#and people all over the US are seeing them

[lamaery]

It's alright Dalinar, babe, he got this. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- image description: A loosely scribbled and coloured comic page with several panels in four rows of the scene in Words of Radiance in which Kaladin joins the duel in the arena. The background in the panels is painetd very patchily implying the seats of the arena with half roofs offering shadow from the sun above. The first row has two panels, on the left we see an agitaed Dalinar, in his blue uniform with gold and white trimmings, as he leans forward, hands on the wall of the dueling pit in front of him, calling out "What happened to us?", "Where is our honor?". A smaller speechbubble to the side contains the words "Honor is dead". The panel to the right depicts Dalinar looking to the side to see who gave that cynical commentary. Kaladin stands there not far behind him, also in captain's uniform holding his spear and looking very grim. The next row has two smaller and on medium sized panel, they all show Kaladin from the side in profile – as Dalinar would see him. He inhales like he is fortifying himself for what comes next. On the exhale he looks down into the arena with mix of resignation and determination and utters the words "But I'll see what I can do." The speechbubble for it is already in the next panel, in which Kaladin is gazing towards us with a mournful expression as he says "If this goes poorly, take care of my men."

The third and fourth row are both each one long horizontal panel. The third row shows Kaladin as he vaults himself over the wall in the foreground. Dalinar stares at him seeming very shocked. The panel in the last row is a top down view into the arena. Kaladin stands in front of six people, four of them Shardbearers in full plate all now turning towards him. On the far left is Relis in his black plate holding a big shardblade. Adolin kneels next to him in the sand of the arena holding his broken shoulder. To his right stand Elis with a shardhammer in a grey plate, then Adrobar in a orange one with a blade. Further to the right is Jakamav in his green plate and the king's blade, Renarin standing blade- and plateless next to him.

[euthymiya]

[ A LITTLE DEATH — FT. KINICH ]

synopsis: sometimes, he comes back to you with a beating heart. other times, his body is cold and limp until he reemerges from the flames. you never get used to kinich falling during the pilgrimage, but you’re certainly used to the feeling of his body

word count: 4.4k words of emotional porn. ty & goodnight

before you read: female reader ; major spoilers for natlan archon quest and kinich’s character story one ; kinich falls during the night warden war and resurrects so technical character death (but not for long) ; graphic descriptions of injuries and blood from war ; mentions of gambling, alcoholism and abuse (his father’s lore) ; slight exploration of mortality ; hand jobs ; orgasm delay (kinich to himself) ; cunnilingus ; fingering ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; not proof read because i wrote this all in tumblr drafts like the psycho i am

notes: this is an unhealthy progressing obsession. this boy is not good for my health unfortunately

“Will you stop crying?” He sighs softly, thumb tracing your cheek as it catches yet another rivulet of your sorrow.

You glare up at him, lips curled into a scowl as you sniffle and counter, “how about you stop dying?”

Kinich is no stranger to dying. He and death are good friends, in fact—he visits often, and in return, it houses him kindly for however short his visit may be.

He likes traversing the Night Kingdom, likes to speak to those who have borne his name before him. Dying isn’t so bad when you get a chance to see the things he does in the realm of the Wayob.

But you don’t like to see the aftermath. Blood. Bruises. Cuts. Gashes. Sometimes mangled limbs. Every time he falls in battle, the aftermath serves as a jarring reminder that revival is miracle you can’t take for granted.

Kinich doesn’t understand it, but he tries to. He holds you when he comes back, listening to you sniffle into his chest. He’s always silent as his hand rubs along your back, always unsure of what to say.

I lost you, you’ll always whisper first.

I was always going to come back, he’ll always respond.

The Pyro Archon, you think, loves fiercely enough to rival the God of Cryo herself. The Tsaritsa, God of Love, loves clearly. It’s delicate as it leaves chills, and yet, it is reserved, rare to find after she’s hardened herself. The God of War’s love takes form in the exact opposite. It’s blazing. Warm. Unrelenting. Irrevocably bright. It’s a flame that never dies out, that never needs a ceremony or ritual to keep burning like the contending fire.

She loves all of her children—you know that because you see it on her face, too.

The brief, fleeting flash of horror every time she sees a body. The bitter pride that comes with such a noble sacrifice. She loves her people, and that’s why, when your tears hit the ground as you cry for a fallen Kinich, she gives your hand a squeeze right before she brings enters the night kingdom to bring him back.

The people of Natlan are proud of their history. So much, that they find honor in dying for the cause.

You think you’re the only exception.

You and death are not good friends. You don’t like the way it mocks you with the limp hands of the boy you love and his beat-less heart. You don’t like the way it cozies up against him, dragging him away from you with its hand clasped firmly in his.

It never takes him away for too long before it gives him right back, but you don’t like sharing.

Not Kinich. Not with death.

Your broken out of your thoughts when his fingers gently press into your cheeks, squeezing them together as his hand tilts your head up from his chest to look into his eyes.

“I’m okay,” he insists bluntly, but never without that gentleness.

You’d laugh any other time. Always so straight to the point, you’d tease if it were some other day.

Instead, this time, you sniffle once more before you croak, “you don’t know what it’s like to witness.” Slowly, your hand creeps up his body, traveling over his abdomen before coming to a stop right over his heart. “This time…this time it was here.”

This pilgrimage, Kinich comes back to you with a stab through his heart. Other times, he’s returned pierced through his lungs from behind. Or perhaps with a bloodied head, split open by a blunt force.

It never gets easier. This time, however, you think it’s gotten even harder.

He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s contemplating what to say before he decides to toss the idea of words out entirely. Suddenly, his hands find your waist, flipping you to sit on his lower belly, legs straddling his hips.

Kinich isn’t always good with words. He can count on one hand the number of people he’s had in his life to love. His life has not been kind enough to him to allow keeping all fingers up at the same time.

One for his mother. Down.

One for his father. Down.

And one for you. Up.

He’s sure one day, he might be able to lift a finger for Mualani and Kachina, too. He cares a great deal about them, of course. But love is a difficult thing for him to grasp—perhaps because it’s always been something he never got in full.

Not until you.

More than most people, Kinich understands loss. You know that. He understands it too well, in fact. Sometimes, he wonders if he’d lost his father’s love long before the body was limp and lifeless to show for it. Sometimes, he wonders if his mother ever loved him enough to count as a loss at all. Maybe if she had, then she wouldn’t have walked away. Maybe she never loved him quite as much as she loved herself.

But you’re different for him. You love him more than you love anything else. More than yourself, too. He’s never been loved more than anything else. His father loved gambling, maybe even the burn of alcohol on his tongue, too. His mother loved freedom, and more than that, she loved the idea of living in the absence of fear. Neither loved him more than any of those things.

So, you’re different. You know that, too. You’re a loss he can’t comprehend. Not that he’s ever had to, of course, but his brain cannot handle the idea of being without you.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t fully understand your pain. Maybe that’s why he wonders why knowing he’ll always come back from falling isn’t enough to soothe you.

He’s never loved someone who he knew would come back even in the face of death. It’s a luxury, he thinks sometimes—you get to love him with the luxury of a safety net. But you’re too precious to feel the weight of a real loss. He hopes he can shield you from it for as long as he can, one pilgrimage at a time.

His hands settle for your hips, squeezing once, twice, a third time before he sits up and pulls you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

You kiss back easily. Drinking the breath straight from his mouth is best proof that he’s alive. You take it in greedily.

“I’m okay,” he repeats one more time. This time, it’s a much softer tone. Like a gentle reminder. Like a plead to understand.

His hand grabs yours, pressing it right over his heart so you can feel the erratic beating under your palm. Just from kissing you, it’s rapid enough that he almost feels he should be embarrassed. But you close your eyes and let out a shaky breath, making him watch you carefully as he takes in the relief in your face.

“You’re okay,” you nod slowly.

“I am,” he agrees.

You don’t know when it happens or who starts it first. One moment, your hand is traveling under his shirt to feel his bare skin, to have better contact with him so you can feel more proof he’s alive.

Warm skin. Flexing muscle. Damp sweat. When your hand finds his heart again, his hand cups the back of your head and pulls you into a heated kiss.

Clothes come off after that. It’s a blur. It’s not until you untie the bandana to uncover his forehead do you really take it all in.

Bare under you, Kinich is alive. The proof his body is breathing and pumping blood through his veins is right there before you—standing tall between his legs in the form of a flushed, red cock. Blood rushed there to prove his desire for you.

“Last time, it was here,” you whisper, thumb tracing a pale, faint scar over his ribcage, right where his lung is. “Did it hurt?”

“It did,” he nods, studying you as you don’t meet his eyes. “I don’t remember much of that, though.”

“Do you like it?” You whisper. “Is that why you do it?”

He’s silent. And then, quietly: “Sometimes.”

“Why?” You breathe, cupping his cheeks as you search his eyes for an answer.

Finally, in a rare moment, he chuckles. “Because it’s good to remember I’m alive,” he murmurs, “right before you die is when you realize you’re alive the most. Why you’re alive, too.”

“I don’t understand,” you furrow your brows in frustration. He smiles fondly, kissing your jaw as he lets out a low hum.

“I think of you,” he whispers, sucking sweetly into your skin, “and then I remember how you’re alive, too. Every time I die, you get to stay alive a little more.”

The abyss never goes away. Now, more than ever, he’s aware of that. It’s a war he has to see the winning side of, no matter the price.

There’s a loss this time that he’s unwilling to pay. Can’t bear to witness. Can’t allow to happen.

You decide you give up trying to understand—much like you do every year. Instead, you throw yourself into feeling him, pulling him into a heated, deeper kiss as your tongue glides against his. You give into the battle fast, letting him take the lead and taste you.

You’re not one for battles, not like Kinich is. You’d rather relish in peace than remember the cruelties of war.

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips. “I can’t lose you.”

“You’ve never lost me,” he argues.

“It doesn’t feel that way,” you admit quietly.

“Then let me show you I’ve always been right here.”

As if on cue, his cock twitches between your bodies, hot and throbbing as it presses against your lower belly. You reach between your bodies, wrapping around the thick girth before your thumb grazes the tip.

He shudders, stifling a groan as you slowly smear the dribbling pre cum along his length, taking gentle care to make sure you don’t hurt him.

You’ve seen Kinich hurt enough times.

“Does that feel good?” You grin slightly, watching his eyes flutter shut as you stroke him up and down, fisting around him in a tight squeeze.

“Feels great,” he breathes, “like I’m very alive.”

“Good,” you nod.

“Fuck,” he chokes when you squeeze around the tip, pace quickening as you glide your palm up and down along him faster.

Faster.

The faster he cums, the faster you’re proven he’s living once more.

But he stops you—right before he can spill into your hand, a shaky wrist comes to force yours to stop moving. You look at him questioningly, and he closes his eyes and takes labored breaths to calm himself from the slow, fading orgasm that would’ve shaken through his body.

“What are you—oh,” you gasp, when your body is flipped to lay on your back, Kinich hovering above you as he stares down at you.

You think love is the look in his eyes when he sees you like this, every time. That longing in his pupils, desperate and almost pained even though you’re right there.

Loving something is always a double edged sword. It hurts just as much as it heals—the scabs forming around your heart from his temporary departure is proof of that.

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing along your neck.

I love you isn’t something Kinich says often. You feel his love in other ways. The fresh fruit he brings you on his way back from a commission. The small kiss between your brows he always greets you with, and the delicate kiss to your mouth when he leaves. The hand on the small of your back as he guides you along places, never letting you feel his absence. The pillow he shares with you every night when you invade his space and take up his side of the bed.

You know he loves you. Being reminded is a good feeling, though. Your body shivers as you feel a familiar ache building up between your legs at his sudden confession.

“More than anything?” You ask.

“Yes,” he responds, amused.

“You better not be lying,” you warn playfully.

He chuckles—you’re slowly coming back to your usual self. Causal teasing and playful flirting. You’re all the things he’s not. Open. Vulnerable. So inexplicably bright. You smile and something in him heals. Something in him itches to do better—be better.

“When have I ever lied to you?” He challenges.

You pretend to think for a moment before caving and stretching your lips into a wide grin. The first real smile of the night. You pull him close, kissing him again. Just to kiss him. There’s no heat or desire this time around.

He kisses back sweetly. Just to kiss you.

“What did you see this time?” You whisper when you pull away. “In the Night Kingdom.”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs, tracing shapes into your hip with his thumb, “I think I was too busy thinking of you.”

Kinich is only flirty when he avoids something. He’s only ever indirect when he doesn’t want you to know something. It takes form in less honest, more playful banter that he learns from you.

You sigh, rolling your eyes half-heartedly as you whisper, “don’t lie to me.”

“I did think of you,” he insists. “It’s not a lie. I always think of you.”

He decided to prove it by dropping down to busy himself between your legs, gently spreading them enough to press his nose against your clit as he breathes you in.

Sweet. You’re always sweet. You taste and smell it. You drip of honeyed, saccharine desire. When his tongue presses between your folds, he thinks he’s dipping it in gold.

“K-kinich, wait—”

“You say that every time,” he raises a smug brow. His fingers press into you, spreading you open as he inspects your fluttering walls. “But you never mean it, do you?”

Filthy, you think. He’s got an air of pure obscenity to him that you’re sure comes only when he’s tired of feeling alone. When he needs to know you’re here for good and not just for the moment.

“You play dirty,” you scowl, twitching when his tongue swirls over your clit, the smooth rumble of his chuckle vibrating against the sensitive bud. His fingers curl into you, pressing against a very delicate, very responsive spot in the back of your walls.

“Is that so?” He drawls, “you don’t exactly seem to mind it,” he murmurs.

And then his lips wrap around your clit, sucking as his tongue rolls in circles against it as you writhe. You can feel the tips of his digits bully into that same spot over and over, making your back arch as you whine.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “baby, please.”

You don’t know what you’re pleading for. He’s giving you what you want exactly how you want it—maybe that’s why you always say it, though. So you can never stop having him. Asking and asking and hoping he’ll give you everything without pausing.

He does, too. Kinich never gives half of himself into anything. For the right price, you get all of him. You pay the price in gentle kisses along his cheek and soft fingertips in his hair. In a warm lap under his cheek when he’s tired and a soft voice to remind him he’s not alone. In a worried look every time he’s scuffed and a soft smile every time your eyes meet his.

You pay the price of your love, and he compensates you with the reward of his. It’s a fair trade.

The only difference is that unlike his other deals, Kinich would still pay his love to you even if you stopped paying yours. He couldn’t stop if he tried. It’s an exception he doesn’t exactly choose to make, but doesn’t necessarily want to change, either.

Lucky for him, you don’t show any signs of pulling away.

“You’re beautiful,” he says quietly, whispering the words into your cunt like he’s speaking directly to your desire, “and mine.”

“G-gods,” you moan, hand flying to grasp at his hair and tug as his fingers quicken their pace, fucking into your heat mercilessly as his tongue rolls over your clit.

It’s hot. It always is in the Pyro Nation. But hotter is the growing desire in the pit of your belly, and the heat between your legs that only one person can ignite. The flames lick at your sanity before something erupts in your system and all you feel is a gush of pure, white hot pleasure.

“That’s it,” he praises, working you through your orgasm as you let out a soft cry of his name.

Kinich is alive. You know that because only he could make you feel this way, and he is. He’s making you feel like there’s love between your legs as he coaxes the height of pleasure from you, buried into the apex of your thighs like it’s the only place he ever wants to be. You’re reminded that instead of blood dripping from his fingertips, it’s the essence of your arousal.

You’re reminded that when you need him, he’s never not there. Never leaving you behind from this world into another.

“I love you,” you blurt out in a post-orgasm haze.

He looks up at you with a toothy grin. It’s so rare to see him smile so freely. It’s like a child’s, sometimes. Something youthful and joyful and almost innocent enough that it makes your heart ache a little more than it does feel full.

Only a little, though.

“You say that a lot when I make you cum,” he laughs smoothly, a boyish and sweet little sound. You huff with a roll of your eyes.

“You do too,” you counter. “Maybe we only love each other when we feel good.”

“I always feel good with you,” he grins.

“I can make you feel a whole lot better,” you wink, wriggling your brows in a playful, tempting offer.

He takes it. With another soft laugh, he climbs up your body to hover his face over yours, admiring the sweat clinging to your forehead like it’s proof of his good work.

“Go on then,” he whispers. “Make me feel better. I just died today, you know.”

“I know,” you grumble only slightly, “I remember that very clearly. It was very rude of you.”

“My sincerest apologies,” he offers.

When Kinich was young, love was transactional. His father loved him with a box of sweets when a gamble of wages doubled. His mother was happy enough to afford him her gaze when there were flowers in the vase. He knew from early on not to expect any of it unless the proper price was offered.

And then he learned necessities were transactional, too. To exist is to pay a price. He watched as strangers took away his home, the remainder of his family’s belongings packed away as his mother wiped her tears. Food is not free when she is not there to tend to crops. Clothes don’t come easy when your father spends his days drinking away instead of working.

Without mora, you survive more than you live.

He hated it. Hated not having enough. Not being enough. He wasn’t enough to make his father want to be good and he wasn’t enough to make his mother want to stay. Didn’t have enough to offer for something as simple as unconditional love.

Love with you feels a lot different than what he’s grown up learning. You love him even when he’s closed off and a little cold. When his blunt words are a little too blunt and his words press hard into you with force. When he’s tired, and can’t offer you proper company, you love him, too. When he’s gone for days at a time for a commission further away, you still love him as you wait.

It’s always enough for you even when what he gives really isn’t enough at all.

He stopped trying to understand a long time ago. He’s still human—not everything can make sense with the logic of equal transaction. Sometimes, he just wants. Sometimes, he can’t give enough for what he wants. You always give it, though.

He’s stopped trying to make sense of it all for the sake of finally knowing joy. Peace. Possibly even comfort.

“Why do you love me?” He asks softly, rubbing the tip of his hard cock against your thigh. You rub along his bare back with a gentle hand, feeling the goosebumps raise along his skin under your palm.

“Because it’s easy to,” you answer.

“That’s it?”

“Isn’t life hard enough?” You shrug, “it’s nice having something simple. Loving you is easy, and that’s enough.”

“I don’t understand,” he mirrors your words from earlier. “But as long as you don’t stop, I think it’s okay.”

You want to tell him you’ll never stop loving. Every flame in Natlan will have to burn out before you stop loving Kinich. You’re confident that it’s impossible that will ever happen. But instead of words, you gently reach between your bodies to grab at his cock—it’s been hard and neglected for long enough that he lets out a soft, needy sound at the sudden touch.

You bring him to brush against your entrance, murmuring a soft, “I want you,” before he groans in response.

“Fuck,” he says shakily, “me too.”

And then, finally, he presses his tip into you, pushing past your folds and nudging into the deepest part of you.

He’s alive. You know that because you can feel him in the most rawest, purest way. Bare skin to skin. Warmth on warmth. Sweat against sweat. Body tangled into body. He’s alive and here and you can feel all of him at once.

He’s everywhere. He’s in your lungs as you kiss him and steal his breath. He’s in your heart as you feel it skip a beat for him. He’s in your soul as it burns at the very idea of him. And he’s in your cunt as he presses himself into you with a roll of his hips.

You love him when he’s alive.

You love him when he’s dead.

You love him when he’s resurrected.

You love him when he’s yours like this.

“Kinich,” you gasp, letting out a breathless moan as his tip slams into that spongy spot in your walls, “there—y-yes, like that.”

“I know,” he murmurs, grinning a little smugly enough that you feel embarrassed to already be this fallen apart. “I know exactly where.”

“Smooth talker for someone who ruined my whole day,” you huff.

“I told you I’m okay,” he grunts lowly. He kisses your throat, right over your pulse as he whispers, “I’m right here.” You whine as he rolls his hips particularly harshly to slam his cock into your most delicate spot.

“Knowing something is coming back doesn’t mean you like losing it,” you argue. “I don’t want you anywhere but here.” He gasps when your legs wrap around his waist and pull him closer as you squeeze tighter around him.

You hate seeing Kinich fall because you’re reminded it’ll happen one day for real. There’ll come a time where he won’t be resurrected. You don’t like being reminded of this simple truth.

He doesn’t understand it because he’s always too busy denying your fall. He’s too busy making sure he fights every battle to win this war so you can live beside him. So you don’t have to succumb to the cruel likes of the abyss.

Neither of you can seem to grasp the other’s mortality very well. So you try to forget in the feeling of being lost in each other’s bodies. Where proof of life blooms in every inch of skin. Every labored breath and drop of sweat, every flex of muscle and rapid thrum of a heart.

You’re alive, and so is Kinich.

He’s not alone, and neither are you.

No one has had to bear a loss, and that’s all that matters. For now, at least.

“You feel so good,” he says hoarsely, letting out a soft, low whine when your walls flutter around him at the praise. “C-can’t…can’t live without you.”

“Don’t say that,” you sob, reaching your limit, “enough talk about living. I’m tired of it.”

“Okay,” he breathes, “then just cum again for me. I want to feel you do it around me this time.”

Your second orgasm makes you forget Kinich is alive. You’re too busy feeling the rush of life yourself. Your body burns with pleasure through every nerve, the familiar snap of pressure between your legs that has your entire form spasming under Kinich.

“’M c-cumming,” you sob, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a sloppy kiss, muffling your sounds into his mouth as he swallows them whole.

“For me,” he hums.

“F-for you. Always for you.”

And then he cums too. Hard. For the last time, you’re hit with the evidence that he’s here with you and not somewhere else. Somewhere unreachable. Somewhere in a world apart from you.

He’s spilling warm, sticky cum into your walls with shaky arms holding him up above you, desperate rolls of his hips as he lets out choked sounds.

Skin slaps against skin and a combination of your arousals leaves a mess smeared between your legs, spilling down your inner thighs.

“Fuck—ngh. I’m…I’m…” he trails off.

He’s never been good with words like you. So instead, he buries his head into your neck and presses his nose into your skin, letting you cradle the back to his head so he knows you’re there.

“I know,” you pant, letting him fuck himself into you and ride out the high of his orgasm.

I know you need me. I need you too.

When he slumps over your body, you can feel his heart beat against yours. Rapid. Erratic. Harsh. Pounding. All of it is proof you’re both painfully mortal as you are alive.

“I love you,” you both whisper at the same time, utterly spent.

“You’re alive,” you breathe out a sigh of relief as your eyes close tiredly.

He hums, lifting his head to press a soft peck to your lips before he slumps into your neck against. “And so are you,” he murmurs in exhaustion.

You both fall asleep together with another year behind you.

Writing an emotional Kinich is actually really hard I’m not sure I even got it right bc we haven’t seen nearly enough of him but 😭 I hope this was not ooc enough that it was slightly believable. IDK I had a hard time deciding how he’d be in an emotionally charged moment of intimacy

[lilacstro]

★ruler of 3rd through houses: your highschool years★

long time no see!! I have recently started an instagram account, you can check it out if you please. I would post more exclusive things in the soon to be started group on Instagram :) lmk if you are sending a request since I do not want scammers or people with malicious intents on there :)

Send post suggestions if you like !! I really do not know why have I not started with Vedic astrology series yet but the thing is, I find it soooo vast that putting it into readable posts becomes so hard idk and I can't come up with topics. I wanted to start with dasha systems and divisional charts but I could not fathom where to start honestly idk. Maybe I have gone more used to making posts through the tropical system.

Paid readings open!!

Today we will see your highschool years through astrology and this may explain why you *were* or *are* a certain way. The planets in your 3rd do add an extra infulence without doubt, but to keep this post more inclusive I would not go over that. However, lmk if you want to see that and I may edit this post. PS: Though there can indicators of things like bullying and being bullied and all other that kinda stuff, I wont be mentioning that here :)) take it as a light post :) and if someone has incidents from school they would love to write, would love it too!!

☆Ruler of 3rd in 1st: Ah very likely to be the "popular" kid, or someone I may say who was heavily involved and present in school. Maybe school was big on playing a major role to your personality development and you had some life altering events in school. You could have drawn attention to yourself as well, or maybe you wanted to be seen. Very easily could have taken the roles of monitors and club leaders etc.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 2nd: Very possible that you were the kind of person who was not very withdrawn yet not quite present. Maybe you were quite reserved in who you talked to during school, but not that you were a loner. You could very well be someone who people found talented in some specific area, especially in things like debate or arts and singing. People could have secretly wanted to befriend you. Very possible that you "seemed" rich or were focused on earning money and it showed in school. Often seen people could admire you from afar, or maybe even crush on you and all that stuff.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 3rd: School could have been an important for you again. Very possible that you and your siblings went to the same school. Apart from this, you again could be someone who is rather smart and studious or is considered smart at the very least. Could have been really outgoing and talkative. Now it is indeed 200% possible that you could be introverted, but as you could grow in comfort, you could become someone who would speak and get along with most people.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 4th: Could have been homeschooled or maybe even your mother taught at the same school, or maybe you did not change too many schools as such and even possible that you studied in a place where you were born or near your home. Now, the ruling planet here actually decides how you could have acted here, which is usually a mix of both extrovertedness and introvertedness. It is possible that school was either very comfortable to you, or maybe you never felt comfortable in school at all, no in between. Not a big friend group, but probably a few real friends that you could have connected to even after school.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 5th: Could be someone who was very involved in extra curriculars and stuff. Great possibility of having dated people in school or appearing attractive to others, them having crushes on you or maybe both honestly. You could actually be someone who very well flunked or I may say rather did not take their classes as seriously. Could be someone who people reminisce about when they look back to their time in high school. A good possibility of being popular or seemingly charming! You could have enjoyed your time in school.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 6th: You could very well be someone who probably faced some difficulties to attend school I feel. Apart from this, you could be someone who no matter what they really do, are hardworking and took school seriously. Hard working, reliable kind of person. It is possible that people in your school asked you for help or favors and stuff quite often. Very possible to have had a mundane school life for many many reasons, maybe nothing too "exciting" and maybe school really did not cater too much excitement, stories or spice in your life.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 7th: The kind of person who talks to everyone, or atleast "knows" everyone and vice versa. People could often come up to you, and you could strike conversations just like that. The kind of person who would always be found in some kind of friend group, and friends with everyone, a large friend group. Some of you could even have found your spouse from school!! No matter if you were extroverted or introverted, you could have had good social skills regardless. Your teachers could actually know you or like you.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 8th: Could be someone who saw breaks and interruptions and hardships to have continues their education. Aloof, introverted and maybe a desire to hide, and not really be seen. The people who are wise beyond their age in school and try to avoid people, especially the ones who do not align with them truly. To be honest, your flairs and attitude and experience in and towards school could see a lot of shifts, maybe you were extroverted and then you became introverted and then extroverted again. Maybe you were someone who had no friends but then had too many friends etc. The end time of school could be important. Not hanging out in big groups at being by yourself mostly.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 9th: Could be someone who attended high school abroad or exchange programs etc or desired to go to college abroad. Probably very aware and serious about moving to university after school. Good at studying and smart, even if you may not intentionally spend time studying, you could be very very good at acing your school comparatively. Someone who was wise, and friendly and had a pleasant time in school, and a good and happy learning experience overall. Friendly, and could have had different kind of friends I must say.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 10th: Ah, outgoing people. Someone who is seen and known by people in school, well liked by most. Even if you are introverted as such, which is unlikely, people could notice you and maybe heard about you or seen you atleast once sometime. Could be someone who hangs out in big groups. Someone whose presence is known by most and many people in school for whatever reasons that may be. Popular people. Teachers could be important, maybe they noticed you, or maybe you pay great attention to them or the relationship is sour all together. The kind of people who are assigned roles and leads in clubs and events, etc. despite of not being the responsible person for that job.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 11th: Friends were important and you made quite a few friends in school yourself. Even if you were not a social person, you still could have found friends, and friend groups. People could feel easy around you, someone who is non judgemental and is friends with everyone, even the seemingly new kids. Always busy with some kind of event or activity or hanging out with friends probably even after school. Someone who probably made others aware about the drama and tea going on, or discussing internet, controversies etc.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 12th: Very possible that you completed your education overseas or you were homeschooled or may be you did not attend school too much. Someone who probably is uncomfortable with attention on themselves, and likes to seemingly merge into the background somehow, even if they may desire to have a complete experience of their surroundings. Zoning out in school often, being aloof by nature or choice, in your own world. Probably despising school or waiting for it to end. On a good note, whatever relationships you formed in school or experiences you had, could have helped you evolve, and grow out of your comfort zone and the bubble you could have kept yourself in, for maybe reasons like "I can't fit in".

take care, xoxo~

[pathologicalreid]

sweet talker | s.r.

in which french!reader gets caught using a special nickname for a particular genius

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: french. guys i don't speak french. bad french. bad flirting. but wholesome content all around. word count: 639 a/n: i do not speak french but this was a request and i live to serve the people of tumblr. if this offends the french i think that's just a risk i have to take.

Something about it felt like home. Not necessarily like the bullpen compared in the slightest to where you grew up, but the hustle and bustle of the BAU, while they were in the depths of a case, had the same feeling of a home.

As you rushed around the floor, placing files on desks and picking old ones up as you went, dropping soft thank you’s to the people in the office rounding the corner of Morgan’s desk, scooping his files from his desk and placing them in your own collection, “Merci, mon chou,” you thanked quickly.

Your co-worker smiled in response, “Anything for you, sweet talker,” he said, leaning back in his desk chair.

Scoffing, you shook your head. To Derek Morgan, anything said in French counted as sweet talking.

Balancing all of the files against your hip, you prepared to pick up the stack of papers on Spencer’s desk, but he stood up and gathered them in his own arms, “I’ll get them,” he offered. Although, it wasn’t much of an offer, seeing as he was already carrying his files.

It would be worse if you were to attempt to carry all of the files on your lonesome, so you decided to follow his lead to the file room.

Spencer was somewhat of a guiding light for you in the BAU. You considered yourself lucky to have been placed with a team that had two members who spoke French, which came in handy when you forgot certain English words, Emily and Spencer were usually there to save you.

Setting your files down on the spare table in the room, you started to organize them by which cabinet they went in as Spencer went ahead and returned his folders based on memory. “Do you think Morgan knows what you’re saying when you speak to him in French?”

Chuckling, you shook your head, “Non, mon cœur,” the words easily slipped out of your mouth. “I think Derek gave up on comprehending me the first week I joined the team,” you responded, checking the front and back of a file to make sure you were sorting it into the correct drawer.

“Yeah,” he agreed, “His English-to-French dictionary sits pretty untouched.” No one was of the mindset that you shouldn’t speak French at work, and you didn’t ask them to learn for you. Besides, work allowed you to strengthen your English skills.

Frowning at the same folder, you held the folder out to Spencer, “Do you know where this one goes?”

Accepting the folder from you, Spencer flipped through the first couple of pages before deftly slipping it into a drawer, “Sometimes I wish I could just know where things were, I’d never lose my car keys again.”

Spencer hummed in response, “I wish I spoke French like you.”

“Oh,” you said, “I think you speak French very well.”

Sliding another drawer shut, Spencer stepped over to a new one a few feet closer to you, “Thank you, but if I ever go to France, I’m taking you with me.”

You smiled to yourself at his proclamation, biting your tongue as the door swung open and Emily stepped in, “Hey, do you have that file on the Montana killer? I need it back.”

Spinning on your heel, you looked around for it, only to realize that it had already been put away, “Sorry,” you said, forgetting your proximity to Spencer as you stepped to the side.

He closed his drawer, “Pardonne moi, mon ange,” he said, grabbing a folder from your pile on the table and slipping out of the file room, “I still need this one.”

With Emily’s folder in your hand, you turned to look at your shell-shocked co-worker, “Did he...? And you two...?”

Thrusting the file in her direction, you looked at her with equally wide eyes, “Tais-toi.”

[ggidolsmuts]

Good Girls in the Dark - Choi Yena

"Hello, I'm Choi Yena, nice to meet you!"

"Omo son why didn't you tell us your girlfriend is so pretty?! Come in come in!" Your mom quickly leads Yena into your home, who's already locking arms with her. "Finally you bring someone back for Chuseok!" she looks back at you and admonishes. You simply shake your head and follow them in.

"You look so young, I thought you were oppa's sister!"

"Oh stop it, you have such a sweet tongue!" 

Yena's a good girl.

At least, that was your initial impression when you met her for the first time—it was supposed to be a Yuehua flex, having Yena drop by to say hi, to congratulate everyone on the successful joint project between Yuehua and your company. Mindful and demure, she was considerate of everyone, smiling and greeting all of you like the energetic idol she is.

True to her energy, she insisted you all go to a club for the afterparty, but the group soon diffuses into the crowd—some people left almost immediately, others stayed for a few drinks, and yet more broke off into their cliques. You try to sneak out too, until Yena somehow gets a hold of you, pulling you into a dark corner of the club. She has a drink in hand, but by now it is empty save for a few drops of whatever she had.

"Why do you keep looking at me?" she demands to know.

"What? I haven't!"

"Don't lie, I saw you sneaking looks." You were, but you didn't think Yena would notice, that you would just blend in with your co-workers.

"How would you know?" you fire back.

"Because I've been looking at you too." It must be the alcohol in Yena talking, for she smashes her lips into yours, tongue immediately pushing into your mouth. She does have a sweet tongue. "Can I trust you?"

"You should have asked me that before you kissed me."

"Oops, oh well. Now answer the question."

"Yes."

"Good, I don't want to go home tonight," she breathes into your ear.

Yena's a good girl in the dark.

"So how did you two meet?" your dad asks during dinner.

"At work! I was at an event for our company, and he was there! He was very nice to me."

"That's all it took? My son is good!"

"Dad don't," you mutter, shaking your head and leaving the table carrying your dishes. At least Yena didn't say it started with a hookup, or your parents would have had an aneurysm. The one night stands became more frequent, and your apartment became a place for stress relief for Yena.

Over time the two of you ended up spending equal amounts of time talking and fucking, and both of you finally gathered the courage to give in to your feelings and agree to start dating—to be fair, neither of you were seeing anyone else anyways, so exclusivity wasn't a discussion that needed to be had. Ironically the dating aspect wasn't really a thing either—Yena was an idol, so any dates you two had were just at your place.

"What? Our son is so charming, he found a celebrity girlfriend! And she eats so much too, I thought you would be dieting or something, I was afraid I made too much!" you hear your mum say.

"No no, that's just a stereotype, I eat more than he does!"

"That's great, you eat so well!"

Yena's a good girl.

~~

"Fuck, you eat me so well," you moan as Yena slurps you, tongue running up the underside of your shaft. It's early in the morning, the sunlight just peeking through the curtains. You can barely make out the shape of Yena in your sleepy haze, but you can definitely identify her by her tongue and hands.

"Because your cum is so delicious!" she says as she strokes you, eager for her morning cum-ffee. "I can see some of it already!" She licks your tip, swiping up the dripping precum. Yena's hungry for more, and she goes deep on your cock, taking all of it in easily. The loud sloppy noises she makes are the lewdest alarm sounds you've ever heard, and your favorite by far.

"Oh fuck, Yena, I'm gonna cum!" There is no holding back your orgasm, and your hand finds itself in her hair, pushing her down like she was an alarm clock. You thrust up involuntarily, and Yena hums as you hit the roof of her mouth, feeling you surrender in the form of a thick morning load sliding down her throat. Yena's eyeing you as you come down from your peak, making sure you're fully drained before she let's you go with a pop.

"Thanks, I gotta go now."

"Wait, I need something for the morning too no?" You wiggle your eyebrows and Yena laughs.

"I suppose I can spare a few minutes," she sighs theatrically and slides up your body. You expect her to remove her pants and underwear, but she's already naked from the waist down.

"Tch, you were expecting it weren't you?"

"I knew you would repay the favor." She pushes herself onto your face.

Yena's a good girl in the dark.

~~

"Auntie, do you need help with the dishes?"

"Oh no no no you're the guest, you can't be helping with the dishes!"

"I don't mind, besides it makes the dishes go by faster!"

"You see son, why can't you be more like Yena?"

"I live by myself, I do the dishes back home already!"

"I don't care, come help us with the dishes or else!" your mom threatens.

"Fine."

"God it's like I have to beg you to do the dishes, at least Yena's so polite and well-mannered, offering to help!"

Yena's a good girl.

~~

"Please sir."

"What do you want me to do Yena?" you ask the naked idol bent over your lap.

"Spank me."

"What's the magic word?"

"Please spank me." You reward her with a hearty slap across her ass, watching it jiggle and turn red. Yena yelps before thanking you.

"Good." You rub her cheek to soothe her before slipping your hand between her legs—she's dripping. Carelessly you run a finger along her pussy, letting her wetness coat it before wiping it on her. Yena squirms, and you wrap an arm around her midriff, holding her flush against your body, trapping her. Yena takes a deep breath and relaxes, going limp briefly.

"T-Thank you." It made her feel taken care of—she can let her mind go blank, let the pleasure take over, leave everything to you. But you tease her, rubbing her slit as you stroke her head, petting her like you pet a cat, or a duck perhaps. All while she can feel your erection poking her from below. Yena's little gasps and moans get louder and more frequent, breathing heavily over your lap as you continue.

"Please put it in." You push two fingers in, and Yena clenches immediately around them. You push Yena forward on your lap, bending her over one thigh to give you better access to her pussy. Yena's almost folded in half over your leg, blood rushing to her head as she watches her own toes curl uncontrollably due to your fingering. You dig deep, bending and twisting your fingers, as if trying to find the last cookie crumb deep inside Yena's jar. You do find what you're looking for, and Yena's the cookie that crumbles.

"R-Right there!" Beneath you Yena's face is red, both from pleasure, and from the little droplets she sees appearing between her legs. "Wait oppa, I'm going to make a mess—"

"Oppa?"

"I mean, ah! Sir, sorry sir, wait, stop!" You dig a little harder, a little faster, and it becomes a stream of liquid pleasure, leaking down her leg and dripping off Yena's toes.

"Manners Yena."

"Puhlea—" Before she can get the second syllable fully out you press her sensitive clit with your thumb and Yena chokes out a desperate cry, drenching your hand in her slick as she cums hard. Yena claws at your leg, gripping it tightly while she splashes over you. You help Yena right herself, but her legs are weak, and she sits in a puddle of her own juices as she lays her head on your thigh, breathing shallow and labored. You lay a hand on her cheek, and she turns to kiss it, as if soothing herself on you. When she opens her eyes again she looks up at you, before looking to the tent you're pitching in your pants.

"I want you," she whispers, managing to push herself up and pull your shorts off. Her hands go to your boxers, but you stop her.

"Are you forgetting something?"

"Please." Yena says it like an afterthought, removing your boxers and getting in your lap—her slick covered legs are spreading it everywhere on your couch. She tries to sink herself on to you, but you shift your hips, making her miss. "Come on!"

"Say it like you mean it."

"Please, I need you in me." She grabs your cock, her hands wrapping around your length. "I need something thick in me, my pussy needs something to... grip!" She twists her hands, squeezing you tightly. You let her position you at her entrance, and your cock twitches a little as a few more drops of slick land on your shaft.

"Please give me your cock," Yena whispers before kissing you needily.

You slam her down on you.

"Oh fuck!"

Yena's a good girl in the dark.

~~

"Yena do you drink? Are you allowed to?"

"Oh yes of course we are allowed to, I'll have whatever oppa has."

"Okay I'll go get the beer."

"No dear, get the ginseng wine."

"Should I?" Your dad nods emphatically.

"We're all becoming one family here, we can break out the good stuff and celebrate!" You know exactly where this is going as your mum brings the wine.

"Dad no don't do that!" You grab Yena's hand in apology. "Sorry."

"No no, I'm sure Yena doesn't mind! All we're saying, your mum and I, is that we would approve of whatever you two want to do in the future. Get married, have kids, you know, whatever you want!"

"It's okay uncle, I understand, thank you for being so nice to me and making me feel so welcome! We haven't really talked about our future, but it's good to know we have your support!"

"Good, see, that's a sensible young woman! Cheers!"

Yena's a good girl.

The operative word there is "really", because you two have certainly talked about your future together.

In bed.

In the heat of the moment.

While you're deep in Yena.

~~

"How many kids should I put in you, how many do you want!" you grunt as you thrust down into her, feeling her clench around you in response. Yena's legs push uselessly against your arms, your elbows locking her knees down in a mating press.

"As many as you want, fuck! That's so deep!" Her arms have a stranglehold around your neck, keeping you close, her flexibility allowing you to kiss her even as you fuck her in the uncompromising position. Yena's tits jiggle as you pound into her, a lewd visual of just how hard you're thrusting.

"B-Breed me, breed me harder!" It was a kink that Yena let slip once, and since then you've indulged her, joining her in enjoying the thought, relishing the feel of fucking Yena raw each and every time.

"Fuck I'm going to cum, you better keep count!" you shout as you slam down into her with finality, letting loose multiple shots into her. Yena seems to go over the edge with you, clenching around your pulsing cock, lips mumbling incoherently. You collapse on top of her, burying yourself against her neck, kissing her lovingly and cuddling her. It is a little later before either of you are able to speak.

"Five, I counted five shots earlier," she murmurs into your ear, tickling you.

"That many?"

"Mmhmm, I must have drained a lot out of you, hm? Poor oppa." Yena jokes, pinching your cheek. But she pushes you on your back and gets on top of you. The sight of your load leaking out of her is enough to get you to half-mast, and her words get you the rest of the way there.

"Let me do the rest of the work. We have to contribute equally to get me knocked up." She slides her cream-filled warmth over you.

Yena's a good girl in the dark.

~~

"I'm done showering!" Yena announces to you as she joins you in the guest bedroom.

"Great, let's get some rest, it's been a long day." You pull the covers over the two of you and hold Yena close. "Thanks for coming here with me."

"Of course, your parents are so nice!"

"They got a little too excited about meeting you, sorry."

"No no it's okay, I like it, they're fans of me, because of you!"

"I guess." You kiss the top of her head, ready to sleep. Yena is not though, and she slips her hand under your t-shirt.

"Haven't I been a good girl today? Shouldn't you reward me?"

"Yena..." you start.

"I didn't tell them we started dating after multiple hookups together. I didn't tell them we do it raw all the time. I didn't—"

"You really want to have sex here, tonight?" Yena nods and throws a leg around you, and to your surprise she's already very wet.

"Just the thought, you know? Being part of your family, us being a family, starting a family. And I heard ginseng wine is good for you too, get the blood flowing." You know exactly why Yena's so wet now. "I-I even brought towels from the bathroom. I'm going to make such a mess." She says it like sex is a foregone conclusion.

"You're going to have be really quiet, I know how loud you get when you want me to breed you."

"That's what the other towel is for." She scrunches the towel up and bites down on it, looking at you pleadingly.

Yena's a good girl, but Yena's your good girl in the dark.

A/N: Just something quick and dirty, the whole "Good Girls in the Dark" song from her just gave me the idea lol. Right before her next comeback heh, maybe there's another "dirty" title there hopefully, or I'll just make it dirty as usual. Thanks for reading!

[covetyou]

tool time

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: cock worship, self imposed denial, blue balls for all, that tool belt, pet names (darlin', baby), mentions of oral sex and p in v, very brief mention of alcohol, no/pre-outbreak TLOU, no use of y/n. word count: 3k summary: He was always there to pull you both back from the brink, though you weren't sure there was any saving you this time. And it was all because of something as simple as a tool belt.

A/N: it has been one year to the day (and almost to the minute) since I published sleepless in 2023. happy anniversary to the fic that started it all. thanks to all of you for sticking with me, and thanks to Joel Miller for always being That Man.

thank you to @sp00kymulderr and a conversation months ago at this point that inspired this fic 💛

follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future fics

"Y'Starin'?"

You were. From the moment he walked in, actually.

Then, from the moment he slung that thing low around his hips this morning, you knew you were done for. Four weeks of pain and struggle, all for nothing.

The best laid plans, you guess, as you grunt back at him with a shrug.

It was on you, really. You were probably setting yourself up for failure the moment you had your first grownup sleepover with one Joel Miller. Sensible people don't do that to themselves. Not when they have rules to keep to. They may have been your own rules, but that was besides the point. Rules were rules, and you never did like breaking them.

Watching Joel move and shift, his bulge in his denim framed neatly by the leather of his work belt, you had a feeling breaking this particular rule wouldn't upset you for long.

Six weeks. That was the rule. Just two painful weeks away. Six weeks, and then you'd be free from this forced celibacy you'd put yourself into. It was a test for yourself more than anything - always too eager to throw yourself into intimacy with people who didn't care and, if you were being honest, with people who you didn't care about either. You figured if you wanted different, you'd have to make it different.

You just didn't account for the first man in your life after a months long dry spell to be Joel Miller.

From the day you said those words into his mouth - six weeks, give me six weeks and I'm all yours - he'd been all in. He told you he could wait as long as you needed, and from the moment he said it you believed him. The problem was, from the moment he said it, you also wanted to fuck him about it.

But you couldn't, because that was exactly the rule you were trying to keep to. No sex for six fucking weeks.

You weren't even sure why you picked six weeks in the first place. The exact whys of it all went out of your head the moment Joel committed to your stupid, self-imposed rule without question. Those reasons why grew further from you each and every week he calmly stopped your dates from going too far with a gruff don't wanna break your rules, baby.

Even when you were forced to stay the night after one too many drinks, or when a make-out session got too heated, there he was to pull you both back from the brink.

Though, you weren't sure there was any saving you this time.

And it was all because of something as simple as a tool belt.

You'd seen him in it before. It wasn't new. It was quite old, and worn, actually. Usually you'd simply see him throw it into the back seat of his truck, or onto his counter, or over his shoulder. On one occasion you'd caught him on his knees, belt strapped around his hips as he fixed up a broken cabinet in his garage.

It did the same to you then as it did now, but this time it was staying on and not being hastily discarded with an oh shit, I'm runnin' late.

Now, he stands and shifts his hips, legs crossed at the ankle, the bulge in his denim so perfectly framed you're sure the sight will be burned into your vision for ever.

"You're doing that on purpose."

Your eyes are looking through him. Fuck knows you can't look at him. Not right now, not when two billion reasons not to break your one rule couldn't hold you back from just doing it.

"Doin' what?" he asks in a voice so innocent you almost believe him. Until he shifts once again, hips rocking in your direction, the denim bunching between his legs over his soft bulge.

"Stop it, Joel."

"Stop doin' what?"

Maybe he doesn't have a clue what he's doing to you - what he's been doing to you every day for weeks. Maybe he's oblivious, or too innocent and pure and good to know just how ravenous you're feeling for him right this moment, or maybe he's hoping he isn't seeing the way you're looking at him, ready to devour him in one, so he stands some chance of getting to work on time.

Yes, you could be strong and ignore the way his hand engulfs the coffee mug he's drinking from - strong but delicate in a way you know it to be by how he lets his fingertips dance up and down your side in the dead of the night. You could look past how his eyes flick down your body, stood stiff and still as far away from him as you can get in your tiny little kitchen. You could even ignore the way he licks the dregs of coffee from his lips, swiping his hand across his chin as his cup clinks down on the counter.

But then, those strong, delicate hands find purchase on his belt, hooking through a loop you saw him tuck a hammer into that day in his garage, and - as though you hadn't decided from the moment he put the belt on his hips - the last crumbling ruins of your resolve crash to the ground.

"Fuck it."

"Darlin', you -"

You cut him off with a kiss - striding across the kitchen to grab him by the shirt before he could even realize what was happening.

"Shut up," you breath into his mouth, silencing him more with the pressure of your lips on his than with the words on your tongue.

Joel, still trying to be a gentleman, keeps his one hand planted on the counter, the other on his belt, white knuckle gripping as he tries to keep up with your frantic kisses. You bite and nip at his lips, the fire in your belly not letting up even though you're well aware neither of you have time for this. And, though his hands are still, he kisses back with a fire to match, setting the ruins of your rules ablaze right there on the kitchen floor.

But then you're gone, and he's chasing a mouth that's no longer there.

His eyes snap open just as you slip down his body, your hands releasing from his shirt to slide down the length of his torso as you descend.

"Darlin', I -"

"Shut up, Joel," you growl again as your knees collide with the kitchen tile. It's not comfortable, and it's certainly not romantic, but it's what you need, so you'll take it.

"Your rule, baby, I don't wanna -"

"Fuck my rule, Joel."

Your eyes drop from his to the belt in front of you, then lower still to the soft lump in worn denim. You'd only been this close in your dreams - and there had been a lot of them lately. Waking up wet and sticky between your legs after a Joel sleepover was something you were now well accustomed to. While the you of your dreams could make the man come in two seconds flat some nights, the real you - the one on their knees in their kitchen - didn't have a clue what got his blood pumping and his heart racing.

You press a lingering kiss to the front of his jeans anyway. Just to see, really. Then, by the way his eyes widen, pupils blowing black in his warm eyes, and his breath hitches, you have a feeling you won't have much trouble at all finding out what makes Joel Miller tick.

You chain together another kiss, and then another, and then another, pressing your soft lips to the rough denim as you listen to his ragged breaths.

"I -"

"Shut up."

You don't want him to speak. You don't want him to be sensible, or to stop you, not when you've already waited so long. Not when his cock is right in front of you, separated by nothing but a zipper and some fabric.

You press a firmer kiss to him, breathing deeply and letting your eyes slip closed as you inhale. He always smells so clean in the mornings, but this time it's mixed with something else. The soft scent of his laundry detergent is still there, but there's the earthy smell of his leather belt, just a few inches away from your face. It smells of wood and dust and metal - the fixtures and undoubtedly a few errant screws and nails dumped into the pockets and pouches accounting for the latter. Then there's something else too, as you take another breath, groaning against the denim that you nuzzle your face into, feeling him twitch beneath your cheek.

He likes this. If the stiffening lump beneath your lips, pressed against your nose, rubbed against your cheek is anything to go by, he likes this a lot. Who could blame the man, really. He'd waited as long as you had. Four weeks for you had been four weeks for him. Four weeks of you trying to break through his resolve, to crack him so he was to blame for your broken rule and not you. Four weeks of you edging closer and closer to his waistband each time you kissed on the couch. Four weeks of your hips shifting back into his crotch every night you went to sleep.

"You smell so good, Joel," you groan into his crotch, letting your head rest against his thigh as you sink lower on your knees. Your head feels floaty on your shoulders, and you wonder if he can feel the hot warmth of your breath against his cock through his jeans.

His thighs tense beneath your palms as you steady yourself on him. You should probably slow down, you think, but no sooner is the thought in your head when your fingers are already creeping up and up to stroke across the soft leather of his belt.

You want to pull it off and pull his jeans down and finally taste him. You want to leave it on, slung around his hips as it is, holding onto it to anchor yourself to him as he slides into you. You want to feel it slapping against your ass as he fucks you, face down into the mattress screaming his name.

Instead you pull, tugging his hips closer to your face. He grunts above you, shifting his own hips again as his cock swells in his pants, undoubtedly uncomfortable in the confines of his jeans. You want to take it out - you could take it out. You could see it for the first time right now, right here. You could taste it if you wanted to. You'd imagined it enough.

But you don't.

Even through your desperation, there were things you still wanted for that first time with Joel Miller. Fantasies of the belt, and the need you had for him right now couldn't sway you from that, at least.

You'd have him stripped bare, and you would be too. Hands and mouths and tongues would explore first. And then, when the desperation got too much to bear, he'd slip into you like he'd always belonged there, sliding down to the root and burrowing himself in you.

"I don't want you to do anything you'll regret, baby," he whispers, holding your hand against his thigh, stilling you for just a second.

You could sob at how good he is, even now as you try to ruin him on your knees.

"How could I regret this," you murmur, white hot heat radiating off his cock as it throbs right beneath your chin. "Please, Joel. Fuck my rule. I don't care. I just want you."

You watch as his resolve begins to crack, shattering first in his eyes as he spares a heated glance down at you between his legs.

"Fuck."

You begin in earnest then. Your hands that were stilled go back to kneading, pawing at his thighs, reaching round to grab a handful of his ass as you press kiss after kiss to his cock, dampening the fabric of his jeans with your saliva.

"Wanted it for so long," you breath. "Need it. Fuck, Joel."

You're babbling into his crotch. You know you are. You don't care. All you care is about the wet heat between your legs and the cock in front of you, swollen and desperate as you are wet and dripping. In this moment you're made for each other, your pussy desperately clenching around nothing, as he throbs, pulsating with each kiss you press to him.

He gasps suddenly and you're pulled out of your trance, looking up at him as a wet patch blooms on the front of his jeans.

"Baby, you can't -"

"Don't you want to?" you ask breathlessly. "Don't you want to know what it's like?"

"I do - jesus fuck - I do, we just don't got the time."

You groan into his crotch. He's right. Of course he is. Still, you don't stop. He can feel your breath hot on him through the denim, you're sure of it. You want - need - him to know how much you want him. You need him to carry it with him all damn day until he's aching and desperate and ready to fuck you the moment he sees you.

He's not looking down at you the next time you cast your eyes up. Instead his head is titled skyward and his jaw is open in a soft moan you can barely hear from the blood pumping in your ears. The hand that was on his belt has joined the other, gripping the counter, twitching as if itching to grab at you when you run your teeth over the now solid mass in his pants.

"I want you," you whisper. "Wanted you for weeks."

You let your hands take over, cascading up and down his strong thighs, scraping nails down and dragging delicate finger tips up. With one more kiss to the heavy weight at the front of his jeans, you bring your hand up to cup him, palming the heat between his legs and gasping at the feel of it.

He feels so heavy, and warm, and perfect in your hand.

"Fuck," you hiss, squeezing gently at his covered cock. "Joel."

"Unngh."

He's wrecked. If his breathing and the way he can't look down at you is anything to go by, he may be past the point of no return. It sends a thrill through you, ruining your clean panties even more as the realization strikes you.

You could make him come like this.

And you shouldn't. The sensible part of you knows that. You know he doesn't have anything else to change into, and you know that time is rapidly ticking away by the ache gradually throbbing in your knees.

But, you could - and that just makes to too hard to resist.

So, you continue on, pressing kisses to his cock, wishing desperately you could cradle the heft of his balls in your hand as you took his head into your mouth. Your teeth nip at his thighs, scrape gently across the sides of his bulge. And then, your tongue slips out from between your swollen lips, and you lick gently at the precum seeping through his jeans.

You moan. Whine, really. Whimper, if you were being really honest with yourself. The rough fabric on your tongue and the bitter salt of his precum on your tongue almost have you coming right there on the kitchen floor. You quiver instead, holding it back as you spread your legs, desperate for relief that you don't have time for.

"Fuck, baby, you're gonna make me -"

The vibration of his phone in his pocket, twinned with a harsh beep, startles both of you. You look around, confused for a moment, before Joel scrambles for his back pocket.

"Tommy, hey," he says, clearing his throat. Tommy's voice booms back down the receiver. He's outside. Sorry I'm late, he says, and you could laugh if you weren't so painfully turned on and wrecked from the few minutes you'd spent on your knees acquanting yourself with Joel's cock.

"Yep. Uh-huh. Be out in a sec. Sure."

There's nothing but silence and the sound of your breathing when he hangs up. You can't bring yourself to get up any more than he can bring himself to walk away.

"We gotta get goin'," Joel finally says, hearing an impatient beep of a car horn outside.

"Tonight," you say with certainty, still on your knees. "You're fucking me tonight, Joel."

He helps you up, fingers twitching as they hold your waist. You don't have time for what you both want. Even a kiss could turn into something neither of you could pull back from now. You move to the door, together and desperate and messy in ways neither of you can say out loud, because the clock is ticking.

"Joel," you say, holding back a smile as you walk to your car. "Might wanna check the front of your pants."

He looks down, his cock still hard and uncomfortable in the confines of his jeans. He'd hoped the short walk to the door would releave some of the pressure, but it doesn't. And then he sees it - the dark bloom of wet denim, evidence of the twin effort between you and his cock to ruin his day in the best possible way.

Joel shifts his tool belt, letting it sit lopsided on his hips. You can see by the look in his eye that he wants to push you up against your car and kiss you like he means it. You can see by the way his fingers grip that loop in his tool belt once more, holding onto it for dear life, biting at his inner cheek.

"Tonight," he growls, when he presses a chaste kiss to your cheek, before stalking away to the waiting shadow of Tommy's truck.

You watch the leather of his belt slap against the full meat of his ass with every step, and you smile. Just one more day - ten more hours - and the denial would be over, the belt would be off and you'd finally, finally, get what you so desperately wanted.

Fuck your rule.

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[sacredsorceress]

Scars / Logan Howlett

pairing: dofp!logan howlett x mutant!reader summary: every person has a soulmate. after settling in the future that he saved, logan starts to consider his next mission when a suspicious mark appears on him. word count: 3.2k a/n: good ol'fashioned soulmate AU. this is the first actual fic i've written in a long time so please have some grace. reblogs and replies are super appreciated! warnings: general mentions of logan's past, scars, self-doubt, alcoholism, reader smokes a cigar, mentions of razors, scars, wounds, two uses of y/n

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It had been a week since Logan woke up in his healed timeline.

For most people, the change would have been dramatic. But Logan was far unlike most people. The initial dreamlike state he was in when he first walked through the mansion- seeing the ghosts he had once known returned to the flesh, unscathed- quickly subsided. Logan had always been a man thrown onto a new path- how he lived life constantly changing to best fit his interests. Now, with his newfound peace he found the most complicated mission of all: what to do with the life he was now free to live?

Even before the sentinels, the battles, the wars- he had always been a man on the run. He was solo, strategic, concise. For a man who was gifted with infinite regeneration, he had solely concerned himself with staying alive. He ate for sustenance, sought shelter for safety, and nursed a bottle to find enough peace of mind to sleep at night.

The professor had once told him that for a person to reach self-actualization they first had to have all of their needs met. Logan had scoffed at the time, assuring the professor that he knew himself just fine. But now, with his problems so solved that they had ceased to ever exist, he wondered if maybe the professor was right.

Who was he? Where did he go from here?

The answer was found in the form of a scar on his hand.

"Well, everything seems to be just fine."

Logan scoffed at the blue man in front of him

"Well it's not." Logan said. "Check again."

Two days after he had come back, a large, circular scar had appeared on the palms of each of his hands. When they hadn't disappeared after two minutes, he rushed to the bathroom and nicked himself with his razor, watching as the wound healed with only blood dripping down his scruff as a remanent of it. Thirty minutes after that he found himself in the lab with Hank, Jean, and the Professor hypothesizing his miraculous marks.

"Logan, the tests came back clear." Jean assured him, leaning against the wall. "Maybe it's time to consider that it's something else."

Logan quirked his head towards her.

"I haven't had a scar in over two hundred years," he reminded her, his voice laced with irony. "I get not one, but two and you... what? Think it's a coincidence?"

Before Jean had a chance at rebuttal, the professor moved to face Logan.

"That's not what Jean's inferring, Logan." Charles reminded him. "We're simply asking that you consider other options. Less... dire options. It could, after all, be a good thing."

"Yeah?" Logan scoffed. "Like what?"

A silence hung in the air.

When Logan had first come to them with news of his scar, the thought had been on all three of their minds. Still, there were a plethora of things that could have caused that. Though, when the tests came back clear and his skin continued to heal from all sorts of abrasions, it felt as if there was only one answer for his seemingly magical scars.

However, none of them were keen on sharing this diagnosis with Logan. One wondered whether he'd handle the idea of his body failing him over fated love.

Hank was the first to speak up.

"Like a soulmate."

Oh that was rich, Logan thought.

Logan wasn't unfamiliar with the idea of soulmates.

Around the time that two fated lovers were destined to meet, there would be a sign for each of them. In some cases they were eyes changing colors, feeling the other's pain, finding their names everywhere they looked. In other cases they were new birthmarks, tattoos, scars.

In some way, the two were inextricably connected.

In his long life he had seen others experience it dozens if not hundreds of times. When the first thirty years of his life rolled around with no one, Logan accepted that he was one of the outliers. He considered it for the best and by now, with everything that he had gone through, the concept of soulmates almost seemed like an old wives' tale.

Logan glanced at their faces. When he realized they were serious, a deep laugh escaped from his gut. There was a lack of light in his eyes that admitted his insincerity.

"So I disappear for a few decades and you all start believing in fairytales?" Logan pulled the needles from his arm, the heart rate monitor going flat as he did. "What a bunch of bullshit."

Jean laid her hand against his chest, urging him back into the seat.

"Logan." She soothed him. "This is a good thing. Scott and I-"

Oh this was real rich.

"Scott and you are... what, huh?" Logan urged. "Soulmates?"

Logan scoffed, swiping Jean's hand from his chest.

"Bet you're so happy with your 'soulmate' and that's why you lead me on, huh? That it? You're happy?" He taunted, a dark laugh escaping him once more. "Spare me-"

"Logan, that's enough!"

The professor's voice echoed against the linoleum walls of the lab, reverberating off of the medical equipment throughout.

"If you want to wallow in your own self-deprivation, be my guest, but spare the rest of us your grief." Charles continued. "I think it would be best if you go back to your quarters and consider the future the universe has offered you."

The energy in the air was thick.

Jean and Hank avoided Logan’s eye contact while the professor’s nearly burned a whole through him.

Accepting defeat, Logan threw his hands up in the air and pushed himself out of his metal chair.

“Fine.”

Soulmates. Logan thought. Who would believe in a thing like that?

-

"It's a pleasure to see you again."

The atmosphere in the mansion was a stark contrast to the lab Charles had been in days before.

Now the school day had commenced: children skipping from class to class, students chatting with their friends in the hallway, teachers grabbing coffee between lessons. Amidst the organized chaos, Charles had arranged to meet you in the foyer: the replacement history teacher for Logan's class.

"You too, professor." You smiled, reaching out your hand. "I was so glad to hear from you."

Your hand hung in the air briefly, awaiting his return. Charles examined it for a moment- a twinkle in his eye- before taking it. His thumbs brushed against the newfound scars between your knuckles as he did.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you didn't always have these scars, did you, Y/n?" Charles asked.

You had not.

You had woken with them a few days before. Despite your powers rooted in chaos magic, it wasn't uncommon for blemishes or wounds to etch themselves into your skin. However, you often knew why. These marks, scars, were not faint, but instead quite profound. Three thick, healed over wounds patched together like a stitch on the back of each of your hands.

"No professor."

He closed his eyes, a soft smile gracing his lips. Though you knew he wished to ask more questions, the moment was broken by Logan.

"Ah, the man himself." Charles beamed. "Logan, I'd like you to meet Y/n. She'll be covering your class."

You had seen your fair share of news stories about the Wolverine. Who hadn't? Though the television had never prepared you for just how tall, or broad he was.

"It's nice to meet you, Logan."

"You too." He nodded, taking your hand.

His hand lingered in yours for a moment. Charles cleared his throat.

"We were just discussing the most peculiar scar on Y/n's hand." Charles said. "Appeared just a few days ago out of nowhere."

Charles nodded his head in the direction of your hand, leading Logan to squint. As if a light bulb had gone off over his head, Logan glanced between Charles and yourself and with your hand still in his, he turned it examine the back.

Three scars between your knuckles. Right where his own claws would be.

Though he liked to imagine himself as the patron of remaining suave, Logan's eyebrows shot up at the recognition. He traced his view from your hands, up your torso, to your face where you eyed him questioningly.

He thought back to the way that he woke up in the seventies, wrapped in the arms of another woman. If times had been different and Logan hadn't undergone all the so-called character development in the last forty years, he was sure that a face like yours would have gotten him in a lot of trouble. You were beautiful, and your demeanor highlighted your strength.

Your face radiated kindness, warmth and most of all, sincerity- a trait that was difficult to come by in a trade such as his.

But then Logan recalled that this wasn't the seventies and you weren't at some bar leading him on the entire night: your hand was in his and, according to everyone else, he was yours.

The idea almost couldn't register in Logan's brain.

"Interesting, isn't it, Logan?" Charles asked, breaking the silence. "Almost identical to where your claws are, hmm?"

Oh the professor thought he was quite funny.

Logan pulled his hand back from your grasp and shook his head.

"Not that easy, Charles." Logan commented before turning to you, a spiteful tone in his voice. "See you around, bub."

Before you had the chance to open your mouth, you watched as Logan stomped down the nearest hallway, his boots squeaking against the floorboards as he did. His fists clenched and released at his sides as he disappeared from view.

His reaction had come so far from left field that if it hadn't given you whiplash, it would have hurt your ego. Instead you turned back to the professor.

"Was it something I said?" You asked.

The professor shook his head, patting your hand gently.

"Logan's quite a complicated man." He assured you. "I'm sure you'll come to know that more than the rest of us. Now, to your classroom..."

Glancing over your shoulder to the void-like hallway that Logan went down, you considered the professor's words.

-

A storm had taken over the mansion by nightfall.

As you padded down the wood panelled hallways, the lightbulbs shook in their glass with each thunder clap- wind swatting at the window panes every few seconds. The pitter patter of the raindrops, although harsh, was comforting. It was almost as if the mansion had been engulfed by the storm, trapping everyone inside, while consequently making the outside world feel a thousand miles away.

When you found Logan's door, tucked in at the end of the hallway, you knocked.

"Yep."

The weight of the door fell against the palm of your hands as you pushed it open.

Logan's room was dark. The only light in the space had been from the embers of the cigar that hung in his mouth, cradled between his thumb and forefinger. Despite the darkness, you could make out his figure sitting at his desk chair by the window, feet kicked up on the sill.

Logan only gave you a quick glance over his shoulder before turning back to the view.

"What d'you want?"

His voice was thick and rough around the edges.

"I came for your textbooks." You replied, tiptoeing against his floorboards. "The professor said you'd have them."

The hand of his that held the cigar waved around. Minuscule ashes fell to the floor as your eyes remained trained on the light and the faint glow of the moon that illuminated the side of his face.

"Be my guest," he said. "Don’t have a clue where they are."

The professor had given you the lowdown when he saw your scars.

Charles told you that despite everything that you had learned- the history that you had known- the Wolverine you'd meet was not the same person. He was a man from a different time with far different, darker memories and enough baggage to weigh down dozens.

Amidst the silence, you cleared your throat.

"Must be hard to wake up in someone else's life."

By now you had reached his desk, your fingertips tracing the lines in the dark, lacquered wood.

You could smell him and the cigar from this distance- aftershave mixed with smoke.

"The professor tell you that?"

"Mhm."

The chair creaked as Logan flicked his hand towards the window, ushering you to come closer.

Watching your step in the dark, you maneuvered around the furniture and sat beside Logan on his desk- pushing loose papers to the side.

"He give you his whole spiel on soulmates too?" He asked, eyes trained on the rain outside.

Soulmates.

Now that was the last thing you expected to come from the Wolverine's mouth.

You'd heard of them more times than you could count. You once wondered whether every repetitive coincidence was a sign that your person was coming. But, when that never happened, you lost hope.

Who got to tell you who you belonged to anyway?

Leaning over, you gingerly took the cigar from his grasp and replaced it with your own fingers. Sitting back into the desk as lightening struck a tree in the distance, you took a puff.

"So that's what the scars on my hands were all about," You thought aloud.

The window fogged as you let the smoke leave from your mouth in a breathy sigh.

Logan tapped his fingers on his thighs, counting the seconds between a lightening strike and its consecutive rumble of thunder.

"Listen, I'm no prince charming if that's what you came here looking for."

Logan's chair creaked again as he leaned back in his seat. His arm draped against the desk as he met your gaze.

You chuckled and held out his cigar, offering it back to him.

"I came here looking for textbooks." You laughed. "You're the one who keeps talking about soulmates. I think you're more of a romantic than you let on.”

His fingers brushed against yours as he took the cigar back into his own hand. Another lightning strike met the ground in the distance, a clap of thunder following moments afterwards.

"You don't buy it?" Logan quirked his eyebrow. It was a teasing question, one he was curious to hear your answer to.

You shrugged.

"I don't think the universe gets to tell me who to love," you said. "If I fall in love with you it's because I love you, Logan. Not because some mark told me to. I just think of it as... a little shove in the right direction.”

The corner of his mouth quirked into a smile for the first time.

"A shove?"

"Like a... blind date." You finished. "Ever been on one of those?"

A congested laugh escaped him.

"Sweetheart, do I look like the type of guy to go on a blind date?"

You bit the inside of your cheek at the name.

Rolling your eyes, you swatted at his arm. You wouldn't admit how much it hurt your knuckles to do so. You'd have to make a mental note to remember his adamantium skeleton.

"Gosh, you're cocky!"

Logan shrugged, "You're the one who likes it apparently."

You felt yourself grow hot at his accusation.

Even though he had a mark signalling his future affection for you, you couldn't help but feel embarrassed by Logan's knowledge of yours. You felt like a child who's crush had just been exposed to the whole class. Was he noting ever glance that you gave him? The way you didn't move when his arm brushed against yours?

A brief pause hung in the air until another thunder clap reverberated against the walls.

"So what's your mark?" You asked.

Logan shoved the cigar into the corner of his mouth. The biting motion forced him to flex his jaw in a way that you would refuse to admit made you start to realize that maybe the universe was right.

And that maybe his cockiness was justified.

He laid out his hands for you. The room was still dark, making the ability to discern the details of his scar impossible. Taking Logan's hands in yours, you summoned your magic into your hands, watching as they glowed gold.

Logan had two large, circular scars imprinted into his palms. It was a clear indicator of your own magical power that surged from your hands.

It left a feeling you couldn't describe in your chest to know that someone else was marked for you. They were destined for you. To be with you. You had a future written together before the two of you had met. Even if he rejected you, there was a sign etched into his skin that bound the two of you together in some fateful way.

Gently, you traced your fingertips against the mark, feeling the warmth that radiated from his palms.

When your eyes flicked upwards, you noticed how close the two of you were now sitting. You could feel his warm breath against your lips as the lingering smell of the cigar drifted up your nose.

Although he wouldn’t admit it, Logan was enchanted by the energy radiating from you. Whether people hated or loved him, his ability got a lot of talk. In his mind though, he would never be a hero. He was just some guy who got lucky.

You, though? He didn’t need you to tell him that you were an Omega level mutant. Logan had heard about you from the professor: you could cast spells, read minds, reconfigure reality- to name a few. You didn't need a reason to fight for what's right, you just did. Again, and again, and again. Even here, now, you were picking up Logan's history class when he knew very well you could be on the other side of the world sipping pina coladas if you wanted.

What the hell was the universe thinking putting you with him?

Logan admired the reflection of the magic on your cheeks and the way your eyes stayed trained on his palms. Your touch was so gentle he could have sworn he was in a distant dream until your eyes met his.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment, gaze locked.

Then another clap of thunder shook the mansion.

You quickly leaned back, pulling your hands from Logan's touch.

"I should... I should go." You said, pushing yourself off of Logan's desk. "It's getting late and I have my first class in the morning."

Logan leaned back in his seat. He said nothing but eyes remained fixed on your form as you made your way towards the door.

Looking back at him with your hand on the knob you made a mental note to remember the image of him with his feet kicked back on the window as he smoked his cigar.

A soft smile remained.

"Good night, Logan."

When you didn't leave immediately, he nodded.

"Night, sweetheart."

Mustering up the courage to shoot him one last smile, you pulled open the door and stepped outside.

Now, Logan didn't know how much he believed in soulmates, but he could be inclined to consider that it was one good wingman.

Leaning back in his seat, Logan sighed and closed his eyes, letting himself drown out his worries with the sound of the rain.

a/n: my inbox is open for more requests! thank you for the request @welcometochilis585

[nathaslosthershit]

Some Bad, But a Whole Lot of Good (LS2)

Summary: To the fans, it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume the week after his replacement had been hell for newly dropped Logan Sargeant, but to the people who knew him, they weren't worried. Warning: James Vowles slander, a lot of it, I made Logan yell at him because I want to yell at him

Getting fired a week before your first child was born wasn't on anyone's bucket list. But here Logan was.

He was mad- no he was furious. Sure, the past few months with the team have been miserable, but this was the worst timing possible.

"Why now? Why not the two weeks we were off on break?" Logan asks yells. He doesn't lose his cool, at least not like this, not by yelling at his boss.

"Logan, you have to understand we are in between a rock and a hard place. I am truly sorry but it's a difficult time for us-" Vowles begins to explain.

"A difficult time for you? I am about to have a fucking baby, James. Next week! What the fuck am I supposed to do?" He got up and ran his hand through his hair. "You just had a baby a year ago, I would have thought you of all people would have thought this through more."

"Believe me, we have Logan, we have discussed this at length for a long time now."

"Oh fuck you! You have been thinking about this for a long time and choose now to do something about it? God, James, why do you hate me so much? I know I haven't met expectations, I know I have fucked up, but I still have given everything to this team and this is how you end it?" he finally met his boss'- ex boss' now, I guess, stare.

As Logan looked at his team principal, he tried to see any remorse or sincerity in his eyes but just as he had suspected, James' apology was bullshit, completely insincere. He knew this wasn't going anywhere, he didn't even know why he was fighting.

Formula 1 had been the dream for a while. Logan had let himself sacrifice everything he could to achieve it. He tried to tell himself that he had made it and that he was happy, but it wasn't true. He couldn't face the reality of the dream he worked so hard for not being everything he had imagined.

After meetings about contract termination and how they were to proceed, a sad little goodbye party filled with people that were probably thrilled to have him go, and an actually heartfelt apology and goodbye from his teammate and those he worked closely with, the American left the factory for the last time.

The most difficult part of this whole affair? Telling his very pregnant wife that he was now unemployed, a week until their first child's due date.

After tears, cursing a certain British boss' bloodline, and dissociative silence, Logan sat next to his wife as she suddenly burst into laughter.

He was stunned, she was practically doubling over, at least as much as she could in her current condition. The sight so ridiculous given the circumstances that he began to laugh too.

Several minutes were spent laughing until their stomachs hurt and then trying to catch their breath before either one of them could say another word.

"This is such terrible timing!" she said, wiping her eyes as she continued to giggle.

"Could not me a worse time" he replied as he started to laugh even harder.

"God, we shouldn't be laughing at this! We have officially lost our minds"

"Perfect timing too! Just like everything else"

It was ironic, this was the absolute worse scenario Logan could come up with but this was also the hardest he had laughed in a long time. When was the last time he actually laughed? The last time he actually felt joy about anything involving his job?

As if she could sense what he was thinking, she took a few deep breaths, finally calming down, as she said, "This is insane of me to say, but maybe this is a good thing?"

He knew where she was going, he thought the same, but he needed to hear her rationalize it before he agreed.

"I mean, honey, you were miserable. And I am sorry because I did love some of the people on your team but most of them were jackasses! It was such a time commitment and you have spent so long giving everything to them just for the team to spit in your face. Plus, with savings and such, we have enough to be fine for a while, even with the baby. You finally can put your family and yourself first"

She was right, it was time he admitted to himself how much he had hated his job in the past few months. How miserable it made him. How he could hardly enjoy anything in his life because he was always thinking of how to improve, how to show he still has potential even with the shitty car he was given.

"Im sorry. I- its not fair that I spent so long chasing a dead end dream that I couldn't actually enjoy what I do have. I mean, I could never race again and I would be 1000 times happier with out little family then I could ever be in F1. I will never not put you both first again." He said as he looked at her, held the bump, and genuinely got to relish in what was to come.

The first race weekend since Logan was replaced, he wasn't stewing in his misery, he was sitting in the hospital next to his wife, holding his first born, and the last thing on his mind was what was happening anywhere else in the world outside of the room his entire life was currently in.

logansargeant

liked by alexalbon, jensonbutton, and others

logansargeant New job

user1 hey! so this is insane

user2 unemployment has never looked better

alexalbon This is a crazy way to hard launch fatherhood but good on you, mate!

logansargeant got to keep them guessing

user4 dilf era yes please

oscarpiastri how long is the contract?

logansargeant full time for 18 years, then after there is a bit more leeway, but there is certainly no retirement in my future

user3 replaced right before he had a BABY?! oh that British fuck better watch out

jensonbutton Such a big moment! So happy to see where life takes you, I know it will be great!

A/N: Had to finish this right after the news he is testing for indycar in november dropped!!! U-S-A U-S-A!

[ditzybat]

What I think each batfam member would dress up as for Halloween - specifically in the context of a Halloween themed Wayne Gala - because I’m bored:

Bruce & Selina: they dress up as Batman and Catwoman, with Bruce (Brucie in this context) being Catwoman and Selina being Batman. The kids have the image of Bruce squeezed into latex burned in their corneas and they make an effort to not be in the same vicinity as him, lest they die from cringe or second hand embarrassment.

Dick: He’s shamelessly one of those really colorful South American blue parrots, he spends the night doing tricks and soaring through the air (think the Carnival costumes from Rio) and ends up breaking a punch table when he falls straight on his ass from seeing the horror that is Bruce in leather - he immediately gets covered in a shock blanket courtesy of Alfred.

Barbara: Decides to dress up as the kid from E.T with Haley dressed up as E.T in a basket modification she made to her chair. She runs over peoples toes by ‘accident’ throughout the night in aid (aka annoying them until they donate at least 1K) to push people into donating for whatever the charity of the night is.

Jason: doesn’t like celebrating Halloween, but somehow gets roped into dressing up as Jason Vorhees - the irony is not lost on him and finds it hilarious. He lurks in the corners of the ballroom to scare the rich snobs into paying into whatever charity is being funded that night by showing off a suspiciously red, very real, machete.

Tim: Couples costume with Bernard. Tim is Spock and Bernard is Kirk. Tim tries his hardest to stay in character the whole night, ends up freaking people out from the lack of expression and uncanny valley statue like demeanor on his face compared to his energetic boyfriend.

Damian: He and Nika dress up as Gomez and Morticia Adams. They’re very touchy the whole night like the teenagers they are. They salsa dance and become just as eccentric as the characters they’re playing that somehow at the end of the night they end up making headlines for nearly spending the night in jail for suspected ‘murder’ (they Carrie’d Bruce with real blood from questionable sources)

Steph & Cass: Matching costumes. Steph is Emily from the Corpse Bride and Cass is Victor. The special effects makeup is so realistic that it makes Tim break his Spock character and shriek/jump 3 feet into the air when they sneak behind him.

Duke: Dresses up in a Riddler costume and makes up bad riddles just to rub it into the Riddler’s face that he’s a lame old guy telling shitty googled riddles (Revenge for something that happened earlier in the week, not that anyone knows he’s signal, but a burn from a child of a celebrity hurts just as bad from one of a hero) - The Riddler ends up crashing the party seconds before Commissioner Gordon tries to take Damian and Nika in for questioning of where exactly all that very real blood they used came from.

[luveline]

hi! i hope you’re doing well! could i please request a little something about hotch coming home from a case to non bau!reader and jack watching star wars, just bonding and being cute. he wants to hug you both so bad cause he missed you and loves you but he doesn’t want to interrupt your moment

thank you for requesting! fem, 1k

You drop your head back into the cushions to avoid getting whacked in the chin with Jack’s forehead. “Woah,” you say, laughing as a wave of buttery yellow popcorn kernels drop onto the floor. “Good thing we have hardwood.” 

“Why?”

You grab a handful of popcorn to eat from the bowl. “‘Cos all I’ve done today is make a huge mess.” 

Hotch smiles from the doorway. It’s dark in the house, and the music blaring from the television has occluded his arrival. You’ve no idea he’s watching you now, and you don’t act much differently than if his presence was announced. In fact, he’d say that sometimes you’re so focused on not overstepping your place in Jack's life that you restrain yourself. 

Butter and comfort alike has loosened the reins. You cuddle Jack to your side, the two of you laying across the long sofa with a faux rabbit fur throw wrapped around your two bodies, his head nestled under your chin. Your arm is around his tummy, belting him to you while blue light flashes over your faces. Lightsabers paint your eyes, their zinging and humming near painful in his bad ear. 

“Who’s side are we on again?” you tease. It’s subtle, but Hotch knows you’re joking. 

“Oh my gosh,” Jack says, “you forgot again? That one,” —he points at the screen— “that’s Obi Wan Kenobi.” 

“And we’re team Obi Wan?” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“Of course,” you echo, clearly finding him funny. “But the other one is more handsome, don’t you think?” 

“Am I handsome?” 

“Jack, you are the most handsome.” You stroke his hair back and encourage him to meet your eyes. “You’re so, so handsome, babe, you’re beautiful, and so smart, and so awesome. You’d wipe the floor with Obi Wan Kenobi.” 

Jack manages a reproach through his bashful smile, “I wouldn’t fight him, he’s the good guy. I would fight him.”

“Hmm.” You grab some popcorn from the bowl in front of Jack and eat a few pieces, then offer it to Jack. “I wouldn’t fight him. He’s too pretty.” 

“He’s evil.” 

“He doesn’t look evil.” 

Jack laughs and turns to you completely. “You’re funny. People don’t look evil, they just are sometimes.” 

“I know, baby, I’m just confused because all the good people in my life are beautiful.” You hug him behind his shoulders, looking at him with all the love in the world. “You’re a great example. You’re handsome, so how am I supposed to know you might be evil?” 

“You have to be careful,” Jack says sincerely. 

“Baby, I am. I promise I am.” Your eyes squint closed with your gentle smile, your noses almost touching. “I’m just kidding with you. I love having jokes with you.” 

“I love having jokes with you.” Jack gives you a quick hug, arms tight behind your head and his face nuzzling your collar. “Thanks.” 

“Thanks! Oh, you’re welcome, you don’t have to say thanks!”

“Well…” Jack pulls away, shrugging as you manoeuvre him bodily into a more comfortable position beside you. “I just think you should fight Anakin because he’s not kind, even if you think he’s handsome.” He says handsome with all the intonation of a boy discovering cooties for the first time. 

You shrug, eat another handful of popcorn, and seemingly see the light. “Alright, I’d fight him. I suppose I already have your dad, right? I don’t need any more handsome men in my life. Two is enough.” 

“Yeah,” Hotch says, flicking on the light, “I’d say so.” 

Jack jumps, upending another wave of popcorn onto the floor. You grab the bowl, and Jack has enough wits about him to hop over the spilled kernels rather than crush them as he presents himself to Hotch for hugging. 

“Hi!” Jack says. 

He’s getting longer. It takes Hotch more effort than it ever used to to pick him up and pat his back. “Hi, buddy. Nice jammies, those are new ones. Is Y/N giving you gifts again?” 

“She always gives me gifts.” 

“I’m buying your love,” you say, shielding your eyes from the glare of the big light. 

“I love it,” Jack says. 

Hotch puts him back down on the ground with a kiss. “You should. Did you have a good day? Sorry I was working, I missed our Saturday.” 

“Dad, it’s okay, you always work. We went to the store and we got candy, and now we’re watching Star Wars and you’re back, so it’s okay.” Jack beams and puts his hands behind his back. “Will you watch it too?” 

“Sure, buddy, I just have to wash up. Did you have dinner?” 

“Y/N made me lasagna from scratch, even the pasta,” Jack says. 

He sounds deeply, sincerely loved. His pride at having you put time and care into the meal is evident, and Hotch knows that he and Jack are incredibly lucky to have you and to have Jack be able to experience it. Something as nondescript as dinner can make all the difference. 

You sit on the couch still, a touch bashful. “It didn’t take long.” 

“Was it delicious?” Hotch asks Jack. 

Jack nods hard enough to hurt his neck, head bobbing up and down. “The best!” 

“Well, she deserves a good thank you, huh? For taking such good care of you today?” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “What should we do for her, in return? Did you have dessert?” 

“No,” Jack whispers back. 

Alright, then that’s what they’ll do. You treat Jack like he’s a found treasure, and you love Hotch as easily as breathing. Hotch takes Jack’s smaller hand in his and gives you a look that promises the world’s most squeezing hug after they’ve procured dessert. “Can you pause the movie, honey?” he asks you. “We’ll be right back.” 

You shake your head at him, but your smile isn’t easy to hide. “Your dinner’s under the grill,” you say. 

He adores you more, somehow. “Thank you.” 

[starboye]

starring: loser!simon "ghost" riley x male reader

request: loser simon somehow getting to have a sexy night with you

warnings: smut, loser!simon, big dick!simon, pain kink if you squint, cursing, mentions of drinking

to be truthful Simon doesn't even know how he got such a pretty thing like you in his bed, I mean he had just got off a mission and went to a bar to take the edge off with the team, seeing you from across the room and gaining a small crush on you, wanting to just maybe take you home tonight.

the boys doubted him, saying he couldn't possibly get you in his bed tonight so he took on that challenge, walking over to you and sitting at the bar and somehow striking up a conversation, you were slightly drunk which meant you were calmer than usual and didn't tense up when the man talked to you.

"so you come here often" you sipped on your drink, looking at Simon nervously tap his glass of beer "yea- well I mean no... I guess sometimes" he stammered while a shade of red ran through his cheeks, you took pity on the man right off the bat I mean he couldn't even talk to you without stuttering and the team knew they were gonna win this bet easy money.

"well in all seriousness I bet my friends over there that I could take you home by the end of the night" he admitted dropping his head and bow you were really feeling bad for Simon, so to drunk to even think you placed a hand on Simon's thigh and slowly caressed it "if you win this bet can i get some of the money" you chuckle and Simon was shocked to say the least.

cock hardening in his jeans as you inched closer to his crotch "y-yeah sure" he agreed and in a matter of seconds your lips crashed against Simon's, you intended to win this bet for him just for the fun of it, the boys had to pick their jaws up off the floor after they saw Simon swapping spit with you and soon getting dragged out the bar with you leading.

and you quickly made it to your apartment, struggling to open the door because of your drunk state which really bothered Simon, I mean he has a hot guy right in front of him who he basically made out with and bow has a achingly hard dick in his pants and he begging that you get the key, taking a sigh of relief when you open the door and drag him in.

"shoes off at the door please" you say kicking off your shoes and scurrying to your room, Simon following close behind just to find you laying on your bed slowly peeling off your clothes urging him to come closer, it was like his feet moved on their own, carrying him over to you as you became fully naked now "want me to help you take this off" you ask playing with the hem of his shirt, all he could do was nod eagerly at you question.

you swiftly began taking off his shirt, admiring his scars as you went on to take off his pants and underwear watching his thick cock fall out, you held back a whimper at just the sight of it "most people I've tried to have sex with say it's to big" he says scratching the back of his head awkwardly "the bigger the better" you chuckle falling back to lay on the bed and spreading your legs wide for him and he'd be lying if he said he didn't want to ruin you right now.

you use some spit as lube and watch as he timidly approaches you and presses his tip against your hole before easily slipping inside, it's like you were made for him and him only it maybe that was his eagerness to fuck someone talking, he slowly thrusted into you trying not to injure you, but for you it was agonizingly slow "not to be a dick or anything but you can go harder right" you question propping yourself up and you elbows to look at him.

although this wasn't his first time it sure as hell looked like it "yeah totally" he held back a groan now wrapping his large hands around your thighs to press them against your chest to fuck you deeper, his thrust now a little harder earning some light moans out of you, he wasn't lying when he said he was big, he was gaping you deep slightly grazing your g-spit with every thrust now turning you on even more.

with the harder thrusting came louder moans and louder moans came harder thrusts bringing a never ending cycle of Simon fucking you harder just to listen to you pretty noises, he was holding back from letting out his noises, not wanting to be too loud for your neighbors to hear "you can let it out big guy" you urge feeling your eyes roll to the back of your head as he thrusts became for of pounding your hole till he flooded your hole but he wanted to hold back for the sake of making this memorable and not a reoccurring nightmare of he came so early in the one guy he finally got a chance with.

with your urging he let out deep groans with each plap heard through the room "fuck can I cum in you" he breathlessly asks eager to get off with a hole wrapped around him "yes please" you moan moving your hands to grip his back desperately scratching at his already injured skin making his groans turn into more of moan (talk about a pain kink am I right) and it may have hurt but he loved every second of it, fucking you harder with the hope that you'd dig your nails into his back harder and you did, clawing at his back like a wild animal.

there's no hiding both of you were in the verge of cumming and it was sooner more than later, Simon whispering sweet nothing's just to get you harder and clenching around him and you to incoherent to even remember what he's saying only hoping that he floods your tummy with his cum "please please I want your cum so badly" you whimper holding him tightly as you feel your climax creeping up at a quick pace and Simon only responded in deep grunts and harder poundings.

he let out a long drawn out growl as he spilled his load in you, you letting out a high pitched moan as you cum all over yourself "thank... you so much" you whimper letting go of him but he never let go of you, holding you tightly while still shallowly thrusting into you riding out his high for as long as possible "another round" he begs under his breath hiding his face into the nook of your neck "yes please" you pant finally coming back to your senses, it was surely gonna be a kind night.

taglist:@mailmango @spermeboy @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat @addictedtomalepits @staarb0y @crispysoup318. @itsares @gargoylesworld09 @kadenvatsune @fuckshft

[anonimusunnoaniswriting]

Tall!Reader x Orc!Nanami

Fluff, no smut, domestic, established relationship.

Nanami was getting frustrated. He knew you were restless. He knew you needed to be constantly moving around – doing something – or you would feel uneasy. Yet, here you were with an injured back, advised complete bed rest, expected to be lazing on a cloud of pillows, but instead, hobbling your way to the kitchen with ill-disguised pain to make a cup of coffee. 

Nanami grunted. He couldn’t help it. His people may have been one of the toughest races in the world, but even the strongest orc would know when to lie down and rest for their good. “Kento, I’m fine!” You said, “You’re being paranoid, I have to move around, I have to work.” You heard the orc huff behind you. “Kento…” 

Truth be told, asking for help for yourself was never something you had been comfortable with. From a young age, you had been forced to be independent, a fact that crippled you today when it came to requesting assistance. You would be loathe to ask Nanami for a cup of coffee when you knew you could make it just as easily – or so you thought. 

And so, you plodded to the kitchen, with your injured back, ignoring the dull ache that slowly increased as you walked. The grimace that you quickly turned into a smile didn't go unnoticed by Nanami who followed closely behind. 

“My flower,” he called out using the name he had specially assigned for you. “Let me make it. Please. You need to be resting.” 

“I am resting, baby…”

Nanami huffed, there really was no arguing with you…but his presence did not fade from behind, barely bumping into you as he moved around.

All of a sudden as you reached out to one of the top cupboards for a mug, something pulled and a sharp pain like a crack of lightning went down your lower back to your waist. You cried out crumpling onto the cold countertop where you had just laid out the jar of coffee powder. Your arm hit it, knocking it over, and the contents spilt out. 

Immediately Nanami was beside you. One thick arm wrapped around your shoulders, and the other lifted your legs up into a princess carry. Your large frame was rendered tiny by his broad shoulders. With one arm wrapped around you, he held you up easily – as if you were nothing more than a kitten to him. 

“Flower…?” there was a tremble in his hushed voice. “Are you alright?”

You nodded weakly. “I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re fine!” You looked up at his face. His lips were drawn into a thin line and his brows furrowed into a frown.  “You keep saying you’re fine when you’re clearly not. You have been told by the doctor to stay put and rest your body, but you refuse to listen. Do you not feel like you can rely on me, flower? Is that what it is? Do you believe I will deny you a simple cup of coffee when asked to make it?” 

“That’s not it… Kento…” You tried. “I just don’t want to be a burden.”

“Woman,” Nanami roared. “I would slay a dragon for you if you desired its hoard. I would part the waves if you wished to see the ocean floor.  I would move the heavens if you wanted to see the moon in the daytime!” He pulled you closer into his broad chest and you felt a fat wet droplet plop onto your cheek.

“Nanamin…” it was your voice that was now hushed. “I’m sorry I didn't mean to make you get so worried…” 

“How can I not, flower? I love you. 

You raised your hand and cupped his cheek gently, pulling his face down. His soft hair, usually combed up into his professional style now hung free over his forehead. Blonde strands that you now ran your fingers through. 

Your lips touched his in a reverent prayer and you mumbled against them, “Thank you, and I’m sorry.” 

Nanami shook his head, his nose brushing against yours. His long lashes tickled your skin. “Will you rely on me from now on?” 

You nodded. “I’m not used to it, but I’ll try, I promise.” 

He kissed you chastely first your lips, then your nose, and then your forehead. “That's all I need,” he hummed, placing his chin on top of yours. “Now, let's see about that coffee shall we...” 

You want more orc!Nanami? Here you go

A/N: dedicating this to @pseudowho you poor bean let me hold you.

Also shout out to wwx for that line. Iykyk.

[gguk-n]

Hello there! Love your work on the Max Verstappen x reader fiction. If it isn't too much, can I request an angst based on the song " All I wanted was a coffee" by Samantha Ebert? You can decide the ending but, a gut wrenching angst with kelly is appreciated. Thank you!

I hope you like this, I tried to use the song in the way that I saw fit. The reader has many insecurities and bit of mommy issues. Mention of cuts and bleeding.

I wish you loved me

{Reader’s POV}

Max and I started dating soon after he got out of a really long relationship with his ex. With Max being a Formula One driver; the details of his past were general knowledge, did I wish I didn’t know? Yes. Because in the pictures of Max and Kelly, you could see his eyes sparkled and he would smile so bright sometimes and I felt like I never got to know that Max. But every relationship is different; I couldn’t compare it, could I?

Max was loving, I mean every boyfriend is. He would sometimes forget important stuff but he was a busy man with an even busier job.

But it hurt when I saw Max with P or Kelly for that matter. His eyes would light up; I just felt like crap every time he met them, but Max never noticed. At the end of the day, Max was always around P while she was growing up, it was a given she missed him, right?

It got worse when Kelly started coming to races and meeting Max. The worst was yet to come; the other girlfriends started to side eye me whenever me and Max would interacted as if Max was Kelly’s boyfriend.

I was in the bathroom when I heard them; they were talking about how Max and Kelly looked cute together, they were the model family, that Max deserved better. Kelly even talked about all the gifts he got her and P recently. I just sat there in the cubical for a very long time.

I waited, I was dumb I know but no one’s loved me before and the fact that Max was willing to love me even for a moment felt like relief. I didn't want to let him go, I could not when there was a chance he would come back.

I waited like always, Max was always away having dinner with P since she missed him. She missed him a lot ever since we started dating. I never said anything since Max was like her father figure but it hurt.

One of those nights, I was sat drinking whiskey, it was in Max’s alcohol cabinet. The bottle was almost over. The snacks dried up soon after the third glass. I was sat on the floor, glass in hand when Max walked in. “World’s best dad everyone” I sang. “How much did you drink?” He laughed. He laughed at me. “You know my mother was right” I said, trying to get up. “She wasn’t really the best mom, now was she” Max commented. “Yeah but she was right about a lot of things and she was right about how difficult to love I was” I laughed. Max looked at me with sadness in his eyes, “don’t pity me Max.... How could Kelly steal you from me?” I cried. Max said nothing. “No no sorry sorry, how can something be stolen from me when it was never mine to begin with.” I laughed bitterly taking the last swig from my glass. “The alcohol’s gone Max, just like your feelings for me or did you ever have them to begin with?” I slurred.

“Y/N I” Max began. “No Max, you’re not at fault. It’s my fault for coming between 2 lovers. You should’ve told me that you loved her, I would’ve never dated you” I cried for the first time tonight in front of Max. As I steadied myself, the whiskey bottle fell and broke, and I tried to pick up the pieces but ended up cutting myself. “Hehe look Max I’m bleeding” I giggled holding up my hand. “Y/N let’s clean that up” Max said trying to hold my hand. “NO, Kelly won’t like it. I’m not a home wrecker...or maybe I am” I laughed bitterly. “Let me help you” Max pleaded. “You look at me with so much concern for the first time since we started dating” I pointed out. Max’s eyes bore into mine. I tried to walk away but ended up stepping on the glass. “Look I’m bleeding from my foot now too. At least now people can see that I’m hurting since I’ll have bandages all over me. My heart ache gets missed every time, you know. Maybe now, they might see my hurt, for once” I said with fresh tears forming.

“Mothers are always right. I’m unlovable, always been. If only I was pretty, if only I was a model, if only I was thinner, if only I was….Kelly Piquet, then you would’ve loved me. But I’m me, I’m plain old difficult to love, Y/N that’s why I’m unlovable” I chuckled. “Let’s go to the hospital” he pleaded again. “No, I’ll take care of myself. Don’t worry about me anymore. I’ll be out of your hair before you know it. Then you can have your happy ever after with Kelly” I laughed bitterly. “Did you ever love me?” I asked. Max was quiet. “I was just a rebound wasn’t I. Tell me you really loved me even for a second” I begged. “I’m sorry.” He said.

I grabbed my phone with my other hand while bleeding on to the floor; “don’t worry. I’ll clean your place before I leave” I said looking at the trail of blood I was leaving and dialled my phone calling the only person I knew in Monaco, the only person who didn’t hate me or talk badly about me, Lewis. “Lewis, Hi....I need to go to the hospital. I’m bleeding” I giggled. “Are you drunk? How did you hurt your self? Where are you?” He asked concerned. “Yes, yes, home no wait, Max’s home” I answered. I heard him sigh. “Where Max?” He asked. “He’s here” I said looking up at Max. “Ask him to take you now?” Lewis suggested. “NO, we broke up, and ex-boyfriend’s don’t take their ex-girlfriend’s to the doctor” I explained. “What?” He asked shocked. “Please Lewis, it hurts. Can you come soon?” I asked. “I’ll be there soon” Lewis said and cut the call. I sat there and looked at Max, “The whiskey tasted sweet as always and you sobered me up so fast” I sighed looking at the mess I had made.

Lewis came to take me to the hospital; he did not speak to Max. I guess even he knew what was going on. I didn’t see Max again after that either.

[firewasabeast]

Just thinking about Tommy Kinard who grew up wishing he was hugged and loved like the neighbors kids were. He’d watch them run off the school bus and right into their mom or dad’s arms and be scooped up and held tight. Sometimes he could smell freshly baked cookies or a pot roast coming from their home as he’d turn the key and walk into his own house. His house where his dad would grunt at him for another beer and tell him to fix them both a frozen dinner (“just don’t eat my Salisbury steak, boy, that one’s mine”). Then one afternoon, when his dad caught him staring out the window at the neighbors all outside playing catch, he gave him a smack on the back of the head and told him to stop daydreaming. Those people were phonies who were never up to any good. Families like that don’t really exist, and they’re never as happy as they seem!

So Tommy buries away the idea he’ll have that. Stops watching the neighbors. Rolls his eyes when he does happen to catch one of their hugs. Grows a bit of a hardened shell.

Then he reaches high school and he thinks things will change now. He’ll have more freedom and friends and maybe he’ll join a club. But his dad tells him clubs are for sissies and he’s gonna be in sports instead. His dad is good friends with the football coach so he doesn’t have to try out. He’s just on the team, whether he likes it or not. And the other guys on the team are crude and constantly taunt and tease each other. Tommy doesn’t join in at first, would rather keep to himself, but that makes him an outcast and a loser and the butt of all their jokes so it’s easier to join in. His shell gets a little thicker.

Recruiters come to the school during his senior year and his grades are good, he could probably get a scholarship or two to a state university, but they promise so much. He’ll get to see the world! They have all these specialized programs he can choose from. They pay well and he’ll have the benefits forever. Most importantly, he’ll be away from his dad. The recruiter doesn’t have to work very hard that day. When Tommy leaves for basic he’s a little scared but mostly excited to be away! And the drill sergeants yell at him and taunt him just like the football team, just like his dad, but he can take it. He can and does prove them wrong.

He’s been wondering things about himself lately. Doesn’t let himself wonder very long though, or his heart races a bit too fast and he panics. There was this one time at basic where he had a moment alone and he jerked himself off but he didn’t use the Playboy magazines the other guys had hidden under their bunks. He thinks of Tyler instead. The guy who was in the bunk above him and had tan skin and muscles all over and a million dollar smile. When he was done, after he caught his breath, he got angry with himself. Put a fist through a wall and got in a good amount of trouble. But the other guys thought he did it because he wanted to show the sergeant how strong he was. They thought it was funny and kinda cool. Even later, as a pilot in Iraq, when he has a moment alone, he’s never thinking about a woman. His shell thickens more.

Then he’s out of the army and he’s becoming a firefighter and he thinks maybe this is when he can relax. So he goes and meets his captain, someone named Vincent Gerrard, and he can tell within thirty seconds of meeting him that this man is a carbon copy of his father. He hasn’t been the butt of a joke in a long time, and he sure as hell isn’t going to start back now, so he plays the game. And he plays it damn well.

These shells keep thickening and thickening until he’s not actually sure who he is anymore. He’s spent years being whoever he needs to be to survive and it’s becoming exhausting. Even when Gerrard leaves and Nash arrives, even when his smile actually starts to reach his eyes, he still feels wrong. So he makes a choice. He leaves.

He goes back to flying, which he loved in the army. The freedom of being in the sky was unlike anything else in life. He hears a coworker talk about therapy and he gives it a try. It’s uncomfortable and stressful but he goes back each week and yeah, okay, maybe it does help. He can feel his posture relaxing a bit at least.

He allows himself to be honest with himself. He looks in the mirror one night and takes a deep breath and says the words “I’m gay” for the first time and then he repeats it over and over and over again even as tears fall down his face.

All the shells are starting to crack.

He gets a call from Howie, who he would do anything for without question, and this particular ask gets him reacquainted with Hen, renewed friendship with Howie, a new friendship with Eddie, and a boyfriend with Evan.

Evan. Evan who meets Tommy at the door whenever he’s there, arms open and a smile on his face, ready to hold onto Tommy like it’s his job. There’s usually delicious food cooking that Tommy can smell from the driveway. Evan, who picks up Christopher or Jee and they head to the park or museum for an outing. Evan, who notices that Tommy really likes to draw so he joins a drawing club for the both of them and even though Evan himself is not great at drawing he’s always so excited for them to go together.

Evan, whose kisses linger on his body like a prayer. Whose touch burns his skin in the best way. Who gasps and grunts and grabs and whispers in his ear as their sweaty, muscular bodies practically meld into one. There’s laughter and smiles afterward, as they hold onto each other and fall asleep pressed against one another.

Evan, who makes loving easy to do. Who gives his whole heart and then some. Who breaks whatever was left of Tommy’s shell and makes him realize that the type of love he wanted all those years ago, even as a little kid, was real. It was possible. And he had it.

[brunchable]

Captivate Me | Stalker!Bucky Barnes x f!reader. [R 18+]

Word count: 23.6K (oops) Pairings: Obsessed Bucky Barnes x Movie Star Reader. Summary: You've been seeing Bucky for a while. You thought meeting him was pure fate but little did you know every single detail was premeditated. Trying to end things with him would be the greatest mistake of your life. Themes/Warning: SMUT OVER 18s ONLY. Dark Romance, slow-burn STALKING, KIDNAPPING, A LOT OF MANHANDLING *DUBCON?* BDSM (Blindfolded, Bed Restraints), Daddy Kink, Masturbation (M), Filming during sex, domineering acts, degradation, praising, fingering, cunnilingus, Oral (M+F), overstimulation, edging, unprotected piv sex, creampied. A/N: DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU DON'T LIKE DARK ROMANCE. It is giving Joe Goldberg. Also Bucky speaks Romanian here, I used google translate. Please don't come at me.

A/N: AGAIN IF YOU DON'T LIKE DARK ROMANCE, MOVE ON.

I’ve seen you in a thousand different ways, in a thousand different roles, but none of them—none of them—compared to the real thing. You, walking out of that boutique gym, wiping sweat from your forehead like it wasn’t some holy ritual. You didn’t know I was watching. You never do. That’s the thing about being the most famous actress in Hollywood, isn’t it? People only see the surface, the glitter. The carefully curated perfection. But not me. I see the real you. The one behind all that.

When I first saw you, it wasn’t planned. Not exactly. I mean, I knew I’d see you eventually. I made sure of it. The gym, the coffee shop, your early morning run route that you think is private. I don’t leave things to chance. I orchestrate them. And you—oh, you walked right into my world, didn’t you?

You smiled that smile, the one that makes directors fall to their knees for a chance to cast you. But when you smiled at me, it felt different. Real. Like we were speaking a language only we understood.

It wasn’t hard to make you like me. It never is. I’ve done my homework. I know what you need, what you crave. Stability. Someone who gets it, gets you, in a way that all the shallow, empty faces in your world never will. I became that someone for you, carefully crafting each word, each look, until you were hooked.

It’s funny, the little things you let slip. You think you’re so careful, but I see it. The way your shoulders relax when I talk about my “well-paying job,” when I drop hints about my “family's” holiday home. You like that, don’t you? You like that I’m different from the men who chase you for clout or connections. No, I’m something else. 

You didn’t realize I’d planned our first date down to the minute, did you? Or the second, and the third. You thought it was all so natural. You thought it was just happening. Like we were meant to meet, to be together, to be something special. That’s the thing about fate, though—it’s just another tool. And I wield it perfectly.

It didn’t take long for you to fall for me, just like I knew you would. After all, I’m everything you need. Smart, kind, successful—or at least, that’s what you think. I’m whatever you need me to be. So when I suggested a weekend away at my “holiday” home, you said yes. Hesitant, but yes. You must’ve thought it would be a nice escape. Just us, away from the world that always wants something from you.

Except, you didn’t know it wasn’t an escape at all. It was a step closer to where we were always meant to end up.

That’s what I kept telling myself as we stood in the kitchen of that house, the rain drumming softly against the windows. I poured you a glass of wine, said something about how perfect it all felt, about how right we were together. And you—you just stood there, silent, your eyes distant. Something had shifted.

Then you spoke.

“Bucky,” you said, and my heart stopped because I already knew what was coming. “This is going too fast.”

The words hung in the air like poison. I felt my pulse in my throat, the warmth of the kitchen suddenly stifling.

“I don’t think I see a future with us,” you continued, and each word was a dagger. You tried to soften the blow with that sweet voice of yours, telling me I’m a “great guy,” that it’s “nothing personal.” Nothing personal? How could it not be personal? 

You know, I’ve always been good at controlling myself. That’s one of the things you liked about me, isn’t it? How I’m always so calm, so collected. You don’t want the chaos, the mess of Hollywood drama in your real life. No, you want stability, something solid, someone who can be your anchor in the storm of flashing lights and fake smiles.

And I gave you that. I am that. I’ve been perfect for you—perfect in every way.

So why—why are you standing here, telling me that it’s going “too fast”?

The words echoed in my head, making it hard to focus. You kept talking, kept explaining, but it was like I couldn’t hear you anymore. My mind was racing, my chest tightening with something dark, something unfamiliar. 

No, no, you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to say it’s too fast when I’ve been so patient, so careful.

You have no idea how long I’ve waited, how meticulously I’ve crafted every single moment between us. Every word, every smile, every touch. This is what we’re supposed to be. You can’t just walk away from that. You can’t just throw it away.

I could feel it bubbling up inside me, the rage, the frustration. It started small, like a flicker of heat behind my eyes, but it was growing, spreading, filling me with something raw and dangerous. I tried to keep it in check, tried to swallow it down. I didn’t want to scare you. That’s not what this was about. This was supposed to be perfect.

But you kept talking, kept saying things that made it worse. Words like “future,” like “great guy,” like “nothing personal.”

Nothing personal? Again.

How dare you? How dare you make it sound like I’m just another guy, like I didn’t plan every single moment of our time together? You think this isn’t personal? You think I’m just going to let you go like all the others? No.

I clenched my fists at my sides, trying to hold it in, trying not to let you see what you were doing to me. But you wouldn’t stop. You wouldn’t shut up. And then you said it—that one final thing that broke me.

“I just don’t feel the same way.”

There it was. The truth, out in the open, sharp and jagged like broken glass. And something inside me snapped. I could feel it, like a wire pulled too tight finally giving way. My pulse thundered in my ears, my breathing shallow and ragged. You didn’t get it. You didn’t see how much I’d done for us, how much I’d sacrificed. You didn’t understand how perfect we could be if you just—just—

I slammed my hand down on the counter next to you, the sound slicing through the air like a gunshot. You jumped, startled, your eyes wide with fear as you flinched, taking a step back from me.

And that—oh, that—was new.

Fear. Real, genuine fear appeared in your eyes like you were finally seeing me for the first time. I should’ve hated it. I should’ve backed off, apologised, done something to make it go away.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Because part of me—some dark, twisted part of me—liked it. I liked that you were finally seeing me. The real me. Not the carefully crafted version I’d shown you before, but the one who needed you, the one who couldn’t stand the idea of losing you.

“Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “You’re scaring me.”

I blinked, the words cutting through the fog of anger, but they didn’t have the effect you wanted. Scaring you? No. No, you’re not scared of me. You’re scared of losing control, scared of what it means to be with someone like me, someone who actually cares enough to make sure you stay.

But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I watched you take another step back, your hands trembling slightly, your eyes darting to the door like you were planning to run.

I watched the fear ripple through you, your breathing quickening, your eyes scanning the room like you were calculating the distance to the door. Like you thought you could just run. Like you actually thought you could escape me.

But you can’t.

No, we’ve come too far for that.

I took a step toward you, slow and measured, watching the way you flinched, the way your body tensed like a deer ready to bolt. I didn’t want to hurt you—I didn’t. But you were leaving me no choice. You were making this hard, when it didn’t have to be. I didn’t want it to be this way.

“Bucky…” Your voice was small, fragile. You were trying to reason with me, but it was too late for that. Too late for words. The world outside, the life we had before stepping into this house, it was all fading away. It was just us now, just the truth between us, raw and unfiltered.

“You don’t understand,” I said, my voice low, my hand still pressed firmly against the counter. I could feel the cool granite beneath my palm, grounding me, barely holding back the storm inside. “This is right. We are right for each other. You just… you just don’t see it yet.”

Your eyes darted toward the door again, that brief flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, you could get away. I could see it in the way your muscles tensed, in the way your feet shifted like you were getting ready to run. And I hated it—hated that you still didn’t understand.

I moved faster than you expected, my hand reaching out to grab your arm before you could make a break for it. You gasped, your eyes wide with terror as I pulled you back, your body colliding with mine. You struggled, kicking, twisting, trying to break free, but I was stronger. I’d always been stronger.

“Let go of me!” you screamed, your voice shrill, panicked. But I didn’t let go. I couldn’t.

You don’t get it. You can’t leave. 

“Stop fighting,” I growled, pulling you closer, your back pressed against my chest. I could feel your heart hammering beneath your skin, the rapid rise and fall of your breath. You were terrified, and part of me—some dark, primal part of me—thrived on that fear. But another part of me hated it. I didn’t want you to be afraid. I wanted you to see that I was doing this for us.

“Please, Bucky… you’re hurting me.”

Those words. They cut through the fog of anger, piercing something deep inside me. My grip loosened for just a second, just long enough for you to break free, to twist out of my hold and make a desperate run for the door.

And you did it.

You yanked the door open, sprinting out into the rain like your life depended on it. You were fast, I’ll give you that.

Desperation makes people faster. 

Your bare feet slapped against the wet pavement, splashing through puddles as you made your way to the car. You thought you were getting away. You thought you were winning.

I followed, just a few paces behind. I let you think you had a chance. Let you scramble to the driver’s side door, your hands shaking as you fumbled with the handle. You were soaked, the rain plastering your hair to your face, but you didn’t stop. You threw open the door, slipping into the car, your fingers trembling as you searched for the keys.

But I was there. Right behind you. And you didn’t have the keys, did you?

“Bucky, please!” you screamed, your voice high and panicked, but it didn’t matter. I yanked the door open before you could lock it, my hand reaching in and grabbing your arm with a force that made you cry out.

You kicked. You screamed. Your nails clawed at my hand, your legs thrashing as I dragged you out of the car, but you weren’t strong enough. You were never going to be strong enough.

“No!” you shrieked, your voice cracking as I hauled you back toward the house, the rain pouring down around us. You fought me every step of the way, your feet slipping in the mud, your body twisting, trying to break free.

But I didn’t let go.

I couldn’t.

“You’re not leaving,” I growled, my voice barely audible over the storm, my grip tightening as I dragged you back inside. Your body was limp now, weak from the struggle, but your eyes—oh, your eyes were still filled with that same fear.

We’re not done. We’re never going to be done.

Not until you see it.

Not until you see me.

× × × ×

Your POV

You wake slowly, your head throbbing, the world around you blurry and disorienting. The sound of the storm outside reaches you first, the rumble of thunder vibrating through the walls, the rain pounding relentlessly against the windows. You blink, trying to make sense of your surroundings. The sheets beneath you are soft—too soft—and they smell like detergent, unfamiliar.

That’s when you feel it. The cold metal around your wrists.

Panic surges through your veins as you jerk upright, or at least, you try to. Your hands are cuffed to the bed, the harsh clink of metal echoing in the dimly lit room as you struggle against them. Your heart pounds in your chest, the fear hitting you like a wave, choking you as you realize—this isn’t a nightmare.

Your breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps, your chest heaving as you take in the room. It’s dim, lit only by the soft, flickering glow of a bedside lamp, the corners of the room swallowed by shadows. You’re not in the same clothes you remember. You’re dressed in something clean now, something soft, but it’s not your own. Someone…he changed you.

And then you see him.

Bucky.

He’s sitting in the corner, hidden in the shadows, watching you. His silhouette is dark, unmoving, and it sends a chill down your spine. The storm outside feels like a reflection of the chaos inside your head, the way everything is spinning, nothing making sense.

You try to speak, but your throat is dry, and when you finally manage to choke out his name, it sounds small, pitiful. 

“Bucky?”

He doesn’t respond. He just keeps watching, like a predator studying its prey. Like he’s waiting for you to say or do something, but you don’t know what. Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might burst out of your chest. The fear grips you tighter with every second that passes, the realization of your situation crashing down on you like the thunder outside.

“I… I don’t understand.” Your voice is trembling, tears burning at the back of your eyes as you tug helplessly at the cuffs, the metal biting into your skin. “Why are you doing this? Let me go, please.”

Still, he says nothing. The silence stretches on, oppressive, suffocating. You can feel his eyes on you, piercing through the darkness, and it makes your skin crawl. 

You don’t recognize this man, not anymore. The Bucky you thought you knew, the one who smiled at you over dinner, the one who laughed at your jokes, who held your hand… that Bucky is gone. Or maybe he was never real to begin with.

“You’re scaring me,” you whisper, your voice cracking as the tears finally spill over, sliding down your cheeks. “Please, just let me go. I won’t— I won’t tell anyone, I promise. I just want to leave.”

His figure shifts slightly in the chair, the movement so subtle you almost miss it, but it feels like a thunderclap in the tense stillness of the room. Finally, he speaks, his voice low, dark, carrying with it an edge of something you don’t want to name.

“You need to stop thinking of escape,” he says, his words measured. “I’m not your enemy, I’m the one saving you. And one day, you’ll understand that.”

Your stomach drops. There’s something final in the way he says it, something that makes you realize there’s no reasoning with him. No escape.

You’re trapped.

A sob escapes your lips, your body shaking as you pull at the cuffs again, but it’s no use. The storm outside rages on, the wind howling like some terrible omen, and you can’t help but wonder if anyone—anyone at all—can hear you.

You feel your heart hammering in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears as Bucky stands up from the chair, his silhouette dark against the dim light. His movements are slow, and you can’t tear your eyes away from him as he steps out of the shadows. Something glints in his hand, and when he comes closer, you see it.

Your phone.

He’s holding your phone.

Bucky twirls it in his hand like it’s some casual toy, but the sight of it makes your stomach churn. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze fixed on you, and a slow smile spreads across his lips—not the warm, charming smile you once knew, but something colder, calculated.

He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s standing right next to the bed. His presence looms over you, the phone still in his hand as he looks down at you, handcuffed and helpless.

“So,” he says, his voice smooth, unsettlingly calm. “What should you post tonight? Hm?”

You stare at him, your mind racing, trying to make sense of the words. Post? He can't be serious. He wouldn’t—

Bucky’s eyes flicker down to the screen, and with a swipe of his thumb, the display lights up. “You wouldn’t want people to think you’ve gone missing, would you? That might cause a… panic.” He smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And we wouldn’t want that, now, would we?”

Your throat tightens, the tears you’d been holding back threatening to spill over again. You shake your head, more in disbelief than as an answer. He’s playing with you, toying with the very thing that connects you to the world outside this nightmare. And the way he’s handling your phone, so casually, makes it clear—he’s already thought this through.

“Maybe a picture of your feet by the fire?” he muses, tilting his head as if he’s considering the best angle. “Or better yet, one of those ‘cozy night in’ captions. That’ll sell it. Everyone will think you’re just relaxing after a long day. Just another night for Hollywood’s sweetheart.”

His words send ice through your veins. He’s already planned it all out, how to keep up the illusion that you’re fine, that nothing’s wrong. No one will even suspect you’re missing. No one will come looking for you.

You try to speak, to find words, but your voice is nothing but a hoarse whisper. “Please, Bucky, don’t—”

But he ignores your plea, his eyes focused on your phone as he pulls up your social media app. “Smile,” he says mockingly, as though you’re some doll he can dress up for show. “Or don’t. I can manage this on my own. I’ve been watching you for long enough to know exactly what your fans want.”

You feel the tears slip down your cheeks, helplessness gripping you as he takes control of your life in the most terrifying way possible. The world outside keeps spinning, oblivious to the fact that you’re trapped in this nightmare, and he’s holding the one lifeline that could save you, dangling it just out of reach.

“Don’t worry,” he continues, his voice a twisted mockery of comfort. “I’ll keep everyone updated. No one will know anything’s wrong. Not until you’ve had time to understand why you’re really here.”

And as he taps away at your phone, the storm rages on outside, but inside this room, it’s the calm before the real storm—the one you know is coming but can’t escape.

× × × ×

Bucky’s POV 

The thing about phones—your phone, to be specific—is that they’re intimate. More intimate than a diary, more personal than any conversation you’ve ever had. Every swipe, every message, every like, is a little breadcrumb leading back to the real you. The parts you don’t share with the world. And here I am, with your phone in my hand, holding every piece of you in the palm of mine.

I can feel your eyes on me as I scroll through it, your fear practically radiating off you in waves. But I ignore it. I’ve already moved past that phase, the part where I worry about what you’re thinking. You’ll come around eventually, once you see that I’m doing this for us.

For you.

The soft glow of your screen illuminates my face as I unlock it easily—your passcode was one of the first things I learned about you. A four-digit combination, barely a barrier, really. I swipe through your photos first, and there’s a strange comfort in seeing the world through your eyes. Pictures of sunsets, candid moments with co-stars, perfectly posed selfies for your millions of followers. Each photo carefully curated for the world. But I keep scrolling because I know that’s not all there is.

And then I see it. A photo you took of me.

It’s not staged, not some posed couple’s picture for social media. It’s real. I’m asleep—my head turned slightly to the side, my face peaceful, unaware. You took this when you thought I wasn’t watching. The corner of my mouth twitches up, and I can’t help but feel a surge of satisfaction. You couldn’t resist, could you? Even when you didn’t know it, you were drawn to me.

This proves it. We’re connected. Whether you want to admit it or not, you feel it, too. I wasn’t wrong.

I glance up from the phone, just for a moment, to see you watching me, your eyes wide, terrified. You have no idea how much I know, how deep inside your world I already am. I almost want to say something, to tell you how this photo means something. How it confirms that we’re meant to be. But I stay silent, letting the moment stretch between us, savouring it.

I keep scrolling. And that’s when I find them.

The unsolicited photos.

You thought you were careful, that you’d buried them in your messages. But nothing stays hidden from me. A flood of messages from random men—pathetic, desperate attempts to get your attention. Men sending you things you never asked for. 

Filth. 

Unworthy of even a glance from you. The sheer arrogance of it, the entitlement, makes my blood simmer. How many of these men thought they had a chance with you? That they could own a piece of you like I do?

One particular message stands out. A man whose name I don’t recognize, someone you’ve never mentioned. He’s sent you photos of himself, explicit, disgusting. And you—you didn’t block him. You didn’t stop it.

I stare at the messages longer than I should, the jealousy curling tight inside my chest, sharp and poisonous. These men, they think they can have you, that they can come into your life with their disgusting offers and expect something in return. You might not have invited them in, but the fact that they’re here at all makes me sick.

You should’ve told me. You should’ve trusted me to take care of this for you.

I glance back at you, still handcuffed to the bed, tears slipping down your cheeks, and I wonder if you even understand what’s happening here. These men, they aren’t a part of your life anymore. I won’t allow it. You’re mine now. Completely. There won’t be anyone else.

I keep scrolling through your messages, and that’s when I find something else.

A text thread with your friends. The casual banter, the kind of stuff you think I don’t care about. But buried in there, a series of photos you sent them. I pause, my heart speeding up as I open them. 

It’s me, of course. 

One picture in particular stands out—a shot of me shirtless in the kitchen, cooking you breakfast. The light catches my body just right, every muscle defined. And your caption underneath?

“Okay, so you can’t see his face but look at this man. Just look at him.”

You wanted them to see me. To know what you had. You wanted them to be jealous. And they probably were. I smile to myself, imagining the envy your friends must have felt, knowing that you had me, knowing they couldn’t. It’s perfect. You knew I was perfect for you.

I scroll further down the thread, and that’s when I see the message that makes me pause, my breath catching in my throat.

“You guys, I swear to god… he’s so good in bed, I think I’m addicted. Like, I don’t even know how to describe it. I’m wrecked in the best ways.”

Addicted. Addicted to me. And you thought I wouldn’t know. You thought you could hide that, that you could pretend to push me away when deep down, you crave me. You need me.

I can’t help the small, satisfied smile that spreads across my face as I look back at you. You’re trembling, still terrified, but you don’t understand that this—this fear, this desire—it’s all part of the same thing. You don’t have to run from it anymore. From me.

I scroll just a little further and see the final blow. Another photo. This time, it’s intimate. Private. A photo you snapped of me sleeping on top of you, my body nestled against yours, my head buried in the crook of your neck. The angle is careful, my face mostly obscured by my dark hair, but there’s no mistaking the tenderness in that moment. I can feel the warmth of it through the screen.

And then the message beneath it.

“Okay, don’t judge me, but… when Bucky speaks Romanian when we do it... it’s so hot. Like, I can’t even handle it. I don’t even want a kid but I'll carry his kids. Fuck. He’s so hot.”

I feel something inside me snap—not with anger, no, but with something far deeper. You want this. You want me. You’ve been telling your friends, letting them know how much you crave me, need me, even if you didn’t say it out loud to my face. But now? Now I know. And there’s no denying it anymore.

I set the phone down on the edge of the bed and lean closer, my voice low, calm, almost affectionate. “You know,” I murmur, “I never realized how much you needed me. But now I see it. Now, it all makes sense.”

You flinch, pulling back as far as you can, but there’s nowhere to go. Not from me.

“What should you post tonight, hm?” I ask, my tone conversational, like this is any normal evening between us. 

The horror in your eyes is enough to confirm it—you finally understand. You’re not going anywhere.

Because you’re mine. And no one—no one—is going to take you away from me.

× × × × 

I bring the dinner to you, carefully plated, as always. Presentation matters. Even now, when you’re too stubborn to appreciate it, too blinded by your own misplaced anger to see that this—this—is still me taking care of you. 

I set the tray on the bed beside you, the smell of the meal filling the room. You’ve always liked the way I cook, haven’t you? I remember how you used to smile, used to praise the smallest details, like I was doing something so special.

But now, you sit there with your jaw clenched, body stiff, refusing to look at me, refusing to even acknowledge that I’m here, still trying to make sure you’re okay.

“You’re going to eat,” I say softly, but there’s a firmness beneath the words. It’s not a request, not a suggestion. I’ve been patient with you—so patient. But you’re pushing me now, testing the limits of my control, and we both know that can only last so long.

You scoff, turning your head away from the food like a child throwing a tantrum. “I’m not your prisoner, Bucky. You can’t force me to do anything.”

The defiance. That familiar fire burning behind your eyes. I should be frustrated, I should be angry, but honestly? I find it... cute. You’re still trying to fight me, still clinging to the idea that you have some say in this. I lean closer, my hand resting gently on the bed beside you, my voice dropping just enough to let you know I’m not here to argue.

“You are going to eat,” I repeat, my tone calm but unyielding. “Because I’m not going to let you starve yourself.”

You snap your head back to me, your eyes flashing with rage, and for a second, I see the storm building in you. 

“You can’t make me,” you growl, and it’s almost laughable—the way you think you still have control, still have some semblance of power in this situation.

Then, without warning, you spit at me.

The action is so quick, so fueled by your desperation, that for a moment, I’m surprised. The spit lands on my cheek, sliding down slowly, almost in slow motion. And there it is. The fight. The fire. The part of you that still hasn’t fully surrendered.

You tense, your body going rigid, your breath caught in your throat as you wait for me to explode, for the rage to consume me and lash out. This is the part where you expect me to lose it. To become the monster you’ve built up in your head.

But I don’t.

I freeze for just a second, letting the anger stir inside me, feeling it twist and coil. But then, instead of reacting the way you expect, I chuckle. A low, quiet laugh, the sound barely audible over the storm outside. I don’t wipe the spit away. I just sit there, letting it cool on my cheek, my lips curling into a small, almost amused smile.

“I like this,” I murmur, my voice calm, disturbingly calm. “This fight in you. It’s… adorable.”

You flinch, recoiling slightly as you realize I’m not going to snap. I’m not going to lose control, because unlike you, I’m not driven by desperation. I don’t need to. No, I have all the control I need, right here, in this room, with you handcuffed to that bed. I can see it in your eyes—the confusion. You didn’t expect this. You didn’t expect me to remain calm.

I lean in just a bit closer, my face only inches from yours now, my voice dropping to a whisper. “You think you can push me, don’t you? That if you fight hard enough, I’ll lose control. But that’s not going to happen. You’re not going to break me. You can’t.”

You’re trembling now, the tears welling up in your eyes, but I don’t feel pity. No, this is something else entirely. This is... satisfaction. You want to fight, but you’re scared, too. And that mix? That’s what makes this so interesting.

I straighten up, slowly wiping the spit from my cheek with the back of my hand, my eyes never leaving yours. “Go ahead. Keep fighting. It doesn’t change anything. I’m still in control. You’ll still eat. You’ll still do what I say.”

Your lip quivers, but you remain silent, glaring at me with all the defiance you can muster. But I can see the cracks forming. I know that deep down, you understand.

“Now,” I say, standing up and moving back toward the corner of the room, watching you carefully. “When you’re ready to eat, the food will be here. And I’ll be right here, too. Always.”

I sit back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, my eyes never leaving you. You still think you can win this. But you can’t. You never could.

And the fact that you haven’t realized that yet? Well, that’s just adorable.

× × × × 

Your POV

The next day.

You wake up to the steady drum of rain against the window, still unrelenting, like the world is stuck in an endless loop of storm and shadow. The room is dim, gray light filtering in through the heavy clouds outside, casting long shadows that stretch across the floor. Something’s different, though. You blink slowly, trying to clear the haze of sleep.

Your wrists. They’re free.

No cuffs. No cold metal biting into your skin. You sit up cautiously, the blankets tucked around you. . . comfortably. Like some twisted lullaby, as if you’d been tucked in after drifting to sleep in the middle of a nightmare.

And the first thing you notice? Bucky isn’t here.

Your heart thuds in your chest, your body still stiff with the memory of yesterday, the taste of panic still lingering like bile in your throat. 

You scan the room carefully, trying not to make any sudden movements as if you might wake the predator lurking nearby.

The chair he always sits in—the one where he watches you—is empty. No sign of him. No footsteps, no steady breathing that you’ve come to expect as the constant reminder of his presence.

Where is he?

The food tray from last night is gone. Cleared away. The bed you’re sitting in feels too normal, too cozy, like some trap waiting to spring. You can’t trust it. You can’t trust anything. Your eyes move to the door. It’s slightly ajar, just a crack, and there’s an unnerving stillness in the air. The house is too quiet.

You slide out of bed, your bare feet sinking into the carpet. Your muscles are tense, ready, every nerve on edge. 

You step closer to the door, careful, listening for anything—footsteps, breathing, a creak of the floorboards. Nothing. Just the sound of the rain.

Your hand touches the doorknob, ready to push it open, when you hear it—a soft thud from down the hall.

Your body freezes, every muscle tensing as you strain to hear. The sound is subtle, distant, but unmistakable. A shuffling, like something—or someone—moving just out of sight.

He’s close.

You open the door cautiously, peeking out into the hallway. It’s dark, barely lit by the gray daylight seeping in from the windows. The house feels alive, as if the walls themselves are watching, breathing. The unease settles in your stomach, cold and heavy. You swallow, your throat tight, and take a step forward.

Another noise. A door creaking open further down the hall.

Your breath catches. Your feet hesitate. But you move forward, each step more careful than the last. Your heart races, every instinct screaming for you to turn around, to hide. But you can’t. You need to know where he is.

And then, you stop.

The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and there—just inside—you see him.

Bucky.

He’s standing in front of the sink, his back to you. His hands are braced against the counter, his head slightly lowered, as if he’s… thinking. You freeze in place, watching him, your body paralyzed by the tension hanging thick in the air. He doesn’t know you’re here, not yet. He hasn’t heard you.

You could run. You could turn around right now, slip back into the bedroom, and pretend you never saw this. But something about the way he’s standing there—so still—keeps you rooted to the spot.

He moves.

Slowly, he straightens, his shoulders rising as he takes in a deep breath. He turns his head slightly, just enough that you catch the edge of his profile. And then, he speaks.

“I know you’re awake.”

Your stomach drops, a cold wave of dread washing over you.

“I was waiting for you,” he continues, his voice smooth, calm, like he’s talking about the weather. “But I guess you were planning on coming to find me instead.”

You feel the blood drain from your face, your heart pounding in your ears as he turns to face you fully, his eyes meeting yours. There’s a calmness in his expression that unnerves you more than anything else. He isn’t angry. He isn’t surprised.

He knew.

He knew the whole time.

× × × ×

The moment his eyes meet yours, you don’t think—you bolt.

Your feet barely hit the ground as you turn and bolt down the hallway, your heart pounding like a war drum in your chest, the sound of your breath ragged in your ears. Every muscle in your body screams to run, to get as far away from him as possible. You know he’s behind you. You can feel it, the tension stretching between you like a taut wire, ready to snap. But you don’t look back. You can’t.

The stairs are ahead, a sharp descent into the unknown, but they’re your only option. Your hand grips the bannister as you take the steps two at a time, your mind racing just as fast. You can hear him moving behind you, not in a rush, not in a panic. No, his footsteps are casual by the way they echo in the hallway above.

You hit the ground floor, your bare feet slipping on the cold tiles, but you manage to catch yourself. You have to hide. You have to be smart. If you don’t, he’ll catch you, and you know exactly what happens if he does.

You dart around the corner, your eyes scanning the room desperately. The house feels like a maze, twisting, unfamiliar. You’ve been here before, but in the haze of fear, everything feels different, distorted. You spot a door—a small one, leading to what looks like a pantry—and no hesitation you dash inside, pulling the door shut behind you.

Darkness swallows you whole, your back pressed against the wall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your shaky breath. 

The air feels thick in the tiny space, every sound amplified. Your pulse pounds in your ears, and you try to force yourself to stay calm. Think, think, think.

The silence stretches out, so thick you can almost hear it. And then—

You hear him.

His voice, soft, almost melodic, drifting through the house like a twisted lullaby.

“Y/N…”

Your body goes rigid. He’s calling for you, like this is some kind of game. A cat and mouse game. He’s playing with you, drawing it out, savoring every second of your panic.

“Where are you?” His voice echoes through the house, sickeningly sweet, and you can hear the smile in it, the amusement. Like this is a joke. Like you, running is nothing but entertainment for him.

You close your eyes, trying to steady your breathing, trying to think of what you can do next, but every plan, every thought dissolves into pure terror as his footsteps get closer. The sound of his shoes on the floor is slow. He’s not in a rush. He knows you’re here. Somewhere.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

He sings your name again, drawing it out, each syllable rolling off his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of it. You bite your lip, forcing yourself to stay quiet, your hands trembling as you clutch the inside of the door. You can’t breathe, can’t move. Your heart feels like it’s going to explode in your chest.

You hear him moving through the house, his voice drifting through every corner, getting closer, then further away. 

“You know I’ll find you…” His words are light, teasing, but beneath them lies something dark, something terrifyingly final. “I always do.”

His voice drifts through the hall, teasing, playful, as if this is all just fun for him. The sound of it makes your blood run cold, but you don’t move. You can’t. You tell yourself to stay calm, to think, to be smart. He wants you to panic. He wants you to break. Don’t.

The footsteps draw closer. You hear the soft creak of the floorboards just outside the door, and your body goes rigid. You can feel him on the other side, waiting, listening. You brace yourself, every nerve in your body on edge, ready for him to rip the door open and drag you out.

But he doesn’t.

There’s a long, agonizing pause. You hear him exhale softly, almost as if he’s amused. His presence lingers there, so close you can feel it through the door. The seconds stretch on, unbearable.

And then, he moves. The footsteps retreat, growing fainter, until you hear them no more.

You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You wait, your body coiled tight, every muscle aching with the tension. 

He’s gone, you tell yourself. He walked away. 

You listen carefully, straining your ears for any sound—nothing. Just the rain. He’s somewhere else in the house, looking for you.

The silence presses down on you, thick and suffocating. You tell yourself you have to move, that this is your chance. You wait a minute longer, then two, your hand still covering your mouth as you count the seconds. 

He’s gone. He’s not there anymore.

Finally, you exhale slowly and shift your weight, your legs cramped and trembling from holding still for so long. You push the door open an inch, peeking out into the hallway.

Empty.

The hallway is bathed in pale, gray light from the rain-soaked windows. No sign of him. Your pulse hammers in your ears, but you push the door open fully now, stepping out as silently as you can manage. The house feels too big, too quiet.

Maybe I can make it. Maybe he didn’t hear me.

You take a cautious step forward, your eyes scanning the empty corridor. Another step, careful, quiet. The air feels cold against your skin, the house eerily still, like the eye of a storm.

You glance in both directions. The hall is empty.

He’s gone.

You make it halfway down the hallway, moving toward the back of the house, your breath coming in shallow huffs. You take a step, then another, your movements calculated and soundless, trying to map out your escape. Each second feels like a victory, a step closer to being free of him. You are smarter than him. You can outthink him.

As you move, you walk backward for a moment, keeping your eyes on the hallway behind you. You don’t trust it—why would you?—so you check, making sure he isn’t sneaking up on you. Your back presses against the wall for stability as you inch toward the exit, ready to make your move.

And then—you feel something.

Something warm. Something solid. Your entire body goes rigid as you feel it—him.

You freeze, terror gripping you before you even have a chance to process the situation. Slowly, painfully slowly, you turn your head, knowing exactly what you’ll see.

Bucky.

He’s standing right behind you, closer than you ever imagined he could be, his chest pressed against your back, his breath steady. How did he move so silently? How did he manage to be right here, right on top of you, without a single sound?

Your heart slams against your ribcage as you try to pull away, but his hand is already on your arm, gentle but firm, holding you in place. The smile on his face is unsettling, a mixture of amusement and something far darker. He knew. He always knew.

“You were trying to sneak away, weren’t you?” His voice is soft, too soft, like this is all just a lighthearted conversation between two people who aren’t trapped in a nightmare. “I could feel it.”

His fingers tighten around your arm, not painfully, but just enough to remind you that he’s not letting go. That he sees you, even in your cleverness, even in your silence.

“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, his lips just inches from your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “I like that. But quiet doesn’t mean I won’t find you.”

“I was just…” you begin, your voice barely a whisper, but it catches in your throat. You can feel him watching you, his eyes scanning your face, reading every thought before you’ve even formed it.

“Just what?” he asks, his tone almost playful, like he’s toying with you, like this is nothing more than a game. His fingers brush your skin, tracing lazy circles, and it sends a wave of nausea through you.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your mind is racing, but the words won’t come.

He leans in closer, his breath warm against the side of your neck, and you can’t stop the way your body tenses, every nerve screaming with terror.

“I told you, Y/N,” he whispers, his voice so quiet it’s almost drowned out by the rain. “I’ll always know where you are.”

Your breath catches, and you feel his hand shift, sliding down your arm, fingers curling around your wrist. He pulls you closer, the warmth of his body enveloping you, suffocating.

You want to scream, to pull away, but you know it won’t do any good. You’ve been clever, careful—but not enough. You underestimated him.

You force yourself to breathe, to think through the thick fog of panic that clouds your mind. Every instinct screams at you to do something, anything to get away, but Bucky’s grip is firm, his presence all-consuming. His hand is still around your wrist, holding you in place, as if you belong here. As if there was never a question of where you should be.

“I see that look,” he murmurs, his voice so low it almost blends with the sound of the rain. “You’re thinking. Calculating.”

You swallow hard, your heart slamming against your ribs. Of course, you’re thinking. You’re always thinking. You’re looking for the smallest crack in the situation, the tiniest escape route. But he knows. He sees it in you.

“You always think you can figure me out, don’t you?” His breath tickles the side of your face, and you flinch, trying to pull away even though you know it’s futile.

Your mind races, but his presence is like a cage, keeping you trapped, making every idea seem impossible. You can feel the tension tightening, every second a countdown to whatever he’s planning next. His thumb moves in circles over your wrist, a gesture that might seem comforting if it weren’t so... controlling.

Then he releases you.

The sudden absence of his grip is jarring. You stumble backward a step, your body instinctively retreating, but you catch yourself before you fall. You stare at him, shocked that he’s let go, that he’s giving you space.

Bucky just smiles, watching you. He's toying with you, letting you think you have a chance when deep down, you know he’s still in control.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, his voice soft and measured. “But you have to stop running. You’re making this harder on yourself.”

Your skin prickles with dread as you try to process his words. He’s letting you go, but it’s not real freedom. It’s a leash—an invisible one, stretched just enough to let you feel like you’re in control. But he’s still holding the end of it, ready to pull you back the moment you step too far.

You stand there, frozen, every muscle in your body screaming to run, but your mind knows better. He’s faster than you. Stronger. More dangerous.

He’s waiting. Waiting for you to make a move, to see what you’ll do next. And you know, whatever you do, he’ll be ready.

“I can wait all day,” he says, tilting his head slightly, as if he’s genuinely curious about what you’ll choose. “But you won’t make it far.”

Your mouth goes dry as you take a shaky breath, your eyes darting to the door, the only possible exit. The rain is still hammering down outside, loud and relentless, but it’s the only thing between you and whatever comes next.

But you know if you run now, it’ll be exactly what he wants.

So, you make a decision.

Instead of bolting, instead of giving in to the panic rising in your chest, you take step forward. Toward him.

His eyes flicker with something—surprise? Amusement? You can’t tell—but it doesn’t matter. You’re not playing the game the way he wants you to anymore. You’re taking control, even if it’s just for a moment.

“Then stop pretending this is some game,” you say, your voice steady, even though you feel anything but. “What do you want?”

He takes a step closer, closing the distance you just created, and you can feel the tension coil between you again, tighter than before.

“You know what I want,” he says softly, his voice sending a shiver down your spine.

The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating. You don’t dare break it, waiting for him to speak, to reveal the thing that’s been lurking in the shadows between you both since the moment you met. The way he’s looking at you now, with that dark, unreadable intensity, makes your skin crawl. Your question hangs in the air, and you can’t tell if he’s stalling, or if he’s just savouring the moment—savouring you.

Then he leans in, just a fraction closer, his voice lowering to that chilling, intimate whisper that makes every nerve in your body scream for you to run.

“What I want,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin, “is simple. I want you to stop fighting it. To stop pretending this isn’t what you need. What you want.”

You stiffen, your pulse skyrocketing, because it’s not the answer you were expecting. There’s a raw edge to his words, a dangerous undertone that tells you he’s been thinking about this for a long time—planning it.

“I want you to see that this, us—” he gestures vaguely between you, his eyes never leaving yours—“is inevitable. You can run, hide, resist, but you’ll always end up right. back. here.”

You feel a chill run through your veins as his words sink in. He doesn’t just want to keep you here, doesn’t just want your compliance. He wants your submission. He wants you to accept this twisted reality he’s created, to fall in line with whatever fantasy he’s been building in his head.

Your breath hitches, but you manage to hold his gaze, even as your mind reels with panic. 

“You’re insane,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the fear clawing at your insides. “This isn’t love, Bucky.”

“You keep telling yourself that,” he says softly, his smile returning, more dangerous than ever. “But I know you, Y/N. I’ve watched you. I’ve studied you. And you can’t hide from the truth forever.”

“I know what you need,” he whispers, his voice softer now, almost... tender. “And when you finally stop running, when you stop fighting it, you’ll see it too.”

Your chest tightens, your mind racing to find something—anything—to say that might break this twisted spell he’s trying to weave. But you know, deep down, that no matter what you say, he’s already convinced himself that this is real. That you are his.

And that’s when it hits you.

What he wants isn’t just to keep you here, to cage you like some prize. He wants you to choose it. To accept him, this situation, this twisted version of love he’s built in his mind. He wants you to believe it, to fall into his arms willingly.

But you won’t. You can’t.

“I’ll never give you what you want,” you repeat, your voice defiant, even though the fear tightens in your chest. “I’ll never see this the way you do.”

For a moment, the silence between you thickens. You think maybe he’ll finally snap, maybe this will be the moment he loses control. But instead, his smile deepens, and the amusement in his eyes takes on a sharper, more sinister edge.

“Is that right?” he whispers, his breath warm against your skin. “Because, according to your texts... that’s not what you’ve been telling your friends.”

Before you can even process his words, he’s already pulling out your phone again, holding it between you like a trophy. His thumb glided over the screen, his eyes flickering with the satisfaction of someone who’s about to wield power in the most insidious way.

“Let’s see what we have here, shall we?” he murmurs, not even looking at you as he pulls up your messages. “Ah, here’s a good one.”

He clears his throat theatrically before reading aloud, his voice dripping with false amusement. “He’s got this look when he’s on top of me. Like, I swear, it could melt your soul. I think I’m done for.”

Your stomach turns as the words leave his lips, each syllable twisting into something vile as he quotes your own words back to you. You remember sending that, of course. You’d been giddy, drunk on lust and naivety, texting your friends in a moment of bliss that feels a lifetime away now.

Bucky’s eyes flick to you, watching your reaction with that same unsettling calm. “Done for, huh?” he teases. “That’s not exactly the defiance you’re showing me right now.”

You clench your fists at your sides, trying to steady your breath, but he’s already scrolling again. His thumb pauses, and he smirks as if he’s found something even better.

“Oh, this one’s great,” he says, looking at you with raised eyebrows. “Is he big?” he reads with a dramatic pause, glancing at you. “Girl, you have no idea. Let's just say I’m not getting out of bed anytime soon.”

Heat floods your face, not with the memory, but with the sheer horror of hearing him say it out loud. Your body goes rigid as the humiliation washes over you, but Bucky—he just chuckles softly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Well, I appreciate the enthusiasm,” he says, the smugness in his voice unbearable. “It’s good to know I’ve been leaving an impression.”

He swipes again, his smirk growing. “Let’s see... oh, what’s this?” His voice takes on an almost sing-song quality as he reads the next one. “He’s so attentive, it’s like he knows what I want before I do. Honestly, I think he’s perfect. He’s in my head, like... all the time.”

Your throat tightens, and you force yourself to look at him, your heart thundering in your chest. He’s savouring every moment of this, twisting your words into a weapon, using them to deepen his control over you.

He steps closer, eyes glinting, before reading the next one. “There’s something about him... something that makes me feel like I could lose myself. In a good way. Like, I don’t even care anymore. I just want him.”

He leans in, his breath grazing your ear as he whispers, “You just want me, huh? It seems like the girl who wrote this was much more open to the idea of us.”

You jerk your head away, disgusted by how easily he’s taken everything private, every vulnerability, and turned it into another chain to bind you with. You grit your teeth, but he’s still scrolling.

“One more,” he says with false sweetness, pausing for effect as he reads the final message. “I think I’m falling for him. For real. He’s just... I don’t know. He makes me feel safe, like no one else ever has.”

He lets the words hang in the air, his smile fading just a little as he watches your reaction.

“And that,” he says softly, “is the part I like the most.”

His voice lowers, his face inches from yours now. “You felt safe with me. And you know why? Because deep down, you want to. You want to believe I’m the one who can protect you, give you everything you need. And I will. You just have to stop fighting it.”

Your stomach twists as his words sink in, as he lays bare the twisted reality he’s built around you. He wants you to choose this, to let him be the one who controls everything. And he’s using your own desires, your own words, to manipulate you.

Your pulse is pounding in your ears, his infuriating chuckle echoing through your bones, and you can’t stand it anymore. The phone—the embodiment of everything he’s stolen from you—dangles just out of reach, held by his towering frame like it’s a toy, a prize he knows you can’t win.

Your teeth grit, hands curling into fists. The room feels like it’s shrinking, the air too thick to breathe. He’s mocking you. Smiling. Enjoying this.

“Give it to me!” you spit, your voice sharp and desperate, the words cutting through the tense air like glass.

His smile widens, the amusement in his eyes deepening, like your demand only adds fuel to his fire. He raises the phone higher, just enough to make you reach again, to make the gap between you and your freedom feel all the more impossible.

“What was that?” he teases, voice calm, soft—almost too soft. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

You take a step forward, pushing against his chest with all the force you can muster. “I said give it to me!” You try to leap, your fingers brushing against the edge of the phone, but he pulls it back effortlessly, his hand now resting on your waist as if steadying you—as if you need his help.

His chuckle rumbles low, and it makes your skin crawl. “Y/N…” he says, dragging out your name, the amusement thick in his voice. “You really think you can just take it? Like it’s that simple?”

You shove harder against him, your breath coming in short, angry bursts, trying to wriggle free from his grasp, but his hand stays firm on your waist, not letting you get any real distance. “It’s mine! You don’t get to—”

Before you can finish, you jump again, practically climbing him in your attempt to grab the phone. You’re fully pressing against his chest now, using every bit of strength you have, your body coiled with frustration and fury as you reach for the device. But it’s no use. His arm is longer, his height an insurmountable barrier.

He tilts his head slightly, watching you with that insufferable grin, his free hand catching your waist to stop you from going any higher.

“Keep trying, sweetheart,” he whispers, his breath brushing against your skin as you struggle. “But you’re not going to get it.”

His voice is patronizing, soaked with amusement, and it only makes you more desperate, more furious. You plant your feet harder, pushing up with all your strength, but he doesn’t even move. You’re climbing a wall that won’t budge, and the realization stings.

“Give. It. To. Me.” Your voice is tight, angry, each word spat out through gritted teeth as you dig your nails into his arm, still trying to claw your way up, but the phone remains out of reach.

He’s barely even trying to stop you, just lifting the phone higher, his grip on your waist tightening ever so slightly as he holds you in place. His chuckle deepens, a low rumble of satisfaction.

“Why are you fighting so hard for something that’s already mine?” he asks, his voice laced with cruel amusement. “These words... you gave them to me. You already handed me your trust.”

You try to twist out of his grasp, your breath catching in your throat, but his hand stays firm, his body unyielding.

“You don’t own me,” you snap, your voice shaking with both rage and humiliation. “You don’t get to decide—”

His grip on your waist tightens, pulling you back down to the ground, your feet slipping on the floor as you stumble back, breathless and furious. He pockets the phone slowly, as if to remind you that it’s not going anywhere.

His eyes meet yours, dark and amused, his voice low and taunting. “Oh, I’m not deciding anything,” he murmurs, his smile twisting. “You already did.”

Bucky stands over you, tall and unyielding, his shadow looming, making the space around you feel smaller, tighter. His lips curl into that same infuriating smirk, the one that makes your blood boil and sends a thrill of something you don’t want to acknowledge coursing through your veins.

“Asshole,” you mutter again, glaring up at him, refusing to let him see the fear—or worse, the heat—burning inside you.

His eyes gleam with amusement. He kneels slowly, bringing himself to your level, but still towering over you in that way that makes you feel completely trapped, even as you’re free to move.

“What was that?” he asks softly, his voice barely a murmur, though you know he heard you the first time.

You hate how your body betrays you, hate that he knows it too. You bite your lip, trying to steady yourself, to not let him see how much he’s rattling you. But he’s watching you, every small movement, every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. 

You try to push yourself away from him, to put some distance between you, but his hand tightens on your waist, just enough to keep you in place. 

“Say it again,” he whispers, his lips grazing your ear now, sending a jolt of something electric through your body that you wish wasn’t there.

“I said you’re an asshole,” you snap, louder this time, your voice sharp and angry. 

He chuckles, low and dark, and the sound makes your skin prickle with a mix of fury and something you don’t want to acknowledge. 

“I like it when you fight,” he murmurs, his voice soft and teasing, his breath warm against your neck. “It’s cute.”

The heat of his breath on your skin makes you shudder involuntarily, and you grit your teeth, trying to suppress the way your body reacts to him. You want to shove him away, to regain some semblance of control, but your body feels frozen, caught between the urge to push him back and something else entirely. Something you refuse to admit is there.

“Let me go.” you manage, but your voice falters, quieter than you intended, betraying you.

He doesn’t let go. Instead, his hand slides up your side, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His fingers brush against your ribs, the touch light but possessive, and your breath catches in your throat.

“Do you really want me to?” he whispers, his lips now barely an inch from your neck. His words send a shiver racing through your body, and you grit your teeth, determined not to let him see how much he’s affecting you.

“Bucky...” you start, trying to sound firm, trying to hold onto the anger that’s slipping through your fingers, but your voice falters as you realise how close he is, how the heat between you is suffocating.

He smirks again, his thumb brushing over your waist in a way that sends an involuntary tremor through you. “You can say my name all you want,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl that makes your stomach twist. “But we both know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours.”

Your body tenses at his words, both from the insult and the way his hand moves, as if he’s unravelling you, piece by piece. You try to pull back again, but his grip tightens just enough to remind you that you’re not going anywhere.

“You think you’ve got me figured out?” you snap, trying to regain some ground, some sense of control.

He chuckles again, that same low, maddening sound that sets your nerves on edge. 

“I know more than you think,” he says, his hand moving higher, his fingers brushing against the curve of your ribs now, his touch sending sparks through your skin. “You’ve been trying to fight this from the beginning, but we both know where this is going.”

The space between you is shrinking, the heat between your bodies unbearable, and you can feel the tension pulling you in, your body betraying you in the worst possible way. You bite your lip, trying to focus, to remember why you hate him, why you should be pushing him away. 

But he’s so close now, his lips barely a breath away from your skin, and you can feel his words more than hear them as he leans in, his voice a whisper that sends a tremor through your entire body.

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your neck, and for a moment, you can’t think, can’t breathe, as the world narrows to just the two of you.

You should push him away. You want to push him away. But instead, you’re sitting there, heart racing, torn between the anger burning inside you and the heat building between you. And Bucky knows it. He sees it in your eyes, in the way your breath catches, and that only makes his smirk grow wider.

“Just admit it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. “You want this as much as I do.”

Your breath hitches, your fists clenching as you fight the urge to react, to give him the satisfaction. But the tension between you is unbearable now, suffocating, and you’re not sure how much longer you can keep fighting it.

Bucky tilts his head to the side, his eyes dark and hooded, slowly drifting down to your lips. His lips are so close to yours now, hovering millimetres away, teasing you, taunting you with the possibility of something more. 

But he doesn’t close the gap. He just hovers there, waiting, watching your reaction, drawing it out. His smirk deepens, satisfied, as if he’s savoring the way you’re teetering on the edge, caught between your instinct to pull away and the pull of something undeniable between you.

Your mind races, the rational part of you screaming to shove him away, to stop this before it goes any further. But your body—your traitorous body—responds to the heat between you, every nerve alight, betraying the internal conflict waging within you. 

"You're holding back," he whispers, his voice low, taunting, the words vibrating in the air between you. His breath brushes your skin, so close you can almost feel his lips move against yours, but still, he doesn’t give you the satisfaction of closing the distance.

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to keep your expression defiant. “You think I’m just going to give in?” you uttered firmly.

Bucky’s smirk grows. He’s not just playing with your emotions; he’s studying you, every breath, every reaction.

“I think you like this,” he murmurs, his voice as smooth as silk, the words wrapping around you, making it harder to breathe. “This tension between us, this fight. You crave it.”

His lips are so close you can almost taste the heat of him, but he continues to hold back, leaving you on the brink, trapped in the space between resistance and temptation.

“You’re wrong,” you manage, though your voice falters slightly, betraying you. You hate that he’s gotten this far, that he’s managed to chip away at your defenses, but you refuse to let him see just how much he’s affecting you.

“Am I?” he whispers, his lips hovering so close to yours you can barely stand it. His hand tightens slightly on your waist, pulling you closer, but still, he keeps you waiting, holding you in this unbearable tension.

He leans in again, his breath ghosting over your lips, his voice a soft murmur. "I can feel it, Y/N. You're on the edge. Just let go."

Your heart pounds in your chest, every 

Bucky watches you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing as if he’s weighing your silence, calculating your resistance. Then his smirk returns, a little darker this time, as though he’s decided something in that moment.

"You’re going to see it my way," he murmurs, his voice low, full of certainty. "And I’m going to prove it to you."

His arm wraps around your waist firmly, and before you can react, you’re lifted off the floor. Your breath catches as he throws you over his shoulder with ease, like you weigh nothing. You let out an involuntary gasp, your hands instinctively grabbing at his back, trying to steady yourself as your body hangs over him.

“Bucky!” you protest, your voice sharper now, but it’s drowned out by the sound of his footsteps as he starts walking back toward the stairs.

“Shh,” he says softly, his tone almost playful, but there’s an edge to it, a finality that makes your stomach twist. “You’ll thank me later.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you’re carried back toward the bedroom. You push against his back, but his grip doesn’t loosen, and the casual strength he holds you with only makes your pulse race faster.

You struggle against him, trying to twist out of his grasp, but he only tightens his hold, his voice calm, unbothered. “Fighting me only makes it harder for you, Y/N.”

Your breath comes in short, sharp bursts as he carries you up the stairs, the panic and tension growing with each step. You know where he’s taking you, and the thought of being trapped in that bedroom again sends a chill through your body.

“Put me down!” you demand, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear, but Bucky only chuckles softly.

“Oh, I will,” he murmurs, his voice soft but firm. 

You feel your body shift slightly as Bucky pushes open the door to the bedroom. The door clicks shut behind you, and your heart pounds in your ears as you realise there’s no escaping him now.

"Put me down!" you demand, trying to keep your voice steady, though every fiber of your being is on high alert.

Bucky throws you onto the bed with effortless strength. The world spins for a split second, and you land with a bounce, the mattress swallowing your weight. You gasp, disoriented, struggling to regain your composure as you push yourself up on your elbows.

Bucky stands at the foot of the bed, his eyes gleaming with that same infuriating confidence, his smirk widening as he watches your reaction.

"You—" you start, the anger rising in your chest, but before you can finish, he interrupts you, his voice filled with mock innocence.

“What? You told me to put you down,” he says, shrugging casually, as if tossing you onto the bed was the most natural thing in the world. His tone is light, almost teasing, but there’s an edge beneath it—a dark undercurrent that makes it clear he’s still fully in control.

For a moment, you’re too stunned to respond, caught between the absurdity of his reply and the tension hanging thick in the air. His casual playfulness only heightens the unnerving sense of power he holds over you, as if even your resistance is something he finds amusing.

You narrow your eyes at him, refusing to let him see just how rattled you are. “You know exactly what I meant,” you snap, keeping your voice firm, even as your pulse quickens under his unrelenting gaze.

He tilts his head, feigning innocence again, that infuriating smirk never leaving his lips. “I just follow instructions, doll,” he says, his voice low and teasing, but his eyes tell a different story—dark, dangerous, and full of intent.

You sit up straighter, fighting the feeling of vulnerability that creeps over you, and meet his gaze with unwavering defiance. "You’re not as clever as you think," you say, keeping your tone sharp.

His smirk widens, and he steps closer to the bed, his movements slow, he’s savoring the tension between you. "Oh, I think we both know how clever I am," he replies, his voice dropping to a smooth murmur. 

You sit up slightly, propped on your elbows, your pulse quickening as he approaches. Bucky moves swiftly, his hands coming down on either side of you, caging you in. His body looms over yours, and the mattress dips under the weight of him, pinning you in place. 

The sudden proximity steals the breath from your lungs, and your eyes dart up to meet his. The intensity of his gaze hits you like a physical force, his pupils are blown wide, dilated. His face is so close now that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, his presence suffocating, overwhelming.

He doesn’t move. Neither do you.

You’re hyper aware of everything—his hands gripping the mattress on either side of you, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the intoxicating scent of him invading your senses. 

You try to look anywhere else, anywhere but where his gaze is leading you. But it’s impossible. His stare pulls at you, like a gravitational force, dragging you into his orbit. And all you can think about is how close he is. Too close. Your heart thuds in your chest, each beat louder than the last, echoing in the silence between you.

Your eyes flicker—just for a second—down to his lips.

You curse yourself instantly for it, but it’s too late. He noticed. Of course he noticed. His smirk deepens, barely perceptible, but you feel it like a jolt of electricity. That knowing look, that arrogant satisfaction that he’s in control, and you’re fighting a battle you can’t win.

You force your eyes back up, meeting his once more, desperate to regain some sense of control, some measure of defiance. But the tension between you is unbearable now, thick like a vice tightening around your chest. It feels like the air has been sucked out of the room, leaving only the charged space between your lips, the millimeters separating you from him.

Every nerve in your body is on edge, bracing for something you’re not even sure you want to resist.

Bucky leans in just a fraction more, his lips hovering so close to yours that the distance is almost unbearable. His breath mingles with yours, warm and steady, and for a moment, you’re not sure if it’s your heart or his that’s pounding in your ears.

You try—desperately—not to look at his lips again, but it’s like trying to ignore gravity.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. The silence is louder than any words he could say. You know what he’s waiting for. He’s waiting for you to break, to give in to the pull you’ve both been fighting for what feels like forever.

Your hands clench at your sides, every muscle in your body tight with the effort of holding back, of not giving in to the dangerous allure of his proximity. But it’s so hard to breathe, so hard to think when he’s this close, when his eyes are this intense, when his lips are right there, almost touching yours.

And just when you think you can’t hold out any longer, that you’ll snap under the pressure of the moment, Bucky’s voice cuts through the silence, low and husky, barely above a whisper.

“Look at me,” he murmurs, his breath brushing your lips, sending another shiver down your spine. “Don’t look away.”

You think about defying him, about turning your head and breaking free from the suffocating tension. He was on top of you, all that hard muscle pinning you down to where you couldn’t move. You could feel him everywhere, especially his cock, which was thick against your belly. Fighting him only turned him on, and now you were thinking about sex.

And you hate that he’s right.

Just when the air feels too thick to breathe, he pulls away.

The shift is sudden, leaving you lying there on the bed, breathless and confused. Your heart pounds in your ears, and you can’t quite make sense of what just happened. One second, he was so close—too close—and the next, he’s stepping back, putting space between you.

You blink, trying to catch your breath, your mind scrambling to process the whirlwind of emotions and sensations that have left you dizzy and disoriented. The heat from his body lingers on your skin, but his absence feels colder than you expected.

Bucky stands at the edge of the bed, looking down at you, his face now unreadable. The smirk is gone, replaced by a cool, detached expression that makes your stomach churn. It’s as if the moment you shared—the one that left you teetering on the edge—never happened. His eyes, once dark and intense, are now distant, cold.

“Be a good girl and stay there,” he says, his voice flat, authoritative. There's no teasing in his tone now, just a command.

The words hang in the air, and you find yourself frozen, unable to move, unsure whether it's from the weight of his command or the confusion swirling in your chest. You don’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed that he’s pulled back, leaving you stranded in the wake of something you didn’t quite understand—and maybe weren’t ready for.

He doesn't wait for a response, doesn't check to see if you’ll obey. He simply turns, walking away, leaving you lying there on the bed, torn between the need to push back and the sinking realisation that he’s still in control, no matter how much space he puts between you.

× × × ×

Bucky’s POV

There’s a moment when power shifts—when control is no longer just something you hold, but something you feel, deep in your bones. I see it in your eyes, the flicker of confusion, of vulnerability, as I step away from the bed. You think you understand what’s happening, that you have a handle on your own defiance, but the truth is, you’re already exactly where I want you. And isn’t that the beauty of it?

The tension between us was intoxicating, wasn’t it? The way you looked at me, fighting the pull, the temptation, the inevitable. I gave you space to breathe, to think. But now, it’s time to decide what comes next.

I step out of the bedroom, the door closing behind me with the softest click. You probably think this is your moment to regroup, maybe catch your breath, wonder where I’ve gone. But, let’s be honest, I’m never really gone, am I? I’m in your thoughts right now, circling your every breath, every heartbeat, while you lie there and try to pretend you can fight this.

I move down the hallway, not in a hurry. I savor this, the anticipation hanging in the air between us. When I reach the room, it’s quiet. Still. Organized. Everything in this space has been meticulously laid out, prepared for this moment. Choices, all of them deliberate. I don’t rush this, because why would I? I like to take my time. And you? You’ll feel that patience in every step I take.

I look over the table, where everything is waiting. The blindfold catches my eye first. Simple, soft. It’s always the smallest things that strip away the most control, isn’t it? You rely on your sight, that sense of security you have when you can gauge what’s coming, what I’m doing. The blindfold removes that. You’ll be left with nothing but the sound of my voice and the weight of your own breath. Your heart will race faster the moment it goes dark. You’ll feel it—your world narrowing, closing in.

But there’s more. My fingers brush against the bed restraints. These are designed to remind you of something fundamental: the boundaries I set are not negotiable. No matter how hard you might try, these restraints are proof that you’re not getting away. You’ll strain against them, at first, testing your limits, feeling that surge of defiance before you realize just how futile it is. That moment, when your body gives in to the restraint—that’s when you’ll understand that the control was never yours to begin with.

I pick them both up—the blindfold in one hand, the restraints in the other. But before heading back to you, I stop, glancing at myself in the mirror in this room. The tension in the air, the power of what’s coming next, calls for something more. Something raw. I remove my shirt, letting it fall to the floor. The cool air hits my skin, but it does nothing to temper the heat building inside. This isn’t just about control anymore; it’s about presence. Dominance.

× × × × 

YOUR POV

The door creaks open slowly, and you’re already on your feet. You don’t know what your plan is—if you even have one—but lying there, waiting like some docile thing, that’s not you. You can feel the tension in your legs, every muscle taut as you stand by the bed, trying to control your breathing, trying to look like you’ve made a conscious decision, even though the truth is, you don’t know what you’re going to do next.

And then he appears.

Bucky steps back into the room, shirtless. His bare chest catches your eye, the light cutting sharp angles across his skin, emphasizing every line of muscle. For a moment, it steals your breath. Not because of how he looks—but because it’s another calculated move. He’s always thinking, always pushing, and now this is about more than just words or actions—it’s about his very presence. It fills the room, like he’s claiming the space itself.

Your eyes instinctively flick down to his hands. He’s holding something—dark fabric and... yes, restraints. The blindfold dangles from his fingers, the soft black material barely catching the light. The restraints, sleek and unyielding, swing lightly from his other hand.

And then he notices you.

He stops, just inside the doorway, and for a moment, the air between you shifts. His eyes darken, and you catch the subtle frown that pulls at the corner of his mouth as he takes in the fact that you’re no longer on the bed. The smallest hint of irritation flickers across his face, quickly replaced by that cool, composed exterior. But it was there. You saw it.

Good.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he considers you, and for a moment, neither of you move. It’s a silent standoff, and you can feel the weight of his disapproval pressing against you. 

But then, a slow, exhale leaves his lips, and his expression shifts. He takes a step forward, his gaze never leaving yours. His frown is gone, replaced by something colder, more calculating.

“You’re out of bed,” he says, his voice low, calm, but there’s an edge to it, as though he’s daring you to explain. “Lie down.”

You don’t. You stand your ground, refusing to retreat, even though your pulse is hammering in your chest. You know this won’t change the inevitable, but you’re not going to make it easy for him. 

“Don’t fight me,” he whispers, his voice low and smooth. “It will be easier for you if you don’t make trouble.” 

“But I like trouble,” You said without thinking.

You hadn’t thought about how this would come across, though. Your vpice thick with defiance, you realize what you’ve done. You’ve just challenged him. Again.

His expression went hard, a little scary. “I will give you the count of three. If you’re not in bed before then, there will be consequences.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. He isn’t bluffing.

Your gaze flickers down to his hands, and you see them—the blindfold, the restraints. He’s holding them loosely, his fingers flexing as if he’s already deciding exactly how to use them. 

“One. . .”

He takes a step forward, his eyes locked on you, his presence overwhelming in the small space. You feel your pulse spike, But you stand your ground, glaring back at him, the fire of your own defiance still flickering even as fear claws at your throat.

“Two. . .”

The sound of the second number sends a rush of panic through you. He’s not going to wait much longer. You know that. But you can’t bring yourself to back down.

“Three.”

The word comes out soft, but the weight behind it is crushing. He doesn’t give you time to react. His hand moves in a blur, reaching for you, and before you can take a breath, he’s closed the distance between you, his grip firm but not painful as he grabs your wrist.

The blindfold and restraints in his other hand hang there, a silent threat, a promise of what’s to come.

“You made your choice,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, his face inches from yours, and the dark amusement in his eyes is gone now. “Now, you'll have to deal with the consequences…” He pauses, his gaze flickering over you, and a wicked smile curls on his lips. "And trust me, sweetheart, you're going to feel every single one of them."

And you know, as he pulls you toward the bed, that this game is over.

But the consequences? They’re just beginning.

“No!” you grunted, you bucked and kicked out with your legs, hoping like hell you caught him in the junk, “Get off me!”

Bucky barely flinches, his grip tightening as he maneuvers effortlessly to pin you down. The way he handles you—strong, unyielding—sends a fresh wave of panic through your body.

“Nice try,” he mutters, his voice calm, controlled, that terrifying composure still in place. “But it’s going to take a lot more than that to stop me.”

His hand moves swiftly to your wrist, his fingers wrapping around it with ease. You feel the smooth leather strap, and before you can even process what’s happening, he’s threading it through the buckle.

You buck again, a surge of panic flooding your chest, but his knee presses firmly into your legs, pinning you down. He moves quickly, efficiently, pulling your arm to the side as the leather restraint tightens around your wrist with a sharp pull.

The soft creak of leather is the only sound as he secures the second strap to your other wrist, buckling it in place, leaving you spread wide, helpless. Your chest heaves with the effort, but it’s too late—the leather holds fast, unyielding.

"See?" he says, his voice low, that dangerous smile tugging at his lips again. “You can fight all you want, but it’s only going to make this more interesting for me.”

“I hate you!”

He didn’t answer as he strode toward the end of the bed. His strong naked chest was distracting in the greyness of daylight, with a myriad of scars and rough marks criss-crossing his skin like a road map. This was a cruel man, unyielding and unafraid of violence.

You pressed your lips together when he produced a set of the same restraints at the foot of the bed. 

Oh, shit. 

Bucky grabbed your ankle and worked the cuff over your foot. 

“You don’t need to do this,” you rushed out, bargaining.“I’m not going anywhere.” Thanks to the wrist restraints.

The cuff pulled tight on your right leg. Satisfied, Bucky moved to the other side and you started taking deep breaths, fighting the urge to kick and fight. What was he planning? Why did he need you spread-eagle on the bed?

When you were tied down, he climbed onto the bed, his muscles shifting as he crawled between your thighs, and your nerves twitched and twisted in your belly. This wasn’t good.

He stops in front of you and slips the blindfold over your eyes, plunging you into darkness. Your breath hitches, and you feel a surge of panic rising in your chest. You try to pull away, he grabs your chin, holding you in place. 

You can feel the heat of him, the way his body is so close to yours, and it makes you feel trapped, helpless. Every sense is heightened now that you can’t see. Every sound, every movement, every touch feels amplified, and you hate it. You hate how vulnerable you are.

With a swift, almost ruthless motion, Bucky grabs the delicate fabric of your nightgown, and in one clean, forceful pull, it rips in half. The sound of the tear echoes through the room, loud and raw, the fragile material giving way under his hands. The shredded pieces dangle from his fingers for a brief moment before they fall to the floor, discarded. 

His palms slid up your thighs and under your nightie and goose bumps broke out all along your skin. “Should I let you come, little girl?” he says, his voice a seductive whisper in your ear. 

Heat bloomed in your pussy, those words charged in ways you couldn’t begin to unpack. Was he really going to play the daddy card right now? Fuck. It was like he could see into your mind on how best to manipulate you. 

“Don’t,” You pleaded, not even caring that you sounded weak.

He pushed your panties to the side, gently tracing your entrance with his middle finger. “Just as I thought. Wet.” He brought his finger to his mouth and licked your arousal off. “You like that, when I call you little girl.”

“No, I don’t,” You said, your chest heaving with the force of your breath. “You don’t need to do this.” 

“Do you ache inside?” He slipped his finger directly into your channel, pressing deep until he was completely seated. Then he curled his finger, hitting a spot that you'd sworn was an urban myth.

Your back bowed off the bed, limbs pulling tight against the restraints, and you bit your lip to stay quiet. You did not want to think about how good any part of him felt inside you, how that finger wasn’t nearly enough. 

“Please,” you panted, not sure what you were asking for. He pumped his hand, the friction both delicious and frustrating. Then he added another finger, going slow until it was in, and you whimpered. He’s playing with you, you know it and he’s enjoying every second of it.

“You can feel it huh?” He said, “Your pussy is sucking in my fingers. So greedy. Don’t worry. I am going to take very good care of you.”

You held your breath. You didn’t know what was about to happen. You only knew it was going to be bad. If he teased you, it would be awful. Worse than awful. If he actually pleasured you, if you surrendered to him, it would be humiliating. He would gain the upper hand, and that was what scared you most. 

Licking you dry lips, you forced out, “I don’t need you to take care of me. Let me take care of you instead.”

He pumped his fingers lazily, in and out, in and out, dragging against your sensitive tissues. You inhaled sharply, the pleasure streaking through you like lightning. 

“Hmm keep telling yourself that.” He said like he doesn’t believe you, because he actually doesn't.

Your body strained toward the source of that bliss, chasing it and making a liar out of yourself. 

“Yes, I do. If you just—please—don't.” You could barely keep track of the conversation as he fucked you with his fingers.

“Hear how wet your pussy is for me?” The slick sounds filled the bedroom and you wanted to die of shame. He chuckled.

“Go fuck yourself!” you snapped, hoping your words would have some bite.

“Why would I? When you're right here, dripping and ready for me?” Bucky murmured, then flicked his tongue unexpectedly over your clit. You tried to keep your expression from revealing anything you were feeling, but when he twisted and pumped at the same time, you moaned deep in your throat.

Then he started eating you out. He licked and sucked like you were a meal and he was starving, his attention focused on your clit, swirling and sucking, and you suddenly knew what you had been missing out on all these years. Using the flat of his tongue, he massaged your clit, then drew it into his mouth to suck on it, again. At the same time, he strummed your clit with his tongue, rubbing and pressing. Bucky mastered your body in seconds, like some sort of pussy wizard, because you were instantly on the verge of coming. Your thighs started shaking and your lungs couldn’t pull in air.

And he stopped. 

You gasped, lurching, you tried to bring yourself closer to where you think his face is, where his breath felt hot. You could feel him smirking.

× × × ×

Bucky’s POV

Your thighs are trembling now, shaking in that way that tells me you're teetering on the edge, every muscle in your body straining. I watch, fascinated, as your lungs struggle to pull in air, your body begging for relief, for release. 

And then, I stop.

You gasp, a desperate sound, your body lurching as you try to chase what I've just taken from you. You try to bring yourself closer, your movements frantic, instinctive, as if by sheer will alone. Your head turns, your lips parting, reaching for where you think my face is—where my breath felt hot against your skin moments ago.

But I don't move. I smirk, watching the way your body fights itself, craving more but knowing I control every last part of this moment. 

"You're so predictable," I murmur, my voice low, almost mocking, but there's a darkness in it that lingers. "Always wanting more... always needing to be just a little closer, don't you?”

I run my hands down your sides, feeling every tense muscle beneath my fingertips, relishing the way your body responds to even the lightest touch. You arch, trying to make contact, to feel something—anything. But then, my hands lift off you, and the absence of touch sends a ripple of frustration through you. I can feel it, the tension mounting, the need rising higher. 

I reach across for the bullet vibrator, my fingers curling around the small device. I press the button, the faint hum vibrating in my hand as I adjust it to the lowest setting. The sound is barely audible over your labored breathing, but you know. You feel what's coming next. 

I lean down, my lips brushing your ear, my breath hot against your skin. "You know how this works," I whisper, my voice soft, almost tender. "I decide when. I decide how much. And you? You're going to beg for it." 

You can feel the vibration ever so slightly as I circle the air above your lovely hard nipples. I massage the bullet extremely gently around the outer edge of one of your nipples and then do the same with the other. I move it in slow circles, like a promise I’ve yet to fulfil. I can see the way your body responds—tense, trembling, straining for something more. 

“You feel that?” I murmur, my voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Just enough to drive you insane, isn’t it? Just enough to remind you that I hold everything you want in the palm of my hand.”

You shudder, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body arching slightly as you try to press closer to the source of the vibration. The frustration is written all over your face, and it’s beautiful, so beautiful. I watch you, drinking in every inch of your reaction, savouring the power I have over you in this moment.

“You love it,” I whisper, my breath brushing against your ear, sending another shiver down your spine. “You love that you can’t control this. That I can make you beg for something as simple as this.”

“Just... do it,” you gasp, your voice trembling with frustration, but there’s still a spark in it, something stubborn. “Stop playing games.”

I chuckle softly, amused by your words. Stop playing games? Oh, but you and I both know that this is the game, and you’re playing it just as much as I am. You’re caught between wanting more and hating that you have to ask for it, and that’s what makes this so deliciously satisfying.

“Is that what you want?” I ask, lowering the vibrator just a little, letting it barely skim the surface of your areola—just enough for you to feel it, but not enough to satisfy. “You think you’re ready for more? You think you deserve it?”

You grit your teeth, trying to stay composed, but I can see the cracks forming. The frustration, the need. It’s all there, simmering just beneath the surface.

“Please…” you whisper, barely audible, and there it is—that hint of desperation I’ve been waiting for.

I smile, triumphant, and press the button to increase the intensity just slightly, letting the vibration pulse more firmly against your breast. 

“That’s better,” I murmur, my voice low, “But I’ll need more than that if you really want it.”

You gasp, your body reacting to the sudden change in sensation, your breath hitching as you bite back another plea. And I know, without a doubt, you’ll give me what I want.

You bite your lip, stifling another sound as the vibrations skate across your skin, and I watch with fascination as you try to maintain your composure. Your chest rises and falls with each laboured breath, but you’re still clinging to that last bit of resistance. You haven’t said it.

The word. The name.

I let the silence stretch out between us, the vibrator humming softly against your nipple, just enough to keep you on edge but nowhere near enough to tip you over it. You know what I want, and I know you’re holding onto it. That delicious defiance. The last weapon you think you have.

But I have all the time in the world.

“You’re holding out,” I murmur, my voice soft, almost a purr. “I can feel it. You’re so close, but you’re fighting it. Why?” I bring my face closer, my breath hot against your neck as I whisper, “You know what will get you what you want.”

You’re fighting me, refusing to give in to the game. I can almost see the wheels turning in your mind—I won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Say it,” I murmur, my lips brushing your ear now, the vibration of the toy a steady hum against your skin. “You know what I’m waiting for. Just say it, and I’ll give you everything you want.”

Your lips part, and for a second, I think you might give in. But then, through clenched teeth, you growl, “I’m not saying it.”

I raise an eyebrow, amused by your defiance. You’re trying so hard to resist, even though your body is betraying you, trembling under the light touch of the vibrator.

“We both know you want to say it, go on,” I whisper, my voice soft, dark, full of promise. “Say it. Say what I know you’re dying to say.”

You want to give in, but you’re too proud to make it easy. And so, in the smallest, most defiant voice, you mutter, “I don’t need to say it.”

I chuckle softly, shaking my head as I pull the vibrator away for a moment, denying you the one thing you want most. 

“Oh, you’ll say it,” I say, my voice calm, certain. “Because you know that’s how you get what you need.”

I reach down, pressing the button again, increasing the intensity just a little more. I bring it close, hovering over your skin but not quite touching. The tease. The torment.

“You want Daddy to make it better, don’t you?” I finally whisper, my voice almost a growl, low and intimate, right at your ear.

You think you can outlast me. You think your silence is some kind of victory, but I can see right through you. The stubbornness is admirable, really. I almost want to let you hold onto it for a little longer. Almost.

But then again, why deny myself the pleasure of watching you break?

I lower the vibrator back down, this time pressing it directly against your nipple—not the teasing, ghosting touch from earlier, but real contact. You moaned, your body arching against the restraints as the sudden sensation hits you, and I press the button again, increasing the intensity. The vibrations pulse through you, low and constant, just enough to drive you crazy.

To see you this turned on and into it at this early stage makes me want to burst. I continue to tease your nipples with the bullet, making you wriggle with pleasure as you lean your head back into the pillow. I watch your beautiful face intently as the vibrations gently massage your nipples—you look amazing— radiant, sexy, fuckable—and I am so excited to have you in this position—but I am taking my time. 

I want you to be wetter than you have ever been, have more orgasms than you have ever had and have you moaning more than you have ever moaned.

I lean in, my mouth hovering near your ear, my breath hot against your skin. “You’re close to saying it,” I whisper, my voice low, knowing. “I can feel it. You’re just one word away.”

You grit your teeth, trying to hold on—the way they’re starting to lose focus, the way your breath comes in shallow, uneven gasps. You’re teetering on the edge, and you know it.

I smirk, watching you struggle, your body trembling under the relentless vibrations, your mind fighting the inevitable. 

“Still not saying it?” I ask softly, almost amused. “You think you’re winning by holding out? By staying quiet?”

I tilt my head, studying you, and then my hand moves—slow, deliberate—between your thighs. Whike gently stroking the vibrating bullet down the side of your body, making you wriggle. As I get to your hips, you open your legs further, wanting the vibrations on your clit. I stroke the bullet up from your hip and across the top of your beautifully shaved pubic line, as you thrust your crotch forward, wanting it. 

I resist the urge to give you what you want immediately—instead lightly running the bullet down the side of your pussy, being careful not to touch your luscious pussy lips. I position myself in between your legs as the bullet gets closer and closer to your clit. As it edges nearer, I see your pussy glisten from its wetness—oh my God it looks amazing and I love how you have your legs open, allowing me to see it all. How I want to devour it, again—but there is something you need to say first.

You whimper, your body shaking, your breath ragged. I can feel it—you’re so close to giving in.

And then, just as I feel you start to unravel, I pull back. I stop everything. The vibrator, the pressure—it all stops.

You gasp, your body lurching forward, desperate for the sensation to continue. You try to press closer, try to make contact, but I keep my distance, pulling away just enough to leave you hanging in agonising anticipation.

Your body trembles, your frustration spilling over as you try to catch your breath, and I know you’re about to break. You need this, and you know it.

I lean in, my lips brushing your ear, my voice soft but commanding. “Say it,” I murmured, the final push. “Say it, or I’ll stop this right now. I’ll leave you like this, desperate, aching, with nothing.”

Your breath hitches, and I can see the war playing out in your mind. The defiance, the pride—it’s all crumbling beneath the weight of your need. You’re trembling, your body screaming for more, and you know I have the power to give it to you. But you have to say it.

“Say it,” I repeat, my voice a low growl. “Say it, and I’ll give you what you want.”

For a moment, I think you’ll hold out just a little longer. But then, with a trembling breath, you whisper the word, barely audible, the last piece of your pride shattering. The bullet is now hovering just above your clit and I slowly press down—I smile satisfyingly and your legs open up further to reveal your lovely wet pussy.

“Daddy…”

I smile, victorious, and without hesitation, I press the vibrator back against you, harder this time, increasing the intensity, my hand moving in sync with the relentless pulse.

“There we go,” I murmur, my voice dark and satisfied. “Good girl.”

The sight is driving me mad—but I am focused on giving you as much pleasure as you can handle. I slowly rub it up and down your clit as the vibrations run through you. You slowly lift your hips forward, wanting the vibrations lower down, which I oblige. The bullet is edging closer to your glistening pussy—but then I reach across and spread your beautiful lips apart with my fingers—and start to brush the bullet up one and then down the other, in circular motions. This is driving you wild as it edges closer to entering you. I move the bullet down ever so slightly so it is resting, waiting to go in—but then move it all the way up to your clit.

The fact you don't know what's coming next is driving you mad—which makes you look even sexier, if that is possible. You’re at the mercy of what comes next, and the fact that you can’t predict it is pushing you to the edge. You hate it, don’t you? But it also pulls you in. It makes you irresistible.

I go to the next level of vibrations and flick the bullet down from your clit, entering you ever so slightly and then move it back up to your clit, vibrating all of your core. As I do this, you open your legs further, now fully relaxed and turned on and let out a sexy moan—wanting more and more. 

All that fight, all that defiance, just to end up here? It’s almost poetic. It makes me wonder—how will you explain this to your friends? Will you tell them how easily you gave in, how all that stubbornness melted away? Or will you keep this secret tucked away, something only we’ll know?

For the first time, you try to move your arms down to control the pleasure—but then realise you are tied up and I am in control, and let your arms drop behind agan. It's at this point it is time to take it up a level.

You've always been a freak, haven’t you? I saw the signs, the little hints you thought were so subtle. Makes me wonder if this whole act—the defiance, the resistance—is just your way of pretending you aren’t begging for it. You don’t want control, not really. You want to be pushed to the edge, and I’m more than happy to take you there.

I turn the bullet off, giving you some relief from the pleasure for a few seconds - then lean forward and kiss the inside of your left thigh—moving across to the right thigh—but pause over your wet pussy—my mouth just millimeters from your glistening lips—and let out a breath of excitement that you can feel—then move to your right thigh and kiss the inside.

Jesus—if only you could see yourself right now. I almost want to take a video, something to remember this by, a little keepsake of how you look when you finally let go. And then I remember… your phone’s already in my pocket.

I hover over you, taking my time, savoring the moment. With careful precision, I pull it out and position the phone in just the right angle, the best view of you—completely vulnerable, completely mine.

Maybe you’ll watch this back later. Maybe you’ll see yourself the way I see you now—completely undone, stripped of that defiance you cling to so desperately. It’ll be a reminder, a little piece of this moment that you can never escape. And I’ll watch you realise, all over again, how much you need me.

You shift beneath me, your breath shaky, and then, through the haze of tension, your voice breaks the silence. “What are you doing?” The blindfold makes your tone sharper, more vulnerable—unsure of what’s coming next.

You can’t see me, but I know you’re feeling everything. “Tell me,” you whisper, almost a demand, though your voice trembles at the edges. Even blindfolded, you’re still trying to cling to some control.

“Is that how you ask?” I reply, my voice calm, but with that edge of authority you’re trying so hard to ignore. You tense, knowing exactly what I’m getting at, but you’re stubborn, always trying to hold onto that last bit of control.

I lean in closer, my breath warm against your ear. “You know what I want to hear. Try again.”

Your lips twitched what I think is annoyance, “Daddy, please tell me what you’re doing.”

I lean in, my breath barely brushing your ear, “You want to know what I’m doing? I’m setting your phone right here,” I say, patting the bedside table. “Perfectly positioned. Just in case you want to watch this later—see how you look when you let go.”

You shift beneath me, tense, trying to decipher every sound, every movement. “I want you to remember exactly what happens next,” I continue, my fingers trailing lightly down your side. “Because you asked for this. And now, you’ll get exactly what you deserve.”

You are aching for more—so I reach for the wand, turn it on and apply it directly to your clit, sending new sensations through your body. I am moving the wand back and forth from your clit to your juicy pussy, vibrations covering all of you. As I move it all around your beautiful pussy, I can hear and see how wet you are. The circular motion around all of your pussy is taking you to orgasm—but then I stop suddenly, and you catch your breath. 

“No!” you shouted. “Don’t stop. Oh, God.” 

I pressed a kiss to your thigh. “Beg me, sweetheart. Beg me to make you come.” 

“Why are you doing this to me? You fucking psychopath!” 

I know you were right there, hovering on the edge, air sawing in and out of your lungs. You wanted to scream, you wanted to cry. You wanted to claw my face with your fingernails. I know you’re wanting to crawl into my lap and ride my cock to orgasm. 

“Those are not the words. Try again. “Say it and I’ll let you come.”

It is now time to up it again, so I squeeze some pleasure gel in my hand and smother the top of the wand in it. I then grab the bullet and rub more pleasure gel on that too. I now have the wand in one hand and the bullet in the other both vibrating and ready to make you cum. I press the wand gently onto your clit as the bullet slowly enters you, making you take a deep breath and blurt out

“Fuck, Daddy—Please make me come.”

From the look on your face and the words coming out of your mouth, I know you are in ecstasy and it makes my cock throb so much. I ask you to tell me how it feels and you say ‘Amazing, Daddy, please don't stop, I love it.’ Your words and sounds as you take the pleasure turn me on so much.

My eyes darted towards the camera, my eyes communicating: Are you watching? Do you hear yourself?

Your legs are fully open now as I continue to work the bullet in and out of you slowly and the wand on your clit. You are so wet so I decide to switch things up—I take the bullet and gently rub it up and down your clit whilst pointing the wand directly at your pussy. I start to slowly push the wand head against your pussy lips and flick it up and down, the dual vibrations sending you into a frenzy. Oh my God—you look sensational, irresistible—I am in total ecstasy just watching your reactions to the vibrating and your orgasms. 

Your legs, spread apart more, trembling mote, and as I slowly pull the bullet back, your pussy pushes it out and a squirt of your juices shoot out at me. I bet you heard yourself yelling as if from a distance, the high so unbelievably good, better than any drug you'd ever tried. It seemed to go on for days but was probably only seconds. As you came down, the shame crept in to replace the euphoria.

I have never heard or seen you do this before and it makes me even harder, if that is possible. It's like unwrapping a gift that you didn’t even know you wanted, but suddenly can’t imagine living without. I almost want to thank you for the privilege—almost. But that would ruin the moment, wouldn't it?

I slowly start to pull the bullet back again, and it happens again—your beautiful pussy pushes out the bullet and squirts your juices all over my hand. I can now see a wet patch underneath you, which drives me wild. The sight of you orgasming, squirting and gushing is almost too much. I wave the wand all around your soaking wet pussy, juices gushing out of you as I do. I turn the bullet and wand off and just sit there looking at your pulsating and dripping wet pussy and then your gorgeous face as you recover. I am in total awe—

I glance down at the mess you’ve made, my lips curling into a slow, almost proud smile. “Well, would you look at that,” I murmur, teasing, with a hint of mockery. “Miss perfect, always so put together, now completely… undone.”

I lean in, my breath warm against your ear, enjoying the way you squirm at the sound of my voice. “It’s almost impressive, really. I never thought you’d let things get this messy. But here you are, all flustered and out of sorts. Makes me wonder if you secretly like it this way.”

I chuckle softly, pulling back just enough to see the reaction play out on your face. “And honestly? I think it's kind of adorable. Watching you, of all people, fall apart like this.”

I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. “I guess being a messy girl suits you.”

You grit your teeth, your voice dripping with frustration as you snap, “Fuck you.” The words hit the air like you’re hoping they’ll cut me, but all I feel is amusement curling in my chest, that familiar, sick satisfaction.

“Ooo, fuck me, huh?” I echo, my voice dripping with mockery, like I’m savoring the taste of your defiance. “That’s adorable. Are you giving me hints?”

You growl in frustration, the sound barely contained, your annoyance bubbling over. I laugh softly, watching you struggle against the moment. “Oh, don’t be mad. I’m just trying to keep up with your subtle suggestions,” I tease, raising an eyebrow. “But I guess someone’s a little touchy, aren’t they?”

The frustration in your eyes behind the black silk only makes the moment sweeter. You’re trying so hard to fight, to stay defiant, but I can see right through it. And it’s entertaining.

Without breaking my smirk, I glance over at the camera on the bedside, locking eyes with it for a moment, letting the weight of this moment be captured.

I turn my gaze back to you, the satisfaction in my smile only deepening. “See? It’s all right here, caught on tape. You’ll thank me for it later.”

I move myself upwards, leaning over you, watching the rise and fall of your chest as you pant, every breath shaky and uneven. My fingers trace gently across your cheek, I lean in slowly, my lips hovering just above yours, my breath mingling with yours. I intend for it to be gentle, just a small taste of power, but then—you moved.

You push upward, taking control of the kiss, pulling me into it with a hunger I didn’t expect. For a split second, I freeze, caught off guard by the way you turn the tables, the way stuck your tongue down my throat passionately. 

You’re not just reacting. You’re taking.

I am taken aback as I thought you were recovering but then you whisper in my ear, “I need your cock in my mouth whilst you fuck me with the rabbit.” 

Insatiable. 

I’m frozen, my mind racing to catch up with what I just heard.

“Oh my god…” I murmur, half to myself, the disbelief quickly melting into a slow, satisfied smile. I pull back, just enough to look at you, the amusement and intrigue sparking in my eyes.

I shake my head slightly, chuckling. “You really are full of surprises, aren’t you?” I pause, before I lean in close again, my voice dropping to a low whisper.

“But if you want that…” I tease, my lips brushing against your ear, “you’re going to have to say the magic word.” My smirk deepens, waiting for that final surrender. 

“Daddy,” you drawled so seductively, “Please put your cock in my mouth, I want to suck it while I come.” 

Music to my ears.

I lean forward and kissed you again, sucking on your tongue. I can see that you want your hands free to feel me, you can hear me unzipping my jeans, the sound of it makes you writhe with excitement—but no, you don’t get to have that privilege yet.

I move to the side of you, on my knees and reach back to get the rabbit, gently stroking it down your chest, in between your tits. As I get near your pussy, I squeeze some pleasure gel all over it and then turn it on, the ears and the shaft vibrating on the lowest setting. I rub the tip downwards on your clit, you tilt your head up as I move forward on my knees and your mouth is already open, waiting for it. 

Whilst you are waiting to taste my throbbing rock-hard cock, I slide the rabbit down further, gliding across your wet pussy lips and then I reposition it so the tip is resting against your pussy, ready and waiting to enter you.

As I move my hips forward slowly and my cock starts to enter your eager mouth, I do the same with the rabbit inside your pussy. Inch by inch my cock feels your mouth as the rabbit fills you. The slow rhythm of my cock sliding to the back of your throat and then to the edge of your lips is matched with the rabbit doing the same to your pussy—slow and gentle strokes, all the way in and then all the way out, just resting on your lips. The noises you make as the rabbit enters you fully, the ears vibrating your clit, are sensational and matched by the sight of your mouth wrapped around my cock and arms stretched across the bed, tied helplessly but taking all that I have to give.

You start to speed up sucking my cock, slurping on it, loving it filling your mouth  and this is my queue to match that speed and rhythm with the rabbit—you are so wet that it is gliding in and out of you. All the way in and then out again. Still not fast—but not slow anymore—as you rock your head back and then thrust forward, taking all of me in your mouth. You then slow down and lick around my tip, and I do the same with the rabbit, just the tip rubbing around your open pussy. Then you push forward and take my cock, upto my balls, all the way in your mouth and I slowly push the rabbit all the way in you—as far as it can go, the ears in perfect position to stimulate your clit again. You hold me there in your mouth, not moving at all, and I do the same with the rabbit. This is so passionate and sexy—I could shoot my cum down your throat now—but no way. 

I continue to match your speed and rhythm with the rabbit, letting you have some control. But now it's time for me to take that control back—and taste your smooth, shaven, delicious pussy. So I slowly and gently slide the rabbit out of you as I also pull my cock out of your mouth. As both leave you, you let out the most gorgeous and sexy moan, and—

Was that a smile?

Oh, I saw it. You tried to hide it, but there it was, slipping through for just a moment. And honestly? That’s a huge turn-on. 

I move to the end of the bed, in between your legs, my mouth inches away from your amazing pussy. I can't tell you how gorgeous it is—the mere sight of it makes me want to come. I push your knees as far apart as they can go to admire your soaking wet pussy. I can see your clit bulging, wanting attention. I can see your lips slightly spread apart and shining from your wetness. I follow your lips down, drinking in this magnificent sight —until my eyes lock on to your pussy, which is aching to be filled.

I slowly edge my mouth close to you, and then take one giant lick, from the bottom of your pussy to the top, with the whole of my tongue.

“Oh my f—uck,” you arched wildly against the restraints. You’re so sensitive now, “Bucky—Daddy. . .”

"Please," you whisper, your voice shaky, hesitant, like you’re not sure if you should even say it. But you do. And it’s music to my ears, “I want you. . .”

I tilt my head slightly, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Oh, baby,” I murmur, my tone dripping with amusement, “you want me? I think I need a little more than that.”

I watch you squirm, enjoying every second of your hesitation, savoring the way you’re trying so hard to find the right words. “Come on now,” I add, my voice soft but laced with command. “I need to hear exactly what you want. You’re already begging—why stop there?”

I chuckle lightly, leaning in closer. “Let’s not play shy now, not after how far you’ve come.”

Using my thumb and finger on each side, I prize open your pussy lips. You are so open and I can see you pulsating. You push your buttocks into the mattress, which elevates your pussy ever so slightly—meaning my tongue is at the exact height and pointing directly at you. 

“Your cock daddy. . .please, I need to feel you inside me.”

I chuckle, “Soon, my good girl.”

I push my head forward until my tongue enters your pussy, your juices flowing out either side of my tongue. They taste amazing as they ooze into my mouth. I didn’t stop, either, fucking you with his tongue, growling as I held your legs open as wide as they would go. 

“You are so wet,” he snarled. “I fucking love it!” 

“So good,” you muttered, long past the point of coherence. “Yes, it’s so good.”

The corners of your mouth lifting as you let out a satisfying smile, your hands gripping the slack length of the restraights tightly. The whole sight of you, as well as your wetness and taste is utopia—I never want this to end.

× × × ×

YOUR POV

After a few more thrusts of his tongue, he shifted to you clit, but there was no teasing this time. He licked you ruthlessly, relentlessly, until you began shaking, your hips rocking as you chased a second orgasm. You nearly levitated off the bed when it finally crested, your body splintering apart into a million pieces, destroyed. 

“James!” You screamed his name and strained against the ties holding you down as it went on and on, wave after wave of white-hot bliss.

The sudden yank of the blindfold pulls you from the haze you’ve been drowning in. Light filters in slowly, and your vision, still blurry from the darkness, begins to sharpen. The world starts to come into focus, and your eyes immediately lock onto him.

Bucky came up on his knees and began furiously jerking his cock, eyes hooded, mouth hanging open as he grunted. His gaze locked on your swollen pussy until his movements grew uncoordinated, his hips stuttering, and hot jets lashed all over your belly and chest. Like he was marking you. 

Oh my god—did the camera catch that?

He squeezed to get every drop of come out of his dick and onto your body, then sat on his haunches, chest heaving. You were covered in him, the liquid cooling on your bare flesh. Pleasured and used by the last man you should ever be attracted to.

Now he was stroking his dick again, the muscles in his arm flexing as he pumped that giant rod between his legs. God, he had a gorgeous cock and you felt an answering tug in your lower half.

You watched his fist squeeze the head of his cock. A bead of moisture appeared on the tip and he used his thumb to smear it all over the head. You inadvertently licked your lips, missing his taste, and waves of heat rolled through your limbs, settling in your core.

“You like watching me work my cock?” His voice is low, teasing, but there’s an edge to it, as if he already knows the answer.

“No.” you said stubbornly.

He tilts his head slightly, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. “I’m starting to think no means yes.”

Bucky moves closer, and despite every ounce of stubbornness in you, your body betrays you again. It’s like your body is inviting him, reacting on instinct, craving what your mind is still refusing to admit. Your pussy was swollen, slick. Primed for sex.

“Deschide larg picioarele pentru mine. Mică târfă.” You heard Bucky growl in his throat.

“What?”

“Open your legs wide for me, little slut.”

God, you wanted to hate him for that, but a blast of heat tore through you. 

“Jesus,” you whispered as you widened your legs slightly. “You’re such a dick.” 

“Hmm. Do you like to be called names, Y/N?” He let go of his cock and placed his hands on either side of his hips, displaying himself for you. “Do you like your hair pulled? Do you like to wear a man’s come on your face?”

Shit, when he asked those things in his low Romanian-accented voice, it sounded like pure sex. No doubt Bucky fucked like a beast, rough and dirty. He hadn’t shown you that side of him yet. The men you had been with treated you politely, like you were made of glass. 

“Is that what you like to do to women in bed?”

Ignoring your question, he stared at your body, placing himself between your legs. “I wish you were sitting on my face right now. I would lick you and bite you, suck on your clit until you passed out. I want to pull on your skin with my teeth until it stings, then make you come so hard you squirt all over me.”

You stared at his wide cock, which jutted out proudly from his body, bobbing in his movement, with its smooth skin and veins along the side. You imagined that thickness drilling inside you, splitting you in half and filling you up. Your pussy clenched around the emptiness and you moaned.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” 

You licked your lips as you stared at his erection, too turned on to lie. 

“Yes.” Bucky raised his brows, “. . .Daddy.”

He grabbed himself again, strong fingers wrapping around the shaft as he pulled, teasingly rubbing his head against your tender pussy.

“I would fuck you so good. Deep and hard. I would give you all my come, everything I am saving up in my balls just for you.” 

“God, don’t you ever shut up?” Your legs were shaking, your movements uncoordinated because you were so turned on. So close. So needy. 

“And you’ll take it, yes?” he continued, clearly not caring that this was a one-sided conversation. “I have never seen a woman so hungry for it. Didn’t those boys in Hollywood know how to fuck you? I bet they left you unsatisfied.”

Fuck why is he dragging this out so much?!

Hands resting on your thighs, you began crooning, “Can’t you see how wet I am, Daddy? Can you see how turned on I am by watching you jerk that big cock of yours? I bet you have to use lube when you fuck, you’re so big. Do the women scream when you’re pounding inside them? Do you make them bleed, leave their pussies raw?”

“That fucking mouth,” Bucky murmurs, a low, satisfied growl escaping as a slow grin spreads across his face. The crown of his dick dragged against your entrance, teasing, and you actually tilted your hips, eager for the invasion. “That’s it. You’re ready for me.” 

You were beyond denial, beyond caring. “Yes,” you admitted to him. 

“Show me. Take me inside.”

This was so dirty. So wrong. Yet your body was humming, almost burning alive with lust. There was an embarrassing amount of wetness between your legs, more than you would’ve thought possible considering the circumstances.

You adjusted your hips, seeking, and the head of his cock slipped inside you. Fuck, yes. You didn’t stop, continuing to rock your hips, writhing underneath him, to bring him deeper. You were wild for it, desperate to reach the finish, toward the explosive orgasm you knew awaited you. 

“Shh,” he said in your ear. “I’ll give you what you need.”

He took over then, but pressed in much slower than you expected. The beginning had been about domination and strength, but now he invaded so carefully, like he wanted you to feel every twitch and tiny movement. 

This was almost seduction, and it was worse than the chaos of moments ago. But there was no stopping it. You craved this, needed it. With a growl, he gave a final thrust of his hips and filled you completely, and the air left your lungs in a rush. He was hot and hard and so big, his dick impaling you, with the heavy weight of his body and restraints preventing you from moving. All you could do was lie there and take it. 

Which made it a thousand times hotter. 

“Fuck,” he said on a long exhale, then whispered a long string of another language that sounded both bewildered and excited.

Ragged breaths gusted against your cheek as he began to move, his hips meeting your pelvis. “You are mine, Y/N. Until I decide otherwise this pussy belongs to me.”

You couldn’t respond, because his dick was destroying you in the very best way. You loved the way he felt inside you, like there was no room for anything else. No insecurities or worries, no past or future. Just this, right here. Perspiration coated your skin and he surrounded you, his cock pounding, pounding, pounding into your body. The pleasure built and you closed your eyes, focusing on the orgasm just out of reach.

The sounds of skin slapping and heavy breathing filled the room. He fucked you like it was his purpose in life, completely dedicated to the task and never slowing down for a second. With every savage thrust you slid a little on the mattress, and you were so close to coming, your muscles clenching and straining . . . . 

“You belong to me. Say it, doll.” 

The words twisted inside you, driving you higher, and the walls of your pussy contracted around his cock. 

“Fuck!” he grunted. “Do that again.”

You squeezed around him once more, and he groaned. “Tell me. Let me hear you say it.” 

His fingers slid between your body and the mattress, moving lower until he found your clit. He rubbed you in tight circles. “Let me hear you say you belong to me.” 

The words fell from your mouth on a gasp. “I belong to you, Daddy.” 

Everything changed. He rode you even harder, without mercy, his fingers never leaving your clit, “Vino pentru mine, mica mea curvă frumoasă.”

Come for me, my beautiful little slut.

The combination of the words along with the stimulation became too much. Shocks raced up from your toes as the orgasm rushed over you. Your brain went offline, everything going blank for a long moment as the euphoria transported you into space. 

“God, yes! Oh, fuck,” you heard yourself shout from far away while you shook uncontrollably. When your climax finally ebbed, he moved to his knees, releasing your legs from the restraints and lifted your hips to change the angle. 

“Yes! Shove it deep, come inside me, Daddy.”

It allowed him deeper, and after a few pumps he swelled inside you, his hips stuttering just before hot jets of come filled your pussy. 

“Oh fuck, ah!” he roared, his fingertips sinking into your flesh. No doubt you would be covered in bruises tomorrow. That should’ve horrified you, but it didn’t. After a moment, his movements slowed but he kept rocking, his dick still pulsing inside you. 

“Take it all, baby,” he crooned and lowered to kiss your chest spine. “Take all of my come. You earned it. Ești o fată atât de bună.” 

You’re such a good girl.

Fuck, you wished he would stop saying things like that. You flushed from head to toe and basked in the praise. He continued peppering your skin with kisses, displaying a tenderness you hadn’t expected. You melted like hot candle wax on the floor.

“Ești frumoasă,” he murmured as he dropped kisses along your chest. “Ești perfectă.”

You’re so beautiful. You’re perfect.

You felt butterflies in the deepest pit of your stomach. You’re not supposed to like that but you do.

Big hands swept up your back and you felt free from your restraints completely and then over your hip as he lifted you, angling your face toward his. 

“I need you,” he whispered and kissed you.

You fell into the kiss eagerly, softening for him and letting him take your mouth. You could feel his urgency, his desperation, and it fed your own. His fingers grabbed a fistful of your hair to hold you in place as his tongue and lips devoured you. 

The kiss went on and on, and your body responded as it always did to this man, your pussy getting more wet and swollen. You loved the way he kissed, with such absolute force and reverence. Like he longed to destroy and cherish you at the same time. Your skin crawled with need, a thousand pinpricks that made you feel alive and powerful. Bold, as if you could do anything. 

You decided to take a risk. You flipped it around so now you’re on top. You started moving your hand south, over his ribs and down his abs. His mouth broke off from yours and he waited, his breath coming fast. He didn’t stop you, so you continued toward his crotch, and your palm skimmed his sweat-slick muscles. 

He was glorious, a marble statue came to life. 

You found his cock, thick and hard against his belly, and you gave it a gentle brush, a tease, before continuing to his balls. He grunted when you rolled and squeezed their weight with your fingers. Most men loved to have their balls played with, and Bucky was no different. 

He spread his thighs to give you more room and you caressed him, exploring. When your hand swept the length of his dick, he jerked and rocked his hips, silently asking for more. You stroked him slowly and he exhaled against your cheek, strong fingers digging into your skin, the room quiet except for both your breathing. 

You liked having him at your mercy for a change. Your lower half began to throb as you worked him. You knew what it was like to have this big dick inside you and your pussy was weeping for it. You weren't sure he’d allow you on top, but you really wanted to ride him just this once.

You slid your leg over his hips to straddle him. He held onto your waist and the feel of all his strength and power beneath you made your mouth water. His gaze was locked on your pussy as you grabbed his cock and lined him up at your entrance. You began feeding him inside, sinking down slowly, loving the stretch and burn as he took up all the space in your body. 

“Fuck, James,” You whispered, his full name falling from your lips while you paused to let yourself adjust. 

“Da, frumoasa mea fetiță,” he said softly, “Take me inside.”

A rush of arousal went through your core and he slid deeper. You gasped, hovering between pleasure and pain, and his thumb found your clit, rubbing and pressing. Tingles cascaded along the backs of your thighs, through your belly, and soon he was fully seated. 

Goddamn, he was a lot. 

You began slowly moving your hips, sliding his dick in and out of you while grinding on his pelvis. You clit dragged between you at the end of every stroke, and it sent streaks of white-hot need along your bloodstream. Though the room was dark, you locked eyes with him, and you could see the new arousal and possessiveness staring up at you. This felt so real. So intimate. Like he could see inside you, past all your deepest insecurities to your very soul. This is what he wanted.

You focused on your pleasure and churned your hips, loving the way his length tunnelled in and out of your channel, the friction unbelievably good. You tossed your hair and arched your back, giving him a show as you rode him. 

“God, yes,” you moaned. “I want to do this all day.” 

“Feel how hard I am?” His whisper filled your head like smoke, taking you higher. “That is all for you. Just you, comoara mea.”

The unguarded hunger and lust in his expression spurred you on, so you moved faster, and the bliss soon built and coiled inside you like a spring. When you placed your hands on his chest for leverage you half-expected him to shove you off, take over, and pin you to the mattress. Surprisingly he didn’t, so you dug your nails into his flesh, holding on as you continued to fuck him. 

“Oh, shit.” you eyes slammed shut. You were so close, the orgasm was right there. 

“Look at me,” he said sharply. “Look at me while you use my dick to get off.”

You did as he commanded, so you were staring at one another when you started to come a second later. The orgasm swept through you like a tsunami, waves and waves that chased everything else away. 

Your mind went blank, his beautiful face your only anchor as you trembled and shook. The walls of your pussy squeezed him in rhythmic pulses and his lips parted on a hiss. 

Before you’d even come down, he lifted you slightly and began pounding up from below. His feet were braced on the mattress, and each powerful thrust rocked the bed and sent the headboard into the wall with a bang. 

Bending, you placed your face directly above his, your mouths inches apart. You were close enough to feel his breath as he grunted and huffed. You don’t know what made me say it, but you started talking. 

“That’s it, daddy. Give me all of your come. Every bit of it, deep inside. Make me your good girl.”

“Fuck!” His body went taut beneath you, and you could feel him swell just before he flooded your insides again with hot lashes of his come. He held you still, his fingers clamped around your hips so hard you knew you’d have bruises to add to the collection. 

“You are mine,” he ground out, his big body jerking beneath you.

Finally he sagged into the bed. You tried to catch your breath, your body sprawled on top of him like a rag doll. He was still inside you, and you could feel our sticky mess leaking out of you as he softened. 

He stared at the ceiling, arms wide, chest heaving, while sweat rolled down his temples and into his thick dark hair. You both stayed like that for a long time, neither of you speaking. You didn’t have a clue as to what to say. You felt destroyed in the very best way.

He dragged a hand down his face. Gently rolling you off to his side.

“Soak in the hot tub,” he said and pushed to his feet. “Otherwise you will be sore later.”

He didn’t help you up or even look in your direction. Instead, he jerked on some clothes and walked out of the bedroom, leaving you on the bed. Naked, filled with his come, and unshackled.

Your body still tingles from the aftershocks as you reach over to the bedside table, your hand trembling slightly as you grab your phone. Bucky had placed it there earlier, so casually, like it was just part of the routine. But now, the weight of it feels different, heavier.

You swipe the screen, the familiar glow illuminating the dimly lit room. Your thumb hovers for a second before you press play. The video begins, and there you are—captured in the heat of the moment, vulnerable, raw.

You feel a strange mixture of curiosity and disbelief watching yourself like this, seeing everything from a perspective that isn’t your own. Your breath catches in your throat as the sound of his voice, low and commanding, fills the room again. Each word, each movement, feels magnified, more intense than you remember.

As the video plays, you notice the moment when Bucky shifts, his gaze no longer on you but directly into the camera. That smirk, the one you’ve seen a thousand times, is aimed at the lens—not at you. For a second, it’s as if he’s performing for the camera, not for you, and the realisation sends a shiver down your spine.

He knew. He knew you’d be watching this later, knew exactly how it would feel for you to see him like this, his eyes focused on the camera while you were completely unaware. The deliberate way he captured the moment, not just for you but for himself too, is unsettling—and somehow, impossibly, it draws you in even more.

It was all planned. A reminder that even in the heat of it, Bucky was always one step ahead.

[puppyplayhouse]

Step brother Hyunjin things

Warnings: puppy reader, degradation, blackmail, choking at some point, dub con, kissing.

Lil headcanon of mean step bro Hyunjin (who maybe is possessive) being a dick (it's so delicious tho)

Has known you since you were both little because your parents were family friends before their respective divorces, so he knows every button to push.

Constantly using Dad against you. It's a core part of his blackmail, really. Every time you're a little less than compliant, he pulls up one of the thousands of pictures he's taken of you during your times together and asks what you think Dad would have to say about it.

Calls you puppy when people are around just to get you flustered. He's amazing at playing it off so that nobody questions it because well, he's just a good brother and you've always been SO close.

Any time he sees you alone on the couch, he's tugging his pants down and tapping his cock against your cheek. Of course, you protest. You tell him that you don't know when your parents are getting back. He doesn't care, though. He tells you that you should shut up and get to work if you don't want them to find out.

He's not always mean, though. You'd even say he's somewhat nice when you've had a really hard day and you come to him reluctantly, kneeling in front of him because you just can't be in control right now, and he's the only person who can take that from you.

He rewards you so well for that. For any willing submission you offer him, he returns it by making you cum over and over again on his fingers before he fucks you nice and slow, rolling his hips lazily into yours to drag out the low, whimpered moans that you let slip. He's only gentle with you when you earn it.

He loves to make you cum. He loves it even more when your pretty mouth is objecting to it and telling him he shouldn't be doing it, but your hips are bucking against him and your nails are digging into his arm in a pathetic attempt to ground yourself.

And he takes pictures every time. Sometimes, he'll force you to pose and use his fancy camera. Those are the more tasteful shots of you in pretty lingerie with wide doe eyes. Other times he's using his phone to capture the tears that spill down your cheeks as you gag around the length of his cock. He loves both equally.

He always has to degrade you. He'll pin you down completely still the movement of his hips as he makes you beg, always something along the lines of "C'mon, puppy. You were all talk before begging me to stop and now you're panting like a bitch in heat. Tell me you want it. That's it, more. I know you can do better than that. Tell me you're my worthless slut."

He knows you like it because your pussy is always dripping and practically pulses around him.

He would never admit it, but after a while you become the only person he fucks. Sure, he could have his pick, but he knows nobody else would look as cute as you do when you're staring up at him wide, panicked eyes, and tear stained cheeks.

He fucking loves seeing you cry. He loves watching you bite your pillow when he finds you laid on your bed and forces your pants down without a word, easily sliding his cock inside of you because you're always soaked at this point.

At some point he starts making you tell him that you love him. He has a firm grip of your throat and you're overstimulated to the point of becoming delirious as he uses one of your toys on you, thrusting it in an out of your aching cunt. "Tell me, and I'll stop, yeah? All you have to do is tell me how much you love me."

And you do. You say it like a prayer. You say it over and over again even after he's stopped, and he's got your cheeks cradled in his hands, cooing at you because you took everything he gave you without a complaint this time.

He was recording it, of course.

Recording you is his second favourite form of torture. He has so many videos of you sat pretty between his legs, your hands in fist infront of you like little paws as your tongue sticks out of your mouth, drool dripping down onto his lap to create a messy wet patch on the fabric of his pants. Those are his favourite to get himself off to.

Sweet brother Hyunjin is always nice enough to let you know when he's getting himself off to you. Which is every time. He sends you videos and pictures of his gorgeous cock fucking up into his hand and it's the only time he seems out of control, desperate for it to be you that he was burying his cock into instead.

Very rarely does he lay back and let you do the work. He likes taking charge and making a mess of you, but very rarely when you're being a good dog and sitting patiently, waiting almost excitedly for his next round of abuse, he lets you do the work. He'll pat his lap and wait for you to climb on top of him, watching in amusement as you fumble with his zipper and shove his pants down, messily grinding yourself against his bulge until he quietly tells you that if you don't move on, he'll leave.

You always perk up at that, taking it less as a threat and more as permission to sink yourself down on his cock. This is when he praises you.

He tells you how pretty you look and that you take his cock so fucking well, looking up at you with something akin to adoration sparkling in his eyes. He might even kiss you. His kisses are the ultimately reward, always slow and sensual. You become ravenous when he kisses you.

Maybe he'll even tell you he loves you. That you're his favourite puppy. He knows he loves you, and he has accepted that. But maybe he'll let you know when your grinding down onto his cock like the well trained mutt he has made you into.

He doesn't make it too sweet though. More like, "that's it. Take my cock, baby. Fuck, I love you. My desperate little slut. All fucking mine, yeah?"