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popcornpoppypop · 1 day ago

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You're a Good Man, Jack Abbot

Summary: Ashley suffers from Endometriosis and Ovarian Cysts. When she's having a bad flare-up on a day when her partner, Jack Abbot, is covering another department, she has to deal with dismissive doctors.

Warnings: Endometriosis, ovarian cysts, vomit, medical neglect, surgery

A/N: I thought I had posted this forever ago, but I guess I forgot. Anyway, enjoy some protective Jack "I stand ten toes on business" Abbot.

The pain had hit hard and fast, something that Ashley was familiar with. She had Endometriosis and ovarian cysts on top of that. She knew pain, it was a constant visitor. Tonight it was different, worsening to a point that she hadn’t dealt with. She was barely able to stand upright; that was the final straw. She tried to stay away from the hospital as much as possible. When she got serious with Dr. Jack Abbot, he made that more possible. He took care of her at home most of the time. He was currently on shift, helping cover in the ICU.

Ashley made her way slowly but surely to PTMC. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the staff, but she hadn’t hung out much with them. Being a social worker for foster children kept her pretty exhausted, her and Jack crashed most nights. When she walked in, Lupe clocked her immediately.

“Hey, girl what’s got you coming in?” She smiled.

“Hi, Lupe. I’m in a lot of pain. Not sure what’s going on.” Ashley gritted her teeth.

“Let’s get you back, Ash.” She buzzed the door open and Ashley hobbled her way back.

“Hey! Ash! Shit, you look bad.” Mateo greeted her as he brought a wheelchair towards her.

“I feel it.” Ashley groaned as she sat down.

“Did you let Abbot know you’re here?” He wheeled her over to a private room, knowing that when Abbot eventually found out she was here, there would be hell if she didn’t have her own room.

“Not yet. Wanted to see what was going on first.” Ashley got into the bed with Mateo’s assistance.

“Make sure you tell him that when he comes down. We all like our heads on our shoulders down here.” Mateo chuckled.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll protect you guys from big, bad Dr. Abbot.” Ashley laughed but was overcome with pain and bent over in pain.

“Whoa, take it easy. I’ll dial down the charm for you, no more laughing.” Mateo put the monitoring leads on her. “Vitals all normal, heart rate is a bit high but not bad. You’re probably getting one of the interns tonight, just so you know.” Mateo gave her an apologetic look and shrugged.

“Well, they gotta learn some time, I guess.” She sighed. She had a hard enough time getting regular doctors to listen to her, let alone students.

“We’ll do our best to keep an eye on them. Let me know if you need anything.” Mateo sauntered off for his next patient.

Ashely couldn’t get comfortable at all. She flipped and flopped and turned in every direction, nothing helped.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Whitaker. I’ll be taking care of you today.” A young, blonde boy walked in. Ashley was already unamused.

“Hi. Can I get something to help with the pain? It’s getting worse.” She winced.

“Once I do my exam, we’ll discuss options.” He gave a thin-lipped smile that she recognized as disbelief.

“Yeah, sure.”

“What’s going on today?” He gloved up and started looking over her body.

“I have endometriosis and ovarian cysts, so I thought it was just a flare-up. But the pain is worse than it’s ever been. It keeps getting worse and none of my regular remedies are doing anything.” Ashley yelped as Whitaker pressed on her abdomen.

“Okay, well I’ll order some blood tests. But I think you’re right, it’s just a flare-up and there isn’t much to do.” He nodded.

“No, this isn’t what my flare-ups feel like. Something is wrong.”

“Well, let’s get the blood going and we’ll go from there.”

“I want an ultrasound at least.” Ashley groaned.

“I don’t think that’s necessary at this point. I’ll have Mateo bring you in some Tylenol.” He nodded and left. Ashley groaned in frustration. She was about to text Jack when a wave of pain made her double over and drop her phone. She knew she couldn’t get out of bed to grab it. The call button was nowhere to be found, wrapped on some far-off piece of equipment.

She felt the bile building up in her throat; she fought it as hard as she could, but another crash of pain made her vomit over the side of the bed.

“Okay, Ash- oh shit!” Mateo came running over to help her sit back up and wiped her mouth.

“S-sorry.” She whined through the pain.

“No, nothing to be sorry for. Damn, this is bad.” Mateo cleaned up the mess and saw how sweaty and pale she had become.

“Mateo…call Jack…Please…” She choked out, pointing to her phone. Mateo ran over and brought it to her. She unlocked it and handed it back. “Can’t…talk…hurts…” She cried.

“Okay, okay. I got you. I thought Whitaker had more brain cells than this.” Mateo grumbled as he hit Jack’s contact.

“Hey, Honey. I’m not getting off for a few more hours. What’s up?” Jack answered.

“Dr. Abbot, it’s Mateo-”

“Why the fuck are you on Ashely’s phone?” Jack’s voice was stern, angry and worried.

“She’s in the ED. She’s in a lot of pain. I think you should come down here.” Mateo handed Ashley an emesis bag.

“On my way.” Jack hung up the phone before anyone could reply.

“I’m getting Ellis until Abbot gets here. Tylenol ain’t gonna cut it.” Mateo ran out of the room. Ashley cried as the pain wracked her body, she began shaking.

“Oh shit. Yeah, Mateo let’s her some morphine, now.” Ellis came in, her blood ran cold at the sight of Ashley. She ran over and started assessing her.

“T-thank you…”

“I’m sorry, Ash. I’m ordering an ultrasound. We’ll get to the bottom of this.” Ellis said. The door flew open, and Jack came barreling in. “Jesus! Honey!” He took in the pale, shaking form of his girlfriend and was filled with worry and rage. He ran over to her, brushing the sweat-matted hair from her face.

“Got the morphine on board.” Mateo said as he came running in and administered the drug.

“What the hell is going on that she looks like this!?” Abbot barked.

“Whitaker was on the case. I thought he could handle it.” Ellis said, standing in wait for her dressing down.

“Clearly not! Mateo, get him in here. NOW!” Jack yelled.

“Grab the ultrasound for me, too,” Ellis instructed as Mateo did everything he could to not be in that room.

“I’m so sorry, Honey.” Jack held her shaking hand in his. “The morphine isn’t touching her. Fuck.” He started grinding his teeth.

“Dr. Abbot? Mateo said you wanted to see me?” Whitaker came in, the fear evident on his face.

“What the hell would possess you to give such half-assed treatment to a patient?” Jack growled.

“I-I did what I thought was best practice.”

“In what world is a woman pale, shaking in pain with her history being treated with Tylenol and blood work, no ultrasound, no imaging at all, best practice!?” Jack stood, his anger radiating off of him.

“I thought…I didn’t know your relationship.” Whitaker cleared his throat.

“Why does that matter? I want your reasoning for treatment.” Jack’s voice was low, controlled and dangerous. Ellis had her arms crossed and head bowed, knowing she would be next.

“I thought she was drug seeking.” Whitaker tried to sound confident. It fell flat. Jack marched over, toe to toe with the boy. Jack wasn’t a tall man, but he didn’t need to be; he knew how to make people feel small.

“You’re not to touch her, look at her, speak to her again. You are off her case. You will learn to treat people better, Dr. Whitaker.” Jack growled, his breath making Whitaker’s eyes water from the closeness.

“Dr. Abbot…I don’t think you can make that call with how close you are to the patient.” Whitaker was trying to stand his ground and it was not going well.

“Whitaker, stop talking.” Ellis snapped.

“The only cases you will have from now on are constipation and enemas. Until you can be trusted to properly treat pain and care for patients in distress, scut work.” Jack hissed. “Get out of my sight!” Whitaker ran out of the room.

“Got the ultrasound.” Mateo wheeled the machine in.

“I’ll deal with you in a minute.” He pointed to Ellis as he got the ultrasound ready.

“Mateo let’s up the morphine dose.” Ellis instructed.

“I got to put pressure on your belly, I’m sorry Baby.” Jack said as he pushed the wand across Ashley’s abdomen. She let out a cry as he moved it across her body. “Shit.” He sighed.

“Ovarian torsion. Dammit.” Ellis looked over Jack’s shoulder at the screen.

“You’re going to have to get surgery.” Jack said wiping the gel from her belly.

“Just make it stop.” She sobbed.

“I know, baby. I’m going to.” He kissed her forehead. “Call up, get Walsh to put her to the front of line. If she gives lip, tell her she can come down here and talk to me.” Jack told Mateo who nodded and scrambled out of the room.

“I thought he knew better. I should have been in the room with him.” Ellis shook her head.

“Where the fuck were you?” Jack sighed, crossing his arms as he turned to her.

“I had a febrile toddler.”

“Is that patient also being neglected now?”

“No, sir. She just had an ear infection.”

“Good.” Jack paced in front of her. “I expect more from you, Ellis. You’re better than this. You dropped the ball tonight. If I hadn’t been upstairs, what would have happened? If it wasn’t Mateo, who knows her history and keeps an eye on everyone, what the hell would have happened!?”

“I need to keep better track of my students. I’ll be making sure all treatment plans are run by me for approval from now on.” She nodded.

“That should have already been the standard! Your job is to teach AND supervise! Do better! Get out of here.” Jack sighed.

“Ashley, I’m so sorry.” Ellis sighed as she left.

Jack sat next to the bed, doing his best to console Ashley, knowing it was fruitless with the pain she was in.

“If I wasn’t in so much pain…I’d jump you right now. That was hot.” Ashley gave a weak smile.

“Oh yeah? Next time you drop off my coffee, I’ll make sure there’s an intern around to yell at.” Jack chuckled.

“No, you standing up for me when I couldn’t.”

“I’ll always do my best to take care of you.” He kissed her forehead. The door opened and Dr. Walsh came sauntering in.

“Abbot. Thought I’d come down and escort our VIP myself.” She said, her tone laced with sarcasm.

“You dare to mingle with us ED weirdos. You’re too kind.” Jack smirked.

“Ashley, let’s get you out of here so we can both get some peace and quiet.” Walsh nodded to the nurses to start wheeling her out of the room. “You’re not allowed in the OR. Just setting boundaries.”

“No. I couldn’t do that anyway.”

“Can’t handle it?”

“Not with her.” Jack said as he let go of her hand. “I’ll be waiting for you when you wake up.” He called after her.

Jack marched back into the Pitt, his anger not diminished. He saw Dr. Shen exiting the break room and zeroed in.

“Hey, Jack. Thought you were upstairs.” Shen’s smile started to fade as he realized the anger that was rushing toward him like a freight train.

“You are the attending tonight, yes?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“So, do you want to tell me how one of your interns ordered Tylenol and blood work for an ovarian torsion case? No pain management, no imaging.” Jack looked like a raging bull, puffing air out of his nose to try and keep his temper in check.

“What? We don’t have an ovarian torsion case-”

“Yes, you did! Ellis dropped the ball; you are supposed to pick it up. Where were you!?”

“I was just…I, um, making coffee.” Shen hung his head, knowing that was a stupid excuse.

“Coffee. Ashley was writhing in pain, and you were making coffee!?”

“Oh shit. It was Ashley? Jack, I didn’t know!” John put his hands up.

“I have given you grace for too damn long. Robby and I will be discussing how to rectify your lackadaisical attitude.” Jack growled as he turned and stomped off.

“Fuck.” John sighed. He was shaken, having never been yelled at like that by Abbot.

“That man is terrifying. Like, for real.” Mateo shook his head as he walked by. “Glad it wasn’t my head on the chopping block.” He laughed as he went back to his patients.

Jack did his best to get back to work, making sure the ICU was taken care of. His mind was in the operating room with Ashley.

“Jack, we’ve got everything taken care of. Ashley will be out of surgery soon. Go, we can cover the rest.” One of the ICU doctors came up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah, okay.” They scoffed. “Well, I don’t need you and Gloria will have my ass if I keep a doctor overtime more than necessary. Go.” They pushed his shoulder toward the elevator.

“You’re a dick.” Jack smirked. “Fine. Thank you.” He nodded his gratitude and made his way up to the surgery floor.

Jack was never good at sitting in waiting rooms. He was used to being on the other side of the door, preferred it that way. Luckily, at this time of night, or rather morning, no one else was there. He paced back and forth, his mind starting to take off with itself.

“You want to stop burning a hole in the tile, Abbot?” Walsh came through the doors.

“Everything okay?” Jack ran up to her.

“Who are you talking to? Of course, it went okay.” Walsh smirked. “She did fine during the surgery. We were able to repair the damage to the ovary and fallopian tube. I can’t guarantee there won’t be some troubles with it in the future if you two ever decide to procreate. God help us if you do.”

“Easy, Emery. I’m not my usual sunshiny self tonight.” Jack warned.

“Okay, okay. Since you are her medical proxy, I should also tell you that she’s going to need another surgery at some point. Jack, the endo was everywhere. I don’t know how that girl isn’t rolling around in pain every day.” Walsh shook her head. “I got out as much as I could but we went in laparoscopically. We weren’t prepared for it to be that much.”

“Fuck. She’s been having a harder time, but she never mentioned feeling that much worse.” Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. “Thank you. Can I see her?”

“Yeah, she’s just waking up.” Walsh led him down the hall.

Jack tiptoed into the room, and Ashley was starting to blink awake. Her head lolling back and forth as she fought the remnants of anesthesia. Jack moved the chair closer to the bed and held her hand.

“Jack?” Ashley groaned, scrunching her face in discomfort.

“Hey, how you feeling?” He brushed the strands of hair from her forehead.

“Mmm…like they cut me open and flipped my insides around.” She sighed.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. How’s the pain?” Jack ran his hand up and down her arm, the sensation soothing to Ashley, grounding her and helping her wake up.

“S’okay. I’ve had worse.” She smiled up at him. “When can I go home?”

“We’ll send you home in about an hour. I trust Jack to make sure your taken care of at home.” Walsh nodded.

“Thank you, Dr. Walsh.”

“Ashley, the Endo is getting worse. There was a lot when I was in there. You need to let your provider know when it’s getting bad. There’s no reason for you to be in that much pain all the time. No more downplaying your symptoms.” Walsh warned.

“Okay. I promise.” Ashley nodded.

“I’ll have the nurse come in with discharge instructions in a bit.” Walsh made her way out of the room.

“She’s soft on you.” Jack chuckled.

“She has to be hard around you. She’s a woman in a man’s field. If she was soft downstairs, she wouldn’t hear the end of it.” Ashley tried to adjust but stopped as the pain pulled at her abdomen.

“Fair point.”

“How many people did you yell at downstairs? Are they all shaking in their boots?” She chuckled.

“The ones that deserved to be yelled at were dealt with.” He stated, not wanting to go further into detail. Ashley had a knack for making Jack feel bad for reprimanding his residents and interns.

“They’re still learning. I don’t think they’ll forget this lesson, though.” She chuckled. “I thought you were going to pop a blood vessel.”

“Seeing you like that made my blood run cold. I never want you to be in pain, but Jesus, Ash, you were so pale. I couldn’t stop the panic.” Jack shook his head. Ashley reached over and held his face in her hand.

“I’m okay. I’m here and I’m okay.” She told him, knowing that he had a hard time seeing her sick. It would, on occasion, cause his PTSD to act up. Jack leaned into her touch.

“There is no excuse for how they treated you. I don’t want this to happen to anyone else, especially if I’m not there to rectify it.” He took her hand, kissing the palm of it.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Jack leaned over to kiss her.

“Even if all of this means I can’t give you a family?” Ashley’s voice cracked. Walsh telling her that the endometriosis was getting worse, something she knew would happen, reminded her that it was a slim chance they would have.

“Ashley. I love you. You are my family. You are all I need, all I want. If we have a kid at some point, that’s great. But it’s not a caveat for my love. I’m fulfilled with you and our life.” He promised. Ashley pulled into a wet kiss, her tears streaking down her face.

“You’re a good man, Jack Abbot.”

“I try to be, for you.”

#the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #dr. jack abbott #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot x oc #dr. jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #tw blood #tw vomit #tw surgery #tw endometriosis #tw ovarian cysts #tw medical neglect

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twilightsumu · 2 days ago

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wave goodbye ⋆｡⋆❀˖°

༄ pairing: k. nanami x f!reader

༄ synopsis: you visit kento’s favorite place to live in the pockets he has left behind and to say goodbye.

༄ warnings: wc: 3k+. little a bit of everything: angst, fluff, and smut (very soft), canon (in the sense that nanami dies), staggering flashbacks (the same day but different years), mentions of death, sadness, heartbreak, quiet ending.

༄ a/n: for the lovely @lily-bisque’s (ily) summer collab!!! my chest caved in a little while writing this.

July 5th, 2017

Postcard from Kuantan, Malaysia

To my love,

The sea is loud, but she is constant. The ridges of the waves speak to me in a way that drags the salt from the water into my hands. It’s where I know I’ll always find you. You’ll find me in the tides.

I wish you were here. But, I see you in the glitter on the early morning sand and the waves that follow me as I walk along the shore.

Your Kento.

July 5th, 2019

The postcard feels heavy in your hands. The sun bleached edges bite into your palm, familiar now. Like it’s trying to cling to you as hard as you’re clinging to him.

You’re not sure if you want to dip your toes in yet… not when it feels like you’ll be stepping into his ghost.

It feels unnatural. To be in his favorite place without him. You ignored the heavy feeling in your chest when you got on the plane to get here — sitting in the middle of two strangers. Kento’s thigh not the one to press into yours. His hand not weaving into yours when the turbulence became too much to handle.

Now, the deep lavender sky envelopes the warming peach and gold hues flowing in. The horizon stretches on forever. You stare long enough to start hoping it’ll give him back. It stares back — probably wondering where he is too.

This was the place where he came to breathe. You returned just to remember the sound of it. But the ocean — loud, aggressive — doesn’t let you mourn quietly.

It remembers him too.

You swear, for a second, you hear him.

“It always sounds angrier before it calms.”

You look over your shoulder, just to be sure. The waves knock in a humid breeze, one that tangles your hair. One, that if the stretch of sand wasn’t empty, but had your Kento walking towards you — his feet would have sunk deeper into the sand, the pages of the book he brought to study the animals he’ll see, would have flutter.

But he isn’t walking towards you. The salt isn’t clinging to his sun kissed hair. It’s just, your sandals, and the tide crawling closer.

You press the postcard closer to your chest, right where it aches the most. The paper’s warm from the sun, but you tell yourself it’s kept the warmth from his hands when he first picked it out for you. You wish it really was his hand on your chest. His breath on your neck when he’ll lean down and ask if you wanted to get breakfast before the stalls ran out of roti canai. Instead, the waves crash another humid breeze towards you.

Your body still remembers how to love him. It keeps reaching — for his hand, for his laugh, for the sound of him breathing next to you.

But there’s nothing to catch. Only wind.

You inhale, sharp. It smells like sandy seashells and sunscreen and fruit. Like him. Like then. You blink against the sting in your eyes. You want to blame it on the salt. But that isn’t fair.

Your heart aches for the sea.

Maybe it misses him too.

July 5th, 2018

You’re straggling behind — Kento leisurely walking along the shore. His footprints clear, the tide trying and failing to wash them away. The crystal clear water pools in his footprints, letting you walk in his steps.

The water is a quiet kind of blue today. It folds over itself, staying near Ken’s feet a little longer than necessary — rolling with a hush, retreating with a wistful sigh.

The sand is pale and warm, packed firmly from where the waves have kissed it. You smile at the sensation when the sand becomes sugary and crumbly when you’re closer to the dunes. Your feet are still stepping into Kento’s path. The path you know you’ll follow for the rest of your life.

The air is thick with salt, the salt that you know will cling to Kento’s lashes and you’ll be even more memorized when he looks down and blinks at you. The smell of sunscreen and rambutan settles sweet and sticky into your hair — you even consider skipping shampoo tonight. The smell of Kento’s favorite place wrapping you up and being presented to him later tonight.

You’re not talking to each other. The sounds of the waves crash towards you, pulling you both into the blues of the unknown. The sand gently shifts gently under your feet. Birds you don’t recognize call out overhead (Ken knows them, you saw the book about animals in Malaysia snuggled near his socks in his suitcase). The early morning bustle of beach goers setting up camp. It’s calming. But, hearing Ken’s breathing is louder than anything. Words aren’t needed — you know he’s here and vice versa. He hears your toes imprinting into the prints he’s left behind.

You squint at Kento’s bare back, your heart squeezing with it. You want the sun to hold him like you plan to — forever and ever.

And then, he turns around. Facing you.

Golden in the sunlight.

Shoulders relaxed. Head tilted like he’s listening to the water speak. The smallest hint of a smile, the real one that you’re lucky to know. You could feel it, your heart leaping when his lips quirk. You’ve had this thought before — that you’d know this smile, even from miles away.

At times you think his mother created him in a lab, grabbing inspiration from Greek sculptors.

“You okay?” He calls out to you, and then you realize you stopped walking. A line of his footprints slowly filling up with water — tiny little puddles gasping with your love and the sea’s love for your golden boy.

“Perfect,” you whisper. You can’t help but smile back at him. A bird caws in back of you, it sounds closer than the others. It’s pretty. You could see the gears in his brain start to turn, the bird book coming in handy.

“Well, come over.” He waves his arm and like a snake charmer to a cobra, you follow along. The sand pushing on your heels as you lightly jog to be near your love.

“Look at what I found.” As you approach, you see a line of seashells — not just scattered, but arranged deliberately. Like little offerings from the sea, pulled in just for him. You’re just happy to be involved.

Your arms are brushing each other — sweaty and salty. The sun is now shining on you both, and you wonder if Kento feels the warmth as softly as you. The heat isn’t beating on you, no fear of sunburned skin and aloe kisses happening. But, it’s easy and tender — like his fingers running along your spine when he wakes you up in the morning.

You look up at him, ignoring the pile of seashells that he’s so intrigued by. Sweat drips from his temple and you realize — the sun is yours and the sea is his.

“Let’s see who could find the prettiest one.”

He crouches down, skilled fingers lightly brushing sand off the variety of colors flashing in front of you. Hues of pink, blues, and beige weave around his digits, a content humming coming from him and ringing in your ear.

You kneel beside him, watching the way the sun glints off the water droplets still clinging to the shells — like they haven’t quite let go of the ocean. Like they’re not ready to be taken.

Then you spot it — the blue one that looks like it’s curling into itself. You immediately reach for it, your fingers brushing his. A shell so blue, it matches the button up he wears everyday for work.

“It reminds me of you.” You hum and he chuckles. You lean into his shoulder a bit. The shell rolling in your palm — you want to squeeze it so that the salt and the tales of the waves it rode in lives in you forever.

“So I have to find one that reminds me of you.” His voice is gentle, his lips brushing on your hairline is even gentler.

He jumps up — sudden and determined. You hold in the giggle that wants to escape. Watching as he starts to lightly jog across the beach, following the line of shells laid out in front of him.

Giddily, you jump up too. The shell is still in your hand, the light waves are still filling his footprints, and his chuckle is still swimming in the air. You follow him.

The sea chased him. So did you.

July 5th, 2019

It’s quiet — and not the quietness that used to follow him. His quiet was still and calm, waiting to be popped by your invasive questions and his hearty chuckle. Or even by the gallops of the beach just outside, it was always waiting. Always patient, and loving.

This quiet is lonely. It’s eerie almost — as if it is just cloaking itself over what you and Kento have built in this little bungalow. It knows it isn’t welcomed, it shouldn’t be here. But, like your grief and his wavering quiet — it doesn’t know where to go.

You fully step into the bungalow, the palm tree right by the door sending you a little wave as you brave this home that once was filled with salty kisses and Kento’s calm sigh, alone.

You don’t realize the tears are falling until you’re inside.

Your eyes skirt around the familiarity of the place, despite the most important piece missing. You see the blue seashell you picked up last year — the one the color of his work shirt. A shirt you have tucked in your suitcase for when you just want to feel him draped over your shoulders.

Your knees buckle at the simpleness of the seashell. The sunlight warms the dust that’s settled on it. It’s still beautiful. It’s still him.

Your fingers reach for it, fast and unsteady. You silently pray that you don’t drop it. You don’t know how you’ll react to a piece of him shattered at your feet.

The curves grove along your palm the way the postcard did earlier. It feels smaller now, more lived in. And the fact that this little remnant of life has the audacity to keep moving without him causes your chest to heave in.

And you let yourself cry.

You let yourself imagine his fingers combing through your hair, his sunscreen penetrating the air with such force you’ll stop crying just to make sure he rubbed it in correctly.

While the tears flow out violently and unending, your feet graze the floorboards — every inch of this place memorized in your DNA. Your body knows where to go, what to walk around. It’s only missing his hand in yours.

Red rimmed eyes and the sluggish, aching feeling of crying creaks in your shoulder blades as you walk to the bedroom window. The shell is still craved into your palm, you crack the window open.

You let the world in. The breeze, briny and humid. The faraway call of someone selling food on the street. The scent of rice and palm sugar wafts in like a ghost. The distant rhythm of children laughing down the beach. The sea doesn’t crash here — not yet. It hushes. It lulls.

From the corner of your teary eyes, you realize something waves for your attention. And there, hanging as if he just placed it there a minute before is his tie. Your free hand immediately reaches for it.

That stupid patterned one you use to tease him about. The same one you helped him knot because he could never get the length quite right. You grab it slowly, as if he might be around the corner to question your motives. The fabric is stiff, sun-worn, but you can still imagine it looped around his neck. You can almost feel him though the threads of the funny patterns.

You press it into your face. Inhaling. It doesn’t smell like him anymore — not that you expected it too. But still your chest caves. Your body jerks slightly, waiting to feel his arms wrap around you.

But the tie doesn’t hold him. It should. It always did.

You pull it back for a moment, almost dropping it. Your nose running, searching for his scent.

Your memory does the work anyway. You taste him in the back of your throat.

You can’t move, so you stay there with pieces of your love in your hands. The tears are the only thing that could move out of you.

Not because you’re alone.

But because the air still feels like him.

And you know he would’ve had his head out the window, letting the sea speak to him. Their secret conversations were nothing more than his slight, slow breath, and his listening.

Letting the sea carry all the words neither of you could say.

July 5th, 2018

The lights are dimmed, the curtain losing its fight with the salty breeze tangling in — allowing just the lightest kiss of moonlight to flitter throughout the room. The air smells like pockets of the sea and skin, the ocean breeze wrapping around the room like a cloth.

You hear the moon dictating the tides as they whisper along the shore — allowing for your moans and Kento’s grunts to dance around the room without a care. All of the sounds create a melody that’s steady and heartfelt. One that will live in your heart and the breeze that the palm tree would feel tomorrow.

His breath is hot against your neck, but his touch is soft and reverent. His heart is beating against your palm from where your hand is plastered to his back. He moves as if he’s trying to keep you tucked in the bed, in this bungalow, with the beach leading his hips into yours.

You’re staring at him from below, his blonde salty hair tickling your nose. Legs are tangled together, skin sticky from heat and love. One of his hands is buried under your head, cradling you as if you’re delicate. His other hand traces your ribs, the dip of your waist, the beauty mark he loves on your stomach. Over and over. You think he’s memorizing you for a moment when you won’t be here. As if he doesn’t know who you are or what you are to him.

“Kento,” you whisper along with the salty breeze. You feel his heart stutter on your palm. A welcoming feeling. You almost want to grab on to it, keep it engraved on your skin for years to come.

He sinks into you deeper — bottoming out in you with a low, broken groan. Your own moan follows, accompanied with a shiver down your spine. He holds still there, buried in your warmth like it’s sacred. His hazel eyes boring into yours. Unsaid words floating between your bodies and floating out the cracked window to join the palm trees.

Then he begins to move again — slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that grind him deeper into you. He drags soft, needy sounds out of you with every thrust. His hand presses into your lower belly like he’s grounding you to the earth, to him.

“I love you,” he breathes, lips brushing your cheek. “I love you even more you’re here with me.”

He kisses the curve of your shoulder, his hair tickling you even more. You could almost see the particles of sand that didn’t wash out in the shower twinkle in his hair. His rhythm doesn’t change, it’s still slow… it’s still him. He takes his time, stretching you out so that you could feel him whole.

“Because I bought you that bowl of nasi lemak?” You whisper against his lips. The hand that was pressing on your stomach is dipping in between your legs, you arch your back at the invasion. His hips are still slowly kissing yours in a pace that’s matching the sound of the waves rolling in.

He chuckles against your lips — warm and wet. “Maybe.”

His hips roll forward, even slower this time — dragging his length along your gummy walls. The only response you could give him at the moment is clenching your walls around his creamy shaft. And an airy breath, not from urgency, but from how deeply you feel him.

“Where else would I be, if not by your side?” You ask. Your voice is soft, even you had trouble hearing yourself. The vibrations of your chest as you spoke let you know you said it out loud.

Your hand that’s been grasping at the thumping of his heart runs along his back, stopping at his shoulder to give it a squeeze before crawling its way to tangle into his blonde hair. His hair is damp, curling at the ends and you can’t help but fall in love again.

He stares down at you, his brows relaxed. His eyes are shining so brightly, you have to remind yourself you shut the lamp off before you guys became tangled in bed. Plump lips parted just slightly, you catch his tongue running over his bottom lip.

“We could just stay,” his tone is dreamy and you can’t help but just nod along. “Let the sea age us.”

His index finger has found your clit, tracing lazy circles that echo who he is — slow, certain, and achingly tender.

The sea sighs, creeping through the windows, entering your lungs and his. And with it, so do you.

July 5th, 2019

The quiet from the bungalow follows you and the moon to your spot on the sand.

The postcard is still in your hand, the shell that is the color of Kento’s button up shirt is snug in your pocket. His tie looped around your fingers lazily, soft in the wind. You don’t remember doing that. Your hand just knew to drag it along.

“I wish you were here,” you whisper, but your voice breaks halfway. The words come out watery and achy. Like you’re in physical pain. You feel like you are.

A wave replies, gently brushing your feet.

You scurry your feet closer to you. It feels cruel and wrong to be kissed by the sea. It feels too much like him.

A chilled breeze weaves through the palm trees. Dragging along good night kisses from lovers in the bungalows behind you. Kisses filled with promises of seeing each other in the morning. The kisses you miss the most.

Out of heartbreaking anger, you roughly grab onto the postcard — holding it a little tighter. Your thumb running along the ink smeared words acting as if you don’t know how he crosses his ts.

“You’ll find me in the tides.”

You shove it to your chest, ignoring the slight pang of physical pain. Not when the grief is growing from under your ribs and pressing your heart out of your chest.

You’re not ready. You weren’t ready for him to go. You doubt you would ever be ready for that to be true.

The moon brings the tide closer to you. The usual warm water feels cold tonight. The waves are soft, so soft. You just have to sit there and wonder if he is controlling the waves — having them match his kisses. Maybe he thinks this is making it easier.

But, the burn in your throat and the crack in your shoulders as you try to push them down from your ears tells you it’s time. You know that you have too. He would want you to.

If you don’t let go now, it will keep breaking you in newer and sharper ways everyday. Like how those heavy waves erode rocks on cliffs. The crash and pull created something the rocks weren’t planning on becoming.

The shell is burrowing itself into your pocket, or maybe it’s your hand trying to keep it there.

A wave rushes towards you, this one heavy and dark.

You drop the postcard first. Your eyes closed, like it’ll hurt any less. It didn’t. Your fingers grasps at air as it rushes out of your clammy hands.

You feel the pain in your chest coming out as full body sobs. Your shoulders shaking, leaving that knowing soreness that is going to riddle your body in the morning.

Another roll of a wave, and your fingers grasp the shell. The sound it makes when it hits the water is too soft. Like it doesn’t understand what it meant to you. It doesn’t understand who it is.

The tie wraps around your fingers, a gentle tug to be kept in your hand. Your stomach caves in. All you could do is allow your toes to get wet while you hold on to it, bringing it closer to your nose. Still looking for his scent.

You feel your body curl into itself, like the shell you just left go of. Your whole body aches. Your teeth are clenched together. You want to scream — at him, at the sea, at everyone involved. You want him back. You want the sea to rewind time, so that it can get him back too.

You don’t think you can let go. You want to laugh at the pattern one more time. You want to loop it around his neck, tugging on it softly to lead him down so that his lips meet yours.

But, another wave comes and you think your mind is playing tricks on you.

It sounds just like him. His laugh, his voice, the way he used to say your name when he was tired.

You let the tie sway out of your hand.

Eyes still closed and spilling out hot tears, you stay sitting in the cold wet sand. Your knees curled into your body.

Even with your eyes wet and shut, you know the moon is bright, you see glimmer of it whenever you move your head. The sky is calm.

The sea is endless and forgiving. The waves have stopped lapping at your feet, staying nearby quietly. You’re grateful for the companion.

He’s gone. He has been gone for months now.

But, he’ll be in the sea. In the tides, waiting for your toes to curl in the wet sand. For your fingers to graze over seashells that match his eyes. For the salt that would cling to your hair, dropping on his pillow — since you can’t sleep on your side anymore.

For now, he’s floating in the groves of his favorite place. For now, he’s everywhere where he's meant to be.

In the sea. In your heart.

happy belated birthday kento bean <3 you deserved better (sorry i can’t write that way).

dividers: @bernardsbendystraws

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barnesonly · 1 day ago

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Peach

steve kemp x reader

summary: you shouldn’t want this. shouldn’t crave his hands, his mouth, the way he worships you like you’re something holy. he’s dangerous. wrong. but he makes you feel things—in his own twisted, obsessive way.

word count: 3k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! steve kemp is literally a warning himself, pure smut, stockholm syndrome, praising, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, PiV, unprotected sex, breeding.

A/N: okay, this is my first time writing a fic that isn’t about Bucky Barnes, so… let me know what you think and if you’d like to see part 2 in the future…!

You should be disgusted. You should be screaming. Scratching at the walls. Clawing at his eyes. Trying to escape this house, this man, this madness.

But instead, you’re here. Breathing hard, fingers tangled in the sheets, hips trembling—giving in to him. Again.

You don’t know when it changed. When your fear shifted into something murky and warm, something that spreads through your veins like honeyed poison. It started with his voice. The way he talked to you—so calm, so sure. Then his hands. His touch. His promises. The way he made you feel like the only thing in the world he craved.

And now?

Now, that man is between your thighs, making you feel a kind of pleasure you never thought you’d survive.

His mouth is obsessive. His tongue glides through your folds like he’s savoring something delicate, something divine, like you’re the finest cut he’s ever had. And God help you, your body responds to it. Back arching. Toes curling. Lips parting to moan his name like a prayer.

You’re not tied up. Not this time. You don’t have to stay. But you’re not going anywhere.

Because Steve is devouring you like he’s starving, and you’re the only thing that’s ever truly fed him.

And maybe… you want to be consumed.

You moan as his tongue flicks against your clit—slow, wet circles that make your thighs quiver around his head. His hands are gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you open, holding you still, like you’re a meal he refuses to let slip away.

“Easy, Peach,” Steve murmurs against you, voice thick with hunger, lips brushing your soaked skin. “Let me enjoy you.”

And God, he does. Every lick, every kiss feels like worship. He’s not rushing it. No, Steve Kemp eats pussy the way he carves into a rare steak—focused, reverent, starving. His tongue dips down, savoring everything you give him, then drags back up, slow and sinful, until he finds that swollen spot again and stays there, flicking, sucking, pulling sounds from your throat you didn’t know you could make.

“You know how long I’ve waited for this?” he groans. “How long I’ve thought about the way you’d taste? How many times I’ve had to settle for something else before I found you? Something less… sweet?”

He moans into your cunt like he’s the one being pleasured, like the taste of you is addictive—euphoric. His eyes flick up, catching yours through the mess of your thighs and his hair, and the look in them makes your breath hitch.

Like he’s in love.

“You’re my favorite, Peach,” he says, voice all low heat and ruined devotion. “My girl. Always so good for me, aren’t you?”

Your hips jerk up, needy, desperate. And he smiles against you—fucking smiles—and tightens his grip.

“Yeah,” he breathes, tongue pressing flat and firm, sliding slow and delicious across your clit again and again. “Be good. Let me eat, baby. Let me take every drop.”

And you do.

You sob his name as your orgasm crashes through you, back arching off the bed, legs shaking uncontrollably. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. He just moans like he’s tasted something divine and licks you through it, deeper, messier, more possessive.

You try to pull away, overstimulated, dizzy—but he holds you there.

“You’re not done,” Steve whispers, kissing your swollen pussy like an apology and a threat all at once. “You’re never done ‘til I say, Peach. And I’m still hungry.”

You’re trembling—your thighs shaking from the orgasm, your lips parted in a soft, broken moan—but he’s already back between your legs, licking into you like it’s the first taste all over again.

His tongue is ruthless.

He starts slow—broad strokes from your entrance to your clit, licking up everything he made you spill. But it doesn’t take long before the rhythm changes. Becomes needy. Desperate. He latches onto your clit with a filthy groan, sucking it into his mouth, flicking the tip of his tongue back and forth until your hips buck off the bed.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice muffled between your legs, “Give it to me, baby. Let me have it.”

Your hands shoot down to his hair, gripping tight as your body jolts beneath him, overstimulated nerves screaming—but he doesn’t let up. His hands are holding you down, fingers digging into your thighs, and his mouth works you like he’s possessed.

“Fuck, Steve—I can’t—” You sob, voice cracking.

“Yes, you can,” he pants, breath hot and messy against your drenched cunt. “You’re my good girl, remember? My sweet little Peach. You give me everything.”

And you do.

You fall apart on his mouth again—harder this time. Hips jerking, back arching, a strangled cry breaking from your lips as your orgasm crashes over you, wetter and rougher than before.

And Steve? He fucking moans. Loud and wrecked, like he’s the one coming, like he’s in heaven with your slick soaking his face.

“Oh, fuck yes—look at that,” he groans, pulling back just enough to see the mess you’ve made of him. His chin is dripping. His lips are shiny. His tongue flicks out to taste the corner of his mouth and he hums like he just had the best meal of his life.

“You made such a mess, Peach. Soaked me. God, you taste like something I’d kill to keep.”

And you know damn well he means it. He would do that.

He leans in and licks you one more time—slow, tender, obscene.

You flinch, overstimulated and dizzy—but he only grins, eyes full of worship and madness, before kissing the inside of your thigh, your mound, your still-twitching clit.

Your body’s still shaking, chest rising and falling in erratic little gasps, but Steve finally pulls back from between your thighs—only to hover over you, mouth glistening with your slick, cheeks flushed, pupils blown.

He looks completely wrecked.

Like you wrecked him.

And he’s not done. Now he wants to fuck you full.

“God, look at you,” he breathes, cupping your face, thumb dragging softly across your cheek. “So fucked-out. So pretty. You have any idea what you do to me, Peach?”

You can’t even answer. Your lips part, but all that comes out is a shaky breath—and then he’s kissing you. Full and wet, tongue sliding into your mouth, making you taste yourself on him. He whimpers when you kiss him back. Whimpers. Like he’s starved for this too.

“You’re gonna take me now,” he whispers against your mouth. “Gonna let me inside this perfect little pussy, baby. Gonna let me fuck you nice and slow, just like you deserve.”

Your hips twitch beneath him—already aching, already clenching around nothing. You nod, dazed, desperate. “Yes,” you whisper. “Please… Steve, I need—”

“Oh, I know what you need, Peach,” he cuts in, voice like velvet soaked in sin. “You need to be filled. Fucked nice and full. Used by the only man who knows how to love you like this.”

He pulls his boxers down and slides his cock against your slick folds, groaning at how wet you are—how ready. Your body welcomes him like it was made for this, for him, and when he finally pushes inside, it’s slow, deep, deliberate.

You both gasp.

“Jesus—fuck, look at that,” he groans, hips pressing flush against yours. “So tight, baby. Still twitching from coming all over my mouth, and now you’re squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go.”

You don’t. You wrap your legs around his waist, anchoring him inside you, desperate for more. He starts to move—slow thrusts, long and thick, dragging his cock through your soaked, swollen walls like he’s imprinting himself in your body.

And in a way… he is.

“That’s it,” he growls, pressing kisses to your jaw, your ear, your throat—everywhere. “Let me fuck you just like this. Let me take care of you, baby.”

You’re babbling now, fingers digging into his shoulders, overwhelmed by how deep he is, how full you feel, how every thrust makes you melt all over again.

“So good, Steve, please—oh my god—”

“I know, baby,” he breathes, voice breaking with need. “I know. You’re so good for me. My perfect little girl.”

He fucks you through the overstimulation, through the dizzy, sticky bliss that’s still pulsing in your core, and he’s not stopping. His body presses into yours, one hand slipping between you to rub tight circles on your clit again, lips curling when your back arches off the bed.

“One more,” he whispers darkly. “One more, Peach. I want to feel you come on my cock this time. Be a good girl and give it to me.”

You can barely keep your eyes open. Everything feels warm, heavy—your limbs like liquid, your thoughts blurred into static. All you can feel is him. Inside you. Around you. Everywhere.

Steve notices. Of course he does.

“Hey… hey, baby,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts just enough to make your body twitch at the loss of rhythm. His voice is soft. Careful. His thumb strokes your cheek, tender and reverent.

“You with me, sweetheart?”

You whimper, blinking up at him, your lips parted, trembling. “I—yeah, I just… I can’t—”

And then he’s moving.

He pulls out, just for a moment, and before you can whine from the loss, he’s wrapping his arms around your waist and lifting you. Strong, practiced, like you weigh nothing to him. He sits back on the bed, pulls you into his lap, and guides you down onto his cock—slowly, gently, burying himself deep as you sink onto him.

You gasp, legs trembling around his hips, your arms clinging to his shoulders as you try to breathe through the feeling. He’s so deep like this. Too deep. You feel stretched, soaked, broken open—and he’s holding you like you’re precious.

“There we go,” Steve murmurs, mouth brushing your ear. “Got you. Just breathe, baby. I’ve got you now.”

His hands are firm on your waist, supporting your weight, rocking you on his cock with slow, controlled rolls of his hips. It’s almost too much. Your pussy’s raw and sensitive, fluttering around him with every messy, wet glide. But he’s whispering to you. Talking you through it. And it’s ruining you.

“So good for me,” he says softly, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your tears at your temple. “My perfect girl. You’re doing so well.”

You sob, helpless, completely overwhelmed—but you don’t want him to stop. You need him. The slow grind of his cock, the wet sound of your slick coating his skin, the praise filling your ears like a lullaby.

“Just let go,” he whispers, rocking you a little faster, a little deeper. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me fuck you, baby. Let me take care of you.”

You nod, burying your face in his neck, mouth falling open as another orgasm coils deep in your belly. The drag of him inside you is perfect. The stretch. The pressure. His cock pushing against that sensitive spot over and over while your clit grinds against the rough hair at the base of him—it’s too much. It’s not enough.

You can’t think. You can’t speak. All you can do is feel.

“Come for me,” Steve breathes, voice strained now, fucked-out and tender. “Soak my cock, Peach. Wanna feel you drip all over me. Be good and give it to me.”

And you do.

Your body locks up, trembling in his arms as you come again, walls pulsing around him in tight, messy waves. You cry out into his neck, and he groans at the feeling—deep and broken—clutching you tighter as he fucks you through it, never letting you go.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. Fuck—fuck, you’re perfect.”

You’re dripping down his cock now, your slick soaking both of you, and he keeps rocking you gently, whispering praises between kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, your throat.

“My sweet, sweet girl. My beautiful fucking mess. You were made for this, you know that? Made to be mine.”

Your body is limp in his lap now—soaked, shaking, pliant in his hands.

But Steve’s still inside you.

Still hard. Still rocking into you with slow, deep thrusts that punch soft whimpers out of your throat every time he drags against your overstimulated walls. Your thighs are twitching, your breath broken, and your cunt’s still fluttering around him—gripping him like it doesn’t want to let him go.

That makes him lose it.

“Oh fuck,” he gasps, voice cracking as his hips stutter, grinding up into you like he can’t stop. “Oh, baby—fuck, you feel too good. Too fucking good.”

You moan when you feel him twitch inside you, and he lets out a desperate sound—his hands clawing at your waist, holding you down as he starts to thrust harder, chasing his own ruin now.

“I’m gonna come,” he groans, nose buried in your neck, teeth grazing your skin like he’s barely holding himself back from biting. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna fucking breed you.”

Your breath hitches, cunt clenching down tight around him at those filthy words, and he growls.

“Oh, you like that,” he pants. “You want it. Want me to come inside this perfect little pussy. Fuck, Peach—gonna make you mine. Make sure no one else ever gets a taste.”

You can’t answer—you’re too far gone, too fucked-out to do anything but moan for him, nails dragging across his back as he fucks you with messy, frantic thrusts. You’re both soaked—his cock sliding in and out of you with loud, sticky sounds, your slick dripping down over his thighs—and it’s perfect.

It’s his.

You are his.

“Mine,” Steve groans, arms locking around your back, crushing you to his chest as he finally breaks. “Mine. Mine. Mine.”

He spills deep inside you with a guttural moan, hips jerking, cock pulsing as thick heat floods your cunt. You feel every throb. Every drop. His breath is ragged against your neck, arms shaking from how tightly he’s holding you.

But even as he comes down, he doesn’t let go.

He stays buried deep inside you, wrapping himself around your body like he’s trying to keep you in place forever. His cock softening slowly, leaking into your overstimulated pussy, mixing with your own mess as he presses soft, almost innocent kisses to your cheek.

“You did so good, baby,” he whispers, voice barely audible now, soft and dazed. “So sweet for me. So perfect. My precious girl.”

You can feel his cum dripping out around him, sliding between your thighs—but he just hums, kisses your temple, and pulls you tighter into his chest like it’s his right.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers, lips pressed to your ear, breath warm. “You’re mine now, Peach. Always.”

And somehow—through the haze, through the wreckage of your own body—you find yourself nodding.

Because you already are his.

You’ve been his since the first taste.

You don’t know how long you stay there—collapsed in his lap, his cock still buried deep inside you, your skin flushed and damp, your thighs sticky with a mixture of sweat, spit, and cum.

His arms are wrapped around you. Tight. Possessive. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip even an inch.

“You did so good for me, Peach,” he repeats, whispering against your hair, breath still heavy. “So fucking good. I knew you would. I knew you were mine.”

Your heart is pounding in your chest—but not from fear. Not from anything that makes sense.

It should be fear.

Because this man… this thing… has killed. Taken. Kept. He stole you. Locked you in this house. Fed you lies and soft kisses and dinners you don’t ask questions about.

He should make your skin crawl.

But all you can feel is warmth. His voice in your ear, his cum still inside you, his hands petting down your spine like he’s comforting you after something holy.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he says softly. “No more bad days. No more pain. Just this. Just me. You don’t need anything else.”

Your stomach twists.

This is wrong.

He’s wrong.

You should hate him.

But your body—wrecked and trembling in his lap—wants to melt into him all over again. Wants more of his voice, his touch, the safety of being wanted this much. Even if it’s sick.

Even if it’s a lie.

“You’re gonna stay with me, Peach,” he murmurs, still stroking your hair, as if you have any choice. “Gonna build you a room right next to mine. Maybe not even that—maybe I’ll just keep you in my bed. So I can taste you every night.”

Your breath hitches. You’re too sore to move, too overstimulated to think, but the words sink in. So does the truth of them. He means it. Every word.

He’s not going to let you go.

And what’s worse—what makes shame coil hot and low in your belly—is that some part of you wants that.

You don’t want the outside world. You want him. His mouth, his voice, the way he holds you like you’re breakable and holy and his.

“You’re not scared of me anymore, are you?” he asks softly.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He smiles.

“Good.”

Then he lifts your chin with two fingers, eyes locked on yours, pupils still blown wide.

“I’m never letting you go,” he says, soft as silk, sharp as a blade. “I’d kill for you. I’d die for you. And if you ever try to leave me…”

He kisses your cheek, slow and gentle.

“…I’ll make sure no one ever finds the pieces.”

Your heart stutters.

Fuck.

You should be running. Screaming. Scratching at the walls.

But instead, your body leans into the kiss. Into his touch. Into the lie you’re too tired to fight anymore.

Because you’re not just his prisoner.

You’re his favorite.

tag list: @iamthatonefangirl @buckytakethewheel @thatsbucknasty @buckybarneswife125 @peanutbutt3rcup @avengemepercy

#barnesonly #writing #peach #steve kemp #steve kemp fanfic #steve kemp fanfiction #steve kemp x reader #steve kemp x you #steve kemp x y/n #fresh #fresh fanfic #fresh fanfiction #sebastian stan #smut #smut fanfiction #smut fanfic #steve kemp smut

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hearts4hughes · 1 day ago

Text

❦⋆ bridgerton au ~ ballroom encounters

note: all the next chapters/parts will be released weekly each wednesday at 5pm est!

the thing about you is you were raised to be admired. the posture, the composure, the perfectly balanced expression that says look, but do not speak unless you’re worth my time. it’s not vanity—it’s legacy.

your family name does most of the heavy lifting in the room, but you’ve never minded. power is quiet when you wear it well. you say please like a dare. you say thank you like a promise. you’ve had suitors cry over you and you’ve had their mothers beg. and still, nothing interests you. not the gowns (though you wear them like armor), not the dances (though you never miss a step), and certainly not the gossip.

you’re bored tonight. the ballroom is too hot. someone keeps playing the wrong waltz. your champagne is warm and someone nearby just mistook you for your cousin, which, honestly, feels like grounds for exile.

you let your eyes scan the chandelier above you. it’s older than the building. thirty seven crystals, by your count. or maybe thirty eight. someone bumped your elbow when you hit thirty three and now you have to start over. you step back, just slightly, and a little sigh escapes. your mother would kill you if she heard that sound escape your lips.

“now, now, y/n.” she’d always say in a high-pitched and faux voice. “that is not the sound a lady makes.” you almost roll your eyes at the thought. mother loves you, she really does. she just has an odd way of showing it. probably passed down from her father the way things always are.

you’re daydreaming about running away from this god awful place when you crash into someone. your heel slips, the champagne sloshes forward, and you try to pivot, but your hand jerks, and the glass jolts upward. then something cold and expensive splashes all down the front of someone’s jacket.

a man stands before you—tall, broad, and deeply unimpressed. you already know who it is before you look up. “seriously?” he mutters. rafe cameron stands in front of you with a scowl and a growing stain on his suit. still, he stands there like the room belongs to him, all loose-limbed arrogance and perfectly ruined hair. women orbit him, men avoid him, and fathers despise him. tonight, he’s already turned down two dances and disappeared behind a curtain with the daughter of a viscount.

you stare at the stain blooming across his lapel. “oh, god.” your lip curls up in disdain.

his mouth twitches like he’s two seconds away from saying something foul. “that was tailored in milan,” he drawls.

you raise an eyebrow. “how tragic.” he stares at you, hard and cold. he’s waiting for you to either cower or apologize or maybe burst into tears—because that’s what most girls do around him. but, you just tilt your head. “you should watch where you stand,” you say evenly. “some of us have better places to be.” you keep your gaze straight, not bothering to make eye contact. he was so far below you it was ridiculous.

he scoffs. “some of us have better things to spill.”

“some of us—” you start, ready to say something so vile that even your grandmother would have a heart attack, but his expression shifts. it goes from smug and annoyed to quick and distracted. he glances past your shoulder and his whole body goes still. you turn your head just enough to see the pack of pastel nightmares approaching. four girls, all giggles and pinned curls, practically sprinting toward him.

“lord cameron!” one calls. “i must ask—”

he cuts her off by taking your hand. “come with me,” he mutters.

“absolutely not.”

“do you want to be trampled?” he hisses.

“it’d be an interesting way to go.” you bite back, eyebrows furrowed, and cheeks warm.

he tugs you closer, breath hot against your ear. “dance with me. please.”

a breathless laugh leaves your lips. “are you begging me?”

he shakes his head and bites his cheek, but he already has your wrist. “only a little.” he charms. you don’t let him lead you—you let him think he’s leading. you let him press his hand to the small of your back and drag you into the center of the floor. you let the music catch you like a net, let the rhythm pull you under. you don’t smile, but you keep your head high and your posture perfect. when his hand squeezes yours, you don’t flinch. “you’re not bad at this,” he says as if you haven’t been ballroom dancing since you were two.

“you’re not as tall as i remembered.”

“you’re not as cold.”

“you’re not as clever.”

his eyes narrow. “i’m clever enough to know you hate this.”

“i don’t hate dancing,” you murmur, eyes softening like you’re about to confess something to him. his lips fall from that dumb grin as he waits for you to continue. then, your fingers move down his arm and pinch his skin through the fabric. “i hate you.” you smirk as his eyebrows drop.

he hisses and glares daggers into you. then, he’s spinning you and you let him. he doesn’t smirk, but you can practically feel the pride radiating off of him. “hate me all you want,” he says lowly. “you’re still here.”

you don’t answer. you just stare at him like he’s something you could draw—something beautiful and smug and dangerously close to being ruined by your hands. the music slows, the dance ends, and people clap. but you don’t. instead, you pull away from him like he was scum from the bottom of your shoe. he watches you walk off with a smile that’s far too satisfied. you don’t look back, but you know he’s still watching—he always does.

taglist - @slut-4-rafey @prettydaisygirl @buckysdogtagss @my-diary1 @lethalwerewolfenvoy @ladyatwalmart @anon-188-main @sooverwhitesandpinks @maddimwah @appleciderlove @k1sses4youu @ilovedrews @babygoddam @girlydollll @sofifuckingfunny @beautyinsteadofashes @theneighh @khartalks @chulabeans @lulanixoxo @supremebaddietrash @mattyskies @stargirl411 @moonywhisp3rs @yolgart @gillybear17 @m4deinhe4v3n @vaelyann @aajxs @hanneh69 @blushhbambi

#❦⋆ bridgerton au #bridgerton!rafe #bridgerton!rafe x bridgerton!reader #rafe cameron blurb #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron #nora’s writings 💐

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arixella · 2 days ago

Text

“Come Back to Me”

╰┈➤ pairing: Luffy x female! reader

a/n: none

summary: After two long years apart, you reunite with a stronger, more confident Luffy on Sabaody Archipelago, and in his arms—filled with love, warmth, and unexpected charm—you find home again.

wc: 1.0k

contains: fluff, romantic tension, post time skip

Two years.

Two years of aching silence, of dreams painted in the shade of his smile. You tried to keep your mind busy—training, learning, preparing—but even with the chaos of the world rumbling at your feet, there was always that pull in your chest, that ache.

You missed him.

And now, standing at Sabaody Archipelago, your heart is thudding so hard you can barely hear anything else.

The Thousand Sunny sat like a beacon on the water, sunlight catching the gold on the lion’s head, but your eyes weren’t on the ship.

They were on him.

Monkey D. Luffy.

Your Luffy.

He stood at the shore, framed by sun and sea spray, and God, he was different.

His black hair had grown a bit, brushing just above his shoulders and fluttering slightly in the breeze. His body was broader now, more defined, every inch of him carved from the countless days he must’ve spent training. The signature red vest was open, revealing his toned chest and abs that made your throat go dry. His hat was still perched on his back, but his expression—softer, older, stronger—was what did you in.

And when he saw you…his grin nearly split his face in half.

“Baby!”

He yelled it so loudly, so confidently, like no time had passed. Your knees buckled. That voice—it was deeper, fuller, and so different from the boyish tone you remembered. He ran toward you with all the force of a wave crashing to shore, and before you could say a word, he had you in his arms, spinning you around like a child with their favorite toy.

You let out a laugh somewhere between relief and disbelief, clutching his shoulders as tears welled up.

“I missed you,” he whispered against your ear, lips brushing your skin, and you swore your heart stopped. Since when did he get so smooth?

“I—You—” You pulled back slightly to look at him, your hands pressed against his chest. “You sound different. You lookdifferent.”

Luffy grinned, all teeth and mischief, but there was something else behind his eyes. Something older. More intense. “You like it?”

You swallowed hard. “I… yeah. I like it.”

He didn’t give you time to say more. He cupped your face with both hands—rough, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle—and kissed you.

Not the clumsy, excited kisses from before the timeskip. This one was slow. Confident. His lips moved against yours like he’d thought about this, practiced even. Your brain short-circuited when his tongue slid against your bottom lip, teasing, waiting.

You pulled away breathlessly. “Luffy…!”

His grin widened, impossibly smug. “I learned a few things on the women’s island,” he said, voice low, like a secret meant only for you. “About how to make my baby melt.”

Your face burned. “Who are you and what did you do with my Luffy?”

He laughed, throwing his head back, and you caught sight of that new strength in his neck, his collarbones, his chest. You cursed your past self for not preparing for this.

“You didn’t think I’d come back the same, did you?” he murmured, leaning in again. His nose brushed yours. “I knew I had to get stronger—for the crew, for me. But also for you. So when I saw you again, I could really show you how much I love you.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Luffy…”

“I thought about you every day,” he continued, eyes boring into yours with that rare seriousness he only ever showed in moments like this. “When I was training with Rayleigh. When I was sleeping under the stars. When I was learning how to not totally screw up kissing.”

You snorted, smacking his chest. “Well, I can tell. That was… new.”

He leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Wanna try again? Just to make sure I got it right?”

You shivered. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his vest, tugging him in.

“Yes,” you whispered.

This time, the kiss deepened faster. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your fingers slid into his hair—softer than you remembered—and he groaned softly at the contact.

When you finally broke apart, dizzy and gasping, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I’m never leaving you again,” he murmured. “Two years without my baby? That was hell.”

“I’m proud of you, Luffy,” you whispered. “You’ve changed… but in all the best ways.”

He smiled, pressing another soft kiss to your lips, then one to your cheek. “And you… you got stronger too. I can feel it. You’re amazing, baby.”

You bit your lip, heat rising to your cheeks again. “Flirting, kissing, compliments? Seriously, what did they teach you on that island?”

Luffy winked. “Stuff I’m gonna show you later. Over and over.”

You groaned, burying your face in his chest. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, hugging you tight. “But I’m yours.”

And with the sea breeze in your hair, the scent of salt and sunlight around you, and the warmth of his arms anchoring you home, you knew without a doubt:

So were you.

♡♡♡

#anime #one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #one piece x you #one piece luffy #monkey d. luffy #monkey d luffy x reader #luffy x reader #luffy x y/n #luffy x you #luffy x reader fluff #luffy fluff

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rulerofstars · 1 day ago

Text

compounded

oneshot: sneaking around and sleeping with bucky was easy. keeping quiet while you do it? not so much.

pairing: thunderbolts! bucky barnes x reader

tags: (18+) 3k words. SMUT without plot. shower sex (kinda). raw penetration. creampie. being fucked as bucky's dogtags slam against ur face holy shit. minors, dni.

You're pretty sure that showering with Bucky Barnes qualifies as an objectively terrible idea—one that even your most chaotic decisions would respectfully step aside for.

Because this? This is not a rational choice. Not when your hand is currently gliding over his insanely unfair chest, slick with soap and hot water, steam curling around you both like a heavy, illicit fog. Not when the Bluetooth speaker on the bathroom sink is still playing R&B like the two of you aren't committing a federal offense under the team compound's roof. And definitely not when your palm wraps around him, fingers squeezing, slow and deliberate, and Bucky's head thunks back against the tile with a groan that does dangerous things to your already-frayed nervous system.

This is the staff quarters' shower. You're the manager. He's... him. Super soldier. Congressional headache. Thunderbolt-in-chief. And yet, here you are—naked, wet, and trying not to combust as his hips buck into your hand like your touch is the only thing tethering him to Earth.

"Jesus, baby…" he grits out, voice low and rough like he hasn't slept in a week and now you're the one ruining him. The thrill of it, the secrecy, the proximity, the fact that Yelena could burst in at any second, makes your pulse skip. You bite down on a groan, nipping the skin just below his ear like it might save you from collapsing entirely.

"Gotta be quiet, Barnes," you murmur, because someone has to be responsible here and it sure as hell isn't going to be him. "Wouldn't want the team to know their super soldier is being... what's the word? Inappropriate?"

He grins. Not a normal grin. Not a polite, sure-thanks-for-the-briefing grin. A devastating one, teeth and mischief and Brooklyn drawl thick as honey. "Sweetheart, you're the one makin' it real hard to stay quiet," he says, all gravel and ruin. His vibranium hand, cool and unyielding, cups your jaw, while the other slides down your ass with a reverence that makes you feel like some kind of miracle. The contrast makes your brain short-circuit: cold metal, warm calluses, his mouth, crashing into yours like a man starved. His tongue strokes against yours in a way that sends electricity straight to your core, and you moan into him—idiot.

"Focus," he murmurs between kisses, smug and panting. "You gettin' distracted? Or just thinkin' about how mad Val's gonna be when she finds out her golden girl's been sneakin' into my shower?"

You pull back just enough to glare. Or, well. You try. It's hard to be intimidating with flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and your hand wrapped around his cock. "You're one to talk," you hiss, tightening your grip. His breath catches. "What's wrong, Barnes? Losing focus already?"

His eyes go dark. Dangerous. "Oh, you're gonna regret that."

The vibranium hand moves, trailing down your waist with practiced precision, pausing at your hip like he's waiting for your pulse to spike—which it does, traitorous and loud. When his fingers graze the inside of your thigh, you gasp, instinctively pressing into his touch. But he doesn't give you what you want. Not yet. He pulls back just enough to leave you panting and twitchy and feral with need.

"What's that?" he whispers, lips brushing yours but not kissing. "Beggin' already? Thought you were the one runnin' this show."

You could lie. You could sass. You could pretend like your whole body isn't vibrating with want. But you do none of those things.

Instead, you stroke him harder, your thumb gliding over the tip, and grin when he curses under his breath and grips your thigh like it might save him. "Can you keep up, Barnes?" you whisper. "Or are you gonna blow our cover before I do?"

And the way he groans—low and wrecked, eyes fluttering shut like he needs you is answer enough.

His chuckle is low and dark and somehow smug in a way that tells you you're absolutely, completely fucked. And not even in the way you want yet.

His fingers finally move, sliding between your thighs with a kind of devastating precision that makes your brain empty out like someone pulled the fire alarm in your skull. He starts slow, almost lazy, circling just barely enough to make you twitch, to make you squirm and gasp and try (fail) to stay composed. You can feel the smirk forming against your mouth before he speaks.

"Careful, baby," he murmurs, voice rough against your lips as he nips at your bottom one, the sharp sting making your whole body flinch. "Keep makin' those noises, and we're gonna have to explain this to the whole damn team."

Which. Fair. You are absolutely making those noises. Whimpering, gasping, lips parted in helpless want. Your cheeks are hot. Your skin is prickling. Your legs are actively shaking under the weight of how good he's making you feel with just his fingers. And sure, fine, you could stop. Regain the upper hand. But instead, you tighten your grip around him, stroking him harder, just to see what it does to him.

It wrecks him.

His breath hitches. His jaw flexes. His vibranium hand clenches around your hip hard enough that you know you'll be wearing finger-shaped bruises in the morning—and you welcome them. "Keep that up," he growls, voice breaking, "and I'm not gonna last."

"Good," you whisper, lips brushing his ear, smug despite the way your knees are jelly and your entire body is vibrating. "That's the plan."

His fingers sink deeper with a precision that is absolutely illegal. They curl, just right, hitting that one spot like he's spent years studying you under a microscope. You choke out a gasp, head tipping back against the tile, and that's all he needs—his mouth starts moving again, down your jaw, trailing fire against your pulse.

It's not fair, the way he kisses you like you're something soft and precious while his fingers are literally ruining you. The contrast is obscene. And perfect.

He's relentless. Slow. Measured. Like he's conducting an experiment with your body as the thesis. His fingers work you with such a steady, intentional rhythm that you're panting, teetering, right there, almost falling, and yet not quite. The risk of someone walking by, of hearing your gasps echo against the steam-slick tile, makes every touch burn brighter, sharper, needier.

"Bucky," you manage, voice breaking into a whimper as your nails dig into his shoulder. "Don't... don't tease—"

He hums against your throat. Literally hums. The vibration makes you shudder, full-body, like you're a wire pulled too tight. "But it's so fun watchin' you fall apart," he whispers, his lips brushing your jaw as his fingers slow to a torturous pace. "You should see yourself. All flushed and desperate and gorgeous, sneakin' around with me like we're not gonna get caught."

You're about to fire back (or beg, honestly, you're not above that anymore), when he drops to his knees.

And your brain? Gone. Dead. Vaporized.

Bucky Barnes. On. His. Knees.

Water slides down his shoulders, his hair sticking to his forehead, those piercing eyes blinking up at you through wet lashes like he's about to ruin your entire lineage. He hooks your leg over his shoulder like he's done it a hundred times, like you're not one second away from disintegrating, and then his mouth is on your thigh.

"Bucky, please..."

Your voice breaks on his name. He smirks. Of course he smirks.

"Please what?" he asks, nipping just above your knee. "Use your words, sweetheart. Otherwise I'm just gonna keep you here, writhin' on this tile while the rest of the team starts wonderin' where their manager went."

"You know what," you hiss, your voice shredded by need, and he laughs, lips brushing your skin, cocky and warm and goddamn infuriating.

"Oh, I do," he says.

Then his mouth is on you.

His tongue is lethal. Slow, soft at first—circling against your clit, savoring your taste. He hums when you buck your hips, when you moan, when your fingers twist in his hair like you're scared he'll stop.

He doesn't stop.

He alternates between soft licks and firm, deliberate strokes, and your breath goes choppy. Your thighs tremble. You have no control over the way your body reacts, arching toward him, clenching, begging with every inch of you. He groans when you tug his hair, the sound deep and hungry and completely unhinging. You can feel him smile against you.

Then he does this thing, a flick of his tongue, followed by a slow, dragging lick—and it short-circuits every working neuron in your skull. Like he's discovered you. Like he's unlocking cheat codes. Every time he does it, your body spasms, helpless and shaking, and he hums in satisfaction, pushing you closer to the edge with sickening precision. You love it when he pushes his tongue against your very entrance.

He edges you there, keeps you there. You whine. Plead. Curse him out and beg all in the same breath.

"Not yet, darlin'," he murmurs against you, warm and smug and evil. "Wanna make it last."

"You jerk—" you manage to choke out, and he just chuckles. And then he does it again.

Flick. Drag. Suck.

And that's it. That's it.

Your entire body fractures.

You cry out, too loud, definitely not subtle, but you can't help it. Your legs give out. Your vision whites out. You feel like you've left your body entirely. He doesn't stop, keeps licking you through it, drawing it out like he's feeding off your pleasure, like this is the part he's addicted to.

And when you finally slump forward, boneless and shaking and barely able to stand, he catches you.

He stands slowly, and kisses you—soft now, like he's reeling you back in. His lips are sweet, sticky with you, and it sends another jolt of heat through your gut. You taste yourself and don't even care. You kiss him harder.

"That's my girl," he murmurs, voice low and rough, pressing his forehead to yours.

You can feel him against your hip, hard and insistent, still so obviously wrecked for you and you almost whimper again.

"Gotta be careful," he mutters, brushing wet hair from your cheek. "Can't have the team knowin' their manager's this good at breakin' the rules."

You stare at him, still breathless, and manage, "Bed. Now. Before someone actually comes looking."

His grin? Cat-that-ate-the-canary levels of smug.

"Bossy," he says, but it's fond. Warm. And still hungry. He turns off the water, grabs a towel—because of course he's practical even now—and wraps it around the both of you, pulling you close.

The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. Every creak makes your heart race. You're supposed to be going over mission logistics. Instead, you're dripping wet, wrapped in a towel, tiptoeing into Bucky Barnes' room like it's some kind of federal offense.

But the door clicks shut behind you. Locks. Then it's just the two of you again.

The air is cooler, but your skin is still burning, and when he spreads the towel on the bed, ever practical, you laugh. "What?" he says, raising an eyebrow as he pulls you onto the matress, his hands already roaming.

"You're so prepared," you tease, straddling his hips as he leans back, hands on your thighs. "What's next, a spreadsheet for sneaking around the compound?"

He laughs, rich and warm, but his hands tighten, pulling you closer. "Sweetheart, I don't need a spreadsheet to make you scream. But I might need one to keep track of all the places we've defiled this place."

You shut him up by yanking him down by the stainless tags, those damn dog tags that have been swinging between your bodies like they're in on the joke, like they've known all along what this was building to. Your mouth crashes into his, all tongue and teeth and barely-restrained desperation. He groans into you and you feel the shift in him, the way he jerks against your thigh, cock slick and hard as steel, and then...

Oh God.

His cock sinks into you, slow at first, the thick head of him nudging at your entrance, catching against the slick folds of your cunt. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. He's big, and your body remembers how full he makes you feel, how impossibly wide he spreads you open—but it still shocks you every time. Every inch he gives you feels like it should be too much, and yet your hips rise to meet him, greedy for more.

"Jesus," he breathes, teeth grazing your cheekbone, his forehead damp with sweat, his vibranium arm braced beside your head. "You're so fuckin' tight, baby."

He's barely inside and already shaking, and when he pushes forward again, your walls clench around him like you were made to take him. You feel everything. Every ridge, every vein, every maddening throb of his cock as it glides deeper, filling you inch by inch until your breath hitches and your legs lock tighter around his waist.

The pressure builds, delicious and unbearable, and when he bottoms out—his hips flush against yours, his cock seated deep inside, stretching you wide—you both freeze. Just for a moment. Just to feel it. Just to let the weight of it crash down between you like a storm breaking open the sky.

"Oh my God," you whisper, and he laughs, this broken, breathless sound against your throat.

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice wrecked. "You feel that? You feel how perfect you fuckin' take me?"

You do. You feel it everywhere. It's in your spine, your ribs, the soles of your feet. He's thick and hot and so deep it aches, but in the way that makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your hips lift in search of friction, of movement, of more. But Bucky doesn't move—not yet. He shifts instead, angling his hips the tiniest bit, and oh.

Your head drops back, lips parted in a silent cry as the tip of his cock nudges against a spot so devastating you see stars. Your nails drag down his back, marking him, grounding yourself in the feel of his skin under your palms, the scent of him in your nose, clean and sharp and Bucky, all Bucky, with a hint of sweat and heat and something unspoken threading between you.

He does it again. Rolls his hips with a practiced rhythm that shouldn't feel so natural, like he's memorized every gasp you make, every twitch of your thighs, every flutter of your breath. His cock drags along your walls with every movement, slick and thick, and that pressure, that perfect freaking pressure—rubs right where you need it, makes your back arch and your legs shake.

"Say it," he grits out, the restraint in his voice hanging by a thread. "C'mon, baby. Say it."

You're not sure what it is, his name, how good he feels, how much you need this, but it doesn't matter, because all of it comes tumbling out in a string of breathless, broken syllables: "Bucky, oh my God... please, I'm... I can't—"

His cock is hitting that spot—that spot—with surgical precision, his body moving like a weapon built to wreck you in the best way. The room echoes with your bodies, slick and frantic, the slap of skin on skin so obscene it borders on criminal.

The dog tags brush your cheek. His name slips out between gasps and bites, and he swallows it all like he owns it.

"Gonna come so deep inside you," he growls against your mouth, and you swear the world tilts. "Fill you up till you're drippin'. That what you want?"

"Yes," you choke out. "God—yes, yes, please."

He loses it. His hips stutter, and he lets out a ragged groan, thrusting deep one final time as he spills inside you, hot and thick, and it tips you—your body going tight around him, your release slamming into you like a goddamn truck.

He's still twitching when your legs go boneless. His body stays pressed to yours, forehead resting against your temple, breathing ragged, damp curls sticking to his neck. You can feel the way he's still thick inside you, softening slowly, your walls fluttering around him in the hazy lull of your release. His cum is leaking out around him, sticky and hot, making a mess of the ruined towel beneath you, soaking into your thighs, your ass, the backs of your knees.

Neither of you moves for a second. Then two. Then five.

Just the sound of your breathing and the faint hum of blood in your ears, still pounding from the rush of it all.

You're sticky. You're sore. You're pretty sure the marks on your thighs are going to outlast the week. You shift, wincing a little when he slips out of you, and feel the distinct, humiliating sensation of dripping—a slow, obscene slide of wetness down your inner thigh.

"Well," you manage eventually, voice sandpaper-rough. "At least you won't be washing your arm in the dishwasher after that."

Bucky blinks. For a moment he just looks at you, dazed. Then he laughs. Full-on, head-thrown-back, belly-shaking laughs. His eyes crinkle at the corners, teeth flashing, and something about it, about him like this, real and soft and undone—makes you feel drunker than any orgasm ever has.

"Sweetheart," he rasps, still catching his breath as he flops onto his side, pulling you with him, "you're gonna be the death of me."

You grin as you roll into him, pressing your cheek to his bare chest. The metal of his arm is cool against your back as he wraps it around you, possessive and warm despite the chill of vibranium. His knuckles graze the damp towel, and he groans. "We need to be more careful."

You nod against him, still trying to remember how to exist. "If John finds out, he'll never let us live it down. He'll write a memo about it. Or worse, tell Val."

"Oh, let him try," Bucky mutters, already sounding smug again. "I'd like to see him survive after I've had you like that."

You groan, smacking his shoulder, but yeah. Yeah, you're grinning.

Because this thing between you two? It's dangerous, stupid, and completely out of control.

And there's no way in hell you're stopping now.

The door rattles.

Which—fine. Sure. That's a totally normal sound to hear when you're actively getting railed by Bucky Barnes on a mattress in the Thunderbolts compound, where you are very much not supposed to be right now.

It could be John, with his smug little quips. Or Alexei, asking about deodorant or soup again. Either way, your heart launches itself into your throat—and then keeps launching. Because Bucky doesn't stop. Not even close. He just grins, that cocky, half-wicked thing he does when he knows he has you wrecked, and leans in so close his breath ghosts across your lips.

"Better be quick, sweetheart," he rasps, hips starting grinding slow and deliberate. "Don't want ‘em knowin' you're gettin' fucked in my room."

You should say something. Maybe a smartass retort or a stern reminder that you're supposed to be his manager. But your brain short-circuits. Because those words—crude, filthy, said in that deep, reverent voice of his—make your thighs tremble and your whole body clench around him in response.

Oh, you are so screwed.

He's thick and hard and still buried deep, and every tiny shift of his hips sends lightning up your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, and when he thrusts again—just once, slow, deliberate—you have to bite down on the muscle of his neck to stop from screaming his name.

There's a voice in your head—your rational voice, your you're-an-employee-and-he's-Bucky-Barnes voice—begging you to stop this madness. But it's silenced almost immediately by the way he twitches inside you, a slow, impossible pulse that has your breath hitching like it's learned to stutter.

"Bucky," you murmur, and it comes out a whimper. Pathetic. He grins like he knows.

"What's that, baby?" he says, all teasing drawl, even as his cock drags against your walls in a way that should probably come with a health warning. "Still want me to play nice?"

You glare. Or, well—you attempt a glare. It's a little hard to look intimidating when you're clinging to him like human Velcro, your whole body flushed and shaking.

"You're such a tease," you manage, though your hands are already sliding over his chest, nails leaving pink trails on his skin like you're trying to claim him.

"Only ‘cause you like it," he murmurs, and then he's moving—slow, unhurried, every thrust deep and angled just right. The kind of movement that feels designed in a lab. Or an evil genius bedroom.

The sounds are downright indecent. Wet, rhythmic, skin on skin, your gasps tangled with his breathless groans. You should be mortified. You're not. You're seconds away from combusting, and Bucky fucking knows it.

Because this isn't just sex. It's Bucky. It's the way he's staring at you—seeing you—as he ruins you, knowing every response before you give it.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groans, thrusting deeper, his voice ragged. "So fuckin' tight. Can't get enough of you."

You make some sound that is definitely not English. He leans in, and his hands—God, his hands—find your breasts again. One warm and rough, the other sleek vibranium, and the contrast is lethal. He palms you like he's memorizing the shape of your pleasure, thumb circling your nipple until you arch up into him.

"So sensitive, darlin'," he murmurs, lips brushing your throat as he speaks. "Fallin' apart for me already."

Your thighs are shaking. Your vision's blurry. And then the damn dog tags swing forward, cool metal brushing your mouth like they're in on the game. You bite one out of sheer desperation, and it makes him groan—actually groan—and thrust harder.

"Fuck, do that again."

So you do. You clench around him, and he twitches so hard inside you that your breath leaves your lungs like it's got somewhere else to be.

You're close. Again. Too soon. Your body's still sensitive, still wrecked from the last orgasm, but he's not letting up—he's teasing you, chasing you toward the edge only to pull you back.

"Bucky, please," you gasp, not even caring how wrecked you sound.

He smirks. Of course he does. "Please what?" he asks, but he's already thrusting faster, harder, relentless now.

The dog tags brush your cheek again. You grab them, yank him down into a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and messy, wet desperation. His name slips out between gasps and bites, and he swallows it all like he owns it.

"Gonna come so deep inside you," he growls against your mouth, and you swear the world tilts. "Fill you up till you're drippin'. That what you want?"

"Yes," you choke out. "God—yes, yes, please."

Your moan gets swallowed by the kiss. Your whole body shudders. You're so far gone you barely register the way he curses again, still twitching, still pressing into you like he can't stand to let go.

And then—silence. Just the sound of your combined breathing and the thrum of blood in your ears.

You're sticky. Sore. Dripping. His dog tags are stuck to your chest, and the towel beneath you is in shreds.

"Well," you manage, voice hoarse. "At least you won't be washing your arm in the dishwasher after that."

Bucky blinks.

And then he laughs—full-on laughs, head tipping back, eyes crinkling with something that looks a lot like joy.

"Sweetheart," he says, still catching his breath, "you're gonna be the death of me."

You roll into him, grinning like an idiot, and tuck yourself into his chest.

"Worth it," you mumble.

He hums, wrapping a vibranium arm around your back, protective and warm, even as his knuckles graze the ruined towel. "We need to be more careful."

You nod against his chest. "If John finds out, he'll never let us live it down."

"Oh, let him try," Bucky mutters, already sounding smug again. "I'd like to see him survive after I've had you like that."

You groan, smacking his shoulder—but yeah. Yeah, you're grinning.

Because this thing between you two? It's dangerous, stupid, and completely out of control.

And there's no way in hell you're stopping now.

#rulerofstars #bucky #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #james buchanan barnes #marvel #the winter soldier #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky smut #bucky barnes smut

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andy-15-07 · 2 days ago

Note

Can you write a Joaquin Torres fic where he's trying to teach their reader something and it ends in smut? Thx

You’re Not Even Trying to Focus

PAIRING: Joaquin Torres x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 801 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way — I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

“You need to keep your feet planted,” Joaquin says again, slower this time, like he’s trying not to lose his temper or his mind.

He steps around behind you, his hands finding your hips without asking, adjusting the way you’re standing. His palms are warm. Solid.

“Otherwise,” he adds, leaning in, his lips a breath from your ear, “someone bigger than you will throw you on your ass.”

You shift your weight exaggeratedly. “And what if I like being thrown around?”

He exhales through his nose. “Focus.”

“I am so focused.”

His hands linger on your waist for one second too long.

“Yeah?” he asks, skeptical.

“Mhm,” you say, popping the ‘m’. “Focused on how close your mouth is to my neck right now.”

He spins you suddenly, grip tight around your wrist, one leg sweeping your ankle. You hit the mat flat on your back, breath punched from your lungs.

By the time you blink, he’s kneeling over you, arms caging your head.

“Still focused?”

You lick your lips. “Harder than ever.”

His breath hitches. You feel it before you hear it , a shift in the air, his body going taut above yours.

“Y/N…”

You look up at him, face flushed. “What?”

“We’re not supposed to—” His voice falters.

“Then why are you looking at me like you’re two seconds from kissing me?”

His jaw ticks. “Because I’ve wanted to for weeks.”

“So do it.”

He leans in, slow. Testing.

Then finally, finally,his mouth crashes into yours.

It starts as a kiss, but quickly dissolves into something messier, hungrier. His hands slide up under your shirt, fingers gripping at your sides like he doesn’t know how to stop.

You gasp as he lifts you slightly, flipping you over and pinning your wrists to the mat.

“You still want to test me?” he growls against your throat.

Your thighs tighten around his waist. “Do your worst, Lieutenant.”

He chuckles darkly. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Clothes come off in stages , your shirt pulled over your head as he straddles you, his hoodie discarded in the corner, dog tags swinging between you. You reach for his waistband, and he lets you, watching your every move with heat in his eyes.

“You’re gonna make me fail training,” you murmur.

“You love the way I train you.”

You grin, fingers dipping beneath his boxers. “Yeah. Especially the hands-on lessons.”

He groans when you wrap your hand around him. “You’re not even trying to be good, are you?”

You pump him lazily. “Why would I? You like it better when I’m bad.”

That earns you a deep growl. He pins your wrists again with one hand, the other sliding between your thighs, dragging over your folds.

“Wet already?” he teases. “Barely touched you.”

“You in a hoodie was enough.”

He chuckles, pressing two fingers inside you and curling them. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

You moan softly, head tilting back. “You love it.”

“I really fucking do.”

He takes his time , fingers working you open while he kisses down your chest, tongue flicking over your nipple until you’re squirming beneath him.

When he finally slides inside, it’s slow, deep, with his hand gripping your hip like he’s scared he might lose you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel so good.”

You wrap your legs around his waist. “Then move, Joaquin.”

He snaps his hips, hard. You cry out.

“Say that again.”

You dig your nails into his back. “Move, Lieutenant.”

He slams into you harder this time, pace picking up as your gasps turn into moans.

“You like being bossy,” he pants.

“You like when I tell you what to do.”

He bites your shoulder, groaning. “Don’t make me flip you again.”

You tighten around him. “Then do it.”

He flips you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up as he pushes back in from behind. His hands press to your lower back, pinning you there.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” he growls, thrusting deep.

“And you’re obsessed with me,” you gasp.

“Damn right.”

His hand slides under you, fingers finding your clit while he fucks you deep and slow, drawing out every moan until you’re panting his name like a prayer.

“Close,” you whisper.

“Come for me.”

You do , hard, shaking, muffling your scream into the mat as he drives into you through it, until he comes too, hips jerking, spilling inside you with a loud, broken moan.

You collapse together in a heap of tangled limbs and sweat, both of you breathing hard.

After a long minute, he speaks. “So. Training’s going well.”

You laugh against his chest. “Best session yet.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face. “You’re trouble.”

“And you’re addicted.”

He smiles. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I think I am.”

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springismss · 2 days ago

Note

hi!!! this is my first time requesting for you but i LOVE the way you write dabi, especially in the jealousy one!!! you mentioned that he has a countdown until you can come, i was wondering if you could write something where you come before the countdown, what he would do in that situation? LOVE YOU BAE!!!!

ᱬ⛧ say so ~ dabi

pairing: dabi x girlfriend! reader

content: 18+ mdni. p in v, fingering, cunnilingus, marking, pet names (doll, good girl, etc), Dabi calling reader a brat, dirty talk (if you squint), implied different positions, strong orgasm denial, countdown, cock ring mention, general NSFW content

word count: 1.2k

links: request masterlist | jealousy, jealousy (dabi's version) | bnha/mha masterlist | masterlist

a/n: hello hello, i'm back with another request! thanks a bunch anon for this one, this was so much fun to write. based on a part in jealousy, jealousy (dabi's version), which you can find linked above. hope you enjoy, love you too! as always likes, comments and re-blogs are deeply appreciated!

"And remember doll, you're not allowed to cum until I reach one".

You were trying your hardest, you really were, but with how he had your back arched against him, arms gripped behind your back as he thrusted his cock deep in you, you were struggling. "That better not be you nearing your end, brat. I haven't even started to count you down yet".

Letting out a whine, you shook your head, eyes closing as you tried to focus. "N-no, hah, it's not, Dabi, I swear". His hand gripped your hair, pulling your head back so he could see your reaction. "Fuck, better not be. Always knew you had such a greedy little pussy".

Pulling his hips back until the mushroom head of his cock was barely inside, Dabi took a moment to tease you, to let you squirm back on him before he pressed his hips forward in one swift movement. The moan that ripped from your throat echoed around the room as you squeezed your eyes shut.

You were teetering on the edge, and it was becoming a losing battle. "Don't you dare".

Chest heaved more as your body shuddered, mouth agape as you felt your orgasm crash through your body, every nerve in your body feeling like it was on fire. "Tch, such a naughty brat. Going to make you pay for that".

A whimper sounded from your throat as you felt Dabi pull out of you, your body falling onto the mattress as you panted. "I-I'm sorry, I...". You felt your words being cut off as a rough kiss was placed on your lips. "How about you shut that pretty little mouth of yours, doll. It's going to be a long night for you".

Raising a brow, you pulled back and glanced down, gulping at the sight you saw. Already painfully hard, your slick covering his cock, Dabi grinned as he watched your reaction to him slipping a cock ring over himself. A hiss of pleasure passed his lips as he panted, eyes narrowing more as he looked at you. "Think it's about time I taught that pussy of yours a lesson. Now....".

The weight of your body shifted as you felt yourself being pushed onto your back, legs thrown over Dabi's shoulders as he pressed bites along the skin of your inner thigh. "...Don't you dare cum until I reach one, especially if you want me to flood that womb of yours with my seed and claim you again".

From that moment on, time seemed to warp into one long stretch. You didn't know how many minutes or hours had passed, but you were sure you'd end up succumbing to insanity soon enough.

Dabi's taunts and teasing weren't helping in any way, either.

Slender fingers knuckles deep, curling against that spongy spot. Thumb rubbing circles on your clit making you whine. Tongue switched from flicking over your clit to slipping into your cunt, body arching off the bed as you tangled your fingers into his hair. "Dabi, p-please, need to cum".

The feeling of teetering on the edge of your euphoria was cruelly ripped away, legs shaking as you panted for breath. A deep chuckle echoed as you felt something warm on your pussy, the obvious flicker of blue coming from between your legs. "You need to cum? Shame, your pretty cunt needs to be taught how to wait for instructions before you cum".

Heat spread across your legs as Dabi dragged his fingers across your skin, nails digging in. "I'm not stopping until you're a sobbing mess. When you are, I might play nice".

Pulling himself away from you, he leant over your frame, hand gripping one of your legs as he moved closer. Leg bending at the knee as you felt his cock prod at your dripping hole once more. "Hope you're ready, princess, I won't stop until every part of you feels me".

True to his word, Dabi didn't stop. Not when your body shook, not when your throat began to hurt from the desperate cries and pleas to let you cum. Not even when you felt your body being manhandled into whatever position he wanted you, your voice begging him to let you feel what you needed, even apologising.

Tears slipped down your cheeks, makeup smeared and red marks littering your skin. Your body ached and burned to feel that sweet release. "Now....". Turquoise eyes dragged over your form as you panted, body quivering. "...Are you going to be a good girl and do as I tell you?".

You couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't do anything except whimper in response. Too afraid to move, just in case you fell to your desire again.

A low chuckle vibrated up your spine as you moved your glassy stare to the one person who owned every part of you. Breath sucked in through teeth as he removed the ring from the base of his cock, mushroom head red and angry, needing release. "Now, up you go, doll".

Feeling your body being manoeuvred, you came face to face with your boyfriend. Your arms draped over his shoulders as he draped your legs over his arms, large hands gripping the flesh of your behind as fingers dug in.

Both of you took a moment to look each other in the eyes, taking a moment to feel closer. Amid all the chaos of your lives, the missions undertaken and the blood shed, all that mattered was how you felt about each other.

Feeling lips pressed to your forehead, you sighed. "Just a little longer, okay, doll". Rubbing the head of his cock against your folds, you moaned trying to hold on, waiting until he reached that number you've been waiting to hear for however much time has passed.

In one strong push, Dabi sheathed his cock deep in your cunt and began thrusting. Letting out a cry of surprise, you arched your back and squeezed your eyes shut. "Now let that countdown begin, doll. Three...".

His hips pulled back, pushing forward again against the spongy pot deep inside. "Two....".

Oh, he was so close, and you were trying to keep yourself from succumbing. Every inch of you, body, mind and soul needed to feel that sweet euphoria crash through you. You knew Dabi was holding back, desperate not to fill you until he'd reached the final number you were both waiting for.

Harsh slams of his hips into you became sloppy, the feeling of your walls and his cock pulsating becoming apparent. A deep growl from Dabi's throat sounded before he spoke. "Get ready, doll. One".

As if a magic spell had been cast, you cried out. A strangled sob as every fibre of you felt the crackle of your euphoria washing over you. The walls of your cunt clamped down on the cock inside you as you felt the heat deep within increase. Ropes of his seed spurting out to flood every part of you. "Fuck, that's it, milk my cock, take every part of me I have to offer"

Resting your forehead against his, you both panted, heart rates returning to normal. After a few minutes, you felt Dabi pull out of you, a moan of disappointment slipping past your lips as you felt your body being carried, gently placed on the bed. "Well done, doll, but maybe next time, you'll listen to me the first time before you come".

Looking to the side as the weight of the mattress shifted, you smiled half-heartedly and reached a hand out, fingers lazily tracing his scars. "Maybe I will, maybe I won't. I'll guess you'll just have to find out, Dabi".

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yumyumcherryy · 13 hours ago

Text

yearned.

you were stretched out across the couch, one leg half-hanging off the edge, face buried in a pillow, phone loosely in hand as some low-volume playlist murmured through the speaker.

you weren’t expecting rin home so soon—training usually dragged, but maybe today had been a little more brutal than usual, because suddenly, the front door slammed shut.

hard.

you lifted your head sluggishly, barely getting the chance to call out his name before—

thump.

a weight crashed over your midsection, and you let out a soft “oomph” as itoshi rin collapsed on top of you, limbs heavy and sprawling like a tree felled by its own exhaustion. his head buried itself onto your stomach, his arms winding possessively around your waist like some clingy, brooding sea creature.

“...hi to you too,” you mumbled through a chuckle, free hand instinctively sinking into his hair, fingers finding the familiar soft tufts and green-streaked strands.

he grunted.

that was his version of “hello.”

you didn't say anything else—just let your fingers move gently, twisting and curling little locks of his hair around them, occasionally letting your nails scrape lightly against his scalp. it was grounding. comforting. for him, especially.

he sighed. deeply. the kind that made your shirt flutter a little where his cheek was pressed.

“i hate everyone,” he mumbled into the fabric, voice muffled and low.

you smiled. “oh?”

“mhm.” another sigh. “practice was a mess. bachira wouldn’t shut up, isagi kept doing this thing where he’d tell me to ‘relax more’—like i don’t know how to f*cking relax—and don’t even get me started on the drills. a bunch of barely functioning cones with legs. my passes were clean, mine, but apparently they can’t keep up. whose fault is that, really?”

“you sound very relaxed right now,” you teased softly, carding your fingers through the back of his hair.

“i am relaxed. that’s because i’m here.”

your heart fluttered, but you tried not to let it show. “oh? that’s all it takes?”

“no. you. just you.”

and then, like it was nothing, he buried his face further into your stomach and…inhaled.

you froze.

it wasn’t the first time. you’d noticed it before—this subtle pause whenever his face was pressed against your shirt. the way his lashes would lower, nose nudging just enough, like he was trying to pretend it was absentminded. but you knew better.

“…did you just sniff me?” you asked, amused, one brow arched.

“no,” he replied instantly, so quickly it became obvious. a dead giveaway.

“riiinn,” you sang, voice lilting with a knowing smirk.

he groaned. his grip on you tightened, face now actively burrowing into your shirt like an ostrich. “don’t make it weird.”

“you made it weird.”

“you just…you smell nice. like you. and home. and not that dumb locker room.”

you grinned. he always got a little more unfiltered when tired—edges softened, tongue looser, heart a little louder.

another pause.

“i missed you today,” he muttered.

your hand stilled, then resumed its slow strokes. “you saw me this morning.”

“still missed you.”

your stomach twisted—not from his weight, but from the way he said it. so quietly. like it was a secret he only allowed himself to admit when curled over you like this, when his armor had been wrung out of him by drills and teammates and expectations.

you leaned down just a little, lips brushing his temple. “i missed you too.”

his arms tensed around your waist at that—briefly, like a reflex—and then relaxed, like he’d just let go of some invisible tension. he turned his face to the side, resting it fully against you, ear pressed against your ribs like he wanted to listen to the way your body worked. the way your heart responded to him.

you could feel it thudding harder under his cheek.

“don’t go anywhere,” he mumbled.

“i’m not,” you said softly.

he hummed, satisfied. another deep breath—definitely another sniff, but you let it slide this time.

minutes passed. just the ambient music, the soft sighs, the occasional quiet grumble when he remembered something else irritating from practice.

“you know,” you mused lazily, “if you keep coming home like this, one of these days you’re gonna fall asleep on me and drool on my shirt.”

“i don’t drool.”

“you totally do.”

“i don’t.” his voice was a little sharper now, the embarrassment clear even through the exhaustion. but he didn’t move. just shifted slightly—head lower, face now angled almost against your lower stomach, lips barely grazing the hem of your shirt.

you felt his breath there. warm. too warm.

his fingers flexed slightly around your waist. you stilled.

“…rin?”

his voice dropped, low and sleep-rough and barely above a whisper. “you’re dangerous when you wear this shirt.”

“…what?”

he didn’t answer. instead, he tilted his face just enough to kiss your hipbone through the fabric. just a brush, soft and lazy and slow—but it sent heat creeping up your spine anyway.

you swallowed.

he chuckled—actually chuckled, and you felt the vibration of it against you.

“you think i didn’t notice you wearing my shirt?” he murmured, lifting his head just slightly so he could meet your eyes.

shit. you didn’t think he’d catch that.

“i—it was just comfy—!”

“and it smells like me. you like that, huh?”

he was smirking now. tired, sure—but smug. mischievous. his hand slid just a little up your side, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles against your ribs under the hem.

you cleared your throat, trying to keep your voice even. “you’re the one who just nuzzled me like a cat and sniffed me like a bouquet.”

“because you smell good.”

“because i smell like you.”

“exactly.”

you swatted at him gently, but he just caught your wrist and kissed your palm, dragging it back to his head.

“keep playing with my hair,” he said, voice thick and laced with heat now. “i’ll pass out if you stop.”

“you’re so demanding when you’re exhausted.”

“you like it.”

…yeah. you did.

you didn’t say anything—just let your fingers tangle through his green-tinted strands again, massaging his scalp, and watched as his eyes fluttered half-shut. the quiet stretched on, but not heavy—just warm. tangled limbs and pressed bodies and the shared knowledge that this moment was the safest place either of you had all day.

but then, just as you thought he was drifting—

“…you’re still wearing nothing underneath this shirt, right?”

“rin—”

he smirked again—barely, lazily, with one eye cracked open just enough to see the way your cheeks flushed.

“…told you. dangerous.”

p.s: HSHUSHUS MUHEHEHEHEHE 😉 hehe do u guys like the new pink? i might change my theme to pink idk but pink and red looks so cute as headers of font colors

@twijaxx

@cerb3ruxii since u like fluff ;p

#bllk #itoshi rin #bllk x reader #blue lock #rin fluff #itoshi rin x reader #MUHEHEHEHE #cerisewrites!

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 1 day ago

Text

Falling For You

Summary: The reader is in a near accident when she falls, literally, into the arms of a grumpy stranger...

Pairing: Tim Bradford x reader

Word Count: 900ish

Warnings: language, near accident

A/N: Please enjoy this little meet cute!...

Your stomach dropped when you saw a car speeding at you in the crosswalk. Something in your brain clicked and you threw yourself forward, feeling the rush of wind from the car behind you. You heard it crash into something as your feet pushed off the pavement without you meaning to. A pedestrian on the curb caught you, strong hands holding you tight.

“Are you okay?” they barked, your ears muffled. You stared up at the man wearing a police officer’s uniform. He twisted his body, looking you over as you noticed the spilled coffee cup on the ground, splattered all over his black boots. “Did you get hit?”

You shook your head, gripping his tree trunk like arms for dear life. He helped you to sit, pointing at another man nearby. They said something to each other, blood pounding in your ears. The police officer started to pull away, your hand digging in.

“...adrenaline…back,” you caught, giving him a nod. He jogged over to the crashed car while a man on the sidewalk knelt down beside you. You rubbed your ears, shaking your head out.

And then everything was loud.

The car horn was blaring. The cop was shouting at a guy who he was cuffing. You turned to the man beside you. “Sorry, I couldn’t hear before. I’m, uh, I’m okay.”

“That cop said adrenaline rushes can do that,” he said. You tried to stand up, the cop suddenly pointing a finger at you.

“Sit down. You’re in shock,” he said. You didn’t really agree with that. Maybe shook up but shock? No. But he was kinda intense when he was angry and you didn’t want to piss him off.

Ten minutes later a paramedic had looked you over and the other bystanders had left, leaving you standing alone on a sidewalk waiting for the cop. He slammed a car door shut on a police vehicle, walking over to you and crossing his arms.

“How you feeling?” he asked.

“Well I nearly just died. Kind of makes that papercut I got this morning not seem so bad.” He smirked, quickly wiping it off his face. “Um, thank you for catching me.”

“You did the hard part. Did the paramedic clear you?” You nodded, rubbing your arm. He watched it, your head shaking.

“Nervous habit.” You took a deep breath. “Do you need a statement or something?”

“I do but we can do that later.”

“I’d rather just get it over with,” you said, closing your eyes.

“Alright. Well I need my morning coffee and you look like you deserve a near death pastry. We can talk at the cafe.”

Five minutes later you were sitting across from him at an outdoor table, Officer Bradford leaning back in his chair after jotting down your name and number in a notebook. He sipped on his black coffee, blue eyes watching you pick up your latte and slurp loudly.

“I feel bad for letting you buy my drink and chocolate muffin.” Instead of offering some kind of reassurance, the guy had the balls to pick up the muffin and take a big hunking chunk out of it. You scrunched up your face, Officer Bradfrod, chewing slowly before swallowing it all down. “Seriously?”

“You made a valid point. I did buy it. I should be entitled to it.” You scoffed, the officer shrugging.

“Here I thought you were a nice guy but you really are a grump, aren’t you?” He shrugged again.

“And now you’re annoyed with me instead of scared from that near-miss.” Your lips parted, the cop picking up the muffin taking another bite. “This is really good,” he said with his mouth full.

“You were distracting me,” you said, wincing to yourself. “Sorry.”

“I kind of like that you have the gall to talk shit to the guy that just saved your life,” he smirked. You ripped the muffin out of his hand, taking a large bite.

“You didn’t save me,” you mumbled, covering your mouth with you hand when you felt crumbs falling out.

“No, no. You’re clearly all put together.” You huffed, swallowing thickly, coughing to yourself. He leaned over and whacked your back as you got some coffee down your dry throat. “Chew more. Would hate to have you choke to death after all that.”

“It’s a good thing you’re handsome is all I’ll say.” He grinned, watching you over the lid of your cup. “So you need my statement?”

“For something like this? No. I got your information if we need to call you but you’re all set.”

“So this was…”

“Getting your head back on straight.” He stood up, giving you a nod. He pulled out a business card, jotting on it with his pen before handing it over. “If you need to call for any reason.”

“Thanks,” you said, raising an eyebrow at the written number that was different than the desk phone listed. “What’s this?”

“A phone number, genius. Are you sure you don’t have a concussion?” You flipped him off, the cop laughing. “Name’s Tim. Give me a call when you’re in need of another distraction. You can buy me a muffin.”

With that he left you staring at the card, debating if a guy like that was going to be more trouble than he was worth.

#the rookie #tim bradford #tim bradford x y/n #tim bradford x you #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford x reader #tim bradford fanfiction #tim bradford fanfic #the rookie fanfiction #the rookie fanfic #the rookie series #the rookie abc #tim x reader #tim bradford oneshot

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sebystann · 2 days ago

Text

CRIMSON SINS

PAIRING: Red Hood/Jason Todd x Reader (Enemies with benefits)

WARNING: 18+ SMUTTTT P IN V

NOTES: I decided to give writing smut a try.... Again haha. Also it's short but enjoy. ❤️❤️❤️

The warehouse air tastes of smoke and rain when you crash through the window, boots skidding across broken glass. Red Hood is already there — Jason Todd, bane of your existence, the man you can’t kill and can’t stop wanting.

His helmet turns your way. “You’re late.”

You yank off your mask, breath ragged from the chase. “Had to deal with your mess first.”

He stalks toward you, body armor glinting under the sickly lights. “My mess? Thought you loved cleaning up after me.”

Your knives clatter to the floor when he slams you against the wall. The scent of gunpowder clings to him, electric and dangerous. You hate him — hate the way his hands feel like they own you when they grab your hips, hate the way your body arches into his armor, heat pulsing between your legs.

Your lips crash together, teeth clashing. His kiss is bruising, violent, a war you’ve both been dying to lose. You claw at the buckles on his chest plate; he shoves your jacket from your shoulders, biting at your neck hard enough to leave marks.

“You think you can just barge in here and tell me what to do?” he growls against your ear, his gloved fingers tearing at your shirt until it falls open.

You pant, eyes dark with fury and desire. “You think you can do whatever you want because you wear that fucking helmet?”

He rips it off, revealing his hair damp with sweat, eyes burning into yours. “I can do whatever I want,” he snarls, hand fisting your hair as he drags your mouth back to his.

He spins you, slams you against a crate, pushes your legs apart with a knee. The cold edge of a knife presses to your thigh — not enough to cut, just enough to remind you who’s in control. His other hand slides into your pants, fingers finding you already wet and aching.

“Look at you,” he rasps, lips brushing your ear, voice rough with a dangerous edge. “So desperate you’d let your enemy fuck you in a goddamn warehouse.”

Your answer is a guttural moan as his fingers thrust hard and deep, relentless and punishing. You clutch the splintered crate, nails biting into the wood as he fucks you with his hand, his thumb circling your clit until your vision goes white.

But he doesn’t let you come — he pulls away, unzips his tactical pants, the sound obscene in the silence.

“Beg,” he orders, voice low, ragged.

You glare at him over your shoulder, lips parted. “Fuck you.”

He grips your hip, lines himself up, and slams into you without warning. The stretch is brutal, delicious, knocking the breath from your lungs. He sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving you into the crate, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the empty building.

“Fucking hell,” he snarls, hands gripping your waist so hard you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow. “You feel so good.”

Your head falls forward, eyes squeezed shut. Every thrust sends you spiraling, pleasure winding tighter and tighter. He snakes a hand around to rub your clit, his movements rough, desperate.

“Jason —” you gasp, and he freezes.

“Say it again.”

“Jason,” you whimper, voice breaking. He groans low in his chest, slamming into you harder, deeper, until you’re screaming his name, shattering around him.

He follows with a ragged shout, hips jerking as he spills inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, both of you shaking.

The silence after is deafening. His breathing is ragged in your ear. His hands linger on your hips, grip softening.

You turn your head, catching his eyes over your shoulder — eyes still stormy, but softer now, conflicted.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you whisper.

He smirks, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Keep telling yourself that.”

His lips brush yours once — almost gentle — before he pulls away, the cold emptiness rushing in as he zips up and reaches for his helmet.

And just like that, the Red Hood is back, your enemy once more.

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rhiannonsknife · 1 day ago

Note

how about mari trying to flirt by teaching you how to surf? like I can imagine her laughing and teasing everytime you fall 😭😭

- 🦢

─ MARI IBARRA teaching you how to surf 🏄‍♀️

warning: fluff fluff fluff. nothing but fluff. + an extremely inaccurate take on surfing.

by the time you’ve finally managed to balance on the board without tipping over, you are absolutely drenched.

you’re not even standing yet, just kneeling as mari instructed, palms pressed down for stability, the foam deck wobbling under you.

your girlfriend is thigh deep in the water, watching you struggle with an amused expression. “okay,” she calls out, shielding her eyes from the sun. “not awful. i’ll give you that.”

“you’re such a jerk.” you groan, instantly losing your balance again.

“a supportive jerk,” mari grins, wading out further. “you begged me to teach you, remember?”

you had, mostly because you’d never surfed before, and she had, always bragging about her skill at every chance she got. to be fair, it was hard not to brag when you looked as good as mari did surfing, with her tan lines and hair soaked in saltwater.

“now get on your feet.” mari snaps you out of your thoughts, stopping near the side of your board. “pop up quick, it’s easy!”

“easy for you to say,” you mutter, trying to brace yourself. “you’re not the one about to get bodied by a wave.”

“baby, the wave is, like, two feet tall at best!” mari laughs.

the board wobbles as the next swell rolls through, nose tipping with the motion. mari reaches out, steadying it, her palm pressing into your thigh.

“okay,” she says. “just try it, i got you.”

so you plant your palms wide, gripping the waxed surface, and push yourself up (not quite graceful, definitely not as smooth as you want it to be). your back foot finds the tail of the board, but your front foot misses its mark entirely.

just like that, the balance is gone and you’re slipping as the board shoots out from under you.

yelping, water crashes over your back and fills your nose until you sputter up through the foam. when you break the surface, mari is bent over in the water, howling with laughter. her hair is dripping down into her face as she tries (failing miserably) to hold it together.

you glare and spit out a mouthful of salt water.

“oh my god,” mari wheezes. “your face, babe! your face!“

“you’re the worst,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your dripping face as you try to sweep hair out of your eyes.

she snorts, then swims toward you, giggling until her arms loop around your waist and her legs hook behind yours in the water.

mari clings on, koala-style, head dropping to your shoulder as she laughs into your neck. “i’m the best,” she corrects between chuckles. “promise i’ll kiss you better once you stop trying to drown.”

“you’re not helping.”

“hey, surfing is all about getting knocked down. i’m just…y’know, building your resilience.”

“you’re enjoying this way too much.”

she leans in and kisses your nose, then your cheek, then your mouth, all wet & salty. “maybe,” mari murmurs. “but you look real hot doing it.”

you go warm all over, your skin prickling despite the cold water. the next wave rolls under you both and you let yourself float with it, mari’s fingers tracing over your back.

“wanna try again?” she asks. “or do you need me to, i don’t know, hold you upright this time?”

#yellowjackets summer fics ོ #mari ibarra #mari ibarra x reader #mari ibarra x female reader #mari ibarra x you #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x female reader #yellowjackets x you #🦢 anon

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puppyk4i · 1 day ago

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Rainy Day ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ

Genre: Soft smut, established relationship, rainy day vibes

Warnings: Light dom!San, making out, teasing, implied sex, body worship, oral (f. receiving)

——————————————————————————

The rain had been falling for hours, a steady rhythm against the apartment windows, trapping you and San inside with nowhere to go. The soft patter was comforting at first—an excuse to stay in bed a little longer, to lazily scroll through your phones, to simply be in each other’s presence.

But by the afternoon, San had grown restless, sprawled across the couch, eyes flicking to you with that familiar spark.

“You know,” he murmured, twirling a strand of your hair around his finger, “there are… fun things to do when you’re stuck inside.” His voice dipped low, teasing, and you didn’t miss the way his eyes darkened as they slid over your body.

“Oh yeah?” you teased back, pretending to play dumb as you settled beside him, head resting on his shoulder. “Like what?”

His answer came in the form of his lips crashing onto yours, slow and deep, tasting of lingering strawberry mochi and his usual sweetness. His hands found your waist, pulling you into his lap with ease, and you gasped into his mouth as you felt him already growing hard beneath you.

“Like this,” he whispered against your lips, trailing kisses along your jaw, down your neck, until you shivered under his touch. “I want to spend the whole rainy day making you feel good. Right here, where the sound of the rain drowns out your pretty little moans.”

His words sent heat pooling between your thighs, and you instinctively rocked against him, earning a low groan from his chest.

“Let me taste you,” he breathed, already sliding down the couch, pulling you with him, settling between your legs like it was his favorite place to be.

San’s hands gripped your thighs firmly as he settled between them, dark eyes flicking up to meet yours with a sinful grin. “You know this is my favorite place to be, right?” he murmured, lips brushing against your inner thigh, sending shivers through you.

He didn’t wait. His mouth was on you—hot, wet, and devastatingly slow. His tongue moved with maddening precision, teasing and circling until your hips jerked up against his mouth, desperate for more.

“San—” you gasped, but he only tightened his grip, pinning you down effortlessly.

“Stay still, baby,” he hummed, his voice vibrating right against your core. “Let me enjoy you.”

The sound of the rain was completely lost to you now, drowned out by the wet sounds of his tongue and your soft, broken moans as he devoured you like he’d been starving. He took his time—drawing out every whimper, every gasp—until your legs trembled around his shoulders, and you were begging him not to stop.

When you finally came undone on his tongue, he rode you through it, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

San kissed your thigh sweetly, licking his lips as he looked up at you, smug and breathless.

“Rainy days are my new favorite.”

#ateez smut #ateez #choi san #san ateez #san smut #san ateez smut #choi san ateez #choi san smut #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez san

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cherbii · 10 hours ago

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a.n -> i haven’t converted to short fics like this completely, it’s only for when I have an idea that I don’t need to write a long fic about orrrr because I need to publish something and I’m still working on a wip

warnings -> smut, language

Having such an Experienced!Boyfriend!TojiFushiguro almost feels like a mockery.

He knows what he’s doing. Always has. You figured that out quick, how steady his hands are, how confidently he touches you like he’s already mapped you out. He never fumbles or second-guesses. Meanwhile, you’re the one who short-circuits every time it gets serious.

You’ve tried on your own, obviously. It’s not like you’ve never touched yourself. But it’s always the same, some heat builds, you chase it, and then it fizzles out. You’ve tried toys, tried different positions, tried watching stuff. Nothing. You either get bored halfway or your wrist starts cramping or your brain won’t shut up.

The first couple times with Toji, you hoped he wouldn’t notice. You got good at faking sounds, clenching just right, trying to pass it off like something actually happened. But it’s pointless. Toji watches too closely. He can tell the difference between trying to get there and actually getting there.

So eventually, you tell him.

You’re lying in bed, half under him, chest still flushed from making out. You don’t plan on saying it, but it slips out. “I’ve never… y’know.”

He leans back a little, eyebrows drawn. “You’ve never what?”

“Cum,” you say quickly. “Not really. Not even alone.”

He stares for a second, like he’s waiting for a punchline. “Seriously?”

You nod, already regretting it. “I get close. It just… doesn’t happen. My hand cramps or I get distracted or it just stops feeling good.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just hums low, “Alright. We’re gonna fix that.”

You blink. “What?”

“I said I’ll take care of it.”

You think it’s just talk until the next night. Toji’s a lot of things, but he doesn’t bluff.

He doesn’t start fast. Just has you lie back, legs spread, clothes pushed up. His mouth dips between your thighs and stays there. Slow and focused. His tongue moves with a kind of ease you don’t expect like he’s just testing how you react.

And you do react. Your hips twitch. Your hand finds his hair. It feels good, better than your own attempts ever have but your body still hesitates. You can feel that familiar block rising up that almost feeling that never crosses over.

“Don’t overthink it,” he mutters against your skin. “You’re not in charge right now.”

You scoff, breath shaking. “That’s not how my brain works—”

“It’s gonna be.”

He pushes two fingers into your aching cunt while he says it, slow, but deep. Your back jumps. His tongue never stops moving, lips slick and warm over your clit while his fingers curl just right. Not rushed. Not even fast. Just right. The rhythm is tight and unchanging. Pressure building right on that spot you can never hit properly yourself.

You tense. It’s rising again, higher than it’s ever gone. Part of you wants to pull away because you know it’s going to fall off again. You’re bracing for disappointment like usual.

He notices. Of course he does. “Don’t run from it,” he says, voice low and flat. “You’re doing fine. Stay still.”

He presses down just a bit harder with his tongue, just a bit faster with his fingers. The rhythm holds. Everything locks into place and this time, it doesn’t drop.

You feel it snap like a rope pulled too tight. Your legs shake hard. Your hips lift without meaning to. Your hand clutches at the sheets while everything burns through your core and down your thighs. You’re not even breathing properly. Everything goes blank for a second, then crashes.

You cum. For real.

It’s not a guess, not a maybe, not a kind-of. It’s full body. Intense. Overwhelming. Your legs tremble even after it’s over. You feel boneless, sweaty, stunned. He finally pulls away once you’re twitching too much to handle more.

He sits back on his knees, wipes his mouth with his thumb, and just looks down at you like it was obvious. “Told you.”

You stare at the ceiling, chest rising and falling. “Holy shit.”

He snorts. “Yeah. Told you.”

After that, he doesn’t let you touch yourself anymore, not really. If you reach down out of boredom or curiosity, he brushes your hand away.

“Don’t need to waste time trying when I can do it in half,” he says.

You’d argue, but he’s not wrong.

He’s fast when he wants to be. There’s times he doesn’t even take his shirt off, just gets between your legs and finishes the job like it’s second nature. No theatrics. No drawn-out teasing. Just firm, skilled, perfect pressure that has you falling apart in minutes. Sometimes seconds.

He doesn’t ask if it was good. He doesn’t need to.

He’s blunt about it too. No sugar-coating.

When you sit on his lap and try to grind against him, whimpering from how sensitive you still are, he just grabs your hips and holds you still.

“Already came, didn’t you?” he says, mouth brushing your neck. “Let me have mine.”

Sometimes when you’re lying on his chest, totally out of it after round two or three, he’ll murmur things like, “Don’t know how you made it this long without figuring that out. Poor thing.”

He says it like he pities you, but not really. He just thinks it’s ridiculous. You went years without a real orgasm, and all it took was him.

You never really bring it up again. You don’t need to.

Every time his fingers slip down, every time his voice gets low and he tells you to open your legs, you already know what’s coming.

And this time, it always happens.

#ᶻz 𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐈 #jjk #anime #jujutsu kaisen #toji fushiguro #toji x you #toji x y/n #jujutsu toji #jjk toji #toji smut

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animasola86 · 2 days ago

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🚩 FORCED: 07

It's inspection time, and you can be sure that your new master will be very thorough...

a morally gray man!your new master✖️ female!reader

WARNING: This is a DARK FANTASY EROTICA! Beware of the following tags: NSFW! Dead dove: do not eat! Explicit sexual content! Noncon! Master/servant dynamic! Bad BDSM etiquette! Inspection. Objectification. Anal fingering, anal insertion/spreading, anal gaping. Spanking. Bondage. Pussy slapping. Cunnilingus. Vaginal fingering. Forced orgasm. Squirting. (Brief mentions of human trafficking/forced prostitution, enemas) (🚩Please do not read/engage if any of these tags are triggering to you!)

WORDS: 4.1k 🚩 READ ON AO3! 🚩 SERIES MASTERLIST

A/N: If this is the first post of the series you come across, lemme quickly recap: Reader (age unspecified, but over 18) has hair long enough to braid and female genitalia, is referred to as Doll, finds herself in the clutches of a man who made her a part of his unusual collection of girls, and today, it's inspection time! This man has no name, no physical descriptions, he could be anyone - hence the fandom tags I am still occupying with this story. Make him your favorite blorbo, call him whatever you want, imagine him however you want. I usually keep my characters vague so you can fill in the blanks!

For more information, check the Author's Notes on chapter 1.

Chapter 5+6 🔻 Chapter 7 🔺 Chapter 8

He brought you into another room, and somehow this one gave you even more shivers than the punishment room. There were white tiles on the floor and on the walls, it was cold and bright and sterile, and the chair in the middle of the space wasn't making things better. The last time you'd been in one of those was during your latest visit to the gynecologist, though you couldn't remember seeing those thick leather straps dangling off the one in your doctor's office.

Swallowing hard, you let him pull you to a little platform that turned out to be an old-fashioned scale. He turned you, hands on your hips, then made you spread your legs a little and raised your arms before making you cross them behind your head, causing your chest to jut out more, your bare breasts jiggling slightly with the motion. The posture made you feel even more exposed than you'd been the entire time, and the clinically bright lights emphasized every inch of your naked skin, adding to the burning shame circling your guts.

“This is the pose you assume when I ask you for an inspection, understood?” he told you, watching you curiously.

You nodded. “Yes, master.”

“I'll show you more poses later. For now, let's take a look at you...”

He took a step back and tilted his head, his eyes raking over your naked body, his gaze cold and impassive. You barely dared to breathe under his scrutiny. Heat crashed through you, you could feel it pulsing in your cheeks (and in your cunt).

Your mind was still reeling from what had happened in the other room, and for a moment you wondered how the other girl was faring, and how his men were taking care of her. But then you felt the man's hands on your face, and your attention snapped back to him.

You blinked, inhaling sharply when he traced his fingers along the shape of your head, the touch warm and surprisingly gentle. His thumbs pressed lightly against your cheekbones, following the line of your jaw, before he rubbed them against the corners of your mouth.

“Open wide,” he told you, and you did, parting your lips. “Tongue out.” You had no idea how he did it, but you followed suit immediately, his low voice sinking into you, activating instincts you never knew you had. You saw him nodding, and more of the good warmth flooded your lower body.

He hooked his thumbs into your open mouth and pulled it a little wider, still staring at you as if you were either art on display or a pig ready to go to the slaughterhouse. You froze, held your breath, tried not to move. When he moved his hand and used his fingers to push your upper lip up, you frowned, being reminded of being at the dentist, but that feeling quickly disappeared when he took his hands away and grabbed your chin, turning your head, left and right, and your lips quivered, your jaw twitching, your tongue wanting to retreat back into your mouth.

“Keep your mouth open,” he snapped, and you flinched at the harsh tone.

Doing as he told you, you felt tears burning up in your eyes, your pulse droning in your ears. Drool gathered on your tongue, but you didn't dare do anything about it. With one hand still on your chin, he raised his other hand and started poking at your lips, trailing them with his index finger, before he placed the same finger on your tongue, moving your head so he could take a deeper look into your mouth. It felt so weird, and yet you were paralyzed by it all, unable to protest.

“I gotta say, doll,” he said when he added his middle finger into your mouth, both digits rubbing roughly over your tongue, pushing deeper. “I am really impressed. You've barely put up any fight so far. Almost seems as if you want this, huh?”

His eyes met yours, and you felt a strange sensation crashing down your spine, cold shivers that gathered scorching hot between your thighs. A smile grazed his handsome features, and it would have distracted you if he hadn't pushed his fingers against the back of your throat, making you gag and jerk against him. His hand curled around your throat, holding you in place as spit and bile filled your mouth, dripping past his fingers. You felt dizzy.

“We gotta work on your gag reflex,” he said quietly, more to himself, while his fingertips kept teasing at the back of your throat, tickling another uncontrollable convulsion out of you. He sighed and pulled his hand back. “As much as I like a sloppy mess, you have to control yourself around me,” he added, rubbing his spit slick fingers over your cheeks. “We'll start your throat training after your inspection, don't worry. You will be a good fuckdoll for me, won't you?”

You stared at him, still lightheaded, but now also terrified at whatever he had planned with you. He gently slapped his hand over your lips, forcing your mouth closed. You swallowed instinctively, your heart fluttering.

He let go then, stepped back and turned towards a table you hadn't noticed before. While you remained standing on the platform of the scale, shaking from the exertions, you heard the clinking of metal. Breathing harder through your nose, you closed your eyes for a second, trying to center yourself, to calm down. Nothing you could do anyway.

“Tell me, did I save you from a boring life, doll?” he asked over his shoulder, still rummaging through a variety of tools you couldn't see.

You frowned, blinking your eyes into focus as you stared at his broad back. Save me? you wondered, your mind racing. You forced me into... whatever this is, manipulated me to sign a fucking contract, took advantage of me, used me... As the first tear fell from your lashes, you looked down, breathing harder. You might have had a boring life, but you never wanted this. How dare he –

Suddenly he was back, his hand grabbing your chin, forcing your gaze up, making you stumble and gasp. His gaze was dark, eyebrows knitted, an angry scowl on his lips.

“You want this,” he hissed, and your eyes widened as you feared he might be able to read your mind. “I knew it the moment you begged me, so submissively on your knees, desperate for my guidance. You need this, doll, you need a strong hand. Don't worry about your old life now, that's in the past. I took care of it. You are mine now,” he added, leaning closer until you felt his hot breath on your quivering lips. “And I decide what I'll do with you. It's my right, you gave me your life, remember?” A dry laugh escaped him. “Well, don't worry if you don't, it doesn't matter. Your new life is with me, as my servant, my cute little fuckdoll, hm? Aren't you? Say it!” he suddenly yelled, the volume of his voice causing you to flinch.

More tears spilled down your cheeks, a panicked little sob gurgling in your sore throat. “Y-yes,” you gasped out, and his gaze darkened even more, his fingers tightening around your jaw, bruising it. “M-master,” you quickly added, your eyes flicking nervously over his hard face, looking for the things he wanted you to say. “I... I am your... your fuckdoll...”

The words stung, the realization of what you were hitting you low in your stomach, making it hard to breathe.

“That's right,” he said, quieter again, almost soft, his hand easing down your jaw to curl around your throat, pushing against the tight collar. “My little fuckdoll. You know what that means? I will use you whenever I want, however I want. I will make you scream and I will make you cum. Everything you do is in my hands now. I decide for you. If I want to strap you to a fucking machine and leave you there for the day, I will do so. If I want to see your pretty tears, I will spank you until your ass is bright red and you won't be able to sit for a week. If I want one of my pets to shove her hand into your tight cunt, I will arrange it. And you will let it happen, all of it. Won't you, doll?”

You were shaking badly now, the images he painted tightening the knot in your guts. Cold misery filled your throat like bile, your heart clenching, your lips wobbling. But you held his dark gaze, issued the tiniest of nods, as you croaked out another “yes, master”, and with that confirmation came a strange calm, a numbness, defeat. You were his to play with, and there was nothing you could do about it. You had no idea where you were, how to get out, how to even get past the tall man staring down at you. He was too strong, his realm of pain and depravity like a labyrinth you were stuck in, and you just knew there wouldn't be an exit anyway.

You were not a fighter, and while it had hurt to hear him say that, he was right. Maybe you wanted this after all. To be used, to be guided, to have a purpose? No worries, just... sex in whatever form he threw at you, just servitude? Your life for him?

“Alright,” he broke the moment, his palm rubbing along your wet cheek before he slapped it playfully. You flinched. “I'm not done inspecting you. There's still so much to be done before you can fully service me, you know?”

You inhaled sharply, swallowing hard, trying to push the thoughts away. Focus on him. Or on your own survival. Maybe both? Maybe – Your thoughts were once again interrupted when he hooked his finger into the hoop on your collar and pulled you forward, and you stumbled, gasping for air as the wide leather band cut into your neck. He shoved you against another table, your stomach hitting the hard edge, causing you to groan quietly.

“Bend over and put your hands on your ass cheeks,” he instructed. “Pull yourself open for me.”

Shame crashed through you, a different kind of panic crawling down your spine. But you did what he told you, you leaned against the table and bent forwards until your breasts were squished between your body and the cold surface, and your hands moved slowly behind you, shaking badly, but you managed to place them like he had said. You forced yourself to keep your mind empty, not to think about the humiliating position, so you inhaled deeply and closed your eyes, your head turned as you rested your cheek on the table, your fingertips digging between your ass cheeks, pulling.

“Good girl,” you heard him say, and the praise was almost enough to distract you from the cold air hitting your puckered hole. Or the cold lube he squirted on your skin that he then rubbed into you until his finger breached your sphincter. You gasped instinctively. “What a pretty ass you have. So tight. Was I your first, hm?” You choked out a confirmation. “How special,” he whispered, poking deeper before pulling his digit back, only to replace it with two.

You strained against the penetration, holding your breath, tensing up against your better judgment. This should be easier now, after having a hook up your ass, his cock and an unrelenting dildo pumping into your depths, but somehow you had recovered, your muscles tight again, having forgotten everything. Good for them, bad for you. His two fingers felt way too much, especially with how he scissored them to stretch your hole. You squirmed slightly on the table, falling from not daring to breathe to panting uncontrollably.

“I'll have one of my pets give you an enema later,” he then said nonchalantly, making it all worse. “I like my toys squeaky clean, you know?”

You could only whimper as he drilled his fingers deeper, poking at your walls. He might have added another one, you couldn't tell, you felt full already, your rim stretching against his knuckles every time he shoved his hand forwards. He repeated the motion for a while, or so it felt, coaxing little gasps and wails out of you when he pushed particularly deep. And suddenly the pressure was gone, his hand pulled back, but then you felt him grabbing your hands, and without fighting it, he made you curl your own fingers into your stretched hole, holding yourself open.

“Look at you, perfect,” he cooed, giving your exposed depths a little poke that made you flinch. “Stay like that,” he then told you, and you felt too embarrassed and helpless to move anyway.

You heard his footsteps echoing through the room while you forced yourself to dissociate. You almost calmed down a little the longer he stayed away, doing whatever he did with those clanking metal objects, but when he returned, you still issued a surprised shriek when he pushed something cold and hard past your fingers and into your ass.

It was long and thin, scraping against your knuckles, and it kept going, delving deep, deeper than his fingers anyway, its smooth surface sliding easily inside, almost soothing with how cold it felt against your warm muscles. He gave it another prod, then loosened the grip of your fingers. You felt your hole clenching, trying to close around whatever object he had inserted, but when you heard a strange cranking noise, you knew it wouldn't close. Instead he made it move inside you, let it expand, and it felt like it was opening you up even further, those cold metal prongs pressing into your walls, stretching, widening, and the pressure made you whimper.

“Easy, you're doing great,” he said, his voice moving behind you as if he had crouched down to take a closer look at your probably very wide rim and exposed insides. A new wave of shame crashed through you. “Look at that pretty hole. The things I will push inside you,” he sighed, his hand rubbing over your ass cheek before he gave you a sudden slap that made you flinch and clench around the stretching tool in your ass. “And so responsive too. We're gonna have so much fun with your little hole, doll.”

He stood up then, his hands resting on your hips for a moment, fingers digging into soft flesh as he stepped closer, and you could feel the heat of his crotch, the hardness of his bulge, against your sensitive skin. He gave you a little push of his hips, which caused the object stuck inside you to slip deeper, stretching even more of you while your rim puckered up, willing to close but being forced to stay open, the cold metal slowly warming up. A long breath slipped past your tingling lips.

“Hmm? You like that?” he whispered, folding himself over you, repeating the hip thrust, pressing you onto the hard table until your breasts started hurting from his weight. “I can mold you however I want,” he said quietly, his breath ghosting your ear. “I could make you my anal slut, would you like that? We could just ignore your little cunt, maybe I'll give you a chastity belt? Or just tape it shut? Do you want to be denied, doll? Or maybe you'll learn to come from anal alone, wouldn't that be the dream?”

His voice was so soft, but his words were vile, and you alternated between hot and cold shivers, your cunt clenching when it was mentioned, your ass tightening around the object inside it, while your stomach fluttered and your heart skipped a beat.

“But you just arrived here, didn't you?” he continued, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “You're still fresh. Would be a shame to deny any of your holes. Don't worry, doll, I'll use all of you. From your tight little ass to your beautiful cunt to your throat, you will service me with all you have.”

He leaned back then, giving you another push that made you gasp, before you felt his fingers between your ass cheeks, fumbling with the object stuck deep inside you. He poked around a little, then slowly pulled it back, without cranking it back to its original size. It was much bigger now then when it had entered you, and you strained, groaned as the hard metal caught on your rim, stretched it further than before, and your muscles ached, screamed, while you forced yourself to remain quiet, your hands finding purpose on your thighs, fingernails digging into your skin.

Eventually it popped out, and the loss of pressure was such a relief that you sighed audibly. “Look at that gape,” you heard him say after he put the object away with a clank. “Beautiful. Now, clench for me, come on,” he added, and you were confused, you thought you'd already clenched, but your muscles didn't seem to respond very well just yet. “I said, clench!” he repeated a little louder, harsher, and before you could follow through with another attempt, he slapped his hand down on your ass cheek, so hard you were shoved firmer against the table, and a squeak escaped you, then a scream when he did it again, and again. Your skin was burning, tight and bruised, when he finally stopped, the echo of his slaps still resounding in your head, your whole body shaking badly.

You rested your entire weight on your torso, your breasts aching, your legs too weak to support you anymore. “There we go,” his voice tried to push through the droning of your pulse in your ears. “Nice and tight again, hm?” He slammed his hand down one more time, this time between your burning ass cheeks, right against your swollen hole. Another scream ripped from your throat.

Suddenly he pulled you up, and you stumbled against him, your hands clawing at his clothes to find any kind of support. He grabbed your throat and held you up, and with how wobbly your legs were, you rested all your weight into that grip, quickly realizing how stupid that was when you started choking, your lungs burning, dark spots dancing at the edge of your blurring vision. Before you could faint, he curled his free arm around your chest and hoisted you up a little, and you sighed and gasped, raspy breaths filling your lungs.

You blinked, dizzy and disoriented, and the next thing you knew, you were sitting on the chair you had wondered about earlier. It was a strange chair, your legs were raised and strapped to leather padded stirrups, your ass hung off the edge of the seat (fortunately, because it was still tight and hurting from his spanking), and your wrists were secured in thick bindings. There was even a strap pressing into your sternum, keeping your shoulders in place. You couldn't move if you wanted to.

And you were glad you couldn't, because suddenly the seat moved and you were reclined backwards and lifted up, and you realized he was sitting on a stool between your wide spread legs, your cunt right on display, inches away from his face. You had no idea this was even possible, but you felt yet another wave of humiliation, and the worst thing, it created these strange tingles low in your body, muscles that shouldn't be clenching, warmth that shouldn't settle.

“Huh, is my little fuckdoll excited?” he commented on the wetness you felt dripping from your cunt. “Aren't you special. I knew you were the right choice.”

His words made you frown, but you decided to ignore them and stare at the white ceiling instead. Nothing else you could do about this anyway. You certainly didn't want to be aroused by all this, but your body was betraying you, and even more so when you felt his hands rubbing along your inner thighs, causing them to twitch in their restraints.

“Before we do anything else, let me take a look at you,” he said, his warm breath so close to your core you couldn't help but clench harder around nothing.

You expected him to insert another object into your cunt, like a doctor would to spread you open and take a look at your insides, like that thing that had been in your ass, but instead he used his fingers, first one, then two, before he hooked them into you and pulled your cunt open. You heard him inhale deeply, and while a deep blush crashed over your face, he suddenly blew into you, making you gasp and flinch, straining against your bindings. A low chuckle escaped him, while you turned your head away in shame.

He kept his fingers inside you, stretched your hole wider, and you could only imagine how he hovered in front of your spread pussy, possibly looking all the way to your cervix. You were too hot and bothered and frankly still ashamed to react in any way, and you could barely issue a little mewl when he removed his fingers and rubbed his palm over your wet labia. When he focused on your clit though, you were forced back into focus with a literal slap.

The sting was imminent, the throbbing pain shooting through your entire body, and he did it again, his flat hand straight to your hooded clit, and not a gentle tap but a real slap, powerful, painful, once, twice, and you wailed, winced, gasped. The worst thing about it? It only made you wetter, and he noticed. His hand moved lower, and when he spanked your pussy, the squelching noise made you sob in embarrassment.

He didn't comment on it, though, instead he slid his fingers along your slit and up under the hood of your clit, and when he gently tugged on your soft flesh and exposed that sensitive bundle of nerves, all you could do was hold your breath, unsure what came next. You didn't expect to feel his warm mouth, his hot tongue poking at the throbbing bud, and the instant twitch it caused in your restrained legs. He kept at it, almost carefully closing his lips around your clit, prodding it, licking it, but then he sucked, and you cried out as the lights exploded behind your eyelids.

He leaned back instantly, his fingers slipping between your folds and into your weeping core, and as he started pumping them in and out fast, his other hand went down on your clit, tapping it, slapping it, harder with each thrust of his hand, and you convulsed in the chair, gasping soundlessly, unable to move, but the twitches had to be released as you felt that tension snapping apart like a coil bursting under the pressure. You came hard, and he kept fingerfucking you through it, until you heard those wet squelches growing louder, and you felt the contractions, the fluttering of your walls, your hips jerking, pumping, as you squirted uncontrollably around his fingers.

It kept going, and he kept going, shoving his digits deep, curling them, stimulating all the sensitive spots inside you, bullying every inch of your cunt, coaxing more and more squirts out of you, and while you could only whine and whimper and cry, held back by the leather straps keeping you in place, you quickly felt exhaustion washing over you, overstimulated as you were, with each jerk of his wrist the tension within you built up again, and again, muscles tightening before they fluttered, pussy pulsing, clit throbbing, pain and pleasure mixing in a way you'd never known before.

Somehow his voice made it through the haze in your head. “What a good cunt, look at you, what a show. I bet you could make a good amount of money like this. My perfect little fuckdoll is such a great squirter too, beautiful. I'll make sure to share your talent with whoever pays the right sum, don't worry.”

With your mind slipping and your body shutting down under the constant assault, you still wished you were too far gone to register his words, especially the ones coming next (because he had the ability to always make it worse).

“But that's enough attention for your cunt. Let's get you ready for your enema now, shall we?”

Chapter 5+6 🔻 Chapter 7 🔺 Chapter 8

End notes: Yup, the topic of the next chapter is indeed enemas as we venture further into the "things I've always found strangely fascinating and always wanted to write about even though I know barely anything about them" territory. Strap in (Reader will be)!

New chapter every Saturday at around 9pm CEST!

Thank you for braving this depravity reading!

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