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alittlegiraffe · 1 day ago

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Title: Out of Your League

You never liked being in LA.

Marshall’s world was too big, too bold, too full of people who looked like they belonged there. Women with perfect bodies and effortless confidence, the kind of women who moved through these spaces like they owned them.

You weren’t like that.

But Marshall wanted you here. He always wanted you with him, even when you felt like you were just hovering in the background. And at the end of the day, that was all that mattered.

So you came.

The music video shoot was just as overwhelming as you expected—crew members shouting over each other, cameras rolling, a blur of movement that made you feel out of place before you even stepped on set. Marshall was pulled away almost immediately, leaving you standing awkwardly to the side.

And that’s when Elliot Roth found you.

He was charismatic, the kind of person who walked into a room and commanded attention without even trying. Dark, intense eyes, an easy confidence—he was someone who belonged here.

And for some reason, he was looking at you.

“You must be Y/N.” His voice was warm, friendly, but there was something else in his tone. Something that made you shift on your feet.

You gave him a small smile. “That obvious?”

He laughed, but his eyes didn’t leave your face. “Marshall talks about you all the time.”

That surprised you. “He does?”

“Oh yeah. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but…” He trailed off, studying you in a way that made you self-conscious. “You’re different from the women around here.”

You let out a small, awkward laugh. “Yeah, I guess I don’t really fit in.”

“That’s a good thing,” he said, stepping just a little closer. “You’re real. You don’t even realize how much that stands out.”

You blinked, caught off guard. You didn’t know how to respond to that. People didn’t notice you, not like this. You weren’t flashy or bold. You were just… you.

But Elliot looked at you like that meant something.

And Marshall saw it.

The ride back to the hotel was quiet.

Marshall’s hands gripped the wheel tight, his jaw set, his whole body radiating tension. You weren’t sure why—he had been fine earlier.

You shifted in your seat. “You okay?”

His fingers flexed against the steering wheel. “Fine.”

You frowned. “You don’t seem fine.”

Silence.

Then—“You and Elliot seemed to be getting along.”

You blinked. “Oh. Yeah, I guess so. He was nice.”

Marshall scoffed. “Nice.”

You turned to him, confused. “What? Was he not supposed to be?”

His grip tightened. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

His jaw clenched, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, finally, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

You frowned. “Marshall.”

His fingers tapped against the wheel, restless. “Just—what did he say to you?”

You thought back. “I don’t know. That I was different from the women around here. That it was a good thing.”

Marshall’s knuckles went white.

You hesitated. “Was that… bad?”

His laugh was dry, humorless. “Not bad,” he muttered. “Just—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.

You stared at him, still lost. “I don’t understand. Why does it matter?”

His hands flexed again before he finally turned to look at you. And for the first time, you saw it—uncertainty.

“I ain’t used to this,” he admitted, voice quieter now.

You tilted your head. “Used to what?”

His eyes held yours, intense, raw. “People looking at you like that.”

You blinked, startled. “Like what?”

He let out a frustrated breath, shaking his head. “Like they want you.”

You laughed—a soft, disbelieving sound. “Marshall. That’s not—”

“It is,” he cut you off, voice firm. “And the worst part? You don’t even see it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. It had never been a thought in your mind—why would anyone like Elliot look at you like that?

But Marshall saw it. And it bothered him.

You reached out, covering his hand with yours. “Hey.”

He didn’t look at you right away, but his grip loosened under your touch.

You squeezed his fingers. “I don’t care how anyone else looks at me,” you said softly. “I don’t want anyone else to look at me.”

His shoulders eased just a little, but his voice was still rough when he spoke. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Good.” His grip tightened around yours, warm and solid. “’Cause you’re mine.”

You smiled, giving his hand another squeeze. “Always.”

And finally, finally, some of the tension in his body melted away.

The tension didn’t fully leave Marshall, not even after you reassured him. He held your hand the whole way back to the hotel, fingers tight around yours, like he was afraid to let go.

You thought he’d be fine once you were behind closed doors, away from Elliot, away from the set. But as soon as you stepped inside, he turned to you, eyes sharp and unreadable.

"Tell me somethin'," he said, voice low. "Did you like it?"

You frowned. "Like what?"

His jaw clenched. "Him."

You blinked. "Marshall, I don’t—"

"He was all over you," he cut in, stepping closer. "I ain’t dumb, Y/N. He was lookin’ at you like—" He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. "Like he could have you."

The idea was so ridiculous you almost laughed. "What? Marshall, no one—"

"You really don’t see it," he muttered, running a hand over his face. "The way he talked to you. The way he looked at you."

You hesitated. You had noticed the way Elliot had paid attention to you, but it hadn’t seemed… intentional. Or maybe you just didn’t know how to recognize it.

But Marshall had. And that scared him.

"Marshall," you said softly, reaching for him. "I love you. You know that, right?"

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Yeah. I know."

"Then what is this?" You motioned between you. "You’re never like this."

His jaw flexed, his gaze dropping for a second before meeting yours again. "Because no one’s ever made me feel like I could lose you before."

The words hit you hard. You stared at him, stunned. "Lose me?"

"You ever thought about it?" he asked suddenly. "What it’d be like if I wasn’t me? If I didn’t have all this? If you met someone like him first—someone who could give you a normal life, no bullshit, no baggage, no history that’ll follow you ‘til the day you die?"

The question floored you.

You took a slow breath, trying to piece your thoughts together. "You are the only person I’ve ever wanted, Marshall," you said firmly. "You, not your money, not your career, not your fame. Just you."

His throat bobbed, but he didn’t look away.

"You really think I’d throw away twenty years with you because some guy on a set was nice to me?" you asked, voice soft but unwavering. "Marshall, I’ve spent our whole marriage wondering if I was enough for you. If I belonged in your world. And now you’re scared I’ll realize I could do better?"

His hands clenched at his sides. "I don’t think you could do better," he said, voice rough. "I know you could."

You stepped closer, reaching up to touch his face. "Well, I don’t."

His breath hitched as your fingers brushed over his jaw.

"You’re it for me," you whispered. "You."

Something in him cracked then. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest, his grip tight like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

"You’re mine," he murmured against your hair. "Mine."

You pressed closer. "Always."

And just like that, the tension in him melted, replaced by something deeper, something unshakable. Because no matter who looked at you, no matter what fears crept into his mind—at the end of the day, he knew.

You weren’t going anywhere.

The next morning, Marshall was different.

You noticed it the second you woke up.

Usually, he was slow to start the day, groggy and grumbling as he pulled you closer, pressing his face into your neck, mumbling something about five more minutes. But today? He was already up, already dressed, pacing the hotel room with a sharp energy that felt wrong.

You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "Babe?"

He turned to you immediately, like he had been waiting for you to wake up. "Get dressed."

You blinked, still half-asleep. "What?"

"You’re comin’ with me," he said, already grabbing your clothes from the chair where you’d tossed them last night.

You frowned. "I was gonna stay at the hotel today—"

"Not happenin’." His voice was final, his movements tense as he threw your sweater onto the bed. "Get dressed, Y/N."

You hesitated. "Marshall—"

"Please," he said, and that stopped you.

Because his voice—his eyes—held something you weren’t used to. Something darker.

So you got dressed.

And from the moment you left the hotel, Marshall didn’t let go of you.

The second you stepped on set, you understood.

Because Elliot was already there, already watching.

You felt it before you even saw him, that creeping sense of attention you weren’t used to. And when your eyes finally landed on him, he smiled. A slow, easy grin that sent something uneasy curling in your stomach.

Marshall noticed.

His hand tightened around yours, his other hand resting on your lower back, guiding you with a firm grip.

It was different today. Before, he had let you move on your own, had let you exist in his world while he handled his side of things. But now? Now he wasn’t letting you go.

The first time Elliot got close, Marshall pulled you into his side, arm draping over your shoulders, fingers curling against your arm like a silent warning.

The second time, Marshall cut him off before he could even speak, steering you toward another part of the set with a casual, "We’re busy," thrown over his shoulder.

And the third time?

The third time, Marshall just stared.

You had never seen him like this before. His usual edge, his usual bite, was always sharp, but today? Today it was something else.

Something darker.

Something possessive.

Elliot wasn’t stupid. He backed off after that. But the tension never left Marshall’s body.

Not even when you were alone.

"What is this?" you asked finally, once the two of you were tucked into a quiet corner of the studio, away from prying eyes.

Marshall exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face. "What’s what?"

"You." You gestured to him. "This. You’ve never acted like this before."

He stared at you, something unreadable in his expression. "We’ve never done this before," he said quietly. "You’ve never been here."

You frowned. "You didn’t want me to be."

He ran a hand over his head, exhaling. "Yeah."

That threw you. "What?"

His jaw clenched, his gaze flicking past you for a second before settling on you again. "I kept you in Detroit for a reason, Y/N."

Your stomach tightened. "What reason?"

His eyes darkened. "This."

Your breath caught.

You had always assumed it was because he didn’t want you in the spotlight, didn’t want you caught up in his world. And maybe that was part of it.

But now, looking at him, seeing the way his body was still tense, the way his fingers were still twitching, like he was holding himself back from something—

It was more than that.

"You’re mine," he said suddenly, voice rough. "You’ve always been mine. And I—" He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. "I don’t like when people look at you, Y/N. Not like that. Not like they think they could take you."

You swallowed. "Marshall—"

"You don’t see it," he muttered, shaking his head. "You don’t see what you do to people. What you do to me."

Your heart pounded. "What do I do to you?"

His eyes locked onto yours, burning.

And when he spoke, his voice was low, possessive.

"You make me crazy."

Something about the way he said it—you make me crazy—sent a slow, simmering heat curling in your stomach.

You weren’t sure what it was. You had seen Marshall angry before, defensive, sharp-edged and ready to bite if anyone got too close. But this?

This wasn’t just anger.

This was something else.

His eyes were dark, locked onto yours with a quiet, dangerous intensity. His whole body was coiled tight, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides like he was holding something back. And that voice—low, rough, edged with something possessive—settled into your skin like a brand.

You swallowed hard. "Marshall—"

"Say it." His voice was quiet, but there was an order in it, an unspoken tell me.

Your pulse pounded in your throat. "Say what?"

"Say you’re mine."

A shiver ran through you. You had never seen him like this before. Never seen him this territorial, this feral. And maybe you should’ve been unsettled by it, but instead, it was doing something else to you.

Something dangerous.

Something thrilling.

You stepped closer, your voice barely above a whisper. "You know I’m yours."

His jaw tightened. "Do I?"

You frowned, confused. "Marshall—"

"Do I?" he repeated, stepping into your space, his hand reaching up to cup the back of your neck, fingers pressing firm against your skin. "Because I spent all of yesterday watching some other man look at you like he wanted to steal you, and you just—" He exhaled sharply through his nose. "You didn’t even fucking notice."

Your breath caught. "I didn’t—"

"Exactly." His grip tightened just a little. "You don’t see it. You don’t see what you do to people. What you do to me."

A slow, unsteady exhale left your lips.

You had spent so long thinking you were invisible in his world. That you were something he had to protect, something he had to keep separate from all this. But now, watching him unravel like this, feeling the heat rolling off of him, you realized—

He wasn’t just protecting you.

He was protecting everyone else.

Because the way he was looking at you now? Like he wanted to mark you, claim you, remind you and everyone else exactly who you belonged to—

It sent a thrill through you so sharp, so deep, it nearly stole your breath.

"Marshall," you whispered.

His hand slid down, fingers pressing into your hip, his grip firm, possessive. "You like this, don’t you?"

Your pulse pounded. "I—"

"You like seeing me like this." His voice was low, dark, an accusation wrapped in something rougher.

You swallowed. "I like knowing you still fight for me."

His breath hitched, and for a second, something in his eyes flickered—something raw, something desperate. Then, his grip tightened, pulling you flush against him, his breath warm against your ear.

"I will always fight for you," he murmured, voice thick with something dangerous. "Always."

And God help you, but you believed him.

And you loved it.

The tension between you was thick, electric, something neither of you had ever touched before.

Marshall’s hands were firm on you, one gripping your hip, the other still resting against the back of your neck. He was breathing hard, like he was barely holding himself together, like the thing inside him—the thing that had surfaced the moment Elliot looked at you—was clawing to get out.

And you wanted to see it.

"You don’t have to fight," you whispered, voice unsteady. "You already have me."

His fingers flexed. "Yeah?"

You nodded, pulse racing. "Yeah."

But he didn’t relax. If anything, your words only made something darker pass through his expression. His jaw clenched, his grip tightening. "You think that’s enough?" His voice was low, rough, like gravel. "You think just ‘cause I have you, I don’t gotta fight to keep you?"

Your breath caught. "Marshall—"

His fingers curled at your hip, his voice a sharp whisper. "You don’t fucking get it, do you?"

Your stomach flipped. "Get what?"

His eyes burned into you, something wild in them. "That I’d tear this whole fucking place apart if someone tried to take you from me."

Heat shot through you, your body reacting before your brain could catch up. You had never seen him like this before—never seen him truly lose himself in you like this. Not just want you. Not just love you. But possess you.

And God, you liked it.

You swallowed hard. "No one’s taking me from you."

He exhaled sharply, like he didn’t believe you, like he still felt that fear coiled tight in his chest. His hand left your hip, slid up your spine, curling around the back of your head. "You don’t see what I see, Y/N."

"Then show me."

His breath hitched.

You weren’t sure what made you say it—maybe the way his hands were on you, the way his eyes had darkened, the way his body was practically vibrating with tension.

But something in him snapped.

He pulled you flush against him, mouth hovering over yours, breath hot, voice thick with something primal. "I don’t just want you to know you’re mine—I want everyone else to fucking know it too."

And before you could even catch your breath, before you could even think—

His lips crashed into yours.

Marshall kissed you like he was staking a claim. Like he needed to press himself into your skin, into your soul, so deep that no one could ever try and take you away.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle.

It was devouring.

His hands tightened in your hair, tilting your head just how he wanted, his grip firm, unyielding. He pressed you against the wall of the quiet corridor, his body crowding yours, his heat sinking into you.

Your fingers dug into his hoodie, clutching at him, dizzy with the force of him. You had been kissed by him a million times, but not like this.

Not like he was afraid.

Not like he had something to prove.

And God, did you feel it.

When he finally tore his mouth from yours, he didn’t pull back far. His forehead rested against yours, his breath hot and ragged, like he had just run a marathon.

"You feel that?" he murmured, voice rough, his hands still tangled in your hair. "That’s what you do to me."

Your breath hitched.

"Every single day," he rasped. "I wake up and wonder how the fuck I got lucky enough to keep you. And then I come here—" His jaw clenched. "And I see someone else looking at you like they wanna take you from me, and it makes me fucking crazy, Y/N. Like I gotta—" He stopped, exhaling sharply. "Like I gotta remind you."

You swallowed hard. "I don’t need reminding."

His grip tightened, his eyes flashing. "Don’t I?"

You hesitated, heart pounding. You had never seen him like this, never felt this side of him. The part that had been lurking underneath all these years, buried deep. The part that didn’t just love you—

The part that claimed you.

And the worst part?

You liked it.

You liked the sharp edge in his voice, the darkness in his eyes. You liked that after twenty years, he still felt this way. That he still looked at you and saw something he had to protect, had to keep.

That he was still willing to fight for you.

"You’re mine," he murmured, voice low, possessive.

Your breath shuddered. "Always."

His eyes flickered—something raw, something dark. And then he kissed you again, slow and deep, like he was sealing a promise neither of you would ever break.

Marshall’s lips trailed down, slow and deliberate, dragging heat across your skin.

Your breath hitched as he reached the spot just beneath your jaw, his hands still holding you in place, fingers pressing firm against your back. You barely had time to react before he sucked, his teeth grazing, his tongue soothing—

A gasp left your lips as your body melted into him, craving more, craving him.

Marshall smirked against your skin, his breath hot as he murmured, "That’s right, baby. Let ‘em see it."

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, dizzy from his touch, from the claim he was leaving on you. You felt the sharp sting as he sucked a little harder, pulling the blood to the surface, making sure it would be there for everyone to see.

A deep satisfaction rolled through him as he pulled back, his thumb grazing over the mark, his eyes flashing with something dark and victorious.

"Perfect," he muttered. "Now they’ll know who you belong to."

Your body was still burning, your head still spinning when—

"Ahem."

The sound made you stiffen.

Marshall didn’t move right away. He knew who it was. His shoulders tensed before he turned, slow and deliberate, his body still angled in front of you like a shield.

Elliot stood a few feet away, looking entirely too amused.

"We’re ready for you on set," he said, eyes flicking between you and Marshall, lingering on the way Marshall’s hand still rested on your waist.

Marshall exhaled through his nose, his grip on you tightening for just a second before he forced himself to step back.

He didn’t look at Elliot as he turned to you, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip, still smirking. "Stay right here, yeah?"

You swallowed, still breathless, still reeling. "Yeah."

He nodded, eyes dark and possessive, before finally stepping past Elliot, making his way toward the set.

Elliot turned back to you, smirking. "So… I take it he’s a little territorial?"

You barely had the presence of mind to nod, still feeling the heat of Marshall’s mouth on your skin.

Elliot chuckled, shaking his head. "Damn. And here I thought I was the one making him crazy. Guess you just have that effect."

You were still catching your breath, still feeling the heat of Marshall’s lips on your neck, when Elliot’s words registered.

Your stomach flipped. "What?"

Elliot chuckled, shaking his head as he crossed his arms. "Come on, Y/N. You really don’t see it?"

You frowned, feeling suddenly off balance. "See what?"

He studied you for a beat, eyes flicking to your neck—the spot where Marshall had just left his mark—before he exhaled a laugh, like he couldn’t believe you were serious. "Wow," he muttered. "You really don’t know what you do to him, do you?"

Your pulse jumped. "I—"

"You think he’s always like this?" Elliot gestured toward where Marshall had disappeared. "You think he goes around putting on a fucking show like that for everyone?"

Your stomach twisted. "He’s just—"

"He’s just making sure no one else even thinks about touching you," Elliot interrupted, eyes sharp. "And the best part? You don’t even realize why."

Something about the way he said it made your breath catch.

Because no—you didn’t realize.

You had spent years feeling out of place, feeling like you didn’t belong in his world, like you were something he had to protect, something separate from all this. But the way Elliot was looking at you now, the way he was talking—

Like you were the one with the power.

Like you were the one making Marshall feel like he had something to prove.

Your fingers curled into your sweater, something tight and unfamiliar twisting in your chest. "I don’t—"

"Just watch," Elliot said, voice low. "Watch him today. See what happens when anyone so much as looks at you."

He gave you one last knowing smirk before turning and heading toward the set.

You stood there, heart pounding, mind racing, unsure.

Because now? Now, you couldn’t stop thinking.

Had you really not noticed all these years?

Or had Marshall just never let himself unravel like this in front of you before?

And worse—

Now that you had seen it…

Did you want more?

You watched.

Like Elliot had told you to, you watched. And now, you couldn’t unsee it.

Between takes, Marshall was on you.

The moment the director called cut, before anyone else could even approach, he was already crossing the set, already closing the distance like being apart from you was the biggest fucking inconvenience of his life.

He didn’t care who was around.

Didn’t care about the cameras, the crew, the people waiting to give him notes.

Didn’t care that everyone saw.

He just walked straight to you—hands back on your waist, lips against your temple, his body practically caging yours in like the seconds he had spent away from you were too long.

"You good?" he murmured, fingers flexing against your hip. "Need anything?"

You shook your head, trying not to let your breath shake. "I’m fine."

But was that true? Because now, you were feeling everything.

Feeling the weight of his eyes, the heat of his touch, the unspoken claim he was making every time he reached for you.

And the thing that made your stomach flip?

No matter where he was—across the set, listening to the director, standing in front of the cameras—

His eyes were always on you.

You tested it.

You stood off to the side, pretending to be preoccupied with your phone. He was in the middle of a scene, supposed to be focused, but—

There it was.

That pull.

The second your eyes lifted, you met his—locked right on you, sharp and possessive.

Like even when he was working, even when he was in the middle of a take, his body still ran on instinct.

Still found you.

A shiver ran down your spine.

But it wasn’t until you moved—until you decided to head to the restroom—that you really saw it.

You had barely taken two steps when something stopped you.

Marshall’s fist.

Tightly clenched.

Like not being able to see you for even a moment pissed him off.

Your breath caught.

And when you turned back, just to see—just to check—

His eyes were burning.

Watching you go like it was physically painful for him to let you out of his sight.

Your heart pounded.

Because now, you understood.

Now, you saw.

And you liked it.

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kenyummy · 7 hours ago

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Helloo, i had a question regarding Spidey, how did they become spidey :3, how did they react when they first got their powers, how long did it take for them to get used to it, how long it took for them to become spidey officially and how did others react to it as well? apologies if this doesn't really make sense since english isn't my first language, or if it was already answered 😓but overall loving the series 🦈

hiihiiuu!!! thank you for the ask! ❤️❤️❤️

okay so i kind of already had an idea in mind for how long they'd been spidey—around three years, getting their powers when they were 14-15 and being spidey ever since.

spidey's origin story is mostly the same as the original peter parkers'—bitten by a radioactive spider, losing uncle ben yadda yadda yadda

just like peter parker too—they were originally really freaked out when they got powers suddenly, and the spidey sense made it pretty hard to concentrate in class (aa flash thompson seemed to pose as a constant state of danger to you).

but eventually, after realising the power you held—you sewed your first suit, ran through the city, and became the one and only Spidey.

however—unlike spiderman, who typically worked alone for most of his early run, spidey became involved with the fantastic four pretty early on in their career.

she'd first met ben grimm during a fight—they clicked pretty fast and worked well together. then they met reed and sue—reed was lecturing at their highschool for a special appearance, and sue was waiting in the building for her husband to finish, when the school was attacked.

at this point—spidey really only had their strength and wall crawling to really help them fight—so after running to the bathroom to change, they helped out reed and sue in attacking those pesky doombots.

the last one they met was johnny. they'd seen him on television prancing around like a peacock—but never expected to meet him like this. captured by a.i.m. and held prisoner, spidey had all the time in the world to bond with her cellmate.

at first, they thought he was pretty annoying. too full of himself for his own good. but after escaping with his help and thwarting their plans to remove the radiation from both you and johnny to use for themselves—you were a little less skeptical of the matchstick.

they never officially joined said team, but with how often spidey was wrapped up in their escapades, they may as well been a member.

also (this is a guilty pleasure what can i sayyyy) spidey and the heroes for hire TRUST I love you Luke cage...

and for the second part of your ask; of course in this universe—not many people that spidey knew before now know they are spidey, but here's the people who do, when they found out, and how they reacted—

aunt may : she found out in your eighth month of crime fighting—she'd caught you sneaking in through your window and collapsing on your bed after practically destroying yourself in a fight. she was shocked at first, but it soon turned to worry for how this would take a toll on you. she knows you're doing good, and is so, so proud of you—but sometimes she wonders of there will come a day even you can't do it anymore.

mj : in your first three months of fighting—she'd only discovered it after you accidentally called her "mj" when she was hurt bad in an attack on the school. you'd yelled so frantically—in that tone of voice she'd known so well. realising it was you, when she saw you at school next, she cornered you in the bathroom and demanded you admit it to her. you cracked after ten minutes, crawling on the walls as she gasped. she thinks you're the coolest, ever—but worries one day when you don't show up to school tommorow... and the day after that... and the next... and the next... until not at all.

harry : two years into your vigilante career—he found out after he became green goblin to avenge his father. finally tracking down spidey, the vigilante that led to his father's death, and beating them to a bloody pulp. finally reaching down and tugging the mask to find out who "killed" his father in cold blood—only to find it was you, the person he'd been in love with since he was 12. his blood ran cold and he dropped to his knees, tears immediantly welling in his eyes. at that moment, he knew spidey didn't do it. you never could've done it. you would never kill his father. your relationship changed that day. for better or worse, you still can't decide.

those are the main civillians(?) who know your identity—it's getting a tad long so I won't mention what heroes do except for the fantastic four and most of spidey's previous flings.

I yapped a lot, but this was really fun to talk about—thank you so much for the ask my love!!!! ❤️❤️❤️🤭

#🧸✰ the ballad of a bygone blight #yandere batfam x reader #platonic yandere batfam #yandere batfam x neglected reader #batfam x neglected reader #neglected reader #spider reader #© iliverae 2025 !

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obvithe-bestsoph · 1 day ago

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gastro.

masterlist requests

a/n: two fics in one day from me is kinda crazyyy. anywho, this is literally just clingy, fluffy pablo 😔🙏 genre: fluff/comfort warnings: pablo throwing up (nothing graphic though) and generally being sick and cute.

You had just walked in from doing the weekly groceries when you heard a groan and then a gag came from upstairs. Immediately concerned, you put the bags down on the counter and make your way up to your ensuite. “Pablo? ¿Estás bien (are you okay)?” you call, as you hike the stairs. In response, all you get is some more groaning a gag, and then him throwing up. Making it to the bathroom, you discover him looking horrible, hair messy, dark circles under his eyes, pale face, slightly shaky hands, and currently puking, he’s clearly not well.

You quickly drop down to the floor next to him, rubbing his back until he lifts his head from the toilet bowl once more. “Amor (love)?” You prompt gently, trying to get him to answer with words. Instead, you get something of a whine or a whimper and then he lets himself fall into you, tucking his head under your chin. “What’s wrong? Why are you being sick?” He gives you a fairly pathetic shrug, and a non-committal murmur of, “I think I just ate something bad.” Raising an eyebrow, you look down at the clearly very unwell boyfriend in your arms. “You sure? You seem pretty out of it.” He nods and tries to cuddle into you, and you can tell that he’s tired. “Are done being sick? If you are, then we can get you into bed.” Another nod. You help him off the floor, flushing the toilet and supporting him back out to the bedroom, where you discover that he had clearly vomited in bed before making it to the toilet.

Seeing that you’ve noticed it, he almost looks like he wants to cry with the way he looks up at you. “Lo siento (i'm sorry). I didn’t mean to. I just didn’t get up in time.” he whispers guilty. You frown and cup his cheek in your hand. “Don’t be sorry, I know you didn’t do it on purpose. I just gotta change the sheets real quick. No big deal, vale (okay)?” you tell him softly, your words nothing but gentle and loving.

Considering the bed is currently out of action, you manage to help the weak man down the stairs and get him to the couch, with a ‘just in case’ bucket sitting beside him.

You head back up to sort the sheets, and when you come back down 15 minutes later, you discover he’s fallen asleep, which isn’t too surprising, considering how tired he seemed before.

Carefully running a hand through his hair as you perch beside him on the edge of the couch, your face creases with worry. You feel the heat radiating off his forehead, but he’s shivering. Definitely sick.

You wake him a couple of hours later to see if he’s feeling any better. You offer to help him up to the bed, but he shakes his head and says he only wants you. So he gets you.

You snuggle in next to him on the couch and let him climb on top of you, so you’re laying stomach to stomach, and he buries his face in the side of your neck. “Do you think you can tell me what’s really wrong, mi alma (my soul)?” You ask gently. “I think… maybe… I got the gastroenteritis Pedri had. But… I don’t wanna miss the match on Sunday.” he replies quietly.

So that’s it. He is sick, he just doesn't want to admit it as to not miss the match. “Mi pobre bebe (my poor baby),” you murmur to him quietly, rubbing your hand up and down his back.

“Do you think you could eat anything? Something plain. Crackers maybe?” you offer. He nods but is reluctant to let you go when you get up to the kitchen.

You return with a plate of salted crackers and a topping-less piece of toast. He eats them slowly but happily as the two of you sit and watch a movie together. Eventually, I take his temperature, he’s still burning up, but not as bad as before.

This version of him is always your favourite, because while you hate that he’s sick, he’s clingy and quiet, and Pablo, not Gavi the famous footballer. Just Pablo. Your Pablo.

“Y/N?” he murmurs, those beautiful eyes looking up at you from your chest. “Sí?” “Gracias por cuidarme. Te amo. (thank you for taking care of me. i love you).” he says softly, still looking into your eyes. “Siempre. Lamento que no te sientas bien (always. i’m sorry you’re not feeling well). I figure, you always take care of me, so I should return the favour, hm?” You chuckle softly, kissing the tip of his nose. When your lips meet his skin, he smiles slightly and his eyelids flutter closed for a moment.

He then settles back on your chest and continues watching the movie, dozing off not long after.

#pablo gavi #gavi #pablo gavi fic #gavi fic #obvithebestsoph!gavi #pablo gavi x reader #gavi x reader #fc barcelona #fanfiction #football #football fic #culer #PG6

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kneecapsbelong2me · 20 hours ago

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Hello! Ok so you don't have to do this if you don't want to but I thought it'd be really cute if you did a oneshot where Natasha and Wanda (or it could be Natasha and Maria no preference) help a fellow Avenger (reader) who has ocd (like intrusive thoughts and having to squeeze eyes shut hard and doing things in a certain rhythm, not cleaning ocd). And the reader stopped taking her meds. Could you do fem reader please if you're comfortable! Thank you! Much love! xoxo 🧡

Loud

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff x OCD!fem!Reader (ambiguous relationship)

Summary: when you stop taking your meds, your intrusive thoughts return with a vengeance. Natasha and Wanda notice.

Word Count: ~800

Content Warnings: violent intrusive thoughts (murder, blood), OCD

A/N: sorry this took so long, anon! I don't have OCD, but I have dealt with intrusive thoughts so I tried my best.

Translations: зайчик: bunny; рыбка: little fish; солнышко: sunshine

———————————————————————

Wanda was the first to notice something was wrong. Your thoughts sounded like screamed gibberish instead of their typical cadence and anxiety radiated from you in waves as if it was flowing from your pores.

She didn’t know what was happening, and it scared her. Unsure of what to do, she confided in Nat.

“I’m worried about her, Tasha. Her thoughts have been so loud and messy, and I don’t know what to do. Just being near her makes me start feeling antsy.”

Natasha had also clocked your unrest. For the past month, the number of pills in the bottle on your dresser had remained constant, and Natasha was willing to bet that had something to do with the changes in your behavior.

“I’m concerned too, Wanda. Let’s talk to her the next time we see her, okay?”

“Okay,” Wanda smiled slightly. “Thank you for helping me with this.”

“Of course, зайчик, I want to make sure our girl is okay.”

They waited, but you didn’t come out of your room for days. Finally, at the 72 hour mark, Natasha and Wanda made their way to your room. They were going to help you, and there was nothing you could do to stop them.

You couldn’t pinpoint when your thoughts had gotten bad again. Maybe it had started after you stopped taking your meds, but they had made you feel different.

What if you just kill them all. It wouldn’t be hard.

You squeezed your eyes shut as if that would stop the thoughts, rocking back and forth. Three counts forward, three counts back. You tapped your fingers on your leg. Ring, middle, pointer. Ring, middle pointer.

Images flashed in your mind. Your hand wrapped around Natasha’s throat. Blood dripping from the knife you drove into Steve’s heart.

On your next rock backwards, you accidentally hit your head on the wall as you tried to shake yourself free. Pain reverberated through your skull, and you couldn’t help but think you deserved it.

And those were just the thoughts that escaped to your consciousness. There were so many more beneath the surface, trying to claw their way and pierce through your brain.

You shivered, your skin crawling as more thoughts popped into your mind. Your rocking became more frantic as your breaths got shallower and shallower.

The click of your bedroom door unlocking tugged your mind back into your body. You squeezed your eyes tighter, and your finger tapping sped up.

“Рыбка?” Natasha’s voice filtered in like sunlight through a stained-glass window, muddled but warm.

“Солнышко,” Wanda’s voice was much clearer. She was speaking directly into your head, you realized. “Your thoughts are so loud.”

Oh no. Wanda was going to find out how horrible your thoughts were. Terror gripped you as you realized what she would see. There was no way she’d ever look at you the same way again.

“Can you take a deep breath for me?” Wanda smiled softly. She had crouched down, and you could sense how badly she wanted to reach out to touch you.

You shook your head, too caught up in your hyperventilation.

Natasha sat on the floor next to you, careful not to touch you or get in the way of your rocking. “Try breathing out for longer than you breathe in,” she murmured. You did as she said, some of the terror leaving you. “You’re safe. Everyone is safe.”

You tried to focus on her words, blocking out everything else until your senses were filled with Natasha and Wanda.

“These thoughts do not make you a bad person, солнышко. The fact that they scare you proves that you’re a good person,” Wanda’s voice washed over you like a wave of calm.

Your breathing evened out a little more, your fingers tapping slower. Ring. Middle. Pointer. Fighting every muscle in your body, you forced your eyes open to look at them.

Guilt wracked your body as you took in their concerned faces. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Natasha spoke gently, but firmly. “Hey, look at me. Please?”

You did as she asked, having to slow your rocking to avoid getting dizzy.

“Is it okay if I touch you right now?”

You nodded, and Natasha pressed her shoulder into yours. The contact was soothing. She was warm against you. Warm and alive.

“Would it help if we just talk for a while?” Wanda sat and leaned into your other side.

You nodded again, words unformed on your tongue.

“Okay. Let me tell you what Steve did the other day.”

Natasha launched into a story and you focused all your energy on her words. You could feel Wanda pushing your anxieties down, and for the first time since you’d stopped your meds, you felt calm.

You laid your head on Wanda’s shoulder. She hummed softly and carded her fingers through your hair. Your eyes fluttered shut, but this time they rested.

You knew they would want to talk about this at some point, but for now you were content to sit in between them and rest.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #cw intrusive thoughts #knees requests

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justbelievinginmagic · 23 hours ago

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the captain & his sea. davy jones!kim hongjoong x calypso!reader pt 3/ previous drabble / drabble masterlist 780 words. barely edited.

Since he could remember, Hongjoong knew he belonged to the sea. Being born of a sailor father and his mother dying in childbirth, it was only natural to think that the ship he grew up on was where he was meant to be. With the sweet-salt air tacky against his skin and the ever-luring light on the horizon taunting him that his adventure was not yet over, Hongjoong was a devoted sailor through and through. He never truly gained control of his land legs, preferring the rickety wood planks of a ship to the terrain of an island.

He had been in love with the sea for as long as he could remember.

His one and only love.

He had thought it had all changed when he met her.

Hongjoong almost was convinced she was a ghost when he first spotted her; the way the sun hit her skin seemed ethereal. Like an oil slick was upon her skin, she gleamed in the sunlight like the way the waves licking at the shore sparkled with an aurora of colors. She was sat on the docks of a port with her dresses damp with salt water spray and her feet bare, sticky with sand. Her eyes glanced at the bustling port from atop of her barrel like a queen overlooking her land. She smiled at the way some sailors thanked Poseidon for safe passage. She grinned as they set off once more, riggings clanking as they made sail.

An albatross landed beside her, cawing and chirping. Not a head turned to look. She didnt even flinch at the big bird. He almost thought she was invisible, but then there was the immediate follow-up question of how could anyone ignore something so beautiful?

He saw her there, against the sky. Sun on her shoulders, wind in her hair. And all he felt was that she was someone he’d always known. The curl of her lip, the calm yet chaos that radiated from her as she rose a hand to pet at the albatross.

“That there is a bad omen, you know,” he commented, his chin nodding towards the bird that chittered at the woman.

She smiled at him as if she knew he’d say that, and he felt the air get knocked out of his lungs.

“Is it now?” she chuckled. “I’ve been told women are bad luck as well.”

Hongjoong’s chuckles were a bashful thing as he watched as she leaned forward on her palms. Her intrigue in him felt special. He had watched her eye and glance away at many sailors that passed by her. Not one had caught her attention as he had. Not one looked at her with such admiration.

“Aye, some say that,” he agreed. His hand went to fiddle with the soft-brown hair that tickled his neck. “They say the sea – that she is a jealous lover. Can’t stand another lady around her men.”

She rolled her eyes lightly, but the fondness in her tone was palpable as a breeze on the ocean. “These tales you sailors make up.” It was gentle before she tilted her head. “Do you believe it?”

“That women are bad luck?” he clarified raising a brow.

“That the sea is a jealous lover?” It was a sharper query.

Hongjoong blinked at that, taken a back.

“No.” It was an easy thing to admit. “She isn’t. She is everything. The sea is powerful and mysterious and welcoming and cruel and wonderful. Her waves are my compass.”

“Hm.” It was a sound of approval. The bird beside her cawed and flew off as she shifted from her spot, shoving off the barrel and landing besides the sailor.

His hand went to grasp her arm to steady her. She felt sun-warmed. Humid-tacky. A wave of the smell of her brushed over him – warm, salt-tinged sweetness. Like salt-water taffy. Coconut cream, over-ripened bananas, the grit of sand. How could she be so much? He didn’t know anything except that he knew he was intrigued.

“What’s your name, sailor?” she queried, glancing the young man up and down.

Hongjoong stepped back then. His work-roughened hand left her skin – with it the static electric hum tingling up his arm.

“Hongjoong,” he replied.

She smiled at his name and, for the first time, something outshined the horizon.

“I sense a touch of destiny about you, Captain Kim Hongjoong.” She teased, stepping closer. Her smile sparkled as she leaned in. He had a fleeting thought of how did she know his name, his full name… but then she trailed her hand over his arm, boldly. Each stroke of her soft skin against his felt like heaven, like lightning climbing over his cells.

“Y/N.” she introduced as she interlaced their hands in a sort of greeting. Intimate and special, just like her. She squeezed his hand like an octopus capturing its prey.

“Y/N.” he echoed, enraptured by what vexed all men: a woman.

#hongjoong x reader #kim hongjoong x reader #hongjoong angst #hongjoong fluff #ateez x reader #hongjoong scenarios #hongjoong imagines #hongjoong drabbles #written by haley

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joocomics · 2 days ago

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hii, i was wondering if you could write something (it doesn't matter if it's short), where jooyeon comforts the reader without asking anything and just hugs her, I've been feeling really down for a lot of things that have been happening on my life recently and I just want to have this man's hugs hahaha.

I was really doubtful about sending this, but you are one of my favorite xdh writters on this app. I swear I need to have something to lean on and I would love to read it from you, if maybe I'm asking for something you don't write, please forgive me. Hope you have a blessed week, love youuuu... <3

you’re still curled up on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through your phone when a door behind you quietly opens. jooyeon’s soft footsteps cross the room until he settles beside you, pulling you silently in his arms.

his embrace is so warm… tight and reassuring. the tension in your shoulders fades in the comforting rhythm of his palm as it draws patterns on your back; your mind slowly eases the pace of the overthinking that has been going on for hours. until it completely comes to an end, and you can only focus on his measured breathing; on how he smells like home.

you exhale deeply, pressing your face into his chest as if you wish his embrace could swallow you whole. that makes jooyeon shift a hand to your head, placing an affectionate kiss in your hair. his movements are gentle, radiating love and care.

a moment passes, but he doesn’t speak up. he doesn’t ask questions or try to fix things right there and then. he just holds you, allowing you a moment of peace in the middle of the chaos.

after few minutes, you can’t tell how many, you murmur softly…

“thank you…” your voice has gotten drowsy.

you don’t thank him only for this moment, but for everything he’s done, and will continue to do for you in the future.

“shhh,” he whispers, resting his head against yours. “you don’t need to say anything.”

hi, lovely <3 i really really hope this little something manages to bring you some comfort! the fact you trust me enough to come to me for this means a lot to me, and just know that i appreciate it a lot 🥺 i’m sorry that life has been hard lately… but try to remember that there’s always good after the bad! i wish you lots of love 🤎 i hope the following days go easier on you! i’ll be here if you need anything ily!

#💌: joocomics inbox #xdinary heroes soft hours #jooyeon soft hours #xdinary heroes x reader #jooyeon x reader #xdh x reader #xdinary heroes imagines #xdinary heroes angst

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clausenauto · 11 days ago

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Wondering how do you know when to replace radiator? Schedule a radiator repair service at Clausen Automotive before the summer days.

#how do you know when to replace radiator #radiator repair madison wi #radiator service madison wi #replace radiator madison wi #radiator flush madison wi #radiator repair shop near me #what are the signs of a bad radiator #how often do radiators need to be replaced #how do you know if a radiator is bad #how can you tell if you have a bad radiator #how do you know when your radiator is bad #how do you know if your car radiator is bad #how often should you replace your radiator #how often do car radiators need to be replaced

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cannonauto · 3 months ago

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Worried about what causes a radiator to go bad? Schedule an appointment at Cannon Auto Repair for quality radiator repair.

#what causes a radiator to go bad #radiator repair cannon falls mn #radiator service cannon falls mn #radiator flush cannon falls mn #radiator repair shop near me #what happens when your radiator goes bad #how do you know when your radiator is bad #how often should a radiator be replaced #how do you know if your car radiator is bad

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autorepairhendersonnv · 9 months ago

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Wonder how do you know when your radiator is bad? Prevent an unexpected breakdown by making sure you schedule a needed radiator repair.

#how do you know when your radiator is bad #radiator repair henderson nv #replace radiator henderson nv #radiator flush henderson nv #radiator repair shop near me #how do you know if you need a new radiator #what are the signs of a bad radiator #what causes a radiator to go bad #how often should radiators be replaced

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kylopen · 12 days ago

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In My Head

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Sunshine reader is always seen as sweet and innocent to the team, always happy to use her healing magic wherever possible. Bucky, touch starved and in love, discovers reader is not as innocent as she seems.

Word count: 8.2k words <3

Plus size reader safe! All body types are safe in this fic! Everyone loves Dom! Bucky I do too but good god I need whipped Bucky who will do anything for Reader. This is the longest piece I’ve written in so long! Enjoy and leave a note<3 I’m in my marvel era again so feel free to request anyone! I didn't proof read (i finished it at 1am)

Tags: There is a plot! (porn with plot lol) AFAB reader, The smut is pure FILTH tbh, Smut, Pining Bucky, no use of Y/N.

Smut warnings: Sub!Bucky, soft dom! Reader, use of ‘Good boy’, Bucky has a praise kink, pussy eating (lots of it), Needy/touch starved Bucky, Bucky has an Edward Cullen moment, Oral (female/reader receiving— THREE times hehe) penetration, Buck likes his hair pulled, Bucky dry humps, Reader squirts (third oral sequence so skip that part if you wish) needy creampie.

There were things in the modern world that baffled Bucky, Bubble tea, new terms for prejudice ending in 'phobia', babies with Ipads in their faces. And you. The first time he laid eyes on you, you gave him a blindingly sweet smile, and held your hand out for him to shake. When he didn't take it you didn't judge him or look at him funny, you smiled like you understood. From then on, you respected his boundaries and he began to feel safe. It made sense to him that someone like you had the power to help and heal others.

You’d always bring them things; vitamins, water, those weird orange flavoured things that dissolve in water, something a little sugary for a boost, with that sweet, innocent smile he'd grown to adore. He would never- could never admit that though, someone like him wasn't worthy of you. He could settle for some longing and pining instead.

Bucky is lounging on the sofa with Steve, some 50s flick playing that Steve had insisted on, something about a painter in Paris- he wasn't sure. And then, you walk in, your sweet voice drifting into his ear.

“An American in Paris, huh?” you asked, gently teasing as you moved closer to the sofa, catching sight of the movie they were watching.

Bucky shifted a little, his gaze flickering to you, then quickly back to the TV. He tried not to look at you too much when you were around, not because he didn’t want to, but because every time he did, it felt like something in his chest tightened. It certainly didn’t help that it was a hot day today, you’d opted for a cute pink and white sundress that stopped mid thigh.

“Yeah, Steve’s choice,” Bucky muttered, trying to sound casual, but his voice came out a little softer than he intended. He knew that you liked these kinds of old movies, so maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

Steve grinned from the other end of the couch, catching the subtle shift in Bucky’s tone, but not saying anything about it. Instead, he glanced up at you with a friendly smile.

“You a fan of the classics too?” Steve asked, gesturing for you to sit if you wanted to join them.

You walked over, the scent of your shampoo reaching Bucky’s senses. Vanilla and coconut, coincidentally his favourite fragrance, something that had changed not long after he’d met you… coincidentally of course, and the more you lingered around, the harder it became for him to focus on anything but you.

“Reminds me of my dad. Some are super sexist but I’m a sucker for Marilyn Monroe” you said, sitting down at the edge of the couch, right next to Bucky. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off of you, but still with enough space to respect his boundaries. You always seemed to know exactly how to balance that, without even trying. It amazed him.

Bucky felt his pulse quicken as you sat beside him. You were so close. Too close. Not close enough.

He grunted in agreement with your statement, nodding, though his eyes stayed fixed on the screen. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk to you—he just didn’t know how. What could he say that wouldn’t make him seem awkward or broken? Besides, talking might make him reveal just how badly he wanted to be near you, and he couldn’t afford that.

But then you spoke again, your voice soft and gentle, like you were speaking just to him. “How was training today?”

He cleared his throat, trying to push away the thoughts clouding his mind. “Same as always. Steve still hits like a truck.”

Steve laughed from the other side, “You’re the one with the metal arm, Buck.”

Bucky shot him a look, but there was no real bite to it. Just a distraction. He was grateful for it.

You laughed too, and that sound—it was like a melody that settled right under Bucky’s skin, making him feel warm in a way he hadn’t in a long time. He stole a glance at you again, just for a second, and you were looking right at him. That smile on your face, the one that had been seared into his memory from the moment you’d met.

“Let me guess,” you said, eyes twinkling, “you didn’t let him win this time either?”

Bucky’s lips twitched, almost into a smile, but he stopped himself. “Nope.”

“Good,” you replied, your voice soft again, almost as if you were relieved. “Can’t let Cap off easy.”

It was such a simple thing to say, but it hit Bucky harder than he’d expected. You cared. Not just in the way you handed out snacks and drinks after training or smiled when they passed by, but genuinely cared. For him. For Steve. And maybe, just maybe, that meant you’d be willing to see something more in him than he saw in himself.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward, but it was thick with unspoken words. Bucky could feel it. He wanted to reach out, say something—anything—but the words lodged themselves in his throat, like they always did when it came to you.

For a moment, Bucky let himself wonder what it would be like—if he could let himself believe he was worthy of you. Of someone so full of light and warmth, when all he felt was the shadows of his past.

But then the doubt crept back in, and he looked away again. He couldn’t let himself get too close. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could manage without giving too much away.

You didn’t push him, though. You never did. You just smiled again and settled into the couch beside him, watching the movie like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And for a fleeting moment, Bucky let himself pretend that it was.

The training room echoes with the sharp sound of fists hitting metal, the rhythmic thud of boots against the mat, and the occasional grunt of exertion. Bucky and Steve were sparring again; the same routine they'd run through countless times. It usually helped Bucky clear his mind, focus his energy on something physical, something he could control. But today, it was different.

“Come on, Buck, focus,” Steve says as he circles around, hands up and ready. His movements were fluid, precise. He was always like that—disciplined, unshakable. Bucky was too, usually. But not today.

His thoughts kept drifting, unbidden, back to you.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how close you had been on the couch last night, the way your voice had softened when you’d spoken to him, like you saw something in him that no one else did. That smile. It was haunting him in the best way.

As if to taunt him farther, his mind flashes with the image of you in your sundress, the way it swayed around the soft skin of your thighs.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice cut through his reverie, but not fast enough.

Distracted, Bucky moves just a second too late. He swings wide, and Steve, quicker than ever, ducked under his arm and swept his legs out from under him. Before Bucky could react, he hit the mat hard, air leaving his lungs in a sharp gasp.

“Damn it,” Bucky growles, more at himself than at Steve. He stays on the floor for a moment, trying to shake the thoughts of you from his mind. He shouldn’t be getting distracted like this. Not during a sparring session. Not ever.

Steve stands over him, offering a hand, his brow furrowed in concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky grumbles, accepting the hand and letting Steve pull him back to his feet. His ribs ache from the fall, but it wasn’t anything serious. It was more the embarrassment that stung. Bucky didn’t like feeling off his game, and lately, thinking about you was doing just that.

“You weren’t focused,” Steve says, stepping back into position. It wasn’t a question.

Bucky wiped the sweat from his brow, shaking out his arms as if that could somehow reset his mind. “I’m fine. Let’s go again.”

Steve hesitates for a second, then nods, getting back into stance. He could tell something was on Bucky’s mind, but he wasn’t going to push. At least, not right now. Steve knew when to back off, and when to press—though Bucky had a feeling that conversation would come soon enough.

They start again, trading punches and dodges, but Bucky couldn’t shake the lingering thoughts of you. The way you made him feel—safe, seen. The way you’d praise him. God… the way you’d tell him he did a good job after training or a mission,

Just for a second, his mind drifts again— Your pretty eyes, the way they’d look at him like he was something amazing, the smile you’d give him and then he wonders what your face would look like as he dives down deep between your thighs-

Steve’s fist came in fast, and though Bucky manages to block it, he doesn’t account for the follow-up. Steve's knee connects with his side, hitting just below his ribs with enough force to knock the wind out of him.

Bucky staggers back, holding his side with a grimace.

“Whoa, Buck!” Steve stops immediately, hands out in concern. “You good?”

Bucky clenches his jaw, nodding, though his side throbbed. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said through gritted teeth.

“You’re not fine,” Steve replies, taking a step forward, but Bucky waves him off, frustrated with himself more than anything.

“I said I’m fine,” Bucky snaps, turning away for a moment to catch his breath. He hates this. Hates how easily you get into his head, how much he let himself think about you when he was supposed to be focused. It wasn’t like him to get distracted, especially not in a fight.

Steve gives him a long, knowing look. He wasn’t pushing the subject yet, but Bucky could see it in his eyes—Steve had noticed something. And knowing Steve, it wouldn’t be long before he asked about it.

Steve lets out a sigh, shaking his head. “You need to go get that checked out.” He motions to the cut on Bucky’s cheek and his ribs.

“I said I’m fine,” Bucky mutters.

Steve doesn’t budge. “Buck, if you don’t get that cleaned up, it’s going to get worse. You’re already bruised, and that cut—” He gestured to Bucky’s face. “—needs to be looked at.”

Bucky was about to argue again when Steve adds, with a pointed look, “Go see her.”

He blinks, his heart suddenly beating faster in his chest. “What?”

“Go see her,” Steve repeats, his voice calm but insistent. “You know she can patch you up. She always does.”

Bucky opens his mouth to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. You always did take care of them after training, offering vitamin drinks or snacks, your touch gentle and your presence calming.

“I don’t need—” Bucky begins, but Steve cuts him off with a significant look.

“Buck, you’re hurt. Let her help you. Besides, we both know she’d want to,” Steve says, his tone softening as he rests a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She cares, man. And you’re not doing yourself any favours by pretending you don’t need her.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, his chest tight with a mix of frustration and something else he couldn’t quite name. The truth was, he did want to go to you.

With a heavy sigh, Bucky nods, finally relenting. “Fine.”

Steve smiles, patting him on the shoulder. “Good. Now go get cleaned up. I’ll finish up here.”

Bucky hesitates for a second before turning to leave the training room, his side still aching from the hit.

All he knew was that when he saw you, when you smiled at him with that gentle, understanding look in your eyes, it was going to make it that much harder to keep pretending he didn’t feel anything.

Bucky’s footsteps echo softly through the hall as he makes his way to the infirmary. When he reaches the infirmary door, he gives a soft knock before stepping inside.

You’re there, sitting at your desk with one thigh crossed elegantly over the other, your attention focused on some paperwork in front of you. You’re dressed in your usual professional attire—a fitted dress that hugs your form just enough to hint at your curves beneath your white lab coat. The subtle click of your black heels against the floor when you shift is a small, but noticeable, sound that makes Bucky's heart beat a little faster.

You look up when you hear him enter, that sweet, welcoming smile appearing almost instantly. “Bucky,” you greet warmly, your voice soft. “What brings you in? Did you and Steve go a little too hard today?”

For a second, Bucky just stands there, distracted by how you look. His heart skips a beat as he takes in the sight of you. He notices, maybe for the first time, how the hem of your dress rides up slightly when you cross your legs. He forces himself to look away before you catch him staring.

“Uh, yeah,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely to the cut on his face. “Just a cut… and maybe some bruised ribs.”

You arch an eyebrow, your smile turning a little coy. “Only maybe bruised ribs? Sounds like you need me to take a closer look.”

Bucky blinks, heat creeping up his neck as he tries to decide whether he’s imagining the playful tone in your voice or if it’s actually there. He clears his throat. “Yeah… probably.”

With that, you uncross your legs and stand up, heels clicking softly against the tile floor as you walk over to him. Your movements are graceful, confident, and Bucky feels his pulse quicken as you draw closer. There’s something about the way you carry yourself today—calm, collected, but with an air of subtle suggestion that makes him feel off balance.

You stand just inches away from him, reaching up to gently tilt his chin up so you can inspect the cut above his eyebrow. Your fingers are cool against his sweaty skin, and Bucky freezes, his breath catching in his throat.

“It’s not deep,” you murmur “But it’s a little more than a scratch. Seems like you need my magic touch~” you wiggle your fingers and Bucky bites back a groan at the subtle implication.

Before Bucky can respond, you place your hand gently over the wound, and he feels a soft, warm tingling sensation spread across his skin. Your healing powers are subtle but effective, and within seconds, the pain is gone, the cut already closing up beneath your touch. He’s experienced your abilities before, but every time he feels a spark from your touch, it’s a simple move but he craves more.

“There we go,” you say softly, removing your hand from his face. Your fingers linger a little longer than usual, trailing down his jaw ever so slightly before you step back, your eyes locking with his for a brief moment.

Bucky swallows hard, trying to shake off the heat rising in his chest. He’s probably imagining it—just reading too much into things. You’re always sweet, always kind and innocent.

Your gaze drops to his side, and you gently brush your hand over his ribs. “Lift your shirt for me?” you ask, your voice light but carrying a tone of suggestion that makes Bucky’s heart skip a beat.

He hesitates for a second, then does as you ask, pulling up his shirt to reveal the dark bruise spreading along his ribs. You make a soft sound of sympathy, a small pout forming on your lips as your pretty eyes lock with his for a moment. You look back down, your fingers grazing his skin as you crouch slightly to get a closer look.

“You really got hit hard,” you murmur, your tone carrying a note of concern but it switches up subtly as you carry on: “Good thing I can take care of you.”

Bucky’s breath hitches. Did he hear that right? Is there something more in your words? You were just talking about the injury right? The way you said it, the way you moved—it feels almost sinful in a way he’s not used to, at least not from you. He tries to keep his focus, but with you this close, your fingers trailing lightly over his bruised skin, it’s damn near impossible.

You place your hand gently over his ribs, your touch soft but firm as you close your eyes for a moment, focusing on healing the injury. Bucky feels the familiar warmth of your powers again, spreading through his body like a gentle wave. The pain begins to melt away, the bruise slowly fading beneath your hand.

“There,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “All better.”

But your hand doesn’t move right away. Instead, it lingers on his ribs for a second too long, your fingertips brushing the edge of his abdomen in a way that makes his breath catch. Then, just as he’s about to say something—anything—you pull away, turning to your desk, palms flat and bending as if you’re looking for something. Bucky’s mind flashes to pulling up your dress and fucking you senseless then and there, his metal hand clenches and he shakes the thought away.

Bucky exhales slowly, trying to calm the sudden storm in his chest. He has to be imagining it, right? You’re just being your usual caring self- but that touch felt different. Everything you’re doing feels different. More intentional. And the way you’d looked at him just now—

He notices you didn’t actually pick anything up from the desk after you’d bent over it a little.

“Alright, just one last check,” you say as you come back to stand in front of him, a small, almost playful smile on your lips. “Let me make sure everything else is fine.” You reach up, your hand lightly brushing against his neck as if you’re checking for tension or soreness. But then, your fingers linger—soft and warm against his skin, trailing slowly down to his collarbone. The touch is innocent enough, but there’s something in the way you do it that makes Bucky’s entire body tense.

You meet his eyes, your expression still sweet and professional, but there’s a hint of something more—something almost teasing in the way you hold his gaze. “Hmm, seems like you’re all healed up,” you murmur, your voice soft but suggestive in a way that makes his pulse race.

Bucky swallows, his throat suddenly dry as he stares at you. For a moment, he can’t move, can’t speak—stuck between the need to figure out if what he’s feeling is real or just in his head. He tries to convince himself it’s all innocent, but the way your hand lingers on his neck, the way your eyes flicker to his lips for the briefest of moments… it leaves him wondering if you aren’t quite as innocent as he thought.

You finally step back, that same sweet smile on your face as if nothing happened. “Take it easy, alright? Don’t push yourself too hard next time.”

Bucky nods, his voice hoarse when he finally speaks. “Yeah… thanks.”

You tilt your head, your smile widening just a little. “Anytime.” You sit down on your chair again, crossing one thigh over the other, it seemed deliberate.

You rest a pencil on your lower lip, teeth grazing it just slightly, pretty eyes on him. Bucky draws in a breath and feels a problem growing between his legs. He spins around to the door, hoping you don’t notice.

As Bucky begins leave you call out once more: “Let me know if you need me Bucky~ you can always come to me”

As Bucky leaves the infirmary, his mind spins. He came in with injuries, but now he has a different kind of problem, he attempts to calm down, the hardness in his pants making it hard to think. Something has shifted between you two, and whether it’s real or just in his imagination, Bucky can’t help but think back to it all. Did you want him too?

That night, Bucky stares at his ceiling, mind flashing back to you at your desk. Why didn’t you pick anything up? Did you forget what you were looking for? The look in your eyes told him you must’ve known what was going through his head.

He groans and pushes his face into his pillow, he thinks back to something that had happened a few days ago. You were giving out some sort of vitamin pill to everyone, when you’d leaned in, lips near his ear as you whispered:

“I saved you the last cherry flavoured one, don’t tell anyone” before winking slightly.

He shivers at the memory; he could smell every inch of you when you leaned in.

He grunts and pushes his face farther into the pillow. Why did you always save the good things for him? Was it on purpose? Whenever you baked you’d give him first pick- he thought you were just being nice, the sweet girl they all know. But the more he thinks about you the more he notices those little things.

Before he had even registered what he was doing, he was standing and making his way to your rooms. You did say he could always come to you. Bucky freezes outside the door when he realises where he was and what he was doing. Was he crazy? How could he come up with an excuse for being at your door at eleven at night? Before he can change his mind and turn around your door opens. There you stood wearing nothing but a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top- with no bra.

Bucky freezes, his breath catching in his throat as his gaze locks on you. The soft glow of your bedside lamp spills over your frame, highlighting the way your sleep shorts hug your hips and your tank top clings to your chest. His mouth goes dry.

You blink at him. “Bucky?” your voice is soft, a hint of curiosity laced in your tone. “Is everything okay? F.R.I.D.A.Y told me you were stood outside my door.

For a moment, all he can do is stare. He knows he should say something, anything, but his mind is scrambling for an excuse—an explanation for why he’s standing at your door in the middle of the night. His thoughts drift back to your touch earlier, the brush of your hand on his neck, and the memory of your lips near his ear just days ago.

You tilt your head slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips, and Bucky swears there’s something teasing in your expression. You step aside, opening the door wider as if you’re inviting him in. “You didn’t have to knock, you know,” you say with that same sweetness. “You can always come to me.”

His heart pounds in his chest, loud enough that he wonders if you can hear it. He swallows, trying to push down the tension, but something in your eyes—something about the way you're looking at him—has his feet moving before his brain catches up.

He steps over the threshold.

Bucky steps inside, the door clicking shut softly behind him. The room is dim, and the soft scent of your perfume lingers in the air, teasing his senses. He watches you as you turn back toward him, your smile still warm, still innocent—at least on the surface.

“So…” you say, your voice soft as you walk a little closer to him, “What brings you here so late, Bucky?” There’s a hint of playfulness in your tone, like you already know the answer but want to hear him say it.

He shifts awkwardly, his eyes darting away from yours. “I… uh, I couldn’t sleep.” His voice comes out rougher than he intended.

“We both know my healing powers can’t help you sleep Bucky. So what’s up with you coming to see lil’. ol’. Me.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out. His mind is racing—unsure if you're playing a game or if he’s just reading too much into it. His eyes flick down to your tank top, the way it clings to you, the coolness from the hallway had made hard peaks appear on your chest he then glances back to your face. You’re watching him carefully, that same playful glint in your eyes.

You tilt your head slightly, voice soft but teasing. “You’ve been thinking a lot lately, haven’t you?” Your fingers brush lightly against his arm, sending a shiver through him. “About me?”

Bucky feels his pulse quicken. He’s certain now—there’s no way he’s imagining it.

“I—” He swallows hard, trying to find the right words. But before he can, you step even closer, your body inches from his now, your hand lingering on his arm.

“You think I didn’t notice?” You ask sweetly

Bucky’s breath hitches as your words sink in, and his chest tightens, the space between you suddenly feeling far too small. His mind is racing, but his body is rooted in place, drawn to you in a way he can’t explain. He tries to speak, to form some kind of coherent response, but his voice fails him.

“You think I didn’t notice?” you ask again, your voice low, sweet, but with a teasing edge that makes Bucky’s heart race. Your hand is still resting lightly on his arm, your touch burning through his skin despite the fabric of his shirt. The warmth of your body is so close now, and Bucky is overwhelmed by the scent of you—intoxicating, pulling him deeper into the moment. He can feel himself grow hard at the simple touch, he want’s your hands all over him. He just needs to feel you touch him.

He stares down at you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the way your lips curve into that soft, knowing smile. You tilt your head up slightly, your eyes locking with his, and for a moment, everything else fades away. It’s just the two of you, standing impossibly close, the air between you thick with tension.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, but Bucky hears every word. “I notice where your eyes go when I wear a skirt or dress, if I bend over or wear anything even remotely low cut.”

He swallows hard, his pulse pounding in his ears. He wants to say something, to explain himself, to apologize, but he can’t—because the truth is, you’re right. He has been looking at you, watching you, craving your presence without ever fully admitting it to himself.

You shift even closer, your chest almost brushing against his, and Bucky’s breath catches as your fingers slowly trail up his arm, lingering at his shoulder. His heart feels like it’s about to burst out of his chest, and he’s not sure how much longer he can keep control of himself. The way you’re looking at him, your lips parted slightly, your eyes holding his like they’re daring him to make the next move…

He’s losing it.

“You don’t have to hide it,” you whisper, your voice laced with that same soft, teasing edge. Your hand moves up to his neck now, your fingertips brushing the sensitive skin just below his jaw. “You can tell me what you want, Bucky…”

He whines.

Before the embarrassment can hit him you let out a low groan at the sound. “Fuck…”

Bucky’s breath comes out in a shudder, his self-control hanging by a thread. He feels the warmth of your hand against his neck, the way your touch lingers just a second too long, and it sends a wave of heat rushing through him.

He opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already moving, closing the last bit of space between you. Your eyes flicker down to his lips, and Bucky’s resolve crumbles. He can’t hold back anymore.

His hand reaches out almost instinctively, fingers gently curling around your waist, pulling you closer. He leans down, his breath mingling with yours as he hovers just inches from your lips, his heart pounding in his chest.

“You…” His voice is low, strained, as if he’s barely holding on. “You’re driving me crazy, doll.”

You smile, and the look in your eyes—soft, teasing, and just a little wicked—sends him over the edge.

Bucky leans to close the gap but your finger presses against his lips. A frown forms on his face, and then you speak.

“ah ah ah” you shake your head “we ask for what we want”

Bucky mentally scolds himself for not asking, he was in the moment.

“May I kiss you?” he asks.

“Say please” there was an unexpected dominance to your tone, completely wiping out the innocence.

Oh fuck.

Bucky feels himself grow harder at the tone. He’s momentarily stunned. Your pretty eyes are on him, feigning innocence but there’s something sinful hiding in them. His beautiful blue eyes look down at you, filled with need.

“Please?”

You let out a moan at the word, your body heating up, your core dampens your shorts.

“Fuck… Bucky…” You say breathily before you pull him down a little to reach your height and kiss him. It’s gentle, as though you’re teasing him, giving him a glimpse to what he can have. He just needs to ask politely.

“Doll… please… I…” He struggles to get his words out, brain fogged over from all the sensations hitting him at once. You run your hands along his abs and he whines again. The whine shoots straight through you. Bucky Barnes, the worlds most accomplished assassin is whining for you.

“Please what? Good boys use their words.” You say in a sinfully soft voice that sends a shiver down his spine.

“I need… more… please” He whispers your name at the end and you hum, satisfied. You grasp his hand and it feels so good to him. Too good. He follows you as you pull him towards the bed.

“Sit there. Lean against the headboard” you hum and he immediately does as he’s told. Sure, he was a super solider who could overpower you in a second, you were both aware. But you were both also aware that he didn’t want that. He needed you to guide him.

You plant yourself in his lap, straddling him, before letting out a soft hum as you feel his hardness push against your core over your sleep shorts. Bucky lets out a moan at the contact but you’re quick to swallow it with a deep, heated kiss. His hands claw at your hips and you gasp slightly as the metal of his hand touches your skin. He’s quick to pull it away but you’re quicker, gripping his wrist and shaking your head, guiding it back in place.

You continue the kiss, before taking his lower lip in between your teeth. You open your eyes to see his blue ones are locked onto your own in what can only be described as the hottest, neediest way, his pupils dilated. You lick over his lip before your hand snakes around the back of his neck and up to his hair. You gently tug, its light, testing the waters and his lips part, head nodding. You pull his hair back a little harsher and he moans. You laugh, the sound dark and sinful in Bucky’s ears.

Your lips kiss his earlobe. “You like your hair pulled? Dirty boy~”

He moans again and nods, hands gripping your hips a little harder, pulling you down to grind on him. You make a ‘tsk’ sound and he freezes, quickly remembering your rule.

You get off him and he groans at the loss of contact, his needy eyes falling onto you. You slowly pull down your shorts, revealing your core to him. His breathing quickens, cock twitching and straining against his sweatpants.

“Take your clothes off, honey” your sultry voice fills his ears and he does so immediately, stripping off his shirt first, exposing the honey toned abs with numerous scars here and there. He is beautiful and you let it show on your face. He drags down his sweatpants leaving him in his grey boxers. There’s a dark damp spot on them from his arousal, pre-cum weeping through from the tip. You make a gesture for him to keep going and he obliges, dragging the boxers down. He stands there, glorious cock hard against his abdomen, looking at you, waiting for your next command.

“What do you want? You just need to ask” You inquire, goading him to tell you.

He swallows, looking down at your dripping core and then back to his cock. You fully expect him to ask to fuck you based on his expression, but he shocks you.

“Can I taste you please?”

Your eyes widen briefly, stunned at his choice.

“I’m sorry— if you don’t want—“ He begins to speak but you cut him off with a finger to your lips and standing up. You slowly peel off your shorts, leaning against the wall.

“You asked me so nicely.” You beckon him and the speed in which he’s on his knees in front of you has your legs weak. His hands skim over your thighs, leaving Goosebumps in their wake. “Is this what you want?”

Bucky looks up at you with desperate eyes, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Yes, please” His voice is hoarse.

“You wanna make me feel good?” You coo.

Bucky groans, his hands gripping your thighs a little. “More than anything” He confirms.

You nod, giving your permission and he settles in between your thighs. He grasps your ass, pulling you up so your legs are over his shoulders, his head cradled by your thighs. You’re momentarily stunned, briefly forgetting he’s a super soldier with insane strength. The thought goes right to your core. Your back is against the wall, his hands still firm on your ass, keeping you in place. Bucky’s breath ghosts across your core before he looks up at you. The sight was nearly enough to make you come. With a firm squeeze on your ass, he dives in, licking a stripe up your lips, making you gasp and weave your fingers through his hair. He groans and begins to lap at your clit like a man starved. He occasionally moans and groans, letting you know how much he’s enjoying being between your legs.

“Bucky— oh my god” You moan out. This only drives him more, he focuses his tongue on your bundle of nerves and you see stars.

He is good at this.

Really fucking good.

Too good?

It doesn’t take you long to come at all, you grasp his hair tighter, thighs squeezing around his head in a way that makes his cock twitch against his abdomen. He rides you through your orgasm until you’re squirming and too sensitive.

He pulls back, holding you up still, and looks into your eyes. The lower part of his face is sinfully wet, he gives you a charming smile, eyes still betraying his neediness.

“You did so well… so good for me…” You breathe out and a strangled noise escapes him.

A praise kink.

“You did so so good for me Bucky~ You deserve a reward” You coo, getting off his shoulders and standing up. You tilt his head up with your finger. “You want a reward baby?”

Bucky lets out a breathy noise and nods.

“What do you want? I’ll give you whatever you want”

Bucky Looks up at you, standing up. He shocked you again.

“Please doll… sit on my face… if… you want…” He adds the last part, unsure. All he knows is that being in between your thighs, hearing you, feeling you, giving you pleasure is all he wants right now.

You bite back a groan and nod, watching him scramble to the bed, laying on his back. He’s gloriously naked, thick cock incredibly hard and standing to attention. You crawl up his body, making sure to brush up against his length to hear those delicious whines from him. His hips buck a few times against you and then you’re settled just above his face. You look down at him and he looks ravenous— His desperate eyes flicking from your core to your face. His hands keep flexing as he struggles, wanting nothing more than to pull you down onto his face and hold you there until he can’t breathe.

“You can touch me Buck” you say softly and his hands hesitantly settle on your hips. He pauses before it eventually becomes too much and pulls you down onto his face, groaning at the impact. You don’t move much, assuming he wants to take the lead when he speaks, muffled against your core.

You giggle and look at him innocently. “Sorry honey what was that? I can’t understand you~”

His eyes grow even more needy, looking up at you. He speaks, muffled again before he decided to lift you up just enough to speak.

“Move— please. Grind on my face. Use me to come please”

How could you say no to such a beautiful request?

You settle back down and rock your hips. His tongue moves with the same finesse and you can’t help but wonder if he’s tired. He doesn’t look tired. You move his arms so he’s holding them up and you entwine your fingers, using his arms to keep you upright, moving against him. His eyes are fluttering shut in pleasure and you groan. You make quick work of your shirt, leaving you both naked now.

“Eyes open Bucky~ I thought you wanted to see what you do to me?~” You tease.

His eyes shoot open again, pupils dilated, his eyes more black than blue now.

“Good~ So good to me” You breathe out and he moans against you, making you gasp and your hips stutter. You grip his hands tighter. His pretty eyes are begging you to come and you do, thighs once again squeezing around his head, making him feel dizzy. Your hips are bucking against his face not even thinking about his breathing— but that isn’t on Bucky’s mind either. You ride out your orgasm and get off him, falling on your back, breathing erratic.

Bucky lays there with the lower half of his face wet, stubble and all. His breathing is erratic and his cock is painfully hard against his abdomen.

“Holy shit Bucky” You huff out and a hoarse moan leaves his mouth.

He slots himself between your legs, kissing your shoulder, slowly moving down your body until he’s at your hip, kissing it softly.

“You are so beautiful doll” His eyes are sincere and your cheeks feel hot at the compliment. “One more time? Please?” He asks, eyes pleading.

Sweet mother of Jesus.

“You want— you seriously— you want to eat me out again?” Your eyes are wide.

Bucky nods, nuzzling and kissing your thigh before focusing on your face again. “And to fuck you with my fingers if that’s alright with you doll?”

Sweet. Mother. Of. Jesus.

Your brain short circuits for a moment at the words leaving his mouth and you mindlessly nod, your gaze heated and intense.

He runs a finger along your dripping core and he moans. Was he really getting this much pleasure? You hadn’t even touched him at all. He teases your entrance before sinking a finger in softly. He hisses at how tight it is, his cock twitching. You let out a soft breathy moan at the feeling, instinctively reaching for his hair. Bucky peppers kisses on your thighs before he begins pumping his finger.

It’s not enough.

“More” You demand, gripping his hair. Bucky is happy to oblige, pushing a second finger in, your toes curling. “oh god yes”

Bucky begins to curl his fingers, brushing up against your sweet spot as he increases his pace a fraction and you cry out.

“Am I doing good?” His husky voice asks, desperate for praise.

“So good baby, so fucking good. You’re so good to me” You moan out and he snaps, thrusting his fingers into you with a little more force and latching his mouth onto your clit. You’re so sensitive at this point you let out a whine, your words not coherent. You didn’t even know it was possible to come this many times before being fucked. The coil in your stomach feels more intense than you have ever felt before, you tighten around his fingers and before you could warn him, he pulls away, watching the liquid squirt from you in awe. You, on the other hand are glassy eyed and trembling afterwards.

Bucky gives you a few minutes to settle before he brings himself back up to your face, you pull him in for a messy kiss. His cock is settled on your thigh, Bucky whines into the kiss and you can feel him jutting against it. You grasp his chin as he kisses you, feeling his length as he desperately claims whatever friction he can get.

Bucky is surprised at himself. There has never been a time in his life where he has felt the need to dry hump a woman. But you have the best ways of bringing new feelings and actions out of him.

“Please” He says softly.

“Oh you’re so worked up honey. After doing such a good job. Take what you want Bucky” you coo, stroking his cheek and he leans into it before settling his hips between your legs.

“Can I… are you okay if I…” He begins and you nod.

“You’ve more than earned it” You rake your hands through his hair, nails scratching his scalp.

In an attempt to ground himself, He places his hands on your headboard, letting you guide his cock into place. He pushes in and groans, immediately shattering the headboard where his hands were.

Oh lord.

You squeeze around him and let out a breathy, aroused giggle. Bucky on the other hand looks mortified.

“Oh my god doll I am so sorry—“ He goes to pull out of you but you grasp his arms and shake your head. He doesn’t take much convincing before he pushes into you fully. He’s panting and rests his forehead on yours. Even with the fingers stretching you earlier, you need to adjust. The super solider cock is no joke.

You moan encouragingly in his ear and he pulls back softly before pushing back in. Your eyes flutter and Bucky has his trained solely on you and your reactions.

“Am I hurting you, doll?” He asks, breathily, stopping his motions.

You shake your head immediately. “Please don’t stop”

He keeps his strength in check, bracing on the half broken headboard again, his hands slotting into the Bucky sized hand holes in them. He uses a leisurely pace that does hit the spot, but it’s not quite enough. You could tell he was holding back for your sake but you needed to see just how much he needed you.

“Harder Bucky~ Fuck. I can take it— please”

The headboard crushes even more at your words, your legs were wound around his hips, he leans forward, wrapping his arms around you, his face buried in your neck as he desperately thrusts into you. It’s hard and fast, a string of moans and curses leaving your mouth as you can’t move in his grip, all you can do is take it. You’re seeing stars now, as Bucky is whining and muttering praises in your ear.

“You feel so good doll”

“I would do this forever… beautiful beautiful girl”

And lastly:

“Oh god thank you” He repeats the phrase a few times and your head spins.

He’s fucking thanking you.

You manage to moan out a few praises that are punctuated by his sharp needy thrusts. He pulls his face away from his neck when he’s close. You can see it on his face, begging you to come first. He slips his metal hand down to your clit, stroking the already sensitive bundle of nerves and your eyes widen at the coolness against it.

“Please come” He moans and it doesn’t take you long to oblige his plea, the metal hand on your clit, the whines from Bucky and his cock hitting you deep pushes you over the edge and you come, clenching him hard.

“You’re so beautiful” He says in awe. “Please can I come— please doll” Bucky’s thrusts are faltering.

“fill me up Bucky~” You moan and that’s all it takes, his thrusts become harder, your body jolting from the force, you’ll feel this in your hips in the morning. You could always heal it away. But you probably won’t. You place a hand over his neck holding it loosely, your other hand raking through his hair.

Bucky thrusts into you hard and deep, with hoarse moans of thank you as he comes inside you, filling you up. He simply stays inside you after, his body moving with his deep ragged breaths before he collapses on top of you, making sure to use some strength to stop him crushing you. You stroke his hair, muttering soft praises.

He rolls off you, his honey toned skin covered in a sheen of sweat that made him look godly. Your legs are jelly; you aren’t even sure you can use them for the next few days. Bucky stands and walks to your bathroom, giving you the perfect view of his sculpted ass and returns a few moments later with a warm wet cloth to clean you up with.

When the both of you are cleaned up, Bucky begins to wipe away the crushed pieces of headboard from your bed sheepishly.

“Sorry doll” He says quietly.

“It’s okay” You assure. “It was hot. Made me feel like Bella Swan” You joke.

Bucky looks at you, not understanding the reference.

“From Twi… never mind” You hum, helping to brush off the little pieces of wood. He lays back down and pulls you into his arms.

“Doll… I… I have never felt like that before. What did you do to me? I am under a spell when it comes to you.”

You yawn and let out a sleepy laugh. “You’re telling me. I don’t think I could sleep with a regular dude again after that”

It’s not long until exhaustion rushes through you. Super solider stamina is no joke. You drift off, head on his chest. Bucky watches the soft rise and fall of your chest, your soft snores filling the room.

And for the first time in what feels like forever; Bucky has a deep, dreamless sleep. His nightmares paused as he slumbers beside your soft, warm body.

It’s late when Bucky wakes up. Your side of the bed is cold. He glances at the clock on his phone, reading 11:07am, and a text from you, timestamped two hours ago:

‘Morning sleepy head. I didn’t wanna wake you. You looked too comfortable ;)’

He smiles at the text and looks for his clothes, only to find you must have taken a trip to his room to grab some fresh clothes. There is a towel on a chair with a new set of clean clothes and a pair of boxers.

When he’s all cleaned up and dressed he makes his way to the kitchen. You’re talking to Wanda, Steve and Sam.

“Bucky good morning!” Your sweet voice drifts over to him. “You slept in late. Are you feeling okay? Late night?” It’s an innocent question, no one bats an eyelash at it. You’re the healer of the team, and you’re concerned. But Bucky bites back a groan at the implications they both know is behind the sweet words.

Before Bucky can respond, Tony walks in.

“Hey Hippocrates” Tony calls out to you. “Why did F.R.I.D.A.Y tell me you needed a new headboard for your bed?

Oops.

-END-

2K notes · View notes

ghouljams · 3 months ago

Text

Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?

Rating: E (MDNI) Words: ~11k Tags: Ghost x f!Reader, Dirtbag!Ghost, strangers -> ???, groping, non-con kissing, coerced consent, oral (F!Receiving), fingering, squirting, piv sex, kidnapping? Summary: A stranger online promises he'll make your parents' Christmas hell, and you're eager to take him up on the offer. You may have bitten off more than you can chew.

<Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?

[casual encounters]

“I am a 35 year old former SAS operator with no A levels, tattoos, and a motorcycle. I can play anywhere from 30 to 40 depending on if I shave. I’m a line cook and I work late nights at my mate’s bar. If you’d like to have me pretend to be in a long term serious relationship with you, to torment your family, I’m game.

I can do these things, at your request:

Openly hit on female guests while you act like you don’t notice

Start instigative discussions about religion and/or politics

Propose to you in front of everyone

Talk at length about my time in the army including what it felt like to kill a man(good or bad your choice)

Pretend to be really drunk as the evening goes on(don’t drink much these days, but I know the drill)

Start an actual, physical fight with a family member, either inside or on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see.

Only pay I want is the free meal and the entertainment.”

-do NOT contact me with unsolicited services or offers

RE: “Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?”

To:[email protected]

From:[email protected]

Is this offer still open?

RE: RE: “Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?”

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Depends how far you want me to travel.

-S

RE: RE: RE: “Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?”

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Any chance you’re in the XXXXX area? I’ll buy you lunch and we can talk details.

RE: RE: RE: RE: “Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?”

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Close enough for a free meal. I’m in XXXX

-S

RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: “Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?”

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Let’s meet at Gallery Eats. Also can you send me an ID or something so I know what you look like?

RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: “Alone on Christmas? Mad at your dad?”

[attachment] [attachment]

Know you birds get jumpy, send it out to your little friends.

Tuesday 15:30

See you there

-S

He’s already at the shop when you get there, scrolling through his phone with his legs spread wide under the little wooden table, a full-face motorcycle helmet taking up more than half of the tiny tabletop.

You hadn’t realized how big the guy would be. Even sitting down he’s massive. You’d bet money he’s over six foot, and he easily eclipses the little cafe chair he’s settled in. His craigslist ad wasn’t lying when it said “tattoos.” The guy’s arms are covered in swirling black ink, and you follow the line of it up to the dark collar of his shirt where it peaks out to creep up his neck. He’s perfect. Your folks will hate him.

Dark eyes meet yours and a smirk creeps over his face, it tugs at a thin scar bisecting his lips.

He stands, and you bee-line for him.

“Thank god you look like your picture.” You huff, settling your bag on the chair across from him.

“That any way ta greet your man?” He grunts, holding a hand out. “Simon.”

You take his hand with a smile, and feel thick fingers wrap around your own. You glance down at the dark seal on the back of his hand, the carefully inked numbers already fading with age spelling out “141.”

“So,” He smiles, leaning so far back in his seat that the chair tips, “How mad are we talkin’?”

It turns out Simon’s motorcycle isn’t his only mode of transportation. You roll up to your parents house in a half-wrapped muscle car that Simon claims he’s been “working on” and you can almost smell the distaste radiating off of your folks when they peak through the front window. Simon makes a big show of ignoring you while you try to get the oddly shaped Christmas gifts out of the trunk, lighting a cigarette and checking his phone while you struggle. Finally your parents decide to wander out onto their front step, and your father stalks over to take the bulkier gifts from you while Simon eyes him.

You grin at him, already pleased with his grumbling and glaring at Simon. Simon, for his part, offers a, “Sure it ain’t too heavy old man?” That makes a vein on your father’s temple throb angrily. He ambles after you and your father, and makes a show of giving your mom a once over.

“Sweetheart!” Your mother grimace-smiles at you, “Who is this?”

“This is Simon,” You sigh, leaning against Simon with a dopey smile, “My boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend.” Your mother grits her teeth, “You didn’t say you were bringing a guest.”

“Oh I know, but you can pull up a chair, right?” You gasp, “We’re not messing up your table are we?”

Your mother’s eye twitches. You know her well enough to know she’s already thinking about people bumping elbows at an overcrowded table. You can almost hear your little cousins complain about the lack of space. You also know she’ll never admit her annoyance in front of a guest.

“Of course not.” She smiles tightly, “The more the merrier.” She turns to Simon. “It’s nice to meet you Simon.”

Simon finally takes his cue, tossing his ashy cigarette onto the stone walkway with a flick of his fingers. He exhales nearly into your mother’s face before seemingly remembering last minute that, that’s rude.

“Nice to meet you,” His eyes flick down to your mother’s chest, “Can see where the bird gets ‘er tits from.”

You could scream with laughter the way your mother’s lips tighten into a thin line and her brows twitch down ever so slightly, the picture of barely contained shock and disgust. You can feel your father fuming on the other side of you.

“Why don’t we put presents down?” You chirp, trying to play at oblivious while Simon leers at your mother. She does her best to subtly cross her arms and tug the neck of her sweater closed. “Simon, do you have a hand to help dad?”

“Course, sweet’eart.” He hums, leaning to kiss your temple. A sweet gesture if he didn’t grab a handful of your ass at the same time, angled precisely so you’re sure your dad can see. “Christ you got a fat ass,” He mumbles, his voice low and graveled as he squeezes you again. You feel your cheeks heat in spite of yourself. It’s all pretend, all things you’ve talked about, but that doesn’t stop your body from reacting. His big hand lingers, fingers dragging over your ass as he pushes past your parents into the house. Uninvited.

You ignore your mother’s pointed look under the pretense of juggling presents, pushing into the house after your fake boyfriend.

Simon unceremoniously snatches the gifts from your father as soon as he’s in the house, haphazardly tossing the boxes under the tree while you carefully place your own presents, seemingly ignorant of your boyfriend’s lack of care.

“So how was the drive?” Your dad asks, trying to find something to talk about.

“Bloody awful,” Simon butts in before you can answer, he jerks his head in your direction, “‘ad to listen to the bird’s music the ‘ole time.”

“I thought you liked my music,” You pout.

“When tha fuck ‘ave I ever said that?” He snaps at you. You stifle the flinch and watch Simon’s brows draw down ever so slightly.

When you’d gone through all the details for this he’d told you to try and temper your flinching, assured you that you didn’t need to be scared of him, that if you were dating he’d never lay a hand on you. That didn’t stop his quick, harsh, response from startling you. At least the small crease in his brow made you think he didn’t enjoy the reaction.

“When we first met.” You smile, playing it off.

“And you believed that?” Simon huffs, “Can’t believe I’m the first one to grab ya off the street with ‘ow gullible ya are.”

You blink at him, and turn to hastily cover for him to your dad.

“A consensual grabbing.” You assure him.

“Think I’m still deaf in my right ear from ‘ow loud ya screamed.” Simon grumbles, digging a finger into his ear as if to demonstrate his hearing loss. You feel your cheeks heat reflexively. Even fictional it’s embarrassing to imagine that you might have met a long term serious boyfriend in a kidnapping attempt.

Nevermind that the idea of someone like Simon grabbing you off the street is a major plot point in some of your favorite videos. You try to keep your mind out of the gutter, a difficult task with Simon’s fingers grazing your ass.

“It was a prank.” You continue covering.

“Bet actually.” Simon corrects in an attempt to make things worse. “Seein’ ‘oo could take the prettiest bird ‘ome.” He nudges your dad as if he’s bringing him in on the joke, “Should’ve seen ‘ow much this one struggled, should’ve known she’d be an ‘andful.”

“Your friends sound-” Your dad swallows whatever distaste boils behind his tongue in an effort to keep the peace, “interesting.”

“Served together.” Simon sniffs.

“Oh!” Your father seems to brighten at this new information.

“Lost a lot of good men, but kept all the worst, eh bird?” Simon tosses a smile your way. The playful grin lights up his face, tugs at his scars in a way that’s far too charming.

“Where did you serve?” Your father asks, too eager for war talk.

“Went where I was needed.” Simon grunts. It’s an end to the conversation. You can see your father trying to think of where to go from there, if he should push for a different answer or ask about if Simon enjoyed his time in the service. He settles on exactly what you’re sure Simon was hoping for.

“So what do you do now?”

You almost brace yourself for his answer, and you’re glad for the added tension in your shoulders because it stops you from barking out a laugh.

“Beside fuckin’ the bird?” He doesn’t get another word out before your father growls out a loud.

“Alright-” that your mother cuts off with her well timed, if sudden entrance.

“Your aunt is on her way,” She informs you, “She’s excited to meet your boyfriend.”

“You got a lot of people comin’ ta this thing?” Simon asks, as if you hadn’t given him a full guest list.

“Just a few,” Your mother smiles, “my sister lives nearby so she’ll be bringing her boys.”

“Would’ve been nice ta know there were brats comin’ ta this thing,” Simon gives you a look and you pout.

“I told you this was a family thing.” You remind him.

“Didn’t know ya had so much family,” He sniffs, “Brother isn’t comin’ ta this too is ‘e?”

You have to stop yourself from grinning at the family landmine Simon so perfectly walked into.

“Henry doesn’t come to family functions anymore,” Your mother tells him curtly.

“Heard ‘e got tired of havin’ you scare off ‘is girls,” Simon grins, “thought you’d be a bigger bitch.” You choke. You mother’s gaze whips to you and you carefully go about adjusting the presents under the tree just so you don’t have to look at her.

“Well I don’t know where you heard that,” The high note in your mother’s voice betrays her, the faux-calmness barely covering the boiling anger that’s starting to show, “but it’s not true.”

“Are you callin’ me a liar,” Simon’s voice takes an icy note in response and you glance over your shoulder to watch him roll his shoulders back. You can see the way his musculature moves even under his jumper. The threat is palpable, and also completely inappropriate for the situation.

He’s good at this.

It’s your father’s turn to diffuse the situation.

“You a footie fan?” He asks, because he’s ass at calming your mother (or anyone else) down. You can practically feel Simon’s attention shift, like the air in the room has to adjust to the pressure he exerts.

“City.” Simon huffs. You dad grins, and you know exactly what he’s going to say. Playful ribbing that somehow always ends in a screaming match.

“Manchester boy, eh? Ya find it hard losin’ to Liverpool all the time or do ya get used to it?” Your father jokes. The question hangs dead in the air. Simon hasn’t moved a muscle, so still it scares even you, and you know it’s just an act.

“You like chewin’ your food?” Simon asks, his voice so deathly calm that you grab his arm with a laugh and pull at him.

“He’s just kidding Simon,” You placate, trying to pull your --wow this guy’s bicep is huge-- fake boyfriend away, “Right dad?”

“Oh come on,” You father tosses your way with a shake of his head, “I can handle a Manc-” He snorts and turns to Simon “-at least better than their players handle the ball.”

Simon flexes under your hands, and you physically can’t restrain him from shaking you off to stalk over to your dad.

“Simon please,” You plead, you don’t even have to act, the way he grabs your father by the shirt collar you all but leap to wrap your arms around his waist and try to pull him back, “not again!”

“Again!” Your mother yelps as your father holds his hands up, eyes wide with fear.

“It was a joke,” Your father assures Simon.

“Fuckin’ better be.” Simon relents, releasing his hold on your father and turning those dark eyes to you.

“Look’t you grabbin’ me,” He grabs you before you can let him go, your muscles still vibrating with adrenaline. He holds your face with the same hand that had held your father, squeezes your cheeks with his fingers.“Real cute, thinkin’ you could ‘old me back.” Your stomach flips. “Taught you better’n that didn’ I? You want somethin’ you gotta ask, yeah?”

“I don’-” You try to shake yourself back to your senses and Simon squeezes you a little tighter, “Please let go.” Embarrassment settles hot in your stomach at the spark of… something in Simon’s eyes.

“There’s my girl,” He smiles, “Now give us a kiss love.”

You feel your stomach drop out, and you’re sure it shows on your face. Simon raises a brow. Your tongue feels too big in your dry mouth. You swallow and glance at your parents.

“I thought you said no PDA,” You try. This wasn’t in the brief.

“Just on the cheek then,” His smile is absolutely devilish, you wonder where he learned it, “Wouldn’t want ta embarrass you in front of your folks.” Your mother scoffs. Simon turns to glare at her and you rush a quick peck on his cheek just to get it over with.

His stubble is sharp where it pokes against your lips, but his skin is surprisingly soft. You almost hesitate pulling away. Your skin already feels hot with the humiliation of kissing a veritable stranger whose only goal is to antagonize your parents for the evening, so you don’t waste time with the action.

You’re saved by your aunt opening the front door with a loud, excited:

“Happy Christmas!”

Before she freezes in the doorway. Your cousins rush in, seemingly unaware of the tension and you take the opportunity to pull out of Simon’s grip.

“Is this a bad time?” Your aunt asks as tactfully as she can given the energy in the house.

“It’s a great time,” Simon answers for the crowd with a smile. Your mother throws an alarmed look your way and does her best to plaster on something less emotional for her sister.

“I thought you were gonna help with the presents,” Your uncle calls from behind your aunt, who immediately turns to help him get the boxes in. You see her vaguely gesture at the house through the crack between the door and the frame and wonder just what she’s trying to convey.

This holiday is already off to a terrible start. Which is great. But you can’t shake the feeling that it’s going… worse than you’d initially thought it would.

“When are we eating?” One of your cousins asks, you turn to see the teen, Jack, staring at you. You suppose you’re the only adult that ever really gives any of them the time of day, makes sense he’d ask you.

“Uh,” you blink, trying to come up with a decent answer for him, “probably soon.”

“I wanna open presents,” One of the little ones whines.

“You gotta wait,” Jack tells him.

“Ok!” Your aunt announces as she comes back inside, now holding gifts, “Looks like you’ve already started the party!”

“Haven’t even started drinking yet,” Simon assures her. Your uncle joins the fray, shuffling past you to set his gifts under the tree as well.

“You drink.” Your mother clarifies with a smile, she’s hiding the horror well.

“I’m the life of the party love,” He tosses your mom a wink and turns to look around. You assume for the liquor.

“What do you drink?” Your uncle asks, good natured as usual. That’ll change.

“Bourbon.” Simon hums, “But I’ll take a beer if that’s all ya got.”

“Sure there’s somethin’ around here somewhere.” Your uncle meanders over to your parent’s short liquor cabinet and starts rifling through the bottles. Your mother shoots you a look that practically begs you to stop him.

“Do you need something mom?” You ask, oblivious.

“It’s just a little early to start drinking, don't you think?” She asks, a leading question. You know what she’s trying to do.

“You sayin’ I can’t get a drink?” Simon asks.

“Let the man have a drink,” You uncle cajoles, “It’s a holiday!”

Your mother’s lips press into a thin line. She doesn’t comment on the glass your uncle pours for Simon, but she does retreat to the kitchen with your aunt in toe. You’re almost tempted to follow them and see what they’re saying. Maybe you could throw some fuel on the fire. Simon throws an arm around your shoulders before you can move, holding you against his side to keep you in place. You glance up at him, he doesn’t look at you.

You tug your phone from your pocket for something to do, trying to look busy and uninterested in the chaos Simon is sowing, when it’s all you can think about. He manages a normal conversation with your little cousins, going through introductions like a regular person, even commenting on the shirt Jack is wearing. You glance at it and just know that was a fight with his mother. Looks like it’s based off some horror movie, blood dripping off a knife held aloft by a masked figure. Not very Christmas-y.

You can almost hear the argument that must have taken place when he’d put it on.

Simon must be smart enough to figure that out because he’s really hyping up the teen over the shirt. Talking about the movie and complaining about how his mom sounds like a bitch. Your cousin blinks at the swear before you see a grin split his face.

“Fuck yeah, is aunty letting us swear now?” Jack asks, too excited to contain it.

“The fuck is she the queen of England?” Simon laughs, turning to you, “Your mum’s not lettin’ ‘em swear?” You shrug.

“She says it isn’t ‘proper’.” Jack rolls his eyes.

“Fuck proper.” Simon snorts. He shoots you a look as he sips his drink. You’re sure Jack will be cussing the rest of the evening with Simon to back him up. Your mom’s gonna love that.

Your aunt comes out of the kitchen and grabs her husband to whisper in his ear. Your uncle glances at Simon and makes a confused face. One of the younger ones runs up to them and loudly asks:

“What’s fuck mean?”

Simon averts his gaze and you feel his shoulders shake with restrained laughter. You have to hold it in yourself, the glare your aunt sends Simon’s way is too funny. The kid was bound to hear it from his brother eventually. Really, Simon is saving the teen from being grounded with that one.

Your mom comes sweeping into the living room just in time to save Simon from getting an earful. Your aunt’s glare transfers to her before she can fix her face. Your mother’s lips pucker, an unpleasant understanding that something is happening crossing her eyes. She ignores it, much like every other unpleasant thing you’ve witnessed with her, in favor of normalcy.

“Dinner is ready!” She announces.

“That was fast,” You blink, usually she spends more time milling about and waiting for people to finish a few cocktails.

“Well,” She smiles at Simon, “I thought I’d speed things up so nobody misses any other christmases.”

“Got nowhere to be.” He informs her.

“Oh I’m sure you’re mother would-”

“Mum’s dead.” Simon sniffs.

“Then your fath-”

“If the bastard was still alive I’d kill ‘im myself.” Simon smiles at her over the rim of his glass before knocking back the rest of the bourbon and pouring himself another two fingers, “You got me all night if I want.”

Your mothers lips pucker again, the slightest hint of distaste in her expression before she manages a smile.

“We’re glad to have you.” She offers. You expect she’ll still try to force you out early. “Dinner?”

“Bloody starvin’.” Simon grunts, pushing past her towards the kitchen.

Your uncle is already serving himself from the various pans laden with food. Your father isn’t far behind him, eyeing the roast like a man starved.

You grab one of the Christmas patterned plates and hold it out to Simon, letting him queue behind your father. He glances around and you watch his eyes land on your cousins hovering nearby.

“Adults serve first,” You whisper to Simon when he steps back from the line for food to let the kids cut in front. It’s a quiet motion that presses him into you, he glances back like he might give you an apology before he makes eye contact with your aunt and loops his arm around you instead.

“What?” He asks loudly, “Your mum tryin’ ta starve the poor buggers or somethin’?” You blink at him. He raises a brow. “No heart under those tits, eh?”

Your aunt gasps and he gives her a once over. You keep your eyes on your little cousins as they happily load up their plates with turkey and mashed potatoes. One of the older boys smothers his whole plate in gravy and honestly, you can’t blame him.

“Can’t be jealous, ya clearly got the better ass.” Simon tells your aunt as you scooch around him to get your own plate. He catches you around the middle and pulls you back, curling over you. He tips your head back with a hand on your throat, thick fingers squeezing just enough to dimple the skin.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks. You barely hear him over the roll of butterflies in your stomach. Your cheeks blaze with heat, and you clench your thighs together tight at the way he glowers down at you.

“I’m gonna make you a plate,” You tell him, he pinches your cheek and lets you free.

“Good girl,” He tells you, “Got ‘er well trained don’t I?” He jokes to your aunt, who you can feel radiating anger behind you.

You don’t really know what he likes, but Simon is a big guy so you get him a bit of everything, loading up his plate like you do this every day. It’s probably too much food, but part of you sort of likes the idea that he’s eating what you “made” for him. You hand him the full plate and he smiles, you turn back to grab your own food --you must still be nervous from having his hand at your throat-- and he smacks your ass. You bite back the yelp that threatens to break free. The sharp sting of pain spreads through you like wildfire, blossoming over your skin even through your skirt.

You quickly pile food onto your plate, hoping your aunt takes your speedy exit as one of embarrassment and not one of- well a different sort of embarrassment.

You manage to squeeze into the seat next to Simon, feeling his thick thigh press against yours like a warm anchor. Your mother gives him a dirty look as he reaches to fool with one of the candles in the middle of the table. You’re sure she heard his loud announcement that she doesn’t care about her nephews. His other hand settles on your leg under the table and you stiffen. Thick callused fingers grip your thigh, squeezing the soft flesh with something you desperately want to call reassurance. He knows no one can see that, right?

You watch the rest of your family fill the table, your little cousins already picking at their food, stuffing salad leaves into their mouths and pretending not to lick the gravy off their fingers. You wait for everyone to take their seats before you pick up your fork and your aunt shoots you a look.

“I’d like to-” your aunt starts only to be cut off by your fake-boyfriend.

“I want ta make an announcement.” Simon tells the table loudly, the conversation goes dead, your mother’s eyes bore holes into you, begging for anything but an announcement. You think she might bend her fork with how tight she grips it watching Simon shove his chair back to drop to one knee. You clasp a hand over your mouth, doing your best to play the part of shocked girlfriend, despite having planned this.

“Simon!” You squeal as he tugs a black ring box from his pocket.

“Lemme talk baby,” Simon hushes you and you shut your mouth quickly, “I know it’s only been a couple a months-” the look in your mother’s eyes could kill an elephant, “-but I’m mad fer ya, an’ I know birds like you get off market quick so if I wanna keep that ass to myself I bloody well better get ya tied down.” Your mother gasps.

“Shut ya gob, I’m tryin’ ta propose.” He snaps at her, and she leans back like she’s been struck. Simon turns back to you, and you feel a rush of heat drip between your legs at the look in his eyes. This guy should be on TV with how good an actor he is.

“Will you marry me?” He finally gets out and you nod.

“Of course I will!” You fling yourself against him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

His big hands find your waist and squeeze. You pull away to take the ring box and he nearly pulls you out of your chair, only to push you back into it as he kisses you.

Your eyes go wide and you struggle to keep your hands on him when all you want to do is lurch away. Not a good look on an excited and newly ringed up girlfriend.

But the way he kisses you makes your stomach churn. His lips cover yours and almost as quickly as you get used to the feeling his tongue is trying to force its way into your mouth. You rush to close your eyes only to feel his tongue, thankfully, retreat. And be replaced by his teeth, biting your lip hard enough to bruise, prying your lips apart to slip his tongue in and lick your teeth.

Your head swims, your eyes rolling at the way his hands grope and squeeze you, tagging every soft scrap they can find while he attempts to devour you. He does something with his tongue, twists it against yours to tickle the roof of your mouth, and you make a noise without meaning to. It’s all you can do to remember to clumsily slide your lips against his. You’re not sure you make a pretty picture when he pulls away, his spit trailing off your slick, swollen, lips. You suppose this evening isn’t really about painting a pretty picture.

It makes you squirm to feel his big thumb swipe over your lower lip, dragging the poor thing down to see your teeth.

A chill racks your body as his eyes follow the motion of his thumb.

Your father loudly clears his throat. Your mother looks mortified. Your little cousins are covering their eyes while the teen pointedly looks at his phone.

Simon rubs the ring on your finger, pressing the metal back and forth against your skin. When the fuck did he put that on you?

“I’d like to say Grace,” Your aunt tries to wrestle the evening back into familiar territory as Simon sets you back in your chair.

Your family bows their heads and you smack your knee on the underside of the table as you jump, unprepared for how high Simon’s hand settles on your thigh. You don’t even hear whatever prayer your aunt is saying with the way the blood rushes in your ears at the wide splay of Simon’s fingers. So. Close.

You settle your hand on his and try to push him back to safe ground.

Jesus this guy is strong. Pain in your-

“Everything okay over there?” Your uncle asks. You must have looked like you were struggling more than you thought you were.

“Fine,” You tell him, even though things are decidedly not fine and Simon won’t move his hand, “Just fussing with the ring.”

“Oh yes,” Your aunt holds her hand out across the table, “let’s see it.”

You hesitate before taking your hand off Simon’s. He doesn’t move, seemingly settled with where he’s settled. You hold your hand out for her to grab, let her turn your hand this way and that. Simon had told you he’d grab a ring, so you haven’t actually seen it yet. It’s pretty. A nice pear cut diamond with a trinity of what looks like pearls on either side. You wonder where he got it, you’re just glad it looks less fake than costume jewelry usually does.

“How nice,” Your mother coos, it sounds even less sincere than her compliments usually do.

You’re thankful you don’t need to do much talking at dinner. Simon more than makes up for you. He talks at length about how “mint” your friends are --he’s never met them-- and how his mates are begging for a go with you. He explains to your teen cousin, at length, how his violent video games could be worse, after your aunt bemoans the fact he’s been playing war sims. He makes no move to censor himself, actually from the few conversations you’ve had with him, you think he’s swearing more than he usually does. He even manages to start an argument with your father about “taking the gloves off” during combat.

“Different once you’re in active combat,” He explains like he’s talking to your father, “You do what you have to, keepin’ your ‘ands clean isn’t exactly front of your mind.”

You glace across the table at Jack, the teen looks completely invested in whatever Simon is saying. You can almost hear the look your aunt has fixed you with, you’re sure you’ll get a call later about your fiance “encouraging him to get himself killed.”

“Oh please,” Your father blusters, “if that were the case the royal service would be under investigation. We’d see it on the BBC: Special Air Service members torture civilians. What a load of horse-” Your mother coughs and your father shuts his mouth.

“Got plenty of men like me givin’ orders,” Simon digs into his pocket to pull his cigarettes, stopping with his teeth around the filter of one when your mother coughs loudly. He shoves them back into his pocket with a grumbled swear. “Like I told ya earlier, ‘s not the good men that come back.”

“You’re so cool,” Jack tells Simon with wide eyes. Your aunt smacks his arm with the back of her hand, reprimanding. Simon’s eyes narrow.

He watches your aunt the rest of dinner. The conversation drifts as plates are emptied. You attempt to stand to help clear the table, and Simon holds you in your chair. Your mother putters around the table with your aunt, you smile and thank them. You’re almost done. Then you can go home and wait for the flood of texts/calls from your mom.

You can just imagine the way she’ll try to convince you to break off your (fake)engagement. You’ll wait a few weeks before spinning up some story about Simon cheating on you. Your family will be so grateful Simon’s gone they won’t ask any questions.

“Does anyone want pudding or are we going straight to-”

“Presents!” Your youngest cousin cuts your mom off, rushing to the tree as soon as his plate is cleared. Your aunt grabs him and brings him back to the table only for him to run over again. She manages to pull a gift from his little hands, and bring him screaming back to the table. You wince at the sharp sound, the fat tears rolling down the kid’s chubby cheeks, crying about opening presents. Your aunt reminds him shortly that there’s still dessert to get through. It barely makes a dent in the tears. The kid pulls at his mom’s grip, screaming and kicking.

Simon’s hand on your thigh tippens its grip.

You know, you know. It’s never fun sitting around with a kid throwing a tantrum, but you’re sure your aunt will handle it-

There’s a sharp crack as your aunt spanks the kid. Hard.

Simon shoots up from his seat.

Your little cousin’s tears turn to sniffles and a wobbly lip as his mom gives him a hissed warning.

Your hands shake as Simon stalks around the table to grab your aunt’s hand.

“The one thing you’re not gonna fuckin’ do,” He tells her in a low warning tone, “is hit your fuckin’ kid in front of me.”

It’s so different from the anger he’d had with your father over football. You know that, that was acting, but this… It radiates off of Simon like a miasma, dark seething hatred, anger like you’ve never seen. Your aunt looks at him like she’s seen a ghost. Her eyes are wide and scared, her hand still holding your cousin’s arm squeezes tighter, like the child is her only lifeline.

“Ow!” The kid whines, the sniffles starting again in full, “Mum that hurts.”

Simon cocks his head, his own grip tightening.

“Let ‘im go,” Simon presses, his anger as cold as death, “Or I’ll break your arm.”

“Simon,” You don’t know what you’re hoping your voice will add to this, not even sure what you should do, all you know is that you brought Simon into this house which makes him your responsibility.

“He’s alright,” Your aunt tries to assure Simon, “aren’t you sweetie?”

“Mum!” Your cousin whines again. Your aunt lets go of his arm like it’s burned her.

“Now apologize.” Simon demands. Your aunt nods sharply and swallows.

“Mum’s sorry baby,” She directs the comment at your cousin but her eyes are fixed on Simon, watching him like a rabbit watches a wolf. “It was just a little spank.” You think the pleading justification makes it worse with the way Simon’s eye twitches.

“I ever catch you hittin’ ‘im again-” Your aunt’s eyes dart to you, to the fake rock on your finger, “-and it won’t just be your arm I break.”

Your glance to your mother for- God you don’t even know, help? Maybe? She glares at you like this is your fault. Fair enough. Your uncle seems quicker on the uptake.

“Maybe we take Christmas to go,” He chimes in, “Grab the kid’s gifts, since they seem tired.”

Your mother grabs hold of this lifeline as quickly as she can wrap her head around it.

“Absolutely!” She hurries to the tree to start sorting out gifts, “Oh I didn’t realize they’d be so exhausted, we all know fits are just fits, right Simon?”

“I look like I’m throwin’ a fuckin’ fit?” Simon asks her, his voice still cold.

“You know I’m pretty tired too,” Your aunt agrees.

“I’m not.” Jack chimes in.

“Yes, you are.” His mom hisses.

“And it looks like snow,” Your uncle adds, “so we should go.”

You hardly get a word in before your cousins are rushed out the door, no hug or forced familiarity from your aunt as she and your uncle juggle presents and strapping kids into car seats.

Simon takes one of the armchairs in the living room amidst the chaos, dangling his glass with his fingers on the rim as he glowers at your aunt. Your attempt to help them gather presents is stopped by Simon pulling you down into his lap. You stiffen reflexively to try and leverage some of your weight off of him, and he pulls you to lean against his chest.

Maybe it’s good you don’t say good-bye. You’re not sure anything you could say would sound sincere with the way you’re perched on your fake fiance. You’ll definitely be hearing about this later.

You’ve never seen anyone in your family leave that fast. Your mother must blame you for this social faux pas with the way she glares at you. She’s not even trying to hide it, seemingly having deemed Simon as unworthy of her usual polite routine. She stops just short of yelling at you in front of him. Must be too afraid of what he’ll do to her if he’s willing to break your aunt’s arm over her kid.

You’re not sure when you lost control of the evening, but you’re ready to go. Your aunt’s exit should be your exit too. You even open your mouth to tell your mother it’s been a lovely evening.

Simon beat you to it.

“Let’s open presents.” You’d almost call it an order with how edged his voice is.

“We don’t have any for you,” Your mother attempts, “it wouldn’t be fair to open them now.”

“Don’t need a present,” Simon assures her, “Bird’ll gimme somethin’ later.” Your mother’s eye twitches. Simon’s hand slides over your thigh, his thumb rubbing gently at the sensitive, clothed, skin. Your nerves must be on high alert to feel his touch so acutely. He gestures with his glass at the tree. “Go’an,” He orders again.

The tension in Simon’s form slowly seeps out of him as your parents shuffle presents out from under the tree. His body, which had previously seemed poised to leap at the slightest provocation, relaxes back against the chair as your mother hands you a present. She smiles at you warmly, almost pitying, when you thank her. Simon’s hand doesn’t leave your thigh, possessive in a way that feels too close to reality.

“Oh wait,” You tell your mother as she pulls one of the gifts you brought from the pile. You slip from Simon’s lap, and for some reason he lets you, bent at the waist to point to a different box. His hand slides over the swell of your ass with an appreciative hum and you have to stop the tremor in your voice as your blood rushes south. “That one first,” You smile, “otherwise this one won’t make sense.”

The normalcy of it is more welcome than you’d thought. Somehow your usual family Christmas doesn’t seem as tense or fraught with conversational landmines now that Simon’s intruded. If nothing else you suppose he’s given you that. It’s certainly easier talking to your parents when they keep casting nervous glances at Simon to make sure this is an appropriate line of conversation.

Simon, for his part, does little except keep you in his lap as you tear into the paper wrapped boxes. Occasionally his hand moves from your thigh to squeeze your stomach, or your side, as if he’s checking that you’re still all there. It’s not exactly casual, and the heat that builds between your legs as he drags his callused fingers across your stomach makes you want to squirm back into his chest, just to try and escape the ticklish feeling.

You try to focus on the gifts, drumming up the appropriate amount of excitement to look grateful while all of your attention is on the spread of Simon’s fingers. His hand splays wide against you and you try to trace the outline of it, distract yourself from how big his hand is.

But distracting yourself from the spread of his hand directs you towards the spread of his legs, to the firm muscle of his thick thighs, to the slight softness of his stomach when your back starts to hurt and you lean against him with less stiff of a spine. Your eyes drift to the window as your mother coos over the knitting supplies and class pass to her favorite craft store. It’s so dark out, the sun already disappeared behind the horizon and the streetlights are doing their best to shine even when the night dims them. You’re already tired.

Your phone buzzes and you check it with a glance.

It’s a weather alert.

You scramble off Simon’s lap only to be dragged back into it.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’?” He asks, his hands grip your sides, fingers just brushing the edge of your bra. You can’t deal with the way being pulled like this makes your head swim. Fuck, maybe he could just grab you off the street and- NO.

“Simon,” You push at his hands, “problem.”

“No problem love,” He hums. Lips brush the shell of your ear and you stiffen as heat blooms over your cheeks, “‘Cept you gettin’ up oll the time.” “It’s snowing.” You insist, still pushing at his hands.

Your father looks at you with confusion and glances out the window. It’s hard to see when it’s so dark out. You’re suddenly hit with a grim understanding of why the street lamps seem so dim. Your dad walks to the front door and tugs it open only to be pushed by the gust of cold wind and snow that rushes into the house.

The wind is positively howling.

Your father muscles the door shut and your mother nervously clicks on the TV to check the weather. She doesn’t even help your dad brush all the snow off him, worrying her lip as her eyes fix to the screen.

“Not gonna be able to drive home in that,” Your father grimaces. Your mother shoots him a look before skirting her eyes around you to watch Simon. You can almost feel his smile.

“You wouldn’t mind us stayin’ ‘ere would ya?”

You flip on the lights in your childhood bedroom. Simon looms behind you. Reasonably you understand why he insisted on staying, even why he insisted on sharing a room. As far as your parents know you’re happily engaged, and as far as you could tell there was a blizzard raging outside. Honestly you’ve never seen anything like it, and if you didn’t know any better you might have blamed Simon for it.

You have never in your life been more aware of another person’s presence.

“In you go love,” Simon tells you, pressing you forwards with a hand on the small of your back. You stumble into your room and turn in time to watch Simon close the door. He bends down to unlace his boots and you manage to kick off your shoes in the time it takes him to straighten again. Now that you’re alone you feel on edge. All the casual friendly airs that Simon had been putting on when you’d met him before have done nothing to prepare you for the weight of his full attention. You’re only too happy when he turns to survey the room.

“I can take the floor,” You inform him, already gathering the spare blankets and pillows your mom had set on your twin bed.

“Sit down,” Simon orders, your ass hits the side of your mattress so fast you haven’t even registered the command before you’ve followed it, “You’re takin’ the bed.”

His tone leaves no room for argument. You suppose it could almost be called kind of him to give you the bed.

“Sorry,” You tell him quietly, mindful of your parents in the next room.

“What’re you actin’ sorry for,” He huffs, “Sweet bird like you doesn’t mind sharin’, does she? Besides,” He knocks your knees apart with a big booted foot, “I still gotta get paid.”

You stare up at him, confusion plain on your face.

“I thought you just wanted the meal.”

“Meal’s not finished, is it?” He tells you, “Never got dessert.”

“Wha-”

“Take your fuckin’ pants off.” His tone is clipped, short, and deep. It sinks into your skin, prickling goosebumps everywhere he’d touched earlier. Which feels like it must have been, well, everywhere.

You should say “no.” Literally nothing about this man has given you any indication that he’s someone you should want to get undressed for, and he’s spent the better part of the day tormenting your family. Granted you did ask him to do that, and honestly his efforts do land squarely in the “pros” category, but he’s a little too good at playing a dirt-bag. And this? This just seals the deal on that particular observation.

So you should say “no.”

But the way his big hands had grabbed you, the way his tongue had wound against yours, the way he looks down at you now, hungry, makes you desperately want to do whatever he asks you to.

“My parents are in the next room,” You whisper, glancing back at the wall that separates the two rooms.

“Who gives a shit?” Simon snorts, “Don’t ‘appy couples celebrate their engagement?” Your eyes flick down to his trousers, the implications aren’t lost on you. He must catch you looking because his hand grabs your hair and tips your head back. “Trust me birdy, I’m tryin’ ta be nice, but if ya wanna choke on it…”

You race to get your trousers open, fingers shaking as you push them down. You don’t need to see his cock to make some leaps of logic that it’s just as big as the rest of him, and if he’s offering you the choice between his mouth on you, and your mouth on him-

Simon leans forward and unceremoniously shoves his hand into your panties, your trousers barely down your thighs. Your train of thought comes to a full halt as big fingers stroke through your folds.

“Atta girl,” He hums, “much ‘appier like this, aren’t ya?” He tugs his fingers free, spreads them in front of your face with a pitying pout at the way your slick glistens on his skin. “Least your cunt knows what’s good for it.”

He pushes your head back, tossing it towards the bed as he releases your hair. Your back hits the mattress and you have to work to keep from hitting your head on the wall. Simon’s fingers find the hem of your panties and drag them down your thighs, catching your trousers to discard the lot on the floor.

You snap your legs shut against the chill of the room and he growls.

“None of that now,” He advises, prying your legs apart. His fingers dig into the soft meat of your thighs, his gaze fixed on the wet mess between them. The way he stands over you makes him feel massive, makes the way he leans over you feel looming.

His hands slide over your ticklish inner thighs and you have to stifle the giggle that threatens to spill from you. You doubt Simon would appreciate your laughter, might even think you’re laughing at him. Again your eyes dart to the hard length straining against his trousers as his thumbs spread your folds.

“Pretty,” He says it so plainly, casually, like he’s judging a toy. It blazes through you, lighting up your nerves and making you shiver. Any other protests you might have had die on your tongue as Simon drops to his knees.

Seeing him between your legs makes your stomach clench, makes your cunt pulse with desire. One of his thumbs rubs up and down the seam of your cunt while the other keeps you half-spread. He presses his thumb firmly against your clit, the pressure makes your hips squirm, makes you ache for more stimulation. The pressure stops, and his thumb traces its way back to holding you open.

He spits.

You flinch when it hits your spread folds, body vibrating with embarrassed heat as it slides over you. Simon’s eyes follow it the whole way down, and his tongue drags it back up.

Simon’s tongue cards through your folds, warm and wet, and he groans low in his throat. It’s positively sinful the way he pulls his tongue slow and flat over you, like he’s trying to savor the taste. You snap your hand over your mouth, stifling the soft whimper that the attention brings to your lips.

Simon’s eyes flick to your face and he makes a frustrated noise. You feel his teeth touch your skin just before he bites you. You yelp at the sharp pain, your hand shooting from your mouth to his head in an attempt to push him away. Simon tips his head back to bite at the meat of your palm, his teeth digging into the firm flesh before his tongue licks over it. There’s a sharpness to his teeth, chipped edges that scrape at your skin and ache before he soothes them.

You don’t want him to bite you again.

You don’t think you do.

Do you?

His tongue rolls over your palm, wetting the dry skin with spit and slick. His mouth has a heady sheen to it that makes you want to drag your tongue over his lips, to clean up the light prickle of his beard with your own mouth.

“No sense lettin’ you breath if you’re not gonna scream for me,” Simon informs you. Your face has never felt hotter than when his teeth scrape down your palm to tease your pulse. You’re too enraptured by the way he moves to let spit drip off his tongue and onto your clit to really register what he said.

His tongue rubs against your clit, working the firm bud back and forth before letting his tongue roll over it. Each hot swipe sends a new shudder of heat and pleasure through your body. You whimper, your wet hand tangling its fingers in his short cropped hair just to feel him shake his head like a dog.

It’s filthy the way he drags his lips over your folds, sucking and slurping at you like he’s trying to be loud. His stubble scratches at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, prickly and sharp next to the warm wet mouth that sucks at your clit. His tongue keeps twisting over it, keeping it sensitive and tingling before he’s ducking down to fuck the slick muscle into your hole. Simon moves his tongue against the entrance to your cunt like he’s hoping to stretch out the hole with it, circling around the delicate outer edge before pressing inside, over and over until your brain feels like it’ll melt out of your ears.

Then that wet heat is dragged up to your clit, circled and sucked, licked in broad strokes that wiggle against you just so he can hear the way your voice pitches up in pleasure.

He turns his head to wipe his mouth against your thigh, lips parting to lick a long stripe before he sinks his teeth into the meat of it and sucks. Your own lips close tight around the whimper the dull pain of it pulls from you.

He muscles your leg up against his shoulder, his arm moving to find a comfortable angle as he hooks his thumb in your fluttering cunt. You blink at the intrusion, the thick digit may as well be two of your own fingers the way he pulls at your entrance and stretches you open. That isn’t what steals your focus from his mouth though, what tugs at you is the way his other thick fingers rub over your ass, spreading your slick and attempting to soften the hole into something pliant.

He’s grabbed your hips to roll you onto your stomach before you can raise a protest to the searching fingers, big strong hands dragging your hips up so your knees settle on the edge of the bed as he stands. It forces your face into the quilts, muffling the noise of surprise that the motion shakes out of you. Again you find protests on your lips, you hadn’t even come, and again they’re snuffed by his fingers.

Two of them push into your cunt and you moan low in your throat at the burning stretch that they provide. Your hips rock back into them, your stomach fluttering with need as more heat courses through you. His fingers crook and he thrusts them down into your cunt, hitting some throbbing tightness that makes you cry out.

Simon makes a low cooing noise in the back of his throat and his fingers stroke against your walls. You turn your head to rest your cheek against the bed, your lips pouting and your lashes fluttering as he gives you just long enough to suck in a breath before his fingers are pressing against that soft aching spot again. Your eyes roll, your breath caught tight in your throat at the thrum of pleasure that tightens like burning heat in your aching cunt.

His fingers pump faster and faster into your cunt, and you cry out, your hips wiggling and your fingers gripping at the quilt. The wet squelching noise that comes from his fingers fucking into you makes an embarrassed heat rush over your skin, and you burry your face in the blankets just to gasp out your moans. Your mouth hangs open, drool dripping off your tongue as your breath stops in your throat. The tight heat between your legs feels like it’s winding its way all the way up through your diaphragm. Your muscles are tensed so tight you think you might snap, and you let out a low moan as your breath finally shakes free. You suck in air between sobs, each punch of his fingers into your cunt pushing a new noise free of your lips.

The wet noises just get wetter.

And then something inside you snaps. Your stomach clenches tight and your cunt follows, spasming around Simon’s fingers as they pump in and out of you. Stars dance across your vision and you bite the quilts to stop from screaming. Something trickles out of you and he rewards your orgasm with a throaty chuckle.

He pulls his fingers from you and rubs soaked fingers over your ass before he’s trying to push one inside.

“Been eyein’ this ass all night.” He hums.

The firm pressure hurts the harder he presses, and you whimper out a sniffled reproach to the feeling, a soft “hurts” that you’re sure will fall on deaf ears. Simon stops, pulls his finger back and slicks it in your cunt again, the feeling of his fingers twisting against your soft spot making your eyes roll. It hurts, an overworked burn that makes you whimper for an entirely different reason.

He pulls his thick fingers from your cunt and you feel the tip of one teasing your ass again. It’s barely a pressure when his finger tries your ass again, and he lets out a slow breath as you’re filled.

“Just sunk right in,” He tells you, pumping his finger in and out, the drag of heat has your lashes fluttering, your head spinning at the deep pressure that makes your cunt clench, “Isn’t that pretty.”

His thumb catches your cunt again, tugging at the slick hole. The click of his belt and rustle of fabric clues you in to what comes next.

That doesn’t mean you’re prepared for how big his cock feels nudging at your entrance. A chill runs over your skin, goosebumps raising to meet the air where your jumper has slid down your back. The blunt head of his cock presses against your hole, and you arch your back into the feeling, desperate to find the right angle for it to slip in.

Simon doesn’t seem as eager. He pushes into you slowly, lets you feel the way you burn and stretch around him, lets you feel every centimeter of that big cock. You feel tight, even as wet as you are, you feel like you’re squeezing the life out of him. Your cunt is hot and tingling, and your clit throbs with the need to be touched.

You feel his hips press against your ass, and he grinds into you. Another wave of goosebumps rushes over you at the deep ache he pushes into. You squeeze your eyes shut just to stop the way they keep trying to roll back in your head.

Simon pulls back, and you can almost feel the drag of his head against your walls. He grinds the tip against the soft spot near your entrance before punching his cock back into you. You make a choked noise before your throat seems to open and a flood of moans and pleas flows from you. Each push of his cock into you pitches your voice up and you moan in desperate panting sounds.

You ache. You’ve never felt so full. He hasn’t taken his finger from your ass, instead he presses it down to try and feel his own cock stretching out your walls. You shove a hand between your legs to try and stroke your clit only to feel the stretch of your skin around his fat cock. You’re so wet that your fingers slip over your folds, uncoordinated, and you can’t get a good angle. You open your mouth but can’t find the words to ask for what you need.

One of his thrusts pushes you up the bed and your hand moves immediately to push against the wall with a ‘thump.’

“Simon,” You whine, “Simon.”

His free hand pets up your spine, bunching your jumper up under your armpits to unhook your bra, before finding its way to your hair. He curls his fingers and finds a tight grip near your scalp. The bite of pain makes you want to push back into him. The deep pressure, the slight sting, from your ass makes your body stutter, your brain crashing into itself.

Oh God.

“Not a thought in that pretty little ‘ead is there?” He asks, the fingers gripping your hair tight pull your head back, you moan your pleasure for him as he gives a hard thrust into you, your bleary eyes opened just enough to focus on the white wall. “Course not,” Simon grunts, a huff of laughter edging his voice, “Wouldn't've responded to my ad if there was.”

You reach back to claw at his thigh and find it still, painfully, clothed. A burst of humiliation shoots through you at the thought that Simon hasn’t even bothered to get undressed.

“Stupid thing, really could’ve just grabbed ya off the street.” He mumbles, there’s a touch of fondness to his voice, a smile that doesn’t feel appropriate for the way he fucks into you. Like he’s trying to teach you a lesson.

The only thing you’re learning is that Simon’s cock hits something deep and needy inside of you. The finger in your ass starts to pull out and you scream. Simon groans as you tighten around him, your cunt desperate to keep his cock inside. You’re buzzing with your orgasm, settled right at the edge with nothing to push you over the edge. There’s too much stimulation. His cock pistoning into you and his finger starting to tug at your ass. You’re still sore from his fingers but you can’t stop yourself from clenching tight around him.

“Mad fer it,” Simon chuckles, “tell me what ya need bird.”

“Clit- clit,” You stutter out, still barely able to keep the words straight in your head.

“Louder love,” He teases, “don’t think I heard ya.”

“Please,” You sob, your moans still tearing from your chest on each thrust, “touch my clit.”

He drops your head back down onto the bed, and you muffle your noise with the quilt clenched between your teeth. His finger pulls from your ass and you scream your pleasure into the bed. It’s so hot, your ass burning with something that isn’t entirely painful. It just makes your clit pulse harder.

Simon’s fingers find their way between your legs and he pinches your clit between them. One roll of the tight bud between them has your legs shaking. The second has tears brimming at your lash line and your mouth hanging open as you flutter and drip on Simon’s cock. You tense and release around him, your orgasm crashing into you like a train. Waves of it rush through you, shaking your muscles loose until you’re laid like a doll against the bed. Your skin is burning and you ache,

And Simon keeps fucking you.

The smack of his hips against yours fills the room, his breath heavy and his fingers now tight on your waist. You push back into his thrusts and it makes stars dance across your vision. That deep aching part of you makes everything draw tight again.

Simon’s thrusts grow quicker, rougher, his fingers grip you so tight it hurts. You scream for him again, his hard thrusts pushing you to the edge a third time. The blistering heat of his come hits your overworked cunt and you moan.

“Too much,” You whine. Everything is sore when he pulls out. You don’t think you can move.

Your knees slip off the edge of the bed and you just lay there.

Simon rolls you back onto your back, and manhandles you into laying on the bed properly.

You sit up just enough to tug your jumper off and toss your bra to the floor with the rest of your clothes. Simon ditches his shirt and you sleepily take in the cut musculature of his chest as he wanders to turn off the light.

You pass out before he ever gets his pants off.

Your parents have already gathered the presents from last night by the front door when you wander downstairs in the morning. Your father doesn’t look at you, but your mother positively glowers. You try not to think about how loud you’d been last night.

Simon’s had his hands on you since you woke up. His fingers splay wide on the small of your back, as your parents attempt to rush you out the door.

You’re settled in Simon’s car, driving down the street when you finally let the laughter take over. You giggle and snort, pressing your fingers against your mouth to try and stem the flow of them. But really, what can you do? Despite being forced to spend the night putting a dent in your plans it’s worked out perfectly. Your parents won’t be asking about you getting a boyfriend any time soon.

If you’re lucky your mom will never ask you about your relationship status again, even when you “break up” with Simon.

You’re still giggling, glowing with happiness at a successfully executed plan, when you try to pull the ring off your finger.

Something sharp digs into your skin and you yelp in pain.

“What the fuck?” You question, whimpering when you pull harder and it only sends the sharp bit further into your skin. You raise your hand to look at the ring, and find a sharp tooth just under the diamond, clearly a feature not a bug. Still you glance at Simon. “I think this ring is defective,” You tell him, “It keeps stabbing me.”

Simon hums, turning right down a street.

“Then stop tryin’ ta take it off.” He advises. You twist the ring around your finger, trying to find a way to work it off.

“I can’t get it off,” You grunt in annoyance.

“Not suppose ta,” Simon tells you plainly, taking another turn, “That’s how bein’ engaged works.”

Something squirms in your stomach.

“We’re not engaged.” You remind him.

“Wearing my ring,” He reminds you, like he’s explaining it to a child, “said ‘yes’ to my proposal-” A smile splits his face, predatory in a way that makes you press your legs together, “-probably still buzzin’ for my cock too. Sounds engaged to me.”

You balk, your mouth hung open as you gape at him. Is he insane?

Simon doesn’t even look at you, just reaches to the side and presses against the underside of your chin with gentle, firm fingers, closing your mouth. Then he leans past you to open the glove compartment and tug a crumple of papers out onto your lap.

“If ya get bored you can look over those.” He tells you, flicking on his signal to hop on the highway.

You glance down at the mess of papers settled on your thighs, a mass of text and fine print that your eyes can’t focus on because they’re so shaken by the two poised at the top:

“Marriage License.”

divider by @/saradika-graphics

#cod x reader #x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #f!reader

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