#robert barnes x reader

[senka-mesecine]

I think Barnes is not just an obsessive little bipolar patriotic freaked up military man, I think bro is cursed with gatsby level YEARNING. If it meant you being truly devoted to him?? He’s building you like 7 houses, all with pools and wrap around porches, cooking for u, cleaning for u, and dicking u down crazy!!! He will do it completely stoically and acting like he’s indifferent to you but in his mind Lana Del Rey plays while he longingly stares a photo (or shrine of you) that too him, is emitting a light just as hypnotizing as the green light.

Also sorry if I sound unhinged I’m an American lit major coming off anesthesia from wisdom tooth removal 🫡

You described him immaculately.

[southernbelllle]

I need more scary Barnes! I want to be thrilled againnnnn. Please!

Blood Orange

Robert Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

AN: Weird guy. Wrote this two nights ago. Forgot to post it. Yk how it is. Need to crawl on medic Wade. He got nothing to do with this. Just had to say it. I been thinkin it.

Spring was beginning to bloom in the valley of Tennessee’s mountains. Just outside of your kitchen window, you could hear the bees busily buzzing in the hive situated between the upper left corner of the windowsill. Goldenrod zinnias adorned the small white shelf below the glass. Butterflies floated and flounced from flower to flower pollinating the orange trees that grew right outside.

Slamming your kitchen window upward, you reached out to pick the amber fruit that hung from a branch threatening to burst through the delicate pane. With a rash yank, you plucked the fruit from it’s branch and slammed it onto the countertop.

You paced over to the drawer beside the dirty white refrigerator to pull out the secret kitchen knife you’d taped to the ceiling of the drawer. With the knife rearing its sharp point, you then fervently nabbed the white cutting board from the cabinet above.

Returning to your spot at the countertop hostaging the oranges you let out a brave yelp. With a rebellious thwap, you stabbed the oranges onto the cutting board and began to hack at the fruit.

Robert never allowed you the privilege of fruit without permission. He believed that sugar would trick the molecules in your brain into thinking that you weren’t happy there with him. That a return to a joy so whimsical and childish might inspire you to seek out other ways to indulge in such an act. He just couldn’t allow it.

But Robert wasn’t here right now, he had stormed out with his shot gun and one round.

You two had such a spatter earlier. Something small and dumb. Your incessant need to impishly pester the haggard beast sometimes fell on angry ears. The reality of your shared dynamic sometimes teetered on the edge of an actual dire situation, where you felt the very real heat of being with a man such as him.

You continued to pierce the fruit with the knife. Eyes closed and mouth letting out a shrill scream, you beat the tool into the oranges.

Once you felt your sonata of screams had played its tune, you opened your eyes and found that a splatter of a deep red now spurted the old paint of the kitchen.

A deep sigh drooped your shoulders as you expelled the hot air from your lungs. Your chest rapidly rose and fell as you began to find your grounding. Your eyes traveled from splotch to splotch. You weren’t worried about how you’d clean the mess; you’d done it time and time again. It was no different than when Robert would bring in one of his carcasses to clean right there on the supper table. A little salt and pepper, a dash of baking soda, sometimes even some jack Daniels to sterilize it, it was a song and dance you’d become familiar with over your sentence with Robert.

But the realization that these once innocent little orange buds were actually rotten, puss filled clots of curdled blood juice felt harrowing to you. How could these tiny blossoms of nature become so spoiled and coagulated by time? More specifically, by their time here? How angry would Robert be that you had muddied yourself with the blood of a fruit you were prohibited to eat?

Feeling your skin begin to goose pimple in dread once more, you felt tears prickle in the corners of your eye. In a panic, you burst out of the swinging kitchen door to the small spring that babbled in your backyard.

In a dire attempt to rid yourself of the maroon stains that littered your palms, you fell onto your knees and  thrust your hands into the brook. Scrubbing and scrapping with frenzied fingers, you prayed a silent prayer that the good lord above would rid you of the evidence of disobedience before your beloved Robert returned from whatever trail he decided he needed to hunt on.

Exasperated, you sat back in defeat. Just before you gave up and decided to head back to the crime scene, the water cleared. It smoothed atop the surface of the water and allowed you to take a good look at you reflection.

Your delicately beautiful face, believed by your husband to have been kiss by an angel, was coated in the same bloody splatter as your hands. The evidence was damning. There was no hope of hiding your escapade. Like a dog beat, you dragged the back of your hand across your lips, and watched as the burgundy liquid smeared across your lips. You stood up on your anxiously shaking legs and began the walk of shame back to your once cozy little country house.

You couldn’t do much but sit. Guilty, and quietly weeping. You new Robert would be coming back soon. The morning was hours in the books and the black night was beginning to loom across the sky. You would soon be on the boogeyman’s time. Leaning back onto the wobbly wooden chair, you think about the scary stories of strangers and strange lands your mother used to tell you. Of scary monsters that roamed the woods looking for lost little girls to eat. A fear you hadn’t tapped into since you were little reawaked into your spine. You shivered.

The kitchen door opened lightly, as if not to wake the kitten he presumed to be sleeping. Contrary to the brash “slam” you had imagined taking place over and over again as you sat by yourself.

You looked up from where you had previously laid your head against the table. Swallowed by the darkness, you could just barely make out your husband’s silhouette.

Slowly stepping into the light, Barnes stood clad in a white wife beater and his cargos. Which was strange, he never left the house without his camo or his waders. He must have dirtied them with detail of his hunt. He probably burned them in an attempt to rid hid clothes of the blood borne pathogen that came from a bullet’s wound. Bracing the woods with bare skin was childish to him, rudimentary knowledge he had learned when he was under the mercy of his own father.

Breaking the silence, he threw his shotgun boisterously against the tiled floor. The empty shell flying out as a result of such a careless action. You jumped at the noise. It reminded you of the unexpected thunder of a pop up storm.

He scooted the chair in front of you out and took a seat. Still partly blending in with the black environment that had now fully encapsulate you two, your brain began to fill in the cracks of his face that you couldn’t see. A devilish grin, blunt shark eyes that watched you. You wondered what his reaction was to your scarlet letter of disobedience. You felt as though you were a canary in a coalmine waiting for his reaction.

Taking a small shred of control in your situation, you carefully grabbed the wax candle that sat in the middle of your table and the matches that laid beside it. With the strength of a mouse, you lit the candle that much like you, began to melt from the heat.

Boldly, you returned the candle back to its wax ring on the table. Your eyes remaining on the woodgrain that showed through the varnish, never once looking up at your husband during the process.

Another five or so minuets go by before you gain the courage to look at him. Far too terrified of his reaction to your hands, your face, the oranges you’d picked out of anger, it was just too daunting.

When you did muster up the courage to face Robert though, a relieved breath exited your lungs and returned to your face as a smile. How could you have ever doubted such fortress that was your relationship? You too truly were cut from the same cloth, both infected with the bad disease that only few ever got to com back from, never cured.

Your Robert sat before you as honest and true as the day he was born. His Grecian face covered in the same red splatter as yours. His mouth taking the brunt of the blood stain, lips sporting drops that had dried onto them. He had every right to think you’d be just as mad as you initially thought he would be.

You knew he’d parked the carcass outside the door, that’s what he usually do when he went out on a hunt of this magnitude. You’d be made to cook it in the morning. Once, he’d have gutted and cleaned the organs properly. If the corpse was sizable (and had much left at all after Robert had his initial raw taste of it), then that’d be lunch and dinner for at least two days. He at his core, was a provider after all.

The oranges lay forgotten on the counter as you brought a wet rag to his face. Affectionately wiping the blood and cartilage from his lips and cheekbones. You let out an innocent giggle as you wiped. Curious, you wondered to yourself what parts of the poor neighbor were left for you to eat.

[atmostories]

Sergeant Barnes x Reader

A gift for @senka-mesecine 🚬🚬🚬

His Cog

The girls were scared of him. It couldn't have been because of his facial injuries, they'd been here at the city hospital longer than you had after all, seen much worse. You supposed it must have been his rough bedside manner. They loved the sweet boys, the charming ones, and from what you'd witnessed they must have spent half their time flirting and the other half actually providing care. But considering how the boys healed up, the flirting seemed to be part of the healing. Sergeant Barnes wasn't a flirt then. That suited you just fine. Coleen had shoved his file against your chest as you were restocking one of the operating rooms, making you take him as one of your patients. She barely gave you time to grab the file before the papers could spill out everywhere.

After reading through his rather extensive medical history, you headed to the step down unit with fresh bandages in hand. It was quieter in here than the intensive care wards or the floor units where patients were almost ready to be discharged. When you spotted Sergeant Barnes sitting up on his bed, his eyes were already on you. He didn't react to the polite smile you gave him as you approached, nor did he respond when you introduced yourself. The laceration on his chin went through his lip, it must have been painful for him to- “I need a smoke,” he ordered plainly, his hand reacting out, obviously expecting you to have a pack on your person like most of the other nurses did. “When I've finished changing-” “Now.” You blinked at his blunt interruption, suddenly understanding why Coleen had forced him on you. “Alright,” you replied slowly, placing down the bandages on the bedside table. He spoke again when you turned around. “You ain't got none?” “I. . .I don't smoke.” “You will,” he replied, his words nothing but a promise. You rushed off out of the unit, managing to plead for two cigarettes from Dorrie before hurrying back to him. He pointedly took both of them, tucking one on top of his ear. It was as if he was silently chastising you for not having them in the first place. “Well?” He was giving you an expectant look. You stared back helplessly. The hostility of his demeanour was putting you out of sorts. “What. . .you thought the passion of you wanting to help heal folk and such was gonna light this here cigarette?” Your gut rolled with embarrassment and you felt your cheeks redden. You mumbled an apology and left the unit once more, this time in search for a lighter. Thankfully you bumped into Dr. Foreman who lent you his lighter, appearing understanding when you mentioned who your patient was. You sucked in a deep breath before walking back to Sergeant Barnes in an attempt to compose yourself. Rather than taking the lighter from you, he jutted out his chin with the cigarette pressed between his lips, expectant and waiting impatiently. You lit it for him and he thankfully didn't criticise you any further as you got to work taking off the old bandage. The stitches looked messier than they should have been and the thick scabs on his upper and lower lips were bleeding slightly. While you cleaned the wound carefully, you were surprised he didn't blow the smoke right into your eyes. His jaw twitched, he must have been in pain. You slowed even further. "I ain't a damn china cup," he commented in annoyance. You ignored him and continued at the same pace, concerned that the future scar on his chin and his lips would be as prominent as the one going around his brow. He suddenly grabbed your wrist and wrenched you forwards, your nose almost bumping against his. "What did I just say?" He murmured softly, his voice juxtaposed the vicious grip he had on you.

"You're in pain," you explained, almost letting out a whimper.

"I can take the pain. You hurry on up and get to the other men, there's plenty of them, ain't there?"

"You're my-"

"I don't take back talk. That's your first and only warning. Now get to work." You stared at him for a brief moment when he released your hand, there was something almost hypnotic about his eyes and his cool, controlling demeanour that compelled you to obey. You resumed your work at pace, as he had commanded you to. Your hands were getting unsteady as Sergeant Barnes watched you intently while he smoked. Would he chastise you once more? Would he grab you again? Were you going fast enough? After applying a fresh bandage on his chin, you examined his swollen ankle and put an additional pillow underneath it to raise it even higher. He didn't seem to like that but said nothing on the matter, nor did he comment as you completed the nursing observations, timed his pulse and respiratory rate, checked his temperature and blood pressure. He'd finished the second cigarette by the time you got to the pain score. You purposefully left it until last, wanting to avoid further conversation with him.

He gave you a one out of ten for his face and also for his ankle. You hesitated to note down his answers because he wasn't telling you the truth. “If I uhh put down a one for your ankle, that means you can walk. . .but you can't just yet, not for at least a couple more days. How. . .how about a three?” You tried to negotiate with him, the Sergeant silently considered your attempt before nodding in reply so you quickly noted down a three. “Thank you, Sergeant,” you told him, managing to take back the lighter without protest and you hurried out of the unit, wishing that Coleen had cornered someone else before you. - - -

The next day you were prepared for Sergeant Barnes. You purchased a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, two of which were promptly returned to Dorrie, and you immediately had one lit before guiding it in between his lips. He thankfully said nothing as you got to work once more. When you'd returned Dr. Foreman's lighter yesterday, you expressed the need for Sergeant Barnes' pain relief to be reviewed. The doctor had merely chuckled at you, replying that Barnes had always denied pain medication and it wasn't worth the bother. You wanted to refute the notion, explain that the Sergeant was worth the bother, but you knew that you couldn't force the pain relief on him. From what he'd said yesterday, you assumed that he'd give some justification that the other men needed it rather than him. You wondered what was fostering that mindset. There were plenty of supplies here in the city hospital, there wouldn't be so many when you headed to the front next week. The swelling of his ankle was subsiding, another two days and you'd like to see whether he could put some weight on it. His pain score remained the same and you jotted down the results from your routine observations. He offered no critic or chastisement. Perhaps he was having a particularly bad day yesterday. On your visit the next day, when you had replaced his bandage he pulled off the bedsheets and swung his legs off the bed. “You said two days,” he told you before you could protest at his sudden movement. “Please could you wait for a moment?” You pleaded as you knelt at his feet, hands gently running over his ankle. Though the swelling was going down nicely, you'd prefer him to rest until tomorrow to be sure. But Sergeant Barnes was seemingly adverse to standard medical practice. As the thought crossed your mind, you felt his hand press down on your shoulder, he rose to stand on one foot and slowly began to put weight on the bad ankle. You stayed on your knees, conscious that moving would mean he'd be placing all of his weight on his feet rather than using you as a crutch. He was rather good at hiding the pain, and yet it was still evident as you observed him closely. There was tension in his jaw, his eyes flicked from the floor, across the ward, to the ceiling, he leaned even more against your shoulder. Considering what you knew about him, he'd probably start trying to walk around the unit. “Maybe. . .I can come back later today and we can get you back on your feet again? If you'd like?” You asked softly, trying to walk the fine line between placating him and not wanting to push his body too far. He gazed down at you for what felt like the longest time before he sat back down on the bed. “I'll hold you to it.” - - - Surprisingly you got used to Sergeant Barnes. You obeyed his previous commands, provided him with cigarettes on every visit and kept focused on your work, on helping him to his feet. He left you well enough alone, commenting only here and there about hurrying up.

He wasn't like the other patients, he was all business. He didn't chat, he didn't gossip, he didn't regal his stories of battle and glory. He didn't confide in you, he didn't attempt to persuade you to get him extra rations, he didn't try his luck trying to steal a kiss from you. It was almost as if he was waiting to get back to the front. He constantly pushed himself to recover as quickly as humanly possible. No matter his pain. The others dreaded the front, they'd push the thought of it from their mind, they'd chat with you and the other girls about their lives beyond the war, about what they'd be doing during their rest and recuperation time, about learning how to surf in Hawaii, going to the dance halls and partying through the night. Sergeant Barnes was fully focused on recovering and getting back. There was something. . .robotic about him, something relentless, something not quite human. You supposed it should have unsettled you more than it did. The day came when you traded your pristine white nurse uniform for fatigues. It was standard issue for medical personnel at the front, both male and female. You liked it in some ways, that it was looser and more comfortable to wear, that the men might see you more as an equal. And yet it dawned on you that were about to truly enter a war zone. Nurses before you had been killed, blown to bits by artillery fire. You supposed if you were gonna go, you'd hope it be quick. You told Sergeant Barnes that this would be your last visit with him, that you were flying out to the border area first thing in the morning and that another nurse would see out the rest of his recovery. “Tomorrow hmm?” He murmured and you nodded in reply. It was the only thing he said. You finished up your observations in the usual silence of his company and bid your goodbyes. You didn't sleep at all that night, mind filled with what was to come. At dawn, you were waiting at the back of the line with Dorrie to get into the truck, your one bag of possessions in hand. You and Dorrie were the only nurses heading out, the rest were soldiers. Two of them seemed to be competing for Dorrie as they both helped her climb up into the truck and were trying to convince her to sit next to them. You looked at the back of the truck with a sigh, wondering how you were going to climb up so high without breaking your neck. A hand reached then reached out, Sergeant Barnes was staring down at you. He wasn't wearing a bandage on his face. What was he doing here? “Up ya get, cherry,” he prompted. You held out your hand and he helped you up into the back of the truck, guiding you to the bench opposite him. Your knees brushed against his as you sat down, there was barely any space inside, you wondered how so many people could fit in such a small space. A duffel bag was on the bench next to you, so thankfully you were leaning right up against that rather than someone else. With your bag resting on your lap, you kept your legs pressed together. Sergeant Barnes' legs were spread, his knees either side of yours. You almost jumped when the back of the truck got closed up half way, you were too distracted.

As the truck got moving, your eyes flickered over to Sergeant Barnes who was already looking at you. “What are you doing here, Sergeant?” You asked him, having to raise your voice slightly because there must have been at least five different conversations going on. Dorrie was already laughing loudly. “Got discharged.” “But. . .I didn't recommend that.” “So?” He replied dismissively, shrugging a shoulder at you. “Well usually there needs to be a nurse recommendation and a doctor's authorisation for personnel to be discharged.” “Well. . .guess I skipped the unnecessary part and just got the authorisation.” There was an uncomfortable twinge in your chest at his harsh words. Was he purposefully trying to insult you by insinuating that you were unnecessary? Nothing on his expression helped you to determine his meaning. You didn't respond to him, and turned your attention to the view out the back of the truck as the city passed by. If only Dorrie had stayed with you, maybe you could have chatted together, make the journey go a bit quicker. In your peripheral vision, you saw him pull a cap out of his pocket. He put it on before pulling it down over his eyes and crossed his arms. That was something of a relief, to not have Sergeant Barnes stare at you the whole way. Every now and then, you'd glance over at him, taking in a detail here and there, looking at the watch on his left wrist. The roads started to get windier as you headed out into the countryside, rice field after rice field rolling past. His knee would knock into you when the truck turned. After an hour or so, one of his knees remained pressed up against you and he continued his leisurely nap, oblivious to what he was doing. Rain began to pelt down onto the top of the truck and Sergeant Barnes remained unperturbed. As the truck went around another bend, his other knee knocked against you, but then it didn't move away again. He had both of his knees pressed against yours, effectively boxing you in. For a moment, you thought about saying something, but the last thing you wanted to do was disturb him. Who knew what kind of wrath you could awaken if you woke him up? No, you wouldn't do that, you'd simply remain uncomfortable as you were. The rain had been over for a good half an hour when the truck arrived at the airbase. Three helicopters would take you the rest of the way to the base camp which you'd call home for the next six months. Sergeant Barnes pulled off the cap a few moments before the truck pulled up, finally moving his knees away from yours.

[bethsvrse]

Mickey 17 and 18 fighting to eat you out?? yes please

smut, oral, fem receiving, technically a threesome?? idk if it counts since they are kinda the same person lol ☠️ also PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE SEND REQUESTS FOR THEM 🙏☺️

When you first found out there were two Mickeys, your immediate thought was how the hell you were going to explain this to Kenneth without getting all three of you killed.

Your second thought? There were two fucking Mickeys. Two of your boyfriends. Two men who were hopelessly in love with you.

Two men who would do anything to please you which is exactly how you ended up in this position.

Honestly, you don’t even know how it happened.

One minute, the three of you were arguing about what the hell you were supposed to do, the next, Mickey 17 was between your legs, his tongue lapping at your cunt while Mickey 18 sat by the bed, rubbing over his clothed cock, eyes dark with jealousy as he watched, his grip on himself tightening and his jaw clenching as he watched 17 work.

His tongue moved like he’d done this a hundred times before because he technically had. Every movement over your clit was muscle memory, honed from how long the two of you had been together. Mickey 18 knew exactly what it felt like to have you writhing beneath him, and the fact that 17 was the one drawing those desperate little sounds from your lips instead of him was driving him insane.

He exhaled sharply, shifting in his seat like he was debating whether to wait his turn or shove 17 out of the way. But 17 wasn’t stopping—not even sparing his double a glance. He was devoted, completely focused on your pleasure, moaning against your cunt like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted (because in his mind, it was).

“Fuck,” 18 muttered, palming himself harder. “That’s my pussy too, y’know.”

Mickey 17 lifted his head slightly, looking up at 18 with wide, hazy eyes, lips slick with your arousal.

“But… it’s my turn,” he said softly, almost pouting.

Mickey 18 let out a sharp breath, like he was barely holding himself together. Then, he moved.

Before you could process it, he was between your legs, shoving 17’s shoulder in an attempt to get him out of the way. “Move.”

17 let out a small noise of protest, hands still gripping your thighs, eyes flickering between 18 and you, unsure, almost as if wanting you to tell 18 to wait his turn.

But 18 wasn’t waiting, and honestly, he wouldn’t even listen to you if he told him too. He pressed his mouth to you, groaning as he finally got his first taste, lapping at your cunt like you were water and he was a man in the desert.

17 whined softly but didn’t pull away. Instead, after a beat, he leaned back in, his tongue darting out to flick over your clit, while 18 groaned against your entrance, working his tongue deeper.

The two of them licked and sucked in tandem, their breath hot, their mouths wet and eager, both of them determined to pull you apart.

17 clung to your thighs, eyes fluttering shut as he focused on the sensitive bundle of nerves, whimpering softly with every little twitch of pleasure you gave while 18 was rougher, more demanding, moaning against your cunt as he pushed his tongue deeper, like he wanted to devour you whole.

Pleasure coursed through you, your body arching between them as their mouths worked in perfect, desperation. It was overwhelming, the contrast of them both.

Your fingers tangled in 17’s hair, gripping tight, and he whimpered into you, the sound vibrating through your core. He was so good for you, so eager to please, to be wanted. 18 groaned at the noise, gripping your hips and pulling you even closer to his mouth, dragging his tongue through your wetness with a satisfied hum, like he was trying to drown himself in you.

It was almost too much. Their mouths, their hands, the sounds they were making—moaning, whining, competing for your pleasure.

Your thighs shook as heat coiled in your stomach. Your back arching as you gasped, choking on a moan, and that was all the encouragement they needed.

17 sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking faster, more determined, and 18 groaned into you, his hands spreading your thighs wider, his mouth moving rougher, needier—both of them working together, completely in sync now.

It hit you like a freight train. Your vision blurred, your breath hitched, and then you broke—pleasure crashing through you in waves, your body shaking as they held you down, licking you through it, moaning against you like they were the ones falling apart.

You barely registered the way 18 groaned in satisfaction, the way 17 let out a little whimper, nuzzling against your thigh, licking up every last drop like he couldn’t stand to waste a single thing.

It was only when the tremors in your body subsided that 18 finally pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking so very smug.

“See?” he murmured, voice thick with pride as he glanced at 17. “That’s how you do it.”

17 just blinked up at him, wide-eyed and still flushed, his lips parted slightly like he was about to argue but then, slowly, a small, almost dazed smile curled at his lips.

“I think we should do it again,” he said softly, voice still breathless.

18 snorted, shaking his head before turning back to you, dragging his fingers over your thigh. “Yeah? What do you think, sweetheart? Think you can handle another round?”

Your body was still trembling, your breath still ragged but with two Mickeys looking at you like that, both of them ready to do whatever you wanted?

How could you possibly say no?

[earthtomia]

fic recs!

(all fics are x reader; specific characters below the cut)

╰┈➤ all time favourites! <3

╰┈➤ smut recs! 18+ ONLY

please respect the writers and do not interact with any content marked 18+ if you are a minor, thank you!

challengers (2024):

➸ art donaldson

➸ patrick zweig

criminal minds:

➸ aaron hotchner

➸ spencer reid

house md:

➸ gregory house

➸ james wilson

➸ robert chase

marauders:

➸ james potter

➸ remus lupin

➸ sirius black

marvel:

➸ bucky barnes

➸ matt murdock

➸ mcu!peter parker

➸ tasm!peter parker

star wars:

➸ din djarin

➸ han solo

stranger things:

➸ eddie munson

➸ jonathan byers

➸ robin buckley

➸ steve harrington

supernatural:

➸ dean winchester

➸ sam winchester

miscellaneous characters:

➸ carmen berzatto (the bear)

➸ fox mulder (the x files)

➸ indiana jones

➸ joel miller (the last of us)

➸ lip gallagher (shameless)

➸ rafe cameron (outer banks)

➸ rodrick heffley (diary of a wimpy kid)

➸ thomas shelby (peaky blinders)

[bachshot]

I can't stop thinking about Mickey being an absolute munch, there's nowhere he feels more at home than in-between your legs. It doesn't matter where or when, if he can get down there's he's doing it! Before sex as foreplay, after sex when he's too tired to properly go for a second found, a treat in the morning after he knows you had a grueling shift the night before.... The list goes on.

But his favourite time to eat you out, or rather your favourite time to see him eat you out, is usually after he's been reprinted. He's always quiet then, trying to shake off that freshly printed funk and processing his death, it makes him long to be close to you. He always seeks you out after, coaxing you back to one of your bunks if you aren't there already, and it starts off innocently enough with him laying with you, needing to feel you close to him.

He loves your thighs, resting his head on them with his arms wrapped around your waist as you play with his hair. It doesn't take long until he's spicing things up though, giving kisses to your thighs and pulling at your waistband, looking up at you with those puppy dog eyes in a silent 'please' you just can't say no to.

Fresh off the printer he's always desperate, like his sensations are dialled up to ten, and it shows in the way he eats you out like a man starved. He suckles at your clit, hands grasping your hips to keep you close like he's scared you'll run away, and constantly looking up at you for validation. It was difficult not to give him the praise he craved when he had you like this from just his tongue alone. More often than not, he can cum just from eating you out, he tries to hold himself back on regular occasions but he can't stop himself when he's newly printed like this grinding into the mattress as he eats you out, sure he'll cum before you do but they doesn't stop him. He whimpers and groans into your pussy, never one for being quiet, and its impossible not to soak those sounds up.

And, in the end, when you cum he always lifts his head and looks at you with that same glazed over look, his chin wet with your arousal as he breathes out a 'thank you'.

[veryberryjelly]

LAST DAY

to send in requests for my 1.5k dinner party! i’m you by to continue writing the requests i haven’t already posted but today is the last day to send something in!

send asks to my inbox !

[moonlight-ee]

That’s America’s ass!

[boypied]

bet u wanna

mickey barnes x male reader

summary: mickey has just been cloned for the seventeenth time, and he ultimately can't hide his dark, lustfilled eyes whenever he sees you, mickey 17 wants nothing more than to please you.

requested by: anonymous

wc: 1.5k +

notes: MDNI, FDNI, oral sex (r!receiving), ass play, fingering, praising, pathetic!mickey, whimpering reader, thigh kink, cum swallowing (r!swallowing).

You slowly fall back against your bed, bouncing upwards ever so slightly hitting back against it once more as you press your hands over your eyes, submerging you into darkness. The knot in your stomach tightens as your cock soaks your underwear in your sweet tasting pre-cum, aching for a touch, a release that has been forced upon you from a pleasureful experience. You lay there fantasising about your co-working Mickey Barnes, the well-known disposable employee at your workplace. Throughout the workplace, Mickey comes across as quite submissive and pathetic, but you enjoy that about him. You find it so fucking sexy, almost orgasmic. You can imagine him right now, his perfectly chiselled face buried between your legs as he laps up your perfectly tight hole. You slowly slide your hand down your body and into your underwear, getting yourself ready to touch yourself until you're interrupted by a knock at your door. You let out a low grunt under your breath as you slip your hand out of your underwear. You adjust yourself ever so slightly, and you head towards your apartment door, pulling it open and being shocked at who is waiting behind it, "M-Mickey, what are you doing here?" You mumble out in pure shock as you swallow down a large amount of spit that you almost choked on the moment you opened up the door. Mickey smiles nervously as he scratches the back of his neck, "Can I come inside?" He says in his usual nervous tone. You nod your head and step to the side, allowing him to come inside your small apartment that was gifted to you when you took on the job.

You are completely shocked out of your mind that Mickey was here after the pure, smut filled fantasy that you were just about to blow a load over. "What made you stop by?" You ask him in a soft tone, stepping closer and closer to him, shutting the gap that was between the two of you. Mickey's face reddens with a deep blush as you slowly trace your fingers along his shoulder and then up his neck and down his jawline, you watch his eyes soften and he lets out a quiet whimper from your touch. You smirk as you notice how easy he folds for you, "Such a good boy.." You lean closer and mumble in his ear, which causes his eyes to soften even more, and a very obvious bulge begins to appear in his trousers. "Seems like someone is happy to see me." You say in a sultry tone with a cheeky smirk on your face as your hands travel down his body, feeling him until your finally reach what you've been waiting for; his huge fucking bulge. You gently grip at his bulge, causing him to let out a quiet whimper. You lean closer to him again and whisper in his ear, "Mickey... wanna come back to my roo-" but before you can even finish your sentence, Mickey eagerly nods his head with a huge eager smile on his face as he stares at you with his longing eyes wanting nothing more than to give you the best orgasm you've ever head. You take his hand and lead him into your bedroom, and suddenly, you feel Mickey grip at you from behind, and you hear his breath suddenly hitch when he whispers in your ear "I-I want to focus on you... all on you." He mumbles out in a soft tone, and your eyes flutter back as you reach your hand round to gently caress him.

Mickey's hands grip at your oversized t-shirt, and in one swift motion, he pulls it over your head, and he leans down ever so slightly covering the back of your neck and along your shoulder in soft and gentle kisses as you feel his raging boner pressed against your plump ass. Mickey's hands wrap around your waist from behind, and he grips at the hem of your joggers slowly pulling them down. He moves with it, dropping down onto his knees. Mickey slowly flutters his eyes open, and he's face to face with your bare asscheeks. His breath shudders as he reaches up, gripping at your hips as he pushes his face forward, your plump cheeks opening up to allow Mickey's mouth to reach in, his mouth coming into contact with your exposed asshole. Your body jolts, and your eyes widen at the sudden warmth and wet feeling of Mickey's tongue against your hole, "M-Mickey!" You gasp out in pure pleasureful bliss just from the sudden feeling of his tongue slowly lapping up your hole, coating it in his spit giving him the leverage to slip his tongue past your tight muscle ring and into the warmth of your ivory walls as they clamp around his tongue, you laugh out a breathy moan as you feel Mickey smirk around your asscheeks as he flicks his tongue back and forth getting closer and closer to your g-spot. You bite down onto your lower lip to keep you quiet.

Mickey pulls away from your asshole, his tongue slipping out and away from your tight muscle ring, and he looks up at your slightly arched back as you wobble back and forth. He places a gentle kiss on your asscheek before standing back up, "lay down." He mumbles into your ear as you walk over to your bed where you lay down onto your back and you open up your legs to see Mickey pulling his shirt off as he climbs onto the bed, his face inbetween your thighs. Mickey side smiles at you which causes your stomach to flip upside down and become riddled with butterflies, "fuck, he's never looked hotter." You think to yourself as he places a kiss on either side of your thigh until you grip at his hair pulling him down towards your cock where he takes your cock fully inside his mouth causing you to gasp out in pure bliss, "f-fuck!" You mumble out as you slowly fall back entirely and your eyes flutter back. "M-Mhm," you whimper out as Mickey works his head up and down, making sure that his lips are suctioned around your raging hard-on, that is all because of him. Mickey continues to work away at your cock, taking every inch of your cock into his mouth without taking his eyes off of your face that is so obviously full of ecstasy. Mickey's fingers travel up the bed and into his already full mouth as he coats his two fingers in his spit. Once they're covered in his own spit, he brings them down to your already tongue-worked asshole. He gently pushes his fingers against your hole, and without a doubt, your body allowed his fingers into you, "M-MICKEY!" You sharply moan out as you feel his tongue swirl around the tip of your dick as well as his fingers curling up inside your asshole, perfectly hitting your sweet spot that you've been dreaming of having Mickey touch.

You let out a sharp whimper as his fingers directly curl against your sweet spot, and once he hit that once, he continued to hit it over and over again. Mickey milks your sweet spot, which creates a ripple effect as your cock leaks like a facet in his mouth and Mickey is loving every moment of this. You slowly begin to run through his hair, gripping in against it, gently tugging on it, which causes Mickey to throw his head back and show off his extremely sexy smirk. "I love it when you whimper." Mickey mumbles out in a breathy moan as he continues to finger fuck you except with his other free hand that was gripped against your thighs, Mickey now wraps it around your slick wet cock and he slowly begins to pump your cock. "Cum for me baby, p-please cum for me... I've never wanted anything more then to watch you explode a fat load all for me." He says in a clear sultry tone which completely sends you over the edge, "M-Mickey! F-FUCK!" You gasp out in pure orgasmic bliss as with one more swift motion of Mickey's wrist and curl of his fingers, you get sent completely over the edge. The tip of your cock pulsates and your entire cock twitches until you spill your load, completely shooting rockets of cum all over the place. Mickey sticks his tongue out as he pumps the load out of you, "Good boy!" He whispers to you as some of your cum hits his face and lands all over his tongue. Your eyes flutter back as you try to stay focused on him, but the pure blissful delight of the orgasm that Mickey has just given you has caused you to see stars. Mickey climbs up closer to you as you take deep breaths to try and cool down from what just happened. You turn over and look directly at him, and you can't help but smile. You don't even have to say a word to Mickey for him to just pull you against his body. "You're perfect." You mumble out underneath your breath, thinking about all the things you can do together in the near future, but until then, you lay there in his warm embrace listening to the sound of Mickey breathing and hearing his heart beat... for you.

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[senka-mesecine]

What would happen if reader tried escape from hills!Barnes and she thought she had made it out, unknowing that Barnes had been following her the entire time?

That Dog Don't Hunt.

Robert Barnes x Reader.

----

wonderful gif by @woman-with-no-name

----

Meaning; Hound not taking part in a hunt. Apparently originating from the southern United States, the phrase may refer to a hunting dog that refuses to do its job. Something won't fulfil its intended purpose, or a plan or scheme will fail. 

⚫

You take one final look at the mountainous forest perimeters left behind you and you think to yourself 'Thank god. Never again.'

With every step taken closer to civilization, at least faint, ramshackle signs of it in the form of an occasional roadside diner, an old, semi-defunct gas station, a semi-abandoned lonely trailer park or a neglected settlement partially swallowed up by nature you felt one step away further from Barnes, at least in a subjective sense, some lizard part of your brain convinced against all logic, that by the time you'll make it to the nearest city, perhaps Knoxville, Gatlinburg or even going as far as Nashville, the embrace of all those buildings, the bustle of people, the cars, the shops, the traffic, you would've been safe from him, like someone having gone to a place he couldn't follow, repelled and left outside not unlike a vampire that needed an invitation to come inside from the cold and the wilderness; an invitation you wouldn't extend. According to an old Summer proverb, a dog understood 'Take it', but it didn't understand 'Put it down.' Barnes was much like that in a sense; he refused to comprehend letting anyone or anything go, the concept of break ups practically nonexistent in his vocabulary. A man could be only a couple of things in that regard in his opinion that consisted only of polar extremes; widowed, legally hitched or both dead and neither you or him were any of those three respectively.

That's why you needed to run.

Go as far as your legs would take you.

For the time being, that began and ended with hitchhiking.

But, so long as you were on the move, you had some vestige of consolation.

That so long as you moved, you'd be fine.

It would be fine because it beat him or you being buried rather than parted.

The highway snakes through the Appalachians like a circuit and the man who picked you up from putting up your thumb on the side of the road was a mercifully elderly one; a typical senior, fishing rods, buckets and nets in the back of his truck --- someone back from a pensioner's fishing trip judging by a quick deduction --- living with Robert made you careful by proxy --- all of his vigilance, long silences, instincts for danger and scrutinizing stares rubbing off on you like a second nature. Made you hellbent on details. You came to profile people and sizing them up without even intending to, neatly classifying them inside of your head into distinct categories. Safe and not safe. Friend or foe. Enemy or ally. You'd chuckle bitterly if you could, seated beside the greying man with a cap on his head combined with faded jeans overalls that seemed like they were exposed to too many days in the sun and rubber boots that were very well loved by the looks of them. Nobody was as unsafe as Barnes, so the point was moot in trying to analyze this situation to the extent you were unwittingly doing so. -"Fancy findin' anyone out here all on their lonesome. I thought you was a ghost when I first saw'ya by the interstate."- The grandpa remarks with some humor, not unkindly, curious eyes travelling between you on the passenger seat and the road, his coincidental usage of the word 'lonesome' immediately causing a shiver to run down your spine. -"You out here all by yourself?"- He asks, voice peppered with worry in the most paternal sense possible; sure, you realized you must've seemed demented walking beside the edges of the forest, stopping vehicles whose drivers could just as easily rape you and dump you in the nearest ditch instead of giving you a ride anywhere, but you supposed desperation caused people to do crazy things; you were like a wild animal in that sense. Felt like it too. Caught in a trap and willing to gnaw your foot off to limp free and bleed out somewhere where you could be left alone so long as it meant you'd have a moment of liberty. You give the old man a tentative look. You don't know why you decide against coming up with a creative lie, but the truth slithers forth before you can stop it.

-"I've left my husband. Ran away."-

You admit.

You find the old man's wrinkle framed eyes immediately widening.

Mouth agape.

What were you gonna say where untruths were concerned anyway?

That you were a lost hiker mysteriously separated of all their equipment and their group against all odds and now taking a ride in the opposite direction for no discernable reason? That you've been abducted by aliens and dropped off in the middle of the mountains? That you had a curious case of total amnesia? Honesty. Honesty was the best policy in the long run. People could feel honesty. They could sympathize with it on a primal level the way they never could with blatant, made up bullshit. You focus on the rearview mirror in front of you and the pine air freshener along with a picture of a woman in a plastic pouch hanging off a colored string, dangling as the old Ford moved --- old timer was a family man. Maybe a widower killing time by fishing. You weren't going faster than seventy miles an hour but that was good enough.

-"I haven't got a cent on me and I need to get as least as far as Gatlinburg. Please."-

You explain, not too proud to plead a little, semi expecting the obvious.

That he tell you to alert the police.

If the police headed back up those hills, thing is, they wouldn't be coming back.

-"He a bad man?"-

You're asked, with some semblance of familial worry on the driver's part, wrinkled, pale fingers having a vice grip on the steering wheel. Yeah, Barnes was a bad man. You felt you didn't even need to answer that one; the fisherman could just about read the truth off your heavy silence, no doubt. There were some good people in this world. Good people who'd understand even without you saying a single thing. -"Been puttin' hands on'ya?"- He eggs on and no, no, you mutely shake your head at that one, staring at your own lap. Problem was, Barnes was always ready to put this hands on everyone else. One time at a nearby bar at the foot of the mountain that also doubled as a hunter's lodge on occasion he held a knife to a man's neck just because he decided to vaguely chat you up and then look at you for longer than Bob liked; in the aftermath, the whole place was trashed and Barnes had the poor sob by the collar of the shirt, sobbing on the floor, pissing leaking through his trousers and you never stopped feeling guilty since, the whole situation leaving you with the ingrained fear that one of these days someone would get killed over a mere nicety of yours and that you'd have to live with that notion for the rest of your days. You weren't one of those girls. Who felt thrilled and titillated by the prospect of their man hurting others for them. If anything, once the knot that's been settled in your stomach for months after the incident started unwinding, you unwinded right along with it and hit the road, believing that with you gone, perhaps Barnes's incentive to bring harm would internalize itself too, his jealousy ceasing to have a reason to exist. -"No. It's more complicated than that."- You manage sincerely, trying for vagueness, feeling your own voice weak and faint, watching the road ahead disappear into dusk of the Great Smokies, the forest behind you seeming dark and distant, like a dream you couldn't place, relief washing over you slowly, like a caressing wave, the tension in your shoulders dissolving, so much so you hardly minded your lack of luggage or things, save for the ID and some small cash you could get your hands on tucked into your bra. You hoped Robert would've found the meal you left in the kitchen for him by now as a last farewell.

This was for his own good too, even if he didn't know it yet.

---

You had a total of twelve dollars to your name.

Now twenty, with the addition of what you were given.

The last money an old man's kindness could give you before he drove away.

Pushed it into the palm of your hand before you could protest, not that you could find it in you to, alone at night in Gatlinburg with just enough for one night at a room on a basic motel. You didn't get far, but it was still far enough. Better than nothing; the comfort almost instant --- the twinkling lights, the pedestrians and the honking of the moving vehicles like a bubble of humanity far away from the fray -"A room for one, please?"- You manage, out of breath at the counter of the first motel you spotted straight off the parking lot; whichever seemed on the cheaper side, aptly called The Roadside. Truth of the matter was, you were no soldier and you were no Barnes. You tended to get tired. Tended to need your rest like any person. You slide the money across the counter with all the hope in the world. The woman with the sharply penciled on eyebrows and the beehive eyes you speculatively. -"We've only doubles."- She retorts, seemingly bored, like she's spent the better part of her shift explaining this very same bit of information to dozens of people before you. Funny how that worked; if Barnes was here with you now, you'd get a room booked. Fact that he wasn't only complicated everything. The minute you detached yourself from him it's like the whole world conspired to keep you at bay and make things difficult for you. -"Can you please find something? Please? I really need this."- You halfway whimper, met with nothing but the cold scrutiny of the counter attendant; a radio playing behind her on a shelf. Sonny and Cher's I Got You, Babe. How ironic considering she didn't in fact, have you. Or your back. Then again, she was only doing her job. -"No singles."- She insists. Man, you really needed to get off the streets and under a roof somewhere. You still weren't out of danger. There wasn't a single information's board displayed anywhere detailing the prices and by the general look of the woman's disposition, you concluded she didn't want to book you on the basis she must've concluded you were a vagrant. You were, in a sense. -"What if I came back later? Would there be free spaces then, do you think?"- You try for pleasantries and she shrugs her shoulders as you grabbed your money from the counter. The nametag pinned to her dress revealing the name to be Debra. Jesus, Debra, help a person out. -"Yeah, maybe in an hour or two or ---"- She cordially blows you off and your legs are on the move. Yeah, you couldn't afford to waste time in a place called The Roadside; if anything, Barnes would look some place just like this first. In any case, you tried. Nobody could say you didn't try. -"Okay, thanks! Thanks a lot!"-

You respond, breathless, rushing out the door before Debra could even retort.

Not swift enough to where you could be suspicious.

But, still fast enough as not to waste time and lollygag, as Barnes would put it.

C'mon, now, Gatlinburg had to have someone to bunk for the night.

Somewhere beneath the bracket of twenty bucks.

Leaving you just enough change to eat literally anything.

Catch a bus or a train afterwards; in any direction but back from whence you came.

The crowded streets are dark, splattered with the light of the orange electrical poles melting into the moist pavement and the footsteps of people huddled around corner stores, the odd bar, drugstore, motor lodge, family diner packed with patrons --- you welcomed the crowd, feeling you could get lost in it. Out in nature there was only ever you and Barnes. Hiding being an impossible task. Always in his crosshairs. Like the prey of a hunter who knew his trade all too well. Even now, you could feel his phantom gaze on you, occasionally throwing careful glances behind you as you walked, checking if he was behind you, undoubtedly seeming unhinged or slightly unstable to whatever outside might've been looking in. A crazy woman rushing down the street, eyes darting around, looking for any place that had a plaque that said rooms on display, bypassing a motel decked out in Confederate memorabilia called The Rebel Corner. Nope. No way in hell. You couldn't do that one. It felt too prophetic; you could almost imagine him finding you there of all places and being so infinitely smug about it you would never live it down, hating yourself for being a choosy beggar like this as you sped up your pace, hope being alive and well once you stumble upon a small establishment, tucked in between two unassuming buildings, a blinking neon sign displaying the Dogwood Motel; working hours from 0-24h. Fair enough. Seemed both seedy enough and yet open and touristy enough to prevent it from being unsafe --- the garish yellow gingham wallpaper of the lobby hitting you like a sobering slap across the face. Yeah. You could stay here. Something about it seemed aggressively cheerful and friendly, right alongside the man attending the counter in a matching yellow wool turtleneck, a well manicured mustache and bushy sideburns. His trousers and the belt buckle it was fastened with tall on his waistline, shirt tucked in around it. You either spent too long in the woods or the world has gone more strangely surreal when you weren't looking. -"Good evening. Are there any vacancies?"- Feeling like an overly eager puppy, you practically prop yourself up your toes asking the question. -"Sure. There's an empty one on the third floor. Let me write'ya up."- He drawls, all fidgety and fingers, looking through his books, something regretful about his gaunt expression; he looked like an infinitely skinnier version of Burt Reynolds from Smokey and the Bandit, minus the hat, of course. -"Problem, though. The particular room has no windows, bit of an architectural fluke, so ---"- He starts and you instantly perk up, like a meerkat.

No windows!?

No place someone could crawl in? Break in!? Ambush you? Watch you!?

-"I'll take it!"-

You interject before the poor man could even finish your sentence.

Heart thumping fast in your chest.

He gives you an almost pitiable, concerned look, like he couldn't believe he actually successfully booked that one to someone.

You, for one, couldn't be happier. Oh, god bless the Dogwood Motel.

You borderline started fantasizing about something straight out of a movie scene; you mysteriously sliding the man a controversially large sum of money to hide the fact anyone by the surname of Barnes was staying here in the off chance anyone inquired, the fantasy remaining nothing but a fantasy. You barely had for food. You were nonetheless momentarily overtaken by the drug called hope, filling you with newfound euphoria.

-"That comes with a discount then. Five bucks a night. ID, please?"-

He explains, vehemently scratching the side of his face.

You slide him the plastic bit of identification of along with the cash for the evening.

Nearly bouncing up and down on your heel anticipating the key he gives you.

It's neon yellow, matching the rest of the interior decoration.

-"Alright, Mrs. Barnes. Room 307. Enjoy your stay."-

All pleasantries aside once he took one look at your ID, and the fact that being called Mrs. Barnes had the hairs standing up on the back of your neck, you don't remember when was the last time you grabbed something so fast in your life, squeezing the key and it's chain in the palm of your hand like someone would steal it from you, practically making a b-line for the nearby staircase, sauntering in wide steps up the third floor until you could practically feel your chest could explode with the pressure, sweat pooling your forehead; when you reach the room intended to be yours, pushing the key into it's allotted keyhole, you're entirely out of breath, huddling into the entirely womb-like, dark room with fingers searching hastily for the light switch and flicking it on to produce a dim, orange light stemming from the overhead chandelier, revealing a bed covered with rust colored Ogee patterned bedsheets and very loud, basketweave brown wallpapers lining the walls, enough to induce some measure of claustrophobia in just about anyone, semi expecting this to be an ambush for Bob to be waiting for you in some corner, deciding to jump out of the bathroom while your back is turned. The air is somewhat stale; the inability to air out and ventilate properly clearly taking its toll overtime. No matter. You wouldn't stay here forever. This was good. This was only temporary and meant to be a cheap shelter to help you recover from the ordeal it took you to get here in the first place. Next stop would be Knoxville via Pigeon Forge and Sevierville and from there, hopefully Nashville and the first plane out of the country, although how you'd get the money for the ticket eluded you. You'd think about that, you figured, when the time comes, in stride, deciding to focus more on moving than the future details. You turn the second interior room lock of your front door and you collapse on the squeaky, colorful bed that smelled like lavender detergent and accumulated dust, partially fearing that the moment you close your eyes, he'll be there, collecting you in his arms like a vice grip, meaty, thick, calloused fingers coiling around your neck.

You dreamlessly sleep without even removing your clothes like a train's just hit you.

'Works on paper', you remember him musing before you heavy eyelids flutter shut.

'You runnin' away. But that dog don't hunt.'

He'd gloat, warning.

Promising.

---

He was a man of immense self control.

So, when he decided to hurt someone, it was never an accident or a mere slip up.

It was a cold, deliberate, well-measured choice.

That's why you couldn't justify him. Robert E. Lee Barnes always knew precisely what he was doing; never his temperament winning out of him or something clouding his judgement, making him behave irrationally. His cruelty was finely oiled and tuned, almost like clockwork, with the punctuality of a Swiss watch; he's been threading the certain route of killing for you and because of you before and you knew it was for you and because of you in equal measure because he told you so. Quietly lorded it over you like a trophy. Held your chin over it, both literally and figuratively, making you witness it. Was only a matter of time, you knew, before he does it again and you'd wake up to something harrowing, like someone's skull on the mantlepiece serving as a reminder and a decoration, him leaning his whole arm over it while he smugly smoked after lunch with his legs up on a stool. You couldn't live like that. That was madness. Worse yet, it was purposefully evil. You loved him and you were assured he loved you too, in some sick, obsessive, dark, rotten, Barnes-ian way of his, but in equal measure getting away from him was the only sane choice that existed on God's green Earth, every other leading further back off the precipice of calculated, machine-like insanity that would sooner eat you alive than let you off the hook.

You ponder the whole idea out on a supply run, crack of dawn.

While the city still more or less slept.

First in line at the grocery counter, first to get out, first to be off the street, needing to start vacating the rented one-night room and return your key by nine in the morning, buying a reusable cheap rucksack, pastries in brown paper bags, some bottled water, more so for the bottle you can fill later rather than the actual fluid inside; another lesson you learned from Robert directly --- sometimes the canteen itself was more valuable than what was inside, because a canteen was always valuable all on its own --- figured there was something bittersweet there. Using the skills he pass on to you to escape him. Bypassing a Smoky Sky Lift billboard, you think about the prospect of catching a train out of here, hopefully the first one, refusing to stall or procrastinate; maybe hit the next town over. Get a job. Any job so long as it was honest and legal. Lay low for a while. Accumulate more money. Move on. Keep moving. Always moving. Disappear in some town, some city, maybe even some other State somewhere. Divorce wasn't what you were after. Just separation. Bringing Barnes to a divorce court feeling inherently absurdist. You could vividly imagine him being served the papers by whatever poor, long suffering postman would be forced to climb up the hill where your and his house stood and Barnes silently showing up to the court date with a sowed off shotgun.

You shiver at the thought.

What if he just got bored, you think in stride, looking both ways crossing the street?

What if his pride got so irrevocably injured by this, he wouldn't follow?

Was that possible?

Would he be capable accepting loss? Losing?

Would he retaliate for retaliation's sake? Would you ever be able to rest easy?

Set down your head on some pillow, god knows how far from here, and be assured that he wouldn't be looming at your front door one night? Would he ever throw in the towel and say, shit, I give up?

No.

Not Robert.

You knew him.

He'd follow you to the ends of the earth.

He never gives up, even at the cost of his own life, it simply wasn't in his nature, you solemnly conclude, settling back into the hallowed safety of your windowless room, plastic grocery bags in tow, re-packed into your backpack in the off chance you needed to get a move on quickly with no time to waste, taking a moment to look at a photo of him you brought with you as a keepsake; a rare sentimentality for sentimentality's sake, a reminder to yourself you could still care for someone, carry them with you and want to get away, locking the door behind you, using the leftover hour or two you had left in here to take a warm shower and wash the stink and sweat off of you.

God only knew when would be the next time you'd have the opportunity.

---

You board the ten thirty train northwest, heading towards Nashville.

With a transfer and a quick stop in Knoxville.

Funny. Part of you expected him to have caught you by now. Expect him to catch you day one, while you were still hitchhiking along the ADHS. The fact you were still out here and free to move about as you pleased, well, filled you with some semblance of unspoken terror and unease, like a calm before the storm or the deep breath taken before a dive. Where was he? Was it oxymoronic to ask that of yourself? This wasn't like him. Wasn't like Barnes to be seen when he hunts either, your subconsciousness tells you. The point you couldn't observe him tracking you was the whole point. A trick, to think you've gotten away. Outsmarted him. Ensure you let you guard down and then when you felt most assured in your safety he ---

The train tracks disappear beneath the rushing train in a blur.

You spent the last of your money on a one-way ticket, with literally fifty cents leftover, sharing a coupe with a mother, her newborn and two men; who they were to each other hard to asses but you welcomed the crowd. You were safer in a crowd. You might just slip away if you continuously surrounded yourself with people even if your situation started resembling a comedy sketch; you were travelling with a group off to protest the unveiling of a Civil War canon or other up in Nashville and judging by their colorful attire, lack of discernable luggage and the long hair, you could only assume they were drop-outs, beatniks and possibly homeless, like yourself. Degenerate scum, as Barnes would call them. You sigh sadly at the moniker. One irony compounds another. He would blow a fuse if he knew who you were bunking with. That or you were focusing way too much on the thoughts and the possible margins of approval to disapproval of a man you were hellbent leaving behind.

He was still your husband, not just some random man, you remind yourself.

He was a killer, another voice reminds icily.

But then again, you always knew that. He never hid it from you.

You knew that about him before you even married.

-"It's a history of oppression, of bloodshed, of violence, and they unveilin' that shit for the whole world to see!"- One of your fellow coupe passengers rants to the other while you gave yourself the brief leeway of closing your eyes, hugging your rucksack around your body, leaning the side of your head against the vibrating glass of the train window, the thinning forest bypassing the cornered edges of your eyesight in a blur. In everything went well, you'd be in Nashville in some three hours give or take. You internally curse yourself for not having a wristwatch on you --- then again, how could you, when he kept everything under lock and key? When he was always watching, like a hawk? You flutter your eyes open briefly, catching sight of the man's faded, ripped jeans vest riddled with badges and pins, turning your head away once you spot one saying Ban the Bomb and another that said Give Piece a Chance. Why did you feel haunted? By everything? -"Now, tell me how we can move on as a society with crap like that goin' on in our own backyard, man!"- The other one, with a long ponytail retorts, impassioned and you feel the sweat pool along the surface of your scalp, anxiety bubbling up in your gut once the baby in the woman's arms seated next to the pair hiccups itself awake, no doubt alerted by all the noise, whimpering in its swaddling cloth; its mother immediately grabbing the hem of her long, flowing blouse embroidered with the odd floral pattern peppered with tassels and frills, giving the child the nipple to suckle on. -"You'll wake the baby, asshole."- She whispers, slapping one of the men across the shoulder in a manner that could be considered playful, softly but with enough force to be considered a reprimand, cooing her crying kid. Her head leaning down in consolation, smooth, long hair falling around her face like a curtain; it must've been below her back, spilling all around her train seat like a veil. -"Shh, shh, Robbie, it's alright."- She mutters and it's like every instinct in your body fires and flares up, on alert. Robbie? As in Robert? Her baby was named Robert? Why wouldn't he be? It was a common name. You don't even remember when you excuse yourself, hastily exiting the coupe to get as much fresh air in the hallway, leaning against the nearest cabin wall to calm yourself down, feeling your own chest heave with tension. Would life always be like this, you wonder, hyperventilating, using your backpack as a comfort, embracing it like a shield around your body, protecting what exceedingly few belongings in the world you had left --- you running away and Robert always chasing you and catching up with you, in some shape, way or form, even if through reminders if nothing else?

The train screeches and you conclude you had to have been paranoid.

These were growing pains, nothing else; you anticipated this when you ran.

There was nothing more natural than being afraid when you were out surviving.

The whole hallway trashes and you feel every movement in your bones.

Causing you to hug your bag even tighter, like a life raft.

The baby's crying intensifies.

A pair of people smoking in the corridor stumble, one nearly falling over.

What the ---

A moment of silence later, the train sluggishly jumps, only to slow down.

Coming a complete halt.

You stop breathing, tears goddamn nearly welling in your eyes once the uniformed, heavy set, red faced Conductor slams the corridor door open, sauntering inside, pushing past the bewildered smoking couple sporting a matching pair of tan sunglasses. -"Get out of the hallway! Out of the hallway! Evacuate the train!"- He orders, pointing outside and you mutely shake your head once he spots you standing alone, grazing you with his finger from afar to signify that included you too, the threesome and their newborn peeking their heads out of the coupe through the sliding door, alerted by the commotion, looking at each other in confusion and then at you; the collective so distraught you figured nobody even noticed your cheeks were wet by now. The wispy, long-haired mousey woman with the baby looks at you square on, appearing like the spitting image of Olivia Hussey under this light; just as wide eyed, fae-like and lost. -"What's goin' on?"- She asks you and then repeats the same question to nobody in particular, staring down her two companions who seemed equally perplexed. -"What's happenin'?"- One of them echoes the inquiry and you stopped. Everything stop. You weren't moving anymore and that was the worst thing that could happen right about now. You needed to keep going. If you started running into obstacles now, all of this would've turned out to be in vein. You're practically soundlessly crying by the time the Conductor arrives to wrangle the four of you forward. You feel yourself grabbed by the elbow and pushed to move; unwillingly, you do. Like someone sleepwalking and having no control over it. No, no, no. This was a temporary setback, is all. Temporary setback. Temporary setback. -"The tracks have been de-railed. We can't get a move on 'till it's fixed."- You hear the Conductor shout and if there was a way for fear to feel painful inside of a human body, it does with you there and then; you sense the dread shooting through you like an electrical current. The forests around the train thick and deep; like someone who moved in a circle you were right where you started. And he could be out there. Waiting. -"Hey, what about a refund for our tickets, man! Shit! We paid our way fair'n'square! Ain' right, man!"- You hear the beatnik argue his case and whatever the surly Conductor responds back fades into background noise, some deeper instinct inside of you rendering you blind and deaf as you walked with the certain knowledge that he did this.

He singlehandedly sabotaged the fucking train.

-"No, we can't go outside."-

You whimper, aggrieved once you feel the Conductor's heavy hand on your back.

Ushering you down the steps in your unwillingness to get out, holding up the line behind you, like an animal led to the slaughter. You weren't being deliberately difficult; you were just...so scared. So scared.

-"Ma'am."-

Are the last words you're cordially give once you're practically shoved down the metal train steps, landing on the grass on your own two feet, right beside the train tracks that stood askew, the footboard, wheel and breaks stuck between what seemed like several planks dislodged from their place on first amateur glance; was honestly a shock the impact of the crash wasn't more severe. That it didn't send you and everyone thumbling headfirst down the floor. You look around, finding the scattered passengers confused, your companions from the coupe already walking down the train tracks on foot, the two men in cowboy boots and flaring bell bottoms still arguing among themselves, no doubt on the subject of the injustices of the railway system this time around, the woman and the baby between them, her long skirt fluttering after her in the breeze. Was nice, some yearning voice inside of you whispers, reproaching. To have a family. You had one too. Until you left it. No. That was just your intrusive irrationality throwing a wedge into your plans --- you could still make it, even though you cursed the fact that the nearest highway had the closest shortcut led through the surrounding woods, but then again, for all of Robert's faults, he was only human too and this fear; it was only skin deep. You'd make it to the road and simply hitchhike, the way you did before. If you could do it once, you could do it twice. This was only over if you believed it to be. Now wasn't the time for despair. Now was the time for action. You turn on your heel, seeing the Interstate from here, through the tree line of pines, making a dash for it, leaving the collective of befuddled, aggrieved passengers behind, practically running, the trees rushing past you in a haze leading you down a steep slope, accelerating your movements, nearly causing you to stumble forward, branches getting caught into your clothes, your hair, scratching against the skin, leaving you under the impression the painful, sudden impact drew blood and you were certain by the time you sprinted out of here you'd look like someone who's just taken a beating. Nobody was chasing you, you think feverishly, gripping your backpacking, you were just spazzing out all on your own. How ridiculous you must've looked. The pines close in around you and you falter, catching your balance of your footing at the last moment, the blur of adrenaline taking over and you barely spotting the untouched campsite in the forest clearing in front of you.

An extended hand holding a match to a piled on stack of woods.

Holding the flame there until the planks lit up under a pillar of thin smoke.

You...no.

It was him.

Crouching on the ground, lighting disemboweled bits of the train tracks on fire.

A metal crowbar, a hammer and a shovel leaned on a nearby tree.

You recognize him by the bush of curly hair.

Robert lifts his head up slowly, blue eyes calm, meeting yours.

Something about his voice infinitely pleased, humming in contentment.

You stand paralyzed, feeling the blood rush into your brain.

-"Mhmm-hmm! You ever get to Nashville?"-

Laced with soft spoken sarcasm, he tilts his head to the side, taking the half smoked cigarette out of his mouth, balancing it between his index finger and thumb, right before chucking it into the newly formed, fledgling campfire, letting it crackle; you take a step back instinctively once he slowly stands up, dusting his knees off with all the casualness in the world while you were here, with your eyesight dotted back in distress, causing you to feel faint and lightheaded. Shortness of breath overtaking all survival instinct as the distant sounds of slamming, shouting and clanking echoed from further back up the hill; repairs on the train no doubt already commencing. You weren't ambushed. You practically ran into a trap. -"Bob, I ---"- You try, desperately glancing between the point of where you came and where you winded up, wondering if you should try your luck and run back or not, finding your own words cracking midway through your pathetic attempt at a sentence. The train tracks were burning and he stood in front of you, rifle slung over one shoulder, fingers gripping the leather belt strap. His words come into mind; That dog don't hunt. And it was just as he said; it didn't. If this ever winded up in the newspapers, which you knew it never would, it would be one of those things where truth was stranger than fiction --- you could already see the article title; Vietnam Veteran involved in brigandry, deliberately causing an accident and highway sabotage to circumvent his wife from dumping him. More on page six! In a second of inappropriate self-indulgence you envision the hippies headed for Nashville getting their hands on a periodical and recognizing you on the front page. The gulp in your throat is heavy, glutaral. You were so embarrassed you could die. You open your mouth to say something to him, perhaps something meaningful, groundbreaking, witty, something of a verbal checkmate, but before you can, you feel yourself grow limp, nostrils filled with the pungent stench of vapor and smoke, all endurance fading once he's entirely too close for comfort, causing you to go collapsing into the familiar prison of his arms where you've been countless times before, the forest closing in around you, like the jaw of a flesh eating plant around an insect.

The campfire crackles on, swallowing the wood, leaving no traces behind.

The whole world goes thumbling on its head and everything goes black.

[southernbelllle]

Please letter back home From Barnes 🙏🏼😭

(Yes, I don't think he writes letters, but maybe he'll make an exception) I love you!

January 12th, 1968

Robert Barnes x Reader

AN: If he liked u enough he'd do just about anything.

[nofingjustaninchident]

older men do it better

[bethsvrse]

EX BF MICKEY AGAIN BC WHY NOT??

porn with some plot, PiV, sub Mickey (obviously), oral (fem reviving), cow girl position, aftercare (from reader), AFAB, 2k words

Mickey shouldn’t be here.

He knew that the second he showed up at your door like some lost little thing, barely holding himself together. Knew it even as his fingers hovered over the door, hesitation gnawing at him like an animal caught in a trap. He should’ve turned around, should’ve gone back to his bunk, should’ve done anything but this.

But it was late, and he couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t stop thinking about you.

And when you opened the door—hair messy, tank top slipping off your shoulder, eyes heavy with sleep and squinting at him like you couldn’t believe he was actually standing there—he knew he wasn’t going to leave.

Your brows furrowed. “Mickey?”

He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry.

You sighed, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“I know.” His voice came out rough, like he’d spent hours lying awake, staring at the ceiling, turning over every reason why this was a mistake. But he’d still ended up here. “I couldn’t sleep.”

For a long moment, you just stared at him, lips pressing together like you were debating slamming the door in his face. And maybe you should’ve. But instead, you exhaled, stepping aside.

“Fine. Get in here before someone sees you.”

He practically stumbled inside, too eager, too obvious about how desperate he was just to be near you.

You shut the door behind him and padded over to the tiny kitchen in your quarters, barely looking at him. “Sit down.”

Mickey hesitated for only a second before dropping into the chair by your desk, his hands shoved between his knees like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

You filled a glass with water and set it in front of him, your gaze steady. “What’s keeping you up?”

Mickey stared at the glass but didn’t reach for it. “Just… a lot on my mind.”

You leaned against the counter, arms still crossed. “Like what?”

He hesitated, fingers twitching against his thighs. He couldn’t tell you the truth. Couldn’t tell you that he’d spent the last hour with his hand wrapped around his cock, trying—and failing—to get himself off to the thought of you. That no matter how many times he came, no matter how many filthy scenarios played out in his head, it was never enough. Because it wasn’t you.

He clenched his jaw, the silence stretching too long.

You noticed, but you didn’t press. Instead, you exhaled and walked over to your bed, sitting down with a quiet sigh. You patted the spot next to you. “Come sit.”

Once again, he scrambled to move, crossing the space between you with a little too much urgency. But he made sure to leave space between you, wary, unsure if you wanted him that close.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward, though. It was heavy, but not in a bad way. Comfortable. Familiar. Like how it used to be between you two, back on Earth.

And Mickey must’ve been thinking about that, too.

Because suddenly, he said, “Do you still drink black coffee?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Black coffee,” he repeated, shifting slightly to face you. “You used to drink it all the time. More than water. I tried it once, and it was awful, so you started adding sugar just to shut me up.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You were annoying about it.”

“It was awful,” he said, grinning now.

“Maybe you just have bad taste.”

He scoffed, but there was a warmth in his expression.

Mickey leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “And you hated waking up early, but somehow, you’d always be the first one up whenever we had somewhere to be.” He tilted his head. “And—oh—do you still fall asleep during movies?”

Your eyes narrowed. “I do not.”

Mickey barked out a laugh. “You do. You always did. We’d start it and then ten minutes later, you’d be out cold.

Your mouth opened, then closed. Because… okay, maybe that was true.

“At least I never made us start a movie, then twenty minutes in decided I didn’t want to watch it anymore,” you shot back.

Mickey groaned. “Okay, that’s fair.”

The tension in the room had lightened, the conversation settling into something easy, something nostalgic. But then his smile faded, his gaze dropping.

“I, uh… I miss that.”

Your fingers tightened slightly against your arms. You didn’t say anything, but he saw the way your expression shifted, the way you exhaled a little slower.

And before you could respond, he kept going, caught up in the memory.

“Do you remember when we went to your parents’ house that one time?” He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “And we—“

His words cut off.

Because suddenly, he remembered how that sentence ended.

We had sex, and breakfast the next morning was so fucking awkward.

Fuck.

Your face had gone carefully blank.

Mickey’s stomach dropped. “Shit—I shouldn’t have— I didn’t mean—” He groaned, running a hand over his face. “I wasn’t trying to make it weird, I just—”

You still didn’t say anything.

He scrambled to backtrack, to fix it. “I swear I wasn’t—fuck, I just—”

And then you kissed him.

Mickey froze, his brain short-circuiting.

And then he melted.

A pathetic little sound slipped from his throat as his lips moved against yours, his hands gripping the edge of the bed like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.

When you pulled back, his breath was shaky, his eyes wide, like he couldn’t believe this was real.

You tilted your head, voice softer now. “Do you still overthink everything?”

Mickey let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah.”

It was quiet for a moment. He was still breathing heavily, his hands flexing at his sides like he was holding himself back, like he was waiting for you to stop him.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached for him, fingers curling around the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. “Mickey.”

That was all it took.

He exhaled sharply, then kissed you again—hungrier this time, more desperate. His hands finally moved, sliding up your waist, gripping you like he was afraid you’d slip away, like you’d disappear again. His lips moved against yours with a kind of recklessness, because he’d been starving for this, for you, ever since he saw you again on the ship.

You let him press you back against the mattress, let him rut against your leg like a man starved. Which, to be fair, he was. He hadn’t been with anyone since you. He couldn’t. Every time he let Timo set him up on a date, every time he even tried to kiss someone else, it felt wrong. Like he was betraying you. Like you still had some unseen claim on him that he couldn’t shake.

He broke the kiss—although he would’ve loved to kiss you forever—and trailed his lips down your neck, his body trembling slightly, like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.

His hands pushed at your tank top, slipping beneath the fabric, fingers skimming over bare skin before he lifted it up and over your head. His breath hitched when your breasts were finally exposed to him. His memories had been fading, the image of you getting hazier the longer you’d been apart, but now he had something real. Something to burn into his brain.

His hand skimmed over your ribs, then moved up to cup one of your breasts, squeezing gently. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmured, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against the soft skin.

His mouth kept moving downward, slowly, trying to take his time to savour this moment, because in the back of his mind, he was still worried you’d wake up tomorrow and regret all of it. That you’d say it was a mistake. That this was a one-time thing.

So he needed to drag it out as long as possible.

His fingers curled around the waistband of your underwear, and when you didn’t stop him, he pulled them down your legs, tossing them somewhere across the room.

Then he was on his knees, gripping your thighs, spreading them apart. He looked up at you, eyes dark, burning with something raw. Something overwhelming.

“Let me,” he murmured. “Please.”

The way he said it—like he was asking for permission, like this was something he needed rather than just wanted—made your stomach twist in the best way.

You nodded, breath catching. “Go ahead.”

Mickey didn’t waste another second.

He kissed the inside of your thigh first, inhaling deeply. He wanted to take his time. He really did. But the second he pressed his lips to your cunt, all his self-control shattered. He groaned at the first taste of you, his grip on your thighs tightening like he was afraid you’d slip away.

And he didn’t stop.

It was desperate. He was clearly making up for lost time, trying to worship you with his mouth alone. His hands held you in place, keeping you still even as your body arched beneath him.

He moaned against your skin every time you gasped, every time your fingers tangled in his hair and tugged. His name fell from your lips in a breathless whisper, and he just kept going, chasing every sound.

He shifted his grip, pressing his thumb against your clit, rolling it in slow circles. He felt the way your thighs started to shake, the way your stomach tensed, the way your breath stuttered right before your orgasm crashed over you, and Mickey didn’t let up, not until you were tugging him up to kiss you, his chin and lips slick with your release.

He looked at you like you were something holy.

“Fuck,” he panted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, like he couldn’t even find the words. “That was awesome.”

You let out a breathy laugh and pulled him back down for another kiss, shivering slightly at the taste of yourself on his tongue.

Then you shifted, rolling him onto his back, straddling him. His hands immediately found your hips, squeezing tight, eyes dark as he looked up at you.

“You okay with this?” you asked, your voice softer now.

“Yeah. God, yeah, I’m so okay. I want you,” he rambled, nodding quickly.

You leaned down, lips brushing against his. “Then shut up and let me take care of you.”

His breath hitched. “Yes, ma’am.”

A loud moan ripped from his throat as you sank down onto his cock, your warm heat engulfing him, making his head spin.

He never wanted to leave. He wanted to stay here forever, looking up at you, watching your tits bounce in his face until the end of time.

He leaned up slightly from the pillows, his lips latching onto one of your nipples, moaning softly against your skin as you rocked against him, grinding rather than bouncing.

“Good boy,” you murmured, threading your fingers through his hair. He whimpered at the praise, his hips stuttering beneath you.

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” you asked, your tone teasing.

He nodded, his eyes glassy, pupils blown wide.

“Tell me, Mickey,” you pressed, your nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “Have you been with anyone else? Or did you just miss my cunt? Did I wreck every women for you?”

His breath caught. He pulled away from your breast just enough to meet your gaze. “I—” His voice was wrecked. “I never— I couldn’t. I tried, but—” He swallowed thickly. “No one else ever felt right.”

Your stomach clenched at that, something warm curling around your ribs.

“You gonna cum?” you asked, and he nodded desperately.

“Can I? Please?” he begged.

“Yeah, of course you can,” you murmured. “My good boy.”

You lifted off him just in time, wrapping a hand around his cock, stroking him through it. His release painted your stomach, his loud, wrecked moan filling the room.

You let him catch his breath before pressing a soft kiss to his lips, then sliding off the bed.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom, okay?” you whispered.

Mickey hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes already half-lidded.

You cleaned yourself up, went to the toilet, then grabbed a warm rag before heading back to the bed. You wiped him down gently, pressing soft kisses to his skin as you did.

“You did so good,” you whispered, Mickey already half-asleep.

You turned off the lights before crawling into bed beside him. He immediately wrapped himself around you, resting his head against your bare chest, arms encircling your waist.

“What does this mean for us?” he murmured sleepily, glancing up at you.

“It means Kenneth is gonna be really mad when he finds out we’ve been having sex every day,” you teased.

Mickey grinned, pressing his face against your skin. “Good.”

And then, with a content sigh, he drifted off to sleep with you following not long after.

[alixandra-multifandom-version]

i HAD to write about my babygirl!

Warnings : NSFW content mentioned

Mickey is an anxious little cutie so expect him to nearly have a heart attack when he first talks to you

He is a yearner!!!

He worships you Like you're the only holy thing to ever exist

He won't let you stay mad at him for more than a few hours

Sometimes in those hours you're mad if you need to address him you call him by the number he's (like 17 or the pervious numbers)

His biggest goal in his life is to make you laugh and feel loved as much as he can

When the multiple accident happened he was low-key jealous any time you paid 18 any attention

After all he still wants to be your favorite boy no matter how much you say him and 18 are kind of the same person

! NSFW !

17 kisses you with such a tenderness you can just melt right into his arms

He takes his time with you

While having sex every thrust of his is gentle and careful every time reminding you of his love for you

18 on the other hand? He kisses you feverishly

Unlike 17 his thrusts are more like a possessive claim reminding you over and over that you're his

18 is feral to say the least

[plaidcowboy]

MICKEY 17 BOT RELEASE · ˚ ༘ *⋆ 030725 © darkoies

notes ✶⋆.˚ watched this movie last night and wow. i walked out of that theater FLOORED. it’s such a good movie and i already made a post ranting about it but ???? it’s SO GOOD. robert pattinson, the talented man you are.. these bots all contain spoilers to the movie so if you haven’t watched it.. i highly recommend it. it’s so good! thank u mickey 17 for breaking me out of my writing block. and as always, if u have any requests please leave them here!

expendables 𐙚 mickey barnes - mickey 17 ᯓ becoming an expendable with your best friend

what does it feel like? 𐙚 mickey barnes - mickey 17 ᯓ bringing him back to your room

applications 𐙚 mickey barnes - mickey 17 ᯓ applying to the expedition together

multiples 𐙚 mickey barnes - mickey 17 ᯓ two mickeys to yourself??

doctor, doctor 𐙚 mickey barnes - mickey 17 ᯓ mickey has a crush on you, a lab worker

[goodkushnalchohol]

SAME DAMN TIME ‧₊˚ੈ mickey barnes x fem!reader. fluff / slight suggestive stuff / mickey 17 x reader / you’re an expendable / touchstarved mickey / mentions of violence / not proofread / lowercase intended

part 2..?

kenneth marshall was the biggest piece of bullshit she had ever seen in her life. it honestly made her laugh each time he’d walk into the lunch room and make the crowd erupt into cheers, who were happy to see their leader. he lost both the elections he had ran for and yet he still had so many followers that adored him - shocking really.

the only interest she had with him was the expendable program he set up on his new planet far away from earth. surprisingly enough, she signed up to be part of this program - partly because she was interested in it and partly because her office job was dragging the last of her happiness from her body.

the paperwork was long and heavy, and it took almost a week to finish reading fully, but she decided to take the leap and apply to be an expendable. handing in the application was the easy part of it, but earning the attention of all those around you in the middle of an airport was a daunting feeling.

having your body being copied for future printing was a bit of an odd feeling, but it didn’t matter anymore. and it really didn’t matter when she was planted with a gun against her head and had to shoot herself.

she did it of course, nothing really mattered to her anymore.

once their time on the ship got longer, people soon realised that she really didn’t care about what she did, and that she really was fucking reckless and careless - but that only made her more fun. her big personality on this sad ship made many people’s day, and she grew a secret admirer who wasn’t that secretive after all.

mickey watched her laugh and cry with her friends, her friend group at their regular lunch table were real funny, always laughing about something. sometimes he even found himself chuckling alongside them after overhearing a joke.

and he found himself becoming restless in his sleep the day after jennifer was crushed by that ice. he could hear her muffled sobs through the walls as she tried to sleep, and the empty seat in the lunchroom felt like an empty space in his heart.

y/n wished it was her instead of jennifer.

he could tell by the look on her face each time he saw her, it should’ve been either of them. they could be prinited out once again, but this was jennifer gone.

mickey soon found himself caring for her just a little bit more. on each mission they were sent on he made sure he was just a few steps ahead, and watched your every move with a bit more worry. he was glad he managed to get closer with her, but in this moment right now, he really wished she just ignored him like everybody else.

‘bu - but how did - why did you come back?’

her jaw was hung open and she was a blubbering mess, yet both mickeys had a slight smirk at the sight of her being so overwhelmed. mickey 18 had been printed out just this afternoon, and she wanted to pay him a small visit to see how he was doing. she really did not expect two of him.

the one of her rights seemed a lot more worried than the mickey of her left, so she payed more attention to the scared one. his hands were flailing all over the place and he kept stuttering over his every word - which made the other mickey scoff.

‘y/n i promise you, this - this was not intentional! but you cannot, you really can’t tell anyone about it!’

his hands were placed on her shoulders, holding her in place so she couldn’t run away if she tried. her brows were furrowed and she was gnawing on her bottom lip, something he really liked seeing her do. she shook free of his grip and backed up into the wall behind her, shaking her head at the two men infront of her.

‘so.. you’re mickey 17 -’ she questioned, pointing to the man directly infront of her, who nodded his head vigorously. ‘and - and you’re mickey 18?’ the second man only smirked, and dipped his head in assurance.

she covered her eyes and slid down the wall, sighing loudly at the situation at hand.

‘what are we going to do?’

mickey 18 approached her slyly, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘we could always -’ she swatted his hand away, glaring at him. ‘don’t you dare finish that sentence.’

she thought about it for a minute, listing the pros and cons of actually doing what he was insinuating. she glanced up at the two men, one stood with his hands crossed over his chest and the other leaning against the wall with a hand covering his mouth. it was simple, one was sweet, soft and caring, and the other was rough, mean and hard.

maybe it couldn’t be so bad?