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widowlyy · 3 days ago

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🥎 ❀ HOMERUN DEAL

analysis. its the first game of your season and you were a nervous wreck the entire time. Close enough to quitting, your softball coach had pulled you to the side and offered you a bargain if you were to snap your head into the game and win.

pairing. softball coach!natasha x player!reader

warnings. MINORS DNI | Smut. Legal age gap (N is late thirties, R is early twenties), strap-on (R receiving), daddy kink, possessive nat, mean nat (if you squint), teasing, semi-public sex (almost got caught, in office), degradation, praising, dirty talk.

wc. 4.8k

authors note. the games begin, in the series and between me and a fellow friend 😼😼 — expect more coming soon. @thewidowsledger im ringing the dinner bell come here

taglist. @idkwhatever580

⧗

Monday mornings were never your favorite, who even enjoyed them anyways? Tomorrow is going to be the first softball game of the season after a week of practice and a week of you fawning over your coach, and it was clear your teammates noticed. You walked into your building with a empty cup of coffee that was sloppily made from the starbucks worker, and you didn’t even have the time to open your mouth and complain due to Kate wanting to meet up early and gossip in the parking lot. You remind yourself of the message you got in the morning before you woke, the familiar image of the redhead had filled your mind as she reminded you to go to her office in the morning to go over plans and to understand your point of view more on who should play where.

You walked through the halls, ensuring your shoes dragged amongst the floor, squeaking in complaint just like you were twenty minutes earlier to the black haired girl you adored. The sound of a door opening, the metal hinges silently groaned as the raspy yet teasing voice announced, “L/N, stop dragging your feet down the hall, come on in,” Turning your head to see the opened door with the woman herself standing in the doorway, taking in her outfit, the wide-legged black dress pants had perfectly fit her waist with the white blouse as her top. You tried to focus on the redhead's face rather than Natasha’s soft colored skin and curves, noticing the soft smile on her face as she lured you into the trap of her office as you stepped into the office. Ensuring to lift your feet to prevent the obnoxious noise. Hearing the door close behind you and the feeling of a hand brushing against your lower back as she gestured for you to sit across from her seat behind the desk. You hesitated at first, before you felt her lean in behind you as her lips brushed against your ear. Is this a teasing way? Was she just playing with you, fighting the blush on your cheeks as she softly mused out, “Come on, we have plenty of time for you and me to discuss the game plan tomorrow,”

“Right, uhm, what are you thinking?” You tried to hide your nerves as you asked your coach what her plans were, watching as the redhead had ensured to sit across from you looking into your eyes as soon as you looked up to meet hers with that smirk plastered on her lips before she turned to look at her computer screen and explain her thoughts.

“Well, I thought I could place Brooke at third with you at short. Kate pitching with Carol catching,” She confidently stated out as she looked over the positions, her eyes trailed over as your brows creased and a small frown found your face and you spoke up.

“No, swap me and Brooke. She plays at short usually while me at third, that’s been our dynamic for years,” you had explained softly, mind hazy as all you could think about was Natasha’s arms. Seeing them lean against the desk to look closer at you before she hummed softly, adjusting the positions, another suggestion fell off your lips, “You’ll want to have Maria warm up as well, if Kate goes for too long in an inning she’ll get in her head and it won’t work for any of us,”

She quirked a brow, a soft smirk playing on her lips as she nodded, “Abby at second right? Then we bring Wanda in center, Anna in right and Karlie in left,”

You nodded quickly at the redheads statement for the rest of the positions, your eyes flicked to the screen as your coach turned it around so you’d get a look at the batting line up. You were batting third, wincing a bit but hiding it quickly as you nodded, “seems good to me,”

The redhead smiled softly at you, green eyes twinkling before she pulled her laptop back and shut it, her focus going solely on you which had the butterflies in your stomach churning. Swallowing, you also mumbled out meekly, “is there anything you need me to tell the team, such as signs, specific things or plays you want?”

“No, I think I can have it handled,” Natasha responded softly before spinning her chair and standing up, the aroma of coffee filling the office air as your eyes took in how your coach had a coffee machine in her office. Surprise filled your orbs, she turned back as she got two mugs, “do you want a cup? I made a little too much,”

“Yeah sure,” You agreed, “lots of sugar if you have it, creamer too,”

“Ooh, you like it sweet? Does that explain how sweet you are?” She teased lightly, a brow quirking as she poured you a cup. Pouring a scoop of sugar in and then creamer, surprisingly enough to suit your taste as she stirred it and handed it to you. Flushing as your eyes found your feet, muttering a small thanks and taking the cup gracefully.

“You seem tired malyshka, how much sleep did you get?” Your coach asked softly, pouring herself a cup and having a scoop of sugar before mixing it in well enough as she sat down in front of you again. Taking a sip as you tried to comprehend how black the woman liked her coffee. Calculating the hours of sleep, you weren’t as tired as you were anymore, too busy ranting on call with Kate while playing stupid games or doing assignments. Yet somehow it took a toll on you last night, actually trying to go to bed early but all you could do was stare at the ceiling and hope that sleep would take you. Sleeping medication, such as melatonin, didn’t work anymore due to early years of you being unable to sleep and overtaking it to where the medicine didn’t have an effect on you anymore.

“Err, about six hours, I was up finishing a report for one of my minor classes,” You meekly admitted, you had easily lied to teachers before. A bat of your eyes with a soft plea that your cat had gone missing due to her being a minx and you were worried too much to work on schoolwork because that cat was the last thing you had with a resemblance of your mother. Your cat is in fact with your mother, who lives in a separate state, who you never talked to after you declared that it was your time for independence and that you can go through with your dreams. You still regret it, it’s one of the things that has your mind reeling at night with a gut-wrenching feeling of guilt.

Your mind wandered enough for Natasha to see the haze in your eyes, she cleared her throat as her raspy yet soft voice slightly scolded in concern, “you need eight hours honey, that’s not healthy especially when you play a sport like this. I need you up and running tomorrow, okay?”

Your eyes lifted, a slight nod had bobbed at her words as you took a sip from the mug she handed you. Nose scrunching as you considered her words, a meek thanks leaving your lips as you felt the scorching liquid torment your tastebuds before you swallowed it down your esophagus. You swore you’d take coffee out of your mornings after you spazzed out one day in highschool, hands too shaky for writing and you broke your personal school chromebook that had your dad in your ear about having to pay for it and your mom yelling at him and defending you quickly.

“I plan on going to bed earlier tonight, Kate’s working so I can’t call her. I have nothing due for my classes either so I’m free,” You reassured your coach, a shy smile finding your features as your eyes softened slightly from the tension and exhaustion as you looked at the redhead who gave you a smile in return.

“That’s good, I hope you don’t mind but I contacted your first classes professor about you not being there for us discussing plans,” She informed you, a hum left her throat, “if you want you can stay here and rest, I’m not doing anything special but scheduling more games. The couch there is open if you want to nap,”

Your eyes widened at her gesture, astonished at the generosity before you nodded quickly. Taking a moment to think before opening your phone to check the time, at least two hours, you’ll be able to last. A hoarse rasp left your throat from the hot liquid and tiredness, “thank you coach, I’ll be out of here five minutes before first period is done, I’ll set an alarm,”

As you stood to go lay down on the couch. You settled yourself, head resting on the arm as you were about to set an alarm on your phone as movement caught your eyes. Natasha waved it off as she offered with a hum, “don’t worry about it, I can wake you up, just get your beauty sleep malyshka. That’s all I need,”

A simple nod against the fabric was enough to indicate you trusted Natasha to wake you up, a small smile found her face as she was finally gaining your trust. Noting how your breathing faded to something soft you fell asleep, a small sigh left her lips. Finding ways to get you to rest was hard, exhausting you at practice as she made you run drills harshly weren’t enough. Maybe the gentle approach was better, all she knew is that she was getting closer to you. That’s all she wanted, and she found a suspicion that’s what you wanted too.

—

You fought with the belt buckle to hold your pants up, to tie the outfit together. Black jeseries with red pin stripes with black pants, white socks and the white belt that is struggling to close around your hips. Finally snapping it down as you sighed, you had your hair bubble braided and you stood in front of the mirror in the athletic locker room. Eyes fixing in on your form before a sudden whistle left someone’s lips and you saw the familiar raven colored hair stood beside you.

“Your ass is fat, what happened to the pants? Or did you just randomly grow,” Kate teased, hand grazing your shoulder before she moved to put her hair up in a lazy bun. Your eyes gave the infamous mom glare as you sighed, you were pretty sure you were given the wrong size in pants. First time wearing them, and you had planned to take a trip to Natasha’s office after the game to ask if you can swap pants with how tight they were. A small squeeze in your lower abdomen was there for pressure in your breathing, but it wasn’t fatal yet.

“The pants are a size too small, I plan on going to coaches office after the game to ask for a swap,” You shared the game-plan about your pants with Kate, letting out a soft grumble as she quirked a brow as a teasing giggle left her throat, “maybe coach picked you a size smaller on purpose,”

A smack was emitted from where you were at, you had slapped her bicep with another glare that could kill as the girl put her arms up in defeat, “Joking! I was joking, gosh! Who’s got your panties rolled up?”

You sensed there was a second part Kate wanted to share with that final sentence but luckily the girl was smart enough to not push it anymore. You hauled your softball bag over your shoulder and clapped her on the shoulder with a rough, “Let’s get going, maybe I’ll make you run an extra lap for warmups to put your head in the game,”

“Yeah while you have your head somewhere else,” Kate rolled her eyes and she was lucky she was a few distances behind you as you hissed out her last name in a scolding manner. Walking down the cement path towards the fields as you hauled a bucket of balls while Kate follows behind you like a lost puppy.

“Come on, let’s get our head in the game,”

—

Your head wasn’t in the game. You didn’t know what was happening, you have been struggling to field a simple ground ball and you have bobbled it everytime it got into your mitt and you overthrowed it or was too late. When you were up to bat you could barely hit, it was a slow pitcher which you absolutely hated on waiting for and you fouled it many more times than it went into play. When it went into play? It was dead, dying in the dirt as quick as it hit it and you were thrown out every time you ran through the bag. Your ribs were aching, pants too tight as you struggled to breathe as water dribbled down your chin, sweating profusely as you sat in the corner every time you were in the dugout for being on the offensive side while your teammates hit.

Natasha stood at third base every inning when your team was hitting, when your team was on the field she sat on her bucket giving signals to the catcher and pushing her face into the clipboard everytime a mistake was made. You grimaced every time when you saw the sweaty redhead cringe and you felt the wave of disappointment.

It was the last inning, the last at bat and the score was tied. 6-6, you were on deck and you swung the bat lazily to try and warm yourself up. Try and shake out the jitters, the bat cracked from Kate and went flying to rightfield. Bases were loaded, and a time was called as the other coach ran to the pitchers mound for some type of talk.

A hand found your shoulder, dragging you to the third base area away from earshot as Natasha pulled you back and her slender hands gripped the mask of your helmet, “what’s going on?”

“I-I don’t know, coach I can’t do—,” A jerk forward from the helmet brought you insanely closer to the redhead, piercing green irises staring into yours as she finished your sentence, “you can do this Y/N, stop doubting yourself. You can hit off of her easily, just a small one over the fence and we win. Just time up your load carefully, don’t lunge, and don’t roll your wrists,”

You stared hopelessly into the redheads eyes, how can Natasha give this advice so simply? Cheeks flushed at how your coach was so close as Natasha ever so slightly leaned in and deviously, yet quietly bargained, “you hit a home run over that fence and I’ll take you in my office and fuck you,”

Your eyes widened, mouth agape at the offer, well bargain she handed you. She was your coach and she just offered you sex for a home run? Biting your bottom lip as you blinked before she added on, “I’ve seen the looks you give me, you can’t deny it princess,”

“Okay, okay, I’ll take it but what happens if I don’t?” As soon as you asked the umpire asked—yelled—for you to come up to the plate. Swallowing as the redhead’s eyes darkened before she patted the helmet you wore and you traipsed up to the batter’s plate.

Stepping into the box, you watched the pitcher wind up and throw a ball right over your head. Steadily breathing out as you stepped out to look over at your coach. No signs, she meant the words she said. Stepping back in and swinging your bat against your cleats like the ritual you do every time you go up to bat.

Wind up, load back, and you swung your arms forth. The sound of the ball hitting the bat cracked over the field and you dropped it and ran. Watching the baserunners start running, your assistant coach pumped their arms to signal you to turn and go to second. You pumped your legs faster, puffing slightly as you suddenly heard clapping. It was a good hit but was it enough for the spectators to clap. You turned your head to see Natasha clapping as well, a smile on the redhead’s face as you noticed the fielders moved to the side.

You made it to three and kept running, finally recognizing the fact you hit the ball over the fence. Your team rushed out of the dugout to congratulate you, as soon as you stepped on home plate your thighs were grabbed and you were hauled up as they lifted you and cheered. The yell of game over had everyone dancing in enthusiasm, as soon as you were set down on the dirt you lined up and high-fived the other team with your squeaky mumbles of good game.

—

“There could’ve been a lot of improvement, but it was a good first game,” Natasha spoke as she stood, you and your teammates were sat in the grass in leftfield and listened to her advice for how the game went and her overlook, “you guys make a great team, but if you keep getting in your heads like that and keep on making mistakes we’ll never learn and we will lose every game, luckily Y/N hit that grand slam for us,”

You felt a few hands clap your shoulders, hair down as you were tired and didn’t want to wait until home to take the amount of mini rubber bands out. You were unable to process the congratulations still on how you managed to hit it over the fence as your eyes slightly peered up to look at the redhead, she was quiet for a second before adding on, “rake the fields, put everything away,”

Standing up, you went to go help the teammates go pick up, blinking for a moment before a harsh order came out in the night air, “Not you Y/N, my office, now,”

You swallowed, watching your coach walk past you and you ducked your head and followed Natasha like a lost puppy as confused looks found your teammates faces. It felt like hours walking to the building of your school, watching the redhead open the doors for you and place a hand on your shoulder to guide you to her office.

Door hinges opened with a small creaking in protest, walking in first before two hands grabbed your waist and the door was shut. Hands moving to fumble with the lock of the office door as Natasha’s head pushed into the crevice of your neck as sloppy, wet kisses were littered across your skin. Hands finding her hair and a hopeless whimper left your throat as she kept you pinned against the door as the handle dug painfully into your lower spine.

“Didn’t believe me when I offered you this huh malyshka? Trust me, daddy keeps her promises,” the huskiness of Natasha’s voice sent a throbbing ache between your legs as you mewled as her teeth gently sunk into your throat before the warm muscle of Natasha’s tongue soothed the mark.

“Tell me what you want baby, what does the little winner want from daddy, hmm?” She cooed out mockingly, pulling her head back with a wicked grin on her facial features. A calloused hand grabbing your chin to make you look at her, unable to form a single thought in your head with words. Your body moved on its own, hips thrusting forward against the redheads hip. Hand leaving your face to grip your waist and pushed you back.

“Uh uh, tell daddy what you want or you’re not going to get what you want and I’ll decide for you,” She tutted, a mocking pout finding her perfect lips as she leaned in and pressed a kiss against your pretty lips, teeth gnashing down on your bottom lip as you moaned out. Tongue pushing way into your mouth before she pulled back, leaving you wanting and chasing her lips.

“Want you, please,” You softly whined, hands gripping the redheads coaching shirt as a brow quirked. Her hand moving to unbutton your jersey, fingernails tracing the shape of your bra as she taunted, “what part of me my dear?”

You flushed, swallowing as you grabbed Natasha by the waist and pulled her closer. Smashing your lips into hers and she grabbed the back of your neck, pulling you in before flipping you around. She pushed your hair out of the way and pressed her lips to your neck again, teeth biting, sucking, doing all that she can to leave her marks as a hand went down to grope your ass.

“Fuck, these pants really do show your ass, hm? My perfect little baby with the body of a goddess,” She lovingly cooed, pushing your jersey off your body. Unclasping your bra before her hand cupped one of your breasts, fingers rolling over the nipple as you whined out. Softly moaning into the air, “tell me baby, do you wanna ride daddy’s cock? I’m sure that’s a reward you want, or maybe have you bent over my desk as I fuck that pretty pussy until it’s full,”

Her hand from your ass lifted and grabbed your jaw, tilting your head back so you can look into her eyes, “hmm? Too dumb to think now are we? Poor girl,”

She pulled you away from the door, bringing you over to her desk as she kissed you again. Savoring your taste on her lips as you grasped at her shirt again, hands fiddling with the buckle of your belt before undoing it. Her hands shoved your pants and panties down, revealing your throbbing cunt into the cold air and you gasped.

“Such a slut, I’m your coach and you’re getting off with how I treat you,” She scolded, turning your body around as a hand found the spot between your shoulder-blades and pushed you down so you were bent over her desk. Uncaring for the paperwork, she can always print more. Loving how you were bent, hands gripping the wood like it was your lifeline while you were on the tips of your toes, your entrance open and needy as your arousal stuck to your thighs.

“Mmph, daddy please,” You whimpered out, needy enough as you slowly pushed your hips against the desk to get at least some friction until a slap was emitted on the globe of your ass.

“Don’t move,” Came the harsh words from your coach, a whimper left your lips as you blubbered incoherently. Hearing a belt buckle undone, the slide of pants falling down. The feel of silicone against your thigh had you clench in anticipation, the redhead traced her fingers down your spine before she slid the toy inside you.

Your eyes crossed, unfamiliar with the stretch and as you felt her hips move back slowly anticipation creeped into your veins before a knock was sounding at the door. You froze, Natasha froze. The door was locked, but if someone were to actually peer through the thick glass on the door the silhouettes of you two would be seen.

“Coach, practice is cancelled tomorrow right?” Came the voice of the familiar blonde, Carol was right outside the door and you felt the lump in your throat. A hand moved to grip your throat, squeezing as your breathing restricted, the gruff voice leaving the body who was behind you.

“Yes Carol, practice is cancelled tomorrow. But I have a very important email I’m writing and you just interrupted me. Would you like a one on one practice with me yourself or leave me alone?” The harshness of Natasha’s words had you gush around the strap and she felt it. A smirk finding her plump lips before a quiet ‘yes coach’ was heard and the sound of feet moving down the hall.

Your fingers clawed at the desk, the grip on your throat didn’t loosen and the redhead slammed the toy back into you. The tip right against your cervix as you cried—well tried to—out.

“Oh baby, you fit my cock so well, such a pretty girl. You like it when I treat you like this, don’t you?” She cooed out softly, pulling her hips back and thrusting in. Molding her body to your back as her hips snapped steadily, thrusting in and out of you as she held you down as to pitifully nodded and moaned out.

“Daddy’s good girl, fuck I should’ve taken you earlier. Your pussy is so addicting,” She moaned out, her hand leaving your throat as a series of moans left your lips. Pressing her lips to your throat as her hand found your clit, rubbing soothing circles into it as you grinded back into your coach.

“Uh, uh, uh,” left your throat, cockdrunk already as your mind grew hazy. A snort left the redhead’s mouth, a soft snicker escaping the older woman’s throat at your lack of thought.

“Gonna cum,” you softly whined out, walls clenching around the strap on as you felt the coil in your abdomen tighten to that familiar feeling. A harsh laugh left the coach, before she pulled the toy out of you and a broken cry left your lips. Tears starting to bubble in your eyes, the hand on your clit moved back to your hip.

“Poor baby, you needed to let go that bad?” She mocked, pulling you up from the desk as she sat down in her office chair, pulling you to straddle her lap and face you. A brow quirked and she gave that devious smirk of hers, “I’m sure you can hold it for daddy, ride my cock malyshka,”

You slid back down onto her cock, head nuzzling into the crook of her neck as you felt the gush of arousal flush out around the faux dick and onto Natasha’s thighs. Hips touching hers, before you slowly started to grind.

“That’s a good girl,” She praised, and a moan left your lips as your speed quickened. Grinding went to lifting your hips and bouncing. Your coach’s hands went to your hips and guided your movements, your breath right against your neck. Panting as you had your nails dig into her clothed shoulder.

“Daddy, feels so good,” You moaned out your praise for how the redhead made you feel. Sniffling out as you felt the tug in your core, blinking heavily as you felt the overstimulation every time your clit brushed against the strap.

“See how good daddy makes you feel baby, all you needed was a bargain for a good fuck and you do good. Are you that much of a slut Y/N, or is this just for me?” She asked, slowing your pace down as you sobbed out between moans. You thought you were going to be able for release as your reward, and all she is doing is refusing it? As frustrated as you are, you can’t help but moan loudly and love her more.

“All for you daddy, please let me cum, I’ll be your good girl,” You begged, and oh you beg so prettily for her. Softly whimpering, she guided your hips quicker again, feeling that sinking feeling come back as you inhaled sharply.

“Let it go baby, make a mess of daddy’s cock,” She permitted your release, and as soon as the sentence was over you snapped your hips faster and felt the coil snap. Juices flooding out of your entrance and over her dick, ruining Natasha’s dress pants and coating your thigh. You shuddered, movements stopping as you shakily breathed.

Thinking you were done with the hazed mind, it wasn’t until you registered the movement of your hips again that Natasha was moving you again, “daddy too much!”

The complaint left your lips lazily, all the redhead could do was scoff, “it’s not too much, daddy will tell you when it’s too much. Now be quiet and let daddy use you, hmm? Daddy needs to be taken care of too,”

You nodded weakly, not able to defy or complain to the redhead anymore. Letting her move your hips, the pleasure and overstimulation taking over but she had a point, Natasha needed to be taken care of right, it’s what you owed her. It wasn’t until you released two more times, and being covered in Natasha’s release is when she called it. She wanted to talk to you about what happened, but when you slumped against her with your nose scrunched, mouth partially open and eyes closed that she decided to let you rest. She put her pants back on, and then dressed you back up. She knew it wasn’t proper, but could she really resist? She left the building with you in her arms and in the passenger seat of her car. And that was all you remembered when you woke up in her arms the next morning, in her bed, with your face pressed in between her boobs without a care in the world for the responsibilities for the day, maybe this could work out after all.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #marvel #sapphic #widowlyy’s writing #natasha romanoff smut #🥎 swing batta batta swing #female reader #natasha romanoff

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purplepirate123 · 26 days ago

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Time for Citizens to Hit Elon with a Privacy Act Violation

Email Template

To: [email protected]

Subject Line: Civil Liberties Complaint

Hello,

I am making a civil liberties complaint under the Privacy Act of 1974, 5 U.S.C. § 552a. It has been brought to my attention that Elon Musk and his associates, under the guise of a directive of the Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) (an IT office in the White House), have acquired access to Treasury Department Records in Systems of Records as defined in the Act. As an individual covered by the Act, I believe that there may be records about me in these Treasury Department systems, and I am concerned for the following reasons:

Elon Musk is not an elected official.

Even if Musk were an elected official, the System of Records Notices (SORNs) governing the Treasury Department Privacy Act systems do not allow for disclosure to Musk and his associates per the Routine Uses.

Disclosure of personally identifiable information (PII) and sensitive personally identifiable information (SPII) to Musk and his associates would be an unauthorized disclosure and therefore breach of information.

The Treasury Department must (1) quickly investigate what Privacy Act records that Musk and his associates have unlawfully accessed, (2) reveal to the public what unauthorized disclosures were made, (3) stop further access, (4) force any files acquired by Musk and his associates to be returned and/or permanently destroyed, and (5) seek criminal penalties against Musk and his associates for violations of the Act.

Sincerely,

[INSERT NAME AND CONTACT INFORMATION]

Privacy Act of 1974

The spirit of this law is rooted in presidential drama and corruption. It was passed as a direct result of the Watergate Scandal which uncovered the federal government’s scheme of illegally investigating and maintaining records about individuals. So in an effort to provide transparency to the public and an assurance that the government would not misuse records about us all, the Privacy Act of 1974 was born.

Multiple unions have now filed a lawsuit against the Department of the Treasury and the Bureau of the Fiscal Service under the Privacy Act as well as other privacy laws. They are seeking a civil remedy in the form of a restraining order to prevent DOGE from accessing records. But the Act also allows for criminal penalties to be assessed. The two that could apply to Musk and his associates include:

“Any person who knowingly and willfully requests or obtains any record concerning an individual from an agency under false pretenses shall be guilty of a misdemeanor and fined not more than $5,000.” 5 U.S.C. § 552a(i)(3).”

“Any officer or employee of any agency who willfully maintains a system of records without meeting the notice requirements of subsection (e)(4) of this section shall be guilty of a misdemeanor and fined not more than $5,000.” 5 U.S.C. § 552a(i)(2).”

The first applies to Musk accessing Privacy Act records from the Treasury Department under false pretenses of carrying out official government duties.

The second could apply if Musk creates a system of records in the DOGE office without complying with the law. For example, if he began using his IT office role to create records about individuals in the government or who receive government assistance, that would be a violation. It is very likely we will need to demand an investigation into DOGE and what they have on US citizens, too.

Email the Treasury Department today with the template up above. We deserve to have our privacy protected, and some loser who isn’t even from this country shouldn’t be allowed to stomp all over our rights.

ELON MUSK IS STAGING A COUP AT THE US TREASURY!!! He has not right to be there, no authorization for what he's doing, no oversight. AND THE MAINSTREAM MEDIA IS INSTEAD FOCUSING ON DICKFACE'S INSANE GAZA COMMENTS.

Write emails. Call your senators. ALSO, TODAY, MARCH. Every Us capital city in every state. And if you can get to DC or are in DC, hit the streets.

#stop musk #us treasury #elon musk #us politics #coup #american politics #DO NOT LET THEM DISTRACT YOU #HE HAS OUR SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBERS #HE HAS OUR USER DATA #HE HAS OUR BANK ACCOUNT INFORMATION #resist #march #protest #stop him

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mariacallous · 2 months ago

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It is often assumed that far-right parties do well in areas with many new immigrants. This is supposedly because housing prices rise, traffic jams get worse, crime and employment can become an issue, and the arrival of newcomers with different habits and religions creates friction with local residents—who then proceed to vote for anti-immigrant parties. The implication of this presumed link between immigration and the rise of the far right is that far-right parties listen better to the frustrations and complaints of “ordinary people” and that other parties have somehow “lost touch with reality.”

But what if this link does not really exist? What if far-right parties aren’t so much listening to the wishes and demands of ordinary citizens in immigrant areas, and then translating them into policy proposals, as they are scaring them and pitting them against newcomers in their neighborhood so they end up voting in their favor?

That is exactly the conclusion of a recent study conducted by four researchers from Bocconi University in Milan and the ETH in Zurich: The Free Movement of People and the Success of Far-Right Parties: Evidence from Switzerland’s Border Liberalization, just published in American Political Science Review. In light of the current hysterical anti-immigration discourse in Europe, it is a compelling read. It provides a convincing explanation for at least part of the political turbulence in France, Romania, the Netherlands, and other countries.

The success of anti-immigration parties, the authors argue, cannot be explained by cultural, economic, or political problems that citizens experience with immigration. Instead, they found it is rather the other way around: It is “political elites” in far-right parties who are responsible for such votes. They decide to focus their election campaigns in areas with immigrants. These campaigns are often hard-hitting and confrontational, using slogans like “full is full” or “stop migration” and cartoons depicting immigrants as black sheep or thieves who do harm and need to be expelled. Instead of citizens complaining of immigrants of their own accord, they are often incited by far-right political entrepreneurs—whereafter they start complaining about immigration and voting for the far right.

The Swiss and Italian researchers studied the correlation between immigration and the success of the far right in an unusual place: the mostly well-off border towns and villages of Ticino, Switzerland’s Italian-language canton. They focused on the period after 2000, when Switzerland and its EU neighbors first opened their borders to enable citizens to live and work freely in each other’s countries. In the period studied, immigration in Ticino rose by 14 percent, and support for the far right increased by 32 percent.

While the link looks strong at first glance, the researchers could not prove it. “We find limited evidence that the standard economic, cultural and security explanations are driving this rising anti-immigrant sentiment,” they write. What their report does show is this: From the moment the borders with France, Germany, Austria, and Italy were opened, Swiss political elites on the far right began campaigning aggressively in those areas, advancing narratives of overcrowding, crime, and “density stress,” meaning increasing pressure on public transportation, housing, parking, health care, and other collective facilities.

The researchers consistently use the term “political elite” in their article to emphasize that the success of the far right is orchestrated from above (top-down), rather than coming from citizens themselves (bottom-up). Far-right politicians often claim they speak on behalf of “the people,” who are fed up with “the elite.” But these politicians, the researchers argue, are themselves part of the elite.

The cultural disruptions caused by immigration in Tricine are minimal. Nearly all immigrants in Tricine come from Italy, oftentimes from just across the border. Most are white, Catholic, and educated. They speak Italian and eat pasta. Culturally and socially, they do not cause much friction.

Economically, too, problems are rare. On the contrary: According to the study, Ticino’s economy has grown since the borders opened for immigrant workers. Employment picked up and salaries rose slightly. Traffic jams did get worse, the researchers observed. But that also happened in parts of Ticino a little further from the border—areas that were used as the control areas in the study—where immigration increased but the support for the far right did not.

The explanation for this, they found, is simple: In these control areas, far-right politicians did not run anti-immigrant campaigns as they did in the areas closer to the border. “Our analysis suggests that political elites target their hostile rhetoric at border regions, and that it resonates more strongly with persuadable voters exposed to immigration.” The voters were “persuadable” because they were in a new situation that they had to adapt to; the far right recognized the potential to give that situation a negative spin by portraying immigrants as troublemakers, freeloaders, or criminals. In the control areas, where voters found themselves in a similar situation, there was no such spin. There, the vote for the far right did not increase.

Politicians in Ticino’s parliament coming from border areas were also found to be more likely to propose anti-immigrant legislation than their colleagues from control areas a little further from the border. Those politicians tabling anti-immigrant legislation mostly came from the far right, and in a few instances also from center-right parties trying to curry favour with voters who were supposedly fed up with immigrants.

This study is important. It confirms findings from internationally renowned political scientists such as Larry Bartels, whose book Democracy Erodes From the Top makes the same point, and Nancy Bermeo, whose study Ordinary People in Extraordinary Times analyzes breakdowns of European and Latin American democracies in the 20th century. Both argue that it is not voters who determine the political direction of a country and, ultimately, the fate of democracy, but the political elites who make calculated decisions to offer voters only certain options.

It would be good if centrist politicians, who all too often ape what their far-right colleagues (or rather rivals) do, finally understood this crucial point. The future of our democracies depends on it.

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escapistgarden · 5 months ago

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Slip into my dreams every night

. ݁₊𐙚⋆˖°sub!hyunjin headcannons

content warning: bratty sub hyunjin, spankings(nothing harsh!), dom/sub themes, sexual content, gender neutral, praise kink, kind of public sex, hyunjin gets a good fucking.

authors note: this one is kind of wordy. I was super nervous about this but I ended up getting way to into it. I felt like if any member of stray kids was a bratty sub it was hyunjin. BTW, it is gender neutral, the only genital mentioned is hyunjins!

Tags: @alexisfeliz

-if hyunjin is a sub, he's going to be a brat about it. Pushing your limits and testing how far he can go before his bottom is getting spanked red. Hyunjin is incredibly playful with his disobedience, although he's trying to get underneath your skin, he knows the rules.

-sub!hyunjin doesn't get punished often. Yes he enjoys pushing the limits but he hates not receiving praise from you. Always yearning to do his best but still not being able to suppress his bratty behavior. But when he does get out of line he's over your knee in an instant.

-don't let him fool you, he enjoys it. His cock leaks where it's stuck between your thighs. He moans and whines, desperately trying to hump against your inner leg. That just gets more spankings each time. By the time your done, he's a sobbing mess. His cock is sticky and face wet with spit.

-sub!hyunjin is a crier. He's all confident when teasing you. Sending naughty pictures and teasing touches. After his punishments hyunjin kneels before you, eyes teary and begging for release. But you keep teasing him, just as he had kept teasing you. With every slow stroke up his cock he just cries harder.

-he's so sweet after. He fucks you slow and easy. You know that you won't get much out of it, hyunjin has a big cock but it's absolutely useless. This deep into subspace, he doesn't put much work into it. The slow drag is enough for him to get off. After he finishes coming, he's got tears in his eyes when he realizing he hadn't made you come. You get his mouth to use afterwards.

-sub!hyunjin is an eater! You've teased him relentlessly about how useless his big cock is so he challenged himself to get good at something. It surprised you the first time your little brat got to work absolutely ravishing you below. It was the most intense orgasam you've ever had. Afterwards he was so cocky, he'd take any opportunity to bring it up.

-in public he definitely doesn't let up on his defiance. You've had to leave a plenty of dinners to punish him on the car ride home. Hyunjin is even bolder when he knows he can't be punished immediately. You've gotten crafty at his little game. Grounding your palms down on his clothed cock, sneakily twisting his nipples when nobodies looking. By the end of the night he's a mess. You suck him off in the car, he comes with a yelp. You yet again prove to him that no matter how good he gets, you'll always do it better.

-sub!hyunjin is so pretty when he's laid back taking you. It's the one time he's fully let go of his brattiness. No longer needing to challenge you or test you, he trust you to fully take control. It's hours of prep that gets you here. You spend a good part of the night winding him down.Hyunjin is a good listener when he's like this, he stays still like you told him. He takes your lube slick fingers without complaint. When you finally enter him he's tight, his hole clenches down on you and he starts to whining. Tears threaten to spill but you shush him gently.

-you fuck him slow, taking the time to slowly break him. When you pick up the pace he reaches out for you, you press your face close to his cheek. He twisting and thrust his hips to match pace with you. You hear his breath hitch but he's a good boy now, he knows better then to come without permission. This version of him is your favorite, perfectly lost in subspace and completely obedient.

-he comes with a loud moan. Hyunjin needs all the praise he can get after such an intense session. He loves nothing more than to hear his dom tell him how good of a job he did. He thrives off of praise, always looking for that bit of reassurance from you. Who are you to deny your sweet boy that?

𐙚. ݁₊⋆˖°𐙚

#dovey🕊writes #dovey🕊headcannons #sub hwang hyunjin #sub hyunjin #sub!hwanghyunjin #sub!hyunjin #sub!idol #sub idol #sub!straykids #sub stray kids

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ankitkumar5566 · 5 days ago

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File Complaints Against Public Authorities | India for NRI

Report misconduct by government personnel, file RTI matters, and address grievances with public authorities. Strengthen redressal systems with expert support!

#Complaints against govt employees #complaint against public authorities #\India for nri

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thebarneschronicles · 5 days ago

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Closer To Home VI

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 10.8k

Last night was a turning point—love laid bare, no more running, no more doubt. In the golden light of morning, wrapped in Bucky Barnes’ arms, there’s nothing left to question. He loves you. He’s yours. And for the first time, he’s not afraid to show it.

What started as teasing and lazy touches turns into something deeper—an unspoken promise of everything you’ve built together. A chance encounter at breakfast forces Bucky to confront his past, to see himself not as the weapon he once was, but as a man worth remembering. Worth loving.

He’s still learning, still finding his way, but one thing is certain—he isn’t hiding anymore. Not from himself. And never from you.

Trigger Warnings: mentions of emotional distress, angst, and relationship struggles, a hint of jealousy and abandonment issues, emotional withdrawal, implied PTSD and survivor’s guilt, explicit sexual content (light dominance, possessiveness, overstimulation, and loss of control), moments of mental and emotional turmoil, slightly rough sex with lingering soreness and bruising, public teasing with suggestive dialogue, discussions of war and past violence, themes of self-worth and struggling with identity.

Closer To Home Masterlist

Author’s Note: Surprise, surprise: I couldn't resist it. I wrote the morning after. This one is lighter, more fun, they're just basking in the glow of their 'i love you's' and being menaces to each other. Bucky has a little moment later on and I thought it was something nice for him to have. Give me your thoughts! Love, B xx

The first thing you register is the light. Too much light.

It pries its way through the towering hotel windows, an unrelenting golden-white glow bouncing off the surrounding buildings and flooding the room with an almost holy brightness. It’s intrusive, obnoxious—offensive, really. It cuts through the haze of deep sleep, before warmth, before soreness, before the lazy, satisfied hum curling through your limbs, steeped in the lingering echoes of the night before.

A groggy, disgruntled noise escapes you as you burrow deeper into the warmth beside you, determined to outlast the sun’s persistence.

"Shut the blinds," you mumble, voice thick and heavy with sleep, pressing your face into the solid wall of heat next to you.

Bucky barely stirs, barely even acknowledges the request beyond a vague grunt. "You do it."

You groan, shifting just enough to crawl over him before immediately abandoning the effort, nuzzling into the crook of his neck instead. "You’re bigger."

He exhales a breath that might be a laugh, a slow, lazy sound still drowned in exhaustion, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t push you away. Instead, the arm draped over your waist tightens just slightly, fingers ghosting up the bare expanse of your spine in slow, absentminded strokes. The sensation sends a pleasant shiver rippling down your body, soothing and grounding, the contrast between his warm skin and the cold bite of vibranium a familiar comfort.

"Mm, sweetheart," his voice is a low rumble against your hair, thick and rough with sleep. "You tryna merge with me or somethin’?"

"Yes," you grumble against his throat, tucking a leg over his hip in silent declaration.

You're both still bare from the night before, neither of you ever quite bothering to reclaim your clothes. Your body—drifting in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness—has yet to register the full extent of your so-called reunion. Not just the dull ache in your limbs, the heaviness in your muscles, but the deeper, lingering soreness between your thighs—a telling reminder of just how thoroughly he’d taken you apart.

Bucky shifts under the covers, adjusting to accommodate your relentless burrowing without complaint. And for a little while, sleep drags you both back under, a quiet, contented peace settling between you, until the light finds you again.

No matter how much you twist and turn, how much you try to sink deeper into the safe haven of Bucky’s body, the glare sneaks through the gaps, prying you from the depths of sleep. A frustrated groan pushes past your lips, muffled against the firm plane of his chest. Bucky, to his credit, doesn’t complain when you press yourself impossibly closer, seeking shelter in the broad expanse of him. Instead, he shifts, muscles flexing beneath your touch as he pulls you closer, his breath fanning warmly across your temple.

"You’re real fussy for someone who should still be asleep," he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

"Light’s in my eyes," you grumble, tightening your arms around him. "You’re supposed to be my fortress."

"And you’re supposed to be my peace and quiet," he counters, voice still hoarse with sleep. "Guess we both lost."

Your heart stutters at the admission, warmth blooming in your chest, but you ignore it—ignore the way it makes something deep inside you melt and ache in the sweetest way. Instead, you huff dramatically, fisting your hands against his side as you try to roll both of you over. "Shield me."

A lazy chuckle rumbles through him, vibrating against your skin. "What?"

"The sun is attacking me. Be useful. Please."

Bucky exhales a slow breath but doesn’t resist. Instead, with a tired grunt, he rolls onto his side, tugging you with him. The shift in position grants you the reprieve you seek, the imposing strength of his body blocking out the unwelcome morning glare. You hum in approval, pressing yourself flush against him, sighing contentedly as his arms tighten around you.

"Better?" he rasps, his lips grazing the top of your head.

"Mmm." You shift, pressing a sleepy kiss against his collarbone. "You make a good blackout curtain."

Bucky hums, the sound already half-lost to the pull of sleep. "Glad I could be of service."

For a while, it works. The warmth of him, the solid weight of his presence, the quiet rhythm of his breathing—all of it lulls you closer to the edge of slumber once more. But the longer you lay there, the more aware you become.

Of the dull ache lingering in your muscles. The faint bruises imprinted against your hips, still ghosting with the memory of his grip. The soreness between your thighs, the undeniable evidence of the night before.

And then, the memory crashes into you.

A quiet, breathless whisper escapes before you can stop it. "…You said you love me."

Bucky’s breathing stutters, just for a fraction of a second. Then, a low, sleepy hum, his grip around you tightening. "Mmhmm."

His lips press lazily against your forehead, like he can shush the thought away. "I do," he murmurs, the words warm, half-drowned in sleep, but no less true.

A slow, unstoppable smile spreads across your face. Your heart stumbles over itself, a pleasant, grounding weight settling in your chest. You are his. Claimed. Wanted.

But then, other memories filter in, fragments of the night resurfacing in sharp detail—the fight, though resolved, is not forgotten. The way he had lost himself inside you, scared to lose you. And because you don’t know what else to do with the overwhelming weight of it, you deflect.

"Can’t believe you folded mid-stroke," you tease, breaking the silence. "Didn’t realize my pussy was a safe space for emotional and psychological breakthroughs."

Bucky snorts sharply, his chest shaking with laughter, but his grip on you tightens in retaliation. His vibranium fingers dig into the curve of your bare ass in a firm, vindictive squeeze.

“O-ow!”

"What’s wrong with you?" he accuses, voice thick with amusement, his teeth grazing your shoulder in a playful nip.

"I don’t know, you tell me," you shrug, smug. "You were deep enough in me to find out."

Bucky guffaws, in disbelief. Then, a slow and satisfied smirk spreads over his lips. "So if we’re calling each other out—" He trails his nose along your jaw, his stubble a delicious scratch against your skin. "You said you wanted to marry me."

Your breath hitches. Heat blooms over your cheeks.

"Marriage and babies, if I remember correctly," he adds, his tone dripping with triumph.

Your face burns. "Oh, shut up."

"Nope." His lips graze the sensitive skin beneath your ear, smug and lazy. "You said it."

"I was delirious. You were inside me."

"You sounded pretty serious, sweetheart."

You exhale sharply, feeling his grin against your skin as he presses slow, lazy kisses along your shoulder. It’s not fair how effortlessly he can turn the teasing into something tender. How he can have you giggling one second and breathless the next.

You shift against him, sighing as your fingertips trace slow, lazy patterns over the scars on his shoulder. The ridges are familiar beneath your touch, a testament to everything he's survived, to the strength beneath the softness he reserves only for you. His skin is warm, solid, grounding. Your body aches in a way that makes you want to stretch and wince all at once—every muscle tender, every inch of you still thrumming from the way he’d taken you the night before. And when his thigh shifts slightly, pressing just enough to remind you of exactly where he had been, exactly how thoroughly he had ruined you, a small sound catches in your throat. A tiny, involuntary “ouch”.

Bucky notices immediately.

His movements are unhurried, fluid, but in a blink, you’re on your back, his body hovering over yours, the weight of him pressed into his forearm as his sharp blue eyes roam your face. Concern flickers in them, furrowing his brows, lips pressing into a firm line. He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch achingly gentle in contrast to the roughness of his grip from hours before.

"You okay?" His voice is still rough with sleep, but there’s a new sharpness to it now, an edge of worry threading through the drowsiness. "Did I hurt you last night?"

You blink up at him, surprised by the sudden shift in his demeanor—how easily he can go from teasing and smug to careful and serious, how deeply attuned he is to you. A slow smile tugs at your lips as you reach up, brushing your fingers through his hair, sweeping it back from his face. His concern is sweet, but unnecessary.

"No," you murmur, smoothing your palm down the side of his face. "I mean—" You stretch slightly beneath him, only to feel another pang of soreness settle deep in your bones. You shift, letting out a small, amused huff. "I am kinda sore. Like, all over. You weren’t exactly gentle."

Bucky’s smirk is immediate, smug and devastatingly cocky, his gaze dipping down, dragging slowly over your body, drinking in the marks he left behind—his marks, his evidence of last night. He lets out a low, satisfied hum, thumb brushing idly over your hip, tracing the faint outline of his own fingertips pressed into your skin.

"Didn’t hear any complaints at the time," he says, voice dipping, rough with amusement.

"That’s because I was too busy getting railed into the mattress," you deadpan, watching as his smirk grows into a full-fledged grin.

He huffs out a quiet laugh, dipping his head slightly, his nose brushing along your jaw, voice teasing. "You sound like you wanna complain now."

"Nope. Definitely not a complaint," you clarify, shaking your head. You weren’t about to have him backtrack on you. "Just an observation." You pause, letting your fingers trace slow, absent circles over his shoulder before adding, "I’ve always wanted you a little rough."

Something shifts in his expression at that—subtle, but unmistakable. Amusement gives way to something darker, something deeper. His fingers drag over your stomach, slow and teasing, his touch lighter than before, more deliberate. His gaze follows the movement of his own hand, eyes darkening as he takes in the faint bruises along your ribs, the places where his grip had been firm, possessive, the crescent moons of his nails etched into your skin.

"You look good like this," he murmurs, voice dipping lower, rougher.

Your breath catches in your throat.

"Like what?" you ask, though you think you already know the answer.

Bucky shifts, his lips barely grazing over your jaw, his hand sliding lower, his thumb pressing slow, deliberate circles into your hip bone. The touch is featherlight, teasing, the contrast against the soreness making your stomach tighten, heat curling low in your belly.

"Marked," he says simply, voice thick with satisfaction.

Your stomach flips.

For a moment, you don’t say anything—can’t say anything. Your heart beats a little faster, your breath a little shallower. You can feel the warmth of him everywhere, the solid weight of his body, the press of his hand.

“I like it too,” you confess, feeling your body heating up from the inside out.

His nose brushes yours, the heat of his breath mingling with your own. "Think I wanna finish what we started last night."

Your lips part slightly, your breath coming just a little quicker.

"Yeah?" you whisper, tilting your chin up, inviting.

"Yeah," he breathes, his lips grazing over yours, barely there, teasing, tempting. "If you’re up for it."

You hum softly, letting your hands slide up his back, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. "You really never got to cum…" you murmur, your voice laced with playful sympathy, your nails dragging gently down his back.

Bucky exhales through his nose, nuzzling against your lips, his smirk pressed to your skin. "I didn’t," he confirms, his tone heavy with exaggerated pain.

A grin tugs at your lips. "Poor you, huh? Must be hard."

"Very," he nods solemnly, though the corner of his mouth betrays him. You can feel his smirk against your cheek, the amusement threaded through his voice. “I’m in deep suffering.”

You let out a quiet giggle, biting your lip as you shift slightly beneath him. "Oh, are you?" You arch a teasing brow. "Do I not satisfy you every other time?"

Bucky’s lips quirk, amusement flickering behind his eyes as he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your jaw. "You do, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice dropping into something lower, something that makes your stomach tighten. His fingers drag lazily over your skin, tracing the path of last night’s indulgences. "But you were the one who said your pussy had healing properties."

Your breath catches. A laugh slips out, unbidden.

“Bucky Barnes–” you shake your head. “So you did have a revelation," you tease, grinning against his skin.

"Well, if your pussy's got that kind of power..." His hand slides lower, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before dipping between your legs. He tilts his head, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your throat, letting his teeth scrape just slightly. "Think I might need another hit. For, y’know... therapeutic reasons."

You pretend to consider it, tipping your head back slightly, giving him more room to roam. His mouth is warm against your skin, his tongue darting out to taste, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver and his fingers tease your slit, light and gentle.

"Well," you murmur, voice light, playful, but already breathless, "I wouldn't want to deprive you of something so… essential to your well-being."

Bucky hums, low and pleased, his lips still moving lazily against your throat, like he’s savoring you. "Sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice rich with amusement, "you're a goddamn saint."

His fingers part your slit, teasing, barely there as he dips into your entrance—just enough to make heat coil low in your belly, tight and simmering. It’s a whisper of a touch, more suggestion than satisfaction, and it leaves you aching, desperate. You arch slightly into him, hips tilting instinctively, trying to chase more, but his touch remains infuriatingly light. Barely a ghost of pressure, just the tease of his fingertips skating over your slickness. He’s playing with you. Taking his time. Drawing it out just to watch you squirm.

Your breath hitches, frustration curling alongside arousal. You can feel him watching you, feel the weight of his stare as he drinks in every little movement, every twitch, every shaky breath. You look down between you, your gaze roaming the broad expanse of his chest, over the ridges of muscle shifting as he moves. The way his arm flexes between your spread thighs, corded with strength, veins prominent and beautiful. And lower—

Your breath catches.

His cock, thick and flushed, stands hard between you, the sight of it making your stomach flip, making the need pulse hotter in your core. It’s beautiful—he’s beautiful. Every inch of him, from the strong slope of his shoulders to the delicious cut of his abs, the sheer strength in his arms, to the way his lips quirk ever so slightly as he watches your reaction. Like he knows. Like he’s savoring every second of it.

And God, you love him. You love him so much it hurts. Sometimes, the sheer weight of it presses down on you like an unstoppable force, consuming and unshakable, taking up so much space inside you that you don’t know how to contain it. He was warmth, he was kindness, he was something thoughtful and rare, something that made you feel safe even in your most vulnerable moments.

But the desire—the desire was something else entirely.

It was its own beast, wild and insatiable, growing every time he touched you, every time you looked at him and saw something new. A different angle of him bathed in low, golden light. The way his muscles flexed beneath your fingers. The sound of his voice when it dropped lower, when it got rough with want. He was a work of art, sculpted and breathtaking, but unlike the admirers who could only appreciate from afar, you got to touch. You got to experience every part of him—the heat of his skin, the way he tasted, the shiver in his breath when you kissed the right spot, the sounds he made when he lost himself in you. Sometimes, it was too much for your body to comprehend. The pleasure, the need, the sheer overwhelming reality of him.

“Oh God, okay,” you breathe, your chest rising and falling too fast, the air catching in your throat. “Shit, this is—”

Bucky’s fingers pause, just barely, the tips of them still pressed against the slick heat of you. His gaze flicks up to yours, sharp and curious, assessing. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head quickly, trying to gather yourself, but it’s useless when your whole body is buzzing—pulse pounding in your ears, breath hitching. “I might be the one having a meltdown,” you admit, voice unsteady.

His smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, playful, but there’s something softer behind it, something knowing. The cool weight of his vibranium hand slides up, smoothing over your thigh, grounding you. “Yeah?” His voice dips lower, warm and teasing, but there’s an edge of concern, too. “Why’s that, sweetheart?”

A breathless laugh escapes you as you shift slightly beneath him, parting your legs further, like instinct. Like an invitation. Your hand moves without thought, reaching down to wrap around his wrist, fingers curling over the strong tendons, needing something solid to hold onto. “You,” you murmur, squeezing his wrist lightly, looking up at him with something raw in your eyes, something vulnerable. “You’re—unreal. You don’t even know…”

Something flickers in his expression. His pupils blow wide, not with lust but something deeper, something unreadable yet unmistakable. And then—

“I love you,” he murmurs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like the words belong to him the same way you do.

Your heart stutters, chest squeezing tight at the newness of it, the weight of it still fresh enough to send a flurry of butterflies through your stomach. “I love you.”

Your lips part, an overwhelmed, breathless sound escaping before you can help it. “Do you?” you mumble, swallowing against the emotion building fast in your throat. “’Cause truly, I just want you for that insane body.”

Bucky lets out a laugh, low and warm, shaking his head as he steals a smacking kiss from your lips. “You’re gonna cry, aren’t you?” he teases, voice laced with something affectionate, something utterly wrecked with fondness. “Is that why you’re trying to joke?”

“Maybe,” you pout, reaching up to hook your fingers around the back of his neck, pulling him down for another kiss. This one lingers, your lips parting against his, a gasp slipping out when his index finger glides up—circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes before dragging back down to your entrance and dipping inside. Your eyes flutter shut, body going tight around his digits, the noise alone - wet, filthy, loud - making goosebumps rise on your skin.

Bucky watches you, taking in every reaction, every little shiver. “You gonna tell me you love me?”

“I love you,” you give in immediately, the words leaving you on instinct, overwhelmed, helpless to anything but this. “I love you. God, I really do.”

His lips brush against your cheek, and when he speaks, his voice is lower, deeper—commanding. “Look me in the eyes, sweetheart.”

You whimper, your body trembling, pleasure pressing in from all sides. “Gimme—” you gasp, barely able to get the words out. “Gimme a second.”

“Nuh uh,” Bucky nuzzles into your neck then, his nose brushing against your skin, his lips pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses over your pulse before his teeth nip, dragging a groan from deep in your throat. “I wanna see you.”

“Damn it, Buck—fuck, wait!”

Your whole body jolts when he presses two fingers inside, stretching you open, filling you with the same slow, thorough care that’s unraveling you inch by inch. Your back arches off the bed, an arm wrapping tight around his neck, clinging to him as pleasure surges up your spine, hot and dizzying.

His other hand strokes over your thigh, soothing, a steady contrast to the relentless way he works you open. “Baby,” you pant, voice a little shaky, pleading. “I’m still sore.”

Bucky stills, just for a second, a flicker of hesitation passing over his features. And then he softens, his lips pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, his nose brushing against yours. “I know,” he murmurs, his voice all honey and gravel. “I got you, sweetheart. You just tell me what you need.”

God, you love him.

“Just… be gentle?”

His lips twitch, something fond and teasing playing at the edges of his mouth, but his eyes—God, his eyes—are dark and warm, deep pools of blue that hold you still. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice softer now, roughened at the edges. “I’ll be gentle.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine, because it’s not just words—it’s a promise, one that settles into your bones, warm and unshakable.

His fingers move again, slow and deliberate this time, easing deeper, stretching you open with aching patience. He watches every flicker of expression on your face, every shift in your breathing, his vibranium hand smoothing over your thigh, keeping you grounded. “This okay?” he asks, voice low, reverent.

You nod, exhaling a shaky breath. “Yeah,” you whisper, your fingers tightening around his wrist. “Yeah, it’s—”

Your words cut off in a breathy moan when he curls his fingers just right, pressing into that spot that sends heat coiling low in your belly. Your hips twitch, moving instinctively, chasing the feeling, noises pouring out of you, and Bucky makes a low, approving sound, something rough and pleased rumbling from his chest.

“There it is,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your cheek, then your jaw, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin. “That’s my girl.”

Your breath catches. His girl. The words send a dizzy rush through you, lighting up something tender and desperate in your chest and you feel yourself getting even wetter, easing up the glide of his fingers against your walls.

“You like that?” he teases, dragging his lips lower, down the curve of your throat, your collarbones, the swell of your breasts. His tongue darts out, teasing, and glides over your nipple, making your breath stutter. His fingers keep working you open, slow and steady, pushing in and out, spreading warmth through every inch of you. “Like bein’ mine?”

“Fuck,” you breathe, your head falling back against the pillows, your body trembling as your fingers curl into the back of his neck, your free hand gripping the chains of his dog tags. “Bucky—”

His name spills from your lips like a whispered prayer, and the sound of it sends a shiver of satisfaction through him. He groans low, the sound vibrating through his chest as he shifts closer, his bare skin scorching against yours, his cock heavy and hot against your thigh, leaking against your skin. You can feel the weight of him, the need rolling off of him, pressing into you and your walls pulse, desperate to take him.

“Wanna rub your clit for me?” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick and low with the heat of the moment. “It’ll help, sweetheart. Get you ready faster.”

You shake your head, a desperate sound escaping your throat as you grip the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him closer. “N-no, no, please,” you manage, breathless. “You do it.”

His smirk is audible, a teasing lilt to his voice, but there’s something more underneath it—something darker, more possessive. “Kinda busy,” he says, his fingers inside you moving at a maddeningly slow pace, teasing the edges of your control, making every nerve in your body stand on end.

Your hips roll, instinctively chasing the rhythm of his fingers, but it’s not enough. You want more. You need more.

“Use the other hand,” you whisper, your voice trembling, the desperation coating every syllable. You tilt your head up, pulling him down by the chains, seeking his mouth for a kiss, but you don’t quite meet it, your lips brushing the side of his jaw instead. You can feel the heat of him radiating through his skin, all hard angles and smooth muscle, and you can’t get enough.

Bucky makes a sound deep in his chest, something rough and low that sends a bolt of heat straight through you. His forehead presses to yours for a moment, his breath warm, ragged, as if he’s barely holding himself together.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his flesh fingers still working inside you, slow and deep, stretching you open with aching patience. His metal hand, the one you just begged for, twitches where it rests on your thigh.

Your grip tightens in his hair, your lips brushing against his in a breathless, pleading kiss. “Please,” you whisper, eyes hazy with need. “I need it, Buck. Wanna cum for you. Just you, baby.”

Something dark flickers through his gaze, something possessive and molten, and then you feel it—the cool, smooth brush of vibranium tracing over your stomach, deliberate and unhurried, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, teasing, his lips brushing yours but never quite kissing. “That what my girl wants?”

A desperate little sound escapes you, your hips rolling instinctively toward his touch. “Yours,” you breathe, voice barely there. “You know I am.”

Bucky groans, and then, finally, finally, the cool pads of his thumb presses against your clit, the rest of his hand putting pressure low on your belly. He starts slow, circling with feather-light strokes that have you gasping, twitching beneath him.

“Fuck me,” he hisses, watching you unravel beneath him.

Your eyes flutter shut as you let your words tumble out. “Oh my god–” Your pulse jumps. Your hips roll up, fingers pulling at his hair. “Fuck me, fuck me, f-fuck–”

“Look at you,” he hisses, watching you unravel beneath him. His voice is rough, strained. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.”

Your thighs threaten to clamp shut around his wrist, but he tsks, spreading them wider, keeping you open for him. “Nah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, lips brushing along your jaw. “Let me see you.”

You whimper, overwhelmed, heat coiling tight in your belly as he works you over with devastating precision. He’s everywhere, flesh fingers curling inside you, metal fingers slick against your clit, mouth on your breasts and it’s too much.

“Bucky,” you gasp, arching into him, your whole body taut, trembling. “I—I’m gonna—”

He lifts his head then, his gaze locking onto yours, burning and unyielding. “Look at me,” he orders, his voice pure sin, low and commanding.

Your eyes flutter open, meeting his just as he presses a little harder, a little faster.You’re slick now, no resistance at all for his fingers, and he’s in to the knuckle, teasing sensations out of you that your own fingers hadn’t managed to. It’s too much, too good, your body shattering beneath his touch. Your orgasm crashes over you, white-hot and consuming, your breath hitching as you cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, his hair.

Bucky groans at the sight, vibranium thumb still rolling your clit, working you through it, drawing out every last pulse, every last tremor, until you’re gasping, crying out so loud you’re sure the room next door knows his name, overstimulated and shaking.

His lips find yours then, kissing you slow, deep, like he wants to pull every last whimper straight from your lungs. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice filled with something tender, reverent. “Always so good for me.”

You shudder, boneless beneath him, your body still humming, your mind floating in the aftermath of the intense release. Every inch of your skin seems to still vibrate with it. His touch lingers, almost too much, too soon, but you don’t want him to stop. You need him to stay close, to remind you of the fire he just ignited in you.

Your fingers trace the ridges of his neck, the taut muscles there, then slowly, lazily, drift down his back, ghosting over the sweat-dampened skin of his broad shoulders. Your other hand curves along his waist, the heat of his body still radiating off him, every inch of him solid and real beneath your touch. Finally, you let your palm rest against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart echoing your own.

“Holy shit,” you finally manage, breathless, dazed, your voice still a little ragged. The words feel foreign on your tongue, yet somehow fitting, because you have nothing else to say—nothing that could adequately describe how his touch has shattered you.

Bucky chuckles, a deep, low sound that hums in his chest, full of satisfaction. His lips brush against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “Yeah?” he drawls, his voice thick, slow, and heavy with the weight of his own pleasure. “You still with me?”

You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head against the pillow, eyes fluttering as you try to keep yourself grounded. “Yeah,” you breathe out, every nerve still buzzing, still tingling. The aftershocks of your release still pulse through your veins, but the hunger in you only grows.

His smirk returns, slow and lazy, and you can see the way it stretches across his face—there’s something possessive about it, but it’s soft too, something warm and tender beneath the surface. He nudges your nose with his, and you feel the heat of his breath against your skin. His lips brush over yours, soft at first, a gentle reminder that this—this between you—is more than just physical. You lean into it, your lips parting slightly as you deepen the kiss, your heart catching in your throat. It’s unbearably sweet, making your chest ache as both of you whisper soft, barely audible ‘I love you’s’ onto each other’s lips before he breaks away.

“Think you got another one in you, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his hand already trailing down between your thighs. His fingers are still wet when he finds your sensitive clit again, teasing with a touch.

You whimper, body jerking instinctively at the contact. “Bucky—” You can barely form words, your voice tight and ragged with desire. The air around you feels thick with tension, with the need for him that you can't deny. Your hands move to him, finding his hips, gliding behind until your hands can drag over the curve of his ass. It’s ridiculous, really, how much you love his body.

His grin widens, and there’s that dark, knowing glint in his eyes—the one that makes everything inside you tighten with anticipation. “That a yes?” His words drip with teasing, but underneath is something else—as if he’s already planning how he’s going to take you apart all over again.

You bite your lip, your hand moving down and around to wrap around his cock, gingerly at first, but it doesn’t take long for you to find a rhythm, your fingers curling around him, drawing him closer. You pull him, softly, and the sound he makes—a low, guttural moan—sends a shiver racing down your spine. It makes every nerve in your body stand at attention.

“You still haven’t cum…” You tsked in disapproval.

“I will,” he nods, his voice rasping with need. “Just checking if you’re ready for my cock.” His words are thick with lust, and even though it makes you clench, there’s a rawness to it that makes you crave it even more.

“My cock,” you correct him, the words tasting different when you say them like this—laying claim. The thought makes your pulse race, your mouth water. Your eyes lock on his, a challenge in your gaze, and without hesitation, you drag him down towards you by the neck, pulling him in.

He’s stronger, bigger, taller than you—everything about him demands attention—but when he falls into you, surrendering, it’s almost as if the roles have reversed. He lets you guide him, lets you welcome him in between your spread thighs, the weight of his body settling against you. His breath hitches as he shifts, and you feel every inch of him, pressing against you, urging you to take the next step.

“Cause you’re mine, right?” you whisper, the words thick with desire, a challenge laced with vulnerability, as you stare up at him. Your breath comes out uneven, the ache between your legs undeniable, a desperate plea for him.

For a long moment, he just stares at you, his gaze intense, searching. The tension between you thickens, and you can almost taste the shift in the air. He smiles then, a slow smile that ignites something deep inside you. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, “I’m all yours, sweetheart.”

“Then come on,” you urge him, voice sultry, your hand lining his cock to your entrance, gliding up and down, teasing both you and him with the promise of your heat, your wetness. Your free hand finds his ass again, your nails into the supple skin. “Fill up your pussy, James. Wanna see you cum.”

“Shit.”

–

“Buck… You got your wallet?”

“Yes.” His voice was flat, but the subtle twitch of his lips betrayed his amusement.

“Jacket?”

“Yes, doll.”

“Phone?”

“On my pocket.”

“Sunglasses?”

“Your purse.”

“Gloves?”

“On my hands.”

“You know you don’t have to wear those, right?” You glanced up at him as you adjusted your purse strap over your shoulder.

He flexed his fingers, glancing down at the black leather that hugged his hands snugly. “People are weird about it.”

“Well, fuck people,” you huffed, annoyed on his behalf, rising up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips.

A faint chuckle rumbles in his chest, but he doesn’t argue. Getting him out of the hotel had already been an ordeal, requiring the kind of patience you weren’t exactly known for. He had been content to keep you locked away in bed, tangled up in his limbs, his hands exploring, grounding, claiming. Both of you had a new found love for how much you seemed to unravel around his fingers, an addiction he seemed eager to explore. But after hours of indulgence, your stomach had started growling loud enough to rival an engine, and the dull throb behind your eyes had made it clear that skipping meals wasn’t an option.

In the end, it was that—not your pleading, not your half-hearted threats, not even your puppy-dog eyes—that had finally made him relent.

So here you were, strolling down the sidewalk in the crisp morning air, Bucky keeping you anchored to his side with an unwavering grip on your hand. Never much for PDA, he seemed to make an exception today. His fingers curled securely around yours, his thumb occasionally sweeping over your knuckles like he was reassuring himself you were still there. You stole a glance up at him—his expression was relaxed, content even, though the sharp-eyed vigilance never quite left him.

You’d picked out a cute little restaurant—Martin’s Tavern. It had that old-school charm that you figured would appeal to him, the kind of place that smelled like fresh coffee, warm maple syrup, and nostalgia. When you stepped inside, the soft murmur of conversation and the clinking of silverware against plates filled the space. A waitress led you to a corner booth, and as soon as you slid in, Bucky followed, pressing against your side as if you might disappear if he let even an inch of space form between you.

His palm found its way between your crossed legs, dipping between your thighs, a firm, possessive hold that had been a constant since the moment you stepped out of bed. His thumb traces slow circles against your tights covered skin, and you feel it through the thin fabric.

You exhaled a soft, amused sigh, letting the moment settle between you before shifting slightly in your seat—just a test, just to prove a theory. And as expected, his grip tightened, a subtle yet unmistakable response.

You swallowed down the flicker of emotion that stirred in your chest, resting your cheek against his shoulder as you wrapped both hands around his bicep, feeling the solid muscle beneath his jacket. “I’m not gonna disappear, you know.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched against your thigh. His grip wasn’t painful, wasn’t desperate, but it was firm. Resolute. Like he needed to feel you there, needed the confirmation that you were real, that this wasn’t just some dream that would dissolve into nothing the moment he let go.

His voice was quiet when he finally answered, his words laced with the heaviness of someone who had spent a lifetime losing himself and the people he loved. “You could.”

It wasn’t a dramatic declaration, but rather a simple, painful truth.

Your heart clenched, and you pulled back just enough to look at him. His expression was calm—carefully so—but his eyes betrayed him.

“I’m right here, Buck,” you murmured, your fingers squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And you felt it—the way the night before had cracked him wide open. Stripped him down to something raw, something unguarded. He wasn’t hiding it from you anymore. The love. The need. The desire. The fear. It was all there, simmering just beneath the surface, clear as day.

But that didn’t mean he was different with the rest of the world.

Outside of this little bubble the two of you existed in, he was still Bucky Barnes. Still the man who scanned every room like a soldier walking into enemy territory, still the man who tensed at loud noises, still the man who carried a century’s worth of ghosts on his shoulders.

You saw it now—his jaw tightening, his gaze flickering toward the window, his instincts kicking in even in a quiet, cozy little restaurant where the biggest threat was a waiter with a tray of mimosas.

You knew better than to push. Instead, you reached for his gloved hand with slow, deliberate care, bringing it to your lips and pressing a soft kiss against the worn leather stretched taut across his knuckles.

It worked. You felt it—the way his fingers flexed slightly beneath the material, the way his grip on you tightened, grounding himself in your presence.

“You know…” you began, voice light with gentle mischief, “this place has been here since the thirties. It’s a hundred years old.” You let the words hang for a moment, feigning innocence as you watched his brow twitch ever so slightly. Then, just as his attention finally shifted fully back to you, you smirked. “Like you.”

His reaction was immediate. He turned from the menu he had just picked up, slow and deliberate, blue eyes narrowing as he gave you a long, assessing look. The kind of look that said he was both entirely unimpressed and, at the same time, completely taken with you.

You bit your lip, failing spectacularly to smother the grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. But there was no hiding the sparkle in your eyes, the amusement dancing just beneath the surface.

Bucky exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I can’t decide if that was thoughtful or just plain rude,” he mused, his voice edged with faux-offense. But you caught it—the way his lips twitched, fighting against a smile.

You hummed, tilting your head in mock consideration. “How about both?”

His tongue flicked over his bottom lip, and you caught the way his gaze dipped to your mouth before he sighed, long and suffering. “You’re impossible.”

Leaning in, you closed the space between you, brushing your nose against his in a fleeting, playful nuzzle. He seemed to be letting you get away with so much more than he usually would. The warmth of his breath ghosted over your lips, and for a moment, everything stilled. His fingers flexed against your thigh, his hold on you tightening just slightly, and you knew—knew that if you weren’t in a public place, he wouldn’t be hesitating right now.

“I contain multitudes, you know,” you teased, letting your voice dip into a lilting whisper.

He groaned, low and deep, shaking his head. But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go. If anything, he only held onto you tighter, his fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh, his arm heavy around your shoulders.

You could see it—the war inside him. The part of him that wanted to roll his eyes, to grumble about your antics. And the other part, the one that wanted to pin you against the back of the booth and kiss you until you forgot your own name.

He sighed, but this time, it was different. Less exasperation, more surrender.

And then, suddenly, he leaned in, pressing a shockingly lingering, deliberate kiss to your cheek before murmuring against your skin, “You’re a damn minx.”

You grinned, victorious, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the way his stubble grazed against your touch. “And you love me.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips twitching as he finally let that smirk break free, something softer—something unguarded—lingering in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he admitted, voice rough, gaze warm. “I do.”

The words hit you like a bolt of lightning, electrifying and impossible to contain. Your breath caught, and before you could think better of it, before his own aversion to public displays of affection could catch up and stop it, your hand was on his cheek, pulling him into a kiss.

And God, it was unbearable. Addictive. The knowledge that Bucky Barnes loved you.

It burned through you, this deep, desperate need to hear it again, to feel it, to breathe it in like oxygen. You wanted to beg him to say it every second, every minute, every hour of every damn day, to brand it into your skin like something permanent.

But you knew better than to push too hard.

So instead, you settled for touching—for kissing.

The taste of him was your favorite thing, the slight burn of his stubble against your lips like a shot of adrenaline straight to your veins. There was no amount of him that could sate you, no dose that would ever be enough.

You sighed into him, fingertips curling at the nape of his neck, ready to melt further, ready to let the rest of the world slip away when—

A cough.

A single, awkward, throat-clearing cough.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

You both froze.

Bucky was the first to pull away, moving like a soldier caught off guard, instinct sharpening his gaze. But not before he flicked his eyes toward you, giving you a quick, almost reluctant once-over, like he was making sure you were okay before engaging with the unknown voice.

You swallowed hard, heart hammering, reaching up to cover your kiss-swollen lips with the tips of your fingers, heat flaring across your cheeks as you turned.

Standing just beside your table was a man—maybe mid 30s, dressed casually but with an undeniable nervous energy rolling off him in waves. His hands were wringing the life out of a battered baseball cap, twisting and untwisting the fabric with the kind of anxious reverence people reserved for childhood heroes.

His eyes flickered between you both, a little sheepish but determined nonetheless. “I’m—Jesus, I’m so sorry to interrupt,” he rushed to say. “I just—are you—you are Sergeant Barnes, right?”

Bucky’s posture shifted, his shoulders squaring up ever so slightly, that razor-sharp caution sliding into place.

He nodded, slow, deliberate. “Yeah.” His voice was gruff, edged with wariness.

The man grinned, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Couldn’t be sure without the arm.” His gaze flickered down toward Bucky’s gloved hands before snapping back up, his expression open, earnest. “Man, I just—I wanted to say thanks. My grandpa, he was 107th. Always talked about you and Captain Rogers like you walked on water. He passed last year, but he’d have lost his mind if he knew I ran into you.”

Bucky blinked. You watched him shift in his seat, like he wasn’t sure whether to brace for impact or brush it off. But beneath it—just for a second—you saw something else. A flicker of surprise.

The man barely seemed to notice, barreling forward like he had rehearsed this in his head a hundred times. “He used to tell me a lot of war stories. Always said you were the best shot he ever saw.” His voice dipped with genuine admiration. “Said you could hit a moving target in the dark, wind kicking, rain coming down sideways—didn’t matter. Never wasted a bullet, never missed when it counted.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His fingers flexed against your thigh.

“Was a long time ago,” he murmured.

The man nodded, like he expected that answer. “Yeah, well. He also said you weren’t just some guy with a good aim. You knew how to handle yourself. Wouldn’t go down easy, fought until you were the last one standing.” A small, knowing grin pulled at his lips. “There was this story—think it was in Italy—he swore he saw you take on two Hydra guys with nothing but a knife and a bad attitude.”

Bucky huffed out a breath, shaking his head slightly.

But the guy wasn’t finished. “He told it like you were born for the fight.”

Something flickered across Bucky’s face then. You saw it—the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard, the way his fingers tightened around yours.

You stayed still. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just let him take it all in.

The guy’s voice softened a little. “But he always said the best thing about you wasn’t the fight.” His gaze met Bucky’s, steady and sure. “Said you were smart. That’s the part he never shut up about. You weren’t just a soldier. You were a strategist. You were one of the ones making calls, keeping people alive. Figuring out how to get in and out before the enemy even knew you were there.”

He cleared his throat, shifting his voice into something rougher, gruffer—mimicking an old man’s tone.

“‘Barnes didn’t just fight, he thought.’”

The air between you went still.

Bucky swallowed, jaw working as he exhaled slowly, glancing away like the weight of it sat heavier than he knew what to do with.

You squeezed his hand. Just once.

His grip tightened in return.

“Your grandpa sounded like a good man,” Bucky finally said, voice quieter, more careful.

The guy nodded. “Yeah. And he thought you were one, too.”

You watched the tension in Bucky’s shoulders slowly unravel, watched the way his mouth softened at the edges. His hand in yours, steady and warm, not trembling, not running.

Just here.

“You said he was 107th?” Bucky murmured. “That’s—yeah. They were good men.”

The guy’s throat bobbed, his hands twisting that poor, battered hat between his fingers like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. His voice was quieter this time, more careful, like he knew the weight of the words before he even said them.

“Yeah. He was proud to serve with you.” His eyes flicked up, searching Bucky’s face. “Said you never left a man behind.”

Bucky’s breath hitched—just barely. So small a shift that most people wouldn’t have noticed.

But you weren’t most people.

And God—the look in his eyes.

It could split your chest open.

There was something raw there, something old and aching and too much. A storm breaking just beneath the surface, quiet but powerful, stirring up ghosts of the past like they still had unfinished business with him.

He swallowed hard, lips parting like he wanted to say something—like there were a thousand things caught behind his teeth, all trying to claw their way out at once.

But in the end, he just nodded. Once.

Quiet but steady.

“Thanks for telling me that.”

The guy hesitated, shifting on his feet, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck before letting out a nervous breath.

“I don’t wanna take up your time, but—uh, could I shake your hand?”

Bucky blinked.

It was almost comical, how blindsided he looked—like the request hadn’t even been in the realm of possibility. As if of all the things he had braced himself for, this had never crossed his mind.

Like maybe—just maybe—he didn’t believe he was the kind of man people wanted to shake hands with anymore.

The air between you all felt delicate—like something sacred, something fragile, balancing on the edge of a blade.

You didn’t dare breathe. Didn’t dare move.

Until you did.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you reached for the edge of his glove.

Your fingers brushed against his wrist, slow and deliberate, peeling the leather away, like you had done it a thousand times before. Bucky didn’t stop you. Didn’t even flinch.

Just let you do it.

Let you bare his hand to the open air, to the world—to the man standing before him, offering something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

And then, with a touch so light it was almost imperceptible, your other hand skimmed his elbow. A quiet, steady anchor.

A nudge forward. A silent reassurance. A reminder. That this was real. That he was allowed to have this.

Because if anyone deserved to shake James Buchanan Barnes’ hand—

It was the grandson of a man who still believed in the good in him.

Bucky hesitated, just for a second.

Not out of reluctance. Not out of fear.

But out of something heavier. Like the weight of it all, of being remembered this way, was something he didn’t quite know how to carry.

Then, finally, he moved. His fingers flexed, curling slightly before he extended his bare hand, offering it in quiet acceptance.

The guy took it immediately, gripping firm but not forceful. A show of respect. Of gratitude.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” His voice was steady, but his expression was something softer—genuine. “For everything.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed, and you could see it—the way his jaw tightened, the way his grip lingered just a moment longer than necessary. Not because he didn’t believe it was happening. Because he needed it to be real.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. That the weight of it would press too hard against his ribs, keep the words stuck in his throat.

But then, finally—softly, barely above a murmur:

“…You’re welcome.”

The guy nodded, giving Bucky’s hand one last, firm squeeze before finally stepping back, letting go. His smile was small but earnest—the kind of expression that wasn’t forced, wasn’t for show. The kind of gratitude that didn’t need to be loud to be heard.

The guy pulled back, exhaling a little laugh, like he couldn’t believe this had actually happened. Like he had just checked something monumental off his list.

The guy smiled, like he knew when to step back, when to leave a moment untouched, but before he turned to leave, he hesitated just once more.

“He would’ve liked to see you like this,” he said, almost as an afterthought, but his eyes flicked to you for the briefest second—just enough to make it clear what this meant.

Bucky didn’t say anything. Just pressed his lips together, gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. You didn’t react, just let your eyes widen slightly at the stranger, brows rising the tiniest bit in acknowledgement.

And then, just like that, the guy was gone.

The space he left behind felt heavier —thicker. Charged with something unspoken.

Bucky exhaled, long and slow, his shoulders dropping just a fraction as he leaned back into the booth. You could still see it in the way he held himself—the tension, the weight of old ghosts settling deep in his bones.

His whole body was taut, tense in a way you recognized—a tension that wasn’t from anger or wariness, but disbelief. Like he didn’t know what to do with this feeling. Like he had been bracing for something bad, something heavy—but instead, he’d been given kindness.

Your heart ached for him.

For a long moment, you just watched him, time unchecked.

You watched, your heart aching in that deep, familiar way—the way it always did when you saw him like this. The part of him that still didn’t quite believe he could be seen as anything other than what he had been made into.

Watched the way his fingers flexed like he could still feel the handshake lingering. Watched the way his eyes flickered to the spot where the guy had been standing, like he was replaying the words over and over again, letting them settle in places that had been empty and hostile inside of him for far too long.

Then, gently, you reached for his hand again—his bare hand. Lacing your fingers through his, grounding him in the present, in you. His gaze flicked to you then, something soft, raw, vulnerable in those blue eyes.

You squeezed his hand. “How’s it feel?”

“How does what feel?”

“To know people like you.”

A sharp exhale—halfway between a scoff and a laugh.

“Yeah, well.” He shook his head, glancing down, rubbing a thumb absentmindedly over your knuckles. “Just one guy.”

You arched a brow, a smirk playing at the corner of your lips. “One guy whose grandpa thought you walked on water.”

He rolled his eyes, but it lacked any real irritation.

You leaned in just a little, voice softer now, more serious.

“And you never left a man behind. You’re not that different now, Buck.”

Bucky swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his grip on your hand tightening like you were the only solid thing in a world that still felt unsteady beneath his feet. His skin was warm against yours, calloused fingertips pressing into your palm like he needed proof you were real—that you meant what you were saying.

Your thumb brushed along the inside of his wrist, slow and deliberate, tracing the faint ridge of a scar that had long since healed. His pulse quickened just slightly beneath your touch, a quiet, steady reminder. Alive. Present. Yours.

His eyes flickered over your face, searching. For what, you weren’t entirely sure—reassurance, maybe? Permission to believe you? A reason to let go of the doubt curling at the edges of his mind?

A question lingered behind his gaze, wrapped in something softer, something hesitant. Do you really think that? Do you really see me like that?

“Am I not?” His voice was quiet, rough around the edges like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

You shook your head, unwavering, holding him there with nothing but the truth. “No.”

The breath he let out was slow, like he was bracing himself, but this time, when he squeezed your hand, his grip was steadier—more certain.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your lips as you nudged him lightly, leaning into his side just enough to feel the solid warmth of him. “Pretty cool, you know?”

Bucky tilted his head, brow furrowing as he picked up the menu again, his arm coming around your shoulders, really tucking you against his side. “What is?”

You shrugged, playing it off like it wasn’t that big a deal, like your heart hadn’t just cracked wide open for him to see. “To be a war hero’s girl.”

His fingers twitched, his head turned to your, and for a second, he didn’t say anything—just looked at you, blue eyes dark and unreadable. But then Bucky’s lips twitched, a breath of a laugh escaping before he shook his head, eyes dropping back to the menu like he was pretending not to be affected. Like the weight of your words hadn’t settled somewhere deep in his chest.

But you knew better.

You felt it in the way his fingers curled just a little tighter around your shoulder, grounding himself in the warmth of your touch. You saw it in the way his jaw worked, like he was chewing over what to say, like he wasn’t used to this—being spoken about like that.

Like he wasn’t used to being someone’s hero.

“War hero, huh?” His voice was light, but you caught the thread of something deeper beneath it. Something careful.

You hummed, tilting your head playfully, hand gliding over his stomach to squeeze his waist. “Mhm. Big damn hero, actually.”

Bucky scoffed, flipping the page of the menu. “I don’t know about that.”

You nuzzled his shoulder. “Oh, c’mon. You heard the guy. You were a legend before you even hit twenty-five. The best shot in the 107th, a strategist, a fighter, an all-around badass.” You grinned. “And you didn’t even need the serum for that part.”

His brows lifted just slightly, but his expression was unreadable. “That what you think?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I know it. You forget, but I’ve read your files.”

That got him.

Bucky finally dropped the menu, his blue eyes settling on yours, unwavering. You could feel it, the weight of it—the years, the ghosts, the history that still clung to him like a second skin. But underneath all of it, there was him. The man who had never stopped fighting, even when the world had tried to make him forget who he was.

The man who had never left anyone behind.

The man who had fought for his life and found his way to you.

A comfortable silence settled between you, his body now loose, relaxed, in a way you knew wasn’t always easy for him.

And then, because you couldn’t resist, you grinned. “Should I start calling you Sergeant Barnes in bed? I think it has a nice ring to it.”

Bucky groaned, head tilting back against the booth as if the ceiling could save him. “Don’t.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek, smirking. “But it sounds so official,” you teased against his ear, dragging out the words just to watch the corner of his mouth twitch. “So dignified. So—”

Bucky cut you a look, unimpressed but visibly bracing for impact.

“—authoritative.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “If you do, I’m leaving.”

You gasped dramatically, hand flying to your chest as if he’d struck you. “You wouldn’t dare.”

His expression didn’t change. Not even a little. You hated when he used his poker face on you. “Wouldn’t I?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, searching for any crack in his resolve. There was none. No amusement, no indulgence, just the same flat stare he used when threatening to take an enemy’s kneecaps off.

Which meant, obviously, you had to double down.

Resting a hand on his thigh, you leaned in like you were about to whisper some dark, forbidden secret, something the rest of the restaurant couldn’t know. “You wouldn’t leave me, James,” you murmured, voice sweet, head tilting as your fingers traced lazy circles through the fabric of his sweats. “We’ve had unprotected sex, you can’t leave now.”

Bucky blinked at you, his expression a slow unraveling of exasperation and disbelief, before a choked laugh escaped him. He scrubbed a hand down his face, shaking his head as if he could physically wipe away the absurdity of this conversation.

“Jesus Christ.”

“No, but you did say I’m a miracle worker… last night,” you quipped, a lewd grin spreading over your lips. “That also makes me your military wife by default. We should get one of those tacky 'Proud Army Wife' little wall hangings for the—"

"Oh my God, shut up," Bucky interrupted, huffing out another laugh, one hand catching the back of your neck as he pulled you in, pressing his forehead against yours. “Enough of that,” he muttered, voice warm and resigned, pulling you into a kiss to shut you up.

By the time you finished your meal and asked for the check, it had already been taken care of—a gift from the 107th soldier’s grandson. The waiter handed Bucky a small note, neatly folded, the edges slightly smudged like it had been held for a while before being passed along.

"Thank you for your service—both then and now. My grandpa would’ve been honored to buy you a drink, but I figured brunch was the next best thing. Hope you two have a great day."

Bucky stared at the words, fingers gripping the edge of the receipt a little tighter than necessary. He stared down at the note like it didn’t quite make sense, like his brain was still trying to process the kindness folded neatly into a stranger’s handwriting.

You reached for his hand beneath the table, lacing your fingers through his. He let you, his grip firm but a little dazed, like he needed something solid to hold onto.

“See?” you murmured, voice softer now, letting the teasing fall away for just a second. “Told you. War hero.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, a quiet, humorless huff. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

You grinned, squeezing his hand. “Not a chance in hell, baby.”

His lips twitched, but there was something else in there, something he was trying to wrap his head around still. A flicker of acceptance still trying to take root.

But you saw it.

And maybe that was enough.

He glanced at the note one more time before folding it carefully, tucking it into his jacket pocket. He didn’t throw it away. Didn’t brush it off with some self-deprecating remark.

Progress.

By the time you stepped outside, the air had shifted—lighter, easier. The early afternoon sun had burned away the morning chill, casting soft gold over the quiet street. Bucky’s arm slid around your waist without hesitation, tucking you close as you walked.

You let the moment settle for a beat before sighing dramatically. "Well, Sergeant Barnes, looks like we’ve got a theme going. First a free meal, next thing you know, people are gonna start saluting you in the street."

Bucky groaned, tipping his head back. “Don’t start.”

"Oh, I’ve only just begun." You grinned up at him, eyes bright with mischief. "Wanna go to the Smithsonian? They've got that Howling Commandos exhibit. Bet they’ve even got some of your old army uniforms on display."

His gaze snapped to you, sharp with suspicion. “What do you wanna see my old army uniform for?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think about it, but the glint in your eyes betrayed you.

"I mean…" You dragged out the word, biting back a smirk. "If I’m gonna be a sergeant’s girl, I should probably start practicing. You know… learn to follow orders, stand at attention, maybe even salute you properly."

Bucky let out a strangled cough, his whole body tensing for half a second before he stopped, eyes on yours—half amused, half warning.

"You really shouldn't say shit like that unless you mean it, sweetheart."

Your grin widened. "Who said I don’t mean it?"

Bucky exhaled through his nose, nose to nose with your, mouth hovering over yours. "You’re a menace."

You batted your lashes at him, all faux innocence. "Guess you must like it."

His lips twitched, but he said nothing. Just reached over, resting a warm, heavy hand on the back of your neck—lingering there, fingers flexing just slightly. Enough to make your breath catch, just for a second.

You swallowed, pulse kicking up a notch. "Something you wanna say, Barnes?"

His thumb brushed idly over your skin, slow and deliberate. "Just thinking you talk an awful big game."

You raised a brow, feigning offense. "Are you implying I wouldn't follow through?"

His eyes darkened just enough to make your stomach flip. "I’m saying you better be careful what you start. ‘Cause if you really wanna play soldier, I don’t half-ass my missions. Never missed a shot, remember?" His free hand tapped the note in his pocket.

Your breath stuttered. The weight of his gaze, the heat of his palm against your neck—it was enough to send a thrill down your spine.

Still, you refused to back down. Instead, you smiled, all slow and syrupy sweet. "Oh, I know. I can still feel all the shots you didn’t miss last night. And this morning."

His jaw tightened. His grip on your hair did too.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you thickened, humming with something electric, something inevitable.

And then, just as you thought he might actually call your bluff—might lean in, might do something—he huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he pulled away.

"You’re real lucky we’re in public."

You let out a breath, your pulse still racing. "Wish we weren’t."

Bucky shot you a knowing look, something dangerous flickering in his eyes before he pulling into a hug, lips pressed to your ear, casual as ever.

"So do I."

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky x reader #bucky x reader smut #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fanfic #sebastian stan

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aquaholicsanonymousworld · 19 days ago

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Close-r Call

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: After years of rivalry with Matt Murdock—both in law school and at Nelson & Murdock—she never expected to get tangled up in his biggest secret. When Daredevil saves her one night, a slip of the tongue sets off a chain of events that leads to an explosive revelation, a very public workplace call-out, and a dinner invitation she never saw coming.

Author's Note: Part two for Close Call as requested!

The rest of the day passed in a blur of case briefs and client meetings, but her mind kept drifting back to last night. To the way Daredevil had looked at her, to the way his voice had curled around his words like a secret meant just for her.

By the time the sun dipped behind the city skyline, she had managed to convince herself that it was just the alcohol, the adrenaline, the danger of it all that made it feel so much more than what it was. A masked vigilante saving her wasn’t exactly a fairy tale. It was a coincidence.

And yet, as she packed up her things and slipped her coat over her shoulders, she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on her.

“Murdock,” she called over to his office, pausing in the doorway. He was still seated at his desk, seemingly deep in thought. He hadn’t argued with her once all day, and it was starting to get unnerving. “You good?”

Matt turned toward her, lips twitching as if he were debating something. Then he nodded. “Fine. You heading home?”

She narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “Yeah. Why?”

“Be careful,” he said simply, taking a sip of his coffee.

Something in his tone made her shift on her feet. “Since when do you care?” she teased, arching a brow.

Matt just smiled. “Since you decided to take shortcuts through dark alleys.”

Her stomach flipped. She had never mentioned the shortcut.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but Matt was already standing, reaching for his cane, moving past her with that effortless grace that had always irritated her. She turned to watch him leave, the pieces clicking together in her mind.

No.

No way.

It wasn’t possible.

…Was it?

She didn’t get the chance to ask him. That night, as she walked home, a figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking her path.

"Nelson & Murdock really should be more careful about who they piss off," the man sneered. He was tall, broad, his face half-hidden beneath the low glow of the streetlight. "Your firm has a habit of making enemies."

Her heart pounded, but she forced herself to stay calm. "If you’ve got a legal complaint, you’re more than welcome to file it."

He chuckled darkly. "Not that kind of complaint."

Before she could react, another figure grabbed her from behind, yanking her back against a solid chest. A sharp, cold press at her throat made her freeze—her breath hitching as she realized it was a knife. The blade’s edge grazed her skin, just enough to make her still.

"You scream, you die," the man behind her growled.

Panic flared hot in her chest, her pulse hammering. She forced herself to stay calm, to think. But the weight of the knife, the grip of the man holding her in place, made her feel helpless in a way she never had before.

Then, out of nowhere, the air shifted.

A blur of red and black crashed into the man holding her, sending him flying. A second later, Daredevil was between her and the attacker, his movements smooth, brutal, and efficient. The fight was over in seconds, her assailants left groaning on the pavement.

She exhaled shakily, clutching her ribs. "You again. I should start carrying a punch card. One more save and I think I get a free coffee."

Daredevil turned to her, his stance rigid as he surveyed her, making sure she wasn’t hurt. She could still feel the ghost of the blade against her throat, the adrenaline still burning through her veins.

"You shouldn’t be walking alone at night," he said, his voice lower than before, more controlled.

She huffed a breath, rolling her eyes. "You sound like someone I know."

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something she couldn’t hear.

And then, before she could say another word, he added, "Are you okay, Y/N?"

She froze. "How do you know my name?"

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. He had made a mistake.

Her eyes flicked to his cowl, her breath coming faster now. "No. No way."

Before she could think, she reached for his mask.

He caught her wrist midair, his grip firm but careful. "Don’t."

She yanked her hand back and lunged again, trying to rip it away. He sidestepped, catching her other wrist. "Y/N—"

"Take it off," she hissed, pushing against him.

They twisted, a tangled struggle of determination and resistance, her fingers brushing fabric, his grip tightening in warning. He could overpower her. She knew that. But he wasn’t. He was letting her fight him.

That’s what made her sure.

"Take it off, Murdock."

His breath hitched. And then, slowly, he let go of her wrists, reaching up with careful fingers.

His mask slid away.

And there he was. Matthew Murdock, standing in the dim glow of the streetlight, his face open, unguarded, exposed.

Her chest tightened. "I knew it."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. You did."

And then it hit her.

The coffee shop. That morning. Her sitting at the desk, gushing about Daredevil—about his jawline, his voice, the way he moved. And Matt had just sat there, stirring his coffee, trying to hide a smirk.

Oh. Oh.

Her face burned. "You—" She pointed at him, stepping back like she needed distance to process this. "You knew I thought you were hot."

Matt’s lips twitched, but he fought the smile. "I didn’t say anything."

"You didn't have to*! You just sat there, drinking your coffee, acting all smug while I went on and on—"

He crossed his arms, head tilting slightly. "To be fair, I was very flattered."

She groaned, covering her face with her hands. "Oh my God. Kill me."

Matt chuckled, the sound warm and entirely too pleased with himself. "Pretty sure I just saved you."

She peeked through her fingers, glaring. "Shut up, Murdock."

The next morning, she stormed into the office with purpose, slamming her bag onto her desk with more force than necessary. Karen and Foggy barely had time to exchange a confused glance before she pointed at them both, eyes narrowed in accusation.

"You knew."

Foggy blinked. "Knew what?"

"Oh, don’t play dumb with me, Nelson!" she snapped, rounding the desk to lean against it, arms crossed. "You knew Matt was Daredevil, and neither of you thought to tell me?"

Karen pursed her lips, giving Foggy a look before sighing. "Well…yeah."

She let out a sharp laugh, exasperated. "Are you kidding me? You guys let me sit here, day after day, talking about how hot Daredevil is—to his actual face—and said nothing?"

Foggy had the audacity to grin. "Oh, we said nothing on purpose."

Her jaw dropped. "Unbelievable."

Karen shrugged, though amusement flickered behind her composed demeanor. "It was kind of entertaining."

She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "This is workplace harassment. I should sue."

Matt, of course, chose that moment to walk in, cane tapping against the floor as he headed toward his desk. "Good morning, everyone."

She spun on her heel, pointing at him next. "You—"

He smirked. "Me?"

"I hate you."

"You don’t." He was so damn smug.

She huffed, turning back to Foggy and Karen. "I can’t believe I work with all of you."

Foggy clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Welcome to Nelson & Murdock. We keep secrets, and we judge quietly."

Before she could retort, Matt cleared his throat. "Can I see you in your office?"

She turned, narrowing her eyes at him. "Why? Planning to reveal another massive secret you’ve been keeping? Maybe you’re secretly Spiderman, too?"

Matt smirked. "Not quite. But it’s important."

Karen and Foggy exchanged a look, clearly enjoying the show. Huffing dramatically, she grabbed her coffee and gestured toward her office. "Fine. But if this is some long-winded lawyer trick to get me to drop this, it’s not working, Murdock."

"Duly noted," Matt murmured, following her inside and shutting the door behind them.

Once the door clicked shut, Matt exhaled, leaning slightly against the edge of her desk. "I owe you an apology."

She crossed her arms, raising a brow. "For what? Lying to me every single day? Letting me ramble about how hot Daredevil is without saying a word?"

His lips twitched, but he didn’t take the bait. "For not telling you sooner. I should have. I just… didn’t know how."

She let out a breath, some of the frustration ebbing. "Yeah, well. You could’ve saved me a lot of embarrassment."

He tilted his head slightly. "You don’t have to be embarrassed."

She scoffed. "I literally objectified your alter ego to your face."

"So, is it just the suit? Or do you actually think I’m good-looking?"

Her mouth fell open. "You did not just ask me that."

He shrugged, feigning innocence. "You’ve been very vocal about Daredevil. Just curious if the same applies to me."

She groaned, running a hand through her hair. "I hate you."

Matt grinned. "You don’t."

She sighed, shaking her head. "Was that really why you pulled me in here? To stroke your already massive ego?"

He pushed off the desk then, his smirk softening into something else—something real. "No. I pulled you in here because I want to take you to dinner."

Her breath hitched slightly, caught off guard. "You—what?"

"Dinner," he repeated. "You, me, someplace nice. No case briefs, no fights, no masks. Just us."

She searched his face for any trace of teasing, but for once, there wasn’t any. He meant it.

"Are you serious?"

"Very."

Her heart pounded against her ribs, but she forced herself to stay composed. "I’ll think about it."

Matt chuckled. "You do that."

#daredevil #daredevil fanfiction #matt murdock x reader #daredevil born again #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock imagine #oneshot #imagine #fanfic #mattmurdock #charlie cox

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driaswrld · 1 year ago

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🪷 — THE SCANDAL OF THE CHILDHOOD CONSORT. . . UNRELEASED PUBLICATION 01 !

LADY DRIA WRITES . . . ˚ ༘ *

🪷 dearest gentle reader, this author has stumbled upon a shockingly salacious tale in the dark corridors of the gojo palace... 2.3k words.

🪷 prince gojo x reader smut!! pure smut not tied into main plot, only an alternate of current storyline. fem reader, cunnilingus, creampie, yk the gist guys (also my first full smut piece 😵‍💫) for all the prince toru girlies who got their hearts SHATTERED </3

🪷 taglist : @yunymphs @prttyangelz @jaerang @rayahayumi @kurosaaki @ayanominitrash @lordbugs @xxemmarldxx @ltadoriyuujl @gods-landing @sabrinexx @aphroditisxc @sweeteaas @nikitopia @konekobby @loafgeto @/hanatoru

series mlist. prev. chapter

CHAPTER TWO (B) . . .˚ ༘ *

GRAPE FLAVORED : LACE EDITION.

Satoru dips his head in a swift motion, his mouth planting a ghost of a kiss to the corner of your lips, and his dimples deepen when your head moves forward to chase his taste, something you’ve never had but crave with every inch of your being.

“Satoru.” You whisper, desperate. He hates himself for wanting this so bad.

He doesn't make you wait long as he presses his lips to yours, it's rough, hungry — he sighs into your mouth, shoulders drooping like he’s finally found what he's been searching for all his life on your tongue.

He’s kissed you before, on the cheek, side of your neck, corner of your mouth — tasted the salty tears of your youth, licked his lips and drank in the remnants of your flavored lipgloss.

He was too young then, too foolish, too afraid to want more.

Satoru’s tongue slips past your parted lips, teeth on wet pink muscle and a shiver runs down his spine when he tastes you, truly tastes you for the first time.

Grape flavored and starving.

A guttural groan leaves his throat when you reach a hand out to tug at the front of his pants to pull him closer. The crowned prince’s knees buckle, digging deeper into the floor beneath him.

Do you even know all the ways a woman can be seduced?

“There's so much I could teach you,” his arms hook under your knees the moment your tongue tangles with his, free hand shifting the skirts of your dress and searching like a man on a treasure hunt. “So much you could learn, pretty.”

“Teach me,” you plead, lips wet and chest already heaving.

Satoru murmurs a sound of disapproval against your neck, his tongue sucking the skin at the collar of your throat. “Not yet, have’ta give you a gift of my own first.”

( so he is jealous then ? )

Your thighs shiver when his cold hands snake under your dress, your arms looping around his neck to tug him closer to your body.

“Why do they put you in so many layers— s-shit.” His complaints falter when his palm cups the lace adorning your heat.

Satoru Gojo isn't a pious man, but this must be a gift from God.

“You're too fucking good.” Satoru groans, scooting back on his knees to hike up the layers of your dress.

He has to see the color of your panties. Has to see the lace design he knows is strewn across your pretty pussy— because you're a lace girl, never silk, Suguru doesn't know you, hasn't known you the way Satoru has.

It's vulgar.

“Satoru, waitwait—!” Falls on deaf ears, because he’s already hooking his thumbs under the waistband of your lacy panties, pulling the fabric to stretch, playing with it as your folds slick up, a wet patch forming.

He toys with the edges of the lace, pulls and pulls until he lets it snap back against your front, his breathing going ragged with each sharp inhale you take.

He likes playing with you like this.

“Look at that.” Satoru pulls your panties to the side, your cunt clenching around nothing. “Pretty girl ‘s crying for me. . .” He spreads your folds with his index and middle, his cock straining against his pants, begging for relief.

“Don't just look at it like that— you're odd!”

“Yeah?” he chuckles, rubbing his thumb over your pulsing clit, flicking the bud teasingly. “Don't break my heart, princess.”

There's an undertone to his words as he sinks two fingers into your weeping whole, pumping against spots you couldn't reach with your own.

Satoru bullies his fingers into you, searching endlessly for something he thinks he’ll never find.

tell me no one’s touched you like this, tell me it's only me, tell me it’s not him—

Your hips rise to rock against his fingers and he stifles a laugh, almost bitterly. He knows better, but you're as better as the best gets.

“Hold this f’me, yeah?” Before you can question it, the skirts of your dress are bunched into your lap as Satoru’s head dips between your thighs.

“Fuck—” your mouth goes agape as his tongue licks a fat stripe up your folds, his fingers scissoring and stretching you open in time with his licks, tongue flattening and curling and flattening and curling. “How do you even—”

how many girls have you kissed like this?

Satoru mumbles something against your clit that you don't hear, but it vibrates through your core as his tongue slips into your hole, eagerly fucking you and sucking up your juices.

Now this is a royal scandal.

“Tastes just as sweet as I knew it would,” he moans, grinding his hips against the foot of the sofa, using his other arm to push against your knee, spreading you wider for better access. “Would go to war for this pussy, baby.”

Your head spins.

You knew of Satoru's. . . appetites as a Prince.

But experiencing it firsthand? Every lap of his tongue at your entrance, every stretch of his fingers has you seeing stars.

“‘Toru—! mmph, too much,” Your hips buck against his mouth, your head falling back against the window.

The night air doesn't help cool your skin with how hot your entire body feels.

“Too much?” Satoru repeats, mockingly. His cheeks hollow as he curls his fingers, pressing against that spongy spot that has your hips quivering, lips suckling your bundle of nerves. “C’mon, you cryin?”

“M’ not— not crying. . .” You sob, thighs squeezing around his head. He slides his fingers out of you, using both hands to hike your legs over his shoulders. “So good, it's so good.”

You feel him grin against your cunt as he dives back in, his tongue and fingers tag teaming between abusing your clit in harsh circles and thrusting into your drooling hole.

He’s getting off to the praise, his hips pressed firm against the sofa as he whines against you, your ankles crossed between his shoulder blades, heels digging into his back. “Can't get enough of you.”

“Please, wan’ta cum—” Tears escape the corner of your eyes, your thighs trembling and walls convulsing around his fingers. “Gonna cum— mhm, stopstop—!”

Satoru groans against your cunt when your back arches and your hips drive against his face like a woman possessed, his nose brushing your clit just right as your high hits you hard.

“I’ll replace these.” Satoru rasps, pulling away from you with a soft squelch.

“Replace? What do you—” You can't see the expression on his face with how his head’s hidden under your dress, but your heart pounds in your chest when his fingers wrap around one of your ankles in a soft caress.

The realization hits you then, as the liquid cools and fabric sticks to the inside of your thigh.

He’s talking about your panties.

“Lace is so pretty on you,” he murmurs, fiddling with the buttons of his pants, careless to his haphazard movements as his cock springs free, curved at an angle and beading with precum at the tip. “You don't know what you do to me, I swear.”

Lace.

Like the glove you gifted him your favor with.

Your face floods with heat when he flips the rest of your dress up, your gaze never leaving his hardened cock, the way it looks so angry at you.

It comes to you then as he looks up at you, snowy hair matted, nose to chin glistening with your slick and eyes hung low.

Prince Satoru, your childhood bestfriend, just ate you out.

And he's about to fuck you.

Satoru grasps both your ankles, letting his grip trail down to your thighs as he rises to his feet.

“You're a lady. A Princess— fuck,” Your hand reaches down to wrap your fist around his hot length, and it jolts to your touch.

You deserve better, he wants to say. Better than having your legs spread open for him in a dark corridor.

“Forgive me.” Satoru pushes your thighs down to meet your chest, effectively folding your body in half for him.

i'm sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry — i love you, i’m jealous.

And you whine, your arousal dripping down your thighs, still not fully recovered from your first high. “I'm gonna fuck you like anything but a lady.” His hot length bucks forward through your fist to bump against your folds and you bite your lip at the sensation.

He’s painfully hard and spilling precum, slipping back and forth across your pussy lips.

“Let me in, princess, please, I need you.” You pump his length in a few languid strokes and he shudders as you guide his cock to prod at your entrance. “I’ll fucking die if I don't—”

With bated breath and barely any restraint, Satoru rocks his hips forward, his tip sinking between your puffy folds and popping in.

“Pretty girl.” He moans, pushing forward until he's buried to the hilt, his cock curving to prod against your insides, deep.

“Satoru—” You gasp, your walls clenching at the penetration and his brows dip as he leans over your body, kissing the side of your neck. “I know, baby. . . fuck, squeezing me so tight—”

“C-can't help it,” you whimper as he rolls his hips forward, slow at first, so you feel every inch of him filling you up, like you were hollow before this.

Satoru lets out a sharp whine, almost girlish when he picks up the pace, fucking himself into you with deep slams, one hand leaving your thigh to tug at the front of your dress, using it as grip to fuck you rougher.

It's desperate.

“Hear that?” He whispers against your skin, each pump of his hips has his balls slapping against your ass in loud wet smacks, your cunt squelching around his cock, all sensitive and gushing for him, just like he imagined.

“We're kissing down there, pretty.” He chuckles breathily.

You’d scold him but you chuckle between a moan, his hips jerking forward harshly at how your pussy squeezes him in just from that. “I-it’s so hot—”

“Sucking me in— so needy,” he grunts, slipping his other hand between you to roll your sensitive bud under his thumb. “So loud and filthy, knew you wanted this as much as I did, baby. Wanted me to fuck you like this for so long, hm?”

“Satoru!” Your back arches off the sofa as you bite back a sob, your hips rocking to meet each of his thrusts. “Wanted it— wanted you so bad.”

“Who’s making you feel so good, huh?” Satoru pants, pressing his weight down onto your body, caging you under him as his thrusts become borderline feral, the top of your dress beginning to rip from the strength of his grip. “Say it, shit, say it—”

tell me it's me and not him. tell me only i can make you feel this good.

“Y-you,” you choke out, your lungs burning as you try to catch your breath.

Satoru slows his thrusts to a grind, unsatisfied with your answer, fucking you shallow and drawing it out, his tip pressing against your sweet spots making you see white.

“Princess,” he grunts in warning, applying more pressure to your clit, your body writhing beneath him. “Don't tell me that pretty little head ‘s all fuzzy now.”

“‘Toru, please—” Your palms push at Satoru’s chest, nails digging into his shirt, the coil in your core wound tight and teetering at the edge, but he won't push it past the edge. Not yet. “It's you, my Prince— ‘s you, Satoru!”

Your Prince.

You barely get the last syllable out before he’s bullying his cock into you in harsh strokes, the sweet plap plap plap of his body against yours is drowned out by all the things he whispers in your ear, only me, nobody else, you’re mine, gonna fuck you full so you won't forget.

“Wanna cum, ‘toru,” you cry and he bites down on your shoulder, as he exchanges his grip on your thighs for your your hips, pulling you onto him as he fucks into you with reckless abandon, sweat collecting at his brow.

“Yeah? Gonna cum for me?” Satoru presses his mouth against yours in a disoriented kiss, moaning into your mouth as your walls convulse around him, his cock twitching and swelling inside you. “Cum all over my cock baby, make your Prince a mess.”

Your hips move on their own, your body flushing with pleasure and the coil inside your belly snapping, giving way to your second high.

Your legs wrap around Satoru’s waist, pulling him impossibly deeper into you while you climax, his own breathing going short.

“T-tight, fuck, gonna make me cum—” Satoru lets go of your hips and reaches for your hands, interlacing them with his above your head, his thrusts growing sloppy as he gets closer.

“Look at me, yeah, look at me when you make me cum. Look at what you do to me, pretty.”

Satoru pushes his body flush against yours as his cock twitches, his hips stuttering and nose pressed against yours, mouth open with a loud moan when he unloads, spilling himself inside you in thick spurts.

He hugs you close to his body with a few soft thrusts, fucking his cum deeper into you with broken whines, his body slumped atop yours as he rides out the rest of your highs, the air cooling and settling.

“Think I got carried away,” Satoru whispers, pressing gentle kisses across your face, and a chaste one to your lips as he catches his breath, cheeks flushed pink.

“You think?” You pant, biting back a laugh, to which he buries his face in your neck. “We need to go—”

“Don't feel like it,” he mumbles, nuzzling close to you, and your eyes flit to the window, taking in the stars.

You bring a hand up to card through his hair, and he sighs at the feeling.

“But, the ball—” You try to protest, but he cuts you off by squeezing you close to him, impossibly close. “And the grape juice—”

“I’ll replace the dress too.” Satoru whispers. “Nothing else matters— just a little longer.”

You feel him smile into your neck and you roll your eyes, laying your head back with an exasperated sigh of your own.

“Just a little longer, then.”

#⋆ 🪷 A ROYAL AFFAIR ! ˚ ༘ *#👑 TSCC — series.#🎀 r18 !#jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader smut #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut

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