#and the choice to have him sit against the wall like that

[sunrenity]

⟡ㅤㅤNERVOUSㅤ┈─ㅤPSH

ㅤㅤㅤ ( ✦ )ㅤㅤyou've got me nervous to speak

precis : you're too nervous to confess to park sunghoon.

박성훈ㅤ୨୧ㅤcrush ! sunghoon x 𝒻em readerㅤ..ㅤfluff, high school auㅤ/ㅤkissing? (once on the cheek)ㅤㅤ( 1290 )

valentine’s day is supposed to be magical. that’s what everyone says, right? fairy tales and romance movies insist it’s the day when grand confessions lead to perfect happily-ever-afters. and maybe that’s true—for everyone except you.

the halls of your high school are buzzing with excitement. heart-shaped balloons float above lockers, streamers line the walls, and couples giggle as they exchange chocolate and flowers. everywhere you look, people are confessing their feelings with trembling hands and hopeful smiles. you, on the other hand, can barely keep your hands steady.

in your backpack is a small gift bag, one you spent far too long preparing. the pink tissue paper peeking out is perfectly fluffed, and inside is a box of chocolates you know he loves, along with a folded note that’s taken up all your free time this week. it’s not just any note—it’s a confession. your confession.

and the “he” in question? park sunghoon.

park sunghoon isn’t just any guy. he’s the guy. the star forward on the school’s hockey team, with sharp features that could rival any celebrity and an easy, quiet charm that makes everyone gravitate toward him. his brown hair, always slightly tousled as if he’s just stepped off the ice, catches the light as he moves through the hallway. he’s the kind of guy who could have anyone, but somehow, he’s still… kind. that’s what got to you the most.

today, he’s wearing the school’s standard black blazer, but somehow it looks better on him than anyone else. the blazer hugs his broad shoulders, and the white dress shirt underneath is just slightly unbuttoned, giving him an effortlessly cool vibe.

you remember the first time you spoke to him. it was a year ago, back when you were assigned as chemistry partners. you’d been terrified at first—how could someone as effortlessly cool as sunghoon ever tolerate working with you? but he surprised you.

“don’t stress,” he had said when you apologized for nearly dropping a beaker. “i’ll catch it if it falls.”

that’s when it started. the little smiles he’d send your way when you accidentally got chalk on your hands. the way he’d explain things patiently, even though he didn’t have to. and, most of all, the way he’d tilt his head slightly when he looked at you, as if you were the only thing in the room worth paying attention to.

it had taken you weeks to admit it to yourself: you had a crush on park sunghoon. a big one.

now, standing in the middle of a crowded hallway with nervous energy pooling in your stomach, you’re not sure you can go through with it.

your chance comes during lunch when you spot him by the vending machines, casually chatting with one of his friends. his black blazer fits perfectly, and even the way he leans against the wall looks effortless.

you grip the gift bag tighter, your palms sweaty. every step toward him feels heavier than the last. just do it. what’s the worst that could happen?

but then, as you’re halfway there, a girl beats you to it.

she’s hard to miss. her shiny black hair is styled into perfect curls, and her red dress—a bold choice for a school day—clings to her figure like it was made for her. she’s holding out a bouquet of roses with a bright smile, her glossy lips catching the light. she’s confident, composed, and everything you feel you aren’t.

you freeze as she steps up to sunghoon. he accepts the roses politely, his expression unreadable, and your heart sinks.

for a moment, you wonder if this is it. if valentine’s day will end like every other day—with your feelings locked away and your hopes dashed.

by the time the last bell rings, you’re ready to give up. the gift bag sits in your lap as you wait in the art room, staring blankly at the wall. you couldn’t bear to sit in the cafeteria, where you’d have to watch sunghoon receive more confessions. what if he already likes someone else? what if you’ve been delusional this entire time?

your best friend, jay, eventually finds you there, his eyebrows shooting up when he sees your defeated posture.

“you’re seriously just gonna sit here all day?” he asks, plopping down in the seat across from you.

“don’t start, jay.”

he ignores you, leaning forward with a knowing smirk. “you’ve been crushing on sunghoon for what, a year? and you still can’t tell him? you realize this is, like, the perfect day to confess, right?”

“i can’t,” you mutter, staring at your hands. “he’s already gotten so many confessions today. what if he doesn’t want mine? or worse, what if he laughs at me?”

jay groans, dragging a hand down his face. “god, you’re so dramatic. sunghoon isn’t like that. he’s literally the nicest guy ever. and honestly? i think he likes you.”

you snap your head up. “don’t say that. he doesn’t.”

jay shrugs, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “guess we’ll never know. unless…”

before you can react, he snatches the gift bag off your desk and bolts out of the room.

“jay!” you shriek, jumping to your feet.

the scene that unfolds is nothing short of a nightmare. jay runs through the hallway, holding the bag high above his head as you chase after him, your face burning with humiliation.

“give it back!” you hiss, lunging for the bag, but he dodges effortlessly.

students turn to watch, laughing at the commotion, and then—because fate is cruel—you see him.

sunghoon stands near his locker, his dark eyes watching the chaos unfold. his hair catches the afternoon light, and his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh.

you freeze mid-step, your stomach dropping. jay notices him too, and because he’s the worst friend in the world, he stops right in front of sunghoon, holding the bag out dramatically.

“this is for you,” jay says, grinning like a madman.

the silence that follows is deafening.

you want to disappear, to melt into the floor and never come back. but then, slowly, sunghoon takes the bag.

carefully, he opens it, pulling out the box of chocolates first. his eyebrows lift in surprise when he sees the brand—it’s his favorite. of course, it is. you’d spent weeks noticing the little details about him, including the snacks he bought after practice.

he unfolds the note next, his eyes scanning the words you’d spent hours agonizing over. the tension is unbearable. every second feels like an eternity.

and then, he smiles. not the polite smile he gives everyone else, but something real and warm.

he looks at it for a moment before turning his gaze to you. “is this true?” he asks, his voice soft.

you nod helplessly, unable to speak.

“thanks,” he says, his voice almost shy. “i was kinda hoping you’d say something today.”

you blink, your brain struggling to process his words. “you… you were?”

sunghoon chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah. i’ve liked you since we were chemistry partners. you were just so… you. funny, kind, a little clumsy. i thought it was cute.”

your heart feels like it might burst. “you like me?”

“yeah,” he says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

the rest of the day feels like a dream. sunghoon walks you to the bus stop, his shoulder brushing against yours as you talk. he tells you more—about how he’d also been too nervous to confess, about how he kept waiting for a sign that you might feel the same.

and when he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek, you’re sure of one thing: valentine’s day is magical.

but only because of him.

[atangledfate]

Lanolin watched Sonic, Belle and Kit enter, with Sonic leaning against a wall, and Kit finding a place to sit. She rubbed the back of her neck looking to Blaze with unsure eyes. It stood to reason that GUN had its network of spies. Two people knew all about Belle outside of the people who worked here. It was easy to assume Rouge and Shadow had given all kinds of reports to GUN though she liked to believe Rouge wouldn't have given those kinds of details.

" It could have been anyone, Both shadow and rouge work for GUN and had full access to this information. But even if we say they wouldn't do that--- plenty of volunteers come and go through the workshop. Any one of them could have overheard her, or us talk about it. Or they could have gained information from the eggnet itself... how isn't important right now. The fact is they know and she's on there radar... honestly this was bound to happen eventually. I think we all knew that... "

Sonic looked at Belle flexing his hands with that anger flashing across his face again. He wasn't gonna let anyone get to Belle, and he'd die before he let them take her. But Belle was right running from GUN was probably the last thing she wanted. This was a mess and worse, it wasn't the kind of mess he could punch away. Eggman was easy to deal with but GUN? Politics sucked! But his eyes went to Kitsunami and he couldn't help but worry how he'd react to Surge's plans, damn how was he gonna do this? His eyes shifted to Rowan as he came back and he smiled!

" Hah! well ring tail! you are doing better then most! you wouldn't believe how many can't hold it down! so kudos to you! "

His thoughts broke as Miles finally made his way up stairs, and Sonic and he shared a fist Bump. At least his mood seemed 10 shades brighter as if the fox mellowed him out. His eyes turned to Lanolin as she got everyones attention now that Miles was there.

" Alright... guess that is everyone but Surge--- Here is the situation! The United Federation of Nations president has personally spoke with me. He's made his stance clear... he sees Restoration as a rogue element... it was fine at first they even commended our work. But taking in Surge, Kitsunami, and Belle seemed to set of red flags. Clutch's deception only cemented there stance... "

" The President ants to shut us down until a full investigation can be performed. It's likely he intends to arrest Surge, and Kitsunami... i can't say what his intent with Belle is yet. The point is... if we fight back we become enemies of the the free world... enemies of gun and we prove them right! I don't trust them either... i doubt Amy would... I think we have to play there game... I don't see another way out of this that doesn't get people killed and our donations cut for good... "

She sighed and rubbed her own cheek looking at Belle and Kit specifically.

" Belle, Kitsunami and Surge i get it if you want to cut and run... i won't stop you. But this ... this is the only choice we have to keep our work going... no matter what i feel about you both, and i've come to see you as friends. I have to look out for the well being of the organization... our work is to important... i hope you understand..."

Sonic let out a deep breath through his nose, he somehow ventured this was the outcome. He hated every word Lanolin said! She was just gonna give up like that? and what let them come in and shut it all down! or worse take control? this was bullshit!

" Oh come on Lanolin you can't be serious! Those guys will make up what ever story they want! just let surge and i kick there butts! and send them packing! "

" No Sonic, she's right... Restoration relies heavily on donations and volunteers. If the United Federation of Nations declares us an enemy of the state or terrorists. We'd lose all funding, and worse people would be to afraid to help out. If we fight we lose, if they come in we still lose but at least there is a chance to fight it in court, or argue our side of things... logically speaking its a risky move but... if we fight we defiantly lose..."

Miles looked over at Belle with a sad look

" It might also be a chance for Belle to finally argue her case to the people and be accepted as a citizen... but, they could also dismantle her or lump her in with eggman. This is a big risk for all parties... especially surge, Kitsunami and belle... they have a tough choice to make..."

" Well, we chaotix have always remained free lance--- but ifin' they do come in and investigate. We can do our own investigation... least have our own evidence to use against them... but as someone who grew up in the hood--- If they gots the right judge you ain't ever gonna win that case... you all sure you wanna go down that road? "

" I know this is bad but ... unless anyone has better plan... i'm out of options... and the clock is ticking. I don't want anyone hurt... we all came together to fight eggman, not the goverment. I just--- i'm open to ideas... its why i called you here... "

"Though from what I know you concealed Belle's creator besides a select few, and I believe given how different her design is only someone used to fighting Badniks could put together who she was made by. In that sense, the mole either has to be one of the volunteer soldiers that's been here a while, or someone in the inner circle." Blaze was more concerned why go after Belle. She's never been seen with Eggman, or his forces. As far as they're concerned she's just an advanced robot living her life.

"I have doubts they'd take it that far, if only because did warn Lupus that attack me is like declaring war against the Sol Empire." It was a scare tactic, though an effective one as she was sure he mentioned it to the president. "If we have too I can simply move Belle, Surge, and Kitsunami to the Sol Dimension and bring them back some place else."

"I don't think Surge or Kitsunami would like that idea very much. I'm not opposed to it, even if I don't want to runway and stand my ground I'm sure that'd be a good idea. Though perhaps convincing them to leave me alone would be better in the long run." Belle was only offering her ideas as she entered the room right after Sonic. The tinkerer didn't want GUN breathing down her neck for the rest of her life.

Rowan would walk back in, looking a bit annoyed. "You know, you could've just asked me to leave for a second to talk to her. I've never moved at high speeds and nearly threw up my lunch." The lemur guessed he was being pushy, though was also trying not to come off too strong. Guess he needs to work on that a bit more, though there are certainly a lot of people her now.

A moment later Kitsunami would walk in, not saying a word to anyone before finding a chair and sitting down. The fennec never expected Surge to be here, sure she was out by the check point as a warning for GUN not to try anything. The tenrec wants him to keep the inside of the base safe so that's what he's going to do. Only intending to assist her if she calls him.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Luck Be a Lady Tonight

Pairing: David 'Deacon' Kay x fem!SWAT!reader

Summary: During a weekend off with your team, you run into one of the FBI's most wanted criminals. With a little luck and Deacon on your arm, you catch the criminal in a trap that places him exactly where you need him.

Warnings: fluff, minor angst, depiction of gambling/casino setting, canon-typical danger and violence

Word Count: 2.3k+ words

Picture from Pinterest

Masterlist Directory | Deacon Kay Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“You look ridiculous,” you say, leaning against the wall in the hotel hallway.

“This is classic,” Street argues.

“Classic rat pack, maybe,” Tan interjects. “Heavy on the rat.”

“Alright,” Hondo says, pushing off the wall. “Street, change, or we’re going now. We aren’t going to get another weekend like this for a while.”

“He makes it sound like a bad thing,” you whisper to Deacon.

“You could’ve turned down the invitation,” he says, smiling.

“And listen to Hondo’s attempt at making me feel guilty after? That is a terrible weekend.”

Hondo calls your name, then Deacon’s, and waves for you to join the rest of your team in the elevator.

“Think I can win big at the nickel slots?” you ask.

“About as likely as Street getting any female attention in that outfit,” Tan mutters as the doors close.

Sitting at a table on the small balcony overlooking the casino, you scan the large room and locate four of your five teammates. Chris had plans with her family this weekend, so you’re the solo woman on the tip. You don’t mind; you enjoy spending time with the rest of your team, but the decision to spend the long weekend off in Palm Springs at a casino spa wasn’t your first choice.

You raise your glass, then freeze before it reaches your lips. There’s a man playing roulette who looks incredibly familiar. Lowering your glass, you watch him, observing his body language and how he speaks to the dealer. You can’t place him, so you lift your phone, putting your elbow on the table to remain inconspicuous, then take a picture of the man when he turns to order a drink. You upload the photo to the limited-access LAPD site, which returns as flagged. Only one line is legible in the scanned file, but it increases your heart rate.

“Miguel Calvo,” you whisper. Your chair slides backward as you stand, and a warm hand hovers beside your waist.

“You alright?” Deacon asks, looking at you intently.

“See the guy at the roulette table? Red jacket?” you inquire softly. Deacon nods, and you say, “That’s Miguel Calvo.”

“From the FBI’s most wanted list?”

Nodding softly, you relax as Deacon’s hand finishes the journey to your waist. He looks at you rather than watching the criminal or looking for the rest of your team. You have feelings for Deacon, not understanding how or why they started, but you feel complete beside him. You haven’t exactly hidden your admiration of him, and, on many occasions, he’s shown you he feels the same, but you haven’t crossed that line. And it looks like your relaxing weekend just turned into a chase, so you won’t get a chance to inch closer to that line.

“I have an idea,” Deacon says. “We’re out of our jurisdiction, but since he’s got a federal warrant, we should be able to make it work.”

“Tell me how I can help,” you offer, drawing Deacon’s attention back to you.

“Are you open to going undercover on our own?”

“Anything. Where do we start?”

“Well… we’re going to need a little luck.”

Your cheeks begin to hurt after the first few minutes of smiling. Between the new outfit Deacon procured for you and the flirtatious looks you’ve been sending Miguel since your return, you feel like you’re working a con. Deacon’s plan seems good enough, but it relies on you being able to get close to a man suspected of numerous felonies, including murder. He had a woman on his arm when you first noticed him, but now he’s alone and has moved from roulette to Ultimate Texas Hold ‘Em.

As you walk past the table, you hear him tell the dealer, “Lots of things worth holding here, eh?”

Dropping your smile, you look over your shoulder, hoping you convey the flirty look you’re going for. Miguel locks eyes with you before you toss your hair over your shoulder and continue walking. Exhaling slowly, you keep the deliberate sway in your hips as you exit the casino and return to the balcony. You place your hands on the railing and watch, allowing your gaze to linger on Miguel longer than anyone else in the room.

Miguel stands after winning against the dealer, buttons his jacket, and begins strolling leisurely around the slot machines. He walks past Street and Tan, none the wiser to their law enforcement ties or knowledge of who he is. When he reaches the stairs, he leaves the casino behind and walks with purpose to your side.

His hand slides around your waist, and you press your tongue against the back of your teeth to keep yourself from tensing at his touch. He tugs you once, and you laugh airily as you spread your hands over his chest, your body forced against his.

“Hi,” you say softly, tracing the edges of his jacket as you introduce yourself.

“MIggy,” he replies. “So, you’re more of an observer than a gambler?”

“I- I’m not very lucky,” you admit with a shrug. “But I like watching.”

“Well, señora suerte, let’s change that.”

He keeps his arm around you but turns you to walk with him. You feel like an accessory more than a person as you accompany him down the stairs. Street raises his hand from the machine he’s sitting at to show you he has your back. Your entire team is worthy of trust, but having Street around in this particular situation helps you breathe a little easier. Deacon is upstairs, but you’ll know when he arrives. You always do.

“What’s your favorite number?” Miguel asks, his fingers brushing dangerously low on your hip. You answer without hesitating, and he replies, “How about a little Blackjack? We’ll see how far your luck takes us.”

You stand behind Miguel, slightly to his right. The woman with him earlier stayed close to him, and when he reaches back and pulls your arm to tug you against his back, you realize it was because he wanted it. Watching over his shoulder, you raise your eyes often to locate your team.

“Room for one more?” Street asks as he approaches the table.

Miguel nods to the dealer, who steps back to deal Street in. You trace your fingers up Miguel’s back, then rest your hand against his shoulder. He leans back momentarily and kisses your jaw, making you swallow uncomfortably. Luckily, he doesn’t try anything more and returns his attention to the game.

“You said you’re unlucky,” Miguel says, spinning on his stool after another game. He holds your waist and looks up at you to ask, “What’d you have such bad luck on?”

Your eyes widen as you look over his head. He furrows his brows, and your lips part before you whisper, “Roulette. I think I got a little too comfortable betting on black.”

Miguel stands and follows your line of sight. Deacon descends the staircase, stealing the attention of men and women alike in the casino. Dressed in a black English-cut suit tailored to accentuate Deacon’s muscular build, he looks like he just walked out of a James Bond movie, and it seems you’re not the only one who thinks so. Several women walk to his side, attempting to drape themselves on his arm. He sends them the heart-stopping grin you crave to see and a polite declination.

“Roulette it is,” Miguel snaps, wrapping his hand around your wrist.

You stumble slightly, then catch yourself and hold his arm as you follow him. “Sorry,” you whisper. “Do you know him?”

Miguel shakes his head. When he reaches the roulette table, he looks at you to say, “It’s not black or red. But…” He glances at Deacon in his crisp black suit and decides, “I’m thinking that you and red might be the luck I need.”

You aren’t entirely sure if he said you in red or you and red, but you are not going to give him the luck he thinks either way. Deacon stops by the table to watch Miguel roll his dice, then drags his eyes up to your face. He’s a good actor, but there’s something in his eyes that you haven’t seen during cases before.

“Not bad,” Deacon applauds. “I’ve always been more of a bet on black guy myself.”

“Me too,” you agree, breathless without feigning it this time.

“It’s not that simple,” Miguel argues. He tightens his arm around your waist and adds, “Besides, I’ve got lady luck on my side tonight.”

Deacon smiles and says, “Ah, I see. And a beauty she is. Any chance you’re willing to spare her for one bet?”

Miguel’s jaw tenses as his hand presses against your side. “She should really stick with the guy she came in with, no?”

You pout and press your hand on Miguel’s chest again, looking through your lashes to ask, “You said I’m your señorita suerte. It won’t hurt, just once, right?”

He releases you with a stiff nod, and you loop one arm around Deacon’s elbow as you place your other hand on his bicep. Deacon smiles at you, and your grin grows into the genuine sign of joy Deacon has grown to expect when you see him.

“Wait,” you request after Deacon picks up the die. You lean over but hold eye contact with Deacon as you blow on them. “For luck,” you add lowly, returning to his side.

“May luck be a lady tonight,” he murmurs before rolling.

You watch as one of the dice goes directly onto the 20-black compartment. Deacon’s bicep flexes behind you as he cheers, and you lay your hand on his shoulders to kiss his cheek. As you step back, Deacon catches your waist.

“You are good luck,” he muses.

“Excuse me,” Miguel calls angrily. “I believe that was your one bet.”

“I’m going to walk around for a bit,” you say, stepping away from Deacon. “Nice job.”

Miguel’s jaw tenses as you begin wandering all over the room. He glares at Deacon, who raises his eyebrows with an easy smile.

“I’m the kind of man who makes my own luck,” Miguel says. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“No, I don’t,” Deacon replies, crossing his arms as his blazer stretches over his back. “Spell it out for me.”

Miguel presses his finger against Deacon’s chest and hisses, “I was behind the murders in the casino in Jackson, Mississippi. You don’t want to mess with me.”

Deacon blinks, then shrugs. “You should work on your intimidation tactics.”

“Poker room, me and you. Winner gets lady luck over there.”

“She’s a person, not a trophy.”

“Maybe to you.”

Deacon smiles again as he asks, “You want to play in the poker room? Let’s do it. But at least give me an idea of what I’m getting into if I were, hypothetically, to make sure I won. No cost too high.”

“The last time a dealer gave me the wrong cards, I caught him in the parking lot and put a Glock 17 in his ear. That enough hypotheticals for you?”

“It’s enough for me,” you say.

Miguel looks over his shoulder, and you wave as you hold your off-duty weapon at his back. Street and Hondo approach him from either side, but you nod to Deacon to do the honors.

“You’re under arrest. The FBI will be here in a few minutes to pick you up. Now, you can walk out with us peacefully, maintain the tiny reputation you have,” Deacon explains. He lowers his voice and leans closer to Miguel to finish, “Or I can drag you out of here and make you beg for a little more luck.”

“I vote option two,” Street mumbles, but you barely catch it as you watch Deacon.

“I’ll walk,” Miguel whispers. “And I’ll give up someone bigger than me, the man who helps me win.”

“That’s a discussion for you and the U.S. attorneys’ office,” Deacon says, wrapping his hand around Miguel’s arm. “Start walking.”

You knock on Deacon’s door, and when he opens it, he invites you in without a word.

“Thank you,” you tell him as you cross your legs beneath you in the chair beside his bed. “I couldn’t have done that without you, at least not that smoothly.”

“The feds seemed to think you could,” he says with a smile, reminding you of how many officers personally thanked you for bringing Miguel Calvo into custody.

“You called me lady luck,” you muse. “Do you think there’s room for doubt?”

Deacon walks to you, leans over, and places his hands on the arm of the chair you’re in. There are mere breaths between you, and Deacon gives you a moment to notice it, struggles to control you’re breathing in the proximity, and then promises, “Not a bit.”

“Are you going to tell me where you got the dress now?” you inquire.

“Someone’s assistant was bringing it from the dry cleaners,” he answers. “But I don’t think that’s what you really want to talk about.”

You shake your head, and Deacon shifts to place one hand on the back of your head. You’ve showered and pulled your hair back simply after an afternoon with an over-the-top hairdo, and Deacon finally feels like he’s holding you again. He kisses you, lowering himself until he’s on his knee and level with you. You loop your arms over his shoulders and decide you are lucky. The man kissing you is all the proof you’ll ever need of that.

“Hey, Deac, I-“

You pull away from Deacon as Street stops talking. As you wipe your finger under your lips to fix your lip balm, Street looks between you and Deacon.

“Before you get mad, I just want to point out that you gave me a key,” Street begins.

[echo-goes-mmm]

Ambrose and Elliot Extra #5

Masterpost

This takes place after Elliot has passed away in his sleep, sometime in his 80s

Warnings: Aftermath of major character death, Grieving 

Ambrose stood at the grave, tears running down his cheeks. 

“It isn’t fair,” he sniffled, wiping his eyes. “I thought- I thought we’d have more time.”

“I know,” Janus said, his hand on Ambrose’s shoulder.

“I wish-” Ambrose cut himself off. He looked up at the sky, blinking away more tears. “I’m being selfish.”

“You’re allowed to be. You’re grieving.”

“Why- why didn’t he take it? He didn’t have to die. He should’ve-”

Ambrose sobbed.

Janus pulled him in close, and let him cry. He didn’t say that it was Elliot’s choice to remain mortal, they both knew that, and it wasn’t what his husband needed.

“Can’t you bring him back?” Ambrose choked out. “I miss him.”

“I’m sorry,” Janus said. No one, not even a god, could bring back the dead.

Ambrose curled into Janus’s chest. “It’s not fair,” he repeated. “I loved him so much. We should have had more time. If I had been better-”

“You still love him,” Janus said gently. “It doesn’t stop now that he’s gone.”

Ambrose went quiet.

“And you gave him happiness for nearly sixty years.”

“It wasn’t enough. Not for me.”

___________________

Ambrose stared up at the sky. He lay next to the headstone, watching the clouds. 

Elliot liked the sky. He said blue was his favorite color because it was the sky.

He closed his eyes. He hadn’t moved for three days, and had no intention to. Even if Janus tried to coax him inside with lunch.

A shadow fell over him, blocking the sun. Ambrose opened his eyes again, numb.

“Are you busy?” Janus asked.

“Yes.”

He felt Janus sit beside him in the grass, and his husband placed a hand over his.

“You should eat.”

“I don’t have to.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Okay.”

“You can eat out here if you want.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Janus went quiet. “Can I show you something?”

___________________

“Where are we?”

They were standing in a meadow, hand-in-hand. A warm spring breeze gently brushed Ambrose’s face, carrying the scent of flowers and freshly baked bread.

A cottage sat not far away. It had a thatch roof and stone walls, with an overflowing garden laden with ripe berries and ready-to-pull vegetables. An apple tree cast shade over the stone footpath, its fruit fragrant. 

“Go on,” Janus squeezed his hand. “You’ll like it.”

Hesitantly, Ambrose walked up the path. A mew sounded beside him, and he looked down to see a cat step out from behind the tree. A tortoiseshell kitty, black and orange with white socks and white patches around her little pink nose. She yawned before rubbing up against his leg, purring.

“Hello,” he told her, and she blinked up at him with green eyes. He cast a glance back down the path, and Janus gave him an encouraging smile.

He knocked on the door.

It opened, and- and on the other side-

“Ambrose! You came to visit me!”

Ambrose launched himself into Elliot’s arms, sobbing.

Elliot had always been smaller than him, but in that moment, it felt like Ambrose slotted perfectly into his arms.

Then his brain caught up with him.

“I-” he pulled away, sniffling. “How? You’re- You’re dead.”

Not only was Elliot seemingly alive, he was younger. Thirties, maybe, when he had died at eighty.

Elliot smiled at him. “I know I’m dead, Ambrose. It’s okay.”

Ambrose stared at him. Elliot didn’t call him Ambrose, he called him sir. 

“Come in,” Elliot said, stepping aside. “I’ve got pie in the oven. You too, Janus.”

___________________

The cottage was cozy, with a fireplace and open living room that flowed into a breakfast nook and kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the windows, and he could smell blackberry pie.

There was a portrait gallery by the stairs, images of people Ambrose recognized. Him and Elliot, Janus and Ambrose, Judy, Katie.

Even a portrait of someone he recognized as a young Molly.

Did Elliot remember her?

The cat mewed, snapping him out of his daze. She hopped up on the round wooden table.

“There you are Ms. Pebbles,” Elliot exclaimed. He rubbed her cheek, and she began to purr. “Were you waiting for my family?”

“You named her Ms. Pebbles?” Ambrose asked. My family my family my family-

Elliot glanced over at him, smiling. “No. I just knew her name is Pebbles. I call her Ms. Pebbles to be respectful.”

“Ah.”

Ambrose cast a look at Janus, who seemed unperturbed.

A timer gently chimed on the counter, and Elliot shut it off before opening the oven. He pulled out the pie, which smelled heavenly.

Elliot looked so happy, and the scene was so surreal that he couldn’t handle it.

He stared down at the table, his vision blurry.

“Ambrose? Are you okay?”

He stood up, chair scraping against the floor.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, and fled outside.

___________________

Ambrose sat underneath the apple tree, arms wrapped around himself.

Janus appeared next to him.

“Is this even real?” Ambrose asked, wiping his tears. “Did you put me in a dream? Why would you-”

“I didn’t,” Janus interrupted. “This is Elliot’s afterlife.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s what his soul wanted. Everything here makes him happy.” Janus ran a hand over the trunk of the apple tree. “It’s designed for him.”

Ambrose sucked in a breath. “If I had known he wanted a cat-”

“Stop that.” Janus told him firmly. “He might not have even known it when he was alive, anyway. Stop trying to be perfect. You’re just a man.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“Come have some pie before Ms. Pebbles eats it.”

Ambrose stood. “Cats can’t eat pie,” he argued, smiling.

“You never know with soul guardians, and I want pie.”

___________________

Ambrose put down his fork. The pie was delicious, and he told Elliot so.

“You taught me how to make it,” Elliot said, smiling into his cup.

“I did?”

“Mhm. When I was twenty-five, I think.”

Ambrose shifted. “That was so long ago.” He glanced at the portrait wall. “What- what else do you remember?”

Elliot looked uncomfortable, his smile dropping. “What do you mean?”

Ambrose stood, wandering to the portraits.

He saw a young Molly, with two adults that definitely weren’t the Fletchers.

“Do you know who these people are?” he asked.

Elliot joined him, looking up at the framed painting. “No,” he admitted. “But…” Elliot chewed his lip, and Ambrose felt guilty that he had ruined Elliot’s perfect afterlife scene.

“I know I love them,” Elliot said finally. “I know they love me.” He shook his head. “I don’t know who they are. But I think it’s enough that they love me.”

Elliot looked at Ambrose, his blue eyes sparkling and happier than Ambrose could ever remember seeing him.

“I know you love me. I love you too, you know.”

“Yeah,” Ambrose said, sniffling. “I know.”

___________________

“When can I see him again?” Ambrose asked, standing at the edge of the grave.

Janus squeezed his hand. “Whenever you want.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

taglist:

@cupcakes-and-pain @secretwhumplair @paintedpigeon1 @whump-blog @whump-em

@thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @starfields08000 @littlespacecastle @mylovelyme @whump-cravings

@zeewbee @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @fanastyfinder @roblingoblin285 @whumpzone

@snakebites-and-ink @astrokea @latenightcupsofcoffee @tobiaslut @whumpsoda

@loserwithsyle @bitchaknso @cepheusgalaxy @taterswhump @fleur-a-whump

@hellodecisionparalysis @otterfrost @decaffeinatedtimetraveler94 @risk606 @i-walk-on-the-dark-side

@phoenixpromptsandstuff @haipasa @morning-star-whump

[likearolloftape]

[redding]

oh my GODDDD i fucking love the rick vs okafor argument in episode one holy shit it's so good. craig tate and andrew lincoln complement each other so well it's SO tense SO emotional SO interesting i will never be over it i fear

[lisbonsteresa]

i'm going to SCREAM

[here-there-were-dragons]

my mother is absolutely convinced of some nonsense conspiracy theory that (in her words) "originally humanity lived in peaceful all-woman societies of goddess worshippers who took care of eachother and lived in harmony, while males were roving loners that had no society and never cooperated. that changed when the men banded together and overthrew the peaceful woman-dominated societies, and enslaved us all." and, according to her, this is proof that a woman-dominated world would be innately more peaceful, and that men are innately violent and evil and should be either barred from holding any legal power or leadership roles or at least should be (again in her words) "gelded like bulls" to remove their testosterone before even being considered for such a thing.

she also evidently believes that the problem with all religions today is primarily that they aren't "goddess worshippers", because she seems to think goddess religions are inherently peaceful and pure too and seems to be especially obsessed with "Isis" in particular. the very very few times she's openly considered it unambiguously bad for some population or another to have been exterminated (she's got a bad case of devil's advocating genocide brain), she's gone out of her way to make up some crap about how said people were a peaceful society of goddess-worshippers, almost always of isis. delusions of isis-worship seem to be the only thing that ever causes her to consider any arab or middle-eastern culture, society, or ethnicity to be relatively uncomplicatedly undeserving of extermination, in fact, because every fucking time she doesn't immediately start devils-advocating it and making remarks about how "the rest of the world should box them in and let them blow eachother up" it's when she's whinging on about how whatever specific micro-ethnicity she's thinking about are or were traditional persecuted isis-worshippers.

the sole major exception to her weird fixation on isis worship justifying worthiness of life is the whole israel thing going on, in which she has consistently made very obvious that literally the only reason she's against the genocide of palestine is because it gives her an excuse to even more openly hate jewish people than she already did. and honestly i'm not sure even that's true because i think she's made some offhand remarks about palestinians having probably been peaceful isis worshipers before the jews infected them with christianity or something anyway.

so for the last, however fucking long it's been i've been constantly having to listen to her go off about how this behavior is in the jew's blood or whatever and that they literally invented all genocide because somehow the concept didn't exist before them and wouldn't have ever been invented by the rest of humanity without those jewish aliens dropping it in i fucking guess apparently and she furthermore goes on about how every single genocide and mass-oppression movement in history is directly inspired by them, ESPECIALLY the nazis, and THEN i have to listen to her rant about how, basically, wwii was something they entirely brought on themselves by "dominating the economy and treating everyone not them like shit" and the nazis were just "using their own tactics back at them". and then she goes on a rant about how the people the original jews exterminated back in the day (aka the first ever genocide, which they invented, because jews invented genocide and hate according to her) in the middle east region were peaceful matriarchal isis-worshipers.

and then she starts making comments about arabs being backwards and palestinians either being mysogynist muslims that should be boxed in to blow eachother up with everyone else or secret peaceful isis worshippers corrupted by men's cruel hand, sometimes in the same sentence, entirely dependent on which group she's more in the mood to hate at the time.

it's exhausting. beyond exhausting. her sole purpose in existence seems to be to have the singularly most exhausting set of politics physically possible to fit into one person.

just, sometimes i think, if there really is anything at all to the incredibly stupid and inexplicably popular idea that anyone or anything has a Purpose tm to exist for, i feel like my mother's purpose is to be walking proof to me of a Type Of Guy That Is Real, cause i sure as fuck would have trouble inventing this mess if it wasn't standing right in front of me spewing confusingly bipartisan hate. all of her thoughts and opinions are these long winding nonsense chains that feel like if that man carrying thing sketch about the friend with confusing politics was a person. on meth.

[webism]

would anyone hear me out on shiu cucking toji?? because toji is arrogant beyond belief and a lot of the time i see (and thoroughly enjoy) him cucking shiu, fucking his partner hard and rough and ‘right’.

but what if it’s a rough cut and mean toji made to sit down and watch shiu eat you out, pull orgasm after orgasm out of you because he’s finally letting you have a chance to breathe during sex.

and when he fucks you it’s rough, sure, but it’s oddly intimate in a way toji isn’t good at—shiu fucks you in missionary and toji initially scoffs at the boring choice of position but you spend half of shius time inside of you just kissing him. and when you’re not, his eyes are locked on yours and he’s able to whisper the sweetest of praises against your lips.

and toji realises when he’s fucking you against a wall or pressing your face into the sheets while he gives you backshots, he’s not able to ‘make love’.

and he realises when you cum around shius cock in trembling gasps and overwhelmed tears, that you don’t sound like that when you cum for him — all pretty and desperate and exhausted but pleading for more. had you been faking it with toji?

oh and also he cums his pants just watching you get treated right because you look so good all blissed out with shiu and not just fucked tired like when you’re with him. so when shiu offers to show him how to ‘make love’ to you, he takes him up on that offer — because he’s rather die than miss out on the chance to make you sound like that himself.

[moechies]

“‘s okay, calm down pretty girl,” suna purrs.

you whine, suna’s fingers coming up to comb through the soft locks of your hair. his cock slips out from under you, missing your cunt before dragging across your thigh.

suna almost laughs; laughs at the naivety of your actions. how could a girl in her 20s not know how to sit on cock? but much less is expected from a virgin, he presumes.

he sees your pretty bulbs well up with tears in frustration, a light blush crawling up to your cheeks as you nibble on your bottom lip; so he decides to play it nice.

“i—i can’t! c—can’t do it, help me, rinnie!”

“shh,” he chuckles, pressing a plush kiss against your puffed cheek. “rinnie will teach you, okay?”

you huff, not in acceptance or denial; you want him to do it all! you want him to lay you down and take you there, and not have to go though all of this humiliation. but he insists; insists that it’ll hurt less, and it’ll feel better quicker. but truly, it’s just to see you like this.

all teary and frustrated, with the cutest pout on your face. he thinks you look like a doll.

“line yourself up with the tip,” he whispers, laying back once again, leaving all of the work for you. you do as you’re told, taking a hold of his cock with writhe, shaky fingers. you lift the heavy weight from his stomach, pointing the bulbous tip peripheral to your fat slit.

“g—good,” he breathes, a warm hand coming to envelop your shaky thigh. “now press the tip against your slit, like they’re kissin.’”

suna chuckles when you huff at his poor choice of words, but you do just so, lowering yourself onto his cock just so his cock head sits within your slit.

“almost there,” he groans at the mix of your twos juices from below, breathes shaky. surely it hadn’t been his first time, but this was so damn intimate. it made him nervous. “yeah, now press yourself onto him.”

and you do; feeling your walls clasp against the fat of his cock. it's overwhelming for the both of you; and he was sure you'd fail to get him inside again. "rin—!” you gasp, a lilt burn in your cunt. you want him to make it all go away. “b—burns, rin, help,”

he shushes you gently, both hands coming to support your giving thighs from under. it's too much pressure on his sweet girl, he knows. but it would've been such a pity to miss this sight; your eyes lidded, lips swollen and plush, and entire body flexed with a thin coat of sweat that paints you, and it makes you look like gold.

“that’s it , takin’ me so well, angel girl. mhm.” he sighs, lowering you to grind onto his tip. you whine at the intrusion, in disbelief that you’d have to take any more than this some day. it’s so thick.

“r—rin,” you cry, hips following the movements of his leading hands, “it feels s—so good!” you moan. oh, you’re distracting him, gorgeous girl. suna’s left hand slips from under, allowing your weight to pummel your cunt further onto his dick on accident.

“fuck, sorry baby.”

you squeal in a slight pain, fist clenching against his shoulder. you throw your head back unintentionally, throat dry with a hoarse gasp.

suna holds still, and it feels a lot better once you’ve settled down. “feels better angel? c’mon, tell rin.” you mewl in content, giving him a short peck on the lips. “m-mhm, feels better.. hnn—“

you’re a sweet little thing, and he adores every single inch of you.

“kay, doll. ‘s time to make rinnie feel good too, okay ?”

[yuutryingtowrite]

Yandere!Barista who is the “poster boy”of the coffee shop he works at. It is honestly deserved: he has a pretty face, a charming smile and a playful yet sweet attitude. He is especially popular among the girls…who he keeps rejecting. He is just not looking for something casual, you know? He dates to marry, not to be someone’s eye-candy.

Yandere!Barista who, one day, sees you walk into the store. Is that a Corroded Coffin shirt you have on ? He loves that band! This is what he tells you when it is your turn to order. What do you mean he looks too much like a goody two-shoes to be a fan? Alright, Miss “I am so dark and edgy”, what do you want to order? Black coffee? The banter goes on until he has to shoo you away, with an amused smile, as the other people in line are starting to get impatient.

Yandere!Barista who glances your way every chance he gets. Not only are you fun to talk to, but you also look really cute. Sometimes, between orders, he gets to converse with you. He eagerly returns your small wave when it is time for you to leave. As he goes to your table to collect the receipt, he finds your cup still there. On it, there is a small doodle of him along with your number. A pink hue dusts his cheeks as he brings a hand to cover the side of his face. He is definitely keeping that cup.

Yandere!Barista who saved your number under “Cutie <3”. The more you text each other, the more you hang out together, the more he becomes obsessed. It is honestly starting to scare him. The other night, he had your cup in his hands to look at the doodle. Next thing he knew, he had his lips where yours had been when you were drinking from it. It flustered him so much, he threw the cup in the trash bin afterwards…only to go get it back five minutes later…He is asking you out on a date for sure next time he sees you.

Yandere!Barista who does your coffee with trembling hands. He really doesn’t want to do this, but you didn’t leave him a choice. Today, on your usual table, you are sitting with a man other than him. He can’t possibly lose the only person who took the time to get to know him beyond his looks. The drug should work in about fifteen minutes, five minutes after closing time. This should be perfect, you always wait for him to close the shop and walk home together. He can do this, he can do this, he can do this…You will be happy at his house, you will be happy with him. It is with a heavy mind and painful heart that he gives you your order.

Yandere!Barista who you got pinned against the wall of the storage room, one hand beside his head and the other one holding your cup. He is as white as a ghost. He keeps looking around. He is sweating all over. This couldn’t be. You couldn’t possibly know- You firmly grab his jaw and turn his face towards you. “Drink”, you say coldly. What are you gonna do to him after he becomes unconscious? Will you report him to the police? Will you hurt him? He closes his eyes tightly as you bring the cup to his lips. The moment it reaches them, you drop it on the floor and replace it with your lips. His eyes open in shock as you give him a small, tender kiss. “That was my cousin, idiot”, you tell him affectionately. You look at him for a couple more seconds before putting on your bag. He is still frozen in place as you add: “Tomorrow, 6pm, at my house. Alright?”. You leave before he can answer.

Yandere!Barista who slides down the wall until he is sitting on the floor. All that is left of him is a blushing, quivering mess. With shaky fingers, he touches his lips; a small whimper involuntarily comes out his mouth. He is about to combust. He feels so weak, he can’t get up. You scared the shit out of him, but that was so hot ahh…He didn’t know you could be this assertive. And that kiss…he buries his face in his hands and groans. Kissing you is all he has ever dreamed of, yet he stayed still like a dumbass when it finally happened. He is so lame-you make him so lame. Guess tomorrow would be his chance to redeem himself.

[tired-biscuit]

Logan would probably moan like he’s having the best sex of his life from just a shoulder massage. Do you think he’d deny he needs one? Or would you catch him off guard while he’s asleep?

18+ MDNI, fem!reader // cw: friends to lovers, unexpected mutual pining, logan realises he’s touch-starved after you offer to give him a backrub, and you both get turned on by it.

divider credit: div1nepetal

what if you’re, like… his friend, who’s grown to care deeply about him over the years and wants nothing else but to help him out a little from time to time in simpler, more ‘humanly’ ways because of said caring?

i mean, he’s got super fast healing and all that jazz, sure, however that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t get sore and thus — unbearably — cranky about it… and since you’ve known each other for so long, you’ve also gotten quite comfortable in each other’s company! so it wouldn’t be that odd if you were to offer to relieve the pain in your friend’s back when he swings by your place one random evening… right?

it’s really just to make him feel better, nothing else! because as soon as he flings himself onto his favoured spot on your worn out couch (a dent that he fucking made with the help of his heavy adamantium ass), you catch him repetitively stretching his neck from side to side and rolling his shoulders every so often with a furrowed brow and a tight-lipped expression that somehow manages to appear even grumpier than his usual neutral.

you steal glances because of it. listen intently to the laboured sighs he keeps letting out. and after leering at him and his struggles from the corner of your eye for a little while, not at all paying attention to the movie that you’re supposed to be watching with him, you finally succumb. you turn to the side and propose your offer whilst wiggling your magic fingers, as you like to call them, right in front of his face, and logan, as is expected, denies it by gently swatting your hand away.

taking over pretty much the entire space on the couch from how he’s manspreading, he doesn’t even peel his eyes from the television that — unlike you — he’s actually watching when he tells you that, “you don’t gotta worry about it” and that it’s not that bad, then. for some reason, he even feels the need to add that he can handle himself just fine.

it all makes your eyes roll.

and instead of listening, you rather choose to persist. he’s a wall whenever he makes up his mind on something, you know this, but you also know that if you nag him and scold him for long enough, prodding and picking at the cracks between phantom bricks, he’ll have no choice but to give in and give you what you want just to make you stop… though not without adding a snide comment or two himself during it because he can’t help but act like a dick sometimes around the people he’s fond of, it’s just the way he is!

as you tell him to scooch over and lay on his stomach, you feel just a little bit bad that you had to resort to annoying him in order to being allowed to help him. however, the guilt isn’t nearly as strong as is the sense of victory that you’ve just achieved, so you allow it to curl the corners of your lips into a satisfied, cat-like smile while you busy yourself by straddling the small of his back. he can’t see your face anyway, so what’s the issue?

meanwhile, logan lets out a tired exhale, smushing one cheek against the decorative pillow that he’s folded his arms under so that he can still watch the tv while you work your supposed magic. he listens to your sheepish apology and request to tell you if you’re too heavy, to which he responds by calling it nonsense and that you’re insulting him by thinking you’re heavy whilst sitting on top of a guy who’s literally filled with metal.

and filled with metal he is, indeed! it’s not long before you realize just how much freaking pressure you have to apply to his shoulders and back in order to make him feel something. how much physical strength you have to put into it, to the point that you’re nearly sweating because of it. popping a bone in order to ease some of the tension is literally impossible, so you aim your focus onto the taut cords of muscle instead.

you can see them even through the thin white shirt that he’s wearing — they’re that profound. flexed and attractive, attained with hard work. but they become even more visible when he reluctantly lets you roll the hem of his shirt up towards the collar, unfolding his arms just so that he can lift the upper half of his body, and you right along with him, with no visible effort whatsoever.

the air in the room shifts a little after that; it gets kind of tense. because all of a sudden, you’re skin to skin. his should be covered in scars, but he’s lucky enough to have them all healed and smoothed away by his power. and while he may not be able to feel relief in his adamantium-covered bones, he sure as hell can feel the warmth of your palms running down the slopes of his broad shoulders, the grazing of your nails that nearly makes him shiver when they reach a particularly ticklish part on the nape of his neck, the heat between your legs as you continue to sit on him, dressed in nothing else but a pair of comfortable and tiny shorts…

forcing himself to be a loner, logan isn’t used to being touched like this all that much, and it makes him sensitive. and as a result, he can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut and groan in absolute pleasure when you readjust by wiggling your hips on top of him and lean in super close to really dig your fingers into his strong back.

you pause at the sound; he can hear your breathing hitch a little before it continues to fan his shoulder blade. he’s already halfway on opening his mouth to say something in order to avoid things from getting too awkward even if he’s not the kind of man who minds if they do, when all of a sudden it hits him.

it’s barely there, just the faintest whiff of something sticky and sweet. it would be impossible to catch by a normal human, but he isn’t a normal human, now is he? no, he’s a mutant — a primal one, at that — and because of it, his nose is more than capable of catching a scent like this.

you’re… aroused. have gotten turned on by the sound he just made. are getting wetter between the legs by the second. and he can smell it.

fuck.

logan chooses not to say anything even if the pheromones that he’s steadily inhaling now are making his blood grow feverish to dangerous levels. meanwhile, you choose to remain quiet as well, simply continuing your ministrations as if nothing has happened.

something that does change, however, is the way you touch him. from that hiccup onward, you get more, should you say, intimate with it; even daring to comb your fingers through his rich, dark hair at some point and experimentally tugging at the roots, making him actually shiver this time.

he doesn’t just shiver, though. the action is so freaking good that it also causes his eyes to roll into the back of his head — he silently prays that he’s managed to squeeze them shut for a second time before you could catch it.

and that’s not all there is to it either. by now, his cock has become painfully hard in his pants. thick, hot and leaking pre-cum from how excited he’s getting. it makes laying down on his stomach extremely uncomfortable, but he thinks it’s better to suffer through it than enabling you to see what you’re doing to him both physically and mentally.

mind fogged by a mixture of your and now his own lust, he’s getting so horny that all he wants to do is rut into the couch while you continue to touch him. he doesn’t, of course, he’s been around for over two centuries so he’s pretty good at restraining himself, however that doesn’t mean that he likes doing it.

so he remains decent… well, somewhat. he pants a little bit, and he grunts and curses under his breath in a way that makes him sound like he’s balls deep in your cunt, folding you in a mating press and pounding away until you’re nothing but a whiny mess and his cum is trickling down your thighs, but he still tries his very best.

by the time you pat him on the shoulders and tell him you’ve finished, he fears he did, too.

[matchamiko]

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Lucky Undies

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Warnings: oral sex ( f -> receiving) m.masturbation, mentions height difference (reader implied shorter than Aizawa), reader implied big belly, thighs + ass (ie. not skinny), prev. established relationship, sooooo self-indulgent don’t look at me

₊˚⊹ ᰔ Note: disgusted with myself honestly.

“What are those?”

You stop in your tracks, toothbrush lodged in your cheek and foam threatening to drip down your chin.

Aizawa stands behind you in the bathroom doorway, eyes trained dark on the tug of your sleep shirt over your ass. Spitting into the skin, bending lower and offering more of a view, you finish washing your mouth with heat all over your face,

“I didn’t have anything else clean, s’all I got,” you explain yourself, eyes connecting with his in the mirror,

“And they’re your last resort because?” Arms folded over his broad chest sprayed with dark hair, Aizawa cocks his hip against the doorway, eyes never leaving the peak of your asscheek from beneath the t-shirt. It’s his and it’s soft and he offered it to you on your first sleepover years ago, a little tighter round the middle now but still long enough to pass as a nightie.

“They don’t fit!” You resort with embarrassment, “they pinch my hips and they go up my butt ‘nd roll down my belly if I bend down or even move,” you feel as though there’s steam hissing from your ears, suddenly regretting even putting on the offending underwear. You’d miscounted your laundry days and found yourself wearing either silky lingerie or old high legged cheeky style undies that were a very adorable baby pink and sported a little red rose at the front. Usually you wore comfortable high rise with a trusty band and often times sensible colours so to not show through your chosen trousers or skirts of the day. Maybe you’d wear a thong if you felt adventurous but comfort was key in your relationship with underwear, and being with Aizawa for so long helped you not only explore that a little bit but also enabled you to stay comfortable without judgement or ridicule.

And Aizawa liked your plain underwear, didn’t care much for it really because all he often wanted was them off or not even on in the first place. Complaining about his partners choice in underwear was beneath him; he’s a man, he’s mature and he’d much rather eat your pussy than muse over what’s covering it.

But these? He’s not seen these before.

“Cute,” he says with a gravelly voice, stalking forwards slowly, “you look cute,”

Biting your lip, you shake your head,

“I’ll just put some gym shorts on and do a quick wash, s’stupid to even try to do anything in these,” you grumble dejectedly, turning and even in your limited movements, the seam tugs over your cheek and makes you cringe.

But Aizawa is as sturdy as he is stubborn, a wall preventing you from leaving and a large hand sits heavy and inviting on your hip.

“I said you look cute,” he says pointedly, “not just the underwear, but you in general, seeing your skin makes me - desperate,”

That hand smoothes under your sleep shirt, fingering the thin, stretchy band of the panties with a heavy breath in his chest. The harder he pulls the band, the higher up your hip they go and the further up your -

“They’re just panties Shouta,” you blink up at him, leaning closer to ease his fondling, “stupid uncomfable panties that is,”

“Shh,” Aizawa kisses you quiet, a peck to keep you satisfied while his other hand drifts over to your ass, fisting the fat and spreading you meanly, “just - lemme look for a sec,”

His eyes catch the flash of your asshole in the mirror, panties caught taught and high over your ass and he groans low and deep from his belly. You clear your throat and whimper when he buries his face into your neck, teeth scraping the delicate skin there. Then - his hand rounds to your stomach, fiddling with the little silky rose before tickling the exposed skin of your belly from where the panties had dislodged and folded down.

He doesn’t often explore you this selfishly, having listened to your qualms and insecurities over your body, doing it to prove that no weight could distance him from desiring your body. But he touches you with a filthy selfish agenda and filthier moans.

Thick fingers tease you over the fabric, slippery with your arousal, sliding between your folds and circling your clit with loud little click. It’s shameful how turned on you are at his exploration of your underwear, but he’s no better; hard and heavy and leaking against your hip. ‘Nd when you look down, mewling at the thick forearm jammed between your cushiony thighs, you can see the flushed tip of his cock peaking from the sagging waistband of his underwear, black and tight and baring a hole just above the seam on his thigh.

And suddenly you understand exactly how Aizawa feels with you in underwear he’s never seen before. Because those are boxers you bought him three christmases ago and are also a result of not doing laundry often enough. And when you look up at him with your hand squeezing him through the thin fabric; your shameful desperation is reflected in his eyes.

All too suddenly, Aizawa is on his knees and your lower back is cradled uncomfortably against the bathroom counter, and he’s all up between your thighs with devastating groans and grunts.

“Taste’s fuckin’ divine,” his tongue is hot and so wet against the gusset of your underwear, pulled tight over your cunt and practically frothing with how aroused you are. One hand cups your ass and spreads you, the other is crude and sharply tugging on his cock. At the taste of you. At the smell of you. Nipping your clit through the fabric and sucking hard enough to send you shuddering and shaking right down to your toes.

“Shouta ! S’too much !” You grip the top of his head, hair tangled from sleep but the tugging of the knots seem to encourage him, groaning into your cunt and huffing deep agonising breaths against your pubis. You’re on your tiptoes, one leg lifting a little even to give him space and Aizawa shuffles closer on his knees, haphazardly throwing your leg over his broad, sinewy shoulder.

It’s almost like the sensations are muted, dulled through the thin fabric of your panties. But they’re still there and you fumble with your shirt for a moment before lifting it and tucking the hem beneath your chin so you can look down, down at your boyfriend so eagerly and so messily slurping at your pussy.

He’s feral like this, eyes fluttering and nose pressed hard into your clit, tongue trying to rip through into you but failing miserably. Or not, as it seems that wasn’t his goal, simply content with tasting you through the panties that had entrapped him so suddenly. You couldn’t even feel confused and weird at his random bout of arousal over your too-small panties, too thrummed with pleasure and the shivers of an orgasm to really deep dive it.

It rears its head slowly, but with a strength you’d yet to experience before. All suction and desperate licks, moans and grunts vibrating you just enough to send you jerking into his mouth. Hips moving on their own, tits falling from the grasp of your shirt and shuddering with your movements. Your underwear slips and tugs harshly as you grind through your orgasm, pulled taught only by Aizawa’s insistent tongue and fingers. He seemed to have given up on his own pleasure, or got enough from watching and tasting you, both hands clutching your thighs around his head.

“Let up, oh my god, give me a sec Shouta,” you’re still panting hard, limbs boneless and belly throbbing with every aftershock, cunt fluttering against the sodden and stained panties, “you’re such a - now I really don’t have anything to wear today,”

Your words die from a telling off to a small sigh at the sight of him, drunk on the sight and taste of you. His eyes are heavy, mouth open and shining with your spend, cheeks flushed and chest heaving,

“Good news for me then,” he stands with a grunt, coming in close enough for you to smell the remnants of your orgasm on his lower face - but he doesn’t kiss you. Instead massaging your hips and the tangled band of your underwear, “I’m having you on my face next, ‘nd keep these on,”

He’s a pervert really, snapping the band and making you tut in disapproval. But as you follow him into the bedroom with a sheepish grin and nervous lust building in your chest; you realise you are too, for letting him indulge in this and letting him.

all rights reserved © matchamiko. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[darkbluekies]

In the dungeon

yandere!king oc x fem!reader

Summary: after disrespecting him, you've found yourself in his dungeon. Edmund comes to visit you because he has heard that you haven't eaten in three days

Warnings: self starvation, punishment, toxic relationship,

Word count: 1.1k

He doesn't like it, but what choice does he have? If people found out that he doesn't punish his own wife, what would they think of him? That he's not a well respected leader because he can't even punish his own wife? No, he can't have that. He has to do it. But by doing it, he also feels pain, so it's a punishment for both of you. That's how he explained it.

You had disrespected him, belittled him and his masculinity. And now you're here. Easier said than done. Saying the words to him was easier than doing the time for them.

Your head hangs low as footsteps echo down the spiral stone stairs. You don't look up to see who it is, don't care who it is. Another guard to switch swift.

“Oh, my love …”

You look up. Edmund is standing on the other side of the metallic bars, wearing his clean, colorful clothes made out of the finest satin. He places a plate with a silver cloche on the bench beside him. You pull yourself up from the floor slowly, back sore from resting against the stone wall for eternity and stomach empty. Edmund's ice blue eyes follow your every step. It's not often that they contain any type of emotion, but seeing you like this brings out a deep worry that seems to make his eyes glow.

You drag yourself over to the door, which is nothing more than metallic bars. You hold onto one of the cold metal rods. Edmund places his hand over yours.

“The guards have told me that you haven't eaten in three days”, he says softly, as if you could break if he raised his voice even a decibel louder. “You can't do that, Y/N. You can't worry me like this.”

As if he would have eaten that stale bread and drink that moldy water, you think.

“Can I come up now?” you whisper. “I want to get out of here”, you cry weakly. “Edmund, please …”

Edmund shakes his head carefully.

“No, not yet”, he answers with a heavy sigh. “It's going to be okay, darling”, he reassures you softly, kissing the hand he's holding. “Soon, you'll be back with me, okay? Believe me, I want nothing more than to let you back upstairs and have you in my arms, but they would think I was incompetent in my role.”

He wipes one of your tears apologetically.

“Do you care more about your power than you do me?” you whisper.

He looks taken aback, unable to know what to answer.

“Don't be like that”, he says. “You know I love you more than anything else.”

But not enough, apparently, you think and sniffle.

He looks behind you, around the cell.

“I brought some food from the kitchen”, he says. “I want to see you eat it before I leave.”

He gestures for the guard to unlock the door as he bends down to pick up the plate. You back away from the door, finding your safe spot on the floor by the opposite wall. Edmund walks over, checking the floor before hesitantly sitting down.

“Do you have to sit on the dirty floor?” he mumbles dislikingly.

“I like it”, you reply.

“Alright, alright.”

Despite grimacing and dusting of his satin clothes, he makes himself comfortable on the hard, dirty floor and opens the cloche. The smell of boiled potatoes and marinated meat meets your nose, and the sight is even more exquisite. He takes out a silver fork from his pocket, stabs one of the potatoes and holds it to your lips. You open your mouth, letting him feed you. It tastes better than you remember it to. It has only been a week since you got locked down in the dungeon, but without anything to do, without necessities and comfort, the hours creep by. For all you could care, a month could have gone by. The only form of company you've had have been the rats crawling around on the floor, just big enough to squeeze through the metal bars. They bite.

“Tasty?” Edmund asks.

You nod. Anything that the kitchen prepares is delicious — or at least a thousand times better than the rock hard bread and dusty water.

“Good”, the young king says, pleased, feeding you another fork full of meat. “It makes me feel better to see you eat.”

Eating the food he has brought for you reminds you of how badly you want to vet out of here … and how much your comfort relies on Edmund.

Edmund wipes away a sauce smudge on the corner of your lips and sticks it between his lips to lick it off. You doubt he would do that to anyone else. Ever. He has certain liberties with you which he has with no one else. He can hug you, touch you, smile at you, joke with you. You give him life in a way no one can.

“You should see how restless my hours without you are”, he sighs and rolls his eyes. “I'm a walking bomb without you. I almost feel bad for my secretary.”

“Then let me back up …”, you whisper, a last attempt to try to plead with him. “Please.”

“I can't. Not yet. I've already given you special treatment and advantages no one else has gotten. If I let you back upstairs before an appropriate time my authority will be questioned.”

“I'm sorry, Edmund.”

Your voice is barely audible. His hand stops dead in its track on its way to your mouth. A drop of sauce falls down on the floor. You can see that it hit him right in his heart, shattering it.

“Oh, I know”, he reassures you and feeds you the piece of meat. “I know, darling. I believe you.”

You chew slowly, swallow slowly. The food seems to get stuck in your throat.

“Good girl”, Edmund praises. “You can hold out a little while longer, can't you? Just a few more days?”

You nod in defeat. What other choice do you have now that your pleading didn't work?

Edmund stands up. You follow him panicked, quickly reaching out and grabbing his hand.

“No!” you shriek. “Dont leave me. I don't want to be alone!”

“It's getting late”, Edmund answers. “I thought that I would let you get some rest.”

“No … not alone … please. Please stay. Just a little while longer.”

He thinks for a second. “Okay.”

You breathe out in relief. He sits down with his back against the wall, letting you fall asleep against him, wrapped in his warm, strong arms. Leaving him alone with his thoughts — his conflicting, torturing thoughts.

When you wake up the following morning by the sun shining through the little window pane you're alone, lying on the floor, covered by a colorful cape made out of the finest satin.

[shadow4-1]

I'm just imagining having spent the night with a lover who isn't in the 141, only to wake up the next morning and there's in intervention waiting for you in the rec room.

Like, at first you're just confused. But when Price opens his mouth to ask you about how you slept...you have a bit of a meltdown. Why does it matter? Why is everyone staring at you? What's going on?

Soap grabs the collar of your t-shirt and pulls it down so everyone can get a look at the dark hickies dotting your neck. You slap his hand away, tears in your eyes.

"So all of you can do whatever you want? Sneak bitches on base and fuck around at all the bars we pass through! But I'm not allowed to do anything with someone I actually like?!"

It hurts. It feels like you're being stripped bare in front of them.

Price sighs, his gaze softens. It's obvious he doesn't want to have this conversation but something you've done has given him no choice. Soap just stands a few feet away, chest puffed out, eyeing you with a strange annoyance. You know if you try to leave he'll stop you.

"You are...not in the same position as us." Price tries and winces. He's obviously not putting his thoughts into soft enough words, but he continues. "You are...it is our responsibility to keep you safe."

"Safe? You're trying to keep me safe?" Your voice is raised higher than you've ever raised it at Price. "Safe by what? Fighting off all the guys at the bars? Safe by spreading lies about me to all of the PMCs and the other Task Forces?"

Price just closed his eyes and set his jaw. He had to know about the subterfuge you'd been experiencing for well over a couple years now. Everyone in the room was guilty as charged.

"You're and asset. And you're also a liability." Ghost speaks up, eyes narrowed, stance way too relaxed against the metal folding chair he sits in. "Do you remember what happened to the 7th Division?"

Saliva pools in your mouth, a sudden queasiness filling your stomach. Yeah, of course you remembered. Their beloved medic had been kidnapped by a group of angry drug lords using a mercenary group as their muscle. The 7th Division had gone in guns blazing to get their member back and well...they'd been wiped out. And their star medic they'd sacrificed everything for? She'd been brainwashed and inducted into the very agency that stole her away.

KORTAC

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" You mutter. "Please tell me you're not."

"We can't have you fraternizing with anyone." Price states smoothly. "As our medic, you have a responsibility to us, your team. We can't have you getting caught up in something bigger."

"I understand what you're saying, but can't you see how ridiculous this is?" You try to reason. "I'm human, I have- god this is embarrassing. I h-have wants and...needs, just like you guys."

The silence is loud. You can't meet anyone's gaze. Price steps closer to you, swallowing hard. His next few words are spoken softly, conspiratorially.

"All of your needs will be taken care of. We will never let you suffer by yourself."

Price cocks his head to the men before you both. All of them straighten beneath his gaze. Price places a hand on the small of your back.

"Whatever it takes." He commands them. "I better not hear or see anything. Do I make myself clear?"

A trio of "yessirs" bounce off the white walls. Price just smiles and nods. He pats your back.

"There we go. You'll be fine." He sighs. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to talk to your guest."

Your eyes widen, your throat drops into your stomach.

"Wait!"

"We've got ye, Bonnie. You n' all yer needs."

Six hands are on you from several different angles. Their massive frames block out the fluorescent lights.

"Ah, where are you goin'?" Gaz chuckles, his arm wraps around your belly.

You try to run after Price but the rec room door is slammed shut and locked. You try to push the closest man away, but he just grins down at you.

[brunchable]

UNDER HIS COMMAND [R 18+]

Steve Rogers × Agent!FReader

Words: 6.2K Warming: Age Gap (reader in early 20s), unprotected piv sex, domineering acts. oral (both receiving), dirty talk, praising. Summary: You drove Steve to his utmost limit, but what is it going to take to get him to calm down? A/N: I rewatched the old Marvel movies and have been feeling feral towards coughCAPT'Ncough. Bon appetitties?

The mission had gone sideways in a way that left Steve Rogers simmering with frustration. He could feel the anger bubbling up inside him, a foreign sensation that made his chest tight and his thoughts cloudy. You had gone against his direct orders, putting yourself in danger—again—and it had pushed Steve to his breaking point.

As you stood in your private cabin, both your voices echoing off the walls, Steve couldn’t hold back any longer.

“You had no right to do that, Y/N!” Steve’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharper and louder than you’d ever heard it.

Your eyes flashed with defiance as you fought back with all your frustration. "I made that call because it was the right thing to do! I was not going to allow those people to die just because you were excessively consumed with following the agenda!

Steve’s fists clenched at his sides, his muscles taut with barely restrained anger. “This isn’t about saving lives—it’s about you ignoring direct orders! You put yourself in danger, and you compromised the entire mission! You can’t just act on impulse and expect everything to work out!”

As he felt feelings he wasn't accustomed to expressing, his normally composed demeanor began to crumble under the strain of mounting aggravation. It frightened him that he could feel his grip weakening. He had never been so furious with you before; the level of intensity was nearly too much to bear.

You stepped closer, refusing to back down. “I thought about it! I knew exactly what I was doing, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat! You’re the one who doesn’t get it! You’re so obsessed with being in control that you can’t stand it when someone else makes a decision!”

“This isn’t about control, Y/N! This is about you thinking you know better than everyone else! You think you’re invincible, but you’re not! One day, your recklessness is going to get you in serious trouble and then what? How are we supposed to deal with that?” Steve’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as the anger threatened to spill over. 

Your eyes narrowed, your voice rising in anger matching his. “You’re the one who’s supposed to trust me! But you don’t! You can’t stand it when things don’t go according to your plan, so you lash out at me like I’m some kind of liability!”

Steve took a step closer, the space between you charged with tension. “I trust you, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit back and watch you throw yourself into danger without a second thought! You didn’t see how close you came, Y/N. You didn’t see what I saw!”

“What you saw?” you shot back, your voice shaking with emotion. “You’re always trying to shield me from things, Steve, but you can’t keep doing that! I’m not a child! I’m your partner, and that means you have to let me make my own choices, even if they scare you!”

As Steve struggled to control the flood of emotions that were about to overflow, his breaths came in short, quick bursts and his palms quivered. 

“You think I’m trying to control you? I’m trying to keep you alive! I’m trying to make sure that you come back, every single time! But you… you don’t think about what that does to me.”

“And what about what it does to me? Every time you go off on some mission, every time you put yourself in danger without thinking about the consequences, do you know what that does to me? Do you?”

Steve’s face twisted with frustration, his voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “I do know. I know because I feel it too, every time you do something reckless, every time you make a decision that could get you. . .” He couldn’t  say the word, “And it terrifies me, Y/N. It terrifies me because one day, I might not be there to save you.”

Even though he looks angry, worry is visible in his eyes. You tightened your jaw because you were at a loss for words to respond to him.

Steve pivoted and stomped out of the room before you had a chance to reply. He had to escape for a moment to collect himself before he spoke a word he would regret. Heading directly for the woodpile, he stepped outside, his breath coming in quick, angry bursts.

By the time you caught up with him, Steve was already there, his jacket discarded on the ground. He grabbed the axe with a force that sent a jolt of pain through his arm, but he welcomed it. He needed to feel something physical, something tangible to anchor him in the midst of the storm raging inside him.

Without hesitation, he began chopping. The axe came down with a powerful swing, the wood splitting cleanly in half. But it wasn’t enough. The anger was still there, burning hot and fierce in his chest, so he swung again. And again. And again.

These pent-up emotions had been growing for weeks, if not months, and it was evident in every swing. The fear that he would lose you, the frustration that you didn’t seem to understand how much he cared, how much it hurt to see you risking your life time and time again. He was feeling helpless and that his only option was to keep chopping, to redirect his wrath onto something that wouldn't harm you or ruin everything both had built together.

Steve reached for yet another thick log, this one feeling rock-solid and unmoveable. None of that mattered. His muscles tensed as he lifted the axe above his head, and he lowered it with such power that the wood splintered. Although he felt the hit all over, it failed to provide him with the relief he had hoped for. He was being torn apart by the rage that remained dormant, just below the surface.

“So this is it? You’re just going to chop wood until the problem disappears?” Amidst the steady clack of the axe on wood, your irritated, sharp voice sliced through the air.

Steve didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The overwhelming wave of feelings he couldn't articulate washed over him, leaving him unable to speak. He swung the axe again, harder this time, as if he could somehow chop away everything he felt.

But then, a switch went off in his brain. That axe wasn't cutting it. He needed more—he needed to break something with his own hands, to feel the physical release of the anger that was consuming him.

He snatched up yet another log, this one heavier and thicker than the rest. His hands, still trembling with fury, gripped the log tightly. His muscles bulged as he poured all his anger, all his frustration, into his grip.

“Steve, talk to me! You can’t just—”

But before you could finish, Steve let out a low, guttural roar and pulled at the log with all his might. The wood resisted at first, but Steve was relentless. His biceps strained, his veins standing out against his skin, and with a deafening crack, the log gave way. He tore it in half with his bare hands, the wood splintering under the sheer force of his strength.

The pieces fell to the ground with a heavy thud, the sound almost drowned out by the ringing in your ears. You stood there, frozen, your breath caught in your throat as you watched Steve’s display of raw power. It was terrifying—seeing him so close to the edge, so consumed by anger—but it was also something else, something that sent a shiver down your spine.

You were genuinely scared by his actions just now. The shock that he could lose control, that he could be so driven by his feelings, was a stark reminder of how much he cared, how deeply he felt. But alongside that shock was a rush of something primal, something that made your pulse quicken and your cheeks flush.

You shouldn’t have found it attractive—this display of strength—but you did. Seeing Steve like this, so powerful, so intense—he never bragged about his power, and it stirred something inside you that you couldn’t deny. Your body reacts before your mind could catch up, a rush of heat flooding your senses.

Steve turned to face you, his chest still heaving, his eyes blazing. “What do you want me to say, Y/N?” His voice was rough, almost broken. “That I’m okay with you going off on your own and putting yourself so close to death? Because I’m not!”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. You could see the chaos in his eyes. It made your heart ache. To him it didn’t matter if you were one of the best agents out there because he knew how life is so fragile, he knew because he's been around for ages—you forget that sometimes his cellular age is not twenty-seven.

For now, both of you stood there, the tension thick and suffocating, wrapping around you like an iron vice.

You took a shaky breath, the sound of it almost deafening in the quiet that had fallen between you. You knew you should say something, anything, to defuse the situation. But your throat felt tight, and the words wouldn’t come. All you could do was stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to reconcile the man you love with the fury that had just been unleashed.

Steve’s chest heaved with each breath, his fists still clenched at his sides. He didn't know how to come down from the brink he'd been driven to, didn’t know how to deal with the mix of relief and frustration that you were standing in front of him, unharmed but defiant. 

His mind raced with the images of what could have happened, what might have happened if he hadn’t been there to pull you out of the fire. The thought was enough to make his vision blur with a fresh wave of anger and fear.

“I can’t lose you, Y/N,” Steve finally managed to say, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. “Do you understand that? I can’t. I don’t know what I’d do if something happens to you.” 

Your breath hitched, your heart hurt at the openness in his voice, and the urgent plea cut through your barriers. You knew how much he cared—how deeply he felt everything—but hearing it, seeing it in the way his hands shook, in the way his eyes were filled with unshed tears, made it impossible to stay mad.

Driven by a surge of emotion you couldn't contain, you briskly walked towards him. Steve kept his gaze glued onto you, anticipating your next move. In an instant, you closed the distance between you, your body moving on instinct alone. 

You leaped up, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist, your hands fisting in his hair as you pulled him down into a kiss that was searing, desperate, and filled with every ounce of the fire that had fueled the argument.

His kiss was intoxicating. You pressed yourself against him, your body molding to his as you deepened the kiss, your mouth moving against his lips with a fervor.

You could feel the tension in his muscles, the heat radiating from his skin, and it only made you want him more, made you kiss him harder, as if you could imprint yourself on him, claim him in a way that left no room for doubt.

Steve's grip on you was bruising as his hands found your hips, pulling you even closer, his own body responding to the intensity of the moment. He angled his head, deepening the kiss further, your tongues clashing in a dance that was as much about dominance as it was about the overwhelming need to feel connected.

You let out a soft moan, the sound vibrating between you, spurring you both on. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, as if you couldn't get enough. You shifted against him, your hips pressing into his, feeling the undeniable evidence of his desire for you, and it sent a jolt of heat through your entire body.

When you finally broke apart, it wasn't because you wanted to, but because you both had to breathe. Your foreheads rested against each other, your breaths mingling, both of them trembling from the force of what had just happened. 

Your breathing was ragged, your heart pounding in your chest as you looked into Steve's eyes, blue like the ocean but filled with fire. The air between you crackled with an electric tension, the heat of your shared desire still burning hot.

“I’m still mad at you. Chopping wood was not enough,” Steve whispered his voice rough, “I hope you're prepared for that.”

“Try me.” You replied breathily against his lips. 

Steve didn't need any more encouragement.

When he reached the back-door, he didn’t hesitate. With a powerful kick, he busted it open, the door slamming against the wall with a force that echoed through the room and shook walls.

Steve's hands gripped you firmly as he turned, pinning you against the nearest wall, his body pressing onto yours, the solid weight of him making you gasp. His mouth found yours again, and the kiss, filled with intensity that left you both dizzy, desperate for more.

You could feel the way his body responded to your every touch, every kiss. Your hands slid from his hair to his shoulders, your fingers digging into the hard muscle, needing to hold on, to anchor yourself against the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

Steve's grip on you tightened, his hands sliding from your hips to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer. He pressed his lips to the side of your neck, his breath hot against your skin, making you shiver. The sensation sent a wave of heat rushing through you, igniting every nerve in your body.

“Y/N…” Steve's voice was low, a rough whisper that sent a thrill down your spine. You could feel the restrained tension in him, the way his body was coiled like a spring, ready to snap. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

Shit. He swore. Now you know you're in deep trouble—and it excites you. You tightened your legs around his waist, leaning into him as you captured his lips once more, this time with even more intensity, more urgency.

Steve responded immediately, his mouth moving against yours in a kiss that was possessive. His hands roamed over your back, his touch firm, grounding you as you lost yourself in the taste of him. His touch ignited a trail of fire everywhere.

He pushes the hem of your shirt above your head and pulls off your black tee shirt, tossing it aside like it was nothing, exposing your bare breast, then his mouth devours you. He suckles and licks urgently, opening his mouth wider to envelop nearly your whole breast. It’s as if he wants to taste every inch of your skin all at once.

You moaned and arched your back, which thrusts your breast against his face, causing your fleshy mound to squeeze against him and bulge out at the sides. 

His hand, rugged and calloused from years of relentless work, moved with purposeful intent to the other. He gripped your breast firmly and began to knead, applying a rough pressure on your flesh.

You squeeze his shoulders, grasping at the starched cotton of his shirt. It feels manly under your palms. Your mouth drops open when the shape of his hard cock lines up perfectly against you, applying a delicious pressure you desperately need. 

“Oh my—Steve. . .”

Any self-preservation you've been holding on to evaporates at the feel of his hot length, and your hips tilt into him on their own. 

You groan simultaneously at the much-needed friction. His scent, his rough groans, the tight hold of his large hands, the stab of his hot tongue—everything about Steve is strong, hard, domineering, and so deliciously male. 

His mouth leaves your breast whispering into your ear, “Are you going to disobey me again?”

“I can't promise you that I won't.” You try to pull back and drop your legs, but he grips your thighs, holding them open, and presses his bulging cock onto you.

He loved the way you looked, the way you reacted, and he loved everything about you. You were the most precious thing in the world to him. So beautiful, so sweet, so giving and too damn good for him, but he was a selfish bastard and wouldn’t let you go.

Ever.

His breath fans over your neck, and he whispers dangerously. “That so?”

You didn’t notice how you both ended up in the bedroom until he shoved you toward the bed, because you found yourself falling onto it, the descent feeling agonizingly slow.

Your head turned sideways just as it was about to collide with the mattress, but you were too shocked to react, too numb to fight back against what was unfolding.

Steve moved with a swift, commanding presence, leaping onto the bed and straddling your torso with an authority that pinned you down. His shirt was already on the floor when you met his eyes—dark, angry. A side of him you're seeing for the first time in the bedroom.

His muscles are swollen from chopping all that wood and splitting one in half with his hands. His abs were a testament to the discipline and strength he had cultivated over the years. The six-pack was not just defined but chiseled, each muscle distinct and firm beneath the taut skin. 

He pushed your thigh open with his knee, his palm grazing from your stomach, between the valleys of your breasts, stopping at where your collar bone meets the base of your neck. 

All of your focus is on its path, and you quiver when his thumb now brushes the bottom curve of your breast. 

“This is mine.” He twists your nipple, sending shards of electricity tumbling through you, and you buck against him, lust completely taking over all your senses. 

“Yes,” You gasp and roll your hips, willing to say anything he wants to get him to continue touching you, searching for the right position to hit your clit with the head of his cock, desperate for more.

His chuckles tickle the sensitive shell of your ear, and a shiver runs through you as the sharp ridges of his teeth gently close on the soft earlobe. “Such a good girl all of a sudden?”

He drags his hand down your body, exploring it like he’s mapping every inch of you by touch alone. He forces your jeans off, almost ripping it in the process.

His thumb grazes your clit through your underwear, and a pained cry escapes your lips. He craves knowing the sounds you'll make as he drives his cock hard inside you. He'd make you beg for more until you scream out his name as he sear himself into your soul.

“Do you know what good girls get, Y/N?” He slides under the thin fabric and circles the spot you need him the most. “Good girls get to come.” 

“Please,” you beg. Every molecule of your being is focused on his fingers. The weight of the air around you compresses until it’s hard to suck in your next breath. Tension radiates as you wait for what happens next. His touch is the only thing that matters.

He shifts you so he can reach lower, sliding wet fingers through your slit, then circling your entrance. You whimper his name as he sinks two fingers inside you. 

“Look at you, soaked for me. Ready. This pussy knows she’s mine.” His voice is a dark rumble as he pumps his fingers in and out in a slow, torturous rhythm.

“I need more,” you grind out through your teeth.

“Take it. Fuck my fingers,” he orders you against your ear and loosens his hold to allow you to take control. 

You wrap your arm around his neck, leveraging yourself, and grip his hair as you work yourself on his fingers. 

Steve’s breath comes out in hot pants against your jaw, and he bites down on the edge at the same time his palm massages your clit. You forget to breathe as you rock against him, your head buzzing with the lack of oxygen.

“Oh yes, right there.” You gasped.

“That’s my pretty little pussy, fucking herself so well.” He adds another finger, and your world goes blank. All that’s left are his commands. “Come for me.”

Tingles shoot up your spine as your entire body pulls tight, and then your orgasm crashes over you in shuddering waves. “Steve.”

He pumps every last ounce of your release, his hands glistening. “That’s it. Say my name.” 

“Steve,” You say, barely a whisper.

He withdraws his finger then and lifts his hand to your face, pressing his finger against your lips. It’s the same finger that was just inside you. 

“Suck it,” he orders, and you obediently open your mouth, sucking the finger in. You can taste yourself, your own desire, and it makes you even more turned on. 

When he’s satisfied that the fingers are clean, he removes it from your mouth, grasping your chin with his hand instead, forcing you to meet his gaze, “I'm going to ask you again, are you going to disobey me?” 

You stare up at him, mesmerized by the dark blue striations in his irises. Your body is throbbing with need, desperately craving his possession. You want him to take you, to fill the aching emptiness within.

A smile of defiance crept on your lips as you cocked your head forward, “My answer remains that same.” 

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N.” he warns, voice low, and a tremble runs through you. 

Your instincts are on high alert, but you don’t try to pull away. You swallow hard. “What game?” 

“The one where you act like all has been put aside. That you don’t already know who you pissed off. Or do you need a reminder?” He shifts his grip and circles your neck with his fingers, resting them on your collarbone as a warning. 

Heat pours into your core, and your clit throbs. A low moan escapes you, and his smile turns dark. He pushes closer, bent so his breath fans against your mouth. 

“I’m going to spin you around and fuck your pretty pussy against this bed, I think it’s fair I take out my frustrations on you. I will make you beg so hard, because baby, I can do this all fucking day.” He said with grit. 

Your ears ring, and all your thoughts vanish with his words. You push yourself up, closing the distance between your mouths. He groans deep and takes over the kiss, running his tongue against yours until you're consumed by him. Your head feels light from the lack of oxygen, but you don’t pull away, letting him do whatever he wants to you.

There’s a power that surges inside you, giving in to his control. No matter his threats, you know if you told him to stop, he would. 

He’s not gentle when he flips you on your stomach. His hands fisted at your hips and you heard a snap as he tore your panties away. The abrupt sound and the violent action behind it spurred your desire to a fever pitch. 

You hear him unzip his jeans, and in your attempt to look, he presses your head hard into the mattress. Then, you feel him pulling while he collects all of your hair and wraps it around his hand with the intention of using it as a rein. 

You let out a whimper when Steve tugged harder. You don’t hesitate to move when his foot meets yours and spreads your legs further apart. He grunts in approval and runs his fingers up your slit, before his erection brushed between your legs as he moved and you whimpered, so aching and empty, as if the orgasms he’d given you earlier had only deepened your craving rather than appeased it. 

Then he shifts his hips a little and uses his hand to guide his shaft toward your opening. You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut as he begins to push inside. You're extremely wet, but you still feel uncomfortably stretched as he slides in all the way. Steve doesn’t give you time to adjust before withdrawing and slamming in again, his thrust doling out punishment and pleasure.

“Fuck,” he hisses when you squeeze around him, and a sharp slap lands on your ass. “You’re so tight.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to cope with the burning, too-full feeling. You clutch at the bed sheets, needing something to hold on to as the familiar tension starts to gather low in your belly. The head of his cock brushes against that sensitive spot somewhere inside you. You gasp as he pulls your hair harshly making you arch to take him deeper, needing more of that intense sensation, wanting to bring you over the edge.

“Oh my god, Steve, yes,” you cried, finding your face pressed into the mattress again and you could hardly breathe. All you can feel is him: the back-and-forth movement of his thick cock inside your body, the heat emanating from his skin. 

In this position, he goes deep, even deeper than usual, and you can’t help the pained gasps that escape your throat as the head of his cock bumps against your cervix with each thrust of his hips. Yet the discomfort doesn’t seem to prevent the pressure growing inside you again, and you feel climax coming again, your inner muscles clenching helplessly around his shaft.

“Oh no you don't,” He groans harshly, sensing that you're about to come. Then he pulls out. Leaving a void of emptiness that aches. The womanly fluids that leak down your thighs now felt cold, before you could protest, Steve flips you again and your eyes finally get to lay upon his magnificence, his erection at your eye level.

But all he does is look at you, a mocking half-smile playing on his beautiful lips. “You think I’m going to come inside you, Y/N?” he asks softly. “Is that what you’re expecting me to do?”

You blink, startled by the question. Of course you expect him to do that. You did something that upsetted him. Apparently reading the answer on your face, he smiles wider. “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not exactly in a generous mood.” 

“Sit up and suck it,” he murmurs, looking down at you.

Aroused by the command, you fluttered your tongue across the underside and shivered with delight when he rewarded you with a hot burst of pre-cum. Fisting the root of him with one hand, you hollow your cheeks and draw rhythmically.

You cup his balls in your other hand and squeeze them lightly. He groans, his eyes closing and his hand fisting your hair, and you continue, moving your mouth up and down on his cock, swallowing him deeper every time.

Your head bobbed as you pleasured him, jacking him with one hand while you sucked and stroked the crest with your mouth. Heavy veins coursed the length of his cock, and you slid the flat of your tongue along them, tilting your head to find and caress each one. 

He swelled, growing thicker and longer.

“Baby, you suck me so good.” He held your head still and took over. Thrusting his hips. Fucking your mouth. Stripped to a level of base need where only the race to orgasm mattered.

You gripped his straining thighs in both hands, frantically working your lips and tongue, desperate for his climax. His balls were heavy and big, an audacious display of his powerful virility. You cupped them, rolling them gently, feeling them tighten and draw up.

“Ah, Y/N.” His voice was a guttural rasp. His grip tightened in your hair. “You’re making me come.” 

The first spurt of semen was so thick, you struggled to swallow. Mindless in his pleasure, Steve was thrusting against the back of your throat, his cock throbbing with every wrenching pulse into your mouth. You eyes watered and your lungs burned, but still you pumped your fists, milking him. His entire body shuddered as you took everything he had. The sounds he made and the muttered, breathless praise were the most gratifying you'd ever heard. 

You licked him clean, keeping eye contact the entire time, marveling at how he didn’t fully soften even after an explosive orgasm. He was still capable of fucking you senseless and more than willing to, you knew. He wasn't kidding when he says he can do it all fucking day.

× × × ×

“OH, God.” Your hands fisted the sheets beneath you, your back arching as Steve pinned your hips to the bed and his lips circled your clit and his cheeks hollowed. Sucking rhythmically, he massaged the hypersensitive knot with the tip of his tongue.

Your skin was coated in a fine sheen of sweat, your vision blurring as your core tightened viciously in preparation for orgasm. Your pulse was thrumming and racing. You've comed twice already, as much from the sight of his blonde head between your legs as from his wickedly gifted mouth. 

“I’m ready.” You pushed your fingers into his hair, feeling the dampness at the roots. His restraint was costing him. You're overstimulated and he's taking the time to make sure you are soft and wet before filling you too full with his long, thick cock.

“I’ll decide when you’re ready.”

“I need you inside me, please. I won’t disobey your orders again.” You pleaded, bucking your hips towards his face.

“You ache without my cock inside you. You’ll say anything to have me there.” Steve crawled toward you like a sleek panther on the prowl.

“Yes.”

He hovered over you, his big body casting a shadow over yours. Tilting his head, he lowered his mouth and lightly traced the seam of your lips with the tip of his tongue. 

“You crave it. You feel empty without it.” 

“Yes, damn you.” You gripped his lean hips, arching upward to try to feel his body against your. You never felt closer to him than when you were making love, and you needed that closeness now, needed to feel like you were okay.

He settled between your legs, his erection lying hard and hot between the lips of your pussy. 

“I need you,” you breathed, rubbing your wet cleft shamelessly along the heated length of his cock.

“Not yet.” He moved, rolling his hips to find you with the broad head of his penis. He pushed gently against you, parting you, spreading you open as he slipped just the tip inside. You writhed against the tight fit, your body begging. 

“Fuck me. God … just fuck me!” 

Steve reached down with one hand and grabbed your hip, stemming your frenzied attempts to push up and take more of him.

You fought his hold. Your nails dug into the tight curves of his ass and you tugged him against you. If you didn’t get him in you, you thought you'd lose your mind. 

“Give it to me!”

Steve slid his hand into your hair, fisting it to hold you where he wanted you. “Look at me.” 

“Steven!” 

“Look at me.”

You stilled at the command in his voice. You stared up at him, your frustration melting as you watched a slow, gradual transformation sweep over his handsome face.

With his eyes still on yours, he reached beside him to claim your wrists. One at a time, he lifted your arms over your head, restraining you. Pinned to the mattress by his grip, his weight, and his unflagging erection.

Steve slowly enters you, penetrating you inch by slow inch. It feels good, so unbelievably good, and you moan again, tightening your inner muscles around his shaft. He groans, closing his eyes, and you do it again, wanting more of the sensation. 

He opens his eyes and stares at you, his face taut with lust and his eyes glittering. You hold his gaze, fascinated by the fierce need you see there.

He began to thrust, stroking through the trembling walls of your cunt with the thickly veined length of his big cock. Claiming you. Possessing you.

You can hear his harsh breathing, and you know that he’s exerting a lot of control over himself, that he probably wants to fuck you harder but is trying not to ‘damage you beyond repair.’ Nevertheless, his movements cause your insides to twist and churn, causing you to cry out with every stroke.

“I love you.” your voice is barely audible, each word feeling like it’s being wrenched out of your very soul.

You can see his pupils dilating while grinding breathlessly, “Tell me again.” 

“I love you.” which came out like a small, helpless sound.

“I love you too.”

Struggling with the grinding urge to rock into the ferocious thrusts of his big cock. He shoved his other hand beneath your hip, cupping your rear and lifting you into his thrusts so that his cock head stroked over and over the spot that ached for him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he growled, pounding his hips up at you, yanking your hips up to meet his punishing strokes. 

“Yes, yes! Come inside me.” you yelped, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Steve hit the end of you with every deep thrust, battering into you. You could feel him growing harder and thicker. You watched him avidly, needing to see it when he went over the edge for you. His eyes were wild with his need, losing their focus as his control frayed, his gorgeous face ravaged by the brutal race to climax. 

“Y/N, I'm coming!” He came with an animal sound of feral ecstasy, a snarling release that riveted you with its ferocity. He shook as the orgasm tore into him, his cock jerking as it pumped thick spurts of scorching semen into you.

You climaxed in a rush that had you sobbing his name, your bodies convulsing as the sensation enhanced and magnified by the way he’d controlled your body. 

Steve laid on top of you, waiting for his cock to get soft before he pulled out. Your body remains convulsing under him.

“You’re a machine,” you told him, trying to catch your breath. “Or a god.”

Steve let out a low, breathless chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin as he held you close. He laid beside you, his chest was still heaving from the intensity of what you had just done, but there was a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he looked down at you. Steve shifted slightly, so he could meet your eyes, his expression softening as he brushed a strand of hair away from your face. 

“Maybe,” he murmured, his voice rough and warm from exertion. “But as much as I like the sound of being a god,” he continued, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “I think I’d rather just be the man who’s lucky enough to have you in his arms.”

“Just don’t pull a stunt like that on me again and I’ll be fine,” he responded, his tone a mix of lingering concern and affection. But there was still an edge to his voice.

“But it’s against my nature to ignore—” you started, trying to explain yourself, but Steve cut you off, his gaze intense.

“Do I have to impregnate you? For you to think more carefully?” he asked, his voice low and filled with a rough, teasing tone that sent a shiver down your spine. The words were provocative, laced with a mix of frustration and possessiveness that made your breath catch.

Your eyes widened slightly at his bold statement, your heart skipping a beat as the meaning of his words sank in. There was a challenge in his eyes, but also a deep-seated need—a desire to protect you, to keep you safe in a way that was so intensely Steve.

“Is that what it’s going to take?” he continued, his tone softening just a bit, though the intensity in his gaze never wavered. “Because I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure you’re careful out there. I can’t lose you, Y/N. I won’t.”

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your mind racing with his words and the seriousness behind them. He wasn’t just teasing; there was a part of him that meant every word. It was possessive, yes, but it was also born from a place of deep love and fear of losing you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as you reached up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. “I’ll be more careful, I promise.”

Steve’s expression softened, his eyes searching yours as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. 

“Good,” he murmured against your mouth, his tone still laced with that protective tone. “Because I’m not letting you out of my sight, not if I can help it.”