#but i am lazy so. these are the bare bones.

[zealctry]

JJK verse: hidan as a ᴄᴜʀsᴇ.

while I value the idea of hidan making a possibly interesting ( and unhinged ) curse-user, I think it thematically makes more sense for him to be a curse(d spirit). I mean, not only has his whole character been entrapped and shaped by religious violence & trauma,  but idk, maybe it’s just me….but I think that there’s something so very narratively appropriate about hidan becoming ( quite literally! ) the embodiment of everything he propagated / obsessed over in his canon ( i.e. religious zealotry to the point of lowkey insanity, and the pain associated with it, both to himself and to others ). it's poetic justice~

in a nutshell, the embodiment of the terror, hatred, despair, betrayal, conflict, and agony associated with religious discrimination and persecution perpetuated ( either willingly or by coercion ) by humans upon their own kind, for centuries upon centuries. religious persecution and its outcomes are strongly interwoven throughout human history and have caused an immeasurable amount of human suffering across cultures. assume an extrapolation of it into the jjk world  — yeah, horrific stuff, and the associated reservoir of cursed energy is proportional to the horrors.

the unresolved pain of those being hunted, being tortured, being killed. the hunted and dehumanized in the name of a specific faith. the orphaned and the terrorized. the quivering voices pleading to a silent god. the hating eyes of the inquisitors and the trembling of the accusing finger of it's them, better them than having the blade turned upon me. the doubtful, silencing their doubts and strengthening their position by blood. the horror and disgust of the mute onlookers. perpetuator, idleman, victim; all of it, all of them.

brief physical description.  177 cm. humanoid (male). silver hair, magenta irises, overall similar in appearance to his canon curse form. in terms of garb,  wears nondescript (black) monastic robes, which are often, but not always, paired with a takuhatsugasa ( a wide, bowl-shaped hat that partially obscures the wearer's face ). generally holds onto a long string of charred beads ( unclear if representing a rosary or mala beads ).

notable psychological characteristics.  wrathful, vengeful, chaotic, hypocritical*, prejudiced, fanatical. somewhat unhinged. easily (albeit more often than not sadistically ) entertained/amused. can play surprisingly well with others, if he feels like it. ( if. if. )

* i have to put a special emphasis on this one because it's so, so important. Hidan will often play judge, jury, & executioner with someone, and bring upon them 'godly judgement' for their beliefs, morals, and behaviours, acting holier than thou and superior... only to behave in the same exact manner (thereby contradicting the very doctrine he supposedly seeks to 'uphold', while supposedly implementing its ideals; something something yeah, it's a not at all subtle & direct parallel / critique of some present-day happenstances. )

sidenote, but as a human-based curse ( of important note is that he isn’t a curse based on the fear of god; he really is a curse based on fear of the horrific actions perpetuated by humans in the name of a specific faith ), he has a particular interest in humans, and would happily interact with them, although if said interactions are positive or negative is tba ( he honestly doesn’t care, as long as they’re entertaining ). normal humans, sorcerers, curse-users... it doesn't really make much of a difference to him.

cursed techniques, grade, etc. tba on an as-needed basis. ( might be thread-dependent for funsies. )

[ruinix]

pretty pretty please write a piece abt quinny's thighs. It can be 100 words, it can be 1000 words, it can be 2 words even. idc I need some kind of content that involves this man's sexy sexy thighs

Hey there, lovely. It's broad daylight in my place. Nearly 11am (i posted at almost noon) Anyway, let's hold hands and be a whore together 😌😌😌 (taking a pause from the drabble I am writing)

18+. Whore thoughts. Body worship (thighs, m receiving).⬇️⬇️⬇️

Quinn would catch you staring whenever he was wearing shorts. You would be doing whatever it was you're doing on your phone or flipping through your books then you would just put them down to stare right at him. His thighs, to be exact. Especially when he was wearing shorts. No matter what type of shorts it would be.

Your stare would burn into his skin, making him shift, his blood rushing down his cock, his temperature soaring. He would try to hide himself by leaning forward, but that didn't deter you. In fact, your stare would intensify. He could feel it trace over the length of his thighs, down his calves, even to his fucking feet, then back up.

The attention would make him clench his muscles, making you stare harder, making him swallow the lump that was forming in his throat.

When he leaned back again, taking the controller to pathetically hide his hard on, his thighs spreading wider so you could have your feast, he would be so tense while he tried to play. The game was just interference at this point. A white noise. Just another task to do with nothing else in his brain but how aroused he was getting.

His breaths came out as deep pants. His heart pounded on his chest when he braved a glance and saw how a lazy smirk formed on your face. Your beautiful eyes were half-hooded, looking so dark with the thoughts running through your head, as you stared right at his crotch then up to meet his eyes.

His pathetic attempt to play would immediately halt. His thumbs were no longer moving on the buttons. His teammates--Jack and Luke--would be screaming at him to get his shit together. Fucking how will he get it together? Not a single clue came to him as the sound of him dying in-game aired.

His throat would be so wound up, not able to reply to Luke telling him he would revive him. Honestly, Quinn didn't give a fuck, not when you would be standing up from your armchair, quickly working your hair into a ponytail. He could barely contain himself, quickly muting his controller mic.

"You should play better, Quinny," you teased, kneeling between his thighs, your hands finding his shin and up and up to his thighs, teasing the hem of his shorts, your thumbs grazing and putting fucking pressure in the insides of his thighs. "The game."

"Fuck, fuck. Fuck!" was all he could say.

He would try his best to play. You told him to. But how could he play better when you started to kiss his thighs. You would take your time. Your tongue would sometimes press and lick his thighs. Your tiny moans would reverberate into his muscles, into his bones, into his fucking soul, as you pushes up his shorts up.

Your hand softly and firmly brushed over his cock, jerking him off over the fabric, making him jump and whine. He could feel himself leaking pre-cum. He might even come just from all of this.

The sensation of you was making him spiral. Every touch, every kiss, every lick, every tug, every blow of your breath on his skin.

All he could do was try to stay still. It was so hard. His hands clenched the controller so hard, his thumbs barely pressing the correct buttons. Him being able to increase his kills in game or dodging attacks was a fucking miracle.

How could you do this? This was fucking torture.

"I need your shorts off," you demanded, gripping his waistband.

He was quick to lift his fucking hips, letting you tug his shorts and underwear down, his cock slapping up against his abs, aching when you grasp it after you threw his bottoms over your shoulder. He would totally die in-game again as you licked over his sensitive tip, your hands rubbing over his thighs, nails scratching over his skin.

"Need to go," he basically growled after he unmuted, leaving the game, grabbing your ponytail to urge you down his cock. "Oh, fuck," he cursed when your thumbs dug into his skin. It meant you wanted off. He would basically be sobbing as he let go. "Please, my Love. Please."

"Still enjoying your thighs, Quinny," you huffed.

Quinn could only grit his teeth, leaning back with an arm over his eyes while you did want ever you wanted with his thighs.

He would grumble his pleas when your teeth nipped over his tender flesh, making him clench his muscles, when you sucked on his skin to leave your hickeys, when your hand jerked him off while the other pushed against his thigh to signal him to spread them wider.

You did everything you could possibly want until he came so hard at the mixed-up sensations, flinching when you smeared his cum over his thighs. Only then you mounted one thigh, riding it, making him feel your drenched panties, making him lose it at how you rub your cum onto his skin and your panties. He wouldn't think he could survive the day. Not unless he fucked into your pussy with his thighs glistening with his cum and your arousal.

Good day (or Good night). Put me in a cell. Thank you.

-> more thoughts? List.

[mandoalorian]

if this is war, i surrender — prologue

Revenge had a price. You just didn’t expect it to feel like this.

Pairing: New Avenger!Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Synopsis: You wanted revenge. He became the reason you hesitated. He was the ghost from your past—the one who took everything. But getting close to him meant playing a dangerous game. And somewhere between hating him and pretending not to care, you forgot the one rule you swore you'd follow: don't fall for the enemy.

Word Count: 2,700

Rating/Warnings: 18+ for eventual smut - and there will be a lot of it, mentions and descriptions of abuse (both physical and emotional), enemies to lovers, canon typical violence, death of a family member, Sam/Bucky aren't friends.

Author’s Note: SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS* (and is tagged accordingly) — as promised, a brand new fic series for our beloved New Avenger!Bucky. And it's an Avengers Tower fic! I am so excited for this. If you want to be tagged, let me know.

Masterlist | next chapter

You’d lived your whole life feeling what others couldn’t hide.

Anger that simmered beneath polite smiles. Grief was tucked behind practised charm. Lust, hatred, envy—emotions wrapped in flesh and bone and lies. Most people were predictable once you knew what they’d do before they did it.

It wasn’t magic. Not really.

It was you—something twisted into your blood long ago. You could read them. Sense the weight of a person by the colour of their aura, the heat of their intent. It made the world feel like a game of chess, you were always five moves ahead in.

And still, somehow, you’d lost everything.

No family. No justice.

Just a face burned into your memory—cold, unfeeling, and soaked in your brother’s blood.

The Winter Soldier. 

You’d read all the self-help books and spent years in counselling and therapy. God, you had tried everything to get over it. But you remembered it like it was second nature, so much so that your Void Room felt like a nightmare you’d been used to for the past twenty years. It wasn’t reliving trauma, because you had never left. You were only a small child when it happened. You remember the fear that outlined your brother when he was cornered by the Winter Soldier, and the Soldier’s aura? Nothing. Like he was cut off from the world. Not an ounce of feeling or emotion. 

But how could that be possible?

They said he was reformed, that he was out in the city under a government pardon, trying to live a ‘normal life’ after the Battle of Earth. There were traces of his presence a few years ago, working alongside Captain America to disassemble the Flag Smashers. And since then, a brief stint of being Brooklyn's Congressman.

Seriously, who would vote him into power?

You had been waiting for the world to hand him a spotlight, a new beginning, because that always seemed to happen to men like Bucky Barnes. 

A fresh start. Forgiveness. 

You were okay with waiting because a plan like this had to be made with precision, and precision took time. You couldn’t fight him with fury or fire. 

You’d get close. You’d make him trust you. And when the moment came, you’d watch his world fall. 

But for now, you worked at McCready’s bar in Lower Manhattan.

The neon lights outside the bar flickered in a lazy rhythm as you wiped down the counter for the umpteenth time, the stale smell of spilt whiskey and cheap beer lingering in the air. It was a Tuesday, but the bar was packed — a sea of half-drunk faces and the kind of conversations that never mattered. You hadn’t expected much from the job, but at least it kept you afloat. Barely.

The tips were inconsistent, the hours long, but it was all you had. Living in New York City wasn’t kind to anyone who wasn’t swimming in money, and you weren’t even close. You’d gotten used to the way the city hummed around you, indifferent to your struggles, just another face in the crowd. At least you weren’t completely alone. Shane was always there, hovering in the background like a constant reminder of the life you were stuck in.

He was your roommate, sure — but the lines had blurred long ago. It was more than that. You couldn’t leave him, not because you loved him, but because you had nowhere else to go. Shane had a way of turning everything he touched into a mess, and you were caught in the fallout. He was just… volatile, always drunk, always angry. His mood swung like a pendulum — when it was good, it was fine, but when it was bad, it was a storm. And you were always the one caught in its path.

Tonight was no different. His eyes were bloodshot, his speech slurred, but you knew better than to challenge him. You knew the look, the one that came just before things went south. You had learned how to move quietly, how to keep your head down when he raged. It wasn’t the first time he’d lashed out — and you hated yourself for staying, for letting him control so much of your life. But you couldn’t leave. The apartment was cheap, and it was better than being homeless. The city wasn’t kind to women on their own, and you weren’t naïve enough to think you’d be different.

So you endured.

The clink of glass broke through your thoughts, pulling you back to the bar. Another customer. Another drink to serve. You plastered on your best smile and handed over the next round, trying to ignore the ache in your chest, the one that never went away. The ache that was there every time you realised you were stuck in a life that wasn’t yours to begin with, with a person who only made it harder to breathe.

But then, he crashed against the bar when your back was turned.

You felt it before you saw him.

A tight heat in the centre of your chest, like a warning flare under your skin. The aura rolled in a moment later—dark, pulsing red, bloated with alcohol and laced with something sharp. Bitterness. Rage. Shame. It wrapped around you like smoke, familiar and suffocating.

Shane.

You didn’t even need to look up. The aura was unmistakable. Predictable. He always came into your orbit like this—loud, drunk, and looking to pick a fight he could pretend wasn’t his fault.

You braced your palms against the sticky bar top and sighed.

“Didn’t think you worked Thursdays,” his voice slurred from your left. He leaned heavily against the counter, already swaying.

“I switched shifts.” You kept your eyes on the glass you were drying, steady and detached.

Shane scoffed. “Of course you did. Probably duckin’ me.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in closer, breath hot and sharp with whiskey. “You can’t keep avoiding me, babe. We’ve got things to talk about.”

You turned to face him. “We broke up.”

His jaw twitched. You saw the spike in his aura before he even moved. The humiliation—how quickly it curdled into fury.

He slammed his palm down on the bar. “You can’t just cut me off like that! I still have your stuff!”

“And I’ll pick it up tomorrow when I get off work.” You spoke calmly, but your fingers curled against the wood.

“You act like I was the problem. Like you’re so perfect.”

You felt his emotions boiling up, the weight of everything unsaid pressing into your ribs. Your powers made it impossible not to feel it all—the guilt, the desperation, the jealousy eating holes in his brain.

He reached toward the shelf behind you, fingers clumsy and quick.

You saw it in a flash—his intention. The movement. The bottle. The shatter.

“Shane,” you warned, voice low.

But he grabbed the glass anyway.

And when you didn’t flinch—didn’t react—he hurled it at the far wall. The sound of shattering exploded through the bar like a gunshot.

Conversations cut off. Heads turned. The bartender at the other end shouted something you didn’t catch, but you didn’t move. You stared him down, heart steady even as your powers screamed with the heat of his spiraling aura.

“Get. Out.” Your voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to.

Shane scoffed again, as if that might somehow make him look less pathetic. He backed up with slow, jerking steps, flipping off the room as he staggered toward the door.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he muttered, just before the door slammed shut behind him.

The silence he left behind was louder than the glass.

You let out a breath, realising you’d been holding it. Then you grabbed the broom from behind the bar and swept the shards into a dustpan, the sharp scrape of glass grounding you.

Your skin still tingled from the contact with his rage. You hated that you felt it all—the fear before it turned violent, the hurt beneath the anger. You hated that your powers made it impossible to just forget someone.

But maybe that was the curse of being who you were. You always saw what was coming. You just couldn’t always stop it.

As the last pieces of glass clinked into the bin, you finally straightened. The bar had settled again. Conversations resumed. The music picked back up.

“Rough night?”

The voice came from the far end of the bar—smooth, level, edged with something you couldn’t quite name.

You looked up. Black hoodie. Cap pulled low. Sunglasses indoors. He didn’t look dangerous, but he looked like someone who could be.

“Getting there,” you replied.

He offered a small nod. “Water, please.”

You poured it and slid it over. “You don’t seem like a regular.”

He chuckled. “I’m not.”

There was a pause. You watched him closely, brushing your senses over his aura. It was… quiet. Centred. Strong in a way that didn’t shout. But frayed at the edges. Worn. Heavy. You sensed something simmering—like a soldier forced to sit still while a war started without him.

“You handled yourself well earlier,” he said, not looking up.

You blinked. “You saw that?”

“I saw enough. Most people don’t know when to walk away. You did.”

You tilted your head, wary. “You following me?”

“No. Just watching.”

That didn’t make it less strange. But your instincts didn’t scream danger—only mystery.

You turned toward the corner TV to anchor yourself—something normal. Background noise. Distraction.

Instead, your stomach dropped.

You hadn’t meant to keep watching.

The TV had always just been background noise—old games, muted news reels, the occasional infomercial to fill the gaps between orders. But tonight, the screen was impossible to ignore.

A navy-blue backdrop. Stark white letters:

LIVE: O.X.E. GLOBAL INITIATIVE PRESS CONFERENCE

At the podium stood Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, sharp in her suit, that perpetual half-smile like she knew something the rest of the world didn’t.

“Today,” she said, “marks the beginning of a new era.”

You barely noticed the sound of glass clinking behind the bar as someone restocked. The world had narrowed to that screen.

Val continued, cool and poised. “A world in chaos needs structure. Direction. Accountability. O.X.E. was founded for that purpose—and now, I’m proud to announce its greatest achievement yet.”

The camera panned as she lifted a hand, gesturing to the five figures standing just out of frame.

Your heart skipped once—no reason. Just instinct.

“Earth’s new protectors. A team not built on nostalgia or outdated legacies. But on precision, strength, and experience.”

The screen cut to a slow pan across the group.

First: Yelena Belova.

You recognised her instantly—shoulders squared in sleek black tactical gear, expression unreadable. There was something fiercely restrained in her stance. A storm with a chokehold on itself.

Next: Ava Starr.

Ghost. Gloved hands in her pockets, hood half-drawn. She looked like she wanted to vanish right through the floor. Her energy vibrated through the screen—quiet, unstable, barely contained.

Then: John Walker.

U.S. Agent. Chin high, arms crossed like he was daring someone to challenge his spot. The smugness rolled off him like oil.

After that: Alexei Shostakov.

The Red Guardian. Smirking like he thought this was a stage play. You remembered his face from news clippings—over-the-top patriotism paired with brute force.

And then—just as the camera reached the final spot—

You felt it before you saw him.

Cold steel wrapped in guilt. A storm buried under a thousand locked doors. It hit you like a tide and settled in your bones.

Bucky Barnes.

He stepped forward into frame, silent. Dark clothes. Gloves on. That familiar stare—the one you’d only ever seen in flashes, or in the brief security footage you weren’t supposed to find. The one from fourteen years ago.

Your grip on the counter went white-knuckle.

His name appeared below him in bold, unmistakable letters, sub-titled with the words Team Leader. 

The world faded around you. The bar. The people. The music. It all disappeared.

There he was. Front and centre. Standing tall like the past never happened. Like the blood on his hands had been scrubbed clean.

Leader. Hero. Forgiven.

And just like that, the plan began to form.

Because if he was back—if he was leading this new world—then this was your chance.

You’d get close. You’d get answers.

And you’d finally make him pay.

“Mind if I use your phone?” The voice cut your thoughts off with a sharp snap.

You hesitated. “Landline’s under the register. Doesn’t do long-distance.” 

“That’s fine. He’s local.”

The man in the cap dialled quickly, voice low as he turned away from the bar. You stayed close, listening despite yourself.

“Yeah. It’s me.” Cap said. That was the nickname you’d given him. It felt fitting. You read his aura, and found it laced with anger. But it wasn’t like Shane’s anger. It wasn’t volatile or red, but instead, it was muted and hurt. Betrayal.

A pause.

“No, I saw it. They didn’t clear it. Val went public without warning.”

Another pause.

“No, he didn’t tell me. Look, Torres. He knew— he knew about my plan to restart the Av—”

His jaw clenched before stopping mid-sentence, aware of his audience.

“Just be ready. If this gets worse, we’ll need to act fast. I’ll call him tonight.”

He hung up. Didn’t say goodbye.

You crossed your arms. “You talk like someone important.”

He gave you a look, unreadable behind the glasses. “Depends who’s asking.”

You lifted your chin, refusing to back down. “I’ve had enough people lie to my face tonight.”

For a beat, he said nothing.

Then, with the tiniest smirk, he pulled off the sunglasses and tucked them into his hoodie.

“I’m Sam.”

Your breath hitched.

Captain fucking America.

────✪────

Bucky’s phone lit up the second the press conference ended.

Sam Wilson.

He stared at the name a moment longer than he needed to, then answered with a clipped, “Yeah.”

Sam didn’t waste time.

“You really let them use the name.”

Bucky leaned back against the edge of the hotel desk, jaw tight. “It’s just a name.”

“No, it’s not,” Sam snapped. “It’s our name. You think you get to let some corrupt agency parade it around like a branding tool? Like Steve’s legacy didn’t mean a damn thing?”

Bucky said nothing.

“You stood up there like it was nothing,” Sam continued. “With Walker. With Val. You think this is what Steve would’ve wanted? You think he’d look at that team and—”

“Don’t,” Bucky cut in, voice suddenly cold. “Don’t bring him into this.”

Sam didn’t flinch. “Someone has to.” 

Bucky exhaled, short and sharp. “I didn’t choose the name. I didn’t write the headline. I chose a mission. That’s it.”

“Yeah?” Sam snapped. “Well, congratulations. You just handed the Avengers legacy over to a bunch of government puppets.”

Something burned behind Bucky’s eyes. He clenched his fist.

Bucky’s silence was answer enough, and Sam could feel his partner’s stoic glare through the line.

Sam exhaled, like he was holding back something worse. “You think this is justice? You think you’re fixing something?”

“I’m doing what I can with the mess that’s left,” Bucky said through gritted teeth. “Same as you.”

“No, I’m trying to honour what came before. You—? You’re just trying to outrun it.”

That struck a nerve.

Bucky stood straighter, voice low and clipped. “You think I give a damn about your approval? I don’t need your permission to do something that matters.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam snapped. “Since when do you care about legacy?”

The air between them tightened, stretching thin with unspoken names and unforgiven history.

“You’ve got no idea what I care about,” Bucky said coldly.

Sam paused, just long enough for it to sting. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

Click.

Bucky hung up first.

The fourteen months that followed weren’t peaceful.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

Fic taglist: @ruexj283

[digital-slvt]

Proposal Adjacent Behavior...

Sevika x Reader ‪‪ ❤︎‬

Sevika proposes to you! In her.. Strange Sevika way!

wrote this for you tbh @shanesevikasfuckdoll :p

A/N : I typically do not like writing fluff, or anything even remotely corny or sappy. But I am in LOVE. And well ... this is what it has done to me. Anyways, this isn't proof read, I wrote this in like 20 minutes, wtv.

Enjoy ‹𝟹

Sevika wasn't going to bring it up tonight.

You’re curled up beside her on the couch, the quiet hum of the city outside the window, your fingers tracing lazy shapes on her thigh. The TV flickers different colors in the corner, forgotten. Her arm is around your shoulder, and your eyes are slowly closing, but you notice that she’s too still, too quiet, barely breathing.

You shift, glance up at her, sensing it.

“You alright?”

She nods after a moment, but it’s not convincing. You tilt your head to study her, really study her, but she can’t hold your gaze for more than a few seconds.

“Sevika,” you say, now a little firmer.

Her jaw tightens before she heavily sighs.

“…I don’t know how to do this shit,” she mutters, thumb grazing your shoulder like a habit. “Not the way you probably imagined it.”

You sit up a little, tensing slightly. “Do what?”

She lets out a long and heavy exhale before reaching into the pocket of her sweater, avoiding your eyes.

The box Sevika pulls out is small. A simple, black, velvet box. She holds it between her fingers like it’s something fragile—like it might burn through her palm if she grips it too hard.

She doesn’t open it. She just passes it to you without a word.

Your heart stutters. Your hands shake when you take it, slow, hesitant, already feeling what’s inside before you even look.

The ring catches the low light, and Gods, it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

“What…?” your voice barely comes out.

“I didn’t think I’d ever want something like this,” she says, eyes fixed on the floor now. “Hell, I didn’t even think I’d live long enough to consider it.”

There’s a pause. A bitter laugh under her breath.

“And now… all I think about is staying. Staying with you. Waking up next to you every day until the world burns down around us.”

You look at her, really look at her, and her expression guts you. There was a quiet kind of fear hidden behind layers, but you could see it. This desperate, aching softness she never lets anyone see. Usually not even you, not fully.

“I don’t have anything else to offer you,” Sevika says, voice lower now, cracking around the edges. “No promises I won’t screw it up. No fancy life. Just me. All of me.”

She finally meets your eyes. With orbs like the moon, her gaze was glazed over, glassy like stars. In them, you saw vulnerability. For the first time, you saw true terror in her. And it wasn’t in battle, or on a mission where her life was at stake, but instead it was here, right in front of you.

“…But if you want it, it’s yours.”

You don’t speak. Just slide forward and wrap your arms around her, pressing your face into her shoulder. Sevika holds you tight, secure, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Then she shifts slightly, pulling back just enough to take your hand in hers—calloused fingers cradling yours with so much care you can feel in your bones. She doesn’t say anything else as she slips the ring onto your finger, her thumb brushing over it once it’s in place.

Her hands are shaking.

“You dumbass,” you whisper, your voice trembling, tears finally breaking out and rolling down your cheeks. “You already gave me everything.”

And when you kiss her, lacing her with more passion than ever before, she finally exhales for real.

Her breath is soft and tender. Her heart, full of all the things she never thought she could feel.

And maybe she’ll never say it in the right ways. Maybe she’ll never speak it in grand gestures or in perfect lines, but she loves you.

She loves you more than anyone ever has. ❤︎

[fallenbratfiction]

Mustache Deal ~ javier peña x f! reader

✧ ┈┈┈┈┈ *.⋆ ✧ ⋆.* ┈┈┈┈┈ ✧

A/N: This is the only way I have to motivate myself to study for midterms.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: explicit sexual content. face riding (f! reader receiving oral), mustache riding, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it) piv, praise kink, light sub/dom dynamic, javi being commanding and bossy, overstimulation, rough language such as cussing, power play (deal, reward), javier manhandling gently, dacryphilia, I fucking love his mustache, god I love every mustache honestly. it's a warning itself.

✦ no thoughts, just javier's mustache ✦  

❝ This story is intended for mature audiences only. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Minors DNI. I am not responsible as for what you choose to consume.❞

do not copy, translate or claim any of my work as your own.

✧ ┈┈┈┈┈ *.⋆ ✧ ⋆.* ┈┈┈┈┈ ✧

“Javi,” you call his name as you lean on the door frame of the living room.

He’s smoking a cigarette on the couch, his head thrown back against the headboard.

“Javi” you whine calling him again trying to catch his attention. Javier turns his head to look at you. You’re wearing one of his large shirts and old boxer briefs of his.

“Ven aquí amor” he calls and you paddle through the living room to get to him and sit on his lap facing him. His hands set on your sides stroking your thighs. “What’s up baby?”

“I want to ride your face” you bite your lip confessing to him. You feel like squirming at the thought, the thought that hasn’t let you study for the past hour or two.

“Is that so?” He raises a brow and leans in pressing his lips to yours. “How’s studying going?”

You groan and dip your face on the crook of his neck. You don’t want to talk about it or even think. It’s so much reading material it feels eternal. Javier chuckles and plays with your hair.

“You gotta study, how else you going to become a professional?” You let out an annoyed groan at the scolding. “I can’t focus, too busy thinking of getting myself off with your mustache”

He clears his throat and you grind slowly on his lap. He holds you in place. He hates to be the annoying old man but he can’t let you throw all your effort away for him, even if he wished that himself.

“How about a deal, hmm?” If you study for the rest of the afternoon, I’ll let you ride my face”

“But I want it now, I need it”

“It’s an offer, answer is yes or no.”

You huff and roll your eyes at him. “Fine, yes, deal or whatever”

You try get up from his lap annoyed but he pulls you back in.

“Eh, eh, eh, beso.” You grin and bring your lips to his, brushing softly before giving in to the kiss. Your tongue is playing around until you get too playful. “Okay, go study now, and I better see your head dived into a book when I walk past.”

You sigh dramatically as you slide off his lap, bare legs brushing against his jeans just to be a menace. Javier smacks your ass lightly as you pass, and you whip your head around to glare at him. He just raises a brow, smug.

“Pórtate bien,” he calls after you, tapping the ash from his cigarette into a tray. "Or the deal’s off."

You mutter something under your breath about bossy men and their stupid beautiful mouths and mustaches, but he just laughs — low and lazy — and you feel it in your bones.

You plop down at the kitchen table, yanking your notes toward you, pen in hand. When you risk a glance over your shoulder, you catch him watching you through the haze of smoke, head tipped, smile tugging at his mouth like he’s the one suffering here. Like he wants you to fail, just to have an excuse to bend you over the couch instead.

You grit your teeth, heart pounding, and bury your head in your book. Fine, just a few more chapters and you get your reward.

You bury yourself in your textbook, underlining, highlighting, pretending the words make any goddamn sense when all you can feel is the heat of Javier’s gaze drifting toward you from the couch.

A few minutes later, you hear the soft tap of his boots on the floor. Then — his hand slides slowly along your back, fingertips brushing your spine over his old t-shirt you're wearing. You tense immediately, biting your lip, eyes glued to the same stupid paragraph for the fifth time.

"¿Cómo vas, amor?" His voice is smug, lazy, and soaked in amusement.

"I'm studying," you mutter, refusing to look up, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing how wrecked you already are.

He hums thoughtfully, standing behind your chair. One hand drops to your shoulder, massaging gently, while the other lazily skims the curve of your waist — distracting, distracting, distracting.

"You sure?" he teases, his mouth brushing your ear. "Doesn't look like you’ve turned a page in a while."

You squeeze your thighs together under the table, breath hitching. His thumb strokes just under the hem of your borrowed shirt, teasing warm skin.

"Javi, please." You can’t help it, the way it comes out — whiny, desperate, your patience fraying fast.

He laughs under his breath, low and rough. God, he loves you like this — needy and squirming and just barely holding it together.

But instead of mercy, he leans down even closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "A deal’s a deal, mami." His voice is velvet. Mean velvet. "You study. You earn it."

You groan and drop your forehead dramatically against the textbook. He chuckles and straightens up, pressing a single, chaste kiss to the crown of your head before stepping away.

You hear him settle back onto the couch with a satisfied sigh, like he hasn't just turned you inside out.

"Better hurry, bonita," he calls lazily from across the room. "I’m gonna start charging interest if you take too long."

"That's not fair!" you shout over your shoulder.

Javier just shrugs from the couch, all smug and relaxed like he didn’t just ruin your entire existence with one sentence.

You huff, slamming your highlighter down dramatically — but fine. Two can play dirty. You shove your headphones on, blasting music loud enough to drown out even your filthy thoughts, and dive headfirst into your notes.

You read. You memorize. You highlight until the words blur.

You lock in.

For him, for you. For the deal.

Hours pass. The light shifts. Your brain feels like melted cheese but — you did it. You did it.

You yank your headphones off and spring out of your chair, victorious, feeling like a goddamn warrior.

And then— You don’t just walk over to him. You strut.

A little swing in your hips, bare thighs on display in his old boxer briefs. You toss your hair over your shoulder just to be a brat. Maybe even hum a little song under your breath like you’re on a catwalk.

Javier watches you approach, lazy smirk curling, cigarette burning low between his fingers. He leans back, spreads his legs wider on the couch, tilting his head as you sashay right up to him.

You stop right between his knees, hands on your hips, grinning down at him.

"Finished my work," you say sweetly, sickly sweet. "Can I have my reward now, daddy?"

He exhales slow, smoke curling out from the corner of his mouth. His pupils are black.

"Cabrón," he mutters under his breath, flicking the cigarette into the tray and grabbing your hips. "Come here."

He pulls you down onto his lap in one swift tug, mouth crashing into yours — all teeth and tongue and victorious, hungry kisses.

His hands slip under your shirt, palming your ass possessively. "You sure you finished everything, baby?" he mumbles against your lips.

You nod rapidly, too dizzy to even pretend otherwise. "Uh-huh. All of it."

"Good girl," he rasps.

Javier grins against your skin, then leans back just enough to catch your face in his hand, thumb stroking your cheek lazily. His voice is low, rough, full of promise:

"Let's go get your reward then, hermosa."

You scramble off his lap with a speed that makes him chuckle under his breath. He grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers, and the two of you walk down the hall together — you practically drag him toward the bedroom.

Once inside, he falls back onto the bed with a heavy, relaxed thud, legs spreading slightly, arms thrown casually behind his head. He watches you — starving — as you stand at the foot of the bed.

Without a second thought, you yank his shirt off over your head, tossing it to the floor, the boxers quickly following. Your skin prickles under his gaze — the way his eyes drag over you slowly, reverently, like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Mierda..." he mutters when you kick the last piece of clothing away and start crawling up his body.

You plant your hands on his stomach first, feeling the hard muscle flex under your touch, and slowly, deliberately, you crawl up his torso. His hands find your thighs immediately, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin as you straddle his chest.

His eyes meet yours — dark, heated, full of something that makes your stomach flip. His mustache twitches with a smirk.

His hands tighten around your thighs, strong and unyielding, and before you can even catch your breath, he pulls you up — guiding you to sit right over his mouth, caging himself under you like you’re his whole goddamn world.

A low, hungry groan vibrates against you the second you make contact. Your hands shoot out, scrambling for purchase against the headboard, his hair, anything — because the second his mouth seals against you, it's over.

"Go on, mami," he rasps, the words rumbling against your skin. "Ride."

The first thing you notice — the first thing that sends your head spinning — is the feel of his mustache dragging against your skin. It's perfect.

Javier licks a slow, heavy stripe up your folds, savoring the taste, the wetness, and the heat as you begin to ride his face. His hands hold your sides and press you down harder against him, keeping you in place.

Every time his tongue flicks up, every time he moves his mouth a little rougher or tilts his chin just right, that coarse scrape of his mustache follows — rubbing against your sensitive clit, setting you on fire.

You whimper — high and broken — grinding helplessly against his mouth, chasing every stroke, every brush.

"Fuck, Javi—" you gasp, voice cracking. "Your— your mustache—"

He groans deep in his chest like he likes hearing it, like he knows exactly how filthy it feels. The vibration shoots through your whole body.

He tilts his head slightly, dragging his mustache deliberately across you — slow, teasing — while he sucks your clit into his mouth and laps at you like he’s savoring every single second.

"You like that, mami?" he mutters against you, voice gravelly and dripping with dark amusement. His mustache brushes again, torturously slow. "That's what you've been thinking about all afternoon?"

You're panting, gasping his name, nails digging into his chest as you start to lose the rhythm, thighs trembling from the intensity.

He pulls back just enough to growl against your skin: "Don’t you dare run from it, baby. You earned this. Take it."

And then he dives back in — rough, messy, hungry — licking and sucking you mercilessly, not stopping even when your thighs start to shake around his head.

You can feel it building, molten and electric, heat curling tighter and tighter in your belly — and he knows. He feels it in the way your hips start stuttering, the desperate little whimpers spilling from your mouth.

He grabs your ass with both hands, keeping you firmly in place, refusing to let you escape the overwhelming pleasure.

"Come on," he rasps against you, voice low, coaxing, commanding. "Give it to me, hermosa. I want it. All of it."

You fall apart, crying out as you grind down relentlessly against his face as you ride out your orgasm, your vision blurring as you go through it.

The drag of his mustache against your sensitive swollen clit makes you scream and your thighs clamp around his head tighter.

He holds you through every second of it, savoring you, humming low in his chest like a man worshipping at his favorite altar.

"That's it, baby," he praises, voice rough and wrecked under you. "Use me. Take what you need."

And you do — grinding down, lost to the filthy heat of it, the unbearable, delicious scratch of his mustache sending you spiraling.

He doesn’t stop — licks you through it, slow and messy, until you're slumped against the headboard, panting and ruined, his face shining with you.

When you finally collapse beside him, limp and shaking, Javier wipes his mouth with the back of his hand — still looking like the smuggest, most satisfied man alive.

You’re still gasping, brain barely rebooting, when he tosses the pillow aside and rolls over, covering your body with his. Caging you beneath him, trapping you between his arms like you’re something precious — like he’s not letting you leave until he’s had his fill.

His mouth finds yours instantly — messy, hot, desperate. You can taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue, and instead of shying away, you lick into him, chasing the slick, musky taste, dizzy with it.

Javier groans deep in his chest, rutting his hips against yours with a low, broken noise.

"Mierda," he mutters into your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, then your neck — kissing, licking, nipping — like he can't get enough of you. He latches onto the soft spot just above your collarbone, sucking until you’re whimpering, until you know it’s going to leave a mark. Like he wants it to. Like he needs the whole fucking world to know you’re his.

When he drags his mouth lower — mouth warm and mustache scratching deliciously against your chest — you arch up into him without even thinking.

He nips at the swell of your breast, then closes his mouth around your nipple, tugging gently, sucking in a way that has you writhing under him.

You gasp, tugging at his hair, trying to say something — anything — but the words tangle in your throat.

"You're—" you manage to stammer, but it gets stuck. Your brain is gone. Melted.

He feels it — the way your chest stutters against him, the way your mouth opens but no words come out. He waits for it, pulling back just slightly, watching you try so hard to form a sentence, waiting for the sweet sound of your pretty little thoughts.

But there’s nothing. Just your ragged breathing, your wrecked expression, the way your hands weakly clutch at his arms like you’re trying to anchor yourself.

He grins — all wicked heat and filthy pride — because he knows he’s broken you. Knows he's turned that sharp, bratty tongue of yours into a trembling mess.

He leans down again, catching your nipple between his teeth, grazing it lightly — and you whine, helpless, overstimulated, back arching up into him like a magnet.

Javier lifts his head, looking down at you —his face flushed from exertion, his lips swollen from kissing you, his beard and mustache shining with the evidence of what he just did to you.

He smirks down at you, slow and dangerous, chest heaving against yours. And then, with an unbearable tenderness, he dips his head again and kisses you.

Your body melts under him, pliant and wrecked and warm, and he hums into the kiss, a lazy satisfied noise that vibrates through you.

When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, breathing heavy, his hands stroking slow circles on your hips.

"Still with me, hermosa?" he teases, voice rough, thick with affection.

You let out a broken little whimper, too far gone to form words. Your thighs rub together, seeking friction, instinctive and mindless.

He chuckles low in his chest, the sound sending shivers through you. Then, with a hand gentle but commanding, he nudges your thighs apart, settling himself between them. Javier fits himself inside you with a slow, heavy push, your wetness allowing him in easily. Like your body was made to take him. Like he belongs there.

You cry out softly, legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, trying to pull him impossibly closer. He groans deep in his chest, forehead dropping to yours as he sinks in fully — inch by inch — until there's no space left between you.

"Fuck, baby," he rasps, voice wrecked, thick with awe. "You feel so good... so fuckin' good wrapped around me."

You’re panting, mouth parted, eyes glassy and dazed, barely able to think — to breathe — around how full you feel.

And still — that cocky little smirk curves at the edge of his kiss-swollen mouth, even as his hips roll slow and filthy against you.

He presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheekbone, his voice dipping low and teasing:

"Still got some extra credit to earn, don't you think?"

✧ ┈┈┈┈┈ *.⋆ ✧ ⋆.* ┈┈┈┈┈ ✧

If all of this won't motivate me to study, then God help me, I don't know what will.

✦ this took time, love, & late-night agony ✦ reblogs are cherished. comments fuel me. thank you for the support ✨

Drop your ideas in the inbox! If you have any fic, blurb or ideas in general about Javier or any other Pedro character, send me and I'll deliver! The brat line is open 📞 read the ask box rules.

[moonstruckme]

Hi lovely! I have been having really bad insomnia lately. To the point where I’ve stayed up until 5 am some days. I think it could be due to my upcoming period, which happens sometimes. I was wondering if you could do a poly!marauders, or any one of them, where reader is clearly not getting enough sleep and they/he notice and know her so well that they know why it’s happening. So that night they/he comfort her and coddle her and make her sleepy and it’s suuuuper fluffy and sweet. Love love love your writing Mae!

I'm sorry about your sleep issues lovely! Thank you for the request <3

modern au

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 386 words

You’re half sure Sirius has slipped a benadryl into your nighttime tea. Smugness radiates off him as his thumb draws heavy circles into your hip and you grow lax against his side. Your hair is still damp from the hot shower he’d coaxed you into. 

Sirius’ lips press gently to your forehead, like he’s checking your temperature. “It’s getting late,” he murmurs. Some bitter, sardonic part of you thinks that it’s nowhere near as late as you’ve been going to sleep for the last few nights, but you’re too lazy to voice it. “Ready for bed, sweet girl?” 

You manage a hum, but don’t move. Your bones feel filled with lead. 

Your boyfriend exhales amusedly like he knows. “C’mere, baby. Come on.” 

He turns off the telly and gathers you up against his side, blankets and all. You begin the slow trudge from the sofa to your bed. Your half gone cup of tea is warm between your palms, and Sirius’ presence just as nice where his arm wraps around your waist and his hip presses to yours. 

Peeling back the covers of your bed feels like a herculean feat. You shed your blanket like a hermit crab trading shells, letting Sirius tuck you in. 

“It’s cold,” you mumble. 

“Give me a second.” 

A short time later, Sirius is crawling into bed beside you and the diffuser you could swear he’s never used before is misting a lavender aroma through the room. You can barely see his silhouette moving around in the dark, but you sigh when his leg crosses over yours. 

His lips are curved when they find yours. “Are you comfy?” he asks in a low voice. 

“Yeah.” You mirror his tone. “I feel like I could actually fall asleep.” 

“Good. Don’t overthink it.” 

You are thinking now, though. Slowly, like moving through sap, the pieces of your night come together in your mind. 

“Are you doing this on purpose?” 

Sirius makes a soft, confused sound. “Don’t know what you mean.” 

“You’ve never…you don’t even know how to use the diffuser.” 

“Sweetheart, you sound ridiculous.” His hand comes around your back, making broad, lulling circles. “I use it all the time. You’re just sleep deprived.” 

You hum, acquiescent. “Well, thanks.” 

“Go to sleep, baby.” 

“M’kay. Love you.” 

Sirius kisses between your brows. “Love you.” 

[0529-jihoon]

You’re Playing a Dangerous Game | Si-eun x Reader ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆

gender neutral! | 18+ smut

ᯓ★ summary: Si-eun’s focus never wavers, until you push him too far. One teasing touch too many, and the quiet boy at his desk turns into something dark, hungry, and desperate to ruin you for distracting him.

ᝰ.ᐟ wc 2k +

────────── ୨ৎ───────────

His room is dead quiet, except for the occasional scratch of a pencil against paper and the soft click of a highlighter cap.

You’re on his bed, sprawled on your stomach, watching the back of his neck like it’s your newest obsession.

Si-eun hasn’t looked at you in almost an hour.

He’s been glued to that textbook, surrounded by notes so color-coded it’s like staring into a disciplined rainbow.

And he still hasn’t taken a break.

You prop your chin on your hand

“You’re gonna fry your brain if you keep staring at that,” you say, voice lilting.

“I’m fine” he says flatly.

Another highlight. Another note.

You roll onto your back, stretching. Loudly.

Nothing.

Ugh this guy, he really chose to study over his partner who was on his bed!

Then with a hum you sit up, slide off the bed, and walk over to where he’s seated at his desk, a mischievous plan forming in your head.

“You’ve been studying for three hours.���

You said with a whine

“I need to memorize the entire structure by Friday.”

He replies dismissively, his eyes trained on his notes

“Then I guess I should help you… focus.”

You said with a sly grin, sauntering toward him with a spark of mischief in your eyes—each step part of a plan you knew he wouldn’t like.

That gets a reaction. A small pause in his hand, barely a flicker. But you see it.

You lean down behind him, gently wrapping your arms around his neck, lips grazing his ear while your chest tantalizingly pressed against his back.

“Or would that be too distracting?”

His back stiffens — not fully, just enough to let you know you’ve hit the target.

“Yes,” he says, still staring at his notes.

“Oh no,” you cooed mockingly, “am I ruining your perfect concentration?”

Your fingers trail down his collar bone— light. Lazy.

His jaw tenses.

Still, he says nothing.

Jeez, he’s stubborn.

So you slide onto his lap.

He doesn’t stop you — but he doesn’t look at you either. Just freezes beneath you, breath caught, eyes closed and a deep sigh escaping his lips.

You knew you where slowly getting under his skin

“I’m bored,” you pout, rocking slightly. “Can’t you take a small break at least?”

He grips the edge of the desk tighter.

You lean close again, voice low and teasing.

“You’re really gonna pretend you’re not hard right now?”

That’s it.

The lead in his mechanical pencil snaps against the paper after he pushes down too hard.

He still doesn’t look at you.

But something inside him snaps, the next second, he’s gripping your waist pulling you closer, pressing your body down against his — and yeah, you were right. He’s hard. Painfully.

“You think this is a game?” he growls quietly, but rough, and nothing like his usual flat tone.

Your smirk fades just a little.

“You’ve been teasing me for weeks. Walking around like you don’t know what you’re doing to me. Saying things like that in my ear—”

His hands grip on your waist now slipping beneath the fabric, grounding, almost shaking.

“—and you expect me to just sit here and study?”

He finally looks at you.

His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen. A little glassy, a little desperate. Like he’s starving.

“Si-eun—”

~smut starts here~

“Shut up.”

You gasp softly as he pulls you into a rough kiss — not angry, but hungry. His lips move over yours like he’s trying to make up for every second he held back.

Si-eun's lips move demandingly against yours, his tongue pushing past your parted lips to claim your mouth. It's not gentle, but it's not cruel either. It's urgent, desperate, a silent plea for release from the constant torment of wanting.

His hands slide down to your thighs, gripping them tightly as he opens your legs wider and pulls you closer, pressing your core harder against the thick ridge of his erection straining against his pants.

He breaks the kiss abruptly, his chest heaving as he stares at you with eyes that burn into yours.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asks, his voice low and rough. "To see me like this? To make me lose control?"

His hips flex upward, grinding his hard length against your aching center. The friction makes you gasp, your head falling back.

"Because this is what you're doing to me, y/n. You're driving me crazy."

His hands slide up your sides, pushing your shirt out of the way to expose your chest. His palms cover them, thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks.

"I can't think straight. I can't focus. All I can think about is you. touching you. tasting you."

He leans in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your neck as he speaks, his breath hot against your flesh.

"Isn't this enough of a break for you?" he asks, his voice a low, seductive murmur. "Aren't you satisfied with how much you've affected me?"

His fingers pinch your nipples, rolling them between his fingers. His hips grind against yours, the ache between your legs growing with each movement.

"Tell me, y/n," he says, his voice a low, demanding growl. "Tell me you want this too. That you need this as much as I do."

With uneven, ragged breaths, you let out a shaky plea.

“I need you, Si-eun… I want you,” you whispered, voice thick with desire.

Your body trembled beneath his touch, arousal pooling hot and heavy beneath your underwear as he continued to tease—fingers skillfully toying with your hardened nipples, drawing out soft, helpless gasps you couldn’t hold back.

Si-euns eyes darkened further at your breathless admission, his grip tightening on your waist. A shudder ran through his lean frame at your words, his control fraying by the second.

In a flash, he stood, easily lifting you with him. He swept the books and papers off his desk with one arm, not caring where they fell. Then he gently laid you down on the edge, stepping between your parted thighs.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants and underwear, with one sharp tug, he yanked them down your legs and off.

He drank in the sight of you, sprawled out before him, your chest heaving and your skin flushed. His gaze was hungry, almost feral, as it raked over your naked body.

"y/n..." he breathed, his voice rough with need. "You have no idea what you do to me."

He leaned down, his lips brushing over your stomach, your ribs, the mound of your chest. His tongue flicked out, tasting your skin, tracing the curves of your body like he was mapping out every inch of you.

His fingers slid higher, teasing along the inside of your thigh, tracing the delicate skin there. Higher and higher, until his thumb brushed over your private area, making you jolt and gasp.

He looked up at you then, his eyes blazing into yours. "I'm going to make you feel so good, y/n," he promised, his voice low and intense. “I'm going to give you everything you've been teasing me for."

And with that, he leaned down and put his mouth on you, his tongue sucking and licking your wet private part, twisting and teasing, driving you wild with pleasure. His fingers on the other hand pumped inside you, curling and thrusting, stroking all the right spots.

He didn't hold back. He gave you everything, just like he'd promised. And as your cries of ecstasy filled the room, he just kept going, determined to make keep his word.

Si-eun felt your body tense, heard the hitch in your breath, and knew you were close. He doubled his efforts, his tongue swirling around your private part, sucking hard as his fingers pumped faster, deeper, driving you towards your peak.

When your climax hit, it was with a cry of his name, your voice echoing off the walls of his bedroom. Your body convulsed, your inner walls clenching tight around his fingers as your sweet nectar gushed out, coating his lips and chin.

Si-eun didn't pull away. He kept licking, kept suckling, helping you ride out the intense waves of your orgasm. He savored the taste of you, the feel of your body trembling against him, your pleasure a headier drug than any study could ever be.

Only when your trembling subsided did he finally pull back, his eyes lifting to meet yours. They were dark and satisfied, a small, smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth, glistening with your essence.

"Si-eun..." you gasped out, still trying to catch your breath. "That was... incredible..."

He stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked down at you, his gaze intense and hungry, his pants still straining obscenely.

"I'm not done with you yet," he said, his voice a low, seductive promise. "That was just the beginning."

He reached for the button of his pants, popping it open and unzipping his fly. He shoved his pants and underwear down, freeing his aching cock. It sprang out, long and hard and thick, the head an angry red.

Si-eun took himself in hand, stroking it slowly against your cunt as he looked down at you. "I'm going to take you now, y/n," he said, his voice a low, intense growl. "I'm going to make you mine in every way possible."

waa part 2 will be out maybe tmr maybe 😭🫶 I’m having brain fog + I need to study for a exams wml 🥲🥲

[artchvies]

I wish you would write a fic where...maybe landoscar free use…

so i made something for u anon… not exactly a free use scene, but like the slow slide into it. sippin’ bubbly feelin’ lovely part two, i guess. also think this could be read as post-bahrain 25

(1,3k words, abo smut)

Oscar’s sprawled out on the bed, hoodie bunched high around his waist, bare legs parted and trembling from the last round.

His thighs are sticky with slick and cum, his cunt still fluttering in slow, involuntary pulses that make Lando’s mouth go dry and his cock throb where he’s gripping it at the base.

The room reeks—sex, sweat, slick. It coats the air, heavy and humid, sticking to Lando’s skin.

He’s cross-legged at the end of the bed, wrecked and dazed. His curls are plastered to his forehead, his chest rises too fast, his gaze locked on the slick shine between Oscar’s legs, where Lando’s cum is still leaking out in lazy drips.

Oscar’s not even looking at him. One arm is thrown over his face, breathing gone soft and shallow, little hitching inhales that make his chest twitch.

Bite marks bloom dark across the inside of his thighs—some red and raw, others already fading. His whole body glows with the sheen of sweat.

Lando groans low in his throat, palming his cock without shame. His whole body aches—bones buzzing, instincts gnawing under his skin, the need to fill, to knot, to rut until Oscar melts under him all over again.

“You’re being loud in your head,” Oscar mutters, voice muffled by his arm.

Lando huffs, shifting restlessly. “I just… been thinking.”

Oscar slides the arm off his face just enough to glare at him with one eye. “That’s usually a bad sign.”

“I mean it this time,” Lando says, curling his fingers tighter around the base of his cock. “That time in China. In the driver room. That was—fuck. It messed me up.”

Oscar snorts.

“You got slick all over me, Osc. I could smell you on my skin for hours. I could barely walk after.”

Oscar hums, hips shifting lazily—rolling just enough to smear the mess across the sheets. The movement makes his pussy squish audibly, and Lando nearly bites through his lip.

“I’m just saying,” he pants, “maybe we make it a thing.”

Oscar turns his head, one brow arching. “What kind of thing?”

Lando licks his lips, eyes locked on the creamy mess still leaking out of him. “If the door’s open, I come in. If you’re laid out like this—I don’t have to ask. I just use you.”

The air shifts—goes tighter. Hotter.

Oscar doesn’t move for a second. Then he blinks, slow, lips parting.

“You think about that?” he asks, quietly. “Just. Walking in and taking it?”

Lando’s voice cracks. “All the time. You don’t even look up. You’re bent over the desk. I grab your hips, spit in my hand, push in before you can say anything.”

Oscar flushes pink, groaning softly. “You’re fucked in the head.”

“You like it,” Lando mutters, crawling closer on his knees.

Oscar doesn’t argue.

“If I walked in and you were like this,” Lando whispers, “you’d let me fuck you?”

Oscar hums. “Depends.”

“On what?”

Oscar meets his eyes. “How desperate you look. How wet I am. How much I feel like being used.”

Lando whines—soft and wounded—and ruts into his hand, jerking from the sensation.

“Do I look desperate now?”

Oscar shifts, thighs falling wider. The hoodie rides up higher, baring the flushed skin of his stomach, smeared with spit and cum. His whole belly twitches with every breath.

“You can touch me,” Oscar says. “You don’t have to ask.”

Lando moves instantly. His hand lands on Oscar’s thigh, trembling. He slides it up slowly, fingers slipping through slick. He presses into Oscar’s folds, spreading him open, smearing it around with soft strokes.

Oscar exhales. His lashes flutter. His cunt clenches hard around nothing.

Lando watches it twitch under his hand, fluttering and raw, still so sensitive.

He murmurs something under his breath—maybe a prayer, maybe just a broken thought—and slides two fingers in again. The sound is wet and filthy.

“So if the door’s open,” Lando breathes, “I can just come in.”

Oscar nods, his breathing going uneven.

“No knock?” Lando leans in, brushing his lips against Oscar’s. “No greeting?”

“You don’t have to be polite,” Oscar whispers.

Lando moans into his mouth, forehead resting against his. “I’m gonna abuse that privilege so bad.”

Oscar laughs, one hand landing on Lando’s thigh. “I hope you do.”

Lando curls forward more, mouth landing on Oscar’s neck, sucking hard enough to leave another mark then dragging his tongue up to the flushed swell of his scent gland.

“You’d let me? You’d just lay back and let me stuff you full again?”

Oscar’s grip tightens, nails dragging over his skin.

“You’d let me do it every night.”

Oscar’s cunt flutters around his fingers.

“Lando.” His voice breaks when Lando crooks them just right.

“Before races,” Lando says. His hand moves faster.

“Fuck.”

“After quali. Before debrief.”

Oscar fists the sheets. “You’re sick.”

Lando pulls his fingers out. He spreads the slick over Oscar’s folds, rubbing his clit slow, lazy, until Oscar twitches again.

“I’m gonna fuck you on every flat surface we’ve got.”

Oscar turns his head, lips brushing Lando’s jaw. “Then do it.”

Lando freezes. “Now?”

Oscar nods. “You don’t have to ask, remember?”

Lando growls and slides between his thighs again, cock flushed hard. Oscar doesn’t move. Just opens for him, pussy wet and aching.

Lando grinds forward, cockhead bumping Oscar’s clit, dragging down over his hole again and again, teasing it slick and twitching. Then he pushes in, until he’s buried to the base.

The sound it makes is disgusting. Wet, loud, and obscene. They both groan.

Oscar gasps, arms locking around Lando’s neck. He pulls him down into a kiss, messy and open-mouthed, breathing hard into each other’s mouths.

Oscar tugs at his curls. Lando doesn’t stop licking at him, tongue greedy, swiping over his bunny teeth every time they flash between kisses.

“I’m gonna knot you again,” Lando says, low in his throat.

Oscar’s nails sink into his back. “Good.”

Lando moves. Slow at first, dragging his cock through the slick mess, watching the way his Omega flutters around him, cunt clenching like it’s scared he’ll leave. Like it needs him to stay buried, knot or not.

Oscar’s wrecked already, moaning into Lando’s mouth with every thick, wet push.

His pussy’s soaked, sloppy with slick and cum, stretched red and leaking down to the sheets, and Lando’s cock just keeps sinking in easily, coated in it.

Lando grinds in deep, breath catching. “You’re so wet, fuck—feel like you’re sucking me in.”

Oscar just whines, hips tilted up like an offering, hoodie shoved to his ribs.

“Let me have it,” Lando murmurs, voice gone hoarse, needy.

Oscar’s head tips back, exposing the flushed stretch of his throat. “Told you already,” he pants, lashes fluttering. “You don’t have to ask.”

Lando growls. He fucks him harder, rhythm breaking, hips jerking wild and hungry.

The wet slap of it echoes in the room, so loud, so filthy—his cock driving in deep, again and again, hitting the spot that makes Oscar’s mouth fall open in a silent cry.

“You win a race and come home like this,” Lando grits out, “I’m not even gonna wait for the door to close.”

Oscar whimpers. “Good. Want you to fuck me the second you see me.”

Lando moans, head spinning. “You’ll let me bend you over the sim rig?”

Oscar nods, fucked-out smile blooming. “Hotel bed. Garage floor. Paddock bathroom, if you’re quick.”

“You’d let me just walk in,” Lando gasps, “and knot you again, no prep?”

“I’ll spread myself open for you,” Oscar whines, cunt clenching down hard, “just to make it easier. You can use it whenever you want.”

That’s all Lando needs—he slams in, deep and desperate, knot catching and swelling as he spills into him again, groaning as heat floods Oscar’s soaked, pulsing cunt.

Oscar cries out, overwhelmed, cunt fluttering around the knot, slick and cum gushing out. Too full.

Lando pants into Oscar’s throat, trembling. “God, you’re perfect. Winning races and still letting me fuck you dumb.”

Oscar just hums, nails dragging down his back, mouth wet against Lando’s cheek.

And Lando’s still coming.

Still gasping into Oscar’s throat, still leaking with every pulse of his knot.

Still thinking—what if the door never closes again.

[countyourfreckleslikestars]

Gonna keep requesting (sorry if you’re already swamped, no pressure to write my asks) because you’re one of the best authors on my tumblr rn I am convinced. 🫰

Can we see Thanos picking F!reader for the final round in Mingle instead of Nam-gyu, and when they get inside a room, Thanos takes the opportunity to have a lil impromptu make out session? ✨

“With Me Flower.”

A/N: EEK!! Thank u so much I’m so happy I’m someone’s fav author! Hope you like this!! I tried to bring this request to life so pls enjoy!

Warnings: kissing, squid game gore

The announcement for Mingle blares over the speakers, and the room erupts into chaos.

People shove past each other, scrambling for groups, voices rising in panic. You have seconds to find a room—seconds to stay alive.

Every round, the required number changes. If you don’t make it into a room with the exact amount? You die.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan the frantic crowd, searching for Nam-Gyu—

“Two.”

The final round. Pairs only.

The air shifts. Everyone still left turns feral.

You barely have a second to react before a strong hand grabs your wrist.

“With me, flower.”

Before you can respond, Thanos is already yanking you toward the nearest open door. His grip is firm, unyielding, his pace deadly fast.

Other people lunge for the door ahead, desperate to survive.

Thanos shoves one of them back, hard. The man stumbles, nearly falling, but another one grabs for your arm.

“She’s with me.” Thanos snarls, and before you can even blink, his fist connects with the guy’s face.

The sickening crack of bone echoes as the man collapses.

More shouts. More people grabbing, pushing.

“Go, go, go—!” Thanos orders, steering you toward the door as someone tries to yank him back. He elbows them off, shoving them aside with brute force before dragging you through the threshold.

The second you’re inside, the door slams shut.

Silence.

Your breathing is ragged, chest heaving from the adrenaline, your hands still gripping his jacket on instinct.

He exhales a sharp breath, knuckles bleeding. He flexes his fingers like it’s nothing.

“You—” you start, voice uneven, “You fought for me?”

Thanos scoffs, rolling his shoulders, a lazy smirk curling on his lips. “Duh.”

But his usual cockiness is laced with something else. Something darker.

He takes a slow step toward you, the dim lighting casting sharp shadows over his face. “What, you thought I’d let someone else take you?”

Your stomach flips.

The room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker. His hands find your waist, fingers ghosting over the fabric of your jumpsuit, testing, teasing.

You should be thinking about the next game. About survival.

But all you can think about is him.

“You scared?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard, pulse racing under his touch. But you shake your head. “No.”

His lips twitch. “Good.”

And then—he’s kissing you.

It’s fast, consuming, raw. His hands grip your waist, pulling you in, pressing you flush against him. His lips move hungrily against yours, stealing your breath, making you forget everything—the game, the fear, the deaths.

You gasp against him, fingers threading through his ridiculous purple hair, tugging, desperate for more. He groans, his grip tightening as he backs you up against the wall, his body solid, warm, unrelenting.

It’s reckless. It’s insane.

But neither of you stop.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing heavy. His hands stay on your waist, thumbs brushing soft circles over your jumpsuit.

You’re dizzy. Breathless.

“Thanos…” your voice is barely a whisper.

His lips graze yours again, teasing, tempting. “Hmm?”

You exhale shakily. “This game is going to kill us.”

He chuckles, low and dark, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Then let’s make sure we win.”

And just like that, the speakers crackle to life, the next instructions looming—

But all you can feel is the way he’s still holding onto you.

A/n: Hi my lil monsters! How we likey? This is only my second time writing smt like this (spicy kinda) so I hope yall like!!

Love ya, Twilight

Taglist:

@amoristt @lousypotatoes @infinetlyforgotten @mirahyun @takuma-talkz -talkz @sxmmerchxld @multifandomgirllol @gizaspicebag @truefandemonium

[b1eedthefreak]

Pookie hear me out..

The group is in Alexandria (Daryl and reader are in a pre established relationship) and there is a party happening that night because of whatever reason. Reader is worried about wearing a particularly short flowy dress but Daryl says she looks pretty/hot and readers like “yeah but it’s a bit too short don’t you think?” And Daryl’s like “yah but I can fight so wear the fuckin dress”

And then maybe they get to the party and reader is having fun when someone hits on her and when she rejects them they make a comment about her dress then Daryl comes in and blah blah blah

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. Claimed

⌇daryl dixon x reader

summary⌇while attending a party in alexandria, one of the alexandrians take an interest in you and daryl’s not happy

warnings⌇daryl punches somebody…

word count⌇0.9k

a/n⌇pookie i am absolutely hearing you out because possessive daryl?? yes.

The dress felt like a mistake the moment you walked into the party.

Sure, it was cute, thin and flowy, the fabric soft against your skin, the hem brushing high on your thighs every time you moved. It had felt like a good idea when you’d slipped it on in the mirror, Daryl standing behind you, eyes dark and jaw tight, telling you with that low, gravelly voice,

“Wear the dress. I like it.”

“It’s too short don’t you think?” You added.

He pulled you in by the hips, whispering, “Ain’t nobody gonna touch ya. Ain’t nobody gonna look at ya the wrong way. I’ll make sure of it.”

You believed him. You always believed him.

But now, under the dim glow of string lights and the hum of quiet music, you felt eyes on you. Not Daryl’s, his were a constant, warm weight on your skin, always trailing over you like you were the only thing in the room.

No, these were the eyes of people who didn’t know.

The Alexandrians didn’t know what it meant, the way Daryl’s hands lingered on your hips, the way his arm hovered protectively behind you. They didn’t know how he pulled you in at night, tucked you against his chest, or how his lips brushed softly over your hair when you fell asleep.

They didn’t know you were his.

Which is why, when the man approached you, the grin on his face lazy and sharp, you felt your stomach sink.

“Hey,” he drawled, slurring slightly from the beer in his hand. “Lookin’ real good tonight.”

You shifted uncomfortably, taking a small step back. “Thanks.”

“Dress like that, you tryna kill us all or somethin’?” His eyes dragged down your body, slow and unashamed. “Bet you’re killin’ him, huh? Gonna make him lose his mind the way you’re showin’ off like that.”

Your throat tightened, but before you could open your mouth, he leaned in closer, voice dropping.

“Bet you like that attention. Walkin’ around lookin’ like a fuckin’ whore—”

“What the fuck did ya say?”

The voice snapped through the air like a whip.

You turned just as Daryl stormed in, shoulders tense, fists clenched tight at his sides. His eyes dark, dangerous, were locked on the man like a predator ready to pounce.

The guy chuckled, raising his hands like it was all a joke. “Relax, man. Just sayin’, if she’s gonna dress like that, what’s she expect? Walkin’ ‘round like a slut when she’s got a man?”

You barely had time to register the words before Daryl lunged.

His fist connected with the guy’s jaw in a sickening crack, sending him stumbling back into the table with a crash. Gasps erupted around the party as drinks spilled and chairs clattered.

But Daryl wasn’t finished.

“Fuckin’ bastard!”

He surged forward, grabbing the guy by the shirt, slamming him down onto the ground as his fists rained down, over and over, the sound of knuckles on bone brutal and raw.

“Call her that again, I fuckin’ dare ya!” Daryl roared, voice ragged, spitting the words through clenched teeth.

“Daryl!”

Rick’s voice barely cut through the chaos. You could feel the energy shift, everyone was staring, frozen, unsure whether to intervene.

“Daryl! That’s enough!”

Rick grabbed Daryl’s shoulder, trying to pull him off, but Daryl shrugged him off, slamming his fist into the man’s face one last time before Rick physically yanked him back, holding him tight.

Daryl’s chest heaved, his breathing ragged as he glared down at the man—a broken, bloodied mess on the ground. His hands trembled, knuckles raw and bleeding, but his eyes…

His eyes were on you.

Your breath caught. The fire in his gaze wasn’t just rage, it was possession, fierce and unrelenting. He looked at you like you were the most important thing in the world. Like he’d do it all over again if it meant keeping you safe.

“You okay?” he rasped, voice hoarse.

You nodded. Daryl’s hands, bloody, reached for you, and you met him halfway, your fingers wrapping around his wrists as he stared down at you like you were his whole world.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, trying to steady your breathing.

Daryl’s chest heaved once, twice—and then his hands cupped your cheeks, rough palms cradling your face like you were something fragile.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice breaking. “Didn’t mean—he just—”

“I know,” you said softly, “I know baby.”

“He called you a fuckin’ whore,” Daryl growled, voice low, like he was still ready to kill for you. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, and he leaned in, so close you could feel his breath against your lips.

“Ain’t nobody calls you that,” he murmured. “Ain’t nobody talks ‘bout my girl like that.”

You melted.

Right there, in front of everyone, you reached up and kissed him—slow, soft, a silent thank you. A promise. Daryl groaned against your mouth, his hands tightening on your waist like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

And when you pulled back, just barely, his forehead rested against yours, and his voice was a whisper, rough and aching.

“Let’s get outta here. Can’t stand people starin’ at ya like that.”

You nodded, a small smile curling on your lips.

And as he led you away, his bloody knuckles warm against the small of your back, you couldn’t help but think—God, you loved that man.

[27spoons]

You should totally do a fic or smthn where it’s just nat making out w reader. Or maybe Lottie making out w reader. Honestly anything gay…which is everything. So..yea I love everything you do. -🤺

i realised how long this was sitting in my inbox for, then realised i could literally just make it a blurb. i am so sorry, 🤺. pls forgive me 😔😔😔

anyways......... what if i said............

lottienat making out with reader??

short/sweet. sfw but suggestive themes. <800 words

The party is loud, bodies pressed together in a haze of music and cigarette—honestly, probably also weed—smoke. The bass thrums through your body, rattling your bones in time with the pulse of the shitty strobe lights. Someone's spilled beer is sticky under your Converse, but you don't care. You're not really here for the party.

You're here for them.

Natalie's back is against the wall, her face impassive, and her dark eyeliner is smudged just enough to make her look effortlessly wrecked. (You, of course, know how long she spent fussing over it to ensure it looked just right.) A cigarette dangles between her fingers, barely an afterthought as she watches you with that sharp, knowing gaze. Lottie is beside her, practically glowing in the dim lighting—something ethereal in how her lip gloss catches the neon colours from the strobe lights. 

She's softer than Nat but no less intense, and that's evident in the way her left hand has started trailing up your arm while the other firmly clutches at a Red Solo Cup.

"Y'been teasing us all night," Nat murmurs, tapping her cigarette against a makeshift ashtray on the table beside her.

"I think we deserve an apology," Lottie chimes in, tilting her head with that dreamy, faraway look, but her hand tightens around your wrist, firm and possessive—a sharp contrast.

You barely get a word out before Nat pulls you in, tasting like smoke and whiskey, her lips rough and demanding. Your back hits the wall, and Lottie makes her presence more known. She strokes your arm as your kiss with Nat shifts into a battle for dominance. The music fades into the background, and it's just three of you that remain.

Lottie's fingers trail up your jaw, guiding your face toward her as Nat pulls back just enough to watch. Her lips are softer, slower, and teasing compared to the sharp bite of Nat's—it always gives you a bit of whiplash when being pulled between them, but you've never really minded.

When she deepens the kiss, you harbour no resistance, sighing into her mouth and grabbing the thin fabric of her dress.

Natalie makes a noise—low, amused, possessive.

"Y'two are so fuckin' pretty," she murmurs, her fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, tracing lazy circles against your bare skin.

Lottie's lips linger against yours, just enough to leave you wanting more, but she's pulling back with a slight hum before you can have more. Her nails skim down your arm, teasingly contrasting how Nat's grip tightens at your waist. The rush you get from them is far more intoxicating than the buzz in your veins, more intoxicating than the whiskey on Nat's tongue, and a better high than the ditch weed you've been smoking all night.

You barely have time to register a shift happening before Nat tugs you back in, claiming your mouth like she's got something to prove. Her teeth catch your lower lip, just shy of too hard, and you whimper into her mouth. The sound earns you a quiet, satisfied chuckle from the blonde before she's diving back in, tasting your mouth and exploring the warmth that she's felt countless times before.

Lottie's fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head just enough that she can press a soft kiss against the curve of your jaw. You're sure she would let her kisses roam across your face like she usually does, but Nat seems very firm on keeping her mouth slotted against yours, so Lottie simply explores the line of your jaw and gradually up to your ear, lips lingering on that spot she loves to mark. When your whole body shudders at the feeling of her lips against that spot, you can feel the smirk pressed to your skin.

"I think…" she murmurs, voice the perfect picture of faux innocence, "we should take this somewhere else."

Nat grunts in agreement when she pulls back from your lips, her eyes blown (and not just from whatever she's been taking tonight). "Yeah. 'fore I decide I don't give a shit about an audience."

Her hand slips lower, fingers ghosting over the waistband of your jeans, and you find yourself nodding before you even have time to process the action.

Nat presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth as Lottie takes your hand and leads you out of the house party and back to her car. You'd be lying if you said you weren't looking forward to getting out of there all night.

Now, the real fun begins.

[mandoalorian]

the internets boyfriend [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Personal Assistant!Reader

Synopsis: Bucky finds himself thrust further into the public eye while you navigate an unexpected offer. A charming newcomer steps into your orbit, but Bucky isn't convinced of his intentions. Tension rises, jealousy simmers, and in the quiet of the night, Bucky makes it clear—he doesn’t like to share.

Word Count: 5685

Tags/warnings: 18+ explicit content, employer x employee, sleepy morning sex, fingering, jealous!Bucky, smidge of angst but mostly a kind of a cracked up funny chapter i hope! and more yelena, as requested :)

Masterlist

prev chapter <3 | congress & carnality masterlist

The first thing you felt was warmth. The kind of warmth that seeped into your bones, that held you in place, that made you forget about the world outside these four walls. Bucky was wrapped around you like a living, breathing cocoon—one arm banded around your waist, his fingers splayed against your stomach, the rise and fall of his chest pressed flush against your back.

You blinked against the soft morning light filtering through the curtains, your body relaxed, boneless, sore in the best way possible. Last night had been slow and deep—Bucky taking his time, touching you like he was memorizing every inch of you. But now, there was a different kind of tension thrumming through his body.

Because nestled against your lower back, unmistakable and impossible to ignore, was the hard length of him.

A slow, lazy smile crept across your lips. You shifted ever so slightly, pressing back against him, relishing the sharp inhale he took through his nose.

Bucky let out a low, throaty groan, his grip on your waist tightening. His nose skimmed over the curve of your shoulder, lips ghosting over your bare skin.

"You're playin' a dangerous game, doll," he murmured, his voice still rough from sleep.

You tilted your head, exposing more of your neck to him, your smile turning coy. "Am I?"

His response was a hum, deep and rumbling, as he nuzzled into your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin. His stubble scraped deliciously against you, sending shivers down your spine.

"You always are," he rasped, his hand slipping beneath the sheets. His touch was warm, possessive, skimming over your stomach before trailing lower, fingertips brushing over the sensitive spot between your thighs. "And you know I always win."

You gasped softly, your thighs parting instinctively as he teased you with slow, lazy strokes. The pleasure was gentle but insistent, his fingers barely applying pressure, just enough to make you ache for more.

"Bucky," you breathed, your back arching as you twisted in his hold to face him.

His blue eyes were darker now, still heavy with sleep but glinting with something else—something hungry. His lips curled into a slow, smug grin, his fingers continuing their torturous pace.

"Yeah, sweetheart?" he drawled, feigning innocence even as his fingers pressed a little firmer, a little deeper.

You let out a whimper, your hands sliding into his hair, tugging him closer until your lips brushed against his. "Stop teasing," you pleaded, voice breathy.

His grin widened. "Why would I do that?"

You huffed, your grip tightening in his hair as you pulled him into a deep, slow kiss. He groaned into your mouth, his hand finally giving you what you wanted, fingers slipping inside you with ease.

You gasped, your hips canting forward, seeking more of his touch. Bucky swallowed every sound you made, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he worked you open with those skilled, relentless fingers.

"Fuck, you're so perfect," he whispered against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours. His free hand cupped your cheek, thumb stroking over your cheekbone as he watched you unravel beneath him.

It wasn’t long before you were trembling in his arms, falling apart with a soft cry muffled by his lips. He held you through it, murmuring sweet nothings against your skin, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, your jaw.

And when you finally caught your breath, boneless and blissed out, Bucky simply smirked.

"See?" he murmured, his voice low and smug. "Told you I always win."

You huffed a breathless laugh, swatting at his chest, but the warmth in your heart betrayed you.

Bucky pulled you closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. "Go back to sleep, sweetheart," he murmured. "I'll wake you when breakfast's ready."

But as you drifted off, you felt it—the steady, rhythmic press of his lips against your skin. Like he couldn't stop touching you. Like he needed you just as much as he needed air.

And you knew, without a doubt, that this was love.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

You woke up to the sound of your phone buzzing incessantly against the nightstand. You weren’t sure how long you had slept for, but there was beauty in not needing to hurry or set alarms. It had been your first true, peaceful morning together in a long time. Bucky was still fast asleep next to you, his light snores reminding you that he was still a 110 year old man trapped in a younger body. Still tangled in Bucky’s arms, you groaned, blindly reaching for the device and squinting against the bright screen.

And then you saw it.

Bucky Barnes is Trending #1 Worldwide.

Your heart did a little flip as you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes while unlocking your phone. The notifications were endless—mentions, messages, articles, TikTok clips, tweets, fan edits.  Somehow, they had found your very private social media. Last night you had went to bed with 30 followers; and now, 130, 000.  The six figure digit on the screen made your heart bang against your chest. You played one of the many fan edits that you were tagged in, the music streaming from your phone, a reverbed Taylor Swift song, it registered. 

Bucky shifted beside you with a sleepy groan, the sound clearly having woken him up. Stretching out on his stomach, his face half-buried in the pillow, he stirred. "Too early for this," he mumbled.

You bit back a grin as you scrolled through the chaos unfolding online. People weren’t just supporting him—they were obsessed with him. The Late Late Show appearance had done exactly what it needed to: expose Hydra, put Ross in the hot seat, and—apparently—turn Bucky Barnes into the internet’s newest heartthrob.

You leaned down, resting a hand on his back as you nudged him. "Babe, you need to see this."

Bucky cracked one eye open, squinting at you suspiciously. "Unless it's breakfast in bed, I'm not interested."

You giggled, holding up your phone. "No, seriously. You’re all over the internet. People love you. There are edits. Fan art. Someone even made a thirst thread about your hands—like, an entire essay on why they belong in a museum."

That got his attention. Bucky groaned but pushed himself onto his elbows, frowning. "The hell is a thirst thread?"

You barely contained your laughter. "Oh, you’re gonna love this. Check this out—" You clicked on a TikTok edit someone had made: a slow-motion clip of Bucky walking onto the Late Late Show stage, rolling up the sleeves of his black Henley, paired with some sultry R&B song playing in the background. The caption read: ‘Me? Simping for Bucky Barnes? It’s more likely than you think.’

Bucky watched for about two seconds before blinking at you. "They… made a music video of me?"

You barely held back your laughter. "Oh, babe. You have no idea what you've just stepped into."

He sat up properly now, rubbing his hands over his face as you kept scrolling. “Oh my God, look at this fan art. Someone drew you in a crown. They’re literally calling you the ‘White Wolf of the White House.’”

Bucky let out a strangled noise, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus Christ. I don’t even have social media."

"That doesn't matter," you said, trying to stifle your laughter. "The internet has adopted you now."

He groaned, leaning back against the headboard. "I fought Hydra. I survived Siberia. But this? This is too much."

You gasped dramatically. "Wait. Stop everything. Someone just made a fancam edit of us."

Bucky's eyes widened in panic. He didn’t know what a fancam edit was, but the way you had reacted, alarmed him greatly. “What?”

You turned the phone toward him, showing a perfectly edited montage of every public moment you and Bucky had shared—clips from Tokyo, paparazzi shots, blurry candids, all set to a ridiculously romantic song.

Bucky groaned, dragging his hand down his face. "They made a damn movie about us? Why are we in slow-motion?“

“For dramatic effect,” You burst out laughing, unable to contain it anymore. "Admit it. You love it."

"Not even a little," he grumbled, crossing his arms unimpressed. 

You snorted. "Oh, please. The entire world is shipping us. Just look at this—" You scrolled down, reading aloud. "'I would commit arson for them.' Wow. Romantic. Oh, and this one—‘Bucky Barnes could run me over with a tank and I’d say thank you.’"

Bucky's face was a mix of confusion and mild horror. "What the hell is wrong with people?"

"Social media is just one big chaotic, thirsty void," you explained with a grin. "And congratulations—you are now its new obsession."

Bucky groaned again, but you saw the way the corner of his mouth twitched—like maybe, just maybe, he was secretly amused.

Still, his expression turned more serious as he rubbed a hand over his jaw. "So… people really want me to run for office, huh?"

Your smile softened. "Yeah. They do."

Bucky exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the headboard. "I don't know if I'm cut out for that."

You reached for his hand, squeezing gently. "I think you are."

His blue eyes met yours, searching. "You really believe that?"

You nodded, unwavering. "I believe in you, Buck. And now… so does the rest of the world."

He held your gaze for a long moment before blowing out a breath and shaking his head. "Well, shit."

You grinned. "Yep. Welcome to your political era, Mr. Barnes."

Bucky let out a dry chuckle, but then his eyes narrowed at you playfully. “You’re really into all this fan stuff, huh?”

You shrugged innocently. “I mean… maybe a little.”

His smirk deepened. “So tell me—this thirst thread about my hands. What do you think?”

Your heart skipped a beat. He was watching you now with a lazy kind of curiosity, but there was something else there too—a flicker of amusement, of challenge.

You glanced down at his hands. Big, strong, veined, one flesh and one metal, both equally capable of destruction and tenderness. You bit your lip, lifting them in your own, tracing your fingers along his knuckles.

“I think…” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his left palm. “They’re perfect.”

Bucky stilled, his expression unreadable.

You kissed his metal hand too, letting your lips linger. You could still taste yourself on his fingers from earlier in the morning. "Doesn't matter what the internet thinks. This is what matters."

His throat bobbed, his fingers tightening slightly around yours. And then, in a low voice, he murmured, "I don’t even care what they think. I only care what you think."

Your chest swelled at that, warmth blooming deep inside you.

And as Bucky pulled you closer, brushing a soft kiss against your forehead, you knew that no matter what the world said, no matter how many people screamed for him to be their hero—he was yours first.

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The ride to the warehouse was blessedly quiet. No phones buzzing, no trending Twitter threads, no people in the streets screaming about how Bucky Barnes should run for president or how they would happily let him break their spine. Just the low hum of the car’s engine and the sound of Bucky tapping his fingers against the window.

Which, of course, was ruined the second he stepped inside the warehouse.

"Ah, there he is!" Joaquin Torres greeted, arms wide, grinning like a damn fool. "The man, the myth, the national treasure—"

"—Shut up," Bucky groaned immediately, rubbing a hand down his face.

Sam Wilson, sitting at a makeshift table, merely smirked. "Oh, c’mon, Barnes. You gotta admit—this is hilarious."

Bucky shot him a glare. "Nothing about this is hilarious.”

"Not even the thirst edits?" Joaquin teased, biting back a grin. "Dude, I think my personal favorite was the one where they looped you rolling up your sleeves, slow-motion, with some sultry jazz playing."

Sam nodded sagely. "Mm. I saw that one. That one was a masterpiece."

Bucky groaned again, turning on his heel like he was about to walk right back out.

Sam Wilson smirked from where he sat at the table, sipping coffee. "Oh yeah, it’s bad, man. You’re everywhere."

Bucky exhaled sharply. "Jesus Christ."

Joaquin grinned. "Seriously, people love you. Like, obsessively love you. It’s insane. They’ve made a hundred different fancams. Some people are calling you ‘White Wolf Daddy,’ which, uh… I have many questions about—"

Bucky groaned. "Nope. Not listening."

Sam leaned back, clearly delighted. "Oh, I get it, though. The broody, emotionally complex war hero? The metal arm? You’re like catnip to the internet."

Joaquin nodded. "Yeah, it makes sense—" Then he deflated, crossing his arms. "—But also, like… where’s my fan edits?"

Bucky blinked. "What?"

Joaquin gestured to himself. "I mean, come on! I’m charming, I’m good-looking, I’m a pilot! Why is no one making me into a TikTok thirst trap?"

Bucky stared. "That’s your problem with all of this?"

Joaquin huffed. "I’m just saying, I thought I had a presence. A little main character energy."

Sam patted his shoulder, mock-sympathetic. "Maybe you gotta brood more, man. Get yourself a tragic backstory."

Joaquin scoffed. "Yeah, no thanks. Guess I’ll just suffer in obscurity."

Bucky turned to Sam. "Is this what it was like when you took up the shield?"

Sam shrugged. "Oh yeah. People lost their minds. I got whole-ass documentaries made about me. There’s Captain America edits with me landing heroically and looking hot in slow motion. They even got a dramatic voiceover saying, ‘A symbol reborn.’"

Bucky frowned. "That’s ridiculous."

Sam grinned. "You say that now, but wait till they make your ‘symbol reborn’ edit."

Joaquin smirked. "They’ll probably use that clip from the interview last night. The way you declared your love all heroic-like? They ate that up."

Bucky rubbed his face. "I don’t want an edit."

Sam just smirked knowingly. "Too bad, buddy. You’re trending worldwide."

"Wait, wait, wait—" Joaquin laughed, reaching for his phone. "You haven’t even seen the best edit yet!"

"Not interested," Bucky said firmly.

"Are you sure?" Joaquin wiggled his eyebrows. "Because there’s an entire thread dedicated to the veins in your hands."

Bucky froze mid-step, remembering your conversation back at the safe house. He was unfortunately already too aware of this thirst thread. 

Sam howled with laughter, slapping the table. "Oh, hell, I didn’t even see that one!"

Joaquin smirked. "Here, let me read you a sample—"

"Do not read me a sample," Bucky said through gritted teeth.

Joaquin cleared his throat dramatically. "‘Bucky Barnes could crush my skull between those massive hands and I’d die happy.’"

Sam wheezed.

Bucky let out a long, suffering exhale. "I hate everything about this."

"‘If Bucky Barnes ever so much as flexes a finger in my direction, I’m folding like a cheap lawn chair.’"

Bucky turned to Sam in horror. "How do you people live on the internet?"

Sam was cackling. "Oh, man. This is better than I ever could’ve imagined."

Joaquin grinned. "Oh, it gets better. Did you see the fancams of you and the boss lady?"

Bucky’s brows furrowed. "The what?"

Sam raised a brow, intrigued. "Wait. People are making edits of them together?"

Joaquin nodded. "Oh yeah. Whole-ass montages of them looking at each other, walking side by side, her laughing at his jokes—set to, like, Lana Del Rey or some emotional indie song."

Bucky stared. “…I saw one movie about us.”

“Why are you calling them movies, man?” Sam rolled his eyes. “You’re actin’ like it’s still the 40s.”

“To be fair," Joaquin interjected. “If I may say so, it is some top-tier cinema."

Bucky shook his head in exasperation, a deep frown set in his lips. "Jesus."

Sam clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Face it, Barnes. You’re America’s Sweetheart now."

Bucky scoffed. "I am absolutely not."

Joaquin shrugged. "Tell that to the millions of people who want you to step on them."

"Enough!" Bucky groaned, throwing his hands up. "Can we get to actual business now?"

Sam smirked but leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, yeah. Alright, we’ll stop bullying you—for now."

Bucky sighed, crossing his arms as he got back on track. "So, what’s the update with Ross?"

Joaquin sobered up. "Bruce is in."

Bucky's expression hardened, nodding. "Good. And the serum?"

"Banner’s already working on it," Sam confirmed. "Trying to crack the formula Hydra was using to keep Ross in check. He’s optimistic, but it’s gonna take time."

Bucky rubbed his jaw. "Hydra’s not gonna give him that time. They’ve got Ross by the throat."

Sam exhaled, nodding. "That’s why we need a backup plan. If Hydra catches wind of this, they’re gonna pull the rug out from under Ross before we can get to him."

Bucky tapped his fingers on the table. "Then we make sure they don’t catch wind."

Joaquin tilted his head. "You suggesting we work quietly? Because, uh… no offense, but you’re not exactly ‘low profile’ anymore."

Bucky groaned. "Don’t remind me."

Sam smirked. "You mean the public figure Bucky Barnes?"

Joaquin grinned. "The internet’s boyfriend Bucky Barnes?"

"I will kill both of you."

Joaquin grinned. "Yeah, yeah. Okay, fine, serious faces now."

Bucky rolled his eyes but refocused. "Bottom line—Ross needs the serum, and he needs it before Hydra pulls the plug. We keep things quiet, and we make sure Hydra doesn't see us coming."

Sam nodded, pushing a file toward him. "Then let’s get to work."

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Bucky had left for the warehouse hours ago, and you were trying your best to be productive in his office. Trying being the key word. Because every time you opened your laptop to work, you got distracted by the sheer volume of insanity on the internet.

Your phone buzzed endlessly with notifications—tweets, fan edits, articles analyzing Bucky’s Late Late Show appearance. There was a meme of his serious face captioned "The first Avenger to make me feel safe AND unsafe."Another showed a photo of his hands, veins prominent, with the caption "Bucky Barnes could rearrange my organs and I'd thank him."

You could not show him that one.

You were still scrolling—laughing, slightly overwhelmed—when the office door opened.

“Wow,” came a smooth, amused voice. “Didn’t think I’d find the future First Lady scrolling through thirst tweets.”

Your head snapped up.

The man leaning against the doorway looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp cheekbones and an easy, practiced smirk. His navy-blue suit was tailored within an inch of its life, crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to sell the charming, but approachable act.

He stepped inside, extending a hand. “Ethan Holloway. Political strategist.”

You shook it, still slightly thrown. “I—uh. Hi?”

His grip was firm, fingers just grazing the inside of your wrist as he held your hand a second too long. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Ethan said smoothly. “Most of it from the internet. You and Bucky are quite the phenomenon.”

You pulled your hand back. “You’re Tara’s replacement?”

“In a way.” He smirked. “Tara handled PR. I handle power.”

You raised a brow. “That sounds… ominous.”

Ethan chuckled. “Nothing sinister, I promise. I just know how to take a moment and turn it into a movement.” He gestured toward your phone. “Bucky Barnes is trending worldwide. The country loves him. If he plays this right, he could go from reluctant hero to leader of the free world.”

You leaned back, skeptical. “And you think Bucky wants that?”

Ethan tilted his head, watching you carefully. “Not yet. But he will.”

Something about the certainty in his voice sent a ripple of unease through you.

Still, you had to admit—he made a compelling case.

Ethan stepped closer, hands in his pockets, a flicker of amusement in his sharp blue eyes. “I’m here to help. To make sure Bucky—and you—navigate this world without getting swallowed by it.” His voice dipped slightly. “A political powerhouse couple like you two? That kind of influence doesn’t just happen. It’s cultivated.”

You hesitated.

Ethan was charismatic, intelligent, and undeniably… intriguing.

But something in your gut twisted.

Bucky wouldn’t like this.

Still, maybe it was worth a conversation. Ethan was making valid points. 

“Why don’t you come to dinner tonight?” you suggested carefully. “You, me, and Bucky. We can talk about this properly.”

Ethan’s smirk deepened. “Sounds perfect.”

For some reason, you weren’t sure it was.

The second Ethan left, you texted Yelena.

You: Meet me at Bucky’s office. Bring your scary assassin training skills.

Yelena: Oh?? We finally embracing our inner Black Widow??

You: I just… want to be able to hold my own.

Yelena: On my way, future assassin.

Twenty minutes later, Yelena arrived, looking positively gleeful. She tossed you a pair of gloves. “Okay, first thing’s first—how bad are you?”

You hesitated. “I can… throw a decent punch?”

Yelena grinned, rolling her shoulders like she was preparing to obliterate you. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

She guided you to the mats, tilting her head appraisingly. “Alright, first lesson—defense. Because let’s be honest, most people could probably throw you like a football.”

You scowled. “I’m— huh?”

Before you could finish, Yelena grabbed your wrist and flipped you onto your back.

The impact knocked the breath out of you.

You wheezed. “What the hell—”

Yelena grinned. “See? Football.”

You groaned. “I hate you.”

“Good,” Yelena said cheerfully. “That means you’re ready for lesson two.”

The next twenty minutes were an onslaught. Yelena had zero chill. Every time you thought you were getting something, she corrected you—by flipping you on your ass.

Your ribs ached. Your pride was obliterated.

Finally, you flopped onto your back, breathless. “This is inhumane.”

Yelena crouched beside you, smirking. “Oh, we’re just getting started.”

You groaned, throwing an arm over your face. “I don’t get how you and Bucky do this for fun.”

Yelena snorted. “Oh, trust me. The way Bucky looks at you? He’d die if he saw you learning this.”

You stiffened.

Yelena narrowed her eyes, amused. “Wait a second—you really didn’t tell him?”

You swallowed. “…No?”

Yelena let out a full-on cackle. “You sneaky little thing.”

You winced. “He just… worries. And I don’t want him to feel like he has to protect me all the time.”

Yelena hummed, considering. “I get it. But you know he’s going to lose his mind when he finds out.”

You sighed. “That’s a future-me problem.”

Yelena grinned. “Future-you is screwed.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can we please just keep going?”

Yelena chuckled. “Alright, tiny assassin. Let’s see if you can block this time.”

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You couldn’t help but feel the tension in the air as Ethan flashed his trademark smile at you. His eyes lingered just a little too long as he held the door open for you to walk into the upscale restaurant, and you couldn’t shake the sense that tonight was going to get more complicated than you had originally planned.

Bucky was close behind, his presence as comforting as it was intimidating. You could tell he was on edge, the way he shifted from foot to foot like he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the whole "political dinner" situation. Ethan, however, seemed perfectly at home, his easy confidence a stark contrast to Bucky’s quiet intensity.

The waiter led the three of you to a private corner booth, and you sat down, Bucky sliding in beside you. Ethan, of course, took the seat closest to you, his knee almost brushing against yours as he settled into his chair.

“Nice place,” Ethan said, flashing you a smile that was almost too polished, too smooth. “But I think the view could be a little better if we moved things outside. Maybe somewhere more... private.”

Bucky immediately stiffened beside you, his hand subtly shifting closer to your thigh. You felt the heat of his palm even before he rested it there, his fingers tightening slightly in a possessive grip.

“You’re going to love this place,” you said, trying to steer the conversation back to safe ground. “They do a great steak here. You’re not going to want to miss it.”

Ethan chuckled, his voice low and silky as he leaned a little closer. “A great steak, huh? I can’t say no to that. But I’d be more interested in what you think is good... personally.” He raised an eyebrow, his gaze never leaving yours.

You forced a smile, trying to keep the conversation light. “I’m sure we’ll find something we both like.”

But Ethan wasn’t backing down. He leaned even closer, his hand reaching toward his wine glass but clearly brushing against yours on purpose. “I think I could get used to these dinners. Nice company, nice food... a great view.” His voice dropped to a teasing whisper, and his gaze dropped to your chest. “If you’re into that sort of thing.”

You felt the heat rush to your cheeks, but you quickly tried to deflect, glancing over at Bucky, who was watching the entire exchange with narrowed eyes.

“You know, Ethan, it’s funny,” you said, trying to turn the conversation in a more neutral direction. “I’m surprised someone like you would want to work with Bucky on his campaign. I figured someone like you would be—” You paused, trying to think of the right word. “—more of a... flashy guy. A real showman.”

Ethan smirked, clearly enjoying the banter. “I don’t need the spotlight, sweetheart. I’ve got enough talent to make the spotlight come to me.” His gaze lingered a moment longer than necessary, and you could see the flirtation in his eyes.

“Right,” you said with a playful grin, trying to change the subject again. “So, what’s it like being Tara’s replacement?”

Ethan leaned back in his chair, his hands folding across his chest, looking entirely too comfortable. “Tara was fine, but she didn’t have the right... vision for what Bucky needs. I’ve got the experience to help him make a real run for the top.” He shot Bucky a look that was almost smug. “I don’t think anyone can argue that ‘The Winter Soldier’ has a lot of untapped potential.”

Bucky tensed next to you, his grip tightening on your thigh, and you shot him a quick glance. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel the possessiveness radiating off him, making your heart race.

Ethan caught the shift in Bucky’s mood but didn’t back down. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of edits online of you, Bucky,” Ethan continued, clearly baiting him. “A lot of... winter soldier fantasies going around. Pretty wild stuff. People can’t get enough of the ‘bad boy’ image. It’s got them in a frenzy.”

You shot a glance at Bucky, and his jaw clenched at the mention of his old moniker. You knew he hated it, hated being reminded of the past that still haunted him. His fingers squeezed your thigh again, a possessive gesture that made your pulse quicken.

“What’s that about?” you asked, trying to keep things light while also shifting the focus back to Ethan. “The whole ‘Winter Soldier’ thing. You really think people want to see Bucky as some kind of... monster?”

Ethan laughed, but there was something teasing in his tone. “You know how the internet works, don’t you? People want the mystery, the dark edge. And Bucky’s got it. Doesn’t he?” His gaze lingered on you, almost challenging, as though daring you to contradict him.

You smiled, trying to deflect, and turned to the Congressman. “What do you think about the fan stuff, baby?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, and for a split second, you saw something flash in his gaze—something a little darker, a little more possessive. But his lips curled into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I don’t care about that stuff,” he said coolly. “All I care about is you.” He squeezed your thigh again, and you couldn’t ignore the heat that radiated from him.

Ethan raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Is that so?” He leaned forward again, his tone dropping lower. “I’m sure Bucky’s got plenty of fans, but I don’t see anyone but you right now. Seems like he’s pretty focused on you, sweetheart.”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat as Ethan’s words hit a nerve. Bucky’s possessiveness was palpable, and the way Ethan was now playing up the tension only made things worse.

Bucky, sensing the shift, moved his hand from your thigh to your waist, pulling you closer as if to stake his claim. He shot Ethan a look that was hard to miss, the warning clear. “Careful, man,” Bucky said lowly, his voice a mix of calm and barely-contained tension. “You’re getting a little too comfortable.”

Ethan didn’t back down, his smile never faltering. “Hey, I’m just saying—there’s no shame in being a little bit possessive. But if you’re worried, Bucky, you’re not going to lose her. You know, if that’s your concern.”

The way Ethan emphasized that made your skin prickle, and Bucky’s hand tightened around your waist, his fingers digging in almost painfully as he leaned closer to you.

“Ethan,” Bucky warned again, his voice a low growl. “Let’s stick to the conversation at hand, huh?”

Ethan shrugged, but the teasing glint in his eyes didn’t fade. “Of course. Just remember, Bucky, I’ve got no interest in taking anything from you. But I do like what I see. And I think she does, too.” He shot a look at you, then back at Bucky, his words laced with a challenge.

You were about to respond when you felt Bucky’s hand squeeze your waist again, his possessiveness clear. “We’re not done here, Ethan,” Bucky said through clenched teeth.

“Good,” Ethan grinned, flashing his perfect Veneers. He slid his business card your way. “Call me if you need anything.”

The political strategist stood up, chair scraping, and left the restuarant. 

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As you and Bucky arrived back at the safe house, the atmosphere between you two felt heavier than it had before. Bucky hadn’t said much during the drive, but you could feel the tension building with every passing second. He kept his gaze fixed on the road, his jaw clenched tightly, and his hands gripping the steering wheel like he was trying to hold himself back from something.

When you finally parked and walked through the front door, Bucky didn’t waste a second. He turned to face you, his blue eyes flashing with frustration.

“Why didn’t you tell me about him?” he growled, voice low and tight.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean? Ethan?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened. “Yeah. Ethan. The way he was looking at you, talking to you—he’s not some ‘helpful’ political strategist. You should have known better.”

You stepped forward, trying to calm him down. “Bucky, I’m fine. I’m just trying to help you, that’s my job, isn’t it? He was just being polite. And besides, I had no idea he was going to be so... forward.”

Bucky’s fists clenched at his sides, but then he let out a heavy sigh. “It’s not just that,” he admitted, his voice softer now, but there was an edge to it. “It’s how he kept calling me ‘The Winter Soldier,’ like he’s trying to make me some kind of myth, some weapon that’s not even human.”

You crossed your arms, a slight frown on your face. “He was just trying to get under your skin. You know how people talk about you. The whole Winter Soldier thing is part of your past, Bucky. But that doesn’t define you anymore. You’re so much more than that.”

He seemed to relax a little, but his possessiveness hadn’t faded. “I don’t care what he thinks,” he muttered. “It’s you I care about. It’s you I’m worried about.”

You stepped closer to him, your heart swelling at his words. “You know I’m not going anywhere, right? I’m with you, Bucky. Always.”

He sighed, reaching out to cup your face with his hand, his thumb brushing over your skin gently. “I just... I don’t want anyone getting too close to you. Especially not him.” His voice was a low murmur, filled with frustration and a touch of fear.

Before you could respond, he pulled you into his arms, his lips crashing onto yours with an intensity that took your breath away. The kiss was rough, filled with raw emotion, and you felt the tension in his body as he held you close, his grip on your waist tight and possessive.

You kissed him back eagerly, feeling the electricity between you both. As his hands moved from your waist to your back, pulling you even closer, you could tell that he was trying to let go of whatever had been bothering him. His kiss softened, but the intensity remained.

Finally, he pulled away, his forehead resting against yours. “I’m sorry. I just... I don’t like him being around you. I can’t help it.”

You smiled softly, your hands finding their way to his chest. “Bucky, I’m yours. There’s no competition.”

He chuckled darkly, a small, almost pained smile on his lips. “I’m not sure I believe you when you say that. But I’ll try.”

You placed a kiss on his lips again, this time gentler. “You don’t have to try so hard, you know. I’m here with you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky’s grip on you loosened slightly, but he didn’t let you go. “Good,” he murmured, pulling you even closer again, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of you being out of his reach. “I don’t think I could handle it if you did.”

You smiled against his lips, feeling the warmth of his embrace, the quiet reassurance in his touch. Despite the tension earlier, the overwhelming feeling now was love—his fierce, unwavering love for you. And you were right where you wanted to be.

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Taglist: @imaginecrushes @maplepepperoni @sleepysongbirdsings @sunday-bug @bunnyfella @lktunes12-blog @bellamoret @mrsnikstan @greatenthusiasttidalwave @pancake-05 @theylovethesky @avengersfan25 @nydubs @abitofblues @ferretferretferret @helen-2003 @notreallythatlost @opheliagreenaway @flowerluvr @calzone-d @lil-riddle-kiddle @nameless-ken @ladyvenera @sky-full-0f-fl0wers @josis-teacup

[writeriguess]

this is like really specific but can you do eijiro from mha x fem reader and theyre bsfs but theyre like rly tight and everyone ships them and one night theyre in the common room and r super tired and end up deciding to stay there and cuddle tg (or something. idrk how it would work but i wanna cuddle w eiji..) and then like maybe they get caught at the end? idk writers freedom. thank you!!

Warmth in the Common Room

The common room was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional crackle from the fireplace. It was late—way too late—but you and Eijiro had lost track of time, as you always did when it was just the two of you.

"Alright, alright," you mumbled through a yawn, stretching your arms over your head before flopping dramatically onto the couch. "I'm calling it. I’m officially dead."

Eijiro laughed, his voice warm and rich. "Nah, c'mon, you got more in you than that," he teased, nudging your leg with his foot as he sat cross-legged on the floor in front of you. His red hair was a little messy, and his usual energy had dimmed into something softer, sleepier.

You groaned. "Nope. Gone. Brain melted. I am but a shell of a person."

He grinned, resting his arms on the coffee table. "That’s tragic. Guess I'll have to carry you to bed."

You cracked an eye open. "You would do that."

"Duh," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're my best friend. Plus, you're tiny. Barely even a workout."

You gasped in mock offense. "Excuse me! I am a perfectly average height."

"Yeah, if average means short."

You flicked a pillow at him, which he caught with ease, laughing. But the movement drained what little energy you had left, and with another sigh, you curled onto your side, pressing your cheek against the couch cushion.

It was peaceful like this. The kind of quiet that only existed when it was just the two of you. It wasn't the first time you'd stayed up talking about everything and nothing, but tonight, exhaustion was settling deep in your bones, and you didn’t have it in you to move.

Eijiro let out a long sigh, tilting his head back against the couch. "Man, I'm beat."

"Then sit down," you mumbled, patting the empty space next to you.

He hesitated for a second before shifting up onto the couch, sitting beside you. His warmth radiated through the fabric of his sweatpants, and something about it made you want to burrow closer.

Your eyes fluttered shut. "Mm. You're comfy."

Eijiro chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "You’re just saying that ‘cause you're half asleep."

"Am not," you grumbled. "You're all warm and solid and—" A yawn cut off your words, and you tucked your arms closer to yourself.

A beat of silence passed before he murmured, "You wanna, uh, I dunno… just stay here?"

Your brain was too sluggish to process what he was actually asking. "Here?"

"Yeah. Just for a bit. I mean, if you wanna crash, I could stay, too. Keep you company."

Your lips curved in a lazy smile. "That’s cute, Eiji."

He groaned, face turning pink. "Forget it. I'm gonna—"

You grabbed his wrist before he could move. "No, no, I wanna. Stay." You blinked up at him, your fingers wrapped loosely around his. "Stay?"

His eyes softened, the hesitance melting away. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Okay."

You scooted over, making space for him to lay down next to you. There wasn’t much room, so you ended up pressed close, his arm tucked beneath your head like a pillow. The heat of his body seeped into yours, his slow, steady breaths lulling you into something close to sleep.

His voice was barely a whisper. "You good?"

You hummed in response, shifting just enough to rest your forehead against his collarbone. His heart thumped steadily beneath your cheek.

Eijiro let out a slow exhale. "Everyone's gonna lose their minds if they see us like this."

You grinned sleepily. "Let 'em."

For a while, neither of you spoke. You just existed, wrapped up in warmth and exhaustion, his fingertips tracing absentminded circles against your back. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, or maybe it was just him, but you felt safer like this than you had in a long time.

You were half-asleep when you heard it.

A stifled gasp.

Then a whisper—loud enough to break through the quiet:

"I knew it!"

Your eyes snapped open. Standing in the doorway, eyes wide and victorious, was Mina.

Behind her, Kaminari had his hands clapped over his mouth to contain his laughter, and Sero was nudging Bakugo—who looked so unbelievably done with all of this—like he'd just witnessed the biggest scandal of the year.

Eijiro groaned, burying his face against your hair. "Oh, come on."

Mina grinned like she’d just won the lottery. "This is the best day of my life."

You sighed, resigning yourself to your fate. You knew this would happen eventually.

And honestly?

It was worth it.

[222col]

now what abt bimbo!reader x riff and she had his gun 😛😛😛

bimbo!reader x riff lorton

summary: no playing around with the gun, only riff's allowed to do that

cw .ᐟ nsfw, gunplay

꒰ notes ꒱ third blurb about gunplay? im more than okay with this 🙂‍↕️

arms around each others bodies, riff's too distracted by his hands on your skin to notice your movements. too caught up in the moment to acknowledge the weight change when you snatch the piece of metal from his waistband. his lips trail down your neck, leaving wet kisses in his wake.

"what d'ya even need this for anyway?" you mumble, raising the gun up to look over it in your hands. riff's lips stay kissing at your skin, inhaling the smell of your sweet perfume, not bothering to lift his head up to respond. "need what, dollface?"

"pow, pow!" you giggle, putting the gun out in front of you. now that, that gets his attention. his head snaps up, immediately snatching the gun from your grip, lifting it up over your head, out of your reach.

"s'not a fuckin' toy." he warns, gripping your cheeks with his free hand. watching the curve of your brows as you pout up to him, how your shoulders slump in defiance. "you hear me?" riff continues, his voice still rough.

a small nod of your head, not that you fully agreed with him. you'd watched him and the jets mess around with the thing more times than you could count.

"i'm serious." he mutters, squeezing your cheeks further. his fingers digging into the bones of your face, his grip almost bruising.

you couldn't deny he didn't look downright sexy in this moment. the gun in his hand, jaw clenched, gaze harsh in a way you'd never seen directed at you before. trying so hard to listen to his words, but you can't help the whimper that escapes you as he shakes you by the grip on your face.

"are ya listening?" no. definitely not. too busy clenching your thighs to acknowledge the telling off he was giving you.

"you're never to touch this, ever again." he orders, bringing the gun down from the air closer to your vision. watching the veins in his hands as he holds the grip of the gun, how his bicep tenses from the way in which he's holding it up to your vision. all but drooling at the sight before you.

it's only when your eyes meet his again that he realises the thoughts running through your mind. how your eyes have darkened slightly. a smirk ghosts over his features at the realisation. "am i makin' ya all hot an' bothered, pretty girl?"

a shy whimper from you hits his ears in response to his words. riff chuckles at the noise, an evil, taunting chuckle as his grip loosens on your face.

"you don't wanna tell me, huh?" he teases, as his hand trails down the side your body, running his fingers all the way down to your knee, before pushing up your skirt on his way back up.

"don't gotta tell me," he mumbles, his lips close to your ear as his fingers slip under your panties. running through your slick folds, letting your wetness coat his fingers. "i can feel it, darlin'."

his fingers stay beneath your panties, drawing lazy circles over your sensitive bud. his other hand, still holding the gun, comes up to rest on your shoulder. the piece of metal cold as it falls against the skin on your neck. riff barely notices the barrel aimed against your jaw, too busy watching the way your mouth has began to hang open from his touch.

breathy moans fill up the room, hands gripping at the side of the kitchen counter as riff's fingers begin to pick up pace. face and neck covered in sloppy open mouthed kisses, as riff's own breathing begins to grow heavy. panting against your skin, getting off to the sound of you.

his jeans growing tight, rutting his hips against your body for any form of friction. the cold metal still present against the side of your face. "so pretty f'me, doll," riff praises, rubbing circles on and around your clit as his lips suck a purple bruise into the skin beneath your ear.

"hnpph— riff, oh— oh my god," you whimper, clutching at the side of his neck, fingers grasping at the hairs you can reach.

"hm, gon' be a good girl for me?"

nodding profusely in response, jaw slack as moans fall freely. lips and tongues gliding over each others. gun pressed completely into your face, as riff holds you closer with the hand that's holding it. still barely conscious of the fact the gun separates his hand from caressing your cheek fully.

knees growing weak as the band in your stomach snaps, body almost buckling as the orgasm washes over you fully. feet barely able to keep yourself up as riff's name repeatedly leaves your lips.

pulling his hand from your underwear once your body has become to calm, lazy smirk plastered on his face looking over the flush on your cheeks. noticing the mark left from the gun pressed into your cheek, the slight imprint of the shape. only then realising how caught he'd become. running his hand over the lines left behind on your face, gently caressing your skin.

the gun is placed firmly in the waistband of his jeans once more, his eyes glued on you as he does. "don't touch that again."

"yes, sir." you bat your lashes, and riff all but growls in response, immediately hooking his hands under your thighs and hitching you up around his body. "atta girl."

© 222col. do not steal or repost my work without permission.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

exhibitionism

part IV

Pairing: SugarDaddy!Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're settling into something you don’t fully understand, but it feels too good to question—too intoxicating to resist. Ben’s world is bleeding into yours, shaping it, owning it. He gives, and you take, but you’re starting to realise that nothing he gives is without cost. Doesn't matter how much that drink was anyway.

Warnings: 18+!, Ben once again being his own warning, age gap, language, misogyny, drug consumption, smut (kissing, biting, marking, slapping, dirty talk, clitoral stimulation, overstim, forced orgasms, fingering, handjob, cunnilingus/oral, p in v, cum on face, throttling, rough sex, semi-public sex, somnophilia, sexsomnia, dub-con), mind games, manipulation, degradation, power imbalance, I may have missed some. (There's a bunch in this one, agh!)

Word Count: 6,697

A/N: Besties, when I tell you this took everything from me... I mean it wholeheartedly. Burnout has officially hit, and my brain feels like goddamn mush right now. I'm not even sure I proofread this properly smh. I'm not sure I'll get time to fully write the next instalment tomorrow because I've got a super busy workday, tons of appointments, but I will probably get partway started on it. Lil appearance from more of The Boys in this one, only brief mentions, but I like integrating them into this AU. Like a lil easter egg, teheh. <3 And the foreshadowing from Butcher at the end was the part I got most excited about, honestly. Cryptic motherfucker, always. The fic ain't called "exhibitionism" for nothing. 👀 You know the drill: if all the warnings listed above aren't evident yet, they will be. And please let me know what y'alls thoughts are. I am so grateful to each and every one of you for reading the utter sewage my brain creates. Signing off, until the next one. All the love.

Without further ado: EXHIBITIONISM

Power is not taken. It is given.

A glance across the bar. A drink set down without a word. A hand at the small of your back, guiding you somewhere you don’t belong.

It starts small—a single indulgence, a breathless yes.

Then, suddenly, you are on display. Draped over his lap, diamonds at your throat, whiskey on your lips. A possession. A prize. A thing to be seen.

Because men like him do not love. They own.

Morning crept in slow and golden, stretching lazy fingers of light through the blinds, spilling across the tangled sheets and the expanse of your bare skin.

The air smelled like him—cologne and sweat and sin—clinging to your body, to the silk of his pillows, sinking deep into your bones. You stirred, muscles aching in ways that made your stomach clench with something warm and satisfied, stretching like a cat before finally rolling out of bed.

The penthouse was quiet, except for the distant hum of the city far below. Your steps were soft against the cool marble as you padded into the kitchen, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from your eyes. That’s when you saw it—

A small note on the counter, scrawled in what you assumed was Butcher’s blunt handwriting, sitting beside a Plan B.

Ben’s smirk was already curling at the corner of his mouth when you turned to find him leaning against the counter, watching you with that lazy, knowing amusement. He pushed off with an easy roll of his shoulders, stepping into your space, patting your ass before grabbing a glass from the cupboard.

“Go on then,” he murmured, filling the glass with water and pressing it into your hands. “Take it.”

You scowled at him, but you swallowed the pill anyway, washing it down under his watchful gaze. He looked too damn pleased with himself, grinning as he pressed a slow kiss to your temple before ushering you towards the shower.

The water was steaming by the time you both stepped in, the morning unfurling in quiet touches, hands gliding over slick skin, fingers threading through hair, the press of lips at the nape of your neck. It was unhurried, indulgent, all the urgency of the night before tempered into something softer, something that felt dangerously close to domestic.

By the time you were dressed, Ben had already decided breakfast was happening at some ridiculous rooftop restaurant, the kind that overlooked the city, all glass and steel and expensive finishes. He ordered coffee and something hearty, sipping slow while you picked at fruit and yogurt, the conversation easy, teasing, laced with the occasional knowing glance that had heat curling in your stomach.

After breakfast, you met up with Butcher, who wasted no time pulling up photos of apartments closer to Ben’s building.

“This one,” Ben said, barely glancing at the others before nodding at the one with the small, covered balcony. The space was perfect—something about the idea of you sitting out in the rain, curled up with a book, had him making the decision in seconds.

Then it was back to his penthouse, back to tangled sheets and tangled limbs, the hours slipping by in a haze of heat and slick skin, moans swallowed by deep, open-mouthed kisses. He left you completely spent, fucked out and boneless, only pausing his grumbling long enough to drive you back to your apartment. The whole ride was a steady stream of muttered complaints about your neighbourhood, about how it was a goddamn miracle you hadn’t been mugged yet, about how he was getting you the fuck out of there.

“Class schedule.”

You blinked at him, still dazed, before rattling it off. He grunted, nodding. “I’ll send some people over when you get back tomorrow to start packin’ your shit.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he wasn’t done.

“You need any more textbooks?”

That did it. Your face softened, eyes going wide and warm, something fluttering in your chest that you couldn’t quite suppress.

Ben saw it. And he smirked. “Christ, look at you,” he drawled, laughing, shaking his head. “You didn’t make that face when I bought you a whole fuckin’ wardrobe, but mention some books and you’re about ready to cream yourself.”

You huffed, shoving at his chest, but he caught your wrist, yanking you in for one last kiss, deep and slow, like he was trying to swallow you whole.

The next morning, you fell into a rhythm. You sent him a picture of two outfits, and he picked the jeans and the blouse.

Monday was lectures, the familiar comfort of academia wrapping around you like a second skin. Literature, language, the hum of the NYU campus filling your lungs like fresh air. You read in a café, met up with Hughie from Language, and Frenchie and Kimiko from Lit for lunch, an easy camaraderie settling between you before you all went your separate ways.

When you got home, a team was already waiting, efficiently packing up your apartment, boxing up memories, folding your life into neat stacks ready to be moved.

Tuesday followed the same rhythm, though the day was punctuated with texts from Ben. Filthy. Teasing. Full of smug impatience.

Bet that professor of yours wouldn’t be able to finish his lecture if he knew what you let me do to you.

And—

You gotten yourself all wet thinking about me yet, baby?

By noon, he demanded nudes, and you had to send them from a bathroom stall between classes, biting your lip as you hit send, warmth flooding through you at the immediate, possessive response.

Wednesday, everything was packed and ready. Ben showed up in the morning to meet your landlord, wrapping up the lease without a second glance, barely disguising his disgust at the place. His presence filled the almost-empty apartment, making it seem even smaller, even less yours.

Thursday, you moved.

The new apartment was waiting, the transition seamless, orchestrated by Ben’s efficient, silent influence. And standing there, at the front door, you realised something—you weren’t just moving apartments. You were moving into something entirely new.

And that was fucking daunting.

You hesitated in the doorway, heart thudding against your ribs, fingers curling into your palms. The apartment was perfect—too perfect. Light poured in through the massive windows, catching on soft pastels and warm wood, the carefully curated balance of elegance and comfort. It felt like you in a way that your old apartment never had.

And that was the part that terrified you.

Your breath came slow and uneven as you stepped inside, eyes scanning over the furniture, your furniture—only better.

Your little cream love seat and vintage armchair were there, the pastel pillows and soft throws draped just as you liked them—but there was a new sofa too. Big. Plush.

But the new dining table caught your attention—matching chairs, sleek but cozy, nothing like the old mismatched ones you’d made do with.

And then there was the bookshelf. Massive. Elegant. Full. Every book of yours finally had a home, instead of being stacked in chaotic, unstable towers on the floor.

“Jesus,” you breathed, barely above a whisper, stepping deeper inside.

Behind you, Ben leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, smug as all fuck, watching you take it in.

“Not bad, huh?”

You turned to glare at him, but it didn’t hold any heat. He knew what he’d done. Knew exactly how overwhelming this was for you. His lips curled, just barely, and he straightened, moving inside with slow, predatory steps, following your path through the space like a shadow.

The kitchen was next—a fucking upgrade. Marble counters, brass fixtures, farmhouse sink, all sleek and way too fucking nice for someone like you. Your fingers drifted along the counter’s cool surface, trying to ground yourself, but Ben’s heat was already at your back, pressing in close.

He exhaled against your ear. “Y’gonna stare at ‘em all day or let me fuck you against ‘em?”

You sucked in a sharp breath, shaking your head, moving away before you let yourself melt. The bathroom was next, and it sealed your fate.

A clawfoot tub. Deep, luxurious, like something out of a fucking dream.

Your stomach twisted. You turned to face him, voice uneven. “Ben, I—”

But he was already grinning, leaning against the doorframe like he was enjoying the hell out of this.

“Keep goin’, sweetheart,” he drawled, gesturing lazily. “Ain’t even seen the best part yet.”

Your jaw clenched, but your feet carried you forward anyway. The bedroom felt like stepping into a dreamscape. The silk bedding, pastel and delicate, the new wardrobe and dresser already stocked with your things. He’d kept your lightwood bed, but everything else was elevated, just enough to make it clear that this was different.

Your throat felt tight. Too much. Too fucking much.

The last thing left was the balcony.

And the second you stepped outside, you broke.

The hanging chair, the plants, the fairy lights, the small bistro table—all of it settled into you like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. The soft scent of flowers mixed with the distant city air, the quiet promise of solitude. The moment you took it in, really took it in, you whipped around and smashed your lips to his.

Ben caught you instantly, groaning into your mouth, gripping you like he’d been waiting for you to crack. Your fingers dug into his shirt, his arms cinched tight around your waist, his heat overwhelming every last thought in your head.

When you finally broke away, your breath was ragged. “I can’t—” You swallowed, chest heaving. “I can’t let you pay for this. How much even is this place?”

Ben just fucking laughed.

One hand gripped your jaw, tilting your face up so you had to look at him, so smug you wanted to slap him and fuck him at the same time.

“Doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” he murmured, kissing along your jaw, nipping at your neck. “Chump change, sweetheart.”

You gasped as his teeth scraped your pulse, your hands clutching at his biceps as he backed you into the railing, pressing you firmly against the cool metal.

“Now,” he continued, voice a low, dangerous purr, “Let’s go christen every fuckin’ room.”

You barely had time to breathe before he was hauling you inside, dragging you straight to the living room, lips crashing into yours, devouring you like he was starving. Your back hit the love seat, his hands everywhere, pulling at your clothes. Tugging. Gripping. Taking.

Then it was the kitchen. He shoved you up against the marble counters, hands groping under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the cool stone. His mouth was hot and demanding, moving down your throat, his hands already slipping under your clothes, pushing them aside.

He kissed you in the bathroom, bent you over the sink, his breath ragged against your ear as he whispered, “Gonna wreck you against every fuckin’ surface in this place, doll.”

Then it was the bedroom, your back hitting silk sheets, his weight pressing you deep into the mattress, hips grinding down, lips bruising against yours, murmuring filthy things about ruining these nice new sheets with you.

By the time he dragged you back out to the balcony, sweat-slick and completely spent, your head was spinning. The apartment smelled like heat and sex and him.

Ben was grinning, tucking his face into your neck, voice still wrecked from hours of claiming you.

“There,” he murmured, pressing one last possessive kiss to your throat. “Now it smells like home.”

The night air was crisp against your sweat-slick skin, the city stretching out below in endless neon veins, blinking and alive, thrumming beneath your feet like a pulse.

The scent of him clung to you—smoke and sweat, sex and heat—woven into your very being. You stood on the balcony, caught in the quiet aftermath, his body flush against yours, heat radiating from every point of contact between you.

Ben exhaled hard, fingers flexing on your waist before he reached for his pack of cigarettes, sliding one between his teeth before offering you the pack. He didn’t say anything, just held it out like it was expected, like it was second nature to include you in his vices now.

You hesitated for a second, then plucked one free. He smirked around the cigarette between his lips, flicking his lighter open with one smooth movement. The flame caught in his eyes, sharp and knowing, and he let it burn just long enough to make you wait before lighting yours too.

The first drag filled your lungs, burning hot, the nicotine grounding you in the moment. You exhaled slow, watching the smoke curl into the night air before swallowing hard.

“This is… a lot.” Your voice came quieter than you meant it to. “I feel bad letting you pay for all this.”

Ben scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned back against the railing, one arm still looped around your waist, keeping you close.

“Already told you, sweetheart,” he muttered around his cigarette, voice rough and amused. “It’s chump change.”

You frowned, taking another slow drag before exhaling through your nose. “It’s just… it’s a bit daunting, you know?” You glanced up at him, then back out at the skyline. “I only met you six nights ago, and now I live in a whole new place.”

Ben said nothing, just watched you with that unreadable expression, eyes dark and steady, cigarette smouldering between his fingers.

You sighed, your free hand curling against his chest, absently tracing the fabric of his shirt. “I guess I’m just worried it won’t work out, and then I’ll be out on my ass with no safety net.” You huffed a humourless laugh, shaking your head.

“I don’t wanna have to crawl back to my parents and tell them they were right.” Your jaw tensed, voice sharpening. “Not that I fucking would.”

Ben cut you off before you could spiral further.

“You’re never gonna be out on your ass again.”

The way he said it—flat. Firm. Absolute—made something in your stomach twist.

You turned your head, brows drawing together. “Ben?”

He exhaled smoke, slow and steady, his free hand dragging over your hip, slipping beneath your shirt to spread wide against your bare skin. He wasn’t looking at you, not at first, just watching the city lights like he was making a decision in real-time. Then, finally, he turned his head, gaze locking onto yours with a certainty that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You haven’t even known me a week,” you murmured, searching his face. “How do you know you’re not gonna find some prettier, better girl and wanna turf me out?”

The look he gave you—sharp, incredulous, disgusted like you’d said something offensive—had your stomach flipping.

“There ain’t a fuckin’ prettier girl,” he said, making a face, like the very suggestion was absurd. “And there sure as fuck ain’t a better one.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He shifted, cigarette dangling from his lips as his hand on your waist tightened, his voice dipping into something low, possessive, dangerous.

“You’re fuckin’ everything I’ve been lookin' for.” His fingers flexed, grip unrelenting, pulling you closer. “Smart, funny, fuckin’ gorgeous.” His lips curled around the words, dragging them out like he wanted to carve them into your skin.

“You fuck like a whore and take everythin' I give you—” His breath ghosted hot against your jaw as he leaned in. “—and still look up at me like you want more.”

Your pulse roared.

Ben smirked, watching the way your body reacted to his words, the way your thighs pressed together just slightly, how your fingers tightened around your cigarette.

He inhaled deeply, exhaled slow, smoke swirling around both of you before he nudged your chin up with two fingers, gaze dark and unreadable.

“Finish your smoke,” he murmured, voice dropping into something lower, lazier, filthy with certainty. “Look at the pretty lights. And stop that girly little brain of yours from worryin' too much.”

You let out a breath—half a laugh, half surrender, shaking your head.

“You’re a dick,” you muttered, but the words held no real bite.

He grinned, smug and knowing. “And you're a fuckin' pussy.”

You rolled your eyes, but leaned into him, letting your body mould against his, warmth seeping between you as the city sparkled below. The lights blinked in the distance, twinkling like something out of a dream, like something unreal, but his hand on your waist was solid, his breath against your temple real, grounding you in the moment.

You took another slow drag from your cigarette, exhaling against his throat, lips parting—

And fuck it.

You turned your head, caught his jaw, kissed him slow and deep, your hand curling into the collar of his shirt.

Ben groaned into your mouth, fingers digging into your waist, claiming, gripping, owning.

You let yourself melt into it, into him, into the feeling of standing there, high above the city, wrapped up in the most dangerous man you’d ever met.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe—just maybe—you’d landed exactly where you were supposed to be.

The night settled around you, thick and quiet, the kind of quiet that came with expensive insulation and the weight of being somewhere that finally felt safe. The apartment smelled like fresh sheets, lingering traces of sex, and the faint burn of nicotine from earlier. You were still reeling, still trying to make sense of it all—the space, the luxury, him—but Ben wasn’t giving you the time to overthink it.

You were curled up on the new couch, legs tucked beneath you, one of your pastel throws draped over your lap. Ben had his arm slung across the back of the sofa, casual, lazy, like he owned the place. Like he owned you.

And maybe he did. You just hadn’t figured it out yet.

His eyes tracked over you, slow, assessing, fingers idly rubbing at his knee. “What time you in class tomorrow?”

You blinked, pulling your thoughts back to the present. “Uh… first lecture’s at eight.”

Ben’s mouth curled, something smug and knowing glinting in his eyes. “Good. I’m stayin’ the night.”

You tilted your head at him, curious. “You are?”

“Yeah.” He stretched, then smirked, shrugging like it was already decided. “Don’t gotta be up ‘til five. Sleepin’ in, really.”

You exhaled a laugh, shaking your head. “That’s sleeping in?”

“For me, yeah.” He flicked his eyes back over to you, watching you shift in your seat, processing what it meant. That he was staying here. With you. Like this was his bed, his space, his routine to alter.

You pursed your lips, rolling the thought over in your head. “What do you do, exactly?”

Ben’s smirk twitched into something a little sharper, a little less amused. “Not important.”

It didn't really catch you off guard, he'd said the same thing when you'd asked before, but you were curious so you pressed. “It is important.”

That made him pause. His head tilted, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he was trying to decide if he should be irritated by that answer. “Oh yeah?”

You swallowed, curling your fingers into the blanket. “You said part of this… deal between us is that I look after you.” You shifted, looking at him pointedly. “That means I should know what you do. So I can help you unwind if you’re stressed. So you can talk to me about things.”

That made him laugh.

Low, throaty, dark amusement curling through his chest, rolling out like it tasted fucking sweet. His head tipped back against the couch, one hand dragging over his jaw as he exhaled.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head before glancing back at you, all teeth and smirking condescension. “You really are a sweet little thing, huh?”

Your jaw tensed, but you waited.

Ben shifted, stretching out a little more, taking his time. Making you wait for it.

“S’nothin' exciting,” he finally said, dragging the words out slow, like they weren’t worth rushing over. “Just run the family business.”

You frowned. “What’s your family’s business?”

He huffed a short, amused breath, then looked at you, dead serious. “I own America’s fuckin’ backbone.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

That earned you a smug, lazy grin.

Ben leaned in, voice dipping into that classic-asshole-dirty-talk tone, the kind that made heat settle low in your stomach, even when you wanted to roll your eyes.

“Steel, baby,” he muttered, voice rich, thick with that heavy arrogance. “My company builds the cities you fuckin’ live in. Highways, bridges, skyscrapers—if it stands in this country, odds are, it’s got my fuckin’ name on it.”

You stared at him, lips parting slightly. “You… run a steel company?”

Ben just smirked, watching you.

“Own it.” He let the words hang for a second, savouring the weight of them before adding, “Some of the biggest manufacturers in the country? They bend over and kiss my fuckin’ boots for a contract.”

Your stomach flipped.

Of course. Of fucking course. The power, the arrogance, the complete refusal to accept no for an answer? It all made sense.

“So,” you started, voice light, playful. “You’re a glorified construction worker?”

Ben let out a short, sharp laugh, eyes flashing with something predatory as he leaned in, bringing his mouth right against your ear.

“You keep runnin’ that smart little mouth,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin, “and I’ll show you exactly how hard I work, doll.”

A full-body shudder rolled through you.

Ben grinned, sitting back, completely unbothered, watching your reaction like it delighted him.

Your lips twitched, shaking your head as you let out a breath, looking away before you did something stupid like climb into his lap and beg him to prove it.

This man was going to fucking ruin you.

The first yawn slipped out before you could catch it, your body betraying you in the warm lull of the evening. You tried to stifle it behind your hand, blinking sluggishly, but Ben saw. Of course, he saw.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you with that lazy, predatory gaze, like he was waiting, tracking every little sign of fatigue settling in your limbs. Then, with no warning, he scooped you up like you weighed absolutely nothing, one strong arm locking under your thighs, the other bracing around your back.

A small yelp caught in your throat as your arms flew around his neck. “Ben—”

“C’mon,” he muttered, already striding toward the bedroom, completely unfazed. “Almost bedtime.”

You exhaled a laugh, already half-melting into him, the warmth of his body lulling you further into exhaustion. “You’re such a caveman.”

Ben huffed, the sound thick with amusement, but then his grip tightened slightly, and he dipped his head, voice dropping into that gravelly, smug rasp right against your ear.

“Yeah? Well, I need to get my beard wet first.”

Your breath hitched, heat flashing through your spine like a whip-crack.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You were sleepy, blushing, but that didn’t stop your thighs from pressing together, from your fingers clenching a little tighter in the fabric of his shirt. Because it didn’t matter how disgusting his mouth was—how filthy, how utterly depraved—you loved words. And he knew that.

The bastard smirked when he felt you squirm, his grip flexing possessively around your thigh, squeezing just enough to remind you who you belonged to.

You didn’t argue.

Didn’t protest when he dropped you onto the bed, didn’t say a word when he grabbed the waistband of your bottoms and peeled them off with zero ceremony, like they were a fucking obstacle. The heat in your face only deepened as he dragged you to the edge of the mattress, pulling your hips up so your ass was barely on the bed, your legs draped over his shoulders.

Then he sank to his knees.

And he got to work.

The first long, sloppy, groaning lap of his tongue had your back arching off the mattress. The second had your fingers clawing at the sheets, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. He was so fucking messy, open-mouthed and hungry, tongue and lips and teeth everywhere, greedy and filthy like he was eating the meal he’d been craving all damn day.

“Fuckin’ love this pussy,” he rasped against you, spit-slick and wrecked, his hands gripping your thighs so tight it ached. “So soft, so fuckin’ sweet—goddamn, baby, you’re just drippin’ for me.”

A shudder ripped through you, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. Your thighs twitched around his head, but he only growled, fingers digging in harder, keeping you wide open, keeping you at his mercy.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groaned, tongue dipping deep, the sound almost desperate, like he was losing his mind over it. “Could bury my face in this tight little cunt forever.”

Your hands scrambled for purchase, clenching in the sheets, in his hair, anywhere, because the way he was devouring you—

It was too much.

The obscene, wet, sucking sounds of his mouth, the deep vibrations of his groans, the sheer heat of his breath against your slick skin—it had your brain short-circuiting, had your stomach tightening, the pleasure cresting too fast, too sharp.

“Ben,” you gasped, barely coherent. “I—I—”

His eyes flicked up, dangerous, knowing.

“Oh, I know,” he muttered, all smug condescension, his fingers pressing harder into your thighs. “I know what’s about to happen, baby.”

You didn’t, though.

Not until it started building, something different, something new, something that had you gasping, panicking, thighs trying to snap shut.

“B-Ben, wait—”

Slap.

His palm cracked against your inner thigh, just enough to sting, just enough to make you jolt, pleasure cutting through the panic sharp and hot.

“Shut up.” He growled it against you, voice rough with pure fucking authority, and your body obeyed before your mind did, immediately unraveling under him. “Let it happen.”

Your breath hitched, vision whiting out as something broke inside you.

And then—

It happened.

A choked sob tore from your throat as your body gave out, as pleasure ripped through you so violently your hips jolted against his face, liquid heat gushing out of you, soaking his mouth, his beard, the sheets beneath you.

Ben groaned like a man unhinged, his fingers tightening bruises into your skin, holding you still as he licked you through it, fucked you through it, savouring every fucking drop.

“Fuck yeah, baby,” he rasped, completely ruined, his voice breaking into something wild. “That’s it—fuckin’ drench me—Jesus Christ, you’re so fuckin’ hot.”

You were shaking, whimpering, still trying to come down, still trying to understand what just happened.

Ben laughed, breathless and smug, so fucking pleased with himself. His hands finally eased, smoothing over your trembling thighs, gripping them possessively, reverently.

“Didn’t know you could do that, huh?” He muttered, voice hoarse, utterly wrecked.

You whimpered, shaking your head, mortified, trying to cover your face—

He didn’t fucking let you.

His fingers wrapped around your wrists, pinning them to the bed, his mouth dragging wet, open kisses along your thighs, up your stomach, up your ribs, crawling up your body like he wasn’t done with you yet.

“You are so fuckin’ perfect,” he muttered, voice thick with filth and praise, his weight pressing you into the mattress. “Gonna make you do that every goddamn night, baby—fuckin’ soaking for me.”

You whimpered, still trembling, still floating, but he just grinned, so goddamn smug, his teeth skimming your jaw.

“Now, go to sleep,” he murmured, nipping at your ear. “You’ve got an early class tomorrow, sweetheart.”

Ben’s hands were steady, careful, as he helped you scoot back properly onto the bed, smoothing his palms over your trembling thighs, gripping where he could, soaking up the aftermath of what he’d just done to you. You barely had the energy to move, limbs heavy and useless, your breath still uneven, skin flushed and oversensitive.

He didn’t seem to mind. Loved it, actually.

Smirking, he sat back on his heels, watching as you climbed under the sheets, dragging them up around you, tucking yourself into the soft, pastel silk like you were burrowing into a cocoon of warmth and safety.

Then, with a huffed breath, Ben stood up and pulled his shirt over his head. A soaked mess.

“Christ on a cross,” he muttered, holding it up in the dim light. “Look at this shit.”

You immediately tried to hide, face burning as you turned toward the pillow, but he caught it—the small, mortified shift of your body, the way you curled inward like you could disappear. And he didn’t fucking like it.

“Hey,” he tutted, sharp and chiding, tossing the damp shirt over the back of your dressing table chair. “Don’t do that.”

You swallowed, exhaling against the sheets, still embarrassed but wrecked, still completely in his grip. He watched you for a second longer, then huffed, shaking his head before shoving his boxers down and climbing into bed beside you.

The mattress dipped, warmth swallowing you whole as he wrapped himself around you, pulling you flush against his chest, strong arms locking you in place like you were fucking going anywhere. His hold was tight, heavy, possessive in a way that made your stomach flutter, even in your exhausted state.

“Excited for tomorrow night,” he murmured against your temple, his voice a low, satisfied rumble. “Gonna pick you up from here when you’re back from class.”

You made a soft, content noise, already half-melting, pressing closer, sinking deeper into the warmth of him.

Then—

Ben shifted, brow furrowing as he felt something under him, something small and soft, and he reached down, pulling it free.

Eugene.

Your stuffed bear, held dangling by one arm in his grasp, Ben staring at it like it personally offended him.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Eugene, you gotta get the fuck outta here.”

You snorted, laughter bubbling up before you could help it, giddy and wrecked and so goddamn endeared that you physically ached.

Ben just looked at you, then at Eugene, then back at you, dangling the bear slightly, like he was silently asking well?

Still giggling, you took the bear from him, hugging it against your chest, but you also nuzzled further into Ben, burying yourself beneath his arm, tangling your legs with his.

Ben sighed, a deep, satisfied breath, before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the top of your head.

“Night, baby.”

His voice was low, heavy with something you weren’t ready to pick apart yet, something deep and final and absolute.

You mumbled something sleepy back, warm and safe and tucked into him, and for the first time in a long, long time—

You fell asleep feeling like you belonged somewhere.

When you woke again, it was slow. The kind of thick, heavy sleep that left your limbs boneless, warm, unwilling to move. But the first thing you became aware of was him.

Ben was grumbling into your hair, voice rough with sleep, chest broad and solid at your back, his arm heavy where it draped over your waist. Every breath he took vibrated through you, low and gravelly, lazy but full of complaint.

“Don’t wanna fuckin’ get up,” he muttered, his lips grazing your bare shoulder, breath hot against your skin. His hips pressed forward, and that was when you felt it—

Hard. Thick. Heavy. Pressed up against your ass, all heat and weight, his body surrounding you completely.

“Should just stay here all day,” he continued, voice low, almost slurred, still caught between sleep and wakefulness. His fingers flexed against your stomach, gripping, pulling you tighter against him. “Bury my cock in you and keep it there ‘til I gotta fuckin’ leave.”

A whimper caught in your throat, your thighs pressing together as you twitched in his hold. His breath hitched—then, his grip locked down.

His hand clamped onto your hip, pinning you to the bed, holding you still.

“If you don’t stop wigglin’ like that,” he murmured, voice dangerous, threatening, slow, “I really am gonna stay here and fuck you.”

Heat rushed to your face, your breath shuddering against the pillow as your body went still in his hold.

Ben huffed out a long, suffering groan, like he was physically forcing himself to be good, dragging himself out of bed with a grumble.

You stirred, stretching, before blinking up at him sleepily and shoving the sheets back to climb out of bed yourself.

Ben turned to look at you, brows furrowing, fully perplexed. “The fuck are you doin’?”

You blinked at him. “Getting up.”

His scowl deepened. “No, you’re not. Go back to sleep.”

You tilted your head, watching as he ran a hand down his face, already irritated by the concept of morning.

“But... you need to eat before you go.”

Ben froze.

His hand paused on his jaw. Something dark and hot flickered in his gaze, his breath leaving him in a sharp exhale. Then, he grinned. Slow. Lazy. Dangerous.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he muttered, running his tongue along his bottom lip, shaking his head as his eyes dragged over you. “You really are a dream girl, huh?”

Heat licked up your spine, but you held your ground, arms crossing loosely over your chest. “Ben.”

He groaned—but the good kind. The kind that sounded wrecked, that made your thighs clench together.

“Y’know how fuckin’ hot that is?” He exhaled through his nose, stepping closer, gaze dark, possessive. “Sweet little thing, tellin’ me I gotta eat before I go.” His fingers brushed over your hip, teasing, almost reverent. “Fuck me, baby, I could take you up on that right now.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw, voice dropping low and thick. “But for now, I need you back in bed.”

Before you could argue, he grabbed you, pushing you back down, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. His hand wrapped around your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks, pinning your face to look up at him as he climbed over you, his lips dragging slow and deliberate over yours.

He kissed you hard, sucking at your bottom lip, teeth scraping, his free hand gripping your throat, then your jaw, then your hip. Every touch was bruising, deliberate, a brand of possession that felt like it was sealing something deep into your bones.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, panting slightly, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, swollen from his teeth.

“Need you rested up for later,” he murmured, eyes flicking over your face, drinking you in. “We’re goin’ out.”

Your breath stuttered, heart thudding against your ribs.

Then—he pulled away. You whined, grabby-hands reaching for him, desperate and frustrated.

Ben laughed. Smug, mocking, pleased as fuck.

“Jesus Christ, look at you,” he grinned, shaking his head as he watched you desperately reaching for him. “Clingy little thing.”

Your face burned, but you didn’t stop, fingers snagging at his wrist, pulling him back down just enough to suck another kiss out of him.

Ben groaned, deep and approving, teeth scraping your lip before he finally broke away, thumb swiping along your jaw one last time.

“You’re cute when you get needy, y’know that?” He murmured, mocking, but still praising, still smug as fuck.

You huffed, pouting.

He smirked, straightening, already moving toward his clothes. “Go back to sleep, doll. I’ll be back for you soon.”

The sound of your phone alarm ripped you from sleep, shattering the lingering warmth of your dreams. You groaned, scowling as you fumbled to shut it off, blinking bleary-eyed at the soft glow of morning filtering through your window.

Then it hit you.

This wasn’t your old apartment.

You sat up slowly, heart skipping as you glanced around, reality settling in. New walls, new furniture, new life. The silk sheets pooled around your lap, and for a moment, it felt surreal—like you were still dreaming, like this wasn’t really yours.

It didn’t feel real. Didn’t feel earned. It felt borrowed, temporary, fraudulent.

You shook yourself out of it, exhaling slow before slipping out of bed, padding across the floor to your wardrobe. Focus. Get ready. Move.

You pulled out two outfits, snapping a photo of both before sending them to Ben. His response came fast.

That one. Good fuckin’ girl.

Your stomach flipped, heat creeping up your neck as you bit your lip, shaking your head before sending him another—this time, of you wearing it.

With that, you grabbed your bag and headed out.

The day passed in a blur.

Lectures, notes, the steady rhythm of campus life pulling you into its familiar current. By the time lunch rolled around, you were settling into the café with one of your friends—the same girl from last Friday, the one who had tried to get you to leave before Ben decided otherwise.

She barely let you sit down before she was grinning, eyes alight with curiosity.

“So,” she started, leaning in, “how was last weekend?”

You hesitated for a beat, then gave a small, knowing smile. “It was good.”

Her eyes widened, and she let out an excited noise, smacking your arm lightly. “Good?” She echoed. “Babe, he was fucking gorgeous.”

You laughed, shaking your head, sipping your drink. “Yeah, I know.”

“Are you seeing him again?”

You glanced up, watching her reaction carefully, then nodded. “Tonight.”

Another excited squeal, another wave of gushing, but it didn’t bother you. It was nice, in a way—to talk about him in this context, instead of just feeling him consume you whole.

By the time you finished lunch, she had pep-talked you into oblivion, and you headed back home, your steps a little lighter, a little more confident.

When you arrived, the car was already there. Butcher was waiting, leaning against the door, arms crossed.

You slowed, raising a brow, and he tilted his head in acknowledgment.

“Just gotta take my bags and stuff up,” you told him.

He waved a hand, gruff and dismissive, barely looking up. “Go on, love. I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You smirked, shaking your head before heading inside, quickly changing into something better suited for the night ahead.

By the time you came back down, Butcher was already in the driver’s seat, waiting. You climbed into the car, settling into the back, watching the city blur past as he pulled away. The silence stretched just long enough before you finally spoke.

“How are you?”

Butcher snorted. “Like you give a fuck.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I do give a fuck.”

He glanced at you in the rearview, lips twitching in something almost amused. “Yeah, well. Ain’t dead yet, so I s’pose I’m alright.”

You huffed a laugh, fingers drumming absently against your thigh before you glanced at him again. “What exactly is your job?”

That earned you a raised brow.

“My job?” He echoed, tilting his head slightly.

You nodded, watching as he rolled the thought around in his head before giving a gruff, nonchalant shrug.

“Eh,” he muttered. “’M kinda like Ben’s assistant.”

Your brow furrowed. “Assistant?”

Butcher smirked, shaking his head. “Well, that’s the posh way of sayin’ it.”

You snorted, amused and intrigued, watching him as the car weaved through the city, each answer leading to more questions, each detail peeling back another layer.

You shifted in your seat, watching the cityscape blur past in a wash of headlights and neon. The weight of the day sat low in your limbs, the lingering haze of routine blending into something less familiar, less structured.

The car was silent except for the quiet hum of the engine and the occasional clink of Butcher’s rings against the steering wheel as he shifted his grip. His gaze stayed forward, focused, but you could feel his presence as easily as if he were staring straight at you.

You cleared your throat. “Hey—thank you.”

Butcher didn’t react right away, just quirked a brow, flicking his eyes toward the rearview mirror for a split second before looking back at the road. “For what?”

You shrugged, resting your temple against the window. “First of all, for picking me up from the apartment.”

He snorted, shaking his head like it was the bare fucking minimum.

“And,” you added after a pause, something clicking in your head, “for finding the apartment.”

At that, Butcher let out a low, amused exhale. His mouth pulled into something almost smug, but he didn’t say anything, just kept driving.

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “Ben chose it, but you found it.”

“Yeah, well.” He shifted slightly in his seat, rolling his shoulders. “Gotta make sure you’ve got a roof over your head, don’t I?”

There was something unspoken in that. Something heavy, something you weren’t ready to unpack yet. You let it sit for a moment, your fingers drumming absently against your knee, before swallowing and speaking again.

“And… for the Plan B last weekend.”

That made Butcher snort. Loud. Like he genuinely found that funny.

You immediately regretted saying it. Heat flashed up your neck, and you turned toward the window, cursing yourself internally.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, shaking his head. “He said you were a shy one. You really are, ain't ya?”

You grumbled something under your breath, shifting in your seat. “I just—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Butcher cut in, still amused, still shaking his head. He let the moment breathe for a second before glancing at you again. “You’re gonna have to work on that, y’know.”

That caught you off guard.

Your brows furrowed, head tipping slightly. “On what?”

Butcher sighed like it was the most obvious thing in the world. He waved a hand, his rings catching in the dim light. “The whole bloody embarrassed about everythin' bit.”

Your frown deepened, stomach flipping in something that wasn’t quite discomfort, wasn’t quite intrigue. “Why?”

He let out a gruff, knowing chuckle, shaking his head. “If you plan on keepin’ Ben, love, you’re gonna be flaunted about. You’ll be fuckin' exhausted if you’re constantly blushin’ over every little thing.”

You stiffened slightly, fingers tightening on your knee. “What do you mean?”

Butcher didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just exhaled through his nose, something deeply amused and vaguely pitying flickering across his face before he waved another hand.

“Nothing,” he muttered, voice low, dismissive, but still loaded as fuck. “Just sayin’—best get used to eyes bein’ on you.”

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t quite know why. Didn’t quite know what he was really saying.

Not yet.

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah. @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @kayleighwinchester @lyarr24 @imtheworst123 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @ohgodimgoungtodie @cevansbaby-dove <3

[weirdogirl888]

morning sex with donnie blurb

warnings: somophillia, dubcon if you squint, pnv, nipple play, afab reader, unprotected sex, donnie's a loving perverted boyfriend

wc: 1.2k (might’ve gotten a lil carried away lol

a/n: ending sucks cuz i got lazy, hope u enjoy none the less. requests are always open

donnie loves the sight of you sleeping in his bed. your nighty shrugging off from a deep night's sleep. the sleeve fully off the shoulder, just barely revealing your breasts with your hard nipples visibly poking through. you look so peaceful, so innocent. so hot.

it's not donnie's fault he's a boy with the insufficient plague of morning wood. and it's also not his fault his girlfriend is sleeping soundly looking like a beautiful stone statue in his bed.

she deserves something for looking this pretty. he thought to himself, in a delusional idea of an excuse to lean down and gently kiss your soft lips. he left a trail of kisses from your cheek to your collarbone, while he stopped and gave one last look at your unconscious face before slipping the remnants of your silk night down to your stomach.

he gulped and gave a shutter until he moved his large hand and started groping the soft mounds of fat. eyes staring into your closed lids, looking for any sign of a reaction, which wasn't visible. from the way last night went, he knew you'd be hard to wake. especially so early in the morning with the fall sunrise coming early but just as beautiful from his attic window.

donnie decided to test his luck and get on top of you, boxers already forgotten, he gets more bold and starts sucking on your boobs one at a time. leaving both in a sloppy reddened mess. he dotted hickies all down your stomach for a surprise you'd see in the morning. thankfully the autumn weather prevented you from wearing a bikini any time soon, a factor he took gratefully.

when he slid your cotton white panties off your smooth legs, he was met with a wet mess. much like his cock that was leaking precum just from touching you. maybe it was the adrenaline rush and thrill of getting this far with you still unaware.

he slowly swiped his fingers up your warm pussy and slid them into his mouth, his other arm being used as a prop on the bed for his body weight as he loomed over you.

"you taste so sweet, baby. Are you sure you can't feel any of this? I think you're just pretending to sleep. Do you get off to boys touching your unconscious body? god, you really are fucked up." he said slowly spreading your legs, lining up his shaft with your dripping entrance.

"it's okay-." he shoved his entire dick in until your clit brushed his pelvic bone, sending a light whimper from your lips.

"So am i."

at first, he slowly dragged his cock gently back and forth. admiring the sight of his base sliding in and out of your soft folds. he wanted this sweet moment to last. the look of your sleeping body being lit by the lined morning sun seeping through his window blinds. but the pleasure was just so addicting, he couldn't maintain his slow intimate pace. especially with your walls gripping him. he started to quicken up the pace, if his load pathetic whimpers weren't enough to wake you up, it was the feeling he was giving you now.

your eyes start to slightly flutter open, in your slumber, you feel a warm sensation in your core. but when you awaken and see your boyfriend looking lustfully down at you, your foggy brain starts to melt.

"d-donnie, what are you- nghh --doing?"

"shhh don't worry angel, just focus on how good you feel right now. can you do that for me? you look so beautiful right now." he says leaving trails of kisses on your boobs.

pleasure overwhelmed you as your eyes widened with lust. you felt on cloud nine yet you had just woken up.

donnies thrusts got harder as chased his release, hitting that perfect spot in your gummy walls, causing your back to arch off the matress, which earned a moan from Donny's lips.

"Donnie- oh fuck, you feel so good."

you weren't fulling awake yet and still groggy. your mouth leaving a string of whines as you neared your climax, you could never get used to how your boyfriend's thick cock stretched you out in the most familiar and delicious way possible.

"fuck baby I'm so close, come with me sweetheart." donnie paused massaging and pinching your nipples, and brought his hand down to rub your clit in gentle circles, causing you to knit your eyebrows together and roll your eyes in the back of your head. the pleasure causing you to short circuit.

your release hit you like a freight train. your body twitched from your shoulder blades, down your spine, and through your shaking thighs. you moaned loudly as your orgasm washed over you causing you to moan loudly.

donnie, completely loosing any regard for your pleasure in the focus of chasing his own. his thrusts were hard and spractatic. pulling out and snapping his hips to shove himself fully back in.

his face was always so pretty like this, pupils blown and messy bed hair a mess in pure bliss. his cock twitched inside you and ropes of cum split out filling your cervix. as he gave his last thrusts, a white ring of both your and his cum juicing out of the tight entrance.

he pulled out with a heavy sigh, sad but satisfied to finally be leaving you. he pulled your panties back on so as to not spill and plopped back onto the bed.

you were completely fucked out, even through having only been awake for a short while. he looked at you and kissed your temple causing you to grin.

"I cant belive you fucked me when I was asleep, you're such a perv darko."

donnie looked down shamefully "I'm sorry baby, it wont happen again."

"its okay" you say crawling into his arms and kissing his neck. "it was hot." you whisper in his ear.

donnies face turned red "wanna go for another?" he said full of hope.

"nice try donnie." starting to get sleepy again from being woken from your slumber aswell as from donnies dick breaking you open. "next time." and with that you both drift off to sleep in each others arms, contentment overruling you and you both dream of each others future.