#i spent so long on his damn nose this perspective was kicking my ass

[sun-3-160]

Primary colors are my best friends :>

[kondraki]

what's the worst shit you've ever taken at the foundation?

July 19, 1998. About 4:39pm (time beginning). I remember it well. I hadn’t had a shit in over a day, which is unusual for me (generally I can count on a nice daily shit, which I personally think is the best way to go – no more, no less). I’m a bit worried, but not too much. Everything is quiet down there; no rumbling, no bubble guts. Now I realize my naivety. It was only the calm before the storm.

I am not sure what I was thinking, but I had had a lot of dairy that day. I’m not lactose intolerant, but when I’m stressed I do have a sensitivity to all the usual suspects – dairy, gluten, that stuff. Starting the evening before, I’d managed to consume a milkshake, several huge plates of cheese fries, several huge slices of cheese pizza, all washed down with copious amounts of coffee and the odd sip of vodka. I was a lot younger back in the day, so usually this wouldn’t cause me too much discomfort. However, one’s luck must always run out. That day was the day.

As I said, I felt fine. Right up until the moment I no longer felt fine, everything was going great. I’m walking up a hallway (thankfully a lesser trafficked one) and feeling great, and then… I sense it. A disturbance in the gentle fauna of my gut. Now, I’m no stranger to shitfests. Stress is a bitch on the gut. I’ve spent a fair few shifts gripping the bottom of the toilet bowl like it might be able to save me from my fate. There truly is no god in the bathroom. Anyway, I’m walking along, and I feel that little rumble. That little… movement. 

Immediately I go into survival mode. I know I have roughly thirty seconds before this is all over. I take five of these precious seconds to home in on my location and bring up my mental map of site bathrooms, which I have for this specific purpose (years of stress shitting will make you a physical Google Maps of bathrooms). I realise there’s a bathroom not too far away, but sometimes it’s locked. There’s another bathroom close by, but it’s roughly forty seconds away including a short elevator ride. Do I risk going to the first bathroom and finding it locked, or do I risk going to the second and getting stuck in an elevator (a great fear of mine) and then shitting myself, thereby gassing myself in the stench? 

A fart slips out. It was only a fart, but I know it was a close one. It’s also so hot it singes my ass hairs, and stinks so bad I can almost see the cartoon stink lines. I know I’m in trouble. I go for the first bathroom. There’s a storage closet nearby – if the worst happens, I can probably just shit in a mop bucket or an empty box or something. Off I go. The first half of the journey is uncomfortable but bearable. There’s a lot of movement going on in my gut that gets gradually worse. By the time I reach the hall the bathroom is on, I’m starting to think I have an idea of what it’s like to be pregnant. I remember when my son’s mother was pregnant with him and I would feel him kicking around in the womb, and she would try to explain how it felt from her perspective, but of course I couldn’t imagine. At that moment, I think I had a good idea. It felt like something was alive in there, rolling around and pressing against my organs. It was a strange feeling, but one with fond associations. That was my last moment of happiness for forty minutes.

I reach the bathroom. Mercy of mercies, it’s unlocked, but I barely register that. I stumble through the door, walking like I’ve already shat myself. I cannot unclench my ass, less the swamp within unleashes itself. I’m ashamed to say it, but I consider just dropping my pants and shitting on the floor and getting out of there. Some of my conscience remains, and I shuffle to the stall. There’s no time to check if there’s toilet roll. There’s no time to do anything. I’m unzipping and unbuttoning as I approach the bowl, and then it hits me – how am I gonna turn and sit on the bowl? As soon as I crouch, it is all over. I waste a precious second considering this conundrum, but then, with a grimace and a deep sense of resignation, I realize I’m completely at the mercy of this shit. I have no choice but to get this over with, and then try and work from there.

I whip my pants and undies out of the way (or at least, I hope I do). As I do so, I turn and begin to sit. Usually I like to get my pants all the way down around my ankles, but there’s no time. I’m shitting before I even hit the seat. I miss the back of the toilet, but not the back of the seat. I have to sit in some of the shit. Alright, that’s gross, but I’ve had a newborn by that point. I’ve had shit on places I don’t want there to be shit. I’m kind of relieved that it’s my own, which is not a great bar to set, but do I look like I’m in a position to be choosy right now? I should mention that this shit is completely puréed liquid. I mean, it feels like I’m sitting in a warm, half-blitzed smoothie. The smell is… I don’t even know. I am a writer, and I am a person who has seen unfathomable things, but even with these two major advantages I cannot describe how it smelled. It smelled hot, for a start. You know what I mean. The stench of this shit singed my god damn nose hairs. It was rancid. It was pungent. It made me consider the duality of man – how could my body have contributed to making something as wonderful as my son, yet still be the vessel to create this monstrosity? I do not mean to keep bringing up my son in a story about the worst shit of my life, but you have to understand that such situations really do make a man consider life and death.

The initial blast tapers off, but I’m still going. By now I’m sat on the seat, and rather than my usual position (hands gripping the underneath of the bowl) I find myself leaning forward and briefly putting my face in my hands. I’m regretting my dietary choices now. I might be verbally cursing myself. I quickly have to sit up properly again because the hunching is crushing my stomach and making the pain worse. I did not know that shitting could be so painful. I mean, I’d experienced such things before, but this is… this is something else. I’m experiencing hot and cold flushes. My heartrate is dangerously elevated. I think about the celebrities that have been found dead on the toilet and wonder if that’s my fate. I consider the fact it might be kinder. Meanwhile, as I contemplate my possible death, the acoustics of my ass’s contribution to the world are deafening. I have never heard sounds like it. I think it might be like if somebody accidentally drilled a hole to hell. They would put their ear to the hole and the sounds from my hole is what they would have heard. The splattering, the guttural growls, several different pitches of farts all at once… I cannot possibly tell you how much I wished to temporarily lose my hearing. I considered trying to blow out my eardrums, but thought that might be too painful and cause me to fall off the bowl and further complicate my situation, so I decided I might as well just suffer.

Suffer I did. This continued for almost twenty minutes. I have no idea how that could have all fit inside my intestines. Four times, I reached behind me and flushed the toilet (I have learned the hard way not to let it pile up). The Poseidon’s kiss from each metric ton of shitwater eroded another piece of my psyche. Finally the smoothie shit tapered off and I was treated to a final hurrah of machine gun fire that pinged rock-hard little pellets right off the back of the porcelain, loud enough that it actually made me jump. Like a dog, I was frightened by my own ass. Then, silence. Sweet, sweet silence. 

I’m alive. I’m sweating, I’m actually trembling by this point, I’m breathless, my heart is in the range of BPM that’s probably dangerous, but I’m alive. I sit there for a long moment, the silence in the bathroom deafening after the hell I experienced, and then I realize that there’s still more hell to come – I have to, somehow, clean up. I take a slow breath and regret it (the flushing didn’t eradicate much of the stench). I rise to my feet.

I fall flat on the floor, shit-covered ass in the air. My legs have gone numb. For almost a minute I have to lay there, until I’ve wiggled my traitorous legs and feet around enough to be able to stand. There are pins and needles in my left leg, and every slight change in pressure makes me teeter precariously to the side. I reach for the paper dispenser. 

There is no toilet paper.

I don’t know what I expected. I stand there for a long moment, staring at the ajar door (I had no time to lock it), and something within me breaks. Fuck it, I think, and I stride – I do not shit shuffle, I do not waddle, I stride – into the next cubicle. No TP. Nor in the next. This is a small bathroom, so there are only three stalls. I stand there, holding my pants around my thighs in a big bunch like a Depression-era grandpa trying to keep his string-tied pants up his starving frame, and then it hits me. There’s a storage closet next door. Could it possibly contain TP? I edge to the door. I peer out. The hallway is clear. I slip out. The stench has permeated the hallway outside, but at least masks me as I creep to the storage closet and open the door. Thank god, there’s TP. I grab two packets of 24 rolls and jam it under my arms, and then I scuttle back into to bathroom like the disgusting mistake I am. I retreat back into the stall like a worm returning to the soil. I begin the immense task of cleaning up.

Now, I’m not a talented mathematician, but I’m fairly certain that two 24s is 48. Which means I had 48 rolls in there with me. By the time I was done, there were probably 10 or 11 left. My flushing was likely responsible for every drought in California since that date. Miraculously my pants and underwear had escaped splashage, but the poor toilet had seen better days, as had the trail of drips scattered throughout the bathroom and hall from my adventure. Even when I was done, there was still a disturbance in the atmosphere of the bathroom that would tell anyone who passed by what had happened in there (even though the stench probably had something to do with that). I had to utilize all three toilets to flush everything. Finally, exhausted, I stumbled to the basin and scrubbed my hands and arms all the way up to the elbow, like a surgeon prepping for an operation. I did this three times before I felt even remotely clean, and knew that I would have to return home for a long, hot shower before I thought about doing any more work.

There were of course no paper towels, and the hand drier was broken. I dry off my hands and arms as best as I can on my pants… and that’s when I notice that my walkie talkie, tuned to the general channel and clipped to my pants, had been on the entire fucking time.

[themaskedwriter]

Home

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Cursing

Summary: Saturdays are not for housing superheroes, and you don’t care if one of them is your army buddy and the other a cyborg who, okay, is kinda cute when he’s not clutching his twitching arm like it’s his goddamn teddybear. So of course, your tiny house becomes a tiny superhero central.

Author clues: An occasional angst queen with a sweet tooth who lives in a very fine country.

Generally, when the phone rings in the middle of the night, it’s never good news. It’s death and mayhem and all manners of misdeeds just waiting to ruin your night, your morning and possibly the entire week that follows. Your solution had been to move around a lot. If you never stay long enough in one place, then death and mayhem and all those misdeeds never get a chance to catch up with you. Unless-

“Someone better be dying,” you grunt when you answer, not bothering with greetings or pleasantries. Anyone calling at, fuck, 3.22 am can frankly go fornicate themselves.

“I need your coordinates.”

“No.”

“Come on, I promise, it’s just for the night.”

“Last time you said that, Wilson, you stayed for a week and Captain America bled all over my couch.”

At the other end of a very unstable line - is he fucking flying and calling? - Sam winces, because yeah, last time was a fucking rollercoaster of bad, and you ended up moving as soon as they were out the door and refusing to answer Sam’s texts for two weeks just to be sure you could get some actual peace and quiet.

“No one is bleeding. Much.”

“Sam…”

“I swear on my sainted nana’s grave no one will be bleeding when we get there.”

We? Jesus, did someone shoot Captain America again? You groan and roll over, pressing your face into the pillow.

“It’s just one night, I swear, we just need someplace to lay low before we can move on and haul ass back to base.”

You hate Sam Wilson. You do, you’ll put it in writing, you’ll write a goddamn op ed for the fucking New York Times listing all the reasons he is a terrible, terrible friend. All you wanted was a nice, quiet life, a little time to figure shit out after an honorable discharge from the Army, and then that idiot had to go and become a goddamn superhero with his goddamn wings and the goddamn Avengers as his goddamn squad. He owes you. He owes you so much and he’ll owe you even more- Aw, fuck.

“I’ll give you twelve hours before I kick you out on your asses.”

“You are the best, I’ve always said that, you know. The best. The goat-”

“Please, never call me that again.”

“Sourpuss.”

“I’ll bill you for anything you destroy,” you mutter, ending the call before Sam can say anything.

Rolling over on your back again, you breathe in deeply through your nose, staring at the light ceiling panelling. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You text Sam your coordinates, telling him where to find the spare key because you draw the line at getting up to act as a welcome committee at this unholy hour.

>>Thanks, I owe you one. S

>>U owe me several. Don’t expect mints on the pillows and dont. fuckin. wake me. >:(

>>You’re adorable when you’re cranky. We’ll be there in about an hour.

>>Fuk u

Sam Wilson is a terrible, terrible friend, but at least he doesn’t actually wake you. He’s even up and looking far too chirpy when you crawl down from your sleep loft four hours later. Seriously, fuck Sam Wilson. Fuck Sam Wilson, and-

“I like your digs.” He hands you a cup of coffee and thankfully does not attempt a hug.

“Yeah, well, makes running away from unbidden houseguests easy,” you grunt back, taking a sip of the glorious coffee.

Sam snorts, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “As if you could fit actual houseguests in here. You’re lucky I spent half my childhood playing Tetris, or we would’ve had a problem getting in here.”

You glance over his shoulder, at the blanket-covered lump on your couch. Granted, the damn thing is from IKEA and required at least five curse words for every step in the assembly instructions, but the covering is a nice, pale shade of beige. “So who’s bleeding all over my place this time?”

“No one’s bleeding, I patched ‘im up just to preemptively get you off my ass.”

“So he was bleeding. That why you needed to crash?”

The way Sam hesitates makes it clear that blood loss is not the culprit here. You glare at him, and Sam Awful Terrible Friend Wilson rolls his eyes at you and walks past you and up to the couch, pulling down the covers.

“That’s…” You stare. There’s no better way to put it. “Sam, he’s- Why is his arm detached? Why is it wriggling?”

“We had a minor snafu. Barnes got dosed with something and it made his arm go a little haywire. It’s wired into his nervous system, so we had to do an emergency detachment until the thing is out of his system so he won’t helicopter himself into the sky or, you know, hurt anyone.”

“So why is it still twitching like a zombie limb? Please, don’t tell me he’s turning into a zombie. I can’t deal with a zombie apocalypse. I use Zombies! Run, but that’s the closest I ever want to come to the undead because even with that I fucking jump out of my skin when I start hearing heavy breathing in my ears and-”

“He’s not turning into a zombie, jeez!” Sam tosses the covers back in place, covering up Barnes and the twitchy arm. “It’s still receiving faint signals, so it’s acting like a nervous grandma. It’s completely harmless. Ha! I gotta remember that one when he wakes up.”

Jesus H. Christ. Where is a brick wall when you need one? “Sam!”

“Stark’s coming to pick us up in two hours, we’ll be out of your hair. We’ll even take the arm with us.”

You give an indignant sniff, heading back to the little ladder that leads up to your loft. “Fuck you, Wilson, I’m going back to bed and won’t come down until you and Terminator over there are out of my house.”

“Aw, come on! We’re delightful! Look, Barnes is even more delightful because he is asleep so you won’t even have to deal with him being Mr. Personality!”

You could tell him that from your perspective, Barnes is the preferable option in this situation because he is asleep and thus not bothering you. Instead, you opt for a succinct reply in the form of your middle finger and start to ascend the ladder, coffee mug tightly gripped in one hand. Saturdays are holy, okay? Saturdays are for waking up late, having coffee and then crawling back to your bed where the covers are still warm and just wait for the sun to rise high enough in the sky that you’re tempted to go outside. Saturdays are not for housing superheroes, and you don’t care if one of them is your army buddy and the other a cyborg who, okay, is kinda cute when he’s not clutching his twitching arm like it’s his goddamn teddybear.

To be fair, Sam cuts out his little comedian act, and shuts up. There’s the odd shuffling from below, but nothing more, and you manage to doze off, wrapped like a burrito in your covers. It’s almost enough to make you forget that you have houseguests.

Until Sam pinches your toe.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he whispers, shaking your foot and you’re surprised you don’t kick him in the face.

“Piss off.”

“Delightful. We’re rolling out in five. I told Stark to bring you some decent breakfast as thanks.”

Well. Breakfast is an acceptable offering. There better be waffles, or you might need to kick Stark. With a grunt, you start extricating yourself from your covers, rooting around until you find a cardigan to wrap yourself in. Sam’s by the couch when you get down, ripping the covers from Sleeping Barnes and shaking his shoulder.

“Hey, Princess Elsa, our ride’s almost here.”

Barnes, who seems to appreciate sleeping as much as you do, tries to turn over and away from the rude awakening, but apparently manages to tickle himself on the detached arm, because the man gives a very high-pitched yelp before he very ungracefully tumbles off the couch and lands on his ass.

“Morning, Barnes.”

“Fuck you, Wilson,” Barnes grumbles with a glare that is… impressive.

“There’s coffee if you can inhale it in the next five minutes,” Sam tells him, shrugging of his umpteenth cuss-out in the last six hours.

“Bring… coffee…”

You’re not a rude host. Unwilling, but not rude. Coffee is a glorious drink, and you would never deny anyone the elixir of Life and General Functionality. You pour a cup for the man, bringing it to him, and Barnes stares at you, then at Sam, then takes a second to look around, mouth slowly falling open.

“Wilson, I think I’m-”

“What? You still not sobered up from the funky gas?”

“Either that, or I fell through the looking glass. Am I gonna grow and have my legs sprout through the window? Because that is not good,” Barnes says, gulping down his coffee and then peering up at you. “I’m not sure if you’re real, but either way, I have very impressive thighs. Hi, I’m Bucky”

He fires off a smile that is probably meant to look charming, but only succeeds in looking loopy. Sam, finally getting a fraction of the embarrassed he should be for dragging himself and this crazy ass man into your home, groans and facepalms. It is hilarious.

“Sam, I hate to say this, but I like this guy.”

“Sam, the hallucination is talking to you.”

“I’m not a hallucination,” you tell him, leaning down to pinch his left shoulder. “It’s a tiny house, made even tinier because yikes, you are built.”

Barnes, Bucky, yelps and his coffee sloshes dangerously against the edges of his mug.

“Well, that just seems very unfair to me. And Steve. Oh, jeez, and Bruce. Do you have anything against swole?”

“First of all, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, and second of all, if you’re Bucky Barnes then I’d very much like to know who the fuck taught you the word ‘swole’.”

Bucky Barnes, the most handsome centenarian in the entire world, is a delight, all smiles and jokes, and Sam is terrible for dragging him away. A godawful wind kicks up outside, heralding the arrival of Tony Stark, and you decide this is way too many superheroes. One is acceptable. Two is pushing it. Bucky, having realized he has in fact not shrunk, takes his time looking around while they head out and ends up clipping his head and oh, how people would blush if they heard the downright filth that Sergeant James B. Barnes lets out as he stumbles down the stairs.

Stark makes a joke about custody exchanges, and you tune out more than half because he brought breakfast, and oh sweet Mary above, there are waffles. Sam and Bucky say their goodbyes, and you wave them off, too engrossed in the gorgeousness of waffles drenched in maple syrup and topped with fresh berries. For this, you could almost be okay with a superhero or two crashing for a night.

Not that you’ll ever be.

You have limits.

So of course, your tiny house becomes a tiny superhero central. First it’s Sam, again. Then it’s Stark. He almost gets his ass kicked out when he goes on and on about how you can live with the bare minimum of technology. You definitely kick him out when he wants to chip your house so people won’t have to call you at the asscrack of dawn to let you know, not ask, they are incoming. He does get back in your good graces by giving you a double serving of waffles.

Then, in quick succession, it’s Steve, Sam and Rhodey, Bucky, Barton and Bucky again. Most of them are okay house guests. Barton wins points by appearing genuinely interested in how you’ve set up your living space, quizzing you about layouts and building and the pros and cons of having your entire life confined to 240 square feet. He also loses those points when you wake up to find him sitting on the edge of the sleep loft, overlooking the house. Sam and Rhodey together is not as big of a disaster as one might think, mainly because Rhodey occasionally pulls rank on Sam and honestly? Thank god. Steve, bless him, tries to bend over backwards to not put you out, and his calls all include at least 75 permutations of an apology for calling.

Bucky.

He keeps his arm in place for the next couple of times. On the rare occasions when he’ll call in the middle of the day, he’ll always knock and wait until you open, he’ll insist on “earning his keep”, which is how you come to be the recipient of flowers, breakfast, and a very rare bathroom concerto that Bucky doesn’t know you overheard. The man has a very good singing voice, and it makes your heart skip a beat when he croons “It’s Been a Long, Long Time”. He’s the easiest to get along with, even one early morning when you wake up to his shuffling and cussing because your coffee maker refuses to cooperate. He doesn’t mind the quiet, doesn’t fret around like Stark (who insists that the laptop loaded with every streaming service imaginable and the usernames and passwords for each laid out on a sticky note that he left there is absolutely not a pity gift but a sound investment for both of your continued sanity).

“D’you like this?” Bucky asks one evening, his voice floating up from the living room area.

“I mean, it could be worse. I could be housing Stark for the night,” you quip, rolling over and making something that might be construed as a tumble to get to the edge of the bed.

“I feel like that might have been an insult wrapped in another insult. But that’s not what I meant.”

You can only see Bucky’s feet in the soft light of a lamp, peeking out from the covers. He always sleeps with his feet facing the door, always on his back. The only time he hasn’t was the first time when Sam brought him, and something in you feels bad that Bucky can’t relax even in his sleep.

“No?”

“I meant… this. Living in a small box. Moving around all the time. It’s… Doesn’t it ever get hard? After I got- When I got back, Steve almost had to fight me to move into the Tower. I wanted to go home, you know. To Brooklyn. I don’t know, it was a stupid thought, but I kept thinking if I go back, it’s all still there. The apartment we lived in, the same streets and the same shops and… my family. It felt weird to make another home, but now I don’t know if I could move again.”

His voice is soft, a far cry from the persona he’s portrayed as in the media. The Winter Soldier is hard edges and cold steel, but Bucky Barnes… Bucky Barnes is soft, a whisper in the darkness and a longing for something that’s no longer there.

“It wasn’t that hard for me, because I needed this. I was out there, in all of that big space with nothing but orders and trusting that someone else knew what we were supposed to do. I’d had a place back in Atlanta before, and I’d packed up all my stuff and rented the place to some college kids. They’d already moved out when I got back, and I thought I was gonna go nuts the first night back. That place had felt like a shoebox before I shipped out and now it was so… big. Had a friend who made these kinds of houses, so he helped me build one pretty much from scratch and my first night here I slept like a baby.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it.” God, he sounds almost a bit panicked, like he’s insulted you.

“No, I don’t mind. It’s not for everyone. I just feel I have myself better together on less than 300 square feet. I mean, I don’t go from house to house. This is still a home. It’s just a home I can move around with when I need to see new places.”

There’s a little huff. “Like the middle of nowhere, New Mexico?”

You glance back to the small window next to your bed, at the clouds tinted in burnt orange and vivid pink, the sun setting slowly into the vast horizon. “Yeah. I’ve never been here. I wanted to see it, and now I have.”

“You know, that sounds like I’m gonna wake up in the desert tomorrow morning because a bird is trying to steal my covers.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barnes,” you tease, crawling back to roll yourself into your own covers again. “I wouldn’t leave you with that blanket. It’s my favourite.”

“Yeah.” His voice is almost a whisper, but you can still make out his next words: “Mine, too.”

When he leaves the next morning, something feels different. He’s tentative at breakfast, burns a few pancakes and once again clips his head on the doorway heading out when Nat touches down the quinjet to pick him up. Breakfast changes hands, Nat fills you in on some gossip. Bucky’s shoulders are slumped when he trudges up and into the cargo hold.

“Wait!”

You run inside, depositing the bag of breakfast on your counter, grabbing the blanket from the couch and folding it into a mess that would pass exactly zero inspections before heading back out. Nat’s joined Bucky on the quinjet landing, and she quirks and eyebrow when you all but thrust the bunched up fabric into Bucky’s arms.

“A bit of home,” you blurt out, immediately feeling heat creep up your cheeks. “Can’t hurt to have more of that.”

Bucky chuckles, “No… I guess it can’t.”

You move three days later. The New Mexico desert makes you restless, makes you itch for something else. For a couple of weeks, you drift further and further north, looking for a place that doesn’t put you on edge. You plough through the Midwest, but there’s always something. You text Sam just to become annoyed and feel something else. He calls a couple of times, facetimes you on your birthday so the whole gang can wish you happy birthday. you smile, taking a screenshot to save the memory for a rainy day. They’re all there, sitting around an obscenely big dinner table, glasses raised, mouths open mid-sentence. Stark looks magnanimous as always, sunglasses perched on top of his head, Steve’s got an expression that’s somewhere between his Captain America-smile and a genuine Steve Rogers-grin. Bucky… Bucky is not there. Or at least you can’t see him. Maybe he’s at the very end of the table, obscured by the others. Not that you care. You don’t. You absolutely don’t. You definitely don’t look for him in the picture every time you bring it up.

You move again. It’s too calm. You’ve had no superheroes visiting in two months, no late night calls inquiring about coordinates. Stark’s laptop is shoved into a drawer where you can’t see it, there’s a new blanket draped over your couch pretending it’s always been there.

>>Coordinates?

The text from the unknown number comes in late one evening when you’re gearing up to let bygones be bygones and forget the Midwest ever existed. You could cry with how happy it makes you, even though a text means one or more of them is in trouble and maybe you should be a little worried, too. The Avengers are good people, but they’re not unlike cats, dragging others with them. Like murder bots and weird aliens. You dutifully send your coordinates, biting your lip before adding:

>>Don’t wake me, and don’t make me wake up to bad guys on my porch

>>They scare the neighbours

>>I have a reputation to think of

Your only neighbours are trees, but still. No one likes bad guys.

Setting your phone down, you tuck yourself into bed. Whoever’s coming knows where to find the key to get in. Stark, again, wanted to set you up with some biometric doohickey that would make it impossible for anyone not in the system to get in, since “keys are so unreliable, look at Parker, he could probably pick it after five minutes on youtube”. He stopped talking when you pointed out your house is a glorified box on wheels, and that there are far easier ways to get in than to pick the lock or even rush the door. You’d had to tell him he was not allowed to turn your house into a tank.

When the sun rises, waking you up with a well-placed ray right in your eyes, you expect to hear… something. Sam, Nat and Steve are all early wakers, there would be the telltale sounds and scents of breakfast being prepared. Tony, much as he tries to vehemently deny it, snores. God, is it Barton? You raise your head, and let out a sigh of relief to see the loft empty save for yourself and the sparse furnishings. Could still be Barton, he’s just learned to stay out of your nest and accept that he’s not top of the pecking order here.

But when you get down from your loft, there’s no one there. Blinking, you look around, as if whoever texted you last night will jump out from some impossible corner. The couch is untouched, everything is where you left it. Was it Bruce and he couldn’t de-Hulk so he slept outside? You check your phone to see if there are any unread text or missed calls, but there’s nothing.

>>Did you leave already?

The reply comes within seconds.

>>No. Outside.

So… Bruce? Furrowing your brow, you go pull a pair of sweats from the hamper, yawning wide before you head for the door. You’re not exactly sure what to expect, but finding the clearing you’ve set up camp in empty is… anticlimactic, to say the least.

“Hello?” you call out, stepping down the stairs, a shiver running down your spine from the cool morning air.

Nothing. The wind sighs in the tops of the trees, a crack from a branch breaking the calm. Ahead of you, something catches your eye, far too colourful to be part of the wooded area.

“What the hell?”

Folded neatly on the ground is your blanket, your old blanket, the one you gave to-

“Sam told me you’d been moving around a lot. Figured maybe you could need a bit more home.”

You yelp and whirl around to find Bucky sitting on the stairs, filling up the doorway and smiling smugly at you.

“How-” You look at him, then around at the clearing and back to Bucky, pointing at him. “You- What?”

“Sorry, I… thought it would be fun. It was creepy, wasn’t it?” He scratches the back of his head, getting of the stairs, approaching you slowly. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“Are you okay?” It’s second nature by now to give him a once-over, to expect bruises and scrapes and, let’s be honest, blood. Seeing nothing doesn’t necessarily mean he’s okay. These yahoos are notorious about playing off little things like internal bleedings, cracked ribs and concussions.

“What, no! I mean, yes, yes, I’m okay. I wasn’t in any scuffle. Haven’t been for a while. You can check me if you like.”

Pursing your lips, you look him up and down while you circle him, prodding at his ribs, his hands, his cheekbone. Satisfied that he’s not injured, you come to a stop in front of him.

“Not that I don’t enjoy seeing you again, but… why are you here?”

“Been travelling. Sort of like this, but without the… tiny house, was it? I thought about what you said, about home and all that, and I realized that maybe I need to reevaluate what home means. Going away to figure out what I miss and what I need.”

He raises his right hand to drag the fingertips along the soft blanket, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It sounds cheesy as all hell, but your heart skips a beat, your breath catching in your throat, because he looks so content, so relaxed.

“Yeah? Did you find the answer then? What’s home?” you ask, cursing your voice for sounding breather than you ever intended it to.

“See, I packed light. Couple changes of clothes, toothbrush, the regular stuff… and this.” He takes a firm hold of the blanket with both hands, pulling it from you, shaking it out. “And I missed a lot of things in the beginning. People… things… comforts. But I learned to make do without all of those. Only thing I couldn’t get past missin’…”

You watch wide eyed as Bucky wraps the blanket over your shoulders, tugging at the ends to bring it in tightly over your chest, cocooning you in it.

“…is in this blanket,” he finishes, his gaze focused on where his hands holds it close. “I missed mornings with you. Even the first morning when I woke up feelin’ like a drunk sailor after pub crawl thinking Stark or someone had shrunk me down to the size of a bean. I missed your tiny house and your couch and your coffee and… and you.”

And you.

Maybe it’s another cliché, but you can’t help the smile, the sudden joy that bubbles up along with the sensation of right. All these days that have somehow bled into months of moving, of unease, they are drawn into this moment. They breathe a sigh of relief, settling. This is it, this is what all that drifting was about. Finding the spot where your roads would lead you to stand toe to toe, wrapped in a well-worn blanket and realize that home can grow from a warmth that accumulated over so many mornings. You push at Bucky’s hands, making the blanket part, tugging the ends from his grip to sling your arms around his neck, bringing him into it.

The kisses don’t happen until later. First, there’s the quiet, the seconds and minutes wrapped in the blanket. Then, there is breakfast and coffee strong enough to make a spoon stand up straight and slightly overscrambled eggs and Bucky’s voice drifting from the bathroom with hums breaking up the lyrics. You kiss him like you want to taste him, commit him to memory, pulling him down by his neck and drawing in a sharp breath when drops of water fall down the neckline of your t-shirt. He kisses like he’s finally at rest, safe even when his attention is diverted.

>>Coordinates? Bit banged up, wings took a hit, out of your hair before tomorrow

>>image.jpeg

>>Sorry, find another safehouse, this one’s occupied

>>TMI WAY TMI DO NOT SAY ANOTHER WORD

>>It was just a selfie!

>>IN BED

>>Get ur head out of the gutter /JBB

>>I hate you guys

You smile at the final message, setting down the phone and curling up against Bucky with a sigh. The sheets are a mess by your feet, Bucky’s body heat enough to keep you both warm.

“Occuped, huh?” he smiles, tracing your lower lip with the pad of his thumb.

You nod, pressing a kiss to the finger.

“Welcome home.”

[idea-garden]

oneshot #7 - dirty bathroom fuck - pt.2 | @minseoks-personal-trashcan

pt. 1 | pt. 2

Baekhyun/OC

Sequel to a request from @minseoks-personal-trashcan​

Written by @idea-garden​

This has been requested since I posted the first part, and we all know that was forever ago...

SMUT / 18+ / car sex / angry sex? / public sex / oral / orgasm denial / dirty talk / d/s / bdsm

3,800 words

SooRi left for a six-month internship. SooRi will never leave Baekhyun again...

If you like this like it, reblog it, and follow me!

This is trash.

ALL PROMPTS | SMUT PROMPTS | RULES | ASK | MY WRITING

SooRi stood outside her apartment door waiting for her rideshare to pick her up. The cool autumn breeze had picked up some and it made her shiver slightly in her nude bodycon dress. Finally, her ride came, the car’s lights cutting the dark sky. Collecting herself in the car, she gave the address, then sat back to observe the scenes outside the window. Everything she passed by looked so foreign and so familiar at the same time. Each place holding a different memory, giving her both nostalgia and nausea.

After a slow cruise, she reached her destination. It was her favorite restaurant. Ugh. She missed this place. She turned her eyes up at the bright place, took a breath, and slapped a few crumpled bills in her driver’s hand.

SooRi couldn’t believe it’d only been six months since she was last home. It felt good to be back. Of course, there was no place like home.

The fine dining establishment was set for dinner. Its floor-to-ceiling windows giving a beautiful view of the harbor. The decor was set in warm lighting. Cream carpet, cream chairs, off-white tablecloths, and various shades of gardenias were just a few aesthetic notes she observed.

This place was fancy. Too fancy. But, since she wasn’t buying, she had no issue eating there.

--

SooRi stood at the front of the restaurant, only waiting for a brief second before a hostess in a cute cocktail dress appeared before her. They exchanged brief smiles, as the hostess asked for a name. The restaurant was so exclusive that you could only eat there by reservation only. Apparently, according to her friend, you had to book at least six weeks in advance. SooRi appreciated the gesture. She was never one to want a big fuss to be made over her, but she had to admit it felt pretty great to be in the middle of the fanfare.

She stood for a second as the hostess scanned the seating chart, then guided her to a semi-private table set for six. Menus and neatly folded napkins were sitting on white plates that covered gold chargers. The hostess pulled out her chair and wished her a pleasant dining experience.

She was the first one to arrive to her own welcome back dinner. Typical--considering her immediate friend group. Jessi and Junmyeon were either doting on each other or having car sex in the parking lot. SooRi was convinced that Jongin and Chanyeol didn’t even know how to tell time. And Baekhyun… well he didn’t give a shit about anyone’s time except his own.

SooRi pulled out her phone, shooting a text to Jessi and noting the time. She was a little early, so she wasn't too irked. A response returned within two minutes. Her friend was on her way there--delayed traffic. SooRi told her it was no problem. She had the aching suspicion she and Junmyeon were definitely fucking in the car. However, SooRi knew her friend would never intentionally keep her waiting.

After about ten minutes, she saw Jessi and Junmyeon in lockstep carrying balloons and what looked like a neatly wrapped gift. Jessi passed her things to her boyfriend and enveloped SooRi in a tight hug.

"I missed you so much! I'm so glad you're back!" The pair teetered side to side as the hug continued.

SooRi had to chuckle, they talked every single day of her absence. There was a good chance Jessi knew more about her day than she did, but nonetheless it felt great to see familiar faces again.

"I'm glad to be back! It's good to be back with friends again."

Just as the words left her lips, Jongin walked up with Chanyeol in tow.

"There are my boys," SooRi pulled them in one after the other.

She noticed them dropping off little gift bags where Junmyeon had been previously.

"Have a seat guys! I guess we can get started," SooRi urged them to get comfortable.

She looked around the table with a smile, until her eyes rested on the empty seat.

SooRi knew she shouldn't have expected much from him, but she still wanted to see him.

"Where's Baek?"

"He just messaged me. He's on his way. He wanted us to start without him." Junmyeon reassured her.

He was probably still upset with her. She knew he had every right to be, but being on the receiving end of a cold shoulder was never pleasant.

--

The group eventually ordered their beverages and a palate cleanser. Meanwhile, Baekhyun sat in his car, deliberating whether or not he was ready to see her.

His thumbs twisted around the key fob as he was deep in thought.

She left him. She left him without a word. He didn't owe her anything, and she didn't owe him anything, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss her.

"Fuck it. I'm here now." Baekhyun slammed his car door on the way out, pissed he missed her as much as he did.

He spent no time waiting for the hostess to lead him to the table. He walked through with a confident stride. Dressed in fitted black jeans and a navy button down. The shirt, top two buttons open, gave a sinful hint of the body underneath.

In true Baekhyun fashion, he greeted the table with an off-handed comment before plopping down in the only empty seat.

Of course, it was the seat in front of her.

SooRi's mouth nearly went dry when she saw him. She hadn't seen him in six full months. Sure, she'd been stalking his Instagram, but nothing compared to the real thing.

Involuntarily, she clutched her dainty, gold necklace, rubbing it--most likely praying for the strength to make it through this dinner without crawling across the table to get on top of him.

He gave a smirk and reached across to her wine glass, taking a sip from it, daring her to react to him. He was truly a piece of work.

‘Lord, give me strength,' she mused as a strong breath filtered through her nose.

--

Drinks were scattered around the table and appetizers were spread and half-eaten.

“So, did you meet any cute guys during your internship?” Jessi snickered.

“Yeah, SooRi. Did you fuck them until they wanted to stick around, then hop on the next flight out of there?” Baekhyun grit his teeth under an annoyed stare in her direction.

“Baek, chill out!” Jongin rested a hand on his shoulder, while Baekhyun took a sip of his alcoholic beverage.

He was going to need to get drunk to make it through this damn thing.

“No, I didn’t have to do that. It turns out that most men are mature. They are upfront about what they want and don’t play games, then pout when they don’t get their way.”

“Now that I think about it, having you stay with a man is punishment enough. Perhaps, you’re doing us all a favor when you run away.” Baekhyun slammed his glass down to punctuate his malcontent.

“I think this is a good time for dessert.” Chanyeol piped up.

“God Chanyeol. We haven’t even had our entrees.” Junmyeon murmured under his breath.

“Well, it’s a better suggestion than watching a fucking cage match at our table!”

No one could argue with that.

“Let’s all cut Baekhyun a break. It’s difficult for us to see things from his perspective, because none of us can get our heads that far up our own asses.” SooRi winked at him and Baekhyun rolled his eyes damn near out of his skull.

“You just don’t know how much I’ve missed you, SooRi, “Jessi smirked at her boyfriend before the rest of the group had a hearty laugh at poor Baekhyun’s expense.

--

Before long, the main meals had come and gone. Now, the group sat around trading stories to catch each other up on the happenings of their life over dessert.

"I'm so glad to be back. I just want to settle into my old routine again."

Baekhyun scoffed, partly in disbelief.

"Which part of your routine? The part where you beg me to fuck you in every position known to man? Or the part where you act like you aren't interested in us being 'us'?"

Eyebrows shot up around the table. This was news.

SooRi cast her head down. This was one of the few times in her life she wasn't feeling too combative. Normally, she would've ripped Baekhyun a new asshole, or exsanguinated him with words sharper than knives, but not tonight.

"What's the matter, SooRi? You still haven't told them about us keeping up fuck buddy-status since Jongin's party?"

That cheeky bastard beamed at the chance to put her in her place in front of everyone.

"You know, just because your parents never gave you hugs as a kid, doesn't excuse you from being a complete ass." SooRi didn't want him to think she cared about anything he had to say, but enough was enough.

She took a deep breath, then sighed. "I'm sorry guys. I don't think I can stay here any longer." SooRi stood, reaching for her purse and phone.

"Don't leave your welcome back party! We'll kick Baekhyun's sorry ass out of here," Chanyeol snickered and stuck his tongue out.

"You're the best, Yeol. It's getting late anyway, and we've had such a nice time. I'd hate to ruin the night with an attempted murder charge."

--

SooRi hugged her friends one last time, before she departed. Her heels clicked with a soft echo in the concrete parking lot. She tapped her foot out front, waiting for her rideshare.

A strong hand gripped her waist without warning.

"You've got a lot nerve, walking out on me like that."

"I don't know if you were at the same dinner that I was, but you were the one acting all butt-hurt."

"When the going gets tough, SooRi gets going." Baekhyun shrugged, "If you want to get home you might as well let me take you. I canceled your ride. You're still on my account, remember?"

SooRi glared at him, fighting her instinct to curse him out.

"You'd have better luck asking Carmen Sandiego where in the world you lost your damn mind!"

"Get in the fucking car, SooRi. Let me take you home."

--

The tension was palpable as they rode in silence. Baekhyun cut his eyes over her frame. She looked amazing, as always. Since he'd had her, there was no one else he wanted.

"It killed me when you left." He spoke never looking in her direction.

"W-What?" SooRi tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

"You just left me. I thought that we were, kind of, building something. Then, I find out through Instagram that you're on your way to New York for an internship."

"You always knew I had to go...," SooRi trailed off in a whisper.

Baekhyun's fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles white and fully-flexed.

"That is not the point, dammit! You can't make people fall for you, then just leave them high and dry!"

SooRi's eyes widened, mouth partly agape, a series of questions ready to flow from her brain to her lips.

"Baekhyun-- W-Where are you going?!" She watched as he peeled off the path to her home and down some dark street.

Both of their bodies lurched forward as he came to a stop in the desolate alleyway. Putting the car in park, he turned to SooRi with a dark glint in his eyes.

"I wish I could get you out of my mind. I wish I could hate you."

--

Baekhyun pressed his lips against SooRi's, gently at first, gradually his force increased. She weakly tried to push him off, but she missed the feeling. His tone arm pulled her closer to him, SooRi's side digging into the center console.

"Ouch! Not so rough!" SooRi shifted uncomfortably around the console and his unrelenting grip.

"I think that's the least of your problems tonight, SooRi-ah. Someone needs to teach you some manners. It's not polite to leave your boyfriend without so much as a word."

"Boyfriend? Really, Baek?"

His hands grabbed her hips as best they could. "Ah, ah, ah! Tonight, I think you should address me as 'Sir,' don't you think? I am teaching you a very important lesson. Now, crawl into my lap, baby girl."

Against her better judgement, she shifted over his lap, "I bet you've missed this, huh?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Baekhyun."

He took no time to swat her ass quickly a few times. "What did I tell you to address me as?"

"...Sir...," SooRi looked off to the side. She'd be damned if she was going to make eye contact. Besides, she already knew he had a shit-eating grin on his face.

"Good girl. Lift up your dress."

Baekhyun watched as she wriggled around to lift her dress around her waist. He eyed the microscopic piece of fabric that was her lacy, white thong. His tongue slithered out from between his lips, eager to have and taste her.

She gnawed on her bottom lip in anticipation. She could feel his fingers ghosting over her entrance, before a cool gust of air hit her skin. He clenched his teeth, snapping the panties at the waistband.

SooRi glowered down at him, but stifled a moan when he shoved the underwear in his pocket.

"Looks like someone missed me, too," he dipped two fingers inside SooRi, while his thumb massaged her clit. "How thoughtful of you to keep it nice and wet for me."

She released a hoarse, needy groan at his delicate touch. He always knew which button to press to keep her reeling.

"Feel good, sweet girl?"

She nodded erratically, bucking her hips up to meet his fingers. "Uh huh. Y-Yes, Sir."

His digits quickened as they curled to tease her g-spot. Baekhyun was quite amused watching her face contort in a mixture of pleasure and discomfort. Her shallow moans broke up the silence between her delicious wet sounds and the leather squeaking against their active bodies.

Baekhyun slapped SooRi's inner thighs when her hip rolling became too eager. "There is so much more fun to have, baby."

"I'm close, Sir." Her nails dug into his shoulders, body twisting as her orgasm neared.

Her whimpers were the sweetest music to his ears. He could feel her warmth pulsing around his fingers.

As she found herself teetering dangerously on the edge, Baekhyun withdrew his fingers, opting to taste her.

She whined, watching him savor her unique flavor, "Put them back, please...Sir. I want to cum on your fingers."

"This wouldn't be much of a lesson, without some form of punishment."

Wiping his wet fingers on SooRi’s inner thighs, Baekhyun gripped her face in a deep kiss. Their tongues danced around in desperation for one another. Mouths still connected, he tugged at the thin straps of her dress, all too impatient for it to come off.

SooRi wriggled out of the top half of the dress, rolling it to the middle of her stomach where the rest of the dress was. Baekhyun’s tongue dragged a fiery trail down her neck to her uncovered breasts.

His tongue flicked at her nipples, before he alternated with a light suctioning pressure. He pulled the soft skin through his teeth, gently biting her and leaving her chest covered in maroon bruises.

SooRi tangled her fingers in his hair, head dropped back and body still tense with the desire to cum.

“Unzip my pants,” Baekhyun smirked at her attempts to grind against him for any kind of sensation.

She didn’t have to be told twice.

In a matter of seconds, Baekhyun’s dick was stiffening in SooRi’s manicured hand.

“Go ahead, princess. Ride me.”

She lined him up with her entrance and sank down with a satisfying sigh. He filled her up so nicely. She fit around him like a glove.

SooRi wrapped her arms around the driver’s headrest, slapping her hips up and down wildly. Baekhyun broke up the monotonous sound with a few sharp ass slaps.

Kneading the tender flesh, he grunted, “Damn, I’ve missed this ass.”

SooRi leaned back to roll her hips, narrowly missing the horn. Her knees dug into the soft leather around Baekhyun, frustrated by the lack of space. His hands ran up the sides of her waist and settled on her bruised tits.

Palming them roughly, she mewled as he rolled her nipples between his fingers. She hissed watching him pinch and tweak the hard nubs.

He pulled on her nipples as if they were the reins of a horse--tugging them mercilessly enjoying her whinnies for release. When he felt he'd done enough, he closed a broad hand around her throat.

"I'm about to--," she was barely able to breath out.

They were both well aware of the fact that whenever his hands clasped around her throat, she would be drenched. It was like she was straddling Niagara Falls.

"Not yet," Baekhyun swiftly opened his door and scooped her off of his length.

--

She wobbled to find her footing as she stood right outside the car--totally exposed.

"Baekhyun, what the fuck?!" She tried to shield her nude form and scurry to the passenger's seat, only for Baekhyun to stop her in her tracks.

"That's 'Sir,' to you. But, since you want to be a mouthy little slut, I'll give you something productive to do with your mouth."

Baekhyun eyes gleamed darkly as he stared her down. He towered over her to drop his jeans more comfortably, before resuming his seated position.

"Let's see those pretty lips on my dick, hmm?" Baekhyun blew a kiss in her direction, meanwhile SooRi returned the evil eye.

If she felt that her knees were in an uncomfortable position in the car, the cold asphalt was certainly no improvement.

SooRi kneeled and looked up to him, teeth gritting as she gripped him at the base of his cock. Her hands glided up and down his glistening shaft, pumping him faster and faster.

She swiped his tip quickly, cleaning a clear drop of precum. Her tongue drug a sloppy trail up from his balls to the tip, before swirling around the head.

SooRi shivered at the cool, night air, smirking at the thought of being so naughty. The lonely, flickering street light cast a shadow over the pair. The sounds and faint lights of cars moving on the highway made them very aware of their daring deed.

Baekhyun sucked in a jagged breath as her warm mouth worked its magic. He stroked her curly hair with great care, easing her down on his needy, aching member.

His voice strained as she expertly handled his girth. She always knew exactly what he needed in exactly the right moment. It wasn't long before he had her lips motioning at the base of his member.

"Fuck, baby...," he eked out with a clenched jaw.

After a few muffled gags, SooRi bobbed up for much-needed air. She lapped at the new precum leaking from his head. She eyed him with sliver of rebellion, as her hands pumped him faster and faster. One hand massaged his balls, while she tongued his tip.

"Is it good, Sir?" She'd picked up his signature smirk with no practice.

Baekhyun lifted SooRi from his length by her chin, "Ah, ah, ah. I want to pump that pretty pussy full of cum."

Her cheeks turned a bright shade of red as she stood in front of him, lips glistening in the brief flashes of light.

"You think if I put a baby in that tight little stomach, you'll have a reason to stay with me?" He whispered roughly in her ear.

She nearly lost her breath at the new side he was revealing.

He stood up, leading her to the hood of the car with one hand and holding his pants to help his waddle with the other.

When he found a comfortable spot, he cupped his hands under her ass, lifting her on the hood of his sedan.

She landed with a soft thud, tensing at the cold metal beneath her.

"Spread those legs, baby," he took a few seconds to kiss her inner thighs and pass his tongue over her slick opening.

Baekhyun lined his shaft up to her entrance, rubbing her clit with his thumb and parting her wetness with his tip.

"Mmmmm, don't tease," SooRi panted, hips moving at the slightest sensation.

Her body was on fire and no amount of air could cool her down. She needed release and wouldn't be denied. Not this time, anyway.

He pecked her lips, pulling her bottom lip through his teeth, just the way she liked it. Within a moment, he shoved hard and pushed his entire length into her in one thrust, holding her hips to pull her against him.

"You. Never. Fucking. Leave. Me. Again. Got it?!" He blew through his teeth, each thrust more powerful than the last.

It was her turn to grunt, grit, and moan, feeling his length tunnel into her. His thickness stretched her more than she remembered. She dug her hands into the hood of the car, frustrated that there was nothing to grab and hold onto for dear life. SooRi felt like she was losing her grip--not only on Baekhyun’s car, but reality--as he started moving, drawing back, and thrusting his length into her again and again.

"Oh, fuck! Keep fucking me like this, Sir! I'll never leave you again, Baekhyun!"

His mouth dried before a broad grin covered his features, "Learned your lesson so soon?"

SooRi could barely respond when her eyes shut tightly, riding the wave of pleasure flowing through her body. An onlooker would have described her as possessed, the way she writhed, convulsed, and shuddered. She rocked back and forth, still sliding on his dick, moaning unintelligible, incoherent strings of words.

The rocking BMW didn't have much of a chance to still as Baekhyun tipped over the edge. He felt his balls contract up towards his body, anticipating the muscle contractions start that would send him cumming inside her, and he grabbed her hips with both hands again to pull her back into him.

The spasms lasted for what seemed like forever in those moments of release. He bucked into her erratically as his ejaculation subsided, slowly coming down from the high.

--

Baekhyun rested inside her for a few minutes, before slipping out, gradually softening while SooRi adjusted her dress.

He pulled his pants up and hopped back in the driver's seat, waiting for SooRi.

When she closed the door behind her, they buckled up and peeled out of the alleyway.

"Maybe, I should leave more often?" SooRi winked as they headed to her place.

"Maybe, you need another lesson?" Baekhyun gripped her thigh, as he sped off into the distance.

Idea Garden is a writing prompts blog. We focus mainly on smut prompts, however, our prompts do span genres.

ALL PROMPTS | SMUT PROMPTS | RULES | ASK | MY WRITING