#requested au

[ruexvn]

𝙰𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚘𝚝

* ੈ✩‧���˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ

𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢....𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚘.....𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍.

𝚂𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚘𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍, 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍. 𝙼𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍. 𝙶𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢. 𝚁𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚔 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚎. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢'𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍. 𝚂𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚣𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 ��𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎. 𝙽𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝, 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎..𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝. 𝚂𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚉𝚊𝚕𝚐𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.

-

"𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝚗-𝚗𝚘- 𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩- 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝-𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗-𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩"

"𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢!...𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚞𝘳𝘨𝘩....𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎!"

"𝙿𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙴....𝙿𝙻𝙴𝚊𝚜𝚎.....-𝘱𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩- ..𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝...𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝..."

𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚒𝚍. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚣𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎. 𝚃𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚎𝚠𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚘𝚞𝚝. 𝙰𝚜 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚒𝚍 𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕, 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚗𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗....𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜, 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎.

𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎; 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚡-𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙, 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝. 𝙸𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜.

𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎.

-

𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠...𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚜𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚎𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚝.

"𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗....𝚒𝚖 𝚛𝚞𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚢....𝚒𝚖 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗..."

𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚔𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜.

𝙸𝚗 𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚗𝚘 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚝. 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚓𝚊𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘��� 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏, 𝚘𝚑 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍

𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚇-𝚅𝚒𝚛𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚖𝚎𝚝

"𝚑-𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘𝚒-𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐?"

"...𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 '𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜' 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎...𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚞𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚍𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑...."

"..𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚍...𝚊 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎"

"𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝....."

𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗

𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚣𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚔, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚙𝚜𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛.

𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎, 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚓𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚋𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗...𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚢𝚎. 𝚄𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎. 𝚁𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖, 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚝. 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚎𝚗𝚍. 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚣𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚎, 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚣𝚢; 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚕.

-

𝙷𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗, 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚐𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚣𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 ��𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚛𝚞𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚓𝚊𝚠 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑

𝙷𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝, 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚣𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚎𝚛𝚔 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎. 𝚃𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚔 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚓𝚊𝚠 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. 𝙷𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚡𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚠. 𝙷𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

𝙷𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚐𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚝. 𝙷𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝, 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚋𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎.

"𝘞𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘢𝘺...."

"𝘮𝘮-𝘮𝘮....𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘰-𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦? 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢-𝘢-𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘴𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘱𝘭𝘦?"

"..𝘺𝘦𝘢..."

"...𝘮𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦"

"𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘺.....𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘣𝘺"

"𝘪 𝘭𝘰𝘷-𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘺/𝘯..."

"...𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘥𝘰 𝘶𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵"

* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ✩‧₊* ੈ✩‧₊˚* ੈ

[marvelstoriesepic]

Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

[sluturu]

#SMAU ──★ they accidentally comment on/bring up an insecurity of yours!

featuring. g. satoru, g. suguru, n. kento, k. choso, f. toji, r. sukuna h. hiromi, k. shiu, i. takuma, i. shoko (surprise)

cw. financial insecurities, poor body image, mention of dieting, slight hurt/angst, mostly comfort (they're all kinda clueless) - minors please don't interact with my blog!

kit's note. thank you anon for the request! i hope it isn't too cringe and you get some comfort from this <3 also! everyone say HI SHOKO.

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

smau m.list — send a request

© all works belong to SLUTURU 2025. do not copy or repost.

[rendevok]

The lovers’ embrace ❤️

A royal nrmt commission for @anotherfangirlsworld

[cosmic-nia]

who’s submissive and agreeable now bitch

(THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A REQUEST TO ONE ANON THAT REQUESTED FOR MORE BRAINWASHED JAX, BUT I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THE ASK😭 ANON I HOPE YOU SEE THIS IM SO SORRYY)

[starry-bi-sky]

I am loudly pushing the batdad agenda i am loudly pushing the— DPxDC Prompt

“Woah. You look like shit."

Granted, that’s probably not the first thing Danny should be saying to the guy that just bit the curb, but in his defense; he’s not running on 100% right now either.

The man -- tall, towering, and broader than Danny is tall -- whips around on his heel, black frayed cape flaring out impressively. Danny would've whistled in appreciation, but he takes the time instead to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood running from his nose across his cheek.

"Sorry." He blinks widely, not even flinching as the man with the horns zeroes in on him. "That was rude of me. I have a really bad brain-to-mouth filter; Sam says its what always gets me into trouble."

And she's not wrong either, per say. His smart mouth is what landed him in this situation -- with blood blossom extract running through his veins and cannibalizing the ectoplasm in his bloodstream. Thanks Vlad.

The man grunts at him; a short, curt "hm" that shouldn't make Danny smile, but he does because he's somewhat delirious and probably concussed. The man keeps some kind of distance, sinking towards the shadows of Gotham's alleyway like he dares to melt right into it.

If it's supposed to scare Danny, it doesn't work. Danny's never been afraid of the dark; he's always been able to hide himself in it. He blinks slowly at the mass of shadows.

"You look hurt." The shadows says, blurring together around the edges. Danny squints, and licks his lips to get the blood dripping down his chin off. Ugh, he hates the taste of blood.

"I am." He says, "My godfather poisoned me. M'dying." The agony of the blood blossom eating him from the inside out looped back around to numbing a while ago, so all he feels is half-awake and dazed.

"Hey," Danny stumbles forward towards the man, a bloodied hand reaching out to him. "You-- you're a hero, right? You're not attacking me; which is more than I can say for most costumed people I've met." Maybe it's a poor bar to judge someone at, but he's already established that Danny's not in his right mind.

The man makes no change in expression, but Danny realizes blearily that it's hard to tell with the shadows on his face. He stays still long enough for Danny to latch onto the cape -- stretchy, but almost soft under his fingers.

He looks up blearily into the whites of the man's eyes. "Can you help me? I don't-- I don't wanna die." Again. He doesn't wanna die again. He blinks slow and lizard-like. "I mean- I'll probably get to see mom and dad again, but I told them I'd at least try and make it to adulthood."

There's a clatter down the street, and Danny's ghost sense chills up his spine and leaves a bitter, ashy taste in his mouth. He immediately knows who it belongs to even before the deceptively gentle; "Daniel?" echoes down the way.

"Daniel? Quit your games, badger, Gotham is dangerous for children."

Danny's mouth pulls back, and blood spills against his tongue. "Please." He rasps, and grabs onto the shadow's cape with both hands. "Please. He's going to kill me. Please--"

"Daniel? Is that you?"

His lips part, dragging in air to plead with the darkness again. He doesn't need to, the whites of his eyes narrow, and the cape whirls around him before Danny can blink. Soon swaddled in shadows, the Night lifts him up, and steals him away.

[mellowsharkpolice]

Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

Start here

[honeycaksy]

Omg for Regulus and his Sirius carbon copy kid AU, could you maybe draw Alphie with Sirius? 🥹🥹

I just know Sirius loves that kids like his own!! Also how cute would it be if Sirius has a kid too and is exactly like Regulus, down to the freckles on his nose!

Hello thereeee

It was something I already plan to do! Of course I needed to draw Alphie with his uncle Sirius 😤

HERE WE GOOOO

Yes we can see that Alphie is a little copy cat, always trying to do everything like his uncle.

"I want to dress like him!" "I want piercings!" "I want tattoos!" "I want to play guitar!" Poor Regulus who doesn’t catch a break 😭 He indulged his son by letting have his ears pierced and wear temporary tattoos ( he is too young for tattoos ), and he even let him have guitar lessons in addition with his violin ones.

Also the hairclips are a gift from Luna

AND YOUR IDEA OF SIRIUS WITH A CARBON COPY OF REGULUS AS SON WOULD BE SO CUTE? A shy little freckled kid always hiding behind Sirius 😔 I will try to draw it one day too!

AU where Regulus' karma is having a son who happens to be the carbon copy of Sirius.

р.1 | p.2 | p.3 | p.4 | p.5 | p.6 | p.7 | p.8 | p.9 | p.10 | p.11 | p.12

[lowrisemiller]

3, 2, 1, ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ . ݁₊ ⊹ . 📽.ᐟ

based on this ask | masterlist | 2.8k words | 📹 | having sex and recording it, kissing, oral f!receiving, unprotected piv sex, switch povs, m!masturbating, edging | i had sm fun w/ this tysm for requesting! |

summary: you found an old but working camera while out on patrol. instead of thinking about take pictures and creating memories something else completely took over your mind…

You found it buried in the snow just past the perimeter—half-dead, lens cracked on one side, but the battery still blinked when you thumbed it on. A camera. God knows who dropped it, or when, or what it had seen before it landed in your hands. It didn’t matter.

You carried it home like it meant something. Like it had a purpose.

Joel sat on the couch in his flannel and jeans, working a knot out of his boot lace, fingers slow, tired. You watched him from the doorway a second too long, camera heavy in your jacket pocket. He looked up.

“What?” he asked, soft but suspicious.

You swallowed your nerves. “I brought us somethin’.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Unless it’s dinner, I ain’t in the mood.”

You walked over, pulled it out like it was a damn wedding ring. Set it gently on the coffee table between you. “It’s a camera.”

Joel glanced at it, uninterested. “Yeah. And?”

“And it works.”

He blinked. “Okay.”

You sat next to him, thigh brushing his thigh. “I was thinkin’… maybe we could use it.”

A pause.

He turned slowly to face you. “Use it how?”

You hesitated, cheeks burning. You hadn’t meant to say it so soon, but the way he was looking at you—all stern and unreadable—made you want to push. Made you want to crawl in his lap and ask for things you shouldn’t.

“I wanna record us,” you said. Quiet. Honest. “Just once.”

His jaw tensed. “What do you mean—us?”

“You know what I mean.”

Joel stared at you like you’d lost your mind. “Sweetheart…”

You got to your knees in front of him before he could keep talking. Looked up at him, palms splayed on his thighs.

“I just wanna see it,” you said, desperate now. “Wanna see how you touch me. How you—fuck, Joel, how you look when you’re inside me.”

His hands hovered like he didn’t know where to put them. “That’s not—baby, that’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“You really want somethin’ like that lyin’ around? It could be dangerous.”

“I’ll keep it safe. No one’ll ever see it but me.” Your fingers curled around his belt. “Please, Joel. Just once. For me.”

He exhaled hard. Looked down at you, torn and twitchy and so close to giving in. His hand finally dropped, touching your cheek.

“You don’t need a camera,” he said, voice low. “You got me right here.”

You leaned into his hand. “But I wanna keep you forever.”

That did it. You felt it in the way his thighs shifted under your palms. In the soft groan he tried to swallow. In the way his thumb dragged across your lips like he was already picturing it.

He closed his eyes.

“Alright,” he muttered. “Once. But you stay close. You do exactly what I say.”

Your smile was slow. “Always do.”

Joel cursed under his breath.

And when you got up, went to set the camera just right on the nightstand, you didn’t miss the way his hands were already undoing his belt.

You can hear the soft, static click of the record button, and that’s it. No beeping. No countdown. Just that tiny blink of red in the corner of the room, steady and quiet like it’s watching you breathe.

Joel’s sitting on the edge of the bed, legs spread, shirt already off, that strong, tired body on full display—his chest dusted with gray hair, thighs flexing as he watches you set up the frame. His jeans are undone, waistband tugged low, the bulge in his boxers thick and heavy, straining.

He’s already half-hard.

“You’re sure?” he asks again, voice low and rough.

You nod, stepping toward him slowly. You crawl between his legs and place your hands on his thighs, the denim warm under your palms. “It’s already recording.”

Joel drags a hand down his face like he’s regretting every decision he’s ever made—but when you kiss the inside of his knee and trail your mouth up the inseam, you feel him twitch under the fabric.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“You don’t even have to look at it,” you whisper, lifting your eyes to his brown ones. “Just look at me.”

And when you lean up to kiss him, he grabs your face with both hands and kisses you back so hard your breath catches in your throat. The kind of kiss that makes your knees weak. Tongue slow, patient, possessive. Like he’s trying to brand the shape of you into his mouth.

By the time he pulls away, you’re gasping.

“Clothes off,” he says hoarsely. “C’mon. Let me see you.”

You undress for him—slow, tugging your shirt over your head, unclasping your bra, slipping your pants down one leg at a time. He watches every second. Not the camera. You.

When you’re bare in front of him, he lets out a low breath. His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs tracing the skin just above your knees.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re already wet.”

You nod, dizzy. “Joel—please.”

“Lay back.”

You do. Back hitting the mattress, legs spreading for him automatically. He crawls over you, bigger than the bed, arms braced on either side of your head. His mouth brushes your ear.

“Eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Don’t look at the fuckin’ camera. I want you to feel this.”

He kisses down your neck, your collarbone, your chest. His tongue drags slowly and heavy over one nipple, then the other, before he kisses down your belly and sinks between your thighs like he belongs there.

And when his mouth finds you—warm, wet, perfect—you arch with a soft cry. His tongue is patient. Flat, dragging circles over your clit, then flicking faster, lips sucking it until you’re whimpering, twitching, trying not to close your eyes.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “Let it show.”

You’re already shaking when he finally rises to his knees and strokes himself—slow and hard, leaking at the tip. You watch the way he fists it, how red and thick it looks in his hand, and you whimper.

“I want it,” you breathe. “Inside.”

Joel groans low in his throat. He lines up, runs the head of his cock through your slick folds, and just barely pushes in.

The stretch burns—thick, aching, perfect—and your mouth falls open on a gasp.

“Oh my God— Joel—”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let the camera hear how good I fuck you.”

He thrusts deeper, watching your face twist, jaw slack, your breath catching. He moves slow—so slow—until he’s buried to the base, hips flush against yours.

“Fuckin’ tight,” he grits. “Always so good for me.”

He pulls out almost all the way and pushes in again, groaning as your cunt clenches around him. One hand slips under your thigh and hooks it higher around his waist, opening you more, making room.

Each thrust drags the air from your lungs.

He keeps it steady, rhythm deep and deliberate, hips rocking into yours as your body trembles. Your moans are high and desperate, choked off by the sheer pressure of him inside you.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. But it just comes out as noise.

Joel chuckles darkly, voice fucked-out. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Wanted to see how I ruin you?”

You nod helplessly, eyes wet.

“Look at how easy you come apart,” he mutters, fucking into you a little harder now. “You’ll watch this back with your hand between your thighs, won’t you? Pretending' it’s me.”

You moan louder, body jolting.

“Say it.”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer. “I—fuck, Joel—I will.”

And then it happens—

He changes.

The moment your voice breaks, something flickers in him. His hips snap harder. His breath hitches. His hand grips your jaw tight enough to keep you still as he fucks you like he’s gone feral.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “Every fuckin’ inch of you. Look at how you take me. Like you were made for it.”

The camera is forgotten.

Now it’s just skin and sweat and the wet sound of you taking him again and again, your cunt sucking him in so greedily it makes him groan every time he bottoms out.

He lifts your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half. Fucking deeper. Harder.

“Gonna come all over this cock,” he mutters, voice hot against your neck. “Wanna show you what you do to me. Look at me, baby. Eyes on me.”

“I— I’m close— Joel— I—”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ know.”

His hand flies to your clit, thumb rubbing tight and fast, and your whole body clenches, legs trembling as your orgasm hits like a wave.

You cry out, loud and wrecked, and Joel’s hips stutter.

“Fuuuuck—that’s it,” he groans. “Take it. Take all of it.”

He comes inside you with a long, broken sound, cock twitching deep, filling you until it spills out slow and warm between your thighs.

And when he finally collapses over you, your legs still draped over his shoulders, you both lay there for a long, breathless moment.

The red light blinks once.

Still recording.

Joel’s voice is a rasp against your skin.

“You really gonna keep that forever?”

You smile, dazed. “Every second of it.”

It’s late.

The house creaks now and then with the wind, but nothing stirs. Not even the fire—burnt down to its glowing bones.

And Joel? Joel’s sitting still in that damn chair like something’s wound tight in his chest and won’t let go. You’ve been gone since morning—long patrol east, won’t be back until tomorrow—and the silence left behind has teeth.

He’s already two buttons down, belt unbuckled, pants shoved low on his hips.

In front of him, the old camcorder sits steady on the wooden table. The one you found on patrol, grinning and breathless when you handed it to him. Said it was still functional—still had some battery left, even. He’d grunted at the time, tossed it on the dresser like it didn’t mean anything.

It means something now.

The little screen flips open with a soft click, a flicker of blue light humming to life, and then—

There you are.

The video’s grainy, but Joel doesn’t care. He can see you just fine. Better than fine. You’re spread out on his bed, legs open, body moving beneath him, a haze of sweat glowing on your skin. His body, rough and broad, takes up half the frame. The camera had been set on the nightstand, just a little off-center, so it catches everything.

You had begged him for this.

On your knees, mouth swollen, voice wrecked: “Just once. I wanna see it. I wanna keep it with me forever.”

He hadn’t said yes right away. He never did. But the way you’d looked at him—wanting, soft and wicked at once—he’d given in. You always got what you wanted from him when you looked like that.

And now he gets this.

Joel strokes himself once, slow, thick fingers dragging from base to tip. His cock twitches, already wet at the head, leaking for you like a goddamn teenager. It’s not even shameful—he’s too far gone for shame.

On the screen, your back arches. His hand wraps around your throat. Your moan crackles through the built-in speaker, quiet and sweet and soaked in pleasure.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasps, mouth parting.

He strokes again, slow, tight around the base. Watches as his on-screen self pushes into you—deep, hips flexing as he buries himself to the hilt. You take him like you were made for it. The wet drag of his cock inside you, the sound of your cunt clenching down on him, all of it plays through the camcorder’s tiny speaker like a prayer.

Joel swallows hard. His hand leaves his cock, resting against his thigh. He’s not ready to come. Not yet.

He watches you pant, watches your fingers grip the sheets. Onscreen, he grabs your leg and pushes it up—opens you even wider. The camera shakes slightly as the bed rocks beneath you. The sound of your moan—high, breathless, needy—makes Joel groan in real time.

He presses a hand to his belly. His cock twitches against it, hot and heavy and needy.

Then he hears it—his voice, low and rough: “That’s it, baby. Take all of it.”

His own voice ruins him.

He fists his cock again and strokes, just once. Once. The sensation is almost too much already.

He breathes through his nose, sharp and shallow. The tape keeps going. He watches himself roll his hips into you slowly, watches your eyes flutter shut, your thighs shaking. Then, you say it—his favorite part—whimpering, desperate: “Joel, I can feel you in my stomach—oh my god—”

“Shit,” he mutters aloud, hand tightening. His hips jerk up into his fist involuntarily, needing more pressure, more friction, but he slows himself. He won’t come. Not yet.

He shifts, wide legs bracing him in the chair, the tension winding him up like a coil. The camcorder’s screen catches the moment he presses your legs up and leans in, burying his face in your neck as he pounds into you. Your body bounces from the force of it, your tits moving with every thrust, mouth open in a silent scream.

He hears himself on the recording again, low and cocky now: “Fuckin’ made for me, huh? Look how good you take it.”

Joel groans, stroking himself harder now. His hand glides slick with spit and precum. He’s dripping everywhere—his belly, his fist, the arm of the chair. He wants to finish, but he needs to draw it out.

The tape plays on. He watches you start to come, sees the exact second it hits you—your mouth drops open, legs shaking around his waist, that tight clench that he knows so well rippling through your body. You’re crying out for him. His name—“Joel, Joel, Joel—” Like a goddamn melody.

And he’s right there on-screen, watching himself fuck you through it, muttering filth in your ear. He feels that phantom tightness, the way your cunt always pulses when you come, and he has to stop again, squeezing the base of his cock to hold it off.

“God damn,” he grits out. “You feel so good. I fuckin’ ruin you every time, huh?”

He doesn’t even realize he’s talking aloud. The camcorder repeats the moment of his own orgasm—hips stuttering, body locking up, face buried in your shoulder as he spills inside you. It’s raw. It’s real. No performance. Just pleasure.

Joel can see the aftermath, too—his cum dripping down your thigh, your body boneless and twitching beneath him, both of you panting like you’ve just survived a bloater in the woods. The way you pull him close, even when it’s over. The way he kisses your hair. The way he worships you even when he doesn’t say it out loud.

He strokes again, slower now. More reverent.

The screen goes dark for a second as the footage loops.

Then it starts over.

You again. Lying back. Welcoming him in. Your voice: “Please, Joel—want you so bad—”

Joel clenches his jaw.

He edges himself through the whole damn tape again, sweat slicking his chest and temples, cum threatening to boil over. But he holds it. Every time. Over and over.

By the time he finally lets himself finish, he’s groaning so loud he has to shove his fist in his mouth to muffle it. His thighs shake. His hips jerk up off the seat. His release is hot and heavy, spilling over his knuckles in thick ropes, coating his hand, his belly, his shirt.

“Fuck,” he chokes, spent and trembling.

The camcorder plays on. Your voice is soft now. Laughing. Telling him you love how wrecked he looks after.

Joel leans forward, presses the pause button with a shaking finger. The screen freezes on your smiling face, sweat-slick and beautiful.

He sits back.

Breathless. Heart pounding. Cock twitching even after he’s come.

He doesn’t rewind it. Doesn’t delete it.

He just closes the screen with a soft click, tucks it away, and wipes his hand on the hem of his shirt.

He’ll watch it again tomorrow.

Maybe the day after that.

And if you’re gone too long, maybe he’ll hit record again the next time he fucks you—just to remember how good you feel.

tags: @zevrra @xodilfluvr

[orphicsun]

idk im thinking about ellie trying to get her girl off, but shes just too stressed to fall over the edge so ellie has to do her very best to keep her focused enough to get the release she needed :(

warnings: 18+ blurb, oral sex + nipple play + clit stim (r! receiving), lovey sex

"It's just so dumb. I felt like I was the only one doing the peer review shit right. The feedback I got was not even two full sentences. And the worst part? My professor doesn't even care!"

Ellie pauses from in between your legs for probably the tenth time. She isn't annoyed with you, but seeing you so stressed out over a class, feeling the stiffness in your body worries her.

She squeezes the inside of your thigh affectionately. "Which class is this again?"

"Psychology," you grumble pitifully. "It should be my easiest class, but people make it so complicated."

Ellie gives you a soft look of empathy and nods along. "Yeah. You know, we don't have to do this if you're not in the mood."

You shake your head, adjusting to slide further down the bed. She follows further down with you. "It's not that. I just keep thinking about it.."

She slowly crawls up your body, hers encompassing yours now. Two soft kisses on your ear, then a row down your jawline. Her breath is warm, the sensation on your skin almost enough to take your mind off of your stress. "Just focus on me, okay? I'm going to touch you. I want you to tell me how it feels..and nothing else. You understand?"

You nod, and she smiles, unable to keep herself from leaving a comforting kiss on your cheek. "Good girl."

One of her hands traces a line down your body, stopping at your chest. She doesn't firmly roll your nipples between her hands as she would usually do, but instead traces a thumb over. Before you can even think of bringing up another grievance, you feel her soft lips attach to your nipple, applying gentle suction that makes you instinctively arch your back into her mouth and moan.

Ellie's hand squeezes your other boob before heading further down, sliding a finger through your slick. You can feel her lips curving up when you shudder at her touch. With a slick-coated finger, she pulls your clitorial hood back to give your aching clit some direct stimulation. Your mind is empty of whatever was bothering you, even if just for a bit.

"C'mon, pretty girl. Tell me how it feels," Ellie says, her low voice muffled with your tit. She continues to work you, not having much of a problem getting you further as you were already stimulated from her mouth.

"Feels so good, Els. Please don't stop."

She wouldn't dream of stopping, either. Though she only wishes to give you some stress relief, the way you whine and buck up into her touch naturally makes her own pussy clench and leak.

"I can feel you twitching, honey. Just let go for me." Another finger rubs faster at your clit, making you nearly squeal in pleasure. Her teeth eases your nipple into a soft nip, not wanting to snap you out of your state of pleasure. You love it, though. You cup her face and try to pull her mouth even further down against you.

Ellie wants to sigh in relief when she finally feels you tense up from something other than your worries. You grasp the side of her face, fingers lacing thoughtlessly through her hair. Ellie doesn't stop working over your chest and clit until you come down from the intense orgasm she pulled from you.

All she can do now is bury her face between your tits and wrap her arms around your torso, holding you tight. She knows you're most likely exhausted from the orgasm and the lack of sleep you've been getting recently, so she has no plans on returning back to her apartment. She simply holds you tight for tonight.

taglist: @femme-tobe, @sulliefimmie, @klallx, @mytaping, @pryncess123, @therealhexstrap, @piercedome, @violetszn, @saturnhas82moons, @sawaagyapong, @prettyinpink69, @usuck, @s7nburn, @hellokittyfeenie, @ssijht, @starberr1, @ruevu, @ruelezz, @littlefallenangel111, @prwttiestbunny, @eriiwaiii2, @starrycherie , @tphmnv, @hotpinkskitties, @mars4hellokitty, @jhyoos, @elliesngirl, @moonfloweredprincess, @morticeras, @l0veylace, @abbysmeatrider, @ferxanda, @vahnilla, @plasticl0v3r, @g4ys0n, @bewareofmyglock, @witzs, @vixxxen, @aceywaycy, @abbysbutch, @evoscancelled, @x0x0xkimara, @mysexy-anxiety want to be tagged? click here!

[kyoukorpse]

hands u this

i trust you'll take care of them

[marvelstoriesepic]

Powdered Sugar

Pairing: childhood best friend fuckboy!Bucky x hopeless romantic!Reader

Summary: Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesn’t affect you.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: friends to something-maybe-more tension; unrequited love (the perceived kind); heartbreak; unspoken feelings; light angst; emotional withdrawal; miscommunication; mentions of Bucky being a fuckboy and flirting with other girls

Author’s Note: I know this turned out to be a little longer than planned for these drabbles and I did want to end it at around 1.6k words but I felt like the conversation just needed a little more. Anyway, this is based on this request from my sweet, sweet mutual!!

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Everywhere around you are colors. Blinking, buzzing, glowing colors. Neon reds and golden yellows. Cotton candy blues shaping the darkening sky.

The air is dense with the smell of sugar and smoke, a little burnt, a little sweet - like fireworks melting.

A thousand voices are stitched into the dark. Booths are being crowded, laughter rings out from all around you. Something about it feels like nostalgia wrapped in noise. Summer hanging off your skin.

You walk through it all in a slow dream.

Sam is saying something funny. Steve is losing his mind over who won the water gun race with Natasha. Wanda is laughing so hard she snorts.

You are smiling, but not all the way. Only with your mouth. Your head is somewhere else. Somewhere maybe not here at all.

Wanda’s arm is looped through yours, her voice warm in your ear, but you’re not hearing a word.

Because you’re in your head again.

And in your head, there’s a boy.

There’s always a boy.

He’s got a crooked grin and impossible eyes. Hands made for trouble. And a voice that is meant to live in your name.

He’s in your head because he can’t be anywhere outside of it.

It’s safer for you if he stays in here - because when you let yourself drift, you can imagine what it would be like if things were just a little different. If he was just a little different. If he looked at you the way you look at him when he’s not paying attention. If he loved you back.

You imagine him holding your hand under the glow of cotton candy lights.

You imagine his voice soft only for you.

You imagine his heart not borrowed.

He’s been your best friend since sandbox days and scraped knees. Since secrets shared under blankets and hiding from thunder in the dark. And somewhere along the way he became the sun and you became the shadow. Orbiting. Always too close to stay safe. Always too far to be seen.

And lately, you’ve been pulling back.

Not because you want to, but because you have to. Because watching him flirt with every pretty girl who captures his attention is like slowly bleeding out from the inside. And maybe that’s dramatic. Maybe you’re just being the hopeless romantic again, building castles in clouds and crying when the rain comes.

But god, you wish you didn’t feel so much.

“Hey, where’s Barnes?” Sam asks casually, looking around.

You do too. Because you just can’t help yourself. But you shouldn’t have.

And your fantasies shatter for the thousandth time.

He’s across the way, at a booth that smells like vanilla and sugar and heartbreak. He’s leaning against the counter. Smiling that easy smile. The one he gives to girls he’ll forget tomorrow. The one he doesn’t give to you.

The girl behind the counter is giggling.

Of course, she is.

She’s pretty and pink-cheeked with her long hair fastened at the back of her head, possibly with a hair clip you can’t see. Because she’s not turning around. Not turning away from Bucky.

Bucky is saying something. It’s probably something charming, something easy. And your stomach drops as if you just stepped off the edge of the Ferris wheel.

You blink too long. Swallow too hard.

Something sharp blooms in your ribs, something that nowadays never fully heals. A bruise where no one can see it.

The group keeps chatting around you but you can’t hear them anymore. The noise of the carnival dulls. It all dulls. The lights, the heat, the movement - all of it fades to background static as you stare and think, of course.

Of course, he couldn’t even make it one night.

This was supposed to be for all of you. This was supposed to be just your night as a group - no distractions, no other girls, no stupid charm shows. Just friends, food, maybe a ride or two, laughing till your face hurt.

But Bucky Barnes cannot help himself as it looks like.

And you should have known better by now.

You look away just as he gestures for more powdered sugar - a generous heap of it on top of the funnel cake. Just the way you like it. But you don’t see that part. You don’t see anything but the girl smiling at him like she’d give him her whole world for free.

“You okay?”

It’s Wanda’s voice in your ear. It sounds knowing. And you hate it. Because she knows you are not okay. Knows you haven’t been for a while. And she knows why. Because other than Bucky, everyone can see your heartbreak so plainly.

“Yeah,” you lie tersely because what are you supposed to tell her when she already knows the answer is no?

Bucky comes walking back to your group a minute later holding the funnel cake carefully in both hands. He is grinning, all proud of himself, eyes scanning the group until they land on you.

He makes a beeline for you.

The group keeps moving.

Wanda, to give you some space perhaps, walks ahead, laughing as she tugs Sam toward the spinning teacups as though they’re not entirely designed for kids under ten. Steve is shaking his head, pretending he’s not going to join in, but you all know he will. Natasha is throwing you a subtle, knowing glance before smirking at Steve.

You don’t get far.

“Here,” Bucky says, holding the funnel cake out to you, falling in step.

But you are drifting.

Your body is here, feet touching ground, but you feel like you’re moving through molasses. Everything slow. Heavy. Your heart sticky with regret or embarrassment or whatever that fucking pain is.

You glance down at his offering. The powdered sugar is already melting into the ridges. A soft, sweet mess. It smells like childhood. Like summer. Like him, as weird as it feels.

You swallow. “I’m good.”

You feel the warmth of him. That stupid comforting heat that’s always just there. Like a fire you want to lean into but know better than to trust.

“You didn’t eat all day.”

His voice beside you comes like a tug at your sleeve.

He keeps pace beside you, his stride easy like it always is but you acknowledge that there is a difference in the way he holds himself. Less swagger. Less play. He’s not performing. Not posturing.

You glance sideways. The funnel cake is still sitting in his hands.

Still warm. Still untouched.

“I’m not hungry, Buck. You can have it.” You don’t really look at him.

He doesn’t answer for a few steps, just walks with you, his eyes on you, the crowd fading behind.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. A moth flutters through a streetlight above. The world keeps moving, but it feels like something in your chest doesn’t.

He holds the plate out again. Firmer.

“You always eat this first,” he says, and there is something like a forced charm in his voice. Great. He doesn’t even seem to try with you. “Every year.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t take it. You keep your eyes ahead. You don’t respond.

So he steps in front of you, blocking the path, just slightly. As if trying not to be obvious about it but it still is.

It makes you halt.

“Take it, doll,” he insists. Quiet. Not demanding. Rather pleading.

Slowly, you blink up at him. His eyes are darker in the carnival lights. Blue, but tired. There’s something behind them. Something like a question. Like he’s reaching out with more than his hands and hoping you’ll meet him halfway.

Sighing, you take it, your fingers brushing his. You pretend not to feel it. He pretends not to hold on for a second longer than needed.

Picking at the corner, you tear off a soft edge. You bring it to your mouth and chew slowly. It doesn’t taste as good as it is supposed to.

It’s too sweet. Or not sweet enough. You don’t know.

You nod, just a little. “Thanks.”

Bucky doesn’t smile. Not like usual. His face is silence and shadows. There is something unreadable there.

He starts walking again after simply staring at you for a while.

You follow.

For a few minutes, you’re just walking. Side by side. Like you always have. Like nothing’s changed. You don’t even bother looking where the others are going.

You hear him bite the inside of his cheek. You know that sound. He’s deep in his thoughts. He does that when he’s trying not to say something too fast.

“Something’s up with you lately. You’ve been actin’ a little different,” he then starts after some more thoughtful moments, voice careful, deep and raspy. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but-” he sighs deeply. “I miss you, doll. Feels like you’ve been pulling back.”

You swallow another bite of funnel cake as if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten. It sits wrong in your gut. Makes it turn. Makes it hate you. Makes you hate it.

You glance over to your best friend. His hands are in his pockets now. Shoulders tense. He’s not looking at you. But you can see the edge of something vulnerable in the line of his jaw.

“I don’t know,” you get out somehow. “I guess I just needed space.”

He nods. Slow. As if he understands. But you don’t think he does.

“If something’s going on, you can-” His tone is softened, but his voice is scratchy. Almost gravel. “You can talk to me, doll. You know that, right?”

You let the silence stretch.

You watch it reach between you and settle in your bones.

You think about all the words you could say and how none of them are enough.

You think about how much it hurts to want someone who never asked to be wanted.

You think about powdered sugar.

“It’s nothing.”

You watch a paper napkin flutter across the pavement. Someone laughs nearby, giddy and golden and loud. Somewhere, the Ferris wheel creaks.

You walk a little further. Past the game booths. Past the families and kids and the couple kissing against the light-up sign that says Tunnel of love. You pretend not to see it.

He watches you. Carefully. Trying to read a page you’ve scribbled over.

Bucky bumps his shoulder gently into yours, letting out a breath.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters, voice rough.

“At what?”

He shrugs, looks at the sky, then back to you. “Knowing when I’ve screwed up. With you.”

Your throat closes around nothing. You don’t want it to. But it does.

“You didn’t screw up,” you reply weakly.

“Then what did I do?”

And there is that question you can’t answer without giving yourself away.

“It’s not that simple, Buck,” is all you give him.

“It doesn’t have to be simple, doll,” Bucky presses, a little more desperately. It seems like this has been gnawing at him. “But you’re clearly keepin’ something. And I've got the feeling it’s got something to do with me.”

Your heart thuds. The lump in your throat is unendurable now.

“You’ve been weird,” he goes on, staring right at you. “For weeks. We’re makin’ plans, you cancel. I’m callin’ you, you don’t pick up. Don’t even call me back anymore. And you won’t tell me anything.” His jaw flexes. “Something’s not right. I’m even kinda surprised you joined us here.”

He looks at your profile as if ready to catch the truth as it falls out of you.

You slow down. He does too.

“Just tell me if I did something,” he begs. “If I crossed a line. If I hurt you.”

The carnival is alive around you, loud and bright and unaware. But this moment feels still.

“You didn’t, okay?” you declare. “Not really.”

“But kind of?” he asks, eyebrows pulling in.

You shake your head with a vehement sigh. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” he utters with that stubborn and desperate edge. The part of him that refuses to let go. That never has.

“I’m not mad at you.“ Your voice is getting slighter higher. “I’m just-”

He is watching you so openly and you hate that you can’t lie to him properly.

“I’m not keeping score, okay?” you say suddenly. The words come out too fast. Too bitter. “I don’t sit around counting who you talk to or who you smile at or who you fucking flirt with.”

You clamp your mouth shut.

Too much. Too much too fast.

A hand stuffs funnel cake in to keep you from saying more. Your jaw works like it’s a distraction as if sugar and dough can silence what your heart just screamed.

But Bucky already stopped walking.

You take two steps before you realize. Turn.

He’s standing there in the half-light, shadows soft under his cheekbones, carnival glow flickering behind him like bad TV static.

He’s looking at you as though you just dropped a grenade at his feet.

Terrific.

He exhales carefully. Stares at you. Quiet. Maybe a little sad. Maybe a little something else.

But you cannot stop now.

“It’s just- it’s always like this,” you continue. “Every time. We make plans as a group, we do stuff, and then you see someone pretty and you’re just gone. Like the rest of us don’t matter.”

He looks stunned. He looks everything.

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to ditch you, sweetheart,” he says almost under his breath. “I went to get you some-”

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut in. “Because you always end up talking to someone else. You always find some new girl to flirt with, even when it’s supposed to be just us.”

You tear off another bite and don’t eat it.

“I didn’t flirt with her,” he says, after a beat. His voice is low. Testing. “I swear to you, I wasn’t. I just wanted to get the cake right.” A hand drags through his hair. His voice turns even softer. Dejected in a way. “You looked- I don’t know. You just didn’t look okay. Hoped it might cheer you up.”

You don’t look at him.

Because you’d crumble if you did.

You lick sugar off your lip, suddenly furious with how gentle he’s being. How cautious. As if you are something he doesn’t know how to hold anymore.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks, same voice. “If something I was doing was bothering you - why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it wasn’t your fault,” you answer, and now your voice is breaking. “It’s mine. It’s-” You stop again. Take a breath that tastes like carnival smoke and sweetness and everything you wish you could forget. “I know who you are, Bucky. Okay? I’ve always known. You don’t owe me anything.”

He frowns. But somehow he still looks soft while doing it. “What the hell does that mean?”

You breathe in. Your fingers twitch. You stare at the funnel cake and wish it were enough to quiet the thunder in your chest.

“It means I’m not stupid,” you basically whisper. “I know you. I know who you are with people. I know what your smile does and how easy it is for you to make someone feel like they matter, even if it’s just for five minutes. And it’s fine. It’s fine, okay? I just need to stop watching it happen.”

You feel the moment your words sink into him. You can’t take them back into your mouth and swallow them down. Can’t clean them up or smooth them over.

His eyes are like the sky just before a storm.

“Is that what you think I do?” he asks incredulously. His voice isn’t accusing. Isn’t angry. But it’s pained. Tired. As if he’s been trying to piece something together for weeks and it’s only now starting to form into shape.

His voice is quiet but not soft. Not now. It’s too filled with something else that is vulnerable and profound.

“You think I go around giving pieces of myself away like candy?”

Powdered sugar sticks to your throat.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because yeah. Maybe you do.

He runs a hand over his jaw. Still not angry. Just hurt. Disappointed. Sad. And trying not to be.

You pick at the corner of the plate.

“That’s not who I am with you,” he states. And there is something different in his voice. Something wobbly. “That’s never been who I am with you.”

Your heart stops. Just a little.

He looks at you. So deeply. As though you’re not just some girl in a crowd. As though you’re not a thing he’ll forget after five minutes. As though he’s trying to memorize the way you exist in this moment - all messy silence and half-held tears.

He steps closer.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues after a little pause. “But doll, please don’t stand here and tell me I make people feel like they matter for five minutes. Not when I’ve been showing up for you every damn day since we were kids. Not when I’ve been-”

He stops. Swallows the rest.

Your hands are shaking. The funnel cake is barely still a thing anymore, just warm sugar on torn paper, and you think you’re falling apart.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, barely breathing. “I just- I didn’t know how else to say it without saying too much.”

His eyes soften.

He steps in closer. Looks down at you. His hand brushes your forearm, making your fingers stop fidgeting with the paper plate.

“You can say too much around me, doll,” he insists. Soft again. Certain. “You always could.”

The lights glitter in your peripheral. The night is filled with other people’s joy, but yours feels more important.

You don’t bother to think about where your friends are.

He leans down, noses almost touching. His eyebrow twitches. His throat bobs.

“Just so you know,” he murmurs, almost like he’s not sure he should say it but knowing that if he does, he won’t regret it. “You’ve never been five minutes. Not even close.”

You blink fast. Look away. The ache in your chest shifts. It’s not gone but somehow it turns gentler.

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

But you think he hears it anyway.

The hope.

Your heart.

The maybe.

And then he walks beside you again. Like he always has. Like he always will. Even when you’re a little cracked, a little afraid. Even when you’re not saying everything.

But sometimes, just saying enough is already everything.

[keferon]

I don’t do Mecha requests but Sari-nee asked really politely so:) Just this one time.

But seriously, I only do human designs as requests. Robots take soooo much longer to draw

Also ahaha my design skills are simpler than an old brick. I just picked a haircut which shape would resemble Jazz’s helmet the most~

[hyckstarz]

hi ! can I request mean dom!mark lee with crybaby!reader ?? thankyou so so much <3

i had to take a breather every five seconds of writing this... this request unlocked something in me

fxck your ex! | l.mk

pairing. mean dom!mark lee x afab crybaby!reader

word count. 2.4k

genre. smut

synopsis. mark was sick of it. sick of hearing her go on and on about her boyfriend whose cheating was a sign their short relationship was being thrown to the dogs. he couldn't count the number of times she'd show up at his door in the late hours of the night, crying about a man he could give a damn about. Fuck being a best friend, and fuck your boyfriend as I make his ass your ex.

warnings. 18+ minors do not interact, dubcon! oral (m. and f. receiving), use of pet name/praise (baby, good girl, sweetheart, princess), degrading language (whore, slut), choking, rough handling, mention of anal play/licking, cheating, best friends. At this rate, everything is here 💀

A/N: this is probably the smuttiest fic I've written so far, but God was this fun to write. Mean Mark >>>>

Mark hated it. Hated how she went on and on about that fucking asshole. His sunken eye bags weighed heavy under his eyes as he bore holes into the flower pot, her sobs extra loud in his ears from the grogginess of being pulled out of his comfortable slumber. He then glanced at his phone. 3 AM. She came over to his place at ass o'clock in the morning to rant about her boyfriend, Jaehyun, again. His fingers and toes combined weren't enough to count the number of times she'd done this in the past three months.

"I do so much for him and he still goes out to meet that bitch!" She cries into her hands, "Now he's at that party doing God knows what with her."

Mark rubs his temples in frustration. He really tries. Really tries to be a good best friend for her, always lending an ear and shoulder, maybe he'd even consider chopping off those limbs to give to her in hopes of finally getting a good nights rest. But how much did he need to give away when she still goes crawling back to a cheater who couldn't give a damn.

He squints at her, trying to focus his blurry vision at her trembling form. His jaw hardens. Just a few months ago, he'd be a worried, nervous wreck at seeing her cry. Though now, he felt nothing but annoyance, tonguing the inside of his cheek as he mocked her stupidity in his head. But God was it hard to separate whether the frustration was at her dumping her problems on him, or at how sexually frustrated she made him. He couldn't help but sneak a glance at the tantalising strip of her thighs in those shorts, even as his jaw was clenched tight.

"I really love him... I love him so much, why can't he see that?" She choked out another sob, tears staining her skin.

Mark had reached a boiling point. It's like something that held his sanity and kindness snapped. Any ounce of respect he had for her had shattered, replaced by an all-consuming jealous rage.

His hand grabs at her wrist, tearing the palm that covered her face away, "What did you say?" His voice was quiet yet stern, husky from the lack of sleep.

She sniffled, meeting his hard gaze which made her breath catch in her throat, "I... love him."

Her soft eyes did nothing to calm the fire that raged in his chest. How could a sweet girl like her fall in love with that cheating, fucking asshole in a span of three months? Especially when Mark had always been there for her, through thick and thin, even now when she pulled him out of his sleep, selfishly, to talk about her own problems. He felt pathetic. In a way, he was just as pathetic as she was.

Mark sucks in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening on her arm which causes her to wince as he leaves red prints along her smooth skin, "M-Mark, you're hurting me-"

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped, yanking her towards him, "I'm tired of your fucking bullshit. If he's such an asshole, break up with him!"

Y/N stumbles over her words, lips opening and closing like a clueless fish at Mark's uncharacteristic outburst, "I- I can't."

Mark scoffs, pushing her back onto the couch as he clamoured on top of her, gripping at her plush thighs that seemed to mold to his touch as she scrambled in surprise, "Why can't you? Does he blackmail you? Did he save your life and you feel like you owe him? What bullshit excuse will you give me this fucking time?"

She's breathing heavily, her tears now dried on her skin as she keeps her eyes on him, "Mark... what are you doing?"

He couldn't play nice when she looked so pretty like this. Mascara running down her pink cheeks, lashes wet and eyes soft as her glossy lips puckered in confusion.

Mark chuckles in disbelief, shaking his head, "Why don't we give that son of a bitch a taste of his own medicine? Maybe then you'd shut those pretty little lips up about another man I could give less of a shit about."

She gasps, pushing at his chest, "W-what? You're crazy!"

Mark laughs, gently threading his fingers through her long hair, "We're both crazy, baby. At least I have a thing called pride."

Y/N swallows thickly, peering up at him like a deer caught in headlights. Mark's fingers brush under the hem of her shorts, his nose nudging the crook of her neck, "Maybe I could fuck a little thing like pride into you... give you another thing to cry about."

In a second, he pins her wrists above her head, trapping her hips between his knees as he pulls back to meet her nervous gaze. She bites her lip, contemplating. She can't believe she's actually considering what her best friend was offering. She thinks back to her earlier argument with Jaehyun and, fuck, would it feel good to get back at him for once.

Even just thinking about her boyfriend has a fresh set of tears glazing over her eyes, "I-"

Mark's voice cuts through hers, "Don't expect me to play nice though, I've been a carpet you've walked all over long enough," he smirks cockily at her hesitation, leaning in to whisper hoarsely in her ear, "Think about it, baby... Think about your precious boyfriend pounding into that slutty chick of his. I mean... he clearly isn't fucking you right now. Couldn't blame him when you whine like a little bitch."

Y/N sobs harder, burying her damp cheeks into the crook of his neck, "O-okay! Just stop... stop talking about him."

Mark grips at her cheeks, forcing her mouth open as he looks down at her with mockery, "Don't wanna face reality, princess? Fine."

His lips meet hers, molding against her soft, tear-stained ones that remained parted from his tight grasp. Her muffled sounds died in his mouth, his tongue swiping at the seam of her lips as it swirled with hers. He could taste the saltiness of her tears mixed with the vanilla flavoured gloss. When he pulled back, she was breathless, eyes blown wide. He loved the way her swollen, slick lips looked — a pretty pink that matched her flushed cheeks.

"You're an asshole," she pouted, her voice a broken whine despite the way she unashamedly rubbed her thighs together.

"Seems like you have a thing for assholes, baby. Admit it, you want to be ruined like a little slut. Who knew the crybaby was so filthy?" Mark pressed his knee between her legs. It was rough and it mixed pleasure with pain that had her gasping.

Y/N let out a choked moan, head nestling back into the cushions as he dragged his knee up and down her clothed clit. She hated that she was enjoying this. She was no better than Jaehyun. Sure, she had thoughts about her attractive best friend before, but he was never really her type. Until now.

"I don't have a thing for assholes," she sent him a glare despite lying through her teeth, "And I'm not a slut."

Mark stares at her for a moment before he lets out an amused laugh, "You're cute, but you're also dead wrong, baby."

He tugs his sweats down, pulling out his throbbing dick as he swirls his tip over her lips, coating them with his precum to wear like lip gloss. She let's out a muffled whimper, eyes pleading. He only scoffs in response, "I'll show you how slutty you really are, and you'll take it like a good girl, won't you?"

Her pussy clenches around nothing at that and Mark wastes no time in lifting her head up from the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. His other hand grabs her cheeks, forcing her mouth open as he stuffs his dick past her lips, stretching her out. She sobs again, fingers digging into his hips as she let's him manhandle her, rutting his dick into her mouth like a fleshlight.

Y/N's moans, whimpers and sobs get lost on his dick. But what really gets her off is how vocal Mark is. His groans and breathy gasps urges her to take more of him, gagging as his tip occasionally hits the back of her throat. Her eyes flick up to see him staring back at her through half-lidded eyes, fucking her into the couch. She'd never given head like this before - sprawled out underneath with her head in his hands to relinquish all control to him.

"Should take a photo of you like this," Mark's thumb tugs her chin up, "send it to that shit-faced ex of yours... let him see what he missed out on."

Mark pulls back and she whines at the loss of her mouth being filled up, "He's not my ex."

He snorts in response, "He will be once I'm done with you."

She swallows thickly, suddenly feeling nervous. Mark had always been the sweet, gentle and respectful best friend. Predictable and safe. But this was a side she never knew existed, especially as he was private about his sex life.

Mark flips her over, letting her chest press against the armrest of the couch. But her words cut through his thoughts, "I'm not breaking up with him, ever."

At that, Mark let's out a bitter laugh, and smacks her ass, hard. The sound is sharp and leaves a tingling sensation behind that causes her to wince, "You will."

At her no, he smacks her again, rubbing the sting with his kneading hands, "You're pathetic."

Without wasting anymore time, he'd tugs her shorts down. His fingers rub along her slit and, with his teeth, he bites at the waistband of her underwear, letting it pull down to her thighs. For years, he had been fantasising about his best friend, even beating himself up about it from the shame. But seeing her bare before him, has him swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing at the sight. His imagination could never do her justice, she was gorgeous.

Mark leans in, dragging his tongue over her asshole, circling and teasing the puckered flesh. He spits on it, watching it glisten obscenely, tilting his head as he kisses and nips at the soft flesh of her ass. She'd never felt so embarrassed, writhing under him. But the only thought that came to mind was how Jaehyun would never.

Mark's fingers probe at the entrance of her pussy, coating the slender digits with her slick before pushing inside; scissoring and curling his fingers inside of her. He groaned at how the tight, wet heat gripped him like a vice, pulsing around his fingers. His other hand tugged her hair back, leaning in to kiss her, licking into her mouth that has her moaning.

Mark nips at her bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood and make her wince. He licks at it, cooling the burn before he tugs her hair back harder, peppering sloppy kisses from her jaw down to her collarbone.

She rocks her hips back against his fingers, and Mark can't help but to smirk against her neck, "Desperate already?"

Maybe Mark was right, she didn't have pride and she was as slutty as they came. She nods eagerly, "Please, need you..."

Mark bit on her earlobe, whispering, "Gotta do better than that, sweetheart." His fingers stilled in her, hand pressed to her lower back to keep her from moving.

"I need you, Mark. Please," she begged.

But that wasnt enough, not even close, "Need me to what?"

Her lip quivered, feeling herself losing every inch of her sanity, "Need you to fuck me."

Mark stroked himself, his restraint was slowly slipping too, but he couldnt give her what she wanted just yet, "only if you promise to leave that son of a bitch," he spoke through gritted teeth.

Y/N bit on her bottom lip, pondering, "I will. I'll break up with him. So, please."

Mark scoffs. It didn't take long for her to give in, but he was grateful. Not wanting to waste another second, he pushes into her, hard and fast, not giving her time to adjust. She gasps out loud, clutching onto the armrest with desperation, "fuck! M-Mark-"

He ruts into her, blocking out her cries, "Like I said, you'll take what I give you like the good girl you are. Or do you prefer to be called a whore now that you're sleeping around?"

She whimpers, tears slipping down her cheeks, "Both... I wanna be called both."

Marks hands grab at her hips tightly, pulling her against him, "Knew you were nothing but a whore. Bet you were hoping for this... you were trying to piss me off by showing up at my place every night, huh?"

She shakes her head, clenching around him, "No! No, I wasn't."

His hand slithers under her, rubbing rough and quick circles on her clit, causing her to writhe beneath him, "You wanted me to fuck the outline of your body into my couch. Wanted someone who'd fuck you better than that asshole."

He pulls the length of his cock out of her before slamming back in. Her toes curl and she feels her body growing weaker, her release approaching. Her thoughts were cloudy, drool and tears staining her skin. Each thrust of his hips had her let out choked moans.

"No one is better for you than I am. Not Jaehyun, not even your own fingers. Just me. Only me," he growls, and she swears it was the sexiest sound that ever came out of any man.

"Y-yeah... only you... only you, Mark," she cried, arching her back against him.

"You're mine. All mine. Say it... say it for me, princess," his voice is suddenly soft and breathy. The gentleness returning, as if he really meant it.

Y/N nods, gasping, "I'm yours," she shuddered, her release washing over her as Mark never slowed his pace. She could feel him twitching as he helped her through her release, his own following as he pulled out and came all over her back.

She whined, "Wanted you to cum in me."

Mark chuckled, panting as he wrapped an arm around her and pulled her lithe body into his chest, kissing down her neck and shoulder, "Next time, pretty. I'll save that for when you block that bastards number and make you mine for real."

(I promise my next post will be a Haechan fic)

© hyckstarz

[forsakennerr]