#in other news... heres a ficlet?

[tovalhallaandback]

Some News Isn't Meant to Be Shared

Pairing: Sigtryggr Ivarson/Stiorra Uhtredsdottir

Summary: With the peace between saxon and dane threatened, war is not the only thing brewing in Eoferwic/Jorvik. Moments before the king and queen depart their stronghold to meet Edward's arm, Stiorra contemplates sharing news that could change everything.

Aka - just a teeny tiny moment set during episode 5x05, right before they leave Eoferwic to meet Edward's armies.

Warnings: Implied pregnancy

Wordcount: 405w

AN: Yeah so I'm one of those shippers that headcanons Sig/Stiorra did eventually want kids (just not right away) and that Stiorra was pregnant in S5. I'll probably eventually add more canon stuff. Expand. Just wanted to write something light-ish and fluff-esque - and voila, this is what came to me.

Crossposted onto AO3

Her breath hitches in her throat, chest straining against the leather of her armor as his hands tighten the the strings then the belt that hold the garment flush to her chest. The adjustments he makes are usually minor, just tightening the bodice a thread more, a gesture that will hardly have an affect on whether she lives or dies if she meets a blade. But nevertheless, it's their little pre-battle ritual; something that must be done before they depart. And even if the adjustments are obsolete, his shoulders and jaw always relax after he’s finished, so she holds her tongue, not willing to take the one thing that grounds him away from him when the threat of violence looms like a dark grey storm cloud on the horizon.

“There, that should hold,” he says, lips brushing against her nose. “The men are ready.” 

Her hand skims across her belly, tongue brushing over her lips as her voice strains, “Sigtryggr-“ 

He turns on the stairs, bright blue eyes like the sky on a clear day blinking back at her as he hovers, awaiting for her to continue. 

Now seems like the time she should share the good news, and yet the words she wants to stay stick to her tongue like bees trapped in their own honey, unwilling to make themselves known. She’d only realized it herself yesterday afternoon, the past few weeks pushing it into the far corners of her mind. She should tell him; she wants to tell him. They’d waited years for this blessing.  Yet, if she tells him now, he’ll fall back on his word to his people. And they need him more than she does right now. They need to know that they have his protection, that Edward will not succeed in wiping them from their rightful homes, that he will not undo all that they have fought for in Eoferwic, that the peace will prevail even if war must be stirred again to protect it. 

So instead, she swallows them for a better time will come. “I’ll be down shortly.” 

He nods, flashing that soft just barely there smile that always weakens her. Then, the stairs creak as he disappears, leaving her in their bedchamber. Alone. 

Her thumb brushes across her abdomen again, just barely beginning to swell as she takes a steadying inhale. Her husband is cunning and tender; they’ll all make it home. There is still time. 

[varpusvaras]

Report nro. 34456-446: Lost sight of the suspect in level 2089; the suspect was not apprehended; the surroundings impeded with the process of apprehending the suspect

Report nro. 35567-447: The suspect was chased down to level 2089; the patrol in charge lost sight of the suspect due to poor conditions of the surroundings, which made continuing the chase at full force dangerous for the members of the patrol; the suspect was not apprehended

Report nro. 36678-448: The last sighting of the suspect was near sector 8994 of the level 2089; the patrol in charge of the chase had to slow down their approach due to poor conditions of the area in question, to make sure there would be no excess harm for the troopers; the suspect was not apprehended

Requisition for equipment upgrade, form 6678 B-3

Requisition DENIED

See more information below

There was a headace incoming. Fox could feel it.

Stone raised a brow at him when Fox informed him about it.

"You know, if you can already feel the headache, it means you have a headache", he said.

Fox glared at him.

"When someone tells you that they can feel a headache coming, the last thing they usually need is someone being a smartass", he said, barely restraining himself from gritting his teeth. It wouldn't have done him any good either on the headache department.

Stone didn't seem at all phased by Fox's bad mood. He just shrugged, and then reached over the desk and snatched the datapad right from Fox's hands. That did make Fox grit his teeth, but he forced himself to relax. If the datapad was in Stone's hands, it meant that Fox didn't have to look at it anymore.

He drummed his fingers on his desk, as he watched Stone scroll through the reports and the requisition form.

"You asked for better safety gear for unstable ground and low lighting conditions?" Stone glanced at Fox over the datapad. "Those are weird things to deny, especially since they want us to increasingly patrol the lower levels, even outside an active investigation."

"You think I don't know that?" Fox scoffed, and then tried to make himself relax again. Nothing about this situation was Stone's fault, and Fox didn't like taking his frustrations on his brothers. Other people outside the Guard yelled at all of them enough already, they didn't need their Commander to do the same.

Stone didn't, thankfully, still seem at all phased by Fox's mood. He continued to scroll for a moment longer, his forehead creasing more and more by every second.

"The request was denied because there have been no observations of conditions on the reported area, that are deemed unsafe enough for us to need better equipment?" He glanced at Fox again. "That doesn't make any sense. You have clearly attached the trooper reports onto the form. Did they not read them?"

"Probably not." Fox pushed his frustrated thought out of his head by sighing very deeply. "Or if they did, the person in charge of processing the requests that day just deemed the risks not worth the credits."

Both of those options were just as plausible, as both of them had happened just as many times by now. Fox leaned his forehead on his hand and pressed his thumb hard against his temple. They were just past half a year in their posting, and most things about it sucked already.

Just think about the fact that you have a bed that is not full of mud, sand, or bugs, he told himself. Just think about the fact that at the very least, you don't have immersion foot syndrome. You have things good in here.

That thought helped a little bit, but it didn't change the fact that they had still been denied of the gear they needed, and now there was heavy breathing against the back of Fox's neck.

Stone must've felt it too, because he sighed as well.

"So they expect us to just throw our men at the danger and get results, no matter the cost?" He clicked his tongue. "And when we do that, a few weeks goes by, and they start complaining about too many casualties."

"Tell me about it." Fox jammed his thumb harder against his skin. There was a burst of pain under it as he found the point of tension. "We need to come up with a new tactic for situations like this. Increase the force or use of weaponry, if the suspect starts heading towards an area we know is unsafe. Update all the patrols with a map of said areas."

Stone started to drum the desk now as well in Fox's place.

"That might work", he said. "At least for now, it's the best we have."

"I'm going to implement it until we get the time to have a larger meeting about this issue." Fox forced himself to straighten up. "Give me the datapad back."

"No", Stone said, frowning at Fox. "You're not supposed to be looking at them. You're not supposed to be even thinking too hard. You can knit together a broken bone, but not a concussed brain. You're lucky I haven't already tattled about you to Index."

"Like Index would do anything."

"He would look sad, and then his two little terrors would come down here and kick the door in", Stone said. "You know they don't respect anyone in here, other than Index."

Fair point. Still, Fox extended his hand.

"I promise I won't do any more work", he said, "but I need to send a couple of messages to Casset. He agreed that there is a very high chance that all of these recent cases are related to some sort of bigger activity, as all of their movements are similar. He promised to look up some old reports from before the war and send them over."

Stone tilted his head.

"That sounds a lot like working", he said. "And why do you need Casset to do it anyway? Couldn't you have asked Mirror to find those reports for you?"

"Mirror has other things to do than to slice through old security databases and see if there is anything even remotely related to this", Fox said. "If a natborn wants to be helpful to us, I'm going to take it. It doesn't happen too often anyway."

Casset was the new head of Security for the intelligence office, though Fox had by now realised that it didn't mean a lot, despite the important-sounding title. Casset's job was basically to keep up with five hundred different channels and double the amount of systems used for processing and archiving information related to security. Most of the time Fox saw him, he was talking to at least three people at the same time through his commlink. But still, for a natborn officer, Casset was not bad. He couldn't tell Fox and his brothers apart most of the time, but that was forgivable, and he, at the very least, didn't try to actively make Fox's life worse.

Stone knew all of that as well. He looked back down at the datapad, and then back at Fox.

"True", he said. "But still. It's still working."

"Well someone has to do it", Fox shot back. "And since all of you are busy picking up my slack, because I got thrown off a moving speeder and landed on my head a little bit too hard, I can type a couple of messages."

Stone himself was still in full armor, despite the fact that he had already been on his feet for at least eleven and a half hours. Perhaps Fox should've adopted the train of thought of just doing as Index had told him to do, so he could get back to work faster and prevent Stone and the others from growing massive bags under their eyes as well, but the truth was that he didn't have the luxury to do that, and that was also something Stone knew.

Stone looked at the datapad again, and then with a very displeased look on his face, he handed it back to Fox.

"I will tell Thorn about this", he said. "And if you're still here doing anything else than messaging Casset when he comes back from his patrol, I hope he throws you into a cell for as long as it takes you to fully recover."

"Whatever." Fox had just opened his messages, when Stone's commlink started to rapidly beep for an incoming call.

"Speak of the man", Stone said, and opened the call. "What is it?"

"We found the suspect on the latest case." Fox sat up a little straighter. What Thorn had just said didn't yet tell him a lot, since they had multiple cases open currently, but he sounded serious enough for Fox to immediately recognise that this was about something important.

"What case?" Stone asked.

"The suspected theft of the hyperdrive parts from the shipments to the GAR mechanics", Thorn explained. "The Nautolan guy who worked as an engineer there. Edix. He managed to slip from the patrol somewhere around level 2100 a couple of days ago."

Stone looked at the datapad in Fox's hands. They had both just read report 448, so at least the whole thing was fresh in their minds.

"Yes, I know him", Stone said. "Are you bringing him in here yourself, or do you need someone else to process him?"

"About that", Thorn sounded like he was grimacing when he spoke, "he is being sent to the medical center at the moment. He was...I don't know how to explain it, but he looked like he had been through a lot during the past couple of days. He was barely coherent, and even that is saying it too nicely. We need to make sure that he doesn't die before we can get anything out of him."

"Was he injured?" Stone asked. The answer should've been straight-forward, but instead, Thorn was quiet for a moment.

"Didn't look like it", he said, finally. Fox scowled at the commlink.

"What do you mean?" He asked. "You just said that he was being transported to medical because you're worried he will die without attention."

Thorn didn't seem at all surprised by the fact that Fox was also there, as he didn't comment on it at all.

"He didn't have any visible injuries, at least not anything bigger than a couple of scratches", he answered. "I'm not a medic or an expert in Nautolan physiology, so I can't say for sure what's going on, but he was just...laying here. Gripping onto the ground like he had just managed to crawl to where he was. Didn't even try to resist the arrest, he just stared at us and sometimes muttered something, but our translation software couldn't pick up clear words from it."

Fox gave Stone a look. This wasn't the usual way of operation. If there were no visible injuries, the suspects were to be transported into the medical section of the prison, where they would be monitored, until they were cleared to be well enough to be admitted for regular processing. Fox knew this. Stone knew this. They both knew that Thorn knew this as well.

Fox also knew that Thorn didn't do decisions that went against regulations without a good reason.

"Why did you call up medical personnel right away?" Fox still had to ask. There was something weird in the way Thorn was speaking. Fox wouldn't have said that he was being too serious, no. He just sounded like he was on edge, in a way that Fox recognised many of his brothers and other officers to be when they had seen something rather gruesome, but were able to compartmentalise it away after years of seeing things just as bad or even worse. The problem was just the fact that what Thorn was describing didn't sound like it was anything too grotesque.

It wasn't like Thorn. Perhaps he was just leaving things out while they were on the call. It could've explained it, at least for now.

Thorn sighed heavily.

"I deemed it necessary", he said, now sounding a bit frustrated. "Look, the medical officers that came to take him away agreed with me, and I'm going to trust their word on this. We want our suspect to be able to withstand interrogation. We've already gotten too much drag for all of this, and I don't want any more of it."

That was true. At least now they would have something to show for themselves.

Fox bit back his own sigh.

"Alright", he said. "We'll talk about this after the official report has been made."

Thorn breathed in deeply a couple of times. They were all working too much, Fox reminded himself, especially now that Fox wasn't doing full hours.

"Yes, Sir", Thorn said. "I'll be back to base in three hours, if nothing else comes up. I hope you're not in your office anymore by then, because I don't have the energy to be gentle with you tonight."

"I can accept that", Fox said. "Call me if something else comes up."

"No, I will be calling Stone, because he is the one on duty right now", Thorn said. "Over."

He ended the call before Fox could say anything else. Stone had the audacity to smirk.

"You heard him", he said, and stood up. "Message Casset, and then go to sleep. I mean it."

Fox sent him a much more vicious glare than the previous ones, but Stone still didn't seem to care. He just took Fox's empty cup of caf from the desk, and marched out of the office without a second look.

Fox leaned back on his chair with a groan. His head definitely hurt now. Maybe it had been hurting to whole time. Who knew. Not Fox, that was for sure.

Going to sleep did sound rather nice, Fox wasn't going to lie. He could've given himself a moment, but he knew that if he did so, he wouldn't be able to make himself do anything else, and he really did need to message Casset. It was the least he could do.

He straightened himself, lifted the datapad, and typed a message. Then he leaned back again and closed his eyes.

He wasn't sure how long had passed, but he startled awake when there was a chime coming from the datapad. Fox straightened himself a bit too fast, making both his neck and head thrum. The light coming from the screen seemed definitely brighter now than it had the last time, and Fox had to squint at the device until he could lower the brightness enough to be able to see clearly.

Casset had gotten the reports. He was sorry for them being not sorted in any way, as he had had to pull them from different filing systems. Fox understood very quickly why he was apologising when he saw the size of the datapack attached to the message.

Fox put his head in his hands and just breathed for a moment.

Then he pressed download.

[devondespresso]

Last Line Tag Game!!

RULES: Post the last sentence you wrote (fanfic / original / anything) and tag as many people as there are words in the sentence

tagged by @stobinesque 💕 I finally have a little piece from my latest adventure: a Nancy pov trauma drabble ft. post s1 stancy (longer than one sentence technically cause the sentences are short because dialogue)

“Okay, that’s fine. Never again, if you need that."

(is that the title mixed in somewhere in the line?? 👀 thats crazyyy i wonder which two words it is 🤔)

tagging only 9 people this time (no pressure ofc 💕)(sorry if if i tagged you after you've already done it i haven't been online all day)(double sorry if you're not a writer and i mixed up who my writer and nonwriter mutuals are): @spoookysix @blushweddinggowns @gleek4twd @wuffgang-ameowdeus-moozart @eriquin @byler-alarmist @marvel-ous-m @unclewaynemunson @itswhatyougive

[radiance1]

Some what of a link to this little ficlet.

The Curse of twins.

Damian didn't know where or when his Grandfather had heard of this specific variation of the curse. But it didn't matter.

He did not need two heirs, so the result would have remained the same regardless.

It went like this:

"Two halves of the same whole, one always limiting the other, only when one half is removed can the other become whole."

Damian, at the time, did not know exactly what it had meant.

But the result was that he had to slay his own brother, or his brother to slay him, for the one remaining to become 'whole.'

Damian despised it. Despised how after he had slain his brother it had worked.

He did not need to worry about or fret over his younger sibling, he had a new drive to gain more and more strength, more efficiency within the League's teachings because of the fact he was not strong enough.

In the end, he had become, 'whole.'

Damian did not regret killing his brother, no. He regretted that he was not strong enough to not have to, not strong enough to look the 'curse' in its face and declared that he need not be whole, that he was strong enough to remain 'half.'

In an odd twist of fate, it worked in his brother's favor as well.

His brother returned from death, yet not from the League's methods. As a ghost, stronger than he was before, with powers granted to him from his status of the dead.

He, too, had become 'whole.'

Was Damian have meant to slay his brother?

Was this both of their fates? Wherein Danny had to die, and Damian live?

Was Damian never supposed to be strong enough to protect his brother in life, and only able to do so in death?

Could Damian never, no matter the circumstances, stop the two of them from becoming 'whole?'

If, granted a second chance, would everything still remain the same?

He knew the answer.

Yes.

Danny was too soft, too kind, too emotional, too childlike to survive what the League had and would have continued to demand of him.

If Damian had not killed him then, then he would have died later to other means.

At least, with the duel ending in Damian's favor, he could ensure Danny be granted a swift, peaceful and merciful end.

Anything else, Damian would be unsure.

So yes, if granted a second chance, Damian would kill him again.

And again.

And again.

As much as he needed to, not to become 'whole' but to ensure his demise be kind. Kind as Danny was, as gentle as Damian could manage with warmth that paled in comparison to Danny's own but much more than the League would have been capable of.

Damian felt, and saw, the slightest dip on the bed in the spot beside him and knew Danny was there. Silent and unseen by Damian's request.

There were no bugs within this room.

Damian had already checked every nook, cranny, and crevice he could find and manage.

He had already trapped the door to make him aware for if one of his 'siblings' (He hated that referral. There were no other 'siblings,' he had and has only one.) decided to make their presence known and if they managed to not trigger it, the room was as well.

Damian leaned over, hooking arm around Danny and pulling him close.

He could allow himself this, for this brief moment.

(Danny was cold. So, so cold.)

(It was both something he despised and took comfort in.)

(He despised how it was the reminder of how he failed, of the strength he lacked, of what he was incapable of.)

(It was a comfort. Because Danny was still there, still here even if only in death.)

He wrapped his other arm around Danny, and felt his younger brother return the gesture.

Yes, this. He could allow himself.

For the briefest of moments.

(3)

[knifeforkspooncup]

Please click for better resolution!

I made this silly little art, and then like a being possessed, wrote 1200 words of pure unadulterated hogwash to go with it (ficlet below the cut)

Duck Duck Goose

Rating: Teen and up

"Shouldn't be feeding them bread." Crowley said, trying and failing to ward off an irate goose with the pointed toe of his boot. "It’s brioche." Aziraphale chided, as if that explained anything. A nattering crowd of ducks was forming at his feet like eager disciples. Crowley didn't ask where he'd gotten the brioche. He'd stuck his chilly hands into Aziraphale's pockets enough times now to know the list of things the angel kept on his person at any given moment was - well, impressive was one word for it. In the way a magpie's hoard of oddities was impressive. A brioche was quite pedestrian, really. "Brioche then.” The goose had moved on to striking repeatedly for his ankles, more pit viper than waterfowl. “Shouldn’t. Feed them. Brioche,” he gritted between defensive maneuvers. He never had gotten the hang of sword fighting. If Aziraphale heard, he pretended not to, ripping off hunks of bread at least double the esophagus diameter of the average mallard duck. One at a time, he tossed them lazily into the fray. The ducks erupted into chattering, nipping each other’s feathers. A shark frenzy had more natural order to it.

The goose took no interest, bloodlust overriding any desire for fine French baked goods. If anything, it doubled its effort to latch onto Crowley’s shin. Had geese always had teeth?

Aziraphale beamed at the chaos, halogen bright. Humming with self satisfaction, he brushed his hands of crumbs, and settled back against the bench. Crowley diverted a sliver of bodily coordination to snake one arm behind him, weaseling into the warm gap left by the angel’s impeccable posture.

This was a thing they did now, apparently. Not watching ducks squabble over bread – that part was old hat. But Aziraphale tucking himself neatly against Crowley's side? For all the world to see. Like he was one of Crowley's wings simply stowing away. Frankly, that hat still had the tag on it. Still had that new hat smell.

This was rapidly becoming their new normal. Embroidery on the familiar weave of their time together. They still did all the things they always had. They still went to the Ritz, where the waiter still assumed Aziraphale was paying for the bill. Crowley still pulled out the angel’s seat like a proper gentledemon.

None of that had changed.

Just now they also held hands on the table between courses, and Aziraphale fed Crowley bites of dessert straight from his spoon. Sometimes they even did exciting things with their feet under the table.

Aziraphale called it canoodling. Crowley was pretty sure that was a fussy type of dog. The kind that wore bows on its head and left the groomer looking like an ornamental hedge.

Whatever it was, it was nice. More than nice.

Take today for example. The clouds were parting, birds singing – the whole production; the sun sparkled just so, really putting the ol’ razzle dazzle on it all.

There went Aziraphale, tipping his head back against Crowley’s shoulder, eyes closing. Lashes sun-gilt and fanning on his rosy cheeks. Straight out of a renaissance painting. A nice, expensive renaissance painting, on with real lapis lazuli pigment for the eyes. The angel really knew when to lay it on thick.

“Oh, that’s quite nice, isn’t it.” Aziraphale sighed, basking in the warmth.

See, nice? It was nice. Five hundred years of coming here, and this moment was the most nice it had ever been. Crowley remembered when this place was a marshy field full of roving geese and snuffling pigs. When the trees that made this nice bench were just scrawny little saplings, runty and wind bitten. Had the bench gotten smaller? It used to feel immense, and not in the luxury Cadillac sense of the word. Used to fit Heaven and Hell between them with room to spare. Back when nice was a four letter –

The goose sunk it’s – definitely toothed – beak into Crowley’s shin, just above the boot.

Satisfied with its grip, it started to flail, giving the impression Crowley was a chewtoy it meant to thrash to death. The small part of Crowley’s brain reserved for humility was starting to believe it would succeed.

"Dinner? How would you feel about a nice, tasty Christmas goose?” Grunted Crowley, shaking his leg and raising his free hand, demonic miracle at the ready. He had just the goose in mind. “With all the trimmings. Could even do some plum sauce on the side if you like,"

Aziraphale frowned, eyes still closed. “…it’s October.”

“That a no, then? Don’t want to get a head start on the festivities?”

Aziraphale looked up just as Crowley managed to dislodge the fowl beast and punt it away like a feathery football. It came right back, tongue stuck out like a rude child and wheezing angrily.

He tsked, mouth thinning. “You’re terrible. Leave the poor thing alone.”

Crowley sputtered. “Wha – ha – me?! I’m not the one biting a boot like a lunatic!” Would that work? Biting it? Maybe the goose would bugger off if Crowley bit it back. Should he bite it back? He should probably bite it, shouldn’t he. Oh, Satan, he was going to get feathers stuck in his teeth.

The infernal creature hissed, undoubtedly reading his mind. Crowley hissed back, tongue forking menacingly if only for the sake of his own ego.

Aziraphale was staring at him and smiling. Well, smirking. Fondly. The corners of his mouth pinching his cheeks, eyes crinkling under a raised eyebrow. He even had a dimple forming on his chin. Ridiculous. Something in the inner workings of Crowley’s chest did its best impression of a snare drum.

“Shall we, my dear?” Said the Very Ridiculous Angel, stirring from Crowley’s side. He stood and straightened his jumper until there were no more wrinkles. Seeing Crowley still engaged in boot-to-beak combat with the feathery fiend, he added tartly: “Before someone gets killed.”

Crowley grumbled something about demonic wrath and taking bets, but slunk to his feet. He flicked his glasses down and shot a final, venomous glare at the goose before sidling up to Aziraphale and offering his arm.

Aziraphale took it, wedging warm hands into the crook of Crowley’s elbow. He made it look habitual, easy as. Just the natural thing to do. Right as rain.

He was faster than Crowley, at this part. At the settling in. He’d taken to it all like geese to psychological warfare.

“You mentioned dinner?” Said Aziraphale brightly, ducks parting obediently at their feet.

“Your turn to pick.” Crowley’s skin was sizzling, water on a hot frying pan.

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment, face thoughtful. He took dinner plans very seriously.

“How about Peking duck? From that lovely place just around the corner, the one with the comfortable chairs.”

Crowley gave him a sharp look, nearly spraining an eyebrow in the process.

The angel was looking resolutely ahead, expression perfectly blank save for the way his mouth twitched at the corners.

I love you, blurted Crowley’s brain.

“Every restaurant has comfortable chairs,” blurted his mouth. It was a fact. Every restaurant did have comfortable chairs. Or else. So far Crowley hadn’t met a chair that cared to find out about the or else – chairs not being very curious by nature.

Crowley would say all the other things later, of course. All the sappy, corny, sweet-nothing things. When they were home. When he could wash the burn down with something whispered and sinfully filthy. Something that would make Aziraphale turn pinker than a summer peach.

Aziraphale was watching him, gaze unspeakably soft. “I know, my dear,” he said.

“I know.”

[milla-frenchy]

Sunday lunch

889 words | Joel Miller x fem reader Summary: You have lunch with guests at Joel’s house. Neither you nor Joel are able to behave

Warnings: 18+ mdni. age gap (reader in her early 20s, Joel in his late 40s), infidelity, twisted relationship, daddy kink, possessiveness, spanking, oral and cum eating (m), piv, creampie

a/n: same “couple”: Owned collection. Can be read alone, but I recommend to read the “Owned” ficlet first Thank you @aurorawritestoescape for beta-ing 💕 and @saradika-graphics for the dividers 🙏

masterlist | ao3

You were sitting between your boyfriend and Joel, squeezed, so that you could all fit around a small table. Brushing Joel’s leg with yours regularly, until you couldn't help but slide your hand down to his crotch. Just to be sure he was already hard. Thinking about how good he always fucked you. You thought he might be embarrassed to feel your hand on him, especially with another couple- Joel’s neighbors, facing the three of you. But he grabbed your hand firmly, holding you against his hard cock. No one noticed, and the forbiddenness of this situation soaked your panties a little more. 

Determined to test his limits, you went to the bathroom and removed your panties, keeping them tight in your fist when you came back to the table. His hand grabbed your thigh under the table as soon as you sat down, as if these few minutes away from him and his sight had already been too much. You slipped your wet garment into his hand, forcing him to take a long, slow breath.

When you got up to bring the plates in the kitchen and get the cake, your boyfriend and the neighbors stayed at the table, while Joel stood up. As you opened the fridge, you felt Joel's chest press against your back, making you moan.

“You like teasing me in front of him, huh?” he asked in a low voice, desire mixed with abruptness, his hand grabbing your mound from behind while the other was keeping you pressed against him.

“Is that why your pussy’s so wet? You like being naughty?”

“Yes, daddy,” you whispered.

“You know how much I wanna fuck you, right now? Right here? Just to remember who you belong to? Who owns you?”

His hard cock was pressed against your ass, his hand now on your waist, and you couldn’t help but moan, watching the door out of the corner of your eye, even though you could still hear the conversation between the neighbors and your boyfriend.

“Come here,” he growled, grabbing your wrist and pulling you towards the pantry, closing the door behind you both.

He unzipped his jeans, taking out his hard cock, glistening with precum.

“Turn around,” he growled, and without waiting for you to do so, he spun you around, face against the wall. He lifted your skirt and thrust into your cunt in one go, grunting against your ear.

“Joel!” you whined, your walls spread wide abruptly by his thick cock.

“My baby girl is such a tease. Grabbing my cock during lunch, giving me those panties, when my son’s sitting right next to you? Fuckin’ naughty girl.”

He fucked you hard, his forearm pressed against your upper back, chasing his orgasm without seeming to care about yours.

“Did he fuck you this morning?” he asked in the hollow of your ear.

“No… no, he fucked me during the night.”

You didn't know how to interpret the heavy growl that came from his chest. Hornyness? Jealousy? You hoped it was both, and felt a new flow drip from your pussy, soaking his cock.

“Damn, baby girl… You like to make me jealous, huh? Drippin’ like a fucking faucet. You get so wet for him?”

“Just when I think about you, daddy.”

“Christ…”

He spanked your ass twice, making you clench on his shaft.

“That's fuckin’ twisted, baby,” he replied, still thrusting into you, spreading your walls that couldn’t get used to his fat cock, no matter how many times he had fucked you already.

“You think about me when he fucks you? Do you need to think about me to come?”

“Yes, daddy,” you whimpered.

His hot cum spurted out, coating your walls. He was breathing loudly, catching his breath, and pulled away suddenly, spreading your ass cheeks and knelt to lap at your wet hole. Drinking your slick and his own desire, his tongue buried in your pussy and his nose pressed against your tight ring.

“Come on, baby. Come for me.”

You brushed your clit with your finger, twirling it under your skin, and only a few seconds were enough before you came on his tongue. Dizzy with desire. 

He stood up and turned you around, grabbing the back of your neck with his large hand, pressing his tongue against yours. When he pulled away slightly, his dark stare locked with yours. Filled with possessiveness.

“I wanna know, each time he fucks you in my house. I wanna know, cause I wanna fuck you right after, and fill you with my cum. Ya hear me?”

You nodded, your eyes moving from his, to his nose, to his lips still shiny with your arousal.

“Now you're gonna be a good girl, and go sit back at the table. I'm gonna keep these panties. And when I’ll jerk off tonight, your smell in my nose, I’ll think of how I fucked you, here, with him in the next room.”

“Yes, daddy.”

He stepped closer to you, his body pressing against  yours, your back flush with the pantry wall, and slid his hand against your puffy cunt. You flinched when he brushed your clit, before bringing his finger to your mouth. You sucked on it, not taking your eyes off him.

“Good girl,” he said, brushing your cheek. “No cake could ever taste as good as this pussy.”

Same "couple": Owned collection

Thank you for reading 🙏 Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️ Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates

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[deadsetobsessions]

AU List

Hello! Welcome! This is my attempt at keeping the AU's boiuncing around in my head in order. They should be mostly in chronological order.

Some of them are getting turned into full length fics! The list (and it's open to suggestions) can be found here: Fic List

A couple of things:

Please feel free to write your own fics based on any of these! No need to ask, simply link it so I can also read it <3

If you have any specific scenarios you have an idea for and would like me to write- my asks/prompts are always open! I can't guarantee quality as I do most of my writing at like, 3 AM but I'll try my best!

I don't condone racism, bigotry, homophobia, etc.. I do not welcome it here. I acknowledge that I have biases that I've yet to unlearn. If there's something that makes you feel unwelcome in the things I write, please let me know and I will fix it ASAP.

I write these mostly on little to no sleep (that’s when I get creative I guess?) so good luck.

Update: Apparently you can have too many links on one post (which was news to me) so the links are in the titles lol

Squatter!Danny Phantom Raises Tim

Tim 'self-preservation instinct of a wet paper bag' finds Danny Phantom squatting in his house as an injured vigilante and they immediately adopt each other.

Ghost King and the Justice League

Different scenarios where the Justice League (and extensions) deal with a Ghost King Danny Phantom, who generally just wants to get some sleep and avoid his paperwork like he avoids his problems- actively and indiscriminately.

Alcoholic! Danny Adopts Jason Todd (Fic)

Danny Phantom, a struggling alcoholic, finds his way into Gotham where he adopts a young Jason Todd... after accidentally making a name for himself, again.

Spider in Gotham (Fic)

Peter Parker found himself unceremoniously dumped into Gotham and merged with his younger, formerly dead, alternate self.

Gotham! Danny and His Bats

Different scenarios wherein which Danny Phantom is Gotham's city spirit and the task of wrangling Gotham's vigilante and villainous population is laid at his feet.

Danny in Gotham

Somehow, somewhen, Danny finds himself moving to Gotham. Other than the aesthetics, Danny finds it to be pretty similar to Amity Park's insanity.

Sea Cryptic!Danny Phantom

Danny Phantom cleans beaches in his off time. One day, he has to pick Batman (and his plane that was littered all over the ocean floor) out of the sea.

Danny Gets Yeeted (Yoted?) Into Gotham

Danny Phantom dented the Batmobile and got an adoption, vigilante siblings, and a gang of kids following him for his troubles/

Danielle "Dani/Ellie" Phantom

Danielle Phantom travelled to Gotham. Gotham encounters a wild Danny amidst its tall towers.

Timothy Drake-Centric

When Tim Drake is set on something, very little can stop him, With sub catergories : Reincarnated as Gamer! Timmy Drake (fem Tim)(Fic) and New Tim-line, Who Dis?

Reincarnated as Damian Wayne's Older Sister

Based on a nightmare, an OC finds themself reincarnated as Damian Wayne's older sister. She does not have a good time.

Prompts Found

A collection of prompts found and filled. Includes Triplet Tim and Reverse Trope Prompt.

Misc. ficlets and thoughts

My brain vs. whatever errant thoughts and ideas that decided to pop up when I'm trying to sleep.

[navybrat817]

Here's Stud

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky's cardigan reminds you of something straight out of a horror film and you have some fun with it.

Word Count: Over 1.2k

Warnings: Established relationship, banter, teasing, silliness, implied sex, very slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?) and he adores you. Also references to The Shining and my apologies to Stephen King.

A/N: I dedicate this silly Stud and Smartie ficlet to @targaryenvampireslayer for being so awesome. ❤️ @yenzys-lucky-charm , I may have included something from the "spooky" bouquet. 😉 Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky pushed some of his hair back as he got comfortable in his chair. With the gentle rain coming down outside and the chores done for the day, it was the perfect time for him to curl up with a book. Naturally you took a moment to watch him from the kitchen. In your head you were giving him dreamy eyes, but in reality you probably looked like some sort of creep who stared for far too long.

“See something you like, Smartie?” Bucky asked, not looking up from his book as he turned the page. Of course, he felt your eyes on him. “You don’t have to just look. You can touch, too. I don’t mind.”

You rolled your eyes with a giggle. “Oh, I know you want me to touch you, Stud, but you just started reading,” you pointed out. And, really, didn’t you want to touch him, too? He had such a touchable, sexy body. And his hair. So soft, thick, good for pulling. And that beard. Sweet fucking Jesus.

But that cardigan he was wearing…

“So, you do want to touch,” he smirked once you went into the living room, his eyes flickering up to yours. His brows furrowed when he saw your phone in hand. “I guess you want to look and touch?”

“Yeah, we’ll say that,” you said, making sure you were recording. “Looking handsome as ever.”

“And you look as beautiful as ever.” His eyes swept over you, making you weak in the knees and a giggle escape. It would never get old receiving a compliment from him. “Wait, are you snapping a picture or recording a video?”

“Video,” you replied, a happy sigh escaping. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he smiled, tenderness in his eyes and voice. To be on the receiving end of that was something else. Your heart was warm and full.

“I’m so glad to hear that,” you sighed again, clearing your throat to sound a bit more serious. “And now that we’ve established that we very much love each other, please look right here and say you won't chop me up with an axe.”

You remembered the day you went to check out the apartment and Bucky had to assure a loved one that he wasn’t going to murder or do anything to you if you moved in. He took it in stride and promised he’d be nothing but a caring and respectful roommate. But now a horrified look crossed his face, which nearly made your heart burst. He didn’t like you experiencing any sort of pain, even hypothetical or unrealistic. “What the… Of course, I’m not going to chop you up with an axe! I would never! Where is that even coming from?”

“Are… Are you serious? Did you not notice the pattern on the cardigan?” You turned the camera to face you for a second before you focused it back on him. “Under normal circumstances, I’m very much aware you would never do a thing like that, but today you look like you jumped out of a horror film. You know the one I’m talking about.”

He tugged a bit at the fabric, realization filling his eyes after he took another look at it. “You just said I look as handsome as ever!”

He's so cute.

“And you do. You look good in anything and everything, carpet patterns included, but I’m half expecting you to go, ‘Hello, Smartie! Come and play with me!’” He laughed when your voice changed. “‘Come and play with me, Smartie! Forever and ever and ever…’”

He laughed harder. Yeah, you were a dork at times, but you were his dork and he enjoyed your humor. “But I do want you to play with me forever and ever and ever.”

“I will happily play with you, but if you say we’re checking into a secluded hotel in the mountains soon, you better cancel the reservation and demand a refund.” You smiled at the ridiculousness of this, but silly moments meant the world. “And don’t even think about that as a honeymoon destination. No way.”

“Oh, we both know I can be a little bit more creative than that,” he said, closing his book.

“Hold on, where are you going?” You called after him when he got up and left the room.

“You’ll see,” he said over his shoulder, heading toward your bedroom.

You followed him a bit, still recording and very much curious as to what he was doing. “Should I be scared or horny? Or both? That’s a thing, right?” A small pout formed on your face when he didn’t answer you. Did you hurt his feelings? That was the last thing you wanted to do. “Hey. I’m sorry. It’s still a nice cardigan and it isn’t your fault that-”

“Heeeeeeeeeere’s Stud!”

You nearly dropped your phone when Bucky popped his head out from your bedroom door with a wild look on his face and his hair disheveled. He looked unhinged, which made your heart pound. But when he held up his hand to show you what he was holding, you almost burst out laughing. “Oh, my God! That’s my vibrator!”

His eyebrows wiggled up and down. “It sure is, Smartie. Darling. Light of my life.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you smiled. And you adored him.

“Look, I’m not chopping you up with an axe, I’m not a total psycho. But I don’t mind using this weapon on you.” He twirled it around in his hand with ease. How the hell did he do that? “Though if I am going to murder your pussy, it’s going to be with my cock and not some toy.”

You shrieked when he smirked that filthy, gorgeous smirk of his, your face hot and tingling between your thighs. He said it so casually, but you had a feeling he wouldn’t go back to his book for the rest of the day. He’d drag you to bed and try to “kill” you with his cock. “Have I created some sort of monster or are you possessed by some… pussy murdering spirit because of the sweater?” Your breath caught in your throat as he fully opened the door and advanced on you, making you step back. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“What am I doing? No, it’s we. And we are going to make our own version of The Shining.” He slowly ran his tongue along his lips as his eyes drifted down your body. “You getting that shine all over my face, fingers, and cock.”

“Holy shit,” you gasped. Yeah, you could get on board with that. You could very much get on board with that. “Okay, but maybe I should stop recording for this next part?”

“Actually, you should keep recording. More camera sex makes Stud a happy boy.” Your eyebrows shot up as he smirked and got closer, close enough for you to inhale his cologne and make your knees weak all over again. “What do you say?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

“I take it back. I haven’t created a monster. I think I’ve summoned a demon,” you teased.

“There’s always a price to pay when a demon is summoned. Time to pay up,” he smiled, his lips meeting yours in a dizzying kiss.

And for the rest of the day and well into the evening, Bucky was very happy indeed.

I can't help it, lovelies. I will adore them forever. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[joeloverture]

sea-cret obsession | j.m. x f!reader

masterlist | updates blog pairing: dad's enemy!yachter!joel miller x f!reader summary: [no outbreak] your dad's always had a superiority complex when it comes to his place at austin's finest yacht club. when joel miller joins the club, not only does he dethrone your dad — he also becomes your newest obsession. warnings: (18+ mdni) yachter!joel, dad's enemy!joel, age gap (mid 20s/mid 50s), alcohol, joel is implied to be older than reader's dad - don't read too far into it, reader wears a bikini (anyone can, i promise!), fantasizing, creepyish joel but reader's into it, soft!dom joel, porn with a paper-thin plot, m!receiving oral, throatfucking, facial, cum-eating, f!masturbation, blowjob in the captain's chair, daddy kink (oops), thigh riding, dirty talk, praise, degradation, pet names, aftercare [no use of y/n] word count: 2.9k a/n: this was supposed to be a ficlet for @iamasaddie's ✏️game. this is not a ficlet. please suspend your disbelief, this concept simply fell into my lap the moment i saw the wonderful moodboard aly put together for me. go check out the other fics, most of which are much shorter than mine and are absolute brain candy, that stemmed from aly's game!

Austin is hotter than the hinges on the gates of Hell, and you haven’t stopped sweating bullets since climbing out of Lake Travis. After an afternoon of floating belly-up in your bikini off of the dock of the yacht club your dad frequents, your need for a drink finally outweighed your need for aimless swimming.

Your bare feet are still burning from the hotfooted walk across the wooden deck into the bar. Water droplets cling to your skin and leave a pattern of stippled concrete in your wake. It’s been a few hours you’ve seen your dad around the club, having already gotten into a pissing contest with new club members over horsepower and amenities. Your dad’s the type to always want the biggest and the best: the most decks, the biggest wine fridge, the nicest galley — because God forbid he lose his running ten-year superiority to a newbie.

So yeah, you need a drink. You don’t even have to order; the bartender, Callie, simply slides your usual order over, which you nurse while watching a preseason football game. You haven’t bothered to sit down, your hip popped out with your elbows propped up on the granite countertop.

You don’t even notice the wolf whistle from behind is directed at you until a man sidles up next to you, flashing a smile at Callie. He looks like he belongs in a yacht club, curls styled and sculpted neatly around his face down to where the collar of his blue blazer begins. Some of the buttons on his striped shirt are undone, and your eyes, much to your chagrin, linger at the slice of tanned chest peeking through the fabric.

He looks you up and down, unabashedly licking his lips when he sees the crease of your thighs. “Sweetheart, you’re much too pretty to be entertainin’ the ragtag kinda men around here.”

It’s not the first time you’ve been hit on by the yachters at this particular club, but it is the first time one of them has caught your eye. “I’m not–” you start before you hear the telltale sign of your dad’s laughter coming from close by. You turn around, drink in hand as he rounds the corner, sunglasses on and a towel around the back of his neck. 

Your dad’s expression immediately sours with a speed you’ve never seen in him before. His lips draw tight at the sight of you – or maybe the sight of the man next to you.

“Joel,” your dad says, separating from his entourage. He wraps a protective arm around your shoulder and pulls you into his chest. “I see you’ve met my daughter.”

“Seems it,” the man, presumably Joel, nods, flagging down Callie for an old fashioned. The glass sweats condensation along his sturdy hand. He holds eye contact with you while he sips, only looking away when he runs his tongue along the rim of the glass. “Oughta let me take ‘er for a ride one day. Bet she’d appreciate the fine machinery of a real boat.”

You don’t miss the innuendo to his words even if your dad doesn’t. You scrub your hands along your sides, your sunscreen-sticky skin dewy beneath your palms. You shush the part of yourself that bets you’d appreciate it, too.

“Your boat is maybe good for getting to the retirement home across the lake,” your dad snaps, squeezing your shoulder. He pushes his sunglasses up his nose. “C’mon, kiddo, let’s head home.”

You find your flip flops at the bottom of your beach bag, barely having the time to kick them on before your dad is practically pulling you out of the yacht club. He gives half-hearted waves to his usual boating buddies until you’re in the parking lot, surrounded by heat shimmering over the blacktop. The scalding hot leather seats burn the backs of your thighs and the small of your back as you settle in. With a purr, the air conditioner blows a fresh burst of wind in your face.

“What was that all about?” you ask when he starts the engine.

Your dad clips his sunglasses on his polo shirt, gripping the steering wheel ten and two with a winded sigh through his nose. “Fuckin’... rookie with his triple-decker Ferretti.”

Joel looked rich. But not Ferretti rich. “Who the hell in Austin owns a Ferretti?”

“That son of a bitch, that’s who. I don’t want you runnin’ amok on Joel’s boat, you hear me?”

“Ain’t planning on it,” you respond as if you don’t already know what’ll happen if Joel propositions you again.

You see Joel again soon, but only in passing. A wink behind your father’s back, a drink from the gentleman across the bar that was only coincidentally Joel. The locations of these run-ins are always different. Sometimes you walked by each other on the dock. Sometimes he’d give you both a quick wave from across the water before he sped off, leaving the boat rocking on the stirred up tide and your dad cussing up a storm.

Today’s almost-tryst happens on the dock. You’re walking past Joel’s designated dock in a bikini that you’d nearly thrown out because of its snug fit. You have to smother your disappointment when you don’t see him on the top deck sipping a beer. You know better than to be disappointed over the man who your dad has not only claimed as a mortal enemy, but also claimed as the antichrist. With the thoughts Joel gives you when your hand is between your thighs, it might not be too far from the truth.

You think you have most of it figured out – he’s rough, he has to be. With how relentless as he is on the waters, it makes no sense for him to be anything else. His fancy, custom belt buckles snicking as it comes undone so he can yank his jeans down and get inside of you. Those chains he always wears would hang in your face, swaying with every roll of his hips into yours as he chases his pleasure deep inside of your–

“Woah there, darlin’,” a honeyed voice coaxes you, a muscled arm darting out to stop you in your path. “Almost walked right into the lake.” Your head snaps up to look at Joel, the very inconvenient object of your fantasies. You swallow the quickly-forming lump in the back of your throat. “You sure you ain’t had too many?”

“Positive,” you say. You haven’t even done a shot s0 far today.

“Mmm, alright.” The playful glint in his eyes doesn’t seem too convinced. It makes your heart stutter before you remind it to keep beating. “Tell ya what, you’re welcome to ‘sober up’ on my boat.”

You look between where your dad’s dock sits empty. He’s out with his co-workers today, shooting the shit too much for their own good. Then you look between Joel and his boat, the beauty of a Ferretti that’s just two steps away.

Mouth already watering at the possibilities, you say, “I do remember you promising me a ride, old man.”

Joel’s lips curl into a knowing smirk, and he makes the long step from the dock to the boat, hand held out for you. You don’t hesitate to let him help you aboard. 

You’re on your knees in front of the captain’s chair before he gets to the middle of Lake Travis. “Old man,” he mocks above you with his legs spread as far as they can go. You kitten-lick his hardened cock, making sure to lap up the obscene amount of his precum. There’s certainly one part of Joel that doesn’t need to go to a retirement home, and it’s in your mouth. You suckle at the leaking head of his cock while his strokes your cheek, only pulling away to spoon a drop of his precum from your lip onto your tongue. “You like suckin’ an older man’s cock, pretty girl?”

You nod eagerly, taking him deeper so you can tongue the vein along the underside of his cock. From that, he groans, head slumping on the headrest so he can gather himself. You spit a generous amount into your hand, wrapping around the base to properly suck him.

“Bet there’s a whole ‘nother lake in that skimpy lil’ bikini of yours, ain’t that right?” You nod around his length and go a little deeper. He’s heavy on your tongue, long and girthy all at once. He presses lightly against the back of your throat, prompting you to gag around him, but you wouldn’t pull away from him even if the yacht itself set on fire. He moans as you start to bob your head up and down. You rub your thighs together just thinking about what his cock could be capable of between your legs. “Mhm, I know, baby. You wanna push that outta the way and give it a rub for me? A rub for your real daddy?”

A choked whimper punches its way out of you. His hips jerk from the vibrations, unintentionally pushing himself further down your throat. You expect it to be too much, but it isn’t. You pull away from him, taking a quick breath as you wrap your hand around the wide palm seated on his thigh and raise it to the back of your head. “Please fuck my throat, daddy,” you pout up at him, a mixture of your spit and his precum dripping down your chin and into your cleavage.

Another groan tugs its way out of him when he looks down at you. He cups the back of your head and brings his cock back to your mouth. “Can’t say no to such a gorgeous fuckin’ face. Gonna look so damn good covered in my cum.” You keep licking his tip, not wanting to miss a single drop of him. “Go ‘head and put a hand on your pussy, baby. Rub that clit that daddy’s got all throbbin’.”

And how could you ever say no to him? Your hand is down your bikini within seconds, peeling your tacky panties away from your cunt so your fingertips can rub circles along your clit. A circle against your swollen core pulls a moan from you right as he thrusts into your throat. He starts out slow, tentative as he pushes all the way into your throat and then pulls all the way out. His second thrust is much harder, stifling your breathing for a moment as a strangled noise of pleasure leave his parted lips.

He nudges you further down onto his cock, burying your nose into the triangle of skin exposed by his rumpled button-down. You force down the gag that builds in the back of your throat. Joel keeps your mouth speared on his cock with shallow rolls of his hips into the warm wetness of your mouth. You whine, prompting a hearty chuckle from him. “Good girl, daddy’s good little girl. Keep playin’ with yourself for me.” He smirks down at you. “Ain’t much different than what you do in your own bed, huh? Pussy just cryin’ for some cock, I bet.”

You moan in agreement as your eyes flutter shut when you rub your clit harder, harder, harder until arousal is smeared all over your knuckles and across your mound. “Nuh-uh,” he says with a punctuating adjustment of his hips. You gag, spit webbing through Joel’s happy trail. “Eyes on me.”

You’re satisfied to find him just as debauched as you feel. Strands of his usually put-together hair are out of place along his forehead, and his golden chain glistens with sweat. His hands grip the arms of the captain’s chair, spread on the tanned leather and exerting dominance over your kneeling silhouette. But you aren’t fooled. There’s a certain rosiness to his cheeks, a flare to his nose, that lets you in on the secret: he’s just as wrecked, just as in deep as you are.

You pull up and immediately sink down on his cock again, pleading eyes looking up at him, asking him. I want it daddy. I want you. And then he’s fucking your throat in earnest. His hips buck up to meet the back of your throat. You struggle to keep up with his size, his pace, but you suck his cock even with the knowledge that you won’t know how to explain your sore throat or raspy voice to your dad.

Joel squints down at you, absorbing the seeping spit from the corners of your raw lips, your droopy, ecstasy-laden eyes. He sighs, sinking down into the chair as he grinds his cock into your mouth and moves your head up and down his length. You take the hand that isn’t playing with your clit and reach to grab at his balls, kneading them. A narrow breath trips out of his lips. “Nasty bitch. Fuck, baby. Daddy’s close. Keep – keep doin’ that.” You drag your tongue along that bottom vein again, kneading one of his balls and making sure that when he pulls you off of his cock, you treat the head to one final taste. 

“Open up, slut,” he coaxes. His cock twitches. He jerks himself once, twice, and then cums, rope after rope hitting your damp skin. His cum is hot, sticky, and you’re too preoccupied with trying to catch some of his release that your hand stalls over your cunt. You whimper when his cum lands on your tongue and follow it up by swallowing. Joel’s breath is unsteady as he looks down at you, cock softening in his lap. “Good girl,” he praises, reaching out to run his thumb along your stained skin. Drop by drop, he feeds you his cum, and you lap it up just as eagerly as you’d lapped him up. 

You pull your hand out of your bikini when he’s done, tacky arousal stretching between your fingers. Going back on your haunches, you suck in a deep breath through your abused throat. 

Joel pats his wide, thick thighs above you, the same ones you’ve been fantasizing about since that first day in the bar. “I promised you a ride, didn’t I?” A familiar, hooked smirk pulls at his mouth. Your face lights up in recognition and you practically scamper onto his thigh, stumbling as you tug your bikini out of the way to settle yourself on the linen coral shorts he has on. Joel laughs, a noise that has your cunt leaking onto the fabric, clit fluttering from the friction. Heat pulls tight in your stomach.

His hands land on your hips, guiding you back and forth when you hesitate at first. “Grind on daddy’s thigh, baby. Wanna see you cum on me.” Your head tips forward, forehead slotting against his shoulder when you start to push your hips into his. Need springs awake in your stomach when he drags you forward. A frayed moan tumbles out of you from his near-manhandling. You rut into Joel, bouncing, grinding yourself on him in the same way that you’d imagined yourself doing at least a dozen times before this.

“Daddy,” you whimper when the muscle goes taut underneath you, plucking something in your cunt. At the same time, a speedboat passes Joel’s yacht outside, leaving the ship rocking on the water in time with your movements as you ride his thigh. You yelp, a strained noise as the pressure intensifies on your clit. “Close!”

He grips your hips even tighter, bounces his thigh up against you. “That’s it, that’s it. Let it happen baby, give it to daddy.”

You come undone with the taste of his cum still rich on your tongue and his words ringing in your buzzing ears. Your orgasm whips through your body and leaves you shuddering against his center, halfheartedly continuing to roll your hips up against him. His thumbs rub circles into your skin while you come down. You suck in a shaky breath, Joel’s palm stroking the small of your back. “Did good for me, baby. Look real pretty when you come. Real pretty.”

You give him a shy smile, and he leans forward to kiss you, a brief moment of gentleness amidst his usually ubiquitous harshness. He pulls away with a tiny pat to your ass. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You stumble off of him on shaky legs, leaning against the captain’s console. Joel pulls his shorts down his thighs and tucks his cock away, the wet spot your cunt had made on him beyond visible as he stretches himself out. He fishes around in a drawer in the galley for his baby wipes and joins you back at the console. He takes them to your face, wiping down where his cum had hit your skin. He even dabs gently at your thighs. Orgasm bliss clings to the edges of your vision still, and you can’t help but lean into him as he takes care of you.

“Could take you for a real ride, now,” Joel says with a moderate shrug. “Nice cove on the west side of the lake, good for a quick swim. I’m sure your dad would throw a fit if he knew, but I’m sure you’re good at keepin’ secrets, too. Got a real good mouth on ya.”

You playfully punch his shoulder with a roll of your eyes, and in that moment, it feels like you’ve known Joel much longer than you have at all. Like this isn’t your first time on his boat, and this wasn’t his first time being in your mouth. “Alright,” you begrudgingly smile at him. “Whatever you say, old man.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes as he starts the engine.

[luveline]

𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

miguel can’t control himself when you get hurt in the field —a ficlet featuring an irritated (lovesick) miguel and a flirty, distracted spider-girl. pre across the spider-verse but contains spoilers. requested he re, fem!reader, 2.5k

tw. fighting, injury, blood

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Miguel watches the screen in front of him unhappily. 

"Spider-Girl," he says. Two people answer him. He sighs. "Y/N," he amends, "you're being reckless." 

The little droid camera that follows you around circles your head as you swing from one place to another. "I'm being good," you deny. 

Miguel would never tell you this, but he loves how you speak. Sure, almost every word you say annoys him, but the cadence of your voice is melodic and addictive at once. And Miguel knows you're nice to everyone, but it's him alone that has you speaking so softly. 

You do it to torture him, he's sure. 

"You're doing well, but you'd be better if you didn't free fall for so long. Mechanical failure can happen at any minute," Miguel says. 

"Then one of the others will catch me." 

"And if there's no team member close by? I'm supposed to come and scrape you off of the sidewalk?" 

"Miguel," you say gently. He can tell what mood you're in today. "They have people for that." 

"Could you just do as I asked you to?" 

"Ah, but you haven't asked me anything." 

"Please," he says, "focus on the task at hand, and use your webs cautiously." 

You make a chirping sound that feels more laughter than affirmation, but you do as he requests, reducing the length of time between each web shot. You're in New York, Earth-1844, attempting to send home an unhappy Doc Ock variant whose mechanical arms are immensely technologically advanced, even when compared to Nueva York's futurism.

Miguel had sent you along with a rather large team, one. because a big team was necessary for the task, two. because you'd asked and he has trouble saying no to you, and three. because if you'd spent another hour in his office today he actually might have given into temptation, which wouldn't be good for anybody.

Miguel is used to doing what needs to be done rather than what he'd like, these days. So while he wants to indulge you and your fanciful suggestions —I'm not heavy, handsome, please, you won't even notice I'm in your lap, your thighs are so wide— he can't. He has things to do. Things that cannot endure distraction. 

"Woo!" you cheer through laughter, letting your shoes skim the floor in an especially dangerous manoeuvre. The adrenaline turns you giddy. "Holy crap." 

Oh, right, that's why he resists temptation —he hates you. (He doesn't hate you.) He hates you and your disregard for your own safety, he hates your rejection of his authority, and he hates the stupid sweet sound you make when you're excited. 

"Do you listen to me and then forget what I've said, or do you not understand the English language?" he asks. 

You land on a rooftop overlooking the centre of Future Doc Ock's destruction. "Well, I've been learning Spanish. We could always try that," you suggest. 

"Why have you been learning Spanish?" he asks. 

"Coquetear contigo," you say, your pronunciation all over the place. To flirt with you. 

"Qué maravilla," he mutters. 

"I don't know that one, handsome, so I'm going to assume it was a love confession or something similar." You sound so overly fond he has to tense his jaw. "Gwen, where are you?" 

"I'm over here?" 

Gwen is wrapped up tightly in a metal tentacle. It shakes her around fanatically. Miguel swears and zooms in on her location, watching in apprehension as she attempts to free herself while the arm creaks, tightening, tightening. 

"Woah," you say, taking a running jump off of the rooftop. "Can you believe it? I'm not the first one who needs rescuing." 

Hobie Brown reaches Gwen before you can, and he makes an impressive rescue. You divert your path, shooting a web at the glass dome covering Future Doc Ock's head. Miguel crosses his arms across his chest. Wannabe Mysterio loser, he thinks, and then, when you've smashed a hole into the dome with a generously momentous kick, Nice. 

He doesn't suppose Doc Ock was expecting a kick to the jaw today. 

You hiss as you propel yourself away from him, another web shot at a nearby lamppost. It does something funny to his chest when he hears you whine in pain, but he's too distracted to ask what's wrong —he scours your droid's view for an answer, finds it red and saturating the fabric of your suit. 

"Why are you bleeding, Spider-Girl?" he asks, gaze drawn to the main screen where Dock Ock shouts belligerent threats at an approaching Spider-Man. 

"No biggie," you say, hissing again, "I think I cut my leg on the glass. I need a better suit." 

"Can you walk?" 

"I'm fine," you say with a sniffle. From the amount of blood, the cut is deep. "Is it me, or is it dusty in here?" 

It definitely hurts if it's making you cry, though maybe you're unprepared. This was a bad idea, you aren't as seasoned as the others, and he knows you don't know what you're doing yet. You need more time, more practice. You've hurt yourself in the field on your very first mission, and you don't have the pain threshold or the super-healing necessary to cope.

It's his fault for letting you go. 

"Prepare for extraction," he says.

"No! No way, are you kidding? I'm fine, I– I can do this."

"Y/N," he warns. 

You fling yourself from the lamppost with impressive grace considering your injury and join the fight once again. Miguel can't keep an eye on you like he wants to, as the alarm that indicates an anomaly begins to sound. He's forced to rush together a second team while the elite strike force are preoccupied, yanking members of Spider-Society from their goings abouts, Lyla in his ear recommending effective combinations and fighting styles. From that point on, he has to supervise two different missions, his head pounding with effort. 

His hands itch. He should be out there. Miguel is the cream of the crop and he isn't shy to admit that. He's a good fighter, but he can't be everywhere at once, and most of the anomalies they face require multiple sets of hands to fix. So he forces himself to stay put and guide the teams through each fight, sick to his stomach with every bloody footprint you leave behind. 

He's following Hobie Brown and offering rejected instruction when he sees you go down. He toggles your voice channel and catches the end of a high-pitched, "Oof," the air-knocked from your lungs forcibly as you hit the ground. The tentacle that propelled you veers up for a finishing blow, and three different webs catch it and pull it backward. 

It's a blur. One minute Miguel's in the control room at Spider-Society headquarters, the next he's breathing in the smoggy air of New York, Earth-1844, concrete and asphalt torn up under his hands. Lyla speaks in his ear and he's deaf to her, his focus pointed with only one thing in mind. 

The restraint it takes not to wipe Doc Ock from the face of the dimension is incalculable. Miguel can't quite believe his own moderation as he orchestrates the return of the anomaly, your body on the ground in the corner of his eye. 

The second the situation is under control, he runs to you. His gloves hit the ground with a thud by your hip, as do his knees. Spider-Man, a Peter Parker from Earth-751263, has already set nanobots over your prone figure, tiny spider-like creatures that leave webbing bandages in their wake, closing the sluggish wound on your calf. But nanotech won't fix a broken spine, not in the field. Miguel needs a stretcher. He needs to get you home. 

"Miguel," you say, drawing his gaze from your slow-rising chest, "I can't breathe.

He slides his thumb as gently as he can into the seam of your mask and eases it off. "You're winded." 

You cough. The sound is disturbingly wet, but your lips remain unsullied. Miguel can't look at you in this much pain, and he won't: he stands, and he takes control. 

—

You're not in nearly as much pain as you should be, because Doctor Spider-Man gave you the good stuff. "Your healing isn't nearly as expedited as most of us," he'd said. 

"Is this medical discrimination?" you'd asked, faking a serious concern. "Do I need to talk to Spider-Lawyer?" 

You found it funny. He maybe didn't, but he gave you an extra dose and told you to rest up before leaving. Resting at the Society medbay isn't easy because Spider People are constantly filtering in and out of the ward for check-ups, medication, and corrections. 

It's also not easy because most Spider People are incredibly lonely in their home dimensions, and incredibly friendly here. When Miguel finally comes to visit you, you have a Spider-Girl from a few dimensions over who has the same biological mother as you but a different father sitting to your left —she's trippy and adorable, if you do say so yourself— two Peter Parkers to your right, and a melting pot of currency lost in the white linen sheets over your legs.  

They get one good look at Miguel and put down their playing cards. 

The Peter Parkers slink off together promising to come and see you again sometime, and your variant stops just shy of Miguel's position to look him up and down affectionately. 

"Go away," he says. 

She beams at him. "Okay." 

"You can't help it, can you?" he asks after she's gone, picking a rogue playing card up from the end of your bed. He twiddles it between his index and middle finger, the card shushing with each turn.

You sit up in bed and try to straighten out the sheets, hoping to entice him. You don't bother answering his question. It barely sounded like one. 

"I'm hurt, you know?" you ask. 

"I know. I told you to retreat." 

"No, I'm hurt it took you so long to visit me," you say. You're putting on airs. Truthfully, you genuinely are a little hurt, but your voice is soft and dreamy as always. "I thought we were friends." 

"Ah, because you need more of those." 

You sink down into your pillows, your knees hiked. "I really can't help it if people like me. And you'd know." 

Miguel surprises you by sitting down. He faces away from you, his thigh just shy of your feet below the sheets, and it's only then you realise he's tense. He's in civvies for a change, a t-shirt stretched tight across his broad shoulders and chest and regular black sweatpants. He's wearing converse. 

You look at him through a squint. "Did you hit your head, too?" 

"I'm off-duty."

"I just never pictured you in sneakers." 

"How do you picture me?" he asks, neck craned to look at you, his chin touching his shoulder. He has dark circles under his eyes and his brows are ruffled on one side. 

You let your knees fall to one side and pull your legs to your chest, hoping to entice him closer. "You're not sleeping well?" 

Miguel doesn't answer your inquiry. In fact, he falls silent. His eyes are on your hands where they're bunched at your chest, his dark flush of lashes twitching as his gaze tracks along the column of your throat, your jaw, and finally, your face. 

"If you were anyone else," he says eventually, "you'd be benched." 

"I'm not benched?" you ask. 

"You disobeyed a direct order," he says, "and your actions affected the people around you. Someone else could've been hurt protecting you. You have to listen to what I'm telling you to do, or this is never going to work." 

You look at the hospital bed railing rather than face his disappointment. 

"But it's my fault." 

"What?" you ask, startled. 

"It's my fault you got hurt. I knew you couldn't handle it, and I let you go anyway. I'm… I'm weak." 

"What are you talking about?" you ask. "Weak? You're the strongest person here, with or without Rapture." 

He flinches at the drug's name.

You lay there, paralysed by your own mistake, your big mouth ruining everything for the thousandth time. If there's one thing you know about Miguel, it's that you never mention his weaknesses. His drug. His last attempt at a full life. You might be light-hearted, a free spirit, but you're far from stupid usually. Your emotional intelligence must've got lost somewhere on Earth-1844. 

"Sorry," you murmur, looking at him from under your lashes. "I didn't mean…" 

Slowly, so slowly, he puts his hand on your leg. It doesn't hurt, you've been medicated and stitched and his touch is far from cruel, but you're so startled that your breath gets caught in your throat. Miguel doesn't touch you unless he's giving you a vague reprimand, moving your hand from a button you shouldn't touch or a door you're not allowed to open. 

"I let you go on that mission, knowing you weren't ready, because you asked me to let you. I put selfish motivations over your safety. It won't happen again." 

You're not as brave as you think you are. You try to hold his hand but it looks so big, and you've never had him this close to you of his own accord. You're a moment away from nervous goosebumps. 

He looks up at your touch, your pinky finger wrapped over his, smaller and shorter but with the same pattern of calluses, skin abraded by tight gloves and rough surfaces. 

"Selfish motivations," you repeat in a murmur. 

"I don't– like saying no. To you." He couldn't sound more unhappy to admit it. 

"You say no to me all the time," you say. You don't mean to, but suddenly you're folding your fingers over his, forcing him to hold your hand. He doesn't stop you. He doesn't let go. "Like, ten times a day." 

"It's difficult." Your complaint is a blessing for him —the atmosphere around you shifts to something less vulnerable, and his permanently chagrined personality rears its head once again. He raises his eyebrows. "You make my life extremely difficult," he says flatly. 

"You make my life difficult, too," you say. 

You can't help but give him your fondest smile, your lashes kissing in the corners of your eyes.  

He visibly softens. His thumb rubs the back of your hand, just once. 

"Fantastic," he says, looking firmly away from you. "Great." 

"Isn't it?" you ask happily. 

He squeezes your fingers gently. It's almost imperceptible. "Yeah, it is," he says. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed! also, im sorry if you already speak spanish i realised after that that detail was subjective to the reader, sorry!

[shiinata-library]

Imagine them telling you they love you

Thorin, Fíli, Kíli, Bilbo's reactions when they tell they love you

A/N: My imagines become more and more ficlets and we now have 4k words of it… Make you comfortable, and enjoy!

[ 📚 Main Imagines Masterlist 📚 ]

Fíli

On a cold winter evening under the lonely mountain, two princes are talking over an ale, one of them in a better mood than the other. “I should never have done that,” you hear Fíli sighs, his face hidden in his arms crossed on a table. “It’s too late, brother,” Kíli laughs as he drinks his ale.

It has been a while since you’re friends in this pub. There is only one pub since the rebuilding of Erebor was still ongoing. The place is busy, and princes or not, Kíli and Fíli drink here every Friday night. 

When you entered, you wanted to surprise them and you were waiting for the right moment to join them, but you didn’t expect they would talk about you. Especially about this subject…

“You were drunk, both of you,” Kíli resumes. Fíli gets his head off his arms and sighs again “Drunk or not, you don’t sleep like that with your…”. Someone shouts in the pub while he finishes his sentence. “As if you regret it,” Kíli laughs. “Stop that Kíli!” Fíli shouts seriously.

They should change the subject now, right? But, should you really join them after that? Then you hear “There are things I regret in my life, but this is the worst and you–”. A group of happy dwarves shout a new time their happiness while you freeze. Kíli is looking at you, as surprised as happy to see you. He speaks to his brother while you already start to run away. You don't see Fíli hit the table with his fist even less standing up so suddenly that he spills his beer all over his brother.

You literally run away until you're almost home. In two streets, you will be in the cosy place Thorin gave you under his mountain. Your steps slow down as you realise how stupid you are to think everything could be the same after àthat. You suspected that Fíli avoided you since you spent a night together, and you have your answer. It's clearly unnecessary to talk more to him. It was a mistake. Period. 

Maybe it could be different if you could have talked the next morning. If only he wasn’t a prince, he wouldn’t have early duties every morning. Especially when he was in your bed! Who sends a guard to fetch someone in the bed of his… his what anyway? You’re just his friend. Well, “was” now.

When you’re almost arrived at your place, you hear your name shouted from afar. You could recognise this voice everywhere, so you quickly hide in the first street you see. Except that before being a prince, Fíli was a warrior, and you can’t escape a warrior that easily… Even though you take another way to go home, someone grabs your wrist when you arrive at your front door. Of course, it’s Fíli. And not a happy Fíli. Everyone who’s walking in the street is looking at you since everyone knows Erebor’s heir.

“Listen Fíli. I don’t want a drama. Like you said, let’s forget. And if you don't want to see me again, well, I understand,” you say as you try to get back your wrist. “No. We need to talk. Let's inside,” he simply says as he opens your front door and leads you inside.

After lighting a few candles, you put the last one on the table. You barely turn toward Fíli that he is already in front of you, not leaving you the time to say anything. He clears his voice and you notice how he is nervous. You never see him like that. Not even when he speaks to Erebor’s people officially. “First, I’m sorry I didn’t come earlier to talk to you since that night. I had a lot to do but the main reason is I was ashamed.” You repeat the last word he said, unstable to keep your surprise. Yet, he continues, his eyes looking at the candle, “I should never sleep with you. We were drunk.” “Yes, we were drunk, but not enough not to know what we were doing,” you say seriously. His eyes turn now to yours, “Yes, maybe, but I should court you first.” He runs a hand on his face as if it could help him to breathe better while your heart starts to beat stronger. When his eyes come back to you, your heart stops beating. Were his eyes always so mesmerising?

“We, Dwarves, always court their One first. I know Men do differently, but I shouldn’t touch you like that. But your dress… Mahal, you were stunning in this dress that night. I behaved like an idiot… Mahal, I really do blame myself,” he pauses for a breath. A murmur escapes your lips, “their One?”. Something changes in his eyes. You swear they looked at your lips before coming back to your eyes. “Am I your One?” you eventually ask in a quiet tone. “Yes, you are. I have loved you since I saw you. But I also know Men’s mores and I don't expect anything from you,” he declares in a serious, almost sad, tone. “You love me?” you stupidly ask, still stunned by his words.

A smile appears on Fíli’s face. The first smile since that night. A chuckle escapes his lips as his fingers find your cheek, warming it with the memories of what they have done to you. “Are you just going to keep questioning me?” he laughs, his moustache’s braid bouncing. You laugh too, the whole tension vanishing. “Even if I’m of Men, I only sleep with the person I love,” you shyly say. That's all it takes for Fíli to kiss you, this time with  all the love he has for you.

Kili

Since you joined Thorin’s company, you have made friends with Fíli and Kíli. The time you enjoy the most is after dinner. They tell stories about their childhood in the Blue Mountains or some anecdotes about everyone while you tell them about your world. Like them, you can’t stay quiet for a long time, so most of the time the others shout at you to go somewhere else to talk. Which you do. 

Fíli is always the first to go to sleep. That’s why the others don’t make fun of him when you barely can open your eyes in the morning when it's time to leave…

Talking with them at night has become routine and when you arrive in Rivendell, without having to worry about the next day, you spend your first sleepless nights with them. After some time, Fíli doesn’t stay with you late less and less since Thorin seems to need him more and more in the morning.

As the quest goes on, you can’t speak with Kíli in the evening. Fatigue, injury, watches, cold, danger, it seems that everything is trying to avoid you to enjoy your evening. Little by little, there comes a time when you can’t remember the last time you had a long conversation with Kíli and you miss it terribly. During the day, you make some jokes but it’s not the same.

So, as soon as you’re feeling safe, you can’t keep your tongue, you and of course Kíli. The first night at Beorn after Gandalf introduced everyone, you and Kíli spoke all night. So much time to make up! Fíli joined you for the first hour, but he quickly abandoned you.

The next morning, it takes you some time to remember where you are. You hear some voices from afar, but according to the bright sun, it must be late, especially since everyone is already up. Everyone except Kíli still sleeping next to you. Well… Behind you. His arm around your waist. His hand on your stomach. His head buried in your hair… He is too close, right? You can even feel his breathing in your neck. Should you stay like this? You definitely can’t move without waking him up, and you don’t want to wake up in this position. Especially with your cheek as red as a tomato.

But… Breakfast is calling you. As soon as you try to move his hand, his arm holds you stronger, your back pressed against his hard chest. He eventually grumbles, “Don’t move.” You chuckle, “But they won’t leave us anything to eat.” He laughs too, but doesn't seem to move. You wait, trying to find a good idea to wake him up until he says in a sleepy voice, “I want to wake up like this everyday…”. You stay still a moment before turning to him and joking, “Without breakfast?”. His answer doesn’t wait, “With you. In my arms. Every morning.”

Oh. Well. You want it too, but it sounds complicated, right? A woman of Men, a Dwarf prince. Plus, you’re poor. Oh and useless as well. You still don’t know what you’re doing in this quest.

Tired of waiting for your reaction or your answer, Kíli suddenly sits up, his arms crossed on his chest, his hair in a mess, but above all, his frowning eyebrows. “I was saying that I love you, you know?” he says in an upset tone. “Don’t joke with that Kíli,” you sigh, starting to feel hurt with a joke like this so early on a morning that was starting off so well. He already joked about this in the past, flirting with you randomly. He even already kissed you without saying anything afterward. Well, maybe because you almost died and you didn’t have the time to talk about this but…

“I’m not joking! I truly love you!” Now he’s not frowning, his eyes look sincere. You want to believe him. “But you always joke about that,” you grumble in a pouting face. “Not about this. Never. Amrâlimê, I kissed you after we ran from the gobelins because I was so scared of losing you. I couldn't see you and I thought you had stayed behind. When I saw you, I couldn't control myself…” You stop pouting, hoping he says the truth. “Really?” you ask in a shy tone. “Really,” he confirms, a smile widening on his lips. You can't resist a smile like that. “Because I love you too, and if you lie, I’ll–” Of course you can’t finish your sentence. As soon as Kíli hears your words, he leans over you and kisses you. He begins slowly, barely brushing your lips, but when you kiss him back, his ardour takes over. As one of his hands keeps him from falling on you, the other one begins to touch your hip. Even though you would love to continue, you were thinking of stopping him when the door of your makeship dormitory opens. “It's nearly midday! Time to get up, night owls!” Fíli exclaims until he sees what his brother is doing. “Alright, pretend I didn't come,” he says as he turns towards the door. “But I won't be able to hold the others back for long.” He closes the door behind him, leaving you and Kíli laughing like teenagers caught in the act.

Bilbo 

During the quest, you easily became friends with Bilbo. He is a charming person, and you and he have a lot of things in common. Little by little, you understand your feelings for him were more than friendship, but you stayed quiet about it, the quest was too important to think about anything else. After the success of Erebor's quest, Thorin, the new king, offered you and Bilbo to live under the lonely mountain. Bilbo missed too much his home to stay here. Yet, he promised to visit them one day. For you, the choice was harder. The mountain seemed great. You would be glad to help with the rebuilding, but without Bilbo, it wouldn't be the same. So you decide to follow him. 

It's obviously impossible for you to live in the Shire, so you have settled in the closest Men’s town: Bree. You have found a correct job and people are nicer than you would have thought. For visiting Bilbo, it's 6 days walking from door to door, but you quickly decided to use a horse. (You really miss trains and buses…) So now you live two days' ride, you visit him when you can. Bilbo offered to visit you in Bree, but with his ponies’ allergy, you prefer coming to the Shire. 

The Shire is beautiful, even more than all Bilbo told you during the quest. He always finds something interesting to show you. Hike, food, drink, festivities, landscape, market, watching the sky with Old Toby,... You enjoy every time you spend with him. At first, Hobbits looked at you strangely, but now, you could say you have drank tea with all of Bilbo's neighbours. Lucky for you, the closest inn of Bag End, the Green Dragon Inn, has one room at Men’s size, which you found weird until Bilbo explained it’s usually Gandalf’s room.

One summer evening, you’re dining in that very inn with Bilbo after a long hike in the east, on an outside table, the wind glowing softly on you. “I’m glad you’re here,” Bilbo says as he finishes his meal. “You always worked during the summer’s festivities and I always wanted to see you.” “Oh, no. Don’t tell me it begins tomorrow…  But I’m leaving tomorrow!” you sadly sigh. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” “I thought you knew,” Bilbo says as it was obvious. “It’s the same dates every year. And you saw the tent and everything under the Party Tree, didn't you?” “I thought it was over... Wait here, I'll check with Mr Whitfoot if I can stay in the room tomorrow night.”

Unlike usual, Bilbo is unable to read your face when you come back to your conversation with Mr Whitfoot, the innkeeper of the Green Dragon. “The bad news is I can’t have the room, but the good news is because Gandalf reserved it,” you smile bitterly,  already regretting not going to the summer festivities with Bilbo.

“You can stay at Bag End. I have enough room for you,” he said with a little nervousness in his voice. You notice his embarrassment and you don’t want to impose yourself at his home. “I don't want to disturb you, I’ll think of it tonight and I’ll answer you tomorrow morning,” you explain with a smile. “You won’t disturb me at all, but alright, we’ll talk tomorrow,” he says, finally smiling again like usual.

Of course, you accept to stay at Bag End. The festivities, Gandalf, sleeping in Bag End, just next door to Bilbo’s, waking up together, eating breakfast together, like a married couple. Alright, let’s stop now!

Gandalf is still the same. You spend a part of the night chatting with him and Bilbo, with some other curious young hobbits. At some point, after eating and drinking too much, you both decide to go back to Bag End. The night was very fun – despite Lobelia intervention when she learned you were staying in Bag End. In Bilbo’s smial, you still can hear the laughs and the music from the Party Tree. “You’re sure I can stay here? Your cousin, Lobelia didn’t seem happy about it,” you joke as you’re taking off your shoes. “According to the latest news, Bag End is still my home,” he grumbles as you’re unable to hide your smile, enjoying his reactions every time you talk about Lobelia. “She can say whatever she wants, it’s my home!” He could have grumbled a long time if you hadn’t burst out laughing. “Alright. I get it,” he sighs before laughing with you. You both are tipsy and you continue to laugh until you reach your room.

“If you need anything, I'm just in the room next door,” he smiles as you enter the guest bedroom. If you weren’t as tired and as tipsy, you would have noticed the room has changed. The room is at your size. Both the ceiling and the furniture. “You know your home by heart. I could make tea with my eyes closed!” you laugh, not noticing Bilbo’s cheek becoming pink at your words. “But thank you for letting me sleep here. Nights are not cold, but I never say no to a bed when I can have one!” “You’re welcome. Don’t forget to wake up early if you want breakfast,” he says, smirking. You can’t count how many times you miss the first breakfast in the Shire.

Do you wake up late? Yes. Of course. The bed is so comfortable, the room is so quiet, the smell is so good… with a little touch of bread, tea, jam, egg,... You jump out of the bed and hurry up to the kitchen. Bilbo is smiling, “Good morning.” Has Bilbo been waiting for you? It’s the first time you have breakfast with him since the quest is over, and something feels different now. The table looks so perfect. How many times have you dream of waking up here like that? 

“Do you want tea?” he asks as he takes the kettle off the heat. “Good morning,” you murmur as you sit down on a chair at your size. As you’re half-asleep, you don’t notice you’re still in nightdress, light for summer nights, but Bilbo did. Oh, he did, and that’s why he shakes his head as he repeats his question. “Yes, absolutely!” you exclaim with a broad smile. “I never saw a table like that for breakfast! So many dishes! Bombur would be jealous of your cooking skills! I’m glad to be hungry! Everything looks so good! Can I try each plate?” you ask with great enthusiasm, perhaps a little too much. “Oh, sorry. I’m very loud for a morning. It’s rude and annoying…” Bilbo sits in front of you with two cups of tea. Despite your behaviour, he looks happy. The morning rays of light gently illuminate his hair and face. You could easily get used to this every morning...

“Not at all. I've had mornings noisier than this,” he smiles as he sips his tea. “And yes, you can eat everything you want.” “Don’t say that or I’ll really eat everything,” you laugh as you spread jam on your buttered toast. “I don't even have a third of this table in Bree, when I have breakfast. I mean, at home.” You still don’t use to live in Bree as your home.

“I can make breakfast like this whenever you want,” he says in a too serious tone for a morning as you’re savouring one of his cheeses. “I’d love to, but I don’t think I can stay another night. I have to go back to work,” you say, a little sad not to enjoy another night here, and another breakfast. A long silence makes you feel that something is wrong. Bilbo is too quiet for such a morning. You raise your head from your plate to see him looking at his tea, turning his spoon in his cup endlessly. “If you stayed here, you could have breakfast whenever you like,” he says quietly. You’re about to repeat your former answer, but Bilbo doesn’t give you the time to do it.

 “I wasn’t talking about tomorrow. I mean, yes, I’d love you to stay tomorrow, but I meant for all the mornings. I mean. Oh Yavanna, I’m ridiculous…” As he talks, he gets so upset that he gets to his feet and comes to stand in front of you, one fist clenched and the other hand pointing at you with his spoon. He breathes a last time before looking at you, his eyes eventually softening. “If you want to, I would love you to live in Bag End with me.”

You’re speechless first. Then, “I can’t. I mean, I’m of Men. No one wants somebody like me here,” you sigh as you look at your feet, feeling your tears welling up. “I want to,” Bilbo says, determined, as he takes your hands. “And I'm sure all the hobbits you know won't object. The whole Shire has realised a long time ago how I felt about you and they've all accepted you already.” “Your feelings?” you suddenly ask, your eyes searching for an answer in his eyes before his words. Yet, his eyes frown. “I wouldn't ask you to move to Bag End if I didn't love you. I'd even offer to make you a breakfast every morning, I don't know what more you need…”

At this point, you can't hold back your laughter. Before his upset face, you react quickly. Pulling on his hands, he steps towards you close enough to feel his fringe caress your forehead. “I need a morning kiss, and I’d stay here forever,” you murmur. His cheeks become redder than ever and his hands become sweaty, but when he decides eventually to kiss you, his lips are softer than you had imagined. Softer and sweeter.

Thorin

Tonight is the first night you spent with Men since Bree. Lack-town is still an unwelcome place for you and the company, but Bard and his family are very nice with you. With Sigrid’s help, you’re warm now and you don’t smell fish anymore. The children are already sleeping as some of the company. You don’t know how to thank Bard since you don’t have money like the others, so you offer your help in the house. After helping Sigrid with the dishes, you ask what you could do, and she explains they have some damaged clothes that need stitching and she has no idea how to do it.

So here you are, sitting in the corner of the table, in the light of a candle, mending some clothes. Everyone is busy with their own business when Thorin sits next to you. You first don’t notice him, focused on your task. He put a warm tea next to you before speaking. “Do you want to be my Queen?” he says, as serious as ever. No one reacts, pretending to be still busy. “Queen of what?” you chuckle, still focused on your task. “Queen of Erebor,” he answers after making sure that Bard was no longer there to listen in. You don’t notice how serious he is, all it takes for him to ask you that here, in front of the others. He is not the type of person who expresses his feelings in front of everyone, so you don’t take it seriously. “But there is no Erebor,” you say, not seeing how troubled he is with your answer. “Not now,” he continues after a long silence in which the crackling of the fire is the loudest sound. “But Erebor will be with us soon.”

A smile appears on your lips as you finish what you have planned before going to sleep. After you take the tea that Thorin gave you, you turn to him. Now you notice how serious he was, how sad his eyes are despite his calm behaviour. You take a moment to repeat the conversation in your head. He is about to stand up when you exclaim, “Wait, wait, wait!” You put your tea on the table, then raise your hands in front you.  “You want me as your Queen? Wait. But you. That what you said? But. I’m confused,” you heart is beating too fast to say a correct sentence. When Thorin sees that your hands are shaking, he hesitates to take them. “I know I’m good in organisation and papers, but that shouldn’t be a reason to title me as a Queen. Should you choose someone you love? I thought Dwarves only chose to spend their life with their One. Oh, maybe royalty doesn’t work like that.”

A laugh echoes in the room. Bofur gets Thorin's blackest look of his life. But for you, his eyes are sparkling and a smile eventually appears on his lips. A genuine smile. “That's correct. I want my One as my Queen,” he says, his eyes not leaving yours. Now your cheeks are burning and you stop breathing. Do you really properly understand what he is saying?

You try to say something, but your words are blocked in your throat. Staying with your mouth open makes the future king chuckling. At the end of the room, you hear two dwarves sneezing exaggeratedly, “Heiswaitingforananswer” then “Notinthreedays”. Fíli and Kíli earn the same look as Bofur, but you don’t see it. As you only realise everyone in the room is looking at you, you suddenly stand up. Understanding you, Thorin stands up too, takes your hand and leads you outside.

As it’s dark and late, no one would see you, but the most preoccupying thing is the cold. Before you say anything, Thorin puts his jacket on your shoulders. “Tell me if you’re cold,” he says seriously, but his jacket is so warm that you already forget about the weather. “Do you really mean it? Why do you think I’m your One?” you shyly ask as you close the too big jacket on yourself, taking advantage to hide your burning cheeks. When you look back to him, you’re surprised to discover a new facet of Thorin. An (cute) embarrassed Thorin is in front of you. “Mahal, how should I tell you?” he begins as he runs a hand on his face, stopping on his mouth. “I know you're my One because I love you. And this is why I want you to be my Queen.” He swallows his saliva with difficulty, waiting for an answer from you that doesn't seem to be coming. “But maybe my feelings for you are not mutual, and if I offend you in any way, I apologise,” he says as his eyes sadden gradually. 

“No!” you eventually cry out as you grab his hands, surprisingly warm. You already touch them a few times, but never like that. “It’s mutual. Your feelings. I mean my feelings,” you sigh, trying to compose yourself. “I don’t know why you’re telling me this in this Men’s town when we’re almost at Erebor, but–” He cuts you off, “I don’t want you to stay here with your kin. I saw how you look at the town and… that man.” You frown, firstly because he stopped you while you were talking, secondly because he doesn’t trust you. “What man?” “The one who lets us stay in his house,” he grumbles.

“If you let me talk, Thorin Oakenshield, you would know that I love you too, since the first time I saw you! About Lake-town, I know nobody here. They are not my kin. The company is my family now!” you hurry to say before the conversation takes a bad turn. You truly love him from the start, but you obviously never hoped for anything. “Are you sure I’m your One?” you ask again, making him eventually smile. He realises one of your hands to run his in your hair. “I've never been so sure of anything,” he tenderly says. As he looks for a place for a braid, you can’t remain motionless. A step is enough to access his lips and you take that step. At the beginning, you feel Thorin’s surprise, but it quickly progresses into a sweet, lovely kiss under a snowy night.

[steddiehyperfixation]

accidental eavesdropping (steddie ficlet)

based on this post by @imjust-that-shy. i hope i did this vision justice <3

The doors to the bathroom burst open, and - on some pure, inexplicable instinct and with nearly inhuman speed - Eddie darts back into the stall he'd just been about to come out of and leaps to perch on top of the toilet seat, crouched there like some sort of creature. 

He hears the sound of retching and the stench of vomit fills the air. He holds his breath, wrinkling his nose and trying to imagine what possible context could be behind Steve Harrington and Robin Buckley bursting in here together to puke their guts out. Eddie knows the two of them work together, he’s seen them sharing shifts at Scoops Ahoy when he's walked by. (Not that he often intentionally passes by the ice cream parlor and slows down just to catch a glimpse of Steve or anything… Although who could really blame him if he did? Like, come on, Steve in that uniform? Hello, sailor.) His mind is busy spinning stories of possible explanations, ranging from spoiled ice cream to sneaking alcohol and getting too drunk during their break. 

Eddie's leaning towards the 'drinking on the job' explanation, especially when the retching finally ceases and Robin says something about the room no longer spinning. Those little rebels, Eddie thinks approvingly.

“When’s the last time you, uh…peed your pants,” Steve is asking Robin now, in response to her telling him in a Russian accent to interrogate her. 

Eddie curls over his knees, tilting his head to try to peer through the gap between the stalls and the floor to put an image to his eavesdropping. Might as well, he’s kind of stuck here and there’s really not much else he can do right now. He can see Steve’s legs, one bent and the other stretched out in front of him, and Robin in the stall past him laying on the floor with her legs up against the stall wall as she answers, “Today…” 

“What?” Steve questions.

“When the Russian doctor took out the bone saw!” Robin says. 

Okay…what? Russian doctors and bone saws? Eddie’s now thoroughly intrigued, if a little (okay, a lot) confused. Maybe they’re talking about a movie they watched or something.

Steve’s legs shake with his laughter. “Oh my god.” 

“It was just a little bit, though.” Robin pinches her fingers together as she twists her body in Steve’s direction while he laughs again and mutters that whatever it is they took is still in her system. She pushes her feet off the stall and slides to sit against the opposite wall. Eddie can only see her legs now. “Okay, my turn. Have you…ever been in love?” 

Steve answers that he has, with Nancy, and makes a sound mimicking an explosion. Eddie remembers that, remembers seeing Steve and Nancy being all touchy and cute in the hallways at school while he was trying his damndest to convince himself that he absolutely definitely did not wish he was in Nancy’s place. It didn’t work very well. And it’s not working very well now either as Steve starts to go on about some new girl he likes now instead - some girl who’s funny and smart and can crack secret Russian codes (okay, seriously, what is it with these two and Russians?) and oh shit, he’s talking about Robin. 

Eddie very suddenly feels like he should not be here listening to this, eavesdropping on Steve confessing his feelings for someone. Not only is that, like, a private and personal thing, but also what if Robin likes him back and they start kissing or something right here in this bathroom where Eddie has to sit here and listen to it and that would just be horrible for him for so many reasons and- Eddie’s getting ahead of himself. Robin hasn’t even said anything yet, and her knees are pulled up to her chest and her voice shakes when she confirms she’s still alive after Steve asks if she’s OD’d there in the silence and she uncurls with a deep sigh. All signs that she doesn’t actually like Steve back. 

Eddie watches as Steve shifts and slides under the stall into Robin’s, and catches sight of the nasty bruise marring nearly half of Steve’s otherwise beautiful face as he does so. Now concern has been added to the list of emotions this eavesdropping experience has rollercoastered him through so far. The bruise looks fairly fresh and Eddie can’t help but wonder what the hell gave Steve a black eye like that and if he’s okay. 

After a brief spiral of concern for Steve’s face, Eddie tunes back into reality to find himself staring at Steve’s ass as Steve now sits with his back against the stall wall opposite Robin. Eddie blinks, expands his tunnel vision to include Steve’s lower back and Robin’s legs which are also visible beneath the gap in the stalls. 

“It’s not because I had a crush on you,” Robin is saying. “It’s because…she wouldn’t stop staring at you.”

“Mrs. Click?” Steve sounds confused.

“Tammy Thompson,” Robin clarifies. “I wanted her to look at me.”

Oh. Eddie should really not be listening to this. Robin is trying to come out to Steve, trying to share something deeply personal and vulnerable with him and only him, not knowing that she’s outing herself to an eavesdropping near-stranger as well. Eddie feels violating and intruding. He can’t imagine how he would feel if he found out someone he barely knew had been secretly listening in on him coming out - probably not great, probably terrified. This is something he shouldn’t know, not like this. 

“But Tammy Thompson’s a girl,” Steve says, his tone unreadable, and Eddie’s heart nearly stops, sure his own anticipatory anxiety is likely only just a fraction of what Robin must be feeling right now. 

“Steve…” 

“Yeah?” A pause. “Oh,” Steve’s voice goes soft. “Oh… Holy shit.” 

“Yeah,” Robin sighs. Eddie can see her hands nervously rubbing at her shins. “Holy shit.” 

Steve is silent for a few painfully long moments. Eddie’s hands curl nervously around his own shins. Is Steve going to be homophobic? Should Eddie be worried for Robin now? 

“Steve, did you OD over there?” Robin asks, trying to be light but Eddie can hear the anxiety in her voice. 

“No, I just, uh- just thinking,” Steve responds. 

“Okay…” Robin’s voice is barely audible. Eddie is holding his breath.

“I mean, yeah,” Steve says finally, “Tammy Thompson’s cute and all, but the only reason I never gave her the time of day was because I was too busy staring at Eddie Munson.” 

The aforementioned Eddie Munson releases the breath he’d been holding with an involuntary squeak and claps a hand over his mouth. Thankfully, neither of them heard him over the sound of Robin shouting. “What?! Eddie Munson?! You liked Eddie Munson?” she squawks, voicing Eddie’s own stunned thoughts perfectly.

“Yeah,” Steve confirms casually, completely unaware that he's throwing an eavesdropping Eddie into an absolute crisis right now. There's a soft thudding sound like Steve's hitting the back of his head against the stall wall. His voice gets kind of wistful, almost dreamy, as he says, “His rings, man. Rings and tattoos…and that long hair and those chains he'd wear… Honestly just his whole punk aesthetic thing had me mesmerized.” 

“Pretty sure he's metal, not punk,” Robin corrects him. 

Thanks, Robin. Also, what the fuck is happening right now? 

“Whatever. Still hot as hell,” Steve says. 

Eddie squeaks again and practically shoves his whole fist in his mouth to keep himself from making any more noise, his teeth knocking against his rings. The rings Steve likes, apparently. He feels like he's going to pass out, his heart beating so erratically it's making him lightheaded. King Steve - the popular, preppy, stupid, gorgeous, dumb jock Eddie's been crushing on since forever - just called him hot????  

“Did you hear that?” Robin asks suddenly, voice low and cautious. 

Shit. 

“Is anyone else in here?” Steve calls out. 

Fuck. 

Eddie bites down hard on his knuckles and holds his breath, going impossibly still. If they get up and search the bathroom, then he’s about to be caught red handed, crouched on top of a toilet seat with his fist in his mouth and his face flushed scarlet, eavesdropping on their private conversation about secret Russians and gay crushes. Eddie contemplates falling into the toilet and attempting to flush himself down it. Every god imaginable is receiving a silent prayer from him right now as he watches apprehensively through the gaps in the stall. One of those gods must've heard and taken pity on this poor gay disaster of a man crouched like a goblin in a bathroom stall, because after a few horrible seconds of silence, all Steve does is lean down to peer beneath the stalls for a moment before sitting back up and saying, “Looks empty. I think the drugs are making us hear things.” 

“Yeah, probably,” Robin says. Then she giggles, knocking her leg against Steve’s. “I still can’t believe you were into Eddie.” 

Steve flicks Robin’s knee. “I can’t believe you were into Tammy.”

“What’s wrong with Tammy?!” Robin protests.

“What’s wrong with Eddie?” Steve counters. “At least he’s actually got talent. Tammy’s a total dud - she wants to be a singer and shit but she can’t even hold a tune.” 

Eddie is going to die. He is actually going to die right here, right now, because Steve Harrington thinks he’s hot and talented. And then Steve starts mimicking Tammy, singing Total Eclipse of the Heart in a ridiculously goofy voice, and now Eddie is going to die because he finds that so stupidly endearing and adorable. Maybe he should just flush himself down the toilet, save himself from this hopelessly pathetic crush of his. Instead, he’s saved by the bathroom doors bursting open again and a new voice shouting at them, “Okay. What the hell?!” 

Steve and Robin collapse into a fit of giggles before being dragged to their feet by the newcomers and led out of the bathroom, leaving Eddie alone and reeling and struggling to process literally everything he’s just overheard. He finally hops down from his toilet perch and exits the stall like he’s in a daze. He’s not sure how long he had been camped out in there - probably only about ten minutes - but it felt like hours, so long that the world outside of that single bathroom stall almost feels foreign and unfamiliar now. 

Eddie grips the bathroom sink and stares at his flustered reflection in the mirror and whispers to himself, “What the actual fuck?” 

---

Later, years later, only after he and Steve are already dating, Eddie tells him all about this experience, and Steve laughs so hard he nearly cries.

(ao3 link)

[felibrary]

"i love you, i'm sorry"

pairing: aventurine x reader (gender neutral)

synopsis: aventurine doesn’t know how to handle people being affectionate to him. so eventually, just as everyone leaves him, he’s become the one who leaves the person he cherishes the most—you—before you’re able to leave him first. so then, why is he now in front of your home, asking for another chance?

wordcount: 1.2k | content & warnings: unestablished relationship, situationship 101, aven has commitment issues (surprise), angst if you squint, hurt/comfort , mentions of aven's past (kind of) ; ficlet

tags: @eccentric-planet HERE IT ISSSS!!! (after waiting for like a week or so oops)

author's note: i wrote like half of this during biology, history and french class LMFAO

in his world, love leaves behind traces. 

be it dejection that gnaws at him, and wraps his heart in sorrow or your lips that press against him, finding home in his scarred skin. all of the little things that shaped him into being—they all track back to you.  

gradually, over time, with every gesture of affection exchanged, he fell. his once sleepless nights were cured by lying beside you, and eventually, he peacefully dozed off. that is until morning arrived, the sun greeting him as her rays seeped through the curtains, which made him rise.

alas, bathing in bliss only lasted for so long. the love that streamed through his veins and was pumped into his heart, was daring to spill; aventurine knew that confessing his love to you would come with its consequences. there were rules he set up for himself, but after all, he is no more than a pathological sinner—an individual long forsaken by the gods that reign this world—a helpless soul.

despite harboring feelings for you, he kept those blooming emotions to himself; confined in the depths of his heart. 

so as much as he loved you, it hurt just as much to let you go; leave you behind with no words that offered an explanation for his leaving. 

aventurine’s foundation was built upon being alone—disappearing without leaving a trace has always been in his nature. having to leave and being left behind was nothing new. he was a natural.

eventually, the traces you left behind, etched into his very being, washed away.

kakavasha was a lonely child. the word company has always felt foreign on his tongue, at least when he had to say it aloud in a language other than his own.

presumably, that’s why he felt strangely weak in your hold. how you always persistently, almost desperately, buried your nails into his skin and held him tight—not wanting to let go as if you knew that he’d leave one day; silently slip from your grasp.

it was to be expected that you wouldn’t reach out anymore—he made you leave. 

(it’s for the better he thinks. after all, if you would’ve marched further into his heart you would’ve seen what was hidden in the depths of it—someone with no strong ambitions, and there’d be no point of return. aventurine wouldn’t make a good lover, he’s both too selfish and selfless no in between.)

there hasn’t ever been a verbal confirmation that the two of you were in a relationship. everyone around him, including you just assumed that the two of you were together

but he can’t blame them. all the spare items in his apartment, ranging from a mere toothbrush to items like skincare or using the same candles as you, that’d help you feel more at home. arriving at work together and subtly flirting in the elevator when others were around or kissing in the copy room, weren’t casual things that friends did.

aventurine thought it was easier that way, simply because the thought of putting labels on your relationship felt strange. to him, it felt like a heavy shackle bound to his feet, preventing him from being free.

so why is he now standing at your front door, waiting like a prisoner on death row for their judgment to come?

there’s a faint squeak as you open the door and aventurine shoves his left hand into the pocket of his coat, fiddling with the flower-shop bill. 

before aventurine knows it; and can fully comprehend the solemnity of the situation, you stand in front of him, as beautiful as ever.

“hi,” aventurine breathes out, and only now does he realize how much he’s missed seeing you. instead of answering your gaze drifts over his figure and his surroundings.

he feels hot under your watchful gaze, his body suddenly heating up, and clothes sickly sticking to his skin. “so? what’s your business?” your eyes land on the bouquet of lilies and gardenias he's gripping tightly,  slightly wrinkling the wrapping paper by doing so. 

countless thoughts are running through his head. may i come in? can we talk? i wanted to apologi—

“i love you, i’m sorry.”

his voice croaks and suddenly he feels small. the gut-wrenching feeling of fear that stirred in his stomach whenever you were around made him vulnerable and submissive. it made him bolder—more reckless with his way of words. they twisted and twirled on his tongue, and ultimately something else slipped out. (the truth)

the dismissive sound you make crawls into aventurine’s ears like a parasite creeping on his skin, causing him pain. “you say that after playing a game of push-and-pull with me? aventurine do you hear yourself?” you huff laughingly. “don’t do this to me. i can’t go through this once again,” you express with bitterness in your voice. “you’ll just hurt the both of us.” your tone is meek, but aventurine can hear the strain in your voice and he feels his stomach drop.

he exhales and musters the courage to say something. “i know that this is sudden, moreover, i know that i’ve been beyond horrible to you,” aventurine admits, and he swallows. “i want to apologize. my first apology is that i never apologized sooner.” he diverts his gaze to the ground, head facing the floor like a prisoner being escorted. 

he’s sure that at this point the stems of the flowers he’s bought for you are already kinked from clutching them so hard in his hand. “so, may i come in? i’ll tell you everything. i promise.” aventurine doesn’t dare to look up, at least not yet.

“calling me, whenever you needed me like i’m a pet who listens to every command, whispering sweet nothings into my ear as if you were coaxing me into believing something that was untruthful from the very beginning, and—” frustratedly, you ball your hands into fists. “listen. everything i told you was honest. yes i wasn’t ready for a relationship but that doesn't mean that i didn’t love you.” aventurine forces himself to look up, but immediately regrets it upon seeing your hurt face.

nevertheless, he continues. “i’m still hung up on the past. the thought of being with someone and promising myself to stay with them and committing my time, my life, and my very being scares me. it doesn’t excuse my behavior and actions, no, but i hope that this helps you understand me better.”

“i'm sorry that i didn't confide you in this any sooner. I was scared that you too would leave me. so i thought that if i’d leave first, it wouldn’t hurt as much. but i was wrong, my heart fucking aches when i’m not with you.” he cringes at how fake this sounds. but he’s more bothered about the fact that his heart isn’t only twinging when not with you, but it also might jump out of his ribcage, right here, right now.

you bite down on your bottom lip and contemplate. it's faint and if aventurine hadn’t paid attention, he’d have missed it. the way you mutter dumbass under your breath.” forget it,” you sigh as if reaching your breaking point. “just come in.”

this time, you fully open the door to him and he feels a wave of relief washing over him. “you’ve always been a mystery to me kakavasha.” you whisper, and aventurine’s lips form into a small smile as he trails and follows behind you, into your home.

a mystery, you say?

aventurine makes a promise to himself as he places the flowers into the glass vase you provided him. this time he’d be completely honest with you. about everything and anything.

so here it is — his heart laid bare.

end note: who am i kidding. if he came back to me pleading id also take him back.

also tagging @azullumi because at this point it'd be weird not to do this. i just want to thank you azul. thank you for being an amazing friend. thinking back, i used to have much worse communication skills. avoiding the ones around me or never voicing my problems aloud. but you giving me advice has genuinely inspired and impacted me so much. simply because i wanted to be so much like you cause i looked up to you so much and i still do. and recently those efforts of trying to better my social skills have paid off (kind of). I've become better and more mindful when it comes to people addressing their problems they have with me and thus trying to reflect and change my behavior. but I'm also able to talk about the things that bother me better now, simply because i took your advice. azul you understand me like no other. you take the words out of my mouth and are able to form such beautiful sentences i could never even think of. honestly your way with words is what enamors me the most about you.

© FELIBRARY 2024. stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms or feeding them to ai is not permitted.

[thegnomelord]

You ever hear the gross stories about people putting peanut butter on their junk and having a dog lick it off? This sounds bad but stay with me here, imagine it's marakov doing this with hound. Like it's a humiliation thing to break hound down or something and drive it into his head that he's no better than an actual dog. Marakov starving hound for awhile so he's famished and then pulling the peanut butter out. If hound wants to eat then the only food he can have will be the peanut butter he'll have to lick off marakovs cock.

Oh fuck that is disgusting and SOOO something Makarov would do. So here's a lil ficlet cause you got my brain going Brrrr

CW:NSFW, MDNI, Makarov x male reader, blowjob, peanutbutter food sex, toxic relationship, dom/sub dub-con, rough and quick, I дворняга - mongrel, mutt есть - eat, нет - no.

Rough fingers grip your jaw until it hurts, Makarov's thumb pressing down on your tongue to keep it flush with the bottom of your mouth. Drool and a bit of blood run down your chin, a small puddle already forming between your folded knees. The fingers on of his other hand wiggle your canine, uncaring of how your jaw trembles in an attempt not to bite him.

"Poor дворняга," Makarov chuckles, "Not liking your new teeth?"

Your 'new' teeth hurt like hell and that's saying something, gums around them still raw and irritated, knives stabbing at your entire jaw and down your throat whenever he wiggles the tooth even slightly. But you can't show that, don't bite the hand that feeds. So you swallow the sound of pain bubbling in your chest and shake your head as much as he allows you to do so.

You can see his smirk past the tears blurring your vision. "Good dog." He chuckles, pulling his fingers from your mouth to pat your head. "You must be hungry."

You are. Starving. You can't remember the last time you've been fed, probably before Makarov had your canines ripped from your mouth and replaced with metal, but the constant pain buzzing in your body makes it hard to keep track as the days blur together. You wordlessly nod your head, knowing better than to speak when he hasn't given you permission yet (you doubt you even could with how much your jaw hurts.)

Makarov leans back on your bunk, letting go of your jaw to fiddle with the jar of peanut butter. Unscrewing the lid he dips his pointer finder in and scoops up a big dollop of it. He holds it out for you, resting the back of his finger on your tongue. "Есть." He orders, tone leaving no room for arguing and you're quick to close your lips around his finger, tongue moving to lick it clean and trying to avoid nudging your teeth.

You've always hated the stuff since Price got you to try some when you were in America, the taste and texture making your skin crawl, but right now it may as well be ichor of the gods. Your stomach rumbles at finally being able to devour something, even if it's just a small scoop of peanut butter.

You open your mouth when you're done, spit clinging to Makarov's finger, and try your best to make a small whine. "Good, finally learning." He hums and sets the jaw down, unbuckling his belt.

Your heart stutters and drops to your stomach as you watch Makarov fish his half hard cock from his boxers, only needing a few strokes to get him fully erect. Makarov laughs at the face you make when he scoops up a good amount of the peanut butter and uses it like lube on his cock.

"Oh, did you think you would just get to eat?" He snorts, holding the base of his cock, "Нет, нет, нет you dumb mutt." He spreads his legs wider, patting his thigh. "You'll have to work for it, now есть."

You hesitate, some meager part of your pride absolutely unwilling, your stomach telling you to forget about that. Makarov waits, judgmental eyes locked on you, easily able to see the turmoil swirling in your eyes. He knows how to be patient, while he usually wouldn't tolerate disobedience, he knows he can't set up a hunting dog for failure and expect success so soon into your training.

His efforts bear fruit and you slowly shuffle forward on your knees. Even starved as you are, the wide span of your shoulders still forces his legs to spread wider. You hesitate some more, looking past his cock up at him, wondering if he really wants you to do this; is this a reward or just another way to tear you down?

"Do not make me repeat myself." He says, voice even and cool, but you're still perceptive enough to notice the sharp edge of danger in his tone, like a knife pressed into your throat.

Tentatively you lean in, fists clenching against your thighs as your tongue lolls out to hesitantly lick at his shaft. He doesn't rush you, doesn't degrade you, but his hand does settle on the back of your skull. You freeze, but he only hums, "Good dog." His hips twitch until his shaft bumps against your nose.

The hand on your head keeps you from pulling away, and your hunger soon wins out so you give a few experimental kitten licks. You start at the bottom, still uneasy about this, your tongue licking across his knuckles. Makarov purrs something in Russian you're not familiar with, his tone not sweet enough to make you think it's an insult, so you slowly continue up his shaft.

His precum mixes with the peanut butter, giving it a saltier tang that makes disgust curl in your stomach, humiliation making your face burn. Even your mind mocks you; Price's voice echoes somewhere in your ears "This is why we left you, you were just waiting for a chance to be a terrorist's whore." but that voice slowly gets quieter as Makarov's hand pets your head, making thinking about anything but the creamy peanut butter on your tongue difficult.

"Good dog, doing so well for me." Makarov hums, a pleased sound escaping his chest. The pleasure your mouth brings is miniscule compared to the sight of you - on your knees, eyes slowly closing as your malleable mind settles into static, drool smeared lips wrapping around his head to suck all the food your tongue missed - oh it's something else. He's seen many powerful men brought down to their knees, but nothing has ever made him harder than you right now.

You pop off his cockhead, chest frantically moving to draw breath, unfocused eyes staring at his drooling head before you look up. "Now wasn't that a good treat?" He asks, receiving your mumble in return, using your spaced out mind to smear more peanut butter on his head. "But you missed a spot. Go on, есть."

[cjlouwho]

Hey CJ! Idk if you take prompts (I loved your most recent ficlet)

BUT any thoughts on how Buck and Tommy annoy each other (on purpose)??

ahhh thank you so much! I'm always taking prompts, it just sometimes takes me a while to get to them. here's a two-in-one fic for you!

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click click.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click click.

Tommy looked over across the couch, where Buck was staring down at a crossword as he clicked his pen. Over and over.

“Do you need a new pen?” Tommy asked, keeping his tone calm and casual.

“Huh?” It took a second for Buck to register what he'd asked. “Oh, no. No, I'm good, thanks,” he said, glancing over at him with a smile.

Tommy returned the smile, then went back to reading his magazine.

Click click click clickclick click click.

Tommy took a long, deep breath.

Click click click click click click click click click.

“You sure?” He asked again, his voice going up an octave. “I have a whole drawer of them.”

And they're the kind with caps, he added to himself.

Buck shook his head. “Nope, this one works just fine.”

Click click click click click click. Click. Click. Click.

Click click click click clickclick-

Tommy closed the magazine and squeezed his eyes shut. “For the love of God, Evan, please stop.”

“Ha! So it does bother you!” Buck exclaimed, pointing the pen to Tommy with a triumphant look on his face.

“Does the endless pen clicking bother me? Yeah, maybe a little.”

Buck shook his head, relaxing further into the couch. “Finally.”

“Finally what?”

“I finally found something that makes Mr. Cool lose his cool.”

Tommy huffed out a laugh. “I did not lose my cool, thank you very much.”

“You looked like a pressure cooker that was about to explode.”

“So you were doing all of that just to annoy me?” Tommy asked, a playful glare on his face.

“After about the third click, yes.”

“And if I didn't stop you, you were what? Gonna click the entirety of We Will Rock You?”

Buck tilted his head, looking more impressed than anything now. “Y- You knew the song?”

“Of course I knew the song. Who wouldn't know that song?”

“I just didn't realize I was so talented. I could quit my job, begin a professional career as a click artist.”

Tommy opened his magazine back up, crossing one leg over the other. “I'd stick with firefighting if I were you.”

They were just settling back into a peaceful silence when:

Click click.

“Okay.” Tommy reached across the couch and pulled the pen out of Buck's hand before getting up and heading for the trash.

“Wait! No!” Buck exclaimed. “I just had to finish the line in the song. I was done.”

Tommy raised the lid to the garbage can and dropped the pen in it. “You can get another pen out of the drawer beside you. One with a cap,” he added quickly, “not a clicker.”

“You're no fun,” Buck teased, opening the drawer and grabbing another pen. “Oh, I see some clickers in here, Babe. I could do a rendition of Come Sail Away for you!”

Tommy walked back over to Buck, standing right in front of him on the couch. “I love you, Evan, but if you so much as touch another click pen I will leave.”

Buck snorted out a laugh, staring up at his boyfriend. “This is your house, Tommy!”

“I'll sign it over to you.”

Buck reached up and tugged on Tommy's shirt until he was hovering over him, one hand on the armrest and the other on the back of the couch. “Has anyone ever told you you're dramatic?” Buck asked, pulling Tommy in for a kiss.

“My drama teacher, third grade,” he replied with a nod. “Mrs. Collier.”

Buck gave Tommy one more kiss before letting him go. “I'll have to send her a note, tell her she was right.”

“Well, she was about seventy when I was in her class,” Tommy informed him, sitting back down in his seat, “so you'll have to search her address on Find a Grave.”

He resumed his magazine reading as Buck got back into his crossword...

Until about two minutes later, when Buck began drumming the new pen on his thigh. This time, he was seemingly completely unaware of what he was doing.

Tommy headed to bed early that night.

**********

The first time it happened, Buck was surprised, but he didn't say anything about it.

The second time, he laughed a bit, and when Tommy asked what was so funny he just shrugged and said he'd never seen anyone do that before.

The third time, he thought he might die.

“Did you, um, did you use a fork to scoop out the butter?” he asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as humanly possible.

Tommy breezed by, grabbing a drink out of the fridge on his way to the garage for a work out. “Yeah. Had toast this morning.” He gave Buck a pat on the ass before heading out the door.

Buck immediately pulled a knife out of a drawer and smoothed out the butter.

It shouldn't have been a big deal. Realistically, Buck knew that.

But there was something so jarring about opening a container of butter only to see that it was littered with stab wounds.

It felt wrong.

It felt like a crime.

The fourth time it happened, it was the day after he and Tommy had gotten into an argument. Nothing too serious, and they had made up by the time they went to bed.

But Tommy had made himself dinner that night and he'd decided on scrambled eggs.

Which meant he'd first put butter in the pan so the eggs wouldn't stick.

Buck didn't want to another fight right now, so he kept quiet and fixed the butter once again, then went about his day.

The fifth time it happened, Buck was ready to throw every fork in the house away. He could no longer remain silent on such a serious issue. It needed to be discussed, and it needed to be discussed now.

There was no better time, as Tommy was opening their mail at the dining room table while Buck started on dinner.

“Uh, Tommy?”

“Yeah, Babe?”

“We, um, I- I need to talk to you.”

Tommy looked up from the mail and over to where Buck stood in the kitchen. “Uh oh,” he said when he saw the look on Buck face. “You sound serious.”

“Yeah, I- it. It's the butter, Tommy. I- Most people use a knife when they're getting butter, but you're using a fork, and it makes the butter look all stabby and I've just been fixing it myself every time I see it, but I really don't understand why you can't use a knife, or even a spoon, ya know?” He was rambling, but once he started he couldn't seem to stop. “It looks so much better if you use a knife because then it keeps that smooth, buttery texture instead of looking like its been to war and-” he stopped when he noticed that Tommy was smiling at him. “What?” he asked.

“I knew you'd break eventually.”

“Wh- What do you mean?”

Tommy picked up a pen from the table, holding his arm out straight in front of him.

Click. Click. Click. Click. Click click.

When it hit him, Buck gasped, his eyes widening. “That was months ago!” he exclaimed. “We weren't even living together then!”

“And yet I've never forgotten,” Tommy replied, feeling a sense of vindication.

“You're diabolical.” He held the tub of butter out toward Tommy. “This could be considered a form of torture, you know?”

Tommy stood and walked over to Buck. “What would they call it? Butter-forking?” he asked, taking the tub from Buck and getting a knife from the drawer. He began smoothing the butter out himself, until it looked perfect on top. “Better?” he asked, showing Buck his work.

Buck turned his head to the side dramatically, staring out the kitchen window. “I don't know if we'll get past this.”

Tommy put the butter down, moving closer to Buck and placing his hands on his waist. “Could we try?” he asked. “I'd hate to tell the caterers we had to cancel the wedding on a count of me forking butter. Especially since it sounds shockingly close to doing something else with butter.”

Buck shuddered when he realized what Tommy meant. He looked up at him through his eyelashes. “Will you never destroy the sanctity of our butter with your fork ever again?”

“I will try my best,” Tommy promised. “As long as you continue to stay away from clickable pens.”

Buck sighed. “There goes the last chances of my career as a musical clicker,” he said with a pout, wrapping his arms around Tommy's shoulders.

“And there goes my career as a professional butter stabber,” Tommy replied, his hands tightening on Buck's waist as he got rid of his pout with a kiss.

[deepdisireslonging]

Just a Phone Call Away

Bucky is away on a mission. He tries to cover the distance with a spicy phone call, but the Reader can’t get into it because she misses him too much. He goes the extra mile to making her night special.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings/Promises: dirty talk, phone sex, Angst, Smut, oral (female receiving), creampie, cock-warming, Fluff

Word Count: 2800+

Note: Oops. This was supposed to be a ficlet. Welp… can’t argue with a big smutty present, can I? Please comment and reblog to share with your blog friends if you like the fic! Happy Holidays, and happy reading!

“How does the house look?”

As your eyes drifted over the brightly colored lights and tinsel around your living room, you had to smile. “It looks great. I added some electric candles across the mantle.”

On the phone, Bucky laughed. “Our fake mantle for our fake fireplace?”

“Hey. It makes heat and it’s got at least a flickering image of a fire. And it won’t burn down the house.”

“Unless Tony’s wires short out.”

“Don’t jinx us.”

It had been a gift from Stark Enterprises after most of New York lost power last winter. Thousands of them were produced before the end of January and just about every home in the city had one. Each “fireplace” was technically a self-conducting generator that worked not just the “fire,” but also had outlets in the back for other appliances. He’d gifted you two one of the beta models. It worked most of the time.

You liked it. So much so, that you’d risked Tony’s wrath to raid his shop for a wooden beam to hang over the contraption as a mantle. It made your otherwise pitiful living room feel homey. And now that the winter holidays were in full swing, you went all out with decorating the space. The rest of the house was still a decoration wasteland. But the other rooms could wait for Bucky to get home from this mission. You stretched out on the blanket rolled out in front of the fireplace with a sigh.

The mission.

Apparently, sleeper agents didn’t take a holiday break. Steve accidentally uncovered a cluster of operatives in the last mission, and he made a plan to take them out. They left before Thanksgiving. Christmas was only a few weeks away and every call to Bucky suggested they wouldn’t be back till the New Year.

“What was the sigh for?”

Another one heaved through your chest. “Nothing. Just… missing you.”

“I know, Baby. We’re trying to wrap things up, but… you know how it is.”

“Yeah.”

The phone crackled like it did when he went through a tunnel.

“Huh? What was that?”

“Would you like to try something? I can’t be there right now, and I hate that. But I want to make sure you’re warm and taken care of.”

You sat up on your elbows. “Steve’s not with you in the car, right? Please tell me you’re not going to try and embarrass him again?” Your cheeks warmed thinking about that time Bucky sweet talked you to orgasm before you realized he wasn’t alone on the phone call. Steve couldn’t look you in the eye for a week. The memory also made you giggle. “Acts like that could get you on the Naughty list.”

“When have I ever been worried about that?” He chuckled. “No. It’s just me. Is the fire warm?”

Stretching, you laid the phone down and put it on speaker. “Mhmm.”

“You wearing your panda pj’s or… something else?”

A smile slid across your face as you played into his game. “No. Just a tank top and some of your sweatpants.” You side-eyed the phone. The same way you would shoot him a glance when you teased. “And that’s it. The fire’s warm enough I don’t need… all those layers.” You were rewarded with a groan. Trying to return the favor, you hummed as you dragged your hands up and around your body, imagining his hands and their favorite paths. “If anything, if I turn it up a notch, I won’t need anything after a few minutes.”

“You won’t need to do a thing here in a minute. Run your hands under your top for me? How does it feel?”

You slid your hands over your front over the fabric first. Already your nipples were peaked and tweakable through your tank top. Giving your breasts a squeeze made you hiss out a breath. Finally, you ran your hands up under your top. Your nerves sparkled with the promises of what was to come. Your whimpers made Bucky growl as you massaged your breasts. Behind the sound of him, the growl of his vehicle revved up. “Keep your eyes on the road, Sergeant.”

“My eyes are on the road, and my hands on the wheel. But, Baby Girl, whatever you’re doin’… keep doing it and making those sounds. Can you imagine how hard I am for you already? I wanna be there. With you sitting on top of me, grindin’ those hips into what’s waiting for you.”

Your hips bucked into the air, wishing you could do just that. “I wanna be where you are. Making you pull over so I can ride you in your seat. Making those blacked-out windows steam up with what I want to do to you.” Breathing heavily, you dipped a hand under the waistband of the sweatpants you stole from his dresser. Your nails trailed up and down your thigh, drifting closer and closer to where your desire was growing.

“Keep those hands on your breasts, Baby Girl. I know you. Be good for me? We’ll get there, I promise. But let me work you up a bit more.”

With a whine, you did as he said. But the more you kneaded, the colder you felt. “Buck-“

“The second I get home from this mission, I’m going to bring you to the brink only squeezing and sucking on those gorgeous breasts of yours. I’m going to kiss you head to core and back again. Can’t wait to taste you again, Baby.”

But your hands had stopped. One was pressed over your mouth to muffle your sobs. You slapped the other over the first as you sniffled.

“Can’t wait to… Baby? Hey… are you okay? What’s wrong?”

You used the hem of your tank to wipe your eyes. A sob burst through your lips. “I’m sorry. I… I just want you here, Buck. It feels selfish and I know you have to be out there doing what you need to…” You let the tears fall freely as you curled to one side. “But I want you home. I want you safe. Here. With me. I want you in my arms. Not on the phone miles away in the middle of who knows what. I like hearing your voice, really. But… it’s not real. You’re not here. And all I feel is cold. My imagination isn’t strong enough. Not anymore. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The vehicle revved again in the Bucky’s silence. You could almost see him. How his brow would crease as he frowned, trying to come up with the right words. “You don’t need to be sorry. I miss you too, and I don’t want to be away from you either. I- ah, fuck, Baby. I’m sorry. I’ll be home in a little while and then we don’t have to go anywhere or do anything.”

It took all your willpower not to scoff. “A Bucky ‘while’ or a Steve ‘while’?” You bit your bottom lip, waiting. He didn’t have an answer for that. Outside, the wind rattled your front door. “Bucky, I know you probably have to go back to work in a minute. But we- we can’t hang up like this. Please. Say something.”

Your phone screen went dark as the call ended. “Buck?” It stayed dark. You thought he must have driven into the dark zone Tony set up around wherever they had basecamp. No calls in or out. A sob ripped through your body. Then you startled as the door rattled again.

It swung open and your heart stopped.

“Bucky.”

He barely had time to shut and lock the door before you were on him. He wrapped his arms around you; the chill of his clothes prickled your skin with goosebumps. You didn’t care. He hummed an apology as you kissed all over his face and cried into his coat.

“You’re home?”

“Yes. I thought – it was going to be a surprise. We got ‘em. Been on the way home for two days trying to get back. I should have just told you. If I had known you felt so lonely I never… I’m home. I’m here.” He kissed you back, holding you close. He grunted as you squeezed him tighter. “I’m home. I’m here.” He kept humming it as you pulled him to kneel with you in front of the fire. Soon his cheeks were warm under your lips. “I should have told you. Am I on your naughty list?”

Breathless, you broke away with a laugh. “No. You don’t have to be.”

“Oh?”

“I thought you were going to kiss me from head to core and back again the second you got home?”

He grinned. “I did say that, didn’t I?”

“Mhmm.”

His grin glowed with the kind of danger that you yearned for. “Then I guess I better get started.” Sliding one arm around your waist, and his other hand digging into your hair, he held you in place for his deep kiss. Try as you might, you couldn’t move with him holding you so tightly. You couldn’t even thrust your hips into his front. Bucky chuckled darkly as you struggled. “What?” He ran his thumb across your bottom lip as you tried to catch your breath. “I thought this is what you wanted.”

“It is, Buck, please-“

He covered up your pleas with a flurry of kisses. This time around, he kept his hands on your waist, holding you mostly in place. With your arms free, you could cup his face in your hands. His cheeks were scruffy with mission-growth. Already you could feel the burn between your thighs. He grunted as you reached between your bodies. The tent of his tactical pants was warm under your touch. Breath stuttering, he thrust towards your hand. You took the chance to mouth over his Adam’s apple, making him moan. Leaning forward, you almost succeeded in taking him down to the blanket; but at the last moment he threaded his fingers into your hair and tugged you back.

“Nuh-uh. Been laying on a hard cot for weeks. Can’t I lay on something soft?”

You bit your bottom lip. “Of course. But-“ You tugged on the buttons on his coat.

It took both of you to make it through all the buttons and zippers and clasps of his coat and under-jacket before you reached his shirt. He tugged off the long-sleeve shirt, leaving on his black tank top. He jutted out his chin. You grabbed the hem of your top and pulled it off over your head. The giggle that bubbled out of you rivaled any that you had made on a Christmas morning. Bucky’s face of desire and appreciation of your form, paired with his lax jaw and glassy eyes… it warmed you all over. Reaching out, you snagged his wrists and guided his hands to your breasts.

Mumbling to himself, he massaged your breasts. He leaned forward to bury his face between them. You curled your fingers into his hair, giving his locks gentle tugs to make him hum against your chest. It wasn’t long before he was guiding you to lay across the blanket. His lips barely left your body. When they did, it was so he could shift his ministrations from one breast to the other or up to the underside of your jaw. He could have danced you around like a marionette for all you cared. Your vision was hazy with need and your hands couldn’t feel enough of him. He growled as your touch found his trapped manhood again.

“Gotta wait, Baby.” He sucked on the spot under your ear. “If you get your hands on me too soon, I’ll blow. Wanna taste you first.”

“Have you been starving for me, Sergeant?”

His moan into your shoulder was plenty of an answer.

As promised, he kissed his way down your body. Gently, he removed the sweats. You giggled again. He couldn’t stop looking between your glistening arousal and your eyes. Quick and desperate, he kissed back up to your lips. Then he settled on his stomach. His arms wrapped around your thighs. You did your best to settle in.

Not that it did you any good. He lapped and sucked at your slick like he hadn’t eaten in days. To a degree, he hadn’t eaten from you in weeks. But the way he devoured your sex was like he hadn’t eaten anything since he left. When he curled his metal fingers into your heat, you arched with a cry. His flesh arm stretched across your tummy, pinning you down so he could continue to take you apart. Desperate and mildly warmed up from the earlier phone call, you fell apart quickly. He laughed into your thighs about how easy you came for him.

“Missed me that much, Baby? Can’t help but feel flattered.” He watched you, resting his cheek on your thigh while his fingers continued to lazily curl within you. Every time you almost managed a comment, he curled into that spot that made your eyes cross and you lost your train of thought. “Can you give me another? Come on. Just one more and then we can rest.”

You whined. “Not… not without you.”

“But you’ve got me. I’m right here.”

“Buck-“ you moaned. “Need you. In me. Please.”

The flickering of the fireplace mirrored in his eyes as he crawled over you. But his fingers continued their slow strokes. If it looked like you were going to speak, he flicked his thumb across your clit and scattered your thoughts again. When he was finally hovered over you, he made a show of slowly dragging his fingers out of your slick before sucking them into his mouth. The way his tongue curled around the metal, not missing a drop, made your vision fuzzy with the memory of that tongue on your sex. He dragged his cock into the open, slowly pumping it.

“Gonna- fuck. Gonna have to be careful.” He reached down again, returning his fingers to stroking your velvety walls. His hips thrust, dragging his cock through the slick that escaped around his ministrations. “Need you close, Baby. What do you need?” He mouthed over your breast.

He might as well have asked you to compute the number of Christmas lights in Manhattan. The best you could do was grip the side of his head and guide him from one breast to the other. Your hips jolted when you needed more. Bucky’s fingers curled and scissored like you needed. He added another, stretching you pleasantly. Soon, you were keening.

“About to cum, Buck. Please. Need you. Come on.”

You screamed as he filled you in a breath. His whine of finally feeling you around his cock muffled into your shoulder. But his chest pressed hot and sweaty against yours. At first, he could only tremble, scared to move. But you rolled your hips. The pleasure coursing through you was ready to tumble over the edge, if only he’d move.

“Darling, please-“

Bucky thrust once. Then quickly pistoned his hips into yours like a man possessed.

You trembled and raked your nails down his back. Despite the fabric in the way, he growled all the same. His mouth fell open, pressing a breathless kiss to your forehead.

With a hoarse shout, you clamped down on his cock. The lights on your tree blurred into one bright glow. Bucky’s grip tightened around you, sure to leave bruises. His eyes fluttered closed as he came. Spilling into you, he trembled and rocked his hips a few more times, chasing the feel of you and the height of his pleasure.

“Welcome home, darling,” you shivered.

He breathed a laugh into your neck. But he didn’t leave. Instead he rolled to one side so your back was towards the fireplace. “Maybe- maybe I should leave a bit more often.” Your whine made him smile. He smoothed his hands across your hip and back. “You know. Just to the grocery and such. If I walk out and back in again, you wanna welcome me like this again?”

“Hmm.” You nuzzled your face into his chest. “If you wanted to do that, you’d have to let me go. And step back out into the cold.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“What? The Winter Soldier not a fan of the cold?”

“Not when I’ve got you in my arms and speared on my cock I’m not. I’m not moving from this spot until absolutely necessary.” He kissed your forehead. “And I meant what I said earlier. I don’t have to be anywhere. Told Steve not to call me till mid-January unless the whole world’s in danger.” He hissed as your nose pressed, cold, along the neckline of his tank.

“So you’re all mine for Christmas?”

“Christmas. New Year’s. Epiphany. Boxing Day-“ You cut him off with a laugh and another flurry of kisses. Behind you, the fire crackled warm, and your brightly-colored living room finally felt like home.

***

Master List

Other Bucky Fics:

A Gift to Me (F, S, Christmas) 

Starting off the Year Right (S) 

Cake or Cookies (S)