked hearing you moan my name like that,” he admitted you, catching you off guard.

He left a tiny peck on the skin of your neck, catching your head as you moved it to the side to give him space. His fingers got lost in your hair as he opened place for his mouth to touch your skin. You smelled fresh, sweet enough to tempt him. He could smell the wetness of your pants that grew as he got closer, the way your heartbeat raised at his touch, your breathing got uneven, hurried, as you progressively got more… and more… and more turned on.

You wanted him. You weren’t good at hiding it. He could bet that even without superpowers he could be able to tell from the way you let him get closer, from the way your hips betrayed you, and pulled you towards his throbbing cock that grew at the sight of your warm tinted skin that glowed under the bar lights.

You were quick to find the dance floor. The music the band was playing was in an entirely different rhythm to the one you and Clark were dancing. Your leg in between his, his leg pressing down so dangerously close to your center that one wrong movement from his part and you could become undone, and he knew. He pressed his hands against your hips, moving them side to side as his forehead was pressed against yours. The way he breathed made you tremble. You knew he was turned on, you could feel him.

He moved you side to side, his face going down, his nose softly stroking the skin of your breast before continuing his way down, until he was face to face with your pants, your lower belly, the ones he was controlling himself not to unbutton in front of the whole crowd. You ran your fingers through his dark hair as he went back up. Your hand found his white t shirt, pulling him closer to you, his nose touching yours, his lips barely gracing your lips, trying to pull back, but practically impossible to do.

“Clark,” you mumbled, you moaned, but he was quicker.

How? No clue. But magically, at the speed of light, Clark Kent had you going from the dance floor to the bathroom, your back impacting the brick wall of that country bar restroom. He grabbed your thighs, pulling himself closer to you and crashing his lips against yours.

“I love you how you move,” he whispered against your lips, a smile forming to the memory of your hips against his on the dance floor. “Please,” he begged, saying your name as a plead of mercy, so close to your ear you thought that was enough to make you cum, just that. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes,” you tried to make it sound casual, but it sounded more like you were begging for it as well. As if you needed it.

Those flare jeans were unbuttoned so fast you couldn’t even believe it. His hand pressed down your stomach before going down, the soft skin of his fingertips rubbing your clit slowly, that need for touch being fulfilled, your eyes practically rolling backwards as you felt him.

“Do you like that?” He said, moving his two fingers in circles, rubbing your clit so nicely you felt you were about to pass out any minute. “God, you’re so wet.”

Those fingers moved like magic. You tried to control yourself, tried to keep your cool, but you could barely keep yourself straight. You were falling down, sliding from Clark’s grip as you got swamped on the pleasure. He noticed, his fingers briefly leaving your wetness so he could take off his shirt, placing it on the sink counter. He then lifted you up, placing you on top of the fabric that kept you from freezing.

“What a gentleman,” you said with a mocking smile that was quickly erased when his fingers went back inside your pink underwear, and back to where he left off.

You bit your lower lip, your head resting on the wall mirror as Clark’s finger went inside. One first, with ease. Noticing how well you took it, he put another finger inside of you, grabbing the back of your neck with his free hand, and placing kisses all over your skin, going right down to your breasts, and leaving a peck on the top of them.

“You’re not wearing a bra,” he said, groaning. “Are you trying to make me go insane?” He took his fingers out and began rubbing your clit again, hurrying movement, making your eyes roll back as your legs involuntarily trembled in response. “Taunting me. You definitely got me, baby.”

“Clark,” you moaned his name against his ear, catching a deep breath. “Please— keep going. I’m so close.” You closed your eyes, unable to keep up with the speed he rubbed you. Oh, you were in his arms, he got you so opened, so ready, so wet.

His big arms were your doom. The way the veins of his arms were so toned and incredibly visible to your eyes, the way his bicep was so big, and you could see that glorious body he’s always hiding behind layers of clothes. His toned waist, the v-muscle that was so defined it turned you on, his abs that you couldn’t help but to touch.

“You’re so close, baby,” he said to your ear, his free hand sliding inside your shirt, and his index finger touching and rubbing the tip of your nipple, making you lie your back on the mirror once again.

His lips found yours once again, kissing you with such passion, such messiness, that you couldn’t focus in one thing at a time. He was touching you in every spot that made you crazy. Rubbing your clit, grabbing your breasts, kissing your lips, making you his in any way possible.

The orgasm came so strong it made you question reality. You’d never made yourself cum this way, letting yourself melt in his arms, on his body. It wasn’t enough. He wanted you whole, everything you had to give to him, he wanted it. He wanted to taste you, to please you, to make you cum like that over and over again.

You looked so pretty when undone. Your long hair to your sides, traces of your lipstick all over his skin. Your eyes rolled back, trying to close yet being unable to. Your panties all wet.

Clark Kent looked at you, ready to take you whole, when the spark you fell for slowly started dissolving, as the red liquid finally began losing effect.