#defying conditioning

[yourlocalcorviddad]

Ok Ok so.

In dpxdc stories. Danny always gets assumed to be sick or uses it as an excuse or whatever to hide his powers right?

What if he wasn't lying?

It wasn't something easily noticed, not when half a dozen other things could explain it after all.

The shakes lingering? Well he'd used his ice powers a lot the night before fighting Skulker.

The faint feeling and lightheadedness? Well his mom had a good shot when people didn't interfere, and while he healed fast, it wasn't from nothing; he felt better after he ate anyway.

Heart racing suddenly? Probably just attempting to regulate the low beat on reflex again to seem normal but over shot it.

But the getting out of breath or spotty vision hadn't really been easily explained.

It was Mr. Lancer who asked about it after he'd gotten up from his seat in detention-happening less and less for actual reasons and more an opportunity to safely do his work and rest, after the truce with the ghosts to leave him and the town be during certain hours-only for the next thing he knew he was on the floor, head pillowed on Mr. Lancer's sweater, and a cool wet paper towel on his forehead and neck.

POTS. Post orthostatic tachycardia syndrome. Not uncommon for those who had had injuries too their hearts to get.

It made sense when the teacher asked if he could have it. Apparently a friend of his's daughter had it.

From there, it made things easier to an extent. Salt was pretty easy to add, he figured out a wrist brace that he could extend into a cane if needed to.

In ghost form he didn't need it at all, but human form had its limits.

Despite all that he'd gone through, he graduates and even gets accepted to a college near jazz, hers was in Metropolis but Gotham had the ambient ectoplasm that he needed, and it was a day trip away.

And so Gotham U became his home, especially after his parents couldn't take that he wasn't "their son" anymore when he told them-after moving everything and getting his cheap apartment set up just in case. He considered it lucky that they loved their son enough they couldn't hunt "his ghost".

Last he'd heard they were working closer with the GIW but hadn't had much luck since the portal strangely closed soon after he left and the other ghosts didn't feel much reason to visit Amity anymore without him there.

It was Gotham U where he met Dick by literally fainting into his arms after a long day where he'd forgotten to eat and the early dinner the night before plus the going down the stairs at a quick pace and leaning forward with gravity.

"sorry, couldn't help falling for you~" the cheesy pick up line was the only thing his foggy brain could comprehend before he fainted.

[gravityglitch-blog]

Okay, let me start by saying that I haven't played this game yet. Spoilers don't bother me much, and I've been using my various fandoms as shields against life lately.

So, like a fool, I just had to watch the cutscenes from Shadow's story and OMG...

The memory of his adoring big sister has always been part of his strength, no one can convince me otherwise.

The way he tries to hold on for even just a few extra seconds, it's too much😭

Sega, you are paying for my therapy!

[letitbehurt]

When Whumpee has worn a shock collar long enough to know what comes just before the pain, and all it takes to correct their behavior is Whumper’s hand drifting toward their pocket, where Whumpee knows they keep the remote.

The sudden flash of regret across their face as they hold out a placating hand and blurt, “Okay, okay, I’ll do it! I’m sorry, please don’t—“

[micamicster]

Spotify edit for THE GET DOWN BROTHERS from The Get Down (2016-2017)

Companion edit for Mylene Cruz & The Soul Madonnas

Credit where it’s due to @9clouds for the template psd I used for these edits. Thank you for making it available!

[allaboutforexworld]

Fibonacci Trading: Forex Trading Strategy Explained

Fibonacci trading is a popular forex trading strategy that utilizes the Fibonacci sequence and its ratios to predict potential price movements and retracement levels. This method helps traders identify entry and exit points, making it an essential tool in forex trading. Understanding Fibonacci Sequence The Fibonacci sequence is a series of numbers where each number is the sum of the two preceding…

[wickedzeevyln]

Clockwork

⋆‍‍༺🖤 Ink and Oxygen 🖤༻‍⋆ Some people read for knowledge, others for escape, and some have conversations with people who live across time. She read like a diver gulping air before plunging deep. Flooding her lungs with sentences, giving her another ounce of breath, keeping her from sinking into obscurity. Her eyes, glazed over, scanned the page, her aura snapping between restraint and urgency,…

[cryptosexologist]

actively hilarious how bad the internet is at responding to ocd reassurance-seeking

[cloudwisp]

✮ sylus x wife!reader

contents: fluff, suggestive. arranged marriage au. hints of slow burn. you like playing hard to get and he loves calling you his wife. 1.4k wc.

꒰ note ᰔ I had to deposit my messy thoughts somewhere and this headcanon post was the result.

part two here. ꒱

⭒ Arranged marriage with Sylus where he prefers to call it a “strategic partnership” as a means of appearances to flaunt that he has it all—an empire, riches, strength, influence and now a darling wife who waits for him at home. You’re not so much as a random choice, Sylus had been watching you from afar for a while and in exchange for his protection in the N109 zone he strikes a deal with you to play a simple role. You have every reason to be wary of him and know to keep your wits about yourself, but even you acknowledge that your chances are better with him. Though, if you asked him how he was so certain you’d agree to his proposal he’d admit that he wasn’t but he knew you’d consider it if he had an advantage over you.

⭒ He sets his terms and conditions—you reside in his humble abode, wedding ring always worn on your finger, and attend events with him as a pretty accessory on his arm to contribute to his image. But he’ll never admit that he actually enjoys your company at business functions that often feel dull to him. You are more than welcome to spend your days as you please so long you don’t cause him trouble, and that also means you have his black card privileges to spoil yourself rotten. Of course, he accommodates most requests you may have like sleeping in separate rooms if that’s what you wish (and redecorating because his furnishing decisions are quite bleak).

⭒ Luke and Kieran can sense that their boss feels something for you despite his nonchalance toward this little arrangement. It starts off small, it always does—Sylus takes note of your morning and night routine, your picky eating habits and has the chef make adjustments to your preference, how he sees you out in the gardens and come back with spring tulips to brighten the space and the next week he already replaced the slowly withering flowers with fresh ones. The twins whisper among themselves that he’s often less annoyed and irritated when you’re around, and their boss wouldn’t go through the trouble of being considerate unless he cares for you. It’s almost exciting for them both to witness a budding romance unfold before their very eyes and they do offer a helping hand here and there to keep things interesting.

⭒ Sylus thinks it’s adorable how you keep trying to resist him and that’s precisely the reason he loves seeking you out just to watch your resolve crumble under his touch. He finds you in the kitchen preparing a snack and cages you from behind with his hands planted on either side of you against the counter. “Hey kitten, I thought I’d find you in here.” You feel his hot breath down your neck as he pushes your hair aside just enough to lay a soft kiss on your shoulder. He chuckles when you comment that he’s being awfully touchy with you, and he purposely moves closer so that his chest is pressing against your back. “Perhaps I just can’t keep my hands to myself where you’re involved. Besides, you’re my wife now. I think I have the right to touch you whenever I like.”

⭒ You remind him that you’re his wife in title only, but that doesn’t discourage his flirtation and teasing as he allows you to nudge past him. He follows you into the common area and takes a seat on the couch, spreading his legs wide and taking up a lot of space. His gaze is settled on you as he pats his thigh and his lips curl into a smirk. “Come here, wife.” You naturally scoff meanwhile you place the plate of seasonal fruits on the side table and situate yourself closest to the armrest, taking a bite into a juicy red strawberry as you ignore his piercing stare.

⭒ For someone who always gets what he wants, Sylus isn’t used to being defied like this. And had it been anyone else his patience would wear dangerously thin, but he supposes that you’re a special exception because he seems to enjoy the chase and claiming its reward. With one small gesture, he drags you across the couch by a gravitational pull and you squeal when the swirling red easily turn and maneuver you so you’re forced to straddle him and your hands prop on his shoulders for support. “There, much better. Comfy? This is the best seat in the house.” His gaze locks with yours, and he thinks you huffing and frowning at him is simply cute. He firmly grabs your wrist with the bitten strawberry in your hand and lifts it to his mouth for a sweet taste.

⭒ “No fair… using your Evol against me like this.” You grumble under your breath as you gently trail your thumb from his chin to the corner of his mouth where the strawberry juices began to spill. Then an impulsive thought takes over and you pinch his cheek between your fingers, creating a sticky mess on his face. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself. That’s for treating me like a sack of potatoes.” He chuckles once more, his hand falling on your hip and he gives you a light squeeze. “Oh, I do have every intention of fully enjoying my wife tonight.” And by that, he means taking you out for a joyride on his motorbike and feeling your arms wrapped around him tightly as the engine roars through the streets under the night sky and sinking moon. Sylus would never engage in any intimate acts you weren’t ready for, but he loves seeing you fluster at his suggestive remarks.

⭒ As the weeks cross over into months, you never imagined that you’d be spending so much time with Sylus outside of your agreed terms. He’s everywhere in every waking moment of your life even when he’s not there physically. You’re learning new things about him each day and you (begrudgingly) like being around him—even when he can sometimes be a playful bully toward you. When he’s gone for long stretches of time to deal with negotiations and other important matters in the N109 zone, you can feel your heart yearning for him but you’d never say that you miss him out loud when you think he's still toying with you. But with the way he cares for you like you’re both in a real and genuine relationship, it’s hard to know his true intentions and keep your feelings buried deep inside your chest for long.

⭒ You accidentally confirm that Sylus does harbor romantic feelings for you when you carelessly bring up your replacement in a lighthearted joke. You’ve never seen his face falter so quickly at your words as he averts his gaze for a moment to collect himself—a hint of vulnerability in his crimson hues. “I wouldn’t have found a new wife.” He shakes his head and tells you, his voice a little rougher than before. You don’t know what to say, but you manage a soft “No?” that reaches his ears. “No. I wouldn’t have been able to replace you, kitten. You’re it for me. The only one. No one could fill the void you’d leave behind.”

⭒ You and Sylus have kissed before, but this is the first time you’re initiating it. As you brush your lips against his, there’s a softness you never noticed. His hand slips around the small of your back and he pulls you close against him, returning your kiss with the same tenderness as though savoring the taste of you. You lean back after a moment, your palm meeting his cheek in a sweet embrace. “You know, I'm still getting used to the idea that I’ve fallen for you.” You can see him returning back to normal when he offers you a cocky smirk. “And yet here you are. In my arms, with your lips on mine. I think you’re not being entirely honest, my beautiful wife.” Sylus has waited a long time to hear those words from you but you don’t need to know that right now.

[wilwheaton]

Mr. Trump’s voters are granted a level of care and coddling that defies credulity and that is afforded to no other voting bloc. Many of them believe the most ludicrous things: babies being aborted after birth and children going to school as one gender and returning home surgically altered as another gender even though these things simply do not happen. Time and again, we hear the wild lies these voters believe and we act as if they are sharing the same reality as ours, as if they are making informed decisions about legitimate issues. We act as if they get to dictate the terms of political engagement on a foundation of fevered mendacity. We must refuse to participate in a mass delusion. We must refuse to accept that the ignorance on display is a congenital condition rather than a choice. All of us should refuse to pretend that any of this is normal and that these voters are just woefully misunderstood and that if only the Democrats addressed their economic anxiety, they might vote differently. While they are numerous, that does not make them right.

A NYT opinion column that nails it.

[thebarneschronicles]

Closer To Home III

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 8.9k

Synopsis: Snowed in with Bucky Barnes, you find comfort in playful banter, lingering touches, and the quiet intimacy of a morning spent wrapped in each other. But beneath the teasing smiles and warmth of shared laughter, something deeper stirs—something neither of you are ready to name. When a visit to his empty apartment reveals just how much he still struggles to believe he deserves more, your carefully guarded feelings come crashing down. And as walls crumble, as confessions slip through the cracks, Bucky begins to understand: maybe, just maybe, he was always meant to find home in you.

Trigger Warnings: Smut (duh); A lot of dirty talk; Discussions of Hydra & their experiments; Emotional breakdowns; Angst, banter, and all the feels.

Closer To Home Masterlist

Author’s Note: I can’t tell you how much I love writing these two. This chapter has it all: smut, banter, angst, and a whole lot of feelings bubbling to the surface. Things are shifting between them, and I have a feeling neither of them are ready for what comes next… Let me know what you think—I love hearing your thoughts! B xx

--

When you woke the next morning, the first thing you noticed was the soreness. It was everywhere—radiating from the stickiness still lingering between your thighs, stretching to your hips, and even tingling faintly in your shoulders. It wasn’t unpleasant, though; it was the kind of ache that came from being touched, held, and claimed in ways you hadn’t realized you craved. It was a reminder of how thoroughly Bucky had made you his.

The second thing you noticed was a dawning realization—this was going to be a problem. Not just the sex with Bucky Barnes, though that alone was a problem worth having. It was everything about him.

Sleeping with Bucky Barnes. Waking up with Bucky Barnes. Breathing the same air as Bucky Barnes.

It was as if your body and mind had conspired in perfect unison, conditioning you in a single night to crave him in a way that felt intoxicating. The realization hit you like a jolt —he wasn’t just someone you wanted. He was someone you needed. Somewhere along the way, he had slipped past your defenses, carved out a space in your heart so large it felt as if it had always been his to claim.

He’d stirred feelings in you that you couldn’t yet name, sensations so profound they defied words. But beyond the fire he lit in your veins, there was something far more disarming—he made you feel safe. Truly, deeply safe in a way you hadn’t ever felt with anyone.

With his arm draped over you and the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breathing beneath your cheek, your body had surrendered in a way it never had before. Tension melted from your muscles, your mind quieted, and you slept. Not just sleep—rest. The kind that seeped into your bones, filling the cracks of exhaustion.

The third thing you noticed was that Bucky was already awake. His hand traced slow, idle patterns on your back. His gaze was fixed on something on the ceiling, his expression unreadable in the soft, muted light filtering through your frost-dusted window.

Your legs were tangled with his beneath the sheets, your body half-sprawled over his chest. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on him like this, but he didn’t seem to mind—if anything, the way his thumb brushed absentmindedly against the line of your spine told you he didn’t want you to move.

The chill in the room was undeniable, the frosty patterns snaking along the glass a stark reminder of the bitter cold outside. Yet none of it touched you. His warmth, it was overwhelming in a way that stole the breath from your lungs and left you dizzy. Every inch of you seemed to respond, like a live wire humming with his presence. Your thoughts, your senses, your very being seemed to narrow until all that remained was him—Bucky. He was all you could feel, all you could think about, all you could want.

You didn’t want to break the fragile peace of this moment. But the heaviness in your chest, the sheer weight of your feelings, made you sigh softly as you shifted, propping yourself up just enough to meet his gaze.

His eyes flicked down, catching yours, a faint, lazy smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Morning, doll,” he murmured, voice low and scratchy, rough in a way that made your insides twist deliciously.

Your heart squeezed painfully at the sound, the sight of him. The depth of your feelings was already too much, inexplicable tears prickling at your eyes as you studied him.

“Shh,” you mumbled, pressing your fingers lightly to his lips. His stubble grazed your fingertips as you trailed them down, and you couldn’t resist scratching the roughness of his jaw. Leaning down, you nuzzled against his chest, pressing a soft kiss to his skin. You heard the way his breath caught at the touch, the subtle hitch that made a small, satisfied smile bloom on your lips. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze again. “Let me just… watch you for a bit.”

“That’s creepy,” he said, laughing softly, the sound rumbling beneath you as his fingers found your waist and pinched playfully.

“It’s romantic,” you countered, wriggling against him with a huff. Your fingers wandered over his temple, brushing his hair back and smoothing your thumb over the arc of his brow. “You look so different in the morning.”

His brows furrowed, a small frown forming that made you grin. “Different how?”

“Don’t worry, Buck,” you said softly, leaning forward to nuzzle his cheek, savoring the faint scratch of stubble. “You’re still just as handsome as when you’re trying to scare people off.”

That earned you a laugh, a real one, and you basked in the sound. It distracted him from the truth you weren’t ready to admit—that in this moment, he looked… almost at peace.

You weren’t sure if it was just this morning, or if it was something that happened often when he let himself stay still. But here, tangled in the sheets, with his body pressed to yours, he seemed lighter somehow. Like the weight of the world wasn’t crushing him, like the ghosts of his past weren’t pressing into his shoulders. For once, it felt like he wasn’t fighting so hard to hold himself together. He was just here, fully present, almost entirely yours.

Reaching over him, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand to check the time. Barely 8 a.m. The storm that had been picking up since last night wasn’t letting up. The forecast confirmed it, showing a steady fall of snow predicted over the next few days. Your teeth caught your bottom lip as concern crept across your face.

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked, pulling you back down to rest fully against him. His hand brushed through your hair, tucking the strands behind your ear.

“The storm,” you said, turning the phone toward him. “It’s getting worse. Supposed to dump a few inches—everything’ll probably shut down for a bit.”

“A few inches, huh?” His lips twitched, and there was a glint of mischief in his eyes that immediately had you narrowing yours.

Your jaw dropped. “Did you just make a dick joke?”

Bucky smirked, his hand sliding to your hip. “What? You walked straight into that one, doll.”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you huffed, pushing yourself upright to straddle him, tugging the sheets up to cover your bare chest. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I actually had it in you, darling.”

“Oh my god!” you burst out, laughing so hard you had to cover your mouth with your hand. “You have sex once and now you’re cracking dick jokes? What happened to my brooding soldier?”

“Maybe you fucked it out of me,” he replied, deadpan, though his eyes gleamed with pure amusement.

“Bucky!”

A dramatic groan escaped you as you buried your face in your hands, the warmth of Bucky’s body beneath you sending an undeniable thrill up your spine. His low chuckle rumbled through his chest, and you felt it everywhere, the sound curling around you like a vice. Even as you tried to maintain your composure, peeking at him through your fingers, you couldn’t help the smirk tugging at your lips.

“I think I liked you better when you were all grumpy and broody,” you teased, though the way your voice wavered with a poorly hidden laugh betrayed you. “Maybe you’ve been hanging around Sam too much.”

His reaction was immediate—his head dropped back to the pillow, a deep, exaggerated sigh escaping him. His jaw tightened, eyes rolling as though he’d just been betrayed in the worst way. “Please, don’t talk about Sam while you’re sitting naked on top of me.”

Your laughter bubbled up, full and unrestrained. You gave his shoulders a playful squeeze, feeling the tension there, the way he was trying—failing—not to react to the feel of your soft thighs against his hips, the way you hovered over his bare stomach.

“Did I just kill the mood?” you asked, mischief lacing your words as you pushed back and rolled your hips experimentally.

Bucky’s hands twitched at your waist, his fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. His eyes dragged back to you, a dangerous glint flashing beneath the lazy sweep of his lashes.

“You did,” he admitted, but his voice had gone rougher, lower—betraying him completely.

“Mm.” You hummed, playful, challenging. “You sure?”

With deliberate slowness, you let the sheets fall away, leaving yourself bare under the soft light. His gaze followed the movement, his lips parting slightly as his eyes darkened, locked onto the bare curve of your breasts like he couldn’t decide whether to admire or devour.

His hands slid up your ribcage, strong and reverent, until they cupped your breasts with a kind of aching intent. He hadn’t looked away, hadn’t even blinked.

“Eyes up here, soldier,” you murmured, covering his hands with yours. 

His gaze locked with yours, a flicker of defiance sparking in his blue eyes. “Can you blame me?” he rasped, his voice rougher now as his thumbs brushed against your skin.

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, though the corner of your mouth twitched in amusement. “Hmm, I guess I’ll allow it. For now.”

“For now,” he echoed, a smirk tugging at his lips. His hands slid back down to your waist, his grip firm. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad about that Sam comment.”

“Really hard, huh?” you teased, leaning down just enough so your lips were a whisper away from his. “Careful, Buck. You’re starting to sound downright cheerful this morning. People might start to think you’re going soft.”

“Soft?” In one swift motion, Bucky sat up, his arms wrapping around your back to pull you flush against him. The sudden movement made you gasp as your hands flew to his shoulders for balance and he lined you up to where you could feel his cock, the length pressing against your bare folds with unrelenting, delicious pressure. “Nothing soft about me…”

The playful banter faded, replaced by an electric tension that filled the air between you. He tugged at the sheets until they pooled at your hips, and you felt the weight of his gaze as it slowly traveled down your body. His eyes caught on the faint marks he’d left on your skin the night before.

Every curve, every detail seemed to captivate him, and he finally settled where your bare cunt hovered just above him, his cock twitching in response.

“Fuck, doll,” Bucky breathed. His hands, guided by yours, bracketed your hips with a tenderness that betrayed the hunger in his eyes. 

“Yes, James?” you replied, your tone teasing but softened with affection as you shifted against him, just enough to feel the glide of his cock between your already wet slit. 

“You gonna ride me?” His voice was thick with longing, but his gaze was steady, not demanding, just full of raw, unfiltered want.

You tilted your head, a playful smile curling at your lips. “Are you asking, or telling me?”

His thumbs traced slow, lazy circles on your skin, the weight of his gaze never leaving your face. “Don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he murmured, the words dripping with something more than just permission.

“And if I do?” you interrupted, voice barely a whisper as you leaned in close, lips brushing his ear.

His hands slid up your sides, pulling you a fraction closer. “Then I can already tell it’ll be my favorite thing in the world…” 

The heat in his voice made your pulse quicken. Brushing a soft kiss along his jaw, taking your time, you savored the closeness before you whispered, “Good answer, Sergeant Barnes.”

A groan escaped his lips when your hand slid between your bodies, guiding him to your entrance. The sound sent a thrill through you, and you couldn't help but let out a soft laugh, shifting your hips slowly, teasing his tip. His grip tightened instinctively, his cock twitching in response to the playful movement.

When you finally pressed down, sinking onto him, you both gasped. The sensitivity from the night before and the lingering haze of sleep made everything feel heightened, more intense. As you took him inch by inch, you searched for his eyes, only to find them closed, the look on his face completely blissed out.

There was no frown, no furrowed brow—just the soft, unguarded pleasure that made his features seem almost tender. It was the first time you’d seen him so completely relaxed, so free of the tension that usually weighed on him. The quiet vulnerability was almost as intoxicating as the physical connection between you, and you let the moment stretch, savoring every inch of the way he filled you.

“Can you lay back for me, baby?” you whispered, your voice thick with want, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his bottom lip before pulling back just enough to watch his reaction. "Please?"

His breath was uneven, his lips still parted from where you'd stolen his next words. You saw it—the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the way his fingers tightened against your skin like he needed the anchor, the way his thighs locked as if ready to push up, to meet you, to regain control. He wanted to guide this, to lead where the two of you went, to hold onto the illusion of dominance.

You shook your head slowly, smoothing your hands up the rigid planes of his chest, applying just the slightest pressure. "Let me," you coaxed, barely above a whisper. "Let me take care of you."

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His hands, strong and capable, held fast to your back, his fingers digging in like he wasn’t sure how to let go.

“Hey,” you soothed, cupping his jaw with both hands, your thumbs stroking the stubble-dusted skin. "Do you trust me?"

He exhaled sharply through his nose, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "It’s not that, I—” He hesitated, his gaze flickering over your face like he was searching for something, anything to latch onto. “We can do it together."

The words hung between you, weighted with meaning and the unspoken fears of a man who had spent too much of his life being used, controlled, forced into submission. You weren’t asking for that. You would never ask for that.

“I want to do this for you," you said softly, shifting slightly in his lap, watching how his lashes fluttered when you did. Bucky blinked, then, slowly, he nodded. 

Relief washed over you, warm and heady, as you urged him down, your hands pressing firmly against his chest until his back met the mattress. His fingers dragged down your spine before settling against your hips, a silent plea for something to hold onto.

You rolled forward deliberately, watching the way his body responded to you, how his jaw clenched and his stomach tensed, how his hands flexed against your thighs as if struggling with the instinct to take control. You knew it was difficult for him to relinquish power, to simply be and let you guide him, but you wanted to show him—prove to him—that with you, he could.

“How do you like it?” you murmured, leaning forward. You shifted your hips, adjusting the rhythm, the angle, teasing a reaction from him. "Tell me, baby."

Bucky swallowed hard, his grip tightening briefly before he forced himself to relax, hands falling idle at his sides. “Shit, doll, just like t-that,” he rasped, his voice rough with restraint.

Guiding his hands to your body, settling one at your hip, the other on the small of your back. “Hold onto me,” you whispered. 

His fingers twitched, then slid lower, gripping the soft flesh of your ass, possessive, grounding. The intensity in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine. He was holding on, just like you asked, but now you could feel it—the way he was fighting himself, the way he was trying to let go without completely losing himself.

“That’s it,” you praised, breath hitching as you rode him, slow, deliberate, making sure he felt every inch of your walls as you glided up and down, tip to base. "Don't let go. Hold onto me while I ride your pretty cock."

Bucky groaned, his hands digging into your flesh, the possessive touch making your own movements falter for a moment. He could break you if he wanted to. He could flip you over, take control, make you beg instead. But he didn't. “Look at me,” you pleaded, your voice thick. Your hands framed his face, trembling slightly as your fingers brushed the stubble along his jaw. “Come on, James. I need you to see this. Look at how good we are together… how perfect we fit.”

He resisted for a heartbeat, his lashes fluttering, before giving in to the pull of your voice. Slowly, his eyes opened, heavy-lidded and smoldering, the blue now darkened with need. Those eyes drank you in, devouring every curve, every sway of your body above him. He took in the way your skin gleamed with a thin sheen of sweat, the way you moved, as though his body had been carved to match yours.

“Fuck…” The word spilled from his lips like a prayer, barely more than a shuddered exhale. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath more ragged than the last. “I’ll… shit, I’ll cum if you keep this up. Can’t believe how well you take me.”

A breathless laugh escaped you, shaky but teasing, despite the heat pooling low in your belly. “Maybe that’s because I was made for you,” you murmured, your voice soft but laced with intent.

The effect was immediate. His jaw tightened, his thighs flexed beneath you, and you felt him throb inside you, his reaction sending sparks through your own body. His hands tightened on your hips, guiding your movements now, as if he couldn’t help himself.

“You like that, don’t you?” you teased again, though your voice wavered, betraying how much control you were starting to lose. “The thought of having my body made just for yours?”

Bucky groaned, low and guttural, his head tipping back against the pillows. The muscles in his neck strained, and the sound he made was somewhere between pain and pleasure. “Don’t say shit like that,” he ground out, his fingers sliding up to spread across your lower back. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

His hand trailed lower, his thumb brushing over your clit with just enough pressure to make you gasp, your body jolting involuntarily. “James…” you whispered in warning, your voice breaking on the syllable, and your hand shot out to brace against the mattress beside his head, desperate for some semblance of balance.

“You hear that?” His voice was husky, his tone laced with awe and hunger as his thumb traced slow, devastating circles. “I can hear how wet you are for me. Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

His words sent a fresh wave of heat washing over you, your stomach tightening. But even as your body betrayed you, you shook your head stubbornly, refusing to let him win so easily. “S-Stop,” you stammered, though your resolve was already crumbling.  

“I’m serious, James,” you protested, leaning forward until your chest brushed against his. The shift made him press impossibly deeper inside you, and the both of you let out simultaneous groans, your eyes rolling back rolled your eyes at the sensation. “This is for you,” you managed, though the words were barely audible over the sound of your erratic breathing.

“For us,” he corrected, his voice strained and rough.

Lips grazing the shell of his ear, each word trembling with intimacy and raw emotion, your voice softened, dropping to a tone meant only for him. “I want you to have whatever you need from me. Anything that makes you feel good. Do you understand?”

The silence between you stretched taut, broken only by the ragged pull of his breath. His hands, large and steady, now trembled slightly where they held you, as though he was warring with the weight of your words. And then, like a dam breaking, he gave in. His face buried itself in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing fevered, desperate kisses along your skin—, whispered agreements to surrender, to let go, to take what you offered so willingly.

Then, low and hoarse, his voice broke through the haze. “Can you—fuck—can you pick up the pace?” It was him, asking for what he wanted for once, and the need behind it made it feel like a plea. “Just like that,” he praised, his breath hitching as you moved faster, your body gliding up and down his shaft. “A bit quicker, good girl.”

The words hit you like a physical force, leaving you trembling. You obeyed instinctively, riding him harder, faster, and with more abandon, each movement drawing a new sound from his throat, each one unraveling you further.

“Keep going, love,” he urged, and your nails dug into his bicep, leaving crescents in his skin as your body burned hotter at the sound of the endearment. Love. That word. The way he said it, so casual yet so loaded, made your heart skip a beat. He needed to stop calling you that before you completely lost it.

“You’re so warm, so slick…” His voice was wrecked now, each word strung together. “Barely had any trouble taking me, didn’t you?”

You couldn’t hold the moan that escaped your lips, muffled only by your mouth finding his shoulder as pleasure threatened to overwhelm you. You felt him twitch inside you, and the knowledge of how close he was only drove you harder, desperate to tip him over the edge.

“Bucky, fuck,” you gasped, your voice breaking as tears prickled at the corners of your eyes. The effort of holding back, of teetering so close to release without falling, was too much. “I need you to cum,” you cried, your voice raw with desperation.

If he didn’t—if you didn’t—you knew you’d lose yourself, unravel completely under the weight of this unbearable tension. You couldn’t bear the thought of him holding back, couldn’t stand another moment without the relief you both so desperately needed.

His hands gripped you tighter, his nails biting into your skin as his control finally snapped. His hips thrust up to meet yours, hard and deliberate, and his voice came out in a broken groan. “Keep going, don’t stop—please.”

The “please” broke you, shattered whatever thread of composure you’d been clinging to. You cried out, your body moving frantically now, chasing the release. When it finally came, when his body tensed and you felt the warmth of him spill inside you, you fell with him, a tangle of limbs and gasping breaths and whispered names.

For a moment, the world stilled. All that existed was the way he held you, his hands splayed wide across your back, anchoring you to him as though he couldn’t bear to let you go. His lips pressed soft, lazy kisses against your hair, his breathing still uneven.

“You must be a dream…” he murmured at last, his voice laced with awe, as though the thought had just escaped without permission. “I don’t even think I could create something as good as this…”

Your heart clenched at his confession, the weight of his words stealing the breath from your lungs. Tears welled at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over as you closed them tightly, desperate to keep your composure. The emotions crashing over you were too immense, too raw to be captured by words.

Instead, you leaned into him, pressing closer, letting the curve of your body against his speak for you. It was effortless, the way you fit together, like two halves of the same whole finally finding their place. His arms tightened around you in response, pulling you closer, as though he needed the connection as much as you did—maybe more.

The rhythmic sound of his breathing began to slow, each exhale softer than the last. You stayed there, suspended in the quiet, the world outside fading to nothing. Before the knot in your throat could fully unravel, before you could even whisper the words you felt so deeply, he was asleep. –

Bucky was still fast asleep when you slipped out of bed, his breathing deep and steady in the quiet of the room. Your legs ached in that delicious, lingering way that made you flush just thinking about the night before… and this morning. Your hair was a tangled mess, the kind only a long, hot shower could fix.

The water was scalding against your skin, steam curling around you in thick clouds. When you stepped out, you took your time applying moisturizer—something you did every morning, but today, you lingered a little longer, smoothing your hands over your skin with a care that felt indulgent. It wasn’t lost on you that you were paying extra attention, almost as if… as if you wanted to feel soft under his touch again.

God, you were in trouble.

By the time you finished drying your hair, the apartment was still blanketed in the rare hush of a snowstorm, the city outside subdued under layers of white. Even the usual hum of traffic and sirens seemed to have been swallowed up by, leaving you in an unusual sort of peace.

You met your own gaze in the fogged-up mirror, and for a moment, you barely recognized yourself. Your eyes were bright, cheeks still flushed from the heat of the shower—or maybe something else entirely—and there was a smile you couldn’t seem to shake, no matter how hard you tried. It was kind of ridiculous, how easily you had fallen into this thing with Bucky. How completely and utterly infatuated you’d become in such a short time.

But honestly, could you blame yourself? The man was… dreamy, for lack of a better word.

Shaking your head at your own reflection, you reached for the henley you’d stolen from the floor, the fabric soft and worn against your fingers. It still smelled like him and slipping it over your head felt like wrapping yourself in his warmth. You paired it with a fresh set of panties and some thick socks, padding out into the living room in search of something to fill the sudden hunger gnawing at you.

Somehow, you found yourself in the kitchen, pulling out ingredients with more enthusiasm than you expected. Maybe it was the restless energy still buzzing in your veins from the morning’s activities. Maybe it was the cold, the way it made you crave something warm and hearty.

Or maybe—if you were being honest with yourself—it had everything to do with the man currently sleeping soundly in your bed, his presence lingering in every corner of the apartment, wrapping around you like an invisible thread.

The soft sizzle of eggs in the pan and the low hum of the kettle were the only sounds breaking the peaceful quiet. The rich scent of freshly brewed coffee curled through the air. You smiled to yourself as you moved through the kitchen, arranging a spread that was far more elaborate than necessary—fluffy pancakes, perfectly crisp bacon, fresh fruit sliced with more care than anyone really needed.

Maybe it was the coziness of the morning, the lingering heat of the shower still clinging to your skin, or maybe it was the memory of last night—the way Bucky’s hands had explored, the way his lips had left traces of him all over you—that had you feeling so... content. Settled.

And that thought alone sent a flicker of unease through your chest.

Because contentment was dangerous. It was heavy with expectations and unspoken promises, and you weren’t entirely sure how much Bucky was willing to give you—how far he’d let you in before pushing you away. He’d given up control for a few minutes, but what if that was his line?

The thought of that conversation—the one where you'd have to define whatever this was—loomed over you like a dark cloud. Sooner or later, it would have to happen. And you weren’t looking forward to facing whatever truths might come out of it.

Your knife hesitated mid-slice through a ripe strawberry, lost in the swirl of your thoughts, when the soft creak of the bedroom door pulled you back to reality. You turned, and there he was.

Bucky stood in the doorway, shirtless, clad only in his dark briefs, his broad frame filling the space with an effortless kind of dominance. Sleep still clung to him in the tousle of his hair, the crease of the pillow on his cheek, and the soft squint of his eyes as he blinked at you.

“So that’s where my shirt’s gone,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep, rough in that way that sent a shiver down your spine.

A grin tugged at your lips as you grabbed a mug from the counter, pouring him a cup of coffee. “Do you mind?” you asked sheepishly, holding the mug out as he padded across the kitchen, slumping against the island with a lazy sort of grace. “I can give it back, I have plenty o—”

“You keep it,” Bucky interrupted, his lips curling faintly as he took the coffee from your hands. His eyes flickered over you, slow and appreciative, the oversized henley hanging off your frame in a way that had his jaw tightening just slightly. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he reached out, his vibranium arm wrapping around your waist with ease, tugging you closer until your front was flush against his. The coolness of his metal fingers pressed against the small of your back, holding you there, while his other hand brought the coffee to his lips for a sip.

You sighed, arms looping around his bare torso as you nuzzled into the crook of his neck. Pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, you felt his grip tighten, his thumb stroking absentmindedly over your hip in a way that made your stomach flip.

“If you keep manhandling me like this,” you murmured against his skin, lips grazing his neck as you trailed soft kisses along his shoulder, “we’re never getting out of this apartment.”

Bucky hummed, a low, satisfied sound deep in his chest, and you felt his smirk against your hair.

“Exactly my plan, darling.”

You laughed, the sound muffled against his chest as you squeezed yourself closer, your cheek resting against the warmth of his skin. You let yourself admire him, tracing the strong lines of muscle beneath smooth skin, your fingers ghosting over the battle scars that told stories you’d never fully know. Each one was a reminder of the life he’d lived before you, the wars he’d fought—both the ones the world knew about and the ones you suspected still haunted him in the quiet moments.

God, he was so Bucky. It was almost too much—the way he filled the space around you, the way he was. The thought made your chest ache.

“As much as I’d love that,” you murmured, tilting your head up to meet his eyes, your lips brushing against his collarbone, “we need to get you some clothes.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and mild offense. “Don’t you have enough to steal?”

“Not even close.” You grinned, and his head dipped slightly, shaking with a soft huff of laughter.

His blue eyes studied you, something lazy and dangerous behind them. “What do we need clothes for, exactly?”

“For you.” Your fingers splayed against his ribs, enjoying the way he tensed slightly beneath your touch. “To stay here. I can wash these for you,” you gestured vaguely to his current state of undress, “but I doubt you want to spend the whole week in jeans and a leather jacket.”

“A week?” His brows lifted, the tease obvious in his voice, making your heart stumble.

Before you could think of a clever response, he drained the last of his coffee, the mug settling onto the counter with a soft clink. Then his hands—one warm, one cool—cupped your cheeks, holding you in place. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, his touch featherlight but commanding all the same.

“Are you keeping me hostage, my love?”

The words hit you like a sucker punch, the unexpected weight of them stealing the air from your lungs. My love. It wasn’t the first time he’d used a pet name, but this one—this one was new. It felt different. It held weight. Promise.

Your lips parted on instinct, a small, sharp inhale betraying you. His gaze locked you in place, left you rooted to the spot, utterly helpless under the sheer gravity of him. Your eyes searched his, wide and pleading, silently begging him to kiss you. To put you out of your misery.

Bucky’s lips curled, just barely, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. And he did—of course he did. Because he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, teasingly close but not enough.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he murmured against your lips.

Your fingers curled into his sides. “And whose fault is that?”

“Yours. Definitely yours.”

You closed the distance between you with a desperation that felt all-consuming, your lips crashing against his like an addict chasing their next fix—eager, hungry, completely and utterly lost in the way he tasted. 

Your fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, nails biting softly into his skin as your nose bumped his in your search for more. “What are you doing to me?” you whined, voice breathless and aching, chasing his lips even as he tilted your head, guiding you deeper into him.

He let you have him, let you take your fill, and it was a long, dizzying minute before you could even think about pulling away. When you did, your forehead rested against his  chin.

“What were you saying, doll?” Bucky murmured against your mouth, his grip firm at the nape of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair in a way that made your knees weak.

“Clothes,” you managed to say, gulping down air and pushing lightly against his chest. “We need to get you clothes.”

His lips curved at the corners, and he didn’t loosen his hold. “For what?” he drawled, pulling you closer when you tried—half-heartedly—to create distance, his bare chest radiating warmth against your own.

“For you to stay here.” You bit your lip, trying to fight the way your body naturally leaned into him. “The city’s shutting down, Bucky. We’re all working from home for the next few days. There’ll be no missions.”

He hummed, the vibration of it rumbling against your skin, completely unconcerned. “Didn’t you get the text?” you added, hoping some logic would break through the haze clouding both your minds.

“Haven’t had time to look at my phone,” he confessed, his lips brushing along your jaw, down the sensitive column of your neck, each kiss melting your resolve a little more.

You groaned, tugging lightly at the hair at the nape of his neck, though there was no real force behind it—no real will to stop him. “Bucky, come on,” you pleaded, though your head lolled back of its own accord, giving him even more space to continue his assault.

“I made you food,” you gasped, trying to ground yourself.

“You did,” he murmured, his mouth moving lower, a smile evident in his voice.

“I made you coffee.”

“You did,” he echoed, his vibranium hand slipping under the hem of his stolen shirt, cool against the heat of your skin.

“I made you pancakes—” Your words cut off with a sharp gasp as his tongue flicked over the sensitive spot just below your jaw, and your toes curled against the cold kitchen floor. A shiver shot down your spine, leaving you trembling in his hold. “Fuck. Okay, okay, we need to stop.”

Bucky hummed again, nipping playfully at your skin, and you felt the smirk forming against your throat. “Do we, though?”

You groaned, half in frustration, half in bliss. “Yes,” you insisted, even as your hands betrayed you, gripping his biceps tightly. “Before the food gets cold.”

He sighed dramatically, finally pulling back enough to meet your eyes, his face so unfairly handsome it almost had you giving in all over again. “Fine,” he grumbled, but the mischief in his eyes told you this wasn’t over.

You rolled your eyes, pushing at his chest and trying—failing—not to smile. “Go put some pants on, Barnes.”

–

Breakfast passed with only minor interruptions—most of them your fault. You couldn’t resist stealing a kiss when a smudge of syrup clung to the corner of Bucky’s mouth, and he had grumbled something about “food theft” while pulling you into another kiss that tasted like maple and coffee. It was slow, sweet, and enough to make you forget the cold world outside for a moment.

But reality crept back in, and soon he was leaving you in the kitchen, disappearing into the bathroom with a parting kiss to your temple. The sound of the shower running filled the space, leaving you alone with your thoughts—the worst possible company, if you were being honest.

By the time he stepped out, fresh and dressed in yesterday’s clothes, you had already decided you weren’t going to let him face the snow alone.

“Stay here, doll,” he’d said, tugging on his jacket. “It’s freezing out.”

“I’m coming with you,” you shot back, folding your arms in defiance.

Bucky sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck like he was preparing for a battle he knew he’d lose. “I’ll be quick.”

“No.” 

He huffed, shaking his head. “You’re not coming with me,” Bucky said firmly as he pulled his jacket on, his tone brooking no argument. “It’s freezing out there, and the sidewalks are a mess. It’s not safe.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his stubbornness with your own. “if it’s safe for you, then it’s safe for me. You’re not facing that alone. Not a chance.”

“Doll—”

“I’m coming, and that’s final.”

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The walk to his place, a few blocks away, was brutal. Snow crunched underfoot as the two of you trudged through the white-covered streets, your gloved hand slipping into his halfway through the walk. He didn’t say anything, but his grip tightened around yours. When you finally reached his building, your breath came out in small clouds, your cheeks and nose tingling from the cold. You followed him up the stairs to his apartment, still catching your breath as he unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Stepping inside, you were struck by how little had changed since the first time you’d been there—a fleeting late-night visit to drop off mission files. The same barebones setup greeted you: a modest TV, a makeshift bed on the floor with neatly folded blankets, a stack of plates drying on the counter, a chair. The bedroom door was ajar, offering a glimpse of a near-empty space that seemed more like a glorified storage space than a place to rest. The place wasn’t just bare; it was lifeless.

Bucky dropped his keys onto the counter, glancing at you before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “There’s some drinks in the fridge if you want anything,” he murmured, his lips lingering against your skin for a second too long. “I’ll just grab some things.”

You nodded absentmindedly, your eyes sweeping across the barren room. The walls were empty, a pale expanse of nothingness, save for a few nicks and scratches that told stories no one had been invited to hear. The furniture—minimal and purely functional—felt more like it belonged in a holding cell than in someone’s home. A tangle of emotions tightened in your chest, a dull ache that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with him.

It wasn’t just the absence of warmth, the lack of personal touches, or the refusal to claim this space as his own that hurt. It was what all of it represented. Bucky didn��t think he deserved any of it—not the cozy clutter of a home, not the comfort of a safe space, not the smallest token of belonging… not the comfort of you. That unyielding part of him, buried so deep it seemed untouchable, still whispered lies born of decades of torment. Lies that told him he was unworthy, that he was irredeemable, that the horrors he endured were somehow his burden to bear forever.

You knew better. You’d read the files. You’d combed through the blood-soaked history of the Winter Soldier, every mission meticulously documented, every coup orchestrated, every life taken with cold precision. You’d seen the names of dictators he’d helped rise to power and the innocents whose lives were stolen in the process. But those files didn’t just tell the story of what he’d done; they told the story of what had been done to him.

You knew about the experiments, the torture, the relentless breaking and rebuilding of a man until there was nothing left but a weapon. You knew about the years he spent frozen, locked in an icy limbo while the world turned without him. His friends and family grew older, grieved him, moved on. He had been robbed not only of his agency but of his life—again and again, piece by piece, memory by memory.

And yet, standing here in this hollow space that he refused to call a home, you felt the weight of it all pressing on your chest. It wasn’t just the sadness of what he had endured but the injustice of what he continued to carry. It broke your heart in ways you couldn’t articulate, shattered it all over again every time you caught a glimpse of this man—so lost, so burdened—who couldn’t see the good you saw in him.

The sound escaped before you could stop it—a raw, choked sob that ripped free from your chest, surprising even you. It was as if all the care and grief and pain you had been holding inside had suddenly coalesced into that single, involuntary noise. Your throat felt impossibly tight, like those damned files had transformed into invisible fists, squeezing the air from your lungs. Grief welled up for the man Bucky could have been, for the life he might have lived if fate had been kinder, and it crushed you.

You clapped a trembling hand over your mouth, desperate to smother the sound, but it was too late. He was there, moving faster than you could compose yourself, his presence a solid, grounding warmth behind you. His hands hovered just above your shoulders, hesitant but close enough.

“What happened?” His voice was soft but taut, worry stretching every word thin.

You shook your head quickly, trying to pull yourself together as your free hand swiped at the fat tears trailing down your cheeks. “I’m fine,” you lied, your voice cracking. “Really, I’m okay. You should—go back to packing.” You managed a shaky, watery smile, blinking furiously against the torrent threatening to spill again. “Do you need help with anything?”

But then you saw his face. The worry etched into his features, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to start. It was too much.

Whatever fragile grip you’d managed to find shattered in an instant. Your face crumpled, your chest heaving with a heartbroken sob that tore through the room. Your hands shot up instinctively, covering your face as though you could hide the sheer weight of your emotions from him.

“No, no, no,” you stammered through the tears, shaking your head. This wasn’t his burden to bear. Not after everything he’d already endured. Not when the weight of his past was already crushing him. He didn’t need your pain, your hurt for him, added to his. He didn’t deserve that.

Bucky didn’t move away. He didn’t retreat to the safety of distance or let the awkwardness of your emotions push him back. Instead, he stepped closer, his hands finally landing on your shoulders, firm and grounding. “Hey,” he said softly, the word more of an anchor than a question. “What’s going on?”

You shook your head again, your fingers clutching your face as though you could physically hold yourself together. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean for you to see this. I just—” Your voice broke, and you sucked in a shuddering breath. 

“Why shouldn’t I see it?” He frowned, thumb brushing against the skin of your neck, the gesture so gentle it urged a new wave of tears, making you reach out to grip his jacket, the cold from the outside still lingering on the fabric. “Because you don’t need this,” you hiccupped, swallowing down another wracking sob. “You know I know... everything", your voice broke then and your hands tightened into fists, pulling him closer still. "I know what they did to you, everything, every time they broke you and built you up again, I know, and I-- it's not pity, I promise you it's not. I just... I l-- care. I care about you so much and you're so good, Bucky. I can't believe you've gone through all of that and you're still so good." He opened his mouth to respond, his lips twitching into a small, humorless smile. “Maybe I’m not,” he said, trying to laugh, trying to disarm you with that wry, self-deprecating edge you hated. 

You practically climbed him, wrapping your arms around his neck in a grip so tight it would’ve choked any other man. But not him. Not your Bucky. “Don’t joke about this,” you pleaded, shaking your head against him, standing on your tiptoes and using every ounce of your strength and weight to pull him down toward you. Your lips pressed wet, frantic kisses to his temple, his cheek, his nose, and finally his lips, your tears soaking into his skin. “Don’t you dare joke about this.” His breath hitched, a tremor you felt more than saw, and his hands faltered as they lifted to your back. They hovered there, caught in a limbo of indecision, as though he couldn’t decide if it was best to hold you closer or push you away. 

“I’m so sorry. You don’t need this—me falling apart on you. Not after everything you’ve carried, Bucky. More than anyone ever should. And now I’m here, breaking... and you shouldn’t have to deal with that, too.”

“Stop,” he murmured, his voice low but steady, a quiet strength anchoring you in a way only he could. His hands pressed to your back with gentle insistence, grounding you, pulling you back from the edge. “Kinda nice to have someone grieve for me, you know?” His lips quirked in the faintest, almost disbelieving curve—a smile too fragile to hold. “I’ve felt like it’s just been me. Alone. For so long. After Steve—” His voice broke, a hitch that was barely audible but cracked through the air between you. “After Steve, I didn’t think anyone would ever… care. Not like that. Don’t get me wrong, he’s my best friend. I love the guy. But I’ve always wondered if that’s the only kind of care I’d ever get from people. Like it’s more duty than choice.”

His confession twisted the knife of emotion deeper. A fresh wave of sobs welled up, breaking free as the raw vulnerability of his words settled into the hollow places inside you, making you ache for him in ways that felt almost unbearable.

“No,” you whispered fiercely, your head shaking against his. “It’s not duty. It’s not obligation. I care about you because of who you are, Bucky. Not who you were, not what you’ve been through, not because you need saving or because I feel sorry for you. It’s because you’re good. Whether you believe it or not, you are so good.”

His lips parted, an objection forming on his tongue, but you surged forward, pulling him into a kiss that silenced everything else. It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was desperate. It was a kiss that carried the weight of everything you couldn’t yet say aloud. Grief. Hope. Love. A promise that he wasn’t alone and never would be, not because someone felt they had to be there, but because they chose to.

He froze, stunned for a breathless moment, before surrendering. His hands slid down from your back to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. He held you like you were the only steady thing in a world that kept tilting and shifting beneath his feet.

When you finally pulled back, tears streaked your cheeks, unchecked and raw, and his thumb brushed against your jawline, wiping them away. His eyes searched yours, filled with an unspoken vulnerability. “I…” he started, but the words died in his throat.

You wanted to ask him to tell you everything that churned behind those stormy blue eyes. You wanted to dive headfirst into the hurricane of his thoughts, to feel the raw chaos of the emotions he kept so carefully hidden. You longed to strip away the armor he wore, piece by piece, until there was nothing left between you but the fragile truth of him.

More than anything, you wanted to carve out a home in the spaces where others had turned away. You wanted to fill the voids they left behind, to prove that for you, there was no “something better.” There never could be. Because this—he—was everything.

Instead, for his sake—and maybe a little for yours—you forced a shaky laugh and tried to lighten the mood. “This is why you need a bed in here,” you joked weakly, your voice cracking under emotions you couldn’t quite suppress.

His lips twitched, and the faintest hint of a smile broke through the storm. “Because crying and having sex is a great idea?” His tone carried a teasing edge, but you could hear his quiet relief.

You couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up, hiccupping through your tears. “Have you never heard of tears of pleasure?”

His brow furrowed, the expression so unguarded and boyish that it tugged something deep inside you. “...No?”

“Guess you haven’t tried hard enough, then,” you quipped, your voice lighter but still trembling. Vulnerability lingered just beneath the surface, too close to keep hidden.

He shook his head, exhaling a disbelieving laugh. “I can’t believe you’re joking right now.”

He tilted your chin up with his thumbs then, fingers buried on the back of your hair and his lips found yours. It wasn’t soft, wasn’t careful. His hands slipped and framed your face as if he could hold all of you in his palms, as if he was trying to tell you what he couldn’t say. And when you clung to him, your arms around his neck, your fingers threading through his hair, it felt like trying to tether yourself to something real in a world that kept slipping away.

Then his hands slid to your thighs, gripping firmly, and before you knew it, he lifted you with an ease that made your head swim. Your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively and you felt his strength beneath your fingers.

“If I don’t joke,” you murmured against his lips, your voice trembling with your confession, “I’m gonna say a lot of things I shouldn’t.”

His steps faltered, and he paused, holding you there, his forehead brushing yours. “Like what?” he asked, a dangerous invitation.

“You don’t want to know,” you whispered, shaking your head. You kissed him again, feverish and desperate, trying to drown the words that threatened to spill out—the words that had been clawing at your throat for weeks. “Not yet. God, not yet.”

He resumed, carrying you toward the makeshift bed of blankets. He knelt with you, settling you down as gently as if you were made of glass. His eyes bore into yours, a storm of curiosity and hesitation swirling within them.

“But what if I do?” His voice was barely above a whisper. The steel blue pinned you in place, raw and searching, like he was trying to unearth the pieces of you you’d been holding tightly to your chest.

“Bucky, don’t,” you choked out as tears spilled anew. “I’m scared enough already. I’ve shown you too much—I’ve said way too much.” You let out a shaky laugh, more bitter than amused. “I’m terrified you’ll run out that door the second I look away. Don’t make me say it. Please don’t.”

His grip tightened, his forehead falling against yours as his weight settled between your legs, making you inhale sharply at the sensation. His breath ghosted against your lips, steady and grounding, as his voice came soft but resolute. “What do you need, then? Tell me, doll.”

“Just kiss me,” you pleaded, fingers dragging over the stubble on his jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, eyes searching his like you couldn’t decide where to look, how to touch. “Keep my mouth shut, will you?” Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, your legs tightening around his waist. “Do it until I forget my name.”

He let out a breath and you saw the glassiness in his eyes, your own emotion reflected on his as he turned to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist. “As long as you don’t forget mine,”  his voice soft and reverent, as though the thought of you forgetting him was too much to bear. Leaning down until all of his weight was on yours, his tongue slipped into your mouth with a possessive stroke that sent heat pooling in your center. 

“I could never,” you breathed, words mumbled, arching up when his hand found its way under your shirt to find soft, warm skin. “I could never forget you, James.”

[nereidprinc3ss]

trolley problem

in which fem!reader has been gambling with her life and spencer reid is more than a little concerned

flangst, hurt/comfort warnings/tags: passive suicidal ideation from reader, she keeps risking her life, that really grinds Spencer’s gears, established relationship, existential dread, existential euphoria, lots of stuff about grief and death and self worth, not advocating for this, pretension from the author, blasphemy probably?, reader gets fuzzy from prescribed painkillers, arguing, hospital stuff, mention of sleep paralysis involving spiders, reader gets shot but she’s fineee, I pander to intro to philosophy takers, bau!reader, neurodivergent coded reader, if she’s not exactly like you I’m sorry, bean soup a/n: one day you’re in a writing slump literally the next you are in your notes app for six hours writing whatever the fuck this is but I think I love it even tho it’s weird and I hope u like it too!! btw this was gonna be called cotard's syndrome but then I never once talk abt cotard's but if u care that might be interesting context for the motif of not feeling human/alive, WC 3K

Spencer hasn’t spoken to you since the doctor left the room five minutes ago. 

The air is antiseptic as you take it deep into the hollows of your lungs and trap it there for a moment, trying to optimize oxygen intake without actually having to breathe very often. Hospital smell is as universal as it is suffocating. It reeks of everything but death—flowers, blood, bleach, vomit. A humiliating, desperate scramble to defy the very thing that defines mortality. It’s pathetic. It reminds you of the worst instances of failure and loss and denial in your life. It curdles your blood. Literally rots you from the inside out. 

You’ve had ample time to ponder that smell over the last few months because you keep ending up here, and some time ago you decided the institution of the hospital is inherently absurd. It’s stupid to think you could avoid the one absolute condition on your corporeal form: impermanence. It is the only thing that is promised, and people still waste their lives away running from it. It is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy. 

So around the time you acknowledged that hospitals are simply monuments to the self-importance of man, you gave up on trying too hard to preserve yourself. You’ve seen death too much and too often. You’ve tried staving it off with prayer and the miracles of modern medicine, and it never matters in the end because it’s all magical thinking anyway. All the wallowing and the bargaining and pleading never got you anywhere. 

You’ve accepted that from the moment you were born, you were marked for death. 

But you’re not a complete nihilist. You’re not even totally resigned to the abject certainty of death—because you’ve found a loophole.

Everyone has as many chances at escaping death as other people are willing to offer them at the cost of their own lives. Not many people are willing to make that trade—someone else’s life for their own—but you’ve decided you are. Because if not you, then who?

It’s not that you don’t see the value in your own life, as Spencer keeps making it sound. It’s just the opposite. You understand that you’ve got an extremely valuable resource, and you don’t just have to sit on it. There are things you can do. Choices you can make. Ways to defy death. 

Just… not yours. 

Or maybe you’re just in deep denial. 

Either way—this is a philosophy your boyfriend intentionally refuses to understand. He gets mad, or some kind of upset, every time you try to explain it. Usually he ends up leaving the room close to tears. You never feel good about it.

Right now he’s presumably trying to give you the silent treatment and not doing a very good job. 

“Stop holding your breath. Why are you—stop that.”

Spencer’s frowning, skin sallow and milk-blue under fluorescent lighting. Purple seeps from around his eyes like spilled wine on a white table cloth. Your stomach turns. 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t tell you not to apologize. You don’t expect him to. 

“Why are you doing that? Does something hurt?”

Other than your entire bicep being on fire due to the 9 millimeter Luger it recently came into contact with?

“Not really. I just don’t like the smell of hospitals.”

At that, he gets stony again. Like, Medusa stony. You feel a tightening in your chest that has nothing to do with a lack of air. His arms are crossed. A silk lined blazer drapes over your lap, and you wonder if he’s cold in just that white button up. It’s translucent in this light, like onion skin, or maybe something less organic—the folds and wrinkles look like fabric, but lots of things look like something they aren’t. In the Pietá, Jesus lounges dead on his mother’s lap, his cheek pressed to her arm like either of them have warm flesh, and her skirts drape from her knees and fall to the ground in delicate folds just like Spencer’s jacket and looking at pictures of it you swear you could find comfort there too—but if you wanted to make space for yourself next to Jesus you’d have to do it with a chisel and mallet. You’re starting to think that’s what it’s going to take with Spencer, as well. 

“So stop walking into active gunfire. You’ll spend a lot less time here.”

Every deep sigh (of which there have been several) calcifies you further. Ironically, you never feel less alive than you do in a hospital. 

“I didn’t walk into active g—”

“I’m not debating it with you. It’s not a discussion.”

“So you’re just going to be pissed at me for the rest of forever? I mean, if it’s not a discussion—what are you gonna do? Break up with me?”

You feel yourself dripping poison in the well. Even as you say it. As his head tilts toward you slowly and intently from his spot against the wall, and his warning gaze is cold and unforgiving and weighs 3.35 tons.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk?”

“Don’t try and manipulate me by implying that there are no options between permissiveness and dumping you!”

“I’m not manipulating you. And I don’t need your permission to do anything.” 

The first part is an incredulous scoff as well as a blatant lie. You are manipulating him. Chisel and all. At least, you were trying to. It clearly doesn’t work very well. His jaw clenches.  

“Is this worth it to you? Fighting with me like we’re children solely so you don’t have to take accountability?”

“Accountability for what? I made a choice. I don’t regret it. You’re upset because I did my job.”

A beat. 

Silence always makes you feel the gravity of your words. 

“Do you believe that?”

His voice softens so much, so quickly, it splinters down the middle. 

You’ve never been known for your light touch. For someone who sees eviscerated bodies nearly every day, and prides herself on her evolved understanding of mortality, you often forget other people are not, in fact, impenetrable marble—they are flesh and blood and bone, and you’ve splattered yourself in the evidence of that. 

“What?” You murmur. You easily turn timid, when you’re afraid you’ve been too heavy-handed. Spencer’s seen you sob over the birds who hit the windowpane and never reappeared from the shrubbery—their delicate wings, their little beaks—he didn’t mean to, Spencer, and now he’s dead! He’s seen you spend forty minutes catching a spider with a cup and an envelope rather than smush it, even though you have reoccurring episodes of sleep paralysis wherein a giant arachnid is sitting on your chest, hissing and clacking its pincers. He knows you are, at your core, kind and good. 

It’s a little scary for someone to know that about you. It’s a little scary when you see your own vulnerability reflected in their eyes and the way they speak to you, the way you see it in him now. 

“Do you believe that the choices you make regarding your safety don’t concern me at all?”

“They’re… my choices to make,” you whisper, but you’re less sure than you were a minute ago. 

“I’m not talking about that—I’m talking about how it feels like you are trying to kill yourself every time we’re in the field.” His voice shakes. You swallow. “You have been hospitalized for four serious injuries sustained on the job in the past five months. Every time I bring it up, you—you talk about life like it’s optional for you. Like you’re not only willing to give it up but are actively looking to throw yourself in harm’s way every chance you get. You think that doesn’t terrify me?”

There’s a small chip in the paint on the wall next to him roughly the shape of Africa. 

“It’s not like that. I’m… I’m just having an unlucky streak.”

He snaps. 

“Luck isn’t going to get between you and a bullet. Ever.”

“It’s my job, Spencer.”

“No. It is a risk of the job. Not a defining feature or requirement. But you keep running toward gunfire like you have a quota to meet.”

“Spencer, I’m not doing it at you. I’m not trying to get myself hurt.”

“Well it doesn’t really feel like you’re trying to avoid it, either,” he shoots back immediately, and you feel the anguish radiating from him until it lodges in your own chest, like it was always yours. Maybe it was. 

You want to make it better, but you don’t know how, and even if you did, he’s pushing off the wall and crossing the room toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” You call, a little too desperately for your liking. 

“You need to eat something.”

Which translates roughly to he’s pissed and upset and he needs to leave the room. You’ve done this song and dance before. 

However, food and an absence of him are contenders for the absolute last two things you want right now. 

“Spencer, please don’t—”

But the door is already whooshing closed. 

You stare at the grey and white checkered floor. Light bounces off the waxen reflection—some sort of parallel universe you can’t reach, perhaps. The whole room is desaturated. A mechanical humming threatens to drive you insane. It doesn’t feel like a place for living humans. You’re not convinced you are one. 

When he comes back, maybe ten minutes later, nothing’s moved at all. In fact you’re not even sure you’ve been breathing. 

The door closes as quietly as it opens. 

This time, wordlessly, Spencer comes to you. You see his shoes first—his serious adult shoes. You wish he was wearing his Converse. 

Then you see the bottle of apple juice he’s cracking open for you. Blue lid. Same kind you always get. 

“You didn’t bring food.”

“You wouldn’t have eaten it.”

Fair enough. 

You take the bottle with your good arm and sip shallowly—all that adrenaline and the subsequent interpersonal strife has left you nauseous. The drink is too sweet. It clashes with the tang of metal in your mouth. 

Still, you drink enough to satisfy him, and then you’re tossing his jacket aside before balancing the bottle between your thighs so you can screw the lid back on. He doesn’t go back to the couch or his spot on the wall. 

Spencer doesn’t pull away when you lean into him, but it does take him a moment to reciprocate. You’re still grateful all the same when he cradles the back of your head to his stomach like you’re made of porcelain. 

“I don’t think you understand how upset I am,” he says quietly. 

Only Spencer Reid could be furious with you and still hold you like this. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“That’s not good enough. You need to stop risking your life like that.”

He doesn’t get it. Your brows flutter as they try to furrow but even holding that expression saps you. Maybe the pain meds are finally kicking in. 

“I just wanna help people.”

“That doesn’t explain to me or justify your urge to do it at the cost of your own life. We all want to help people, angel. The whole team. That’s why we do what we do. But we don’t run into shootouts. We don’t split off and provoke people with guns when we’re unarmed and unprepared.”

“But it worked. She got away.” You feel a spark of fulfillment at the memory of Gloria Sanchez in JJ’s arms just before the ambulance doors had slammed you into your first cage of the night. 

“We don’t know if he was going to kill her. He might not’ve fired at all if you didn’t go running toward him. That wasn’t strategic, it was reckless and irresponsible and you know that. I know you do. So something else is going on.”

The pressure in your nose that usually precipitates tears comes as a surprise. 

“I just—if that’s how I can save someone, why shouldn’t I, you know? Why do they have less of a right to live than I do just because they’ve been deprived of the choice? If I have a choice, and they don’t, I should choose to… to help them. That’s my job.”

For a long moment, you listen to your own breath, muffled by Spencer’s shirt, and the mechanical humming, and something dripping, and the low, buzzy chatter of nurses far down the hallway.

When Spencer next speaks you get the sense he’s holding a lot back. His voice is taut enough it wavers slightly. Taut enough that if he weren’t speaking so quietly he might be yelling. It’s like pinpricks all over your body—not enough to hurt, but enough to make sure you’re paying attention. 

“You can’t help anyone if you’re dead. Do you understand me?”

And yes, in theory, you do. But that doesn’t negate your original point. It only takes one life or death moment for you to utilize the most valuable resource you have. What happens after is no longer your concern. 

“On the psych evals you helped develop it asks if you think it’s appropriate to sacrifice the one to save the many. The answer is supposed to be no. If you say yes you get flagged. The FBI frowns upon… lever-pullers. And that’s exactly what I’m doing if I let one person die when I could’ve potentially saved them.”

“Protecting your own life is not pulling the lever. What you’re doing isn’t smart or morally righteous. You’re just throwing yourself across the tracks, too. If you were to fail a psych eval right now it would be because you’re passively suicidal. And you know what? The FBI also tends to frown upon self-immolative delusions of grandeur and girls who like to play sacrificial lamb.”

“’M not a… sacrificial lamb…”

“No,” Spencer agrees quietly, stroking your hair. “You’re not.”

And you can’t react to the fragility in his voice, or the content of his words, and the fact that when he says it he means something different—you can’t do anything about it. You can only catalogue it. You can only know that he loves you, and feel a little guilty about it.

Some time passes. You don’t know how long he remains standing so you can doze against him. He does not smell like the hospital. He’s the antidote for whatever grief they distill from widows and orphans before aerosolizing it through the whole place. 

“Baby?” He asks eventually. You know the lilt of it. He’s been thinking. 

“Hm?”

He hesitates. 

“Can we talk about you maybe taking some time off of work?”

“You heard the boss,” you mumble. “I can’t come in for at least a week.”

“I mean beyond that.”

You intend to respond, but by the time you open your mouth you’ve lost the prompt in all the brain fog. 

“You’re so comfy,” you murmur dreamily. “Thank you for being mad at me.”

If he responds, you miss it. 

You’re imagining the bed waiting for you at home, once the doctor is done observing you—warm, neatly made. Blankets woven with soft fibers. A mattress that will sink under your weight. You think of Spencer, who’s shaping himself to you, Spencer, who intentionally inhales when you exhale at night to make room for the rise and fall of your chest against his. You think of the imprint of his buttons on your cheek. You are both flesh and blood and bone. 

Strange, pill-induced half dreams and visions and memories take over. You’re in that alleyway again. That man fires. You don’t blink or scream or feel. 

Just before the bullet makes contact you’re standing in front of the Pietá. It’s massive. Spencer is there, too, holding your hand. 

You can’t actually see him, only, you know he’s there. You feel his warmth, his presence, when he leans over to whisper in your ear. The way you know him goes beyond sight. 

The Pietá—meaning the pity, in English—is 6’7” and six feet wide. It weighs 6,700 pounds. Michelangelo had to quarry the block of marble himself. He was only 25 when he finished. The Basilica keeps it behind bulletproof glass. 

Jesus and Mary behind bullet proof glass. 

God. Who’d try to kill Jesus a third time? He’s already dead. 

Besides—they’re both made of stone. Bullets would probably just ping right off of them. Or maybe they’d shatter just like you did. 

Probably not though. You’re not actually made of marble. You’ve no idea what it feels like to be a statue and get shot at. You sure know how it feels as a human, though—and it feels like shit. You don’t really know why you keep doing it. None of your reasons are good enough for Spencer, and he’s, generally speaking, pretty smart about some things. 

Maybe you’re tired of being human.

Maybe you’re tired of sleeping on your arm funny and waking up to a hand in your bed that doesn’t feel like yours and remembering all the hands you’ve held moments before they couldn’t hold yours back. Or tired of those moments where you are being held and it’s so unbelievably perfect and then someone has to let go, or when someone you love hugs you goodbye and you realize that there will always be a final I love you, or simply getting older and watching potential life paths fall away like rotten fruit to the ground. Maybe life is sometimes so good it hurts and you can’t bear it. So you tempt fate. You walk a tightrope because even if you fall and it can’t ever feel good again—at least it can’t hurt either. At least you won’t lose anymore. 

And yet. 

It does feel good, sometimes. Sort of often, actually. Even when it’s awful. 

Dead Jesus and Mary, with their marble skin and their bulletproof glass and their holiness and their virginity and all the other things they have that you don’t. Nobody can hurt them anymore. Not ever. 

Maybe that’s something you envy.

But you doubt they’ve ever been so terribly, wonderfully alive as you’ve been, or as comfortable as you are like this, leaning into Spencer’s warmth and his softness, in the hospital, or the Vatican, or your dreams. Your bicep was ruined but it’s healing. You are capable of ruin and rebirth in the same lifetime. In the same day, in the same hour. 

You doubt that in 520 years, behind bulletproof glass and unyielding, eternally flawless skin, they’ve ever felt as invincible as you do now. 

You doubt they ever could. 

[strictlyfavorites]

When Elon Musk heard about 7-year-old Lily Thompson, a girl battling a rare neurological disorder that left her unable to walk, speak, or even breathe without assistance. She was facing astronomical costs and fading hope, Lily’s family received an unexpected lifeline when Musk personally pledged to cover every penny of her care, including a pioneering surgery that could restore her chance at a normal childhood.

Lily’s condition, a degenerative brain disorder diagnosed at age 3, had defied conventional treatments, leaving her parents desperate as medical bills soared past $2 million. Enter Elon Musk, who, after reading about her plight in a local news story, directed his Musk Foundation to intervene. He not only paid off the family’s debts but funded an experimental procedure at a top California hospital, implanting a Neuralink chip to repair damaged neural connections. “No child should suffer when we have the tools to help,” Musk reportedly told doctors, insisting on fast-tracking the effort to give Lily a fighting chance.

So before you key a random person's Tesla, or set fire to a Tesla dealership, or speak ill of the Elon Musk. I ask you, what the hell did you do for Lily?

[allaboutforexworld]

Range Trading: Forex Trading Strategy Explained

Range trading is a popular forex trading strategy that involves identifying key support and resistance levels, and then buying at the support level and selling at the resistance level. This method capitalizes on the predictable price movements within a defined range. Understanding and mastering range trading can enhance a trader’s ability to profit in markets that are not trending. What is Range…

[dreamersparacosm]

𐙚₊˚⊹ flustered!jk and cheeky!reader 𐙚₊˚⊹

warnings ; jk losing his marbles, reader is a menace to society, oral (male recieving), car/public sex, jk is big af, he’s also a head pusher oop

prompt ; in which he takes you up on your offer.

part one!

Jungkook has had better days.

He’s had better weeks, actually. Ones where his brain wasn’t halting every neuron firing each time someone said your name. Ones where he could focus on normal things, like work and video games and whatever ramen packet was closest to expiration, without flashing back to you in his car, looking like a problem and sounding like a promise.

God.

It’s been exactly six days, and you’re still living rent-free in his head like you own the place, feet up on the furniture, eating snacks in his subconscious like it’s a sleepover. It’s not even sexy anymore, it’s embarrassing. He’s replayed that moment so many times it’s starting to feel like trauma. His brain shortens it into TikTok-length flashbacks like some deranged highlight reel.

And now it’s Friday night again. Another weekend. Another group outing. And he knows you’ll be there, laughing too loud, leaning too close to other guys, dressed like sin in some crop top. He thinks he’s doing himself a massive favor by telling the boys he’s too tired to go out, that he’s better off staying home so not to ruin the mood. Yet, somehow he knows his peace will be disturbed.

Despite all of his better judgment, despite the five pep talks he’s given himself today, despite Googling “how to stop thinking about someone you can’t bone for moral reasons,” he’s caving.

All because you’re texting him again. One simple message.

You: can you give me a ride home :( <3

That’s it. That’s his villain origin story.

He shouldn’t say yes. He should say you can Uber. He should say he’s busy. He should say he’s out of town, in a coma, legally dead. But instead, he just texts back.

Jungkook : on my way.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You slide into the passenger seat like you own it. Like you belong there. (Which you do — the man broke traffic laws to get to you.)

Your top, if it can even be called that, is doing absolutely no work. It’s sheer, shimmery, strapless, and defies the laws of physics and fabric. Your skin is warm from the bar, and you smell like perfume and trouble and something fruity with a hint of Casamigos. You’re tipsy, giggly, legs crossed like a Bond girl, and your hand lands on his shoulder like it’s nothing.

“Hi, driver,” you sing-song, smiling at him as if you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. “Miss me?”

He almost drives into a parked car.

You click your seatbelt with a soft snap and stretch, lifting your arms over your head in a way that should be illegal. Your shirt rides up an inch. His sanity drops ten.

“Where to?” he asks, voice already tight.

“Wherever you wanna take me,” you hum, then glance sideways at him. “As long as there’s room for me to get on my knees.”

He actually chokes. Like physically this time. Coughs. Slams a hand against the wheel. Regains composure only to lose it again.

You grin like the Cheshire Cat.

He starts driving, but barely. His eyes are glued to the road with soldier-like discipline, hands clenched at ten and two, just like last time. Except this time he’s thinking about your mouth. And your legs. And that last damn thing you said.

Every five seconds you keep touching him. A hand on his thigh, fingers tracing his bicep. At one point you lean forward to grab a sip of his water bottle from the cupholder and your boobs brush his arm and he lets out a sound like a dying animal.

He’s going to hell. You’re sending him there personally.

“You’re quiet,” you pout, turning to face him. “Are you nervous again, Jungkookie?”

“Don’t call me that,” he mutters, adjusting the air-conditioning and absolutely not touching anything else.

“Why not?” you ask, tilting your head. “You don’t like it when I’m cute?”

“You’re never just cute,” he snaps, then freezes, realizes what he just said.

Your grin stretches slow and dangerous. “Oh?”

He exhales hard through his nose. His fingers twitch. That’s enough. Fucking enough.

He pulls over. Hard turn, sharp brake, slams the car into park like he’s punishing it. The air goes silent except for the faint hum of the engine and both of your breathing.

“You want to keep playing this game?” he asks, voice low and rough. “Fine. But you better be ready to lose.”

You blink, startled by the shift. “What..”

“You think I haven’t been thinking about it?” he interrupts. “You think I don’t know exactly what you’ve been doing every time you get in this car looking like that?”

His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower. It makes your skin erupt in heat.

“You have been nervous,” You whisper, a little breathless.

“I’ve been trying not to crash the car,” he says sharply. “Because all I do is imagine what would happen if I just pulled over. And now I have.”

Your heart’s going feral in your chest. Your thighs press together. You stare at him, stunned into silence for once in your life.

“Well,” you finally murmur, licking your lips. “Better make sure my seatbelt is on.”

He leans closer, eyes glued to yours.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re gonna need it.”

Ay, ay captain. You do double-check to make sure your seatbelt is on.

Mostly because Jungkook is staring at you like a man on the edge and if this goes where you think it’s going, you’d like your insurance to cover it.

He hasn’t moved yet. Just sitting there, parked in the dark near some empty lot, one hand still on the steering wheel like it’s his emotional support item. He licks his lips, exhales deeply within his chest. And you can see the exact moment he loses the fight with himself.

His hand drops from the wheel. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“I’m…” he clears his throat. “I’m saying okay.”

..Okay what? Okay you can shut up now? Okay let’s never speak of this again? Okay go ahead and ruin my life with your mouth?

You lean in slightly, your voice low and wicked. “You want me to suck you off, Jungkook?”

He nods slowly . You swear he passes away in real time when you unclick your seatbelt.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, palms up like he’s calling a timeout. “Hold on. Are we… this is really happening?”

You smile all wicked. “Unless you want me to stop?”

He stares at you, mouth slightly open. “No! I mean… yes. I mean, wait. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. Just— God, I sound like a virgin.”

“You kinda do,” you whisper, sliding closer to the drivers seat.

“I’m not, by the way,” he says quickly, then winces. “Not that it matters. I mean, it does. But not like that. I’ve just never.. not in a car—”

You press your finger gently to his lips. “Jungkook?”

“Hmm?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

And then your hand slides up his thigh.

Somewhere, above the clouds, there is a higher power that has been praying on his come-up, he swears.

He makes a noise. An animal dying in the zoo kind of noise. His head thunks lightly against the headrest and he closes his eyes like he’s making peace with God.

Jungkook is already half hard and you haven’t even done anything yet. You watch his chest rise and fall like he’s sprinted a mile, and you swear you can see the moment his brain physically leaves his body.

“You’re so tense,” you murmur, fingers brushing higher. “Told you.”

“I’m trying so hard not to die right now,” he says, voice ragged.

You giggle, leaning over the console to kiss his jaw, slow and deliberate. “Poor baby.”

He swallows like it’s painful. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“I do.”

“And I hate it.”

“No, you don’t,” You smile against his skin.

His hands hover awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with them; should he touch you? Is that allowed? Is this a trap? Will he be smited? You reach over and gently guide one of his hands to the back of your neck.

“There,” you whisper. “See? Not so hard.”

He mutters under his breath, “Speak for yourself.”

You burst out laughing, and he groans, closing his eyes tightly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, half-laughing, half-dying. “I’m trying to be smooth. But you.. God, you’re just—”

“I’m what?”

He looks at you, eyes wild. “You’re.. you. You know? Just.. every guy in our friend group wants to fuck you. ”

“Is that a compliment?” You bat your lashes at him.

“It is. It is a huge compliment. Please continue.”

He should be arrested. No, seriously. Somebody should call the police. He should be handcuffed and tossed directly into horny jail because there is no way what you’re doing right now is allowed under the laws of God or man.

Your hand is still on his thigh, lingering dangerously close to his button. Your mouth — your actual, real-life mouth — is somewhere in the vicinity of his zipper. And Jungkook is trying so hard to play it cool but his brain is firing blank slides like a broken projector.

He grips the seat. The wheel. Himself. The back of your neck like you told him to.

You’re too calm. Too confident. Like you’ve done this before. Like you know exactly what kind of damage you’re about to inflict on his very mortal soul (which is rude, honestly.)

You drag the zipper down slow. Partly for dramatic effect. Mostly because your hands are suddenly shaky (not that you’d ever admit that out loud.)

You’ve been teasing him for far too long, riding the high of his nervous little stares and fumbling responses like it’s your favorite roller coaster. And up until now? You were untouchable, confident, the seductress in the passenger seat of his car.

You drag his jeans down, take a look at his black Calvin Klein boxers that you’re a little surprised he owns. You finally get your hand past the waistband of his underwear, tugging them down painfully slow.

You pause.

Gulp.

Because, um. That’s a lot.

Not in a humble, oh he’s hard kind of way. No. You mean that is a full-blown situation. A legitimate problem. Something you should’ve been briefed on ahead of time with a PowerPoint and maybe a warning label.

You glance up at him.

He’s already flushed and pink-lipped, panting like he just ran laps. Doesn’t even realize you’ve frozen mid-mission. Poor guy probably thinks you’re being seductive. He’s looking down at you with the dazed trust of a man who has no idea you’ve just had a spiritual crisis.

The driver’s console presses up against your boobs a little more as you wiggle closer to him, taking his length in your hand. It’s big. He’s big. Why is he not more smug about this? Why is he always so shy when he’s walking around with a whole weapon under there?

You feel a full-on identity shift coming. Like you might start paying for his gas. Or offering to make him soup. Like this might change the entire dynamic, and you’re suddenly the one nervously blinking up at him.

You look back down at his cock in your hand, observing the way every vein curves, the way his pink tip is wet with precum. It’s curved slightly, and is thick enough that you’re starting to question if it’ll even fit in your mouth.

Your fingertips give him one long stroke and he shudders, which makes your stomach flip. Okay, this is fine. You’re strong. You do Pilates. You’ve read Harry Styles fanfiction.

You steady yourself, take a breath, and blink again. One last internal scream for good measure. Then you smile up at him, all soft lips and fake confidence, and whisper, “You’re lucky I like a challenge.”

You watch the words hit him like a punch to the gut. His whole body tightens; shoulders, thighs, jaw, everything. He stares down at you like you just offered him his first taste of oxygen after being underwater for weeks.

He reaches out, slow but sure, and gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail with one trembling hand. His fingers flex at the base of your neck, and the move is so unexpectedly possessive that it sends heat curling low in your stomach.

His other hand drops to his thigh, clenched in a fist. His breathing’s all wrong, shallow and desperate. He bites his lip ring so hard you swear it might split skin, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse.

“Then take your time,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You don’t say anything to that. You just lower your mouth and give him one single, kitten-soft lick from the base of his cock to tip, your eyes locked on his the entire time. No pressure, no rhythm. Just a soft, teasing taste. His skin is slightly salty with a tinge of sweetness, also some familiar soap you’ve smelled on him before.

His hips jerk violently, a sharp moan escaping his mouth before he can even try to swallow it. His grip in your hair tightens like a reflex with a choked, “F-fuck—”

You inhale once, deep and steady, and then slide your mouth over him in one slow, devastating stroke, past your lips and over your tongue. Until your nose brushes against his pubic bone and your throat stretches to accommodate every inch.

Jungkook lets out a deep, desperate groan that vibrates from somewhere low in his chest liike he wasn’t ready. Like he thought he knew what this would be and now he’s realizing, Oh no. Oh no, no, no, I was wrong. I’m in danger.

You don’t really give him time to recover. You set a rhythm until the obscene sound of gagging fills up the car, mingling with his panting and the slick noises of your mouth.

His hips jerk like they want to move but don’t dare. He’s panting your name between gasps, muttering nonsense, sentences with no real structure. “Oh my fuck — so good, I can’t —“

You hollow your cheeks just slightly. The effect is instant and he lets out this helpless whimper, one hand gripping the headrest behind him like he’s trying not to ascend, other one knotted in your hair.

You come up for air for one brief second, spit stringing between your lips and his cock, and before he can even look at you, you’re going right back down even faster this time.

His voice pitches. “Wait, wait, slow down, I’m—”

You don’t. Because you like the way his voice sounds right now, shaky and too high, like you’ve rewired every synapse in his body. You like how big he is, how heavy in your mouth. You also like the fact that he’s so obviously been thinking about this for as long as you have.

Your mascara’s already smudging, eyes glassy, cheeks streaked with tears, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth.

He’s still unraveling above you and every single moan you wring out of him feels like a prize. His hand is fisted in your hair still, this time tighter, bolder, and he’s using it to push your head down even further.

Your throat’s raw, your lungs are burning, your jaw aches and none of it matters. Because you’ve got both hands working the rest of him, twisting and stroking whatever your mouth can’t reach, and every time you swirl your tongue over his tip, he lets out a new sound that makes you wetter.

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Please don’t stop, fuck,” He begs.

And you don’t. Of course you don’t. Because you’re evil. Beautiful and focused and slightly too good at this, and now he’s seconds from becoming a cautionary tale on Reddit.

You hum around him, the vibrations dizzying his brain. “I’m gonna crash the car without even moving it if you do that again, I swear,” He moans out.

Okay. So. You’re currently giving a blowjob in the front seat of Jungkook’s sad little car, and he’s moaning like it’s the rapture.

Cool, cool, cool.

You didn’t plan this, exactly. You were just trying to be hot and flirty and maybe mess with his head a little and now here you are.

His breaths are so shaky you think he’ll need an inhaler. He’s whispering please like you’ve got divine powers, which, honestly, right now? You do.

You pop your mouth off his cock for one second, glance up, and whisper, “You still breathing, Jungkookie?”

He looks down at you like he’s in love.

Another tear slips down your cheek from the sheer force of how you’re swallowing his cock whole. You used to doodle his name in your diary. Now you’re deepthroating him in a car like it’s your full-time job. What is wrong with you (Everything. And you don’t care.)

You used to wonder what he was like underneath all that quiet nervousness. Well. Now you know. He’s like this. Loud, sweaty, so responsive, and squirming under your touch like he’s never felt anything like this in his life.

“Fuck, fuck, oh my god, you’re — shit, you’re perfect,” he gasps, eyes wide, voice cracking on every other word. “I can’t, baby, you’re gonna make me — fuck — cum.”

Baby? That’s new. That, you can work with.

You moan around him just to be cruel, and the reaction is instant: his thighs jerk, his head falls back, and he wails, hips twitching like his body’s trying to chase the high before it’s even hit. “I’m so fucking close, shit.”

You’re faring no better. You’re crying and choking and gagging and soaked between the legs and still going because the way he sounds when he falls apart? It’s addicting.

You circle your tongue once more around his tip, drag your hand faster up the base, and glance up through your wet lashes, eyes locking with his just long enough to see the moment he snaps. “Baby, I’m gonna cum, yesyesyesyes.”

His whole body seizes, abs tightening, lips parted around a strangled moan. He doesn’t even say your name, just gasps it, offers it up like a sacrifice. Warm and overwhelming, spilling past your tongue in slow pulses, you swallow his entire load. It doesn’t taste bad at all, it’s salty and warm and oddly satisfying. Tastes a little like success.

You sit up, all dainty and slow, like you didn’t just dismantle a grown man in a semi-legal parking lot. You stretch like you’re easing out of a yoga pose, then swipe your fingers across your bottom lip to wipe away the last trace of his cum. You look like you just got out of a Sephora, not off his cock.

Poor Jungkook is catatonic.He’s melted into the seat, completely slack, one hand limp against the window and the other cradling his own thigh like he needs emotional support. His chest is rising like he just ran a marathon and lost by a landslide. His dark hair is messily strewn over his eyes.

Because you’re heartless and delightful, you twist toward him and ask all cutesy: “Sooo… how long do you think it’ll take to get to my place from here?”

His head lolls in your direction. “What?”

You blink innocently. “You are still driving me home, right?”

“I-I can’t even feel my legs.”

“Not my problem,” you sing, clicking your seatbelt on again. “You said months ago I could ask you for a ride whenever, remember? That’s a verbal contract.”

He’s staring at you like you just kicked a puppy and then kissed it on the nose. “You’re… evil.”

You grin. “Flattered.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t believe I let you do that.”

“You didn’t let me,” you hum. “I begged you until you cracked.”

He groans again, louder this time. The sound vibrates through the car pathetically. His head drops against the steering wheel with a dull thud and stays there.

You glance out the windshield,“Anyway, if you take the expressway, I think we can make it to mine in like… fifteen minutes?”

“You’re insane,” He tuts against the steering wheel.

“True. But I’m also your ride-or-die now, apparently.”

He lifts his head with effort. Looks at you with the wide, shellshocked eyes of a man who knows he’ll never recover from this.

You smile at him sweetly, reaching over to squeeze his thigh again. He flinches at the comtact.

You bite your lip. “Still sensitive?”

“Don’t touch me,” he pleads, voice high and fragile.

You giggle like the monster you are. “Alright, alright,” you say, settling back in your seat as any law-abiding citizen. “Let’s go. Home sweet home.”

He starts the car with shaking hands. And as he pulls back onto the road, vision blurry, soul permanently altered he swears to himself he will never respond to your texts past midnight again.

(But he will.)

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

note ; ok…. so this is no longer a blurb, i fear. i feel like this needs a title now but i also have no desire bc then it’ll be a thing. and i cannot have it be a thing bc i have 2039339 wip’s. but also them. jk spiraling over this blowjob, the friend group going crazy over it.. why is it giving toxic situationship with you not ready to commit and him being a mess? literally remove the pen from my hand. anyways this is all your guys’ fault (and also mine bc this is inspired by how my ex from 4 years ago and i started dating)

masterlist + request

[gangplanksorenji]

TRIUMPH.

Pairing: IVE’s Wonyoung x Male Reader

Word Count: 5,891

A/N: Hello Orenjideul! This was just a quick fic I worked around just because of this Wonyoung look that got me on my knees. Hope you enjoy reading this one and one thing, lips.

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Let’s be clear and concise, once and for all, she’s a slut.

She knows she is one, and you do, too. The world isn’t ready for who she really is, and she knows it—again, you know it too.

All is mutual with the Jang Wonyoung, because behind that chic and angelic beauty of hers that breaks standards and defies expectations, is a mask worth commending.

A mask that’s something worth concealing, only for your eyes to see.

“Please.” Wonyoung pleads, a mere attempt for you to  attend to such necessities of a princess like her. Even if she’s truly one, she needs to practice something worth mentioning—patience.

Even if it’s not in her vocabulary, you’ll mark it in her own dictionary, even if it takes you thousands and thousands of tries just to make a dent, to imprint it in her brain once and for all. “You have to wait, dear.”

“No.”

“No?” Confused and dazed, a sudden reply to such an immediate remark is the balance. 

You hate the temptation within you, not falling for the very thing you are destined to destroy. The false confidence in you would say your words can change her, Wonyoung acquiesced within your lips’ breath but you’re dreaming too much.

Herself fails you, but not to the point where you’re bound to really fail because soon enough, she’ll regret this.

Wonyoung grabs your wrist, an action worth perplexing yet disregarding it is the last straw as always. “Have some composure—aren’t you supposed to be with your friends? Yujin? Rei?”

“Am I?” This pretentious brat is really getting on your nerves. Ignorance is bliss at her end but you know it isn’t, her obliviousness and mere encouragement of being true. “Feels like I shouldn’t be.”

God, what made her to possibly be like this?

If the both of you are just alone together, you could have easily stripped that clothing away from her and fucked her tight cunt through and thorough, making her learn her lesson for hours but no, she’s testing you.

As much as you want your tone to be as cordial and soft as possible, it just provokes Wonyoung’s hubris towards the roof, knowing deep inside you’ll break like a dam.

“Don’t you really care, hm, Wonyoung?”

“Your cock or them?” 

It’s funny how she’s still standing composed with her two feet, all thanks to you and your discipline. 

You know Wonyoung couldn’t help herself at this moment, lost in the trance whenever your presence permeates with hers. Even with all of her suggestive invitations, comes a quick smirk from you or total neglect, and she hates it and you love seeing it. Knowing her attempts are futile, her last resort is going to be something unhinged that really unleashes the perfected craft of brattiness, and you’re ready for it—you just know she’s going to do it, knowing her too well.

Her question falls audible in your ears, knowing damn well it levels up the pent up exasperation towards her, and now, you’re being vocal about it. “If you think I’m going to fuck you here, think again.”

“So you’re going to fuck me?” It's the umpteenth time of her obliviousness, and you can’t just bear to play with her anymore, not when you’re going to just hear the inviting pleas that will make your ear bleed with lust.

She may think you’re a hypocrite with a feeble mind that’s unable to commit what your heart is telling you, a man not worthy for her and that possibly breaks you apart when she’s talking about your ego. You have your own tricks up your sleeves to play against, knowing how she can’t possibly live a week without your length rearranging her guts or a taste of such excellent succulence—each party has their own kryptonite, a condition that shuts both your mouths up.

If this is the case, then you’re winning by a large margin, and you’re going to be confident with that.

“Yes, you fucking slut—but not here.” 

You’re getting fed up, and that curls a smile up her lips as she stops you, arms enveloping yours as she looks at you with those orbs glistening with lust and that look that brings you down to your knees—a look pleading to fulfill her needs, and you’re on your wit’s fucking end to give in. 

“Please, come on, I need it—need you, daddy.” Of course, she grooms you with a name that defines your discipline, a temptation worth giving in and the commitment that’s worth the try—it’s a simple word yet it enables something within you, and Wonyoung knows how close you are to breaking.

You sigh, a nuanced breath that allows Wonyoung’s thoughts to run deep, thinking of ways that could bring herself the victory she deserves (that’s for her). “Don’t call me that.”

“What do you mean, daddy?” Another one, another fucking one and the thread that’s preventing you from falling apart from composure is getting weaker, and clearly, you’re not going to last long with her enabling words that fucks you up.

In all gravitas, you’re going to make her regret what damage she’s doing, and you’ll mark your damn words.

“You call—Wonyoung, just stop, it’s not going to work.”

“What’s not going to work, daddy?” The foreplay of words is astonishing, to say the least, her choice of words clearly a mirror of who she really is, herself and the other side of her craft. Wonyoung grabs you again by the wrist, her eyes glimmering with her only motive towards you, and at this point, it’s effortless to ignore her and her sexual pleas.

She yelps when you turn the tables around, pinning her onto the wall with her wrists gripped, making her paint that anxious face that curled up that cockiness in you. “I’m going to tell you this now, Wonyoung—you don’t really know how to wait, huh?”

Wonyoung’s lips quivers, tensed with the beast inside you unshackled and ready to pounce onto its prey ruthless, not without playing with it and that’s exactly your motive right now–-you will let her know why you own her and why such virtue should be applied on her, and you’ll make sure she’s going to learn her lesson from now on.

“Are you really this much of a slut? Can’t wait before we go home to fuck your brains out?”

Wonyoung shuts herself, her eyes in contact with yours as you hiss. “Fucking answer me!”

“Ow—it hurts, daddy!” The attempt was deemed futile, as she smiles towards you knowing she's going to be treated like how a princess deserves, equivocally, of course.

“Answer my damn question, Wonyoung.” Your tone is stern, demanding for an answer from a girl that’s bound to be compliant soon.

“Sorry, d-daddy—can’t help it when I’m around you.” You know she can’t and you know for yourself that you can’t either, not when she looks like the most ruinable girl on the planet, and no one is even close.

The twintails and that smokey makeup that perfectly accentuates her beauty is just phenomenally worth an eye-candy, not to mention her outfit that really exudes the right amount of sexiness, enough to rile you up even more, skyrocketing up to the roof.

At this point, you need her as much as she needs you, and you’re going to make sure you’ll let her know that through the acts you’re going to commit, all under your own authority.

She gasps with a  harsh slap on her thighs as it is the start of the given commitment, the flesh echoing around the empty corridors was enough to let her know how you lack frivolity in these situations. “You know you messed up, right?”

“Daddy—can you just—ow, fuck…” Another slap was brought, the skin now painting a reddish hue due to how those slaps really define the sadistic fetish in you. It was another warning from her, as compliance is the best key to really satisfy you as again, she’s in no authority to retaliate, expecting to oblige every command you let out and every question your lips muster.

“From now on, fucking answer my questions or I’m going to make you drip in your panties and leave it like that—- you don’t want that, don’t you?” Your touch really sends her towards the everlasting plane of sensitivity, making her moan as you get nearer your prize yet you won’t need to do that, not when she answers with sincerity.

“N-no, daddy…”

“Are you going to follow everything I say from now on?”

“Daddy—ow!” Truly (also, frustrating), your words really don't penetrate down Wonyoung’s thick skull, her stubbornness in an all time high as another smack resonates, bringing the pain that’s possibly enough to elicit an answer from her. 

“Answer me, Wonyoung.” Your eyes ignites with frustration, permeated with determination as Wonyoung fucked you up, and this is exactly her plan as soon as she’s with you and away from her friends. 

“Y-yes…”

“Yes what?”

Wonyoung looks away from you, pouting as she knows her words are strong evidences inside your little game, and she can’t bear to just give in to your full control, knowing damn well that you’re going to torture her and delay her needs for god knows how long it will take you.

You know this is thing you want to be broken inside of her, and you do anything in your full power to make her be your obedient fucktoy, as that’s the best way to describe it.

“Wonyoung, you don’t want to play with me.” She can’t fight you, knowing well you’ll outpower her and knowing how much of a tough brat she is to tame, then you’ll consider measures weighing more than what she can take.

You know well that her ego is as strong and robust as her body—she won’t break apart as she’s the reason why you’re getting rougher these days.

“Answer me.”

Another attempt and she locks eyes with you, knowing there’s nothing she can do but give in.

“Yes, daddy.”

“Good.” That genuinely painted a composed yet  jovial expression from you, a countenance so sincere that it is contagious, making Wonyoung smile back towards you. “Let’s find an empty room and I’m going to fuck you until you see stars.”

Wonyoung broke you in a span of minutes, and that’s a victory worth a trophy—you played under her game, but you won’t let it slide, making a name for yourself for what’s about to happen to the both of you.

---

It was an easy task and Wonyoung is just ready at this point that you can’t care to check for possible things that can expose you and Wonyoung for the sinful things the both of you will indulge in.

Wonyoung’s phone buzzes, and you view the notification before she does, and she just pouts knowing she can’t do anything. 

“Wow, even Yujin’s more mature than you now, huh, Wony? What’s this—it was a fun one out there, I’ll meet you later with Gaeul-unnie and Rei again—oh look, yeah, I’m not supposed to be fucking you.” You didn’t make that up, it was a genuine text from Yujin even though it’s something you would do just to tease her and make her annoyed.

“Daddy—you need to fuck me now! Yujin can wait—oh, fuck!” Your fingers tease her cunt, already dripping with her nectar. She spreads her legs apart as she raises her head high, moans reverberating around the puny room that can’t possibly shake the lewd sounds she makes.

“Yeah, I shouldn’t be fucking you yet here we are.” Your words made Wonyoung look into your eyes again, pouting as it invites you to really fulfill her needs. You inch closer towards her, and knowing how there’s still something human inside you, you want to feel and taste her, lips colliding as you lift her chin up and god, her lips are scrumptious.

You exchange torrid kisses with Wonyoung, a profound fervor laced in each second as it got sloppier to the point that you need to pull out, knowing that’s not the reason why this mess unfolds in the first place.

“Get on your knees, Wonyoung.” It’s a sudden command with an expected immediate compliance and to your surprise, she does what she is told to do, knowing that her stubbornness won’t reach any places.

That look she gives you when the cold floor meets her knees with a thud—oh god, it’s alluring and inviting as fuck, a countenance ready to be ruined.

“Good girl.” Oh, of course, the numerous praises should be a priority, knowing how it really riles her up and elevates her skills by a meter.

“Can’t wait to suck this delicious cock, daddy—fuck, it’s so hard already!” Wonyoung is just enthralled for what reward she would receive, and your hardness just strokes herself to think that it’s always her that makes you feel like this—that’s not entirely true yet Wonyoung is the ultimate reason, the epitome of invitation and indulging into the temptation.

It’s like you have her on autopilot, already ahead and perceiving the series events that will unfold—she has her dainty, modelesque fingers up on your belt, unbuckling it swiftly as her eyes on the prize shackled behind the frustrating fabric. 

“Your cock must be aching down here, daddy, no?” It’s rhetorical at this point, and you can’t care enough to articulate an answer, knowing how frustrating her leisure pace is making you.

“Just undress me and suck me off, brat.” Wonyoung laughs at your despair as she quickly does what she’s told to, your pants down to your ankles and without any hesitation, your boxers in the same boat as you pants. Wonyoung fucking drools all over your length as it sprung free from its clothed restraints, an immediate envelop of her finger around the base elicits the finest nigh-inaudible moan from your lips.

Wonyoung doesn’t waste her precious seconds, she never do as it’s evident, her lips wrapped around the red-purplish crown and suckled onto it like it’s candy—she always sucks you off like somebody’s going to steal your cock away from her. Wonyoung doing everything in her power to pleasure you, even in different techniques is an unmatched experience of euphoria, and that alone is commendable and is one of the reasons on why you adore her.

“Keep doing that—god, your lips are really made for my cock.”

“Of course, daddy—don’t forget my throat too—actually, my holes are made for you.” Wonyoung doesn’t shut up about that, knowing how well-deserved she is every time you use her and she’ll brag about how she is worthy for you.

“Just shut up and do what you’re best at, princess.”

Wonyoung is eager and the trifecta of bliss really lives up into her masterclass: she leaves no inch unsheathed with her saliva, her tongue rapidly working and the warmth permeated around your shaft thanks to her mouth—god, she’s perfectly slutty and talented, and it’s just her lips to start off the show.

Both you hands gain the leverage to fight your battles—yours gripping those twintails as an outlet to the finest gratification coursing within you, and Wonyoung grabbing your hips to pull you closer, and herself delving deeper in the process. The amalgam of tears and her makeup starts, rivulets running down her cheek perfectly captures the “lustful pulchritude” as you call it—in the shorter terms, it’s where her face just gets fucked up due to herself testing her own limits.

You admire it, honestly, but eventually, she inevitably gags and she fights it.

She despises the fact that she isn’t able to take anything that can ruin her worthiness, wrestling to fight the reflex of pulling out. Seconds pass by and she looks strong but then, gives in to her defeat.

“Don’t take things you can’t, Wonyoung—take it easy.”

“Daddy, I can—watch me, please.” You’re all eyes with moderate expectations for what she’s about to do, and god, what a sight it is.

Wonyoung is taking you all in, mouth kissing your base as she stays there for seconds before bobbing into your succulent shaft rapidly, earning herself the rewards of her oral expertise—your moans, shuddering and a reply to the pleasure she brings.

Well, it seems like she was playing with you earlier, her tongue swirling around your length effortlesslt and taking all of you in every bob she does—you’ll dismiss the fact that she’s still gagging around your length, her attemps of hiding the supression of the inevitable, knowing how you’re pretending to be oblivious about it will make her feel hubristic and complacent.

You won’t lie knowing your mouth can only spew the truth, barrage of compliments that follows every other bob, whether verbal or just indistinguishable sounds—with an angelic mouth like hers, a lie is a mere attempt of dismissal of such a gift.

“Your mouth, Wonyoung—holy shit, keep doing that.” She does what she’s told to, bottoming you out even if it’s just one of those mindless cries of pleasure that’s masked as a command. You tug her hair harder and reply with a pace unmatchable, a mess all over her chin and the continuous seeping of her drool on her crevices that signifies insatiability. She slobbers all over the hard muscle, ebullient and voracious, all in the name of pleasuring you and satisfying her needs.

“God, I love your cock so much, daddy—thank you so—fucking—much!” Her lips pucker onto the leaking tip, every word emphasizes a kiss onto the  head that just uttered the best moans she could possibly hear. Her constant kisses resonate around your ears, a pandemonium of lustful actions that defines hunger as she resumes her bobbing that’s just an immaculate experience.

Kiss, bob, swirl, slurp, look, repeat, ditto—it’s a pattern that hypnotizes you, the brunette, twintail slut blurs your vision down to the heightened focus of her head and her head only.

Her shine is approaching is dullness, her authority to slobber all around your length being hindered knowing you have other plans on ruining herx starting on her throat.

“Stop, Wonyoung.” She continues a little more, greed being her worst enemy as seconds later, there’s no other option but to obey you.

“What's wrong, daddy? Did I do a bad job?” She must be crazy to think that, that Wonyoung-ego-favored-opinion aside.

She’s nowhere near atrocious, you just need something to occupy yourself and work your muscles up.

“Princess, you did not.” You cup her cheek, then advance your thumb towards those lips of hers, playing with the saliva that ruined such beauty and reassured her. “In fact, you’re amazing—I just need to use your damn throat.”

Of course you do, because since the start of this session, you’re dying to fill up the missing piece that makes her complete, everything satisfied and dismissing the deficiency.

The sudden upheaval didn’t faze nor bother Wonyoung, aware to the fact that you are in full control, not her—you don’t care if you’ll satisfy Wonyoung’s needs more than what she can take or the inadequate fulfillment, because you seek to discover more of what can gratify you.

“Oh, daddy—but will you fuck me after?” That is something that you should assess, ignoring her question with a distraction in mind and an action she can’t retaliate to follow up the question—lodge her throat with your cock, where it truly belongs.

“Shut up and take this cock, Wonyoung.” You reclaim full control, a tug on her twintails is where you lost it, enough to state the obvious—this is what you need to do, fulfill your destiny and claim your prize.

She’s a ruined mess, and you’ll add more to what she made you to be.

You elicit a grunt as you bury your cock deep in the slutty throat of hers, letting her choke on it as it’s evident between each reflex, fighting its way to let you know she can take it all, no matter what hindrance may cost. It didn’t take long before you resumed your profound thrusts, making her bawl and ruin that makeup that perfectly accentuated her intimidating yet glamorous look—it feels like she did that just for you to ruin and cherish, and that’s exactly what’s happening.

You let go, an ounce of mercy shown within seconds as she gasps for air and smiles with your roughness. “Daddy—ugh, p-please—I can t-take more, I can take mor—”

There’s no outlet for her to recover, playing with the risk of asphyxiation that Wonyoung wouldn’t mind, knowing how much she favors herself choking all over your length slamming down her throat. Your pace stays the same as before, moderate yet striking in every oscillation of your hips, making her close her eyes every time your tip hits the back of her throat. Her hands grab your butt, pulling you closer as her nails dig deeper due to the harshness you ensue, and if you didn’t care as you’re selfish to fulfill your own pleasure. You maneuver your hands to grip onto those perfectly-tied twintails harder, mustering the harshest of thrusts possible, the crevices of her mouth an evident mess with the saliva that seeps out of it and eventually, you pull out to admire the sullied work you’ve done.

“Hah—hah, daddy, god—I want more of this, please—more!” She never shut up as soon as she gets to talk, ultimately begging for you and nothing else. Those pleads of hers are always getting answered knowing that’s bound to happen due to the nature of the room, an atmospheric lustful session between the both of you.

You’re always in awe with how soft her lips can be and how her throat feels the best, maybe even rivaling the tightness her cunt brings. Those luscious, plump lips really know its purpose, and she always display her true intentions, a gift no one one can rival and a talent worth mentioning, albeit great but needs more polishing—you’ll dismiss the bias and the gratification that fucks up the way you’re composing a verdict, she can improve her techniques but damn, she really is a talented person after all.

She bobs in tandem with your thrusts, not giving a care if it messes her outfit that’s tantamount with her face, an aftermath for the sinful things the both of you have done with Wonyoung’s mouth as the primary medium of the scene. Eventually, her gag reflex gets tamed, allowing to be rougher than before and so you did, mustering a velocity from your hips that defies her expectations.

At this point, she’ll crumble but she remains robust, determined to take whatever you want her to take, even if it’s over her limits—it’s all about trust and discovery between the both of you, experimenting onto something that piques your curiosity or fulfilling what the other one needs. Her muffled gurgles and inaudible murmurs throughout every thrust you do are protests against her incapabilities to take everything and the satisfaction you bring towards her. With your roughness and the mess you’re indulging her into, you can’t help but think if you’re going off the line, a rivaled thought that lingers within you as you’re treating her way too belligerent.

She doesn’t object to your actions, even encouraging you to do so and at the end of the day, she’ll be ruined no matter what, and this is just the start of a supposedly spectacular show of lust.

“God, Wony—you know how great your throat fucking feels? Oh fuck—it’s s-so good—I can really fuck your face all day, baby.” It’s unhinged, raw and honest, and that permeates that genuine scintillation of her eyes, full of satisfaction and the anticipation of what you can say, hopes to stroke herself and that ego.

She smiles even with your unstoppable thrusts, and eventually, got to see it whole with a sudden action, giving her a breather and to give yourself some space to prolong the pleasure and delay the impending end of such an introduction.

Then, an idea clicks within those muscles of your brain, something that isn’t new to Wonyoung but unfamiliar as an experience.

Your belt and her wrists, the connections stated the obvious, hinting a way to dance with creative art of lust.

“Hands behind your back, baby.” She complies immediately, turning her around to envelop her wrists with your leather belt, securing it right in place as her movements being hindered races a thought within you, and it’s a brilliant sight—the thought of Wonyoung being unable to use her hands to possibly retaliate, a vulnerable figure all for the taking, god, that’s just the chef’s kiss.

You bring her down to knees again and resume with one goal in your mind: to finish what she started.

Her throat fits like a sleeve in each thrust, bottoming out your entire length with gags alongside it too. Her being helpless sets up an ante with the challenge, forcing more effort onto fucking that mouth of hers that’s just begging you blow it all inside it, paint it all white.

Wonyoung begs for it too, eyes yearning towards her favor to taste it all and you can see it in those eyes of hers, even if she doesn’t need to utter a word on where she wants you to finish.

Your relentless pace resumes, handling and using her throat like it’s one of her tightest holes imaginable, a pleasurable outlet to release everything. You pinch her nose alongside every thrust or four, making her choke all over your length, where her cheeks flush redder than before, desperately gasping for air but is unable to due to you. The obscenity looks like an endless scene, feeling like everything is slowing down as the only things that clouds your mind is warmth of her mouth and the urge to ruin her throat.

She takes it all, the aftermath evident as her face is apparently ruined, chin dripping with her drool and onto the woolly top that perfectly compliments her styling, now being drenched and deemed to be useless yet again. You constantly pull out to let her catch her breath, give her seconds to recover and plunge it all in her throat while maintaining the vice grip on her, a cycle on-repeat. At this given moment, she’s a vulnerable cocksleeve for you to be satisfied, and she’s no less a slut that can’t do anything but comply to you—you’ve broken each other, and it just took a bratty tease from her and a merciless facefucking from you.

“Daddy—gah, a-are you gonna cum? Please, daddy, spill it down—hah, down in my throat—down in my throa—glfh!”

“Shut up and take me in like you always do.” Wonyoung looks up at you as you plunge your cock down those familiar walls, her eyes full of glint, begging due to the numerous chokes she’d done and her makeup now a mere mark for what is once was, a pulchritudinous sight that’s meant to be sullied. “You don’t tell me where I want to cum—I decide where it should be and you don’t deserve a load down your throat.”

You lean, hindering your thrusts as you keep your length where it belongs, her mouth agape and eyes fixated towards you. “Brats and greedy sluts like you don’t deserve to swallow.”

Oh. It’s funny to think that she could be rewarded in her favor, despite her utter compliance. You’d love to make her choke onto your dick while you deposit every spurt of cum down her throat but no, there’s no room for that and she should know her lesson well after this.

With a statement worth digesting, it’s clear at that point that any plea she wishes to do will bound to fail, and so she just lived with the punishment, but still a reward considering she loves what’s coming next.

Your thrusts are ephemeral, short-lived knowing that you should conclude this act in a great fashion. You pull out, letting her catch more oxygen which she is depraved of as she shifts onto that familiar face that signifies that she’s ready for what’s about to come—tongue out, eyes closed, and lips quivering, it’s just the perfect recipe for something worth a try.

“Then paint my face, daddy—please, please! All on my face—you hot cum all over me—” Her words just draw you closer, as you stroke yourself to the lewd sight of her face and knowing the reservoir is breaking loose sooner, it’s time for her to take it all.

You tug her hair to point your tip onto such a beautiful mess and there you do, shooting ropes and ropes of cum onto that deserving visage, covering the pivotal parts that’s needed to be coated of—her nose, forehead, cheeks, and most importantly, the culprit of all these sinful matters, her lips. She moans through warm spurts she becomes blessed with, a with more lewd sounds elevates your experience, grunting with the orgasmic trance you’re now indulging into that’s lasting longer than what you expected, possibly Wonyoung playing a big part on that and you thank her about it.

“Daddy, it’s so warm—oh, so much for me. Thank you so much, daddy.” Wonyoung coos, admiring the reward, a deserving fruit of her labor as her eyes tells stories worth mentioning, all to mention how much she’s thankful for giving her what she truly needs, even if it’s not in the way she wanted it to be.

Looks like she hasn’t learnt her lesson, taking the opportunity whenever the time comes as she takes advantage of it.

“Wonyoung, no—not yet, I’m pretty sensitive.”

“But don’t you want me to clean you up? Clean me up too and let me taste your delicious cum?” Her choices of words truly tests your temptation, and you can’t ignore that, letting her have the liberty to do her own post-show endeavors.

You hand your throbbing, still rock-hard length and scooped dollops of semen that’s all over her cheeks and forehead, letting her suck the tip and savoring the taste of such delicacy, as she calls it. She hums in satisfaction through each bob, and that almost makes your legs fail, the dynamic of the sensitivity of your head and the pleasure her mouth brings being a wonderful treasure you’ll be selfish about. She licks all over your length, tasting each inch of succulence and satisfaction alongside with swirls that’s just the cherry on top. You hold her chin and tug on her hair lighter now, an outlet to fight with the dynamic of gratification and the reassurance on how much you’re loving the way she blows you. She’s in a hurry, mostly, a little off sometimes yet you thank her absolutely for letting her mouth be used for your pleasure.

The satisfaction paints her face and that makes you smile, letting her do where she’s best at for more seconds until you stop, senses coming back heightened as you realize the both of you are in no place to sin.

“You’re not going to fuck me anymore, daddy?”

“Wonyoung.” You help her stand up, wiping her face with the tissue on her bag as you pretend to be in disbelief (half of you says you are, and the half of you says you’re just cautious) which earns from hers. “We’re still in public—we’ll do it once we get into your place.”

Again and thankfully, Wonyougn didn’t  utter a word nor became stubborn and complied with you, having a semblance of hope that you’re taming her.

Maybe you aren’t and she’s still riding with the flow, but who knows? The final test will be held later and with that, you’ll assess and observe if you really made a blow and a change on Wonyoung.

---

Of course, Yujin knows what the both of you have done when the both of you are together, knowing how much Wonyoung shares towards her and that alone, piques Yujin’s curiosity.

“You’re a madman, you know that? What if someone caught the both of you, no?” Yujin’s thoughtful remarks are heard through the phone, and you can only imagine how she’s taking this half-serious.

“I mean, she started teasing me and shit and how am I supposed to ignore that for minutes?”

“Still, I’m just scared for the both of you—like how the fuck you guys do your thing. I don’t really know with Wonyoung, most of the time—that girl just seems to be hornier nowadays.”

You laugh, agreeing with Yujin about the latter part. “Yeah, it’s crazy with that girl—by the way, did Wonyoung meet you yesterday?”

“Yeah, and she walked slower than usual, all thanks to you—haha!” The predicament starts, shaking your head with embarrassment and knowing how understanding Yujin can be, you’re reassured that she’s not taking things too much of a deal.

“I mean, she started it—”

“I know, I know—I know how much she can be like this—anyways, thanks for the treat yesterday! We really enjoyed it.”

That earns a smile on your face, Yujin’s genuine tone on the phone being the fuel that satisfies your happiness in a different way.

The both of you say your goodbyes and hang up, not before a dumb smile through the phone until it fades, a faint voice calling your name as it increases in volume as soon as the figure comes nearer.

“Yeah?”

“Who called you, Daddy?” Wonyoung rests her head onto your shoulder as you look at the metropolitan view, then catches your gaze towards her, feeling the contentment and joy through the days you’ve been with her.

“It’s just Yujin, baby—are we still going to watch the movie you want us to watch?”

She didn’t even doubt, nodding as her eyes sparkled with love and the excitement to bond with you these days. “Of course, daddy—maybe we could do something after it, too, if you want?”

You laugh with her invitation, and this time, it’s more soft and pouty, unlike yesterday. It’s genuinely hard to resist her with the look she’s giving and the fact that she’s Wonyoung, so without even thinking twice, you utter what will make her happy. 

“If that’s what you want, baby.”

Wonyoung’s grin is such a sight to see, a genuine emotion that can cure any sadness. Knowing you’re still admiring the metropolitan nature around, she leaves you be, not without a hug and a kiss to show you how much the feelings are mutual.

You reminisce and laugh with how freaky and wholesome the days went, a dynamic that’s now a part of your life. You sigh as a ding in your phone distracts you, and being curious, you check on it only to be perplexed with what it is about and the most surprising part of it is how it’s out of the blue.

Unknown number at 18:55 - “Good evening. I hope this message gets to you. Apparently, there’s a suspicion between the possible happenings of the people in the school council. I wish you to be at this meeting that will take place in the university’s audio visual room, alongside the other members and the suspected culprits, this Saturday noon, just before the sunset.”

You’re just hoping it’s not the people you have in mind, and most certainly, not you and Wonyoung because your reputation will be besmirched in no time, and you can’t afford to let that happen.

Guess the both of you won, yet what can be the cost?

[extinctionstories]

On April 19th, 1987, a bird known as Adult Condor 9 was captured in the Bitter Creek National Wildlife Refuge, near Bakersfield, California. After decades ravaged by the threats of lead-poisoning and pesticide exposure, and intense debate over the ethics of captivity, it had been determined that captive breeding was the final hope to save a species. As his designation might suggest, AC-9 was the ninth condor to be captured for the new program; he was also the last.

As the biology team transported the seven-year-old male to the safety of the San Diego Wild Animal Park, his species, the California Condor, North America's largest bird, became extinct in its native range. It was Easter Sunday—a fitting day for the start of a resurrection.

At the time of AC-9's capture, the total world population of California condors constituted just twenty-seven birds. The majority of them represented ongoing conservation attempts: immature birds, taken from the wild as nestlings and eggs to be captive-reared in safety, with the intention of re-release into the wild. Now, efforts turned fully towards the hope of captive breeding.

Captive breeding is never a sure-fire bet, especially for sensitive, slow-reproducing species like the condor. Animals can and do go extinct even when all individuals are successfully shielded from peril and provided with ideal breeding conditions. Persistence in captivity is not the solution to habitat destruction and extirpation—but it can buy valuable time for a species that needs it.

Thankfully, for the California condor, it paid off.

The birds defied expectations, with an egg successfully hatched at the San Diego Zoo the very next year. Unlike many other birds of prey, which may produce clutches of up to 5 hatchlings, the California condor raises a single chick per breeding season, providing care for the first full year of its life, and, as a consequence, often not nesting at all in the year following the birth of a chick. This, combined with the bird's slow maturation (taking six to eight years to start breeding), presented a significant challenge. However, biologists were able to exploit another quirk of the bird's breeding cycle: its ability to double-clutch.

Raising a single offspring per year is a massive risk in a world full of threats, and the California condor's biology has provided it with a back-up plan: in years when a chick or egg has been lost, condors will often re-nest with a second egg. To take advantage of this tendency, eggs were selectively removed from birds in the captive breeding program, which would then lay a replacement, greatly increasing their reproduction rate.

And what of the eggs that were taken? The tendency of hatchlings to imprint is well-known, and the intention from the very beginning was for the birds to one day return to the wild—an impossibility for animals acclimated to humans. And so, puppets were made in the realistic likeness of adult condors, and used by members of the conservation team to feed and nurture the young birds, mitigating the risk of imprintation on the wrong species.

By 1992, the captive population had more than doubled, to 64 birds. That year, after an absence of five years, the first two captive-bred condors were released into their ancestral home. Many other releases followed, including the return of AC-9 himself in 2002. Thanks to the efforts of zoos and conservationists, as of 2024 there are 561 living California condors, over half of which fly free in the wilds of the American West.

The fight to save the California condor is far from over. The species is still listed as critically endangered. Lead poisoning (from ingesting shot/bullets from abandoned carcasses) remains the primary source of mortality for the species, with tagged birds tested and treated whenever possible. Baby condors are fed bone chips by their parents, likely as a calcium supplement—but, to a condor, bits of bone and bits of plastic can be indistinguishable, and dead nestlings have been found with stomachs full of trash.

There's hope, though. There are things we can change, things we can counteract and stop from happening in the future. It was a human hand that created this problem, and it will take a human hand to fix it. Hope is only gone when the last animal breathes its last breath—and the California condor is still here.

-

This painting is titled Puppet Rearing (California Condor), and is part of my series Conservation Pieces, which focuses on the efforts and techniques used to save critically endangered birds from extinction. It is traditional gouache, on 22x30" paper.