#because these are too good not to remember

[buckyseternaldoll]

kinky side quest

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: Valentina warned you both: no kinky side quests. You hadn’t planned on it—until her words lit the fuse. The mission went perfectly. The real side quest? Very much in progress.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, blowjob in car, clothed grinding, denied fingering, face riding, cunnilingus (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), metal fingers use, vaginal sex, rough sex, bathroom sex, shower sex, wall sex, riding, multiple orgasms, creampie, breeding kink talk, dirty talk, begging, praise kink, soft dominance, aftercare, established relationship, post Thunderbolts settings

Word Count: 9k~ish

Note: This was something I've written in parts before I took the time for myself and vanished. Any mistakes would all be mine. Hope you'll enjoy whatever this was 💜

You were deployed to clear a simple task with Bucky, your boyfriend—though sometimes it still felt unbelievable that you’d scored him at all. Valentina had given you both that flat stare before you left the Watchtower briefing room, like she could see straight through you.

“No kinky side quests,” she’d said, pinning you both with her glare.

You and Bucky had both nodded like good little agents. Really, you hadn’t planned anything. It hadn’t even been on your mind… until she reminded you. Until she said it out loud, and your entire body remembered you were ovulating. Remembered you hadn’t fucked him in days. Remembered how hungry you’d been for him last night when you’d come to bed late and he’d just curled around you to sleep, murmuring he was too tired to start anything.

You’d promised yourself you’d wait. Get through the mission. Earn your prize. You’d ask for him to rail you stupid after you both got home safe. That had been the plan.

But Val’s warning had lodged itself in your skull like a dare.

You’d kept your head in the game right up until you were actually in the car. Just a normal sedan—sleek and fast but nondescript enough for local traffic. Bucky had insisted on driving, fingers loose on the wheel, eyes sweeping the road in practiced arcs. He was so good at this part, so focused it made you ache.

It should only be forty-five minutes to the drop point. Easy. But you were in the passenger seat fidgeting your fingers in your lap like a kid. Trying not to look at him too much. Trying not to think about his thighs in those dark tac pants.

Because while your mind was set on the assignment, your traitor of a heart had latched onto Val’s rule like it was a forbidden fruit. It wouldn’t stop playing the what-if game.

What if he let you?

What if he wanted it too?

Bucky cleared his throat at the wheel. His gaze didn’t even flick to you, but you knew him—he’d been watching you out of the corner of his eye for the last ten minutes.

“Baby,” he drawled, voice low and gentle. “What’s on your mind?”

You swallowed, eyes snapping to the side mirror instead of him.

“Mm. Nothing.” You shifted your hips in the seat, realizing too late you’d been leaning toward him like gravity had given up on pretending.

He huffed a faint, knowing sound, thumb tapping the wheel.

“Something wrong?” he pressed, voice rich with genuine concern. Not annoyed. Not suspicious. Just… worried about you.

You hesitated.

Your brain screamed don’t say it. Don’t ruin the mission. You’d promised yourself. You were going to wait until the op was over.

But you’d been so wound up. So deprived. So embarrassingly wet for him for days now that your mouth betrayed you.

You twisted in your seat to face him fully, fingers clenching in your lap. Your voice cracked with nerves.

“Can I… suck your cock before we get there?”

It dropped into the quiet like a grenade.

Bucky actually flinched. You saw it—a tiny twitch of his jaw tightening, a hard swallow.

For one harrowing second you thought you’d fucked everything up.

But then he let out a short laugh—just air, really, a puff of relief, as his shoulders eased.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, and this time he finally glanced at you properly, eyes soft, mouth curved in that tired but patient little grin he reserved for you alone. “That was what was bothering you?”

You squirmed in your seat, cheeks on fire. Couldn’t look at him for a second.

You nodded anyway. Shame was there, hot in your belly, but so was something else—so was the defiance of I want you.

Technically, you hadn’t arrived at the drop yet. This was just transit. Not the mission. Not really.

Bucky’s brow furrowed for a split second like he was actually considering the ethics of it. But then he huffed again, softer this time. Like he’d decided.

“C’mere,” he said.

He took his right hand off the wheel—his warm flesh hand—and reached across to your restless fingers, prying them gently apart. He squeezed your hand once, firmly. Grounding.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he guided your palm down.

Down to his lap.

Pressed it flush over the front of his pants.

You felt the heat there immediately. Even soft, he was thick. Heavy. But under your hand he shifted and you felt it twitch—just a little at first, then again, firmer. Filling.

You bit back a whimper, heat roaring through you.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let you feel it. Let you watch the way his eyelids went half-mast as his cock stirred and hardened under your palm.

It was wordless permission.

But he still gave you the grace of saying it.

“My cock’s all yours, baby,” he said quietly. His voice was impossibly tender. “If that’s what you need, take it.”

That undid you.

Your hesitation shattered, replaced by raw, urgent want.

You fumbled at his fly, unzipping him with shaking fingers. He lifted his hips just enough—obedient, helpful, letting you work without rush—to free him from the confines of his tactical pants.

And there he was.

Big. Thick. Gloriously hardening in the dark of the night.

Ready for you.

—

You didn’t rush.

You made yourself pause. Forced yourself to just look at him.

Your breath caught when you took in the sight of his cock, freed from his tactical pants—thick, veined, standing proud and heavy. Even in the near-dark of the car, you could see it: the occasional slash of passing streetlights cast pale ribbons across his lap, glinting off the slick wetness gathered at the tip. It curved ever so slightly toward you, shameless in its want.

Your mouth actually watered.

God. It was big. So fucking big. It always struck you just how massive he was, the kind of size you could never forget once you’d taken him. Exposed like this, twitching for you, he looked almost vulnerable. Needy.

You wondered—not for the first time—if the serum had anything to do with it. If it had made every part of him harder, stronger, bigger. Or if he’d always been this blessed.

Either way, you were the luckiest woman on Earth.

You owned this cock. Like a queen. Like it was a gift he’d given you to worship and keep.

You flicked your eyes up.

Bucky kept his gaze on the road, hyper-aware of their route even now. But you saw the tension in his jaw, the way the streetlights striped over the hard line of his throat when he swallowed.

His shifted his flesh hand on your back.

He was holding you there, palm warm and firm between your shoulder blades, thumb stroking slow, calming circles over your spine like you were the one who needed reassuring. It made you shiver.

The car’s interior was shadowed and private except for those brief sweeps of city glow through the windshield. You felt hidden and exposed all at once.

“Easy, doll,” he rumbled, voice low and husky but so soft. “Take your time.”

You let out a breathless, shaky laugh, your lips hovering inches from his cock.

“Don’t tell me that unless you mean it,” you warned, your voice cracking with how badly you wanted him.

His hand squeezed your back, fingers flexing a little like he was fighting to stay gentle.

“I mean it,” he promised, voice firm but warm. “I want you to enjoy it.”

That ruined you.

You bent closer, deliberately slow, letting your lips ghost over the tip in the barest, most teasing kiss. The salty smear of his pre-cum met your tongue when you finally flicked it out to taste him.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, grip tightening reflexively on your back.

“Fuck,” he whimpered.

That sound went straight to your core. You fucking lived for those rare cracks in his control.

You licked him again, circling the head, savoring the heat and weight of him, feeling the slight tremor that ran through his thighs. He pulsed in your hold, swelling even harder.

His hand pressed you just a little closer, not forcing but anchoring you to him. His thumb traced slow circles over your spine, soothing in direct contrast to the filthy act you were committing in the front seat of a moving car.

“Good girl,” he murmured so low you barely heard it over the hum of the tires on asphalt.

It burned through you like fire.

You moaned softly against the head of his cock, the vibration making him twitch, before finally opening your mouth wide and taking him in.

He was so fucking thick your lips stretched around him, your jaw ached immediately in that delicious, obscene way you craved.

Bucky let out a strangled groan above you, deep and broken, his fingers digging lightly into your back.

You bobbed your head slowly at first, letting him feel the searing heat of your mouth, your tongue pressing flat along the underside of his shaft as you sucked him in. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the darkened car, mixing with the low, even roar of the engine.

His hips shifted once, restrained—like every part of him screamed to fuck up into your mouth but he wouldn’t let himself.

“Jesus, baby,” he rasped, voice rough as gravel. “Just like that. So fucking perfect.”

You moaned around him, eyes fluttering shut at the praise, your own hips squirming in the seat as slick gathered hot and heavy in your panties.

You let your right hand slide down, wrapping tight around the thick base of his cock, your fingers barely meeting. You stroked him in perfect rhythm with your mouth while your left hand pressed hard into the muscle of his thigh, feeling it tense under your touch.

He was so hot. So alive. So yours.

You needed air. You pulled back with a wet pop, strings of spit stretching between your swollen lips and his glistening cock.

You let your tongue swirl around the tip, gathering more of his salty pre-cum and spreading it with relish.

“God,” you groaned, voice breaking on a whimper. You leaned in to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along his shaft between words. “I missed your thick, fat cock… too fucking much.”

Bucky’s chest rose in a ragged inhale. You saw the way his nostrils flared, eyes tight as he forced himself to keep them on the road.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice cracking. “You’re gonna kill me, doll.”

You moaned at that, licking deliberately slow down his length, tracing every pulsing vein, every ridge, until your mouth reached the base. Your breath was hot and greedy, your mouth glistening as you finally pulled back just enough to see his ruined expression reflected in the side mirror.

“My cock,” you sighed, nearly sobbing with want, before swallowing him whole again in one greedy slide.

Bucky groaned. A low, wrecked sound.

You worked him harder now, your head bobbing faster and wetter, your tongue pressing and flicking under the crown with every stroke. Your hand twisted at the base in perfect rhythm, squeezing tight, milking him.

You felt it when he lost the battle for control. The way his hand on your back shook before squeezing you tighter, pressing you close in silent desperation.

“Baby, fuck,” he gasped, voice going hoarse with strain. “That feels so good. So fucking good.”

You popped off just long enough to pant out a feral little laugh, lips slick and spit-drenched.

“I know,” you breathed, eyes glittering as you licked him from base to tip again, before plunging your mouth back down.

Your pace turned relentless.

Wet, obscene slurps filled the car, the only soundtrack to your sin. His ragged breathing cracked and broke, mixing with the constant rumble of the road beneath you. Your own cunt clenched around nothing, neglected, soaked through, but you didn’t care. You’d make him fall apart for you.

You felt him start to pulse, harder, thicker on your tongue.

His voice hitched, went ragged.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re back,” he groaned, the threat edged with promise, with desperate need.

You moaned around him, the vibration making him jerk in your mouth.

Your hand at the base squeezed tighter, stroking faster, matching your mouth’s relentless pace.

“Let go for me, baby,” you slurred around his cock, words muffled but clear. You pulled back just enough to meet his blown pupils in the mirror, your lips swollen and wet, your breath coming hard.

“Come for me, Bucky.”

And then you swallowed him whole again, eager and hungry, determined to take everything he gave you.

—

You felt it the moment he lost the last scrap of control.

Bucky shuddered hard, the tremor rolling through his thighs, his hand clenching against your back in a bruising grip as he choked out a guttural moan.

You didn’t slow. Didn’t stop.

His cock twitched once—twice—and then he was coming in your mouth, thick and hot, salty and utterly his.

You swallowed automatically, greedy, taking as much as you could. But there was so much of him, and you’d pushed yourself so deep that some of it leaked from the corners of your mouth, sliding down to your hand still pumping him at the base.

He cursed—low, strangled, wrecked.

“Fuuuck—baby—”

You finally let yourself pull back, gasping a breath as you tried to swallow the last of it, licking your lips shamelessly. You felt it smear on your chin and thumbed at it, giggling a little breathlessly despite how hard your own cunt clenched at the taste.

God. He always tasted good to you. Like an appetizer crafted just for you.

Your eyes flicked up to his face, taking in the sight of your normally stoic, disciplined supersoldier boyfriend looking… ruined.

His cheeks were flushed, eyes half-lidded and glassy from release. A faint sheen of sweat caught the occasional streetlight slashing through the windshield. But to your infinite jealousy, he wasn’t panting or out of breath. His chest rose and fell evenly. Enhanced stamina, you thought with a petty, hungry little growl in your head.

He was already recovering.

You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, only smearing a little more of his cum over your thumb before popping it into your mouth, sucking it clean deliberately, knowing he was watching.

Bucky’s jaw flexed hard.

“Fuck, baby,” he finally managed, voice raw and ragged. “That was so good. But…”

He swallowed, voice going lower, darker, more dangerous.

“I need more.”

Your heart skittered at that tone.

You let out a breathless laugh, reaching over him for the small pack of tissues you kept in the door pocket. You flicked one free and carefully wiped the remaining mess off his flushed cock, cleaning him up with an absurdly tender touch. He lifted his hips obediently, giving you access, hissing as the tissue dragged over oversensitized skin.

“Easy,” he breathed.

“Don’t ‘easy’ me,” you teased, voice husky. “You came so much I almost choked.”

That earned a strained chuckle from him, one that ended in a low groan as you tucked him back into his tac pants, carefully zipping him up.

You tossed the used tissue aside and smirked, settling back into your seat, your eyes bright and wicked in the glow of the passing streetlights.

“I know you need more,” you purred. “So let’s get this shit done ASAP.”

You leaned in closer, until your mouth brushed the shell of his ear. Your voice dropped to a filthy whisper, warm and mean and so needy you almost trembled saying it.

“Then you can fuck my wet cunt so hard you break me apart.”

He let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a growl, teeth bared in a grin that was feral and fond all at once.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

His right hand—his warm, calloused flesh hand—slid right back to you. You grabbed it, guiding it ruthlessly between your legs, pressing it tight over the seam of your tactical suit.

He could feel the heat. The damp. Even through the heavy-duty fabric, there was no hiding it.

Bucky sucked in a breath, thumb twitching experimentally over you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice cracking with lust. His eyes flicked to you briefly before darting back to the road, like he couldn’t afford the distraction.

But you didn’t miss the way his pupils blew wide.

“See what you do to me?” you teased, grinding just once against his palm before pulling back, breath shaking.

His fingers curled reflexively, wanting to follow, to press harder.

“Oh, I feel it,” he rasped. His tone was low, dark, but the smile tugging at his lips was all Bucky. Soft. Devoted. “I’m going to fuck you relentlessly.”

You shivered at the promise.

He punctuated it with a single, deliberate kiss to your left cheek—a press of warm, slightly chapped lips that felt less like affection and more like sealing a contract.

You felt your heart kick against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with anticipation.

Sex for hours. That was the deal now.

And you’d be damned if you didn’t earn it.

You settled back in your seat, trying to calm your breathing, a determined glint in your eyes.

Your brain was already plotting the mission, calculating shortcuts, prioritizing targets.

For the good of the assignment.

And for the goddamn sex, you thought, biting back a delirious grin.

—

You and Bucky handled the assignment a little too quickly, if you were being honest.

Like the perfect, ruthless duo Valentina trained you to be.

Intels extracted. Servers wiped. Physical evidence torched. The drop point reduced to smoking debris in the darkness after Bucky triggered the silent detonator, both of you already on the move before the muted whump even finished echoing.

No one saw a thing. No cameras left to prove you’d even been there.

You tapped the comm in your ear, eyes scanning the dark street as you headed back to the car.

“Mission complete. Back to HQ,” you reported, voice low and steady.

Valentina’s cool voice crackled back a moment later.

“Copy. Don’t make me regret pairing you two alone.”

You smirked as you shut the comm off with another tap, cutting the line.

Beside you, Bucky did the same, pulling out his own in-ear and tucking it in his pocket. You saw the way his mouth quirked despite himself, even as he scanned the perimeter one last time.

Professional to the end.

But when you finally got back in the car, the doors shutting with dull thuds in the night, it was like all that icy discipline melted in an instant.

You tugged your tactical gloves off and dropped them on the dash with a clatter. The car reeked faintly of gun oil, burnt electronics… and sex.

You didn’t even try to be subtle about inhaling.

You glanced at Bucky as he started the engine, headlights cutting through the dark. Streetlights flicked past in rhythmic sweeps, carving his face into alternating slices of shadow and gold.

His lips were still a little swollen. You felt your own throb in sympathy.

He caught you staring. Didn’t say a word. Just smirked—slow, knowing.

That smirk widened when he reached across the center console and took your left hand in his, squeezing your fingers.

But he didn’t keep it there.

Instead, he let go and dragged his big, calloused palm right to your lap, pressing between your thighs.

You whimpered.

His fingers grazed the seam of your tac pants, right over your cunt, even through the thick material sending a sharp jolt of heat straight up your spine.

You gasped, pressing back against the seat, hand grabbing his wrist to either stop him or guide him—you couldn’t tell which.

“Still damp,” he said, voice low, cracked with hunger.

You swallowed hard.

“From sweat,” you tried to lie, your tone cracking in embarrassment, knowing full well he could practically smell you.

He huffed out a disbelieving laugh, deep and rough.

“Nah,” he said, voice going even lower, his grin turning feral as streetlights washed his face in amber. “Smelled too fucking sweet for sweat.”

You shuddered at that, your thighs instinctively pressing together around his hand.

Bucky’s fingers moved. He pressed more firmly, dragging slow, heavy lines along the seam of your tac pants, forcing a muffled moan from you.

You squirmed in your seat. The thick, tight fabric was torture. Too much and not enough.

You let out a frustrated sound and reached for the fly of your pants with shaking fingers, unzipping them with a harsh zzzzp.

Bucky’s eyes cut to you once, quickly, heat banked in his stare, before flicking back to the road.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice almost lost under the hum of tires on asphalt.

You wiggled your hips in the seat, shoving the tac pants down just enough to free your cunt—still covered by the thinnest pair of dark stretch shorts you wore underneath.

They were drenched.

The proof was in the way the fabric clung wetly to you, your slick staining it in a dark patch that even the dim streetlights couldn’t hide.

Bucky let out a harsh breath at the sight, his hand immediately dropping to press right against it.

He grunted, fingers flexing hard.

“Jesus,” he rasped. “So fucking wet for me?”

Your moan was half-words, half-desperation.

“Always,” you managed, your voice wrecked.

You didn’t even try to be coy. Your own fingers closed around his wrist, dragging his hand tighter to you. You ground shamelessly against his palm, feeling the heat of him even through the thin damp shorts.

You hissed at the friction, head falling back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed.

He didn’t move away. Didn’t tease. He let you use him, fingers pressing in harder, tracing the soaked line of your folds through the fabric with slow, deliberate pressure.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice going even rougher, ruined with affection and lust all at once. “So needy you’re fucking yourself on my hand in the front seat.”

You let out a strangled sound that might have been his name.

His thumb found your clit through the damp cloth and pressed just firmly enough to make your hips jerk.

You bit your lip to stifle the whine that threatened to escape.

He chuckled darkly, that sound so deep it rattled you.

“Better hope no one’s watching,” he teased, glancing at you sidelong, eyes glittering with heat and mischief as the streetlights cut over his features.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering.

You smirked through the haze of lust, voice shaking but defiant.

“Drive faster, Sarge,” you managed. “Or I’ll make myself come before you even get me home.”

Bucky’s grin turned savage at that.

“Oh sweetheart,” he crooned, voice so low it felt like velvet dragging over your skin. He pressed even harder, thumb circling your clit, slow and merciless. “You’re not coming without me. That’s a promise.”

Your answering moan was wanton and helpless, your fingers still gripping his wrist as you rutted against his hand.

And Bucky just smiled, turning back to the road, driving into the night with one hand on the wheel—while the other stayed buried between your legs, making sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to.

—

Bucky didn’t finger you.

No matter how badly you whined. No matter how your voice cracked, wrecked and breathless, your hips rolling up shamelessly into his touch.

He just kept his fingers right there over your soaked shorts, teasing the seam of your folds through the wet fabric but never pushing inside.

“Please, baby,” you panted, your voice a broken plea. You grabbed his wrist tighter, forcing his fingers to press harder until you felt them sink into the dip of your folds—even through the thin, soaked barrier of your shorts. Your clit throbbed at the friction. “Fuck—please, finger me.”

He huffed out a breath that was half a laugh, half a strained groan.

“No,” he said, voice so low it felt like it vibrated straight through you.

You let out a desperate little whine.

He glanced at you sidelong, jaw tight, eyes flashing as another passing streetlight cut across his face.

“Not here,” he growled. The words were soft, but they snapped like a command. “I’m not giving you that in the damn car.”

Your nails bit into his wrist.

“Bucky—”

He exhaled sharply, his hand flexing against you just once before he dragged his palm away.

“I said no,” he repeated, this time softer, more patient, the dominant control edged with fondness. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re home. That’s it. That’s the deal.”

You grunted in frustration, biting back a curse as your hips bucked one last time. You could feel the slick mess you’d made in your shorts, heat and wetness smearing against his palm before he pulled away completely.

You shivered, angry at the loss.

But you didn’t want to risk making him change his mind.

With a ragged groan, you finally reached down, yanking your tactical pants back up. You wriggled your hips in the seat to get them over your ass, cursing quietly as the wet fabric clung to your folds in the worst way. You fumbled with the zipper, finally sealing yourself back up—like it made any difference now.

Your pussy ached.

Bucky didn’t help, either. He just gave you this smug little sideways look, his lips curling at the edges in a knowing grin.

But his eyes were dark.

Hungry.

You swallowed and shifted again in your seat, trying to get comfortable even as you stayed pressed close enough to grip his hand. You clung to it, even after zipping up. Even after you’d shoved down the raw want just enough to stop begging.

He squeezed your fingers.

Hard.

Reassuring. Possessive.

The rest of the drive back to the Watchtower was torture.

Because you didn’t stop.

Neither of you did.

You whispered every filthy promise you could think of, voice ragged with need. You told him exactly what you wanted—what you needed from him the moment you got through that door.

How you wanted him to shove you against the wall.

How you wanted his cock so deep you could barely breathe.

How you needed to taste yourself on him as he fucked your mouth raw.

How you’d been thinking about him all week, even on missions, touching yourself in the shower and whining his name.

Bucky listened. He didn’t shut you up.

He just smiled.

That little wolfish grin breaking out whenever your words got especially dirty. His jaw flexed tight when you moaned out your filthiest demands.

And all he did was grunt, voice rough, promising you over and over:

“Yeah?”

“You want all that?”

“You’re gonna get everything, sweetheart.”

He leaned heavy on everything, each time making your stomach swoop, your pussy clench.

“Everything you want. Once we’re home.”

You could barely sit still. The seatbelt felt like a restraint you wanted to tear off.

Your fingers stayed knotted together, his thumb dragging slow circles over your knuckles, deceptively gentle.

—

By the time you pulled into the Watchtower’s garage, you were shaking.

Bucky parked in the same precise, methodical way he did everything, even though you could see the tension in his arms, the white-knuckled grip on the wheel.

When you finally stepped out, your legs felt like jelly.

But you forced yourself to walk normally beside him through the darkened hallways, past the security doors.

The elevator ride up was somehow worse.

Your body screamed to press against him. To climb into his lap and grind down until you soaked his pants.

You wanted to maul him. Bite his bottom lip. Kiss him sloppy and breathless.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Valentina had cameras in all the common areas.

You felt her ghost in the walls even now. Watching. Judging.

So you stood there beside Bucky, trying to look normal. Professional.

Except your thighs kept pressing together in helpless, instinctive pulses. Your breath was too fast. Your face too hot.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

He let out a single, low chuckle that rumbled in his chest.

He gripped your hand tighter, fingers interlacing with yours so firmly you couldn’t pull away.

“Behave,” he murmured, voice so soft no one else could hear.

You shivered.

But you didn’t dare meet his eyes.

If you did, you’d lose it.

You didn’t know he was struggling too.

That behind that cool, battle-hardened expression, he was undone.

That all he wanted was to drag you back into that car, crawl over the center console, and fuck you right there until you couldn’t walk.

But he didn’t.

Because you both knew the rules.

For now.

But the moment that elevator door opened?

All bets were off.

—

As soon as the door banged shut behind you, Bucky didn’t waste a second.

He spun you around and pinned you hard against the door, his metal arm braced beside your head to cage you in. His right hand flicked the light switch on in one smooth motion, flooding the room with warm brightness before it immediately dropped to curl tight around your waist, holding you in place.

You didn’t even have a second to register the room before his mouth crashed into yours.

It was sloppy, messy, starved—all teeth and tongue and wet, hungry sounds. Your lips smashed together so hard it hurt, but you moaned anyway, clawing at the thick fabric of his jacket to pull him even closer.

He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and bit it, just hard enough to make you gasp.

But then—just when you thought you’d drown in the filth of it—he gentled.

His lips softened against yours, his tongue slowing, licking lazily into your mouth like he was savoring you. Like he couldn’t get enough.

Your whole body trembled.

You felt his crotch grow against you—no other word for it. His cock hardened rapidly in his pants, thick and pressing into your stomach through both your suits. You couldn’t help it—you rolled your hips against him, needing anything, groaning at the friction even though the layers between you made it frustratingly dull.

“Fuck,” you panted, breaking the kiss for air, your head thudding back against the door.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing those blue eyes. His mouth was wet and red from your kisses, stubble scratching deliciously along your jaw.

He licked his lips once.

“You asked for this, baby,” he growled, voice low, gravelly, dangerous but so fucking tender underneath. His lips curled into a knowing, vicious little smile. “No backing out. I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

Your breath hitched.

“Please,” you whispered, completely wrecked already.

That did it.

He grabbed you under your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing.

You immediately hooked your legs around his waist, ankles locking behind him, grinding your soaked pussy shamelessly against the hard ridge in his pants. He groaned, fingers digging into the meat of your ass to hold you up as he turned and carried you toward the bathroom.

You didn’t stop kissing.

You attacked his mouth over and over, teeth clacking, tongues tangling, panting breath filling the narrow hallway. Every time you rolled your hips into him, you felt him jerk slightly, his cock pressing harder into you.

“Fuck—so needy,” he growled, breathless this time.

“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Bucky. Always.”

That made him snarl low in his throat, and he crushed you harder to his chest as he kicked open the bathroom door.

He set you down only long enough to rip at your clothes.

Your fingers were shaking so hard you fumbled the zipper on your tactical suit. Bucky didn’t wait. He grabbed it, yanking it down so fast the teeth nearly split.

“Off,” he ordered, voice so low you felt it in your cunt.

You obeyed, peeling it away, your soaked shorts practically peeling off your sticky folds with a wet noise that made you whimper in embarrassment. The cold bathroom air hit your soaked pussy and you hissed, thighs instinctively pressing together.

But Bucky was already shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it aside. You helped him with the rest, fingers frantic as you unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants down.

His cock sprang free, fat and flushed and so fucking hard it slapped against his lower belly. You both paused for half a heartbeat just to look.

It twitched.

You moaned, biting your lip, fingers already reaching for it before he caught your wrists.

“Shower,” he ordered.

You whimpered.

He didn’t let you protest.

He hoisted you up again, your legs wrapping automatically around him, and reached behind you to flick the shower on.

Warm water blasted from above immediately, steaming the room. It hit your back first, making you gasp, then sluiced over Bucky’s broad shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. His hair slicked back against his head, water streaming down his stubbled jaw.

He pressed you against the tile, shifting you slightly higher on the wall, your slick folds lining up perfectly with his length.

You couldn’t help it—you shifted your hips, dragging your soaked, desperate pussy along his thick shaft, smearing your slick all over him even as the shower rained down.

You both moaned, loud, unfiltered.

“Fuck—baby—” he panted, voice going wrecked.

You felt him adjust, one hand bracing you under your ass, the other reaching between you to grip his cock, lining it up.

You barely had time to suck in a breath.

He shoved in.

You screamed.

Your head thunked back against the tile, eyes rolling as his fat cock split you open, inch after inch pressing impossibly deep until he bottomed out.

“Fuuuuck,” you sobbed, nails raking his shoulders.

“Yeah?” he growled, breath ragged against your ear. “That what you wanted?”

“Y-Yes—fuck—Bucky—”

He pulled back and slammed in again, the wet, filthy slap of your bodies colliding echoing off the tile walls.

He fucked you relentlessly.

He set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward with hard, wet slaps, your breasts bouncing wildly between you. Water splashed off both your bodies, steam billowing around you.

Your nipples grazed his chest, slick and swollen. Once, they smacked against his face as you jolted in his hold, and he groaned—open-mouthed and hungry—before burying his face between them.

He sucked a nipple into his mouth hard enough to make you wail, his teeth scraping, his tongue swirling messily.

Your moans turned into raw, broken sobs of his name.

“Bucky—Bucky please—fuck—so deep—”

He snarled, mouth muffled against your tits.

“Mine,” he growled, words wet, hot breath burning your skin. “All fucking mine.”

Your cunt spasmed around him, milking him as you clenched so hard you almost forced him out.

He held you pinned to the wall with sheer strength, thrusting deeper, harder, until your vision went white.

You screamed for him, voice cracking, nails digging so hard you drew blood from his shoulders.

He let out a strangled groan against your chest, his thrusts turning erratic.

Then he froze.

Burying himself as deep as he could, cock pulsing hard as he came inside you, heat flooding your core.

You felt every twitch, every thick spurt filling you, even as the shower water washed over you both.

You moaned for it. Wanted it. Loved it.

You clung to him, legs still locked tight, until you both finally sagged.

He held you there, breathing hard against your collarbone, his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly as your walls milked out every last drop.

When your legs finally gave out completely, he eased you down gently, arms wrapped around you to keep you steady.

You both wobbled under the spray.

He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear with shaking fingers, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You okay?” he rasped.

You nodded weakly, still shivering with aftershocks.

“Fuck—yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

He smiled. Soft. Gentle.

“Good.”

He helped you finish showering after that, washing you carefully, checking you for any bruises he’d left. You washed him too, fingers tender as they traced over the strong lines of his chest, the scars you both knew by heart.

Finally you both stepped out, skin pink and steaming, drying off just enough to wrap yourselves in thick, fluffy bathrobes.

You were both still flushed, still breathing too hard, still so far from finished.

But that was for the bedroom.

And as he toweled off his hair, watching you with those blown, heated eyes, you both knew you were about to ruin the bed next.

—

You didn’t bother pretending anymore.

He dropped the towel, letting it fall to the floor in a heavy, wet heap. Bucky’s gaze tracked every inch of you, unapologetic, hungry.

Your bathrobe followed with a flick of your wrist, sliding off your shoulders like it offended you. His fell away too, careless, pooling at his feet.

And you both lunged at each other.

Mouths smashed together in another sloppy, wet kiss—needy, uncoordinated, breathless. His hands roamed your body without hesitation, palms hot, fingers digging in to leave bruises.

Your own hands scraped through his damp hair, tugging him closer until your teeth clicked.

He growled low against your mouth, nipping at your lip before sucking it into his own, tongue tracing the sting he left behind.

Your bare, slick bodies pressed together, chest to chest, skin sliding wetly. His cock, still soft from the aftershower, twitched between you, thickening almost instantly from the friction of your bellies rubbing together.

You moaned at the sensation of it hardening right there, growing against your stomach, the heat of him unmistakable.

You fumbled backwards, lips parting just enough to pant for breath before you fell back onto the bed with a bounce.

You lay there, hair splayed on the sheets, chest heaving, legs instinctively parting wide in invitation.

Your eyes locked on him.

He stopped, looming at the foot of the bed, gaze dropping to your glistening cunt.

His pupils were blown wide, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath.

“Fuck, doll…” he rasped.

His right hand, flesh and warm, wrapped around his own cock. He stroked it slowly, deliberately. The head already leaking, pre-cum beading before smearing over his thumb.

You watched, moaning at the sight, your own walls clenching in empty need.

“Bucky,” you whimpered.

That got his attention.

He climbed onto the bed, bracing himself over you, his cock dragging against your belly as he lowered his mouth to yours again.

You kissed hungrily, teeth clacking, breath mingling.

Your hand snaked between you, fingers wrapping around his slick length, feeling the heat, the pulse. You stroked him slowly, thumb smearing the wetness over the head.

He groaned into your mouth, hips twitching.

“Fuck—baby—”

You broke the kiss with a gasp.

“Please… finger me,” you begged, voice cracking with desperation. “I need it so bad.”

He stilled for just a second, eyes searching yours, face tightening with lust and affection all at once.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I got you.”

He shifted, bracing himself better. He knelt between your parted thighs, feet anchored into the mattress for leverage. His flesh hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the taut peak while he supported himself on his elbow.

The metal hand slid down your belly, cool and hard and precise, making your muscles twitch.

You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet him.

He paused, watching you squirm.

“Spread,” he ordered softly.

You obeyed instantly, thighs falling wider apart.

He hummed his approval and pressed one cold vibranium finger to your slick folds, sliding it through the mess you’d already made.

You moaned, head falling back, eyes rolling.

He traced your entrance before pressing in slowly, one thick finger stretching you open, the temperature contrast making you gasp.

You clenched around it reflexively.

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Open up for me.”

You keened as he started pumping slowly, his metal thumb rubbing teasing circles around your clit.

“More,�� you whimpered. “Please, more.”

He rewarded you immediately, sliding in another finger.

You cried out, walls fluttering around the intrusion, slick dripping onto his hand.

Bucky bit his lip watching you, the cords of his neck standing out with restraint.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he muttered.

You could barely answer, only managing a desperate moan.

He kept going, pumping those two thick metal fingers in and out, dragging them along your walls, feeling you squeeze down on him. His flesh hand squeezed your breast firmly, thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple hard enough to make you jerk.

“Bucky—fuck!”

“Such a good girl,” he praised, voice cracked with hunger. “Taking my fingers so well.”

You could hear the wet, obscene sounds of your cunt being fucked on his fingers.

You grabbed at his ass, nails digging in, pulling him closer.

He chuckled, low and mean.

“You want more?”

“Please,” you sobbed.

He rewarded you with a third finger.

You wailed, back arching off the bed as he stretched you wide.

“Fuck, fuck—baby—it’s so full—”

He curled his fingers deliberately, finding that spot inside you that made your vision shatter.

Your body locked up, breath stuttering.

He didn’t let up.

He kept thrusting, harder, faster, the cold metal unrelenting.

Your moans turned to screams, nails dragging red lines down his ass.

He dropped his head and took your other nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing before soothing it with his tongue.

Your entire body convulsed, muscles seizing as pleasure detonated.

He felt it, the way you clenched and spasmed around his fingers, and curled them even harder.

“Come on, baby,” he growled against your breast. “Come for me.”

You did.

You came so hard you saw stars, your pussy squirting wetly around his fingers, slick splashing onto the sheets in messy, humiliating waves.

He kept working you through it, thumb circling your clit, mouth latched onto your breast like he couldn’t get enough.

Your cries broke into choked sobs of his name.

“Bucky—baby—please—”

He finally slowed his thrusts, your cunt still spasming weakly around his fingers, making obscene wet sounds that filled the room.

You felt your walls clench one last time before going slack.

He drew his metal fingers out of you deliberately, slowly, letting you feel every ridge and bump as they dragged from your soaked, oversensitive entrance.

They left with a wet, filthy squelch that made your face burn with embarrassment. Strings of slick clung between his fingers and your pussy, stretching and breaking, leaving messy strands smeared across your inner thighs.

You shuddered helplessly.

Bucky's eyes never left yours.

He lifted his metal hand, studying the mess you’d made of him with hungry, approving eyes. Then he brought those slick-coated fingers to his mouth.

He licked them clean slowly, tongue dragging over the metal with practiced precision, making sure you saw every movement.

You whimpered at the sight, body twitching weakly on the sheets.

He smiled around his fingers, pulling them free with a soft pop.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he rasped, voice thick and ruined with pride and lust.

You swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it all felt.

You nodded shakily.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, voice cracking.

That earned you a low, satisfied rumble from his chest.

He shifted his weight on the bed, knees sinking deeper into the mattress between your spread thighs as he leaned over you. His warm, flesh hand braced beside your head, metal arm planting firmly next to your hip to cage you in.

Then he bent down and kissed you.

It was slow. Tender. A total contrast to how he’d just wrecked you.

His lips moved gently over yours, patient and grounding, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You whimpered again, your hands fluttering up weakly to clutch at his damp hair, nails scraping lightly along his scalp.

He hummed against your mouth, nuzzling you with the tip of his nose, pressing sweet little kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your jaw.

But even as he comforted you, you felt it.

His cock.

Hard as granite. Pressed hot and heavy against your thigh. Twitching every time you squirmed, smearing his pre-cum onto your skin.

He wasn’t even pretending to hide it.

And you both knew—

He wasn’t even close to done with you yet.

—

You were still shaking.

Your whole body felt boneless, oversensitive. But the ache between your thighs wouldn’t quit. Even as the aftershocks made your cunt twitch and flutter, you felt yourself need again.

Bucky noticed immediately.

His thumb brushed your lip, swollen from his kisses, and you sucked it automatically.

Your hips squirmed, legs twitching open.

He watched your expression melt into need.

“Oh, you’re not done,” he rumbled softly, smiling darkly.

Your answer was a half-sobbed whine.

“I need more.”

He chuckled, deep and knowing.

“I’ll wreck you, baby.”

You let out a broken laugh, grabbing at his shoulders for leverage.

With all the strength you had left, you shifted, shoving him back against the bed. He let you, grinning, his big frame relaxing against the pillows with his arms spread wide in invitation.

You climbed over him on trembling thighs, straddling his chest for a moment. He grabbed your hips immediately, fingers digging in to hold you steady.

You kept going, shifting your weight until your dripping pussy hovered directly over his face.

He groaned the second you lined yourself up.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes blown wide as he stared up at your glistening folds. “Look at you.”

You didn’t wait. You sank down onto his mouth.

Bucky growled so deeply it vibrated right through your cunt.

You gasped, hands flying to the headboard for support as he immediately got to work.

His tongue was expert, sliding through your folds, flicking your swollen clit with practiced precision. The hot, wet strokes made your thighs clamp around his head.

He loved that, humming deep in his chest so the vibration traveled straight into you.

He slurped noisily, unbothered by the mess, his mouth smearing your slick everywhere. He devoured you like a man starved, dragging his tongue through the spill from your last orgasm, licking you clean only to make you messier.

You moaned, half-choked, rolling your hips desperately over his face.

“Baby—fuck—Bucky—”

He pulled you down harder, metal hand bracing one thigh while his flesh hand gripped the other, keeping you wide open for him.

Then he changed tactics—his tongue pushed inside you.

You nearly screamed.

He tongue-fucked you hard, messy, deep, alternating with dragging licks up to your clit before plunging back inside. Your hands scrabbled at the headboard, trying to get away and get closer all at once.

He didn’t let you move.

He moaned into your pussy, filthy and approving, eyes fluttering shut as if savoring you.

“Fuck—please—I’m gonna—Bucky—”

You couldn’t finish.

You broke apart on his tongue, cumming with a raw wail, grinding desperately against his mouth as your juices spilled.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, swallowing everything you gave him, the obscene wet sounds echoing in the room until you were practically sobbing above him.

When you finally slumped forward, twitching and wrecked, he only gave you a second.

His arms tightened, lifting you like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered as he dragged you lower, lining you up with his cock, so hard it slapped wetly against your thigh.

He didn’t tease.

He shoved in.

You both moaned—his a guttural, broken sound, yours a strangled cry.

You barely had time to adjust before he was fucking up into you from below.

Your body jolted with every savage thrust. You tried to ride, but your thighs trembled uselessly.

Bucky noticed, smiling through gritted teeth.

“Too fucked out to move, baby?”

You mewled, half-sobbing.

He slowed, stopped.

But only to shift.

He sat up, his hands bracing under your ass, lifting you until only the tip remained inside.

“Hold on,” he ordered.

You barely had time to obey before he slammed you back down onto his cock.

You screamed, walls clenching violently around him.

He lifted you again, set the pace himself. Up. Down. Faster. Harder. Using his strength to fuck you on his cock.

Your breasts bounced, slapping his chest and face. He buried his face between them, biting and sucking, leaving raw marks that made you keen.

“Mine,” he growled, voice muffled. “All fucking mine.”

You nodded frantically, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“Yes—Bucky—yours—fuck—”

He panted, hips slamming up to meet you, cock driving so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat.

Your own movements grew sloppy. You tried to ride him back, changing the rhythm—slamming down, grinding in circles that made you both curse, then bouncing again.

Your cunt squelched wetly, obscene, soaking his cock and thighs.

You felt him twitch inside you, cock pulsing.

He stopped again only to reposition.

He lifted you, arms flexing hard, standing up from the bed in one smooth motion.

You clung to him, arms around his neck, legs around his waist.

He walked you to the nearest wall and slammed you against it.

You gasped, head falling back.

“Bucky—please—”

He didn’t answer with words.

He fucked up into you, pinning you to the wall with raw, bruising thrusts.

Your back scraped the wall lightly with every slam. His cock pistoned in and out with wet slaps that filled the room.

You were crying out openly now, voice wrecked.

“Bucky—Jesus fuck—please—fuck—so deep—”

“Yeah?” he growled, teeth bared in a savage grin. “That’s what you want? You want me to breed you? Fill you up?”

You sobbed.

“Yes—please—fill me—want it—want you to come in me—”

That broke him.

He rammed in hard, deep, so deep you saw stars.

Your orgasm ripped through you violently, making you scream his name over and over.

He groaned, voice cracking as he spilled inside you, cock jerking, flooding you with thick, hot spurts of cum.

He held you pinned there, buried to the hilt, making sure you took every last drop.

You shook in his arms, twitching, boneless.

He stayed like that, breathing hard against your neck, his cock still sheathed inside your spasming cunt.

He kissed your temple, breath shaky.

“Good girl,” he rasped. “My good fucking girl. Took all of it.”

You whimpered, pressing your forehead to his.

His hands caressed you slowly, thumb stroking your thigh where it was wrapped around him.

He didn’t rush to pull out.

He just stayed buried in you, letting you both come down, letting your cunt milk him for every last bit of heat he’d given you.

And when he finally carried you back to bed, lowering you onto the sheets, his cum still leaking from you, he kissed you tenderly.

Like you were the only thing in the world.

—

Your body was limp, boneless. You felt the wet smear of him between your thighs, hot and sticky on the sheets, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.

Your lids felt impossibly heavy. You tried to fight it, blinking slow and sluggish.

“Mmh… Bucky, I’m—s’fucked up,” you mumbled, voice thick and slurred, the words tumbling clumsy and broken from your slack lips.

Your eyes only opened halfway before fluttering shut again.

Bucky let out a soft, breathless chuckle.

“Yeah, baby,” he rasped, voice hoarse but warm with amusement. “You are. Did say I was gonna fuck you so hard.”

You made a small, helpless noise of protest, shifting weakly on the sheets but barely moving.

He pressed one last kiss to your temple before pulling away carefully.

“Hold on,” he murmured.

You heard him pad to the bathroom, the water running briefly. He wet a face cloth just enough to make it damp and warm, squeezing it once before turning off the tap.

He came back to you immediately, dropping to one knee at the edge of the bed, eyes soft but focused.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed.

He parted your thighs gently with one big hand, the other carefully wiping you clean.

You whimpered faintly at the contact, twitching once from oversensitivity, but you didn’t fight him.

“Shh,” he hushed you. “I know. Just cleaning you up.”

He was thorough but gentle, wiping away the messy streaks of his cum still dripping from your swollen, used cunt. He made sure you were as comfortable as he could make you, murmuring little reassurances under his breath.

Your breathing evened out, eyelids fluttering but too heavy to keep open.

“Mmh… i—sleep… you…” you tried again, the words falling apart, unintelligible.

But Bucky understood.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know, baby. Sleep.”

He tossed the dirty cloth aside onto the floor without caring, then crawled fully onto the bed beside you.

He settled on his back first, then turned onto his side to face you. His metal arm slid carefully under your neck like a pillow, the cool vibranium pressed against your flushed, overheated skin. His flesh arm curled around your waist, dragging you gently but firmly into his chest.

You melted instantly.

Your head rested on his shoulder, nose pressed to his throat, inhaling the raw, spent scent of sweat, sex, and his skin.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your hairline, nose buried in your damp hair.

His fingers found your hair at the back of your head and began to play with it slowly, combing through the strands to soothe you.

Your breathing slowed even more, going soft and steady.

He felt you go heavy in his arms.

“Good girl,” he whispered so quietly it was almost for himself.

Your lips parted, a final sleepy huff of breath warming his skin, and you went fully limp, finally out.

Bucky smiled.

He let his eyes drift shut, fingers still tangled in your hair, body wrapped around yours like a shield.

He could feel the faint wetness still smearing between your thighs, his cum still inside you.

The thought made something possessive and hungry coil in his gut, even through the exhaustion.

He sighed, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

Tomorrow.

There would be tomorrow.

Rounds. Plural.

He fell asleep knowing full well he was going to fuck you stupid all over again come morning.

[formulafanfics13]

Can you do one where reader is dating Lando but she isn’t famous or an influencer or rich so when she comes to the paddock she feels totally out of place and then overhears some fans talking about how they miss magui and wish Lando and magui were still together and then reader thinks that maybe Lando also feels that way so she starts excluding her self and it ends with Lando showing ( 🔥) that he doesn’t think like that? Thank you!

all mine - LN4🔥

Masterlist

summary: you’re not famous. You’re not rich. You’re just Lando’s girlfriend. And when you overhear fans wishing he was still with Magui, the doubt creeps in. What if he feels the same? What if you were never enough? But Lando sees it — and he knows exactly how to remind you who you are to him.

warnings: insecurity, overheard fan comments, emotional withdrawal, soft dom!Lando, praise kink, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected vaginal sex, possessiveness, reassurance through smut, creampie, reader feeling like an outsider, comfort through physical intimacy

You’re not famous.

You don’t have a blue check next to your name. You don’t post curated selfies or promo codes. You don’t work in fashion, or beauty, or entertainment. You’re just... you.

And when you walk through the paddock holding Lando’s hand, you feel like you’re floating somewhere you don’t belong.

Everyone here is someone. Models. Influencers. Rich girls. Leggy and effortless. Girls who know how to pose when the cameras hit. Girls who laugh at the right volume and flick their hair on cue. Girls who look like they were built to belong to this world.

You try to smile. Try to stay close. Try to shrink into the background and not get in the way. Lando doesn’t act like he’s ashamed of you, he never has. But the whispers still catch you off guard.

Especially today.

It happens outside hospitality.

You’ve just stepped away to take a breather while Lando does media. You’re tucked in a quiet corner, sipping water, checking messages. Behind you, two girls linger by the barricade, whispering with phones half-raised and glossy lips twisted in mild judgement.

“I just miss Magui, you know?”

“She was so perfect for him.”

“They looked so good together.”

“Remember that one summer in Monaco? Ugh, I lived for those stories.”

The other hums. “This new girl’s cute but... I don’t know. Not the same.”

You freeze. They don’t even know you’re listening. You don’t think they’d care if they did. And that’s what hits hardest.

You start pulling away after that.

Not on purpose. Not all at once. But bit by bit, moment by moment. You stop reaching for his hand. You sit further from him during team dinners. You stop slipping into his driver room between sessions. You don’t wait at the exit after quali.

You keep smiling. Keep playing the part. But Lando notices. Because Lando notices everything.

It all comes to a head that night in the hotel.

He’s fresh out of the shower, curls damp, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, towel slung around his neck. You’re sitting on the bed in one of his t-shirts, legs crossed, pretending to scroll your phone.

He looks at you.

You don’t look up.

“Alright,” he says finally. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

You exhale. “It’s really nothing, Lando.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Your throat tightens. “I just don’t think I fit in.”

He freezes. “What?”

You laugh, brittle. “This whole world — the cameras, the girls, the fans, the money — I don’t belong here. I feel like I’m just tagging along. Like I’m boring compared to what you’re used to.”

He steps forward, slow.

“And then I heard some fans talking,” you continue. “Saying they miss Magui. That she was perfect for you. And maybe they’re right. Maybe you miss her too.”

Silence.

You don’t dare look at him.

Then you feel it, the heat of his body as he stands over you. The quiet inhale through his nose. The soft click of your phone being pulled from your hand and set aside. “Look at me.”

You do.

His eyes are dark. Dangerous. “You think I miss anyone that isn’t you?”

You blink. “I just-”

“You think I bring you into my world, let you sleep in my bed, kiss you before races, because I settled?”

You stay silent.

He leans in, voice low and sharp. “Get on the bed.”

“What?”

“Lie back.”

You obey.

Because his tone is serious. Fierce. The kind of tone that coils in your stomach and makes your skin burn. He kneels between your legs, lifts the hem of his own shirt up your thighs.

“You don’t belong here?” he says softly. “I’ll fucking show you how much you do.”

His mouth finds your cunt in seconds. No hesitation. No warning.

You gasp, back arching, fingers tangling in the sheets.

He devours you. Tongue dragging through your folds, lips sucking your clit like he’s starving. His hands grip your thighs, pulling them open wider, holding you down when you start to squirm.

“Lando-”

“Take it,” he growls. “Let me prove it.”

You come hard, legs shaking, eyes blurred with tears, breath ragged. He doesn’t stop. He fucks you slow. Deep. Spreads your legs over his shoulders and sinks into you like he’s claiming territory. “You think I miss her?” he mutters. “No one tastes like you.”

You cry out.

“No one sounds like you.”

He thrusts harder.

“No one takes me like you do.”

Your hands claw at his back.

“I don’t want some model,” he pants. “I want you. Your voice. Your smile. Your stupid oversized hoodies and the way you always steal my fries and fall asleep on my chest like it’s your fucking right.”

His forehead rests against yours.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So don’t ever pull away again.”

You come again, shattered and sobbing, body curling around him like you’ve finally come home.

In the morning, your legs still ache.

He makes you coffee in bed.

You post a blurry selfie of him kissing your bare shoulder, captioned:

“Still not Magui. Still his.”

[rawme-price]

Thinking about gator!reader drinking with the guys, everyone going around and sharing funny stories behind scars.

Because, yknow, its nice to remind urself that not every mark on ur body bears bad news. Sometimes a scar holds a warm and fuzzy memory. Like soap, who has a small burn scar on the outside of his palm. He touched the cooking sheet accidentally while making thumbprint cookies with his mom.

Or ghost, who proudly shows off the scar next to his wrist from the first time he fell off his bike. Cried for hours, not about his wrist, bit because the tire of his bike had popped and he thought hed never get to ride it again.

Of course there's gaz, who rolls up his pant leg to reveal a series of parallel lines, from his aunts cat that he loved to pet as a toddler. He had been so young, a bit clueless about when cats did and didnt want to be pet, but after that day is made sure to be cautious.

Price shares some stories too, mostly from his younger years. He pulls his collar to the side a bit to show three little puncture marks on his shoulder. From when he tried to scare nik only for the Russian to reflexively stab him with the same tool he was eating lunch with.

You hear all these stories, and want to share your own. You've got plenty of scars from ur childhood, but is isnt hard to pick out one you find amusing.

"This," you begin, rolling up ur sleeve to point out a thick line amongst many other scars "is from middle school. Some kid was talking shit and I agreed to fight him. Stupid youngster I was, I showed up bare-handed while he showed up with a knife. Got me good before the cops were called."

The others nod along, sharing glances you dont catch between themselves. You never talk about ur past, so they dont want to scare you off. "I remember my first knife-fight." Ghost finally says, a bit dreamily for a guy talking abt blades "did the cops make you sit in cells facing eachother? Mine did, had to look ar that bastard the whole damn time."

You shake your head, finger tracing over the scar as if fond "nah, kid didnt get arrested, obviously." You say absently. This makes soap tilt his head.

"Wait, why is it obvious? Didn't he cut you, ah feel like thats pretty damping evidence." He asks, ears flicking.

"Huh? Oh, he was human." You take a sip of ur drink, missing the raised brow soap gives gaz. "Everyone knows human kids dont get in trouble for hurting hybrids. Though, maybe its different in scotland." You explain with a shrug, as if thats a totally normal thing.

That information also totally recontextualizes ur scar. Its not a memory of two kids being stupid. That kid tried to hurt you, deliberately. Maybe you dont realize it, but the others pick up the hidden meaning pretty quick. Was that...was that seriously a fond moment, for you? Getting ambushed with a knife then being held in a cell for who knows how long?

Ghost seems sympathetic, price too, but soap and gaz seem outright upset and angry though they try to hide it. They shudder to think of what a bad scar is from if that one is supposed to be happy.

[bylerst5]

things Noah said at the Outdoor Film Festival in Italy today that i remember off the top of my head (i’ll post the videos tomorrow)

-he said he’s proud of Will in S5 because he stops taking shit from everyone (his exact words) and stand ups for himself

-there’ll be no Stranger Things sequels after S5 and he doesn’t want to play Will again because the ending is too good

-he said he wants to be as good as a person as Will is

-after ST5 he wants to do film/theater (mentioned sadie) and no tv shows

-he, at some point asked the audience “Which character do you think will die in S5?” and “Whats yall fav ship?”

-he said we’ll cry a lot at the end

-in S2 he used to look up videos of ppl having seizures for the possession scene, he only got an acting coach for S5

-S2 was the hardest season to film

-his fav fans are south americans and italians

-his fav place in Italy is Naples (he visited Italy three times)

-he wants to go on Love Island

-he’s afraid of people high expectations for this season

-he’s always wanted to play Spiderman

@noahschnappinfs @finnoahsource @kingsdesire007

[a-casxandra]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊

Sylus x non-mc, no spoiler.

Part 1 and 2 | Sylus's version of third person to a two-person's home [zayne's fic]

Sypnosis : Sylus was a man who loved too deeply for his own good. He spent his life trying to hold everything together—a demanding mother who never approved of his choices, a wife he adored but often neglected, an unborn child he lost because he wasn’t there, and a sick daughter he never knew existed until it was too late. He tried to be everything to everyone, sacrificing pieces of himself until there was nothing left. In the end, his love—so heavy, so consuming—became the very thing that broke him.

𝗦𝘆𝗹𝘂𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝗶𝗻𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝘃𝗶𝗲𝘄

From the very beginning, you were a light he never knew he needed.

Sylus met you at a corporate travel fair. You were just a university student then, volunteering at the tourism booth. Your smile was soft and awkward, your hair tied back messily with a black ribbon. You were nervous, fumbling your words when he asked about package deals for company trips.

He thought you were adorable.

Somehow, that chance meeting turned into coffee dates. Coffee dates turned into dinners. Dinners turned into quiet nights in his apartment where you would fall asleep on his chest, your soft breathing anchoring him to reality.

He loved you. More than he ever thought he could love anyone.

That’s why he married you.

Your wedding was simple. You didn’t want anything grand, just the people you loved, vows whispered with trembling voices, and a promise to always stay by each other’s side.

When you found out you were pregnant, you cried in his arms for hours. He remembered thinking—I’ll do everything to protect you. To protect our family.

But life was never that kind.

Sylus knew his mother disliked you from the start.

She would comment on your posture, your manners, your education. She thought you were beneath him. That you weren’t strong enough to stand by his side in the world he navigated.

He tried. God, he tried so many times to make her like you. He’d invite her to dinner with you, only to watch her ignore your every attempt at conversation. He defended you, argued with her until his throat was raw. But each time you would tug his sleeve, shaking your head, silently begging him to stop fighting. Because it hurt you more to see him argue with his mother than to endure her silent hatred.

Then MC showed up.

His ex-girlfriend. His first love. The woman he thought he would marry someday, before everything fell apart between them.

She appeared at his office one morning, clutching the hand of a small child. A little girl with silver-white hair and crimson eyes.

His features.

His blood.

Lilith.

He remembered feeling like the air was sucked out of his lungs. Six years. Six years he never knew he had a daughter.

She was beautiful… but so frail. Sick. The doctors said she didn’t have long without continuous treatment.

That’s when everything began to crumble.

Sylus tried to be there for you, he really did. But Lilith needed him. MC needed help too. And slowly, his hours were spent more at the hospital than at home. He told himself it was temporary – that once Lilith stabilized, he could focus on you again. On your pregnancy. On the family he was building with you.

But he didn’t notice how distant he became. How lonely your eyes grew every time he left.

That day, you begged him not to leave.

“Sylus… can’t you just stay here tonight, please…?” you asked, tears trembling in your eyes, your hands clutching his coat sleeve.

“[y/n]… I can’t. Lilith needs me in the hospital.”

“B-but I need you too!” your voice broke, desperate and small. “I… I haven’t been feeling well since last night… I feel dizzy, and… and I…” You couldn’t finish your sentence. You were terrified, he could see it. But in his mind, Lilith was worse. Lilith was dying. You… you would be okay, wouldn’t you? You were strong. His strong girl.

“My mother is here. She’ll stay with you. I’ll be back,” Sylus said, prying your hands away from him, kissing your forehead before leaving without looking back.

That decision would haunt him forever.

When Sylus came home that night, he expected you to be asleep. But then he heard it—the muffled sobs from the bathroom.

He opened the door to find you curled on the floor, blood pooling around you. Your eyes were glazed with pain and tears, your hands trembling as you clutched your stomach.

“It hurts… Sylus… it hurts so much…”

He remembered screaming your name. Scooping you into his arms. Driving through the night like a madman. The red lights blurred past. All he could see was your blood-stained pajamas. All he could hear were your fading sobs.

At the hospital, they told him the words he would never forget.

“I’m sorry… your wife experienced a miscarriage. The baby… was already gone by the time you brought her here.”

Gone.

He sat outside your hospital room that night, his back against the wall, head buried in his hands as silent sobs tore through him.

It’s my fault.

It’s all my fault.

I killed our baby… I killed… everything…

When you were discharged, Sylus tried to hold you on the way home but you flinched away silently. Your eyes were empty, staring out the window as though you were already somewhere far away.

Not even a day later, MC called again. Lilith was unresponsive. The doctors needed him there immediately.

“If you leave now… don’t expect to have a wife you can come back to,” you said softly, staring at him with tearless eyes.

The words scared him. Truly scared him.

But Lilith needed him. After losing his unborn child with you, he couldn’t lose his daughter too.

“I’ll come back,” Sylus promised desperately, leaning down to kiss you, but you turned away. “Please… wait for me. I’ll come back. I promise.”

And then he left. Again.

When Sylus came back that evening, he was exhausted. Drained. But hopeful, somehow. Maybe you’d be angry. Maybe you’d shout at him. Maybe you’d cry and hit his chest with your small fists. He would take it all. He deserved it all.

But when he stepped into the house, it was silent.

Utterly silent.

He called your name once. Twice. No answer.

That’s when he saw them—the suitcases by the door.

He opened them with trembling hands. Only your things inside. Only yours.

His eyes scanned the room. Everything he ever gave you remained behind – the dresses he bought to impress his mother, the expensive accessories, the shoes, the bags. Even your wedding ring lay on the vanity table, glinting under the dying sunset light.

You left it all behind.

You didn’t even want to bring a single piece of him with you.

Sylus sat on the edge of the bed that night, staring at the empty spot where you used to sleep. The sheets still smelled like you. Like your shampoo. Like your warmth. Like everything he just lost.

He thought he could balance it all.

Be a husband.

Be a father.

Be a son.

He really, really tried his best.

But life demanded sacrifices. And to keep one, he had to lose another.

He could be a father to Lilith.

But a husband? No. Sylus would never be a husband again. Not after losing you. Because his love… his entire heart… it always belonged to you. It was only overshadowed by the guilt of wanting to make it up to Lilith, the daughter he never knew existed.

Now he had lost you both in different ways.

And Sylus… he couldn’t recover from that.

That night, after reading Lilith her bedtime story at the hospital, he kissed her forehead softly. Watched her chest rise and fall. Memorised the shape of her face, the sound of her breathing. He stroked her silver-white hair, the same as his.

“Be good for mommy, okay…?” Sylus whispered softly, voice breaking as tears fell onto her blanket. “Daddy loves you so much…” He walked out of the room, his footsteps silent down the dark hallway.

When Sylus got home, the emptiness of the house swallowed him whole. The rooms still smelled like you. The bathroom tiles still had faint stains of blood he didn’t clean properly, a permanent reminder of what he destroyed.

He sat on your side of the bed, staring at the blank wall. The moonlight illuminated his profile – the silver hair, the hollow crimson eyes, the way his chest barely moved as he breathed.

For the first time, his phone wasn’t ringing.

No one needed him.

No one was waiting for him.

“I’m sorry… I’m so… so sorry…” he whispered into the emptiness.

He thought he could fix it all.

He thought he could save everyone.

But he couldn’t even save the woman he loved most in this world.

Sylus reached into the drawer, pulled out his old handgun. He stared at it for a long time, feeling its weight in his trembling hands.

He thought about you.

Your smile.

Your laughter.

The way you said his name like it was the only word that mattered.

The way you whispered “I love you” against his chest at dawn.

𝗦𝘆𝗹𝘂𝘀 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀.

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝘁.

Author's note : it is, what it is. also sylus from the new multi-banner is so cute, like wdym he let mc ties his hair into tiny ponytails?? Anyways, i actually just woke up, did i just chose violence? yes. and now i'm going back to sleep lol

[heavenlybodies333]

They Always Come Back -S.R part II part I

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader

Detox, Day 3

Of course he wasn’t going to send you to some rehab two states away—he was too much of a federal agent and too little of a father for that. No, he wanted eyes on you. So the same hospital that saved your damn life just happened to have a narcotic outpatient treatment program. And what a coincidence: the director just happened to owe Hotch a favor.

Three sessions a week. Random drug tests. Supervised medication protocol. All of it, specifically requested by your father.

Hotch wants you to “earn back his trust.” What trust? The man never gave you any to begin with.

You’re sprawled on your bed in your dad’s house—the one he barely sleeps in, because he’s always at work or with Jack or too busy running the Bureau to remember he has a daughter bleeding out at his kitchen table.

The ceiling fan makes a gentle clicking noise. The blanket smells like dryer sheets and bleach. Like something designed to erase your scent.

There’s a knock at your door. You don’t answer. But the door opens anyway.

“Don’t you fucking knock?” you mumble.

“I did.” Spencer steps into the room like it still belongs to him. Like you still belong to him.

He’s holding a tray. Soup. Bread. Water. You roll away.

“You haven’t eaten,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You almost overdosed.”

“And you almost choked me out with your concern,” you snap. “So let’s call it even.”

He sighs. “You know you’re not alone in this, right?”

You glare. “Oh my God. Shut the fuck up.”

Silence. Then—“I have sessions too,” he says. “Hotch thought we could alternate appointments.”

You scoff. “Cute. Co-parenting me now, are you?”

Spencer’s jaw ticks. “I don’t want to parent you,” he says. “I want to fix what I broke.”

You feel your heart twist, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you throw a pillow at the door.

“Get out.”

He does. But the tray stays.

Detox, Day 4

The day starts with a lock on the liquor cabinet.

You didn’t even try to open it—Hotch just installed it like a silent accusation. Like he’s afraid you’ll fall into another bottle the second he’s not watching. Maybe he’s not wrong.

He leaves a note on the kitchen counter before heading out to Quantico:

Be ready at 2:00. Therapy. Spencer’s driving.

Nothing signed. Nothing soft. Just instructions. Like a case file. You crumple the note and throw it away. You don’t get dressed.

When Spencer arrives, he knocks once and lets himself in, again. You’re still in one of your dad’s oversized sweatshirts and no pants, curled in the corner of the couch.

“You’re late,” you mutter.

He checks his watch. “I’m not.”

“Well, I don’t want to go.”

“Too bad.”

You don’t move. Neither does he. “Do I have to carry you?” he asks eventually.

You arch a brow. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” His eyes darken—but he looks away. Like touching you is still sacred. Off-limits. You hate how much that hurts.

You finally drag yourself to your feet, brushing past him on the way to your room to throw on leggings and grab your therapy binder—yes, therapy has homework, apparently—and when you return to the living room, Spencer’s standing by the door, keys in hand.

“Ready?”

“No.”

But you go anyway. The car ride is quiet. You stare out the window while he drives. You count the telephone poles. You bite your nail until it bleeds and then chew the skin beside it.

Spencer doesn’t speak until you’re two blocks from the outpatient building. “Have you thought about what you’re going to talk about today?”

You shoot him a look. “Jesus, are you quizzing me now?”

“No,” he says gently. “Just asking.”

You look back at the window. “I’m going to talk about how I hate being watched like a criminal in my own fucking house. How my dad doesn’t trust me. How the one person I thought gave a shit about me abandoned me the second things got hard.”

Silence.

“Good,” Spencer says quietly. “Start there.”

Detox, Day 6

You told yourself it would just be a walk.

Just one lap around the block. Just enough time to clear your head. Just long enough to feel like something—anything—was still yours to choose.

But your dealer lives three doors down. The universe has made it so easy. But you don’t even make it halfway down the driveway before you freeze.

Spencer’s standing in the shadow of the garage. Arms crossed. Hoodie on. Silent. Watching you like he’s been doing it all night. “You’re kidding me,” you mutter.

Spencer. Fucking Spencer.

“Seriously?” he says, voice low, tense. “After everything?”

“I needed air.”

“It’s midnight.”

“Good,” you snap, “then the disappointment won’t show on your face.”

You turn, fingers curled around your hoodie pocket. But his hand catches your wrist. “Don’t run again.”

You freeze. Your pulse jumps beneath his fingers, warm skin to warm skin, familiar in a way that hurts. “Just—don’t,” he says.

“I’m not your problem,” you whisper, voice catching on the tail end.

“You are,” he replies. “I can’t stop caring about you. Even if I should.”

The breath leaves your lungs.

“I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t called me,” he says, stepping closer, eyes searching yours. “If I’d ignored it. If I’d ignored you.”

“I didn’t call you. I called muscle memory.” You yank your arm free. “I didn’t want you, I wanted someone.”

“Bullshit,” he says quietly.

You shove past him. “You should hate me,” you spit. “I’d hate me.”

“I don’t.”

“Then you’re more fucked up than I thought.”

You reach the sidewalk. He doesn’t follow. But when you come back ten minutes later—empty-handed, angry, shaking—he’s still there. Waiting. Tears come hot, humiliating, unstoppable. You hate crying in front of anyone—especially him—but the sob breaks free anyway.

Spencer gathers you before the first tear even falls. He pulls you against his chest, arms wrapping fully, completely—like he remembers the exact shape of you. You fist his shirt, shaking.

“I’m sorry,” you choke.

“For what?”

“For making you see me like this.”

His lips brush your temple. “I’d rather see you like this than never see you again.”

Detox, Day 8

The boredom is worse than the withdrawals.

No phone. No laptop. No exit.

Garcia blocked everything with a parental lock that should be illegal. You tried to ask her nicely. She sent you a selfie of your own hospital intake form. And Hotch? He’s not around. You think maybe that hurts more than anything.

But of course—you’re not alone. You can’t even fucking leave without someone chaperoning you like a toddler on a leash. And Spencer—of all people—is your assigned babysitter when Hotch is spending his late nights at the BAU.

Today, he’s at the coffee table, unfolding a chessboard.

You groan. “If you say one more line of psychobabble I swear to God I will scream.”

“We could play chess,” he offers, ignoring the threat.

“Or you could take your condescending Mensa-ass brain and leave me alone.”

He smiles, faintly. “There she is.”

You scowl. “Don’t pretend to be proud of my bitchy recovery.”

“Not proud.” He sets the board up anyway. “Relieved. Anger’s better than nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

He pauses, then quietly: “Because I didn’t last time.”

The room goes still. You don’t say anything until he makes his move. “Pawn to E4.”

“You’re going to regret this,” you mutter, curling your legs under you on the couch.

Spencer doesn’t flinch when you slam your pawn down in retaliation, nearly knocking it off the board. He just tilts his head, studies you the same way he does crime scenes. Like if he stares long enough, the puzzle will unlock itself.

"You always open aggressively," he says.

You roll your eyes. "Maybe I’m just trying to end the game faster so you’ll shut the hell up."

A small smile tugs at his mouth, and for a second, it almost feels normal. Like you’re back in your apartment, ordering Thai takeout and playing chess in your underwear while pretending the world didn’t exist outside of his hands on your waist.

Five moves later you’ve boxed yourself into an unwinnable position, furious at the board, at him, at the four sober days clawing at your nerves.

“Check,” he adds.

You don’t even look at the board. “Fuck your check.”

“Not quite how the game works.”

“I’m not playing anymore.” You shove back from the coffee table, the chair scraping hardwood as the chess board flies with pieces falling everywhere. The motion rattles a nearly empty mug—the chamomile Spencer made you instead of the glass of whiskey you asked for.

He stands too, blocking your retreat to the hallway. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere you’re not.”

“Running again?”

Your laugh is ugly. “What’s the alternative, Spencer? Sit here sober, saintly, and supervised?”

“No,” he says quietly. “Sit here angry. And seen. And safe.”

You hate that his voice cracks on the last word. It makes your throat burn. “M-Move,” you whisper.

“No.”

You shove his shoulder. He doesn’t budge. “Move,” you repeat, louder.

“Hit me if it helps.”

You do. Open palm, center of his chest—the same place you used to flatten your hand when you kissed him in stolen Quantico stairwells. The memory punches the breath from your lungs. His fingers curl around your wrist, gentle but immovable.

“I’m not your problem,” you say again, voice shaking.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs. “But you called me. You overdosed, and you called me.”

Tears prick hot behind your eyes—rage, shame, want.

“Why, sweetheart?” His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist, pulse point thrumming. “Why me?”

“Because I knew you’d come.” It spills out before you can stop it. Your voice is raw. “You always come.”

Something fractures in his expression—relief, devastation, desire all at once. He steps into your space, and you don’t retreat. Your back finds the hallway wall. “Are we both making bad decisions right now?” he asks, breathless.

“Probably.”

“Tell me to stop.”

You shake your head, throat tight.

“Say it,” he pleads, nose brushing yours.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

His mouth crashes to your throat, sucking bruises you’ll have to explain to your therapist. “I should stop,” he whispers against your collarbone. “I have to stop.”

You run your hands through his soft hair, meeting his lips with yours. “No. No you don’t get to, not this time. You left,” you gasp against his lips. “You left and you let him win—”

“I know,” he says, kissing you harder. “I know, I’m sorry—” You bite his lower lip. He moans.

“I needed you.”

“I know.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing and lays you out on the couch, kissing down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. When he slides his hand under your sweatshirt, you don’t stop him. Your shorts are yanked down your thighs. He groans when he finds you bare underneath.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice breaking. “You’re soaked.”

“For you,” you whisper.

He kisses down your neck, your chest, between your breasts, all while his fingers press inside you, curling just right, pulling a cry from your throat.

“I love how loud you get,” he says, biting your inner thigh. “Missed that, too.”

He throws one of your legs over his shoulder. His tongue flicks against your clit and you shudder, a whimper clawing out of your throat as his fingers dig bruises into your thighs to hold you steady.

“Spence—” your voice breaks. “F-Fuck, I can’t—”

“You can.” His voice is a low growl against you. “I’m not stopping until you do.”

You come undone on his tongue, one hand yanking his hair, the other clawing at the wall, thighs trembling around his head as he fucks you through it with slow, punishing strokes of his mouth.

When you finally push at his shoulders, whimpering from overstimulation, he rises slowly—mouth shiny, eyes wild.

“You taste the same,” he says, kissing you before you can respond. “Still fucking perfect.”

You taste yourself on his tongue and moan into him.

He shoves his pants down just enough, lining himself up against your slick entrance as your legs wrap around him like instinct. You’re already whining when he presses forward, slow and deliberate, filling you so deep you choke on it.

“Oh my god,” you sob. “Spence—fuck—”

“I’ve got you,” he pants, voice shaking. “Let me take care of you. Let me make it better.”

He does—long, measured thrusts at first, letting you adjust, then faster, harder when you hook your heels behind his thighs. Sweat beads at his temple; you lick it away. Every push rocks the headboard against drywall; somewhere distant you think Hotch will notice dents, but Spencer cups your jaw, forces focus to him.

You sob against his palm, and he lets you speak. “I missed you,” you cry. “Fuck, Spencer—no one’s ever—Jesus—no one fucks me like you.”

“That’s right.” His thrusts get harder. Sloppier. “Only me. Always me.”

You can’t answer. You’re too close. Your back arches as you clench around him, a strangled moan tearing from your throat. “You’re close,” he pants, grinding into you with precision now, every roll of his hips hitting something devastatingly perfect. “I can feel it—fuck—come for me, sweetheart.”

You dig your heels into his back, pulling him deeper, closer, his hand finds yours, lacing your fingers tight, grounding you.

He follows with a moan punched from his chest, hips jerking forward once, twice—then stilling as he spills inside you with a breathless, "fuck."

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is your breathing—ragged and uneven. You can see Spencer looking up at the ceiling with tight shut eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmurs.

“You always say that,” you whisper, lips trembling. “And then you do it again.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Good.”

He leans his forehead to your shoulder. “I need you to stay clean,” he says.

You nod. “I need you to not leave again.”

He kisses the nape of your neck. “I won’t.”

You let him hold you even though you didn’t believe him, because love is the cruelest drug of all.

a/n: I spend too much time with limerence

[sincerelyneo]

i’m the one | p.js

“she want a boy that pull her hair and hold the door for her”

💿now playing: i’m the one by dj khaled, chance the rapper

❯ summary: Everyone knows your boyfriend Jisung is the perfect gentleman—sweet, caring, and always polite. But you know better. That soft mouth he uses for innocent kisses is secretly filthy. Those gentle hands that guide you through crowded rooms prefer to be wrapped around your throat. And that shy act he does is just that—an act. Because Jisung doesn’t just like control—he needs it.

❯ pairings: jisung x fem!reader

❯ genre: established relationship, just filth, smut

❯ words: 1.7k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni, lots of dirty talk, hair pulling, slight degradation kink, rough blow job, mention of breath play, mirror kink, fingering, no plot just porn, reader uses her/her pronouns, me pushing the dom!jisung agenda yet again 🤫

an: this was lowkey inspired by that scene from euphoria where maddy says, “you’re telling me ethan ripped your clothes off and fucked the shit out of you?” very jisung coded in my head lol. it's always the shy, quiet ones. 🤠

Your favourite thing about Jisung is his mouth—those pretty pink lips he licks when he’s nervous, the ones he always presses to your cheek before leaving for work. The same lips that are currently praising you, telling you how much of a good girl you’re being in that low, breathy voice whilst he fucks two thick, calloused fingers in and out of your dripping pussy.

"Keep your fucking eyes open," he rasps gruffly, fingers working faster, deeper. "I like watching you watch me make you cum—wanna make me happy, don’t you baby?"

And you nod, breath hitching, because of course you do. You want to make him happy the same way he always makes you happy. The same way he makes everyone happy. Because that’s just who Jisung is—kind, generous, so blatantly giving.

So of course he slips a third finger inside you without any warning, groaning when your lashes flutter from the stretch. His cock twitches at the sight too.

Your second favourite thing about Jisung is that no one else knows him like this. No one would believe you, either. Sweet, soft Jisung—whose ears flush pink at compliments, who always walks on the outside of the sidewalk with you on the street, who opens every door for you like a perfect gentleman—is the same man who needs absolute control when he fucks.

You still remember it—months ago, just before Renjun’s birthday, when the boys were teasing him for being so innocent. And you’d just smiled, biting your tongue, keeping yor mouth shut. Because Jisung isn’t innocent at all. He just saves all his sins for you. 

Like right now.

He’s sitting behind you on his bed, legs spread wide, letting you slot perfectly between them. He’s managed to get you completely naked whilst he’s still fully clothed. Your bare back pressed tight to his chest.

His fingers are buried deep in your cunt, pumping steadily, relentlessly, while his other hand wraps around your throat—thumb pressing just enough to test your breath. His grip keeps your gaze locked on that mirror he insists stays pointed at the end of the bed.

Because his favourite thing: watching you, watch him, ruin you.

“Such a pretty little slut, aren’t you, baby?” he coos, voice deceptively soft as his fingers work faster, wetter, filthier—lewd sounds echoing in the room just how he likes.“Three fucking fingers… so greedy.”

“Bet you’d let me fit a fourth,” he grins, lips grazing your ear as he curls his fingers just right, pressing deep against your g-spot. “Wouldn’t you, baby? Let me stretch this tight little pussy open just because I said so, huh?”

You moan, head tipping back against his shoulder as your chest rises in uneven breaths. The hand he has around your throat tightens in that delicious way he knows you love. Not just to test your breath—but to take it too. Because he knows, you’re just as sinful and deprived as he is.

“Look at you,” he groans, eyes locked on your reflection. “Dripping down my fingers, mouth open, eyes all wet. All I’m doing is fingering you and you’re a fucking mess.”

“Jisung—please,” you whimper, squirming in his lap, desperate for more—more friction, more pressure, more of him. But all he does is chuckle, slow and cruel and so, so smug.

You squirm harder against him, but he only shifts his thighs beneath you, locking you in place.

“Tsk,” he hums. “Always so needy.”

You gasp when his fingers curl again, hitting that spot that makes your thighs jerk. He doesn’t slow down—he wants it messy. Wants you incoherent.

“You like being used like this, don’t you?” he murmurs. “You like being my perfect little fucktoy. All mine to play with.”

He pulls his fingers out of you slowly, admiring your slick stretching between them. Then, he presses them to your lips.

“Open,” he demands.

You do—instantly—greedily sucking them into your mouth because this isn’t the first time he’s asked you to do this. It’s his second favourite thing. And that’s when he groans, low and deep, cock straining in his jeans behind you.

“Fuck,” he hisses, eyes dark in the mirror. “You’re so fucking hot when you’re ready to take whatever I give you.”

He pulls his soaked fingers from your mouth with a wet pop, then lets them trail down your sternum, your stomach, back to where your pussy is dripping for him again. His thumb instantly finds your clit as his fingers thrust back inside of you. You feel it building in your spine, your legs twitching. 

“You gonna cum just from my fingers, baby?” he purrs. “Gonna make a mess all over yourself for me because I asked you to?”

You nod again, wild now, tears slipping down your cheeks—not from pain, but because it’s too much. Too much and still not enough.

“Then be a good girl and do it,” he orders, fingers curling wickedly. “Cum for me like the little fuckdoll you are.”

He lets you come down slowly. His fingers stay buried inside you, still working, coaxing every last tremble from your wrecked body. And once your moans taper off into soft, breathless whimpers, he finally withdraws his hand. You whine at the loss, cunt throbbing and wet.

“You did so well, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing your temple. “So good for me.”

He presses a soft kiss to your cheek—too sweet for what he just did to you, but you remember, he still is that sweet boy. Even when he’s making you cum like nobody else can. 

His eyes darken, and it has you moving before he even says a word. You know exactly what he wants now, what you want to do to him—you’re just that in tune with each other—sliding down off the bed to your knees. 

Your fingers fumble with the button of his jeans until you free him from his briefs—his cock flushed and hard, thick and long and leaking from watching you come undone on his fingers.

“Eyes on me when you open that pretty mouth, baby,” Jisung says, and as you glance up through your lashes, he grips a fistful of your hair at the base of your skull. 

You wrap your lips around his tip, tongue flicking over the slit, and he groans low in his chest, head tipping back briefly before locking eyes with you again.

“Fuck, Y/N, don’t make me work for it,” he breathes, tightening his grip and giving your head a small tug forward. 

You take him deeper, hand stroking the base as your lips work around him, spit already dripping down your chin. He hisses, hips twitching as your tongue flattens along the underside of his cock. His grip tightens in your hair, and he bucks up just a little. And then he pulls.

Not just a tug—he fists your hair tight and drags your head down, forcing his cock deeper until your nose is flush against his pelvis and your throat clenches around him.

“Fucking take it,” he grits, groaning as your eyes well with tears, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth. “God, you look so fucking good like this. All mine.”

You gag, and he finally lets you pull back, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his cock as you gasp for breath—but he doesn’t let go. He keeps your hair tight in his fist, tugging again, guiding your pace.

“Fuck you’re so beautiful, baby,” he pants. “Down on your knees with that mouth ruined from sucking me off.”

You moan around him at that—your hands now digging into his thighs for balance as he fucks into your mouth with slow, devastating thrusts. Each time you take him deeper, he gives your hair another sharp pull, tilting your head back just enough to watch your lips stretch around him, then forcing you down again until you choke.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Messy fucking mouth drooling all over my cock. Don’t stop, baby, don’t you dare stop.”

You hum, desperate to please, and the vibrations push him over the edge.

With a guttural groan, he jerks your head down one last time, holding you there as he spills down your throat, cock twitching between your lips. He moans your name, and you swallow every last drop, throat working around him as tears finally slip down your cheeks.

He doesn’t release your hair right away—just strokes the strands with one hand, cradling the back of your skull almost tenderly now.

When he finally lets go, you collapse forward against his thigh, panting—your mouth swollen with your spit and his cum smeared across your lips. He smiles, fucked-out and breathless, brushing your hair back with gentle fingers.

“My perfect girl,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead like you’re still the most innocent thing in the world. “You still with me?”

“Mhm,” you nod slowly. 

He tilts your chin up, eyes searching. “I didn’t hurt you, did I, baby?”

“No,” you murmur. “Not at all.”

His expression softens even more, something suspiciously like guilt flickering behind his eyes. He carefully tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “You gotta tell me if it’s ever too much, alright? I get carried away sometimes. You’re just so… perfect.”

You nuzzle into his hand instinctively, and he pulls you up from the floor, settling you into his lap. You straddle his thighs, face tucked into the curve of his neck. His arms wrap around your waist, a soothing thumb tracing down your spine.

“I’m okay, Ji,” you murmur against his throat. “I promise. I liked it. I love how you get with me. I like being the person who gets to know you like that.”

He exhales through his nose, holding you tighter. “I just need to know you feel safe. I never want to go too far.”

“You never do.”

Jisung presses a kiss to your jaw, then another to your shoulder. “You’re so good for me,” he breathes. “Let me clean you up, okay?”

And there he is—that sweet boy, back like he wasn’t the one who just ruined you like a complete slut. Now he’s kneeling beside you, treating you like something fragile. He wipes between your legs with smooth hands, whispering soft apologies even though you begged for every second of his ruin. His touch is featherlight now—soothing the marks on your throat, brushing hair back from your flushed face, kissing your temple.

And that’s your third favourite thing about Jisung: how he can completely break you apart and then put you back together again.

A complete gentleman. 

[youryanderedaddy]

Tw: manipulation, jealousy, hinted kidnapping/captivity

I know we all love a bad boy, a power-hungry CEO or just a crazed asshole, but what about the good guys? There is something about a good man who abandons all his principles for you, and because of you…

He’s always been good, stable, balanced.

He has a nice cushy job in an office, with a comfortable salary that allows him to live a relatively pleasant lifestyle, he lacks nothing. He comes from a good family, he keeps contact with them and brings his mom a fresh newspaper on the weekend - sends money to his younger sister for her birthday. Helps his sweet older neighbor carry her groceries on his way from work. Stops on red light. Rinse and repeat, and he’s good to you - at least initially.

It starts small - so small and insignificant you have no reason to ask questions.

“Did you get a new haircut, baby? You look stunning.” Gavin smiles as he sneaks behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, inhaling your sweet perfume with a subtle kiss down your neck. “And just before your first day, too. If I was a jealous man, I’d think you’re trying to impress your new coworkers.” He turns you around playfully, pushing you into kitchen board with one steady hand.

You giggle then, kissing him softly - then firmly, with your whole body. It sounds funny, harmless, flirty; it gets you hot and bothered. Then it builds up.

“I must be the most patient boyfriend in the world - having to share such a treasure with the outside world.” he murmurs to himself, stroking your naked shoulder. You’re lying down across his lap, blissfully melting against his form somewhere between dreaming and awake. He’s stroking your hair gently, massaging your sore muscles. “Lucky bastards, getting to see you in that tight little pencil skirt. Fuck, maybe I am a bit jealous.” You can feel his grin against your hot skin, and you simply purr in response to his jab.

“There’s no one else, baby.” you yawn, sinking further into the pillow. “Now stop talking and come snuggle.”

And then it starts to unravel little by little. It’s always little jokes here and there, prodding gently, always smiling, always just “raising concerns” - being a good boyfriend, being considerate of your safety, of your happiness, of the level of professionalism being maintained at your workplace. Your skirt is now too short - is it even appropriate to wear it outside? You text your coworkers too often - they are really asking too much of you, reminding you of work during your off hours.

You smile too much, too brightly, you brush hands with the waiter too invitingly - it can be dangerous to be so outwardly friendly towards strangers, he tells you. You never know what’s going on in other people, in other men’s heads, so why not try to be a bit more reserved? To save some affection for him and him only?

And before you know it, you’re in too deep to speak up.

“They are sending you to Haramley?” Gavin snarls, lips pursed into a tight thin line. Lately he seems to be on edge - stiff shoulders and restless brown eyes fixed on you as if indefinitely, huffing and puffing and sulking when things don’t go his way. He’s not smiling anymore, he’s not being playful - that much you can tell from this furrowed brows and his hands crossed together. And when he reaches from your hand, he’s no longer holding, but squeezing. Possessing.

“Just for three days.” You hush to explain, biting your lower lip. You don’t remember the last time you two had a conversation not turn into a scandal, followed by concerningly hot, yet frustrating make-up sex. “And it’s only two hours away. C’mon, Gav, think about it-

“Don’t Gav me.” he cuts you off, pulling you in closer. You can feel his eyes tremble as they move up and down your body, little flames of anger dancing in the once clear irises. You try to pull your hand away as you have done many times in the past, but now he simply doesn’t move, doesn’t even budge. “We talked about this already. You said you’d quit your job and stay home for a while. And now you want to leave me for half a week and go off to the mountains with who knows who?”

His free fist is clenched, he’s wired up like a peacock ready to attack, proud and full of himself. You want to bite back, but decide to be rational about this, too tired of fighting. Worn-down.

“Don’t be like this. You know this job is important to me-“

“More important than me?” Your boyfriend interrupts you again, his grip on your wrist tightening ever so slightly. “Just be honest, who exactly are you fucking, huh?” His eyes darken. “Must be Tyler. He’s always sending you those stupid little jokes.” He shakes you like the wind. “Does he make you laugh, hm? Or is Josh, that fucking meathead from Accounting? Is it all of them at once, or do they take turns-

You twist your arm out of his grasp, and you palm lands on his cheek with a loud smack that echoes through the ceiling. His face turns hot - his words fall flat, mouth agape as you storm off to your room and lock yourself in for the night.

In the morning you can’t find the keys to your car. When you finally catch a glimpse of them (somehow they are back in your purse), you don’t feel like going anymore. You call your boss and make another excuse as to why you can’t be there. At this point he’s hardly surprised.

And then they never see you again.

[bedupolker]

How are you so good at art and comics and characters but it's not even a professional profession of yours? (can it be that hobbies and skills don't necessarily need to be monitized?)

Thank you! I still feel like I have a lot to learn, haha. I did study animation in college but that's not really my calling, I can't spend 40 (or more!!!) hours a week in front of a computer. As I get older I don't regret it. I'm a little guilty of overworking in certain contexts, but I'm not sacrificing my health or social life for a tiny shot at storyboarding for The Minions 6. (And if I did dedicate myself to that, I almost definitely wouldn't be spending my free time drawing.)

I remember I had some kind of portfolio development class and the professor made a comment telling us to like, stop going to parties and playing video games and just to dedicate ourselves to our art. Maybe that kind of advice to just lock in is helpful for a certain kind of person, but if you're an artist/writer, especially someone who might be young, if you're able, maybe also consider:

Engage with eclectic interests outside of the type of art you want to make. If you want to make an action-adventure comic and your only source of inspiration is Fullmetal Alchemist and Spiderverse, yes those are very good stories and it's understandable they could be a source of inspiration to you, but honestly, most people would probably just go and read/watch Fullmetal Alchemist or Spiderverse. Now if someone wanted to make an action-adventure comic and they had a weird amount of knowledge about technical canyoneering or Korean horror movies or vintage cars or emo-rap music or cubist art or endangered birds endemic to new zealand, now I kind of want to see what that's all about.

Researching the sources of inspiration of art you love is a good jumping off point too. A lot of great stories are more grounded than you'd think, and going out and looking for new things that interest you keeps it from feeling too "incestuous" for lack of a better term.

Try and connect with different kinds of people you wouldn't meet otherwise. Most people are nicer than you think, most people like talking about themselves, and everyone you'll ever meet knows something you don't.

Frankly between social media and living through the covid years, I just think it'd be good for a lot of peoples' mental health to realize there's a world outside of whatever hyperspecific fandom or internet mirocosm or whatever you find yourself falling into.

Try to have a new experience every week. You don't have to blow tons of money and free time to throw into climbing Everest or partying in Barcelona or whatever, just walk home a different way, try volunteering for an organization that you care about, listen to a weird genre of music, hop onto youtube and try some yoga or calisthenics or something. You don't even have to like it, just give it a shot.

Find beauty in the mundane... birds, bugs, alleyways, the light fixture section at Home Depot, it's all there.

Done is better than Perfect

Maybe it's easy for me to say as an artist who has a pretty decent sized following but FR FR don't do just things because you think they'll get popular online!!!!! You don't have to broadcast every single thing that you do. Some art/writing is just for experimentation or self indulgence, that's all good too.

[la-patrona-magdalena]

Synopsis:

You always wanted your family to look at you, even just once. At least with a bit of the affection they gave to the portraits of your mother. Too bad that when they finally did, you were looking at the pages of a comic that showed the cruel future.

Inspired by the manhwa: no place for the Fake Princess

Warnings: English is not my first language, so I used a translator. Yandere content, neglect, abandonment, angst (?), allusions to death, original character (not the reader), allusions to torture. I try to keep the gender neutral,but in part there are mostly feminine pronouns. I think this would also count as slow burn. If any warnings are missing here, please let me know.

Disclaimer: This fanfic is for personal reading only. The use of this text for AI model training, data mining, commercial purposes, or any automated reproduction is strictly prohibited without the explicit consent of the author. Translation or reposting to other platforms is also strictly prohibited without the author's permission

Thank you.

You can read the fanfic in its original language (Spanish) on my AO3

Thank you so much to @seleneprince for being the beta reader and editor of the English version.

previous chapter - Next chapter

Masterlist

Chapter Four - Too Many Looks!

After several days, the Batcave was suddenly filled with laughter as several masked figures came in..

— Nothing serious, probably just some entity wanting a milkshake or something.— Stephanie removed her mask, sighing in exhaustion.

— Yeah, well. I hope that “entity” also gives me back the hours of sleep I lost over this. — Terry glanced over his shoulder at Bruce with a hint of annoyance…noticing he looked more tired than usual, even overwhelmed.

— If it was an “entity” ordering a shake, it’s probably a glitch in the Batcave dispenser’s temporal condenser, — Harper said smiling, unlike the dark-haired boy, as she ran a quick check on her gear — I’m going to download the sensors logs; if there’s another “interdimensional creature” lurking around, I don’t want it to catch me off guard.

— I’m glad everyone’s here, — Alfred arrived through the elevator, greeting the vigilantes who had just come. Most of them were removing their gear and handing in their reports, the boy in the yellow suit simply nodded to Alfred and headed straight back to the elevator.

— Master Duke, she will be staying at Tim’s apartment temporarily.

— …What? — Duke stopped in his tracks, looking at Alfred in surprise. And it wasn’t  just him. Everyone else looked equally surprised. 

Well, at least some of them.

— Who? — Terry and Harper looked confused. Most of the female members had come with them, and Barbara had been helping as Oracle. So, who were they talking about?

— Avery’s daughter. Remember her? — Luke tried to jog their memories, though he looked a bit disappointed that the two of them clearly had no idea who you were, even though he at least remembered introducing you.

Terry ran through a mental list of faces and names he’d come to know since he started visiting this universe more often. He only had a faint recollection tied to that name.

— I remember the model… she gave me cookies. — He scratched the back of his neck, feeling a bit awkward because he clearly had no clue who they were talking about.

Cassandra walked past everyone, approaching Alfred, her voice firm but tinged with sadness.

— She’s leaving? Why?

You knew Dr. Leslie already. She came at least once a month to give everyone a basic checkup, although you seemed more familiar with her than the others.

She confirmed Alfred’s diagnosis, so for a few days you were put on rest with a strict diet and, to your annoyance, it wasn’t just Tim worrying about you anymore, but Damian, and to your further consternation, Dick as well.

The doctor prescribed you two to three days of rest, but someone, you don’t remember who, (and right now it’s not your priority with everything you have to do) suggested it would be a good idea to keep you there for a week. That week would have been perfect for carrying out your plan to study the comics and gather information for phase two of your plan, but finding time alone proved almost impossible.

All week long you always had someone around you, starting with Alfred. You loved him, of course, but ever since you fainted, and knowing it was because of you skipping meals, he hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

— Young lady, if you don’t empty at least half of that plate, I’ll be forced to call Dr. Leslie to remind her of the importance of following medical instructions… again.

It was just typical Alfred worrying about you. It wouldn’t be threatening if it weren’t for the fact that you felt he wouldn’t leave your room until you ate every bite. You no longer went down to dinner in the dining room because they insisted you ate in bed. You could barely get up to go to the bathroom without someone trying to follow you or staying nearby. In theory, they had things to do, but somehow they always found a way to keep their eyes on you.

— Someone has to make sure your brain doesn’t rot while you lie around all day.

Ever since Damian arrived at the mansion, he hadn't seemed very enthusiastic about studying. You knew it took him a while to start studying and that, unlike you, he didn't study at home. Although, based on what you saw in the comics, he apparently didn't need to. You also didn't understand why he suddenly insisted on doing his homework with you around.

The comics never mentioned in detail what kind of place Damian came from, but the name “League of Assassins” and the fact that he was the way he was… told you a lot.

Damian never seemed interested in studying, so when he would come over with his books to sit beside you with the excuse of “studying together so you don’t turn dumb from resting,” it felt very odd. Although not as odd as the times he showed up with a pencil and notebook to draw—never letting you see what he was working on, but always picking moments when you weren’t moving too much. Once he even brought you new yarn and needles so “you’d have something to do” while he sketched. You ended up making a replica of Alfred The Cat with yarn and placing it next to the little crocheted Haley on your shelf.

— I… understand that you don’t want me around, but Haley can keep you company along with Titus and Alfred. You’re not going to turn down this adorable little thing, are you?

You really didn’t want Dick’s presence after he’d openly admitted to forgetting you exist, but you couldn’t do much since you couldn’t leave your room anyway. Besides, Haley wasn’t to blame for the kind of person her owner was, so you let her stay in your room… which gave Dick free rein to be there too. Each time Damian finished his time with you and went to the academy, Dick took his place. On the first day of rest he made no attempt. The hurt look you gave him must have stopped him…but only for a few days. It was barely over half a week before he tried everything to get closer. He never touched you or insisted on hugging you —you don’t know why—but his constant presence and need to talk to you was more than enough. It felt like he was forcing himself into your life.

— You knitted a Haley plush? How sweet. – It would be sweeter if he hadn’t been trying again to force conversation, sitting beside your bed and almost invading your personal space — How long have you been doing that? I also noticed you have a gymnastics book. Are you interested? — You were interested once, but you stopped after reading so many confusing lessons that sounded painful. And you're pretty sure you mentioned to him at some point that you were interested in knitting, although of course, he didn't listen. But at this point, you didn't blame him or hate him for it.

Yes, you felt betrayed and hurt by this family that you stopped calling your own since the day you fainted, yet you didn’t blame or hate them for it. They aren’t your real family—you know the painful truth of why you were never truly welcomed or treated like any other family member. So even if it did hurt, you’d never hate them.

What annoyed you was that in their eyes, you weren’t even a civilian worth keeping alive or giving minimum attention—unless something serious happened to you. Because now you had the full attention of those you once believed were your siblings, just as you wanted, but that’s not what you want now.

You’re certain they’re only waiting for you to recover to return to their daily routines. They feel guilty about your fainting, and besides, you don’t deserve this attention—Serelith does. Not you. You shouldn’t be here, with their… strange, affectionate attitude, their worried looks. Those looks weren’t meant for you, not even for a week. They weren’t yours; for a reason they never gave them to you. Those looks have always belonged to her. Not to you.

What you want, what you really want now, is to have enough time to gather what you need to live, to move to another country under another name and start over. You want them to stop trying to look at you. Their eyes don’t leave you for a second, and it bothers you more than their ignorant concern. At this point, you wouldn’t even be surprised if they took you from room to room in a wheelchair.

— You took one minute and fifteen seconds longer than usual to shower. Did something happen?

Tim hadn’t managed to keep you in his room, because as soon as he suggested it so he could monitor you constantly, Dick and Damian also demanded you stay in theirs, so you remained in your room while Tim brought his computer and a chair. He sat at your desk and worked on what you assumed was something related to his double life. You thought that, unlike the others, he’d be focused enough on that so you could do your own things in peace. It didn’t happen. Every time you tried to do something, he somehow anticipated it, dropping everything just to help you. If Tim was a nuisance during your panic attack, now he was worse after your fainting.

You didn’t have classes, even though you wanted to at least continue your knitting class. They wouldn’t let you—supposedly being in this state and doing school tasks could stress you more. Although you’d rather have a math class than be subjected to Damian’s lessons, Dick’s questions, and Tim’s concern.

– She’s eating much better, her blood levels are stable, there’s no sudden glucose drops, almost everything is fine.

– Almost? – Dick felt his heart drop to his feet when Dr. Leslie said that at the end of the week. He’d been one of the main causes of your condition; he was the one most terrified for you. If he hadn’t spoken with Bruce that day, if he’d stopped when he noticed your presence, you wouldn’t have fainted. He wasn’t even aware that you’d stopped eating. He should have stopped the conversation the moment he knew where it was going, he should have been there for you first.

– Don’t worry, her physical health is good. Her mental health…less so.

That wasn’t much comfort. Of course he was relieved about your health, but hearing the doctor’s hesitation about your mind stole any joy he felt. He could barely hide how sorry he was for what he’d caused you… Although he could see Bruce beside him looking worried too. Most might have missed it, but not him. After all, Dick had warned him.

– For the moment, she may show signs of severe anxiety. She should go to therapy to get a better diagnosis. I told you that part of the rest was to avoid the cause of stress as much as possible — didn’t you do that?

And that’s how you ended up clearing out your room to move to an apartment. 

You and Alfred are packing a few things from your room.

Just the essentials for a few weeks at Tim’s apartment: clothes and study materials.The first thing you slipped into your suitcase, once you were sure no one was watching, were the comics, hidden in a somewhat lumpy wool bag.

The final decision was yours. Dr. Leslie suggested you keep some distance for a while; she also recommended a psychologist. But honestly, you didn’t want to go. What would you say? That you’d seen a horrible destiny drawn in some comics? That you live with Gotham’s vigilantes and they left you to your fate? That you were switched at birth with another baby and your only proof is those few comic books?

Of course not, getting away from them for a few weeks was actually a better solution you thought, you'd have a respite from such a suffocating week. Alfred asked you directly, if you agreed to take some time away from this family, you could choose who to stay with.

You didn’t go with Dick because you still held resentment. And although you’d miss Alfred—and even Damian’s teasing—you were grateful not to have him with his notebook tracking you.

To you, Tim was the best option. You wouldn’t be near Bruce, and even though he’d brushed you off when the Joker struck and you’d once heard him call you “dramatic,” he’d never said anything hurtful directly. In fact, his previous indifference had hurt more.

Anyway, there were no other family members available at the moment; they left early two days before everything changed to who knows what. So you have no other options.

It was the first time you’d left Wayne Manor for anything other than shopping—and without Alfred by your side.

With your bags packed, Alfred took a couple and you grabbed the other two. Together you descended the stairs and reached the grand foyer, where the others waited: Tim and Damian glaring at each other, Dick with a downcast look… and, to your surprise, Bruce.

You’d already grown accustomed to not calling him your father.

The atmosphere felt heavy. It was the first time in days you’d seen Mr. Wayne outside of a passing glimpse in the hallways—or when you spied on him in secret. He hadn’t been around all week like the others; you weren’t even sure he’d been present during the time you were unconscious. Seeing him face-to-face after reading those pages, after learning the truth, was strange—but at least you’d spent the week resigning yourself to the fact that this man would never care for you as family… or even as a civilian.

Your real father barely appeared in the comic saga. You’d seen his face, you knew his name, but for now he didn’t seem like someone interested in his daughter. He didn’t even know you—or Serelith—existed. Though that brief glimpse in the comic might help you find him: a man with a single lock of hair falling over his brow. You wondered if he’d show you more compassion than Mr. Wayne ever would—they did seem to share one or two things in common from afar.

— How absurd. I don’t understand why she has to go with you. The manor is a better option— Damian grabbed one of your suitcases, nearly wrenching it from your hand as he stalked toward the car Alfred had prepared for you both.

— Oh, really? And who decides that—you? — Tim followed, yanking the other bag from your grasp before you could react. Their argument faded into the distance, leaving you behind with the two oldest while Alfred watched, clearly frustrated.

— Have they been like this all week, or has it been longer? — Even though Dick knew better than anyone that the two had a tense relationship, they’d set aside their differences years ago… at least enough to be in the same room without fighting.

— It’s recent, — Alfred replied, never taking his eyes off the warring teens. — Since the young lady’s episode.

— Oh, right. Tim mentioned it on a call. How bad was it? — Dick didn’t avert his gaze from the pair either, but he did glance at you out of the corner of his eye.

— Probably worse than we know. Master Tim didn’t want to leave her alone, and slept in her room that night.

The tension rose suddenly. Alfred stopped watching Damian and Tim argue in the distance. There wasn't much change in his sudden silence, just a slight tension in his fingers, gripping nothing until he spoke again, in a tone that tried to sound casual.

— All night?

— Until dawn — Alfred replied, simple and direct, but knowing full well what was causing it. —Apparently, that's what put young Damian in a bad mood. As far as I know, brothers argue about sharing toys, not custody.

Dick inhaled and exhaled. You and Mr. Wayne had witnessed everything. You don't know what he thought about it. You never knew him well enough, but what you do know is that Dick probably thought about the fact that you were very childish for staying with Tim. Not that you've heard anything from him, but the others said something similar. He probably had the same idea about you.

You wanted to leave quickly; being among them was suffocating. You were about to start walking past him, but Dick stood in front of you, blocking your way.

— If you need anything, anything at all, you can call me, I mean, call us. Okay?— He bent down to your level. He hesitated a little, but slowly placed his hand on your shoulder. It caused a slight shiver to run through your body.

—I don't have a phone. — Your answer came out colder than you intended. You knew you'd grown colder since that day. You'd noticed it unintentionally when you abruptly kicked Tim out of your class. You didn't mean to; you didn't want to be like that. You hated being like that, that's why you flushed the pills down the toilet at night. You loved laughing and running, but you just didn't have the energy these days. You hoped that distancing yourself, even with Tim around, would calm you down, like the doctor had said.

— Oh… — Dick knew you didn’t have a phone, you never had one, even so, right now I would prefer that you did have one, so as not to have an intermediary between the two of you and be just you. — …Ask Tim to call me then, don’t worry.

You just nodded. Dick stood there, staring at you as if he were imprinting your every feature into his memory. His hand felt heavier on your shoulder. You coughed a little, waiting for him to react. He did. It was just a slight movement of his eyebrows. He sighed and let go of you, moving away from you and standing up. His gaze shifted to Bruce, along with Alfred, a silent way of telling him that he should say something, also perhaps with a small hint of reprimand for having gotten them into this situation in the first place.

Bruce had remained at a distance from everyone, close enough to hear and see everything, but far enough not to be included. He doesn’t care, surely, you know that.

You don’t know, Dick and Alfred know Bruce well, they know it’s not like that.

In a few steps he was in front of you, his large figure overshadowing your much smaller one of a twelve year-old girl. He didn’t touch you,  just stared at you, which you were not able to understand.

— Have a good time — he said at last, his voice low and firm, without hesitation, with the same tone you expected from this man. — I hope that… you get better.

— Thank you — you answered, without thinking, without feeling anything. Only out of politeness. And before silence could take the room again Damian returned alone. Tim had stayed in the car waiting for you and Alfred.

Damian stood between both of you, separating your father from you, his annoyed gaze ran over you in the same way that Dick’s had before.

— It’s unnecessary for you to leave — He let out with the same dry tone that sometimes threatened to resemble Bruce’s. Deep down you wonder if Serelith would also speak that way… He extended a hand, showing you a small box, which you took with hesitation and, before you could ask him, he turned around and left.

How strange. If it weren’t because you know him you would think he went towards your room.

Still with the weird interaction in your mind, Alfred placed a hand on your back.

 — Young lady, it’s time to go.

You just nodded, letting yourself be guided to the car, sitting in the back with the box in your hand, Alfred settled in the driver’s seat next to Tim, fastened his seatbelt and started the car. Heading to Tim’s apartment, moving away from the mansion.

Bruce and Dick watched the car drive away, without moving from the entrance.

— Dick … You know what I meant by treating her as if she was dead.

— …I know.

Weeeeeeeeeell, another three weeks surviving solely thanks to Hamilton, Kpop demon hunters, and Shakira songs. I'm this close to putting this on hiatus—mainly because, like I said the first time I delayed the schedule, I like to have everything planned out before writing. And there’s one specific thing in the story that has no direction yet. It’s not important right now, but it’s bugging me a little.

On the other hand, once again I’m not totally happy with the result... But here it goes, I hope you all enjoy it at least. While we’re at it, someone on Tumblr asked if there would be a love interest. Honestly, I’m not really sure about adding one, even though the original manhwa has one. It could be useful, but I don’t know if they’d have a big role in the story. Still, I’ve been thinking a lot about it—especially after getting obsessed with a song that makes me want to base a romantic relationship around it. I have one or two people in mind, but I’d love to know if you have someone in mind or if you'd like one of the boys to shift from platonic to romantic later on. It wouldn’t change much of the plot aside from a few scenes, but suggestions are welcome! Now that I think about it, it's always a guy... but hey, if you’d rather it be a girl—or both—that’s totally valid too.

As always, thank you to everyone who leaves hearts, sweet messages, or comments about the story—you know I read them all even if I don’t reply... I think this is the first time my Tumblr note is the same as the one I posted on Ao3—well, not sure if you knew, but actually, the Ao3 chapter comes out a few hours earlier than the English one. Anyway.

Taglist (1/3)

@lettucel0ver @sirenetheblogger @mourart7 @yhin-gg @cssammyyarts @pearlyribbons @ottjhe @devils-blackrose @mindscape123 @rad4bean @cruzerforce4256 @allycat4458 @passingthroughlegume @bunbunbread @aaaashiiii @wizzerreblogs @ratterpatter @cluelessteam @kore-of-the-underworld @simpingpandas @rosy-myhouse34 @shqyou @kitkatq05 @charlenexoxo1 @astrid-ash @nisararelle @teamintwithice @bluepanda08 @k-anaru @totired0-0 @niamcarlin ​ @iwannaflyaway @overlyobsessivefangirl @mikusamsan @wishiwaswritingrn @random4137 @mallowryblog @darkmoka @starslightzz @hearts4mica @justonerandomreader @zhentheraven @lystaaae @oliviaewl @cynniee @burningkittenprince @gurllss @exactlynumberonekryptonite @jungkooks-tiny-waist

[adathedirac]

not only that but the " doesn't ask for things " shifts into a very bad not good mental breakdown and since you don't ask for things when you are medicated but still you know. virtually having psychosis + autoimmune stuff that leads into everyone asking too much because you're the " woman " of the house and has to take care of everything ( encanto soundtrack from the mc sister I can't remember much starts to play. )

not to get too deep on main but did anyone else have such deeply rooted issues with their self worth for so long that they thought as a kid/teen that their only redeeming feature was being “low maintenance” and now as an adult you give yourself guilt pangs asking for any more than the barest minimum in virtually any relationship because asking for things might negate your only good quality which is just “doesn’t ask for things”

[katiascraft]

﹙LN4﹚ ── ❝let me count my reasons❞

summary: you’re insecure about your body but lando comforts you <3

warnings: a few curse words. insecurities. self hate. and I think that’s it. tell me if I missed something. also, pure fluff.

author’s note: I’m back after like forever! I almost didn’t remember what is like to write but hey, i tried and hope this makes sense! missed you all so much :(

blog masterlist

¡ tap to keep reading ू♡ ࿔ ۪

Do you ever wonder why someone loves you to the point you just wanna run away and hide to cry scared the voices in your head were so right this time? 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Breath in. Breathe out. 

Don’t look in the mirror. Don’t look in the mirror. Don't do it. 

Shit, shit, shit. 

Breathe in. Breath out. Breathe in. Breath out. 

“Love? Are you alright in there?” 

Dammit. You looked in the mirror. 

Fuck. 

“y/n? are you crying?” Lando’s voice softened. His tone was a mix between worry and concern. All the red alarms started sounding in his head. 

He knew you way too much. And you knew it. He could see right through you. Straight into your bullshit. 

“y/n… let me in, baby. Open the door” his voice was soft yet commanding. His heart clenched just in anticipation of what might be happening to you. And he really wished it wasn't that case this time because he hates seeing you cry. He hates to know you hate yourself to the point you cry when you look in the mirror. But he knew. Damn, he knew. It was a very triggering day for you. 

A glamorous and luxurious yacht. Mediterranean Sea surrounding you both. Models and influencers and singers and actresses. Money, everywhere. Channel dresses, Gucci suits, high heels stilettos. Short dresses, even long furry gowns. Red lipstick and champagne. A Martini in your hand and that voice… that voice in your head turning everything around you into grey. Yes, you wore a beautiful black short dress. But you weren’t skinny enough. Yes, you wore those high heels you like so much, yet you didn't look gracious walking them. Yes, you had beautiful natural makeup but it wasn’t flawless. And yes, you also had your silk hair falling down your shoulders, but it wasn’t shiny enough. 

And you were never enough for the circles he moved around. The fancy events, full of glamorous people. You were just… you. 

And maybe, you weren’t enough for him either. 

Not high fashion. Not worried about how big your lips were, or how sharp your jaw is, even if your nose was too big or tiny enough. You were just… you. 

And you hated it. 

But he loved you for it. He loved you because you were just you. The most beautiful natural super complex kind and sweet human he ever met. His best friend, his personal comedian, the love of his life. And he wouldn’t trade you for anything or anyone. He didn’t care about models and their perfect beauty. He didn’t care about flat stomachs or thin thighs. He didn’t care at all. But he cared about your heart, your kind and caring nature, your happiness and that beautiful witty brain of yours making him laugh every time. He loved the way you always kept him on his toes. He was there always wanting more of you. Of those beautiful shiny eyes looking at him. That gorgeous soft smile on your lips.the sound of your giggles when he said the stupidest things. The warmth of your body and how perfectly it fits in his arms. The way your moans sounded. The way he could make you lose control and reach your high. 

Every time. All the time. He couldn’t get enough of you. That's how gone he was for you. 

Hopelessly and utterly in love with all of you. 

But your head was never a warm place to be at. And it was not that easy to convince. Your parents never taught you how to love yourself. Never complimented you. Never appreciated the good things you did. They never told you how proud they were of you. Or if they even loved you. They were always distant and as a kid - that hurt. 

The only time they said something was to actually tell you how bad you fucked up or how disappointed they were. They never asked how you were or if school was good that day. 

It was lonely. 

Just you and your head - your best friend. 

Or your worst enemy. 

“Baby… open the door, let me hold you… please” Lando pleaded from outside the bathroom door. Your sobs were so loud he could hear them clear as if he wasn’t in another room. “Cmon baby…” he spoke again in a more vulnerable plea. His heart breaking at listening to you so upset and being unable to do something. 

But then, you opened the door. 

Lando held his breath for a second when the door opened and he found your fragile frame sobbing out like a scared little girl. His heart broke further. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight against him. He cradled your head against his chest. A sweet loving kiss was pressed on the top of your head. He held you gentle yet firmly. You were the most precious thing on this earth for him and it hurt seeing you so broken. He wished he could take your pain away and make it all better. 

“I got you, baby… you’re alright” he murmured sweet words to comfort you while his fingers tangled in your hair caressing it gently and delicately. 

“I can’t understand how you could be surrounded by so many beautiful girls and still choose me… you deserve so much better” you choked out crying against his chest. You knew this was stupid. It was a stupid thing to say but you felt it. You really felt it. You felt Lando’s arms tightening around you. 

“I don’t, y/n. I love you, even when you can’t believe it or you can’t see it. Even when you hate yourself, I love you even more "Lando responded with his face nuzzled in your hair smelling your scent and keeping you close to him. 

“Dont you sometimes wish I was skinnier? Prettier? Sexier?” 

Your question broke his already broken heart. It wasn’t fair you felt that way. It was so unfair you thought you had to change yourself to be loved by him. The fact you didn't believe he adored your body just the way it is, hurt. 

“Jesus… no, baby. No. I love you just exactly the way you are. You don’t have to change a single thing about yourself, baby” he answered softly resting his chin on your head. He closed his eyes. He could feel your hurt and it tore at his heartstrings. “Why do you think that baby? Who told you you had to change to be loved?” 

“Everyone… all the time, everywhere” you said fragile. 

“Baby, you’re perfect just the way you are, trust me. You’re so fucking gorgeous it should be illegal to be so pretty and amazing. I love everything about you, y/n. Your body, every curve, every inch of you it’s so perfect to me. Your beautiful face… everything. Don't change a thing. You don’t need to.” he kissed the top of your head again gently. His hands were roaming over your body slowly, his touch delicate around your curves loving the way your soft skin felt under his hands.

“I can’t understand why you like me so much” you sniffed, pulling apart from his chest to wipe your face in vain. His eyes softened when he saw your tear stained face. And he couldn’t help the butterflies in his stomach. you looked so pretty even when you were a crying mess. 

“Then let me count my reasons, okay?” He said softly, looking at you intently. His hand cupped your face softly. His thumbs gently tried to wipe away your tears that kept falling silently through your cheeks. Your eyes looked at him with such vulnerability and pain. He couldn’t help but press a loving kiss on your forehead lingering there for a few seconds. “Just hear me out, okay?” He smiled as you nodded. He really wanted to make you smile again. He wished he could change history so you didn’t carry this pain. 

“One, because you’re so smart, baby. I love that brain of yours. I love your job and how driven you are for what you do, you know? I admire you so much. Two, because you’re so funny I'm always almost pissing my pants around you. I swear, every moment with you is never a boring one. Whether it's when we're watching a movie and goofing off on the couch, or when we go to a party, or when we're hanging out with our friends, or when we're just chilling at home, it's never goddamn dull with you. You keep me on my toes and keep things interesting, and I never once get bored with you. You're too damn cute and adorable…it's almost overwhelming. Three, because you're so goddamn caring, sweetheart. You're such a good person, so kind and friendly, and I love how easy it is for you to like almost anyone, even when they're grumpy and closed-off like me” a little warm smile appeared on his face when he saw your eyes lighting up. “Four, because you're so damn patient, sweetheart. You put up with my grumpy, grumpy ass, you put up with my grumpy moods and my shitty, sarcastic humor. You put up with the side that I don't let most people see, and you've never once complained. I don't know what the hell I did to deserve someone as perfect as you, but I'm so damn glad I did it. You put up with my annoying ass, and it's a damn wonder I haven't driven you damn nuts already, honestly.” He heard that cute little giggle between your tears and his heart almost stopped of how much love he felt for you in that moment. “Five, because you're so damn open-minded, baby. You don't judge me, you always listen when I talk, you don't get annoyed when I talk about racing for hours on end, you don't get annoyed when I nerd out over something, you don't make me feel like I'm some weird little nerd who talks too much and obsesses over little things. You never make me feel like a damn loser for how excited I get when I talk about something, you just listen and ask questions. It's goddamn wonderful… six, because you're so goddamn forgiving. You've never not once held anything against me, never once brought up any of the dumbass things I've said, any mistakes I've made. You forgive my screwups, you forgive me when I mess up, and you forgive me when I'm in a shitty mood, even if I'm being a grumpy, snarky shithead to you. You just roll your eyes and laugh at me, and you forgive me so quickly, you're so damn understanding… Sometimes, I feel it’s unfair for you to be so good to me. Seven, because you're so adorable when you cry. It breaks my damn heart. you always look so goddamn cute when you're all emotional. Your eyes get all damn watery and wide, and your lips get all pouty and trembling, and you can cry a damn river and get all messy, and you still look cute as hell with tearstains down your face and it makes me want to hug the hell out of you and hold you against me forever and keep you safe from this cruel ugly world that hurt you this bad… you don’t deserve feeling this way, love. You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life. And not only because you’re gorgeous but because you are such a nice person, you have a heart of hold, baby. I don’t care about how you look like. I care about the way you make me feel… loved, cared for, happy… that's all that matters to me, you got it?” His voice was so gentle and caring - it made you smile through the tears. 

“You can’t be real, Norris” you said wiping your face looking at him. The way he patiently listed some of his reasons why he loved you without complaining. Without saying it was stupid. You listened to every word. They touched every single broken spot in your being. But god, it felt healing at least a tiny bit. And that was everything to you.  You watched him chuckle softly at your comment.

“I'm real and I'm all yours, baby” he said grinning and pulled you closer to kiss your cheek with lovingly sweet pecks making you smile wider. “I love you, y/n. I love you so much” he said tenderly caressing your cheeks melting your heart. 

“I love you, too, Lan” you said the same way in a little stupid smile. Love shining through your eyes. His heart skipped a beat at the beautiful sight of you - smiling and looking at him with so much love. 

You were perfect. 

“Should I go on? I could be hours telling you how pretty and amazing and precious you are to me” he murmured in a playful and loving tone making you giggled. 

“Lucky you I have all night for your praise, baby” you answered playful too in a wide smile.

﹙FIN﹚ ── thanks for reading. love, Cat ᥫ᭡

[beast3end]

Tears don't suit you

Summary: They find you in tears during a quarrel with your father. Characters: Riddle Rosehearts x reader (Riddle Rosehearts & reader), Leona Kingscholar x reader (leona kingscholar & reader) WC: 1,4K CW: gn!reader; there may be mistakes in the text because English is not my native language; this headcanon can be romantic or platonic - as you wish!

Riddle Rosehearts:

You're missing.

Riddle should get used to the fact that you can appear out of nowhere and disappear into nowhere, like Chenya, but he can't. Especially when a well - known duo of offenders disappears besides you - you, quiet, not particularly sociable, always get into trouble with them.

More precisely, you try to get the Adeuce out of these troubles, but being so weak, you end up up to your ears in trouble yourself.

Riddle can't help but worry about you — even before his overblot, you were in his good standing due to your calm and obedient disposition.

...Therefore, when he does find you, he falls into a stupor.

You… Are you crying? You cry quietly, lowering your head low in front of a man who looks like you. It seems to be your father.

Well, his presence here is not surprising — today was the day when anyone could enter the college of the night raven. Usually, families do not miss such a chance to see their children.

But still, why?

"I can't get through to you forever! Why did I buy you a phone? So that you can play your games?"

"I set it to silent in class and just sometimes forget to switch back—"

"You keep forgetting everything! Seventeen years, and there were no brains, and they did not appear. And stop whining already, I'm explaining everything to you as it is. How did you even get to your age with such a character? You always start crying when I criticize you. Look into my eyes, you whiner!"

That was the most inappropriate word to describe you.

No matter how much Riddle thought about it, he couldn't remember a single time when you cried in the Harstlabule. Even in your first year, when, according to others, he "terrorized" the dormitory and was still a tyrant. Even when students from other dormitories saw you as an easy target for bullying and you didn't think to respond to them in any way. Even…

When the overblot swallowed him up, you tried to do everything in your power.

Riddle saw an unwavering spirit in you.

The one that was being trampled into the ground. You were being crushed and you couldn't say anything in response.

Riddle cleared his throat loudly, drawing attention to himself. His heart sank into his stomach at the startled look you gave him.

The man, who had been looking at you with a mixture of severity and anger, instantly changed, smiling at Rosehearts.

"I'm sorry," the man apologized when Riddle began to approach you. "You came running at the noise, didn't you? [Name] said that no one was here at this time, but apparently they forgot… Once again."

Riddle pursed his lips, struck by a sudden realization. The way you flinched at first when he yelled at the offenders… And the way you were doing it now, when your father was raising his voice…

Did you see your father in him?

A very unpleasant discovery.

"The rule of the Queen of Hearts 811…"

"What?"

Riddle sighed through his teeth. He couldn't believe he was saying this, but even more he didn't want to believe that he should just walk away and leave you alone.

"The rule of the Queen of Hearts 811: no card soldier should bow his head and listen… Criticism from no one but his queen"

After finishing this sentence (with too much effort for himself), Riddle quickly grabs your wrist and drags you away. It seems to shock your father so much that he doesn't even mind when you disappear into the maze of the garden.

Riddle doesn't turn around, but he hears your soft sobs.

He doesn't say anything. Unfortunately, he had never been taught to comfort other people, and he had never thought about it himself.

Riddle will fix it. Later. But now…

"...Housewarden, isn't the queen's rule 810?"

...He needs to find a way out of the situation.

Leona Kingscholar:

He was the very first to return to college from winter break. Well, or so Leona thought for a while.

The first thing he heard was rapid breathing, the second was the muffled voice of an unknown man. This voice definitely did not belong to any of the teachers. After a second, he realized that this man was not here, but was just coming from someone's phone.

He has sharp hearing, you know?

Anyway, it's none of his business. Leona was going to head to the hostel and sleep — he was unbearably tired during these holidays, the Checka squeezed all the juices out of him. But…

He casually glanced at this source of noise as he passed by, and immediately stopped.

Uh. So it's you.

Not surprising. You always managed to make a fuss, even when you tried to be quiet. Leona could hear you laughing even from his room when you were chatting with Jack on the street. Even your heartbeat is always amazingly loud when he used you as a pillow. You're loud, cheerful, clumsy…

Now she was standing in the hallway and trying to swallow her tears, not wanting to give away her condition to the person on the other side of the tube. You were so caught up in this activity that you still haven't noticed it.

Leona… To say the least, he is unhappy. In all the three years that you've known each other, he's never seen you in tears. You laughed even when you got bruised; even when a disk accidentally flew into your forehead and split your eyebrow.

The next second, he was frowning, and the tail was furiously flapping behind him. He listened to what the man was saying.

These were outright insults. Sometimes his voice would get louder and you would flinch.

"You should use your brain at least once in a while. Sometimes it seems to me that you are of the same development as a nine-year-old child, although he will be smar-"

Leona snatches the phone out of your hands and hangs up. You stare at the blank screen in fright, then turn your gaze to the beastman and swallow.

"It's been a long time, Leona. You came back toda-"

"What was that just now?" he growls and you see how his ears are pressed to the top of his head.

Is he, is he angry? Did you do something wrong? I probably should have gone straight out into the courtyard so as not to attract attention, but how could you have known that the headman of Savanclaw would also arrive today?

"Just a lecture from my father. I made a mistake again and—" "What did you do?" "What?" "What mistake did you make?"

You fell silent, looking down at the floor. Leona chuckled—you didn't even understand why you were being insulted!

"It's none of your business. Return the phone, my father will definitely be even more angry that I smugly dropped the ca-"

At the same moment, the phone in his hands rang. The number that appeared on the screen was unfamiliar and Leona could only grin — you, who had no problem handing out your number to first-year students if they needed help, and also wrote down their numbers, did not bother to write down your own father's number.

Without thinking for a second, he turns off the phone. He won't be calling now.

"Leona!"

At first he thinks of throwing the phone into the bush, but then he just hides it in his pants pocket. He could have bought you a new one, but then listen to you whine about all sorts of photos and profiles in video games? Fire me.

"Leona!!!"

"Hush. I want to sleep, so let's go."

"But Father—"

"Tell him everything as it is. If he has any objections, I'll be happy to listen to them," he interrupts you with the most smug expression you've ever seen on his face.

Well, your father really can't say anything about it. Not when his opponent is the second prince of Sunset Savanna…

[chimielie]

"Isn't it a little much?" You pause your step on your way into the elevator, blinking at your coworker. Rinne, a pretty girl with light eyes and a perpetual hand on her hip, smiles at you as she pushes past, her lips stretching over her teeth. "I saw Rin-kun's Instagram."

Her casual reference to your boyfriend takes you aback. You didn't know they were so close.

"Ha, I'm sure," you say. "He likes posting a lot, doesn't he?" Rintarō fancies himself a photographer. Mostly, he takes mirror selfies and turns the exposure down very low. He sends you three a day minimum. You, trapped in a cubicle, are only able to sneak away to the bathroom to reciprocate once on average.

"He has a great eye for aesthetics," she nods. "His feed is very satisfying. You're lucky to have him."

"Eh," you shrug. For some reason, she emits a noise something like a whistling kettle.

"So mean!" She shakes her head. You snort. Rintarō gets annoyed with people who are too nice. He thinks they leave a bad taste in his mouth, like eating sugar before bed without brushing your teeth. "You force him to put you in his bio and then act ungrateful? Someone else might come and take him from you."

"What?" you say. The elevator dings, signifying that you've reached the lobby. "He's, like, super whipped."

The doors slide open and you step through, turning when you notice that she hasn't followed. She's hanging out in the elevator, her mouth open like you said something shocking. You wonder momentarily if you had—but shouldn't partners be obsessed with each other?

You forget about it as soon as you see him. Rintarō's bangs are falling into his eyes as he leans over the receptionist's desk, looking ridiculously large as he braces his forearms on the low white marble counter to bend to her level. You quicken your step and he whirls around just before you can make contact, scooping you up and sighing happily as you throw your arms around his neck.

Rinne is almost out the door of the building. You shout a goodbye after her, but she must not hear you, because she doesn't respond.

"Did you have a good day?" Rintarō asks as you bow goodbye to the receptionist.

"No," you say. "You didn't replace the toilet paper after you used up the last roll and it ruined everything."

It's not until you're back home, lying comfortably with your head on him so his heartbeat is there, loud and clear and strong in your ear, that you remember.

"Hey," you say, taking the hand holding yours up to your mouth and biting lightly, lower teeth on the pulse point. You can hear his heartbeat kick up, which makes you grin. "What's your Instagram bio?"

He laughs, a quiet chuff that makes you feel like you've stepped into the sun from an air conditioned building. How lucky you are, to love this man in a language all your own.

"Who told you about that?"

"One of the girls at work asked," you say. "I had no idea you and Rinne were friends."

"Who?" He squints. "I don't know anyone with that name. The annoying one from the last holiday function?"

You swat at him but don't correct him. "Yeah. She said you have a satisfying feed."

He rolls his eyes, his mouth still kicked up in a smile so you can see his sharp right canine. Unfairly attractive, your man is.

"I like that you don't give a shit about pissing on your territory, you know that?"

You frown.

"Gross! What're you even talking about?"

He doesn't answer, infuriatingly. He just types something in and hands you his phone.

His bio reads: sunarin: my girlfriend is cooler.

Your account is tagged, but you rarely use Instagram and you don't even have the app, so you rely on him to hunt down all the good reels and help you stalk people from high school and whatever else you might need it for. It's sweet. His feed is nice enough, you think, not half as good as the album of pictures of his sleeping face that rotate as your lockscreen.

"No wonder people think I'm some kind of crazy girlfriend," you say, handing the phone back to him. He sets it aside and puts his hand on your back, warm and solid. "You're making me enemies at work."

"Aren't you gonna say I'm sweet?" He goads.

"For stating facts? It's not out of the goodness of your heart," you poke him. "It's just true."

[catsoupki]

LOVER ON A LEASH (8.2K) AO3

pairing - katsuki bakugou x reader

synopsis - You feel hot, stuffy. He’s whispering words into your ears that are too filthy to repeat. Closing your eyes, you pull at his shirt, he takes the hint and sheds it. One last time, you think, and never again. (Or, when Bakugou grapples with his blood-stained past, you’re there to help.)

cw - sexual content, fwb dynamic (but not rlly), porn with feelings, insomnia, mentions of dealing with trauma, implied mental illness, codependency, minor manga (post-war) spoilers, angst, hurt/a lil comfort, afab!reader, pro hero katsuki, “are they lovers?” “no, worse.”

a/n - insomniac bakugou inspired by @solarstranger ‘s ward off (this loneliness) ; dynamic heavily influenced by @bkgexe ‘s organic chemistry ; i hope bakugou isn’t ooc in here… im trying to depict his struggles and personality as a grown-up as accurate as possible? i’m making a lot of assumptions here.. i think this might be the start to a multipart series (that can still be read as standalones) because i dont have the patience to write the entire thing in one-go

taglist - @azzo0 @kiwibao @gguksgem @dienamights @xoyuji @lillyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @katsuisbaby @lipstainedgemini @hatsukeii @staraxiaa

The agency is empty save for the occasional janitor and night-shifters. Most of his sidekicks have already gone home to get a good night’s rest and to return to their families.

Katsuki’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he nods past a tired Kirishima, no doubt coming back from a long patrol. He keeps his head down when he mumbles goodbye in hopes that Eijirou won’t notice the bags that drape below his eyes. So he looks at the floor, he thinks about the winks of sleep that have somehow, in the dead of night, leaked from the cracks in between his fingers like sand, he finds that he’s losing himself, a little more than yesterday, every single night.

As if he’s slipping away, as if the colour drains from his hair and from his eyes until pools of ash and red submerge him, until his feet are soaked. When Katsuki lies awake on his cold mattress, oftentimes alone, when sleep eludes him, he’s forced to reconcile with the past. The field that he laid on when he was seventeen (when he wasn’t enough, when he lost) now houses a dozen residential buildings. The blood-tainted dust is buried, but it continues banging on the chambers of his heart to be let out. Much like how he deals with the civilians that need saving, like how he rescues a stray cat that comes baring teeth, he tilts his face away systematically, instinctively, and he deals with his expired trauma the only way he knows how: not at all.

In the wee hours of morning, while his room is sterile like the hospital, white as the moon, the feelings he turns away come back biting like a dog. Sometimes, he admits defeat. He surrenders to the fangs that sink deep into his skin, drawing blood till he’s left empty. Then, the guilt that has tied his career down will be overthrown by muscle memory: his hand will reach for his phone, he’ll squint when the blue light from his screen hits him all at once. It will uproot his ribs and reveal the throbbing ache that was left behind them all those years ago.

And he will call you to soothe it.

“Sir?” His assistant knocks tentatively on the door, briefcase already in clutch, Katsuki then remembers he’s working, he remembers the numbness, his exhaustion. “I saw that on the team calendar—I mean, are you sure you want to pull another shift this Saturday?”

He feels the syllables before he sounds them, “yes, I’m sure.” he says, but the words on his tongue are bitter like poison, a lie, “book me in for next Sunday as well.”

When the justification of his insomnia comes crumbling down, Katsuki tells himself that being a hero means sacrificing yourself for the greater good. He fights like the world expects him to stand back up and to return as the hero that they know, the hero who killed All For One.

Being a hero was never about the awards, it didn’t matter how many plaques or trophies adorned the shelves in his house, much less the weekly rankings published on the HPSC’s website. It had always been about redemption. He fights like his life is on the line each and every single day, as if to say to Edgeshot, to prove to him: my heart was worth it, wasn’t it?

So every time he steps into a fight as Dynamight, it’s done so with violence, he takes punches and throws them back, he spits out blood and grits his teeth and wins. As an act of penance, of atonement, for when he wasn’t enough, for when he lost.

But his lies are picked apart by the voice in the back of his own head, quiet like tonight, small, it screams into the void.

When his assistant pushes on the door, he sees the plate that’s hung on his door, spelling out his pseudonym—but it symbolises less a responsibility as a civil servant and more of a duty to the man who gave up his life for him. For him. That name weighs heavy on his chest because for every step forward, it is pulled back by guilt and obligation with the cold reminder that he wasn’t good enough.

Katsuki sighs.

“Anything else?”

He chooses to resume working, the paperwork he completed earlier today is closed, then reopened again on his computer so he can pretend that he doesn’t see the concern that seeps from his assistant’s eyes.

“No sir, not at all.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It was Tuesday when you first met him. You were seventeen, in a hospital after breaking a leg from falling down a flight of stairs. It’s trivial, and you get a few good laughs out of it. Your friends at school enjoy drawing on the cast around your foot and the time you spend in this building is just a minor inconvenience that will go away with time.

You remember seeing his ash blond hair, matted with blood, on the news when he was laying down his life for the world. It’s weird, you’ve seen the most vulnerable moments of his life broadcasted on live television while you’re just a passerby that he doesn’t really register walking past every Tuesday.

Your usual icebreaker dies on your tongue.

You think his eyes have glazed over your features before. Unremarkable, in the hallways of the hospital. Maybe his hand has brushed against yours when you both reach for the last remaining drink in the fridge. Though, you also think, he won’t remember.

But you are your mother’s daughter and you persist. When you’re sitting in your father’s car, your sister is holding your hand on the way home, you think about that boy. You have a week’s time to think about him, to come up with something to say. What can you tell a boy whose name you don’t know?

He is world famous at seventeen. He is your age but he has seen more death than you could possibly imagine, he’s carried more weight on his shoulders than you ever can, and he is known for the sacrifice he made as Dynamight, society knows him by the hair you see on television because he is significant and his life is right in front of him.

You think about the things you could say. You practice in the bathroom mirror, but the insecurities leak too easily from the gaps of your teeth and you fail. You try to run the syllables through your tongue but they become too rehearsed, mediocre. You try your damndest to create brief windows of time that allow you to speak. While he is waiting at the pharmacy, while he’s watching the news, and as he is queueing behind you at the cafeteria.

But when you’re really next to him, in crutches, the wounds that mar his skin can’t be soothed by the words you speak.

You look into the mirror, everyday you smile and you rinse and repeat till your countenance sits right with you, you rehearse till the rehearsed words sound correctly, but you are in your father’s car, your sister is holding your hand and your heart is in one piece. What can you say to a boy who belongs, already, to the world at seventeen?

“What the hell is your problem!” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can look up. You berate whoever it is that knocked his entire cup of hot chocolate into the back of your shirt until you’re burned and drenched.

This is the first time you regret speaking. The hours you spent standing in front of the mirror, learning to shape your mouth and lips into something palatable, relatable to a god, is reduced into nothing when you look up and see him.

“I...” The boy’s voice is weak. Too weak. It’s quiet and if not for the fact that he is right behind you, maybe you wouldn’t have registered it at all. “I’m sorry.”

He’s so awkward when he says it that you can tell “sorry” isn’t a word that usually exists in his vocabulary. He doesn’t look at you, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and he is anything but the hero that you’ve seen on screen.

You look at his hands, covered in smoking hot chocolate that’s still dripping onto the floor. Now, you think you briefly remember the nurses around you scrambling for the janitor, for the mops. But, then, all that you remember is feeling sadness creep into your bones. This boy who you have spent days thinking about like some hero is weak and twitching in front of you because of a cup he can no longer hold. You look at his hands, the stump that twitches, and his other hand that moves to grab it, to grab the air a few inches above because the spasm of what used to be his right hand is a vulnerability that Dynamight cannot show.

You looked at him like how a man looks at a stray dog—with pity. And he hates that, so he looks down. You realised, then and there, that he was just a boy. He was a boy unaccustomed to the damage that the world chose to give him. He wasn’t a god, he was just thrusted into the middle of it all, forced to see the death that he wasn’t supposed to see, and forced to carry the weight that was unfitted for his shoulders.

You thought he was going to pull away, but you are your mother’s daughter, you persist, and your hand is hooked around his remaining wrist—boney, rough with scars. This is the first of many times in which you say to him, “It’s okay. Things happen.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Katsuki thinks of you when he’s discharged. When he sits in the car with Masaru driving, Mitsuki is next to him and he thinks of the piece of paper that has your number scribbled over it with broken crayons. It sits in his pocket, warm, it tingles his skin.

He forgot what you said, and what you did, but he can’t forget how you made him feel. It’s stupid—he tries to convince himself. It’s stupid to remember a girl he’s talked to a few times here and there at the hospital. He should be focusing on school, on recovery, but he thinks of what you mean, what you can mean. He remembers your grin when you smuggled that piece of crumpled tissue into his pants like an inside joke, he tries to decipher the words you blur between the lines. What audacity, he thinks, and he can’t help but love that.

He sees you again when he’s at a party he’s been dragged to. He’s freshly eighteen, bravery is plastered onto his face but it is embarrassment that nips at his heart when he makes eye contact with you. He never called you, never texted, but the piece of paper lays amidst his books, unforgettable, undeniable.

He was never good at deciphering your words, or your gaze for that matter. He can’t tell whether you remember him just by looking at you. Your eyes pause a little too long on the scar that slashes his cheek for someone who has seen it before, but what does he know? Everyone looks at him like meat. Your eyes hold a certain judgement he’s scared of. Quiet, accepting, but judgement nonetheless.

He debates whether he should come over and strike up a conversation. If he were to talk to you like nothing happened, what would you do?

When he meets your eye again, sweat is condensing in his enclosed palms with the callouses pressing into his flesh like fingertips, it is now that he realises he should’ve called you, texted you, it is now that he comes over.

“Sorry for never reaching out, just—haven’t had the time.” He lies through his teeth like it is second nature.

This is the first time that he tests you.

“No worries. Things happen.” You say, with a tone that makes Katsuki’s jaw tick. He hates how easiness rolls off of you, like waves, because it isn’t fair that he’s spent the past few months remembering your hand around his wrist, your words in his ear, when you haven’t been suffering at all.

The night is young, but even when it goes on, you never ask him why, but it feels like you’re toeing a line that was just established, like you’re rubbing a fresh wound. So you let him have his boundaries even when it involves you. He’ll ghost you, he’ll lash out at you for something that is not your fault, he will treat you like you’re disposable and like you’re garbage. And maybe you already knew that when you snuck your hand into the pockets of his pants with your lover’s grin. Maybe you already knew what you were signing up for.

You let him come back into your life when he’s ready because you feel like you’re doing something good, like you’re doing charity. You don’t ask questions, you never do, because when you look into the mirror, you’re your mother’s daughter, and what you see between the gaps of your teeth isn’t enough to be begging a god for his time.

When he disappears, he usually comes back in a week or two. He will coat his apology and his excuses in sweet words that you’re not sure what the real meaning is—I’ve been busy; you’re still my favourite, he’d say, and you can’t help but laugh when he lies with unblinking eyes.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He was nineteen when he lost his first kiss. Drunken, he was blushing all the way down to his neck when he shoved against the lips of another girl, albeit a bit off-centred. He doesn’t dare admit to her that it’s his first time, but he thinks she already knows. It’s embarrassing—because the lack of experience is a vulnerability that Dynamight cannot show. So he’s stuck kissing a girl whose name he does not know in the corner of somebody’s house. He’s violent and awkward when he pushes her up against the wall. It’s messy—her spit tastes like a substance that he should not touch, and all that he feels is a burn that numbs his lips.

He forgot how he got here. The faces in the crowd blur together, unremarkable, and Katsuki fails to recognise even a single person in this room.

It’s less magical than what his friends described it to be. Denki framed it as the best moment of his life when he pressed lips with Jirou, and Eijirou claimed that kissing Mina was what made him a man. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in his system, it makes his head warm, fuzzy, and his blood rush, but this girl feels like nothing in his palms. The way she puts her fingers on his cheek, where people look at for a bit too long, is uncomfortable, it makes his face itch. Her lips are cold, he’s already forgotten what she mumbled before he kissed her, let alone what she did, he only remembers the agony. He feels less like a hero and more like a cheap prostitute that got taken advantage of.

(Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in his system. Maybe it’s the fact that this girl isn’t you.)

He thinks, beneath the flashing lights and loud music, a snarl is present on this girl’s face. Her lips are pulled taut by her cheeks but his vision is falling and he can’t tell what she’s saying. What a prude, probably.

He leaves the party right after. He was somehow able to sober up before pushing the girl away. He doesn’t glance at her, because he knows he’ll be looked at with judgement, or worse, with pity. He sneaks past the crowd and out the backdoor all without replying to a single person that screams at him. His hand is in his pocket, the one that tingles his skin, and he’s already fishing out his phone. The blue light from the screen hits him all at once when he dials the number he’s memorised by heart.

You were asleep, but the guilt that steeps in his heart from waking you up was quickly drowned out by your voice. The grumbles that resonate in his ear, somehow, for the love of god, cools his head and puts out the fire that is his lips. You tell him to come over, and he isn’t sure what the implications behind those words are, but he shows up anyway, you kiss him and take the pain away.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It was a Sunday when you two first had sex. The last time he’s talked to you was a month ago. That night, right before the words die on his tongue, he calls you. “I’m lonely.” He says. His voice is grainy over the phone, it’s pressed up against your ear and you can almost feel the hot breath against your skin. He says it like he knows you understand him—and you do. He doesn’t need to spell it out and maybe that’s why he keeps you around. He gets a woman for sex and he gets to keep his pride intact all at once. Your lips will sweep his problems under the rug, you’ll ignore the dark circles under his eyes and you’ll just pretend that he loves you.

He wonders about how long this will go on, how long it can go on. He thinks about your dignity and how he’s held it hostage in a jar. He thinks about your hands, the pity in your eyes, and he doesn’t care.

(He remembers your grin when you smuggled that piece of crumpled tissue into his pants like an inside joke, he tries to decipher the words you blur between the lines.)

For nights like this, his loneliness becomes the excuse that allows him to call you. In the dead of night, when he mumbles words amalgamated with want and sadness, lust is a disguise that reveals itself a little too easily from the gaps of his teeth, but you show up at his door anyway.

You feel his eyes rake over you, he meanders, he takes his time, like it isn’t cold out, like you owe him to be standing here like this. You shudder, half-mooned lids glide over your skin, like honey. You eat with your eyes first—so you show up in your tight skirts, crop tops and eyeliner—a costume, an armour. But you are your mother’s daughter, you persist, and you feel like a prize to be won.

Katsuki doesn’t say much, he never does. He only hooks his hand around your wrist and pulls, until you topple into his house, until you are wrangled in between his sheets and his limbs before you have the chance to ask “why me?”.

It’s almost like he’s doing this intentionally. He shocks you into submission like a fisherman to his prey because he wants you when you’re soft and docile. But you are capable of reading between the lines—you hear the pleas that hide behind lust and gluttony: take the pain away.

So you do.

Even before the words tumble out of your lips, the vowels and fricatives already feel foreign and slimy on your tongue. It's why you don your costume, your armour: of tight skirts, tight tops, and tight eyeliner. They squeeze the fat of your thighs, the meat on your shoulder, and at your tear glands. But you walk in anyway, you let your legs rest on the linen of his bed, your elbows against the pillows. Your costume clings to your skin, your armour cups itself around your dignity. Mold. Mockery.

You don’t ask because you already know the answer. Because you are your mother’s daughter and you persist: because you are here.

You let him mar you with his teeth. Despite the bites that will show up purple the next morning, you lift your head even more. He is ravenous—holding you down to the bed like a ragdoll, you figured that he doesn’t care about what you think nor how you feel. He doesn’t really register what’s beneath his palms, even when he’s cupping your heart in one and choking you with the other, his prosthetic is cold around your neck, it numbs the bruises he’s sucked into your skin, you can’t help but like that.

“Fuck,” he moans, with his chapped lips tickling the hairs on your neck. “Kiss me.” he says, like you are lovers and these rendezvous are anything close to romantic.

He slides into you easily, like it’s meant to be. He does it so painfully slow that you dig your heels into the muscles on his back: hurry up and fuck me—he understands the words you don’t say.

He’s looking down at you, and you like him like this: when he’s above you with his eyebrows slightly furrowed, vermillion eyes piercing, looking at you. His gaze will move from your eyes to your lips, they’re staring at him, he thinks. He’ll lean down and suck on them. He kisses with his teeth, unkind, aggressive—you like it like that, he knows, when he’s in your arms.

“You’re so pretty when you cum.” You blush. Yeah.

He’s breathing hard, his lips break into a smile—a genuine one. He loves it when you pull your kiss-bruised lips between your teeth, when your nails scrape down his back until long red marks appear. He moans even harder, louder.

Against your better judgement, you let this go on. You let him bury himself in you, deep, painful, so he forgets the agony that tortures him everyday. You feel like a martyr—a sacrificial lamb for the pillars of society. You let yourself feel good—charitable—in his arms and in your heart (with his cupping hands), beneath him, you allow yourself the belief that you’re doing something good (your armour, costume). You look at the empty jars in his cabinets and think about your dignity (mold, mockery). You let him hold you by the throat and shudder into your nape (because you are your mother’s daughter and you persist, but no one is there to hold your hand and your heart will be in pieces).

Somehow, you find yourself listening to his snores at dusk. You think he’s gotten better at lying. You’ll smile in his ear and realise a bit too late that you’ve been caught like a deer in headlights.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You’re sitting in front of the television, your head on his shoulder, and Katsuki has his arm wrapped around you. It’s a little cold, but the both of you are too lazy to find a blanket. A show that neither of you care about is playing on screen, it acts as the source of light, and as something to fill up the silences.

You two should both be asleep. He has an early patrol and you have a presentation tomorrow. The show isn’t particularly interesting, but you just can’t find it in you to go home and get onto your bed.

You don’t live here, but you know where things are. You don’t have the access card to his apartment building but somehow the security guard recognises you. There’s a second toothbrush in the sink, your clothes are mixed with his in the laundry basket but your name isn’t put down on paper. It lures—begs—you to have the “what are we?” conversation with him. A part of you wants to know, that part is irrational and wants to be his. That part of you sits down in the shower and imagines what it would be like to hold his hand outside of bed and sex. The rational part of you, though, knows the question will break whatever it is that you have with him. Because you know Katsuki. You know the guilt that pulls on his heart, you’re familiar with the pride that nestles itself into his skull, and you know he won’t let himself have this. And you’d rather have him like this than to not have him at all.

He lets you stay the night.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It’s winter. The colleagues you entertain get braver and they’ll somehow get you to go out with them. Bar-hopping like you’re in college, sure, you’ll continue entertaining them. You’ll be in your short skirts, tight tops, with your eyeliner smudged. You down the drinks like water while your colleagues holler, you’ll pretend that you don’t notice your supervisor’s gaze on your chest. You’re having fun, you really are.

It’s the group’s third stop of the night, sweat has accumulated on your back with how crowded this bar is. It seems that everyone is here—out on the dance floor while the swaying bodies spill the drinks that leave a sticky residue on your skin.

The group of seven you arrived in have already split into groups of two or three. Your coworkers are nowhere to be seen, maybe they’re throwing up in the bathroom, maybe they’ve ended up on someone’s bed. You don’t really care.

Everyone’s dancing, and this guy nudges your arm with his, you flinch. “You here alone?”

“No.” You say, regret is already pooling in your stomach. Why did you ever agree to come? You know you don’t like going out.

“You should join us for a few, we promise you a fun time,” he winks, and you think you throw up a little in your mouth. You feel the shape of rejection before you sound it, but the words die on your tongue.

“Sure.”

You don’t drink anything more. There’s enough alcohol in your body for you to continue lying to yourself. His arm that started behind your seat slowly inches down, closer, they’re testing you. You entertain him, you let him ghost his sweaty palms over your exposed back, then your thighs.

He drags you to the dance floor, then off, all before the song ends. You know where this is going. He’s pulling you to the walls, he continues looking at your body, he doesn’t even try to pretend he’s here for anything else, and you think this feels worse than your supervisor’s eyes on your chest.

When he kisses you, his breath is an unfortunate mix of alcohols that don’t work well. You wonder how many drinks he’s had when his teeth knock against yours.

He tried to be smooth, you can tell. He’s selfish but he pretends he’s not, and it reflects in how he kisses you. He’ll push you to the edge of the bathroom, his hands will be on your waist, then your thighs again, and you’ll pretend you don’t know where this is going. He’s not as clingy as what you’re used to, he doesn’t grip the back of your neck like you’re going to run away like he does.

The man whose name you do not know is slipping his tongue into your mouth when he’s suddenly pulled away. “What the fuck is your issue?”

Your vision may be swirling, your face feels hot and you’re slightly out of breath. But there’s no confusing ash blond hair and the vermillion eyes that you’ve seen a thousand times when they’ve been on you, above you, crying.

“Fuck off.” Katsuki says with no room for argument. He takes your hand and pulls you behind him. It’s winter, and you can’t help but lean into his warmth.

“Ohhh, I see how it is! Nasty ex?” Laughing, his speech is slurred. Before Katsuki can say anything, though, you speak first. “He’s not my ex.”

He doesn’t seem to register any of that. The statement was useless, but Katsuki grips your hand tighter. Then, for a reason you can’t understand, the man tries to pull you back into his arms.

You feel it before you see it, Katsuki’s eyes flare up with anger, it’s dangerous. It flows and seeps and you already know this isn’t ending well.

There’s a nasty crack—you think the man’s nose is broken. Maybe it’s the trashy bar, because the music just gets louder and people shift away and pretend they see nothing. You’re the one who pulls a heaving Katsuki off the floor. You don’t look at the man who’s still left twitching on the floor, you don’t wish to see the bruises and blood that no doubt line his face. You pay attention to ash blond hair and vermillion eyes instead.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You raise your voice so he hears you over the music. He’s silent, he’s still seething, you think. You wait, because that’s all that you do.

He clicks his tongue and you see the conflict through his eyes. You know his pride is weighing heavy on his shoulders when the anger in his eyes melt into something more vulnerable. It’s something Dynamight can’t possibly show. His eyebrows are downturned, he’s completely sober, you realise. You let yourself imagine what he could’ve said, if things were different. If he was something more than the boy you recognised on television, maybe you wouldn’t have needed to sneak a piece of crumpled tissue into his pants like an inside joke. Maybe, you would’ve been able to walk into this room with his hand around your waist instead.

The smell of smoke and sugar is inundating you when you see the sweat that forms a light sheen on his forehead. Then, you’re pulling him by the hem of his shirt and kissing him.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You wish you never said anything.

“That can’t be healthy..” Mina is holding your hand like she’s preparing you for the blow. She looks at you like how people look at stray dogs, with pity in her eyes. She’s understanding, she’s nice, it’s why you’re friends with her. But she’s too kind, she’s a hero—and she’s meddling in your business.

You wish you never told her anything.

“It’s, like, a friends with benefits situation?” Your justification is crumbling right beneath your feet. You can’t meet her eyes when these words escape your lips, bitter, like poison.

“He’s using you—!”

“I know.”

Maybe it’s because she can sense the tension, but she leaves soon after that. The wine she brought lays unopened on the table, you try to numb the guilt with shows, music. You can’t, because the truth leaves a gaping hole in your heart.

Some time after Mina left, maybe it’s been a few hours, you’re sitting alone when he phones you. “Hey,” he says, like foreplay, like the both of you don’t know why he’s calling. “Hi.”

“How are you?” he then asks, voice quiet. You’re sitting next to the window, the glass cold against your arm. You want to scream at him, you want to admit that you’re not doing well, but that’s not what Dynamight wants. You look out the window, onto the street, the world that owns him. He says your name, and it makes your breath stutter. You sigh, “I’ll be there.”

He must be feeling particularly lonely tonight, because when you knock on his door, he opens it immediately, like he was standing beside it waiting for you. “Eager?” You whisper. He smiles.

Tugging you by your sleeve, you two fall into his bed, his linen sheets. You feel at home, maybe you’ve spent more nights here than your own bed.

His mouth is over yours already.

You feel hot, stuffy. He’s whispering words into your ears that are too filthy to repeat. Closing your eyes, you pull at his shirt, he takes the hint and sheds it. One last time, you think, and never again.

He kisses you on your lips, he tugs on them before moving downwards. You’re unravelled like a present, clothes fall off your shoulders till he’s down between your thighs. He wraps them around his head, “I love it when you moan my name.” So you do. “Katsuki,” you say, like a prayer, when he licks your clit, fingers scissoring deep, pressing on your g-spot. “Fuck,” you’re pulling his hair, it makes him moan into your cunt. “Make me cum.”

You look down when you finally orgasm, it wracks through your body, until you’re left twitching. He’s pulling his fingers out of you when he puts down your legs, and while holding direct eye contact with you, he puts them into his mouth, as if there’s something more than just lust and gluttony in his eyes, as if to say: I love you.

Then he’s slipping into you again, slowly. The fingers on his prosthetic hand wrap around your throat, it makes your head dizzy. You taste yourself on his lips when he finally begins moving. Kissing, pumping, deep and agonising. He doesn’t last long. His moans get louder in your ear, his hands become desperate, pressing into your thighs until bruises are left behind. “Baby, please. Kiss me.” He comes with a shudder.

It’s quiet, the silence feels fragile.

You’re sweaty when you lay next to him. His movement is languid when he pulls you closer, you let him. His hand is around your waist, yours on his chest. Mina’s right. Your heart is in your throat when you say, “I can’t do this anymore.” A few syllables muttered is enough to make him cold, completely frozen in your grasp. “What?” He furrows his brows, disbelief evident in the way he frowns.

The look you give him makes him want to cry. Sadness pools in your eyes, so he holds you tighter. He cradles your head, but it’s too late. Your mind is set, both of you know that.

It is now that he realises he is holding a person with a soul. When he calls you up, while you’re something less than a bad habit, you’re something more than a porcelain doll in the palm of calloused hands—you are the prettiest girl he’s ever seen since the age of seventeen. You’re the air that he breathes, and it is now that he realises he has ruined you with his maw.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Mina visits you the next day. She comes in with the extra key you gave her with food in her hands, as if she knew before you told her that this has destroyed you.

I broke it off.

Your apartment is a mess. Takeout bags are everywhere and your living room looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in a few weeks. Mina smiles with something you don’t want to know about, pity maybe, sympathy maybe. You’re too tired to feel guilty when she begins cleaning. Packing away metal cans and dirtied plastic boxes, she helps you take out the trash, vacuum, while you stay glued next to the window. Maybe you should’ve never said anything, maybe life would be better if things just continued the way they were.

“You did the right thing.”

She comes again the next day. Then again. She comes over for at least an hour everyday for a week straight. You begin feeling bad for how much of her time you’re taking up, but she insists. She visits just to spend time with you. She makes sure you eat, she makes sure your apartment isn’t a complete mess.

She starts talking about it when two weeks have passed. Gentle prompts that give you the reins to open up however much you wish, and you realise it now just why she has so many friends. But she still looks at you with the same smile, pity and sympathy.

“I think I was okay with letting him use me because I guess I just always felt like—well—like I deserved it. What he gave me actually felt like something more than what I deserve. I’m just normal, you know? And—he’s a god.” She’d hum and let you continue. The silences aren’t awkward like you had feared, but she turns on the television to fill them in anyway.

It takes roughly one more week for her to start giving her opinion.

“You’re not any inferior, okay? He’s just a hero. Just a hero.”

No one really notices, maybe your parents ask once more about “the boy you always mention”, Mina asks whether you want to talk a few more times, you nod sometimes, and shake your head other times. You don't really notice how it gets better, it just does. You smile more at work, your apartment gets tidier and you can look at things without immediately thinking of him.

You’re not over it, you’re nowhere close to that. And when you’re alone in bed, maybe during the nights you can’t sleep, you ask yourself what even is there to get over. You two were never a thing, you existed between boundaries, your lives don’t really cross paths. The only reason you’re friends with Mina was by pure coincidence. He never invited you to hangouts, to events, and your coworkers don’t know about him. He called you when he needed you, and you gave him what he wanted. Only one of your colleagues figured there was something off, but even then, it’s easier to say “oh it’s nothing” than to explain the limbo that you were in. Life continues as if nothing is out of place. You get a promotion at work, you install a dating app then delete it a few weeks later. You go drinking and have sex.

You find out he has a girlfriend three months later. It was involuntary. You find out at work, from people who know nothing about your life gossiping about heroes because they’re far away, because they’re not real people with real souls.

“Dynamight got a girlfriend, you know.” Your coworker says it casually, like it’s the weather, and maybe to her it is.

You should’ve been able to hum and nod like a normal person, but instead you clench up and act like you’ve been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to.

“Oh.” is what you manage, but you straighten up and try your best to act normal. “Really. Who is it?”

“I think it’s Illus-o-Camie, like, the Glamour hero.”

You remember seeing her name on his phone once. You were laying next to him after sex when a notification pops up on screen, she was thanking him for something. You don’t try to hide your gaze back then, Katsuki just rolled over and swiped it away. “Work stuff.” He said.

“That’s nice.” You say, the words bitter on your tongue—a lie. “They look cute together.”

“I know right!”

You text Mina that night, it’s a Friday so you ask her to come over. When she walks in, you get deja vu from how she looks—the pity-sympathy smile—it’s almost like she already knew, and just didn’t tell you. Against your better judgement, you ask, “How long have they been together?”

“A month.”

You feel your heart break. But you’re your mother’s daughter, you persist. You nod and you hum.

“I’ll be okay.”

“You’ll be okay.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He wasn’t supposed to be here. It’s Thursday, it’s cold, but he couldn’t really say no when his friends asked him to go out. The atmosphere isn’t bad, everything’s buzzing and kinda fun. He isn’t drinking because he has something to do early in the morning, he’s also the designated driver. He thinks it’s going to take one or two more hours before everyone heads home, he sighs. Mina is slung over Eijirou’s arm, Denki is in a bathroom stall with Sero, vomiting up the alcohol he’s ingested in the past hour. So now he’s alone. This bar is pretty shit from what he’s seen, but it’s exactly how heroes like them can drop in and not have anyone notice.

He’s waiting outside of the bathroom when he thinks he’s hallucinating.

You don’t like going out. You always tell him that. You dislike the feeling that alcohol gives you and you hate crowds, so he didn’t believe it when he saw you, just—there. On the dancefloor, with a man he couldn’t recognise.

He thinks about what you mean to him. You’re not his girlfriend, maybe not even a friend. So he weighs his options, it seems that no one realises his true identity. Kirishima is too busy with his girlfriend and the other two are nowhere to be seen. No one’s gonna stop him, no one can.

He looks at you, your skin is smooth even under the strobe lights, with a light sheen, probably of sweat. He wonders whether you’re having fun, if the frown on your lips are anything to come by, you aren’t. Your body is still against his, though, a little too close for his liking. How the man touches you leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but he isn’t someone to you. He has no right to do anything, really. He isn’t important enough to go over there and rip him away from you.

He briefly remembers jealousy gripping at his nerves, his entire body is hot and—and then that douche is kissing you, so all that he just thought about goes flying out the window. He’s too much like a tunnel-visioned racehorse when he all but rips the man away from you by his hair. He’s sober, he’s a hero and he’s a god, yet, he’s standing in some trashy bar with words in his heart that can’t be admitted, punching a man’s face in all because of a girl.

He has no idea how you managed to pull him off of the poor excuse of a man that’s laying on the floor, bleeding and twitching. Your lips are moving, they’re still slightly wet from what’s presumably that guy’s spit. They’re bruised, swollen, and he wants to kiss them better. He can’t decipher what you’re saying, but you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting.

He’s frustrated. How dare you. You mean nothing to him. You can’t. You shouldn’t.

But then you pull him by the hem of his shirt, and the rest is history.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

When Camie first brushed his face, he wanted to grimace and cry. He made sure that never showed on his face, because his manager insisted that this was a necessary publicity stunt for his plummeting popularity. It’s partly your fault, for calling your whatever off right before the HPSC check-in.

(He lies, he revels in his delusions, each and every day, each and every passing second, to convince himself that you wouldn’t have stayed.)

There’s nothing wrong with Camie. She’s hot. She’s pretty. She’s got a model body and face, her acrylic nails that are always done tingle the botched bit of skin on his face, while she looks at him with makeup that’s never smudged.

(He schools his face into a non-grimace.)

People like to ship them together. He has a verified fan account that’s dedicated to this very duo. But Camie has always been just a friend, an acquaintance, if anything.

Bakugou isn’t sure why he didn’t push her away. Or make a slightly unpleasant face when they weren’t under the scrutiny of the public. Camie’s smart, she’s good with people. There’s no doubt she’d pick up on his hesitance—unwillingness.

Camie is an accessory on his arm at the annual hero awards. He questions the meaning of this. What does this matter, in the grand scheme of things? Will his image of being a good boyfriend to a fellow hero save more lives? Will it deter any villains from attacking the city? What does his personal life have to do with anything?

(He feels less like a hero and more like a cheap prostitute that got taken advantage of.)

Everything, someone would say. His manager, Camie, you. His mental well-being affects his performance and subsequently the people he saves, the buildings he destroys. But he’s fared alright—well, even—in the worst times. Right after the Great War, after you whispered those bone-chilling words in his ears.

He realises that, somehow, when he tries his best to fulfil a duty he promised a dead man, he loses the very essence that made him a hero, a god. He strips himself of meaning, of purpose, to slowly let himself go. He sheds them off Dynamight like clothes for the public to see, so he is palatable, so he is malleable. He does something that his younger self would have insulted and dismantled with ease—he lets society swallow him with the definition they’ve assigned to the word heroics, and the indignity that is dredged with it.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Camie is not your friend. She’s a fake bitch who just got caught in the crossfire.

Serves her right, you think. She deserves it for the times she’s brought Katsuki to crowded bars, the times she’s forced him to wear matching necklaces that erode with sweat. It isn’t fair. She was labelled with a title you’ve fought tooth and nail for. By the press, by Katsuki. You can’t possibly fathom what she could have done that gave her the right. It feels stolen, as if she came as a thief, and for all the sleep and dignity and face that were confiscated from you, you laid barren on his linen sheets while the identity girlfriend was nicked, like an heirloom, right in the dead of night from your fingertips.

When you see her face, perched against his, it’s like you’ve got vomit on your tongue that water can’t wash off. So you stop flipping through magazines, you don’t use the television and social media has been wiped completely from your phone. You cut yourself off from the world of heroics and all that’s in it. Uprooted and replanted so you can focus on your boring job and boring friends. Work, drink, have sex, cry, and rinse and repeat. This routine is rehearsed until it becomes ingrained into your habits, into every twitch of a finger. You stop seeing Mina, and all of her hero friends too. You dye your hair, pierce your ears and sign up for a gym membership. You become another person.

In a year, you’ve gone from the sheep that lays bleeding in a wolf’s maw to the butcher himself.

(But sometimes, when the skin of hatred slips off, at dawn, with the windowsill cold against your arm, the teeth marks reopen. And despite the desperation with which you pull on the costume of a hunter, your armour, it collapses until you drown in spools of ash and red all over again.)

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

“What are you doing here?”

“Camie and I broke up.”

You look at him—really look at him. He’s meeting your eye with not a hint of waver, he isn’t frowning, but not exactly smiling either. Guilt is the guise that’s on his face but you know Katsuki.

“Let me rephrase the question: what do you want me to do?”

“To take the pain away.”

While you stand at the doorway, he’s the one that’s banished to your windy corridor. He stands there because he knows he owes you something. He lets you weigh your options, but he wants you to open your arms and welcome him home. It’d be so easy to just close your eyes and let him ravage you. But—

“You never liked Camie, not like that.” You remember her acrylic nails, her flawless makeup. Some armour, some costume.

“Shit, was I that obvious?”

You think about what you could say.

Camie didn’t—doesn’t deserve that. No one should be used and disposed of, not even by a god.

“No, I just know you well enough.”

He really doesn’t look guilty, not at all.

“I missed you.” He says.

So you think of his empty words, the promises that were not made to last. You think of the nights he calls you, the times he left you alone.

(“He’s using you—!” “I know.”)

You didn’t deserve that.

“Do you? Or do you just miss what I gave you?”

“That’s not—fuck. I’m sorry.” His voice is quiet. The word “sorry” still isn’t something that comes by his vocabulary regularly. “I don’t know.”

You sigh. It’s Sunday. You have work early in the morning. You’re cold. You haven’t showered.

“What do you want from me?”

“Just—let me try again. I missed you. I really did.” He gulps. “I do. I’ll treat you right.”

When he looks at you with glassy eyes tonight, he’s just a boy you met at the hospital. When you were seventeen, when you wanted to be wanted. He was a god then, and he is a god now.

Will you be able to notice his crocodile tears when all that you see in the reflection of his eyes is mud tangled with your bloodied roots?

You don’t know what to say to him.

When a plant is uprooted, the old pot is left behind to rot. The soil will be depleted of its nutrients, it decays because the plant is nowhere to be found.

“I don’t think you can.”

[formulafanfics13]

PADDOCK BUNNY - part 1 🔥

Masterlist

warnings: explicit smut, degradation, rough sex, facefucking, spanking, crying, dom!max, mad!max, heavy choking, orgasm denial, spit, hair pulling, use of pet names (baby, slut, princess), implied power imbalance, emotionally fucked dynamic, public setting (locked room), unprotected oral, absolute chaos

The second the door slammed behind them, she knew.

Not because Max said anything. He didn’t. He hadn’t spoken a word since the second his Q3 lap was blocked by traffic, some idiot crawling in Sector 2, ruining his chance at pole, leaving him fuming in the Red Bull garage with a face like carved stone and fists clenched so tight the veins in his arms were practically screaming. Not because he looked at her, either. He hadn’t. Max hadn’t looked at anyone since the flag waved.

But she knew. She always did. And still, she followed him. Past the engineers. Past GP, who gave her a tight, pitying nod like he already knew what was coming. Past the curious stares of mechanics who knew exactly who she was, what she was, and what Max Verstappen needed when the rage got too loud.

The door clicked shut. Lock turned. And still, he didn’t say anything.

She stood there, heart pounding, waiting.

Max dropped his water bottle to the carpet. Took off his gloves slow. One finger at a time. Still didn’t look at her.

She shifted in place. “Max-”

“Don’t,” he snapped, voice like fucking gravel. His eyes met hers then, sharp and vicious, the kind of look that made her stomach twist and her thighs clench.

She went quiet.

He didn’t move for a second. Just stared her down like she was part of the problem. Like she was the one who fucked up his lap. Like she was the one who made him start P6 at a track where overtaking was hell. He stepped closer, slowly, until she had no choice but to look up at him. “You think this is the time to talk, baby?” The word was cruel, mocking. It burned.

“No,” she whispered.

He raised his brows. “No?”

She shook her head, hands at her sides. “No, sir.”

Max laughed. Cold. Sharp. “Now she remembers how to behave.”

And then his hand was in her hair, fisting it tight at the nape of her neck, yanking her forward until her knees buckled without him even needing to say it. She dropped. Hit the carpet hard. Eyes wide, lips parted.

He didn’t unbuckle his suit like a man trying to calm down. He did it like a punishment, yanking the zip so fast it caught on the fabric and nearly tore. His cock was already hard when he pulled it out, flushed and heavy and angry-red, a vein pulsing down the side like it wanted to split her open.

“Open your fucking mouth,” Max growled.

She obeyed instantly. Tongue out. Eyes wide. Hands behind her back.

He grabbed the back of her head and shoved in with no warning. No easing. Just pure rage. She gagged instantly, throat spasming, spit flooding her mouth as her eyes watered.

“That’s right,” he muttered, hips snapping forward. “Take it. Fucking take it. You want to be in the paddock so bad? This is what it costs, princess.”

She choked, nose pressed against his skin, mascara already bleeding down her cheeks. Max didn’t let up. He was brutal with it, fucking her throat like it owed him time. Like her mouth could erase Sector 2. Like her tears could give him pole.

“Crying already?” he sneered, looking down at her. “Pathetic. Thought you were supposed to be my good little cockslut.”

She tried to nod with his cock in her throat, eyes streaming. Her lungs were burning, throat raw, jaw aching, but she didn’t move to stop him. Wouldn’t dare. She knew what he needed. What he always needed when things didn’t go his way. Max didn’t want comfort. He wanted control. He wanted obedience.

He wanted to break something.

And she was always so fucking ready to be broken for him.

He pulled back just long enough for her to gasp, spit dripping down her chin, only to slap her cheek with the flat of his cock. “Beg for it.”

She blinked up at him, dazed. “Please, sir. Please fuck my throat again.”

He spat down onto her tongue and shoved back in without another word.

This time, he didn’t hold back.

The rhythm was ruthless. Unforgiving. He kept one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping the back of her neck to force the angle he wanted, using her like a fleshlight built just for him. Her throat contracted around him again and again, each wet gag spurring him on, his growls getting louder.

“You like this,” he snarled. “You fucking love it. On your knees, all dolled up in that tiny little skirt, pretending like you’re just here to flirt. You know what you are? You’re a paddock whore. My paddock whore.”

She whimpered. Tried to say yes. Couldn’t. Just gagged again.

He yanked her off suddenly. She collapsed forward, coughing, spit and tears covering her face. Her lip was trembling. Her throat was fucked. Her pussy was soaked.

Max hauled her up by her arm, spun her around, bent her over the small hospitality couch. Her skirt flipped up. No underwear.

Of course.

“Fucking knew it,” he muttered, kneeling just long enough to spit between her legs. “You’re so desperate you came in here dripping.”

He didn’t bother prepping. Just grabbed her hips and shoved inside all at once, burying himself to the hilt with a savage grunt. She screamed into the couch cushions — high-pitched and helpless — as her walls stretched wide around him, every inch a brutal push that bordered on unbearable.

Max leaned over her back, voice low and mean in her ear. “You think you get to look pretty and fuck everyone like it’s a game? You belong to this paddock, don’t you? Slut for everyone, yeah?”

“Yes, sir,” she choked out.

He pulled back and slammed in again. Spanked her ass hard enough to bruise. “Say it.”

“I’m a slut for the paddock,” she cried. “I’m your slut, sir.”

“Damn right.”

The pace was filthy. Her whole body jolted with every thrust. She was crying again, from the pain, the pleasure, the punishment — and Max reached around to grab her by the throat, yanking her head up.

“Use your words, baby.”

“Hurts-feels so good-please don’t stop-”

“Oh, I’m not fucking stopping,” he growled. “Not until you’re dripping down your thighs and the whole fucking paddock can smell what I did to you.”

She came hard. Clenched around him like a vice, screaming his name into the cushions as he kept pounding through it, dragging out every second of her orgasm like it was his to own.

“Greedy little thing,” Max snarled. “Didn’t even ask. Just fucking came.”

She sobbed. “I’m sorry-”

He pulled out. Spanked her again. Grabbed her hair and shoved her back down to her knees.

“You want to come again?” he asked, cock red and throbbing against her cheek. “Beg.”

She moaned, dazed and soaked and already ruined. “Please, sir. I’ll be good. I’ll take it all. I’ll swallow everything. I promise.”

He grinned, vicious and victorious, and slid his cock back into her mouth, fucking her slowly this time, dragging it out, letting her feel every second of it. Her throat fluttered around him. Her nails dug into her thighs. Her brain turned to static.

When he came, he held her head down and didn’t let go until she swallowed all of it.

“Good girl,” he muttered.

When he pulled back, her face was wrecked, cheeks red, mouth open, spit and come dribbling down her chin, eyes wide and glassy.

Max looked down at her, chest heaving, anger finally dulled.

“Fix your face,” he said. “Then get out.”

She nodded. Didn’t move.

He reached down and cupped her cheek, thumb wiping the come from her lip like she was something fragile. For a second, he almost looked soft.

“Good bunny,” he said.

Then the door unlocked, and she was gone.