#as is bow having a heart attack | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

danysdaughter · 15 days ago

Text

Hold Your Breath

pairing | civil!war!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.6k words (whoopsie)

summary I After a panic attack triggers something raw and vulnerable in Bucky, a desperate kiss turns into a night of urgent, clothed intimacy where he clings to you for grounding, connection, and humanity.

tags | 18+, (MDNI!), p in v sex, clothed sex, unprotected sex, emotional sex, desperate sex, riding, dry humping, titty sucking, begging, subby!bucky, soft!reader, angst, soft dom!reader, vulnerable!bucky, slow burn to sudden burn, hurt/comfort, PANIC ATTACK! platonic!steve x reader, oh and PLOT! but premises: Fuck His Pain Away

a/n | THIS MIGHT BE THE FILTHIEST THING IVE EVER WRITTEN. uh, Matt Murdock cameo. and Steve and reader lowkey act romantic but they're purely platonic. inspired by THE Stiles and Lydia. ENJOY!

likes comments and reblogs are always appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

The warehouse looked like it had been forgotten by time. Rust flaked off corrugated walls, the windows long since caked in grime and dust. Faint light filtered in through the cracks in the ceiling, catching on floating particles like a snowstorm of ash.

You stepped through the open door slowly, your heeled boots echoing softly against the concrete floor. The weight of silence sat thick in the air—one broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the occasional creak of aging steel. Sam stood off to the side, posted up by a boarded window, his eyes scanning the outside world like a hawk. Ironic.

He gave you a short nod in greeting, then jerked his chin toward the stairwell.

“He’s upstairs. With him.”

You nodded silently, then started climbing. Each step was slow, heavy with things unsaid. You reached the upper landing and paused at the threshold of a dim corridor, where you finally saw him.

Steve Rogers.

He was leaning against the doorframe to a room that looked like it had once been an office, now stripped bare. His arms were folded, his head slightly bowed, lost in thought. The sharp angles of his jaw were drawn tight, his eyes shadowed with more than fatigue.

He looked tired—drawn in a way you rarely saw. Shoulders too tight. Worry clinging to him like a second skin.

And yet the moment he looked up and saw you, something in his face unspooled.

“You came,” he said, voice low, thick.

You smiled softly, stepping closer. “Where else would I be?”

Steve gave a dry little exhale. “I don’t know. Somewhere safe. Somewhere warm.”

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” you said.

He nodded once, but didn’t move from the door. The weight of the air between you stretched.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

You straightened, gaze steady. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t. You don’t have to ask.”

“I do.” His jaw flexed, eyes flicking away. “Because I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. We’re stretched thin. And Bucky… he’s not in a good place.”

“I know,” you said, voice gentler now. “Steve, I know. I’m not scared of him.”

He let out a breath and dragged a hand down his face, tension radiating from every inch of him. “I’m not either. That’s not it. It’s just—he’s been through so much. He barely speaks. Sometimes I think he’s back—my Bucky—but then I see that look in his eyes and I don’t even know who I’m looking at.”

You took a step forward, heart aching.

“You’re worried he’ll hurt someone.”

Steve didn’t answer right away. His mouth pressed into a tight line.

Then, almost too softly: “I’m worried he’ll hurt himself.”

That cracked something inside you. You reached out, fingers curling gently around his arm.

“Then I’ll be here,” you said, firm and calm. “I’ll sit with him through it. However long it takes.”

Steve looked at you, truly looked, and you could see it then—how much weight he was carrying. And how close he was to shattering under it.

“There’s more,” he said after a moment, voice even lower.

You nodded. “Tell me.”

He hesitated, like he didn’t know if he should. Then—quietly, brokenly—he said, “I don’t know what’s happening to us. The Avengers. The world. It used to feel like we were fighting for something good. Something that meant something. Now… it just feels like we’re tearing apart.”

You let his words hang in the air. Let him breathe. Then you stepped closer.

“It’s going to be okay,” you whispered.

But Steve shook his head. Slowly. Distantly.

“I don’t think it will be.”

There was something so human about him in that moment. Not the Captain. Not the soldier. Just a man who’d lived too long, lost too much, and still hadn’t learned how to stop hoping—even when it hurt.

He looked at you—really looked at you. The intensity in his eyes bordered on overwhelming. But what you saw there wasn’t fear. It was trust. Worn, heavy, aching trust.

“You can back out at any point,” he said, voice rough. “If it’s too much. If he—”

“I’m here,” you interrupted softly, a small smile blooming. “And I’m here to stay.”

Steve stared at you for a moment longer, then—without warning—you stepped in and wrapped your arms around his neck.

He folded into you immediately, arms winding tightly around your waist like the weight of the world was something he could put down, just for a second, if he held onto you.

His breath was warm against your hair.

“Thank you,” he murmured, voice frayed at the edges. “For being here. For me.”

Your fingers curled at his nape, anchoring him. “Always.”

When he finally pulled back, his hands lingered on your waist. The kind of touch that said, I can’t ask for more, but I’d be lost without this.

You gave his hand a final squeeze, then watched as he turned and opened the door to where Bucky waited.

The door clicked shut behind Steve with a soft finality.

Bucky sat on the edge of the mattress, shoulders hunched forward, elbows on his knees. His hair was damp from where he’d splashed water on his face earlier. There was still blood crusted in his hairline from the fight in Bucharest. He hadn’t spoken in hours—not really. Just a grunt here and there when Steve checked on him.

The room was dark and cold, lit only by a single bulb hanging overhead, flickering just enough to be annoying. Dust danced in the light. The walls were bare. There was a thin mattress pushed into the corner and not much else.

He could hear someone talking outside. A familiar voice. And a softer one.

Then footsteps. Boots against concrete.

He didn’t look up when Steve entered.

Steve took a breath and crossed the floor slowly. He didn’t say anything at first, didn’t try to force conversation.

He just sat, giving Bucky space to choose.

"You holding up?" Steve finally asked.

Bucky shrugged. His metal fingers flexed slightly. “Still breathing.”

It took another minute before Bucky spoke again, voice hoarse, low.

“You’re leaving.”

Steve nodded. “Not for long.”

Bucky lifted his head, the shadows under his eyes deeper than ever. “Where?”

“Sam and I need to pull some others in. It’s moving fast.” Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “But I’m not leaving you alone.”

Bucky’s mouth tightened slightly. “You’re not?”

“No.” Steve gave him a look. “She’s staying.”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “The woman outside.”

Steve smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Bucky paused, then asked—carefully, cautiously—“That your girl?”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh, looking down at the floor. “No. God, no. She’s… she’s just a friend.”

“Doesn’t sound like ‘just a friend,’” Bucky muttered.

“She’s just my friend,” Steve said again.

Bucky studied him for a long moment, the gears clearly turning behind his tired eyes. “You trust her.”

“With my life.”

“And you’re leaving her with me.” That wasn’t a question. That was Bucky quietly testing the weight of what Steve was asking.

“I’m not leaving her with you like she’s a babysitter,” Steve said, voice firm but warm. “She offered. Because she cares. Because she’s kind. And because she’s not afraid of you.”

Bucky’s head dropped slightly. “That’s a mistake.”

“No,” Steve said firmly. “It’s not. You’re not the man Hydra turned you into.”

“You sure?”

Steve stood slowly, walking over to the window, eyes scanning the alleyway below. “Yes and she’ll be here when you need her. Whether you like it or not.”

Bucky grunted. “Sounds annoying.”

Steve chuckled. “You’ll get used to her.”

He moved to the door but paused with his hand on the knob. “Bucky?”

He looked up.

“She’s not my girl,” Steve said again, softer this time. “But I do care about her. She’ll look after you. Let her.”

Bucky stayed quiet for a long moment, watching his friend’s back. The silence stretched.

Then, quietly, “She got a name?”

Steve turned back to him with a small, knowing smile. “Ask her yourself.”

Silence stretched. The tension in Bucky’s shoulders didn’t ease, but something in his eyes flickered. Not quite trust. But maybe curiosity.

────────────────────────

Outside, you were waiting patiently, arms folded, gaze flicking down the hallway as he approached. You gave him a questioning look.

“How’d it go?”

“He asked if you were my girl.”

You blinked, then laughed softly. “That’s a first.”

“I told him no. Just a loyal, stubborn friend.”

You nudged his arm. “Stubborn’s a little rude.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

He gave you a final, grateful look—the kind that carried years of friendship in one glance—then disappeared down the stairwell, leaving you standing in the dim hallway outside Bucky’s room.

You inhaled slowly, squared your shoulders, and turned toward the door.

The door creaked softly as you stepped inside.

The air inside was still—almost unnaturally so. Dim light filtered through the cracked blinds, casting lines of gold across the worn floorboards. The mattress sat low to the ground, old and bare, and on it sat a man who looked more like a memory than a presence.

Bucky didn’t look up right away.

He was perched on the edge of the mattress like he didn’t know what to do with his body. Shoulders squared. Hands resting on his knees. The metal one glinting faintly under the weak light. He didn’t move as you entered, didn’t speak—just turned and looked at you as if you might explode if he blinked.

His face was as unreadable as you'd expected. Blank. Cold. Not hostile, just... emptied out.

Still, you offered him the softest smile you could manage.

“Hi,” you said softly, introducing yourself.

No reaction. Not even a flinch.

You took a step forward, slow and steady, keeping your voice warm. “Steve asked me to check in on you.”

Still nothing. But he hadn’t asked you to leave either

“I’m not here to watch you,” you spoke, stepping forward slowly, palms open, posture relaxed. “Not like that. I’m just here if you need anything.”

Silence.

But his eyes followed you, blue and unreadable.

“I’m not an agent or anything,” you added. “But I figured a quiet face wouldn’t hurt.”

His gaze dropped back to the floor.

Your eyes drifted to the gash above his eyebrow again. The skin around it looked irritated. Dry blood had trailed down his temple, now flaked and cracking.

“You’re bleeding,” you murmured. “Your forehead.”

He blinked once. No acknowledgment. Just the same blank stare.

You nodded slightly to yourself, then crossed to the nearby table where Steve had left a bottle of water, some basic medical supplies. You grabbed a cloth and dampened it gently.

When you returned, you paused beside him.

“Can I…?” you asked gently, holding up the cloth just slightly. “Take care of that?”

There was a long pause. A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes—suspicion, uncertainty, maybe even something like confusion.

Then he gave a small, stiff nod.

You didn’t sit on the mattress beside him. That felt too close. Instead, you knelt down on the floor, leveling yourself just enough to reach him, and held the cloth delicately in your fingers.

“Okay,” you said, mostly to fill the silence. “This might be a little cold.”

You dabbed gently at the gash on his forehead, careful not to apply too much pressure. The dried blood flaked away slowly under your touch. You worked in silence, the only sound the soft rustle of the cloth against his skin and the hush of your own breath.

Bucky didn’t flinch.

But he watched you.

Close. Unblinking.

Like he was trying to find the trick in your movements. Waiting for the shift—when the care would curdle into expectation. Or interrogation. Or pity.

But you just kept working, your touch steady, your face calm.

After a long moment, he finally spoke—voice low and rough, like unused gravel.

“You an Avenger?”

It caught you a little off guard, but you smiled faintly, not stopping your work.

“Not at all,” you said. “Maybe honorary. I just help Steve out. Here and there.”

You wiped the last of the blood from his temple, then lowered the cloth.

“But mostly,” you added with a small shrug, “I stick to New York.”

He was still staring at you. His brow twitched slightly. “Doing what?”

You chuckled, folding the cloth neatly in your lap. “I’m a lawyer.”

The expression on his face shifted for the first time—just a flicker, but there. His eyes narrowed slightly. Disbelieving, “A lawyer?”

You nodded. “Mhm.”

His look said it before his lips did.

What the hell are you doing here?

You didn’t need him to ask.

You met his gaze—steady, warm, sure.

“A lawyer that knows right from wrong,” you said simply.

The room fell quiet again.

He stared at you like he was trying to see the catch—trying to spot where the kindness ended and the judgment began.

It didn’t come.

“I’m just here to help,” you said, barely above a whisper.

You stayed kneeling for a few more moments, wringing the bloodied cloth between your fingers, giving him space even while sitting right in front of him.

Bucky still hadn’t moved.

He just watched you. Not with suspicion exactly—more like quiet observation, like he was still figuring out what you were.

You gave him a moment, then sat back on your heels and rested your arms on your knees.

“So,” you started gently, as if you were just catching up with someone over coffee, “Steve said you were from Brooklyn.”

His eyes didn’t move.

You waited a beat. Nothing.

“I’m from Hell’s Kitchen,” you added, offering a half-smile.

Still nothing. But something in his eyes flickered. Just barely.

“Grew up around a lot of noise,” you went on, your voice soft but casual. “Corner bodegas. Fire escapes. People yelling out their windows at four in the morning.”

Another pause. You risked glancing at him again.

Still no words. But his gaze lingered now. Slightly more engaged.

“I used to go up on the roof with a book and just... tune it all out,” you said, smiling faintly at the memory. “Never worked. Some jackass was always blasting Sinatra or arguing about Mets scores.”

You caught a flicker at that—almost a breath of amusement in his expression. Almost.

“Guess Brooklyn wasn’t so different back then, huh?”

Still silence.

But now, he was looking at you—not through you.

You shrugged, eyes gentle. “Anyway. Just figured I’d try to talk. Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

His eyes finally dropped to the floor again, but his shoulders had eased. A fraction.

You added, “And if it helps at all… I talk a lot when I’m nervous.”

That got you a flicker of eye contact again.

You smiled, soft and unbothered. “And you, from the looks of it, don’t talk unless you absolutely have to. So, we make a solid pair.”

No reaction.

You let out a small sigh.

The room had settled into a quiet sort of calm by late evening.

Bucky hadn’t spoken much—if at all—but he hadn’t pulled away when you refilled his water or dropped off a spare blanket either. A win in your book.

You hadn’t meant to take the call in front of him.

But you also couldn’t afford to ignore it—not when Matt Murdock’s name lit up your screen with its usual stubborn persistence.

You shifted where you sat on the edge of the room’s lone table, pressing the phone to your ear while still keeping Bucky in the corner of your eye. He sat on the mattress, back against the wall, arms folded stiffly over his chest. Watching. Always watching.

“Good evening,” you greeted softly, careful to keep your voice low.

There was a pause. Then, sharp and unmistakably annoyed, “Where the hell are you?”

You smiled. “Hi to you too, Matty.”

“I came by your loft, you weren't there.”

“No, because I’m in Germany.”

There was a long pause.

“…Germany?”

“Yes.”

“You do realize international borders exist, right? And that we’re not technically allowed to cross them at will?”

“You do realize you’re blind and still have better spatial awareness than the TSA, right?”

“You were just in New York yesterday,” he said, exasperated. “You can’t keep dropping everything the second Steve Rogers snaps his fingers.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Jealousy and judgment in one breath. Impressive.”

“I’m not jealous,” he bit out. “I’m concerned. You didn’t even tell anyone you were leaving the country.”

You sighed, leaning back against the wall. “I didn’t plan to. Things moved fast. It’s not like I’m on vacation, Matt.”

“You think I don’t know what fast looks like?” he shot back. “This is the kind of fast that gets people killed. You’re not a soldier. You’re not—”

“I’m not you,” you snapped, before immediately softening your tone. “I’m not you, Matt. But you don’t get to lecture me about dropping everything for a ghost from your past when you've barely been present since yours came back.”

The line went still.

You exhaled. “I’m not trying to fight with you.”

“I know,” he said finally, voice quieter now. “I just… I worry. You matter to people, you know?”

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” you promised. “Just keeping someone safe until Steve gets back.”

There was a beat.

“…Is that someone dangerous?”

You glanced across the room. Bucky’s eyes were still on you, narrowed faintly in curiosity.

“No,” you said. “Not to me.”

Matt didn’t sound convinced. “Call me when you land.”

“I will.”

You ended the call with a gentle sigh, letting your head rest back against the wall.

Across the room, Bucky was watching you.

Not glaring. Not tense. Just watching—with that unreadable look he wore like armor.

You raised the phone slightly. “Work colleague.“

His brow lifted, slightly skeptical.

You tilted your head. “Okay, close work colleague.”

He didn’t respond. But you swore you caught the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth—something almost like amusement.

You didn’t press.

You just leaned your head back and closed your eyes.

And that’s when you heard it.

Footsteps.

A faint but steady rhythm outside, boots against gravel, echoing just enough through the warehouse walls to mimic something far more sinister.

The blood drained from Bucky’s face in an instant.

His body snapped upright, rigid. His eyes locked on the door.

And his breathing changed.

Subtle at first. A slight hitch. A break in rhythm. The kind of thing you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention.

And you weren’t.

You were halfway to the window already, your phone still in hand, distracted by the soft scrape of boots on gravel outside. You weren’t even looking at him when you said, “I’ll be right back. Just want to check it out.”

You moved with ease, brushing aside the edge of the tarp covering the glass. From where you stood, you caught a glimpse—just a guy with a backpack, head down, walking briskly down the alley. Civilian. No uniform. No earpiece.

Harmless.

You turned back toward the room, already ready to reassure—

And stopped cold.

Bucky hadn’t moved from the bed.

But everything about him had changed.

He was still seated, but his hands were clenched into fists, white-knuckled. His shoulders were drawn in tight, and his head was tipped down, jaw locked, chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid bursts.

“Bucky?”

His eyes snapped up.

Wide. Unfocused. Wild.

Your heart dropped.

You took a step closer. “Hey. You’re okay, it was just someone walking past. No one’s coming.”

But he didn’t hear you. Not really.

His breath hitched again, sharper this time. A low sound escaped his throat—almost a growl, almost a sob—and his metal hand twitched violently on his knee.

“I can’t—” he choked, fingers clawing at the edge of the mattress. “I can’t—breathe—”

You froze for half a second, then rushed forward, dropping into a crouch in front of him, palms out, voice gentle but firm.

“Okay. Okay, Bucky. You’re having a panic attack. I know it feels like you can’t breathe, but you are. I promise, you are. You need to try to slow it down, or your body’s going to lock up on you.”

His chest was rising in harsh, ragged gasps now, every breath shallow and frantic. His eyes were darting around the room like he was trapped, like every wall was closing in.

You hovered your hands near his knees, not touching, just there. “I’m not gonna grab you. You’re safe. You’re in control. You’re not back there.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, body trembling. “I can’t—I can’t get out—I can’t—”

“Hey. Hey.” Your voice broke on the word. “You’re not trapped. I’m right here. You’re with me, remember?”

No response.

His breathing was worsening. He wasn’t inhaling fully anymore. Just choking down gulps of air like they weren’t sticking. His fingers curled against the mattress, his body rocking slightly.

He’s going to pass out.

You forced yourself to stay calm, to keep your voice steady even as panic rose in your own chest.

“Okay. Listen to me. We’re going to ground, alright? Just do what you can.” You reached up, hovering your fingers closer to his arm. “Five things you can see. Look around, just five.”

He blinked rapidly, lips parted, shaking.

“Five things,” you repeated. “Just name them. Anything.”

“I—I can’t,” he rasped. “I can’t—I can’t see—fuck—”

Your gut twisted.

“Alright. It’s okay, it’s okay,” you whispered, watching his eyes roll slightly upward as if his mind was spinning off. “Bucky, please. Just hold onto something.”

But he couldn’t.

You could see the fight in him, but the grip of the attack had its claws in deep now, dragging him down. His hand jerked, metal fingers spasming like his nerves were short-circuiting.

He was slipping.

You didn’t think. You didn’t plan.

You just acted.

You surged forward and crushed your mouth to his.

Your hand cupped his jaw, thumb grazing the scruff of his cheek, your lips moving against his like your breath could anchor him, like your body could pull him back from wherever his mind had gone.

At first, he didn’t move.

His breath hitched hard in your mouth, his body rigid.

And then—

He breathed.

Not perfect. Not deep.

But something shifted.

The tension in his shoulders dipped slightly. His mouth softened just enough under yours. The rigid rock of his spine eased.

You pulled back after a beat, gasping softly, shocked at yourself, still close enough to feel the heat of his breath on your lips.

His eyes snapped open.

Blue. Wide. Raw.

You blinked, stammering. “I—I didn’t know what else to do. I read once—somewhere—that when you’re panicking, holding your breath can reset your lungs, and so—” You swallowed. “So, when I kissed you… you held your breath.”

His lips parted, still trembling.

Your hand was still lightly on his jaw. You started to pull it away, “I’m sorry—”

But then his hand—his metal hand—caught your wrist.

Gently.

He stared at you, breathing hard, but steadier now. Something wild still flickered behind his eyes—but it wasn’t panic anymore.

It was something else.

Something desperate.

Your breath caught somewhere in your throat.

Bucky’s hand—cold metal and trembling restraint—was still wrapped around your wrist, keeping your hand pressed to his jaw. His skin beneath your palm was warm, rough with stubble, tense with something unreadable.

You should’ve tried to pull away again.

You should’ve said something. But you couldn’t speak.

Not with the way he was looking at you. Like you weren’t real. Like he’d dreamed you up in some quiet corner of his broken mind and was terrified you might disappear if he blinked too long.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. Your mind raced, caught between guilt and instinct.

“I—I shouldn’t have done that,” you whispered, barely able to hear your own voice. “I just didn’t know what else—”

And then you felt it.

His other hand.

You hadn’t even noticed it moving. But now, his warm, flesh hand was at the back of your head, fingers tangling through your hair, firm and certain.

You barely had time to breathe before he pulled you in.

The kiss came fast.

No hesitation. No apology.

It collided with your mouth like a dam breaking—like a gasp swallowed between parted lips and bruised hearts. His hand on your wrist still held you in place, while the other tilted your head just enough to claim every inch of your mouth.

You made a startled sound—something between a breath and a gasp—and your hands moved instinctively finding his shoulders as you fell forward into his chest.

Your body hit his with more force than you meant, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, he pulled you closer, like your weight grounded him.

His kiss deepened.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was hungry.

Like he needed this more than air. Like the feel of your mouth, the press of your body, was the only thing holding him in the present. His lips moved against yours with bruising pressure, desperate and hot, tongue flicking past your parted lips like he couldn’t stand not to taste you again.

And you melted.

Every thought, every question, every ounce of guilt evaporated the second his tongue touched yours.

Your fingers tightened on his shoulders. Your knees threatened to give out. His breath was ragged in your mouth, nose brushing yours, body trembling with barely leashed tension.

This wasn’t just comfort.

This was need.

Pure and primal.

His hands were on you now—both of them. The right still cradled the back of your head, fingers buried in your hair, holding you close. But the left… the left had found your waist, sliding up beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing along your side like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch but couldn’t help himself.

You felt the chill of metal and the heat of human skin, trembling and unsure.

He kissed you harder. Mouth moving against yours with clumsy, desperate hunger—no rhythm, no restraint. He wasn’t kissing to seduce.

He was kissing to feel.

When his lips broke from yours, they didn’t go far. They dropped to your jaw, then your throat, his breath hot and uneven as he murmured something unintelligible against your skin.

His tongue dragged along the side of your neck, followed by soft, open-mouthed kisses—rushed, messy, too fast. Like he didn’t know where to start. Like he wanted to taste every inch of you at once.

“God…” he breathed, mouth moving to your collarbone. “You’re so soft…”

His hands moved again, a little braver now—palming your waist, then your back, then your hips. He tugged at your shirt, his fingers grazing over the fabric like it was in his way, like he needed to touch more.

And that’s when your thoughts finally broke through the haze.

You gasped, blinking hard, fingers coming up to press gently against his chest.

“Bucky,” you said, breathless. “We should stop.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull back.

His lips paused just below your ear, trembling.

“This isn’t good for you,” you whispered. “You’re in a bad headspace, and I don’t want to take advantage—”

He pulled back enough to look at you, his eyes wide and pleading, voice cracking.

“Please,” he whispered.

Your heart shattered.

“Bucky—”

“Please,” he said again, more desperate now. “I—I need to feel you. I need to know I’m still here. That I’m not… that I’m not him.”

Your hands trembled where they rested on his chest.

His voice broke entirely. “Just… just let me touch you. Let me feel something that isn’t pain. Please…”

You stared at him for a long moment, his words still ringing in your ears, his hands trembling against your waist.

Let me feel something that isn’t pain.

The breath left your chest in a slow, trembling sigh.

And then you leaned in.

Your lips met his again—not rough this time, but slow, deep, deliberate. A promise.

Bucky responded like he’d been holding his breath.

His hands flew to your sides, tugging you closer until your knees straddled his thighs, until your chest was flush with his. He let out a broken, needy sound as you kissed him, fingers dragging up your spine, gripping, clutching, like he was terrified you’d vanish if he let go.

You pulled back just long enough to whisper against his lips, “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m gonna take care of you.”

He moaned at that—actually moaned—his mouth crashing into yours again as his hands started moving, frantic and restless, skimming beneath your shirt, tugging at the fabric like it was an obstacle, not clothing.

Your fingers slid up into his hair, holding his face between your palms like he was something fragile. You kissed him deeper, letting him pour himself into it, letting him need you. And all the while, you rocked slowly in his lap, hips rolling in a subtle, steady rhythm that made both of you gasp.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispered against your mouth. “You feel so good… I can’t—can’t get close enough.”

He pulled harder at your shirt, his hands shaking with how desperately he wanted more of you. You broke the kiss just long enough to fumble with the buttons, undoing only a few before he lost patience entirely.

His hands flew up to your chest, and in one frantic motion, he tugged your bra down beneath your breasts.

“Bucky—”

But then his mouth was on you, and the words dissolved.

He latched onto your breast with a groan so guttural it vibrated through your core. His tongue swirled around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth like he was starved for it—like this was the only thing tethering him to earth.

You gasped, eyes flying wide, one hand clinging to his shoulder as your hips jerked against him.

“Oh my—Bucky—”

He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

His metal hand clutched your back, holding you in place as he lavished your breast with open-mouthed kisses, warm and wet and messy. His other hand palmed your waist, guiding your hips in time with his own.

You rutted against him harder now, both of you still fully clothed, the friction unbearable and perfect. His cock pressed thick and hard against you through his jeans, and the way he groaned into your skin when you ground down on him made your thighs tremble.

“Please,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Please don’t stop.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, guiding him, anchoring him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you breathed. “I’ve got you.”

And he moaned again, mouth still on your skin, hips jerking upward into you like he was begging you to believe him.

Your breathing was ragged. His lips were still wet from your skin. And when you pulled back slightly—only just enough to break contact—Bucky let out a whine.

Not a word. A sound. Broken, instinctual.

“Don’t—” he gasped, trying to follow you. “Please, don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, your voice barely stable as you pushed gently against his chest.

He let you guide him back, his body hitting the thin mattress with a soft thump, arms still reaching for you like he couldn’t stand a single inch of distance.

“I’ve got you,” you promised again, voice low and sure, even as your hands moved fast.

You didn’t fully undress—didn’t need to. You shoved your jeans down, just past your knees, the waistband biting into your thighs as you knelt between his legs. Bucky’s chest heaved as he watched you, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he was starving.

“God, you’re…” he breathed, voice hoarse. “You’re not real.”

You reached for his jeans, fingers fumbling slightly with the buckle, your own hands shaking now with the sheer pressure of what you were doing—what this was. You unzipped him, tugging his waistband down just far enough to free him.

And there he was.

Hard. Leaking. So fucking ready it made your mouth go dry.

He twitched when your hand wrapped around him—just once—and he gasped, hips jerking slightly off the mattress.

“Please,” he murmured again. “I—I need to be inside you. Please, I need—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You rose back up onto his thighs, grabbed his cock at the base, and positioned yourself with practiced urgency.

He held his breath.

And then—you sank down.

Slow, steady, deep.

Bucky cried out, head snapping back against the mattress, eyes fluttering shut as your heat wrapped around him. “Fuck,—Jesus—”

You couldn’t even breathe for a second. The stretch was intense, overwhelming—your thighs trembling as you adjusted, hands braced on his chest.

Beneath you, he was shaking.

Completely undone.

His hands flew to your hips, gripping tight, not to guide you—but just to hold on.

You stayed there a moment, full of him, pulsing around him, feeling every tremble in his frame.

Then you leaned down, lips brushing his cheek, and whispered, “You feel that?”

He nodded, frantic.

“That’s real. I’m real. And you’re not alone.”

And then you started to move.

You moved slowly at first—hips rolling, drawing his cock in deep, then easing back up, dragging every inch of him against your walls. Bucky’s head tipped back, a shudder ripping through him, his mouth slack, eyes blown wide as his hands dug into your waist like he was terrified you might stop.

“God,” he rasped, “you feel—fuck, you feel so good—”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The way your body wrapped around him, the rhythm building in your hips—it said everything.

You rode him harder, faster now, the tension rising like a fever. The denim of his jeans and the way your own clothes clung to sweat-slick skin made everything feel even messier, even more raw. The friction burned in the best way, every drag of your body against his driving him closer to the edge.

Bucky couldn’t stop touching you. His hands were on your waist, your thighs, your back—like he couldn’t decide where he needed you more. His voice was low and broken, a litany of groans and murmured please, please, please, even when you were already giving him everything.

When you leaned in and pressed your forehead to his, your fingers tangling in his hair, he was right there with you—breathing you in like oxygen.

His chest was rising fast now, the rhythm in your hips growing sloppy, desperate. You could feel him pulsing inside you, getting close.

Then—suddenly—he surged upward, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him as his mouth found yours again. The kiss was rough, needy, all tongue and teeth and shaky breath. He needed to be connected—to feel you pressed against him in every possible way as he unraveled.

And then he came.

You felt it—deep, hot, twitching inside you as he groaned into your mouth, burying his face in your shoulder, his entire body trembling as you held him through it. His arms clutched you tight, almost too tight, like if he let go you might vanish.

You didn’t.

You stayed with him. Arms wrapped around his shoulders. Lips at his temple. Your hips finally stilled.

You hadn’t come. You weren’t even thinking about it.

This—this—had never been about you.

It was for him.

To remind him that he was here. That he was human. That he was held.

You were still catching your breath, his body trembling in your arms, when it happened.

Without a word—without even looking up—Bucky shifted beneath you, tightening his arms around your waist. And before you could ask what he was doing, he flipped you.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft thud, and you barely had time to gasp before his body followed, pressing you down, caging you in.

“Bucky—” you started, surprised, dazed.

But the look in his eyes stole the words from your mouth.

Focused. Intense. Wild with a need you hadn’t seen before—but not for his own release this time.

For yours.

He was still hard inside you. Still there. And now, he began to move.

Not gently.

Not slowly.

He pounded into you—hips snapping forward with frantic rhythm, as if something had cracked open inside him and he couldn’t bear not to give you back everything you’d just given him. Every thrust was deep, hard, messy. His breath came in grunts and gasps, his forehead pressed to yours, his body slick with sweat.

You clutched at his shoulders, your own body struggling to keep up as pleasure started to crash over you like a wave.

“Let me,” he panted, voice low and wrecked. “Let me make you feel good. You—fuck, you were so good to me—I need—I need to make you come—please—”

Your breath hitched, head falling back, eyes fluttering shut as his cock drove into you again and again, hitting all the right angles now with dizzying precision. His hand slid down, slipping between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing fast, desperate, trying to draw your pleasure up through every inch of you.

The pressure built fast. Too fast.

You were already so full, so overwhelmed—his voice in your ear, his fingers on your body, his cock so hard inside you—and the way he moved… God.

“You don’t have to—” you started, already trembling.

“I want to,” he growled, fucking into you harder, deeper, like he couldn’t get close enough.

You whimpered, body jerking beneath his as the tension in your core snapped tighter, tighter, tighter—

“Come for me,” he groaned. “Please. I need to feel it.”

And then you did.

You came with a moan that tore out of your throat, back arching, hands clutching at his back as your body spasmed around him. Bucky groaned, dropping his head into your neck, hips still moving as he rode you through it, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

Like giving you pleasure was what made him feel whole.

His body trembled as he came down, the last few ragged thrusts losing momentum until finally—finally—he stilled, buried deep inside you, heart pounding hard enough that you could feel it through his chest.

He hovered there for a moment, arms shaking, breath catching in his throat.

And then he collapsed.

Not all at once. Slowly, carefully. Like his strength gave out in stages. But even as he let himself fall into you, he caught his weight on his forearms, mindful, always mindful—never fully resting on you. He curled slightly, pressing his face into the crook of your neck like he needed to hide. Like the world was too bright again, too loud, and your skin was the only place left that felt quiet.

Your arms came around him without hesitation.

One hand slipped across his back, fingers splayed wide, gently grounding him with each stroke up and down his spine. The other cradled the back of his head, thumb sweeping slowly through his damp hair, cradling him like something precious.

His breath hitched once.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just held him.

He melted into it slowly, his metal arm resting against the mattress beside your head, his human hand fisting weakly in the blanket beneath you. You felt the tremble still in his muscles—aftershocks of everything he’d just released.

“Shh,” you murmured, soft against his ear. “You’re okay, baby. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His forehead pressed tighter to your throat.

“You’re safe now,” you whispered, voice low and steady. “Right here with me.”

He exhaled, shaky and fragile.

“You’re not alone. You’re not him. You’re not broken.”

He didn’t answer—but he didn’t need to.

He let you hold him.

You kept going, voice like a lullaby, your fingers never stopping.

“You’re gonna be okay,” you murmured. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’m not going anywhere.”

His grip on the blanket loosened, and he shifted just enough to finally let some of his weight settle into your body.

Not too much.

Just enough to trust.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x you #bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fluff #the avengers #captain america civil war #steve rogers #matt murdock #daredevil #team cap

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kbwrites · 11 months ago

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The Lord's Favorite CH.2

synopsis: "He was both a monstrous force of vengeance and your savior, intertwined in a tempest of passion and fury.."

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⚝content: trueform!Sukuna x fem! reader, slightly suggestive, mentions of blood and gore

⚝wc: 1.5k

⚝a/n: I'm still shocked this got as much attention as it did! Thank you for reading, I hope this next part pleases you.

“Please, do your best to remain still,” Uraume chides gently. They press the cotton swab soaked in alcohol to your face, the stinging sensation causing you to wince as it penetrates the cuts on your cheek. Uraume offers a sympathetic glance. “I apologize for this…”

“You don’t need to-“

“Please.” They say firmly “I was aware of the tension between the servants, I... never thought they would do something to harm one of their own.” Uraume’s voice wavers slightly. They move to the wounds on your arms.

The door to the chamber swings open, and Sukuna stands in the threshold, leaning one arm nonchalantly against the doorframe. He surveys your battered form sitting on the edge of the bed—a trace of annoyance etched on his face. Uraume rises swiftly to bow before the king, but he dismisses the gesture with a casual wave.

“My lord, I’ve treated her as best as I can.” Uraume reports.

Sukuna’s gaze shifts to your face, his demeanor cold yet betraying a hint of concern.

“Are you in any pain?”

“No.. my lord and I’m sorry-“

“You are not at fault.” He interrupts you, his voice firm as he strides over, his heavy footsteps echoing through the room. Clad in a black robe with a purple sash tied around the waist, his rippling muscles are visible through the cascading fabric. Uraume steps back, offering a brief bow before exiting, leaving you alone with him.

He scans your face with a piercing gaze, lowering himself to your level. His eyes drift to your empty wrist, narrowing with a mix of concern and intensity.

“Where. is it.” He demands. Your eyes widen as you realize the bracelet you were given today was missing.

“I… it must have fallen off when they attacked me” You piece together aloud.

“So they would harm you as well as steal…” Ryomen’s voice grows taut with anger he clenches his fist, body tensing up. He rises from his kneeling position, figure looming over you.

“Are you able to stand?” He questions lowly. You nod.

“Good. We will be going now.”

You look up at your king, his expression is unreadable, but there’s an unmistakable intensity in his eyes—a silent promise of retribution.

You lag behind him as he strides purposefully down the dimly lit hallway. The evening light leaks through the dark red curtains of the hall, casting long shadows that dance along the walls. Each step of his echoes with a menacing authority. He stops abruptly at the entrance to the servants quarters. Sukuna looks over his shoulder at you, his gaze intense and unwavering.

“Do you wish to watch?” He inquires, voice low and steady.

“W…watch?”

“Yes, do you wish to watch as I kill the ones who hurt you.”

“I—“ your heart races, Was this really happening? “No… my lord I do not.” You speak quietly. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond, opening the door to the room.

The servants look upon him in reverence… or fear. Ryomen Sukuna did not bother himself with his servants, so seeing him generally meant bad news. He scans the room at the trembling help who shrink under his scrutiny, ‘utterly pathetic..’ he thinks. Their eyes drift to you, standing behind him. Ryomen shoots you a sidelong glance, awaiting you to point out your offenders.

You look up at him, conflicted. Do you really wish for them to die? He scoffs as if reading your mind.

“You would protect them, even after what they did to you?” He sneers.

He directs his attention back to the line of servants, all bowing their heads in fear. His gaze lands on one woman, and he notices the bracelet on her wrist—identical to the one he had painstakingly crafted for you.

At the sight of the bracelet, his demeanor changes abruptly. His expression darkens with a fierce intensity. With a swift motion, two of his arms encircle you, gently but firmly covering your eyes.

“Do not open them, until the screaming stops.”

Screams of horror reverberate through the room. You hear slashes mingling with the sound of Sukuna chuckling darkly. All the while two of his arms remains protectively around you, shielding you from the brutality he’s inflicting upon the ones who dared to harm you.

The screaming fades, his breathing slows, upper left arm lowers from your eyes.

“It is done.” And as your eyes slowly open, the sight before you is gut-wrenching. Blood and carnage litter the servant’s chambers. You clasp your hand over your mouth as you fight back a gag.

Ryomen looks at you, a hint of annoyance for your lack of appreciation. You gaze upon his bloodied form, he was covered in it. He wipes face, turning his back on the lifeless bodies.

“Let’s go; I require a bath and new clothes.”

You sit on the edge of the porcelain tub, adding oils and dried petals. The act of bathing Lord Sukuna had become quite routine. And yet every time he entered the room your heart would skip a beat. He stood at over six feet tall, his four muscular arms and broad, chiseled chest commanding attention. The tattoos that adorned his toned body only added to his already imposing presence.

He strides confidently over to the bath, crimson eyes never leaving yours. The scent of lavender and roses wafting through the tiled room. He lowers himself into the water, groaning as the hot water enveloped his powerful frame.

You grab a sponge, wiping the dried blood from his chest. Ryomen leans his head back against the edge of the tub, sighing in relief under your touch. He’s quiet for a moment, only the sound of the water sloshing around echoes throughout the room. One eye opens slightly to observe you, your gentle hands erasing the evidence of his carnage. Massaging away his stress and tension. He speaks in a low, commanding voice.

“Join me.”

You abruptly cease your movements, looking at him in disbelief.

“You mean—“

“In the tub, yes.” You hesitate, glancing nervously between him and the water. Knowing it was not wise to disobey your king, you begin to shed your clothing, covering yourself modestly as you allow the bathwater to cloak you. You settle on the opposite side of the tub, his eyebrow quirks in mild annoyance.

“I will not harm you.” His voice almost… gentle.

You move closer to him. Albeit too slow for his taste, one arm pulls you towards his chest, settling on the small of your back. The unprecedented position of intimacy with your lord both thrilling and unsettling.

“Are you… unhappy with my actions today?”

"No… my lord." It was partly true. You were still reeling from the events that had transpired. The king to whom you had dutifully bowed had unleashed his fury... for you? The man you willingly served, had been so enraged by your injuries that he had taken the lives of those who wronged you. He was both a monstrous force of vengeance and your savior, intertwined in a tempest of passion and fury..

“Good.” Another hand reaches to stroke your hair, a touch so feather light you wondered if he thought you’d break. “I… do not wish for you to be unhappy.” He speaks softly. His finger traces your jawline. You shiver under his touch, but don’t pull away. If your heart were to beat any faster you feared it might give out altogether. His hand trails down to your chest, placing his palm flat against the valley between your breasts.

“Your heart is racing…Are you frightened of me?” He questioned, feeling the rhythm quicken beneath his touch.

“F…frightened?” You try to keep your voice from shaking, but it betrays you quivering with uncertainty.

“It is understandable; I could kill you right now.” He grins as his words make your heart beat even faster. “I am merely stating a fact. Do not think of it.” His gaze travels from your face to your chest, lingering at the point where the water begins.

He stands up, water dripping down his body, your gaze travels down his abs to his v-line. He only grins as he sees your curious eyes widen at his lower half. It was quite hard not to look when he was so… big. The screams from his bedroom made sense after you were called to his bath the first time.

“You are permitted to touch.” He declares, snapping your out of your daze, a shaky hand comes up to feel his abs. He groans softly under your nimble fingers, feeling his muscles tighten in response. He was a work of art, as if the gods themselves sculpted his figure.

You knew that after his bath, Lord Sukuna would typically summon one of his concubines to his chambers. This would inevitably result in several hours of indecorous moans and pained screams, audible through the door connecting your room to his. As his servant, you wanted to adhere to your place, but a part of you couldn't help but wonder... what it would be like to bask in your lord’s presence in such an intimate way.

“My lord, shall I summon someone to… attend to your needs?”

He only chuckles darkly, one arm reaching down to gentle cup your face. His crimson eyes feasting upon your wet, naked form committing this scene to memory.

“No need,” He murmurs, his voice deep and resonant.

“I believe your presence is precisely what I crave.”

taglist! (I know a lot a people in the previous post asked for a part two but idk if that meant you wanted to be tagged, lmk!) @haruchi-slit @gg-trini @pastelbunnelby @cauqhtz @shadava

#jjk #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen #kbwrites #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #ryomen x reader #divider by plum98 #jjk sukuna #jjk x reader

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httpsvgin · 5 months ago

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ᯓ “IN YOUR WILDEST

DREAMS.” ۶ৎ

“he’s so tall, and handsome as hell, he’s so bad, but he does it so well.” (TAYLOR SWIFT.)

BY @MZLLSIT!!! ᥫ᭡

PAIRING. hwang in-ho & fem!reader.

FANDOM. squid game (seasontwo.) ꪆৎ

T!W. shameless smut. porn with plot. angst. blowjobs. slight age difference. gagging. rough oral sex. violence. blood. slight manipulative in-ho?? (not as bad as it sounds.)

GENRE. smut, slight fluff?

“PART TWO OF ‘SAID YOU’RE A WILD

MUSTANG’ AS REQUESTED!!!!

(I SUGGEST READING ^ FIRST AS THE PLOT WOULD MATCH UP EASIER FOR YOU!!!

SUMMARY. ᝰ.ᐟ the day following yours and in-ho’s small.. ‘interaction’ left you feeling hopeless as you found that he had been avoiding you since the second he left you vulnerable in that bathroom. a million questions spiralled in your head to what possibly could be the reason he was acting so stubborn and hell, did you want your answers. taking matter into your own hands, you cornered in-ho into giving you the answers you want and deserve.. until you found yourself in a rather.. sticky situation?

!!!!AUTHORS NOTE!!!!! . . . in this fanfic i twisted up the story a smudge and basically removed the whole last scene of the rebellion and replaced it with the aftermath of the night games and the players making their way up toward their 4th game just so this story would kinda like make sense bruh??? and on another note the comments left on my last post were so supportive istg my ego is through the roof yall i love it. also, im thinking of writing a story with the love interest being sangwoo cuz hes been my man since day one guys. lmk who u want to see me write about next and thank you so much for all your support!!!!!!!! ᥫ᭡

─────────────

the hours following after the blood bath that erupted amongst the players felt as though they could last a million lifetimes. you watched as the pink covered guards entered the room with those obnoxious boxes, plush and dark with a taunting pink bow on the top just to add another “fuck you” to the players about their power while they scrooped up the bodies of the dead.

blood seemed to be on every surface your eyes could catch, the floor, walls, even the beds as you watched a guard carry a limp body of a woman who’s stomach was mutilated and open for all to see, her eyes fluttered shut to show she probably was attacked in her sleep. you couldn’t help but feel bile rise in the back of your throat at the scene, swallowing the acid back down to your stomach with a trembling lip. how can anyone be so fucking inhumane?

yet while you fought away your vomit, your eyes pinned onto a familiar body who was being carried into a box. nam-yu’s wide, dead eyes felt as though they were following your live ones as they lowered him into the box. instantly your mind snapped to the memory of in-ho puncturing the metal pole in through his heart and feeling his warm, crimson blood drip along down your face before his body collapsed ontop of you. this time, your final view of the man who tried to end your life was left with a hole through his body and his head tilted up to stare at the ceiling as they slid the lid of the box over his body.

and yet the man who saved your life seemed to have removed himself from it completely as he sat in the same corner with gi-hun, jung-bae and the rest of their alliance, his eyes staring at the ground with what looked like guilt but with feeling your eyes on him, he tilted his own to look back at you for a short moment which made your heart rattled against your chest before his attention was quickly yanked away as jung-bae opened his mouth to talk.

so here you sat across the room, feeling like a crumb that was kicked under the carpet, longed to be forgot about. not even an hour ago he was staring up at you from between your legs like you were a prized antique, fragile and precious and made to be cherished. now here he is, running a firm hand through his messy hair, not daring to look in your direction. how man like of him.

biting the flesh from under your finger nails you sat a few bunk beds away from your group while the x’s stayed firm in their side of the room but this time each of the sides were down by far more numbers and looked slightly more frightened than ever before.

“hey. .” a soft voice came and dragged you out of your thoughts as you turned your head at the sound of your name. player 120 looked down at you softly, hands tightly at her side to try not to spook you. “my god, i thought you were dead.” she whispered a little breathlessly as she smiled a sweet smile she knew you needed yet you could tell she was more than thrilled to see your face alive and well.

cho-hyun ji her name was, she was someone you stuck along side with during all of the games you played. she and her group recruited you to be theirs during the second game where you shocked your group with your skill of spinning top. to be honest, despite your angered shape it was more than soothing to see such a kind and comforting face after everything.

“come, sit with us.” slowly and carefully she brought her hand up to settle on your shoulder yet not firmly enough to scare you or pressure you.

your eyes were brought to the group who you found to be staring back at you with a smile, player 222, she held her large belly with one hand yet her other tapped the spot next to her, signalling you to sit. gi-hun, the leader you supposed also offered a kind smile toward your way where as in-ho’s dark eyes stared in way you couldn’t quiet put your tongue on. lust? anger? guilt? who knows, instead you took hyun-ji’s hand and followed her over to the rest of the group and ignored the fiery feeling in your stomach.

“ah-haha! there she is!” jung-bae called out from his seat on the stairs and before you could even respond he pulled you into a tight, suffocating embrace, his plump arms patting your back while he chuckled. “we thought we lost you for a second there!” you laughed kindly at the groups relief of seeing your face again and as jung-bae released his bear grip on you, from over his shoulder you caught eyes with in-ho, a strand of his dark hair fell over his eyes which looked like they darkened in colour at the view of you two, and fuck, did it make your stomach sink.

after your small reunion with the group you finally took your seat inbetween player 222 and gi-hun, who affirmed your nervousness with a warm smile yet you could see the pain from behind his eyes as he quickly returned his attention back toward the conversation jung-bae and his marine friend were bantering about. you guessed they were probably trying to make the best out of a bad situation judging by how deflated and scared most of you seemed.

your mind blurred with whatever conversation was happening amongst your friends and instead your eyes pinned to stare at the pink, square guards that stood at the metal double doors, then stared to in-ho, then back to the guards. what correlation did this man have with them? because hell, theres no way they would’ve opened that door even if you pleaded with your whole life and still they allowed him with you at his side to slide away from death and into heavens gates? it made no sense to you at all. and why was it so easy for him to act as though nothing between you had even happened not even a few hours ago when it was eating you up from the inside not to scream in his face.

maybe im overreacting? you thought. anyone in this room is just as desperate for sex, he probably saw you in that bathroom as a stress reliever, a one ‘night’ stand that he could easily slip away from with no feelings attached? sure, it made sense, but nor did it stop the way you felt towards him and it definitely did not make sense on how easily those guards let him live. this man has power, and nobody else knows about it.

and you were going to find out what is was, even if it costs you your life.

. . . .

“attention all players, the next game will commence shortly. please make your way toward the game hall!” the ai voice called from the several speakers around the room to which everyone began to shakily rise from their spots, making their way to the now opened doors.

“any idea on what the next games could be?” you heard jung-bae ask gi-hun, to which gi-hu replied with a tight shrug, assuring that the games have changed since the last time he played and that it was completely out of his power. gi-hun was kind and definitely did not deserve all that was racking on his shoulders, besides, he was a good man with a good heart.

you stuck behind the crowd, following tightly behind hyun-ji while the rest of your group walked through the doors to where the bright colours of the spiralled hallways illuminated and burnt your eyes. in-ho followed closely behind you, alone, and you could practically feel the way his eyes burnt holes at the back of your head. this was your opportunity.

hyun-ji chatted alongside player 246, making their way hastily up the stairs while you shortened your steps, slowing your legs down down and listening quietly to in-ho behind, who’s steps were beginning to match your pace.

waiting until you were out of sight, you twisted your head around to face in-ho behind you before using all your strength to pull and yank him up against the wall, anger lacing your eyes. even though you were at an advantage, his height still towered over you, like he could swallow you whole as he stared down at you, grinning. you felt vulnerable at how beautiful he looked pinned against a wall, keeping his eyes calm and settled on you, hair messy and scattered along his relaxed features.

“mm, little girl finally found her strength, yeah?” his tone was glazed sweetly like honey with a hint of sarcasm laced on his tongue as he took the view of you, knitted eyebrows, hair pulled back into a loose bun as you panted harshly with your hand tight against his chest, trying to keep him still.

“youve been avoiding me.” your chest heaved, staring into his souls with attempted anger yet a slight glisten of lust shimmer behind your eyes. the way you had him pinned reminded you of how he had you in that bathroom, pretty face buried between your legs and eating you out like a man starved of thirst. it sent your thighs to clench just at the thought.

“i have reasons.” his tongue poked on the inside of his cheek, the nerves in his jaw clenched for a moment yet he never broke eye contact or even tried to move out of your grip.

“oh yeah? what reasons, cause i sure as hell know theres something up with you.” you gripped his shirt harder under your shaking hands, yanking his shirt forward in attempt to gain your dominance. he laughed. right in your fucking face, soft and innocent but fuck did it damage your ego.

“reasons that don’t concern you, sweetheart.” the nickname rolled on his tongue in a way that sent butterflies to spiral in the pit of your stomach and your cheeks to flush in a soft pink colour. “now, are we going to do this the nice way, or my way.”

now it was your turn to laugh, cocking an eyebrow and yanking his shirt tighter toward you so his face was inches from yours. “you don’t fucking scare me, in-ho.” you spat, face now laced with seriousness as you stood you firm ground.

“well, so be it.” he shrugged firmly before his hand wrenched around your wrist and yanking it behind your back in a split second. crying out in pain, he shoved your back against him to where your ass pressed firmly against his front while his other hand wrapped around your mouth to muffle your yells. your free arm clawed and slapped against the arm that quietened you yet his strength overpowered yours so easily.

“why’d you have to be so difficult, hm?” his lips were so close to your ear lobe that his hot breath ticked against the plush of your neck.

“fuck you..” you whispered out from a shaky breath, feeling embarrassed at how quickly the tables turned in just a few seconds. then, he chuckled again, but instead this one came out darker.

“as you wish.” he whispered into the crook of your neck before grabbing both your wrists with one hand and used his other to yank the door handle behind him that his back pressed against, shoving you both inside.

the first thing that caught your eye was the long walk way and how nearly every material of the room was covered in gold decor, walls covered in black paint with shelves of whiskey and liquor that probably dated back to centuries ago sat behind a glass case while in the centre sat a large tv half the size of the room. on the screen played footage of the players still walking up the stairs to the game, in front sat a plush, leather couch with a side table that had a half drank glass of bourbon ontop. next to that sat a mask, yet it was different from the one the guards wore and it made your skin tingle.

yet your wondering eyes were stopped in their tracks as in-ho pressed himself tighter against your lower back before leading you forward through the walkway, his breathe tickling softly against your skin.

“you’re shaking.” he spoke against your pulse point in your neck, still pining your wrist behind you as he walked you like a fucking dog toward the plush sofa to where he brought you round to the front. slowly, his long fingers trailed up your body, not once letting his lips leave your skin as he practically inhaled your scent. eventually they landed on your clothed shoulder before he pressed down on it for you to lower yourself down on your knees.

fuck. you tried to swallow the lump that grew in your throat as you sat on your knees in front of him, watching as he man spread out before you, arms resting behind him while he stared down at you with that same fucking smirk that made you clench your legs.

“who are you working fo—“ the words muffled your throat before you were shoved face first into his crotch, feeling his hard erection through the material of his joggers. he rubbed your cheek against the bulge in his trousers and you swore you heard a small, whiny hum from his lips.

“shh.. why don’t you use that pretty mouth of yours for a greater good, hm?” his large palm petted the back of your head, stroking you like you were a soft animal as you swallowed the gathering saliva that gathered anxiously in your mouth. “do me well and ill answer any questions you have for me, sweetheart. deal?”

you nodded your chin up and down as you slowly edged your finger to the waist band of his tracksuit bottoms, pulling them slowly with shaking fingers. feeling your trembling touch, in-ho brought a warm palm to your cheek, thumb running comfortingly over the scar left under your eye as his eyes glistened beautifully under the gold lighting. and shit, you swore you get sticky just at his touch.

“mhm, just like that.” he coed down at you quietly, treating you as precious that if he spoke to loud you would shatter like a piece of glass. being validated by him was a drug you never knew you needed, and hell, were you addicted. cautiously, you began pulling at his clothes again until they were down to his thighs, leaving him in a pair of calvin kline boxer briefs. hot and ironic, judging his rich scent you werent exactly surprised to see them with his large bulge staring back at you.

for a moment, you looked up at him to where he was already staring back down at you, palm still cupping your cheek as he gave a gentle nod of approval before your finger tips brushed at the elastic top of his pants as softly yanking them down. fuck.

his size practically made your mouth gape open slightly, your wide eyes taking in the mouthwatering sight. a baby pink tip beaded and glistened with pre-cum while a pretty vein ran along the side of his cock, starting from his base and traveling the full way to the tip. you gulped at his girth, fantasising at how perfectly he could satisfyingly fill you up against this fucking couch.

“please.” he mumbled, sounding breathless already and slightly needy as he took one hand to gather your soft hair into a ponytail before shoving your head down harshly on his cock, forcing his tip to stab against the back of your throat which made your eyes fill with tears as you choked.

bobbing your head up and down, your lips wrapped around his large girth perfectly while your palms sat firm on either side of his thighs for support. the sounds leaving his mouth were like they were sent from heaven, breathless and desperate, almost enough to make you cum there and then. his fingers interlinked with the roots on your hair, tugging on the strands.

bringing yourself up from his cock, you admired the way it glistened with your saliva as you caught your breath. for a moment, you looked up to capture the view of this man, his head tilted back as his adams apple bobbed in his throat while his eyes wrenched shut. he was fucking beautiful and vulnerable while you sat in between his legs, it made you want to suck him dry until he cried out your name to stop.

gently, you leaned you head back down to his tip, using your tongue to kitten lick around the base to taste the sweetness of his pre-cum. this caused in-ho to grip at your hair painfully, letting out a deep groan at the way you teased his sensitive tip.

“who do you work for?” you whispered against his length and you swore you felt it twitch between your hand as you used one to work at the base of his cock while your tongue remained along his tip, licking long stripes.

“i dont work for nobody.” he grumbled from the couch, tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, his chest heaving slightly at how beautifully you worked and treated him. “what makes you think i do, hm?”

“during the night those guards just—“ you gripped on the meat of his thigh as he shoved your mouth back down on his cock, making you gag out loudly against him which sent shivers down his spine at the vibration. tears battled behind your eyes at the burning that began to ride in the back of your throat yet his cock continued to thrust harsher and deeper between your lips.

you couldn’t even breathe against him, yet he couldn’t give less of a shit as he continued to shove his dick balls deep in your snappy mouth that got you in this position in the first place. sucking and gagging along his cock felt euphoric for you, even leaving your panties wet with your slick yet you attempted to cross your legs at the uncomfortable, sticky feeling that grew in between them.

squeezing on his thighs, you felt hot tears stream from your cheeks while your mouth battled with the roughness of his thrusts as he fucked your mouth vigorously. soon enough, your knees bucked at the way he twitched in your mouth before his warm cum coated every surface of your mouth, filling you up completely.

“fuck..” he panted harshly, letting go of the grip of hair he held to look down at you with your mouth full of cum. your lips were puffy and pink while your cheeks stained with tears as you swallowed harshly, his taste leaving a sweet tingle on your tongue. then, he took your face in with hand hand, lifting your chin up to look at him as he squeezed both sides of your cheeks between his fingers.

“look at me when i talk to you.” he grunted down at you, fluttering your eyelashes to look at his face with your glossy eyes as you sniffled slightly. taking one hand, he wiped a drip of cum from the crease of your lips before tugging at your hair to open your mouth. sliding his thumb between your lips, you licked of the residue with the warmth of your tongue, then softly he removed it with a short pop.

“you’re a smart girl, yeah? but not smart enough to understand what danger you have put yourself in.” his tone was gentle, yet his words made your heart thump wildly against your chest. the fuck does that mean? you wanted to ask, yet you chewed on your tongue to not do so.

“i dont.. understand?” you almost choked on your words, eyebrows knotting into a thrown as you felt just as clueless as before, yet this time with a slight bit of your dignity stripped judging by the fact you had to suck off a potentially dangerous stranger because you were curious.. well, not just that. but still, he had your mind lopped in confusion thats for sure.

“i don’t expect you to, sweetheart.” he coed, twirling your soft hair between his finger tips while his other still remained on keeping your chin up at him. “but, please, understand this.”

slowly, he lowered his head down toward yours, brushing his thumb along the softness of your bottom lip. in-ho stopped to trace his lips along your ear lobe, nibbling at the soft skin before opening his mouth to whisper upon it. “if anyone even dares to hurt you, i promise ill chop off every single one of their fingers and serve them to you on a silver platter.” he chuckled against your neck, licking a nipping at the skin as he felt you tremble bellow him.

“with their head as dessert.” he growled in your ear, violence and threat slashed on his tongue while he used his spare arm to scoop you up from the plush carpet floor and into the warmth of his lap. “do you understand that?”

“yes.” your bottom lip trembled and eyes widened with the seriousness of his tone, and fuck did he mean every word of it. nor did you hesitate to believe him either, taking your hands to wrap around the back of his neck and rest your chin into the crook of his neck, inhaling the expensive scent he let off.

“thats my girl.”

#squid game #squid game x reader #in ho x reader #hwang in ho #front man x reader #front man #smut #hwang in ho x reader

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kenyummy · 3 months ago

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✰ 01. the ballad of a bygone blight.

✰ ꒰ ⍣'ˎ˗ platonic yandere batfam / spider! reader ꒱

✰ 01. sparkless life.

SYNOPSIS : being spidey isn't easy. being transported into an alternate universe where you're nothing but a shadow in your house, makes sneaking around a little easier... until you find yourself the apple of their eye... kind of.

note: guys i couldnt resist posting criesssss . also master is used as a gender neutral term!!!! couldn't be bothered to put master/mistress every time so

prev. ✰ masterlist. ✰ next.

When you wake up, your eyes are permeated by a hard light. Your eyes are squinted hard and you're having a difficult time getting your eyes to focus.

Your brain is fuzzy and feels like melted candy in your head. What was going on, again...? This bed... it's really comfy. It's like laying on a bed made of clouds, fairy dust, and your hopes and dreams.

(Nothing like your lumpy mattress back home... May told you it built character.)

You reach your hand up, to try and block out the harsh glare directed right into your retina. It dims in a second, and for a moment—you think you've finally developed mutant powers of telekinesis. You sit up—only to discover you were not actually the one who turned off said lights.

"Apologies, Master [name]." An older man with a distinct British accent stands in the door—a few feet away from the bed you're resting on. "I did not realise you had awoken already. I would've turned down the lights, if I was aware."

You blink, surveying the room around you. It's big. Unfamiliar, as well. Modern. Really big. Wait, did he just call you—

"Master [name]?" Your mouth moves faster than your mind, and your brows furrow deep. "What... where am I?"

The older man looks genuinely puzzled at how defensive your stance is. "Oh dear. Perhaps you did end up getting lead poisoning. Or a concussion. ... No matter. This recent amnesia is common within traumatic injuries."

He clears his throat with strict elegance and straightens his posture, "[name]. I believe you were attacked in an alleyway, when your brother found you. You were in the hospital for a few days, and brought back here—back home—this morning. You're currently in one of your father's guest rooms. The doctors said you were healing miraculously fast."

You hiss lowly. You really hope they hadn't gotten a blood sample—you haven't had the best of experiences with people getting your blood.

"You seem to be alright now. A bit..." He looks at your exposed, scarred shoulders. "Scuffed up—but better than when Master Jason had found you."

Your brother... Jason...? Who even...?

What's going on here?

Your heart seems to skip a beat as the calculations start going off in your head. A world you had never heard of... a place you'd never seen before—perhaps you weren't on a different world, and like you had suspected... it was definetly some multiverse shenanigans again.

You knew you should've made Jess take that mission instead of you. Damn. You and your dumb rivalry with Doc.

But you couldn't understand why this random man knows you. He speaks as if you've lived a life with him—like he's known you since...

You chew down on your bottom lip. "... This is... my home. I live here, don't I...?"

You play with words cautiously, speaking slow and methodical. It only serves to confuse the man even further.

"Yes, you... do? Master [name], perhaps you should go back to the hospital. You're sounding rather frazzled—"

You almost jump up, out of the sheets, "Uh—no! I... I'm fine. My head's just a bit... messed up right now. Sorry."

It's not—after that flashbang, you're feeling fine. Your shoulder only burns with a stretch whenever you put too much pressure on it—but you're completely okay otherwise. But you don't think you should let him know that just yet.

"If you insist, Master [name]." He bows his head. "Do you require any further assistance?"

You blink, considering your choices.

Eventually, you land on the safest option. Search your surroundings. Find out what's going on here before going all Spider-ham on them. For all you know—they're super skrulls waiting for the right moment to strike. You need to be smart about this.

"Yes... I would like to go to my room... could you... walk me there?" You don't meet his stern gaze. "I'm not sure I'm able to walk on my own two feet just yet. I'm sorry."

You don't see how his stare softens at your words. "Of course, Master [name]."

He walks over to the edge of the bed and steadies you with a hand on your shoulder as you shakily stumble out of the bed. It's bouncy enough to launch you forward slightly—and it takes every muscle in your body to stop your Spidey-instincts from taking over and jumping backwards.

He slips your arm within his and steadies you as you both slowly walk out of the large guest room. If this was a guest room—you wonder what your room looked like.

The hallways weren't anything to sneeze at, either. Decorated with contemporary art pieces—sleek and so shiny you could see your face in the tiles below your bare feet. You felt so out of place—the civilian clothes you sported since you got here still dressed your body, and it wasn't even close to fitting in.

As you stumble down the halls with a bit of overdramacy, a man suddenly appears from around a corner. Deep black hair and the brightest blue eyes you'd ever seen. His smile is wide and he waves enthusiastically, "Hey, Alfred! I got back from Blüdhaven after uh—I heard what happened."

"Hello, Master Dick. It's lovely to see you back home again." Alfred nods his head. The man in question—Dick, apparently, which makes the immature teen in you giggle—gives you a sorrowful expression.

But... doesn't say anything past that. He continues small talk with Alfred—and you're left propped up in the older man's arms with a lost expression.

Did he... just blow you off?

One—that was pretty rude. Two, did he not just say he came back after he heard what happened? Not to toot your own horn or anything—but you'd assume being shot kind of counts as a "what happened".

You press your lips firmly together. This was getting awkward for you, especially seeing how comfortable this huge Dick (yeah, you're taking it and running with it) seemed to be with leaving this sickly, wounded (maybe you're being a tad dramatic) person to stumble like a baby fawn, in silence.

Alfred, however—catches sight of your one-sided tension, and abruptly ends his conversation. "My apologies, Master Dick, but I must help [name] to their room. I would love to continue this conversation at a later date."

"Oh yeah, no sweat, Alfred." He gives the older man a gleeful thumbs up. Then, his eyes meet yours. "Get better soon, okay?"

You avert his stare and only nod in response. Well, at least he noticed you were there. You're still in mild shock, but you somehow manage to keep a pleasant expression. With one last small smile, Dick walks away—where, you don't really care about.

Alfred slowly helps you up a flight of stairs. He only breaks the silence after you find yourself standing in front of a room with a faded name on it. Your name. "... All these years, and only now, you've suddenly changed. I wonder..."

His words are cryptic, but his expression even more so. What was he talking about? "... Huh?"

A small smile fades on his face. "Ah... no. It's nothing. I was thinking out loud. Call me if you need anything else, Master [name]. I am at your service. And please... get better soon."

Somehow, it sounds nicer when he says it. You smile a little, and give him a nod.

"Thank you..." You test out his name on your tongue. It feels natural. "Alfred. I'll try my best."

He leaves with a curt nod and not another word. You finally slide the door open, and take a look around.

You step inside, and it's like you've entered a whole new world, again.

It's... small. Not by regular standards—it's almost double the size of your room at home—but compared to a guest bedroom in this overly massive home... it's rather small. Like a closet, more than a bedroom.

It's empty, too. Your room at home is decorated with posters and trinkets of your favourite shows, pictures of you with Harry and MJ (sometimes even the four), and memorable items you've collected with your friends and family over the years.

Memories. You had memories.

There is nothing here.

It's like you're standing in a blank slate—in a world where you are nothing and yet everything you've ever had. It sends a chill down your spine.

You walk barefoot across cold wood and take a seat on the bedsheets. Bare white with a childish print. Something a young child would use. It looks pretty scuffed up. Old. The mattress creaks under your weight and you wince.

There's a bookshelf just opposite to you. There's not much in it—in fact, it's smaller than small and is almost completely empty. There's nothing but school textbooks and thick novels. And...

It catches your eye almost immediately. A little pink slip in the midst of deep black and brown colours. You stand up—ignoring the creak that follows—and walk over to the shelf.

You slip the book out, and immediately take in its cover. Pink, and with your name in wonky cursive. It's rather dusty, as if it hadn't even been touched in years.

You flip open the cover. Big bubble letters spelling out My diary flash you and you quickly flip the page before the glitter sears into your eyelids.

The first entry is there. Exactly seven years and two months ago. It's nothing like those entries you've seen on those corny 2000's TV shows for tweens—nor is it like those aesthetic journaling girls on Pwinterest.

It's something, familiarly, you. A short clunk of text about your day, on days that had some sort of exciting event going on—something you'd undoubtedly do. It almost makes you grimace.

This whole multiverse thing might be worse than you thought.

Two days ago I moved into a new house. My mom said she couldn't take care of me anymore, and I had to live with my dad. I've never seen him until today, but he's really busy, so we don't talk much. Alfred is nice to me, and his cooking is really yummy.

There's a little sketch of a baked dinner—and despite your pre-tween art skills, it does seem rather tasty looking.

You flip the page. The next entry is a week after the last.

I still haven't talked with dad yet. But I did meet two new people. Alfred said that they're my new brothers. Mom never wanted any more babies, so I was very excited to meet them! Jason is fun to play with. He's really bad at hide and go seek, though—I always win! Dick is fun too, but he's busy a lot, like dad. But he always makes time for me and Jason. I really like it here.

There's a small picture of three stick people holding hands. One is significantly short than the other two—labelled with your name above. The one on the left to you is Jason, with black curls and a wide grin. The one on the right is labelled Dickie, much taller than the other two and with shaggy black hair.

The drawing is innocent. Cute. Wholesome, if you will. There's even heart stickers pasted (and peeling, by now) between each of your heads.

You flip the page with a small, fond smile. The next entry is three days after that one.

Dad played with me, Jason, and Dickie today. He was really bad at hide and go seek too—but Dad and Jason chased each other all around the house before I caught both of them. I was so happy I won today! Dad took us all out for dinner, even Alfred. Alfred said he only came because I always look very happy when we're together. The dinner was really yummy!!!!

The drawing underneath is a picture of what looked like a smaller version of you, standing triumphantly with a little tiara on your head.

You flip the page. This time—there's a significant gap between the dates. This was a whole 5 months after you last wrote in your diary.

I don't know where Jason is. Dad and Dickie look really sad. They've been really busy for a long time, and we don't play much anymore. The only times I see Dad is at dinner. But we don't talk. Sometimes he doesn't eat dinner, either. Alfred still puts my drawings on the fridge, and he says that Dad and Dickie are just sad now, and they'll be better soon. I miss Jason. I want him back home.

There's no silly-looking drawing to go underneath this entry. This Jason—apparently the man who saved you—seemed rather fun-loving, despite whatever happened to him. You wonder what it was.

You flip the page, again. This entry was 3 months after the last.

I miss Dad, and Dickie. Dickie told me he had to go away for a bit, because he has something important to do somewhere else. Dad is busy all the time. I haven't seen him in 4 days. I don't play with anyone but Alfred now, but he's not that fun to play with, because he's so serious all the time. Dad tells me to go on my iPad and not bother Alfred when I'm bored, but I miss them.

Next one is 2 days after.

I met a new boy today. Dad told me he's my new brother. I was pretty excited because he's my age. But he didn't want to talk to me. He said he was too caught up in important stuff, and that I should just come back later. But he looked real annoyed when saying it—so I didn't come back. He didn't say anything, so I don't think he cared.

A week later.

My dad is Batman, and my new brother is Robin. I'm freaking out. He never told me—I saw them sneaking out one day and I got really mad. Why didn't he tell me? Did Dickie and Jason know? Was I the only one who didn't? Tim got mad at me when I started yelling. I felt really sad so I hid in my room to get away from them. I've been here since. Alfred brought me dinner, but I'm not hungry.

So... this Batman who you saw before, is actually your dad? In this world, this is your father? You almost drop the diary in shock, but you can't tear your eyes away. You can't stop reading.

The next few entries don't catch your eye—it's all teen angst about how you're sick of how busy your dad is, how annoying Tim can be, how Dick won't even visit your room anymore—until something else catches your eye.

3 years later.

Jason is back. He's back home. I don't know why, but he's back. I was so excited to see him again—everyone else has become so busy and won't even talk to me. Nobody else has time for me, but Jason did. But he looked different. He's way older than me, now. He won't even look at me. I tried to hug him but he just put a mask on and walked away. Why is everyone doing this to me? What did I do? It's not fair.

Your writing grows into chicken scratch near the end—as if conveying your frustration. You skim through a few more entries. More teen angst. More about how you can't even hold a conversation with your siblings anymore.

Some were sweet, like how you met some people, unnamed, and treasured their friendship so deeply, but they were few and far between.

I met a girl today. She's my sister now. Her name is Cassandra, and she has very pretty eyes. I tried to talk to her, but dad got pretty mad at me because apparently she doesn't like to talk much. How was I supposed to know that? She didn't even look at me as dad pulled her away. Who even is she? Why does my dad like her better than me? Why does he like them all better than me? It's not fair.

You're bitter. You're upset, and so, so bitter. It's so abundantly clear that as time went on, you became progressively more and more spiteful. It was rather sad to watch.

This stupid little kid tried to kill me. Claimed I was unworthy. I couldn't give less of a shit what he thinks—but my family couldn't give less of a shit about me. They said he's troubled, that he needs patience.

The new few words were less than family friendly. Unkind? Definitely. Deserved? Possibly.

I can't believe this. I'm so sick of this. I want to get out. I can't take this anymore. Jason kills people now, but Bruce still loves him. Even Steph and Babs get more love from Bruce than me. They're not even in the family, but they're better. Because they're superheroes, they're better. Maybe I'll be a hero myself. Maybe then, they'll see me.

You flip the page. That's the last entry. The last page of the book—but behind it, there's a page made of sticky notes on the back cover. Your eyes widen in shock at what you see.

It's all...

"Spidey," you read out the name atop this pasted page in a low whisper.

Your fingertips trace over the detailed drawings. Your costume. Though not made of nanotech—the suit was intricately designed with spider patterns falling all around your arms and legs, with a large spider torso. It looked somewhat like Silk's suit.

Web shooters, with thorough calculations on how much you'd have to bulk up to swing without taking your arm off (which, by what you're reading, was humanly impossible for a regular you), and detailed explanations on what the web fluid was made out of.

More environmentally sustainable than your ones. You'd have to take these notes back home.

It wasn't like your family would go looking—you can't help but think, chewing on your cheek. This was incredible. You must've been a real genius to figure all this out.

Back home, you had Reed and Tony help you with all your spider stuff. Sure, you were the one who came up with all the base ideas and constructed it all yourself—but they helped out a lot with all the technicalities. But to come up with something like, from what you can tell, all on your own...

It was nothing short of incredible. And your family had no idea.

You snap the book shut, eyes narrowing down at the ground. Your Aunt May never would've treated you like this—and if you were correct, this other you must be with your aunt right now.

Good for them, you think. Maybe they'd be happier there, anyway.

A sudden knock at your door brings you out of your stupor. You slip the book away quickly as Alfred opens the door, bowing his head slightly. "Master [name], dinner is ready. If you're feeling better, please come down."

The prospect of a family dinner leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, especially after all you've read from this diary. No matter. You don't know how this you behaved before, but you have bigger issues to deal with than becoming a copy of this sad child.

But despite everything... Alfred really did seem to care for them—for you. You nod, smoothing out your cami. "Thanks. Let's go."

You and he both head down the stairs, and you finally come face to face with the family you've heard so much about.

They're all grinning from ear-to-ear, laughing about something that "happened on patrol" as you take a seat at the end of the table—beside a blonde girl who you think was called Stephanie—chewing on the food.

It was good. Really good. Almost as good as Aunt May's meatloaf. The thought makes you feel a little homesick, but you persevere. The hard glare given to you across the table by this small kid (definitely Damian) isn't helping, though.

Dick catches the look and follows his little brothers gaze to you. He doesn't say anything about it—only ruffles the boy's hair, chuckling, and asks why he seems so glum. The child hisses and starts trying to stab the man with a steak knife, to no avail—of course.

That was the last time you were even glanced at for the rest of the dinner. You almost can't believe it. How could somebody really fade into the background like that? How could such a family let it happen?

How could they be so ignorant? You lose your appetite soon enough, and stand up. The chatter dies down for a second. Stephanie—being the closest toward you, gives you an uncomfortable smile, "Are you not going to finish? You were out for a while... you need energy to get back up and do..."

Whatever it is you do at home, you guess that's probably what she was thinking. Who said you hadn't gotten a telepathic mutation?

She doesn't finish her sentence. You'd just met these people and already you were sick of this. Seriously, you don't think you could get any more uncomfortable if somebody strapped you to a chair and tossed you down a dark well.

You miss the most fantastic of fours you know. They'd never do this to you. Sue was far too sweet.

You shake your head, plate held tight in your hand. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. There's much more important things out there in Gotham, isn't there? Besides—I have more than enough time to heal. Not like I'm doing any hero stuff, huh?"

Your laugh lacks any kind of humour, and you walk out in your typical Spidey fashion. The chatter doesn't spike up for a good ten minutes until after you leave.

You meet Alfred in the kitchen, and he's doing countless dishes alone. There's a stack of plates almost as tall as he is. You roll up your sleeves.

He gives you a confused look. "Master [name]? I have told you before, you—"

"I don't care what you told me." You say, suddenly—but you backtrack when you realise how flat your tone was. Cheeks flushed, you correct yourself, "Ah—sorry. I meant... I don't care what you told me, because it doesn't matter if you don't want help... I'll offer it anyway, you know? I can't help it. It's how I am."

It's why I'm Spidey. Not because I have powers. Not because I'm good at swinging around. Not even because the costume is awesome.

It's because you can't help but help others. You have the power to do so—now it's your responsibility.

You take a sponge, and douse it in dishwashing liquid. You scrub down a porcelain plate beside Alfred in silence.

The pensive look on his face was now replaced by a small, fond smile.

we getting into the typical diary entry stuff okokokkkk but. love interests next chapter. smirks let me cook!!!@

taglist: @hello-bina @cosmosluckycharms @1abi @yhin-gg @insideoutjulie @bluepanda08 @omnivirgo @vanessa-boo @dind1n @welpthisisboring @lunaetiicsaystuff @marsmabe @atanukileaf @findingjaxx @4mrplumi

if you asked to be on the taglist but aren't there, your account couldn't be tagged for whatever reason. im not too sure how tumblr works, but if you manage to fix it, ask me again!!!

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celestialgalaxyglow · 5 months ago

Text

Batfam and Danny, Part 5

The following morning on the roof of Jason and Danny's apartment.

Jason: Good job patrolling yesterday kid.

Danny: Thanks dad.

A massive light engulfed the area and a massive creature appeared before them.

Jason (too tired to care): Friend of yours?

Danny: That’s Cthulhu.

Jason (the literature major): As in Lovecraft?

Danny: Yeah, but he misrepresented Cthulhu greatly in his books. For his slander H. P. Lovecraft is in the Realms of Infinite Punishment.

Jason: I see.

Danny (looking at Cthulhu): Hi C!

Cthulhu (bowing): Greets my Lord.

Danny: Need something?

Cthulhu: Whilst wondering the Lands of Nightmares and Infinite Darkness I came across this... I want to say it’s a cat. I believe you will like it.

He handed Danny the “cat.” The creature had six legs, and fur as black as the void glowing with glittering stardust.

Danny: It’s so cute! Thank you, C!

Cthulhu: Anything for you, my Lord.

Cthulhu vanished.

Jason: Danny, you are my son, and I love you, but sometimes you frighten me.

Danny: I think Bruce feels the same about you.

Jason: Well, yes, but that’s beside the point. He looks at the “cat” in Danny’s arms. So, what is that?

Danny: No idea, but he’s mine now. I’ll call him Shadow.

The “cat” meowed.

Danny (walking away): You will be my greatest warrior.

Jason (smiling): I love my strange little son.

Later in the apartment.

Jason: Hey Danny, I've been thinking about something.

Danny: What is it?

Jason: You're a king.

Danny: I am.

Jason: If you're here, who's ruling your kingdom?

Danny: I have a regent.

Jason: Who?

Danny: Would you like to meet him?

Jason: Sure?

Danny: Vlad!

Vlad appeared in the living from a burst of green fire.

Vlad: You summoned Danny?

Danny: Dad, this is Vladimir Plasmius, my regent and former archenemy. Vlad this is my dad, Jason.

Vlad (bowing): It is an honor to make your acquittance Your Imperial Lordship.

Jason: "Your Imperial Lordship?"

Vlad (looking at Danny): You didn't tell him?

Jason: Tell me what?

Danny: I granted you a title. Danny summoned a scroll and handed to Jason.

-----

Hereby decreed by his Imperial and Royal Chthonic Majesty:

By our royal authority we hereby grant Jason Todd-Wayne the following title:

His Imperial Lordship, Jason, the King's Father.

Signed, Danny Rex-Imperator, Supreme King of the Infinite Realms, High King of the Ghost Zone, King of all Ghosts, First among the Eldritch Ones.

-----

Jason (tearing up): "The King's Father."

Danny: Well you are my dad.

Jason (ran up to Danny and hugged him): I love you son.

Danny: Dad! Not in front of my regent!

Vlad (smiling): Good to see you found someone to care for you Danny. He looked at Jason. You have proven yourself worthy of the title of the King's father, Lord Jason.

Jason: I try my best.

Vlad: So I see. He adjusted his suit. But if that be all I shall make my way back to the Infinite Realms. Good bye your Lordships. Vlad vanished.

Jason (looking at Danny): I love you kid.

Danny: Love you too dad.

A few hours later.

Jason (cooking lunch): Danny...

Danny (setting the table): Yes?

Jason: Why did we not get any messages from Bruce or the others about a massive eldritch creature appearing in the middle of Gotham in broad daylight?

Danny: Cthulhu was hiding himself, we only saw him because we are in some way connected to the Infinite Realms.

Jason: Ah.

Danny: Good thing honestly, Bruce would have had a heart attack.

Jason (laughing): Yeah he would have. Jason went back to cooking lunch.

Danny: You're going to tell him later aren't you?

Jason (smiling): Oh 100%!

A while later while cleaning the plates.

Jason: Danny I have an idea, and I want you to tell me if it's crazy.

Danny: Hit me.

Jason: I want to apply to grad school, so I can latter go for a doctorate, so can be a doctor just to spite Bruce.

Danny (laughing): That would be hilarious! But do you like your field that much?

Jason: Yes, I love literature!

Danny: Go for it then.

Jason: It's settled then, I'm applying to graduate school!

Meanwhile at Wayne Manor. Bruce Sneezes.

Alfred: Bless you Master Bruce.

Bruce: One of my kids is doing something overly dramatic just to spite me...

(Master Post)

#dc x dp crossover #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc #dc x dp #batfamily #batfam #batdad #jason todd #red hood #danny fenton #danny phantom #ghost king danny #ghost king phantom #chtulhu #vlad plasmius #bruce wayne #batman #alfred pennyworth #Danny might be their king but to the great eldritch ones he is also baby

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pomefioredove · 11 months ago

Text

a private meeting

summary: yuu makes a list of the top five cutest third years. the following conversation type of post: short fic characters: cater, trey, leona, rook, vil, idia mentioned, lilia, malleus additional info: romantic?? platonic?? idk, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu, this is more for character interactions. and fun

"I'm sure you're all well aware of why we're here,"

The eight gentleman standing around the dark, candlelit room look between each other.

Leona yawns.

"How long is this gonna take, exactly? I was dragged outta bed for this,"

Vil glares. "Hush. I wanted to deal with this matter in the quietest manner possible, without disturbing the prefect. Sevens know what happens when your egos go unchecked,"

"Look who's talking,"

Another glare, but Vil chooses not to waste any more time.

"Two nights ago, the prefect hosted a slumber party for Ace Trappola, Deuce Spade, Jack Howl, and our own Epel Felmier,"

"I remember that," Lilia says, rubbing his chin. "Sebek was invited, but refused in case someone attacked Malleus whilst he was away."

Malleus shakes his head.

"During this event, the prefect created a list of the top five "cutest third years", as we all know. And, to avoid any childish squabbling, I've gathered you all here to open it as an ensemble. Rook?"

A slim, folded sheet of notebook paper appears from the dark of Rook Hunt's pocket. He holds it up, as if presenting it to the heavens.

"Where did you even find that?" Trey asks, adjusting his glasses.

"Facile! It was buried under a stack of homework assignments in our dearest Trickster's bedroom," the blond says merrily.

"Logistically speaking, that's almost too easy. Are we sure it isn't a fake?" Ortho pipes up.

"Ortho?" Vil asks. "What are you doing here?"

The boy giggles in an electronic chime. "Idia is hiding under his covers and won't come out, so I'm here in his place!"

"...Alright,"

"I don't know what he's so nervous for," Vil goes on. "When I am already guaranteed to be in the first place slot."

Leona scoffs, kicking back with his feet on the table. Vil glares again.

"How rude,"

"He's not wrong. You are the most beautiful here..." a smile creeps up Lilia's face. "But, as I recall, you said cutest third years, not most beautiful. And if anyone is the cutest, it's me."

"Oh, spare me," Leona sighs. "Let's just get this over with. Open the damn thing."

"You're not the least bit curious, Leona?" the fae asks, batting his large eyes.

"Don't patronize me. And no, I'm not. I couldn't care less,"

Lilia smirks, but says nothing more on the matter.

He turns to his tablemate. "And what say you, Malleus?"

Every person in the room falls silent, and then turn to the prince sitting at the furthest corner of the table with his hands folded in front of him.

He hasn't shared a single thought all evening.

"...The contents of this list make no difference to me," he finally speaks. "My feelings towards the prefect will be unaffected."

Rook sets a hand over his heart. "Quelle beauté! I am moved! Not even the strongest of winds could make your friendship bow,"

Leona groans as if he's in agonizing pain.

"Open it!"

"Okay, hold on. Isn't this like, a major privacy violation?" Cater says. He doesn't sound eager to see the results, either.

"I would hate for someone to read my private thoughts to a room full of people."

"He may have a point. This was a list made between friends at a slumber party. Taking it out of that context could be disastrous," Trey agrees.

"There's a 96% chance this will end in conflict!" Ortho chimes in, merry as ever. Leona sighs.

"Can I just leave?"

"No," Vil snaps. "Rook, open it."

"Rook, don't,"

"Rook!"

The poor man observes the conflict slowly unraveling before him, and he sets the folded sheet of paper on the table.

"Now, now, do not squabble! Let this be a chance to celebrate our bonds with the lovely prefect!"

"I agree with Rook," Lilia smiles big. "We should all agree that no matter what is on that list, we'll leave it after tonight and move on."

Vil sighs. "Yes, yes. You're all right. We can't let what they wrote at a private slumber party affect our relationships with them,"

"No matter what, we leave them out of this. Agreed?"

Everyone in the room nods.

"Alright. Rook, read it,"

Rook reaches behind him, the anticipation building, and... is met with a cool wooden surface.

The note seems to have disappeared into thin air.

Before anyone can express their obvious confusion, an evil cackling pulls their attention to the doorway.

Vil gasps.

"Grim! Put that down!"

The small direbeast, now holding a crumpled piece of paper in his paw, smiles wickedly.

And then, to everyone's horror, he eats it whole.

Leona is the first to react, storming over and lifting Grim by the scruff of his neck. "Seriously?!"

"Fufufu. Looks like someone cared, after all," Lilia chuckles. Vil rolls his eyes.

"Hey! Not my fault you guys were so loud! You woke me up from my nap over a stupid list!" Grim says, crossing his arms.

A brief silence follows, and then a sigh. Leona drops him and he lands on his feet.

"Perhaps Grim is right," Ortho says. "Instead of worrying about the numerical grade the prefect assigns you, you should focus on the unique and special aspects of your individual relationships!"

"How eloquent!" Rook coos. "Oui, you are right! Sometimes it is best to let secrets remain secrets."

"Something about the way he says that tells me he already knows what it said," Leona grumbles.

"Ohoho. A fascinating mystery, non? Did I sneak a peek before tonight, or am I just as clueless as you?"

The prince rolls his eyes.

Vil sighs. "Ortho is right. Now I feel ridiculous for getting so worked up over what amounts to a joke at a slumber party,"

Everyone grows quiet, seemingly reflecting on themselves for the duration of the brief silence.

Lilia's giggles change the melancholic mood of the room.

"Perhaps Malleus had the right idea all along. It doesn't matter who the prefect thinks is more attractive; they're still a wonderful friend. How wise- I'm very proud,"

Malleus beams.

"Yeah yeah," Grim grumbles, turning to the door. "I didja a favor, anyway. None of you weirdos were number one."

He leaves, and he takes the peace and reflection with him.

Slowly, everyone turns to each other.

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #cater diamond x reader #trey clover x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #rook hunt x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader #malleus draconia x reader #queued

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nonranghaes · 3 months ago

Text

heads up: no actual cheating i promise haha (vague food mentions, reader was sick). mr stage actor!mingoo <3

"... i can explain."

mingyu's standing in the door of your apartment, face stained with various shades of lipstick. you stand there, arms crossed over your chest as you survey your boyfriend fully, and seem to successfully pull off the curiously-pissed-off-partner look. it's late, he looks tired and like he's been drinking, but you know why he's stumbling in now.

"everyone started kissing my face!" he says, hands up and defensive. "i told them to quit it because you'd get the wrong idea-"

"is she pretty?" your arms hug a little tighter against your chest, frowning at him. "do you like her more than me?"

"no! there was no--i mean, there's a couple women in our cast, but--"

it's a little cute to see him worked up like this. as if seungcheol didn't immediately send you the video after his final bow with the entire cast attacking your boyfriend with kisses once the curtains closed. the way he laughed, and then complained (he'd rather it be you kissing him, but, alas, you've been home sick all day and missed his final show), and the way he never washed his face because someone yelled out they'd all do it again if he did. it had warmed your heart to see how loved he was by his cast. maybe he'd work with them again down the road, but for now he was going to enjoy having a little time to laze around with you before he has to begin rehearsals for his next show.

and mingyu realizes when you stop giving him that look that you know. and he chuckles, immediately making his way over to pepper kisses on your face. "who showed you?"

"who do you think?" you giggle, and then try to duck away from him. "i'm still sick!"

"i don't care!" he pulls you back into his arms, giggling. he just stands there in the open doorway, holding you tight. "i missed you."

"i'm sorry--"

"don't." he presses one final kiss against your jaw, close to your ear, before he lets you go. "did you like the soup i left for you?"

your face grows a little warmer: even when he's busy, he makes time to care for you. "it helped a lot."

"good." the door is shut. he takes your hand, already guiding you back to bed. "i'll be in soon. wait for me?"

you snort a little, the tiny reference to the show he's walking away from not lost on you. you kiss his knuckles. "i will."

#nonranghaes.thoughts #nonranghaes.svt #seventeen x reader #seventeen imagine #svt x reader #svt imagine #seventeen x you #svt x you #mingyu x reader #mingyu x you #kim mingyu fluff #kim mingyu x reader #kim mingyu x you #svt fluff #seventeen fluff #mingyu fluff

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archive-doll · 24 days ago

Text

Oh, sweet neighbour. II

Johnny Mactavish x f!reader. He cannot let you move a little finger because no, and well, you need a guard dog.

18+ CW: the military. you're pregnant, that's a warning on its own. takes place in Scotland, AU where Johnny is forcibly retired and finds a new project - you. breaking and entering. food is mentioned. foot fetish. panty-stealing. noncon - he kisses you while you sleep, touches you too. fantasy of somnophilia. hints of dom/sub dynamic.

Have mercy on my grammar, English is not my first language.

PREV. MASTERLIST. NEXT

Days continue to pass by as peacefully as they did before. The bull you had been negotiating to buy is now happily roaming around, in the middle of all the chickens and the goats. An old guy, rather calm for one of his kind, who comes to greet you every morning. He even starts to play with your Bernese Mountain dog, not that you're surprised, Leo can make everybody his friend.

While you sit on your porch, slowly shifting on the rocking chair after a long day of work, you can see them running after one another. You name him Cowboy. The stable starts slowly being renovated, and your ankles are more sensitive than they used to be. But you get one wall done thanks to your nail gun, and you slowly start to get used to the recoil, barely even gasping at the loud sound anymore.

Evidently, it is seeing you perched on your stool that makes Johnny leave the security of his new house and cross the distance. It is barely day six after your meeting, and Johnny is growing restless, watching you from his window. He had been unable to do anything, and there was a mountain of chores waiting for him inside, but nah. Each time he sees you in the morning, a cup of dark coffee dwarfed into his hand, and you take his breath away.

With your laugh when the sun rises, when you go about and around with a skip in your step, a bucket of grains in hand. How you pat that dangerous bull and scratch at his head and trim the ginger hair around his head, uncaring of those giant horns that could impale you. Your yellow raincoat makes his heart ache with tenderness, but god, does he hate seeing you sitting on that stupid stool. Shouldn't be doing this, not by yourself anyway, not as long as he has something to say about it.

And you listen very well.

You’re trying to adjust the gutter, standing there while grumbling about it, a frown curling your eyebrows. It is not raining this morning, which is why you want to clean it and see if it needs changing as well, taking a handful of debris out. You hate the feeling of it, the leaves all wet that stick around your fingers, and the sight of dead insects and other things you don't want to know the name of. Your nose twitches in disgust, and you gaze away for a moment before dropping it down.

Johnny can feel a cold sweat pearling on his skin at the sight of you, sitting so prettily in such a dangerous position. You are wearing an adorable pink jacket today and a green silky scarf around your hair to keep your face free, with a little bow at your nape. It makes him want to nestle into you, cradle your elbow and kiss the soft flesh there. The sight of you is almost too difficult to watch for a man like him.

“Hen, ya’re goin to giv' me a heart attack.”

You jolt at the sudden aggravated voice, so concentrated on your task that you don’t notice the shuffling sound of him approaching your position. Your heart shudders in your chest, the rumble of his voice making your skin flush when you flicker your eyes at him, one hand securely holding onto the edge of the roof.

“God, Johnny!” You whine with the remaining of your fear, shifting so you sit with both feet on the stair, making the man hurriedly walk to you.

“C’mon now, lassie.” He asks of you, standing at the bottom of your high stool with careful eyes. His hair is unruly today, making you want to brush it back, and his black pants are already stained with mud. You can't imagine the state of his sneakers.

“What?”

“Get down. I’ll do it f'r ya.” He says back with no hesitation, already raising his hand for you to take.

The worry on his face is evident as he waits for you, warm eyes flickering along your silhouette, ready to rescue you if you fall. It’s what makes you accept his hand, that and the pain in your shoulders. You’re not certain how he’s going to take care of your gutter with one arm in a cast, but you don’t bother asking him, not as he is readjusting the silky scarf around your head with such a concentrated face.

It brings a shy grin to your face, having such a strong man bending down to you, his thick fingers pushing your scarf back carefully, and curling your hair back around your cheeks. You nibble on your lips, gazing up at him quietly when he wipes something from your cheek, his hair grazing your forehead at the proximity. It's with a gentle word that you give him your thanks as he thumbs at your jaw.

You watch him raise up on the stool easily, bulging arm catching your attention for a moment when he asks you for a tool. You feel your face slightly heat up as you falter toward your box, taken out of your admiration. Your hands push in the mess of it, and Johnny doesn't judge when you first show him what you think he asked with hesitation. He nods, and you grin once more before approaching, one hand on the edge of the stool, before you raise up and give it to him. You don't miss how his broad shoulders shift at each of his movements.

Once again, Johnny starts asking you questions, not that you mind much. It is rather nice to have someone to talk to. And Johnny is good company, always listening to everything you say with attention. His eyes flicker to your mouth occasionally, as if drinking the words you give him straight from the source.

"I decided on Scotland when I saw pictures of the mountains." You recall a little haze in your eyes while you think back on it. It's a happy memory, though it didn't start as one. "I lived in a city and grew up there. I wanted a change, and it called to me."

"Mountains, eh?"

"Yeah! I like the quiet. The nature. When it's spring or summer, I want to hike up there." You confirm, pointing at one mountain there, up west.

Johnny stares at the mountain, one hand busy screwing back the gutter in its rightful place, where it can't fall into your path or, worse, on you. When he gazes back at you, you're still admiring the landscape, with a gentle smile grazing your mouth. He can't really understand, having seen these mountains and nature all his childhood and travelled in dazzling places during his missions.

But if it's what brought you here, safe, to him, then he's pleased.

"And, everyone always told me the people were nice here. And the food." You add, twisting on your feet to lean against the stool, which barely moves under Johnny's weight. You cross your arms on a lower stair, and he huffs a laugh, catching your little smile.

"Food, righ'."

"That, and the houses cost less than in Island. And it's warmer, if you can believe it."

The screw dig into his palm when you say it, Island. Fucking hell, he could have never meet you. Could have awakened to an empty land, alone. Never known the sound of your breathing, or how your nose twitches when you smile.

"Everythin' is warmer than Island." He gruff, giving a good tug on the gutter and watching it stay put.

"True. So I came here."

The more he listens to you, the more certain Johnny is of the good in you. He makes quick work of the gutter as you explain it all to him. You desire for a refuge and have a family of your own to look after and care for. With your precious hand smoothing up and down your tummy and that genuine smile curling your mouth, it feels like redemption. To help you. To make you safe when you walk further in, your fingers curling around his palm, your rain boots sinking into the mud. You don’t care for the mess, he finds out. Not when you settle inside the stable, and tell him the work needed to be done next, with dust floating around you and a piece of spider web on your shoulder.

His knees shake as you settle one of your hands on his elbow, guiding him to where you keep the tools and the rest of the materials you will need for the rehabilitation of the stable. Your fingers tense inside the crook of his elbow, and he feels frustrated with his own state, not able to secure you with both hands. You lead him toward a table there, with the plan you have imagined laid out on paper. The drawing is rather rough, but he understands it easily.

"Five? Plannin' on buyin' horses, bonnie?"

"Mhm. A stallion, two mares. Then, time will tell," You hum, leaning into the table as you nod in confirmation. You had years of dreams, years of imagination, and of planning behind you. You know what you want and how you'll get them, too - there are so many horses that need a home. There are so many strays that need shelter. "I'd like a donkey too, but it'd be noisy for you."

"Dinnea care, bonnie," Johnny says, voice unwavering, completely honest. A donkey or not, it doesn't matter much to him. As long as you're happy. As long as it's not quiet anymore, empty. Anything else, it's fine.

"Then a donkey it is." You grin up at him, leaning closer into his space. He doesn't care much either, not when your shoulder nestles into his side while you go back to your explanation. Little independent girl, already thought of it all. Only need a strong man to help you.

Johnny is good at listening. His lieutenant might say something else, but he's well-behaved now. Better than when he first enrolled, a pent-up kid who only knew demining figures, the weight of negligence, and parents who could hardly remember his name. He's a good soldier now, broken apart and shaped back by an entity bigger than himself - bigger than the whole sky he even thought for a while.

Finding intel, chatting up some guys for distraction, following a plan. Johnny can do that, shit he wants to, feeling useless by himself, without anything to do in the silence. And your plan, it's a damn good one. He can see you don't really know what to do, but you went and looked it up, and did it yourself, sweet girl, finding what tool to use for what, the width each box needs to be, and what's the best wood to buy for a decent price.

He doesn't mind having you guide him. Pointing his target, the next step for this mission and even less when you reward him with a smile, much better than any medal or tight handshake he ever received in return for his service. You look so pretty there, doing your best as you measure the planks and cut them carefully with gloved hands. Even with the protective glasses perched on your nose, you're a sight for sore eyes. And the doc said exercise is good or something like that.

So he listens to you, well. Intently. Never turning his back on you, always adapting to your soft orders and determined wishes with no hesitation, his mind quiet as you soothe him into action. You don't have Kyle's sickening smile, or his Lt's rough hands that dig deliciously into him, nor Cap's approving eyes that make his teeth hungry for more, but god, you are something.

He's desperate for your praise, for that smoothing hand down his back as you come to watch the finished result. It makes his chest puff, makes his hands tingle with anticipation, and he's eager to do more, just for another look from you. You have these soft eyes, a dreamy voice that sounds like a melody, and he feels like a damn pup, a lovesick mutt famished for the warmth of you that makes him drool. Aye, you don't need to be Kyle, or Lt, nor Cap. He'll do anything you ask, do anything you need. He'll be good.

It’s well into the afternoon when you enter the stable again, with a plate filled with a warm teapot, two mugs, and some sandwiches you made for the two of you. It’s no surprise to find that Johnny is very quick with his hands, even with one not in good shape, and you find yourself standing there, by the table, with shining eyes as half of it is already finished.

After a long and grumbling discussion, Johnny had let you work too but not without the threat of making him leave and doing it all by yourself. Though he managed the heavy lifting all on his own, you can't deny that. Your heart stutters, finding him putting on a lock, his large form bent forward and strong shoulders rolling underneath his sweater.

“Johnny?”

“Aye, hen?”

“Let’s take a break, hm?” You propose, watching him gazing at you from over his shoulder.

It’s almost immediate how he puts down the screwdriver and shifts on his feet to face you. Black boots he went and fetched in his house, trudges on the ground, and your eyes flicker to the dark curls around his head, seeing drops of sweat shining on his skin. He does not move away from you anymore when you approach.

Before, there was a moment when Johnny would stiffen, all of his body rigid as he watched you close the distance.

Instead, now, he leans into you as if anticipating your next move, blue eyes blinking as he waits patiently. You pass the clean towel around his face, wiping away the crass and wood dust accumulating on him. The arch of his nose, with a slight bump, the bones of his cheeks that you gently rub clean, even his scarred temples that you do not mention.

Johnny allows you into his personal space gladly, his eyes shining with an energy you can't quite decipher. Your head tilts back when you roll your weight to your toes, raising yourself to slide the towel over his nape with a smile. You have to shuffle closer, enough that your shoes tap his own, your belly pressing into his coat as you slide the towel over his skin. You blink before finding his eyes that never left you.

“You hungry? I made us sandwiches.”

Big blue eyes stare down at you, and you have half the desire to stroke them and feel his long lashes tickle your fingertips before he offers you a nod. Your mouth turns up into that beautiful smile once again – a sight he will never get tired of – before you step backwards. His body sways forward; the magnetic force you affect him with is inevitable. He stays close, towering on your right side, and watches quietly as you fill the two mugs there, and your shoulder brushes his chest when you cut the sandwich in two.

He relishes in everything you grant him with.

From where you both sit, you can see well into your land. The little river there, down the slight hill that leads to Johnny’s house. The trees at the edges of the forest bend and dance beneath the wind. The thyme tea warms you as you listen to Johnny eating with gluttony.

Your lips twitch at the groaning he lets out, and with warm cheeks, you glance his way. His eyes are closed, and he munches about one sandwich already eaten. His legs are spread out as he bites another piece of it, barely breathing between mouthfuls, and you let out a little amused giggle, seeing him nod mindlessly to himself.

“I’m guessing it’s good, then?”

“Bloody amazin’, hen.”

Your face brightens again as you let out a chuckle, finding Johnny endearing. It's a strange thought to have about a man, but one you can't contest. Your hands cradle your cup as you watch him, a smile lingering on your lips when he sighs, finally satiated. It’s the least you can do after today. Your hands twitch then, when he raises his hand to his lips, licking at the tip of it. A pink tongue passes the threshold of his mouth and curls around his thumb, licking the last crumbs.

There is something slightly erotic in it all, seeing how his fingers shine with his own spit as he leans back in his chair, completely satisfied by your cooking. Big, large hands, calloused and scarred, now used to help create your home, knuckles pink under the little dark hair there. Large frame, warmed by the tea you made for him, and the food you nurtured him with.

“What’s next, bonnie?”

“Mhm?” You hum, almost losing yourself in the sight of him.

“After tha’, what do we wan' to do?”

“Oh! My porch needs some repairing.” You answer, shifting in your chair to face him, noticing his use of the ‘we’ with affection. You don’t mind it. Could definitely use the help and the strong arms.

"Mhm. Nothin' inside needs some restoration?" He hums, squinting his eyes at you from his place. It makes you fidget in your seat, lips pinched down before you shrug your shoulders, trying to appear innocent.

"M'eudail." He groans, thick accent twirling around the foreign word at your bad little acting. "Need to think abou' yarself, ya know? Can't let ya be cold oll winter."

"I'm not cold. T's just the bathroom, well, the heater doesn't work. And the sink in the kitchen is having some trouble." You try to dismiss, eyes finding the view of the hill again, only trying to ignore his grumpy frown.

"We'll dae yar house first." He finishes on, and though you sigh, you don't refute his decision. You know better than to lie to him, not that you want to anyway.

You pass the early evening finishing the last touch in the stables – the little chamber there, where you sand the wood carefully. Actually, Johnny uses the sander while you do the finishing touches behind his passage, running your palm over the smooth texture with appreciation. There are five boxes done, and while Johnny rearranges all of your tools, you looks at it, hands on your hips.

This would have taken you ages to do by yourself because, even with all of your good intentions, you do not know what you’re doing most of the time. But there is no hesitation in Johnny’s actions, and with a few sentences, he always reassures you, giving you the options before allowing you to make your decision.

It's easy how he walks you into your home as if you've done it before. Your hand is warm, settled into his elbow as he slows his steps for you. The air is cold tonight, and you figure winter is not far anymore with how soon the sun sets over the green land. Johnny’s hand moves and curls around your fingers, helping you take the first step toward the porch.

Johnny walks you inside, hovering behind you and finds the collar of your coat quickly, without a word. You sigh when your feet finally go into the comfort of your slippers, ankles slightly hurting from today's work. You don't question it when, after wiping your hands, you give him the little towel you always keep there to dry his face and hair.

"I was thinking of making bruschetta for dinner." You reveal to him, turning to watch him pass the towel over his hair, seeing how the usual brown of his hair had turned black from the evening rain. "With cream cheese, some tomatoes."

"Ya intivin' me to dinner, m'eudail?" It's a tease you know, just from the little tingle in his lips when he stares down at you.

"If you want to." You say, watching him putting his khaki raincoat on the wall. You pinch your lips as he wipes his hands on the towel, his blue eyes electrifying in the dim light, making you slightly nervous. It should be a bad idea, literally, inviting a stranger - an acquaintance? - into your home.

But you don't think Johnny could ever hurt you. Not with how delicately he handles you or tries to anyway. He's not used to this life, to people who aren't shaped by the sound of gunshots, and trained to assess everything around them as a potential threat. Not used to the softness of your wrist, of the light in your eyes. His fingers may circle your forearm too strongly, and he may stomp around silently to avoid alerting anyone of his presence and so scare you, but he always tries. He's always careful.

Your weight shifts from foot to foot as you keep looking at each other before you offer him a smile, softly moving to the side in silent invitation.

"Got nothing to thank you for your help. But I can cook."

"Shouldn't stand too much on yar feet, hen. Yer legs are goin' to hurt ya."

'I'll be fine, can handle a bit of pain, Johnny." You answer back after a moment of silence, seeing him squint at your legs as if they're a mathematical problem he can't resolve - or an untamed being who doesn't listen. Which, really, could be.

"I ken. But you shouldn't have ta." He grumbled then, passing the threshold of your house, coming to you easily. And it warms you how serious he is with it, with your health and your comfort. "C'mon then."

You don't say anything, simply accepting his help when he places a hand on your back. Johnny doesn't talk much, you find; he simply stays by your side as you open the old fridge. Your left hand skims over your belly as he looks into a high cabinet, finding there the plates you'll need for dinner.

Every ingredient is placed on the wooden island you also need to repair, and you hear him grumble as he opens and closes one cabinet, making it hiss. You hide your smile as he moves around, quickly finding every little thing that will need reparation or to be changed. It's actually rather amusing, seeing such a grown man mumbling to himself as he cusses and huffs and puffs.

"You know, I didn't invite you here, so you'll swear at my kitchen."

"Bonnie," He says, almost a warning as he gazes back at you, brows curling into a frown when you arch your eyebrows.

"That's a problem for tomorrow, okay? Come sit with me." You invite him, patting the high chair at your right, voice sweet and soft, like honey. It easily softens the exasperated glint in his eyes, and he sighs deeply before closing back the drawer.

You have to bite back a laugh when it squeaks. Johnny stared at it for a while longer, and you burrowed your face into your shoulder with a giggle. With a shake of his head, he finds you, large form settling by your side comically in that badly painted white high chair. It's much too small for him.

"How long?"

"How long what?"

"How long has it been for sale?" He asks again for your attention, watching you cut the tomatoes into four pieces. Your nail polish, a soft red, is slightly breaking on the edge after today's chore, and he pinches your thumb, moving it up and down under the light. You have a blister. That annoys him; you should never be in pain.

"Twelve years, I think. The previous owner was in a care facility for a while. It's in relatively good shape. The beams are still healthy."

"Walls dinnea make a home, hen." He grumbles, large fingers pushing into the side of your hand before he tugs the tomatoes in front of him, swiftly taking the knife out of your hand. "Someone came ta look at it?"

"No, not yet. Needs a bit of cleaning first, and then I need a plan." Your elbow presses into the counter, and your chin nestles into your palm as you watch him. The knife barely makes a sound as it slides into the plate.

You don't say another word for a while, simply enjoying the quiet as you watch Johnny skillfully use the knife on your tomatoes. Even with only one hand, he's doing it better than you are. Then, you turn and quietly slide the book in front of the two of you, abandoning your stubborn act. You don't say anything when you hear his snort and pointly ignore his look, and tap at the page so he can anticipate the rest of the recipe as you go and start taking care of the bruschetta.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You already doin' it." He says back without hesitation, and you push your shoulder into him at his teasing before seeing him nod. "Why do you help me?"

"Dinnea have better to dae."

It's a simple answer. While you believe it might be true, you don't think it's the truth either. Johnny doesn't seem the type of man who busies himself with other people's business, whether they are pregnant or not. From his manners, you don't deny he's polite and would never let you put your groceries away by yourself, but not to the point of restoring some stranger's old stable.

Your fingers reshape the bread, easily going through the motion as you let your eyes on him. Your nose twitches as you ponder it. You are eternally grateful for his help, really. But you know for certain there is something else. Another reason that makes him do it all, from cutting your tomatoes in that tiny high chair, to sanding the door of your dream stable.

For a moment, your eyes linger in front of you, hazy as you wonder. Does he look for a sense of stability? For a purpose? Or simply to occupy his days? Well, it's not any of your business, but you can't help yourself, trying to understand him, to discover every piece that built him. You know you shouldn't, and it's only a hypothesis anyway.

"Well, alright. You make good company so it's fine."

His fingers twitch around his knife, and the blade flutters over the chives at your words. He can feel the tip of his ears heating up at your compliment, and for a moment, he doesn't dare to look at you. Worried about what he will find.

When he does, though, under that little layer of sarcasm he brings out of you, Johnny finds honesty. And a smile - genuine, and pure. He's rooted to the damn chair, watching you, admiring you there, with a little apron tied around your neck.

You're the epitome of domestic life. Of civilian life. With that little thing tied around your waist, the brushing of your hair or whatever it is called, that make them so beautiful and shiny. No worries in your eyes when you turn your back on him, and soft fingers that linger on his arms.

If it's what awaits him, it can't be so bad.

"Even when I yell at yar kitchen?" He dissipates it, the bitter acceptance, pushing away the tension in his chest with what he does best - humour and a crooked grin.

"Yea', even when you yell at my kitchen." You chuckle, the edges of your eyes pinching slightly, and you do it again - that little scrunch of your nose. He thinks you're cute. Definitely too trusting, but rather cute.

The banter is easy with Johnny, keeping you skipping your steps, with a little glow in your face as he grills the bread in an oiled pan. Italians might despise you for this, but it's good, and you thought of bruschetta since you woke up this morning. You knew being pregnant could give you cravings, but not to this point.

With a ginger beer in hand, you walk behind Johnny, who's holding your plate, into the living room, where a very old TV is waiting for you and the most comfortable couch you've ever seen. Leo is there too, lying on the carpet by the fireplace, and you give him a few scratches before settling on the couch. Johnny is already there, lap spreading so hard that your knee bumps into his when you sit.

"So, ya said the bathroom and the kitchen. What else?"

"Mhm, the stairs creak. And I'd like to take out most of the paint on the furniture and varnish the wood. The heaters need a look, and the fireplaces, too." You think about it, lips pinching on the side as you unfold one thick cover before laying it on your legs, sensing Johnny's attention on you.

The television is running a show, and you can't understand half the words in it. The English teachers you had in school definitely didn't concern themselves with the slang or the different accents. But Scottish, surely, could easily make you feel like a fool. But you don't pay much attention, not when you hear Johnny asking you about what you want to do first.

"Well, the heaters and fireplace. I'll find someone tomorrow to come and look at it. Then, I'll have to buy some new furniture. Or a way to restore what's here."

A tingle slides on the bottom of your feet, and you mindlessly pass a piece of your ham to Leo as you push a warm tomato between your lips.

"Need a hand?"

"Mhm. Don't even know where to go."

He nods absentmindedly, curling a finger behind your ear to slick back some dishevelled strands of hair. Your eyes shift to his face, finding him there, relaxing, and his plate already empty. Johnny must have been starving, a big man like him doing work all day. Your lashes flutter when his fingers linger, his thumb passing over the arch of your jaw.

"Can't hav' strange men here when ya're alone, m'eudail."

His voice is similar to the echoes of thunder that swirl around in the mountains. It's a familiar sound in the back of your mind, one that makes this situation comfortable even if you don't know him. Because it's true, you don't know Johnny, hell, you don't even know his last name, but here you are, both of you. On your couch, sitting in front of the telly while he thumbs at your cheek, so close.

You smile, cheeks round as he presses into it with a grin, watching how your eyes light up momentarily.

"Guess I'll have to ask you to leave then."

He snorts, square shoulders shaking before he squeezes your chin in his hold. You swat at his wrist with amusement before he gathers your plate. The couch trembles as he rises up, making your body shift deeper into its comforts, and you snuggle beneath your blanket. Johnny pivots to look at you, and his shadow looms over you when he stands between you and the fireplace.

You're reminded of him, the first time you met. How he took your breath away. With the light coming from behind him, he looks bigger - stronger. Your breath halts for a second before he tilts himself closer, breaking the spell.

"Want sweets, hen?"

"Mhm?" You sigh, momentarily taken aback.

"Desserts." He repeats for you, not even missing a beat. Never making you feel stupid either, the same expression on his face, waiting for your answer with patience.

"Oh." You sigh, chin hitching up to gaze at his face before you offer him a little nod. "Yea', that would be nice. Do you want some tea?"

"I'll dae it, hen. Stay warm, aye?"

Johnny doesn't let you do much the rest of the evening. He said that since you cooked, he can do the rest. Dishes, the tea, and taking care of the fire by adding a few more wood. Don't have ta move bonnie, should stay comfortable. It makes you smile, and while in any other case, you would have put up a fight, he is your guest after all, you can see that Johnny needs it. To move around the place, never sitting down for long.

It almost gives you whiplash, but when you see him trudge around, looking out the windows, you force yourself to settle back. Your fingers curl around the mug, and you take a little mouthful as he closes the curtains, securing every entry point.

"What time tomorrow?"

"What d'ya mean?"

"I'll have to go to the city. Varnish and everythin'. What's the best time for you?"

Your eyes never leave him as he slides another curtain close, his silhouette flirting with the shadows of your house. You know he is looking at you, you can feel it - the weight of his eyes on your curled form. You wonder if he is surprised, or simply accepting what it implies, another day working around your place. If he's content with you, rely on him of your own accord. Making the first step his way.

"Nine-fifteen will do."

"Ok. I'll probably be on the phone with the contractors by then, so you come in, alright?"

"Yar door bett'r be locked, hen."

"I only keep it locked when I sleep." You answer, at peace with your own answer, not reacting when you hear him grumble. You can see him shake his head again, unhappy with your dangerous habits.

"I'll knock." He warns you, and you sigh, unamused, when he takes the teacup out of your hands.

You twist in your spot, throwing an arm on the back of the couch and watch him step into your kitchen. Your chin settles on your forearm as he cleans the place, putting everything back in its spot with perfection. You don't want to ask him about it; you don't want to bring back bad memories. But, you wonder what he was in the army if he had a title of his own, and why did he left and came here of all places.

You stay silent, knowing it isn't your place. If he wants to talk about it or share it with you, he will do it at his own pace.

You make the last step alone on the porch, and you find your hand cold from his absence when he slithers away in the darkness. With a gentle rub at your tummy, your door half open, you turn his way one last time, your eyes finding him with purpose.

"I'll see you tomorrow, yea'?" You ask, hoping, wondering if he would want to. Giving him an out, if he needs it, even if you already asked before.

His hands twitch at his side, the desire to hold you hitching under his skin. You look so peaceful. Your skin is soft and plump, with that little dew under your chin that he loves, and your knitted cardigan pushed closed around your torso. He wants to cradle you, keep you warm and safe in his arms, where he knows no one could ever pain you.

He gives you a nod, not finding the right words to answer you, and it makes the curls around his head sway prettily. You giggle before giving him a sweet wave and entering your home. Johnny takes a breath, keeping watch for a little while, seeing you moving around. Didn't even look back. You'll have to change your curtains soon because he can see you, back arched as you clean up the living room. Will have to add a few bolts to your door, too.

There is no hesitation when Johnny crosses the distance between your homes. His steps are silent, and his strong frame disappears in the shadows in swift motions. The animals, now used to his presence, barely react to him when he passes. He will search for a guard dog for you next week.

His boots press into the wooden planks of your porch. He sees the light in what he guesses is your bedroom. He stands there for a moment, watching your silhouette shift on the other side. Clothes are being taken off, and the sight of you leaves him rocking on his feet, looking more delicious than any delicacy he's ever had. And there is nothing he can truly see, only the curves of your hips and the sway of your flesh as you walk around. His shoulders tremble before his eyes watch the shutter start, and then the light is turned off.

It's with ease that he enters your sweet little home. Barely a few tries and your lock is off before he steps inside. He will reinforce your security, especially now that he knows you barely even lock your house. There is no sound here as he pushes the back door closed. The dog must be with you, good, he thinks. The smell of the fire fills his nose as he walks inside, eyes shifting about, catching sight of your open kitchen needing a good remodel, and then the living room. He settles into the seat there, a recliner, by your couch.

It is only day six of knowing you. And already, he feels himself needing to be here - to guard you. You give him purpose, a sense of self, during the day. Building you a home, the farm that you so dreamily wish to have. But in the darkness of the night, he feels restless, so far away from you. His bed was cold and empty, and he couldn't restrain the urge anymore, not after your adorable little goodbye.

See you tomorrow? Of course you will, hen. Where else will he be, if not by your side? Where else could he crawl to, if not you?

He settles rather quickly, his knife secured by his hip, one gun beneath his armpit, and the other hidden beneath his jeans. And when he closes his eyes, he can imagine you, see you there, resting gently in your bed.

Do you have a bed large enough for two, he wonders. Do you sleep there, your hands between your legs, or are they resting by your pillow? Do you wear one of these long little night dresses to bed? Or these see-through babydolls? Oh, you might rest bare. He has to take a deep breath through gritted teeth at the vision. He hopes the little one doesn't wake you too much during the night. His hands shift and linger down the armchairs as he lets his head fall backwards, pressing into the cushion.

His nostrils flare as he sees it, you, buried into your comforter, your mouth open as you breathe out peacefully. And your belly, oh, he wonders if the little one there would feel it if he cradles you for the night. If it could hear him when he tells a little bedtime story. He sighs. Only day six or seven now. It's past midnight. But now, all he can think of is you, your soft curves, and the softness of your hands that you are sacrificing to build a home for yourself and your baby.

He can't understand how anyone could leave you. You said something about wanting no one to have around, but you never quite pushed him away, either. His eyes shift to the ceiling, and his fingers tap against the armchair as he ponders the numerous possibilities. Abusive parents could create that fight-or-flight reaction you had when you first saw him, though you were leaning more toward flight, almost a foot back on the ground. Grooming could, too, with these controlling behaviours and dismissive tone. A partner who took you for granted, who forced you into a role you didn't want and had a hard time fighting away from. Hell, it could be a guy who wanted you to abort.

None of them are good. None of them could ever happen again under his watch.

His shoulder creaks when he jumps into his feet, unable to stay so far. He knows it's unreasonable, even a crime, really. Breaking and entering, that's what they call it. But it doesn't matter. Not when it's you. His feet briskly climb the stairs, avoiding any sound, his hand running across the wall until he reaches the end. His eyes move in the dark, and he can guess three doors. You've talked about a bathroom, and then your bedroom is on his right. Must be a nursery on his left.

The door is pushed only a few inches wide. A dim light made him press his back against the wall, palm grazing the back of your door as he looked inside meticulously. From where he stands, he has the end of your bed in his peripheral vision. There are no movements, apart from the crossing sound of your dog approaching. The old one doesn't bark when he pushes himself into the corridor; he simply comes to sniff at his shoes before turning back around.

Maybe he'll look for that guard dog tomorrow.

The sole of his shoes hovers over the ground of your bedroom as he takes a look inside. The fireplace is facing your bed. It's instinct, how he assesses your environment, the dresser there, covered in jewellery and a little palette of makeup. An antique chest, a wardrobe, and a few bags lying around.

As if you haven't taken proper time to settle in. He doesn't like that.

Then, his eyes find you. And it's better than his mind could have created. He can only see your face and that little bonnet thing around your hair to keep it soft. Your mouth is open, slightly pushed forward with each exhale you make, and there you are. Resting. One hand around the edge of the blanket over your comforter. Can see the little bump your feet make beneath it, and his heart shatters, seeing you curled in there, searching for warmth.

God, you're a bonnie lass. Temptation resting there, just out of reach, for now.

His fingers push the door closed again without a look, and he approaches one slow step. Johnny has time. You don't react to him. Don't react to Leo jumping by your side. His gloved palm finds your feet, lithering there, up and down before squeezing your little toes. Do you have nail polish there too?

His chin hitches up as his hand disappears beneath your sheets, pushing inside, in your reprieve until he finds them. His eyes blink, hooded, as he shelters one in his hand. Thumb caresses the sole of your foot, up and down, up and down again, and a little grunt leaves his throat when he feels himself twitching. His index stroke over your toes, passing through the crevices and the gristles, before circling your nail. Oh yeah, nail polish.

With one smooth gesture, he pushed your blanket back in place. Palming at your ankle, he times his breathing with yours, pupils dilating as he focuses on your mouth. He could devour you, really. Right now, he could push your cute underwear aside and have a taste - or give you his tip for now. Just a little. Maybe you wouldn't even wake up. The idea makes him chub up against his zipper. Johnny didn't know he'd like that.

His hand trails up your leg, circling your fragile knee before raking along your thigh. Leo wags his tail, his head lying by your shoulder, when Johnny sits down by your waist. Nails digging into the layers of your sheets, he feels it, the fat of your hip and kneads at it, respiration quickening. His boots press harder into your carpet as he leans over, his attention passing over your closed eyes, the arch of your nose and god, that dewy chin.

His lips find it, the little roll covering your jaw. First, a feathery kiss, before his beard scratches your skin. You whine. He's immobile until he feels you melting back into sleep. That's exactly why he needs to guard you, who don't even react when his hand cradles your nape, pushing into your flesh when his mouth opens over your temple. Your sweat is a little bitter, and he can taste your night cream, too. One last kiss, and he has to physically push himself away, hands clawing at his thighs when he raises back.

You'll need your beauty sleep for tomorrow.

His body circles your bed, and he secures your bay window before approaching the chair there, where today's garments rest, folded neatly. Good girl. Your grey little panties are hurriedly hidden in his pocket before your door opens and closes.

line divider by cafekitsune

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